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moonjxsung · 7 months

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Lost in Translation

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 26.5k

Warnings: accidental nudity, hospital visit, mention of masturbation, use of pet names, breast/nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex, bulge kink, sexual asphyxiation, breeding kink, creampie, oral sex (male receiving), brief mention of pregnancy

Synopsis: The older brother of the boy you babysit is an enigma, in every sense of the word- and you’re determined to figure him out.

[this work was based off a request by @antoniorhinothethird - thank you for requesting!]

18+. Mdni!

•

The idea of babysitting isn’t some brilliant proposal you conjured up in a day- but it’s not exactly a choice, either. The idea isn’t even yours, in fact, the advertisements you published on the colorful inquiry site at your mother’s behest. But “college courses are virtual these days” and “you’ll be a mother at some point in your life,” according to her. So two months into the semester, you’ll now spend the majority of your time in a new place you’ll call home, just 30 minutes out at the Lee Household.

The Lee household is considerably larger than you’d originally anticipated it to be, spanning a sizable amount of grassland and standing nobly tall at 2 stories high. The exterior of the flashy home is surrounded by paved gravel driveways, lining the neat rows of bushels and vines that surround the off-white architectural build. Giant glass windows reflect sunlight in nearly every room of the house, with the exception of the dimly-lit library on the second floor, which flaunts colossal cherry wooden bookshelves that line the walls and cover most of the smaller windows.

“Joon is usually very mellow in the daytime,” Mrs. Lee tells you as she walks you through a tour of the garden. “You’ll only have to worry about his feeding schedules, which I’ve already written and posted on the refrigerator.”

She pivots in front of you, stopping for a moment and gesturing to the stone fountain by the rose bushes. “Do you like it? It was a gift from my husband. When he’s not running the furniture business, he works in restoration a lot. This was his first project.”

“Wow,” you say, your lips parted at the sight of the koi fish and the cascading waterfall from its lips. “It’s very beautiful.”

Mrs. Lee smiles at you in response, turning on her heel and continuing to the iron gates in the front.

“Do you have any other questions?” She asks, clasping her hands together and shooting you a saccharine smile. She’s intimating, not because of her personality, which you quickly clock as rather warm and inviting. But rather, because she’s so elegant, her navy silk dress perfectly complementing the chunky pearl earrings she wears, making her look like a character from an old film. You’re not sure you’ve ever crossed paths with such an interesting woman before.

“I think that covers everything,” you say finally, giving her a small bow. “I’ll be sure to provide updates throughout the day.”

“Oh, no need,” she says quickly. “Unless it’s an emergency, l know you’ll have your hands full doing your work while watching Joon. Feel free to just give us a little summary when we’re home for the evening.”

She shoots you a little wink when she finishes speaking, clasping her hands together again and smiling down at you.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for your first day!” She exclaims warmly, opening gate doors as you make your exit out of the garden. When you begin down the paved road, Mrs. Lee suddenly gasps, calling out to you again in a frantic manner.

“Oh! Y/n, wait please!” She calls, pulling the skirt of her dress up to her ankles to jog over to where you’re standing.

“My other son will be home from school in the afternoon tomorrow. Don’t be alarmed if you hear him moving about the house. He’ll just keep to himself.”

You ponder the words for a moment, a little frustrated when you realize there will be two kids in the household instead of one, like she’d previously mentioned. But you just nod and smile at her, seeing yourself out of the driveway once again and beginning the journey back home to prepare for your first day here tomorrow.

This castle-at-end-of-the-road is eerily quiet when no one’s home, a once lively sight of rose bushes and marble statues appearing like something out of a horror movie when you’re by yourself. At every corner you turn, your brain runs rampant with paranoia, placing shadowy figures and silhouettes of people where there are none- except for when you’re in the presence of Joon.

At just a year old, Joon is considered one of the cutest ages, only being able to babble incoherent noises and flail his little hands around when he wants something. His closet is full of matching neutral tones, per his mother’s styling, and his sparse black hair is combed neatly to one side.

Mrs. Lee is right about him- he doesn’t cry. Nor does he ever make a fuss, really. He simply sits quietly, in the comfort of his crib, or his high chair, and he curiously peers at the world around him. You’re certain he’s taken a liking to you already, judging at how he smiles when you spoon-feed him mashed carrots and mimic airplane noises. And he only cries briefly once in the day, stopping almost immediately when you put him down for his nap.

This may be an easier gig than you thought.

While Joon naps, you take the opportunity to get some work done in the library, settling comfortably on the velvet armchair in the corner and running through a few of your online class assignments for the week.

Although you’ll be babysitting here for the next few weeks, you’re also completing your final year at university this year, your last semester being completely remote. Which gives you time to take on the babysitting task as a side hustle, and hopefully save enough money to travel a bit after university like you’ve always dreamt of.

At half past noon, Joon is still peacefully asleep in his crib where you’ve left him, the ambient sound of waves echoing softly from his baby monitor as little snores emit from his curled lips. He looks like an angel when he sleeps, and you can’t help but feel your heart swell to twice its size at the sight of him.

The gentle breeze of the October wind travels through the open windows of the library, sending chills up your spine when you sit down to work again. You get up from where you’re sitting on the armchair to latch the windows shut, making sure to lock them, before turning around to take your seat again- quickly startled by the figure standing in the doorway.

“Jesus,” you yelp, one hand clutching your chest in fear as you nearly drop your laptop.

The figure- or man, rather, says nothing, scanning the room like he’s searching for something, before turning on his heel and exiting the room once again.

He’s tall, with a slim yet muscular build, honey tanned skin complementing his chocolate brown tresses. He’s also dressed rather casually in a pair of light-wash jeans and a black top, a black leather jacket thrown over his broad shoulders and left unzipped.

“Sorry, did you need something?” You call out, perplexed by his demeanor. You can’t remember if the Lees warned you of potential visitors, but you’re suddenly panicked for Joon, remembering you left his door open.

“Nope,” the man calls out over his shoulder, not turning around to face you. And then you see it- a black backpack, slung over one shoulder and seemingly filled to the brim with textbooks.

Their other son.

This must be the son Mrs. Lee warned you would be making appearances in the afternoon. But you had assumed him to be much younger, especially considering he’s definitely old enough to be watching over his own brother.

Before you can gather your thoughts to introduce yourself, he’s gone again, disappearing down the hall the same way he so mysteriously appeared. And you wonder, briefly, how he can be so much colder than his own mother.

The first day of your new job is a success. When Mrs. Lee returns home for the evening, she pays you in cash, true to her traditional style, and sends you home with a tin of shortbread cookies as another ‘thank you’, though she’s already voiced it a million times. But the second day is rougher than the first, reminding you of why babysitting isn’t always an easy task despite what it may seem.

Joon is particularly antsy today, flailing his arms around when you try to spoon feed him and whining relentlessly when you pick him up. He needs several diaper changes in just your first few hours of working, and when you finally do get him clean, he’s a crying, screaming mess.

Fortunately, he still goes down for his nap at noon, which means you have a narrow window of time to complete your work for the day and get freshened up. The windows in the library are propped wide open again, a cold breeze coming through as you settle in your new favorite spot and open your laptop.

There are a myriad of assignments to complete today, and you’re briefly panicked that you won’t be able to complete the necessary few pieces if Joon suddenly wakes again. But still, you try, skimming through textbooks and typing away as much as you can to make steady progress. And at the hour mark, Joon begins to cry. Rather he wails, loudly, from the other room, startling you when you’re already in deep concentration working through a practice quiz.

You make your way down the hallway and to the right, where Joon’s room is, approaching the crib and catching a glimpse of his anguished state. His face is a robust shade of red as he wails loudly, bubbles of saliva forming at his nostrils and his eyes squeezed shut. You guide him out of the crib and into the safety of your arms, shushing him gently and rocking him back and forth the way Mrs. Lee taught you. And Joon calms instantly, hiccuping through tears as he locks his gaze on yours and fists at strands of your hair.

“That’s okay,” you coo at him, grazing your finger along his chin and cleaning some of the drool that dribbles from the corners of his lips. “I’m here. Look at you! You’re okay,” you continue, giggling at him when his quivering lips pull into a small smile. He softens in your arms, smiling and babbling with hushed sounds, clutching tightly on strands of your hair as you balance him in your arms.

“You want to come do some work?” You ask, nodding your head as if to coax an answer out of him. “That’s a good baby, huh? Let’s go do some work.”

And you travel back to the library with Joon in your arms, giving him gentle pats on his back as you hoist him tighter into your embrace and balance your laptop with one arm.

When you’re starting on your last task of the evening, you’re interrupted again today by Mrs. Lee’s eldest son, who pokes his head in the doorway and observes as you coo down at Joon’s sleeping figure while working on your computer with one hand.

“Do you want me to take him?” You hear from the doorway, and you crane your neck to look where he’s standing, his hands shoved in his pockets and his backpack slung lazily over one arm.

“I’m okay,” you respond, typing out a word with one hand. He furrows his eyebrows at your failed attempt, approaching you and reaching out his arms to take Joon from your embrace.

“You can’t work like this,” he says, as he peacefully transfers Joon to his own arms. “He won’t wake up if I put him back, I promise.”

“Thanks,” you reply, taking note of his features now that he’s at a closer proximity to you for the first time. He has large round eyes, and long eyelashes that make even you jealous. His nose bridge is sharp and straight, and when he chuckles softly at Joon, you notice his skewed front teeth, ones that make his smile seem sweeter- softer.

As he begins out the doorway, you try to think of what to say to him, not wanting to have another awkward run-in with him like your last one. But nothing comes to mind that won’t be just as awkward as the encounter itself, and you settle on painful silence once again.

As you unlock your laptop, continuing on to your last assignment, you hear the faint noise of Mrs. Lee’s elder son putting Joon back to sleep.

Except he sounds different than he has during your two previous encounters. He’s laughing, babbling, even cooing at Joon as he puts him back to sleep. And though you really shouldn’t intrude, you make your way to the doorway again, where you peer down the hall to listen in on the endearing noises he makes.

“Are you sleepy?” He asks, his voice two octaves higher than usual. “Let’s sleep now, okay? No, you can’t have my shirt. That’s mine, remember? Let’s have good dreams now. I love you!”

You hear Joon giggling from the end of the corridor and you smile to yourself, wholly moved by the tender little moment he shares with his baby brother. He might not be his full-time caregiver, but he certainly knows what he’s doing. As you stay pondering his behavior for a moment, you don’t even notice when he exits the room again, turning to watch you standing around the doorway. Your ear is still leaned into the corridor, clearly having listened in on the private moment.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, straightening your posture, a wave of embarrassment quickly washing over you. “I was making sure Joon got to bed okay.”

He just nods once, looking you over briefly before meeting your gaze again.

“Minho,” he then practically mutters, averting your gaze as he waits for you to speak.

It’s his name, you realize, barely even having registered what he said to you. He’s telling you his name.

“Y/n,” you respond quickly, giving him a small bow and smiling nervously.

And Minho says nothing, pivoting on his heel to exit the corridor and disappear all over again.

For two weeks, your job runs smoothly, no glaring problems or hangups. Joon remains fond of you, obedient at mealtimes and when he’s put to bed. And the system of completing your college coursework goes smoothly, being able to get through several assignments a day while Joon takes his afternoon nap. If anything, you might be more productive than you were before this job, despite balancing it between university.

It’s an overcast Tuesday afternoon, and you’ve spent most of your day working in Joon’s nursery on the rocking chair next to his crib. He’s been a little fussy today, but you find that he calms down a little at the repetitive clicking noises of your laptop keyboard. Once you’ve confirmed he’s asleep, little snores emitting from his lips, you gather your belongings and sneak away to the library again. Only this time, it’s not vacant.

Minho sits in your usual spot today, his legs propped up on the footrest in front of him and a book in his lap. He doesn’t even notice you in the doorway, strands of hair hanging loosely in front of his face as he scans the page of his book. He also looks significantly more casual than other days you’ve seen him around, wearing a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats, a pair of round wireframe glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

He feels your gaze on him, shuffling about suddenly and closing his book.

“Sorry,” Minho says. “I was just… reading.”

He realizes how awkward he sounds, verbally conveying his actions to you like this, but he’s too caught off guard to form a more coherent string of words.

“It’s okay,” you say politely, setting your bag down on the floor and occupying the chair across from him.

“What book?” You ask, cocking your head at the small red novel he clutches in his lap.

“Hm? Oh, uh… it’s Love and Limerence. By Dorothy Tennov.”

You nod in response, studying the cherub painted on the cover, wielding a bow and arrow.

“Big romance fan?”

“No,” Minho says, chuckling at your words. “It’s a required read for my class.”

“How neat,” you reply. “What class requires romance novels these days?”

“My philosophy course,” Minho says, running the pads of his fingers over the raised text on the cover. “The psychology of emotion.”

“PHIL 105,” you say, knowing very well the course he speaks of.

“Yeah- you’ve taken it?”

“No, but I had a friend who did in freshman year. I’m in my last semester now- my remaining classes are virtual, though.”

“It’s my last semester, too,” Minho says with a little smile, fiddling with the lobe of his ear as he talks.

“Well best of luck to you in the final stretch,” you reply, shooting him a small smile back. “I hope it all goes smoothly.”

Minho gives a half nod, and then furrows his eyebrows together, like he’s just remembered something.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says suddenly, sitting up and gathering his belongings.

“Oh, I really don’t mind-”

“Catch you later,” He interrupts with a nervous tone, almost jogging out of the library and back down the corridor.

And just like the first day you met him, you maintain the same idea of him- he’s such an enigma. Appearing in and out of the household, not one to voice his thoughts or his opinions, no eagerness to know the stranger sitting in his house watching over his baby brother. But somehow, like the rest of the household, you can’t help but have a lingering curiosity for Minho, too.

“My husband and I might be late getting back today,” Mrs. Lee says one morning as you feed Joon his breakfast. His tongue dodges the plastic spoon, dribbling mashed food out from the corners of his lips and laughing when you go to dab his face clean with a napkin.

“That’s alright,” you reply, loading up the spoon with more food. “I can wait until you’ve arrived.”

“You will?” Mrs. Lee asks, a kind of sparkle in her eyes as she speaks. “That would mean the world to us. It’s just that my husband has an auction to attend today. And sometimes these events run longer than they’re meant to.”

“No problem at all,” you say, smiling at her as you turn your attention back to Joon. “Joon and I will just hang out a little longer today. Isn’t that right?”

He babbles something in response, a string of saliva trailing from his lips, and Mrs. Lee laughs at the sight.

“He’s really taken a liking to you!”

As she fixes Joon’s hair, Minho enters the kitchen, dressed for the day with his backpack already slung over his shoulder.

“Minho,” his mother says in a scolding tone. “No gum for breakfast. Have a fruit.”

“Can’t,” he replies curtly. “My philosophy exam is today.”

“What does that have to do with depriving yourself of food?”

“It’s bad luck to eat before an exam,” Minho retorts, coming around the granite island to kiss her on the cheek. “Besides,” Minho continues. “I’m ditching my second class, so I’ll be home a little earlier.”

When he turns around, his gaze meets yours, and he instantly stiffens.

His gaze turns cold again, his hands shoving in his jacket pockets as he says nothing to you. He just bows, once, and then turns to exit like he’s suddenly in some rush.

“Bye,” he calls out, and you’re not even sure who he’s addressing it to at this point.

“I should get going, too,” Mrs. Lee says to you. “I’ll call you when we leave the event tonight. And please, feel free to make yourself comfortable after Joon gets put to bed. There’s cash on the table if you want to order something for dinner, and extra blankets are in the upstairs closet if you get sleepy.”

“Thank you,” you say to Mrs. Lee as she gathers her car keys and handbag. And the house is quiet again when you’re all alone, with the exception of Joon’s heavy breathing as he stares at you curiously.

“It’s like a mansion here,” you say to your best friend as you balance Joon in your arms and crane your neck on your shoulder to hold the phone against your ear. “Mrs. Lee is so nice. I thought she’d be stuck up or something, but she’s like a second mother.”

“You hit the jackpot,” your friend voices on the other end of the line. “Any idea how long they need you around?”

“Not sure,” you reply, wiping the granite counter with a rag as you finish up the dishes. “Probably until their son is done with the semester.”

“Son?” She says excitedly. “Is he cute?”

“Please,” you echo, rolling your eyes. “His looks mean nothing considering he doesn’t say a word.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. He just doesn’t talk. We go to the same university and it’s like pulling teeth trying to figure out something as simple as what his major is. I think he despises having me around.”

“I mean, to be fair, I wouldn’t love someone in my space 24/7. It’s probably a territorial thing.”

“He’s not a cat,” you respond, laughing lightly. “He’s a grown man. I just get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”

“Well I highly doubt that,” she says, and you can hear her shuffling about on her end of the line.

“Hey, I have to go,” she chimes in. “But I’ll talk to you later. Good luck with baby Joon and the cat man.”

“Thanks,” you reply, chuckling to yourself.

As you hang up the phone, you turn around to gather the last of the dishes, stopping in your tracks when you’re met with Minho himself.

He’s standing in the kitchen, popping a bubble of gum with his teeth, his gaze locked coldly on yours as he observes the place.

That’s right- he did say he would be home a bit earlier after his exam today. Was he standing there for the entirety of your conversation? You can’t recall how long the phone call lasted, or even the specifics of what you said. But you do know it certainly wasn’t good.

“Hi,” you say nervously, scanning his expression for a hint of what he’s thinking. But he provides you none, kicking off his boots and making his way up the stairs again.

The guilt is still eating away at you two hours later- Minho hasn’t descended the staircase once since the incident, and you can hardly focus on your school work at the thought of what he’s thinking of you.

Here you are, complaining about him seeming “cold” or “off”- the whole time you’re the one talking about him behind his back and stirring up drama. If he hated you before, he definitely despises you now. And if he's as close with his mother as he seemed this morning, you could be out of a job by tomorrow.

In reluctant steps, you ascend the wooden staircase, clutching a small mug of coffee and a stack of buttered toast. You remember Minho saying he’d have breakfast after his exam, a task he wasn’t able to complete due to your impolite conversation earlier. And while you’re not even sure he’s going to give you the time of day anymore, it’s worth a shot to try.

At the top of the staircase, you realize you’re unsure of which room even belongs to Minho. There are rows of doors down the corridor, which you peer into, looking for any sign of him.

A closet, another closet, the laundry room… it feels like a futile task at this point- not to mention, the sinking feeling that you’re intruding, poking into every room in the house like this.

But at the end of the hallway, just across the staircase from Joon’s room, lies one more closed door you haven’t tried yet, and you’re sure this one has to be his.

With a deep breath, you balance the mug of coffee on the plate you’re carrying, bringing your free hand up to knock, just once.

No answer.

You pause for a moment, debating whether to just leave and drop the idea of an apology altogether. But you don’t, instead forcing yourself to knock once more this time, a little harder than the first.

And after muffled sounds of shuffling about, the door finally opens again, Minho standing with a confused expression on his face. He has a pair of earphones in, one side pulled out to hear you, his glasses sat on his face and a number of textbooks on the bed behind him.

“Is Joon okay?” He asks, looking down the hall in panic as you meet his gaze.

“What? Oh! Yes, he’s fine. He’s sleeping.”

“Oh. What are you…”

“I… made you some breakfast. I know you didn’t have any before your exam this morning. And no, gum isn’t a breakfast food.” You chuckle lightly as you hold the items out to him, and Minho looks down at them, blinking a few times before speaking.

“Oh. Uh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem. Should I leave them with you?”

“Oh, you can put them on the desk over there,” Minho replies, and it’s then that you notice his hands are full with papers. He steps aside to let you in, gesturing to the desk with a piece of paper, and you oblige, clearing the space of a few scattered items and setting down his breakfast.

When you turn around to look at the place, your lips part in awe at the sight of the grandiosity of it. Minho’s room has bigger windows than any of the others you’ve seen, concave around a crescent-shaped seating area that boasts tall ceilings and large glass windows. There are books lining the floors, the desk space and even the window sills, many of them left bookmarked or lying open where they sit.

His giant wooden bed frame is almost hidden behind a hanging curtain, and his desk is nearly inhabitable at the amount of university paraphernalia that lives on its surface.

“Wow,” you say, craning your neck to look around the room. “It’s really nice in here.”

“Thanks,” Minho says awkwardly, toying with a loose hem on his pants.

“You really like reading,” you comment, taking note of the books he has lying around. When you say this, Minho seems to stiffen a bit, shutting some of the books and lining them on their spines along his shelves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping a few books and kicking them away from him.

You nod at him, pursing your lips, well aware that you’re in the midst of yet another awkward interaction with him, but wanting to fulfill the reason you came up here all the same.

“Listen,” you begin. “I wanted to apologize. I don’t know how much you heard of that, but I assume it was enough to be hurt by it. And you’re justified in being hurt. It was totally uncalled for of me to say those things- and sure, you might be a quiet person. But that doesn’t make it okay for me to go around airing it out like it’s my business. In fact I shouldn’t even be on my phone on the job. I’m here to watch your brother, and I get paid for that service, and it’s completely unprofessional-”

“It’s cool,” Minho says, an unchanging expression on his face.

“Oh, um… I mean, if you want to fire me I totally understand.”

Minho chuckles softly, and then shakes his head. “I’m not going to fire you. I am quiet. It’s cool. Really.”

“I mean, I totally get that-”

“Unless you want to be fired?” He inquires with a half-smile, and you chuckle softly in response.

“I really don’t. I love watching your brother.”

“Good,” he replies. “Then we’re all good.”

And although you want to say something else to him, you don’t, feeling as though you should be satisfied with the state of the conversation. You apologized, he forgave you, and you haven’t lost your job. And he’s still quiet, but that’s just who he is.

When Joon wakes from his afternoon nap, it’s nearly 3pm. He’s a crying mess when he’s up again, flailing his arms around to beg for a bottle, which you promptly prepare for him after a diaper change.

With Joon in your arms, you get some chores around the house finished, including vacuuming the rugs, dusting off the furniture and tidying Joon’s toys that are usually scattered about his nursery.

Doing chores wasn’t an agreement between you and Mrs. Lee- in fact, she usually urges you to focus on your schoolwork and take breaks when you’re not caring for Joon. But you want to, feeling compelled to take care of the space as much as you care for Joon. Although tensions are still somewhat present between you and Minho, the Lee household feels comfortable to you by this point, almost like a second home now.

After chores, the library calls out to you again, evening beginning to fall over the neighborhood and painting the sky with vibrant hues of an autumnal sunset.

The windows are still rolled open from earlier, and your velvet couch looks particularly inviting at this hour, beams of sunset setting it aglow and luring you to choose a book from the cherry wood shelves around you.

So you do, selecting a children’s book about animals, comfortably sprawling out on the chair with Joon in your arms. He eyes the book curiously, spreading his short, chubby fingers over the cover and tapping repeatedly, as if asking you to read to him.

And you do, setting the book on your knee to angle the pages toward him, as you begin to vocalize the choppy sentences to him.

“A is for apple, hanging from a tree,” you say, caressing his stubby fingers as he pouts in focus. “B is for buzzing bumblebee.”

Joon’s lips curl into a smile, making his best attempt to clap as you point out the colorful images to him.

“C is for crab, walking in the sand… D is for dolphin, swimming toward the land!”

Joon laughs hysterically now, clapping his little hands and rocking back and forth in your lap. You laugh, too, at his darling reaction, and give him a little kiss on the head as he fiddles with the cover of the book.

It’s moments like this that reaffirm the notion for you that this job was the right idea, after all. You’re inexplicably happy alongside him like this, seeing the world through his eyes and rediscovering things you would otherwise take for granted, like silly picture books or doing chores with him in your arms. You feel so protective of him, eager to make his mom proud and provide a safe, nurturing environment for him as his babysitter- not because you’re paid to do it, but because he now holds a special place in your heart.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you from the doorway, and you look up to find Minho standing there, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

“Did you… want something to eat? I was going to order takeout, unless you wanted something else.”

“Sure,” you reply, propping Joon up a little closer to your chest. “Anything’s fine with me.”

“I’ll get Chinese, then,” Minho says nodding. He averts your gaze a little, but you can tell he’s just a little awkward when he’s face-to-face with you like this. And perhaps your best friend is right- perhaps it’s not unusual of him to feel territorial over his household. After all, you are here almost every hour of the day, making yourself comfortable in almost every room, tending to the chores here and eating food from their kitchen. You suppose you would be irritated at the thought of it, too.

As Minho leaves to place an order, you take Joon back to the nursery, where you gently put him to sleep for the evening and program his baby monitor to play calm ocean noises again. It’s like clockwork- he’s out like a light, and the minute he leaves your arms, you’re exhausted, too. The stress of watching over him while balancing your school work might finally be getting to you now- you’re undoubtedly tired, your limbs aching from sauntering about this big house all day with Joon in your arms. And although you’re on a good track, you can hardly remember which assignment pertains to each of your classes these days.

When Minho returns almost an hour later, he holds a thin plastic bag in hand, his other one clutching a fistful of cutlery and two plates. He gives you a small nod when he enters the library, and you put away your laptop to join him on the floor in front of the coffee table.

For a moment, he says nothing as he prepares a plate for you, sliding a cup of wonton soup toward you and dividing portions of chow mein and tofu with wooden chopsticks.

You watch as he breaks a spring roll in half, holding both sides up and comparing to make sure they’re even.

“You’re very precise,” you say with a soft laugh, and a breathy chuckle emits from his lips, too.

“I’m trying to make sure it’s even.”

“However you cut it is fine,” you respond, pleasantly surprised at how polite he is.

When he’s finished dividing your portions, he slides a plate to you, setting a plastic fork down on the napkin beside you and ushering to the food.

“Enjoy,” he says, shooting you a small smile.

And the two of you eat in silence, the room quiet, aside from the sounds of slurping soup present between you two. Although it’s quiet, it feels comfortable, having him keep you company like this. It’s a change of pace from your usual days babysitting in the Lee household.

“How is your school work?” Minho interrupts your thoughts, and you’re momentarily taken aback by him initiating the conversation first.

“It’s good,” you respond, poking at the vegetables on your plate with a chopstick. “It’s on my own time, so I mostly just have to make sure I’m staying on track. But I’m finding it easy to get through despite watching Joon in the daytime.”

Minho nods in response, keeping his gaze set on the bowl of soup in front of him.

“How did your exam go?” you ask, and Minho cocks his head a little. “I got full marks,” he responds after a moment of silence.

“That’s great! I guess you were right about skipping breakfast having something to do with your academic success, then.”

And Minho laughs for the first time- not a chuckle or a giggle, but a laugh, holding one hand up to his mouth as he does. His laugh is gentle and melodic, filling the room around him with its sound, and you can’t help but laugh, too.

“I suppose,” he responds. “I also go nowhere without those philosophy books, so I have them memorized like the back of my hand.”

“Philosophy major?” you voice back, and Minho nods.

“So Love and Limerence is like second nature to you at this point.”

Minho gets a little awkward at this, his smile fading a little as he pokes around his chow mein. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You could say that.”

And fearing you’ve somehow offended him, you change the subject again.

“Well I’m a business major,” you chime in. “So we don’t get interesting reads at all. And I’m not lugging around a six-pound textbook about returns on investments in my backpack.”

He laughs again, and you feel satisfied at the motion. Making him laugh feels like an exciting feat, like you’ve succeeded at something after trying so hard to. And considering how hard you’ve been trying to break down his walls these days, maybe it is an exciting feat, getting to know the stranger you’ve been sharing a home with for one month now.

“Business is a great field,” Minho says, slurping down the remainder of his soup. “Your parents must be really proud of the direction you’re headed.”

You shrug in response. “They’re indifferent. I don’t have a great relationship with them. They mostly just want me out of their hair once I graduate.”

“You have any post-college plans?” Minho inquires.

“I finished an internship before this whole babysitting gig, actually. I want to travel a bit after graduation, and then I’ll really settle down for the whole 9-5 working life.”

“Where are you hoping to travel to?”

There’s a glint in Minho’s eyes as he presses you for answers, like he’s genuinely interested in what you have to say. It makes you feel all warm inside- not many people usually care what you’re up to these days, your family trying their hardest to send you away to work another job and your most of your friends having drifted apart when you began university. Even the friends you do have are more distant these days, considering their classes are still in person, and you don’t have a need to be back on campus anymore. It’s a bit of a lonely life you lead, so being here beside Minho feels different, but pleasant.

“I’m not sure,” you say with a smile. “I’m not really sure where I belong yet.”

“Hey, I don’t know where I belong, either,” Minho echoes. “So that makes two of us.”

When the two of you are finished with dinner, Minho takes your plates downstairs, despite you offering, and you’re briefly left alone in the library. It’s much later than usual now, nearing 9:00, when you’re usually home by 7. The house also has a different vibe to it this hour, many of the rooms feeling much dimmer despite the same lamps being on, and the corridors feeling much quieter and more haunting. You feel a wave of sleepiness wash over you, and though you don’t want to be asleep when Mrs. Lee arrives, you can’t help but shut your eyes for a few minutes. You can still make out the shape of the bookshelves behind your heavy eyelashes, trying your best not to close your eyes completely, but your mind has already wandered off to slumber, and inevitably, your body follows shortly after.

You’re somewhere between sleep and consciousness when you feel Minho enter the room once again, looming over you like he wants to ask you something. But he says nothing- instead, he unfolds a knit blanket above you, sprawling it out over your legs and pulling it up to your torso. And you hadn’t realized how cold you were before he did, because you’re almost instantly with a wave of warmth and comfort over your listless body.

It feels almost uncharacteristic or Minho to carry out an action this polite- but as he takes his seat across from you, watching as you doze off peacefully, you think he may finally be coming around to you.

“I’m ditching my second class again today,” Minho announces the next morning at breakfast. He doesn’t eat much, you notice, as he bites into a single apple and hoists his backpack further up his shoulders.

“I’ll be home a bit earlier,” he then continues, eyeing you a little, and you give him a little nod.

“Then help with lunch,” Mrs. Lee says, gathering her own briefcase for work. “Y/n shouldn’t do it all by herself when you’re here.”

“Oh, it’s no worry at all,” you quickly chime in, not wanting to be the reason Minho refutes his mother’s words. “It’s what I’m here to do, after all.”

“No worries,” Minho says back to you. “I’ll be home around noon and we can prepare something together.”

For some reason, your heart flutters a little at the implication of doing something alongside Minho- something so planned and seemingly intimate. You normally just take the days as they come, so having a commitment hanging over your head like this is a little nerve-racking. And in all your worrying, you don’t respond to Minho, realizing only as he’s exiting the house with his apple in hand.

“I might be late again today,” Mrs. Lee turns to you, snapping you out of your trance. “But Minho can stay for the remainder of the time. I’ll still pay you the full amount like I did yesterday-”

“I’m happy to stay again,” you reply to her. “Like I said, it’s what I’m here to do.”

She smiles in return, clasping her hands and gesturing to the food on the table.

“I can’t get Minho to eat for the life of me, but help yourself to whatever you’d like. And thank you again, for staying.”

You’re reading to Joon in the living room when Minho arrives home from school. He kicks off his shoes dramatically, tossing his bag on the floor and breathing out a heavy sigh while you thumb through the pages of a new picture book.

“Hi,” Minho says first, his expression remaining stoic and unchanging.

“Hey,” you reply, hoisting Joon a little further up in your arms. “How was school?”

“Terrible,” he responds, making his way around the granite island to collect another apple.

“Why’s that?”

“Professor Kim,” he says curtly, polishing the apple on his button down shirt before taking a generous bite. “A three hour lecture on a Friday really wasn’t a smart choice. ”

You chuckle a little to yourself, adjusting your position on the floor and trying to balance Joon in your embrace. Minho takes notice of your struggle, abandoning his apple on the counter to come take Joon from your arms.

“Thanks,” you say, dusting off your legs as you stand again. “I’m going to get started on something for Joon to eat if you want to wait around. Unless you’re sticking to this exclusively-apple diet.”

Minho chuckles to himself and shakes his head. “I’ll help. We don’t have much prepared right now and I really need to go grocery shopping.” He secures Joon in his high chair, cocking his head toward the fridge.

“Could you just grab his orange juice? It should be the blue bottle on the right.”

And you comply with his request, promptly locating the blue sippy cup and handing it to Minho.

“Thank you,” he says, setting it down on the white tray in front of Joon and twisting it open. “This should be enough to hold him off until we can whip something up with the few ingredients we have. I want to do something with those sweet potatoes, they’re reaching the end of their time.”

Joon is a little fussy as he reaches for his sippy cup, flailing his arms around and sliding the cup across the tray to the edge. The cap seems to loosen as he does, tilting dangerously to one side.

“I got it,” you say to Minho, as you approach Joon. You retrieve the cup from the edge of the tray, twisting off the cap again to secure it properly. And as you do, Joon lets out a particularly loud yelp, knocking his hand toward you and letting the bottle fall off the tray entirely.

As you realize what’s happening, you bring two hands up to push it away from you, but you’re too late- the entirety of the bottle’s contents are spilt onto your shirt, completely soaking you and dripping onto the floor with loud, wet noises.

Minho doesn’t see what happened, but he turns around at the sound of your loud gasp, his eyes widening at the sight of you. Even your hair’s gotten wet, stringy pieces falling into your face, damp with the tangy scent of orange juice and dripping down your shirt. His mind races with guilty thoughts, feeling as though he should have stayed watching Joon, being the one to have been caught in the crossfire of his tantrum instead. Joon’s always fussy before meals- he knows this very well. As his mind races with the urgency to grab a towel, a rag- something, his eyes graze to your t-shirt, and he practically freezes.

Your thin white t-shirt is soaked like the rest of you, painting a clear outline of your black bra as the cold contents drip down your chest and torso. The see-through fabric sticks to your body like a cellophane wrapping, outlining every inch of you, every curve and every raised goosebump as you shudder at the sensation. Minho’s eyes remain locked on your dampened breasts for an embarrassing amount of time, taking careful note of the way your hardened nipples practically protrude through the thin white fabric, almost appearing increasingly noticeable with every passing second. The delicate curves of your stomach are accentuated with your skin-tight shirt, even your navel now visible.

A shake of your hands finally snaps him out of his trance, and you wrap your arms around yourself in a futile effort to cover yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you utter to him, at a loss for words at the notion of being so exposed to him. And Minho is quick to shake his head, now scrambling for a towel.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, pulling a towel off the oven handle and sliding it to you. “Here, use this and I’ll go get a larger towel from upstairs and a change of clothes.”

You want to deny the offer, feeling shameful for having already intruded this much on the Lee household and still needing more from them. But as you look down at your t-shirt, you know you don’t have a choice, the fabric now feeling cold and uncomfortable as it sticks to your flesh.

“Thanks,” you say to him, giving a small nod and not moving your hands from your chest.

And Minho retreats upstairs quickly, trying his best to avert his gaze as you remain in the kitchen.

As Joon babbles incoherently next to you, you can’t help but feel stupid, a sense of shame and embarrassment replacing the excitement you had to be preparing lunch alongside Minho for the afternoon. You’re in disbelief he’s practically seen you half naked like this, and you feel inadequate at not being able to stop Joon from committing the incident in the first place. As you run your hands up and down the raised goosebumps on your arms, you do your best to hold back tears, hoping Minho won’t think less of you for being caught in such a humiliating accident.

Minho is gone for a little while, and you blot at the wet patches on your shirt as you wait, Joon now laughing at your messy state. You can’t help but laugh a little, too, admittedly amused at what a disaster the afternoon has been- and you haven’t even begun the cooking part of it yet.

When he returns, he tosses you a large white bath towel and a gray t-shirt, still keeping his gaze on the floor instead of on yours.

“Here,” he says simply, his veiny arm scratching the back of his head. “I can also get a sweater if you’re cold.”

As you observe the t-shirt, you realize it’s one of his, not one of Mrs. Lee’s. For some reason, you’d assumed Minho would opt for a woman’s clothes as your change, but the t-shirt has clearly been pulled from his closet, and you blush a little at the idea of wearing his clothes.

“This is fine,” you reply, wrapping the bath towel around your body and excusing yourself to the bathroom.

You peel the sticky clothes off your body, crumpling them into a pile and changing into Minho’s t-shirt. It’s a bit large on you, but it’s much more comfortable, hanging loosely off your body and covering every bit of you that was previously exposed. His shirt smells like him, too, a pleasant scent of laundry detergent and his musky cologne.

When you exit the bathroom, you gesture to the change of clothes, your wet crumpled clothes balled in your hand. “I kinda look like you now,” you say, and Minho chuckles.

“You can keep it,” he responds, giving you another once-over and nodding shyly. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

He holds his hand out to you for the wet clothes, which he kindly takes from you to put in the wash. As he does, you go to the fridge to retrieve more orange juice for Joon- except there is none. You desperately search for milk, orange juice- any form of a snack that will keep him busy until his mealtime. But the kitchen is void of anything he can consume, and you begin to panic a little, knowing Joon hasn’t eaten in a good while now.

“That was the last of his orange juice,” you say to Minho when he returns. “And there’s not much else for him to snack on.”

Minho searches the kitchen too, digging through cabinets and moving around jars in the fridge to check for expiration dates. But he quickly realizes you’re right- the fridge is even more sparse than he’d assumed it to be.

“I guess we’ll have to make a trip to the store, then. How do you feel about strapping him into a car seat?”

“I’ve never done it,” you reply nervously.

“I can show you,” Minho says, grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter and spinning them around his index finger. “We can do it together.”

The nearest grocery store is just 20 minutes out from the Lee household. Minho drives a fancy black SUV, and he guides you through how to strap Joon into his car seat, which you carry out with no issues. He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console as you chat with him about your university courses. For the first time, you notice how Minho seems much more comfortable around you now, cracking jokes occasionally and smiling at your stories about your afternoons alone with Joon. When Joon chimes in from the back seat with his excited babbling, you and Minho babble equally in response, sharing laughter at the ridiculous exchanges among the three of you.

You opt to carry Joon inside the grocery store while Minho walks alongside you, checking off a list he routinely uses to stock up on all of Joon’s favorite foods. And the atmosphere around you is homely, instilling the same sense of comfort in you as your afternoons alone with Joon. One that reminds you why you’re doing this job in the first place- you feel respected here, like your efforts don’t go unnoticed, and like you belong. It fills the lonely void inside of you with the sounds of Joon’s laughter, Minho’s tales of his classes and the trivial tasks of grocery store runs and learning to maneuver a baby car seat.

“I think that’s it,” Minho says as he checks the list one last time. “Milk, juice, bread…” he reads the items one by one again, and then nods affirmatively when he’s ensured they’re in the basket.

“That’s it,” he repeats, shooting you a small smile. “Let’s go pay.”

An older cashier gestures you to her lane at the registers, beginning to scan your items as Minho places them down on the conveyor belt. And then she gives a little wave to Joon, who curiously stares back at her.

“What a beautiful baby,” she says, pausing from scanning with a jar of mashed carrots in her hand.

Joon smiles in response, a trickle of drool escaping his lips.

“And what a beautiful family,” she continues, looking back and forth between you and Minho. “It’s not easy being young parents, but I can tell the two of you are doing a fine job at it.”

“Oh,” you say, chuckling lightly. “We’re not-”

“Thank you,” Minho interrupts, placing an arm around your waist and pulling you a little closer to him.

“We don’t get told that very often.”

You almost freeze at the contact, butterflies erupting in your stomach as he keeps his hand on the small of your back. This woman thinks the two of you are a couple- and worse, Minho is playing along with it. You can’t figure out why he’d entertain such a blatant lie, but you don’t interrupt him either, curious to see where he’s taking this little bit.

“People can be so unfair,” the cashier replies, shaking her head. “As long as the child is cared for, your status shouldn’t matter.”

“Exactly,” Minho replies, throwing his hand in the air like she’s making a point that pertains to him. “You know, when we got married, everyone told us it would never work. And now look at us- our child just turned 1 and we’re already making plans for a second honeymoon.”

“That’s amazing!” The woman says, clasping her hand over her heart like she’s touched by the bogus story.

“It is, isn’t it honey?” Minho says, turning to you.

Thoughts swirl your mind about this performance he’s putting on, but you’re undoubtedly entertained by the whole thing, stifling laughter as you nod in response.

“It is amazing,” you say finally. “We eloped and had a shotgun wedding- booked it to Italy right after and now we’re thinking of taking the little one to Paris for a real ceremony.”

The older woman removes her glasses now, wiping her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief. You can’t help but feel bad for her, seeing how easily she’s falling for your blatant lies, but Minho shows no remorse, grinning ear to ear and keeping his hand on the small of your back.

“Well I’ll tell you what,” the woman says, putting her glasses back on and shifting her eyes around the store.

“Since you guys just made my day, I’m going to provide you with our senior discount. It’s not everyday I see a young couple so beautiful raising such a darling little child.”

“Oh, you really don’t-” you start to say, and Minho interrupts you before you can finish.

“That would mean the world to us,” he says in an exaggerated voice, giving the cashier a little bow. “It would help us out a ton.”

You want to protest, to slap Minho in his pretty little face and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing lying for a discount like this, but you’re afraid the cashier will see right through your whole stunt and reprimand both of you. So you just nod and let Minho take the lead again.

“Thank you,” you echo back to her,” holding Joon’s stubby little fingers as the woman types a lengthy code into the computer.

And Minho smiles at you, shooting you a little wink as he gathers boxes of cereal and jars of food in his arms.

“What was that?” You practically yell as you exit the store, balancing Joon in one arm and a bag of groceries in another. “You totally lied to her.”

“I didn’t lie,” Minho says. “I told her a different reality.”

“That is literally what a lie is,” you echo back to him, securing Joon in his car seat and lining grocery bags on the floor. Minho slides into the driver's seat again, putting his keys in the ignition but not yet starting the car as he waits for you to get in, too.

“I mean, that was like a 10% discount,” you continue, huffing frustratedly as you wait for him to speak. “How is that worth telling someone a whole list of lies?”

“You know, there’s this really cool theory called the anthropic principle,” Minho begins, looking straight ahead through the windshield. “Suggests the existence of a multitude of universes.”

“What?”

“So,” he continues. “Philosophically speaking, maybe in one of those we're married, and we have a child, and our honeymoon was in Italy.”

You stay quiet for a moment, pondering his words, completely unsure of if he’s flirting with you or teasing you right now.

“And maybe,” he chimes in again. “In one of them, we robbed the store and killed the cashier. And in another, we don’t even know each other.”

“What are you getting at?” You say, narrowing your eyes in confusion.

“It’s not lying,” Minho says with a smile as he finally starts up the car. “We just told her about a different reality.”

“So it’s lying,” you say with a smile, unable to hold back the giggle that escapes your lips.

“A little,” he finally says. “But it was fun, right?”

And you start to say no, but you can’t get the words out, aware you’ll be lying twice today if you do.

Minho takes your silence as confirmation, a grin plastered on his face as he rests one arm behind your headrest to pull out of the parking lot. And you can’t help but smile, too, the spontaneous thrill of lying to the cashier admittedly being some of the most fun you’ve had all week. And the conclusion stands- Minho’s a little odd. But he’s great company.

Mrs. Lee is late again tonight, the second hand on the clock ticking in slow intervals as it nears 10pm. You yawn for the umpteenth time tonight, exhausted from having done so much today, wanting nothing more than to sleep in the comfort of your own bed at home and mentally recharge for another day of this tomorrow. But you’ve promised to wait for her, always eager to wait it out until the last second, because Mrs. Lee always expresses her sincerest gratitude when you wait for her.

“Sorry, she’s really late today,” Minho says as he lowers the volume on the television. You completed a few more chores around the house after dinner while Minho powered through his schoolwork, putting Joon to bed before settling on the sofa and watching old cartoon reruns. Now you’ve been in and out of sleep for the better part of an hour, Minho remaining close by watching infomercials again, peering at your tired figure and feeling guilty that you’ve been here so long.

“It’s okay,” you reply quietly, letting out another yawn. You cross your arms over yourself, still dressed comfortably in Minho’s t-shirt, and do your best to keep your gaze on the television.

Tonight Minho is stuck on an infomercial for artificial plants, the dull narration lulling you to sleep even further as he checks the time on his watch and glances nervously at the front door.

Minho cranes his neck at your figure again, not missing the way gray bags hang heavy below your eyes, your lashes half-lidded as you feign sleep and force your gaze onto the infomercial.

“Don’t you have an early exam tomorrow?” You say to Minho, another yawn escaping your lips as you speak. “Don’t wait up on my account. You should get some sleep.”

Minho shuts off the television, standing up from where he’s sitting and dusting off his pants.

“I’ll take you home,” he announces, fishing around on the table for his car keys.

“It’s okay,” you reply, not wanting to inconvenience him anymore than you already have today. “I can walk to the bus stop.”

“You’re not walking,” Minho retorts, scoffing as you sit up and rub your tired eyes with the back of your hand. “It’s pitch black outside.”

“It’s fine,” you say, gathering your book bag and rushing to put your shoes on. It’s a race between the two of you now, Minho scrambling to locate his car keys while you get ready to leave for the evening.

“It’s really not a problem- where are my keys?” Minho mutters to himself, patting the pockets on his jacket and rearranging stacks of papers on the coffee table.

“I’m fine, really.”

“No, I’ll drive you,” Minho says, still tossing aside the mess he’s made to locate his keys.

“I’ll walk,” you reiterate again, and Minho finally exhales frustratedly.

“Then I’ll walk with you,” he finally announces, ditching the car keys altogether and stopping to look at you. He looks tired, too, evident bags under his eyes and his hair tousled from running his hands through it frustratedly.

“Minho, I really don’t want to burden you-”

“It’s not a burden.”

As he speaks, you hear Joon’s baby monitor alerting you that he’s awake for the evening, wailing loudly when he realizes that he’s alone. It’s perfect timing, too, Minho already having planned to wake him up so he can walk you back.

“Wait here,” Minho says to you as he begins toward the stairs. “I’ll get his harness.”

The dim street lights illuminate the dark paved roads, a crisp chill in the air as you walk alongside Minho with your hands in your pockets.

Joon sits comfortably in his harness against Minho’s chest, curiously taking in the atmosphere around him as you walk in silence to your bus stop. It’s not a long walk, only 20 minutes from Minho’s, but you feel admittedly much safer with Minho by your side, his and Joon’s presence feeling homely even at this hour. For nearly the entirety of the walk, the two of you say nothing, too tired to engage in conversation, but still comfortable in the presence of each other, and not needing to say anything. Joon babbles saliva every now and then, Minho bringing a finger up to wipe his chin, and the only other sounds are that of crickets and the gentle sway of the trees.

“This is me,” you say to Minho when you reach the familiar blue bench of your stop.

You sit on one side of the bench, slinging your book bag over beside you and crossing your legs. And to your surprise, Minho occupies the other side, one hand resting gently on the back of Joon’s head while the other pats his back gently.

“You don’t have to wait,” you tell Minho quickly, and he just shakes his head silently in response.

The silence between you remains, Joon toying with the collar of Minho’s shirt as you wait for the bus. There’s so much you want to ask Minho, so much you still want to find out from him. You’re well aware that you haven’t quite figured him out yet, but you’re undoubtedly sure that he is a nice guy, after all. From lending you his t-shirt, waiting up for you on late nights, even walking you to your bus stop and waiting for the bus with you. You think briefly back to his little joke at the grocery store, smiling to yourself when you remember he’d chosen to pretend you were a married couple for no other reason than to make you laugh after having had such a rough day. And his innate fascination with looking at everything through a philosophical lens, the passion for his favorite subject so robustly present wherever he goes.

“What’s that theory again?” You ask Minho as your thoughts verbalize amidst the silence.

“Hm?”

“The one about the universe.”

“The anthropic principle?” He questions, and you hum in response.

“Yeah, that one. Do you think there are like, a million versions of us right now, just…sitting here?”

“Sure,” Minho replies. “But the conditions would have to be just right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the theory states that conditions have to be just right for us to coexist in the universe we’re in right now. It’s sort of like a coincidence that this one evolved so that we could thrive in it. So there might be other versions of us, just not as definitive. We might be rocks, or bugs. Or maybe there’s a more advanced version, where we’re still on our honeymoon in Italy.”

“Or the one where we killed that cashier,” you chime in.

“Exactly,” Minho replies, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You ponder his words for a moment.

“Do they all follow the same timeline?” You ask him.

“What do you mean?”

“Do they all last forever? What if we got divorced? Would we part ways in every universe?”

Minho stays quiet for a moment, thinking back to the philosophical theories tucked in the back of his mind.

“I don’t know,” he finally replies. “I’d like to think some versions have a happy ending, but maybe some of them don’t.”

As silence falls over you again, your bus finally turns the corner, making its way down the street toward your stop.

“That’s me,” you say, getting up and gathering your belongings again.

Minho stands up, too, saying nothing as the bus finally halts in front of you, the brakes screeching to a stop with the loud exhaust of the doors as they open.

“Thanks,” you say to Minho before getting on. “For walking me.”

“It’s no problem,” he replies, shooting you a tired smile.

Minho watches as you board the bus, taking your seat toward the back. He scans the aisles momentarily, making sure you’re sat somewhere safe, away from anyone he might deem sketchy at this hour. And when he feels confident you’ll make it home okay, he brings Joon’s hand up in front of him, giving you a little wave as he watches you smile back through the tinted windows, sending him off with a wave back.

From then on, things shift between the two of you. Minho is a constant, always offering to walk you home on late nights to engage in discussions about your university work or his favorite theories. When he’s home early from his classes, the two of you enjoy cooking for Joon together, making trips to the grocery store where the cashiers are now fully convinced you’re a married couple. On late nights, the two of you often engage in lighthearted philosophical debates while you wait for Mrs. Lee to get home for the evening. When he’s walking you home for the night, doing homework alongside you or just passing by, Minho indulges you in all his favorite philosophical questions, and you entertain them, using the opportunity to get a better glimpse into his mind and how he thinks.

It’s exactly this that tears down Minho’s walls, you find- he, in all his philosophically-educated glory, sharing his perspective while you poke holes in his arguments and reach a conclusion together. Sometimes you’ll reach a stalemate, the argument fizzling out with no clear answer. And sometimes he can change your mind almost instantly, the arguments leaving his lips like second nature, always quick to persuade you in the opposite direction and provide clear reasoning. He’s very skilled at his work, and you quickly realize why he’s so passionate about philosophy in the first place.

It’s not something Minho’s used to yet- having a companion like this, one who actually cares about anything he has to say. Someone to come home to, somebody to bask in the simplicities of life with and affirm that he’s not completely incapable of making real human connections. And admittedly, maybe he loves playing house with you, coming home to your home-cooked meals and caring for the baby together.

Maybe this version of the universe deems you a babysitter, and he, just an outcast. But sometimes Minho swears he can see different versions where you’re so much more than that to each other.

In late November, you take your first week off, leaving on a small family trip to a city just a few hours out to go see extended family.

You tell Minho of your little excursion the week prior, and he pretends to be disheartened, but you know deep down he must be relieved to have some space to himself again. Of course you’re not able to watch Joon, and Mrs. Lee has a friend watch him in your absence, but you’re surprised at how much you miss the Lee household when you’re not there. The trip to the city is filled with repetitive questions from family about your major, your internship, your potential salary in an entry-level position and general university questions. And yet all you catch yourself thinking about is Joon, and Mrs. Lee and especially Minho.

You wonder what he’s doing in the comfort of his grand room all by himself, surrounded by books and tall windows. Minho once told you that he can go a whole day without talking when he’s not having philosophical debates with you over coffee. You wonder if he’s talked today, or if he attended his classes or how his exam on Tuesday went. Thoughts of him plague your mind every waking second- whether Minho would like a certain food, if Minho would agree with this statement, even what the people around you would think if you dragged him along and played house with him like you do back home. In this version of the universe, maybe he’s reading a book or watching a movie, but in another, he could be right here, telling his string of lies to your extended family.

On the last day of your family vacation, you find yourself in an old bookstore, and all you can think about is Minho. He’d love it here, you think, grazing your fingertips along the old cracked spines and yellowing pages. And as you scan through the philosophy section, several of the books already piquing your interest, you spot it.

The small familiar crimson book, just barely larger than your hand, delicate to the touch and painted with the same Cupid depiction as the one you know so well. A first edition copy of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence. You can’t help but smile to yourself, scanning the book’s contents briefly before closing it again and bringing it up to the counter. It’s not like you’re trying to worsen this little developing crush you have on Minho, but he seems to be everywhere you go- and candidly, you just want to have him figured out.

When you return to the Lee household from your vacation, the atmosphere is calm, sunbeams shining through the large glass windows and illuminating the house with a romantic glow. Joon eats his breakfast well, downing his orange juice and causing you little trouble throughout the day. And Minho arrives just after 3, his backpack slung over his shoulder and a book in hand.

Your heart beats erratically to see him again, trying your best to avert his gaze as he enters through the front door and kicks off his shoes. When he makes his way through the kitchen, you attempt to look busy, wiping down the counters with a kitchen rag and balancing Joon in your arms.

“Hi,” Minho says, a little shyly as you keep your eyesight on the granite counter below you.

“Hey,” you respond, pretending like you hadn’t noticed him enter the room, when in reality, you’ve been well aware of his arrival since he parked his car out front.

“How was your trip?” Minho asks, setting down his backpack and loosening the collar of his sweater.

He’s dressed for the chilly weather outside, a simple black knit sweater paired with blue jeans.

“It was good,” you reply, folding the rag with one hand and setting it aside. “I kinda missed it here.”

Minho smiles at you nervously, toying with the hem of his sweater as he hears you speak.

“It was pretty quiet without you here. I think Joon missed you.”

“Did he?” You question excitedly, poking at Joon with your finger and cooing at him. “Is that right? You missed me?” And Joon giggles excitedly, smiling between the two of you.

When the room falls quiet again, Minho clears his throat like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, instead keeping his gaze fixed on yours. The room is teeming with awkward tension between the two of you, two hearts clouded in desire to act on this conflicting emotion of fleeting lust and a mutual understanding of each other, but neither one of you say anything, letting it die with your silence and circle your minds aimlessly again.

“I got you something,” you say suddenly, and Minho’s heart quickens a little.

“Me?” He questions, pointing to himself as if you need clarity of who he speaks of.

“Yes, you. It’s in my bag upstairs.”

And you begin your ascent to the staircase, motioning for Minho to follow you as you bring Joon with you.

“Close your eyes,” you tell Minho when you‘ve entered the library again.

“Should I be scared?” He asks, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Close them!” You exclaim, and he finally puts his hands out in front of him, shutting his eyes, a big grin plastered on his face. You place the book in Minho’s palms gently, making sure to position it so that the cover is facing him properly.

“Now open.”

When Minho opens his eyes again, he doesn’t even need to read the words before knowing what it is. He’s immediately familiar with the first edition of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence he holds in his hands, uniquely characterized by the contrasting art style to his, and the much older, yellowing pages.

“My book,” Minho says, biting his lip as he holds back a bigger smile, one that will most definitely point to the incriminating fact that he’s smitten.

“Your book,” you echo, leaning on the wall across from him. “It’s a first edition. The bookkeeper said they’re pretty rare to come by.”

“You didn’t have to-”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, fixing Joon’s hair and averting Minho’s gaze. You’re afraid if you make eye contact with him, this whole nonchalant front will crumble down in front of you, because you’re embarrassingly smitten with him, too.

“Thank you,” Minho says, thumbing the raised gold-foiled cover outline of Cupid. “I’ll go put it with the rest of them.”

And he disappears down the corridor, his book tucked in the endeared clutch of his hands.

While Minho adds his book to the rest of his collection, you put Joon down for his nap, gently placing him on the soft blanket in his crib and adjusting the baby monitor. He blinks up at you a few times, his lips pulling into a shaky smile as his lashes finally flutter shut and a wave of sleepiness washes over him. You exit the room quietly, closing the door just halfway like you always do, and then make your way down the corridor to Minho’s room. The door is left ajar, but you hear him shuffling about, and you enter after giving a gentle knock.

Minho seems startled at this, jumping up from where he’s standing, in front of his bookshelf with Love and Limerence held open in the palms of his hands. He shuts it quickly, shoving it on the top with another stack of books, and then almost shields his bookshelf as he turns to face you.

“I didn't hear you come in,” he says, nervously shifting his eyes to more stacks of books on his window sill and nightstand.

“I put Joon down for his nap,” you reply, cocking an eyebrow as he stands there awkwardly. “Is… everything okay?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, blinking nervously when he sees you peer over his torso at the bookshelf.

“Where’d you put it?”

“Can’t remember,” Minho says, a breathy chuckle emitting from his lips as he tries his best to avoid talking about it. But you catch on- and you’re certainly not going to let him evade the subject.

“What are you hiding?” You finally ask, eyeing him with a small smile. Minho’s face drops a little, sighing once as he steps aside and grants you full visibility of his bookshelf. There’s nothing out of the ordinary- books of all colors and sizes lined neatly on the shelves, some of them left open or bookmarked. A good amount of them appear to be philosophy books, which doesn’t come as a surprise to you.

“It’s just your books,” you say flatly, and Minho scratches the back of his head before he speaks again.

“Love and Limerence isn’t a required read for university.” He says in a low voice.

“Oh,” you reply, unsure of why it should really matter to you.

“None of them are,” he continues. “It’s just my personal… collection. Of romance novels.”

And then you finally understand.

Minho- the stoic, otherwise quiet being, in all his philosophical studiousness and awkwardness, is a sucker for romance. Once the cogs begin turning in your head, they don’t stop, everything about him now making a little more sense to you. Why he stays locked up in his little tower all day reading book after book, why he’s so hopeful when he speaks of the human condition and of love, why he loves taking care of people so much. He’s just a big softie underneath it all.

“There’s nothing weird about that,” you chime in. “In fact, it’s really cool.”

“Yeah right,” he retorts.

“I’m dead serious. I’ve never met someone with so many copies of Thorns and Roses before.”

Minho shakes his head, moving to sit on his bed with his palms tucked under his legs. His gaze remains locked on the floor, an expression of shame still visible on his face. And when you see him exhale deeply, like he’s been nervously holding his breath all this time, you feel bad for him. If there’s anything you’ve learned about him since meeting him, it’s that he’s really a bit of a dork. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so vulnerable before.

“Which one’s your favorite?” You ask, skimming your finger along the neat row of spines.

He shrugs. “Pride and Prejudice, maybe. But these days it’s Love and Limerence.”

Minho’s voice is trembling, just above a whisper as he reads off his list of favorite novels to you. And you chuckle softly in reply, pulling the little red book out of its respective home on the shelf and tossing it to him.

“Read me your favorite passage.”

He furrows his brows a little, like he thinks you might be making fun of him. But when you take a seat next to him on the bed, wide-eyed and gesturing to the book in his hands, he realizes you’re genuinely asking him to.

“Go on,” you say, gesturing to the book once more.

Minho opens the book to the middle, flipping through yellowing pages with small font. Most of the pages are littered generously with blue sticky notes, Minho’s messy handwriting annotating all his favorite passages. When he finds the page he’s searching for, he eyes you cautiously, as if waiting for permission to begin reading. And with a deep breath, he begins, his voice shaking a little as he finds his footing.

“Now by these presents let me assure you that you are not only in my heart, but my veins, this morning. I turn from you half abashed--yet you haunt me, and some look, word or touch thrills through my whole frame--yes, at the very moment when I am labouring to think of something, if not somebody else.”

At the last words, his gaze meets yours again, eyelashes trembling as he waits for your reaction. He waits for you to laugh, or to dismiss the words, or leave altogether. But you just stare back at him, your heart beating erratically at the poetry he utters, completely in awe with him.

He feels otherworldly at this distance, this intricate fascination with love and human connection. The way his brown tresses fall loosely in front of his big eyes as he speaks, his plump lips pulling into a nervous smile to reveal the row of skewed teeth you find a home in every time. He’s like the passage reads- thrilling your whole frame, consuming you whole and filling your mind with thoughts of him, and his poetry and his kind demeanor. You find yourself a little closer to him, your eyes darting to his lips and then back to his curious eyes, fantasies of him running rampant in your mind.

And Minho keeps his gaze locked on yours, too, leaning in a little closer to you, the book closing on its own as his hand slips away from holding it open and onto the bed beside you. The implications are there, the atmosphere around you heavy with desire and uncertainty, and just as you wield the courage to bring your lips a little closer to his, you’re promptly interrupted.

“Minho-ah!” A voice calls from downstairs. You quickly clock it as Mrs. Lee’s, who must be home early from work.

“I’m home early!” She calls again, confirming your theory, her footsteps getting louder as she makes her way up the stairs.

You sit up promptly, smoothing down your shirt and standing to bow when Mrs. Lee pokes her head in the doorway. Minho stands up too, making the whole situation look unbearably obvious, and you pray she can’t tell what’s going on between the two of you.

“Y/n,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you I would be home a little earlier today. Joon has a doctor’s appointment.”

“No worries at all!” You voice back, bowing again as she smiles. “I was actually going to leave early today. I have a bit of a headache.”

“Oh, do you want a cup of tea?” She asks, heavy concern present in her voice.

“No thanks, I think I just need some sleep.”

You turn to Minho, who’s standing with his hands in his pockets, looking a little disappointed as you give him a small bow.

“Take care,” you say to him, pivoting to head back to the library and gather your things.

Minho hears his mom see you out of the front door, chatting briefly with you about your trip and sending you off with a little wave.

He shuts his bedroom door and locks it, sprawling out on the duvet of his bed and running his hands over the book still beside him.

He’s not sure what happened- whether you were about to kiss him, or whether it was just wishful thinking. But every way he interprets the encounter, Minho swears he can feel your yearning for him, too. Is he crazy to think you might feel the same? Maybe he, too, finds it laboring to think of something- if not, someone else, besides you.

Joon is a particularly picky eater in afternoons, making a big fuss of foods he usually devours in the mornings and evenings. He skillfully dodges every spoon, every bite and feigns his interest in even his favorite snacks and desserts. And while you’re usually patient with him, today you’re frustrated, having mentally scolded yourself several times since yesterday’s events.

A part of you wants to ditch all of this, reminding yourself that you’re here to work a job, not lust after the son of the person who hired you. But the other part of you can’t help but imagine how things would be different if you just let yourself fall gracefully into him- he’s so much more than a fleeting thought to you. You want to understand him, having challenged yourself to figuring him out from the moment you came across him. But maybe you want him to understand you, too. You want him to understand that you feel at home whenever he’s around, his philosophical discussions and this game of house you play making you feel like you belong here. You want him to understand that although you know he feels like an outcast, none of his odd quirks matter to you when he’s reading his favorite love stories across from you in the library, catching glimpses of you when he thinks you’re not looking. And that maybe this universe conditioned itself just right so that you took up this job and crossed paths- and that has to mean something bigger.

There’s nothing different about the afternoon following yesterday’s, except for you spending a considerable amount of time on your hair and makeup, the anticipation bubbling inside you at the idea of seeing Minho again. You have no definitive plan, no script of how it’s going to go when he arrives from school. But you also know there’s something in your throat that wants so desperately to get out, and you won’t let it. As Joon toys with the cereal in his bowl, he looks up at you with big, curious eyes, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if anything. He doesn't know anything beyond the simple tasks of eating and sleeping, living with the comfortable knowledge that he’s being cared for. And although it seems much easier, you can’t help but sympathize. What a gift it is to feel- what a gift it is to carry emotions so deeply they eat away at you like this.

You’re infatuated with Minho- that fact stands true. And whether or not it benefits you to do anything about it, you’re determined to do something with all of this feeling, lest it slips through your fingers like he almost did.

You don’t hear Minho come home when he does, busy in the garden tending to Mrs. Lee’s plants when the usual alert of his car pulling into the driveway passes you by. So when he wanders the corridors searching everywhere for you, you don’t take notice.

Minho’s desperate, hoping to ask you to stay just a little bit longer tonight, having also had the epiphany that he’s completely fallen for you, too. And what he hopes to do with it, he’s unsure- but he does know that every romance novel on his shelf would refute the idea of letting this feeling dissipate. Kiss her, tell her, do something. Anything.

He strides down the halls with purpose and vigor, a nervous smile pulling at his face at the thought of seeing you again. It’s all he’s thought about today, having had just two hours of sleep as he sorted out what to say to you. And while he’s not well-versed in the practice of confessing his love, he feels his whole life has been devoted to the very purpose of being here and finding you. The debates you share, midnight walks to the bus stop, the book- he’d be a fool not to reciprocate what you yearn for. And when he doesn’t find you, Minho feels the familiar pit of worry form in his stomach. He’s not accounted for a change of plans, or even what might happen if you reject his admission. He wants to believe so badly that the answer is yes, risking everything just to say something.

20 minutes after he’s been home, Minho receives a phone call, answering in a rush while he checks the upstairs rooms for you.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sujin from class,” the phone at the other end says plainly. “I’m here for our project.”

And Minho freezes, remembering very well that he has a project due very soon, and his partner is here tonight to work on it with him. He sighs heavily into the line at the change in plans, knowing he’ll have to bottle his emotions another day and act on them tomorrow when he can get you alone.

“Oh, right,” Minho responds, making his way to the stairs and jogging down them. “The door should be unlocked.”

He stuffs his phone in his back pocket, making his way to the door to meet Sujin, and as he passes the sliding door to the backyard, he finally sees you. Knelt on the ground in a white sundress, your hands tainted with soil as you tend to the tomato plants and hum to yourself. Minho smiles at the sight of you, the urge to tell you right now stronger than ever. But before he can call out to you, Sujin’s already made her way inside, peering curiously around the place and clutching her purse in hand.

“Wow,” she says, chuckling lightly. “You didn’t tell me you were rich.”

Minho scratches the back of his head awkwardly as she grazes a marble sculpture with her fingers. His eyes remain on you through the glass door, transfixed by the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and pat your dress as you stand up again. Sujin takes note of Minho’s evident distraction, briefly glancing out the window and back to him.

“Where are we working?” She asks, pursing her lips together.

“We can work upstairs,” Minho explains, as you finally make your way inside.

At first you’re confused at the sight, Minho looming over a girl much prettier than you, her long hair styled neatly over one shoulder and a matching formal two-piece hugging her curves beautifully. And then as you see her begin up the stairs in the direction of Minho’s room, you finally understand.

Of course there’s another woman.

Of course there was a catch to all of this, because why else would things condition themselves so perfectly that you’d win him over?

And suddenly everything feels pointless- confessing to him, feeling any ounce of emotion regarding all of this, even working this job. He has a girlfriend, and she’s much prettier than you are. And he's trailing behind her after giving you a shy nod, likely embarrassed at the fact that you’ll be here tending to his household while he fucks her in his upstairs bedroom.

You can’t help but think that perhaps something got lost in translation, because Minho evidently never liked you, and unless this version of the universe magically conditions to work in your favor just once, it’s going to remain that way.

When the tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes, they don’t stop. You can’t feed Joon without hiccuping through a hot rush of tears that fall from your cheeks onto his tray below him. Joon seems to sense something is wrong, pausing the task of dodging his food to observe the way your face contorts as you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. And when you do stop to look at him, all you can see is Minho, his eyes and lips resembling exactly that of his elder brother’s.

The chores feel like a futile task now, and you let them sit there for the remainder of the evening you’re working for. In fact, the only thing you do complete is the task of getting Joon to bed when the sun begins to set, marching carefully upstairs to not interrupt Minho’s time with his girlfriend. And the word makes you sick, to think that he’s been stringing you along all while having a girlfriend- a fact he so conveniently left out.

Joon goes down without a fuss, and when he’s finally asleep, you escape the confines of the second story to lock yourself in the downstairs living room and complete your school work. How much of that is spent crying instead, you can’t quite remember.

It’s just after 9 when Sujin leaves for the evening, but you’re not awake to take notice when she does. You wake to the familiar sound of infomercials playing quietly on the television in front of you, Minho sitting on the floor in front of the sofa you occupy. His head hangs as he holds a book in his lap, probably some cheesy romance he projects onto him and his girlfriend, and his thin wireframe glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.

The dull narration on the television advertises jewelry tonight, and you let out a sigh as you feel your swollen eyes adjust to the bright screen in front of you. At this, Minho turns around, giving you a sheepish smile as you try to shut your eyes again. But it’s too late- he’s already seen you awake for the evening.

“Hi,” Minho says for the first time today, bookmarking his page and lowering the volume on the television. “She’s late again today, but I saved you some takeout.”

“I’m not hungry,” you reply quickly, sitting up and reaching for your bag. “In fact, I need to go home.”

“Oh, sure,” Minho replies, a little hurt at your rushed tone. “I can walk you-”

“No need,” you say to him, pulling on your sneakers and doing everything in your power to avert his gaze. He furrows his brows a little, knowing you never reject his offers to walk you home.

“Is everything-”

“Fine. I just need to get home,” you reiterate, finally sitting down and smoothing down your wrinkled dress.

Every part of him is annoying you right now, your mind teeming with the reminder that you’ve been wasting your time trying to know him better while he’s been entertaining a whole girlfriend these past few months.

“Y/n, wait,” Minho calls, still intent on telling you tonight, while the feelings remain stronger than ever. But you’ve already crossed the room to the front door, where you avert his gaze so he won’t see you begin to cry again.

“Bye,” you call to him, not even looking back before you’re turning the knob and seeing yourself out. “Tell Mrs. Lee it was an emergency.”

And he wants to ask if it was, but he can’t, staring at your rushed figure jogging down the street as you distance yourself from him before he can string you along any further.

Thus begins the game of avoidance.

It starts through keeping your conversations with Minho as short as possible, not engaging him when he tells you about theories he’s studied this week or what his days on campus were like. When he asks about your day, you give him one-word responses, muttering a simple “fine” before turning your attention to Joon again.

When Minho asks to go to the grocery store, you pretend you have a headache- for three days straight. So he makes the trips solo, balancing bags on one arm and telling you about how the cashiers have begun to ask where his pretend wife’s been. You give him no reaction, nodding as you feed Joon his dinner and glance at the clock for the umpteeth time, desperate to get away from him.

And the mystery woman remains, marching into the Lee household in afternoons like she owns the place, already having memorized the path to Minho’s room as she makes her way up the stairs and doesn’t acknowledge you. She’s beautiful everyday that she’s here, short skirts and long ponytails you can’t seem to look away from. And she’s even more hypnotic when she’s in the presence of Minho, the two of them as a couple certainly a sight for sore eyes. If they were a married couple, you’d reckon they'd be much more distinguished than you and Minho would.

“Do you want a coffee?” Minho peers into the library one night to ask you. You keep your gaze locked on the computer in front of you, trying your best to keep your guard up as he waits for a response.

“No, thank you,” you say coldly, continuing to work on your essay.

When he realizes you’re not going to say anything else, Minho enters the room reluctantly, his hands shoved in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe and gives you a once-over. You say nothing, still, holding back your emotions so as not to cause a scene. And Minho can tell something’s wrong in the way that you shift your eyes to him briefly and shake your head as if scolding yourself for doing so.

“Did I do something?” Minho finally asks, his voice a little shaky.

“No,” you say quickly, skimming the same sentence on your laptop screen over and over again.

“Are you… sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He fiddles with a loose thread in the pocket of his pants, keeping his gaze on the floor and thinking about your differing behavior toward him the past week.

“We just haven’t talked much. And you never really leave here anymore. I wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep any boundaries-”

“Overstep?” You interrupt, scanning your eyes over the screen of your computer. “There’s nothing to overstep. I get paid to watch your brother, not hang out with you.”

You feel guilty the minute the words leave your mouth, but you feel even worse knowing he’s just been stringing you along with a girlfriend this whole time. The atmosphere feels akin to when you first met him, awkward and cold, and with tensions high like this, you don’t feel at home in the Lee household anymore.

“Sorry,” Minho says, nodding. “You’re right. I guess I’m overstepping by asking.”

You only look up at him when he leaves, his shoulders sagging as he leaves you alone once again- only this time, you have a feeling he’s going to stop making an attempt to rekindle things anymore.

And you’re right- Minho stops trying entirely. There are no more offers to walk you home, no philosophical debates over coffee or grocery store trips where you act as a married couple. You’re still covered in knit blankets when you fall asleep accidentally on the couch, but Minho doesn’t stick around watching his infomercials to wait up for you anymore. And he still saves you his takeout when he orders, but he leaves it neatly packaged for you in the fridge instead of bringing it up to you like he used to.

You’ve gone from a mutual infatuation for each other to complete strangers once again. The house feels lonely and cold like it once did, your only real human interaction occurring in the few minutes you have with Mrs. Lee at the start and end of the day.

Minho doesn’t talk to you at all, locking himself away in his room like he did when you first started caring for Joon. And when you see him in passing at late hours of the night, he looks indifferent, sagging his shoulders as he averts your gaze with a book in hand and disappears down the corridors again. At some point, you begin to see his girlfriend less- in fact, his stoic composure makes you wonder if something’s happened between them. But as time goes on, you start to realize this is less about his girlfriend- and more about you.

What a gift it is to feel- but also what a curse. To let something consume you so entirely you can barely breathe without it. It’s laboring to think of anything else, of anyone else besides Minho and what he means to you. And as you replay your last interaction in your head for the nth time this evening, you think back to the day you started here. You knew the fundamentals of caring for a baby, having trained just enough to land a job doing it. All you wanted was to be liked by Mrs. Lee, and by baby Joon- and by extension, Minho. This household quickly became someplace you felt like you actually belonged in. But your purpose here has completely diverted from its original path, having prioritized Minho’s complexities and his feelings toward you above what you were hired here to do. You’ve experienced a roller coaster of emotions trying to understand him, and just when you thought you’d cracked him, you realized his heart belongs to someone else. So with the comfortable knowledge in mind that perhaps the universe isn’t, in fact, conditioned for you to mean anything more to him than just a babysitter, you understand it’s time to stop forcing any other version of it.

There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary two weeks into your avoidance of Minho.

You still haven’t talked, he still keeps his distance and you get paid to perform the job you’re here to do. But one afternoon before Minho’s even home from school, Joon refuses to eat. It starts with a tantrum he throws at breakfast time, which you consider typical as he knocks his cereal onto the floor and waves his hands around restlessly. You can only spoon feed him a couple spoons of yogurt before he’s put down for his afternoon nap. And when you wake him for his post-nap meal, he’s just as fussy. He seems to be bothered by something, crying loudly as you offer him different snacks and try your best to calm him down. But nothing seems to work, and when he begins refusing his bottles late into the afternoon, you start to panic.

Mrs. Lee isn’t home for a few hours, you’re unsure of when Minho gets home and you don’t have any way of getting to a hospital right now. The guilt and the fear eat away at you as Joon cries loudly, his face turning a bright shade of red as snot dribbles from his nose onto his shirt. He must be hungry, and clearly uncomfortable by something, only you’re entirely unsure what. His pacifier doesn’t calm him, nor does his favorite stuffed animal or his favorite television program. When his crying reaches the 10-minute mark, you feel hopeless, well prepared to drag him onto the bus to the nearest hospital yourself, fully convinced you’re going to lose your job. And as you begin to cry, too, the front door opens, Minho walking in with his backpack clutched casually in one hand and his car keys in the other. His girlfriend is with him this time, her head hanging as she uses her phone, completely oblivious to the atmosphere around her.

“Minho,” you call helplessly from the kitchen, and his head snaps instantly to look at you. Your eyes are nearly bloodshot from crying, your sleeves drenched in tears from wiping your eyes and your voice shaky as you speak. It’s the first time you’ve said his name in weeks, you realize, feeling your heart race as you call for him.

“What happened?” Minho asks when he turns the corner, throwing off his backpack and approaching a very fussy Joon.

“He won’t eat,” you reply through hiccups, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your sweater again. “I’ve tried everything. He won’t stop crying.”

Minho takes Joon in his arms, rocking him gently back and forth, to no avail; Joon starts crying even harder now, dribbling snot onto Minho’s sweatshirt and hitting his chest repeatedly.

“I’ll have to take him to the clinic,” Minho says in a rushed tone, fishing his car keys out of his pocket and making his way toward the door.

His girlfriend finally turns the corner into the kitchen, putting down her cellphone and huffing frustratedly.

“What’s going on?”

“Sorry,” Minho replies, shoving past her with Joon in his arms. “I have to go. We can work on our project another time.”

Your heart drops at the words- project. Project, as in a project for his university. With a classmate.

You want to cry more now, for being so stupidly angry with him over nothing, but you still have to help Minho take Joon to the clinic. Sujin doesn’t protest, quick to exit without so much as a goodbye as Minho scrambles to fetch Joon’s car seat.

“I’ll get him in the car seat,” you say, pulling your sneakers on as he balances Joon in his arms.

“You’re coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” you scoff, already taking Joon from his arms and ushering him outside. “Go start the car.”

“Lee?” A nurse calls, holding a clipboard close to her chest as she scans the waiting room.

You and Minho both stand up, Minho balancing Joon in his arms as the nurse gestures you to the door.

“Please, follow me.”

Both of you walk side-by-side down the corridor as she double-checks papers on her clipboard, making a sharp right and leading you into a private room.

Minho sets Joon down on the examination table, holding his arms to steady him, and you stand beside him as you wait for the doctor.

“She’s just reviewing the results,” the nurse says, referring to the x-rays Joon took earlier. “She’ll be in shortly to discuss them.”

Minho nods silently as the nurse leaves the room, leaving the two of you alone once again. You say nothing, unsure of how to break the awkward silence as Minho wipes a string of drool from Joon’s mouth and avoids eye contact with you.

You feel awkward, embarrassed and so, so stupid, for having treated Minho like absolute scum because you assumed the worst of him. It breaks you to see him avert your gaze like this, treating you the same way he did when you first crossed paths. He has his guard completely up again, and you’re not sure he’s ever going to let it down around you. As you lose yourself in doubtful thoughts, the door opens, Joon’s doctor sauntering inside and wiping her hands with the strong scent of hand sanitizer.

“Hi there,” she says cheerfully, giving you both a warm smile. “Are we here for baby Joon today?”

“Yes,” you both say in unison, and she laughs a little.

“You two are very synced. They say it happens in the first year of marriage.”

“We’re not married,” Minho chimes in quickly, and you turn to look at him, feeling a pit in your stomach all over again.

“No?” She questions. “My apologies. Is mom here today?”

“I’m just his babysitter,” you say quietly. “This is his brother.”

“I see,” the doctor says, eyeing you both. “Well you may notice I’m fairly calm, and that’s because there’s no terrible news I have to share. Baby Joon is just suffering from a little mucus buildup. He’s probably feeling the impaction, and the discomfort has caused a loss of appetite.”

You feel a weight off your shoulders instantly, relieved that this isn’t a more serious matter. He’s going to be fine, you think to yourself. He’s going to be his normal self as soon as this is over.

“… Just be sure to use a syringe to drain the mucus a couple times per day, and make sure he gets plenty of sleep.”

As the doctor writes Joon a prescription for his saline syringe, you catch Minho’s gaze briefly, shooting him a relieved look. He gives you a small nod in response, as if to say he’s glad you came along. And he is, he just can’t say it out loud.

“I think he’s finally sleeping,” Minho says, patting Joon’s back gently as he stands up from his chair. The two of you have been sat in the library for nearly two hours since getting back home, in complete silence as you read your books and wait for Joon to fall asleep. You take breaks every now and then to drain Joon’s mucus, alternating roles between holding his face still and using the syringe on him. And when he’s finally comfortable again, he dozes back off to sleep, little snores escaping his lips.

Minho leaves the room to put Joon to bed, and while he’s gone, you take the opportunity to pack your stuff and prepare to leave for the night. You feel guilty, not having said much to Minho this evening, especially with the newfound knowledge that this mystery woman was just a partner for his project. But you’re not sure what to say, well aware that he’s probably already decided you hate him, and there’s not much else you can do to fix things.

“He’s down,” Minho says as he re-enters the library.

“That’s good,” you reply with a solemn smile, packing your laptop in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“I should get going.”

“Do you… need me to walk you?” Minho asks a little shyly, and although the offer is tempting, you shake your head no.

“I’ll be fine. It’s really not as unsafe as you’d think.”

Minho just nods, understanding that you still don’t want to be close to him. And he gives you a little bow, before he exits the room and makes his way up the stairs to his own.

As you begin to leave, an object left on the chair across from you catches your eye.

It’s Minho’s book- the first edition copy of Love and Limerence you gifted him. You take the small book in your hands, scanning its contents briefly and examining the pages. He’s already annotated several of them, despite having read the book numerous times now, and you can’t help but smile at his scribbled notes circling all his favorite quotes and underlining them twice. You know it’s valuable to him, despite coming from somebody he probably despises right now, but you decide to take it up to him anyway, not wanting him to lose it.

When you’re outside his door, you give a small knock as it’s left ajar, and Minho hums in response.

You enter quietly, holding the book out to him and shooting him a small smile.

“You left this downstairs,” you say, and Minho reaches for it quickly, embarrassed you might’ve seen some of his annotations.

“Thanks,” he replies, setting it back on his bookshelf of romance novels.

He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, patting the spot next to him, and you join him at a comfortable distance as he keeps his gaze on the hardwood floor.

For a moment, no one says anything. And then he sighs deeply, before finally speaking.

“I’m sorry. If I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you’re quick to reply.

“I clearly did,” Minho retorts. “And I know I’m quiet, and I kind of shut myself off from the rest of the world. But I never meant for it to affect you.”

“It didn’t affect me,” you reiterate.

He scoffs lightly in response.

“Why won’t you just say it? You haven’t talked to me in weeks. You don’t even look at me. I clearly did something to push you away.”

You don’t reply immediately, pondering what to say. And ultimately, you let your emotions speak for themselves.

“I was jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of the girl. The one who’s been here almost every night.”

“Sujin?”

“Look, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know who she is or what she is to you-”

“My project partner,” Minho interrupts. “One who hates my guts.”

“Project partner,” you continue. “It doesn’t matter who she is- I like you, Minho,” you finally emphasize, turning to meet his gaze. His lips are parted in shock, his eyebrows furrowed as he hears you speak.

“I’m fucking infatuated with you, and it drives me crazy. I can’t go on vacation without seeing you in the books at the stores, I can’t sleep at night without your stupid theories replaying in my head. And I jump to the worst possible conclusions when you’re even near another girl. I’m going crazy trying to be liked by you- trying to look at everything through the lens of your romance theories or your book quotes, or whatever. But it’s so scary to like someone this much.”

Minho says nothing for a minute, collecting his thoughts as you let go of the breath you’ve been holding. He’s not used to people liking him- let alone being this intrigued by him. And especially when it’s in the form of reciprocation, from the one person he’s infatuated with, too.

“Why is it scary?” Minho questions, facing you now, his eyes darting briefly over your lips and then back up to your worried gaze.

“Because I’m here for a job. I’m not supposed to be feeling all this. You’re not supposed to be part of this.”

“How do you know that?” Minho retorts, leaning in a little closer to you now.

“I just…”

“You’re allowed to feel, y/n. You’re allowed to want this.”

And before you can protest his words, his lips are on yours, kissing you passionately like he’s pacifying the arguments before they can come to fruition. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, your mind racing with a million thoughts about what you’re doing, and what this whole thing even implies, but you shut them out with the rest of your concerns, pressing your thighs together as he brings two hands to your face and cups your chin gently. His lips work against yours so beautifully, so effortlessly, like the two of you have done this several times before. And maybe you have, in all his alternate universe theories- on your honeymoon, on the run from the police- right here in the comfort of his grand bedroom, his hands snaking up to pull off your cardigan as you tug desperately at the fabric of his t-shirt. Minho says nothing between passionate kisses, afraid if he talks you might realize what’s happening and leave. But you won’t leave, especially not when you’ve been dreaming of this, too.

When your cardigan is off, Minho moves a little closer to you on the bed, letting one hand guide itself onto your waist and trace the gentle curve of your body there. He’s delicate with his movements, careful not to startle you with his touches, but he’s also admittedly thought about this for weeks. The thought of you confessing was never something that crossed his mind- he was so sure he’d driven you away after that night. Never in his wildest fantasies had Minho considered the possibility that you were this smitten with him, too. But he did have thoughts of your lips on his, thoughts of your hands intertwined with his and ungodly visions of you under him, right here in his bed. Visions of his mouth on your breasts after you’d accidentally exposed yourself to him in the kitchen and he was forced to give attention to the massive erection that grew in his pants. And after you’d gifted him his favorite book, attentive to the details he’d indulged you in which he never otherwise shared with people, visions of making love to you ran rampant in his mind, filling you up over and over again with remnants of him as a form of saying I’m infatuated with you, too.

Minho’s kisses become needier as your words replay in his head, darting his tongue out to dance against yours with the sounds of exchanging saliva present between your plump, eager lips. He pushes you back gently so that you’re now lying on his pillow, the angle so intimate, the view of his room from here like something you’re not supposed to see. The ceilings appear even larger when you’re flat against his bed, the curtains that drape over his bedpost seemingly miles high.

Minho’s kisses trail down to your neck now, eagerly peppering your flesh in wet kisses as your hands reach up to tangle in his hair, holding him closer to you and letting him graze his lips wherever he desires. You can’t help but feel guilty having him all over you like this when you remember how you’ve treated him these past couple months- criticizing his tendencies to be quiet, intruding on his space and pushing him away because of a girl you’d assumed to be his girlfriend. But you also know most of it has been because you want him to mean more to you- perhaps you’ve just been trying to change things so that in this version of the universe, he’s not just an enigma to you. You want all of this- his lips on yours, his body pressed into you and to give yourself completely to him.

“Just so we’re clear,” Minho says suddenly, pulling away from you to hold eye contact with you. “I’m crazy about you, too. I really like you.”

And you can’t help but smile back in response, pulling him in again to press his lips on yours. He smiles into the kiss, too, satisfied you’re both on the same page. And although your now eager movements imply something more is about to happen, you don’t have to verbalize anything, his fingers snaking up your shirt serving as answer enough.

“Is this okay?” Minho asks, grazing your flesh with his big hands as he toys with the hem of your shirt.

You nod in response, sitting up a little and completing the task of pulling it off over your head and discarding it beside you. You waste no time on your bra, either, reaching around to unclasp it and rid yourself of the fabric without him having to ask. His eyes widen again at the sight, having remembered every curve of your body since that incident in the kitchen. But now in front of him again, he feels his cock swell in his pants, desperate to act on the urge. In nimble movements, his hand cups the mound of your breast, kneading it gently and sighing at the sensation of your soft skin against his. His mouth finds yours again, indulging you in a slow, passionate kiss, and then he trails down until he meets his hand at the mound of your breast, pressing a chaste kiss to your flesh before finally latching his lips around your nipple.

He starts with gentle kisses while your nipple rests between his lips, a string of saliva dribbling down to coat your hardened bud. And then he takes it between his lips with more force, beginning a gentle sucking motion as he gives your other nipple attention with his free hand, circling the tip with his thumb in tender movements.

You sigh beneath him, the sensation sending a shiver up your core, your nipples hardening even more in his touch, now eager for him to give your soaking core some attention. But he takes his time stimulating you, moving to your other breast to take your nipple in his mouth and leave a trail of saliva. Your body shivers when the cool air grazes your wet nipples as he pulls away, and he meets your lips again to kiss you passionately.

While he kisses you, your hands now toy with the hem of his shirt too, signifying for him to take it off. And Minho reciprocates with a little nod, finally pulling his shirt over his head and revealing his bare chest to you. It’s a marvelous sight to see more of his honey-tanned skin, his toned muscles and his broad pectorals practically begging for you to touch them. And just above his stomach, a horizontal pale pink scar, one that he eyes momentarily and then gives you a shy shrug.

You run your fingers along the scar briefly, tracing it in its entirety and bringing your hand up to caress his face.

“I didn’t think I could be any more attracted to you,” you say to him sheepishly, tracing the scar again. “You look like the poetry you’re so obsessed with.”

Minho feels an involuntary smile pulling at his face as he leans in to kiss you again, this time intent on giving himself fully to you the way you deserve.

Your kisses both grow hungrier, needier, as your bodies tangle into each other, and Minho loops a finger into the hem of your panties, tugging them down so that he has access to your sopping cunt. As your hands tangle further into his soft brown hair, his finger traces down the length of your stomach, dipping into every curve and over every inch of flesh he only got a brief sight of. And when he finds your mound, you arch up into him, parting your legs slightly to give him access. Minho doesn’t waste another second, attaching the pads of his fingers to your clit and working you in circular motions as he kisses you. Little gasps escape your mouth as he does, breathing heavily into his kisses and grinding your core closer to him as he quickens his pace, smearing your arousal around your aching clit and circling two fingers around to massage you gently. His cock is now fully erect against his abdomen, prodding into your upper thigh as he trails his kisses down your neck again, but he’s patient, forgiving with his movements, eager to pleasure you first.

As his kisses graze your neck, you tug his boxers over his cock, pulling them down so you’re equal parts undressed. Minho winces a little at the sensation, a bead of precum already dripping down the head of his cock, and you feel yourself clench around nothing at just the sight of him hard for you.

When he takes note of your anticipation, he glances down at his own erection, locking his gaze with yours again as if to confirm again that this is okay. You nod in response, reaching your hands around to loop them behind his neck and pull him a little closer. And then your gaze falls to his cock again, waiting for him to make the next move.

The two of you say nothing as Minho’s hand finds the base of his cock, pumping himself gently before leaning in to kiss you. He lets himself hover closer over you, until his cock is kissing your entrance in the same gentle, wet movements as your lips. You lift your leg up slightly to grant him access, and then in gentle movements as your eyes remain shut, you feel him push his tip inside of you, stretching you out around his girth and causing you to gasp. He’s bigger than you anticipated, even the dripping arousal of your cunt having trouble taking him wholly. But he brings his fingers down to your clit again, massaging you slowly to ease the pain. And it works, your body relaxing around him as he pulls back a little and thrusts in again, this time pushing further until he’s completely bottomed out inside of you. You let out a fervent moan at the sensation, his cock pulsating inside of you as he holds it there, feeling every inch of you clench around him and take him so well now. And then with a gentle kiss to your lips, he begins to move, his hips pulling back slowly to thrust back inside of you.

You feel so full of him, having him exactly as you’d always imagined him- circling your thoughts, hovering over you and finally inside of you, his cock brushing against your cervix so delicately with every thrust. Your labored breaths become one as you pant into each other’s mouths with overwhelming pleasure. Minho steadies himself with one hand on the mattress beside you, quickening his pace a little as he feels his cock twitch inside of you in response to a particularly pornographic moan of yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes as he continues to slip in and out of your soaking cunt. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you?”

He brings his lips to your neck again, nibbling the flesh between his teeth and letting it bruise as you moan beneath him.

“I’ve thought about you everyday,” you respond, angling his lips to yours again as he fucks you. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”

“Yeah?” Minho says with a satisfied smile, working circles back onto your clit.

“Yes,” you breathe back, toying with his hair as your arms wrap around his neck. “I wanted you to fuck me like the characters in your romance novels.”

Minho feels his cock twitch again, wincing and slowing his pace so as not to finish just yet.

“I can’t help it,” you whimper underneath him. “I think about you all the time. I think about you fucking me all the time.”

Minho intertwines his hand with yours, pressing it down on your abdomen and letting yourself feel when his bulge fills you up at every thrust, the motion visible beneath your palms.

“Feel that, baby?” He asks between kisses to your drooly lips. “Feel how good I fuck you? Is this what you imagined?”

You gasp at the sensation once you feel it, the bulge of his cock protruding against your palm with every pump inside of you. You nod breathlessly, almost unable to reply to his words now.

“I imagined it, too,” he says, picking up his pace now. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to bend you over the couch and fuck you right there the moment I met you.”

He groans a little as you clench around him and moan in response.

“Minho,” you say breathlessly, not missing the way his cock twitches inside of you once again. “Will you finish inside of me?”

He pauses for a moment, scanning your expression for a sign of whether or not you’re being serious.

“Please,” you beg, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m on birth control. Just want to feel your seed inside of me.”

He shuts his eyes briefly as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in a little closer.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Minho asks, locking his gaze on yours again. “I want to, but I want you to be sure about it.”

“I’m sure,” you say quickly, the last syllable hitching in the back of your throat as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “Please, just wanna feel you fill me up.”

He thrusts harder into you now, the room teeming with the squelching noises of your pussy taking him so effortlessly.

“You like it when we play house like this, huh?” He says, wrapping a hand gently around your throat. “You like imagining me as your husband, don’t you? Fucking you like we’re married?”

And it doesn’t take you more than a second to think before you’re nodding desperately at his words. You do love it, this sense of belonging when you’re in the Lee household. But you also get aroused at this second life you lead alongside him, caring for the baby like it’s one of yours and being fucked by Minho when no one else is around to hear your lewd moans.

“Yes,” you reply, your response muffled by his grasp on your throat. “You make such a good dad.”

“We’d make such good parents,” he emphasizes, kissing you breathlessly. “What do you say I fuck a baby into you and we find out for real?”

You feel yourself contract around his girth at the words, not having considered it seriously, but turned on at the idea of carrying a child just for him.

“Is that what you want?” Minho asks, nearing his orgasm as he thrusts even faster into you now, panting into your mouth above you.

“Yes,” you reply with a whimper. “Want you to fill me up so bad.”

“Yeah?” He cuts you off, pressing your abdomen harder with his hand. “I’m gonna cum, baby. Want you to feel it.”

Your senses hone in on the feeling of your palm over his bulge, pulsating rhythmically as he nears his orgasm.

“I’m cumming, fuck, I’m gonna finish,” Minho says, shutting his eyes in pleasure as he moves at his fastest pace now, his grip around your throat holding you steady as you lose yourself underneath him. He’s never finished inside someone before, but he has no intention of pulling out now, the conversation of impregnating you sending him over the edge as he reaches the cusp of his release.

You contract around his breathlessly now, eager to take his load, never having taken someone’s either, but desperate for Minho to be your first.

And with a few more harsh thrusts, Minho’s cock twitches once inside of you, finally letting out a generous load of his cum inside of you, the gush of his release filling you up so fully, the warm sensation of his milky white release thrusting deep inside of your pussy as he fucks the rest into you.

He feels his head spin, his eyes shutting instinctively at the sensation as he lets go fully inside of you, no urgency to pull out or stave off his release like he usually has to. And it takes a while before he’s begun to soften again, the knowledge of giving you his cum almost rousing him again and lengthening the period of his release inside of you. Minho already knows he’s going to be addicted to finishing inside of you from here on out- and he doesn’t want it any other way.

The warm feeling is all it takes for you to finish in mere seconds, contracting around him as he fucks you through his orgasm, your release mixing with his and dribbling down the side of your thighs as he begins to slow down. Minho doesn’t pull out immediately, instead caressing your face to gauge your reaction as he softens inside of you.

“Was it okay?” Minho queries, tucking sweaty strands of hair behind your ears and loosening his grasp on your throat.

“It was more than okay,” you say breathlessly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as he smiles down at you. “I feel so full of you.”

Minho kisses you sweetly, rubbing his thumb along your hand soothingly as he pulls out of you, a string of his cum connecting to you still and dribbling onto the sheets as he rolls over to lay on his side.

For a moment, the two of you say nothing, your chests rising and falling as you catch your breath and ponder the day’s events. It’s not what you expected was going to happen when you saw yourself up to his room again, but it is what you’d hoped would happen eventually. And the atmosphere feels much lighter around you now, completely void of the lingering sexual and emotional tension that’s plagued you for so long.

“Minho?” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Philosophically speaking, how many versions of us do you think are lying next to each other like this, right now?”

Minho thinks over your words for a moment, and then he chuckles lightly.

“Well if the universe was conditioned right, I’d hope for an infinite amount. But considering how long it took us to get here in this version, I’d say just one.”

And he sits up, leaning in for another kiss as two fingers tuck his arousal further into you, holding his release inside of your still-sensitive body.

“Have some bacon, honey,” Mrs. Lee says to you as she scrambles to get her things together for the day. “I made a lot, so help yourself.”

“Thanks,” you reply, strapping Joon into his high chair and smoothing down your skirt.

Ever since that evening, you and Minho have been inseparable. The two of you wait until Mrs. Lee is gone for the morning, desperately grabbing at each other and giggling between kisses until Minho has to leave for his classes. And when he returns, it’s much of the same, the two of you helping put Joon down for his afternoon nap before escaping up to his bedroom and making love until Joon wakes again.

Minho is completely and utterly obsessed with you, the same way you are with him, but you both know this game of house you play can’t go on forever. Mostly because you feel the guilt eating away at you day by day, every waking minute you’re tending to your duties as a babysitter or conversing with Mrs. Lee. It’s hard to be in the same room as Minho when she’s around, the urge to just confess even more present when she attempts to facilitate conversation between the two of you and you’re forced to act like he’s still a mystery.

But you have him more figured out than you ever have before, memorizing the freckles on his body like the back of your hand, reciting his favorite quotes like prayers and replaying the melodic giggles that escape his lips. You don’t want to be apart from him, but the point still stands- it’s scary to like someone this much. He consumes you more than he ever has before, filling every waking second of your life with remnants of him. You love when he reads romantic philosophical theories to you, or when he cooks you and Joon dinner after a long day. But you feel guilty when you’re alone with Joon again, hoping he can’t somehow tell that you’re only thinking of his brother when you’re preparing his bottles or feeding him. You hope Mrs. Lee doesn’t notice when your hair is a little too tousled to have just been from a nap, or the time you had to cross your legs to keep Minho’s release inside of you when the two of you had finished just in time for her to make it home. It’s selfish, and it’s unfair. And with no sign of this fling stopping anytime soon, you don’t see any other option to be fit.

“I’m leaving,” Mrs. Lee finally says, grabbing her car keys off the kitchen table and pulling her heels on. “Make sure to get Joon his medicine!”

The two of you watch as she shuts the front door behind her, and then you wait until her car starts, holding your breath as she pulls out of the driveway and begins down the street in what feels like an agonizing amount of time.

The minute she’s gone, Minho turns to you again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you lean back against the counter.

“Morning,” he says with a shy smile. He wastes no time leaning in for a romantic kiss, which you reciprocate, wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling into him.

When he pulls away, the two of you say nothing, holding each other in a comfortable embrace as he rubs little circles into the small of your back.

“I guess it’s just mom and dad home right now,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your neck. “I’ll ditch class right now if you want me to fill you up again.”

And his offer is tempting as he presses his erection into you, working more kisses down the nape of your neck and trailing his hands up your skirt.

“No,” you finally say, pushing him away and collecting your thoughts. “You need to get to class. I have a lot of stuff to do. I’m working, in case you forgot.”

“Okay, okay,” Minho says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I digress.”

He pulls back to caress your face with a visible smirk as your eyes graze his thighs, so beautifully sculpted under the fabric of his jeans. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so sinfully tempted by somebody before, like Eve to the apple, like a moth to a flame- he’s intoxicating, but you know you shouldn’t be indulging this while you’re here to fulfill your role as a babysitter.

“You should go,” you say to him, swallowing nervously as his hands trace the outline of your lips.

“Yeah,” Minho replies, a hint of disappointment present in his voice.

And without another word, he gathers his car keys off the table, sending you off with a little wave as he disappears for the day.

You may have Minho mostly figured out now- his fascination with romance and philosophy, his soft interior under the stoic exterior he presents everyone else with, his astounding levels of emotional intelligence and unwavering kindness for the people he loves. But now that things have become a little more complicated between the two of you, you fear all of this will come to an end as fortuitously as it all began.

The reality is, this isn’t one of Minho’s romance novels- you’re both real people, with emotions and convictions and reservations. And though you want this fleeting thing to last forever, you’re well aware that things don’t work that way, especially when you’re just a babysitter at the end of it all. Sure, Minho sees you as much more than that- but you were hired to be here in the Lee household, paid to fulfill your role here, and once this comes to an end, your relationship with Minho likely will, too.

… and thus, the decision to quit your job isn’t one you take lightly. It succeeds hours of thinking, weighing your options and planning out exactly what you’re going to tell Mrs. Lee when she asks why you’re leaving so suddenly. You want to do another internship, you decide on telling her, hoping she doesn’t poke enough holes to get the truth out of you- “I think far too much about your eldest son and it’s eating me alive.”

All day long, you try your best to shut Minho out of your thoughts, focusing on your online courses and caring for Joon like you used to. But it feels futile, this task of pretending things are the way they used to be. They’re not- you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back and hooking up with her eldest son. When all’s said and done, you’ll be right back in your own home, with your parents desperate to send you elsewhere once again, and your own life to tend to. This double life you romanticize isn’t real, nor is it attainable anymore.

Your phone call with Mrs. Lee to announce your decision doesn’t set anything in stone yet, her words urging you to speak with her later this week when she has some free time. But you know once you do speak with her, you’ll only have a few evenings left with Minho until this is all over. And you don’t have the heart to tell him just yet, but if things go anything the way they did when you first brought it up to him, you know he’s going to be heartbroken.

When Minho arrives home that evening, he can already sense something is wrong. You’re sat in the garden, where you typically don’t go, your legs crossed neatly over one of the sunlounger chairs as you let your thoughts consume you. Mrs. Lee’s koi fish fountain stands nobly in front of you, a robust stream of water trickling from its lips and into the concrete bowl below. You’re mesmerized by it as you always are, the steady sound of water coupled with the birds chirping in the sunny greenery around you as peaceful as ever.

“Hey,” Minho says, sliding open the screen door and stepping outside to meet you.

“Hi,” you reply, holding a hand up over you to shield your eyes from the sun. You’d forgotten how divine he looked today, his white button up now folded up at the sleeves and exposing his veiny forearms to you.

“How was your day?” Minho asks, pressing a small kiss to your temple as he occupies the spot beside you and stares at the fountain.

“Okay,” you respond, though you’re lying through your teeth. “Joon went down about an hour ago.”

Minho nods, and then he furrows his brows together as he speaks again.

“Why are you out here?”

You shrug in response, keeping short with your words as he pushes you for answers. And you want to tell him it’s because you made the most painful decision to call Mrs. Lee and forfeit all of this, but you know it’ll only hurt more, so you divert from the truth.

“It was stuffy inside,” you voice back, shooting him a small smile.

Minho seems to relax beside you, his shoulders sagging a little as he takes notice of your calm demeanor. He doesn’t have reason to believe anything’s wrong, judging by the way you converse so casually.

“You want me to cook you something?” Minho asks, placing his palm up next to you, and you let your hand intertwine with his.

“Will you read to me?” You ask, eager to indulge in your favorite activity alongside him.

“I can read to you,” Minho echoes back, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of your hand. “Which book?”

You’re both in the cozy atmosphere of the library later that evening, Minho sat on his favorite velvet armchair as you occupy a spot in his lap with his arms wrapped around you. The book is positioned in front of him so you can both see, his fingers holding open the thin pages as the poetry leaves his lips, pausing in between lines to press kisses to the crook of your neck when he’s reminded of you in his favorite characters.

And you hold back tears in the moment, wanting so badly to tell Minho that you’ll be letting go of all of this, running back to the monotony of your old life, one where Minho doesn’t exist and you don’t have to balance the complicated feelings of liking someone to this degree. But you bite back your words, careful not to ruin the intimate moment you share while he loves you in an ignorant state of bliss.

“The pleasures of love are always in proportion to the fear,” Minho begins a new chapter, grazing your neck with his lips.

He trails a bit lower to graze your shoulder now, pressing a small trail of kisses as he pauses his reading. You giggle softly in response, feeling his fingers find the strap of your tank top to pull it down your shoulder so he can pepper kisses there, too.

“Minho,” you say softly, writhing in his embrace as he tickles every inch of your skin with his kisses, now shutting the book and setting it on the arm of the chair.

“Can’t help it,” Minho responds, shutting his eyes as he snakes his hands up the back of your tank top. “You look so beautiful right now.”

As you adjust in his lap, you can feel he’s now rock-hard in his jeans below you, his thighs flexing underneath you as he wraps two hands around your waist and runs them up and down your sides. You take the hint, turning around in his lap to face him, and let your arms wrap around his neck to steady yourself.

“What are you thinking about?” Minho asks, bringing his lips to yours as he feels his hardened cock graze against the fabric of his jeans, eager to pleasure you.

You want to express your fears, your doubts, to tell him the truth about what you spoke about on the phone with Mrs. Lee earlier today. But you can’t, not when he looks so tantalizing in front of you like this, his bulge perfectly outlined in his tight jeans and his veiny arms flexing below the fabric of his collared button-up. You’ve been roused for him since he left in the morning, his offer swirling your mind coupled with his appearance, like something out of a wet dream.

“You,” you voice back, whimpering pathetically into another kiss and rocking your hips gently over him so that he’s practically whimpering for you, too.

Neither of you have to say much, knowing already where the evening is headed, as you unzip his pants and palm his erection through the fabric of his boxers. Minho watches as you slide off his lap, dropping to your knees in front of him and tugging the fabric of his jeans. He complies with your urges, pulling them down to his knees and freeing his erection from his boxers, exhaling deeply as the cool breeze of the room grazes his leaking tip.

Without a second to waste, you take him in your mouth, letting your saliva coat his shaft as you kiss his tip tenderly and then guide him down your throat, the base of his cock just barely meeting your lips as you struggle to take him fully. Minho groans at the contact, bucking his hips off the chair to guide himself further into you, feeling his cock twitch when you gag a little at the contact. You stay like that for a good while, bobbing your head in rhythmic motions up and down his hardened length, your saliva allowing you to graze his shaft with ease.

Minho’s thighs contract desperately below him, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s been longing for since the moment he saw you this morning. His hands find your hair, pulling your locks into a makeshift ponytail and gasping as you take him a bit deeper now, pulling back again to pepper the tip of his wettened cock in drooly kisses.

“Fuck,” Minho breathes out, clutching the arm of the chair so desperately. “Baby, stop, I don’t want to finish yet,”

And you release him with a gentle pop, knowing exactly what it is he wants so badly. You never deny it, sitting back up again to position yourself over his cock you intertwine his hands with yours. He uses one hand to tug your panties to the side, and then in one swift motion, you guide his cock inside of you, sliding down the slick of his length and bottoming out with ease. You take him so well now, always able to adjust to his girth instantly as your cunt is always dripping in anticipation when he’s near.

Minho’s hand moves to push your tank top up, taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking harshly as you begin to bounce on him with gentle movements. The room fills with sounds of panting, sucking and desperate moans as his cock fills you fully with every thrust, brushing against your cervix as he moves to your other nipple and kneads your breast desperately.

“What was that quote again?” You ask in labored breaths as he comes back up to kiss your lips.

“The pleasures of love,” he begins, breathlessly working his lips against yours as you clench around his length. “Are always in proportion to the fear.”

Minho feels his cock twitch inside of you, always nearing his finish much faster when you make him recite all his favorite quotes and book excerpts to you.

Except this one speaks much louder to you, directly aligning with your present-day emotions, circling your mind relentlessly as he fills you. Maybe this is what his book speaks of- the pleasures of love, being filled so fully and lovingly by Minho, two pieces of one whole like you’re both made for this, to make love into the late hours of the night while he recites poetry to you.

And all of this in proportion to the fear- this constant fear that he’s just a fleeting entity, that you’re both naive to play house like this and pretend it’s anything more. The fear present while you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back, letting him fuck you like he’s married to you and indulge you in all of his deepest secrets, as though you’re the only one allowed to know him this intimately.

The love and fear and indeed in proportion to one another- you love him as much as you’re afraid of loving him.

“I love you,” you say suddenly, bringing him in for another kiss before he can respond. But the way his kisses work against yours, hungry and passionate, there’s not a hint of reluctance in his response when he pulls away to speak again.

“I love you,” Minho breathes back, working his kisses against yours as his cock pulsates inside of you, desperate for release. “And I hope every version of the universe is conditioned for us to be right here.”

You smile into him, slowing your movements as you feel him contract inside of you, and then his thighs flex as he finally finishes inside of you, shooting hot white ropes of his cum into your still-clenching cunt, his release already beginning to dribble back down his length as he feels you slow down over him.

You bring a hand between the two of you, gathering his cum on the pads of your fingers to circle your clit in gentle movements, stimulating yourself to your release, too, as you contract desperately around him and breathe labored kisses back into his mouth. Your juices mix with his as you catch your breath, keeping him inside of you as your chest rises and falls with gentle movements. But the two of you say nothing, pressing your lips together to indulge in more passionate kisses for the few minutes you have left before Mrs. Lee makes it home for the evening.

The garden is particularly beautiful the next afternoon, teeming with the sounds of birds chirping and trees swaying in the gentle autumn breeze. Mrs. Lee let you know she’d be home a little earlier to have a chat about your decision to leave, and when Joon is put down for his afternoon nap, you receive the call that she’s in the garden waiting for you. You enter hesitantly, worried Minho might catch you and question what you’re doing out here. But he’s not home from school yet, you remind yourself, glancing around the tall grass and neat rows of potted plants for Mrs. Lee.

“Y/n!” A voice calls from one of the patio chairs. “Come, sit!”

Mrs. Lee sits with her back facing you, a large white sun hat atop her neatly styled hair and complementing her matching white jumpsuit. Her gaze remains locked on the koi fountain you’re always transfixed by, too.

“Hi Mrs. Lee,” you say, giving her a small bow as you take the seat next to her. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

She nods with a smile. “So good to see you when we have a little more time. I’m sorry I’m always such a mess in the mornings.”

You shake your head quickly, brushing off her words. “Not at all! It’s always nice to greet the family before I start my day.”

She just smiles in response, turning to nod at you, and then she turns back to the fountain.

“I was a little surprised when you called the other day. I hope things are going okay.”

“They are,” you interrupt quickly. “They absolutely are. Joon is so pleasant, and the job is great. I really love it here.”

“I hope everything at home is okay,” she moves on to say, and you quickly reassure her.

“Yes, everything is fine! Everyone is doing great.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Lee says, eyeing the ground before turning to face you now. “You’ve done so much for us, I’d be lying if I said I’m not going to miss having you around here in the mornings.”

You shoot her a sympathetic look, feeling a pit form in your stomach, too. You feel the same, probably tenfold, at the idea of leaving behind the household you’ve called home for so many days.

“I’m going to miss it here, too.”

“And I know Joon is going to be heartbroken,” Mrs. Lee says with a chuckle.

You chuckle too, giving her an understanding nod.

She pauses briefly, furrowing her brows together, before continuing her speech.

“You’re such a bright young woman, and I know you’re destined to do amazing things. If there’s a way I can help in this transition, please don’t hesitate to let me know, okay?”

You nod at her words, and watch as she smooths down her top before standing up. She seems to wait for a moment, as if hoping for you to say something, and when you don’t, she begins to make her way back inside.

“Well, I’ll let you go for the evening. Thank you again, for everything. And you have my phone number if-”

“Mrs. Lee?” You call out suddenly, catching her before she can get much further. She turns around at the worry present in your voice, her face shifting into that of concern.

Without having to voice anything else, Mrs. Lee sits down again, waiting for you to continue. But you can’t, your heart beating wildly in your chest at the thought of even bringing up the topic of Minho. I’m in love with your son, you want to say to her. I’m so in love with Minho and I hope you understand I don’t have a choice but to leave this all behind me.

“You know,” Mrs. Lee interrupts your thoughts, breaking the silence that fills the air. “This koi fountain was my first gift from Mr. Lee.”

You nod at her, remembering when she introduced it to you on your first day here.

“We weren’t married yet. It was his first restoration project, and my dad hated him. So he had a lot of trouble getting it over to me.”

You chuckle lightly, amused at her story which seems to calm you down a little.

“Luckily his parents adored me,” she continues. “And they offered to house it in their backyard until we married. For the 15 years we dated, my koi fish lived in their garden. And when we did marry, they rented a big truck to help haul it over. It was such a project! But it’s my favorite part of the garden.”

You shoot her a saccharine smile, well endeared at the way she speaks of Mr. Lee. You can tell she’s in love with him, even this many years later.

“Sometimes I wondered why they would do something so nice for me. But as I grew closer to them, I learned not to question what was meant for me. They loved me, as did Mr. Lee. And I wasn’t going to run from any of that, no matter what I felt I deserved.”

Your head snaps in her direction at her last words, realizing how they apply to you. But she doesn’t know about Minho- at least not to your knowledge, or Minho’s. She gives you a sheepish smile as you furrow your brows, and then she takes your hand in hers, giving it a little squeeze.

“I hope you won't run from what you deserve, either.”

You nod a little bit at her words, finally understanding the weight of them, and then you look back at her with a confused expression.

“Mrs. Lee, are you talking about…”

“Minho?” She finally says, with a warm smile. She takes your other hand in hers, too, tilting her face to yours so that she’s making proper eye contact as she speaks.

“I had wondered why he was so happy these days. Minho’s always been a bit of an outcast. But I haven’t seen this spark in him since he started his obsession with all those romance novels and philosophy studies of his.”

You chuckle lightly, a weight off your shoulders as she finally speaks of what circles your mind so heavily.

“But how did you…”

“I knew it when I saw it,” she says. “I knew it, because he had the same look in his eyes as when I met his father.”

You feel your heart swell in your chest, your shoulders relaxing as she continues to speak.

“He speaks of you like poetry,” she tells you. “And for that alone, I’m thankful for you. Now what you choose to do is your decision- but I hope you know you will always have a home here with us. Not just as a babysitter, but as family.”

When Mrs. Lee finishes her speech, she gives your hands a little squeeze, smiling at you and back at the koi fish fountain. It feels much more sentimental to you even now, the beautiful waterfall that cascades serving as a reminder of its permanent restoration rooted in the infatuation Mr. Lee had for Mrs. Lee. And watching it stand so beautifully like it did all those years ago, you’re reminded that love can be a lasting thing, no matter the circumstances. The universe can condition itself to make things last, affirming the philosophical notions Minho’s always told you. And that perhaps you do deserve this, a sense of belonging here in the Lee household, right here alongside Mrs. Lee and Minho, and even baby Joon.

As you watch the fountain together, the sound of the sliding door makes itself known behind you, and you turn around to find Minho entering the garden, baby Joon sitting comfortably in his arms as he makes his way over.

“Hi,” Minho says, coming around to give Mrs. Lee a kiss on her cheek. “What’s going on here?”

He looks visibly worried, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Mrs. Lee, as if to silently ask you what she’s told you.

But Mrs. Lee just smiles at him, as she gets up from where she’s sitting and smooths down her jumpsuit.

“We were just having a girl chat. I’ll leave you two alone.”

And she disappears behind the screen door again, shooting you a little wink as she does, her anecdote circling your mind, still.

“What happened?” Minho asks, settling down next to you and balancing baby Joon on his knee. Joon fists at the fabric of his shirt, babbling incoherently as you smile down at him.

“Nothing,” you say, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. You refrain from saying anything about leaving, not wanting to interrupt the tender moment you share with Minho and Joon in the sunlight of the garden.

“You have a really cool mom,” you settle on saying, smiling at Minho as he chuckles softly in response.

The afternoon sun beams through the glass windows of the library as you lie comfortably in Minho’s lap, his book positioned in front of you as he presses a small kiss to the back of your hand before turning the page.

Outside, the birds chirp songs of early spring, the steady stream of Mrs. Lee’s koi fountain audible as you peer down at the garden.

Mr. and Mrs. Lee sit in the tall grass, fiddling with a box of tools as Mr. Lee repairs a new project for Mrs. Lee. This one’s a much larger fountain, one he’d told you would take several months, perhaps even years. But Mrs. Lee sits beside him, relishing in stories of his restoration process and laughing with him as he works. You can’t help but smile at the sight, her stories about him playing in your mind whenever you catch a glimpse of them together.

“Do you think they could be us in another universe?” You ask Minho, turning to face him as he peers out the window, too.

“I hope so,” he says with a smile.

You settle closer to him in his lap, pressing a small kiss to his hand as he continues reading.

“And think not that you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”

At his words, you hear baby Joon cry out, having woken from his afternoon nap.

“I’ll get him,” Minho says, shutting the book and setting it aside to go tend to the baby.

And as you peer back out the window, the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s laughter filling your ears, baby Joon’s voice calling to you, Minho’s philosophy book perched on the chair beside you and the sun beams shining their light through the windows, you know that this is belonging, this is love.

#stray kids #skz smut #Lee Minho #Lee know #stray kids hard hours #Lee know smut #lee know scenarios #skz x reader #skz hard hours #stray kids x you #skz #fanfic #request #requests open #Spotify

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hermitadaymay · 1 month

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WELCOME TO HERMIT-A-DAY MAY 2024!

I'm thrilled to bring this challenge to you all for the second year in a row! Hermit-a-Day May is a challenge inspired by Hermitober, but with a twist: instead of theme prompts, we focus on a specific Hermit every day!

THE RULES: 1. Any type of fanwork is welcome so long as it features, or is otherwise inspired by, the Hermit of the day. 2. Tag #hermitaday to have your fanwork reblogged, or submit it directly to the blog (Please note that while I recognize the value of fanworks involving more mature themes, and they can certainly count toward challenge completion if you're keeping track for yourself, content on this blog will be kept "PG-13" so that all may enjoy.). 3. Fanworks for one Hermit posted after the day rolls over to another Hermit's day (per the US Central time zone) will be reblogged in a big queue in June. 4. I am not interested in seeing captions or tags in which you disparage your art/skills. We're all improving all the time. Be kind to yourselves.

WHY SHOULD I PARTICIPATE? To show love to every Hermit, from the most to least subscribed, from those who have been on the server from day one to those who only joined this season! And because challenges are fun! And because, this year, there's an extra dimension to the event: a fundraiser for Gamers Outreach, featuring art incentives by @rendiggitydog and @belmarzi.

GRAND TOTAL INCENTIVE: For every $150 we raise for Gamers Outreach, belmarzi will make 10 seconds' worth of animatic, featuring as many Hermits as she can fit into the time frame.

INDIVIDUAL DONATION INCENTIVE: For every $50 (formerly $65 - changed 5/3) you personally donate to the fundraiser during the month of May, Rae rendiggitydog will draw you a shaded flats commission of a Hermit of your choice.

WHO’S RUNNING THIS? Hi! My name is Luna! You can use she/her, he/him, ze/hir, or ro/ros/roseself pronouns for me. My main blog is @as-if-unreal. Yep, before you ask, it really is just me, but to be fair I've had a lot of help.

BONUS SUNDAY PROMPTS EXPLAINED UNDER THE CUT

TFC - May 5th While he may no longer be with us physically, TFC left behind him a legacy of quiet care and good humor, and Hermitcraft would not have been the same without him.

FRIENDS OF HERMITCRAFT - May 12th There are plenty of shows, podcasts, competitions, other servers, and more woven into the internet ecosystem around Hermitcraft, and plenty more people involved in them: just as a small number of examples, Season 9's Rift opened up to a whole server of Emperor friends, and there are always allies to be made in MCC and enemies to be made in the Life Series. Today is for celebrating all of those who, while they may not be Hermits themselves, exist and entertain in proximity to them.

FAVORITE "ALT" HERMIT - May 19th HoTGuY and Poultry-Man. Helsknight and Evil Xisuma. Renbob and - look, you get the idea. This server is full of theater kids ready to toss on an alternate skin and play into a brand new character at the drop of a hat. Who's your favorite?

GROUPS AND COLLABS - May 26th This month is all about one Hermit a day... but what we really love is when they interact with each other. What does your favorite duo or group of Hermits get up to together?

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nihilistem · 9 months

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adhd study tips.

by a stem student with adhd.

disclaimer!!! I’m by no means an expert in mental health or adhd but I do happen to have it. My intention with this post is to help others with adhd get more comfortable with studying so the process will be smoother for them!! At the end of the day, despite having the same disorder our brains will still work differently so do keep in mind that these may or may not help you, but are something you can try out if you’re stuck on not being able to study efficiently.

here’s some adhd study affirmations + tips on straying from discouragement if you’re experiencing burnout.

(And here’s part 2 of adhd study tips.)

I’ll start this off by listing more commonly known study tips that also work well with adhd.

change up your environment every now and then. we seek novelty even more than neurotypical people already do so switching it up will definitely help in our studies, especially if the place is well lit!

try some questions of the topic you’re trying to learn even when you know nothing about it. both neurotypical and neurodivergent brains are hardwired to remember things when we are proven wrong, and this is a great way of utilizing this neurological response!

take walks, exercise or stretch during your breaks. this tip is very effective at satiating our hyperactivity and also keeps us energized throughout our study session.

keep a notebook for your brain dump / ideas. we always either think of really stupid things or the most brilliant ideas in the middle of our study sessions and it almost always leads to distraction, but writing it down somewhere lets your brain know that the idea isn’t going anywhere and you can continue studying.

now, onto the tips that have personally helped with my adhd (and I haven’t seen many others talk about.)

alternate between various study plans, routines, schedules and techniques and always be open to finding more of them. majority of the time people always say ‘have a routine that works for you and stick with it’ but our adhd brains get bored very quickly, especially when it comes to repeated routines and schedules. I personally never stick to the same routine or plan more than three days in a row and sometimes I even make a plan on the spot and I’ve been more productive doing that than when I had only one or two study routines to switch between.

do not time yourself at the very beginning. Instead, focus on something in your studies you’re interested in and start there. what do I mean by this? well, since starting is always the hardest, when we begin our very first pomodoro we might find ourselves spending the first 25 minutes zoning out on a textbook just to get that ‘study time’ in even though you didn’t actually learn or recall anything. So to combat this, begin with something you’re genuinely curious about, or ask a question you can’t help but wonder the answer to. Once you find the answer, you might find you’re more in the zone and can continue from there. If not, take a short break and begin the pomodoros afterwards.

if you’re zoning out while reading up on a topic, try walking around while reading, looking at different sources on it or do some questions on that topic. again, novelty always gets us every time. sometimes the problem may be that the explanation in front of you isn’t making sense in your head and other sources may phrase things in a way that is better for your understanding. perhaps the problem is that you’re staying too still and you need to satisfy the hyperactive part of your adhd. or maybe your brain subconsciously believes that they already know what needs to be known about this topic, and there’s no better way to test that by trying out some questions on it.

switch between lyrical and non-lyrical music playlists, but make sure the lyrical music inspires you to excel. this definitely won’t apply to a lot of people but I found that when I constantly listened to piano, lo-fi or just non-lyrical music while studying in general, it actually promoted my likelihood of zoning out. but recently I found a playlist I deeply resonated with that was related to my studies called, ‘pov : a try-hard mid student who wants to ace everything’ and because I related very deeply with both the title and the lyrics of the songs, I was actively being encouraged to study as I was studying. but I also recognize when I really need to think in certain areas and that’s when I switch back to the non-lyrical music.

this is all I have as of right now but please do lmk if you guys want more of these!! I really wanna help out as much people as possible because my studies suffered greatly due to both my adhd and my late diagnosis of it and I’d love to help out others going through something similar.

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dkbtho · 2 years

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we’re so close to reaching an equilibrium with my posts again I swear we’re SO CLOSE

#you may not know #but I am a lil obsessive w my queue #and anyway I try not to post from the same group in a row #(unless I have set aside that day for a group or individual - which happens and I enjoy)#every time I add a group to my stan list and enter the tumblr community for that group I end up w TONS of posts #that I try to stagger out so it's not just a bombardment of the same folks #and anyway s k z has been the worst (best?) because there has just been SO MUCH #partially because there's a large st.ay.blr presence #and partially because I got into them right as they had a cb #ANYWAY #i can see the light at the end of the tunnel #SOON ENOUGH we'll be back to the perfect diversity of posts <3 <3 #soon <3 #me tho

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paintingwhiteceilings · 9 months

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❃Seventeen and s/o switches languages during an argument❃

a/n: Firstly, thank you for sending my very first request; I hope I did it justice! After discussing it together, we decided to make it a more general prompt. This was such a fun prompt to try my hand at, as a fellow EU carat, it was amusing to imagine how they would react to their partner switching languages. Some of these may have become a bit, more like very, long as a result so, well, grab your popcorn I suppose :')

Anyway, it is a bit longer and more serious than my other posts but I hope that you will like it regardless!

TG: some of these are slightly angsty and DK is naked

Scoups/Seungcheol

❀ In all fairness, the two of you tend to bicker every now and then, mostly because Coups is the pettiest and poutiest person alive. As a result, you tend to be quite used to having irrelevant arguments with him. Neither of you gets incredibly upset; the arguments are mostly harmless and, at times, can be quite amusing.

❀ This time, however, you had quite a stressful day at work and were in no mood to playfully bicker with him. Apparently, you had absent mindlessly borrowed one of his jackets, and he had been missing it all day, giving Hoshi an earful as he believed he had gone out of his way to borrow his stuff again. After he discovered that Hoshi hadn't been the culprit, he texted you, but in the chaos of work, you had forgotten to reply, leaving him on read. Truly, in his eyes, how incredibly offensive. How can his love, his light, his everything leave him on read just like his members do???

❀ Cue a ton of whining and pouting when you walked through the door, wrapped in his precious jacket. He didn't seem to get the hint that you were in no mood for his dramatic antics. It didn't take long for you to snap at him, effectively shutting him up. He didn’t shut up, however, because you actually got angry at him, but because you unconsciously switched to your native tongue in your exhaustion. He had forgotten that was a thing you could do.

❀ He has dealt with the foreign line switching languages during arguments enough to know that you weren't having his tantrum. It is enough for him to realize to knock it off, but he will be pouting the rest of the evening. Not because he is still upset about the jacket, but because he has no idea what you said and he is too prideful to ask until the next morning.

Jeonghan

❀ Jeonghan rarely gets mad at people, meaning that arguments between the two of you tend to be infrequent. The only times the two of you tend to bicker is when he finds yet another way to cheat during game nights. The cheating is all in good fun, and more often than not, you find yourself impressed with his quick-wittedness.

❀ That being said, losing five times in a row because your boyfriend found another loophole in the game rules really tested your patience. You had been playing Uno together when he decided that whenever he plays the reverse card, it means he gets to go again. Somehow, he stocked up on a ton of reverse cards, and he had been getting rid of most of his cards without you being able to do anything about it.

❀ Naturally, you started arguing with him, trying to convince him that it was against the rules. It was no use; he knows the rules better than you do. Thus, in the heat of the moment, you couldn’t help yourself, and you cursed at him in your native tongue. He was mighty confused for a second, but was aware from looking at your face that you were not complimenting his quick thinking.

❀ He ended up laughing at you, finding it hilarious that he somehow managed to trigger you that much. Be prepared for him to never let you live it down. Every game night, he will cheekily ask you whether it is okay for him to cheat or whether you will curse at him in your native tongue again. From now on, he will up his cheating antics as well, trying to get a rise out of you again.

Joshua

❀ You and Joshua usually don't let your grievances get to a shouting match. Before it can get to that point, one of you sits the other down to calmly talk things out. However, every once in a while, whenever one of you is stressed about something, things tend to escalate. So when Joshua comes home late after a gruelling recording session for the sixth time that week, leaving you to do all the house chores after a stressful work day yet again, you get into a heated argument.

❀ Neither of you wanted to admit to being in the wrong, leading to you bickering back and forth. Joshua had been angrily smiling at you for the past half an hour, trying to explain his side of the story, whilst you were trying to do the same. Arguing in Korean wasn't necessarily your strong suit, and despite English being a lot easier, you couldn't help but switch to your native language as you were trying to find the right words to explain your side of the story.

❀ To be honest, I can't really imagine Joshua being surprised when you switch languages during an argument. Having lived in an environment where he has to speak a second language constantly, he probably is all too aware that when people get emotional, they switch to their mother tongue. He has had too many quarrels and fights with the other members where he kept throwing in English, unable to remember the corresponding Korean word.

❀ Instead, your argument becomes a poly-lingual discussion where the two of you keep switching between all the languages you are familiar with. Joshua doesn't even blink when you switch to your native language anymore; he is used to deciphering what you are saying through context clues.

Jun

❀ Jun is an absolute homebody. He loves to lounge on the couch for hours with his phone in hand, playing mobile games and scrolling on social media. It is the perfect way for him to de-stress after his busy schedule, where he has to constantly be on the move. Usually, you enjoy the domesticity of it, but lately, you can't help but feel like all the two of you have been doing is staying at home. It isn’t like you constantly want to be out and about, but a part of you wants to go on a proper date where you get to dress up and be lovey-dovey with your boyfriend. You have been trying to find the right time to bring it up, aware that Jun doesn’t do well with subtle hints.

❀ However, when the day finally came where you asked him to go on more dates, it ended up in you two fighting. It had all started when you found yourself bored out of your mind with Jun being on his phone again, absorbed in his own world. For the first time in a while, he got to enjoy a bit of a break as promotions had finally ended, and he intended to spend most of it relaxing on the couch. It was a much-needed break from the constant dancing and travelling. Naturally, when you proposed to go out for the day, asking whether he wanted to check out a café that had just opened up in the city, he immediately responded that he didn’t want to.

❀ Perhaps both of your fuses had been short that day, and soon an argument ensued between you two. Jun stubbornly maintained that he wanted to rest and that being at home together was enough for him, whilst you tried to explain that you felt like he didn’t want to make time for your relationship. The two of you argued back and forth, both making valid arguments but unwilling to hear the other out.

❀ Jun was already mixing some Mandarin with his Korean as he got more and more frustrated. It didn’t help either that Jun had started to speak quicker the more agitated he got, making it even harder for you to decipher what he was trying to say. Thus, as the fight reached a boiling point, you started to yell at him in your native language. Jun had never heard you speak your mother tongue at length before, so you completely caught him off guard.

❀ Jun doesn't know what to say in response to your yelling, not knowing what you yelled at him in the heat of the moment. Similarly, you are surprised at your emotional outburst. You switching languages is enough for the both of you to realize that neither of you was listening to the other anymore. After a moment of silence, the two of you decide to leave the argument for the night and calmly talk about it after a good night's sleep.

Hoshi/Soonyoung

❀ Hoshi has been trying to convince you that his native language is growling, being a tiger, and all that. As much as you try to support your boyfriend’s tiger agenda, you have attempted to dissuade him from growling at you constantly as a way of communicating. You gently told him to stop as, first of all, you can't understand what he is trying to say when he is growling, and, secondly, it is very embarrassing when he does it in public.

❀ Still, he is waiting to find any excuse to growl at you, and you have noticed that whenever you slip into your mother tongue, he sees it as a green light to start. As a result, you try to be extra careful about using your native language around him in public or when other people are visiting. At home, you feel comfortable enough to, at the very least, scold him without anyone else having to bear witness to how shameless this man can be.

❀ It had all gone downhill when you and Hoshi organized a game night with the other members. It wasn't the actual game night that resulted in you yelling at him. Oh no, it had to do with the fact that Kwon Soonyoung has the habit of leaving the toilet seat up despite you having asked, on multiple occasions, whether he could lower it after he finished his business. For the past few days, he had been doing a good job remembering, but with all the excitement of the game night, it had slipped his mind. He was reminded, however, of his mistake upon hearing a splash and a blood-curdling scream leave the bathroom door.

❀ You were livid upon entering the living room and reminded your boyfriend yet again to lower the god-damn thing. In your anger, you slipped into your native tongue without being aware of doing so. You didn't even register it until you saw Hoshi's stunned and guilty expression morph into one of absolute delight.

❀ He growls. At you. In response.

❀ It is safe to say that the other members have to hold you back before you kill your boyfriend.

Wonwoo

❀ Usually, you loved having a gamer boyfriend as it meant that you got to focus on your own hobbies, happily existing in the same space without having to constantly have to do things together. Lately, however, you had been trying your hand at some of the games he had been playing. It was a fun pastime, and you especially liked games that didn’t require a fast reaction time, allowing you to explore a world or story at your own pace without it resulting in you constantly dying. Not to pat yourself on the back, but you had become quite skilled at the games you often played. Recently, you and Wonwoo had even started to play games together; you couldn’t help but smile whenever you saw your joined beds in Minecraft.

❀ So, when Wonwoo asked you to play Keep Talking & Nobody Explodes together, you had expected the two of you to do rather well. However, it couldn’t be further from what ended up transpiring. The game required seamless communication, with one person trying to disarm a bomb whilst the other consulted a manual on how to, unable to see the actual bomb. The first level had been easy enough, but you guys immediately got stuck on the second level. Each level was more complicated than the last one and was making your way through the game rather painfully slow. For some reason, your communication was completely off, resulting in numerous retries. It didn’t even matter who the operator or who the bomb disarmer was; you simply couldn’t get into sync.

❀ You could tell that Wonwoo was getting incredibly agitated when you were taking way too long to read the Korean instructions to him, unable to understand one particular word, causing the bomb to explode yet again. He had played the game with some of the members before, and it hadn’t been this hard. It didn’t help that he kept trying to give you tips and tricks on how to play the game. It felt a bit condescending. Moreover, you could tell he was partly blaming your Korean when he sighed yet again at another failed attempt due to you fumbling over your words. It wasn’t as if this was only your fault. As a result, you snapped at him that he should try to play in your native tongue and see how easy of a time he had with it. Except, you accidentally snapped at him in the wrong language.

❀ As you continue rambling under your breath, venting to yourself that your boyfriend and the game are both stupid, you don’t notice that you switched languages. Wonwoo, in the meantime, has fallen incredibly quiet, unsure how to react. He realizes that it might have been a bit unfair to play a game that requires you to communicate complicated instructions in Korean. When you are finally done ranting in your native language, he will quietly propose playing a different game, muttering a quiet apology when you two agree to switch to Stardew Valley. He makes sure to give you lots of gifts in-game, trying to show that he appreciates you playing with him even if it doesn’t always work out well.

Woozi/Jihoon

❀ You were aware that when you started dating Woozi that he was a bit of a workaholic and that there would be times when he would prioritize his work over your relationship. For the most part, you loved his dedication to producing music; you enjoyed hanging out in his studio, watching how he expertly produced a new track. You always felt in awe as you watched him tinker on the piano, trying to figure out what chords to use for the song. In turn, he loved having you there; your questions and curiosity reminded him of the wonder he felt when he first started producing.

❀ However, his passion for making music sometimes did make you feel like a third wheel in your relationship, especially when a Seventeen comeback was nearing. He would be cooped up in the studio for weeks, ignoring all the messages you send him. Where he normally loved having you around in the studio, he would become easily agitated with you watching over his shoulder as the deadlines neared. The expectations of the members and the company would weigh heavily on him, and having you be there as another watchful eye was simply too much for him to handle.

❀ So, when you went to the studio after a concerned Coups had called you, noticing that Woozi hadn’t bothered to eat that day, your presence put Woozi over the edge. It had been a couple of weeks since you had last seen your boyfriend, and you had hoped that seeing you would cheer him up. However, he barely acknowledged your presence when you stepped into the studio, his attention captured by the screen in front of him. Whenever he did respond, it was often curt and borderline insulting. You knew it was due to him being under a lot of pressure, but you couldn’t help feeling hurt.

❀ It got to you, and before you knew it, the two of you were fighting. Woozi, who already was feeling immense stress, couldn’t deal with the intense emotions and, hence, defensively threw out a painful insult without thinking. Feeling the tears sting in the corner of your eyes, you asked yourself why you were even still here when he obviously didn’t want you there in your native language before turning to leave. He didn’t understand what you had said, leaving him momentarily speechless.

❀ By switching languages unexpectedly, it gets through to Woozi what he had said and how hurt you were by his words. By being unable to understand what you were saying, he is able to solely focus on your tone and emotions. He feels incredibly guilty about his behaviour, and it doesn’t take long for him to chase after you to profusely apologize.

DK/Seokmin

❀ Although fights do not often happen with DK, he sometimes can be a bit prideful, only recognizing he is in the wrong when the other person gets noticeably angry. You encountered his pridefulness on a normal enough day. DK had texted you that he would be over at your place after practice, so when you came home and heard the shower running, you were delighted at the prospect of spending the evening together with your boyfriend. You briefly called out to him that you were home before waiting for him on the couch to finish showering. It didn't take long for him to be done. When you saw the door swing open with your handsome boyfriend only wearing a towel around his waist, you got up to properly greet him with a hug.

❀ However, before you could do so, you smelled a familiar scent drifting out of the bathroom. You see, one of your friends had gifted you a very expensive body wash that you had been gingerly using whenever you had had a particularly stressful day. Due to it being so expensive, you had asked DK to use the other ones in your shower, just so you could enjoy it a little longer, as you weren't really going to buy it for yourself once it ran out. He hadn't listened. Cue one of the pettiest arguments ever.

❀ In your defence, you weren't even upset about him using the body wash, but instead were hurt that he hadn't respected your wishes. DK, in turn, argued that it was only body wash and that he had simply wanted to smell like you. The argument escalated without either of you meaning to, and before you knew it, a towel hit you in the face. In surprise and anger, you yelled at him in your native tongue, which made DK effectively realize what he had done. He knew that you would never switch languages without being incredibly upset and he felt mortified, recognizing that he had not only let his emotions get out of control but also had parted with the only thing covering up his body.

❀ As you threw the towel back at him, venting in your native language some more, you finally noticed DK standing before you in all his glory, looking both guilt-ridden and like he wished for the ground to swallow him whole. Seeing him standing there butt naked was enough for you to crack up, breaking the tension from the argument. DK, on the other hand, wasn't sure whether to profusely apologize for throwing the towel at you or hide for the rest of eternity.

Mingyu

❀ Mingyu often feels like the perfect boyfriend; he loves to cook and clean and lives to pamper you whenever he is able to. He takes your teasing very well, enjoying when you cheekily poke fun at him blatantly showing off his trained physique in front of fans. Although staying in Korea can sometimes be overwhelming, he truly makes you feel right at home. He strives to introduce you to his friends and tries to make as many new memories with you so that you wouldn’t have to miss your home country too much.

❀ When you guys moved in together, you had been ready to have it be another cherished memory. That was until Mingyu dropped a very precious ceramic bowl. The bowl had been a present from your family when you moved out, and you had dragged the bowl with you all the way to Korea. It was a meaningful keepsake you had taken with you from your home country, allowing you to have a piece of home in a foreign place. You had mostly used it as decoration in your previous apartment, and you were incredibly careful when using it, knowing that once it fell, it would be incredibly difficult to replace.

❀ Consequentially, when you watched your boyfriend drop it onto the floor, shattering your treasured keepsake into a thousand pieces, you felt a part of yourself fracture simultaneously. Mingyu didn’t seem to recognize what he had broken, sheepishly apologizing to you before jokingly remarking that the bowl had been rather ugly anyway. You knew he wasn’t aware of what he had broken and that it would be unfair for you to get mad at him, as it had been an accident after all. Nonetheless, seeing something so important to you not only get broken beyond repair but also mocked, set you off.

❀ As a result, you started yelling at a stunned Mingyu, who wasn’t expecting your explosive reaction at all. In turn, he got aggrieved, feeling like your reaction was disproportionate to the situation. Voicing that, however, only made you more upset, and as you tried to pick up the broken pieces to throw them out, you started crying, sobbing to yourself that it truly was beyond repair in your native tongue.

❀ Mingyu, in retrospect, doesn’t know whether it had been your crying or you switching languages, but as he watches you tearfully throw out the pieces, his anger completely vanishes, only to be replaced by an intense feeling of guilt. He will hug you tightly, apologizing for breaking something that had obviously been very important to you. After you explain what the bowl stood for, he will try his hardest to get you another bowl as a surprise, contacting your family to have them send over a new one.

❀ In the end, all is well, and to be honest, you might love the new bowl a lot more as it reminds you of how much Mingyu genuinely treasures you.

The8/Minghao

❀ Minghao and you had decided to go on a wine painting date; you had stumbled upon it not too long ago, excitedly proposing it to your boyfriend, knowing it combined two of his favourite things. Minghao had been looking forward to the date for the past week, feeling giddy despite the exhausting dance practices. He would tell anyone that would listen about the date, gushing over how well his girlfriend knew him.

❀ It was an absolute surprise to both of you when the workshop ended with you arguing. The workshop had started innocently enough, with you guys following the instructions, laughing whenever a brushstroke failed to turn out how you had intended. The wine tasted great, and both of you were amazed that the workshop was pouring such luxurious wine.

❀ However, as the workshop progressed and the teacher made his way past all the other participants to check on their progress, things turned sour pretty quickly. The moment the teacher laid eyes on you, he was enamoured and absolutely oblivious that you were on a date with your boyfriend.

❀ At first, you assumed that the teacher was only being nice when he lingered longer at your station than others. You presumed that he was being friendly and that, with you and Minghao being the last people he needed to check up on, he stayed to kill time until he needed to introduce the next set of instructions. You failed to notice that Minghao had grown awfully quiet as you conversed. When the teacher reached over to guide the paintbrush in your hand, you started to get the hint that the teacher was trying to hit on you.

❀ Minghao, on the other hand, had been noticing the glances from the teacher since the beginning of the workshop. Although he prided himself in rarely being jealous or upset, the wine made it harder for him to let his gnawing feelings go. He knew his anger was unfair and misplaced, but it didn't make him feel any less upset. Even when you gently let the teacher down by telling him that you and your boyfriend could figure it out yourselves from here, the hurtful feeling persisted.

❀ Thus, when you turned to him afterwards to check on why he had been so quiet, only to be met with a curt Minghao, you began arguing. You knew he was jealous, but he had started to take it out on you. Thus, you did the only thing you knew that could possibly cheer your boyfriend up and shake him out of his jealousy. You took his face gently in your hands, rambling sweet nothings in your native tongue.

❀ Minghao loves hearing you speak in your native language to him, feeling like nothing is more intimate than only him being able to understand the sweet nothings you are saying. He will momentarily blank as he tries to process your sweet words. It is enough to melt away his jealous feelings, making him feel a bit stupid for letting it influence his actions and words (as well as any hope the teacher had to get your number afterwards).

Seungkwan

❀ We all know that Seungkwan likes to nag and tease, not a stranger to playful bickering. Nevertheless, Seungkwan strikes me as someone who is very open with his emotions, preferring to discuss what is bothering him rather than bottling things up. Thus, you two rarely get into actual fights, as he ensures that you two regularly talk about the problems you experience as a couple. At the same time, Seungkwan is a bit of a sensitive boy, and sometimes it is easy to get into arguments with him without either of you meaning to let things escalate. A joke might not land and instead hurts his feelings, leading to an angry and butthurt Boo.

❀ During some of your playful fights, he noticed that you struggled to keep up with his Korean, switching to your native language in frustration when the Korean escaped you. He couldn’t help but feel slightly bad about you having to constantly accommodate him, which is why he devised a plan. Without you knowing, he spend a significant amount of time online skewering the internet to search for basic sentences, mildly insulting phrases and not-too-harsh curse words that he could use if you guys got into another playful argument. Instead of only you having to struggle in Korean, he felt it was only fair for him to wrestle with your native tongue as well.

❀ He finally gets to use it when you guys have a heated discussion over which coffee is the best on one of your many coffee dates; he keeps maintaining that Iced Americano is the best coffee that exists, something that you wholeheartedly disagree with. At first, you are able to respond to him in Korean, easily countering his arguments. However, as the discussion progresses, you can’t help but feel like Seungkwan intentionally is using advanced and eloquent Korean, using words you have never heard before. It doesn’t take long before you start switching out Korean for your native language, trying to hold your ground in the discussion.

❀ It is kind of comical when Seungkwan whips out a list of standard phrases, curse words and insulting sentences in your language, way too eager to use them. Rather than you surprising him by switching languages unconsciously, he is catching you off guard by using your own language against you. He is reading the sentences one by one, and although his pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired, you can tell he put a lot of effort into learning it. You don’t even know whether to be impressed by the fact that he poured so much work into arguing with you in your native language or offended by the, albeit mostly harmless, insults that he is hurling at your head.

Vernon

❀ Vernon strikes me as an emotionally mature person. Therefore, the two of you rarely argue with each other, if at all. Vernon is such a chill guy; it takes a lot to truly get him riled up, and even when he gets emotional, he is capable of maturely handling his emotions. Because of it, you haven’t had any real fights, only mature discussions on how to best navigate whatever problem you two were experiencing in the relationship.

❀ However, there was one thing that you and Vernon could argue for hours about, films. Usually, your film discussions are very civil, with each respecting the other’s opinion even if the other wholeheartedly disagrees. Hence, you guys have made it a routine to put a film on every other night, spending the rest of the evening talking about what you liked or disliked. Both of you enjoyed watching films together in this manner, with the discussions often taking up as much time as watching the films did.

❀ Tonight, however, you made the mistake of putting on a film you adored for nostalgic reasons. The film had been produced in your country, and after searching for it for a while, you had finally found a version with English subtitles. You were incredibly excited to be able to show Vernon the type of films you had grown up with. At first, you thought he was enjoying it; Vernon seemed absorbed as he watched the screen, nodding to himself when he appeared to like a particular scene. Nevertheless, once the film had ended and you eagerly turned to ask him whether he had liked it, he briefly hesitated before calling it mid.

❀ You stared at him in confusion, wondering whether you had been watching the same film. How could he call one of your favourite films mid? Sure, the budget might not have been spectacular compared to a Hollywood blockbuster film, resulting in some questionable CGI and cinematography choices. Still, it was a great film, in your opinion. When you asked him to explain himself, he shrugged, explaining that he simply thought it hadn’t been that good and that both the plot and cinematography left a lot to be desired.

❀ You were greatly offended, and before you knew it, you were heatedly arguing with him. Vernon remained calm rather than matching your energy, explaining that it was okay for you to like a film that just wasn’t his taste. Somehow his indifference annoyed you more, and before you knew it, you were ranting at him that he simply didn’t get how innovative the film was despite the constraints the director had to overcome. Perhaps by being exposed to your native language for such a long time, you brain got reset, and without you being fully aware of it, you had started using your mother tongue. Where before Vernon had been attentively listening, he now seemed lost, alerting you to your accidental mistake.

❀ It was the first time where you had switched languages in his presence, and he realizes that perhaps he had been overly critical. He will gently propose that maybe he was unable to fully enjoy the film as much as you did due to things getting lost in translation. You know he is mostly humouring you, but regardless, it is enough for the one-sided argument to dissipate. How can you stay mad at someone who is the definition of calm and respectful?

Dino/Chan

❀ In retrospect, you should’ve listened to Jeonghan’s warning when you decided to order Soju during dinner. Neither of you had expected to drink, but after a busy workweek, the two of you had decided, “Why the hell not.” You were massively regretting it now, having to deal with a drunk and stubborn Lee Chan.

❀ He refused to do anything you asked of him, and you were practically dragging him through the streets of Seoul, whilst he kept repeating that he wasn’t drunk and could take care of himself. Yeah, sure, he definitely did not keep stumbling over his own feet and was only kept from falling by your grip on his arm. It didn’t help that he kept trying to dislocate himself from you either, claiming that, as your boyfriend, he should be helping you.

❀ It all came to a boiling point when you decided to hail a taxi, too tired and exhausted to continue carrying him. Jeonghan had told you all about stubborn drunk Dino, but you had hoped that you, as his significant other, held enough sway over your boyfriend to coax him into the taxi. Spoiler alert, you didn’t, and instead, the two of you got into an argument. No matter what you said, he kept repeating that he could hail his own taxi. He’s a big boy now.

❀ Maybe it was your sore muscles from carrying him, perhaps it was Dino stupidly refusing your help the entire time or possibly it was the taxi driver warning that he would drive off if the two of you didn’t get in, but suddenly in the midst of your sentence, you switched to your native tongue. In an attempt to get him moving, your tipsy, fuzzy brain resorted to the easiest language for you to yell in. Apparently, that was all it took for Dino to shake himself out of his stubbornness.

❀ The poor guy will be so confused that he’ll easily let you drag him by the arm into the taxi. He can’t determine whether he is truly so drunk that your words have become illegible or that you actually spoke a different language. At the very least, for the time being, you have managed to break through stubbornly drunk Dino, and he lets you guide him whilst he is trying to figure it out in his fuzzy brain.

❀ He will definitely be asking you about it the next morning whilst nursing a massive hangover, thinking it was all a dream.

masterlist

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writingdotcoffee · 7 months

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The "Alt" NaNoWriMo Challenge

I'm a big fan of NaNoWriMo and the energy the event breathes into the writing community. Hundreds of thousands of people start working on their novels at the same time. Lots of people share their progress and cheer each other on. Several now-famous authors have started their best-selling novels during NaNo over the years.

That said, it's not for everyone. Writing 50,000 words per month is a serious commitment. Doing it alongside school or work is no joke. In fact, most people who sign up don't finish. According to these stats, only 1-2 out of every 10 participants complete the challenge.

I've never joined NaNoWriMo myself. I'm a slow writer, and I know that I would burn out. Instead, I set a different writing-related challenge for myself every November.

In 2018, I started reading one short story every day. It turned into a regular habit, and I ended up reading hundreds of short stories over the following few months.

Last year, I wanted to build a 30-day writing streak. In the end, I wrote for 232 days in a row. 2023 became the most productive year of my writing life by far with over 250,000 words written.

This year, I will be doing something similar, and I want to invite you to come along for the ride.

The Idea of "AltNaNo"

The idea of finishing a novel in a month seems outrageous to most people. That's what makes it so compelling. It's like standing at the foot of a snowcapped mountain with a rope and a couple of ice picks. The challenge itself is inspiring.

The AltNaNo challenge is the exact opposite. The goal is as small as possible on purpose. The focus isn't to achieve this massive feat but to squash all excuses and merely start writing.

You may not be able to write 50,000 words in a month. But almost everyone can find 15 minutes to write every day.

The Challenge

The goal is simple: Write for at least 15 minutes every day in November.

Writing 100 words and calling it a day after 15 minutes is a success.

Spending longer and writing 500 words is a success.

Wrestling with a difficult scene for 15 minutes and writing only a single sentence is a success.

Spending 15 minutes trying to write after a long day and not producing a single word is a success, too.

Be a tortoise. We all know how the story goes.

How to Join

I've set up daily challenges for the first week in Writing Analytics, if you wanted to join us there:

Day 1/30 ✅

Day 2/30 ✅

Day 3/30 ✅

Day 4/30 ✅

Day 5/30 ✅

Day 6/30 ✅

Day 7/30 ✅

I'll be posting daily updates on the blog as well.

PS: If you'd like to learn more about developing a writing habit, check out this free course I launched a few weeks ago.

#writing #writers #write #amwriting #writing advice #writing life #writing tips #writeblr #writing challenge #altnano

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yawnjunn · 1 year

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:*:✼ TXT attending your concert ✼*･ﾟ

Woahh its been a while huh...got super busy with life, just failed my physics exam 😜✌️ and now im on my school break, i decided to write this post bcs im SUPERRR bored rn but anyways

╰┈➤ idol!ot5! txt x idol!gn!reader

╰┈➤ no warnings, just fluff

╰┈➤ quick guide : y/n = your name, y/g/n = your group's name, y/f/n = your fandom's name

yeonjun(연준) :

☆ This man isnt afraid to attend your concert WITHOUT covering his face, yk how some artists covered their face and attend their friend's concert? yeah...not yj tho

☆ He might only bring a lightstick, not those extra banners or signs or whatever

☆ The only reason why he only brought a lightstick was bcs, he treats your concert like its his monthly/weekly routine

☆ Youre having a 2 day concert in seoul? You know damn right he'll be there despite his busy schedule

☆ Having a concert in japan? Finds a way to get to japan just to attend your concert

☆ so thats why he didnt feel like the need to bring extras cs in the end, yk hes gonna attend anyways

☆ but that didnt stop fans from screaming whenever they saw yeonjun

☆ he'd probably try to make a conversation with your fans while waiting for you to perform with your group

☆ "so how long have you stan y/g/n ?"

☆ "im a y/n biased, and you?"

☆ when you came on stage and during the breaks between performing, you called out yeonjun

☆ "yeonjun i know youre here somewhere, cameraman pls find yeonjun and point the camera at him"

☆ and when the camera is on him, hes smiling brightly and covered his shy face after getting those cheers from your fans

☆ you'd probably ask him to dance to one of your songs

☆ "yeonjun dance this song for me pls" then hes like shaking his head and all, refusing

☆ but the moment the music started, he danced so well that he literally became the hot topic of your group's show

soobin(수빈) :

☆ well soobin however, he'll come 2 hours early before your concert starts

☆ the reason he came early was because he was excited to give out his handmade freebies

☆ the night before, soobin had asked if he could hand out some freebies to your concert and you found this soooo cute that you told all your fans to find soobin for freebies

☆ he may be a little bit biased but all his freebies are just you.

☆ you wonder, what did he made? well...he made a banner, your photocard that he printed himself using his company's printer, candies of your fav and pastries that he had bake

☆ believe me or not, he woke up as early as 4 am just to make cute little pastries as your concert take place in morning

☆ he believed your fans wouldnt get breakfast, so he baked the pastries for them 😭

☆ as soon as your concert starts, he whipped out his phone so fast and record it and whenever you came on screen, hes like "wahhh theyre so pretty"

☆ when you start singing, he starts crying???? hes way too proud of you that he starts crying and vent to his friends sitting next to him

☆ "you know how hard my baby worked? im so proud of them, i remember them crying every night to me because of training and now look at them, theyre on stage now"

☆ his friend sitting beside him was like, soobin are u okay??? are u drunk?? but either way, his friend can only smile and nod while listening to soobin rant

beomgyu(범규) :

☆ idc what anyone says but this man will be fighting for a front row ticket

☆ literally camps outside the venue like..literally

☆ you had offered him to enter the venue earlier than anyone before the show starts

☆ but he refused this bcs he wants to get them freebies from your fans 😭 instead of giving them out, he wants the freebies himself

☆ goes from fan to fan, if he sees a fan handing out freebies? he'll be speed walking, another fan giving out freebies too? he'll be speed walking

☆ receives the freebies until it couldnt fit in his little bag that he brought with him

☆ as soon as the security lets everyone inside, he'll be running just to get close to the barricade

☆ since hes an idol, i know its ridiculous but he'll be surrounded by 2 of his protocol team 😭

☆ even though he had brought his 2 protocol teammates, he'd somehow make them enjoy your concert too

☆ like when your group tells the fans to jump, beomgyu would convinced his protocol buddies to jump aswell

☆ you spot beomgyu in the crowds and he'd wave you like crazy, like a fan boy 😭 ...does beomgyu knows that youre his lover???? 😭😭😭

☆ but anyways, he'll go on weverse and post the concert pics and take a photo of the freebies he received

☆ "what an amazing night, they look so beautiful tonight and thank you to y/f/n for giving out the freebies, i'll be keeping it forever"

taehyun(태현) :

☆ this man is quite lowkey but he is a hardcore stan of yours

☆ hes a bit dissappointed when he founds out that he wasnt the first one to arrive at the venue, he was like "2 hours before the concert starts, and theres alot of people waiting..." poor him, he thought he was the first 😭

☆ he'd show up with his mask on and a cap as he didnt want the fans to know he came to see you

☆ but that kinda failed as your fans started to notice his famous boba eyes in the crowds

☆ this made him open his mask, since theres no point in using it 😭

☆ as soon as y/g/n performs, yk damn well he'd be taking tons of videos

☆ he'd sing along to your songs and dance to some of it

☆ he memorised the fanchant too !!!

☆ bro got jealous when he sees y/f/n got the banners like...ugh he wants one too????

☆ he was like "see i knew i shouldnt have brought lightstick only"

☆ politely asks y/f/n for some extra banners

☆ believe me or not, he'd use those digital text on his phone that says, "y/n please notice me"

☆ luckily you noticed this and blew him a kiss and in return, he gave you a big heart which made you giggle on stage which also made y/f/n cheer louder

hueningkai(휴닝카이) :

☆ you think hes gonna go alone to your concert? nope

☆ he'll invite everyone he knows, his members, his family, his staffs. literally everyone to show how talented you are

☆ as much as you would love your boyfriend to bring in alot of people, apparently it has limits

☆ so in the end, he only brought his 2 sisters, lea and hiyyih

☆ dont worry, he paid for their tickets lmao

☆ LOVES receiving freebies from y/f/n

☆ when lea or hiyyih got your photocard from the freebies, he'd say smthn like "can i have that..?"

☆ not only he likes receiving freebies but hes also a merch buyer. sees a cute wristband for the lightstick? he'll buy. a cute shirt? he'll buy. a batch with your face on it? he'll buy.

☆ he'll buy everything that has your name or your face on it, until lea told him to stop unless he wants his bank account balance to be $0

☆ he'll do anything to get noticed by you, even tho he knows youre his lover

☆ before the concert, he texted, 'i'll be on the middle row, 3rd line from the front!!'

☆ but he decided to go extra as he thought you'd forget to see him so yk what he did? he brought glowing light sticks with him to make him more noticable 😭😭

☆ when you noticed him, you gave him a heart and him being a fanboy of yours, he started giggling and bragged to his sisters, "did you see that? they definitely gave that heart to me"

☆ after the concert ends, he'd ask one of his sisters to take photos of him doing cute poses whenever youre on screen, like him doing a big heart whenever you show up on the screen

☆ fans found this cute as they started uploading his leaked pictures doing those poses

☆ people may or may not label you guys as the couple of the year 🤭

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 day

Text

Guileless

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Masterlist

Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson

Note: thanks to those who waited on this one!.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

It should be the happiest time in your life. You should be elated, and yet, as ever it is, every victory precedes a treacherous defeat. A proposal one day, and despair the next. That nipping of doom in your gut, that ever present doubt, is made certain by the passage of time. It has been much too long.

You sit in the pews, throat tight as you keep your chin locked. You breathe slowly, as if too sudden an intake might unleash the tempest brewing inside of you. It is more than nerves, you know it, that sicken you so. You should be happy for your pending nuptials but you are only horrified at the thought.

The bishop reads out the banns before the rows; the first for yourself, the third for your sister. She will be permitted to wed and your mother has presided over much of planning already. You dip your head as your name rings out beside Lord Odinson’s and you swallow back a swell of bile. You’ve been gulping down your own stomach for much of the morning, ever since you caught a whiff of pickled shallots in passing the kitchens.

You push your head up and your hand down to your lap, knowing you will be observed. You must at least look certain of your fate. You must sit proud for the engagement all would put into question. For the time until it shall all dissolve, you must play your part.

You can barely keep from wilting where you are. A prudent woman might bite her tongue. She may commit to the theatre of it all. She might lie and get away with the folly. You glance over at Lord Odinson, just across the aisle, and you know you cannot. It isn’t one lie, it’s a lifetimes’ worth of betrayal.

Yet how should you tell it? It isn’t only him who must know. Your father would need good reason why you’d rather the convent to a proper marriage. You will be ruined but you could not put that stain upon the only person who was ever kind to you. Lord Odinson deserves an honest wife and a child of his own.

Your insides sour and you nearly spasm as you fight the tide of nausea, brought upon by more than your forsaken condition. Your eyes trail away from your betrothed to another man bound in promise. Lord Rogers sits with your sister, as ever, and she leans on him shamelessly, even beneath the Lord’s rafters.

She would deny it. She would laugh in your face should you ever reveal the absolute truth. No, you must confess the sin as your own and that alone. You will not name the culprit for they would they never believe you and he would never admit it himself.

Yet, you know that the Duke Rogers will ever be triumphant in knowing that he has brought the monstrous giant to her knees. You are his Goliath, the vile retched creature he has slain in his valour. He will be hero and you be the villain.

💟

You hand the letter to the carrier just before noon. You don’t expect an audience to be granted until the next morning at earliest. Lord Odinson is a busy man; an ambassador in much demand between the house and society. Even his betrothed must request his presence.

The cart rattles through the gates and you watch it fade off into the grim horizon. The winter bites in the air, adding to the chill in your bones. That coldness that freeze over your heart. You must be strong now, as strong as the valkyrie he misnamed you as.

When you go to Lord Odinson, you will bring the crown to him. You will hand it back and admit your tainted stature to him. You will show him how truly small you are.

At least, that is what you intend. You may prove yourself weak as ever. However it should unfold, this engagement cannot persist.

“A day! A day and I shall call you husband,” Cora’s shrill tone greets you as you come through the front doors. She is in the sitting room with Lord Rogers. Your mother continues to fawn over the last-minute details for their wedding. “Isn’t it very exciting, my lord?”

“And I shall call you wife.”

“And Duchess,” she preens with a trilling laugh, “oh, how elaborate I shall be.”

“My Athena,” Rogers drones back, “my goddess, my beloved.”

“Oh, how darling,” your mother preens over them, “it shall be resplendent. I’ve made certain the cake will be exactly as you like it, dearie. The cook has even procured some citrus for the lemonade.”

The mention of lemonade makes you shrivel. You recall the sunny day when Lord Rogers spoke to you over a weeping beverage. As you fell for that virulent charm. And all that came after.

You peer at the grim windows and frown. How everything does change so quickly. Happiness is fleeting and yet disappointment comes as a chronic plight. You will never know a day without shame.

You flit off without notice. Your heart rents at the thought that you will not have the same fervour. You will not sit and plan your own wedding with Lord Odinson. All your fanciful dreams have evaporated. It is one thing to put a mask on, to pretend as virgin, but you could never foist a bastard upon the kind man who has shown you a taste happiness. You will be certain to thank him for all he’s done but you will not spit in his face.

As you get to the bedroom doors, your stomach churns violently and you burst through, not stopping as you rush to the pot and fall to your knees. You wretch into it as your body contracts painfully. You empty your stomach until you are panting and hollow.

“Sister,” Alina startles you as she rolls to the edge of the bed, a novel in hand, “is it a winter ague?”

“I...” you shakily wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, “I believe so.”

That lie alone singes your tongue like a brand. Your eyes well with tears and you flick them away with your lashes. You sit back on your heels and heave out a pungent breath.

“Oh, how awful, and just before the wedding,” she sits up and shuts the novel. “Let us pray it passes quickly. You needn’t delay your own nuptials.”

“Mm, no, that wouldn’t be...” you let the sentence tail off and you stand, taking the pot with you, “I’ll dump it before it can stink.”

“If you are unwell, call for the maid.”

“No, it is fine,” you insist, “I didn’t mean to disturb your reading.”

“You didn’t,” she insists. “What’s the matter, sissie? You hardly seem a lady about to marry.”

“I...” you croak, “it is the ague, that’s all.”

“Mm, perhaps Lord Odinson might offer some comfort should it get any worse. He does seem the character,” she offers.

“Or perhaps he is better to stay away. You as well, should it pass onto anyone else,” you hold the pot to your stomach and turn, carrying it out without another word. Albina huffs and falls back onto the bed, the flutter of pages following shortly after.

You descend and keep along the wall, passing through the kitchens and beyond the servants’ quarters to the rear of the manse. You come out into the crisp air and overturn the pot well away from the house. A wave of dizziness washes over you, silver spots dotting your vision. Perhaps it is an ague. Oh how you wish it were.

You set the pot down as you grasp at some stability. You stand and wipe your clammy forehead. Your hand drifts down to your bodice and you let it venture further. You try to feel your stomach through the layers. It is tauter than it once was but no rounder. Not as yet.

You sit on a low stump, the seat the stabler uses to shoe the horses. You let the frigid air seep through your dress and stare at the grey clouds that blot out the sun. You hold your chin, elbows on your legs, hunched over as you let the stagnancy of that moment swallow you.

For a moment, you believe that you can make time stand still. That you might stretch on this fantasy a little longer. That a single second might be spent into an eternity. You shake your head and close your eyes as your cheeks tingle with the cold.

You try to picture the convent. You imagine dark halls and darker mornings. Prayers and repentance filling the days and keeping wakeless the nights. Would the nuns even accept a ruined soul like yours?

“Miss,” Mary, the broom girl, stands along the path back to the house, “you have a caller.”

You sit up and blink, a caller? How long have you been there? You shiver and rise, towering over the young servant like the mottled forest creature of wives tales. You nod and stride past her, rubbing your arms to warm yourself as you return to the house.

It cannot be him. Not already. You’re not prepared. It has been all you can think of and yet you are wholly unready for it.

You carry on inside and come into the main hall. Lord Odinson waits, your mother chittering at his elbow as Lord Rogers and Cora stand in the archway to the west wing.

“You will be at the wedding tomorrow? We did not receive your response sir,” your mother pleads as she tugs his sleeve.

“Ah, yes, did I not give it?” Odinson says coolly, “certainly I will come with some Asgardian ale to christen the blissful newlyweds.”

“And we thank you for such generosity,” Cora coos.

“I’m certain refreshments will be plenty,” Lord Rogers deflects.

“Ah,” Lord Odinson’s attention is drawn by your emergence from behind the staircase, “my valkyrie, you called for me and I am here.”

“I... you have come so... swiftly,” you remark, your voice teetering.

“Of course,” he assures as he crosses the polished floor, “as ever I will for my beloved.” He approaches and takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles, “you are like ice,” he feels your hands and covers them with his gloved ones, “are you ill?”

“No, uh, yes, no,” you stammer, “sir, I only meant... I only thought to speak with you.”

“I do cherish the tenor of your sweet voice, lady, I would ride so fast as I might to hear it,” he assures.

“You rode... all this way, my lord?”

“I do prefer to be in a saddle,” he affirms, “so, shall we converse? Perhaps we might have some tea to warm you, my valkyrie.”

“Please,” you cringe, wishing he would quit his honeyed words, “I do not require it. Perhaps somewhere private...”

“With chaperone of course,” your mother insists. You blanch but do your best not to show your unease. “Pollo! Pollo!” She claps, “forgive me I will not be able to do so myself as I have much to attend to for the morrow, but we have a groom here... Pollo!”

She cries out and the dark-haired man appears. The old groom has a round belly and wine-reddened cheeks. He doesn’t speak more than Italian but he is steadfast in his service. Your mother bids him, pointing at you, then shoos him with a flick of her fingers.

He shrugs and bows his head, nearing you and the duke. You peer over at your sister and Lord Rogers as they watch. The former stares at your betrothed as he clings still to your hands and the latter narrows his eyes in your direction. Just the sight of him makes you even more sick than before. Of any, he cannot know though you expect should Cora find out, it will not be a secret.

“The sun room, perhaps,” Odinson suggests.

“As you wish,” you agree.

He offers his arms and you accept it. He guides you along, well-acquainted to the halls already, and takes you around to the sun room. The curtains are closed and the space is dim with the shadow of winter. The groom claims the armchair in the corner, making it groan with his weight, as another servant follows to light a lamp and put flint to the fireplace.

When all is lit, you detach from Odinson and retreat from him. You mash your hands together and sway, spinning back to face him as he watches you intently. He seems unbothered by the spontaneity of it all.

“You missed me? I have longed to see you again,” he beams.

“Please,” you show your palms, “please, I... we must speak.”

“Of? Name anything and it shall be yours. As my wife, you will never want for anything, valkyrie.”

You wince as if struck. You drop your arms and your head. You stalk over to the bench that looks toward the window and sit, slumped forward as you shake your head. He approaches as he lets out a long exhale. He sits beside you.

“Something is amiss. Forgive me for making light, I came upon mistaken sentiment,” his voice is grave, “you have something to say and I must listen. As ever, I am the storm but these winds have calmed.”

You rock and another hot tinge settles behind your eyes. You roll them up and sit straight. You crane to see over your shoulder. Rollo’s eyes are closed as he’s halfway to sleeping. It is propriety alone that has him sat in that chair.

You look ahead once more, “I cannot marry you.”

He sucks in air and snorts, “what?”

“I cannot—it cannot—I'm sorry, Lord Odinson.”

“Why ever should you change your mind? The banns are read and will be again,” he touches your arm and you shy away.

“You deserve... better.”

“I deserve you,” he insists.

“Please, sir, let me find the words,” you beg touch your temples as you try to rein in your wits. You close your eyes and shudder.

“You are cold still, perhaps you might move closer to the fire--”

“It hardly matters,” you lower your hands and clutch them tight.

You make yourself look at him. You must. He warrants at least the truth told to his face and not the floor. His blue eyes twinkle as his usually bright face is stern.

“I am...” you take a breath and struggle to let it back out as the words burn the tip of your tongue, “I... am with... child.”

You choke out the last word and nearly faint. You stare at him, waiting for him to explode. You mightn’t even have a say in who knows should he speak too loudly. His eyes search yours and he blinks. He turns his face down and looks at his lap, gripping his thighs as he nods and hums.

“That’s wonderful,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“Yes, it’s wonderful. We’ll have a child.”

“Sir, I—we haven’t... it is another man’s,” you feel as if you shouldn’t have to explain this.

“Why certainly he put it there, yes, but I would claim it,” he faces you again.

Your eyes round, “why should you do that? That isn’t... proper. I am not proper, sir. I am telling you that I have been... corrupted. I should never have said yes.”

“But you did.”

“You needn’t-- it isn’t fair.”

“Perhaps it isn’t fair that you should have to carry the cad’s seed,” he agrees, “for any many who would lay with a lady and not seek her hand, well, he can be nothing else.”

You’re quiet as disbelief clouds around you. He can’t possibly mean it. He must be in shock. Certainly, he wouldn’t just accept another’s child.

“Sir, you shouldn’t-- you shouldn’t do this. I am releasing you.”

“I don’t want to be released,” he says sullenly.

“Why? Why would you do this?” You ask.

“I meant all I said to you, from the first breath, my valkyrie,” he proclaims. “And I mean it still.”

“But, sir, you cannot—I cannot live with myself--”

“You are honourable. Honest. You have told me this when you did not need to. When you could’ve claimed an early birth, when you could have kept quiet, yet you did not. That says more than a fleeting tryst. For that’s what it was, yes? Or do you lay with this man still?”

You shake your head and look down at your fingers as you twists them until they hurt, “just once. Only once. It was... unplanned. It wasn’t...” your voice cracks.

His chest inflates with a sonorous breath, “did you want it?”

“Pardon?” You murmur.

“Unplanned... did you... was it... your tryst, was it willing?”

You put your fist to your mouth and sob. You can’t say it. You won’t. You replay it in your head every night and you think of how you told him to stop and yet you did not stop him. You should have fought more. You should have screamed.

“I didn’t make him stop,” you eke around your hand.

“Make him? Did you ask him to begin?”

“Please, sir, I cannot—please just end this and I will ask my father for the convent once more. I cannot bring this shame on you.”

“Shame? Shame is the man, if I should call him that, who has done this,” he snarls and reaches for you, taking your hand. “I swore you would be my wife and I will hold to that. As you swore to be my wife. We will see the altar together. As one.”

“You do not have to--”

“I want to,” he growls and you look up at his angry face. You’ve never seen such fury in him. “I have never done anything but by my own whim and will not change that now.”

“You are too nice, sir. Too nice, I cannot ask it--”

“Who?” He sneers.

“Sir?”

“Who has done this to you?”

“I cannot--”

“I should know.”

“No, please, I wouldn’t-- it would be my ruin--”

“No, it would be his and you protect him still, so tell me.”

“No, no I will not. That I cannot tell you, sir. To say it would defeat me completely.”

He sighs into a snarls and lowers his chin. He sounds like a simmering bull, readying for the charge. You tug on your hand but he will not release you. You relent and let him cling to you.

Silence, suffocating and still.

“My brother was an orphan. We took him in when he was young. He is a duke, same as me, now,” he declares as he squares his posture. “You wouldn’t know the difference. And I won’t. Not between this child and our next.”

“Sir, surely--”

“We are to have a child,” he says, “that is happy news and I thank you for bringing me here to hear it.” He pets your hand and leans his arm against yours. He brings your fingers up to your mouth and kisses them, “one day, I will know who the culprit is and on that, I will surely split his skull. Not for his bastard, for that child has no sin, but for your honour, lady. For my wife’s honour.”

💟

Cora’s wedding to Lord Rogers culminates in a grand luncheon. The bride is a beautiful mist of tears as she accepts the well wishes of her guests. She basks in the attention as you gladly languish in the shadows.

Despite Lord Odinson’s unexpected and reassuring reaction, you’re still uncertain. You don’t know if he’s keeping a good face on until he knows how to act, perhaps renegs his grace, or if you might come to pay for your discretion later in your union. You’re prepared to meet your atonement, however it comes.

As you sit for the meal, the chair beside you is claimed almost at once. Your betrothed has appeared throughout the event but you’ve hardly been at his side. Each time you see him, his eyes skim the crowd as if he can see right through every one of them. Yet, when he looks at you, you feel only warmth. You don’t understand how he can look at you as such.

“How do you fare, today, my valkyrie?” He asks as he straightens his cravat, “you look well.”

“Good, I think.”

“Glad to hear it,” he raises his glass for a servant to fill it with sherry. You opt for lemon water, as much as your tumultuous stomach can handle.

“I thought we might have our own reception at Nine Pillars,” he suggests.

“I would like that,” you agree, your eyes drifting beyond him, to your father’s gardens, where... “whatever you may offer, I will be grateful for.”

“Mighty valkyrie, full of grace,” he praises and reaches for a platter, “ooh, they have some sweet ham here with pineapple.”

He takes a helping and puts it on your plate. You smell the tangy fruit and the underline savoury waft of the meat. You lurch and grasp the edge of the table. You give a panicked look to Odinson as he peers down at the food. He switches your plates out swiftly.

“Tell me, what are you in the mind for then?” He leans in so his arm touches yours as you sip from the lemon water to quell your stomach. “Valkyrie, give me your command and I will obey.”

You give him a coy grin, “you can be so silly.”

“Silly. Mad. All for love,” he assures you.

“Is their anything dry?” You ask, “bread, perhaps.”

“Sourdough,” he reaches to take the basket as others help themselves to the spread.

“I’ll have some of that.”

“With marmalade?” He offers.

“No,” your face pinches at the thought, “no, bread will do.”

You blink and shake of another tide of sickness. As you do, your eyes meet another pair further down the table, amid the rabble of voices. Lord Rogers tilts his head as Cora tugs on his sleeve and giggles up at the couple behind them. He hardly seems to notice as he stares you down.

You go rigid and quickly look away. You touch Odinson’s arm to keep from panicking. He looks at you, then down the table. He doesn’t say anything, merely carves off a chunk of bread for you.

You pick away at the hard crust and the dry spongey inside. You take small bites, cautious of upsetting your volatile stomach. The afternoon wears on, course after course, and you avoid those dishes which threaten to overthrow your restraint.

At last, the cake is serves, a tiered sponge with cream and fruit and candied sugar spun in a facsimile fountain atop it. It’s splended and beautiful. The couple are served first as they smiles in delight. The doling out of servings takes some time as guests wait patiently for their turn and the cake is pushed on a cart from chair to chair.

When it comes your turn, your name rises over the crowd. You sit up and glance over, relieved at least not to watch the layers of custard and cake hit your plate. Lord Rogers has his hand on the back of his wife’s chair.

“And how do you like the dessert? I believe you’ve been saving space for it all day, eh?” He chirps.

You angle your head in confusion. You look down then at Odinson who sits a little taller as he leans forward.

“You’ve hardly indulged, so I hope you might show your support and delight in this delectable dessert,” Rogers taunts. “A wedding is no place for a sour face.”

Your lips part. You’re stunned. How could he be so bold as to call you out? Among all his guests and he must torment you. Was one night not enough. Your whole life as his violation thrives within your womb. Lord Odinson subtly touches your elbows.

“I am most happy for you and my sister,” you rebuff, “and you are correct, I’ve been in much anticipation for dessert.”

You take your fork and scoop up a heaping mouthful. You smile at it even as your insides rage. You make yourself taste it. It’s so sweet and smooth and wonderful, but your stomach mulches as if it is rubbish. Your cheeks tremble and you swallow, nearly gagging.

“To you, sir, and my sister, Cora, I wish a happy marriage,” you force out as you hide your mouth behind a handkerchief.

“To the happy couple,” Lord Odinson raises his glass and the table erupts, at once, the attention shifted back to them.

You brace his arm and squeeze. You fight but you cannot withhold the uproar within. You stand and rush away, frantically searching for somewhere to hide and spew your guts.

💟

The days overcome your doubts. The weeks come with more affectations; your sickness ebbs and flows and the temperature feels at times hotter then colder, swaying back forth, while some moments you spend with a throbbing head and pulsing feet. The most obvious symptom of your condition is the tightness of your stay. Soon, you will be showing more than you like, but for now, loosened laces can ease your discomfort.

Your wedding day fast approaches. Time does seem to defy any human whim. You wish it would slow so you could catch your breath. Much like your husband-to-be who has yet to falter in his affections.

You sit before the mirror with the grown of silver petals in your lap. There is one still bent from Cora’s envy but you will keep it to the back of your head. You will wear it as proudly as that night Lord Odinson gifted it to you. You hope for the day you might both forget all else.

If it is to be. If he is at the altar waiting still.

Albina and Hannah take the crown from you and secure it among your styled locks. Albina smiles at your reflection as Hannah jabs you with a pin. You nervously wring your hands as you admire the lavender shade of your gown. You wish you’d had more of it, that you hadn’t needed to trim it in ivory to make up for your height. Still, it is beautiful and the nicest dress you’ve ever worn.

“Are you nervous?” Albina asks.

“Suppose,” you admit and lift your chin, “very, truly.” Though not for the reason she might think.

“Lord Odinson is kind. He should be gentle,” Hannah says.

Your cheeks tinge at her suggestion, “sister.”

“Well, it is what we are all thinking, isn’t it?” She shrugs.

“I hope I do not find a husband so soon,” Albina adds, “I would like to enjoy my books a little longer.”

“You might take on the spinster’s mantel then,” Hannah snipes.

“It shouldn’t be so bad,” you murmur. “Every woman must do it. Eventually. It cannot be so horrible.”

You lower your head again, trying to hide the emotion battling in your chest. It was bad, that first time. Lord Rogers hadn’t been kind at all. Would Lord Odinson be any different? For Rogers seemed kind at first glance only to be cruel upon touch.

What if you husband did not want to meet his duty? What if he could not knowing you had lain with another? You would not blame him and without consummation, he might still turn you away.

“Cora said it was more painful than anything she’s ever felt,” Hannah undercuts your dread. “Though she still loves her husband well.”

“You shouldn’t speak of that,” you gird.

“Why not? Won’t you tell us how it is so we may be ready?” She challenges.

“I... I... It’s rather strange to speak of it.”

“You are strange,” Hannah retorts with a huff.

“But pretty,” Albina chimes, “look at you, sissie. You truly look like a queen in that crown.”

You meet the gaze of your reflection. You do look better than you ever have before. You wonder if they notice the new fullness in your cheeks. If they do, they don’t mention it. You take a deep breath.

“I shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer,” you stand.

If you wait any longer, you might lose your nerve.

The bishop waits in the grand hall of Nine Pillars as you emerge from the rooms allotted for your preparations. The crowd stands among the columns and hushes as you appear at the end of the hall. You face the clergy man and for an instant, your heart dangles precariously, ready to plummet.

Where is Lord Odinson?

His golden head pops up beside the bishop and he fixes the flower tucked into his lapel. His long blond hair is draw back as a scarlet bow holds it back, its ears peeking out behind his nape. He is smiling as he pauses and his eyes meet yours across the space.

You can see even from there how his features slacken and for a moment, you are breathless. He looks as stricken. You put one foot down and let your long legs carry you.

All your doubts float away. The faces around you haze together and the world crumbles to dust. It's only you and that man.

💟

The ceremony gives way to a soiree, bodies clustered together, partners dancing, and you among them. Your husband, a husband, has your hand in his as he leads you in the steps. This man, this wonderful forgiving man you vowed yourself too nearly sweeps you off your feet, a sensation you've never known before.

Your cheer blooms from you as his cheeks flush in his excess. He barely pauses to receive kind words from his guest. His elation is contagious. It gives no way to your fears.

"Do you know what I thought upon the altar, beautiful valkyrie," he purrs, "I nearly fell upon my knees even."

"What?" You smile, glowing up at him.

"That the gods did bless me. That you must be sent from them, a gift to me, mere mortal."

You can't help but pat his chest, "you flatter."

"You are too modest," he guides you along, "you are a statue come too life, art in the flesh."

"My husband... you words are too sweet."

"I know, I know, the wedding night is still ahead of us, I do run too fast," he chuckles, "but how can I help the anticipation?

Your lashes flick and giggle, "husband."

"That word has never sounded sweeter," he grins, "but a sweeter noise might be my own name. Say it for me, valkyrie."

Your cheeks burn hot, "Thor?"

"Delicious," he growls nearly baring his teeth, "and I shall savour every sound you make. Every moan and mewl. Every breath and laugh. Just as every part of you."

It's too good to be true. You deign to let yourself feel it all but you must. If even only for tonight. If only for the next moment. You will have a morsel of happiness if it's all you have to chew on for the rest of your life.

💟

The night wears on and so do you. Your feet ache, as does most of you, and your voice is raw from laughing and talking. It is the first that you ever spent an event not along the wall or hiding in some shadow. It is a night all your own, or so your husband has made it feel.

Yet, he does not tire. Not as quickly. As he booms and bawls to the amusement of all, you cling to his arm and repress a yawn. You will not spoil his fun, you will persist.

Still, you cannot ignore all urges of your humanity. You press a hand to his sleeve and excuse yourself, promising to return. Your husband pauses to bid you not be long and you're further abashed at his attention.

You flit off to find the privy. You've been several times over the day. Your bladder swells no matter how little you drink. As you progress, you find your body is contradictory to your mind.

You venture down the corridor and sweep into the room. Once relieved, you emerge feeling lighter but no less tired. The silent desolation of the corridor rather makes your exhaustion all the more potent.

You turn towards the statue of a warrior, you recognise it, it is the means by which you've found your way. Before you can pass it, a figure appears from behind it and you falter in your slippers.

You gasp and ball your hands, the man before you sending a ripple of horror through you as he smirks at your surprise. Lord Rogers' cheek dimples as he quorks his head like a cynical crow.

"You are ever a creature of urges," he muses, "fluttering back and forth as a skittish bird."

"My lord, I... what is the meaning--"

"I'm afraid we've not had much of a chance to speak, have we? The blushing bride is much a titter," he chortles, "she has the gull to giggle like a maiden, even."

"Lord Rogers," you utter, appalled.

"But the sway of her hips do betray her true nature. That which is within her," he sneers, "as does the curdling of her face over any dish that tickles her nose."

"Sir, I know not what you mean--"

"I should laugh truly, to know that another will raise my bastard," he taunts, "that it is him, does entertain me more." He takes a step forward and you back, "so you will be certain to lay with him this night so he may believe he has vigour." He grabs your arms before you can elude him, "you will think of me, won't you, Athena, my fallen goddess? Of how I desecrated your--"

Suddenly, you are staggered. Lord Rogers is swung backward and flung into the statue. There's a roar, tha same noise you would expect of a charging bear, and the flash of scarlet. You watch paralysed as Thor grabs Lord Rogers by his jacket and spins him, throwing him into the other wall.

The smaller of the men, though they are both built well, slides to one knee, his hand on the plaster. The other is quick, wasting not a second before aims a foot into Rogers' stomach. The duke falls backward and is at once straddled beneath the larger.

Thor lays blows upon the other man, hailing down on him like the tempest he claims himself. Your fear overflows and you push through the thick waves. You come forward numbly and pull your husband by the back of his collar.

"Please sir, unhand him."

"You would defend this animal!" He wails down another fist and growls.

"No, no, I would not spare him but I would... I would have my husband not take me to my wedding night with bloodied knuckles. Thor," you pet the back of his head, "let this be a happy day. Please."

He sits back on his heels and puffs out. He looks back at you as you step away. You put your hand to your middle.

"Husband?"

He snarls and spits on Lord Rogers, standing with a huff. You reach for his hand and he takes it. He squeezes as he sends one last kick of his toe to the man on the floor.

"Let me save my strength for you, wife. I certainly would need it."

#thor #steve rogers #thor x reader #dark steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #guileless #mcu #marvel #avengers #captain america #au #regency au

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zaceouiswriting · 21 days

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The Delinquent

Character: Theo Raeken x male reader

Universe: Somewhere in Teen Wolf

Warnings: Smut

Authors Note:

I know I'm a month late for my annual Theo Raeken Appreciation Month. But better late than never, right? On this blog, we know that Theo Raeken doesn't get the recognition he deserves (Or Cody Christian, his actor). That's why me, myself, and I have made it my mission to fill this world with as much Theo Raeken content as possible. I may not post every day (honestly, even posting once a week would be a treat at this point), but I promise to get out as much as humanly possible. And there will be a lot of smut. A lot of smut.

Please forgive me. As an apology, I'm including a GIF of this handsome man so nobody forgets how good he looks!

It had become much more intense than even you could have imagined in your wildest dreams. The same hands that punched you in the stomach that morning and that later punched you in the face were now holding your bare ass up. He had been in such a hurry to rip off your pants and underwear like an animal, that they would likely not be useable anymore. If you think about it, he was an animal but only in all the right ways.

His rough, large hands felt heavenly on your bare skin. You never knew what you were leaving out when you didn't get intimate with someone. Even though it wasn't love by any means, you don't think it could feel any better. It was clear that Theo was not just experienced but a master at it. Each thrust was meticulous, like a well-oiled machine, even if he didn't look at you.

You had heard - as everyone else - that he would fuck anything on two legs, but he was only seen with girls. It made you hope to be the first guy he fucked.

Only half of his cock was pushing in and out of your hole as it was much, much bigger than you expected. And even though you prepared for it every night - as you knew deep down it would happen someday - the thought of him couldn't prepare you for the real deal.

Suddenly, Theo jolted you out of your thoughts by forcefully slamming your back against a row of lockers. It was almost as if he wanted your undivided attention, but wasn't willing to reciprocate with the same. The openness of your activity made it even more tempting to you. Up until this point, you didn't even know you had this kink - to fuck in the open hallway of your school.

As he turned his head back to the side, you felt shame welling up. Fed up with his gamey, with your left hand, you grabbed his sharp jaw and forced him to look at you. The moment your eyes met, you saw nothing but contempt in his hazel, almost innocent-looking eyes. They were so beautiful when he was angry, but right then they sent a wave of excitement down your spine.

“Look at me while you fuck me,” you whispered to him, barely able to contain your lewd moans. You wanted nothing more than to scream, moan and groan. But you kept it to yourself, not wanting to show him how much you loved the feeling of his cock in your hole, how his hands were holding your ass so tenderly, spreading your cheeks and the roughness of his skin, or the way his eyes made you feel with the obviousness anger contained within them. The hopelessness of the situation in his glaring eyes made you stay hard.

“Fucking faggot,” he muttered angrily, but there was more that you couldn't pinpoint.

Smiling, you looked straight into his beautiful eyes. “Last time I looked, you were fucking me.”

He paused for a second, disbelief running across his face, just before he stopped being gentle and entered you fully. You could have sworn you felt something tear, but the way he hit that one spot inside, you couldn't feel pain or even think about it. Theo began to thrust upwards like the wild animal he was, which in return made him move closer to you. So much so that his head came right next to yours, panting heavily. He obviously liked it at least as much as you did, but his ego and pride surely wouldn't let him show it, which made him look even hotter in your eyes.

“Shut up, fucking whore!” Theo whispered in your ear. The closeness of his voice caused an obvious shiver throughout your body, coupled with his warm and moist breath tingling the fine hairs on your ear and neck. It finally broke whatever resolve you had. You started to moan loudly, and your hands buried themselves in his perfectly styled hair, to try holding onto him for dear life. “Do you like that?” he asked teasingly, an audible grin in his already teasing voice. But when you tried to answer, he thrust up at the first note, making you moan instead. “Fuck! You feel so good and you sound so fucking needy.”

The dirty talk was finally enough for you. As you came without touching yourself, you moaned in deathly embarrassment, one shot after another coming from your cock, which didn't go limp afterward.

“Fuck, stop milking me!” Theo moaned, not realizing he had made you cum. It wasn't until he moved his head back and saw your fucked out face, partially limp, with your head against the locker and not against his neck where it was just a second before. Theo looked intrigued, at least as your blurry eyes suggested. “Shit,” he muttered, pausing in his movements, “If you had shown me your naughty side earlier, I would have fucked you long ago,” he said to you, chuckling darkly.

He suddenly removed his right hand from your ass but somehow managed to hold you up with just one hand since you couldn't wrap your legs tightly around his waist anymore. Out of nowhere, he touched your face and gently caressed your cheek. Without a word though, he stuck his fingers into your mouth. Noticing it a second later, you slowly closed your lips around his strong fingers and licked them like they were a lollipop. But Theo forced it further down until his palm was against your face. You didn't gag or anything.

Realization hit Theo a few moments later. But still, in disbelief, he pulled his fingers out until a soft 'pop' was heard. He moaned at the sound so loudly that you thought he was coming. But just as suddenly as before, he started fucking you again, more relentlessly than before. Clearly excited about what he had just discovered. Somehow you knew it would lead to many more wet and slimy encounters.

Theo's hand went to your throat where he tightened his grip, restricting your breathing. But the only thing it did to you was make you want him to fuck you senseless.

Your eyes must have betrayed and you believed him starting to grin again. After all of that, it didn't take long for Theo to come. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth in ecstasy. Just a second later, he groaned loudly, filling your insides with endless amounts of his warm cum. With one particularly powerful spurt, his swollen cockhead pressed against your prostate so hard that you came a second time.

He collapsed against you as you felt his cum painting your insides like a masterpiece while simultaneously painting the outsides of him and yourself a similar color. As he carelessly breathed heavily into your neck, you became excited again. But when you heard a low rumble from him that almost sounded like a chuckle, you looked at him. You caught his big, scheming eyes staring at you, which made you blush.

He slowly lowered you back to the floor where you almost collapsed, but Theo was there to hold you tight. Your legs had never hurt so much. It took a few minutes, but when you were able to stand alone, Theo asked for the test answers, immediately, staring at you darkly again with his blank, murderous eyes, which he used for his gang activities, even though you believed he would someday build a massive underground empire. You just knew that you couldn't be on his wrong side. To comply with his request, you stumble towards your backpack and retrieve some documents. As you turn back to him, you notice his surprised expression.

“You had them with you the whole time?” he asked exasperated.

“Of course,” you replied plainly, hiding a grin. “I know you like to get your deals done quickly, so I finished it after my morning beating. All the answers to all kinds of questions,” you told him before hobbling away.

***

It was a week later when you were cornered by Theo again, his cronies were nowhere to be seen. Knowing why, you didn't show fear, even when he left you hanging in the air by your collar. You seemed like a lightweight to him, but you couldn't be mad about his fury, after all, you outsmarted him.

“Why the hell did I get an “F,” you fucking idiot?” Somehow, you imagined him as a foaming-at-the-mouth wolf, ready to attack you and rip your throat out. But the next moment you imagined him naked and only with dog ears, you immediately blushed. “What’s there to laugh about, faggot? I'll make you feel how stupid it was to-"

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, eyes closed, preparing yourself for what was to come. But when you opened them again, there was nothing but self-confidence to be seen inside them, which confused Theo. You placed your right hand on his and looked deep into his hazelnut eyes. “You won’t hurt me anymore!” you told him calmly.

It seemed like an order, which infuriated Theo even further, causing him to question whether you comprehend the power imbalance between the two of you.

Before Theo could argue, you pulled out your phone. You were about to say something and held the screen up to him. When Theo played the video and heard the lewd moans, he immediately shut it down, horror visible in his eyes.

“You filmed us?” he asked. Swallowing loudly, he waited for your answer, but you just grinned. “You stupid faggot,” he muttered crestfallen, his face in his hands.

“That’s funny,” you replied arrogantly. “The only person who's actually fucked another guy is you, and to be honest, from the way we're standing in the video, it looks a lot like... you know. What if people see it? Do you think they would see the same thing?”

You never thought you would see defeat in his eyes so quickly. Until then, you thought he would destroy your phone and think it was over. But he seemed to have realized that you were smarter than that, which you were since you had a dozen copies of them at home. You weren't ashamed of admitting to jerking off to it multiple times if he asked.

“What do you want?” he finally asked, his head bowed and his voice staggering. He wasn't attractive the way he was right then. Pushing him lightly so that he would have no other choice but to put you down again, until you stood strong before him.

With your free hand, you ran over his burgundy shirt, feeling every muscle of his - as you knew - divine body down to the edge of his pants. Without hesitation, you undid his button, as he simply stares at you, unable to say anything.

“I’m about to suck you off, but first I’d like to make a deal with you.”

Theo was already breathing heavily. It made you smirk, knowing you made a certain, rather lewd impression on him. Massaging his big, soft cock, it grew faster than you thought. But you decided against teasing him about it.

"The deal is that you'll be intimate with me every day until the end of the school year, for me not to show the video to anyone, and I'll help you leave this place as a straight-A student for me getting a favor in the future. But you would have to change your behavior a little or the teachers might think you were cheating.”

"What do you- Ahhh, damn it, tighten your grip- Yes, that's right." Theo was already in heaven and seemed to have forgotten the conversation you were having. But somehow he snapped back after a few seconds. "What do you mean?" He finally finished his question, albeit loudly swallowing.

Smiling, you scoffed at him. “Do you really think they would believe that a delinquent like you would suddenly become a great student?” You removed your hand from his, still on your collar, and pulled him by his collar closer to you. “But don’t worry, I’ll teach. But I think I deserve something special now.”

Theo looked confused, his eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes filled with many unanswered questions. You didn't feel like answering any of them, so you pulled him closer and kissed him. His lips tasted like mint, and before either of you knew it, your tongue was already entwined with his, dancing in perfect harmony.

[Masterlist]

#theo raeken x male reader #x male reader #male reader #teen wolf x male reader #teen wolf #theo raeken #theo raeken imagine #smut

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guacamoleroll · 3 months

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𝖎'𝖒 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉, 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖓' 「𝔪𝔲𝔩𝔱𝔦」 ༉‧₊˚

content. gn!reader. wholesome fluff, mentions of possessiveness (nikolai), different valentine's day gifts. not proofread.

author's note. i managed to churn the last of this out, so here is my little contribution to valentine's day! i wasn't able to write too much, but i hope it brightens your day, even if by a little bit.

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

synopsis. what the BSD guys get you for valentine's day!

𝗢𝗦𝗔𝗠𝗨 𝗗𝗔𝗭𝗔𝗜 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

A box of assorted chocolates. He isn't the type to present a spectacular gift, at least never in the way most would—he has to stand out from the crowd. So instead, these chocolates have a little surprise inside. Some may be filled with caramel, and others may be filled with hot sauce. He lives for your reactions, whether it's delight or sputtering, to try and put out the fire on your tongue. He'd make a game out of it, but he'd already have memorized every single flavor, ensuring that the last could be a sweet one bitten between the both of you before he dove in to get a taste of your lips.

𝗖𝗛𝗨𝗨𝗬𝗔 𝗡𝗔𝗞𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

A bundle of flowers. Rows of softened roses, curled lilies, and blossoming anemones. Or perhaps even a collection of flowers he sees on his way home from work every day. Their delicate petals only represent a speck of your beauty, paling in comparison as you grace him with your beaming smile. Each has been intricately planned, not because of their meaning but because something about them reminded him of you. He sees them, and he thinks of you. Not simply a reminder that he wants to gift you the world but also a reminder of how you are his world and encompass his every living thought.

𝗙𝗬𝗢𝗗𝗢𝗥 𝗗𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗘𝗩𝗦𝗞𝗬 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

A handwritten card. Completely written in Russian, to be specific. The motto with Fyodor and relationships is "be prepared to work for it," and that is applicable to his gifts. It would take time to translate, let alone decipher the metaphorical language that is used. However, it's all worth it when you feel the sheer love radiating from the page, even if his own pride can prevent him from expressing the words he really wants to say directly. Say them for him, and you'll have earned yourself a softened smile to melt your heart.

𝗡𝗜𝗞𝗢𝗟𝗔𝗜 𝗚𝗢𝗚𝗢𝗟 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

A box of candy hearts. Many find them disgusting, but he seems to adore them, swallowing them by the handful. He would tie together different assortments of jewelry, gifting you candy necklaces and bracelets made from them. And don't pay attention to the messages written on the hearts. Or the gleam in his eye as he fastens these accessories around your wrist and neck, knowing in his heart that he is never planning on letting go. You've tied him down, and now it's your turn to get a taste.

𝗦𝗜𝗚𝗠𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

A plate of cookies. This would be a shared present between the both of you, with the true gift of it all being the time you spent baking together, rather than the delicious dessert. It wouldn't matter if they were the most disgusting cookies ever; he only wanted to enjoy his free time with you, laughing and dancing in the kitchen as sweet music played. You'd splash frosting at each other before initiating a chase around the kitchen island. You would be a mess by the end of it, but the kisses and cookies at the end were so worth it.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @imhandicapableofmath @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @thesilvernight0wl @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @ajaxism @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @sillyspookycat @betweensinners @aureatchi

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silksongeveryday · 9 months

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Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 200!!!

(huge thanks to this person for the art suggestion!! <3)

I genuinely can’t believe that I’ve made it to 200 days, it’s truly been wild how time flies by like that and the amount of doodles I’ve made during that time. Over 200 doodles (217 to be exact if we’re counting double pictures/extra doodles) have been made over the past 200 days. :0

And thank you all so much for the love and support! Not only have we reached 200 days but also 1400+ followers about a week ago! <3

But, having said that I’d like to make a few announcements—some good, some not so great—about a few things regarding the blog, myself, and other stuff.

Putting it all under the cut so the post isn’t long if you’d like to know more

______________________________

Announcements!

My pfp!

1.) I’ll be changing my pfp again!! I’ve officially decided that after every 100 days or so I’ll change up the pfp so it’s up to date with my doodle style (assuming it changed at all lol), but generally it’ll look relatively the same as the last!

Possibly more admins?

2.) As of right now I’m looking into the idea/possibility of having a second (maybe third?) person help me with daily doodles! As much as I’d like to keep doodling everyday there are some days that it can be tough or some situation might be happening. (i.e. recently got injured)

See, the problem is I don’t exactly have a proper way of trying this out??? My idea was to maybe do this through dms or more preferably Google Forms. I also don’t really know what form of communication afterward would be best either, suggestions to help me work this out would be great! (as you can tell I’m not very good at this stuff lol)

Commissions!

3.) After much consideration and a lot of thought, I’ve decided that in the near future, I’ll be opening commissions again for the first time in years. I don’t have everything set up quite yet, but expect more info in the near future!

About requests:

4.) You may have noticed recently that I haven’t been doing as many doodle requests recently. Sure, there’s usually quite a few in a row at once but you may have noticed I’ve also been doing “non-requested” doodles aka ones that I just do on my own.

Expect this to become a very normal thing going forward. I probably won’t be doing as many requests as before because frankly with the amount of requests I get daily when it’s open is a lot to handle sometimes. Does this mean requests will be stopped entirely? No, I’ll still do some occasionally, but not as much as I have in the past.

Also I’ll likely be doing strictly anonymous requests.

About Burnout:

5.) Alright let’s address the elephant in the room.

There have been quite a few instances where people have wondered if I would ever have burnout and have occasionally joked about “dying” from said burnout because “Silksong will never release, you’ll be doing this forever” etc etc.

In the past I’ve been fine, motivation has been great, but recently I’ve noticed it a little bit.

Unfortunately life has its own plans so it can be a little hard for me to make a doodle that day, expecially recently since I’ve been experiencing personal/medical issues. It’s part of the reason I’m hoping to get a second (maybe third) person to help me do daily doodles so I can take a little bit of the load off my shoulders.

So what does this mean for this blog?

Not much right now. But in the future, there may be some changes. My current plan is to keep going on daily doodles/posts for the length of a standard year, so roughly 365 days. After that, if things in personal life keep up the way they have, I may have to stop daily doodles and instead will post only if I have time. That likely means doodles every other day or every three days or something. At the very least I’ll still post a doodle once a week.

Not to worry though! I’ll still try my best even after I reach day 365 :)

I’ll discuss how things work a little more on my main @miizori later, but that’s as much as I can think to explain rn.

———————————————

Just a few more things I wanted to say!

This community has been so cool to interact with, so much tamer than some others I’ve been apart of in the past. I’m genuinely thankful for how much support and how nice everyone has been. I truly didn’t expect to get this far, I was fully expecting to have stopped like 10 doodles in lol. I especially love to see all your comments in the tags and people sharing their art. You’re all so cool :)))

I have a dtiys from back when I reached 300 followers that’s still available if you’re feeling up to it!

Also my main (again, @miizori) is where I make updates on doodle stuff, regular art stuff and so on if you’re interested at all in that lol

I think that’s all that I can remember wanting to say, so thanks!! I look forward to more doodles for you all :)

#hollow knight #silksong #hk hornet #hollow knight hornet #silksong hornet #hk shade lord #shade lord #hollow knight shade lord #hollow knight fanart #hk fanart #silksongeveryday

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wyspersss · 2 years

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posts two days in a row i’m on a roll!! decided to draw that little scene from mag 180 for some comic practice :)

also! i am going to start adding IDs to my posts, i may forget every once in a while so bear with me but i’ll try to be as consistent as possible! also sorry if they’re not the best i’m still working on how exactly to format and write them

[Start ID:

A single page comic of Jon and Martin in greyscale. Martin is a tall, plus sized white man with light wavy hair with white streaks and light eyes. He has circular glasses, in which one of the lenses is cracked. There is a small white scar on the left side of his jaw. He is wearing a grey hoodie and has an unshaven stubbly face. Jon is a shorter middle eastern man with buzzed short black hair with grey throughout. He also has a full beard with grey throughout as well. His skin is pockmarked with small scars, in addition to a scar across his throat and a small scar on his left arm. He wears rectangular glasses, a light colored t-shirt, and a dark jacket with a bag slung across his shoulder.

Panel 1: Martin has his eyes closed and is presumably leaning toward Jon who is not in frame, facing to the left. He has a small contented smile on his face as he says, “your turn.”

Panel 2: Jon, facing right, also has his eyes closed with a calm expression replies, “fine, I spy with my little eye…” pausing before the end of the statement.

Panel 3: Wide shot of both Jon and Martin facing forward. Jon is faced slightly away from Martin as he looks back toward him. Jon is smiling as he opens his right eye to reveal that it’s glowing green with other ghostly green eyes floating around him. As he does this, he says, “… literally everything.” finishing his previous statement. (the dialogue text is slightly distorted) Martin’s head is angled slightly toward Jon to look at him as he smiles and snorts a laugh, eyes open and crinkled. His hands are raised like he’s about to cover his face.

Panel 4: Jon and Martin are leaning against each other, holding each others hands, faces bright and smiley as they laugh together. They both have their eyes closed. On the right of the panel, a second set of laughter, this one a more sinister “oh ho ho ho…” travels between panel 4 and 5.

Panel 5 (final panel): Jon and Martin lean against each other, identical to the previous panel, but now their faces have dropped. Jon is frowning, eyebrows creased and he is looking up at Martin. Martin is also frowning, as he looks down at Jon with a similar expression. They have both stopped laughing.

End ID]

I hope i did okay on that! If there’s anything I can improve on when writing these please tell me I’d really appreciate it :D

#the magnus archive fanart #the magnus archives #the magnus pod #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jmart fanart

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 8: Missive

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Daemon solves a problem.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, violence.

Fucking useless, he thinks. Then again, what was I expecting?

The High Septon is a rambling, tedious man of fourscore and one summers, closer to the grave than he is to the land of the living. Daemon’s surprised that he’s still functioning. It had taken some time for the lackwit to sink himself into the chair opposite him, so brittle are his bones in his dotage, and fix his milk-glazed eyes in his direction. Even longer for him to finally dispense with the pleasantries and focus on the goal at hand.

Questioning him had taken every iota of his sparing patience. The man had repeated the exact same avowal as he had to the others: that he was “praying night and day for the Princess in the wake of such an abominable event”, that he “knew not” who the now-dead men emblazoned with his fucking Seven-Pointed Star are, that they could not be agents of the Seven, that the Faith Militant “are extinct as they have been since the reign of your grandsire, the blessed King Jaehaerys”.

Yes, he snorts, because men who fuck their sisters are ‘blessed’. As long as a cleric speaks and waves a bit of ribbon in front of them first.

The dullard had fainted away when he’d unveiled the proof of his claims, the rather excellent pickling he’d had the healer woman perform on the head of one of the two remaining bodies in your old chambers. He supposes the sight would have been rather garish.

The dead man’s eyes are wide open from the shock of Mallery’s sudden impalement, alert and startling from within the eerie discoloured liquid. And, most importantly, the carving of the star is on full display to all who may cast their gaze upon it. He’d had to get the servants to take the damned jar away, the severed head bobbing about comically as they’d departed, and wait for the old man’s attendants to rouse him.

At any rate, he’s come to appreciate that no answers will spring from this avenue of interrogation. He departs the High Septon’s chambers—in the Tower of the Hand, of all places—with as much information as he had possessed prior to his visit.

Fuck all, that is.

Daemon finds Largent and Breakbones standing around in the middle bailey, clearly trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Their respective sizes rather prevent the accomplishment of that objective. Even with faces carefully blank and posture forbidding, the two attract many a curious eye from passers-by.

“Anything?” the Strong lad asks when he nears, shifting away from the wall with a grave disposition.

He offers a cynical half-laugh in response, striding onward. The pair fall into step on either side of him, a singular unit marching onward to the Holdfast.

He’d been taken aback by the sudden appearance of Harwin Strong earlier this morning. It transpired that Rhaenyra was alerted to the attack—and he is chagrined to admit that he’d entirely forgotten to alert her himself—and had been making ready to fly to King’s Landing. Naturally, Viserys had issued summary directives that would bar his eldest daughter access to any means of transportation off Dragonstone.

Thinking of that row still gives Daemon the urge to hit something.

“I’ll not have my heir caught up in this contemptible plot, Daemon,” his brother says between weak coughs, groaning as the fit abates. He slumps forward into the chair while the Maesters coax leeches to latch upon the mutilated skin of his back. “What if Rhaenyra is to be the next target? Allowing her into the city would only make that easier, would it not? Nay, it is best she stays on the isle, away from all this mess.”

“So, you acknowledge that your city isn’t safe, do you?” He paces in Viserys’s line of sight. “If security’s such a concern for you, then do something about it! Double—triple the guards! Recruit more men for the City Watch! Rally troops from the fucking Crownlands—”

“And what good would that do other than engender panic?” Viserys sighs. “No. I’ll not bring upheaval to the capital to allay your rage, brother. There’s been no new attempts, and you’re managing well enough on the search.”

Well enough? He’s man enough to admit he’s floundering, though he’ll never admit to such a thing before the sycophants from Oldtown. They’ll probably go running to old Otto to crow about Lord Flea Bottom’s failures while they clamber to lick the shit from his arsehole. No. Whoever this cunt is, he’s an apparition, a ghost in the wind.

Daemon is impressed by his own ability to refrain from yelling at the King and getting himself thrown out. He takes a breath and tries again. “My wife could do with her elder sister’s comfort. Would you not provide her with that?”

He tries not to think upon how tearful and reticent you have been as of late, a return to the you that had filled his waking hours in the days immediately following the threat on your life. Something is wrong, and he knows not what—only that you need as much soothing as he can garner.

“She has her siblings and stepmother here,” Viserys says. He cannot help but to scoff at the pronouncement. The only ones you willingly spend time with are your half-sister and youngest brother, and it’s unlikely you’ll find succour in the ramblings of a witchling or a child. “She has you. Will Rhaenyra really make much of a difference? I think not.”

This time, he almost follows through on the urge to strike the King. It is not uncommon for Kings to favour their heirs above all else—who better than he to know that truth?—but he’d thought for one foolish moment that perhaps you might be exempt from it this time.

He is wrong.

“Fine, then,” he just barely grits out from between clenched teeth. “I’ll take my leave, Your Grace. I have a hunt to continue.”

Breakbones’s voice interrupts. “What exactly have you learned thus far, my Prince?”

Daemon glances dubiously at him. He admires the enthusiasm with which the man has readily proffered assistance in the task of searching out the primary conspirator—no doubt the very reason Rhaenyra elected to send him, being among those of her confidants with the soundest pretext for paying visit to King’s Landing—but it seems foolish to speak of details out here. Ordinarily, he’d take the man to task for it. But the steps traversing down to the royal residences are perhaps the most private he is like to get until safely in your rooms once more, dotted with the occasional guard along the way. Moreover, he is not overeager to remind you of the attack in your condition.

“Nothing of note,” he says, taking the next several steps onward to ensure he’s firmly out of earshot of the last watchman before he continues. “An alias and a pin. Rumours, but nothing concrete.”

Withdrawing his sole piece of evidence from the pouch at his belt, he rolls the brass insect between thumb and finger consideringly, feeling the crevices and sharp edges that make up its metalwork anatomy. The piss-coloured stone defining the last segments of its abdomen—he suspects it’s more likely glass than anything of real value—appears amber in the daylight. He watches as it passes from his own hand to Strong’s, the man holding it aloft and squinting.

To the unenlightened, the trinket may bear the likeness of a bee or a beetle. If not for the pseudonym extracted from that scum in the brothel, he too would have assumed as such. He’d confirmed it by spending evenings after you had fallen asleep poring over dusty old illustrations from stained old tomes on entomology from scholars long since dead. Hadn’t that been an exciting venture.

The man is taking far longer to examine it than is the norm. Daemon’s heartbeat quickens. “Do you recognise it?” he asks.

“Yes,” Strong murmurs finally, frowning and turning the pin over in overlarge fingers. “I… I’ve seen it before. ‘Tis a firefly, is it not?”

“That it is.” A sick, swooping excitement curdles in his gut. This is what he has been waiting for. Finally, someone has recognised this blasted thing. Finally, someone knows it by name. “How do you know that?”

Breakbones appears to stare at some fixed point beyond him, lost in his own thoughts. “My brother, Larys.”

Clubfoot.

Larys Strong is an unsettling being—Daemon hesitates to call him a man—who always seems as though he can discern every last secret a person is concealing with a mere glance. He’s the worst sort of creature. One who hides himself behind oily amiability and glib half-speak, each and every encounter ringing with some unknown threat.

The lad before him looks back down to study the item in his grasp. “As a youth,” he continues, “he was fascinated by them. Used to capture them in jars and shake them until they were stunned, then—pull them apart with Mother’s needles. He wanted to know how they made their light. He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.” The memory seems to disconcert him, for his face twitches with the effort of suppressing some unknown emotion.

Ice trickles down Daemon’s spine.

Viserys had ignored his incredulity after he’d discovered that Clubfoot had been named Master of Whisperers. “He has a talent for gathering intelligence, and his House is loyal,’” the King had said.

His House is loyal—but what of him?

“That”—Daemon jerks his chin toward the pin—“was found on one of the attackers.” He stares at Breakbones assessingly. “Would you say your brother still has his… fascination?”

“Wait—you think Larys is behind this?”

Before he has the opportunity to respond to Strong’s obvious perturbation, Largent grunts. Fuck. Daemon had forgotten he had been standing there.

“Seen ‘im around the city at night,” the knight says, the bass notes thrumming through the rock beneath his feet. Hells, but the man’s a fucking giant. “In some of the more crooked places, too. Could be doing ‘is job. Could be up to no good.”

That sounds about right. The Master of Whisperers is a position that brings with it a necessity to lurk about in unsavoury alleys and disreputable establishments, a spider spinning its web of informants across King’s Landing. It could be used to disguise dealings that have little to do with the Realm.

In this moment, he is almost certain.

“The mastermind calls himself ‘the Firefly’.” Daemon’s legs are already itching with the urge to bolt back up the steps and to the middle gate, through, past, onward to the outer yard, to the Great Hall, to the Small Council chamber, where he is no doubt sitting, watching, waiting— “Tell me he’s not capable of it,” he demands of Strong. “Swear it, and I’ll be merciful.”

Breakbones’s jaw works for what seems like hours, face flushing with the strain of the conflict he is like to be wrestling with, a brother made to decide if he can live with the consequences of standing aside so that justice might prevail upon his own blood. Daemon might have found it somewhere in himself to be sympathetic, perhaps any other time, but not here, not now, not at the prospect of finally coming face-to-face with the scum who is responsible for the way you had looked that night, covered in gore and trembling and so fucking terrified—

“I… I cannot,” the man finally says, defeated. It is all the acceptance he needs.

As Daemon strides back along the path he has just traversed, he allows the conviction to fill his body like smoke and ash fills the sky after a conflagration.

Larys Strong is privy to the movements of the royal family, he thinks, mind whirling. The Master of Whisperers knows everything that occurs in his city of employ. It’s the point of the fucking job. He’d have known that Daemon was away, that you were alone, that few would hear you in chambers so far from—

How difficult would it have been for scum like him—someone with a network of spies that spans an entire city—to pass the order to strike along to the cutthroats?

The pieces fall conveniently into place—or perhaps he is making them fit. Truthfully, he cares little about seeking proof of the matter from the mouth of Larys Strong. For the crime of association alone, Daemon is willing to see him pay. And, if nothing else, his death will send a message that the Rogue Prince is cleansing the city piece by wretched piece.

The thud of boots on stone pound in tandem with the drum of his beating heart, the rhythm of bloodlust kindling the fuel in his veins to living flame. Someone will die today. He feels this settle with assurance into the very hollows of his bones, as sure as he had been standing before you in the great winds of Dragonstone with blood dripping from your hand and your lip in consecration of a pledge made before the gods of Old Valyria.

Avy amīsilun. I will protect you. The vows had been struck, and they must now be defended.

Daemon only vaguely notes the scattering of the court like ants as he marches through the main walkways, to the empty Great Hall and onward, flanked by Breakbones and Largent.

The Kingsguard manning the doors to the Small Council chamber make their usual racket at being ordered to step aside—“the King and his Council are within, you cannot enter!”—but they are no match for him when his blood is up. He watches dispassionately as Largent forces them to step aside for their Prince, shoving them bodily to the floor with an almighty clang of plate armour. The heavy oak doors burst open from the power behind his shove, and the occupants within erupt.

“Your Highness!”

“My Prince, really—”

“Prince Daemon—”

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys’s voice just barely cuts over the din. He looks especially ghastly in the light pouring in behind him, creating a halo of brightness that ought to accentuate something of grandeur—of beauty—but instead only serves to highlight the decay of the man who calls himself King. “Brother—”

There he is. Daemon doesn’t give a fuck about his brother’s outrage, not when Larys Strong sits at the end of the table right in front of him. It’s almost surprising that he’s not hanging off the Queen’s leg. Or worse, the Hand’s. Though he’s done well to craft something of concerned impassivity from his features, there is a smug little almost-smile that plays at the very corner of his mouth.

He knows. He knows and he’s mocking me—

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Daemon says. “But your Master of Whisperers has just been implicated in the plot against my wife’s life. Largent”—he jerks his head toward the finely-garbed form of Clubfoot—“take him.”

Several things occur at once: Otto and his bitch of a daughter spring from their seats, yelling orders at the Kingsguard within the chamber; said guards advance with blades extended, barring the way forward; the remaining milksops at the table begin squawking as they are wont to do, contributing little other than pointless noise.

And, in the midst of all of it, Larys Strong is calm, an immovable stone object with lips carved into a smile.

“Stay your hand!”

“My Prince, this is all too—”

“Preposterous!” Alicent says, seeming so wroth that Daemon would not be surprised if her heart were to suddenly give out from the strain of forcing so much blood to her face. She makes a grandiose sweeping gesture with her arm. Supercilious bitch. “Lord Strong is a member of the Small Council and a loyal servant to the King! You cannot cast aspersions upon his name without—”

Larys himself interrupts. “Might I enquire as to the charges against me, my Prince?”

A chill creeps across Daemon’s neck. The man sounds as nonchalant as a noblewoman at high tea, tone casual and polite.

“Why?” he asks, automatically stepping forward. The Kingsguard block his way, but he cannot look away from the man before him. “So you can make sure to dispose of any tangible proof? Shut the fuck up.”

More squawking. Perhaps I should have directed that last part to the entire room.

The King appears apoplectic, though the colour casts an almost healthy sheen across his waxy, grey-sheened visage. “You will explain yourself, Daemon, or I will have you thrown out of this chamber!”

How typical of his brother to side with anyone—anyone—other than him. Daemon wonders for a moment if he could get away with shoving the guards aside, striding over to Viserys and throttling him, punishing him for the negligence he has paid to his family, to you.

Instead, he scoffs, hand falling to rest upon the pommel of Dark Sister. “The Lord of Harrenhal himself has traced a vital piece of evidence back to Strong, here.” The deliberate phrasing lands as intended. The others glance uncomfortably at each other, no doubt concerned by the prospect of contending with another nobleman’s accusation against one of their own. “I’ll be remanding him for questioning.”

“If you will not divulge this supposed ‘evidence’, then there is no further reason for your presence,” Hightower says. He gestures at the Kingsguard. “Guards!”

A true weakling, relying on the steel of other men to enforce his will. The guards lock blades, hindering the way.

“Why, Otto”—Daemon glares at the Hand—“one might find it suspect that you are so keenly interested in obstructing the Princess’s justice. Is there anything you ought to be hiding?”

The Hand is a craven, but there is nothing tying him to this plot. He would know—he’d wasted far too much time in corroborating this. Nonetheless, it is thoroughly enjoyable to watch the man squirm like an enemy soldier pinned to the ground through the ribcage, twitching and writhing in place.

“Absolutely ridiculous—”

“Enough!” Viserys exclaims. Otto falls silent immediately, sitting down in a pathetic display of deference to the half-withered man at his left. “Daemon,” the King says, “you will obey the directives of this Council or you will be removed.”

“Fine.” Daemon turns to face the target of his wrath. “Tell me, Strong. What does ‘the Firefly’ mean to you?”

Breakbones shifts uncomfortably at his back. Larys Strong affects affability, though it rings obsequious and sinister.

“It is an insect,” the man says in a tone that is almost crooning. It is fucking eerie. His head tilts and his eyes grow hazy, staring far-off as though in a daydream. That same unnerving half-smile lingers still. “I quite enjoyed studying them as a boy—”

Daemon has had enough of the prevaricating. “Someone who calls himself ‘the Firefly’ ordered the attack on my wife,” he snarls, straining at the steel barrier, “and that someone is you!”

He is pushed back once more, and he is about ready to throw a fist or two at the exposed slivers of jugular peeking out from all that gold in front of him. It mightn’t incapacitate the guards, but it will certainly delay them long enough for him to rearrange Clubfoot’s insides with Dark Sister.

“My Prince!” Larys’s hand flutters over his chest like a maiden, the very picture of overdramatised surprise. It boggles him that he is the only one to see this act for what it is. “I have never been anything but loyal to the Princess. What cause would I have to commit such an atrocity?”

Words. They’re all just words. Daemon is about to snap a demand for Larys Strong’s arrest when he takes notice of a gem glittering golden in the sunlight streaming from the window. A gem that is nestled upon the man’s cane.

Surely not—

He relaxes against the guards’ hold on him, stepping back with hands raised. As he had expected, it prompts an ever-so-slight lowering of their blades, a sure sign that they perceive the immediate danger to be over.

They are wrong.

Daemon strikes quickly, throwing his weight at the guard closest to him so as to knock him off balance. The man topples like a tower during a siege. Largent and Breakbones surge into the fray behind him, fending off the rest. It is all the opening he needs. He is able to snatch the cane from its resting place propped against the table and stare for a scant few seconds. Though he dimly registers the occupants of the table scrambling away—all save for Larys Strong, sitting so still it is as though he intends to blend into the chair—he cannot care, so fixated is he upon the metalwork adorning the handhold.

Wings warped out to reveal the inner body. Three ridges demarcating the abdomen. Antennae curving downwards from the head. And that fucking gem, warmer in colour than the pin, but so similar in cut that they can only have been made for the same purpose.

“You fucking liar—” he might whisper, might shout. As he brings the cane down over the cowering form of Larys Strong, the wood breaks apart on impact with the man’s head. It splinters into two sharply pointed parts. How fitting would it be for him to meet his end impaled by the proof of his involvement in your attack? “You will die for this!”

Daemon raises his arm high, preparing to pierce the jagged end of the cane through flesh. Larys Strong’s watery blue eyes are wide, reflective and crystalline in a way that belies true shock, horror, unadulterated emotion. Blood streams from the point of impact atop his scalp, matting his hair bloody and striping rivulets of crimson along the pale of his temples. He is nestled as far down into the seat as is possible, arms lifted to shield his skull from further assault, and it is the first sign of fear he’s shown since Daemon walked in.

“Enough! Guards!” the King roars.

He revels in it, in the fact that this man knows he is about to perish at his hand, is about to meet whatever gods he believes in for daring to harm his wife and children, for daring to harm what is his. He brings the makeshift lance down with all his might—

A harsh blow to his gut preludes the unyielding grip of whichever of Viserys’s dogs have managed to bypass Largent and Breakbones. He can do naught but wheeze as he is seized firm and hauled back, struggling against the guards’ hold to no avail. He growls like a beast dragged from its meal, frantic and feverish, unhinged in a way he has never felt before.

Maegor the Cruel reborn, Daemon thinks wildly. Let them see the horror that lurks within the blood of the dragon—

“Viserys—” he tries to say, but it takes on a decidedly inhuman cadence, brutish and bellowing.

“How have you the audacity to enter this place in such a manner? I do not recall granting you leave to slaughter members of my Council on a whim!” The sound of his brother’s voice shatters the spell of madness, and he finally absorbs the scene before him.

The Small Council members are huddled in the corner of the chamber, ashen-faced and trembling. The Queen cringes behind her father, eyes tear-bright and fearful. Otto looks upon him with alarm and revulsion in equal measure, and he is sure there is a moue of satisfaction twisting the very edges of his expression. Cunt.

The sheer disappointment contorting Viserys’s expression would have once been enough to bring up stinging bile in the back of his throat. But this—this rotting creature before him, pockmarked and deformed, elicits nothing but contempt and the faint taste of regret, bitter and stale from things left unsaid.

Defend your daughter. Defend my wife.

Defend me, brother.

“If there is truth to your accusations, let there be a trial,” the King says. “There will be nothing further from you this day, Daemon. Begone from my sight.”

His brother dismisses him with a scoff and flick of his remaining hand, turning away from him as he always does. Daemon jostles the guards away from him when they release their punitive grasp on his arms, sneering at the way they immediately grip the pommels of their sheathed blades in silent warning.

“Are you well, my Lord?” the Hightower bitch asks, standing over Larys Strong with a finger gingerly tipping his head this way and that, taking stock of the injury.

The man looks past the Queen and stares directly into Daemon’s glare, cool and calculating. Though he is clearly shaken, there is something distinctly unsettling about the notes of impassivity that reveal themselves in the subtle arch of his brow, the bluntness of his regard, the flare of his nostrils. His gaze shifts to somewhere behind Daemon, smirking. The creak and slam of the door heralds Harwin’s intemperate departure. Whatever the man had seen in his younger brother’s eyes had clearly been enough to rattle him.

Clubfoot smiles up at Alicent. It is an unfriendly thing. “The Prince has… much rage in him over the harm done to his lady wife. Perhaps I would be free of it if he were only present at the outset of the attack,” he says mournfully, so obviously mocking in nature that even Otto himself glances uncertainly at the man. “But I do not take offence, Your Grace.”

Daemon seethes. How dare he—bastard—

His feet carry him forward without thinking, only to be grabbed firmly at the shoulders by the guards. He shrugs them off with a huff. “Make no mistake, you cunt,” he hisses. “You might have been shielded by these useless fucks today. But you cannot hide behind them forever. One day soon, you’ll be alone. And one day soon, I’ll have my revenge. Bisir kīvio Jaehossi Uēpossi Arlȳssī sēten.” This I vow by the Old Gods and the New.

“Daemon!”

“And you,” he says, turning to the King. “Long have I watched your weakness rule you. Long have I stood by as you’ve run this family into ruin. This man”—he points to Larys—“is responsible for the harm done to your daughter. My wife. And so, I also promise this: if you do nothing… you are no brother of mine.”

Silence reigns for a beat; two; three. All he can hear is the sound of his own breath being forced from bruised lungs, heavy and gasping.

“Guards,” Viserys says finally. For a moment, Daemon is hopeful. He looks triumphantly to Larys Strong, ready to see the man taken up and borne forth from the room. Then, the King sighs and looks down. “Remove my brother from this chamber.”

His hope turns to ash.

The first thing he does after Viserys’s lackeys all but throw him from the room is find some parchment. In truth, it’s a simple matter of venturing to the storeroom adjoined to the Council chambers—he ignores the faint pulse of interest at the recollection of the last time he had been in here, the taste of your slick and the clench of your cunt as he’d fucked you into the wall to the sound of those droning lackwits mumbling to each other—and retrieving what he needs.

“… gone too far, Your Grace. He cannot be allowed…”

“… assault a member of the King’s Council is unheard of! He must be…”

“… will be dealt with, I assure you, my Lords…”

Daemon bites his tongue so hard that the taste of iron fills his mouth, fingers flexing at the trails of dialogue that can be heard from within the meeting itself. Of course they’re more concerned with the fact that he’d struck Larys Strong than the discovery that had provoked such a thing. He grits his teeth and leaves, not wishing to hear further proof of Viserys’s disloyalty.

Every test, every obstacle, every affliction brought to life by my desire to see my brother finally choose me. Viserys had failed me in all, and he has failed me now. No more.

He doesn’t bother to venture forth from the hall. Instead, he retraces a path from long ago, ascending the dais upon which rests the greatest emblem of the Conqueror’s victory over Westeros.

Needs must.

The throne is an uncomfortable seat, but serviceable enough for this particular purpose, he supposes. He sets the open inkwell and pounce pot on the misshapen armrest, laying the parchment over his knee and dipping the quill lightly.

“Milord—”

“What?” He does not bother to look down at Largent, loitering at the base of the pulpit uncertainly, the hulking giant having followed him unerringly throughout his self-appointed task. As he speaks, he scrawls his message black upon blanched paper. It lacks refinement, but perhaps that’s for the best. “What will they do—mount the steps and drag me off?”

The Kingsguard, newly returned to their station at the Council doors, can hear him. He’s sure of it. They do not react, do not even move, but he knows his jibe meets its mark. Snorting at his own question, Daemon discards the quill carelessly and sprinkles powder over the wet ink, tapping the excess all over the floor.

He rolls the parchment up and holds it out, wiggling it jauntily in the City Watch captain’s line of sight to coax him forth. When the scroll is in his palm, Daemon leans forward. “Take this to the madam of The Gilded Doll,” he murmurs. The chill of menace pinches at the flesh around his eyes. “No other. If this falls into the wrong hands, I’ll gut you. Understood?”

“Yessir.” If he’s confused by the order, it does not show on his face. Largent abruptly revolves and marches his way out of the room, the beating of leather soles on hard stone fading with every advancing step.

Daemon slouches upon the Iron Throne. There is a sense of deep weariness slithering through his veins like poison, drawing the vitality from his limbs with every pulse of his blood. It is different, this sensation, so unlike the pent-up explosivity that threatens to obliterate everything in his path whenever he loses in a row with Viserys.

Against a prince turned heir turned king, I lose always. Always.

All the weight of his thirty-six years of existence seems to bear down upon his shoulders. He imagines it is what a brother’s warm embrace might feel like, heavy and overbearing. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he tries to relieve the sudden ache. Tension presses insistently behind his eyes, forcing him to shut his lids.

He takes stock of what he knows.

Larys Strong tried to engineer the deaths of his unborn babes. By extension, your own. He used an alias to recruit three assassins of little repute, waiting until he was sure Daemon would be away to strike against you. And, when confronted, he’d had the audacity to make bold pretence of innocence before the King and his stooges, covertly deriding Daemon’s powerlessness before the governors of the Seven Kingdoms.

But why? Why? He cannot think of the motive. What would a creature like Larys Strong have to gain from this depravity?

Harwin’s words from earlier spark an intriguing thought. “He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.”

The man has no allies at court save for Alicent and Otto. Though Daemon despises them, even he cannot accuse the Queen and her father of encouraging such a plot. They’re too grasping, too arrogant, too soft to risk discovery of such a thing, even if they have the most to gain from it. That Larys has taken it upon himself to gift the Hightowers with the elimination of the greatest threats to their claim on the Throne seems quite possible. He’s like a barn cat proudly presenting a kill at the feet of its master, oblivious to the disgust and disdain.

Either way, Clubfoot has made himself an enemy. Fuck Viserys, and fuck his Council, too. Daemon doesn’t care what they have ordered of him. Clubfoot will not live long enough to regret what he has done.

He leaves the pilfered instruments on the Throne—let the King dispose of them himself, the useless cunt—and makes his way back to you, seized by the need to see you safe, to reassure himself that no other has sought to harm you during his pursuit of justice. As they had before, the promenading nobles and bustling servants give him a wide berth, ogling him with wary eyes and whispering to each other. He takes the opportunity to glare at a select few, to sneer at their flinching reactions when he passes them along the way to the royal wing of the Holdfast.

You are exactly where he left you that morning.

Daemon lingers in the doorway, ignoring Marbrand’s presence in the entry beside him, and watches the scene within your chambers. He observes young Daeron chattering to the healer at the table as he fiddles with the various flasks, pots and implements strewn across the surface. He sees the grin on Ūlla’s face at the excitement in the boy’s voice, nodding and contributing her own conversation in hushed volume while she passes instruments to him. He surveys the cheerful dispositions of Jeyne Cressey and Bethany Follard, your newly-appointed ladies-in-waiting—girls whose presence had been given little explanation or fanfare—as they sit on the chaise with their stitching, gossiping idly among themselves.

He watches you.

You are propped up against the headboard with legs curled under you, heavy-lidded and focused on some minute detail on the sleeve of your gown, or perhaps the mattress beneath you, or maybe even the stone floor further away. He does not know. Your fingers stroke listlessly, absently at the taut flesh of your belly, arms pressed to the bulk of your own self as though you are afraid your babes will disappear from your womb should you let go. There is something ethereal about the picture you make; immensely swelled, distant, turned so deeply within yourself that you seem content to let the world move on without you.

“Nuncle!” Daeron waves, sparing but a glance before preoccupying himself once more with the woman’s trinkets.

He offers a nod of acknowledgement to his nephew as he makes his way to where you sit. Daemon is careful to lower himself slowly, hand outstretched and ghosting featherlight along the back of your hand in greeting.

You lift your gaze, a look of vague question twisting the arch of your brow. The fog clears from your eyes when you realise who has come to disturb your trance. “Kepus.” It is sighing, dreamy, as though it had taken a great effort to expel the sound from your chest, almost a question and yet not.

Something is wrong. The words replay themselves like snatches of long-forgotten melodies ringing in his mind, the warning bells sounding for a cause unknown. It has been days now. This is more than the fear or despondency that had characterised your behaviour in the aftermath of the attack. He is no closer to determining the cause.

“Dōnītsos.” Sweetling. His voice remains low and calm despite the turmoil swarming within like hatchlings through their first flame, loud and squawking and chaotic. He is wary of these strangers, these new ladies of yours, mousy and guileless though they seem, and so he keeps to his mother tongue to avoid prying ears.

“Mirros avy ivestragon eman. Vīlībāzmo bē issa.”I have to tell you something. It’s about the attack.

“Skorion massitas?” you ask, blinking in unhurried revolutions as though you are batting cobwebs of disuse from your lashes. What has happened?

He takes hold of your hand, light and cool to touch, squeezing it in his grasp to moor you back to reality. You stare blankly as he imparts the barest of details. The pin. The whorehouse. The long list of those he’d interrogated—and not kindly, at that—from the cooks to the pageboys to the maids who had dared venture near your rooms that night. The High Septon. Breakbones. And, finally, the threatening smile of Larys Strong as the knights of the Kingsguard had hauled him from the Small Council chamber.

Your bottom lip trembles in the way it did when you were a babe squalling for comfort, throat working in tandem with your reflexive swallows. It is tempting to feed his thumb into that rosebud mouth, let you suckle your anguish away with the salt of his skin as your infant self had done, hot wet tongue and spit and tears, in need of something only he can provide.

“Skorio syt…” Why…

Your breath escapes with a shudder, palm flying low upon your belly, and he brings his free hand up to join yours at the locus of activity stirred up by the twins. A flurry of movement greets him, firm thumps and hard kicks that curve the corners of his lips up despite the gravity of the conversation. Their motions seem to ground you. Trust my little dragons to settle their muña where I cannot.

You take a deep inhale and try again. “Skorio syt ziry kesir non gōntoks? Zijomy vēttīlaksir emon daor.” Why would he have done such a thing? I have no quarrel with him.

“Gīmion daor,” he says softly. I don’t know. There is no need to frighten you with tales of butchered insects and a young boy’s obsession.

You shiver like a baby bird left out in the cold as he slides further onto the bed, helping you shuffle close enough that you may latch onto the parts of him within your reach and press your face into his neck, huffing against his skin. This is where you prefer to be as of late, swaddled tight and held close, trembling waif of a girl curled under the wing of your beloved uncle.

“Papa. Yne mīstos daor.” It is muffled, muted, but he hears it all the same. He did not stand for me.

Your voice is high, mournful, so startlingly young. For a moment, he is twenty-five summers and you are seven and you have just split flesh after tripping over Caraxes’s tail. For a moment, he is hushing you as you sob with the Maester’s every stitch, streaming nose snuffling while he cups your eggshell skull to his chest to shield you from the blood and pain and fear as best he can.

He does the same now, only your bones are steel rather than glass and you smell of rose oil and the swell of your breasts and belly push against his body in triplicate, a woman grown and his wife, his wife. “Gīmin,” he says gently, hand to your middle and hand through your hair. I know.

“Ziry otāpton.” I thought he would. You nuzzle into him like a cat seeking the warmth of a fire. “Skorio syt yne amīsagon… olvī jorrāelos daor?” you ask, voice breaking. Why doesn’t he… love me enough to protect me?

“Ziry ajorrāelō daor,” Daemon replies resolutely. You don’t need him. “Yne aemā.” You have me. He strokes your middle. “Īlōn aemā.” You have us.

‘I’ll be your father,’ he wants to say. Why not? What is a father but his daughter’s guiding star, the one man to map her journey from first breath to last? Father, uncle, husband… all of them words to denote pride of place in your life, a standing he has alone claimed since his return from the East. You are his small fey princess, his baby full of his babes; he is your disciplinarian and confidant and comforter and lover. A distinction of title means little. If it is the firm hand of a father—a papa—that you need… well, does he not already provide it?

He will be your papa, your kepa, your husband. The man who corrects you and instructs you and fucks you, the man who raises you up even as he raises the children who slumber still in the safety of your womb. He’ll be all that Viserys has failed to be and more.

You sniffle, teary poppet with lilac-bloom eyes staring up at him. “Kesīr buqan.” I hate it here. And, though the capital is arguably the greatest spectacle of Targaryen strength, your confession is a sentiment he shares. Your little hand holds tighter to his shirt as you continue. “Henujagon jaelan. Mazumbille jagon jaelan. Ñuhe rūhossa Zaldrīzdōrot sikagon jaelan, luon ȳghon issa. Jagon kosti, kostilus—”

I want to leave. I want to go home. I want to have my babes on Dragonstone, where it’s safe. Can we go, please—

“Sh.” As he smooths the stray hairs from your forehead, you arch into the touch like one who is starved of love. He tries not to think of the ways his brother has failed you. “Aōle qūvyrzy iqighō daor. Hembīli.” Don’t make yourself upset. We’ll leave.

There is nothing left for you here. There is nothing left for him here. It is all too easy to agree to your desperate pleas. How amusing it is to think that Dragonstone—the fortress he had once associated so strongly with emptiness and exile—is where his heart and yours now lie. For the first time in days, he can see the trace of a smile warm the curve of your lips, and the sparkle in your eyes can almost be mistaken for happiness.

Daemon sits with you in the stillness of the afternoon, surrounded by your ladies and your young brother and your healer—the last vestiges of familiarity left to this place, this home turned battleground—and indulges in the simple joy of those pulsing movements emanating out from within your belly, the sound of Daeron’s laughter, the beat of your heart against his skin and the feel of you real and whole in his arms.

This is the family I’ve made for myself, he thinks. You and he and the lad and his babes, something tangible and ever-growing and precious. This is mine.

In Daemon’s practised opinion, the Crafty Fox is one of the capital’s finest taverns. Situated on the corner between Eel Alley and the Street of Steel, it is often a loud and boisterous environment, easily accessible through entrances along both street-facing walls and constantly filled with patrons from various stations in life. It is a rare sort of place, one where the divide between noble and lowborn blurs in a haze of ale and laughter and smoke. Popular, cheap and long-standing, it is the worst sort of establishment for conducting meetings of a clandestine nature.

Which is precisely why it is also the perfect location.

The shadier locales will undoubtedly be manned by Clubfoot’s little informants, and so he has chosen to meet his quarry in a location few would guess or expect. With his hair pulled back and his hood keeping his face from the view of inebriated passers-by—he’s even wearing a fucking hat for good measure! The shame of it—Daemon knows from experience that no one here will notice that they stand in the presence of the Rogue Prince. It is the best camouflage for the enterprise he intends to conduct this night.

Where the fuck are they? he thinks to himself, pressing along the perimeter and scanning around the open hall, searching for a familiar face. What did her missive say? Ah, yes—I’ll recognise one of them.

He casts about for the former serjeant of the City Watch, the one he’d had to let go after that unfortunate business with the whore in the brothel some ten summers back. But try as he might, he cannot see anything. Too many soldiers and apprentices and shop owners and youths are in his way.

One of the drunkards blocking his view sidles along, opening a path directly to the two men seated in a rare quiet corner, a looming beast hunched over his rickety table and all but squashing the slim form beside him into the wall.

There.

Daemon does his best to affect the casual, ambling gait of a man in his cups, navigating a meandering trail through raucous clusters of bodies, sweaty and stinking of drink. It is a familiar scent, one that evokes the memory of years past.

Sidling along, he finds himself standing before his intended targets. “The air’s cold tonight,” he says loudly, deliberately, echoing the agreed-upon phrase from the message and drawing the attention of the two men.

They look up from the wood-grain surface of the table. “This is true,” the smaller one replies, slow and equally careful to pronounce the words. The correct response.

His speech is coarse, utterly typical of the lower classes in Flea Bottom. Satisfied that he’s found the individuals he has come to meet, he slides onto the stool opposite them, glancing this way and that.

“Evenin’, ser,” the man adds.

He looks like a rat, Daemon thinks. With a pinched face and tawny sprouted hairs on his jowls that look more like the whiskers of a rodent than the beginnings of a beard, the observation is apt. The man ogles him from behind his prominently pointed snout, grinning a strange little half-smile that unsettles him greatly.

“The White Wyrm?” he asks, just to confirm. Fucking ridiculous name. It seems her years as his paramour served for more than coin and pleasure if her new epithet is anything to go by.

This time, the former serjeant responds, shifting in his seat. His knees knock against Daemon’s below the table. Gods above. There is an audible creak, the sound of wood threatening to snap under immense weight.

“Yep,” he grunts, bass cadence thrumming through the floor. He could be Largent’s kin. He takes a swig of the tankard before him. “She said you was lookin’ for a couple good ones.”

“Are you good?” is Daemon’s immediate counter. He cannot keep the notes of scepticism from his voice.

The man sneers. “You tell me, Rogue.”

Ah. He’s not forgotten the dismissal, then.

“Not here,” Daemon hisses, eyes tracking to those nearby. There is no reaction from anyone within range, no suggestion that they have been overheard. He turns furiously back to the man before him. “I’ve been assured that you are worthwhile prospects. If that is no longer the case, I’m happy to let her know—”

“Hey, now, we was only jokin’, wasn’t we?” the smaller man says, glancing rebukingly at his partner. The larger man shrugs, leaning back. The chair groans again.

“Good man.” Cheers and laughter begin to erupt across the room. Daemon leans forward, voice dropping to a hush. The two men crowd in closer so as to hear him. “I have a task for you,” he murmurs, looking about furtively. “It’s—risky. If you get caught, there are no gods nor men that will save you.”

“Sounds fun.” The smaller man beams as he gestures to the man beside him. His parted lips reveal the gaping holes in his mouth, bloodied gums speckled with grey. Daemon cannot tell if the teeth have been knocked out or if they’ve fallen out.

“You’ll do it?” he asks. I haven’t even discussed the particulars.

The larger man stares assessingly at him, brow raised. “We’ll do anyfing, if the coin’s good enough.”

A buxom wench appears at his shoulder, tits half-out and practically staring at him by their own power. She smiles in what he supposes must be her idea of enticement, the pockmarks of a long-healed sickness or injury stretching unflatteringly with the contortion of her skin. When she opens her mouth as if to speak, Daemon waves her off with a stern glare and a shake of the head. He has no need to get soused tonight. The woman makes an offended noise and trounces off.

He turns back to his audience of two. Daemon tips his chin in acknowledgement, continuing the exchange as if no interruption had occurred. “If you’re successful, I’ll pay whatever price you deem necessary.” The larger man nods, clearly satisfied. “Now. Before we get to the details—what should I call you two?”

The pair look to each other for a moment.

“He goes by Blood, these days,” the smaller man finally answers, something dark and sinister crossing over his expression. “Me? You can call me Cheese.”

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/115715053

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