#//I learned so much through working on this

[leupagus]

Tuesday's House Budget Vote and what you may not have heard about

I'm reposting this from a reblog of a really great post about the work that Representatives Mullin and Pettersen did in voting against the GOP budget on February 25th, because I don't want to detract from that message.

Instead, I want to talk about the larger implications of H. Con. Res. 14 itself, and why the Democrats risked so much (in Mullin's and Pettersen's cases, actual harm) in order to show up for this vote.

The vote in question is starting the first of quite a few votes for the upcoming GOP budget; it's not a done deal by any means, this was just the vote to get it started, so to speak. But it was still a very, very, VERY important vote, because not only would failure be catastrophic, but so would a win that just barely squeaked by.

And this one squeaked like a fucking mouse in Murray's Cheese Shop.

Speaker Johnson has been waffling on putting this to a vote because there were several outspoken GOP members who talked a big game about opposing it. Usually this doesn't matter, since most bills get some bipartisanship, but at present the House is in GOP hands with only a three-member margin of error, with two seats vacant (note: those two vacancies are FL 1 and 6, which are holding their special elections on April 1 — lol — and which are EXTREMELY unlikely to flip but hey miracles happen! Donate or phonebank if you'd like!). And Democratic representatives have been voting in a bloc against...well pretty much everything the GOP's been pushing through since Trump took office. Not only that, but this budget is legit unpopular with a number of Republicans, so much so that Johnson pulled the vote at first on Tuesday because he knew it would fail if the GOP members who'd threatened to vote against it actually went through with it. What he needed was to either convince them all to fall in line, or resort to cheating.

So he did both!

He and Trump strongarmed all but one of the GOP holdouts into voting yes (Congressman Massie is in many ways a turd in a toilet, and his reasons for voting no were bad, but he did stick to his guns, I'll give him that). Reports of Trump actually screaming at one of the (female, naturally) GOP holdouts are...well, unsurprising, but that's how panicked they were about getting this bill started. Usually the Whip does this work, but Tom Emmer's been laughably bad at it and so they had to get Trump to actually do some work. Which is itself sort of astonishing. But even then, they weren't sure they could get it done.

Which leads us to part two of Johnson's plan: blatant cheating. During Pelosi's last session as Speaker, she allowed for proxy voting in light of COVID and, you know, the general state of things, but the second the GOP got back the gavel they nixed it right in the bud. This puts the Dems at a disadvantage right now because at least three of them are out for medical reasons — Mullin and Pettersen, as well as Congressman Raúl Grijalva who's fighting cancer at present. (He was the only Democrat who couldn't get to the floor for this vote, fwiw, and anyone who insists he should've can suck my left tit.)

So Johnson adjourned the House for the evening, sending everyone home, but told the GOP members to stay and then tried to rush through the vote before the Dems realized what was happening. His hope was that enough Dems would be caught flat-footed/not see the recall notice/be asleep watching Taskmaster (whoops that was me) by the time they got the message to get back to the floor. That way he could lose the holdouts but still pass the budget onto the next phase.

However! While Nancy Pelosi no longer rules the Democratic caucus with her iron fist and fabulous coats, my man Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries learned quite a lot from her (and is pretty fucking genius himself). Not only did he and the other House leadership expect this kind of chicanery from Johnson, they had planned on it.

Because here's the thing: Mullin and Pettersen didn't get on a plane at the last minute on Tuesday; they'd gotten to DC on Monday, without telling anyone they were in town. They actually hid from the GOP members all day Tuesday in order to lull Johnson into thinking he had more of a margin than he did; if the GOP holdouts really had voted against the budget, then it would've failed. Which would have been a biiiiiiig problem for Johnson and Trump.

As it is, it's still a biiiiiiig problem for Johnson and Trump, because now they know just how razor-thin their margin is. More importantly, they also now know that the Dems will fuck with them just as much (if not more) as they will fuck with Dems. Congress (and the USA in general) has operated for years on the assumption that Democrats operate in good faith, while taking it for granted that of course the GOP ratfuck as much as humanly possible.

This moment is a chilling one for the GOP; they can't assume anymore that Dems will play fair or fight clean. Which seems like a very small thing in the larger picture right now, I know, and I also know that people would love for their Democratic representatives and senators to be more vocal and angry in public ways. I get that!

But this move on Tuesday night? Is actually going to have far bigger consequences than any meme or viral video or clever soundbite from a politician. Democrats are no longer playing by the rules that the GOP's ignored for years (if not decades); they're playing by the GOP's own rules, and they just might win.

[millers-angel]

patrol!joel x female reader

summary: joel scolds you because you messed up a patrol, until he makes you cry and realizes he crossed the line. warnings: scolding, mean joel, thumb sucking, smut ig, they get caught by tommy.

“are you stupid? you wanna die?” he grunted, clearly upset with you.

ha had been upset for a while, lecturing you on how you have to be more careful, but as he did, you both kept walking till you got inside the safe place—an abandoned house in the middle of the woods.

“i always have to repeat myself every goddamn time. stay quiet, do what i say, and most importantly, don't do anything stupid," he said, dropping his gear onto a table. "and that's exactly what you do."

you stayed quiet, holding back tears. you liked coming on patrols with him, except this time tommy came with you, but you fucked up. you didn’t listen, you put yourself in danger, and joel had to come find you—again.

he scoffed, shaking his head. “should’ve just left you out there. maybe then you’d finally learn.”

his words hit hard, and you felt your throat tighten, your vision blurring.

“you don’t listen, you never fucking listen,” he went on, voice rough with frustration. “i tell you to stay close, i tell you to stay quiet, and what do you do? the exact opposite. every goddamn time.”

he ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “you think this is a game? you think i like risking my ass for you every time you decide to be reckless?”

you bit your lip, trying to keep it together, but the lump in your throat only grew. he was mad—really mad. you were looking at your boots wipping your tears away, you didn't want him to see you like this.

he exhaled hard through his nose, his breath heavy with frustration. his hands were on his hips, fingers digging into his belt as he tried to calm down. but when he looked down, he saw you sitting there on a worn couch, head bowed, your pants dotted with tiny dark spots.

tears.

his jaw clenched. maybe he’d been too harsh. maybe he’d gone too far.

“you good?” his voice was still rough, but quieter now.

you nodded quickly, wiping at your face.

“use your words,” he muttered. “now you're quiet, huh?”

you swallowed thickly, voice barely above a whisper. “i’m fine.”

he huffed, unconvinced. “look at me.”

you shook your head.

joel sighed, deep and slow, forcing himself to be patient. then, with a gentleness that didn’t match his earlier anger, he reached out, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up.

watercolor eyes. tear-streaked cheeks. swollen lips.

his grip tightened just slightly, his own frustration shifting into something else.

you sniffled, wiping at your nose with your sleeve, but it didn’t do much to stop the way your shoulders shook. joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard. without a word, he grabbed you and pulled you onto his lap, his arms firm around you as he sat.

you didn’t resist. you never did.

“i’m sorry,” you murmured, voice unsteady. “i didn’t mean to put you at risk. or tommy. i won’t do it again.” you swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. “i get it if you don’t want me on patrols with you anymore. or if you just want to give me the easy routes.”

joel sighed, his chest rising and falling against your back.

“i tell you this shit for a reason,” he said, voice quieter now. “it’s dangerous out here. you keep acting like this, and it’s gonna catch up to you. and i don’t want that. i don’t want anything happening to you.”

you hesitated, then whispered, “really?”

“yeah, really.” his grip on you tightened just slightly. “i get so goddamn mad ‘cause you’re stubborn. you don’t listen. you scare the hell outta me.”

you were still new to patrols, still learning the way things worked out here. and you liked going with joel for two reasons—because you wanted to learn from him, to be as capable as he was, and because no matter how bad things got, no matter how much he yelled, it always ended the same way. with him pulling you close, keeping you safe... and his cock deep down inside you.

you loved being with joel on patrol, the way he moved with such ease, like he was made for this. every step was calculated, every decision precise. the way he handled the knife, the rifle—how it all seemed so natural to him, like he was in complete control. when danger came, he didn’t hesitate. he knew exactly what to do, and you couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly he commanded the situation.

and when things got tough, when he needed to push you out of harm’s way or pull you into cover, there was something about the way he manhandled you that drove you crazy. it was rough, but it was him taking control, keeping you safe. and in those moments, with his hands on you, you felt safe. you felt protected—like now.

you hiccupped, the sound shaky from how much you’d cried. joel’s thumb brushed your cheek, his hands gentle as he lifted your face to meet his eyes.

“i’m not gonna put you with anyone else,” he said softly. “we’re gonna keep going together, on patrols.”

you looked up at him, surprised. “really?”

“yeah, really,” he muttered, his voice a little rough. “i wouldn’t leave you with anyone else, not when you’re putting yourself at risk every damn minute. no one else is gonna risk their ass for you like i do.” he paused, a flash of frustration in his eyes before he noticed your lip trembling.

he softened, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, trying to calm you. “you’re damn stubborn, you know that?”

he pressed his thumb on your lips, parting them, so you sucked him. "that it," he said softly—too softly. "that's gonna calm you down."

you closed your eyes, holding his hand close to you, sucking his thumb as if your life depends on it, you pressed your tongue on it, lips tight around him. he loved the sensation, he loved when you sucked on his fingers just as you suck on his cock.

you opened your eyes when you felt a growing bulge beneath your thighs, meeting his gaze, all dark. nothing but desire behind them. he could yell at you all he wants—make you cry even, but you'll always end up like this.

his other hand made its way under your shirt, the feeling made you squirm. he played with the tip, squeezing it between his fingers, pulling it gently, getting muffled moans on his thumb in response.

and that was enough for him, he needed to fuck you now. he took his thumb out your mouth to tug your shirt over your head, your skin prickled when the breeze hit your bare breasts. he loved seeing thoes perky tips all hard for him. he got rid of your jeans too, throwing them somewhere in the dusty cabin.

"joel... we should go looking for tommy," you mumbled between gasps.

"he can take care of himself, i'm taking care of you."

he loved having you like this, all naked and vulnerable. he had fucked you behind a tree, over a rock, on the grass, in old cabins like this one, even in the back of an abandoned jeep, its wheels long deflated and covered in dust. he knows he's the only one who got to see you like this, back in jackson you're all shy with everyone, they don't know you're his personal little sex toy.

he made you stand up for him to unzip his jeans and then, he made you lean over the coach, while you positioned yourself on your hands and knees, you knew the drill, you knew what he liked. what he liked to see.

by god he loved the view.

all you felt then, was his dick trailing your slit, you were wet, and he can tell you got a while like that. you love being scolded, the tone of his voice, the way his eyes gets dark, the way you know it's because he wants to protect you. yeah, it got you wet.

he slammed his cock in you, you let out a gasp and gripped to the backrest of the couch. he dug his fingers on your hips when he thrusted. you were warm, too warm and soft inside, always making him feel like he's about to come as soon as he gets in, like a goddamn teenager.

"you take this cock so good," he muttered.

you were biting your lip to not moan, cause you had to be careful, right? he said it. you must be careful from now on.

"lemme hear you, baby," he grunted, fingers going white from his grip on you.

your grip on the couch loosened. "b-but you said we must be quiet and careful—"

he almost chuckled, you're adorable. "i don't want you quiet when i'm fucking you"

and his approval was all you need to let those breathy little moans bubble up from your mouth. he went harder, couldn’t stop once he saw how your skin jiggled with every thrust. he loved that.

he was leaving his fingerprints on your skin. one of his hands slipped between your thighs, making its way to your clit. you held your breath. he could feel it, swollen, probably aching and needy. he drew circles around it.

“poor baby,” he cooed, your legs trembled cause it was too much, he was too thick, and his fingers stroking your most sensitive spot, you went weak. “you like causing trouble?”

he pressed his fingers on your clit, feeling how it throbs. “no—“

he slapped it. “be fucking honest.”

you squirmed, it felt too good. “i do.” you admitted in a moan. “i like causing trouble.”

he rubbed the little button harder. “i know," of course he does, weird thing you always do the same to end up with his cock buried deep inside you. you love being trouble so he can fuck you right after. "stubborn as hell."

you curl your toes, his fingers worked so good, he sent you to a bliss, your walls choking him. he wasn't being gentle. he loved seeing you falling apart, seeing your legs get weak.

"joel, please—" you cried out.

"this mine, yeah?" you. you're his. "you ain't goin' on patrols with anyone but me, understood?"

you whimpered. "ah—yes."

he let out a chuckle, delighted to see you like this. he knows you're his, but he likes to remind you.

"i'm gonna get you all round so everyone in town knows you're mine too." his hand drifted to your belly. "right here."

he moved his hand a little lower just enough to feel himself, stretching you out. "attagirl," he cooed. "come f'me."

you fell apart beneath him, your body squirming, trembling legs, spasming walls that milked him out, but he didn't stop thrusting, not until he was sure you were filled up.

the cabin was a bunch of whimpering from both of you.

until…

the door swung open. you’ve been caught.

by tommy.

he had been looking for you since you didn’t show up to the meeting point they have in case something happened—so he came looking for you, thinking the worst, it’s been a while and he’s exhausted, sweating. he should be upset because you made him worry and waste his time when all you were doing was fucking.

but more than upset he was… aroused. the quiet girl he knew back in town wasn’t being that quiet and shy right now. the quiet girl loved having a cock buried inside her.

he had to adjust his jeans before coming further. “what the fuck is this?” he asked.

your face went pale and you tried to cover yourself but it was pointless—joel didn’t let you. he knew his brother well enough.

“‘s this what you’ve been doing? you have an idea how many time i’ve been looking for you? you—“

“cut the shit tommy,” joel growled.

“so this is the quiet girl from jackson, huh?” he leaned, fingers on your jaw, making you look at him. your lip was trembling.

joel pulled out with a loud pop sound, his cum dripping from your cunt, your thighs all sticky with the mess you made.

"you're gonna explain?" tommy asked to his brother, but not letting go his grip on your jaw, you were curling your toes, being in the middle of the miller brothers always got you nervous. "is she your

"she's mine," joel said firmly. "but i'm sure she wants you to fill her up, don't you sweetheart?"

you nodded, holding eye contact with tommy, then your eyes drifted to the bulge on his pants.

"she can be our secret."

[mattscoquette]

reader going through perv!matt’s journal

“i’ll be back in a sec, i just need to run downstairs and help chris with something really quick.”

that’s what matt told you over ten minutes ago, and he’s still gone. you were over at the triplets place hanging out with nick, when matt insisted he show you both his new pc set up. it only took nick five minutes to be over it, but you felt bad when you saw matt’s defeatist expression after nick went back to his room. you decided to stay, but soon after matt abandoned you to go do something with chris.

you could’ve gone back upstairs with nick, but you let your curiosity get the best of you, and somehow you were going through matt’s bedside drawers, seeing what he had in there.

you knew matt had a thing for you, he made it very, very clear. although those feelings weren’t really reciprocated, it was fun to tease him. like, really fun.

before you could stop yourself, the leather binding of matt’s journal was in your hands, itching to be opened and read. you thumbed through the pages, reading matt’s chicken scratch handwriting while he wrote about whatever. you didn’t want to be too invasive, but his journal piqued your interest a lot. you wondered if he ever wrote about you, or if he only kept those thoughts in his head.

your eyes skimmed up and down the pages, nothing really standing out to you until you saw your name.

today y/n came over to see nick. she had on this rly short skirt, i think they were going out to a bar or something later. i don’t really care. i overhear her talking to nick about the guys she gets with. i could be so much better than them. i would make her feel so good, where she’d be begging me for more. god her moans are probably so fucking pretty.

your cheeks got hot as they blushed a deep red, fingers flipping to the next entry.

it’s been a few days since i saw y/n, i miss her so much. i’ve probably touched myself to her more times than i can count in the last day or two. i don’t know what it is with her, but she just gets me so worked up. she doesn’t even have to do anything and i’ll literally get hard from her. a couple weeks ago we were at her place and i heard her in the shower. it turned me on so much i couldn’t handle it. i want her so bad.

there’s gotta be something seriously deranged about me. every time that y/n sleeps over here, i always sneak up to nicks room and take a pair of her panties. she has to have noticed by now. i can’t help it though. i use them to get myself off. sometimes she has really pretty lace ones, other ones are really really skimpy. i don’t care though. i wonder what they’d look like on her. she’d probably think im a fucking creep if she ever really found out. i wonder what she’d do.

at this point, your stomach was doing somersaults, and your thighs were pressed together, trying to relieve the ache that had grown in your cunt. maybe it was weird what he was doing, but the level of obsession was turning you on. bad.

you were quick to find a pen somewhere in the bedside drawer, popping the cap off and scribbling underneath the entry in your loopy handwriting.

you naughty boy. you didn’t learn that stealing was wrong? i would probably punish you and not let you cum. i would tease you, get you all wound up and make you hold it. id use my pretty pink panties around your cock to get you off and let you cum in them after edging you for so long. maybe i’ll use my hands too, or my mouth if you’re really good for me.

you grinned to yourself as you shut the journal, drawing your bottom lip in between your teeth before returning the notebook to its rightful place, exactly how you found it.

you knew that matt wouldn’t do anything about it, either. he would see the note, and probably get off to it a million times, but never actually reach out to you. until then, he’d just have to learn how to keep pleasuring himself alone.

© mattscoquette | taglist

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ inspired by this fic from my girl @st7rnioioss ♡︎♡︎ perv!matt is soooo back i miss that freak

[sab0dssey]

NewlyDad!Simon who is completely lost in panic and joy. When he first found out you were pregnant, right after he returned from a mission, it hit him like a wave. He was over the moon, but also overwhelmed. Simon had never been a man with many words; he was always terse, practical, and to the point. But this news? It was different. The moment he learned, his entire world shifted. His usually steady hands trembled as he looked at you, his eyes wide with disbelief and awe.

For a moment, he just stared, not knowing what to say, his mind racing. Then, before either of you could react, he pulled you into him—his arms wrapping around you so tightly, it was as if he never wanted to let go. His head buried itself in your neck, as though it was the only place he could find any grounding. It was so quiet between you both, just the sound of his breaths and the weight of the moment hanging in the air.

He stayed like that for what felt like eternity, unwilling to move. You could feel the warmth of his tears against your skin, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t make a sound. He knew you could feel the silent sobs, the emotion he didn’t want to let out in front of you, but he also knew you understood. He didn’t want you to see him like this—vulnerable and unsure. Not yet. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to let go, not even for a second.

NewlyDad!Simon never lets you do anything on your own. Never. You’re reaching for the remote, and it’s just a foot away? Don’t bother standing up—he’s already got it. You’re thinking about cooking? Forget it. He won’t let you. He’ll either cook for you himself or order your favorite meal—just so you don’t have to lift a finger.

NewlyDad!Simon is like a clingy little puppy—he just can’t keep his hands to himself. At home, he’s glued to you, constantly cuddling, wrapping himself around you like a human blanket. Outside, his hands always find their way to you—resting on your baby bump, the small of your back, or your waist. He just can’t help it.

Even when you’re relaxing in the tub, basking in the candlelit warmth, Simon refuses to let you have a moment alone. He pulls up a chair beside the tub, work files in hand, pretending to focus—but his hands betray him. One moment, they’re on your bump, the next, tracing lazy circles over your shoulder. He’s not letting go anytime soon. Not now, not ever

NewlyDad!Simon who loves to talk with his baby. His hands, large and gentle, find their way to your growing belly with a tenderness that surprises even him.

Every chance he gets, whether it’s in the quiet moments of the day or just before sleep, his hand rests there, as if the touch itself is a promise. He caresses your belly, his fingers lightly tracing the curve, his palm pressed against you like he’s trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside. It’s almost as though he can feel every tiny movement, even when it’s just a flutter.

He talks to the baby—quiet, low words that are almost a whisper, but they carry so much weight. His voice softens every time he speaks, and it’s a tone you’ve never heard before, one filled with a raw love that only a father could express. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs, his fingers rubbing slow circles against your skin, “can’t wait to see you, to hold you in my arms.” His eyes never leave your belly, his expression a mixture of awe and tenderness.

When he thinks you’re not looking, his lips brush against the top of your stomach, a soft kiss meant only for the baby. “I’ll protect you,” he says quietly, the words meant for both of you but carrying an unspoken promise to the child. “Daddy’s gonna make sure you’re safe, always.”

His hand stays there, lingering, as if he’s trying to convey everything he feels through the simple act of touching. Sometimes, he talks to the baby about what he hopes for their future—what he dreams they’ll be, but more often, it’s about how much he already loves them. How proud he is.

No matter where you are, he finds the time to remind you both of that, as if the baby can hear every word, every heartbeat, every promise. And each time he touches your belly, he’s not just caressing you—he’s speaking directly to the child, forming a bond that’s already so deep.

NewlyDad!Simon who had never been one for big gatherings or being the center of attention, but tonight, he was doing it—for you, and for the baby.

His teammates had insisted, as had your friends, that you both needed to get out. A little normalcy, they said. A dinner with the people who supported him through everything. But Simon? He was already on high alert the moment you stepped out the door. His hand was constantly on your back, gently guiding you, his eyes scanning the room, always aware of your every movement.

The restaurant was bustling, a little louder than usual, but Simon barely seemed to notice the chatter around him. His attention was split between you and the people he trusted—his team. His arm would sometimes drift to your waist, his fingers brushing against your bump, as if to reassure himself that everything was okay. He didn’t let you stray far, always within arm’s reach, his protective nature wrapped around you like a shield.

At the table, he was engaged, nodding along to conversations, but his focus was never fully on the group. When someone leaned in a little too close, his eyes would flicker to them, silently warning them to keep their distance. When Soap tried to crack a joke about fatherhood, Simon’s lips twitched upward in a brief smile, but the moment the laughter died down, his hand found its way to your stomach, his thumb brushing over it lightly.

He’d occasionally glance over at you, catching your eye, as if asking silently if you were okay, if you needed anything. He knew you could take care of yourself, but tonight? Tonight, he wasn’t letting his guard down for a second.

When dinner came, Simon was the first to help you with your plate, carefully cutting your food or offering you bites from his own. He made sure you were comfortable, always attentive, his eyes never straying too far from you. He wasn’t one to show weakness, but with you? And with the baby? His vulnerability showed in the way he constantly checked in, in the way he’d rather have his hand on your bump than anywhere else.

His teammates had known him as a man of few words, but tonight, they were learning a different side of Simon—one who would move mountains to keep his family safe and happy, even in a simple dinner setting. They could see it in the way he watched over you, in the little touches he gave you when he thought no one was looking. He may have been the strong, silent type to everyone else, but to you and the baby? He was all heart.

As the night wound down, Simon was already thinking about how soon he could get you home, make sure you were settled and safe. He never stopped being the protective husband, never stopped being the father-to-be, and he certainly never stopped being the man who would give up everything to keep you both safe.

[self-winding]

Get that "debut" moniker away from your name. Prove you can sell your shit and keep working.

I'd disagree with this part. Being a "debut author" actually works in your favor, marketing-wise. Because you're the shiny, exciting new thing. Past publishing credentials are only a plus if you're a well-known name with a following.

Source: Been published by two Big Five houses. Before I was picked up by an agent I had published a number of novels and novellas (mostly romance/erotica) through a series of digital-only indie publishers. I made some money (albeit not a lot) through these titles, but they did not in any way help me from the angle of getting an agent or being picked up by a publisher, because I wasn't a big name, and because the book that got me an agent was YA so there wasn't much of a crossover readership.

I don't recommend self-publishing unless you have an existing platform (such as a YouTube channel) with a lot of followers. Otherwise it's like firing a t-shirt cannon into outer space, and it's also easy to waste a lot of money on advertising yourself and SEO stuff. There are so many stories of self-published writers spending hundreds or thousands on advertising and getting like, five sales as a result. Like, self-published books do occasionally get popular and go viral but these are extreme statistical outliers. Unfortunately it is just really hard to make money on books these days. Even big publishers kind of suck at it. Many books don't earn out their advances.

I do agree with the part about how important comps are. Agents and editors don't like to take risks, they are mainly trying to jump on existing trends. You ideally want titles from within the last three years to compare to yours. They shouldn't be obscure but they should also not be too big; like, comparing your book to Harry Potter or GoT or LOTR won't get you anywhere. Go to your local library, look at the new stuff, find books that are roughly in the subgenre you are aiming at, books with covers that look sort of how you imagine your cover looking, read them, and if they fit, use them as comps when you query. Say specifically what it is about those books that overlap with yours. i.e. the aesthetic, the setting, themes, etc.

Editing to add: yes, being in the right social circles does help you get published (which is bad for me because I'm a hermit) but I'd argue that knowing the market and the specific market niche you fit into and being able to write a good piece of marketing copy (i.e. your query letter) which displays your understanding of market forces is actually just as important as social status and more important than the "objective quality" of your writing. And while it can be soul-crushing and involve some creative compromises, it is a skill that you can actually learn, one that will concretely impact your chances.

I find it personally offensive how many bad writers can get published so easily.

[ssa-dado]

Cat Equals Sign Of Integration

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff, smut (implied) Summary: Aaron, ever the strategist, decides that a little wine might help soften the blow of figuring out with you how to tell the team you’re dating. A solid plan - except for one tiny flaw: wine makes him a whore. Warnings: +18, MINORS DNI Hotch is a touch starved whore, a few cuss words here and there, wine gets a bit into both of your heads. Word Count: 5k Dado's Corner: Did I hallucinate this while working on one of the many requests still on my to-do list, only to realize halfway through that it was completely derailing from the main plot - but too cute to abandon? Yes. Is this fun? You tell me (pretty please).

masterlist(s)

One of the many rules you and Aaron had in your relationship was that if you cooked for date night, he was the one doing the dishes.

His idea.

You had been opposed to it at first - not because you minded, of course. You were actually a huge fan of grown men handling household chores without whining like toddlers about how it might somehow demasculate their poor, fragile egos.

No, you were opposed because you didn’t want him doing it out of some sense of obligation.

It took you a while to accept that Aaron wasn’t doing this because he owed you - he was doing it because he wanted to.

Because that was just… Aaron.

Ever the caregiver, always looking for ways to make life easier for the people he loved. He could give you the world and still come to you like a wounded dog, begging for forgiveness because he thought he wasn’t enough.

It was infuriating - for all the deep psychological reasons you could analyze for hours, but also for a much pettier one: when it was his turn to cook, instead of letting you do the dishes like the so-called rule dictated, he just… did them anyway.

And thus, the noble Mr. Clean - brave warrior of dish duty, his arms submerged in treacherous, frothy depths - found himself utterly helpless against the sudden, most dreadful buzzing of his phone.

A cruel twist of fate, indeed!

Stranded, defenseless, bound by duty to his porcelain captors, he could do nothing but stand there, a tragic figure of great importance, cruelly denied his right to immediately bestow his undivided attention upon whatever poor soul dared summon him.

Oh, the agony! The injustice! How swiftly the mighty are humbled… by a sink full of bubbles.

That was because, logically, if even a single drop of water touched his phone, he would instantly lose all of the very important, highly classified FBI secrets stored inside. Of course, phones couldn't possibly be waterproof.

Ha, imagine?! What a concept.

“Who is it?” Aaron asked, still scrubbing at your wine glass like he was trying to erase its entire existence.

Which – by the way - was completely pointless, considering that in less than five minutes, he planned on refilling it with some more. A different wine, yes. But for God’s sake, you weren’t going to die if the last few drops of white mixed with the red.

…What a fussy man.

“Penelope,” you replied, admiring the view.

What a view, really. That man was all legs and no ass, and you were finally learning to appreciate it. 

“Ignore it,” he said, not even turning around.

Unfortunately for him - and for the HR department still blissfully unaware that their most serious, by-the-book boss was fraternizing with a subordinate - you were a profiler.

The U.S. government literally paid your bills every single month because you were exceptionally good at reading people.

And the way he answered? Yeah, that wasn’t the tone of a man casually dismissing an unimportant text. No, that was the tone of a man caught red-handed, scrambling for plausible deniability.

Embarrassed. Secretive. Suspicious. Frankly, if you didn’t already know what he was hiding, you’d be halfway to slapping cuffs on him. Wouldn’t even be the first time.

And so you read it – out loud.

Penelope Garcia, 7:56 PM:

hotch sir hotch bossman sir, i am DYING please tell me if you found out who her mystery boyfriend is i am suffering!!!!!!!! i know you know. i know it in my heart. if you can’t say it just give me a hint. a tiny one. a cryptic riddle. a blink. i will take anything.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

By her, of course, she meant you - because despite a few months of keeping your relationship under wraps, you still hadn’t gotten around to telling the team. Your colleagues. Your friends. Your unwanted, overly nosy adopted children.

That their elusive "mystery boyfriend" was, in fact, your mutual boss.

You were going to tell them. Eventually.

Didn’t know when. But you would.

Then again, it wasn’t like you were surrounded by some of the best profilers in the country, trained to pick up on the slightest behavioral shift.

It’s not like the second two incredibly touch-starved people like you and Aaron started walking around with even a fraction of happiness, that wouldn’t immediately raise suspicions.

…Except, apparently, it hadn’t.

Because somehow, the team had only managed to land on half the conclusion: you were seeing someone.

But Aaron? Not even a blip on their radar.

It was almost impressive, really. The answer was so obvious that they had discarded it entirely, still wandering around in the dark, trying to piece together a puzzle that was sitting right in front of their faces.

Just like Penelope was doing now, so desperate for some reason that she was straight-up asking him outright - when not that long ago, she still thought twice before even making a dirty joke in his presence.

And so, you got up, walked over to Aaron, and held the phone directly under his nose. “What does this mean?”

He squinted at the screen, then at you. “Oh, honey, I don’t know. She always sends me that - I don’t understand what exactly equals the sign of integration”.

…What?

You were suddenly just as confused as he was.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, eyebrows raised in that utterly sincere, slightly bewildered way of his. “That sign before it,” he said, completely lost. “It looks Chinese. Thought you knew Chinese, sweetheart.”

…What?

Oh, for the love of God.

If this man hadn’t already seen the absolute worst horrors the world had to offer, you would fight for his innocence with your nails, your teeth, and - if absolutely necessary - one of the worst shooting records ever logged in the Bureau.

You looked at the screen again.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

Oh.

Oh, that’s what had confused him.

“Aaron,” you said gently, doing your absolute best not to kiss him right then and there, “that is a cat.”

You sighed, then pointed at the message again. “By the way, the ‘sign’ in the middle is in Korean, not Chinese.”

He looked at the screen again - then back at you. “…Cat equals sign of integration?”

“No, honey,” you said, barely suppressing your smile, tapping the little text emoji. “It’s just a cat.”

He studied it for another second. “Oh.”

There. That did it. You gave in. Leaned in and pressed a loud smooch to his cheek.

At least your dignity was still intact - he had no idea why you’d done it, just assumed it was one of those spontaneous bursts of affection that came with being hopelessly in love.

Honeymoon phase truly did work wonders.

“Do you think I can have the cat too?” he asked, grabbing the bottle of red and a corkscrew.

That was a trap.

Because Aaron Hotchner still signed every single text he sent.

And while it wasn’t an issue when he was sending something standard -

Lawyer, 6:17 PM:

They found a new body, we’re gathering at the precinct in 30.

A.H.

- it became a lot more unsettling when he sent the filthiest, most depraved things you’d ever read, only to end them with that stiff little A.H. like he was dictating official Bureau correspondence.

Lawyer, 11:51 PM:

Sweetheart, if only these stupid walls weren’t so thin, I’d have you right here with me, bent over, face pressed against this mattress, making you come so many times you’d forget your own name. At least three. Maybe four, if I’m feeling generous.

A.H.

So now, standing in his kitchen, watching him pour wine like he hadn’t just permanently scarred you with his painfully bureaucratic approach to sexting, you knew that if you admitted he could simply copy-paste that ‘cat equals integration sign,’ it would only be a matter of time before you were subjected to something truly traumatizing, like -

Lawyer, very-late-office-hour PM:

It’s your fault I’m getting distracted with the paperwork, because I’m still thinking about how good you tasted last night while sitting on my face. God, I can still feel your thighs shaking, you were so sweet for me, honey, so fucking perfect.

P.S. How many reports do you still have left? Because I’ve been thinking about having you on my tongue again before the night is over. I think I’ve got about an hour or so left but then I’m all yours.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

That man could not be trusted with the cat.

“Oh, honey,” you cooed, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder blades as your fingers brushed over his back. “I don’t think you can get it. She must have programmed it herself into her phone.”

You truly hoped you were as convincing as he was clueless about text etiquette.

“It’s a pity,” he sighed, both of your wine glasses in hand as he made his way to the couch. “I would have loved to send you the cat.”

…Of course he would. Smug ass.

But as the words left his mouth, something shifted in him - just barely. A pause that didn’t usually belong there... weird.

Still, you followed, watching as he settled in, patting the cushion beside him with a half-smile. “Come here, sweetheart.”

A misleading gesture, considering his legs were very much spread - a much clearer invitation. At least, that’s how you chose to interpret it.

Because you could swear - those legs spoke to you. Called to you. So you slid right into your rightful seat - his lap.

…Would have been rude not to answer.

“Back to Garcia,” he said, resting a hand on your thigh as he handed you your painstakingly polished wine glass - so clean, so immaculately spotless, that the red wine inside looked redder than red. A real masterpiece, Mr. Clean. “She doesn’t seem to be letting up about finding out who you’re dating… This is the fourth message this week.”

You raised a brow, taking a sip of your wine. “Well, she’s second only to you when it comes to being nosy about gossip.”

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head, that same small half-smile back on his lips.

That particular smile.

The one he used when he was trying to convince someone he was fine when, in reality, he was not - when he was trying to reassure everyone else while simultaneously refusing to admit, even to himself, that something was eating him alive.

Oh, now you knew what this was about.

He had definitely practiced this conversation in his head - refined it down to the perfect phrasing. Measured. Logical. Reassuring.

A version so well-rehearsed, so carefully constructed, that he’d convinced himself first before trying to convince you - that this didn’t scare him.

That this was just another rational step forward.

That it was fine.

Because if he could make it sound easy, maybe it would be.

Maybe it would give you something solid to lean on, because the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were standing on shaky ground with someone just as fractured as he was.

But in the end, even the best-laid words couldn’t withstand the weight of his emotions - whether he liked it or not, even rocks are meant to erode.

“I think it’s time we come clean to the team,” he admitted, completely veering off-script - though, of course, he still made sure to soften the blow with a kiss to your temple.

Not that it made much difference. You both knew this moment was inevitable, but somehow, you’d managed to delude yourselves into thinking that if you just kept putting it off, the perfect time would miraculously appear.

At first, you’d delayed it until things were official.

Then, because you needed to be sure this could work in the long run.

Then, because you wanted time to just enjoy each other.

Truthfully? If it were entirely up to the two of you, you’d probably keep postponing it indefinitely - at least until the day you were both retired, far away from any fraternization rules or painfully awkward team dynamics.

Unless, of course, your eyes had been deceiving you all along, or life decided to be cruel and rip this happiness away from you before you ever even got the chance. All you could do was hope not.

Aaron sighed, watching you carefully. “So, how do you want to do this?”

At least he could take comfort in the fact that his very specific plan of having wine while discussing this was still intact - especially since the very large sip you took the second he asked hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He huffed a laugh.

Yeah.

This was going to be fun.

“Are we sure we have to?” You groaned, tilting your head back against his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart. It’s the only way to keep them from getting the satisfaction of figuring it out first and do this our way…”

It was his turn to take a long sip now… he surely wasn’t thrilled about the lack of an actual game plan.

“…Still need to figure out what exactly we mean by ‘our way,’” he admitted. “But, you know… that’s what these are for.”

He tapped a finger against his temple, then against yours, clearly implying that your very skilled, highly trained profiler brains would surely work this out.

You, however, were placing your bets on your problem-solving skills drastically improving after a few more glasses of wine, because right now?

“We are so fucked,” you commented.

Aaron clinked his glass against yours, deadpan. “Completely.”

You both took long, slow sips of wine like it might somehow provide divine intervention.

It didn’t. You were indeed left pretty much alone in this.

You sighed, setting your glass down on the coffee table. “Well, you definitely have the face of someone who already has a plan...” You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “...a very handsome face.”

Cheesy. But deserved.

Aaron chuckled. “I believe…” He kissed you on the cheek – twice - before setting his own glass down too. “…We should tell them directly. Get ahead of it. Lay it out as matter-of-factly as possible.”

“Matter-of-factly?”

He nodded, all serious, like he hadn’t just suggested the worst possible approach.

“Sweetheart…” You pinched his cheek, making him scrunch his nose, hoping – more like praying - that it would snap him out of whatever fantasy land of logic, reason, and good intentions he was apparently living in.

“If we tell them directly, Penelope will throw an actual partypersonally design matching t-shirts, and have the entire team wear them.” You paused, leveling him with a look. “And you know it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I know.”

“Emily and Derek will immediately start making jokes like two middle schoolers who just learned what sex is and will not let us breathe.”

“I know.”

“JJ will be quiet but then ask all of a sudden, ‘So when’s the wedding?’ which will restart the chaos all over again.”

“I know.”

You turned to face him, deadly serious. “Spencer-”

“-Will hit us with a full statistical analysis of workplace relationships,” Aaron finished, exhaling sharply, already bracing himself.

Because there was only one team member left to account for - the worst of them all.

“And… oh God… Dave…”

And with that horrifying realization, he did the only logical thing a man in his position could do - he face-planted directly into your chest with a dramatic, muffled groan of pure defeat.

You blinked down at him, amused. “Honey…”

Why was he even so touch starved like that?

“All I ask,” came his muffled voice, still very much nestled between your breasts, “is five minutes of peace.”

You snorted. “You do realize this isn’t exactly discouraging me from making fun of you, right?”

He sighed again. “You do realize that if you keep laughing, you’re just shoving them further into my face?”

…Damn him and his irritating ability to state the obvious.

You sighed, fingers absentmindedly combing through his short spikes of hair. “…So we’re back to square one.”

Aaron exhaled, still very much face-first in his chosen safe haven. “Unfortunately.”

You hummed, “Okay, hypothetically, if we just… never tell them, how long do you think we could get away with it?”

That was so absurd that it actually made him lift his head. He blinked at you, utterly offended by the suggestion.

“I am not spending the next decade pretending I don’t stare at your ass every time you walk away.”

…Alright. That was definitely the wine talking.

In vino veritas, as the Romans said. Wine makes people say dumb shit: the truth.

“Wow. Didn’t know you were a poet, Hotchner.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t pretend you’re above it, because I catch you every time you drift off during briefings just to stare right at-”

“Alright, alright,” you cut him off, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could fully call you out... he was not happy about it. “We’re both shameless…"

You needed an exit strategy. Fast.

You reached for his wine glass over the coffee table. “Well, at least the bright side of telling them is that we won’t have to schedule our coffee breaks in advance anymore and pretend to look surprised when we see each other.”

And all of that was just for one single moment.

The fleeting brush of fingertips as you handed him the cup you always poured for him.

The way his hand was always warmer than yours, despite the fact that you were the one holding the scalding mug, as if basic thermodynamics simply did not apply to Aaron Hotchner.

And if it was one of those days, sometimes, there’d be a little extra something.

A longer touch.

Eye contact that lingered just a second too long.

A slow sip from his cup while still holding your gaze, and suddenly, it felt indecent - like something you definitely shouldn’t be doing in broad daylight, let alone in a federal building.

And now - here, in the comfort of his apartment, with nothing and no one to stop you - he reached for the wine glass you were offering, except… he wasn’t actually reaching for the glass.

He was just holding your hand.

Aaron chuckled, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles. “I think we’re holding onto this touch just a little too long,” he murmured, nuzzling into you, his breath warm against your ear. “Might start looking suspicious.”

Didn’t he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Oh, also some-” you started, or at least tried to, because as if everything else wasn’t enough, now he was kissing just behind your ear, his lips just brushing the sensitive skin there, warm, and slow, and wet and… God…

Okay. Okay.

Maybe it was the wine.

Maybe it was the fact that you were always kind of a little bit obsessed with him.

Either way, the result was the same: you really, really wanted him right now.

You sighed, tilting your head to grant him a little more access - but not too much, or you might actually end up using the full length of his three-seater couch instead of stubbornly remaining curled up in the same cramped two-foot space you’d unofficially claimed as your own. Ergo - going horizontal with him instead of just being seated on his lap.

“I thought we were having a serious discussion,” you murmured, though the breathy edge to your voice wasn’t exactly helping your case.

Aaron hummed in response, slowly dragging his lips from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw, pressing a kiss at the hinge. “We are.” Another kiss. “What were you starting to say, sweetheart?”

And another one.

You tried to think. Really, you did.

But it was getting increasingly difficult with his mouth still very much on your skin, moving towards places that were making it exponentially harder to form coherent thoughts.

You would’ve made a mental note to never wear anything that resembled a tank top around him again, if only you had the actual brain capacity to form any notes right now.

“Aaron-”

Aaron smirked against your skin. “You were saying?”

…Blank. Absolutely blank.

Your brain stalled for a solid three seconds before mercifully rebooting.

“I-” You licked your lips, cleared your throat. “Penelope.”

That, thankfully, was enough of a keyword to get him to back off - though, the second he did, you already desperately missed the warmth of his mouth on your skin.

He tilted his head, “Penelope?”

You swallowed. “She’s… gonna be beaming.”

Aaron blinked at you. “Beaming.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, because God, he was too cute when he was confused like this. “Her and Kevin have been desperate for another couple to go out with. Ever since JJ and Will stopped leaving the house because they’re too busy baby-proofing every square inch of their lives.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “And by ‘go out with,’ you mean double dates.”

You hummed, fingers grazing his cheek. “Mmm. Yeah. Double dates.”

Aaron didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, absolutely not.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “Wait, what?”

His face was resolute. “I’m not doing double dates.”

You squinted at him. “Okay, but why?”

And that’s how you learned that if there was one thing your boyfriend hated - more than messy paperwork, more than delayed flights, more than the Bureau’s budgeting meetings - it was double dates.

Not specifically with Penelope and Kevin. God, no. He was practically the puppet master of their relationship in the first place. Just… double dates in general.

“They’re impractical,” he said.

You snorted. “What do you mean?”

Aaron sighed. “They are a waste of time. You sit there, and for the first fifteen minutes, it’s fine. The usual small talk, polite conversation…”

You nodded, barely biting back a grin. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Honestly, this just sounded like some classic Aaron Hotchner being the most adorable introvert to ever exist.

He shot you a look, deadly serious. “It’s a trap.” You nearly cooed. Adorable. “Because at some point, you end up talking one-on-one with someone from the other couple. And right when the conversation is actually getting interesting-”

He suddenly paused.

His hand started at your shoulder, innocent enough - until it wasn’t, until it drifted lower, fingertips skimming down until they found your thigh, before sliding inward, squeezing your soft flesh there.

“See?” Aaron murmured, voice deceptively casual. “It starts off innocently. A hand on the shoulder…”He angled his fingers just a notch further up your upper thigh. “…Then the thigh. Then-”

He leaned in, kissing you just at the corner of your mouth.

"A little kiss here," he murmured, lips barely brushing your skin.

Then another - softer, lingering just at the very edge of your lips.

"A little peck there."

Okay.

Ahem.

For a man who hated double dates, he was making a very strong case for them.

This was clearly foreplay.

Had to be foreplay.

You chose to interpret it as foreplay.

So, naturally, just as you were about to pull him in properly - to finally taste the wine on his lips – he pulled back.

Mixed signals whore.

“And then,” he continued, and you swore his voice had gotten even lower - sluttier, if you were being honest - "it escalates.”

...Wine-induced yapper. "Because one couple decides a little peck isn’t enough, so they turn and start devouring each other’s faces… in public.”

The wine that was in your system, instead, suggested you should have him biblically, right here, right now, on his couch.

“Care to demonstrate this part too?” You licked your lips, tilting your head.

Aaron sighed “Honey.” You knew you were in trouble the moment he smirked. “You’re demonstrating my point…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…You want more.” Aaron tutted, shaking his head, feigning disappointment. “Of course you want more. A chaste kiss isn’t enough. How could it be, sweetheart?”

Hell yes you wanted more.

Badly.

You might have even nodded without meaning to.

“But imagine if this was happening in public. In front of two other people. What about them?” he murmured, tilting his head, voice dropping into something dark, silky, dangerous. “In front of two other people.”

You swallowed, very much not thinking about them right now.

“Because at that point, they only have two choices: they either sit there - third-wheeling, watching - or…” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide over your bare waist, gripping, pulling you that much closer. "… they start doing it too."

Your breath hitched. “Aaron-”

"With just a kiss, it creates an environment," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear, "where both couples get competitive. Where they start copying each other - but making it more…"

He dragged his nose along the curve of your jaw, the ghost of his lips tracing just behind it. "Passionate."

A teeth-grazing kiss against your pulse.

A slow drag of his lips down the column of your throat, before he made his way back up, tilting your chin up with his fingers just so, forcing you to look at him.

And God, that look.

"More tongue," he continued, letting you see it first - his own darting out, wetting his lips just before he brushed them over yours.

Not kissing.

Not yet.

“More biting.” Aaron caught your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just enough to confirm what you already knew -

He tasted like red wine.

Rich. Dark. Addictive.

And so did you.

“More touching.” His hand drifted, fingertips just skimming over your ribs, teasing along the underside of your breast - so close, so close, before he let it trail lower again, just as his lips ghosted over your ear.

"More sounds."

You barely bit back the breathy, desperate little moan clawing its way up your throat because -

Aaron shoved you off his lap.

In one fluid motion, he shifted, pressing you back into the couch, caging you in beneath him, his arms bracketing either side of your head.

His knee slotted between your thighs, pressing up just slightly - just enough to make you gasp, make your hips twitch without thinking.

You were pretty sure now that this was, in fact, foreplay.

“At that point,” he murmured, lowering himself, pressing his body against yours, pinning you down with nothing but his weight, “if you’re already getting ideas…”

Aaron rolled his hips against you, his knee shifting just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath. “…it’s better off just staying home. Because at least then,” he whispered, “we can do this.”

And then he kissed you. Properly.

Deep and hungry, pressing you down into the cushions until you moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer as one of his hands slipped under your shirt.

“You-” you swallowed, trying to find words, but he stole them from you, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “You expect me to believe this is why you hate double dates?”

“I expect you to understand,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of your neck, “that if I ever go on one…” he nipped at your pulse, making you gasp. “…I’ll be thinking about this the entire time.”

Then - click.

The sound of the button of your pants being undone, followed shortly by the hiss of your zipper. You felt the warmth of his fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, resting over your hip bone.

Well, fuck.

“You’ll be sitting across from me,” he continued, voice so unfairly composed, so infuriatingly smooth, “pretending to listen to whatever they’re taking about.”

He tilted his head, kissing along your collarbone, then much lower. You made a mental note to always wear anything resembling a tank top in his presence from now on.

“And the entire time…” his fingers dipped just slightly beneath the elastic of your underwear.

You shuddered. “Aaron.”

He hummed, pleased - so deeply pleased - before finally sliding lower, his fingers finally brushing right where you needed him most.

You whimpered.

“I’ll be remembering,” he murmured, “exactly how you sound right now.”

Your back arched into his touch, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as his fingers moved.

“And how you look,” he added, his lips brushing the curve of your breast, “when you fall apart for me.”

Your breath hitched-

And then.

Then-

He stopped.

Just - stopped.

His hands left you completely as he leaned back, settling onto his knees above you, looking far too pleased with himself.

You gaped at him, betrayed. “Are you kidding me?”

Aaron just smirked, gaze flicking over you, taking in your flushed cheeks, your uneven breathing, the way your body was still desperately aching for him.

“See?” he shrugged, voice so damn smug. “This is why I hate double dates.”

How funny would it be if these ended up being his last words?

You huffed, adjusting yourself on the couch, crossing your arms like you weren’t still ridiculously turned on and very annoyed about it. “Alright, you know what? Fine. No need to suffer through a double date if we just… conveniently wait to tell the team about us until after JJ and Will start going back out with Penelope and Kevin.”

Aaron smirked.

At least you’d both come to an agreement - the exact same procrastination tactic you’d been using, just with a new and improved excuse attached.

“…Smart girl.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, still breathing heavily, still so deeply unsatisfied, as Aaron pressed a kiss to your temple, then stood, stretching his arms.

“I’ll clean the wine glasses,” he mused, already heading toward the kitchen. “And then I’ll be back to you.”

You stared at him.

He paused, glancing at you over his shoulder, smirking.

You huffed, sarcastic, “glad we could work this out.”

You were not glad. Not at all. Especially because not even a full minute later, your phone buzzed with a text.

From him.

From Mr. Clean himself, who was currently just a couple rooms away from you.

Lawyer, 8:43 PM:

Sweetheart, I hope you're ready, because I’m going to spread you out on that couch and fuck you so deep, you’ll still feel me when you sit at your desk tomorrow.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

"Garcia just told me how to get the cat," came his voice from the kitchen - so damn smug you could hear the smirk in it, followed the sound of his footsteps getting closer.

Before you could turn, before you could say anything, he was there - leaning in from behind the couch, arms sliding around you, caging you in, whispering into your ear -

"It was just a simple copy-paste."

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe2

[plutoslastwords]

I see lando as a single dad too and I was wondering if you’d ever write daughter!reader when she’s a teenager and is going through, well her first menstrual cycle and he’s so completely lost lol

shark week

lando norris x daughter!reader

summary: lando has no idea how a woman's body works, baby norris doesn't listen in health class. the outcome? chaos.

warnings: your first period?

w/c: 1.5k

a/n: okay so i know that it may be unrealistic that a 12 year old would have never heard of a period but idc. it works in the story. sorry for being so mia!! school is terrible atm 😩😩 love you all!! promise i am working on the requests xx

~~~

Going to high school in Monaco was not fun at the best of times.

Everyone says that surely it must be great! It’s Monaco! But when you don’t speak the language fluently - though you have got quite good after living there for 12 years of your life - and have just transferred to a new secondary school where you know no one, life isn’t great. 

Everyone in Monaco has one or two parents who are rich and famous in some way, meaning you can’t even pull the famous dad card to get yourself some friends. You’re stuck sitting alone at lunch, and being picked last for every team.

Lando hates it. He hates it so so much. He doesn't think he can stand seeing his baby coming home sad every afternoon, and he hates how sometimes he can’t be there to comfort you when life is feeling especially tough. He’s debated many a time just sending you to a boarding school back in England, where at least you could speak the same language as the kids there, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to cope with being apart from you for that much of the year.

Therefore, both you and your dad just have to cope with the unfortunate situations, hoping and wishing that soon enough you’ll find your own feet and make some friends. 

Back to the fact that school in Monaco isn’t great on the best days, school in Monaco is absolute hell on the worst days.

On this particular day, you were sitting in Maths class, your least favourite, how were you meant to be able to understand maths in French when you didn’t even understand it in English. It was whilst the teacher was going on about something to do with algebra that you decided that you’d had enough, you put your hand up and quickly asked to go to the bathroom, you weren’t bothered about this anymore.

You took your normal long route around school to get to the bathrooms, having no intention of going back to your maths class anytime soon. You finally get to the bathrooms and it is there that you learn that you’re going to die.

You know that it is not normal to have blood in your pants. It can’t be normal. You must be dying. You sit there in shock for a moment, before starting to hyperventilate and presume the worst. 

When looking back, Lando knows that it is probably his fault that you got yourself into this situation. You never really listened in your Health classes, as they were all in French, and so it was probably his responsibility to educate you on what was going to happen at a certain point, but he’s still just a young guy, that was not top of his list of what he wanted to talk to his preteen daughter about!

You sit in the bathroom stall sobbing and shaking, surely this is the end, you were practically waiting for the Grim Reaper himself to come and pluck you away. In your disorientated mind the only thing that you can think to do is call Lando.

“Daddy I’m dying!” You bawl into the phone, the words barely coming out through your intense sobs.

Immediately Lando drops everything he was doing, freezing at your distressed tone, his mind going straight to the worst. “Baby?!? What’s going on, are you okay?!?” He practically shouts down the phone.

“No!!” You sob, “I’m dying!!!! Daddy please pick me up I-” You don’t finish your sentence because enough intense sob comes in the way and you fall back into hysterically crying.

Lando doesn’t even think twice before leaping up from his desk and rushing to grab his car keys. “I’m on my way, my angel, you’re gonna be okay, daddy’s gonna look after you.” He tries to soothe, but the worry in his voice is evident. 

When he arrives you’re still a sobbing mess, but you have to drag your tear stained body out of the cubicle and to the front office in order to be dismissed. When you see Lando you immediately jump into his arms, sobs wracking your body.

“Oh darling…”  He says, brokenly, he hates seeing you like this, “What’s happened, my love?” 

You don’t respond, too distressed, he seems to get the message and manoeuvres you to the car, where he drives home as quick as he can, to get you someplace familiar, hoping that that will soothe you slightly.

It works, partially. By the time that you’re home your sobbing has lessened, but you’re still nowhere near stable, still almost shaking with the fear that you’re feeling. Lando sits you down on the sofa with a glass of water, putting an arm around your shoulders.

“Baby, tell me what’s going on.”

“I-I’m dying!! I’m bleeding and I’m dying!” You sniffle.

Suddenly everything clicks for Lando and then his mind goes completely blank. Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. He was not ready for this day, not ready whatsoever. 

“I-uhm-oh.” He stutters, not knowing what to say. “Y-you’re not dying, sweetheart, okay?”

“Yes I am!!! I’m dying!!!”

He has no idea what to do. He was hoping he had a year or two left before today came, but apparently luck was not on his side. He sits there, staring blankly at you, as you continue to cry. 

“Baby, I promise you you’re not dying, why don’t you go change your clothes and I’ll come up to your room in a sec and we’ll chat, okay?”

You shuffle to your room, still sobbing but if you’re dad seems so confident that you’re okay, then surely that means something…?

Lando paces around in a panic downstairs, waiting for his sister to answer the damn phone. There is no way that he can be doing this with no help.

After a horrible phone call, with a lot of him being laughed at by his sister for having a 12 year old daughter and still knowing fuck all about the menstrual cycle, he feels more prepared to actually talk to you.

You’re sitting in your bed, covered in blankets and watching a movie when he knocks at your door.

“Darling, can I come in?” 

You hum in response, tired from all of the sobbing and therefore not bothered to actually speak. He enters, with a shopping bag in his hand.

“How're you feeling, my angel?”

You shrug, curling up smaller in your blanket ball.

“Oh, baby, you’re okay, I promise, it’s all natural, okay?”

“Doesn’t feel natural…”

“It’s your period, angel. It’s your body getting ready for pregnancy”

You pull a face of absolute horror at that, “I’m pregnant?!??!”

His eyes widen and he backtracks immediately “No, no, no, no, you’re not pregnant, absolutely not.” He shudders at the thought, “It’s just so that maybe, at some point in the future, if you do get pregnant, your body is gonna be prepared…”

“So I’m gonna bleed until I get pregnant?”

“No, no, just for a couple days every month…”

“For how long?”

“Uhm, I’m not sure about that… like until your 40? I don’t know…”

“40?!??!?! I don’t want to bleed every month until I’m 40!!!!”

“I know, baby, but it’s just something that all women have to go through, it’s just a natural part of life, you’ll learn to cope with it…”

You pause, taking in his words, before eventually nodding in understanding, but that doesn’t mean that you’re done talking, much to Lando’s dismay, who’d quite like to get this conversation over and done with.

“So why do I need to bleed to be ready for pregnancy?” You question.

Lando knows this one, he practised it on the phone with his sister, “It’s the wall of your uterus shedding-”

“Ew.”

“Because your body got itself ready to be pregnant, and then obviously the egg was never fertilised.”

“So if I did get pregnant then I wouldn’t get my period?”

“Yes, I think.”

“Hm.”

“It’s all very normal, sweetheart, this just means that you’re healthy, okay?”

“Mhm…”

“Good..” He smiles, “You all good?”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“What am I gonna do now..? With, you know, uhm- I don’t wanna ruin all my underwear…”

“Oh! Yes, that..” He reaches into his bag, “So, uh- these will stick on top of your underwear, and like uh- catch the blood, I guess.. And then you throw them away after wearing them for like 5 hours or so… That sound okay?”

You nod, slightly sceptical, but oh well.

Eventually, Lando leaves to go and do his own thing, and you stew in the knowledge of your new life. After getting yourself showered and cleaned up, as well as trying your new items, you shuffle downstairs, just needing a hug.

“Hey, baby…” Your dad smiles, as he sits on the tv, watching some nonsense reality show.

You don’t reply, just nestling yourself next to him, needing his comforting touch. He smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

“My baby… getting so big… daddy loves you, more than anything…”

~~~

a/n: fank you for reading!!11 send in any requests xx

[ylangelegy]

a lesson in begging 🚇 soonyoung x reader x jihoon.

jihoon learns the art of saying 'please', courtesy of his best friend and his best friend's girlfriend.

★ word count: 3.7k ★ genre/warnings: 18+ content. smut with 🤏 pinch of plot; jihoon-centric after the intro. established relationship (soonyoung x reader), mentions of female anatomy, pet names (s: ‘baby’, ‘goddess’, ‘good boy’). exhibitionism, voyeurism, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, so much begging, both soonyoung and jihoon are kind of pathetic [lovingly] in this one.  ★ footnotes: once again, when your biases release a song single album, you write the goddamn smut (2). shoutout to urbano latino & reggaeton music for getting me through this, and to @gyubakeries, @gotta-winwin & @diamonddaze01 for the hand-holding.

Soonyoung likes to think he’s a pretty generous guy. 

He’s never selfish about what he has. He shares when he can to anyone who asks. You, in particular, never have time to want anything; your darling boyfriend is attune to anything your heart might ever desire.

And if that just so happens to be his best friend Jihoon? Well, like we’ve established: Soonyoung is always going to give. 

You hadn’t really been discreet about it. You’d been guilty, maybe, but you were a language that Soonyoung was fluent in. He saw the way you’d watch Jihoon while the latter worked out, saw the way your face would light up when you’d hear the other man was coming over for one reason or another. 

A normal boyfriend would have been alarmed, might have thrown a fit. But Soonyoung was never normal to begin with. 

And— he never admitted this to you, did he?— he’d rather it be Jihoon than anyone else, anyway. 

You’re mortified when Soonyoung first brings it up. You’re ready to apologize for thinking Jihoon is sex on legs, but then Soonyoung makes his proposition. 

“I promised I’d give you everything, baby.” His voice is sweet and earnest. There’s no hint of maliciousness in it; he’s not using this as leverage. “Let me get you this, too.” 

That’s another thing about Soonyoung: It’s always been so hard to say ‘no’ to him. 

Jihoon is convinced this is some form of elaborate prank.

The words that just came out of Soonyoung’s mouth have yet to register to him. After ‘not a threesome’ a couple of sentences ago, Jihoon just kind of blanked out. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed you share with Soonyoung. You look pretty, Jihoon thinks, but then he corrects himself. You’re always pretty. 

Crap. That’s what got him in this situation, isn’t it? 

Jihoon takes a steadying breath when he realizes that you and Soonyoung are waiting for a response. “I’m sorry,” says Jihoon, keeping his voice as even as possible, “but what the actual fuck?” 

Soonyoung snickers. You look a little less amused. You elbow your boyfriend, a look of mild horror crossing your expression. 

“You didn’t warn him before inviting him over?” you seethe.

Soonyoung rubs the side you’d hit.  “I thought we could all talk about it together,” he shoots back. “You know, like a proper discussion.” 

“A discussion,” Jihoon echoes. He’s not sure if it’s you or him that’s going to throttle Soonyoung first. 

Jihoon’s mental list of how he intends to physically harm Soonyoung comes to a temporary pause. You’re looking at Jihoon, now, with an expression that’s almost apologetic. It makes something seize up in the man’s chest. 

“I didn’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable situation,” you say. “I just thought…” 

You trail off, and it’s the cruelest cliffhanger Jihoon has ever witnessed. “Thought what?” he prompts, shoving his hands in his pockets. That way, you wouldn’t have to see how he’s started shaking. 

Soonyoung finishes what you started. “We thought you wanted this.”

As if to explain what this was, Soonyoung reaches over from behind you and places his hand on your thigh. Jihoon’s eyes flick to the movement, but he looks away just as quickly. 

Soonyoung gives your thigh a light, reassuring squeeze. His eyes never leave Jihoon’s face. There’s a bit of a challenge, a hint of something serious. Like Soonyoung is daring Jihoon to deny his wants, deny this, deny you.

You— looking criminally lovely, watching Jihoon with caution and concern. There’s an undercurrent of distress in your expression, mixing with the annoyance at Soonyoung’s lack of tact. 

Jihoon swallows around the lump in his throat. He says something. It’s barely above a whisper. 

“Pardon?” you call out.

To hell with it, Jihoon thinks. To hell with it all.

He tries again, pitching his voice a little louder. “I do,” he says, wavering a bit on the words, “want this.” 

Want you, he had meant to say, but he chickened out at the last moment. It doesn’t matter. You and Soonyoung hear it anyway, and both your expressions shift into something more pleasant. Soonyoung looks smug. You, reassured. 

The room suddenly feels a lot warmer. There’s still considerable distance between Jihoon and the two of you. It’s the only thing keeping him sane, really. 

“That’s good.” The sheer relief in your tone could drive Jihoon crazy. You go on, “I would have hated to misread.” 

Misread which part, Jihoon wonders. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long on the hems of your shorts and skirts? The way all his sharp edges would soften when it came to you? 

Jihoon wants you, has wanted you for months. He had convinced himself that he was The World’s Worst Best Friend Ever, even. But Soonyoung is now looking at Jihoon like the latter is the opposite of that. The World’s Best Best Friend Ever— for agreeing to please you.

This arrangement would undoubtedly have consequences, even if it were a one-time thing. Jihoon can’t bring himself to care, though. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He closes the distance, reveling in the tension that crackles with each step. You tilt your head back ever so slightly in a bid to never break eye contact with Jihoon. 

“You didn’t misread,” Jihoon says quietly. “I— you’re pretty.” 

He had hoped to soften the blow with I think, but why deny himself of the plain and simple truth? You’re so soft as you look up at Jihoon, the gratitude written all over your face. The tender moment is short-lived, though, because Soonyoung inevitably butts in. 

“Just pretty?” Your boyfriend sounds offended on your behalf. “Is that all you’ve got, Jihoon?” 

“Soonyoung,” you chide, but the older man barrels on. 

“Pretty isn’t enough,” Soonyoung insists. His hand slides up your thigh, tugging your dress up a little higher. This time, Jihoon lets himself watch, lets himself appreciate your skin as it’s revealed to him. “Do better, Jihoon.” 

“What might you suggest?” Jihoon asks, unable to look away from the hint of red lace underneath your dress. 

Soonyoung hums lowly. He leans forward, his teeth catching at your earlobe as he keeps your back pressed firmly against his chest. 

“Ethereal,” Soonyoung whispers reverently. “Gorgeous.” 

There wasn’t a doubt in Jihoon’s mind that Soonyoung adored you, practically worshipped the ground you worked on. This made the whole situation even more surreal, but Jihoon can’t look away— at how your eyes flutter close, how your breath hitches ever so slightly.

You’re so damn responsive. Jihoon’s heart thunders in his chest. He can’t imagine how this will end, and it hasn’t even begun. 

“Baby,” you say, and Soonyoung quits his teasing. 

He rests his chin on your shoulder and fixes his gaze on Jihoon. “If you want something,” Soonyoung drawls, “you’re going to have to beg for it.” 

For the first time that night, Jihoon’s facade of calculated calmness crumples. Beg for it? Jihoon wasn’t about to beg Soonyoung for a thing. Soonyoung was the one calling in for a favor, technically. As badly as Jihoon wants you, he can’t imagine himself ever being on his knees for Soonyoung. For anything. 

Soonyoung notices Jihoon’s agitation. The blonde’s face breaks out into a shit-eating grin, the kind that promises trouble for days. 

“Like this,” Soonyoung chirps, and then he pulls the rug underneath Jihoon’s feet. 

Soonyoung shifts on the bed, moving around until he’s at your side instead of cradling you from behind. He presses his knees into the mattress and he wrings his hands together, his face tilted towards yours. 

“Please,” Soonyoung tells you sweetly. “Please, please, baby?”

Jihoon’s brain short-circuits. He barely has time to think holy shit before Soonyoung ups his act, showering you with compliments about how perfect you are, about how badly he needs— needs, not wants— you.

You smile a bit before putting Soonyoung out of his misery. It’s not the first time Jihoon has seen the two of you make out, but it’s the first time that you open your eyes mid-kiss to glance at Jihoon, as if checking to see if he’s still watching. 

Soonyoung isn’t dealing the cards tonight. You are. 

Noted, Jihoon thinks, as he watches you lick into Soonyoung’s mouth. Your boyfriend lets out a sound between a guttural moan and a happy hum. He pulls away a moment later, his grin dopey and his gaze unfocused. 

“Good boys get rewarded,” Soonyoung tells Jihoon matter-of-factly.  

Jihoon winces. God, he’d rather die than be called a ‘good boy’ by Kwon Soonyoung, of all people. Jihoon is mentally weighing the pros and cons of this whole situation when Soonyoung shuffles backward, leaning against the headboard. Now, it’s just you and Jihoon at the foot of the bed. 

He doesn’t know what he should do. Sit? Kiss you senseless? Soonyoung answers for him— 

“Beg, Jihoon.” Soonyoung’s tone brooks no argument. “Tell my girlfriend what you want from her.” 

You look expectant. Jihoon hadn’t noticed that earlier. So much of you was unassuming, from your perceived shyness to your sundress hiding the red lingerie that was undoubtedly hugging all your curves right. The thought of it makes the front of Jihoon’s jeans feel a lot tighter. 

He clears his throat. He got this far; he might as well. And nobody outside this room would have to know, right? 

“Please,” Jihoon mumbles. 

He expects Soonyoung to speak up, so he’s a bit thrown when you’re the one who goes for the jab. “What was that?” you ask, and it would be innocent if it weren’t for the hint of a smirk on your lips. 

Jihoon inwardly prays for the ground to swallow him whole. When that doesn’t happen, he instead grits out his next words. 

“Please,” he says through his teeth. “May I kiss you?” 

It’s a piss poor attempt, but you’re nothing if not benevolent. Your fingers close around the front of Jihoon’s shirt and you tug him downward. 

He nearly stumbles when he feels your mouth against him. Jihoon isn’t sure if he can touch, whether he can even manage, so he ends up grabbing fistfuls of the sheets beneath you as you give him what he asked for. 

You kiss him so sweetly. It’s a dangerous thing, one that Jihoon fears he could grow addicted to if he wasn’t careful. Your tongue traces Jihoon’s bottom lip as if testing the waters, and he fights the urge to grab you by the waist and show you exactly how that makes him feel. 

The kiss breaks with the two of you gasping for air. Jihoon doesn’t know when he leaned further into your personal space, but he can feel your heaving chest against his own and it’s maddening. 

Jihoon had been so lost in the moment he’d forgotten Soonyoung was there, even. The latter pipes up, acutely aware that the kiss hadn’t been enough. That you’d pulled away too soon, leaving Jihoon in absolute shambles. 

“If you want more,” Soonyoung says, “you’re going to have to beg harder, Jihoon.”

This is either the best or the worst thing that has ever happened to Jihoon. He’ll decide later, he thinks to himself, as his hands finally find purchase at your hips.

Miraculously, Jihoon finds his voice. “Let me taste you.” Every moment in this room is chipping away at his pride, if the way he whines out the next word is any indication. 

“Please,” Jihoon says desperately, despairingly. 

It was the very first thing Jihoon remembered learning as a child. Say please, he had been taught. It’s the polite thing to do. It shows you have good manners. 

There’s nothing polite about the way Jihoon finds himself in between your thighs. There’s nothing good-mannered about the moans he tears out of you, about the way your fingers tug at his hair in a way that’s almost painful. 

You’re on your back, your head in Soonyoung’s lap as Jihoon works on you like a man starved. Your dress is pushed up your chest; Soonyoung could take the opportunity to play with your breasts. Instead, he keeps your hair out of your face and lovingly gazes at you as you thrash underneath Jihoon’s assault. 

“Enjoying yourself, baby?” Soonyoung coos.

Your response— something between yes and fuck you— breaks off into a keening whine when Jihoon doubles his efforts. He diligently laps up the slick of your sopping cunt before introducing his fingers; the two digits slide in with little to no resistance, and he rewards you by sucking on your clit. 

“Jihoon,” you cry out, your back arching off the bed. “Oh my God, Ji— hng— where did you—?” 

“Learn all that?” Soonyoung interjects. You’re too preoccupied to care about your boyfriend interrupting, too focused on Jihoon who has started crooking his fingers. “You know what they say, baby. It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.” 

Jihoon isn’t about to try and contest Soonyoung, not when you’re writhing so beautifully underneath his mouth. It’s borderline painful, the way Jihoon is grasping your hip like his life depends on it. 

An obscene slurp and the tease of another finger is all it takes to have you falling over the edge. Jihoon slows his ministrations, enjoying the feel of you tightening around his fingers. 

He pulls away as you come back down to earth. The entire lower half of his face glistens with your slick. Jihoon is obnoxious enough to dart his tongue around his mouth and smack his lips, as if trying to taste as much of you as possible. 

Soonyoung cackles. He’s enjoying this far more than he probably should. You can tell, though; there’s a tent in your boyfriend’s sweatpants, his clothed hardness pressing against your cheek. 

You nuzzle closer to it, a wordless whine escaping you. Soonyoung gets the message.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, guiding you further up the mattress. As he helps you out of your dress, Jihoon situates himself a bit better at the foot of the bed. 

He’s in desperate need of friction himself. Absent-mindedly, he palms himself over his jeans, watching as Soonyoung guides you to get on all fours. 

Soonyoung’s clothes join yours on the floor. It isn’t the first time that Jihoon has seen Soonyoung’s cock— a story for another time— but there’s still a moment where the younger man is jolted. Having experienced, now, just how tight you are, Jihoon can’t even fathom how Soonyoung can fit inside you. 

If either of you notice Jihoon’s attempts to relieve himself, you’re both graceful enough to not comment on it. Soonyoung focuses on bracing himself behind you, one hand resting at your waist while the other gives his cock a couple of leisurely pumps. 

You’re already primed to be fucked, but Soonyoung is taking his time. No, Jihoon realizes. 

Soonyoung is putting on a show. 

There’s a lazy smirk on Soonyoung’s face when he locks eyes with Jihoon. For a moment, Jihoon is tempted to stop touching himself, but it’s like he physically can’t stop himself. Meanwhile, Soonyoung is busying himself with rubbing the length of his cock against the curve of your ass— giving you time to recover from your orgasm while also making Jihoon suffer. 

“Wanna fuck my girlfriend, Jihoon?” Soonyoung taunts. “Want her greedy cunt around your cock, hm?” 

You let out a low hiss of warning as Jihoon bites back a moan. Soonyoung reels in his bravado, sliding his hand up to entangle his fingers in your hair. 

“Sorry, baby,” he says soothingly. “Didn’t mean to talk about you like that.” 

Soonyoung pushes your hair over your shoulder so he has better access to your back. He places a couple of kisses across your shoulder blades before glancing back up at Jihoon, the earlier mischievousness considerably dialed down now. 

“You know what you have to do,” Soonyoung tells Jihoon. “She’s in charge. Ask.” 

The remnants of Jihoon’s shredded pride hold him back. To ask for a kiss, to ask to eat you out— what the hell, sure. To ask if he can fuck you into next week? 

Jihoon squeezes himself through his pants, his gaze fixated on the way you’re looking up at him with dazed anticipation. He almost salivates at the thought of your soft, warm walls trying to accommodate him. 

Alas, his blasted pride. Jihoon opens his mouth then promptly clamps it close, unable to bring himself for this. 

Soonyoung lets out a low ‘tch’ of disapproval. “Suit yourself,” he huffs. 

Like a switch that had been flipped, Soonyoung now focuses all his attention on you. “Goddess,” your boyfriend says against your skin, his tone so loving that Jihoon feels like he’s intruding. “Can I make you feel good? Make you finish a second time tonight?”

You give a jerky nod, canting your hips backward until Soonyoung is lined up with you. “Yes, baby,” you whimper, keeping your eyes on Jihoon despite the fact you’re seeking out Soonyoung. “Want you inside me right now.” 

“I know, I know,” Soonyoung groans like your words have brought him pain, like it physically hurts him to hear you plead for anything. “I’ll give, baby. I’ll give.” 

Soonyoung slides home, benefiting from the slickness of your first orgasm. The two of you let out twin moans. It takes everything in Jihoon not to come on the spot. 

Jihoon never thought he’d been into this. He’s frozen, incapable of moving or looking away, as Soonyoung plows into you with practiced thrusts. Your fingers twist into the sheets below you and you struggle to keep your head up, your eyes open. 

Your gaze is half-lidded as you watch Jihoon’s slack-jawed expression. It has you fluttering around Soonyoung, who squeezes the flesh of your ass in retaliation. 

“Shit.” Your boyfriend picks up his relentless pace, his free hand carefully pressing between your shoulder blades. You sink a little further into the mattress and Soonyoung takes advantage of it, driving himself deeper into you. 

“You like having an audience, baby?” Soonyoung breathes.

Somehow, you manage to nod. Jihoon’s fingers close a little tighter around the outline of his jeans and, slowly, tentatively, he goes back to rubbing himself through the rough material. It’s equal parts painful and pleasurable but he figures it’s what he deserves for getting off to his best friend’s girlfriend. 

“Tell me what he looks like,” Soonyoung urges, his hands tangling into your hair again. He clutches at your roots and pulls your head back enough so that you have a better view of Jihoon. “Describe it for me, please.” 

Soonyoung is always so polite and tender when it comes to you. Jihoon gets you, now; he really does. That doesn’t help the way his dick twitches when he sees the blissed out look on your face, like being stuffed with Soonyoung’s cock had somehow fucked all the thoughts out of your head.

Jihoon must not be looking any better than you, because there’s a ghost of a smile on your face as you fulfill your boyfriend’s request. “He looks desperate,” you mewl, your fingers flexing around the crumpled sheets underneath you. “Looks like he needs something, baby.” 

Soonyoung chuckles. “And what does he need?” 

“Dunno.” You roll your hips to meet one of Soonyoung’s thrusts, drawing a heated cuss from the man. “He isn’t asking.” 

A muscle in Jihoon’s jaw ticks. Oh, this was a different kind of torture. He has half the mind to pull his pants down and shove his dick in your mouth to shut—

“Be nice, baby,” Soonyoung warns, “or else I won’t let you finish.” 

It’s an empty threat. Even Jihoon knows that much. You have Soonyoung wrapped around your little finger, and your boyfriend will go to the ends of the world to please you. 

Still, you play along. You attempt to apologize, but the word breaks off when Soonyoung slides his fingers over to your clit. His thrusts are uncoordinated with the circles he draws over the sensitive nub, but you don’t seem to mind. 

Your eyes are watery from the onslaught of sensations, your legs are shaky, and your lips are parted in a perpetual gasp. Jihoon thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

A sound finally escapes him. It’s a quiet thing— barely a moan— but Soonyoung catches it anyway. 

“You’re already on your knees,” Soonyoung tells you quietly, conspiratorially. “How about you show Jihoon how we ask in this relationship, hm?” 

It’s so quick, so sudden. Jihoon barely has time to catch on and prepare himself before you’re surging forward, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. You replace his hand with your lips, mouthing his hardness over his jeans. 

You’re just as sloppy as Soonyoung. There’s no method to the way you clamp your lips over Jihoon’s clothed cock. It’s all drool, a hint of teeth. A crude imitation of what it’d be like if you actually took him in your mouth. 

And Jihoon— he’s surprised he’s still breathing, actually. His hands find purchase at your shoulders, torn between pushing you off and keeping you in place. He settles for the latter, his eyes blown wide as he watches you give him this perverse blowjob.

“Fuck,” Jihoon rasps. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—” 

You look up at him then. It’s not your eyes that does him over. Not your sweat-slicked forehead or your flushed cheeks. No, it’s the way you pull away ever so briefly, your entire body rocking as Soonyoung continues to pummel into you. 

Your breath is warm over Jihoon’s crotch as you whine a single word. 

“Please?” 

He doesn’t even know what you’re asking for. Regardless, he busts his load with a pained grunt. It’s uncomfortable to come undone in his boxers, with his pants still on, but he can’t help himself.

Soonyoung follows not long after, emptying his load into you. He hisses as he finishes, his own climax bringing you to your second high.

You slump forward, your mouth instinctively latching back onto Jihoon’s waning hardness. He’s so sensitive, but he makes no effort to pull you away from his front. Soonyoung doesn’t seem keen on moving yet either, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the skin of your hips.

“See?” Soonyoung says, his voice wrecked but his grin as annoyingly smug as ever. “Good boy, Jihoon.” 

[rootedinrevisions]

Religiously

Summary: Jake’s world is turned upside down when he learns that the woman he once loved is getting married to someone else. Struggling with the weight of his past mistakes and the emotional fallout of their breakup, Jake is deployed on a mission that nearly costs him his life. What happens when he returns home to recover from his injuries and comes face to face with her?

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader (No Use of Y/n)

Warnings: Mild Language, Mild Religious References, Violence related to military action and combat, Combat Related Injury, Mentions of near death experiences, Discussions of emotional and physical pain, PTSD like themes, Possible triggers related to medical and emergency situations.

Word Count: 6,664

A/N: So it's been a little bit since I posted anything. But here is a little something I've been working on for a few days. Hope you guys enjoy xx

**Flashbacks ared indicated by italics**

Jake shifted the phone to his other ear, stretching his legs out on the hard, thin standard issue mattress that the Navy offered in the barracks. The air conditioning unit rattled in the background, barely cutting through the Southern California heat.

It was late, and he was tired. But he knew he couldn’t miss his usual Sunday night call with his mom. No matter where the Navy sent him, Mama Seresin always expected him to check in.

“Your dad finally fixed the fence,” his mom was saying. “After I reminded him for the hundredth time.”

Jake smirked, rubbing a hand over his face. “Took him long enough.”

“That’s what I said, honey! But you know how he is. Stubborn as a mule.”

“Guess I know where I get it from, then.”

His mom scoffed. “Oh honey, that’s all from your daddy’s side.”

Jake chuckled, the familiar back and forth easing some of the tension in his chest. These calls were a tether to home. Something steady in a life that seemed to never stop moving.

But then his mom’s tone shifted, just slightly. “Oh, did you see the picture of the paper? Your sister said she was going to send it to you.”

Jake frowned. “What paper?”

“The Gazette. They had an engagement announcement in last week’s edition.”

He didn’t think much of it at first, just let her words settle in the background as he reached for the beer on the nightstand. 

And then she said your name. 

Jake’s fingers froze around the bottle. His heart punched once, hard, against his ribs.

“She’s getting married next month. Can you believe it?”

His throat suddenly felt tight and dry. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice even. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. Big wedding from what I hear. Out at that fancy vineyard in Hill Country. Her mama must be over the moon.”

Jake could only nod, even though she couldn’t see him.

You. Married.

He should’ve expected it. It had been years since he’d last seen you, since he’d walked away and let you go. But still, something about it didn’t sit right.

“Anyway, I always thought you two would end up together,” his mom added casually. Like she hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him. “Guess life had other plans.”

Jake let out a breath through his nose, gripping the bottle tighter. “Yeah. Guess so.”

A silence stretched between them, heavy with everything he didn’t say.

“Jake?” His mom’s voice softened. “You okay, sweetie?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure, honey?” his mom pressed. “You sound—”

“I’m good, Ma,” he cut in, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. He ran a hand over his face. “Just tired. Long day.”

His mom didn’t push, but he could hear the doubt in the way she sighed. “Alright, well, get some rest. And call me next Sunday, you hear?”

“Yeah. Love you.”

“Love you too, baby.”

The call ended with a soft click, but the silence it left behind was anything but peaceful.

Jake let the phone rest against his chest for a second, staring up at the ceiling. The AC hummed steady but weak, barely making a dent in the sticky air.

He shut his eyes. Tried to push the thought of you out of his head. Tried to forget the way your name had felt like a punch to the ribs. Tried not to picture you in a white dress, smiling at some other man.

Jake sat up abruptly, cursing under his breath. He ran a hand through his hair, restless. His pulse was too loud, his thoughts running too fast.

He told himself to leave it alone. To let it go, the way he had years ago.

But his fingers moved before he could stop them, unlocking his phone and pulling up his photos. He scrolled fast, past images of deployments, blurry bar nights, old squadmates. 

Until he sees it. A picture of you.

The two of you, tangled together on the dock that summer. Your legs draped over his, your head tipped back in laughter. The setting sun had turned your skin golden, your hair wind-tousled and perfect. He remembered the exact moment he took the photo.

“You’re staring,” you’d teased, nudging his arm.

“Maybe,” he’d admitted, grinning. “Can you blame me?”

Jake swallowed hard. His thumb hovered over the screen. He should put the phone down. Delete the photos. Move on.

But instead, his mind pulled him under. Back to that summer. Back to you. Back to the moment everything changed.

Jake kept scrolling. Past the dock. Past the bonfires. Past the blurry, stolen moments that still felt too sharp.

And then he stopped. The picture filled his screen, pulling the air straight from his lungs.

You, standing in the middle of the river, the water lapping at your thighs. Your arms stretched out, face tipped to the sun, eyes closed like you could soak in the warmth forever. That stupid blue swimsuit he used to tease you about, the one you insisted was your favorite.

He could still hear your laugh from that day.

Could still feel the moment everything changed.

“You coming in, or what?” you called, twisting toward him, your hair dripping down your back.

Jake sat on the riverbank, forearms resting on his knees, watching you wade deeper into the water. “I don’t know. You sure it’s not freezing?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s Texas in July, dumbass.”

Still he didn’t move. Just sat there, watching the sunlight catch in your hair, the way the water curved around your legs.

You sighed, dramatically, and turned to face him fully. “Okay, fine. I’ll come to you.”

Before he could react, you lunged forward, hands cutting through the water, sending a wave straight at him.

“Damn it—”

It was too late. Cold water splashed over his legs, soaking the edge of his shorts.

Your laugh was loud and reckless. “Guess it’s not that cold, huh?”

Jake shot to his feet. “Oh, you’re real funny.”

“I try,” you quipped, grinning as you stepped back, deeper into the river. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

He didn’t think—just moved. Sprinting forward, he hit the water fast, the shock of it stealing his breath, but he didn’t stop. You yelped, spinning to escape, but he caught you easily, his arms wrapping around your waist.

“Jake. Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

He lifted you effortlessly, slinging you over his shoulder before spinning in a circle. You shrieked, kicking your legs, but he only laughed.

“Apologize,” he teased, tightening his grip.

“Never.”

“Suit yourself.”

And then he dropped you. You disappeared beneath the surface, the splash soaking him completely. He barely had a second to gloat before you popped up, hair plastered to your face, eyes blazing with mock outrage.

“Oh, it’s on,” you warned.

Before he could react, you launched yourself at him, pushing him under.

He surfaced a second later, shaking water from his face, only to find you already laughing.

You looked happy. You always looked happy, but today there was something different about it. About you.

Jake’s breath caught, something unfamiliar curling in his chest. He wanted to keep you like this. Wanted to see you like this every damn day.

And that’s when it hit him. Like a punch to the ribs.

He was falling for you. Maybe he already had.

Jake blinked, the memory dissolving like mist.

His chest ached, his grip tightening around the phone.

He should’ve told you. He should’ve said those three little words that summer.

But he never did. And now? Now you were marrying someone else.

Jake exhaled sharply and closed out of his photo album. Before he could think better of it, his fingers moved on instinct, opening his social media app and typing your name into the search bar.

The first picture hit him like a gut punch.

You standing in front of a wall of pastel balloons, champagne glass in hand. The caption read Bride to Be in swirly gold script, matching the sash draped over your shoulder. Someone had tagged you in the post a few weeks ago

Jake swallowed hard, his eyes dragging over the details.

The white dress clung to you in all the right ways. Your hair was curled soft around your face, your smile wide and effortless.

You looked happy. Really happy.

The sight of it made him sick.

His stomach twisted as he swiped through more photos. You, laughing with friends. You cutting into a cake shaped like a wedding dress. You leaning into your fiancé..

Jake’s jaw locked at the sight of the guy.

He looked…fine. Some clean cut, polished type. A little too put together. A little too perfect.

Your smiles with your fiance were poised and practiced. Pretty but forced. The kind of smile you put on when you knew a camera was on you. It was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Jake scrolled back to one of your old pictures together. A blurry shot from a summer night. You were sitting beside him on the tailgate of his truck. Your head was thrown back in laughter. No perfect angles. No careful posing. Just you, caught mid laugh, so lost in the moment you didn’t care about the camera.

And maybe Jake was just torturing himself, but he swore you looked happier then. Happier with him.

He scrolled back up, staring at the image of you in white at the bridal shower. Maybe you smiled like that now. Maybe you convinced yourself this was what you wanted.

Jake exhaled sharply and shut off his phone, dropping it onto the bed beside him like it burned. But the image of you in white was already seared into his mind.

Marriage. It was what you always wanted. Hell, he wanted it too…just not as soon as you. He told himself he wasn’t ready. That he needed more time, that he had things to figure out, that forever could wait a little longer.

But you weren’t willing to wait for him to decide that he was ready. And now time was up.

His jaw clenched. He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down to his mouth as if that could stop the ache clawing at his chest.

He should be over this by now. You were.

He stared at the ceiling, willing himself not to care.

It had been a couple of years. He’d had his share of short lived relationships, other break ups. He went through the motions. First dates, good mornings, empty conversations that never quite filled the space you left behind. Some hurt for a while, some didn’t even register, most faded into nothing more than a name or a fleeting memory.

But yours? That breakup was different. It wasn’t just another failed relationship. Yours was the one that gutted him. The one that still sat heavy in his chest, refusing to be buried no matter how much time passed.

It was the only one that still got to him. He could barely remember the details of his other breakups. Who ended things first, the reasons why, the words exchanged. They were all just echoes of something that was never meant to last.

But you? He remembered everything.

"I love you, Jake. I love you so much, but I can’t keep waiting for you to decide if you want this...if you want me."

Your eyes had been glassy, your hands clenched into fists at your sides like you were holding yourself together by sheer will alone. He’d stood there, jaw tight, arms crossed, refusing to let himself break. Refusing to admit he was terrified.

"It’s not that simple," he had said, voice rough, exhausted from the same argument you’d been having for weeks.

"It is for me," you whispered, voice cracking. "I want a life with you. A future. A family. But if you don’t know if you want that with me, then I—" You sucked in a sharp breath. "Then I can’t do this anymore."

The way your fingers trembled as you slipped the key to his place onto the counter nearly undid him. It was such a small movement, so quiet, but it hit like a gunshot. Final. Permanent.

Even then, even when you turned to go, he could have stopped you. He could have said Wait. I love you. I want this. I want you. But his own stubborn silence kept him frozen, hands fisting at his sides as he watched you walk to the door.

And everything in him screamed that he should run after you.

But he didn’t. And that was the moment he lost you.

And now, years later, the weight of losing you hadn’t lessened. If anything, it pressed down harder, knowing you’d moved on while he was still stuck here trying to pretend he wasn’t.

Jake’s thumb hovered over the screen as he scrolled, then stopped. A picture of you with a guitar.

You were sitting on a blanket in the grass, laughing at something just outside the frame, fingers curled around the neck of the instrument like it was second nature. The sight of it pulled at something deep in his chest. And just like that, he was back there.

Back on your front porch that summer night.

The cicadas hummed in the background, a lazy breeze rolling through, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and warm earth. You sat cross legged on the old wooden swing, your guitar balanced on your lap, the porch light casting a soft glow over your face.

"Come on, Jake," you teased, strumming a few easy chords. "You know this one."

He grinned, leaning against the railing with a beer dangling from his fingers. "I know it, but I’m not singing it."

"Fine," you huffed dramatically, but there was a smile playing on your lips. "Guess I’ll just have to sing it for both of us."

Your voice, soft and sweet, wrapped around the melody, carrying the words into the warm night air. And Jake just watched you. The way your fingers danced effortlessly over the strings. The way your nose scrunched slightly when you hit the higher notes. The way your eyes flicked up to meet his like you were singing just for him.

And that was the moment.

That was the moment he knew, or at least thought he knew, that he was going to marry you.

It hit him so fast, so unexpectedly, that it nearly knocked the breath out of him. He’d never believed in fate or soulmates or any of that, but sitting there, listening to you play your song under the Texas sky, he’d never been so sure of anything in his life.

But that was a lifetime ago.

And now, that life the one he thought he’d have with you, belonged to someone else.

Tomorrow he was leaving for deployment. Another stretch of time spent oceans away, filling his days with routine and responsibility. Pushing everything else, everything going on in his personal life to the back of his mind. 

That was usually the easy part. But this time?

This time, he wished you were here. He wished you were the one standing by giving him that last lingering hug before he boarded the plane. The one pressing a kiss to his lips and telling him to stay safe, to come home in one piece. You used to say it with a teasing smile, but he knew you meant it with every part of you.

And if he was being honest with himself, if he let himself sink into that dangerous, aching place in his chest, he wished you’d be the one waiting for him when he came home too. 

But he knew better than that. By the time he came back, you’d be someone else’s. You’d moved on. You’d found what you needed with someone who didn’t keep you waiting for him to be ready.

And tomorrow, as he stood on the tarmac, duffel slung over his shoulder, staring out at the horizon before takeoff…he’d have to find a way to make peace with that.

* * * * *

The days leading up to the mission had felt like any other. Straightforward. Jake had been briefed, run the practice drills. He knew the routine, knew the threats, knew the risks. But he wasn’t worried. He’d been through this before. He was trained for moments like this. His crew made up of Phoenix and Bob had his back, and he trusted them.

It wasn’t a difficult mission. Two planes. Simple intel. Minor threat from enemy aircraft, but it wasn’t a serious risk. That’s what they had been told, and Jake believed it.

They took off that morning, the cool January air crisp as the planes cut through it. Jake was leading, flying in formation with Phoenix and Bob close behind. The adrenaline buzzed in his veins, but he kept it steady. They had their plan, and nothing was going to go wrong. Or so he thought.

The radio crackled in his ear, Phoenix's voice cutting through the static. "Enemy aircraft, five o’clock!"

Jake didn’t see them. Not at first. Everything was too smooth, too easy. But as Phoenix and Bob called it out, the world shifted. He glanced over his shoulder just as a shadow broke through the cloud cover.

Before he could react, there was a burst of red hot fire tearing through his right wing. The impact hit like a freight train, and then… everything went wrong. His plane jolted violently, and the warning lights flashed in his cockpit.

"Shit!" Jake muttered under his breath, fighting for control.

His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the sky. Phoenix and Bob were calling over the radio shouting commands, but everything was a blur of panic and noise.

The next thing he knew, the plane was spiraling, falling. And then came the gut wrenching sound of metal meeting the surface as his plane hit the water.

It was cold, too cold.

His body hit the surface with an intensity that felt like concrete.

Pain exploded in his chest, knocking the wind out of him, the world spinning around him as his plane began to sank. He struggled to keep his head above water. The saltwater burned against his skin, but it was the cold that was most unforgiving.

His breath came in shallow gasps. He could barely keep his eyes open. The pain radiated through every nerve in his body, but his thoughts didn’t linger on the physical agony.

All he could think about was you.

Your face, your laugh, the way you smiled at him like you were the only two people in the world. The warmth of your touch when he held you close. The way your eyes sparkled in the light.

God, he missed you.

It didn’t even feel like life anymore. The sun was still shining above, but it was too bright, too distant.

For a moment, Jake wondered if this was what death felt like. If the coldness of the ocean would be the last thing he ever felt.

He was there drifting, and staring up at the sky, each passing second slipping further and further from him. The world was fading. He wasn’t sure if it was the water filling his lungs or the weight of the loss that was dragging him down.

And then, in that haze of fading consciousness, a single thought pierced through the fog.

He would never see you again.

The pain from the crash didn’t compare to the ache in his chest at that thought. The empty, hollow feeling that consumed him, knowing he’d never get another chance to hold you, to tell you he loved you, to fix the mess he made.

His eyes closed again, the memory fading as darkness closed in, but not before he whispered one last time, "I love you."

Jake didn’t know how much time had passed. But suddenly the world around Jake was nothing but noise and shadows, a blur of voices he couldn’t quite make sense of. His body felt like a weight, every inch of him burning with pain, yet somehow, it was as if his mind was disconnected, floating somewhere far away.

He was still in the water. The coldness had a grip on him, sinking into his bones, but now... now there was warmth, a sensation that almost didn’t feel real. He blinked slowly, the light above him flickering, and then it was the sound of helicopters. The deep, reverberating thrum of blades slicing through the sky.

“Lieutenant Seresin!” a voice called, familiar yet distant. “Stay with me.”

He couldn’t focus on who was speaking, but the words reached him, distant echoes that seemed to tug him back from the abyss. 

He heard his call sign then, as if it was the only thing tethering him to the world: “Hangman...Hangman, we’ve got you.”

A sharp pain ran through his body, and he hissed in response. His eyes tried to focus, but the world kept shifting, pulling him further under, as if the ocean itself was calling him back.

“Hang in there, Hangman!” another voice barked, this one more frantic. “We’ve got you. Just hold on.”

But he couldn’t hold on. He couldn’t keep his grip on consciousness. His eyes closed again, darkness threatening to take over.

And in that quiet, fleeting moment before everything faded, one thought echoed in his mind, louder than any of the voices around him, louder than the chopper blades, louder than the pain. 

One name.

Your name.

The sound of your name coming from his lips was barely audible. But the weight of it was everything. It was the only thing his heart could hold onto.

The darkness began to press in around him yet again. But the voices around him wouldn’t let him go.

“Hangman, come on. You’ve got to stay with us.” Someone urged, and Jake could feel the pressure of someone's hands on his chest. He could tell he was being moved. 

But even as he was pulled away from the brink of death, all he could think about was you. And the painful truth that you weren’t there. You weren’t going to be there waiting for him if he woke up.

* * * * *

The steady beeping of a heart monitor was the first thing Jake registered as he drifted back to consciousness. He blinked against the bright overhead light, his vision adjusting to the sterile white walls of a hospital room. His body felt heavy, weighed down by pain and exhaustion, but he was alive.

Alive. The word should’ve meant something. Should’ve felt like a victory. But all he felt was numb.

He didn’t know how long he lay there staring at the ceiling, letting the reality of everything settle in. The mission. The hit. The cold. The pain. The fact that he should be dead, but somehow wasn’t.

And you. You had been the last thing on his mind before he hit the water. The last thing before everything faded. 

And now lying here alive when he shouldn’t be, he didn’t know what to do with that.

* * * * *

Jake stepped off the plane, the humid Texas air wrapping around him like an old familiar embrace. The warmth should’ve felt like home, but it didn’t. Not really. Maybe nothing would after everything.

His ribs ached from the long flight, but he ignored it as he grabbed his duffel bag and made his way through the small Austin airport. His mom was waiting for him near baggage claim, standing on her toes to scan the crowd. The second she spotted him, relief softened her face, and she rushed forward, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Jake," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. "Oh, honey, it's so good to see you."

He gritted his teeth against the pain of her embrace but didn’t pull away. "Good to see you too, Mama."

She held him for a moment longer before stepping back, her hands lingering on his arms like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. Her eyes scanned his face, taking in the bruises, the exhaustion still clinging to him. "You look tired."

"Yeah, well. Almost dying will do that to a guy."

She swatted his arm lightly. "Don’t joke about that."

He gave her a tired smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Not joking."

Her expression faltered for a second, like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she just squeezed his arm. "Come on. Let’s get you home."

The drive back to the house was quiet, save for the occasional updates from his mom about family, neighbors, the latest town gossip. But Jake wasn’t really listening. He just stared out the window, watching the familiar Texas landscape roll past.

When they pulled into the driveway, his mom turned off the engine but didn’t get out right away. Instead, she looked at him carefully, her hands still gripping the wheel.

"You settling in okay?" she asked.

He frowned. "I just got here."

She nodded slowly, her lips pressing together like she was debating saying something else.

"What?" Jake asked, narrowing his eyes.

His mom hesitated, then gave him a small, knowing smile. "Nothing. Just…I have a feeling you're gonna find your time home a little more interesting than you expected."

Jake’s stomach twisted, but before he could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, she grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car, leaving him sitting there, wondering why the hell she suddenly looked like she knew something he didn’t.

The next morning, the house was quiet. His parents had already left for work, leaving Jake alone with nothing but the old family dog and his own thoughts. He sat on the porch, the Texas sun warming his skin, a coffee cup resting on the arm of the wooden chair beside him.

His ribs still ached with every breath, and even the smallest movements sent sharp reminders through his body. But the worst pain wasn’t physical.

Beau, the aging golden retriever, lay at his feet, tail thumping lazily against the wooden planks as Jake absently scratched behind his ears. The dog was content. Jake wished he could say the same.

He leaned back, closing his eyes, listening to the rustle of the wind through the trees. It was peaceful, but peace didn’t reach him the way it used to. Not with everything in his head. Not with everything in his chest.

Then he heard it. Gravel crunching under tires.

His brows pulled together as he opened his eyes, turning his head toward the driveway. A car he didn’t recognize was pulling in. His stomach tightened, his mind automatically running through the possibilities. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone looking for his mom or dad.

Then the driver’s side door opened. And you stepped out.

Jake’s entire body went still. For a second, he wondered if the pain meds were making him hallucinate. Because there was no way you were here. No way you were standing in his parents’ driveway, looking exactly the same and somehow completely different all at once.

His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.

You shut the car door gently, standing there for a beat, like you weren’t sure if you should take another step.

Jake swallowed, but his throat was dry.

You take a slow step forward. Then another. The crunch of your shoes against the gravel is the only sound between you. Beau lifts his head, watching you curiously, but Jake didn’t move. He just watches you come closer, like he isn’t sure if you’re real or if you’ll disappear before you reach him.

And then you stop at the edge of the porch. Close enough that he can see every flicker of hesitation in your eyes. Close enough that he can tell you’re nervous.

Neither of you speak at first. You just look at each other. For a moment, it feels like the whole world holds its breath.

Then you break the silence. "How are you?"

Jake almost lies. The words 'I’m fine' sit on the tip of his tongue, easy and automatic. But when he looks at you—really looks at you—he can’t bring himself to say it.

Instead he exhales, shifts slightly in his seat, and admits, "Everything hurts like hell."

Your lips press together, your gaze flickering down, and for a second, he wonders if he shouldn’t have said that. If maybe you didn’t want to hear the truth.

Then you go quiet. Your fingers fidget at your sides, like you’re debating something.

Jake watches you, waiting. And then, finally, you lift your gaze and say softly, "I was scared when I got the call."

His brow furrows slightly. "What?"

You let out a breath, shifting on your feet. "They…couldn’t get ahold of your mom after the accident. And I guess..." You hesitate. "I guess I was still listed as a contact on your paperwork."

Jake's stomach tightens.

"They called you?" His voice is quieter now.

You nod. "Yeah." A small, almost breathless laugh leaves you, but it isn’t amused. It’s tired. "I was the one who had to tell your mom what happened."

Jake stares at you, something unreadable flickering through his expression.

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to process the fact that you were the one who got the call. That you were the one who had to break the news to his mother.

And that when it came down to it, you still picked up the phone.

Jake lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head as he looks away. "Hell, maybe it would’ve been easier if I didn’t make it."

Your breath catches in your throat. "Jake—"

"I’m serious," he mutters, still not meeting your eyes. "Would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble. You wouldn’t have had to get that call. Wouldn’t have had to show up here now, feeling like you owe me something." He exhales sharply, jaw tight. "Would’ve been easier for you."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your arms drop from where they’d been crossed over your chest, the weight of his statement sinking deep into your bones.

"You think that?" Your voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Sharp and laced with something close to anger. "You think it would be easier for me if you were—" 

You can’t even say the word. It makes you sick.

Jake finally looks at you then, and for the first time since you stepped out of your car, he sees it. The hurt in your eyes, the way you’re gripping your hands into fists like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

"God, Jake." You shake your head, blinking hard. "You really think I’d want to live in a world where you don’t exist?"

He swallows, but he doesn’t say anything.

"I don’t care what happened between us. I don’t care how much time has passed." Your voice wavers, but you push through it. "I would never, never be okay with losing you."

Jake looks away again, his throat tight, his chest heavier than it already was. He wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t expecting you to still feel anything close to this strongly.

Jake clears his throat, shifting on the porch steps. He winces as the movement sends a sharp pain through his ribs. The weight of your words still lingers in the air between you, heavy and unspoken. He doesn’t know what to say or how to navigate this. So he reaches for the one thing that’s been at the forefront of his mind since you pulled into his driveway.

"So, uh...the wedding." His voice is rough, uncertain. "It’s soon, right?"

You let out a dry scoff, shaking your head. "Not anymore."

Jake frowns confused. "What do you mean?"

You cross your arms, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. There’s a moment of hesitation before you say it out loud. "I called it off."

The words hit him harder than they should. His fingers flex against his thigh, his pulse kicking up just slightly. He searches your face, trying to piece it together.

"Why?" he asks, voice quieter now.

You let out a breath, looking down at the ground. "Because it wasn’t right."

Jake watches you carefully. "Did he do something?" There’s an edge to his tone now,something protective, almost territorial, that he doesn’t even mean to let slip.

You shake your head. "No. He was...he is a good man." You look up then, meeting Jake’s gaze, and there’s something unreadable in your expression. "But he wasn’t you."

Jake just stares at you, completely floored. His mind races, trying to process what you just said. You still love him. After everything. After the years apart, the breakup, the almost marriage to someone else…you still love him.

Jake watches you, waiting, hoping, praying that this isn’t just some cruel dream that he's going to wake up from. 

But then you take a shaky breath, and your eyes drop to the wooden porch beneath your feet. "Something happened when I got the call," you admit quietly.

Jake tenses, his stomach twisting. "What do you mean?"

You shift, wrapping your arms around yourself like you’re bracing for something. "I was with him. My fiancé." You hesitate, voice barely above a whisper. "We were at our bachelor and bachelorette party."

Jake sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw clenching. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as you force yourself to meet his gaze again.

"My phone rang. I saw the number, and I just…I knew it was about you." You let out a small, bitter laugh, shaking your head. "He asked me not to answer. Told me that whatever it was, it could wait. But I couldn’t do it, Jake. I couldn’t ignore it. Not when I knew it was about you. I knew that the Navy would only be calling for one thing. And that I needed to know if something had happened."

Jake’s chest tightens, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"That was the moment I knew," you whisper. "I couldn’t marry him. Because no matter how much I wanted to move on, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I had—" You trail off, exhaling shakily. "I don't think I ever did."

Jake’s breath catches. His entire body aches, but nothing compares to the way his heart clenches at your words.

"Then let me be yours again." His voice is rough, pleading, desperate. "Please."

You stare at him, eyes wide, like you weren’t expecting him to say it. To fight for this.

Jake leans forward, wincing slightly from the pain still radiating through his ribs, but he doesn’t care. Not when you’re standing in front of him, looking at him like that, like part of you is still afraid to believe this is real.

"I lost you once," he says, voice raw. "And it damn near broke me. I’m not making that mistake again."

Your breath shudders as you exhale, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you is thick with everything unsaid, years of heartbreak and longing hanging in the balance.

"Jake—" You hesitate, pressing your lips together like you’re trying to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret. "I don’t know how to do this again."

"Then we figure it out together." His voice is steady this time, sure.

"I was so scared," you whisper, shaking your head. "When they called me, when I had to tell your mom-" You break off, inhaling sharply. "Jake, I thought—"

He doesn’t let you finish. He reaches out, his hand covering yours where it’s clenched into a fist against your side. Your fingers tremble under his touch but don’t pull away.

"I’m here," he murmurs, squeezing gently. "And I don’t want to waste any more time pretending like this doesn’t still mean something."

Your eyes search his, and he sees the war inside you, the part that’s still afraid to let him back in. But then, slowly, your fingers uncurl. You turn your hand over, letting your palm press against his.

"Okay," you whisper.

Jake exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, relief crashing over him.

"Okay," he echoes, squeezing your hand one more time before pulling you down onto the porch beside him.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. There's only the sound of the wind and the soft rustle of the trees around you. Then, without a word, Jake pulls you into his arms, his hold tight but gentle, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

You bury your face in his chest, the familiar scent of him grounding you in this moment, in a feeling you thought you lost. His arms tighten around you, and for the first time in a long time, you both breathe.

It’s like the world slows down, and in each other's arms, the years, the mistakes, the heartache fade into nothingness. There’s no need for words, no need for anything else. Just the comfort of being together again.

* * * * *

A few days later, things are still a bit new between you and Jake, but it feels right. You're taking it slow, giving each other the space to rediscover what you once had. Things are easier now, the awkwardness slowly slipping away as the days pass. Jake is at your place sitting on the couch while you make coffee in the kitchen. There’s a comfortable quiet between you, no pressure, just the two of you spending time together.

When you come back into the living room, he’s standing by the corner of the room, his fingers lightly brushing over the strings of your old guitar that’s resting in the corner.

"You still play?" he asks, his voice soft, almost like he’s unsure of how to approach it.

You give him a playful shrug, leaning against the doorframe. "Sometimes. Not as much as I used to."

Jake tilts his head, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "You take requests?" he teases, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You chuckle, the familiar feeling of teasing him making something warm stir inside you. "You think you’re funny, huh?" 

You walk over, picking up the guitar, and sit down on the couch, strumming a few chords to warm up your fingers.

"What's your request?"

"Our song," Jake says, sitting down beside you, the familiar weight of his gaze on you.

Your heart skips at the words. You start to play, the chords coming back to you like second nature, the rhythm flowing through you like a memory you never quite forgot. The song, the one that’s always been yours and Jake's song, fills the space between you. And with every note you can feel something stirring again.

By the time you reach the last line of the song, your fingers move with a gentle certainty. It feels like this is the way it was always meant to be. The two of you here in this moment, coming back to what you never should have left behind.

When the last chord fades, Jake’s hand finds yours, his fingers gently curling around yours. He looks at you for a beat, and then without a word he leans in.

The kiss is slow, sweet, and soft, like everything that’s been building between you has finally found its way out. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but full of all the things you’ve both been holding back for too long. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and you can’t help but smile.

"I missed this," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.

"Me too," you say, heart full, the world around you fading away until there’s only Jake, and you, and the love you’re starting to believe in again.

[loufr6]

pick a card – what your future boyfriend will be like

hey loves! so many of you have asked me for love readings, and the ones I’ve done so far have gotten such positive feedback, so I thought… why not try my very first Pick a Card for you all?

take a moment to relax, clear your mind, and simply choose one of several piles or images that resonate with you the most. Each pile is linked to a unique tarot spread, and the cards in that pile will give you insights into your situation trust your intuition, let’s see what the cards have to say about your future boyfriend!

scroll down for your reading…

pile 1 – the dreamy but insecure romantic

cards: the star (reversed), the empress, the high priestess, the world

your future boyfriend has so much potential, but he tends to doubt himself a lot. the star reversed shows that he might have gone through some tough times that have shaken his confidence in love, but don’t worry—he’s healing. with the empress and the high priestess, he is deep, sensitive, and very in touch with his emotions. he admires someone who is emotionally intelligent and knows how to connect on a deeper level. the world suggests that this relationship will be whole and fulfilling, possibly involving travel or being from different backgrounds. it will feel complete and full of potential, but it might take some time for him to fully open up to you.

♡ where you might meet: through travel, online, or a creative/spiritual setting.

pile 2 – the mysterious intellectual

cards: the hermit, the hierophant (reversed), strength, the magician

this man is not the type to rush into things. the hermit shows he is introspective, wise, and prefers to take his time. he might even seem a little distant or reserved at first. the hierophant reversed suggests he might not follow the traditional path in love, and he could have an unconventional view of relationships. but here’s the beauty—strength and the magician show that once he’s ready, he’s incredibly powerful and determined. he’s someone who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to make things happen. he’s likely to be successful in his career and creative pursuits, and his quiet confidence will draw you in.

♡ where you might meet: at a place of learning or intellectual discussion, work, or a deep event that sparks curiosity.

pile 3 – the reformed bad boy with a golden heart

cards: the devil (reversed), the sun, judgment (reversed), death

this guy has been through a lot and is really learning how to let go of his past. the devil reversed tells me he’s breaking free from toxic cycles or habits. he might have a wild side, but he’s working on finding balance. the sun shows that when he’s in a good place, he is radiating positivity and love—he’ll light up your world. but he’s still navigating a few things. judgment reversed suggests that he’s a little hesitant about embracing the full change he needs to grow. still, death is here, and that’s a card of transformation. he’s on the verge of letting go of what no longer serves him and stepping into a much better future.

♡ where you might meet: during a period of change or a big life transformation for both of you.

pile 4 – the passionate but mysterious lover

cards: the lovers, the wheel of fortune, the moon, the chariot

this man is a mix of deep passion and mystery. the lovers shows that he’s someone who is very romantic and could be torn between a few paths in life, especially when it comes to love. it’s possible he has a lot of options but is waiting for the right one to come along. the wheel of fortune suggests that your connection will feel fated—as if it was meant to be. things might fall into place at just the right time, but he does have a secretive side (thanks to the moon). he might not always show you all of himself at first, but the chariot tells me that when he commits, he does it with everything he has.

♡ where you might meet: an unexpected situation, or perhaps when things in your life are shifting or changing.

which pile did you pick? does it resonate with you? let me know in the comments!

[rhiannonsknife]

😭 Thank you so so so so so much for writing my request!! There's absolutely no rush with this I just wanted to ask another one, Because I'm kind of obsessed with your work-

Perhaps Jackie Taylor X Reader where they have been married for a long time. Like 10 plus years. She wakes up ready to go to work but their reading is standing in the kitchen, And it reminds Jackie of when they were so young and in love. It just makes her fall in love with the reader all over again and she decides she just has to take the reader and eat her out on the counter!

-🦜

── RUNNING HOME TO YOUR SWEET NOTHINGS

— summary: slow mornings with jackie.

— warnings: established relationship/marriage. fem!reader. domestic fluff & nsfw content. mdni.

jackie stretches as she wakes, letting consciousness settle over her slowly. the sheets are warm, cocooning her in their familiar weight, too tempting to leave just yet. from the other room, the quiet sounds of morning drift in; the rustle of pages turning, the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic.

jackie’s muscles, untrained but prominent from years of soccer in highschool and college, uncoil as she turns her head toward your side of the bed. it’s empty but still holds the warmth of you, the shape of your body faintly imprinted on the freshly washed sheets. not gone long, then. she smiles to herself, fingertips tracing the dip where you had been.

a soft weight presses against her shin, pulling her from the last remnants of sleep. glancing down, jackie finds your cat curled at the foot of the bed, paws tucked neatly under its chin. she reaches out, running her fingers over its soft fur, scratching lightly between its ears. the cat barely stirs, only flicking its tail once before sinking deeper into sleep. even after all these years, it still favors you.

with another stretch, she swings her legs over the side of the bed, the morning air cool against her skin. reaching for the worn sweater draped over the chair, jackie tugs it on quickly. yours, technically, but she’s long since claimed it as her own in the mornings. the fabric is too large on her, with sleeves hanging way past her hands, but it smells like you and the lavender laundry detergent you always buy and feels more comforting than any of her own clothes.

once she pulls it over her head and untangles her limbs from the sheets, she moves from the bedroom. jackie already knows exactly where she’ll find you.

as she walks through the hallway, she passes all the little signs of your life together: the framed photo from your honeymoon hangs slightly crooked on the wall, something you always insist you’ll fix but never do. tucked into the frame is a worn polaroid from your first apartment, covering a small crack in the glass. in it, jackie is holding up a wine glass, while you’re caught mid-laugh, leaning into her the same way you always have, even in the wedding photos that follow further down the hall.

the entryway table holds a vase of dried flowers, a bouquet she had given you months ago, now preserved because you couldn’t throw them out. nearby, a small stack of mail she keeps meaning to sort through, books piled beside it, some hers, some yours, overlapping in the same way your lives always have. it’s a cozy kind of mess, one that makes her smile even in passing.

and then there’s you, the centerpiece of jackie’s existence now, standing in the kitchen, bathed in the light that spills through the curtains.

you’re still in your nightgown, its hem skimming the curve of your thighs, and your hair is a little mussed from sleep. one hand cradles a mug, while the other flips absently through a book on the counter, your lips quirking every so often at whatever you’re reading while you wait for the eggs to cook.

jackie freezes in the doorway to watch you for a bit.

it’s been over a decade. over ten years of this, of waking up and falling asleep to you, learning every single one of your habits, and still, she finds herself caught off guard by how much she loves you and how much she still wants you, in all the ways that matter.

she remembers mornings like this from the beginning, back when you were both in high school, and time alone was a rare thing. the only moments you had to yourselves then were tucked into the short window between her parents leaving for work and shauna pulling up to drive you both to school.

everything felt like new territory back then. your presence in her house had meant rushed breakfasts at the kitchen counter, stolen kisses between sips of coffee in the too-large home of the taylors, always cut short by the sound of an approaching car and the reality that you couldn’t stay.

now, here you are, still stealing her breath away.

you glance up as if sensing your wife, and your face softens into a smile. jackie swallows, her heart doing something embarrassingly teenage in her chest.

“you’re staring,” you tease, taking a sip of your tea. jackie hums, pushing off the doorframe and crossing the room. “can’t help it,”

you laugh. before you can say anything else, she’s there, warm hands finding your waist, pulling you into her. sighing into the touch, you instinctively set your mug down on the counter as she buries her face against your neck and breathes you in.

“mhm, good morning to you too mrs (y/l/n),” you murmur.

god, jackie never tires of hearing that: your name, now hers.

it had never even been a question. the moment it came up in a long conversation spent curled up bare under the sheets of the cottage where she’d proposed, jackie knew. you had tilted your head, fingers tracing lazy patterns against her shoulder, and asked, ‘so, what do we do about names?’ she had just shrugged, as if the answer was the simplest thing in the world. ‘i’ll take yours’

and that was that. no hesitation or second thoughts, just certainty, like so many things when it came to you.

“you still like the sound of that, huh?” you tilt your head enough for her to kiss you properly.

“best decision i ever made,” jackie whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. she can feel your smile against her lips in response.

“aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for work?”

she lets her hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt. “i changed my mind…”

“oh?”

“yeah. i think i’d rather stay here,”

you hum, and your fingers move into the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging just enough to make jackie sigh against your mouth.

she always knows where you need her before you do yourself, and her hands slide further up beneath the silky fabric, over warm skin, cupping all of your breasts in her palms. her teeth graze your bottom lip just enough to make you whine into her. she swallows the sound greedily, tilting her head to kiss you deeper, her fingers tightening like she wants to pull you even closer. like close will never be close enough.

just as smoothly as she works your lips apart to slip her tongue in, she hooks her hands under your thighs and lifts you onto the counter. with a startled laugh, you let her move you. jackie grins when she steps between your legs, roaming the expanse of your bare thighs.

“easy,” you tease.

jackie’s palms caress up your parted thighs, the heat of her touch leaving a trail in its wake until settling firm at your hips. she holds you there and you exhale against her, fingers slipping back into her hair, curling it in your fists.

your legs tighten around her waist, pulling her in closer until jackie swears under her breath, clearly feeling the warmth that radiates from your center. she breaks the kiss just long enough to press her forehead against yours, breathing heavy, lips agape.

“you,” she accuses with her index poking your sides. “are trying to kill me here!”

“i’m not doing anything!” you protest.

jackie scoffs, quick to steal another kiss. then another. and another, like she has all the time in the world. right when you’re sure she’s going to lose herself entirely, the kitchen timer beeps.

the eggs.

for half a second, jackie looks almost offended at the rude interruption, but then your head drops against her shoulder and your body shakes with laughter. she groans, but your laughter is contagious, and soon enough, she’s laughing too.

jackie doesn’t let go of you, blindly reaching behind herself to fumble for the stove dial until she manages to turn it off.

“you’re just going to leave them sitting there?”

she nods, lips trailing down your jaw again so her voice comes out muffled. “they’ll survive”

you wrap your arms around her shoulders whilst she kisses her way back to your mouth.

jackie’s fingers fumble with the tie of your nightgown, working it open without needing to break the kiss. years spent learning where to tug and pull to free you from your clothes are to blame, the different motions muscle memory by now.

no matter how familiar jackie is with your body, she will never not take her time savoring the sight of you: you’re not wearing anything underneath, save for a thin pair of panties, so with the way she’s pushed the gown open your chest is on full display.

“so pretty,” she purrs, already closing the distance again. her hands cup your breasts, rolling your nipples gently at the same time as she’s kissing you. jackie’s mouth wanders to the side of your throat, then further down.

there’s no longer need for claim, for desperate encounters that aim to prove something. jackie will occasionally enjoy ravishing you (sinking her teeth in your flesh until the skin between them bruises all while she’s really fucking you), but it has become this for the most part: gentle lovemaking whenever you have the chance, still unable to keep your hands off of each other.

her lips briefly graze over the valley between your breasts, then slide below your belly button as she lowers her weight to the ground in front of you. with a smile, you cup one side of her face, taking your own share of time to admire your wife.

jackie doesn’t let you have a lot of it, though: before you know it, her mouth is on the fabric of your underwear and your head falls back against the wall as she feels you up with her tongue and lips, pressing in the places she’s memorized by heart.

“is that okay?” she breathes against you, still fully clothed, but aching with want.

“mhm,” you tighten your grip and jackie, who sighs happily in response and reaches out to peel your panties off. she’s careful with it, making sure you won’t slide off the counter while she lifts one leg after the other, just to pocket the underwear once that is done.

an invitation would not be necessary, and still, you spread your legs wider, not out of urgency but trust, shame and self consciousness long outgrown.

she has seen you in every state, knows every scar, every curve, every place where time has left its mark and, still, jackie looks at you like you are the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. her hands brush over skin she’s traced a thousand times before, never with any less reverence.

you look down just in time to find jackie pressing a first kiss to your mound, her ragged breath ghosting over your soaked sex that pulses impatiently lower.

with the index and middle finger of her right hand parted, she runs them through you, spreading your labia open in awe. a breathless sound tears from your throat, aware of how easily her digits slide through your wetness.

“come on,” you urge, lifting a leg over her shoulder. easier access.

jackie complies; her lips are parted when she presses them against you, applying just the right amount of pressure. the moan you let out at the first contact is loud and ragged, echoing through the kitchen.

“right there,” you cry.

right there, not because jackie needs guidance but because you know she loves it when you’re open. loud. when you let her know that she’s making you feel good, whether it is by letting your moans slip or by praising her verbally.

the vibrations of the noise she makes in response go straight to your core, more arousal dripping for her mouth to drink up hungrily. it is coating her, slick and wet as she traces over your clit and swirls in clockwise circles.

for a while, jackie eats you out like this, getting lost in your taste just like you are in the sensations of her tongue flicking from side to side, licking broad strokes through you, then fucking into you deep.

her hair, a little longer now but still the same golden brown she’s been maintaining, clings to the thin film of sweat on her forehead in delicate strands, proof that she’s just as affected by what she’s doing to you, whilst her neatly manicured nails dig into your flesh. soft pastel pink almond shapes drag lines of red down the side of your thighs, goosebumps and shivers rising from the touch.

“you taste so good” she says softly once, then leans right back in to continuously flick your clit.

you can tell she’s toying with you, avoiding your most sensitive spots with purpose, only ever ghosting it briefly until you’re grinding yourself against her face in frustration you cannot contain. she knows exactly what you would need to get close to the edge, pretends to give it to you, then withdraws once pleasure starts building up.

“jackie,” you whine.

between your legs, she holds your gaze, reaches out and runs a hand through your folds. when she tilts her head, asking for permission silently, you immediately nod and jackie pushes forward, two fingers sinking into the heat of your cunt.

this draws the loudest moan from you yet, though you wouldn’t dare to try and stifle it.

that’s a habit you’ve long since left behind, discarded like the passed down furniture and mismatched dishes from your first apartment. then, everything had been hushed, kisses stolen behind locked doors, moans muffled into pillows. the walls were thin, the neighbors close, and the fear of being overheard turned every moment into a careful mix of restraint and want.

in the home you live in now, there are no walls to mind, no need to press a fist to your mouth to quiet yourself. here, you are free to gasp when jackie’s lips press against your clit, free to let her love you without reservation.

jackie has taken her mouth off of you to watch the way your face contorts in pleasure as she rubs the tips of her fingers against your g-spot, allowing you to see the arousal smeared across the lower half of her face, glistening beautifully in the light.

she’s moaning too, quieter and less desperate of course, but moaning all the same when she feels the way you flutter around her as though she could actually get off from this. your pleasure had always been jackie’s, too.

“good?” she rasps.

“mhm,” you lift your head from the wall behind you, watching in awe as jackie puts her tongue back to where you want it. you don’t even know what it is about jackie’s mouth but she could probably make you cum from nothing but gentle kisses if she tried, always knowing exactly where to move to coax the most pleasure from your body.

her hair curls up between your fingers when she starts sucking on your clit gently, drawing a contented hum from her mouth.

the words jackie is saying morph into muffled babbles against your cunt, her voice white noise to the pleasure that sets your nerve endings alight as she sucks, her eyes rolling back in their sockets at the taste of you.

“jackie” you gasp, your hips pushing further into her face. an unreleased tension starts building in your abdomen, making your whole body tremble wildly.

“are you close love?” jackie asks, her fingers thrusting into you at a faster pace. “it’s okay,” she sits back on her heels to look at you, her hand making up for the momentary loss of her mouth. “i got you. just let go”

your free hand reaches for hers, fingers lacing together so that she can give you one long squeeze. jackie’s mouth starts sucking your clit harsher, pushing into you deeper, making your walls clench around her fingers. the sensation is so much. it’s not nearly enough. it’s perfect, sending you over the edge in mere seconds.

with a strangled cry of jackie’s name, you cum against the feeling of her mouth on your clit and her fingers buried deep inside you. her voice feels distant as pleasure rushes through your veins.

“that’s it” jackie praises, holding you through your orgasm. “oh my god, that’s it. fuck, you’re so beautiful” she talks you through the entire height, her voice cracking whilst she watches you fall apart and come undone. she continues her licking and sucking too, until you comfortably move her head away, spent and on the verge of overstimulation.

with a wet pop, she releases your throbbing clit and presses a last kiss to your knee before rising to her feet. you’re still perched on the counter, catching your breath, warmth buzzing under your skin.

jackie reaches for the edges of your nightgown next, making quick work of pulling the fabric back together, tying it loosely at your waist. you watch her fuss over it with amusement, as if she hadn’t just spent the last several minutes undoing it in the first place. “very modest of you”

“someone’s gotta keep you decent,” she quips, a teasing smile on her lips as she slots herself back between your legs, hands settling at your waist. the kiss that follows is slow and sweet, her mouth still carrying the taste of you. jackie lingers until the soft scent of something cooking reminds you of the world beyond her touch.

your gaze flickers past her to the stove, where the eggs still sit, long forgotten. “so...you still want breakfast?”

jackie glances over her shoulder at the abandoned pan, then back at you, considering. “i mean, we did work up an appetite, huh?”

you roll your eyes, swatting at her arm playfully before slipping down from the counter. she doesn’t let you go far, her hands finding your waist again as she stands behind you, holding you close while you move around the kitchen.

[charyou-tree]

Buckle up, I have a whole rant locked and loaded about this one:

For people born before that demographic, computers weren't around when they were growing up, so its understandable that they're playing catch-up.

People in that demographic grew up with desktop/laptop computers that worked pretty much the same as you would expect from a general office PC or school computer, so the skills they learned playing/modding games or messaging their friends through a web browser directly translated to useful office skills later. Even basic things like using Word, installing programs, navigating folders, using a keyboard, were all taught implicitly by self-motivated kids messing around with the family computer, and often teaching their friends to play together. I remember the assumption being that kids would always be better at tech than their parents because they were "digital natives" who learned how best to use it young. This may have caused a kind of complacency about teaching kids how to use technology, which I'll come back to later.

For people born after that demographic, we enter the era of smart-devices being most people's primary computing appliance, and the era of "the app". It doesn't make sense for many families to buy a multiple-hundred-dollar minimum PC/laptop when they're probably already paying that much for everybody to have a phone that does "nearly as much".

Through a deliberate effort by major software enterprises, consumers were deliberately kept in the dark about how the software they used actually worked. App stores are walled gardens of proprietary software that can't be modified or even verified that it does what it says. Sure, any toddler can semi-use an ipad, but the trade off is that even skilled users are inherently limited in what they're able to accomplish on such a system. And none of the skills of navigating between game/social media apps on a touchscreen really translate to practical skills that will help in any sort of academic or professional environment.

When I was a TA for undergraduate physics courses, getting the adult students to download and install a piece of free software was like pulling teeth, but it was hardly the student's fault. Half of them were using locked-down chromebooks that defaulted to saving everything somewhere in the cloud, so even getting a file downloaded, much less installed and executable, was made deliberately near-impossible.

Meanwhile, in the ~30, arguably 40 years since Personal Computers have revolutionized home life and office tasks, hardly anywhere have those skills been added to school curricula! We're still operating as though the internet is a neat fad that might pass any day now. Although really, its because schools are barely able to offer what they presently do being chronically starved of funding by a society that doesn't value educating their children.

So, the net result of this is there's a narrow window of people who grew up after computers were affordable but before they became enshittified and deliberately less-capable app-based devices became the default that actually learned non-trivial PC skills en masse.

That's not to say nobody outside that demographic knows anything about computers! My maternal grandfather is 85 and he built his own last 3 PCs! And there are still plenty of kids cooking up their own Minecraft mods with their friends, but the younger-millennial older-gen-z demographic had some unique advantages when it came to learning about technology.

Technological literacy only exists in a very slim age demographic of people born from roughly 1980 to roughly 2007

[anakinca]

PLEASE I NEED SOME SIZE DIFFERENCE WITH ANAKIN, god I need this man to tower over me and compare hand sizes just for the sheer fun of it

—❝achingly gentle❞

anakin skywalker x reader

tw ; nothing, just pure fluff

a/n ; GUYS I AM SO SORRY I HAVEN'T POSTED ANYTHING IN AGES 😭 i got WAYYY too caught up in my work after that little.. incident.. with my arm.. BUT WE ARE BACK. i hope you all enjoy this, angels <3

THE SUN HAD LONG SINCE DIPPED BELOW THE CORUSCANT SKYLINE. The air carried a quiet chill, whispering against your skin. Training had gone on too long, the heat of the battle between you and Anakin now cooled to nothing but tired limbs and unsteady breaths.

The first time you truly felt it—felt just how much bigger he was, how easily he could envelop you—it was in something as simple as a borrowed cloak.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your body shivered, hadn’t paid any mind to the way the wind nipped at your sweat-damp clothes—until his warmth was draped over you.

Anakin’s cloak was heavy, impossibly so. The fabric smelled like him—something grounding, something safe. It pooled around your shoulders, its sheer weight pulling you downward, sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem nearly brushing the ground.

You turned, peering up at him from beneath the oversized hood, and found him watching you with that slow, knowing smirk—the kind that sent warmth curling through your chest.

“You look ridiculous,” he teased, reaching out to tug the cloak tighter around you.

You scoffed, struggling to push the sleeves up enough to free your hands. “It’s not my fault you’re built like a krayt dragon.”

Anakin hummed, stepping closer, so close that you had to tilt your head back just to meet his gaze. The sheer size of him was something you had always known—felt in the way he stood, in the way his presence filled a room, in the way his arms caged around you when he fought to protect you. But here, like this, his height, his strength, his warmth—it was undeniable.

A playful determination sparked in your chest. You lifted your hands—your small, ridiculous hands when compared to his—and pressed them against his chest, shoving with all your might.

He didn’t move. Not even an inch.

You blinked.

Anakin raised an eyebrow, so unbearably smug. “Was that supposed to do something?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I was testing a theory.”

“And?”

“I don’t like the results.”

His laughter was warm, that boyish yet infuriating grin you love so much appearing on his features. And then, before you could escape the embarrassment of your failed attempt at moving him, he reached out and grabbed your wrist. “And what did you learn?”

Your breath caught. His thumb traced a slow, absentminded circle along the inside of your wrist, warm and steady. He lifted your hand, turning it so your palm pressed against his.

The difference was laughable.

His fingers stretched far past yours, the breadth of his palm nearly double in size. His hand was strong, calloused from years of wielding a saber, yet so achingly gentle as he laced his fingers through yours. Your hand looked so small in his hold, fragile in a way that made something deep in his gaze soften.

You swallowed, a sudden shyness creeping in. “That you’re unfairly large.”

Anakin let out a low chuckle, his voice a warm vibration beneath your fingertips. “Or maybe you’re just unfairly small.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he did something unexpected—something that sent your heart stuttering.

He lifted your intertwined hands and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

The touch was featherlight, reverent, as if he was memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, in the only way he knew how. His lips were warm against your skin, his breath a whisper of heat that sent shivers racing down your spine.

Your fingers twitched against his, tightening ever so slightly.

Anakin’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, pure and utter adoration flickering behind them.

A pause. A heartbeat suspended in time.

And then—

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a thread of something deeper woven into it. “Let’s get inside before you disappear completely in my robes.”

His fingers tightened around yours, a silent promise, a tether, a warmth that chased away the cold.

And with your hand still safely tucked in his, you let him lead you to the safe haven you two call home.

@thesassypadawan @anakinstwinklebunny @sydkneez @dessxoxsworld @nikiloveshayden @sweetcheesecakesblog @throughparisallthroughrome

let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the tag list, angels <3

[softidiotsposts]

Anyone Can Cook

as the wise tale of ratatouille states "anyone can cook... but only the fearless can be great"

{Hello! Second fic, this time pure fluff for recovery! Warnings: kitchens being messy, mentions of bland food, cooking, mentions of the french and reader is french, picky eaters, incorrect cooking terms (probs) // word count: 2.2k}

masterlist

Leah always mentioned Ratatouille around you, like a little disease that you could never shake. The little blue rat named, Remy, had become a staple in your household- even earning you a nickname based on the rat. She thought herself funny, with you being French and all- even a native Parisian, which apparently made it even more of a gag. One that you didn't enjoy very much.

You didn't get it- the film, while good in a general sense and clearly a children's film- had no idea of what a professional kitchen actually looks like and you liked to point out the serious misconceptions to Leah every time she forced you to watch it.

"Seriously, Lee- I have had enough of this film!"

You grumble when Leah once again picks Ratatouille to watch on your weekly movie night- this makes it twice in a row that she's picked this. Making you absolutely devastated that watching Notting Hill was being put on hold, once again.

You wonder whether revoking her TV rights on film night would fix the problem but then remember that Leah could do absolutely anything and you'd probably let her do it anyway. Even if it's a chef rat based torture.

Still, it's actually getting to the point that you remember practically every single line of the film and the plot never surprises you. Not when Leah insists on watching it all the time.

You don't even think she actually enjoys the film enough to watch it all the time either so it must only be to see your reaction.

"But it's so good- really lets me get the idea of what you do at work," Leah giggles and presses start and the obnoxious "French" sounding music starts to play.

You groan, "This is not what I do."

"Yeah, yeah, Remy- You do some cooking with fancy things, I know."

"Actually, I-"

You're about to correct Leah with the most attitude you ever have when she presses her lips against yours and you melt like butter in a pan. She knows that you can never resist her when she has her soft lips against yours and it works without fail each time- even when you're terribly angry.

Leah smirks and wraps an arm around your shoulders. In turn you sigh, knowing that there is no winning when Leah has her mind set on something or whenever she uses her ultimate weapon.

It's around half way through the film, when the famous line is said that you come upon the genius idea. Taking Leah through cooking something that cannot be made via a machine- a cooking lesson with the most inept chef you've met.

The words anyone can cook are true... to a certain extent- It comes down to personal opinion mostly, what does one truly classify as cooking? In theory, if making toast with butter was considered cooking then Leah was the expert but when it came to the taste department- that is where your girlfriend falters.

Before Leah, when you still lived in France, you swore up and down you could never date anyone with the taste buds of a five year old- saying that it was the ultimate deal breaker. Now here you are, dating a famous Arsenal footballer that has the diet of a primary schooler.

At first, it had come as a shock- you went to a restaurant on your first date (not your ideal place for a date but Leah insisted) and she ordered the plainest thing on the menu. You were in such shock that you double checked the menu to see if you weren't misreading because who orders chicken nuggets at a Michelin star restaurant? And why did they even serve such a dish?

It also happened to be the moment that you fell head over heels for Leah, so you learned to get over the food very quickly.

Yet, this was a moment to teach Leah a lesson in taking you seriously... or maybe at least putting a stop to rewatching Ratatouille every single week.

So you take a week to prepare everything perfectly, you plan out what you're going to teach Leah to cook, even survey your kitchen staff before opening with a little questionnaire.

Then you make sure that all knives are sharpened, pots and pans are present- even though you're the only one who uses them- and that all other additional equipment is on hand if needed.

After all the prep work, you go out to the market early on Friday morning to buy a whole chicken since Leah is most likely to actually eat it after it's cooked- you're against wasting food in any circumstance. Then circle around to the other side for fresh vegetables. Once you have acquired all that is needed, you return home perfectly on time.

It leaves you enough time to get your chef coat that you wear when working and find the spare one you had borrowed for Leah, then set out all the ingredients on the marble countertops. It looks absolutely perfect and tickles that ocd part of you brilliantly.

In hindsight, you should have given Leah a slight pre-warning as to what the two of you were doing today but the expression on her face when she walks in is priceless- so priceless, you wish you had recorded it, so you can show it to all her teammates and your co-workers.

“What’s all this?” Leah says, clearly confused as she drops her training bag by the discarded sneakers. 

You fan your hands out, presenting all the different things across the countertops with a large grin- just as large as Leah’s everytime she picks Ratatouille over any other mildly interesting film. 

“This, my love, is your cooking crash course with the best chef in London.” 

It’s true, the London’s society of restaurateurs had voted you best chef for the third year in a row and you couldn’t be happier to flex it in Leah’s face. It’s your personal victory and you like to compare it to her Euro win with England- just to watch her turn a little red as she fiercely defends it to be harder. 

You'd normally agree but maybe she won’t be so quick to correct you next time though because as soon as she’s in the white coat with you (and after you had taken a photo of her that will be posted on instagram later.) the two of you are off, cooking what you think is going to be the driest chicken ever. 

“No- not like that!” 

You’re quick to correct her, it’s automatic and you feel as though it’s a little harsh but this is payback for making you suffer through a cartoon rat cooking. 

You place a hand on top of hers and you swear she blushes just a bit but you ignore it, instead guiding her hand to correctly dismantle the chicken into its individual parts. After helping her with one side, you watch as she tries to complete the other- and to her credit, it is not a total disaster. The cuts are a little jagged and some of the chicken looks more like it’s been massacred rather than taken apart but albeit still looks edible. 

Then she looks up at you with proud eyes and you forget about everything for a moment- all the mental gymnastics- and focus on her sweet smile that warms your heart. You come a little closer and give her a kiss on the cheek, careful not to touch her since you've just been cutting chicken.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart."

Maybe it's an exaggeration but the blush appears on Leah's cheeks after it is completely worth a white lie.

"Thanks, Remy, I have the best teacher," Leah wiggles her brows at you suggestively and you roll your eyes in return.

"Well, I do have three Michelin stars to my name," You grin and Leah smiles back at you.

Then you add, "It's like having three of those golden ball thingys that you all pine after."

Leah's face drops a bit, "You mean a ballon d'or?"

Your face lights up and you nod rapidly, "Yes, exactly!"

Leah pulls a face and furrows her brows, "Okay, baby... maybe we should focus on the cooking?"

You nod and turn your attention towards the dismantled chicken in front of the two of you- You resist the urge to cringe and put all the different parts into a bowl that you then place into the fridge.

"Let's wash hands before the next part."

The two of you take turns washing your hands, Leah flicking water at you playfully when it's her turn and you frowning when she does so.

"Take this seriously, Lee- In my kitchen-"

"Our kitchen-" She corrects you.

You raise your brows in question, "Who uses it the most?"

Leah suddenly fiddles with her coat and looks anywhere but you, you scoff but a smile finds it way to your face anyway- then you wrap an arm around her waist.

"Whatever, just focus- as if it were a match!"

Leah chuckles but steps up to the cutting board where various different vegetables are laid out with one of your personal knives that you bring to work besides it.

"So what now?" Leah asks, evident confusion in her voice.

"I want you to cut the peppers julienne and the carrots paysanne."

Leah looks at you with the most confused expression you've seen to date when the French leaves your mouth and all you can do is sigh.

"Peppers thin like matchsticks and the carrots into circles, please."

"Now that, I can understand," She laughs and begins to chop the peppers, first gutting them and throwing the seeds in the bin beside her then slicing them into strips.

You're leaning your head on her shoulder and your arms are wrapped loosely around her waist as you watch what she is doing- Leah's fingers are wrapped around the wooden handle and she guides the blade down each pepper part with some kind of precision.

You smile and encourage her by giving a light squeeze that you feel she leans into-

"Focus, that knife can cut your finger off."

You hear Leah scoff, "Maybe you shouldn't distract me then?"

You don't say anything nor do you move your arms away from her waist instead focus on the way she's slicing the various peppers- somehow, Leah begins to stray from the very thin slices into thick chucks without even acknowledging it.

You smile, "Stop for a second, Lee."

Leah pauses instantly and turns her head to look at you from where you stand behind her, she raises a brow in question and you grin in return. Then pick up a slice of pepper, holding it up for the two of you to inspect.

"Too thick, darling."

You press yourself closer to her back, forcing her to face the board again- this time you place your hands on top of hers, they are slightly warmer than yours and the heat immediately spreads, then begin to slice as you had instructed.

The rest of the vegetables go smoothly and you let them rest to the side before taking the chicken out of the fridge again-

"We are going to bake the legs, use the bones to make a sauce with the peppers and boil the carrots."

You explain, pointing to all the different elements as you do so and all Leah does is nod before stepping closer to you so she can wrap her arms around your neck.

"Yes, chef Remy," Leah chuckles when you scoff.

She gives you a quick kiss that you so desperately want to deepen but she pulls away before you can. Instead, she turns to the board and looks at you with the same focus you see on the pitch.

"Alright, let's start."

The rest of the evening goes... as well as you'd imagine- the kitchen is thankfully still standing, but in a state of utter disarray. The sauce that Leah made under your guidance had boiled over after she turned the temperature up, so that it would "cook faster". You didn't even get the chance to explain that it doesn't work like that, when a blob of sauce landed on the floor.

So there was a large spillage of sauce all over the stove and countertop but that was the least of your worries since the fire alarm had rang... once... twice... and a third time when the chicken was in the oven. Turns out that Leah cannot preheat an oven to the correct temperature either- so that chicken wasn't even dry, as you'd predicted, it was just simply not even there anymore.

All the meat had burned into crispy back sludge and the bones smelt disgusting- so disgusting that Leah had to stand on the balcony as you threw it out. Stating that she would throw up if she had to do it. 

It turns out that nothing was safe from Leah's horrid cooking skill since the carrots suffered a death by over boiling- turning into mush rather than keeping their shape after the plunge in the steaming hot water of the pot.

In the end, Leah and you end up on the plush sofa with white styrofoam take out boxes in front of you and the normally tidy kitchen left in a rather untidy state, much to your dismay- but none of you had the energy to clean on an empty stomach.

You're shoveling food into your mouth when Leah picks up the remote and you dread what's coming. You see disney being opened and the pit in your stomach turns into sickness-

"So... Ratatouille?" Leah giggles and presses play, you music ringing out of the speakers. 

"Darling- No, please!"

[cuteandhughesy]

Congratulations on 1k followers!! It’s so deserved!

Id like to request prompts 32 + 41 with Quinn Hughes. Maybe with insecure reader ~~<3

prompt no.32: “did I stutter?” + prompt no.41: “you’re it for me.”

dating a professional athlete wasn’t for the faint of heart—that much you’ve learned in the past 7 months of being in that very position.

other wags has warned you about the fans and reporters. how boundaries will always be crossed, and even through your man is the one in the spotlight, it feel like you too are under a microscope. jealous girls will pick you apart, commenting on your weight and appearance and what colour lipstick you wear until you’re doubting yourself.

nosy reports will comment on how you treat your man. are you cooking for him? making sure his laundry is done? cheering loud enough to look supportive but not loud enough to be heard. they’ll reprimand you if you speak out or speak up for what you believe in if it doesn’t align with your views.

they’ll call you a gold digger if you don’t work, but if you do have a career, you’re selfish for not devoting all your time to your man.

look right.

act right.

perfect yourself.

at first you didn’t think much about it. for the first few months of dating vancouver canucks captian quinn hughes, it was private. soft launches that had fans knowing, but not enough proof to label what the two of you were to another. but as you got more comfortable, so did the hockey world.

girls would leave awful comments on your pictures and send you cruel messages—you’re not skinny enough, or pretty enough for quinn. you dress like a slut or sometimes you dress like a prude. you look like a bitch. you’re only dating quinn for the paycheque—even worse, you’re only dating quinn as a stepping stone for his brothers.

you tried to ignore all the negativity—from awful fans and sports blogs that have nothing better to do than comment on you—and focus on the positive comments. but even that proved to be difficult.

it started to take a toll on you, and quinn noticed. at first he waited. he didn’t want to push you into talking about something that made you uncomfortable. quinn wanted you to come to him and/or let you work it out on your own. it’s not that he didn’t care, but he knew you were strong and determined, and he knew you didn’t care about strangers opinions.

until you did start to care.

it’s almost midnight as you stand at quinn’s bathroom vanity, slowly massaging moisturizer into your skin as quinn steps out of the shower behind you. smoothly he wraps a fluffy towel around his hips, water trickling down his chest as he makes his way over to you.

you smile at him through the mirror, but it doesn’t meant you eyes. quinn’s lips tug down, pressing his warm chest against your sleep shirt covered back as he brings you into his arms.

you sigh as he starts kissing your neck. there’s no hurriedness to them, or an underlying desire, but instead the kisses or soft—intimate—and reassuring.

you gnaw on your lip, head falling back against his shoulder. “feels nice,” you whisper into the steamy bathroom. quinn doesn’t answer you, his hand slipping up your thigh and under your t-shirt, fingers skimming higher and higher up your body—feeling you. your lower half becomes more and more exposed, and your eyes narrow in on your bare skin like second nature.

thighs with imperfections that you haven’t shaved in a week.

when was the last time that bitch got a wax? poor quinn is with a beast.

your lower belly, protecting your uterus but bulging out in a way that creates a bump.

is she pregnant? she looks pregnant

your hands, hanging limp at your sides.

he’ll never put a ring on a girl who looks like that.

your breathe catches, body tensing in quinn’s hold. he pauses, raising his head from your neck and catching your eyes in the mirror. expect you’re not looking at him, but yourself.

“hey,” he starts softly, spinning you around in his hold, giving you no choice but to look at him. “what’s wrong honey?”

your lip trembles, “nothing.”

his palms slide up to your face, holding your cheeks in his gentle hands. quinn tilts your head back, just enough so that you can’t hide away by looking at the floor. his thumbs stroke your cheeks smoothly, a frown on his face. he doesn’t believe you for a second.

“it’s not nothing,” quinn says, “is it something online?”

shock registers across your face. you never told quinn about what’s happening on social media and nasty comments, mostly because you were too embarrassed to admit that it was bothering you. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

quinn’s intense gaze doesn’t falter, and neither does the soothing movement along your face. you sniffle, “it’s just…” you trail off, “am I pretty enough?” you ask after a beat, voice timid and seeking as you blink up at quinn.

“are you pretty enough?” he repeats, brows pulling tightly together in confusion. “of course you’re pretty enough. you’re more than just enough?”

“but like-“

“did I stutter?”

you blink. despite his reassurance, you can’t help the wave of insecurity that’s rushes through you. when hundreds of people all comment on your appearance, negative and condescending, over and over again, you can’t help but start to believe it.

and quinn knows what it’s like being put on a pedestal only to meet others high expectations. then getting slashed down, degraded and belittled like some toy. it’s awful, but that’s just about his game. he can’t even imagine something commenting on your appearance, knowing you can’t change it.

“they say i’m not good enough for you,” you tell him after a beat, picking at your own hands absentmindedly like a nervous tick. even hearing yourself say those things makes you shiver.

quinn shakes his head, pressing a soft long kiss to your forehead. “don’t ever believe that for a second,” he says, lips brushing your skin, “you’re it for me, okay?” 

and somehow that’s enough.

—

(unedited)

[someonegoood]

BRUISED HEARTS ✫ jeon jungkook

CONTAINS: boxer!Jungkook x reader, fighting turned bonding, emotional vulnerability, healing together, SOULMATES AU, mention of violence, past trauma, shared pain, fluff & angst, unexpected connection, fighting against fate....

NOTE: thanks so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it!! this work hasn’t been revised, and english isn’t my first language, so please bear with me!!!! your feedback means a lot to me! 😊THIS IS A ONE PART STORY.

my main masterlist! ❀

From the moment you’re born, your soulmate exists somewhere out there—a thread tying two lives together, invisible but unbreakable. Yet, the connection remains asleep until your eighteenth birthday. That’s the moment everything changes.

The moment the clock strikes midnight, your body becomes linked to theirs. Every ache, every wound, every sharp sting of pain—they feel it, and so do you. A scraped knee burns against your skin. A broken bone sends you crumbling under the same pain.

It’s an unspoken law of the universe: soulmates share pain, but bleeding wounds always belong to the one who truly endured them.

For some, it’s proof of an unshakable bond, a guiding force leading them to their other half. For others, it’s a cruel twist of fate—linkedto a stranger’s suffering with no way to stop it.

And for you? It starts with a split lip the day after turning eighteen, stealing the breath from your lungs.

A sharp sting on your lip, the dull ache blooming across your face. You scramble out of bed, stumbling to the mirror, fingertips ghosting over the swollen skin. There’s no explanation. No accident from the night before. No memory of falling. And yet, the pain lingers deep in your bones.

And that’s when it hits you.

Your soulmate is hurt. And you have no idea who they are.

That was a year ago.

At first, the pain was relentless. It happened again two nights later—an ache in your ribs, enough to make you suffer with every breath. Then a bruise on your knuckles a week after that. It was slow at first, little reminders that somewhere, someone was fighting battles you couldn’t see.

You tried not to think about it too much. Tried to convince yourself it wasn’t your problem. But then the injuries worsened.

One morning, you woke up with bruises scattered across your face, purple and aching. Your mother screamed when she saw you.

"What happened to you?" she demanded, rushing over with wide, frantic eyes. You blinked at her, still groggy from sleep.

"I—I don’t know."

"Don’t lie to me!" Her voice cracked as she cupped your face, fingers trembling. "Who did this to you? Did someone—did someone hurt you?"

Tears burned at the back of your throat. "No one hurt me, Mom. I swear. It just… happened."

"That’s not possible," she whispered, her hands falling to her sides. "This isn’t normal."

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. "It’s the soulmate bond."

Your mother exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Oh, sweetheart..." She pulled you into a hug, holding you tighter than she ever had before. "You need to start covering them. People will ask questions."

So you did.

From that day forward, you mastered the art of makeup. Layers of it over bruises, carefully chosen clothes to hide what foundation couldn’t. Some days, the pain was just a dull ache. Other days, it felt like your body was breaking under the weight of wounds you couldn’t see.

You had to.

Now, the pain is back. It comes in waves, occasional bruises appearing on your skin like echoes of a fight happening miles away. You thought it was over, that maybe your soulmate had finally found peace.

But the fresh aches tell you otherwise.

Jungkook’s life has always been a battlefield.

He grew up fighting, not just in the ring, but for survival. There was no softness in his world—no warm hugs, no soothing words, no gentle hands to catch him when he fell. His parents were there in surname only, too preoccupied with their own lives to notice the boy slipping through the cracks.

So he learned early: no one was coming to save him.

Pain was temporary. Weakness was unacceptable. And anger? Anger was the only thing that was his.

He was fifteen the first time he stumbled into an underground fight. It happened by accident—one of the older kids at school had mentioned a place, a ring hidden near a park on the outskirts of the city. No rules, no questions, just fists and money exchanged under flickering lights.

Jungkook hadn’t gone looking for a fight that night. But when he saw it—the raw brutality, the way blood stained the concrete floor, the way the crowd roared with every brutal hit—something inside him clicked.

For the first time, he felt something real.

The next time he went... he wasn’t just a spectator. Now, years later, fighting is the only thing that keeps him steady.

“Why do you keep doing this?” his coach, Seokjin, asks one evening after a particularly brutal match. Jungkook sits on the locker room bench, wrapping his bruised knuckles with practiced ease. His jaw is swollen, a cut on his cheekbone still fresh, but he barely flinches.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at his hands, flexing his fingers. “Because I need to.”

Seokjin sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not an answer. You have talent, Jungkook. Real talent. You could go pro. Make something of this. But instead, you’re out there throwing punches in illegal rings for what? Money? Bragging rights?”

Jungkook lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s not about money.”

“Then what is it about?” Seokjin presses, voice softer now. “Why do you need to fight like this?”

For a moment, Jungkook hesitates. Then he exhales, leaning back against the wall. “Because if I stop, I have to feel everything else.”

Seokjin doesn’t push him after that.

Two years ago, Jungkook turned eighteen, expecting something—anything. But no pain came. No sudden ache, no phantom injuries. Nothing. At first, he waited, convinced that maybe his soulmate just hadn’t been hurt yet. But days turned into weeks, then months, and still, he felt nothing.

Soulmates were supposed to share pain. If he felt nothing, then maybe soulmates weren’t real. Maybe he was alone in this world.

One night, during a rare outing with his friends, the topic comes up. They're sitting at a bar, laughter mixing with the low hum of music. Taehyung leans back in his seat, tipping his drink toward Jungkook with a knowing smirk.

"Still no sign of a soulmate?" he asks.

Jungkook scoffs, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You know the answer."

Jimin, ever the romantic, frowns. "That’s... kind of sad, man. Doesn’t it bother you?"

"Not really," Jungkook lies, taking a slow sip. "Means I don’t have to worry about someone else’s pain."

Taehyung hums. "Or maybe it means they don’t exist at all."

Jimin shakes his head. "That’s not how it works. Everyone has a soulmate, Jungkook. You probably just haven’t—"

"I don’t believe in that crap," Jungkook cuts in, sharper than intended. "If I had one, I’d feel something. Anything. But I don’t."

The table falls silent for a moment. Then Taehyung raises his glass in a mock toast. "Well, soulmate or not, at least you can still drink with us."

Jungkook clinks his glass against Taehyung’s, forcing a smirk. But deep down, something unsettles him. A quiet thought he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

If soulmates are real, why hasn’t he felt anything?

The underground fights are ruthless. There are no rules, no referees to step in when things get too rough. It’s just fists, blood, and the roar of a crowd hungry for violence.

Jungkook thrives in it.

Tonight, he moves like a predator in the ring—sharp reflexes, calculated brutality. Every punch he throws is precise, every hit he takes with gritted teeth and unwavering focus. He’s fast and relentless. He doesn’t just fight to win, he fights to feel something. To punish himself for things he won’t say out loud.

And somewhere, you feel every single one.

Your body jerks awake with a sharp gasp, searing pain tearing through your ribs. Your vision swims, the force of a punch nearly knocking the breath from your lungs. You clutch your side, fingers pressing against skin that remains unbroken but throbs as if bruised to the bone.

You barely make it to the bathroom, bracing yourself against the counter as your legs tremble beneath you. Another hit lands, this time to the jaw, and your head snaps to the side as if an invisible fist just struck you. A choked whimper escapes your lips, swallowed by the silence of your empty apartment.

Whoever your soulmate is, they are fighting for their life.

And losing.

The next morning you tend to your aching body, carefully putting ointment over bruises that aren’t really yours. The motions are familiar, practiced. Once done, you take your dog for a walk, hoping the fresh air will clear your mind.

But the moment you get to the park, he takes off.

“Wait—Soo!” you call, but he doesn’t stop. He runs between trees, disappearing into the distance. Panic rises in your chest as you chase after him, heart pounding.

You finally catch sight of him slipping through a half-open door of an old shed. A strange chill creeps up your spine.

You hesitate before stepping inside, your voice trembling as you call, “Soo?”

The dim light reveals punching bags, weights, and a massive ring in the center of the room. The scent of sweat and metal lingers in the air. A gym—hidden, secure.

And then, a sound. A faint, almost imperceptible.

Your heart jumps. You whip around, breath shallow, eyes scanning the room. The space seems unnervingly still, the only movement coming from the dim, buzzing fluorescent lights above. But there’s nothing else. Nothing... until another sound. This one louder.

A figure steps from the shadows, taller than you expected, broad shoulders cutting through the low light like a figure from a dream. The knot in your stomach tightens, but you can’t look away.

You know who it is.

Your heart races, but not from fear—no, it's something else, something far more primal. It’s like your body recognizes him before your mind has a chance to make sense of it. A fleeting sensation of familiarity, as though you've seen him before… in a dream, or maybe in another lifetime.

His eyes catch yours—intense, almost possessive—like he’s been waiting for you too. His lips part, but he doesn't speak. His presence feels like a weight in the room, pulling the space around you taut, making everything feel infinitely closer. You swallow hard, a lump in your throat, unable to find the words, but a strange tug at the back of your mind tells you he knows you.

But how? Why does it feel like this moment was always meant to happen?

He steps closer, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the thick air in the room. There’s a quiet intensity to his movements, as if he's waiting for something, calculating your reaction. Your breath quickens as your pulse races in your ears, the distance between you shrinking.

"Soo?" you ask again, your voice trembling, unsure whether it's out of fear or something else entirely. You can’t quite place it, but something inside you stirs, a flutter deep in your chest, as though you’ve been waiting for him all along.

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gaze holds yours, unreadable, before a small, knowing grin tugs at his lips. His silence speaks volumes. There’s something in the air, a strange recognition, an unspoken connection. It feels inevitable, even if neither of you understands it.

Jungkook stands frozen, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, and something deeper—a recognition he can’t shake. He’s drawn to you, inexplicably, even though every instinct tells him to stay back.

Jungkook thinks this can’t be real.

His mind spins with a whirlwind of confusion and something deeper, a recognition he can't shake. He’s always been cautious. Always kept his walls high. After all, the world had taught him that letting anyone in just leads to pain. But here you are, standing in front of him, and there’s a familiarity in your eyes—something that speaks to him on a level he can’t even begin to understand.

Why now? Who are you?, he thinks.

His eyes follow your every movement. Every part of him wants to know you, to understand why everything about you feels so... right. But the voice in his head urges him to retreat, to protect himself from whatever this connection might bring. He can’t afford to trust anyone again—not after everything he’s lost.

But the pull is too strong.

All of a sudden, a high-pitched bark echoes through the gym, breaking the tension in the air. The sound is so unexpected, so out of place in the heavy silence, that it startles both Jungkook and you.

Jungkook jumps, muscles tensing, eyes wide. The bark throws him off balance, and in his haste to step back, he bumps into something hard. The sound of metal crashing to the ground sends a jolt of adrenaline through him.

He stumbles, trying to regain his footing, but as he does, his shoulder brushes against yours. The unexpected contact makes both of you freeze.

A sudden wave of warmth rushes through you, more intense than any shock you’ve ever felt. It’s like a spark, an undeniable connection surging between the two of you.

You flinch, your breath catching in your throat.

"Auch..." you mutter under your breath, the word slipping out instinctively, and just like that, something shifts in the air. It’s subtle, but you feel it. The pull between you and Jungkook intensifies, and for the first time, the weight of the moment settles around you, overwhelming, undeniable.

Jungkook stands still, eyes wide as he processes the surge of emotion, the inexplicable bond between you. His breath falters for a moment, the realization dawning on him.

This is what it feels like.

You and Jungkook stand there, breathless, a shared understanding passing between you. Neither of you needs to speak because you both know.

You’re soulmates.

“Soo?”

That fluffy little dog. The one that had barked, causing the sudden, chaotic moment between you and Jungkook. The dog now stands quietly at your feet, as if it, too, understands the truth, playing its part in this strange, inevitable moment.

Jungkook looks between you and your dog, his confusion turning into something deeper. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes narrow, taking in the shift in your expression. Something clicks in his mind, a strange understanding flashing in his gaze.

His gaze flickers down to the dog again, and then back to you—realizing something that had been hidden in plain sight all along.

You take a deep breath, and the words rush out before you can stop them.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you say, your voice soft but filled with genuine regret. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to intrude.” Your gaze flickers down to the dog at your feet, still looking up at you with that familiar, innocent expression. “I was just looking for Soo.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. He looks at you, his eyes softening, taking in your apology. Then, after a long moment, he steps a little closer, the distance between you still feeling palpable.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says, his voice low but firm, like he’s already decided what he’s going to say. “But don’t get this twisted. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

His words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you’re stunned into silence. You can’t breathe. You thought the connection between you was undeniable, but now, it feels like he’s put up an unscalable wall between you.

“I don’t want this… whatever this is. I don’t need anyone to complete me, and I sure as hell don’t need you or anyone else to make sense of things.”

You open your mouth, but no words come. How do you fight against a rejection like that?

Jungkook turns away, the finality in his movement clear—this conversation is over. He doesn’t look back. The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, leaving you standing in the aftermath of a connection that never had the chance to bloom.

Jungkook leans back against the cool metal of the bar, the bottle of beer in his hand nearly empty. His friends are scattered around him, the night still young, but the mood feels different tonight. The conversation from earlier keeps replaying in his mind, echoing in his thoughts.

“SO YOU REJECTED HER?” Taehyung’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and teasing, his eyebrow arched as he takes another long sip from his bottle.

The others look between them, all clearly waiting for Jungkook's response. There’s a lightness in the air, but it feels forced, like they can’t tell if this is some sort of joke or if Jungkook is dead serious.

“I didn’t reject her,” Jungkook mutters finally, his voice rough, as if the words don’t sit well in his mouth. "I just told her the truth. She was… looking for something I don’t want."

Jimin leans forward, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “So, Jeon Jungkook doesn’t want a soulmate?” He shakes his head, laughing lightly. “That’s rich, man.”

Jungkook’s eyes flash with irritation, and for a moment, the teasing vibe shifts. It’s not fun anymore. Something darker flickers in his gaze, something that says he’s not in the mood for jokes.

“I never asked for this,” Jungkook snaps, his tone harsher than he meant. “I’m not looking for someone to complete me. I’ve got my own shit to deal with.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve been a little gentler with it,” Namjoon adds, his voice calm but firm. “You’re not the only one with baggage, you know. But she... she didn’t deserve that cold of a response.”

“Did she do something?” Taehyung asks, his tone softer now, more thoughtful. “Remember the ring. When you’re boxing... she feels it.”

“Stop,” Jungkook mutters, the frustration and guilt creeping into his voice. He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to deal with it. His jaw tightens, and a frown pulls at the corners of his mouth.

“She can’t handle me,” he finally says, his voice low, almost like a confession. “No one can handle all of this. I’m not gonna drag her into my mess.”

“She's already in it, man,” Taehyung shoots back, his words cutting through the tension. “You don’t get to decide that for her. She’s already shown she’s not backing away. She’s in this whether you want her to be or not.”

Jungkook falls silent, the weight of his friends' words sinking into him like a stone. He doesn’t know how to respond. The truth stings, but it also feels impossible to ignore.

A few weeks had passed since the encounter, and the tension still lingered in the air. It wasn’t easy to shake off, and you decided it was best to avoid him and that gym altogether. The thought of crossing paths again felt unbearable, especially when everything remained so raw, unresolved.

So, you made a conscious decision to stop walking past the gym—you started taking a different route home after university, deliberately steering as far away from the gym as possible.

Meanwhile, Jungkook had thrown himself into training. The big fight was approaching, the culmination of months of grueling preparation, and he needed to be at his best. But no matter how hard he trained, no matter how many rounds he sparred or how relentlessly he hit the punching bag, his mind kept drifting back to you.

He tried to concentrate on the fight, but all he could think about was the last and the first time he saw you—the pain in your eyes, the way he had pushed you away when he should’ve reached for you.

The night of the fight finally arrived, and the gym was buzzing with energy. The crowd outside had already begun to gather, their anticipation filling the air.

In the locker room, Jungkook stood, sweat dripping from his body as he tightened his gloves. His coach gave him one last pep talk, but Jungkook wasn’t really listening. His thoughts kept wandering back to you—wondering if you were still thinking about him, wondering where you were.

The bell rang, and the fight began.

Sitting on your couch you felt an odd pull deep in your chest, a force was gently tugging at you, calling you back to the gym. You tried to ignore it, to push it aside, but the feeling only grew stronger. Something inside you told you to go to the gym, so, against your better judgment, you followed that pull.

When you arrived, the crowd was already thick with excitement. The atmosphere was electric. You pushed through the sea of bodies, your heart racing for reasons you couldn’t quite explain. And then, you saw him.

Jungkook in the ring. He was a force of nature—each punch landing with precision, his body flowing like a dancer, but there was a raw intensity in his movements. He wasn’t just fighting his opponent; it was as though he was fighting everything inside him—the hurt, the frustration, the things he’d been trying to bury.

And then, it hit.

The pain. Sudden and sharp, like a knife piercing your chest. You stumbled back, clutching your stomach as the world spun around you. The pressure in your chest was unbearable, each breath harder to take than the last. You wanted to ignore it, push through it, but the pain only worsened.

You gasped for air, your body trembling, and with each punch Jungkook landed in the ring, the agony seemed to ripple through you. You pressed your hand to your stomach, trying to steady yourself, but the pain wouldn’t stop. You accidentally trip over a rock and fall to the ground, hurting your ankle.

And that’s when he felt it, a particular pain in his ankle.

Jungkook’s head snapped to the side, as though something had reached him through the chaos. He searched the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the sea of people, until it landed on you. His heart skipped a beat. There you were, clutching your chest on the floor, barely able to stand. His world tilted.

Ignoring the shouts from his coach and the crowd—he leaped out of the ring, pushing through the crowd as though nothing else mattered. His pulse hammered in his ears, and all he could think about was getting to you.

The crowd around you parted as Jungkook pushed through. You felt him before you saw him, his presence like a magnet pulling you toward him. His hand steadied you, his touch warm and strong as you struggled to stay conscious.

You looked up just as he reached you, kneeling in front of you, his hands hovering around you as if he wasn’t sure what to do. His eyes locked onto yours, filled with panic, and something inside him snapped.

“I knew you were here,” he breathed, his voice rough. “What’s happening? Are you okay?”

“I…” You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat, the pain still gripping you. Somehow, being near him made it feel a little less suffocating.

“Stay with me,” he urged, his voice shaking with urgency. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

You couldn’t find the words. The pain still gnawed at you, relentless and all-consuming. You trembled, barely able to stay on your feet, your knees buckling.

“Hold on,” he whispered, his voice tight with panic as he scooped you into his arms. “I’ve got you.”

The crowd murmured, but it was a blur. All you could focus on was Jungkook’s heartbeat, thudding in his chest as he rushed you toward the back exit. His touch was gentle, yet desperate—his focus solely on you.

Once outside, he didn’t hesitate. He pushed open the door and called out to the driver, his voice strained with worry. “Get in the car,” he ordered. “We’re going to my place.”

You wanted to say something, to assure him that you were fine, but the words wouldn’t come. The pain still gripped you, leaving you numb.

“You’re gonna be alright,” Jungkook murmured, glancing over at you before turning his attention back to the road. “I’ll take care of you. We’ll figure this out.”

When you arrived at his place, he didn’t let go of you. He helped you inside, his hands gentle as he guided you to the couch. His eyes never left you as he checked your pulse, your temperature, doing everything he could to make sure you were okay.

“I’m here,” he whispered, sitting beside you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His words were the only comfort you could feel as the pain started to slowly subside, bit by bit. You didn’t know how long you would stay here, or what would happen next, but there was one thing you were certain of: he wasn’t going anywhere.

The bathroom was small, the smell of antiseptic filling the air, the light flickering overhead. Jungkook stood at the sink, his shirt off, revealing the bruises and cuts from the fight. His movements were sharp, purposeful as he cleaned the cuts on his arms, his jaw clenched against the sting.

You sat on the edge of the tub, your body still sore from the pain that had brought you here. Jungkook had insisted on helping you, leading you to the bathroom, tending to your bruises with a professionalism that made it clear he was used to this kind of care.

You winced as he applied pressure to the bruise on your side. His touch was gentle but distant, his expression unreadable. The quiet movements filled the air, but there was an unspoken tension between you.

You didn’t know what to say, or how to bridge the gap between you. This wasn’t how you imagined the night would go—here you were, two people in silence, tending to each other’s wounds. You remembered how he had carried you, how you’d felt his worry despite the coldness he tried to show.

You said your name softly, breaking the silence. “Sorry for all this… for everything. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

“Jungkook,” he replied shortly, his voice clipped, almost dismissive. “It’s fine. Just… be careful next time.”

You nodded, feeling the sting of his coldness, but understanding. He was protecting himself. The sharpness in his tone hit harder than you expected.

“I should probably go,” you murmured, standing up slowly, mindful of the pain. “You’ve done enough. I—”

Before you could finish, his voice stopped you.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, his tone softer now but still holding that edge of distance. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be out alone.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. You just nodded as he grabbed his jacket and slid it on, movements slow and deliberate. You left the bathroom in silence, walking to the car without another word.

When he pulled up outside your apartment, you hesitated. You didn’t want to make things awkward, but you felt the need to say something.

“Thanks for… helping me tonight,” you said quietly. “I didn’t expect any of this, but… I appreciate it.”

Jungkook didn’t look at you. His eyes remained fixed on the rearview mirror as he nodded. “Get some rest. Stay safe.”

You gave him a small nod, feeling the weight of his words. You hadn’t expected more, but still, something in the air felt unfinished. A moment of hesitation passed before you reached over, picking it up slowly. Jungkook’s eyes flickered to you, his face hardening immediately.

"I should probably have your number, just in case something like this happens again," you said, trying to make it sound casual, though you felt your heart racing. You didn’t want to push him, but you also didn’t want to leave things hanging.

He didn’t immediately respond, and you could feel the conflict inside him. He was clearly reluctant. But after a long pause, he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before nodding curtly. "Fine," he muttered, a mix of frustration and resignation in his tone. "But don’t expect much from me."

You held his gaze for a beat, then typed in your contact information. As you handed the phone back to him, you caught a glimpse of the hesitation in his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, just took it from you without looking at your face. His fingers gripped the device a little too tightly, as if holding on to something he didn’t want to let go of.

"Good night," you said softly, opening the door.

"Yeah," Jungkook’s voice was quieter than before, and for a brief second, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. "Get some rest."

You closed the door behind you and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, watching his car pull away. The night felt unusually quiet, almost too still, and as you walked to the entrance of your apartment, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

He shook his head, trying to silence the thoughts. He knew he wasn’t supposed to care. He had made that decision a long time ago—no soulmates, no attachments.

But as he drove away, the uncertainty waved at him.

The next morning you sat on the edge of your bed, your phone pressed to your ear as you spoke with your mother. The concern in her voice was unmistakable, but you tried to keep the conversation light, not wanting to worry her too much.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, the words heavy with worry. “I saw the bruises on your arm when we last talked. Have you been getting enough rest? Are you eating?”

You glanced down at the fading bruises on your wrist, the reminder of the hectic few days that had passed. You hadn't told her about Jungkook yet—didn't want to add fuel to the fire of her concern. She’d only worry more if she knew about him.

“I’m fine, Mom,” you said, forcing your voice to sound reassuring. “I’m just a little clumsy, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

Her sigh on the other end of the line was audible, but she didn’t press further. “Alright. Just take care of yourself, okay? And if you ever need me—”

“I know, Mom. I will. Love you,” you interrupted, hoping to end the conversation before she could say anything more. You needed the distraction, the escape, from everything that was weighing you down.

“Love you too,” she replied, and you could hear the concern still lingering in her tone before she hung up.

Soo followed you, tail wagging, oblivious to the storm of thoughts that were swirling in your head. You smiled weakly at the sight of him, kneeling down to pet him before you prepared to leave. “I’ll be back soon, Soo. Be good while I’m gone,” you murmured, trying to shake off the weight of the night.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. As you reached for the door to leave for your uni classes, a notification caught your eye. . You checked the screen, your stomach tightening as you saw the name that popped up.

Jungkook.

i don’t know how to make this easier for you, just stay safe

don’t get too close to me

It was cold, but there was something deeper in it, something that pulled at you despite the detachment. His words were sharp, but the underlying care was unmistakable, even if he couldn’t bring himself to show it fully.

You bit your lip, a mix of emotions washing over you. He wanted to protect you, but at the same time, he was pushing you away, keeping you at a distance. It was always the same—Jungkook’s confusion, his walls, his inability to be vulnerable.

There was no easy answer, no simple way to make sense of him, of what you were supposed to do with all of this. You ran your fingers over the edge of your desk, then typed a short reply.

i’ll be careful, but don’t push me away!!

i won’t disappear :)

You hesitated, staring at the screen for a moment, then sent it. What were you even expecting in return?

With a new sense of energy and warmth you turned to leave, Soo’s wagging tail following you out the door. As you stepped into the cool morning air, a sense of possibility filled you. Whatever this was between you and Jungkook, whatever he was trying to say, you felt a spark of hope that it wasn’t over.

The gym was nearly silent, save for the rhythmic hum of the overhead lights and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath Jungkook’s heavy steps. His fists were clenched, shoulders rigid with frustration as he stormed inside. The sting of his loss still burned in his chest, but the anger coursing through him had nothing to do with the fight itself.

Seokjin was already there, arms crossed, watching him with the kind of knowing gaze that made Jungkook’s skin itch. He didn’t need a lecture right now. He needed to hit something, to drown out the mess in his head with exhaustion.

"You lost," Seokjin said, his voice even but edged with something firm, something disappointed. "You weren’t focused. You let your emotions get in the way. You let her get in the way."

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. His pulse roared in his ears at the mention of you.

"I told you I don’t need anyone’s help," he bit out, his voice rough with frustration. "I don’t need you or anyone else telling me what to do. I’m fine on my own."

Seokjin let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. "It’s not about needing help, Jungkook. It’s about what you’re doing to yourself. You’re pushing everything away—everyone away. And for what?"

Jungkook’s chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. He hated this. Hated feeling like his insides were unraveling. Like no matter how fast he ran, the past—the pain—was always a step behind, waiting to sink its claws into him.

"You don’t get it," he muttered, shaking his head. "You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything’s slipping through your fingers, no matter what you do."

"Then stop running," Seokjin snapped, stepping forward. "Face it. Face her. Face yourself. Because this? What you’re doing now? It’s not working."

The words hit harder than any punch Jungkook had taken in the ring. His breathing stuttered, his vision blurring at the edges as something sharp lodged itself in his throat. He turned away before Seokjin could see the cracks forming.

"I’m done," he muttered, voice tight. "I don’t need this."

"Jungkook—"

But he was already moving, shoving open the door and stepping out into the cold night air. His pulse pounded in his ears, hands still curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t know where he was going.

All he knew was that if he stayed, if he let himself feel any more than he already did—he wouldn’t be able to stop. And that terrified him more than anything.

You had just finished your last class of the day, your mind still tangled in the mess of notes and half-understood lectures. The weight of exhaustion clung to you, but it wasn’t just from studying—it was from everything. From the lingering thoughts of Jungkook, from the conversation with your mother, from the way your chest felt too tight lately.

And then you saw him.

Jungkook was walking down the street, head down, shoulders tense, his whole presence brimming with frustration. His eyes—dark and stormy—barely flickered as people passed him, lost in whatever war was raging inside him. But beneath the anger, beneath the cold detachment, you saw it.

Something broken.

He didn’t notice you at first, his mind too consumed by his own turmoil. But as you caught up with him, you called out his name softly, trying not to startle him.

"Jungkook?" Your voice was gentle, but it broke through the fog in his mind. He turned sharply, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and sadness.

"What do you want?" His voice was harsh, sharp, like he was ready to lash out. "I’m not in the mood for any of this."

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t back down. Instead, you stepped closer, your tone steady, insistent. "You’re not going anywhere like this. You need to calm down."

"I don’t need your help," Jungkook snapped, his fists tightening at his sides. "Just leave me alone."

His jaw clenched, but before he could argue, you grabbed his wrist—not hard, not forcefully, just enough to ground him. His body was tense, radiating frustration, but he didn’t pull away. Maybe because deep down, he was too exhausted to fight anymore.

You shook your head, not willing to let him push you away. "No, Jungkook. You’re not fine. I’m not letting you do this alone. Come with me."

Before he could argue further, you guided him toward your apartment. You didn’t care about his anger, his desire to fight. You cared about the pain behind it, the way he was falling apart, and you weren’t going to let him suffer in silence.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, thick with unspoken tension. He moved stiffly beside you, every step heavy with something neither of you were ready to name.

Once inside, you guided him to the couch. He sat reluctantly, his eyes still dark with frustration. You disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, returning with two glasses of water. He took his without a word, staring at the liquid like it held answers he’d never find.

"Why do you care?" His voice was quieter now, but the edge was still there. "You don't know me at all."

You sat down next to him, close enough for warmth but not enough to make him retreat. "You’re human, Jungkook. You’re allowed to be angry, to make mistakes. But you don’t have to go through it alone."

Something flickered in his expression—hesitation, doubt, maybe even relief. His fingers curled around the glass, but he didn’t drink. He took a deep breath, as if he was allowing himself to finally feel the weight of everything he had been pushing down.

"I don’t know what to do anymore," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I feel lost. And it hurts."

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned forward, placing your hand gently on his. The contact was small, but it seemed to ground him, his shoulders slumping just a little as he let the tension leave his body.

"Just be here," you said softly. "Just for tonight. Let yourself feel it. You don’t have to have all the answers."

Jungkook exhaled, his head tilting back as he closed his eyes. It felt like a weight was lifting from him, just a little. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself lean into the moment, let the anger and the frustration subside, replaced by something quieter—something softer.

"Thank you," he whispered, barely audible. "I didn’t think anyone would be here for me like this."

As the silence stretched between you, the weight of the day slowly fading, you glanced at him, feeling a quiet resolve settle in your chest. His shoulders were relaxed now, his eyes softer than you’d seen them before. You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth in your heart spreading through you.

You watched him, your resolve settling. His walls were still up, but there was a crack now, a glimpse of the person beneath all the anger and resistance.

"You're not alone, Jungkook," you said, voice soft but certain. "I’m your soulmate, anyway. No matter how much you fight it, I’m here."

His eyes snapped to yours, something shifting between you in the dim light. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an argument. Just the truth—unshakable, undeniable.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. But then, barely there, the corners of his lips twitched, something small, something real.

And for now, that was enough.

SIX MONTHS LATER...

Jungkook was sprawled on your couch, flipping through channels with the kind of bored impatience that made you roll your eyes. His hair was still damp from his shower, a few strands falling into his eyes, but he didn’t bother pushing them back.

You were on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, scrolling through your emails when a notification popped up. Your brows furrowed as you opened the message.

You are invited to the wedding of Kim Namjoon & Seo Yuna…

Your eyes widened. "Jungkook."

"Hm?" He didn’t look away from the TV.

"You got an invitation to Namjoon’s wedding."

That made him pause. He turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Namjoon? Hyung is getting married?"

"Yeah. And it says we’re invited." You lifted your phone, shaking it a little.

Jungkook’s jaw tensed as he sat up properly. "He invited both of us?"

"That’s what we means."

His lips pressed into a thin line. You watched as he processed the information, his fingers tapping against his knee.

"You don’t have to come," he said after a beat, voice a little too casual. "It’s not like anyone expects—"

"I want to," you interrupted, tilting your head at him. "Unless you don’t want me to go."

Jungkook hesitated, eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. A few months ago, he would’ve found a way to push you away, to make it seem like he didn’t care. But now, he was different. Softer in ways he didn’t realize.

Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "It’s just… a lot. Weddings, relationships—" He stopped himself, then sighed. "But if you want to go, then we’ll go."

You smiled, setting your phone down. "Then it’s settled."

Jungkook shook his head, mumbling something under his breath, but you caught the way his lips twitched, the way his fingers absentmindedly reached for yours as if it was second nature now.

Neither of you said it out loud, but the truth hung between you like a quiet understanding.

This wasn’t just about a wedding. It was about showing up—for each other.

Jungkook had spent months resisting, convincing himself that fate was something he could outrun. That having a soulmate was a burden, not a gift. But somewhere along the way—between the quiet moments where you stood by him without expecting anything in return, between the nights where you saw the parts of him he kept hidden from the world—something shifted.

He stopped fighting it. Stopped fighting you.

It wasn’t sudden, but gradual, like ice melting under the warmth of the sun. He still wasn’t perfect—still stubborn, still rough around the edges—but the walls he’d built weren’t impenetrable anymore.

Now, when you reached for him, he didn’t pull away. When you said his name, he answered without hesitation. And when he looked at you, really looked at you, he didn’t see a mistake.

He saw home.

A few days later, both of you were seated in the venue. It was breathtaking—golden chandeliers casting a soft glow over the polished floors, tables adorned with white roses, and a string quartet playing something elegant in the background.

Jungkook had been fidgeting with the cuffs of his black suit since the moment you arrived, but he looked effortlessly handsome, the dark fabric hugging his frame in all the right places.

"You clean up well," you murmured, adjusting the slightly crooked tie around his neck.

He huffed, feigning annoyance, but you didn’t miss the way his lips twitched. "Yeah, well, you look—" His gaze flickered over you, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Nice."

"Nice?" You raised an eyebrow. "That’s all I get?"

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. His fingers ghosted over your wrist before he slipped his hand into yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Fine. You look beautiful. Happy now?"

Before you could tease him, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air as Namjoon and Yuna made their grand entrance. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Jungkook straightened, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

"Do weddings always feel this… intense?" he muttered, eyeing the scene.

You grinned. "It’s just love, Jungkook. Try not to look so scared."

His jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let you pull him toward your table, where some of his friends were already gathered.

Throughout the night, you caught glimpses of something new in him. The way his shoulders eased when you leaned into him, the way his fingers absentmindedly traced circles on the back of your hand, the way his lips twitched in amusement when you forced him onto the dance floor despite his protests.

And then, somewhere between the speeches and the first dance, he leaned in, his voice quieter, more certain than before.

"I don’t know when it happened," he murmured, eyes locked on yours. "But I stopped fighting it. Stopped fighting us."

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words settling between you.

Jungkook wasn’t running anymore.

Instead, he was here—standing beside you, hand in yours, finally accepting that maybe, just maybe, fate had been right all along.