#PLEASE AUTHOR RELEASE THE NEW CHAPTER ALREADY

[nyoclosmom]

more Kristen Black bc there's seriously something wrong with me

credits to @knnonr bc it's her OC

[kingofbodyrolls]

Friendcation (m) | myg | honeymoon special

You and Yoongi travel to Scandinavia for your honeymoon, well more like babymoon. You camp, fish, hike and enjoy nature as you always do, and you even go surfing! 

→ Pairing: mechanic!Yoongi x reader (female) → AUs: roadtrip!au, non idol!au, established relationship, mechanic!Yoongi. → Genres: slice of life, humor/crack, smut and fluff → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 8.8k → Warnings (explicit): semi-public sex (in a caravan on a campsite), exhibitionism, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, multiple sex scenes, nudity, oral (female and male receiving), breast play (sucking, slight biting), hickeys, squirting, deepthroating, creampie, impregnation kink, dirty talk, pleasing kink → Author’s note(1): another extra for friendcation is here! 🥳 I hope you enjoy this one too! 💜  → Read on AO3? [link] ✨

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When Yoongi revealed that he had already booked your honeymoon, you envisioned a sun-soaked paradise where you could bask in the golden warmth, bathe in crystal-clear waters, and revel in the essence of summer. But instead of tropical shores, you found yourself in the rugged mountains of Norway, on the cusp of autumn, where nature whispered secrets in the crisp, cool air. Yoongi had chosen this destination, a place forever etched in his heart from a trip with friends many years ago. He longed to share its raw, breathtaking beauty with you, and as you stood there, surrounded by towering peaks and pristine wilderness, you had to admit—the splendor was undeniable. Majestic mountains embraced the horizon, and the forest teemed with life—graceful deer gliding silently among the trees, playful squirrels darting about in a dance of their own.

For nearly a week, you nestled in a quaint cottage deep within the mountains, cocooned in the serene tranquility of nature. Each day, the world seemed to slow down, allowing you to savor every moment in this hidden paradise. But now, a new adventure beckons as your journey takes you onward to Denmark, with the enchanting landscapes of Sweden to explore first. The anticipation of Swedish forests, mirrored lakes, and ancient woodlands fills you with a quiet excitement, promising more adventures and moments of serene beauty.

The weather is a delicate dance between warm sunlight and the early September chill, hinting at the approach of autumn. Your journey from Norway to Sweden unfolds by bus, and upon arrival, a picturesque walk from the bus stop to your next secluded cottage awaits. The lightness of your luggage, carefully packed with warm clothes, turns the trek into an enjoyable prelude to the days ahead. You silently thank Yoongi for the foresight to pack hiking boots, as the rugged terrain tests your endurance. But the challenge is worth it, as each evening is rewarded with the simple pleasure of curling up in Yoongi’s arms, his hands soothing your tired feet as the day’s adventures fade into the warmth of the firelight.

In the Swedish cabin, time flows effortlessly, unburdened by the outside world. Yoongi, ever the thoughtful partner, prepares mouthwatering meals with ingredients fresh from the surrounding land, and with patient hands, he teaches you the art of fishing—a skill that had always eluded you on previous vacations. His steady guidance, coupled with whispered advice to remain silent, keeps the fish from fleeing, and you manage to catch a few, only to release them back into their watery home with a sense of reverence. Days are spent hiking the rolling hills and dense forests, each return to the cabin marked by the comforting embrace of each other’s arms, the crackle of the fire, and the soft murmur of the wilderness outside. Time slips away like water through your fingers, and before you know it, you’re packing for the next chapter of your journey.

The bus carries you southward, where a train awaits to whisk you to Denmark. There, just outside Copenhagen, you rent a car and a charming caravan trailer, your home on wheels for the next leg of your adventure. Denmark’s landscape, while familiar to Sweden’s, carries its own unique charm—its language more rough, its fields more open, a reminder that every place, like every person, has its own distinct personality.

Both you and Yoongi present your driver’s licenses, receive the keys, and locate your vehicles with the excitement of a new journey just beginning. Yoongi takes the wheel, his hands confidently guiding you northward to a place called Thy, a region he had spoken of with a quiet reverence. The local radio station fills the car with the lively tunes of Danish pop music, and as the road unfolds before you, a bridge rises to meet the horizon. You recline into your seat, lulled by the soothing rhythm of the road beneath you, when Yoongi mentions needing a break. He spots a rest stop, effortlessly maneuvering into a spacious parking area, and for a moment, the world outside pauses, allowing you both to take a breath and savor the journey that lies ahead.

Yoongi quickly exits, making a beeline for the restrooms, while you step out, stretching your limbs with a quiet sigh. The late hour casts a golden glow, the sun hanging low on the horizon, bathing the world in a warm, amber light that feels like a fleeting embrace. Around you, the scene is tranquil yet alive—lush green trees stand as silent sentinels, large trucks and trailers rest like sleeping giants, and an array of cars glimmer under the fading daylight. Your gaze drifts to a small store nearby, and you consider the idea of grabbing a meal, but something else catches your attention. A group of young men huddles around a car with its hood propped open, their faces etched with worry, a silent image of distress. Though the intricacies of engines elude you, Yoongi’s knack for mechanics brings a knowing smile to your lips. Almost as if sensing the moment, he appears beside you, his hand finding yours with effortless grace.

You gesture toward the troubled vehicle, your voice soft yet tinged with curiosity. “Do you think we should ask if they need help?”

Yoongi clears his throat, a quiet confidence in his nod, always eager to lend a hand when cars are involved. Together, you approach the trio and their ailing car, a shared purpose drawing you forward.

“Do you need help?” Yoongi asks in English, his voice carrying a note of calm assurance. Two of the young men exchange giggles, their reason a mystery, but the one peering under the hood turns to Yoongi with relief plain in his eyes. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

“I’m a mechanic. I don’t mind taking a look,” Yoongi replies, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his veined forearms, a sight that sends a flutter through your chest. “Babe, can you grab me a flashlight?” he asks, his voice gentle, and you’re quick to comply, retrieving it from the rental car. As the sun sinks lower, each sliver of light becomes precious, a fleeting gift for Yoongi’s hands to work by.

With the flashlight in hand, you stand close, watching Yoongi immerse himself in the task, his focus as sharp and radiant as the golden hour surrounding you both. His expertise becomes a quiet melody in the twilight, a dance of hands and metal that feels almost sacred in its simplicity.

“I’m Jonas, by the way. Thanks for looking at the car,” the young man says, stepping away to rejoin his laughing friends, a moment of lightness amidst their concern. You watch him playfully slap one of them on the arm, the sound of laughter briefly filling the air before your attention returns to Yoongi. You adjust the flashlight, its beam following the precise movements of his hands as he examines the engine. Yoongi lets out those soft, endearing noises he makes when deeply engrossed in a task, a habit he likely doesn’t even realize he has, but one that always stirs something deep within you. This moment is no different. Watching him work with such intensity sends warmth through you, a reminder of why you cherish these shared moments, even in the most unexpected places.

Grease begins to smudge his hands as he delves deeper under the hood, reattaching a loose valve and checking fluid levels with the practiced ease of someone who has spent years mastering his craft. Over time, you’ve absorbed a few of his car maintenance tips, knowledge passed on in quiet moments like these. Yoongi steps back from the car, a signal for you to turn off the flashlight, and you comply as Jonas, his brows knit with lingering concern, approaches to hear Yoongi’s verdict.

“I reattached a loose valve,” Yoongi explains, his tone measured and thoughtful, “and you’re low on radiator fluid. Be cautious when you drive; the car could overheat. You should refill it as soon as possible. Do you live nearby? It’s risky to drive far in this condition.”

The young man nods, gratitude and relief mingling in his expression. And as you stand there, bathed in the fading light, you can’t help but feel a quiet satisfaction in the simple act of helping, of being there in that moment with Yoongi, where the beauty of the setting sun is matched only by the warmth of his presence beside you.

Jonas nods, a wave of relief washing over his face. “We live close—we’re almost home. I’ll drive carefully and contact my mechanic tomorrow,” he says, offering a grateful smile. Yet, as his friends snicker behind him, their eyes linger on you with a gaze that feels like a brush of unwelcome heat, as if you’re some forbidden temptation. “Thank you so much for your help,” Jonas adds, shaking Yoongi’s hand with a vigor that speaks to his gratitude, pulling him into a spontaneous hug.

Yoongi returns the gesture with warmth, clearly pleased to have made a difference. As he walks back to you, you notice him wiping his greasy hands together in a futile attempt to clean them, a small smile playing on your lips at the sight.

You greet him with a smoldering gaze, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his lips, a kiss that holds both affection and a touch of mischief. Are you putting on a show for the boys who ogled you earlier? Absolutely. As you pull away, you lean into his ear, your voice a whisper in English, “You always look so damn hot when you’re working. I can’t wait for you to fuck me later.” Your words are barely audible, yet you catch the sound of one of the guys choking in surprise, a wicked smile curling your lips as you take Yoongi’s hand. With a playful wave to the three gaping men, you turn and saunter back to your rental car, feeling Yoongi’s hand squeeze your ass with a low chuckle.

“You’re such a good and dirty girl,” he murmurs, his words a spark that sends warmth pooling in your core. His praise, his touch, his very presence—everything about him ignites the fire within you.

Slipping back into the car, Yoongi starts the engine, the soft rumble beneath you a prelude to the journey ahead. The night deepens as you drive, the world outside dissolving into shadows and starlight, the road a ribbon of dark velvet stretching toward the unknown. Hours later, you arrive at a quiet camping ground nestled in the northern wilderness. Yoongi picks a spot at random, the exhaustion of the day evident in the slump of your bodies. He parks and turns off the car, the silence of the night settling around you like a blanket.

Yoongi sets to work preparing the caravan, a compact haven of white and beige. Inside, it holds a tiny kitchen with a sink, fridge, and portable stove, a dining area that converts into a bed, bunks that will remain untouched, and a small bathroom. As he transforms the dining space into a bed, you slip out of your clothes and into one of his shirts, the familiar scent of him comforting against your skin. Yoongi follows suit, and after brushing your teeth together, you both crawl into bed, the weight of the day melting away in the warmth of each other’s presence. 

He spoons you, his body pressing close, and you feel the unmistakable hardness against your ass, a thrill of desire sparking within you. Unable to resist, you grind back into him, eliciting quick, needy sounds that only fuel your own arousal. You turn to capture his lips in a kiss, your voice breathless as you whisper how much you need him.

Without a word, he turns you over, his hands deftly pulling down your panties and sliding his own underwear aside. The moment he enters you, a sigh escapes your lips, the smooth glide of him filling you completely, a perfect fit that sends waves of pleasure rippling through you. He moves with a rhythm that drives you wild, each thrust deeper, more urgent, as his hand finds your clit, pushing you ever closer to the edge. The pleasure builds, coiling tight within you until it snaps, your climax washing over you in a wave of pure ecstasy. He follows soon after, his warm release filling you as he grunts against your neck, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder.

In the afterglow, he gently pulls your panties back up, his touch tender as you both settle into the bed, the night wrapping around you like a cocoon. Exhaustion pulls you under, and with the comforting weight of Yoongi beside you, you drift into a deep, contented sleep, the echoes of your shared passion lingering in the quiet night.

Morning breaks with the gentle chorus of birdsong and sunlight spilling into the caravan like liquid gold. You groan softly, stretching your limbs as Yoongi stirs beside you, his warmth anchoring you to the comfort of the moment. The new day whispers promises of fresh adventures, but for now, you linger in the serenity, savoring the feel of his body close to yours.

“Morning, babe,” he murmurs, his voice thick with the remnants of sleep, his hair tousled in a way that only adds to his effortless charm.

“Morning, Yoon,” you reply, your voice soft as you lean in to press a kiss to his lips, a gentle exchange of warmth before you rise to greet the day. The morning routine is simple and sweet—brushing teeth and hair, sharing a light breakfast—each small act grounding you in the shared rhythm of your lives.

Stepping outside, the landscape unfolds before you, vast and open, dotted with tufts of grass and stretches of sand. The air is brisk, carrying the salty tang of the sea and the constant, soothing lull of waves crashing against the distant shore. You inhale deeply, the cold, invigorating air filling your lungs as you take Yoongi’s hand, the two of you setting off to explore the campground, the natural beauty around you awakening with the first light of day. The world is still in its early stirrings, granting you a peaceful solitude, a shared quiet that feels almost sacred.

As you stroll, the calm is broken by the sight of an elderly couple walking past—naked. You exchange a startled glance with Yoongi, his expression mirroring your own surprise. The closer you draw to the beach, the more you realize that everyone around you is unabashedly bare, the air thick with a sense of freedom that feels, to you, both strange and out of place. Overdressed and bemused, you settle down on the sandy shore, leaning into Yoongi as you take in the unexpected scene.

“What is this place?” you murmur, half-amused, half-bewildered by the sight of naked bodies in every direction. Yoongi chuckles, pulling out his phone to solve the mystery. Moments later, his laughter bubbles up, contagious and bright.

“It’s a nudist campsite and beach,” he explains, his eyes sparkling with amusement as realization dawns on you. Laughter spills from your lips, a shared moment of levity in the midst of this peculiar discovery. There’s something admirable about the courage of those around you, their ease in embracing their natural state, even if it’s not a comfort you share. With a grin, you tell Yoongi that while you can appreciate their confidence, you’d much rather prefer a different campsite—one where the only naked body you see is his, perhaps later tonight.

The day unfolds in a series of light-hearted decisions and shared smiles. Later, you venture into the chilly embrace of the sea, donning your swimwear despite the nudist surroundings. The water is cold, biting against your skin, yet it awakens something within you—an invigorating contrast to the warmth of the morning, cleansing and bracing. Afterward, you drive into a nearby town for lunch, soaking in the lively atmosphere, the air filled with the hum of conversation and the sound of laughter. Hand in hand, you wander through quaint shops, not seeking anything in particular, but relishing the simple pleasure of being together.

The hours pass in a blend of humor and quiet adventure, each moment wrapped in the comfort of Yoongi’s presence. Together, you weave through the day, creating a tapestry of memories that feel destined to become cherished stories—reminders of the joy found in the unexpected, and the beauty of sharing life’s quirks with the one you love.

You return to the campsite, hitching the caravan back to the rental car, eager to find a new haven—a place where the landscape is as private as your desires. The drive is peaceful, the miles slipping away under a sky that deepens into twilight, leading you to a secluded campground far removed from the nudist site. As night falls, you settle into the quiet embrace of nature, the only witnesses to your evening the stars that begin to shimmer above.

Under a canopy of twinkling lights, you and Yoongi sit side by side on a pair of worn stools, warm cups of tea in hand. The night is cool, the air crisp, and the silence between you is companionable, filled with the unspoken understanding that comes from years of shared moments like this. The sky stretches out endlessly above, a vast canvas of dark velvet scattered with diamonds, and you both soak in its serene beauty, letting the tranquility of the moment wrap around you like a comforting blanket.

Later, you retreat to the warmth of your caravan, its small space transformed into a world of your own. Curled up in bed, you lean in for a kiss, the softness of his lips familiar yet always thrilling. Your fingers find the waistband of his boxers, and with a deliberate slowness, you peel them away, revealing his hard cock that you always crave. Your desire for him is insatiable, a fire that never dims, only burns hotter with each passing touch.

Wearing nothing beneath your nightshirt, your slick arousal greets him as you straddle his hips, a low moan escaping your lips as you grind down, the friction intoxicating. The rough texture of his pubic hair against your sensitive skin, the solid heat of his cock against your aching pussy—every sensation drives you wild, fueling the need that pulses through you.

Dripping with want, you wrap your hands around his thick dick, guiding him to your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate motion, you sink down onto him. The stretch is exquisite, your body accommodating him inch by inch until your ass meets his pelvis, the fullness making you gasp.

“Fuck, you’re always so big,” you pant, the words tumbling out as pleasure ripples through you, your head falling back in ecstasy.

His groan is guttural, raw, as his fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place. “You’re so fucking tight,” he growls, his breath hot against your skin, his need for you as urgent as yours for him. “Taking me so good, baby,” he rasps, already breathless, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You hum in response, setting a steady rhythm as you begin to move, your hands splayed against his chest for balance. Leaning forward, you press kisses to his collarbones, his neck, your breath hitching as you whisper into his ear, “Get me pregnant, Yoon.”

You feel him twitch inside you, a reaction as instant as it is powerful, the mere idea pushing him closer to the edge. His grip tightens, possessive, and he begins to thrust up into you, his movements seeking control as he chases that intoxicating thought. His hips snap against yours with a newfound urgency, his pace relentless as he drives deeper, harder.

He holds you still as he pounds into your warm, wet heat, each thrust tearing a scream from your throat. You try to muffle your cries, aware of the thin caravan walls and the nearby campers, but the pleasure is overwhelming, consuming, and it’s impossible to stay quiet under his relentless onslaught.

Together, you find a rhythm, a perfect synchrony that sends you both hurtling toward the edge. He hits your g-spot with precision, over and over, until the coil in your stomach tightens to the point of breaking. With a choked cry, you unravel around him, your orgasm crashing over you in waves as your body releases a rush of liquid heat, soaking his cock as you convulse in his arms.

Panting, you cling to him, your body shuddering as he continues to move, his pace unyielding until you collapse against his chest, utterly spent. It’s more intimate like this, your bodies pressed close, and as you whisper filthy promises in his ear, nipping at his lobe, he comes inside you with a deep groan, filling you with his warmth as he grunts against your neck, his lips brushing your skin in lazy kisses.

You both gasp for breath, slick with sweat and the mingled scent of your lovemaking. He cleans you gently with a towel, his touch tender, before pulling you back into his arms. You drift off to sleep in his embrace, safe and sated, just as you love to.

The terrain here is gentler, the low elevations a welcome reprieve from the rugged mountains of Norway and Sweden. Your days have been spent in quiet contentment, the two of you fishing in the calm waters, the simplicity of the act bringing a sense of peace. Words aren’t needed in these moments, the silence speaking volumes as you sit side by side, casting lines and sharing smiles.

One day, you take a bus into Aarhus, the city buzzing with life on a cold Friday night. The decision to take public transport is an easy one—no need to worry about driving as you plan to indulge in the vibrant nightlife. The contrast between the quiet days spent in nature and the energy of the city is exhilarating, and you look forward to a night of laughter and exploration, knowing that whatever the evening holds, it will be another memory to cherish with Yoongi by your side.

You’re adorned in a flowing dress that sways with every step, its fabric catching the cool breeze of mid-September. Warm boots hug your feet, grounding you as you navigate the lively streets. Yoongi walks beside you, his own boots echoing softly against the cobblestones. He’s dressed in jeans, a fitted shirt, and a cozy jacket that accentuates his broad shoulders. You’re wrapped in a jacket too, its warmth a welcome shield against the evening chill that settles in like a whisper from autumn itself.

The streets pulse with life, alive with throngs of people—mostly the young and inebriated, their laughter loud and words slurred, their steps unsteady as they weave through the neon-lit night. You and Yoongi sip your drinks, savoring the night with a quiet restraint, the alcohol a gentle warmth rather than a dizzying rush. Neon signs bathe the street in a kaleidoscope of colors, each one calling out the names of bars and clubs, their music spilling into the air, a chaotic symphony of bass and beats.

You step into one of the clubs, but the moment you cross the threshold, the music hits you like a wave, overwhelming and disorienting. The crowd presses in, bodies moving in a fevered dance, leaving no room to breathe. You cringe as strangers brush against you, the invasion of your space unsettling. Yoongi’s discomfort mirrors your own, his eyes scanning the room with a protective edge.

Then, a rasping voice invades your ear, the breath hot and unwelcome. “Well, aren’t you a sweet thing,” the man sneers in English, his tone dripping with an arrogance that sends a shiver of unease down your spine. A hand suddenly grabs your ass, and you know instantly—it’s not Yoongi’s.

Anger flares in you, sharp and hot. With a swift, decisive motion, you swat the offending hand away, spinning to face the drunken stranger. His eyes are wide and unfocused, lost in a haze of alcohol. He leans in, but before he can get any closer, Yoongi steps between you, his presence a solid barrier, gently pushing the man back. The stranger grunts, his voice slurred and angry in a language you don’t understand.

Yoongi turns to you, concern etched in the lines of his face, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. You nod, signaling that you’re okay, but just as you turn to leave, a rough hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you back.

Yoongi’s reaction is immediate, but you step in front of him, a surge of determination coursing through you. The stranger’s grip tightens, but you seize his jaw with your free hand, your fingers digging in with a strength born of irritation. You stare into his startled eyes, your voice low and laced with venom. “I don’t appreciate that,” you hiss, each word deliberate. “I’m happily married, and I don’t want you touching me.”

The force in your grip makes him wince, and he releases your wrist, his bravado crumbling as regret flickers across his face. “Fuck. I’m sorry,” he mumbles, the fight leaving him.

You push him back, asserting your anger one final time before turning away, not wasting another second on him. Grabbing Yoongi’s hand, you pull him toward the exit, the need to escape the stifling club overwhelming. Outside, the cold night air fills your lungs, sharp and cleansing, each breath forming small clouds in the chilly atmosphere. The tension begins to melt away, and you savor the fresh, crisp night, grateful for the comforting presence of Yoongi at your side, his warmth a constant reassurance.

“That was kinda hot,” he murmurs, his voice low as he presses his body against yours, the heat of him seeping into your skin. “The way you handled yourself in there, babe.” His lips brush the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine that have nothing to do with the cold.

“Thanks,” you reply, your voice still carrying the edge of disgust from the stranger’s touch. “But it was disgusting. His hands on my ass.”

Yoongi hums in sympathy, his grip on your hand tightening as if to ground you both. “I don’t like other people touching you like that,” he says, his voice filled with a protective anger. “I’m sorry that happened,” he says in a much softer voice, making sure you’re okay.

You chuckle softly, the sound carrying a hint of relief. “Yeah. I know you’re possessive, Yoon.”

“If we’d stayed there a moment longer, I would’ve decked him,” he huffs, the street lamps casting a warm, golden glow on the sidewalk as you walk.

“Oh, I know. But I don’t want you getting arrested in another country—or back home, for that matter,” you laugh lightly, the tension easing from your shoulders. “I had it under control. But thank you for having my back.” You lean in to kiss his cheek, the gesture soft and intimate, and just then, you arrive at the bus station.

The cold air bites at your skin, making you shiver as you wait. Relief washes over you as the bus finally arrives, its doors opening to reveal a sanctuary of warmth. You step inside, the chill of the night giving way to the cozy embrace of heated air. Settling into a seat, you lean against Yoongi’s shoulder, the comfort of his presence grounding you.

“Maybe we’re too old to drink and party,” you muse, your voice a soft murmur that mingles with the hum of the bus.

Yoongi’s laugh is like a melody, soothing and familiar, a sound that feels like home. “Maybe,” he agrees, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“You’re an old man now,” you quip, playfully squeezing his thigh, feeling the solid muscle beneath.

“Hey,” he retorts, mock indignation coloring his tone, “you’re not much younger than me.”

Laughter bubbles up between you, the shared humor easing the tensions of the night. It’s a moment of pure, unfiltered joy, the kind that lingers long after the sound fades.

Back at the caravan, the atmosphere shifts, the night thick with anticipation. A surge of power and desire courses through you, igniting a fire that demands to be quenched. Seizing Yoongi’s jaw with the same assertiveness you’d shown the stranger earlier, you back him against the wall. Your gaze locks onto his, a silent command that he’s all too eager to obey.

With a teasing smile, you lick his chin, tasting the salt of his skin. “I want you, Yoon,” you whisper, your voice a sultry purr that sends shivers down his spine.

His breath hitches, the sound rough and needy. His eyes, darkened with lust, never leave yours as you tighten your grip on his jaw. “I want your tongue on my clit,” you command, the words slipping from your lips like a sinful prayer.

He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. 

“Now,” you add, your voice brooking no argument.

Yoongi doesn’t need to be told twice. He drops to his knees with a reverence that makes your heart race, his hands sliding up your thighs to hike up your dress. The fabric pools around your waist as he tugs down your panties, his breath warm against your bare skin. You giggle in anticipation, the sound light and breathless.

He teases you first, a slow lick that sends sparks of pleasure through your body, followed by a gentle suck that makes you gasp. But then, with a playful glint in his eyes, he spins you around, your legs hitting the bed. You fall onto it with a soft thud, a surprised laugh escaping your lips. Yoongi chuckles darkly, crawling over you like a predator about to claim his prey.

He spreads your legs, the cool air brushing against your slick heat. And then he’s on you, his mouth finding your clit with a precision that makes your toes curl. His plush tongue licks and sucks, each movement sending you higher, closer to the edge. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as you grind against his mouth, chasing the orgasm that looms just out of reach.

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you pant, your voice a breathless plea as pleasure builds within you, sharp and relentless.

He slurps, the sound obscene and utterly delicious. When you glance down, the sight of him between your legs—his face glistening with your arousal, his eyes alight with desire—undoes you completely. You come apart with a cry, your body trembling as the orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your grip tightens in his hair, holding him to you as he licks you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow and sensual.

When you finally signal it’s enough, he pulls back, his face shining with your essence, drops of it splattered across his cheeks and lips. He looks so fucking hot, and he’s yours—your husband, your love, your everything. The thought swells in your chest, your heart beating a wild rhythm of adoration.

“You’re so hot when you squirt on my face,” he says, his voice husky with satisfaction as he sticks out his tongue to lick at the drops he can reach. The sight makes your pussy flutter with renewed arousal.

“Fuck,” you moan, the need rising in you again. “I want to suck your dick so bad,” you groan, your voice laced with a desperate, aching need.

Yoongi chuckles, a low, rich sound as he stands and begins to undress completely. You watch him, your eyes drinking in every inch of his body, from the strength in his shoulders to the ridges of muscle that ripple under his skin. He’s a vision, raw and powerful, and the sight of him makes your mouth water.

With a look of pure desire, you drop to your knees before him. His hand finds your jaw, his thumb brushing across your cheek with a tenderness that contrasts with the heat in his eyes. “You look so beautiful. Always,” he murmurs, his voice filled with reverence.

His praise sends a thrill through you, your body responding to the way he worships you with his words and his touch. Humming in appreciation, you reach out to grasp his cock, your hand soft as it glides along his length. Precum beads at the tip, slicking your palm as you stroke him.

You stick your tongue out, gathering saliva before you engulf him in the warmth of your mouth. You suck him like a piece of candy, savoring the taste of him, focusing on the sensitive frenulum and the head of his cock.

His hands land on your head, his fingers threading through your hair as he grunts in need. “Fuck,” he pants, his cock twitching in your mouth as you work him over with slow, deliberate movements.

You begin to hum, the vibrations sending shivers of pleasure down his length. You love watching him unravel before you, his control slipping as you bring him closer and closer to the edge. His breaths come faster, his grip tightening in your hair as you take him deeper, your mouth a hot, wet haven that he never wants to leave.

“Babe,” he warns, his voice taut with anticipation, a delicious strain that sends shivers down your spine. He’s closer than you anticipated, but you don’t relent. You want to push him over the edge, to taste his release. He tries to pull you off, his hands trembling, but you bat them away with a determined swat, drawing him closer, deeper. Without intending to, you deepthroat him, and his resistance melts into a soft moan, his legs buckling beneath the weight of his pleasure.

You steady your breath, fighting your gag reflex as you close your eyes and do it again, taking him in as deep as you can, your throat tightening around him. Your free hand moves to his balls, feeling the tension there, the tightness that signals just how close he is. A deep, primal groan escapes you as you pull off with a wet pop, only to engulf him again, your pace quickening with purpose.

You can hear it in his voice, the way he moans your name, each syllable a testament to how close he is to unraveling. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the effort to hold back, but you don’t give him that luxury. You push him closer, until, with a broken cry of your name, he spills into your mouth, the warm, salty liquid hitting your tongue in waves.

You watch his face contort in pure ecstasy, every line and shadow a portrait of his pleasure. When he’s spent, you swallow with a satisfied hum, pressing a teasing kiss to the sensitive tip of his cock, making him shudder with the aftershocks of bliss.

Panting, he runs a hand through his tousled hair, still trying to catch his breath. “You know,” he says, his voice still thick with pleasure, “you’re never gonna get pregnant if I come in your mouth.”

You giggle, a light, airy sound that cuts through the lingering heat between you. “Maybe not,” you concede, “but I love this too, you know. And we should have fun while we try.” You glance down, watching as he slowly softens, your heart swelling with affection for him. Leaning up, you capture his lips in a hungry kiss, pulling him down onto the bed where you eventually drift off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth of each other.

A few days later, a strange ache tugs at your stomach, a sensation that’s unfamiliar, different from the usual pangs of your period. You brush it aside, though, too excited about the day ahead. Today, you and Yoongi are going surfing in a place known as ‘Cold Hawaii’, a name that hints at both adventure and the chill that comes with it. Neither of you knows how to surf, but that’s part of the thrill. You’re determined to make the most of it.

You head to a surf shop called ‘West Wind’, the air bristling with the energy of the ocean and the people who live for it. The shop is alive with the scent of saltwater and waxed boards, the sound of wetsuits being zipped up, and the murmur of excited voices. You rent surfboards and wetsuits, changing in nearby stalls, and then you’re off to the sea, the brisk air nipping at your cheeks, but the excitement in your veins keeps you warm.

The beach is a hive of activity, surfers riding the waves with effortless grace, their movements fluid and synchronized with the rhythm of the sea. Your instructor, a local with a laid-back demeanor, walks you through the basics: how to balance, where to place your feet. He makes it seem so simple, so intuitive, but you know it’s anything but.

When the time comes, you lie chest-down on the board, the cold water lapping at your sides as you wait for the right wave. The instructor’s voice guides you, telling you when to paddle, when to pop up. But it’s harder than it looks. Your first few attempts are clumsy, your legs wobbling as you try to stand, only to topple back into the water with a splash. You can’t help but laugh, the sound bright and carefree, mingling with the roar of the waves.

Yoongi, with his natural grace, seems to get the hang of it quicker. You watch in admiration as he balances perfectly on the board, his posture steady, his movements controlled. But just as you think he’s got it, he loses his balance and tumbles into the water, disappearing beneath the surface for a moment before popping back up, his black hair plastered to his face, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

You burst out laughing at the sight, the sound of your mirth carrying over the waves. Even the instructor joins in, chuckling at Yoongi’s comical fall. “That was actually good,” he says encouragingly, his tone warm and supportive. “You should both try again.”

Yoongi moves with an effortless grace, a natural on the board, and you can’t help but scuff lightly, rolling your eyes as you watch him balance perfectly, riding the waves as if he were born to them. His ease draws the instructor’s attention more towards you, his voice a steady mantra in your ear, urging you to paddle, paddle, paddle as the wave swells behind you, to pop up and find your balance before the ocean has a chance to pull you under.

You give it your all, and for one brief, glorious moment, you actually manage to stand, your feet finding purchase on the slick surface of the board. But the victory is fleeting; your balance falters so quickly it feels like whiplash, and the next thing you know, you’re crashing into the water, its cold embrace hitting your face hard. Your palms scrape the sandy bottom, and you sputter, your mouth and nose filled with the sting of salty water. The instructor isn’t fazed in the least, his calm demeanor a testament to his experience, and you tell yourself it’s okay—this is so much harder than it looks.

But you’re determined, your resolve like the tide itself, unwavering and persistent. Again and again, you try, each fall more bruising than the last, the surfboard sometimes feeling like it has a vendetta against you. Yet every time you’re knocked down, you get back up, driven by the desire to conquer at least one wave. Yoongi’s big, beaming smile tells you he’s loving every minute of this, his joy infectious even as you struggle.

“Just try again,” the instructor encourages, his tone unwavering, and you do, despite the toll it’s taking on your body. Your muscles ache, sore from the relentless attempts, and a small part of you wonders how long you’ve been at this. Time feels fluid out here, with the waves as your only measure.

Thankfully, the leash tethering you to the board spares you the task of chasing it down after each tumble, a small mercy in the midst of the challenge. You huff out a breath, catching Yoongi’s comforting gaze, his look of support giving you the strength to try once more.

Lying chest down on the board, you let the water cradle you, feeling the swell of a wave approaching. You paddle with renewed determination, and as the wave lifts you, you pop up, finding your balance. This time, you manage to stand, your feet steady beneath you, and the sensation is nothing short of euphoric. A giddy laugh bubbles up from your chest as you ride the wave, a wide smile splitting your face. “Look! I’m doing it!”

And then, inevitably, you hit the water face-first. But when you surface, it’s with a laugh of pure, unbridled joy. You’ve done it. After countless attempts, after losing track of how many times you’ve tried, you finally rode the wave, if only for a moment. And when you see the pride shining in Yoongi’s eyes, your heart swells with a happiness that makes every fall worth it.

Later, after drying off, you treat yourselves to ice cream, savoring the sweet, cold treat as you sit on the beach, wrapped in your warm jackets. The air is crisp, but the warmth between you is enough to keep the chill at bay. You walk hand in hand back to the caravan, the soft crunch of sand beneath your boots, noticing how many other caravans dot the campground. It’s a bustling scene, alive with the laughter of children running and playing, their joy infectious.

As you watch them, your heart warms, and you can’t help but wonder what it will be like when you have kids of your own. The thought lingers, sweet and tender, like the promise of more beautiful moments to come.

“My feet are so sore, Yoon,” you lament, the weight of the day heavy in each step as you both drag your tired bodies back to the warmth of the caravan.

“Mine too,” he admits with a playful lilt in his voice. “How about we give each other a massage?” The suggestion, though innocent in words, carries a hint of something more, and you feel the familiar embers of desire flicker to life within you.

“Yes, please,” you breathe, your words a soft cloud in the crisp night air. The thought of your hands on him, of his hands on you, sends a thrill through your weary body. You can’t wait to get inside, to feel his touch, to see where this simple act of care will lead.

Once inside, you kick off your shoes with a sigh of relief, the warmth of the caravan wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. You share a quick bite, the soft glow of Yoongi’s phone casting shadows across your faces as something plays in the background, though neither of you pays much attention. It’s just a quiet moment, a pause before the real focus begins.

Settling onto the bed, you both sit up, peeling off your socks with a mix of anticipation and fatigue. The first touch of his hands on your feet makes you release a needy sound, the soreness easing under his skilled fingers. Yoongi lets out a similar groan as you knead the tension from his feet, and the shared intimacy sends a wave of warmth straight to your core.

“This has been a wonderful honeymoon, Yoon,” you murmur, your breath a little unsteady as your fingers dig into the arch of his foot.

He hums in response, pleased and content, his eyes closing briefly before he looks at you, love shining in his gaze. “I’m so happy to hear that. You thought we were going someplace exotic, didn’t you?” He chuckles, pulling his foot back for a moment, ticklish under your touch, but then quickly offers it again, craving the comfort of your hands.

“Yeah, I really did,” you admit, smiling at him. “But this has been so lovely. Thank you.” There’s a softness in your voice, a gratitude that comes from the heart.

“I love you,” you say, the words slipping out easily, a simple truth between you.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice filled with warmth as he grabs your other foot. The touch of his calloused fingers on your tender skin draws a moan from your lips, your body responding instinctively to his care.

The atmosphere shifts, the once innocent massage now tinged with an undercurrent of desire. Your bodies are tired, but the need simmering between you is undeniable. His eyes darken with hunger as he watches you, and the heat in your core intensifies. Letting go of his foot, you crawl toward him, your lips seeking his in a deep, hungry kiss. Your tongues meet in a dance of passion, and your hands move with urgency, tugging at his clothes, helping him shed his shirt, his warmth pressing against you.

You make quick work of his pants, and he follows suit with yours, leaving you both in nothing but your underwear. The kiss deepens, your lips trailing down his body, tasting the salt of his skin. His hands move over you, and you tremble as he pulls your panties off, the cool air brushing against your wetness, sending shivers down your spine. 

Yoongi discards his boxers, his arousal evident, and your body quivers with the need to feel him inside you. He pulls you close, removing your bra with practiced ease, your breasts spilling free. His gaze lingers, filled with lust and love, before he leans down, his lips closing around a nipple. The warmth of his mouth, the swirl of his tongue, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making your back arch off the bed.

“Yoongi,” you pant, your voice thick with desire as he tends to your other breast, his hand teasing and pulling at your nipple, sending sparks of heat to your pussy.

Your chest heaves with each breath, your body alive under his touch, every nerve ending ignited. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you tug at his hair, urging him closer, deeper.

“Fuck, Yoongi!” you cry out, the pleasure building to a fever pitch as he alternates between your breasts, his fingers and mouth working in tandem to push you over the edge. You could come just from this, and it wouldn’t be the first time. There’s no embarrassment, just raw desire.

“I’m—,” you moan as your orgasm hits you like a freight train, arching your back into his face as you come undone. Your back arches, your body trembling as you come undone beneath him, his name a breathless whisper on your lips as the world fades away, leaving only the two of you in the aftermath of bliss.

A sudden knock on the door steals the breath from your lungs, and you freeze, eyes wide with shock. The intimacy of the moment shatters like fragile glass, and Yoongi, just as startled, pulls away. Instinctively, you reach for him, not wanting the spell to break, your heart pounding like a wild drum in your chest.

But Yoongi, ever the calm in your storm, quickly grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist. The distance between you feels like a chasm as he opens the door, while you remain on the bed, flushed and breathless, your chest heaving, still glistening with the remnants of his kiss.

“Hi,” comes the low murmur of a man’s voice, intruding into your world as Yoongi runs a hand through his tousled hair, trying to steady his breath.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the man continues, his tone polite yet firm, “but could you keep it down? My kids are trying to sleep, and it’s getting a bit loud.”

Each word lands like a stone, sinking into the pit of your stomach as mortification blooms within you. The realization that your passion had spilled beyond the walls of your private sanctuary makes you wish the earth would swallow you whole.

“Shit. We’re so sorry,” Yoongi replies, his voice steady and apologetic as he bows slightly, the English words rolling off his tongue with ease. “We’ll be quieter. Sorry again.” With that, he closes the door, and the world narrows back down to just the two of you. For a moment, you just stare at each other, and the air feels thick with unspoken tension and embarrassment. Your breathing is still quick and you feel like you want to disappear, but Yoongi’s eyes ground you, and his soft smile lets you know it’s okay. The silence is stretching on, until Yoongi bursts out laughing, showing his perfect gums, which in turn makes you laugh too. Suddenly, you don’t feel so embarrassed, the laughter making way for the absurdity of the situation to dissipate a bit, and you just giggle, the atmosphere contagious.

He crosses the short distance to the bed, a smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’d suggest stuffing your mouth with my cock to keep you quiet,” he says, voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. You barely catch your breath as he adds, “But if you want to get pregnant this cycle, it needs to be in your vagina.”

His words set your heart racing anew, desire pooling hot and urgent within you. You stare at him, feeling the wetness between your thighs grow, your body responding to his every word.

“You’re ovulating, right?” he asks, his voice teasing, but there’s a serious edge to his gaze.

You blink, the realization dawning like a slow sunrise. The ache in your stomach—it all makes sense. “I think I am, yeah,” you murmur, your voice trembling with anticipation. 

A devilish smile spreads across his face. “Well,” he clicks his tongue, his eyes darkening with intent, “then I’m going to fuck you, but you’ll have to be silent. There are people sleeping.”

You nod, breath hitching as the room seems to shrink around the two of you. 

With a practiced ease, Yoongi discards the towel and returns to the bed, his presence overwhelming as he hovers over you, still hard and ready. He takes himself in hand, giving a few slow pumps before his fingers find your wetness. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval. “Bet I’ll slide right in.”

You bite your lip, suppressing a moan, knowing he’s right.

He aligns himself with your entrance, and with a smooth, unhurried thrust, he’s inside you, filling you completely. The pleasure is instant and intense, but you remember the man’s words, biting into Yoongi’s discarded shirt to stifle your cries.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Yoongi rasps, his voice strained with the effort of keeping quiet as he begins to move, his pace steady and deep. The sound of your bodies meeting, slick and needy, fills the small caravan, mingling with the quiet grunts and whispered breaths.

With strong hands, he grips your thighs, spreading them wide and lifting them onto his shoulders. His thrusts quicken, each one bringing you closer to the edge, his breath coming in harsh pants as he fights to keep his own volume down.

“This pussy,” he whispers, his voice reverent as he pulls one leg down to reach between your bodies. His fingers find your clit, already swollen and sensitive, and he circles it with expert precision. “It’s mine, and it’s so gorgeous.”

Your vision blurs, your body trembling as a new wave of pleasure builds deep inside. You mumble incoherently into the shirt, but it doesn’t matter—Yoongi knows you’re close, can feel it in the way your walls clench around him.

He keeps his rhythm steady, his fingers teasing your clit while his cock hits that perfect spot inside you. The tension coils tighter and tighter until, with a final, whispered plea of his name, you unravel completely, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body spasms, and you push the shirt out of your mouth, gasping for air as you whisper his name, the sound broken and desperate.

“Fuck, babe,” Yoongi groans, his pace faltering as he chases his own release. The way your body grips him, the way you moan his name—it’s too much. With a low growl, he thrusts deep one last time, his cock throbbing as he spills into you, warmth flooding your walls as he pants your name.

The world narrows to the feeling of him, the heat of his body pressed against yours as he collapses on top of you, both of you breathless and sated. You don’t mind the weight of him, your arms wrapping around his back as you press a tender kiss to his temple.

“I can’t wait to have a baby with you,” he whispers against your skin, his voice soft and filled with love.

“I can’t wait either,” you reply, your voice equally tender as you kiss him again, pouring all the love and gratitude you feel into that simple, sweet gesture.

Taglist: @idkjustlovingbts@constancelayon@wobblewobble822@ktownshizzle@moonchild1 @ultimatefangirl0 @baechugff @jimintaemin @parapiop7 @fckkntired @iluvfndms @citypop-princess @tarahardcore @bergandysam @massivelyfullenthusiast @tatyhend @gimeow @jeonsbabygirlsworld

*I don't know why the fuck the taglist doesn't want to work anymore T_T I hope you all find it anyway!

Author’s note(2): I really hope you liked it! I have two more extras planned for this series and they’re coming soon! Please let me know in a comment, reblog or ask what you liked 💜 And please, remember it’s just fiction.

[sphireath-wisp]

Hihi!!! I was just wondering if you could do just little cute scenarios with sae, yoichi, and rin (gn! reader + all individual)

im sorry if this isn't as detailed as you wish but I'm just really craving tooth rotting fluff+ take your time (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Sypnosis: In the busy hustle and bustle of life, it's sometimes hard to find time to spend together. When there's time, what are the hobbies/little things both of you do together?

Warning: My readers are always morally grey in some way because it's more realistic to me, not proofread

Author's note: Thank you so much for reaching out and giving me this ask! I'll try my best to weave my story together to match your request. I owe my friend a good favour, so I hope you don't mind me adding her BL favourite here. Thank you so much for your understanding ε(´｡•᎑•`)っ 💕

Featuring: Sae Itoshi, Yoichi Isagi, Rin Itoshi x GN! reader

SAE ITOSHI... finds himself most at ease during late-night drives with you in the passenger seat. The windows are down, you're sticking your head out of the car despite his multiple warnings, and he can't stop smiling. His free hand is reaching for you and tugging your shirt down, and his eyes drift to your pouting face in the rearview mirror.

Usually, his late-night drives together with you have no real destination. Acting purely on a whim, Sae always drives you wherever feels right. Sometimes, it's the port right by the beach. Other times, he's driving you to an empty parking lot. Today, he decides to let you have the privilege of choosing where to go.

And when you ultimately decide to go to a playground out of all places, he scoffs but does a U-turn without hesitation.

Is it currently 11 a.m. and does he have a schedule he almost-religiously follows? Yes, and he has a feeling that he won't have enough time to drink his salted kombucha tomorrow morning. Is he tired? Absolutely. Why would he do all of this when he knows damn well he has practice tomorrow?

Hell, he's asking himself that as he opens the car door for you and helps you out.

With a cheeky peck on Sae's cheek, you wash away his thoughts and he returns the favour with a kiss on your forehead. "Let's go get a new car, yeah?" Sae shuts the car door behind you. You're bewildered, to say the least, "I'll let you pick a design this time."

"Look! It's here, it's here!" Your boyfriend, YOICHI ISAGI, geeks out in the manga section of your local bookstore. "Oh yeah, didn't they release figures already? Season 2 is being released soon, right?"

His smile only grows wider when you nod. He's crouching down beside you as you tower over him, leaning down slightly to watch him stare at the various covers. Standing back up on his feet with two in hand, Isagi seems to have reached a slight dilemma.

"Ah... should I get the latest chapter? Or should I..." Oh, isn't that the romance manga you recommended to him? The main couple was cheesy, but it reminded you a lot of how your relationship with Isagi is. Turning your head away, you find yourself stifling a giggle - how cute.

After a moment of deep thought, Isagi sulks. His shoulders slump and he kneels back down, placing both the mangas back on their shelves. Like a defeated puppy, he crouches there for a moment in silence.

"What's up?"

"I can't decide, so it's better if I don't get one or else I'll spend the rest of the day regretting it," He's solemn, your heart clenches when he forces an awkward smile. It's not a big deal, but... "You can borrow my copy y'know, don't be shy."

He perks up. It's a simple gesture, but the simplest things in life have always pleased Isagi the most. With a bashful laugh, he picks out the manga he wanted - he can indulge a little, he decides. "Right, I'm sorry. You didn't need to see how let down I was over something so small." Honestly, Isagi's a little shy. It's only been a few months into the relationship. He wants to respect you and your boundaries.

"I'll get you something in return, thank you."

RIN ITOSHI yelps when he stumbles out of your bedroom to the dimly lit living room of your apartment, sucking back a hiss from the base of his throat when something jabs at his foot. His disappointment only grows when he lifts his foot to see the imprint of a Lego brick on the sole. "What do you think you're doing? At 1 in the morning?" The once groggy Rin Itoshi is now wide awake, meeting your avoidant gaze. As you continue to piece together your Lego set, you mumble, "...couldn't sleep. I usually don't have trouble, but I don't know what's up with me today."

Despite his reluctance, he walks over to you and plops onto the carpet beside you. "Aren't you a little too old for this?" Rin begins while mindlessly piecing bricks together. His back is against your shoulder, partially leaning his weight onto you.

You scoff once he grabs the manual. "You're one to talk," you retort as you pull apart Lego pieces, "In case you haven't realized it, you happen to be playing with my Lego set."

"In case you haven't realized it, I'm helping you, idiot," There's no real malice in his voice. He crosses his legs and straightens his spine, turning to gather the pieces in a pile and redo everything from scratch. You clearly seem to be struggling. He'll never admit it, but he doesn't like the aching gap in his chest when you're not in bed with him.

It's a good excuse in his head. He's simply helping you out so you'll return to his embrace as soon as possible. It's just that. He's totally not enjoying playing with Legos with you - he convinces himself mentally with starry eyes when you both finish the overwhelming set at 2:30 a.m.

"Phew! Now to take it apart!"

"Hell no."

Taglist: @mikmwehehe, @saexy (while you did archive your old account, you are technically still on my list!! Please tell me if you want to get removed and I'll do it asap)

[trippinsorrows]

give me a reason + one

authors note: welp. here i am, once again. granted, i'm a bit excited about this one, as it's a unique storyline, at least not as cliched as maybe 'ltye' or 'with me'. trope is essentially age gap x best friends brother x second chance romance x something else that'll be revealed by the end of this chapter and my own creative flairs.

the age gap between mariella and joe is four years, and nothing romantic happened between them until she was in her twenties. just putting that out there now. ari don't do that grooming shit.

their story will be told in a mixture of flashbacks and present day. how they ended up where they are now will eventually be revealed, but until then, it's expected that ya'll are confused.

words: 9k

song inspo: just give me a reason by p!nk and nate ruess

warnings: angst and fluff

if i tag anyone and you don't want to be tagged, please let me know!

taglist: @annfg8 @whatdoeseverybodywant @sayyestoheav3nn @cyberdejos2 @prettybitxhnica @shayaaaaaaa

Summer, 2003

“Ladies, next week officially starts the beginning of the rest of our lives. No longer will we be lowly 8th graders. No, we will be official high schoolers! Next week is a new beginning, a new era, a new decade of wonderful, fabulous, life changing—”

“Baby girl, do you want a hot dog or a burger?”

Mariella releases the loudest, most exaggerated sigh known to mankind that is possible for a 14-year-old. She turns from where she was pacing across the stones that line around her family’s pool. Sure enough, her 6’3 father stands before her with his spatula in hand, wearing his apron gifted to him for Father’s Day a couple years back. He’s using his free hand to shield his face from the blaring sun. 

“Daddy! I was in the middle of a monologue!”

Byron Holmes looks as disinterested as the tone of his voice. “Ella, you always talking. How am I supposed to know the difference?”

This time, it’s a dramatic gasp that's evoked instead of the previous one born from irritation. “I resent you saying that, father!”

“I’m sure you do, now do you want a hot dog or burger?”

Mariella might quite possibly be the most dramatic person to walk the earth, but the promise of one of her dad’s famous grilled burgers is too good to turn down. She can turn her strong feelings at being interrupted into a song at a later date and time.

Defeated, unable to overpower the desire for good food, she murmurs, “burger, please.”

“Thank you.” Byron Sr. shakes his head. Getting an answer from the prisoners is easier than getting one from his youngest sometimes. He then sets his gaze on her audience. “What about you girls?”

Promise Rose is the first to answer, that usual nervous smile on her face as she adjusts her thick rimmed glasses. “A hot dog, please, Mr. Holmes.”

Byron nods, committing her request to memory. He then turns to the other, already knowing what he’s in for. “Iris?”

Her hazel eyes that are obscured by the heavy set of eyeliner land on him with icy indifference. “I refuse to participate in the travesty and continued slaughter of the innocent just for the selfish pleasure and satisfaction of the greedy carnivorous species that occupies this stolen land.”

Byron releases a heavy sigh. It’s always something with this one. “Is that a yes or no, Iris?”

Iris lifts her chin, answering just as coldly, “I’ll just take the bread.”

Relieved and eager to be away from the only fourteen-year-old who could unnerve him, even with his twenty plus years as a prison warden, he walks away, mumbling to himself, “I swear something is wrong with that child….”

Returned to the previous topic at hand, Mariella plops down on the pool chaise across from her two best friends since third grade. “Now where were we before I was so rudely interrupted?”

“The inevitable extinction of mankind.”

“Surviving high school.”

Mariella rolls her eyes. It can so difficult sometimes to get her two polar opposite besties on the same page.

“We just have to make sure we do everything perfect.”

Promise Rose chews nervously on the corner of her lip and criss crosses her legs over each other. She looks between the two of them, anxiety growing by the second. “Ella is right. With BJ and Joe graduating this year, we’ve gotta make sure we elevate our social status or else we’re dead meat.”

Confused, Mariella asks, “what do you mean?” She then adds, “our social status is fine.”

Promise Rose looks over at an uninterested Iris. “Help here?”

“I refuse to subscribe to the patriarchy of social hierarchies.”

“Oh geez.” She should have known better. Iris refuses to get hip with anything if it’s not sticking a finger to the man. “Ella, it’s only because of your brother and Joe that we haven’t been bullied out of school. We are literally only semi-popular because of association. Without the guys, we’re nerds.”

Mariella would have preferred an actual dirty, jagged edge dagger be shoved into her chest. “We are not nerds!”

“Ella, you’re weird. I’m scared of everything. And Iris contemplates murder every hour on the hour.”

Iris shrugs, pushing her Kaleidoscope colored hair over her tanned shoulder. “Only on exceptionally bad days.”

“I rest my case.”

Mariella isn’t beyond consideration of alternative perspectives. She takes Promise Rose words to heart, trying her best to see it objectively.

She’s also not above admitting that having her brother and Joe look out for her over the years has only been beneficial. Even with them being out of middle school for almost four years now, their popularity has existed since damn near elementary school. Them and her twins sisters, Everly and Olivia, really. But especially Byron and Joe, mostly because of their standing as football players, two of the best on every team they’ve been on. Because of that, there’s not a soul in town who doesn’t know her as BJ’s little sister and Joe’s adopted little sister.

She’s always seen that as protecting her from guys messing with her but never associated it with social status.

And just as she’s undergoing a life changing realization, the creak of the side gate snatches her attention, revealing the two people who can clear all this up for her.

“BJ!”

Mariella untangles her legs from off the pool chair and jogs over to her brother and Joe.

“Damn, not even home for five minutes, and you already sweating me.”

Glaring, she shoves on his chest, muttering, “you’re such a dick sometimes.”

“Aye, watch your math. You too young to be cussing.”

She ignores him. With his 18th birthday right around the corner, Byron Jr., BJ as everyone calls him, has been on some weird power, superiority trip. 

Mariella redirects her focus to Joe, accepting his side hug. “Whassup, Ri.”

Mariella has a variety of nicknames. Her parents bounce back and forth between Mariella and Ella, mostly everyone else calls her Ella, but with Joe, she’s just Ri.

It’s kind of an unspoken rule that only he can call her that.

Joseph Anoa’i. 

Mariella can’t think of a time Joe wasn’t in her life. Not only does he and his equally large family live just a few doors down, he’s played football with BJ since they were six-years-old, before she was old enough to know what football even was. An almost quiet, level headed balance to her sometimes hot headed biological brother, Joe is Mariella’s big brother from another mother. Hes has always looked out for her just as much as BJ, if not more. 

He’s essentially been informally adopted by her family as BJ’s brother for life. 

“Hey, Joe.” Separating from him, she turns back toward the two of them. “Okay, I have a question, and it’s imperative you provide me with the raw, honest truth.”

Joe seems at least somewhat interested, but BJ is the one to make the smart comment. “Make it quick. I’m hungry. Practice was brutal.”

A brief brow lift from Joe is confirmation BJ isn’t exaggerating, so in a moment of rarity, Mariella bypasses all of the theatrics and skips right to the point. “Am I a nerd?”

Mariella expects contemplation, some level of astonishment that she could even fix her mouth to ask such a thing. Instead, she’s met with her brother shrugging with a simple, “of course, you are.”

Mouth ajar, hand to her chest, she asks, “what?”

“Come on, Ella, you know you’re kinda weird. Be talking to yourself and stuff.”

“It’s a sign of genius, thank you very much.”

“It’s a sign of weirdness.” She crosses her arms over her chest as a sign of unspoken protest. “If you wasn’t my little sister, I’d probably bully your nerdy ass.”

Completely done with the young man she once considered brother, Mariella looks over at Joe to see he’s on his phone. Probably texting his latest girlfriend of the week. Latisha, or something like that. He seems to cycle through girls faster than BJ. “Joe?”

He lifts his gaze from his phone, and Mariella readies to remind him of the initial question when he answers. “You’re just you, Ri. That’s all that matters.”

She’s not sure why she expected more. Joe can be of so few words at times. She just wishes this wasn’t one of those times. 

“While I do not agree with the expressed opinions, I appreciate the candor.” Chin lifted, she bids them farewell. “I will leave you be now.” Mariella can briefly overhear Joe saying something about Latisha, but it’s pushed away, outweighed by this new shocking piece of information.

In walking back over to her best friends and future members of her team when she’s a world famous singer, Mariella is unsurprised to find Promise Rose sitting on the edge of her seat while Iris simply glares at nothing and no one. 

Promise Rose is the first to speak, asking with all of the anxiety she carries on a daily basis. “Well?”

Mariella would love to lie to them, but these are her best friends. She could never do such a thing, even if the truth sucks more than the rumors of a pending B2K breakup. “You’re right.” Shoulders slumped, she groans loudly and throws herself back on the pool chair. “We’re dead meat.”

—-------

Present

You, you love it how I move you 

You love it how I touch you 

My one, when all is said and done 

You'll believe God is a woman

Watching her perform has always been an experience, a treat, a vision in some ways. The way she moves across the stage, so demanding, so in the moment, the eye contact and engagement with the crowd creating such an all-encompassing experience. 

On the stage, performing, is her element. It’s always been where she shines the most, and tonight is no different.

She’s up for a couple Grammys, already snagging two, as expected. He knows the ones she’s really anxious about are the coveted Album and Record of the Year. It’s something she’s always dreamed of achieving, and while there have been whispers that she’s a shoe in, Joe has known Mariella long enough to know that’s not enough.

It’ll only mean something to her when they’re in her hands.

And he’s confident they will be. She’s had yet another stellar, groundbreaking year, her album somehow doing better than her last. No one’s seeing numbers and sales like her. Her pen game is unmatched, not to mention her album is almost entirely written and produced by her, something unheard of these days.

She truly is an icon in the making. 

And the way she ends her performance with a standing ovation from some of music’s best is just more proof of how much she’s killing it.

Joe watches her walk backstage after nervously basking in such a response from people she’s looked up to her whole life.

She doesn’t return to her seat next to him, as expected. The final two categories are about to be announced, and he realizes it would be easier for her to remain backstage when her name is called. 

And the minute it is, he finds himself nodding with a small smile. He knew she could do it, knew that there was no way she could release such accomplished work and not leave with acknowledgment of such.

There’s an almost awkward but appropriate pause as the attendees stand and applaud, Mari suddenly rushing out from the back while holding her dress up. For a brief second, he thinks she’s gonna fall flat on her face. It wouldn’t be the first time.

She's a talented dancer, but the textbook definition of a klutz.

Always has been. 

But, she doesn’t. Thank God. He knows that’s something she would never let herself live down.

Seconds later, she’s at the mic, panicking, “oh my god!” Her breathing is uneven, and he can bet it’s because she was in the back wearing a hole in the floor with her nervous pacing. “I’m sorry, I was in the back having a panic attack.” That might not be entirely untrue. “And also, my dress is not dressing for some reason, so I’m just gonna awkwardly hold this up to avoid flashing anyone and getting sued by the FCC.” He shakes his head. Even with all the fame, she’s remained the same. “Okay, but seriously, this is insane? Ummm, thank you! I don’t— have no idea what to say. God is so good. My mama would kill me if I didn’t say that. Ooh, I want to thank my parents, of course! My big brother and two older sisters for always putting up with me singing and dancing all over the house.” Always isn’t an exaggeration. Joe can’t recall a time where he walked into the Holmes adobe and wasn’t met with or overheard Mariella working on some aspect of her craft, whether that was writing, creating beats, learning a new dance. She’s always been so focused on getting exactly where she is now.

She continues to thank her team, rushing through the litany of individuals she attributes to helping her stand where she does with the awards that she’s been awarded this night. And when he doesn’t hear his name included, he knows right away she’s in a relatively good mood, willing to play up their Oscar worthy performance.

“And lastly, to my amazing husband,” her eyes search the room, finally landing on him. “Joe, you are my best friend and my biggest supporter. I love you so much. Thank you for always being in my corner and putting up with all of my crackhead energy.” Her eyes are teary, but he has no doubt she’s pulling from the emotion at crossing off yet another box from so long ago versus feeling so moved by her inauthentic words. 

But again, he follows along with this song and dance they’ve mastered at this point, mouthing once again that he loves her too.

The music begins to play indicating that she’s maxed out her time, and he hears her quickly throw out, “I’m not on crack, by the way!” before she walks off the stage, ushered by Pharrell and Diane Warren.

Theres’s something both treasured and uncomfortable about those words leaving her mouth. They’re so freely used these days. By both of them. But the meaning and impact behind them is long gone, some place in the past where demons and skeletons lie, often tampered with but never fully addressed.

It now just leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

—-------

“I have a show on the 13th you need to be at.”

Joe is sitting on the edge of the bed, undoing his tie, focused on the balcony doors across from him instead of to his right where she sits at her vanity, removing her jewelry. 

“What?” He doesn’t need to be looking at her to know she’s angled toward him, face turned up in disgust. “Of March?”

There’s no need for a wordy answer. “Yeah.”

“I can’t.” Mari has made it a goal of hers to stay on top of her calendar as she prepares to enter the next era of her career. With the Grammy’s now over, the end of this award season is upon her, and preparation for her next album is underway. It’s why she knows and communicates in the moment of the scheduling conflict. “I have a meeting with my label to start discussing my next album.”

Joe can’t deny the fact that he half-expected her to come up with some excuse, some reason as to why she yet again can’t do her part of this joint collab of theirs. “Can’t you move it?”

“Why should I have to move my stuff around for you?” Mari can count a variety of times where she’s done so before, but that was then. This is now. They’re miles away from where they once were, and she’s not willing to inconvenience herself for him.

Not anymore. 

Meanwhile, Joe doesn’t understand why everything that’s inherently so simple has to be made so fucking complex. It’s never a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ with her. “You can tell Jax if a date doesn’t work for you. I can’t do that shit with Paul.” And she knows that. Mariella is well aware of how the WWE works. Dates are set in stone months in advance, years in advance sometimes for PPV’s. She’s just being difficult for no damn reason.

As per usual. 

In a perfect world, Mariella would be celebrating right now, would be in attendance at the prestigious Grammy’s After-Party celebrating her major accomplishments. Instead, she sits in the room with a man who seems hellbent on stealing her joy in any way he can these days.

It makes her sick. 

She’s fully turned toward him, even as he refuses to look her way. Intentional, of course. He knows how big she is on eye contact. “I did that the last time I went to a taping, Joe. I’m not gonna keep doing it.”

He glances at her, and she instantly knows he’s not backing down, not willing to let this lie. She knows she’s in for another pow-wow. A signature finish for most outings these days. “But, I can show up for you?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like this isn’t as beneficial for you as it is for me.” One thing she won’t put up with is him acting like their arrangement isn’t just as great for his career as it is for hers. The press and fans of both of them eat up any type of public appearance, especially when he plays the role of the loving, supportive husband who wants to celebrate his wife’s big wins with her. “And you know how busy I am after award season.”

He knows that’s typically when she gets back in the kitchen to start cooking up her next album, where she locks herself in the studio for hours on end writing, producing, escaping.

“And WrestleMania season isn’t for me?”

Truth be told, she’d briefly forgotten about that, forgotten that the biggest night of his career is only two months away. A small part of her hates that. Hates how far they are from where they once were. There was once a time where she had every single event committed to memory, would bend over backwards to attend as many of his shows that she could.

Now, she couldn’t give two shits. 

The same way he feels about her.

“I don’t know why you care so much.” She turns back to the mirror to safely remove her diamonds. They’ll need to be returned tomorrow to the designer, and the last thing she wants is to drop or lose something because of his ass. “You got your little whores there anyway. What do you need me for?”

It’s a petty but truthful jab. Mariella knows good and well that her showing up to one of his tapings after he attended the Grammys with her will be ate up by their fans. It’s good press. Great, even. 

But the thought of sitting there, with the full, painful, embarrassing knowledge that the women behind the scenes, the women who are hidden behind NDA’s and WWE hush money, see her for the fraud she is. Know that Joe will end up fucking them when the night is over and returning home to her with the scent of their cheap perfume and not an ounce of regret.

It almost makes her stomach turn. 

He chuckles, and that’s what makes her gaze snap back onto him. She hates when he does this, when he makes it seem like shit is funny. There’s nothing comical about this tragedy. “Did I say something funny?”

“Forget it.” And now he’s dismissive, trying to shut down an argument that he started. “You don’t fucking listen anyway.”

“Are you serious right now?” Mari’s eyes go wide as she stands up, finally rid of six figure jewelry but basked in growing rage. “I don’t listen? Joe, you don’t listen! You never listen! You haven’t in years.”

Joe feeds off her energy, the quiet anger he’s usually well adept at concealing bubbling its way to the surface. No one’s ever been able to get him riled up like she does. “Naw, you not gon’ do that. Make it seem like this is on me. You do what you want and then expect me to just be okay with shit.”

“Wow. This is rich. Absolutely rich.” Mari can only laugh, because this part is funny. It’s hilarious. His lack of insight is astounding. “You are the most selfish bastard I have ever met.”

“Here it is.” He’s now standing as well, hulking body angled towards her, towering over her even with her designer heels. He motions with his hand for her to continue, to go on with the victim narrative she loves to clothe herself in. “Keep going. Tell me all this shit you already know about me, how awful I am—”

“Because you are!”

Something about the intensity in her voice sends him, makes him snap back easily. “And you’re a fucking saint?” His volume is also rising, which he hates. He never allows anyone to have access to that button, to know what to press and how to press it to get him this worked up. “You don’t never do shit wrong?”

Mariella feels her anger intensify as he turns to walk away from her. She’s hot on his heels, following him into the bathroom. “God, you always do this! You always put it back on me. It’s never your fault. Always mine!”

“And this is what I’m saying.” He has his big hands planted on the bathroom counter, looking at her through the large, mounted mirror. “You’re not even hearing what I’m saying. Always so fucking defensive. I’m not the one who don’t listen, Mari! You are!”

She can’t deny there have been a number of occasions where she’s jumped into defensive mode sooner than what’s necessary. Mariella isn’t above acknowledging that. But for him to make it seem like it’s not for a good reason, if not for his role is something she won’t stand for. “So what if I am defensive, huh? Who made me this way? You did, you bastard!”

“Just stop fucking’ talking, alright?” He’s pulling his suit jacket off, tone a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. Emotional or physical, she’s not sure. She knows she certainly feels both. “I don’t wanna hear this shit anymore.”

“And now here you go, always walking away, always taking the easy way out.” Because this is his MO. He loves to accuse and gaslight, and the minute she calls him out on his hypocrisy, he wants to shut everything down. It’s infuriating.

“Fine!” He slams his fists down on the same granite counter Mariella still remembers him once making out with her on, a starting point that ended with him carrying her to their once shared bed where he would make love to her throughout the night. Such a far away, almost unfamiliar time. “You want to sit here and continue yelling, be my fucking guest. I’m not saying shit though!”

“There you go again with more avoidance. God, you’re so predictable! Shit gets too hard, you shut down. You run away.”

“Don’t fucking act like you ever want to talk about shit with me—”

“Don’t tell me what I want, Joe. You don’t know what I want, okay? You don’t know anything about me anymore!”

“And whose fault is that, Mariella, huh? You don’t tell me shit! You never tell me shit!”

“Why should I? You don’t deserve to know shit about me anymore!” It’s more emotions than anything that fuels her to add on the accusatory, “It’s not like you care in the first damn place!” It also has to be the emotions that have her eyes watering, because it’s been forever and a day since an argument between them—and there have been plenty—has made her feel anything other than anger.

This is different.

This is sadness.

 Mariella watches as Joe punches the adjacent wall, the action taking her by surprise and making her jump back from said shock. “What do you want me to say, huh?” It’s been years since she’s seen him this upset. “No matter what I fucking say, what I fucking do, nothing’s ever right, so what’s the goddamn point!” With almost desperation, he shouts, “what the hell do you want from me!”

“I want you to love me again!” She snaps with a burst of visceral emotions. His anger simmers instantaneously. Joe knows that was the last thing she wanted to say, the deep down secret she’s worked hard to keep hidden and tucked away suddenly laid out in the open for all to see. The devastation on her face gives it away as she says more to herself than him in an equally devastated tone, “but that’s gone, isn't it? Everything we had…..everything we were…..is gone.”

An eerie silence settles over them. Joe closes his eyes and does his best to regulate his conflicting emotions. Everything is felt at once. So strong, so confusing, so pressing. That was the last thing he expected to hear from her, the same way the last thing he expected to feel at said words is longing. It’s so unfamiliar and confusing. She has so much power over him. To evoke such strong emotions with just a single sentence. To make him suddenly battle with the array of feelings he’s felt toward and about her at any given point in all of the many years they’ve known each other.

It’s just a fucking mess.

But then, the focus isn’t on his emotions anymore. It’s on the quiet sniffling he hears that makes him close his eyes. Joe instantly feels something different, something similar yet almost stronger than guilt.

She’s still standing at the doorway, but her hands are covering her face, failing to hide what is both visible and audible. 

Tears. 

She’s crying.

Something else unfamiliar settles over him, something almost nostalgic, that once upon a time uncomfortable plethora of emotions he’d find himself battling whenever he saw she was upset.

It never sat right with him to see her cry. 

His tone immediately shifts to something significantly calmer. “Mari….”

“I’m just tired, Joe. I’m so so…..tired.” And it’s with an almost whisper into the enclosed palm of her hands that she grabs the nail for the coffin. “And I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He’s dangerously still, rendered almost physically unable to move. The air around them is suddenly so much more noticeable, heavier, weightier, debilitating. 

She lifts her head, revealing a tear stained, distraught expression that makes him almost as equally distraught. “I don’t want to live like this anymore, Joe. I’m not happy. You’re not happy.” Each word leaving her mouth chips away his anger and replaces it with something unidentifiable. “It’s obvious you don’t love me anymore, and that’s—” Her throat catches as she forces herself to continue. “—that’s okay. Our careers are stable enough to where we don’t have to keep up this facade anymore.”

“Mariella—”

“I want a divorce.”

For some reason, there’s always been this belief system that any argument between them is just a part, a part that’s followed up with another one, then another, and then another. But, it never dawned on him that a single part could be the final part.

The final straw.

“Mariella, we—”

He’s stepping toward her, and she’s instantly stepping back, lifting her arms. She doesn’t want him near her, doesn’t want him touching her. It’s a sting, that’s for sure. 

“Don’t.” And he won’t. Won’t cross her boundaries even if everything in him is screaming to do so, to bypass her wishes that are being fueled by something temporary. Something that will fade by the time morning rolls around. “Just….don’t.”

She’s wiping at her eyes and mutters, “I need some air.”

He doesn’t like seeing her walk away in this manner, doesn’t like ending on this point. It’s one thing to leave off with the promise of another chapter, but it’s an entirely different thing to know that what could follow is the back cover without the anticipation for a sequel.

But, he says nothing. 

Does nothing.

He just lets her leave.

—-------

2007 

The phone ringing less than ten minutes after Joe plopped his big body in the bed was the last thing he expected and needed. Coach put them through hell today, and he’d completely forgotten about an assignment due the next day, so he’d forced himself to power through his physical exhaustion to get it submitted. 

Unlike a lot of his teammates, Joe does care about his academics as much as he cares about football. He recognizes it’s important to have something to fall back on. And as a senior, he’s really at the point where failure just isn’t an option.

He’s come too far now for that shit. 

When the phone rings a second time, he realizes it might be worth answering, even if everything in his body wants him to let it ring 18 times if that’s what it takes for the caller to get the message.

Not even bothering to check who it is, Joe grabs his cell and hits the green button. “Yeah?”

He’s met with soft sniffling followed up with a quiet, “it’s me.”

At that, Joe sits up in his bed, all attention on the person on the other end. “Ri?” He’s wide awake now. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to call so late—”

“What’s wrong?” He doesn’t care about that anymore, just wants to know what happened to make her phone him at such a time. To phone him crying, at that. That’s the part that makes him concerned.

He can’t remember the last time he’s seen or heard her do that.

He hears shuffling on the other end as she chokes out, “can you—can you come get me?”

It’s not even a question. “Send me your location. I’m on my way.”

—--

Joe nearly knocks down the damn mailbox in front of the frat house with how quickly he pulls up, his truck coming to an abrupt sudden stop. He’s barely got the truck shut off when he’s ripping the door open and jogging up the path to the house of entitled, elitist pricks who get off on the misery of others.

But, he’s more focused on Mariella who meets him halfway on the path of said house, arms wrapped around her body. 

He’s assessing her from head to toe, using the dim streetlight as a guide in the stark darkness of the night. “What happened?” Realizing she’s still hugging himself, Joe’s blood goes cold. “Did he touch you?” And when she doesn’t say anything right away, he’s trying to move past her, murder on his mind. “I’ll fucking kill him—”

“No.” Her hand is on his chest, restraining him as much as she can. The truth is that it would be nothing for him to carefully move her to the side and beat the living shit out of her asshole of a boyfriend who he’s never liked from day one. “He didn’t.”

Joe doesn’t put it past her to try to say what she thinks he wants to hear. “Ri, don’t lie to me.”

“I promise. He didn’t. We just—” and the emotion rises back up, making her pause as she pleads with him. “Can we just go? Please?”

Joe knows why she called him and not Byron. Because Joe nods and guides her to his truck without further protest. Byron would have beat Damien first and maybe or maybe not asked questions later for the mere fact that he made his baby sister cry. 

The ride back to his dorm is silent, and it’s not until they are sitting outside on the steps of Joe’s residence hall that he asks again, much calmer, still as curious, “what happened, Ri?”

It takes a few minutes for her to start talking, and while he does his best to be patient, it’s also really fucking hard to not just bypass the conversation and go straight back to the original plan of murder.

“We were—we were messing around.” Instantly, Joe’s anger suddenly shifts to disgust. While he recognizes his best friend’s little sister isn’t so little anymore, eighteen and a college freshman, she’ll always be that goofy, klutzy, theatrical kid who was always trying to hang out with him and Byron. So, hearing about her messing around is the last thing he wants, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt and allows her to continue. “He wanted to have sex, but I—I told him no.” And before the murder plan can be revived, she clarifies. “And he stopped, but then we started arguing, and he—he told me he was tired of waiting, but I said I’m not changing my mind and….and he broke up with me.”

In some strange sort of way, Joe is more relieved than anything, mostly at the fact that nothing physical happened. It sucks, and he hates seeing her upset, but it’s really a blessing in disguise. Even if she doesn’t see it yet.

Still, he’s sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Ri.”

She sniffles again, wiping at her eyes. “I really liked him and—and I thought he liked me.” 

Joe wants so badly to tell her that Damien never liked her. He liked that she was a virgin. 

Mariella had made the cardinal mistake of sharing with her ex that she was still a virgin, something the bastard, like Damien, thought he could change. When that didn’t happen and a breakup followed, that same asshole took it upon himself to share her virgin status with several friends, several teammates. And it’s become a bit of a contest almost among the basketball team, to see who can take it from her first.

It’s fucking disgusting and makes him sick, but it’s also the culture of college athletes. 

Some, at least. 

“He’s an idiot, Ri.” This is said both because it’s true but also because he just wants her to feel better, to not feel like she lost out on some prize. If anything, she dodged a bullet. 

“Maybe I’m the idiot.” She shakes her head and shrugs. “Cause I keep finding myself in the same situation.”

He’d like to call it an exaggeration, but Joe also knows that this has been an issue in almost all of her relationships for the past few years. Less an issue and more a deal breaker. Sex is something that’s deeply personal and important to her, and he’s happy she’s that way, that she isn’t just sleeping around with anyone. Especially since she seems to have a penchant for athletes. 

They can be the worst.

He would know.

“Athletes can be hoes, Ri. That has nothing to do with you.”

“You and B aren’t like that.” She then corrects with an ounce of her usual sense of humor. “I mean, you guys are hoes, but you’re nice hoes.”

He laughs. That’s a bit of the Mariella he’s used to. “True, but maybe we’re the exception.” He then takes a deep breath, speaking to her from the heart. “I’m not really sure, but what I do know is that Damien was an asshole who never deserved you in the first place. You’re better off without him.”

It’s the god’s honest truth. Ri is like his little sister, and it pained him to see her give someone like Damien the time of day, but he also respects that while he still sees her as a little kid, she isn’t. She’s a legal adult capable of making her own decisions, and he respects that.

“He had pretty eyes though.” Joe gives her a look, and for the first time, she actually, truly laughs. It’s music to his ears. “What? If I don’t laugh, I’ll just keep crying.” Her eyes light up with something other than sadness, and he watches her pull out her phone, suddenly typing away.

He doesn’t even need to ask. He’s seen this before. She’s inspired and is getting out the lyrics before they escape her. And a few minutes later, she reads to him what she’s come up with.

If I don't laugh, I'm gonna cry 

Don't wanna hear your name tonight 

I'm finally happy, not in the mood 

I don't wanna think about you

“I like it.” It’s the truth. He likes most of what she writes, outside of the shit that’s way too girly for his musical preference.

She offers him that brilliant smile, eyes twinkling with something similar to appreciation. Mariella grabs his bicep, laying her head against his shoulder. “Thanks, Joe.”

He looks down at her. “I’ve always got your back, Mariella.” And that’s a promise. “Always.”

—-------

“Mariella, this is fucking ridiculous.” Joe pulls the phone away from his face to get a specific, accurate time. “It’s almost 3 o’clock in the damn morning. Get home now before something happens to your ass.”

He then quickly jabs the red end button. It’s an unkind voicemail message to leave, but also one of several he’s left over the past two hours. The first was a lot more understanding, almost apologetic. Now he’s just fucking annoyed, because she said she needed air. He figured she’d go sit outside, on the patio, maybe even sit poolside. 

Not for her to take off for a late night car ride without telling him anything. It’s something she used to do once upon a time, when they were both broke nobodies trying to keep the dream alive. 

Such a far off, distant memory. 

Joe wishes he didn’t care. Wishes he could head to bed and let her be in her feelings. He’s got an afternoon flight out to a taping and needs to be at the airport by 10am. At this rate, he’s not going to get any quality sleep, and that shit annoys him to no end because he likes to be well rested for work. Especially in his line of work. 

Sleep deprivation can make a wrestler more prone to unnecessary injuries. 

Still, he also knows that even if he were to try to get some sleep, he’d twist and turn the whole night. He’s never been able to sleep well until she was home and safe.

But, she’s not, and that shit just pisses him off all over again. He grabs his phone, ready for yet another call to go straight to voicemail when it lights up, generic ringtone filling the sizable kitchen. He doesn’t even bother checking the caller, just hits the green button and jumps right into questioning. 

“Where the hell are you?” At this point, he’ll go pick her up his damn self just to see her two feet planted in their LA mansion. “This isn’t—”

“I’m sorry—” Joe is the one who’s sorry because that certainly isn’t Mariella. Confused, he pulls the phone away from his ear again to see that it’s an unfamiliar local number. Bringing it back so he can ask who the hell this is, the caller beats him to it. “I’m looking for Joe Anoa’i.”

The woman’s voice is professional, but there’s also a hesitation there. A hint of emotionality almost. 

Frowning, he answers, gruffly, “This is Joe.” He’s quick with the follow up. “Who is this?”

“My name is Leslie Owens, and I’m an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department.” And just like that, Joe knows his entire world is about to be flipped upside down. “I’m sorry to inform you, but your wife has been involved in a car accident….”

—-------

2013 

“Just a couple more steps….”

“Ri, this is stupid. I’m gonna open my eyes.”

He can hear her dramatic gasp as she squeezes his hand. “Don’t you dare ruin this moment for us, sir!”

“The moment’s gonna be really ruined if your accident prone ass makes me fall down these damn steps.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m only accident prone when it comes to myself. Not others.” She sounds so proud of this fact too. “Thank you very much.”

She makes him smile, but that’s a given. There’s always an immense amount of joy and contentment when he’s around her. Her positivity, while excessive at times, is calming. Always has been. 

He’s happy when he’s at least done with the steps and on a leveled surface. Recovery from face planting on pavement has to be easier than a tumble down three flights of steps.

That reminds him. “This place doesn’t have an elevator?”

She’s quick with the answer followed by the jangling of keys. “Naw. That was the other place, but it was out of our budget.”

He says nothing. It seems like a lot is out of their budget these days.

Joe can hear her insert the key as well as the turn of the door knob and subsequent creaking of a door. She’s pulling him forward and he naturally steps over the mantle that she surely would have let him trip over because of her obliviousness in the moment. 

It’s when she drops his hand that he knows the end of this unnecessary dramatic introduction to seeing the apartment for the first time is nearing an end. 

“And…..open!”

Joe doesn’t need to be told twice.

The first thing he sees is her beautiful smile as she stands before him with her arms stretched up and in a ‘v.’ “Welcome to our first place together as husband and wife!”

Looking around, it’s clear as day that Mariella is probably the nicest thing in his line of vision. It’s not a bad looking apartment, at all, just plain and clearly in need of some modernizing updates/renovations. 

He can tell she’s tried to make it a little more homey with the rug and curtains, as well as family photos, but it’s still a far cry from the kind of place he’d love for them to call home.

“It’s….something.”

Mariella rolls her eyes. “I mean, it’s not the Hilton, but it’s ours, and that’s all that matters.” She moves over to him, reaching to wrap her arms around his neck. His hands plant on her hips, holding her to him. “Sure, the balcony is basically a ledge, and our view is of a park, so it gets loud sometimes, and I may or may not have witnessed a crime the other day……hope he’s alright.” Her brows cave together in brief confusion before she shrugs and back to smiling like they just won a million dollars. “But that’s besides the point because every couple has their struggle origin story. This is just ours for now.”

He’ll be happy when they’re out of this chapter of said story. This is one of those times he somewhat wishes he waited to marry her until they were both in better financial places. More him than her. She deserves so much better than this. She deserves the world, and he’s going to give it to her one day. 

He just prays that day is sooner rather than later.

“Hey.” He looks down and refocuses his attention on her. “As long as I have you….I’m good.” She moves to lay her head against his chest, murmuring, “I love you, and you love me. That’s all I’ll ever need.” And in true Ri fashion, she gasps and pulls away, looking up with almost childlike excitement. “I almost forgot!”

In many years of knowing Mariella, Joe has learned it’s always best to just let her do her thing and see what happens versus trying to navigate the eccentric workings of her chaotic mind.

So he watches silently as she rushes over to the counter to dig through her purse and pulls out her phone. She does that rapid tapping and sliding of her fingers that she does when in a self assigned rush. Less than a minute later, he’s hit with an all too familiar opening piano followed by even more familiar lyrics.

It's undeniable

That we should be together

It's unbelievable

How I used to say, that I'd fall never

Joe smiles as she moves her way back over to him, reaching for his hand. “Our wedding first dance song to christen our first place together. We have to dance. It’s literally in the marriage rule book.”

He chuckles. “Oh, really?” 

“Duh.” She gasps and bites down on her bottom lip when he quickly yanks her toward him. Joe’s hand is on the small of her back as hers move up his check, locking behind his neck. “See….not so bad after all?”

He dances with her, but his attention is focused less on the music, even the dancing and just her. “Anything’s better if you’re there.” She beams up at him and giggles as he spins her so that her back lands against his chin. His head dips into her neck, as she places her hands on his forearms.

He’s taking her in, enjoying this moment with her when she says leadingly, “you know there’s another first we haven’t done yet to christen our place…..”

Joe makes a sound and presses a kiss to the side of her neck. “Hmm. And what is that?”

He can only imagine the way her cheeks must be tinged red as she answers almost as if she doesn’t want anyone to overhear. “That thing you’re really good at.” He smiles against her skin and holds her tighter. “I especially like when you do that one thing with your tongue and—Joe!” Too much talk, not enough clothes being taken off. He doesn’t hesitate to lift her over his shoulder, eager to show her just how much he also likes to do that ‘one thing’ with his tongue.

—-------

Present 

Two weeks.

Two weeks since he’s seen her big, beautiful smile.

Two weeks since he’s heard that infectious laugh.

Two weeks since he’s heard her voice.

Two weeks since the night that changed everything, the night that some idiot decided to drive drunk and crashed into her vehicle head on. 

Two weeks since she was airlifted to a Level 1 trauma center where her injuries were so severe that they immediately took her into surgery that saved her life in one way but couldn’t in another.

Because she has yet to wake up from the initial accident. 

Because it’s been two weeks since Mariella slipped into a coma. 

It’s been two weeks of that cruel waiting game, that slight smudge of hope that rises where the doctor comes in with just as much desire it’ll be a different prognosis only for the same thing to leave his mouth every time with that same disappointed expression.

“We just have to continue to wait.”

Joe isn’t sure he’s ever hated a saying more than he now hates that one.

Just like her mom and other family members, he's been at the hospital every day, just sitting for hours at her bedside, holding her hand that’s much colder than he’s used to. Than it should be. 

The room is silent, a type of silence he’s unused to. There’s never silence when Mariella is around. She’s always talking, always smiling, always laughing.

But not anymore.

Now she just lays there, unconscious, Joe praying more than he ever has in his entire life that he gets to see her pretty eyes yet again, hear her beautiful voice scream at him, sing to him, laugh at him, anything.

He just needs her.

The love and support from her fans has been astounding yet expected. She’s America’s Sweetheart. Music’s new queen. Everyone loves her. She’s received an endless amount of support, kind words, prayers, and well wishes from both fellow artists and fans. Though the fans seemed to have done the most. Even holding several vigils outside the hospital. And though he’s still pissed that piece of information got leaked, he knows she would be so moved by the love. 

Joe wasn’t entirely in agreement with sharing Mariella’s coma status with the world, but it was the decision that was eventually settled on by Iris, her manager, and the rest of her team with the family’s eventual blessing.

The specifics regarding her injuries, however, have remained confidential, and for that, he’s grateful.

He’s sitting on the side of the bed yet again, taking over the shift from April, Mariella’s mom, whose devastated expression hasn’t changed from the minute he had to tell her and the rest of her family what happened to now, as they all wait with all of the hopes and prayers in the world for the prognosis to change.

“This is the longest I’ve ever gone without hearing your voice.” Just saying it aloud feels strange, wrong even. That he gets to sit here and talk while she lays there, plugged up to a million machines, deprived of even that basic right. “I never knew I could miss something so much until now.”

And it’s the truth. 

Realizing his NFL dreams weren’t going to become a reality was devastating, but this….this is another level of hell.

“You said…you said you want me to love you again, but….but I can’t do that, Ri.” His hand is over hers, thumb rubbing the skin that’s not covered by the IV and large bandage. “I can’t do it again because I never stopped loving you in the first place.”

It’s a disgusting, pathetic feeling. To know that the words he should have said to her when everything first started falling apart can only leave his mouth after something like this occurs. After he’s so brutally reminded of the fragility of life and the importance of telling people how you feel when they’re still around.

There’s so much he needs to tell her, so much he needs to clear up, so much he needs her to tell him.

She deserves clarification.

He deserves answers.

Joe just prays he gets the chance for that to happen. 

It’s nearly seconds after that thought crosses his mind that he feels movement under his hand. His eyes snap up to see the one thing he’s prayed for every day for the past two weeks, the one thing he deep down was scared he would never see.

Mari’s brown eyes. Glossed and confused as all the outdoors, he sees them darting all around the room and feels her trying to move her hand. 

He’s not sure he’s even breathing anymore. “Ri?” It’s as she continues to blink and try to move her head that he realizes this isn’t some cruel hallucination. She’s awake.

Mariella is awake.

When the shock wears off, he all but runs to the door, ripping it open as he calls for the doctor, the nurse, any medical professional available to tend to her. 

Joe is right on the doctor’s heels as he moves quickly to her bedside, digging for something out of his white coat pocket. Joe moves to the other side of her bed, closely observing any and all interactions of both. 

“Mariella, I’m Dr. Reynolds, and I’ve been overseeing your care here.” Joe then looks back at his wife who seems more awake by the second but still with her mouth turned downward, like she’s lost at what’s happening. 

Mariella squints when the doctor shines the light in her eyes, wincing almost, and Joe has to catch himself from telling the doctor to be careful. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Dr. Reynolds asks, and Joe watches closely as she looks at him with the same level of confusion. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

His stomach drops when she shakes her head no.

“You were in a car accident.” The doctor’s voice takes on a different tone, something not as optimistic, more….ominous. “Can you give me your full name?”

Again, a slow shake of the head to answer no.

Joe goes to ask the doctor what’s going on, if this is some side effect that people can have when waking up from a coma, but the man is pointing in Joe’s direction as he asks a final question. “Do you know who this is?”

And it’s then, as she shakes her head ‘no’ yet again that Joe realizes what’s happening. A new kind of ruination overcomes him, making his throat suddenly feel almost as heavy as his heart.

It’s a heartbreaking realization that he has to say aloud because it feels almost too unreal to be true. 

“Her memories are gone….”

[bvidzsoo]

Love Me Like A Rockstar (12)

ー☆ Chapter 12: Shame On Me

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: cursing ー☆ Word count: 5.5k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆Rating: sfw ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: Hiii, my lovelies! Shorter chapter but you won't have to wait too long, I'll update next week again! I don't think there will be any more updates to my other stories this week because I'm going to visit my bestie on Thursday and I only come home on Sunday (can't wait to see you again Orsi *cries*). You know the drill, please listen to Shame On Me before or while reading, thank you!! So, uh, you all will hate me after this chapter, I'm sorry in advance, but you can go scream at me in the notes and reblogs! <3 However, I promise the angst won't last for too long :D Thank you all for reading and always leaving feedback, I appreciate it a lot! I hope you enjoy this chapter, don't hate me pls. divider

Taglist: @orshii @or5i @lovely-red2 @scarfac3 @juicy-red @sunaswifes-blog @voicesinmyhead-rc @teez-the-time @maru-matt @kyeos4ng @deathbyyeekies @chicksmoothie @mjlbn01 @xhexy @tmtxtf @hwashiningstar @thatfavouritesong @ateez-atiny380 @xciiiomwliah @vixensss @catchingskzzzs @tesssaurrr @ginger-mingi @mingisbbg

⟨Series M.list ↭ Previous Chapter⟩

♫Playlist♫

            It was quite ominous how well I had slept last night, and despite feeling my eyes burn from staying up too late and not getting enough sleep, I felt well-rested. Perhaps the unusual warmth engulfing my body had something to do with the way my muscles seemed to become one with the mattress, and the comfortable weight around my waist also made me want to give in to the calling of another slumber. I had woken up a few times before, trying to find new comfortable positions as I could hear the birds chirp outside and the sweet cologne that clung to my clothes and the sheets tingled my nose in a way I had to suppress a sneeze. But the sun was high up in the sky already, the blinds open as I felt the warmth of the sunlight on my face. I released a content sigh as my muscles begged for a good stretch, making me groan when I felt a few vertebras pop, tension releasing between them. Gosh, I wish I could wake up feeling this refreshed every morning.

The covers were thick, and thus, the non-existent melody of the bed calling out to me to stay for longer won as I melted back against the pillow, licking my dry lips as I was mildly surprised that there was no impeding headache. I would usually feel hungover even if I drank only a little—hence why I preferred staying away from alcohol—but maybe that hot chocolate I had last night was some magic drink. There was a low groan next to me and I smiled for a second, feeling thick fingers tangle into the waistband of the sweatpants I was wearing, definitely not mine as they rode a little too low on my hips. The strings must’ve come undone in my sleep as I kept shifting around. Not really thinking as I was still under the blissful grip of a good night’s sleep, I sneaked my right arm underneath the covers and gently traced the warm skin of the arm pressing against my torso. There was another low hum and I smiled as I turned my head to the left, eyes protesting as I tried to peel them open. Perhaps that can wait until my brain is fully functioning.

“Good morning.” Mingi’s voice was husky and it covered my arms in goosebumps as I felt butterflies in my stomach, the heath of my cheeks unnatural once again.

“Morning.” I whispered and bit my bottom lip, feeling the bed shift again as Mingi’s hand now held my waist firmly, fingers rubbing circles into the skin where his borrowed t-shirt had ridden up. Feeling eyes on me, I opened one eye and chuckled as I saw Mingi’s puffy face, halfway hidden into his pillow as he lay on his stomach, red lips swollen and platinum blonde hair disheveled in every possible way. Mingi’s cheeks tinged pink and he grumbled something intangible as he hid his face into the pillow, feigning a tickle at my waist as I squirmed and pushed his hand off, heartbeat picking up as Mingi caught my hand before I could pull it away and interlaced our fingers. My eyes were painfully dry but I rubbed them with the heel of my left palm, rubbing my face afterwards as the haze of sleep slowly had started dissipating.

So, turns out all of this wasn’t a dream. I did go to Outlaw to watch Mingi perform, I did get drunk and got into a tiny argument with Mingi, and he did drive me home afterwards. And apparently, I did sleep over wearing his clothes and using his toiletries and we did—we did kiss. I gulped and licked my dry lips again, feeling the butterflies dissipate in my stomach as instead a lump formed in my throat. I released a shaky breath as I felt Mingi caress my knuckles underneath the covers, and then he turned his head to look at me. He looked—content. He looked happy. His face was serene and he looked like he has been waiting for this moment for ages. Something in my chest ached at the thought and I gulped, feeling the blissful morning daze dissipate completely and get replace by a slowly impeding dread. I released a shaky sigh as a heartbreakingly beautiful smile graced Mingi’s lips, mouth forming a boxy shape that showed all of his teeth—the protruding front ones that I grew to adore—his nose wrinkling and eyes creasing. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so good anymore, I felt like I wanted to cry.

Why was Mingi so perfect? Why was he so kind to me? Why did he treat me so well? Why was he so patient with me? Why did he stick by my side for so long? What was it about me that he liked? What did Mingi want from me?

I froze as suddenly Mingi pushed up onto his elbows and started leaning over me, that smile still present on his lips as he released my hand to caress my cheek. My hands trembled as I tried to hold his eye contact, but all of a sudden I felt sick. I felt dirty and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Everything smelled like Mingi, everything felt like Mingi—it was too much. Perhaps he saw the subtle shift in my expression as he stopped for a second, eyebrows slightly furrowing, but then his warm lips touched the corner of my mouth and it made my muscles tense up and send my mind off into an alarmed frenzy.

I couldn’t be here, I had to leave. No. What was I doing? How could I do this when I knew Mingi is Yunho’s best friend? How could I hide something like that from him? Why did I let him kiss me and why did I kiss him back? Why have I—why the hell have I started liking Mingi so much that having him next to me suddenly felt right and being away from him made me anxious, made it feel so wrong?

Unable to control myself anymore, I sprung up from the bed, trying to keep my breaths labored as Mingi sat up alarmed, eyebrows furrowing as he watched me scramble around his room looking for my clothes. I couldn’t remember where he had placed them last night—whether I had left them in bathroom or had brought them to the living room. I heard the sheets crinkle as no doubt Mingi was getting out of bed too, I could feel his piercing gaze follow my every move.

“You—” He hesitated for a second, “You don’t have to leave so early—I mean, it’s not that early, but I want to make us breakfast. I promise I’m not a bad cook.”

I bit my lower lip as my eyebrows furrowed, my body freezing as my heart clenched. I wanted that, I wanted to stay with Mingi and eat breakfast and laugh and just let go of everything and forget every single one of my worries, but I couldn’t. I felt so guilty, I couldn’t even turn around and face him. I had to leave and I had to get rid of him, it would be best for the both of us.

“I’m not hungry.” My voice was barely above a whisper, cold, and distant. I finally spotted my clothes sitting neatly folded on Mingi’s desk chair and I leaped towards them, my fingers curling tightly into them as I cradled them into my arms, somehow hoping that it would bring any sort of comfort. It didn’t because I could still feel Mingi’s eyes on me and hear the way his steps faltered.

“Oh, then…” He fell silent and I felt my hands’ tremors worsen, making me bite into my bottom lip to try and keep myself level-headed. It was hard, and I was failing at it, “We could grab some coffee and—”

“I’m going home, Mingi.” I snapped, cutting off his rambling because I was unable to listen to his warm and soothing voice anymore, now laced with obvious hurt and dejection. I wasn’t only hurting myself anymore, I was hurting him too. And I hated myself. He deserved better. Mingi deserves someone who cherishes him and makes him happy, not someone who brings his hopes up and then stomps on his heart like it means nothing. I didn’t want to do this, but I felt like I had no choice. I had dug my own grave by indulging into his little games—they weren’t games, Mingi has been genuine from the get go—and now here I was, suffering the consequences of my own actions.

“I—Y/N.” I froze as my hand reached for the handle to open the door, I couldn’t face him, “What we did—what happened last night, I—no, the kiss, we can’t just glaze over it, I can’t—I can’t do that anymore. Please, what are we?”

I squeezed my eyes shut at the sudden tears in them and inhaled a long breath, slowly twisting the handle of the door so that I could flee easier, “The kiss was—a mistake. We were both caught up in our feels and I—I didn’t mean to do that. I never wanted to kiss you. I don’t—it means nothing. We are nothing, Mingi.”

If the same words echoed in my mind but sounded a lot more masculine and venomous, puppylike eyes narrowed and glaring down at me, I gulped and repressed the memory, rushing out of Mingi’s room in a panic. I didn’t want to hear the way Mingi gasped nor the way he called out in confusion after me as I made it towards the shoe rack, finding my boots placed neatly next to his. It took everything I had in me to keep it together, to swallow the tears that wanted to escape my eyes, to keep my voice firm.

“What do you mean it meant nothing?” Mingi didn’t even sound angry, he sounded so utterly hurt, that a tear unintentionally trickled down my cheek, “It couldn’t have meant nothing, Y/N, we’ve been dancing around each other for too long for it to mean nothing. You’ve—I’ve kissed you before, not like this of course, but we did kiss and we’ve held hands and you—you can’t just fucking say it means nothing when it means everything to me!”

Fuck.

Perhaps it was good that he was finally showing any other reaction than disappointment and hurt, perhaps I pitied myself less if he was angry at me and shouting—I deserved it. I really did, every mean thing he’d hurl at me, I deserved to hear them because he was right. He was, he had always been. I’m a horrible awful being and I played with his feelings just like Yunho had played with mine. How could I hate Yunho so much when I was just like him?

“We’re both honest and blunt people, Mingi, there’s no reason to dance around this.” My voice sounded leveled, calm, almost as if it was mocking Mingi’s despair and I felt like complete shit, “Quite frankly put, I don’t want to see you again. This everything—whatever the hell we’ve been doing for the past three months, it was a shitshow. I don’t know what your purpose behind your actions was but I know mine and it has nothing to do with—whatever we’ve done last night. There’s no such thing as friendship between a girl and boy, it never works out, somebody always gets heartbroken and that’s exactly what’s happening right now. I think we both mislead each other, which led to this misunderstanding, so yes, it means nothing because I don’t want anything from you, but you clearly want something I cannot give you.”

The deafening silence felt like a slap to my face and it almost made me whirl around to apologize for my harsh words, to tell him that it was all a lie, that I liked him more than who I thought was my first love. I had always thought I loved Yunho with my whole being, that I gave him all of myself, but that wasn’t true. Yunho had never seen me at my lowest, Yunho never tried to fix the issues between us, he never reached out if he knew he did something wrong, he never even tried to pursue me—it was all me, all along. I was the one fighting for us and Yunho just went along with it because it was comfortable, because I was a stable point in his chaotic life, somebody he knew he could come back to. And I was treating Mingi as if he did the same thing to me, as if he was just another replica of Yunho—when he wasn’t. Mingi was so much more than Yunho would ever be, and I ruined everything in the span of five minutes.

I didn’t even bother lacing up my boots as I stepped into them, afraid to look back, but unable to stop myself when the silence just continued to stretch on. I didn’t expect to see Mingi’s eyes bloodshot, nor his bottom lip red and swollen from getting chewed on too much. Fuck, why did my heart ache more than when Yunho left me?!

“I never wanted to be your friend, doll.” The way his tone was emotionless yet his lips uttered the nickname, it made my lungs constrict as the lump got bigger and bigger in my throat, “But I knew you needed time, so I gave it to you. Perhaps—perhaps I shouldn’t have, maybe I should have been cleared with my intentions—”

“Mingi.” I snapped, eyebrows furrowing as we made eye contact. I couldn’t listen to him anymore; I couldn’t bear to hear him make up excuses for the sake of me. Why was he not screaming at me, why was he not hurting me? This is why he was too good for me, why I didn’t deserve him, “Delete my number.”

“You know your way out.” And I did know it. Without saying anything else, I unlocked the front door and ripped it open, slamming it shut behind me as I raced towards the stairs, hissing as my eyes got blurry and obscured my view of where I was stepping. But I had to get out of the building as fast as possible, scared that Mingi would race after me, that he’d try to reason with me one more time because it would work. It would work and I would give in. I would tell him the truth and then everything would be more painful. I was saving him from the betrayal he didn’t deserve, I was saving him from me, who never treated him right. I thought he was an asshole, an arrogant guy who yearned for attention and validation from every breathing female. But that wasn’t true, Mingi was a selfless and hard-working man who put others above himself, he wasn’t greedy and he wore his heart on his sleeve, ready to offer all the love his body contained without expecting anything in return. And I was a horrible human being because I took advantage of his kindness and goodness, because in the process of trying to get rid of him—I fell for him.

I was gasping for air by the time I stumbled out of the building, the wind harsh and cold as I scrambled to wear my jacket over Mingi’s thin t-shirt. It did nothing to shield me from the harsh weather and perhaps I deserved it, perhaps I deserved to be stared at by the passerby people with questioning or judgmental stares. I had no idea where I was, but thankfully finding my phone in my pocket, I was able to walk myself to a bus station and wait for a bus that would take me home. Mingi lived almost thirty minutes away from my place, but that was fine, I could keep it together for so long. I wouldn’t cry, I refused to cry, this was my own punishment. As I sat on the bench at the bus station, the heather above head lessening the chill that seemed to bite at my body, I closed my eyes and wallowed in the tumultuous emotions I felt.

This was far from how I wanted things to go, I thought I was better, that I could control myself and keep everything in check, but at last, I failed. I failed and now I hurt the guy I had fallen for. I was scared, I was afraid of getting left behind like it previously had happened, and so I wanted to protect myself. I struck before he could. I thought I would be protecting my heart and getting the upper hand, but then why was my heart aching and my stomach clenching so hard that it made me feel nauseous? Why do I always mess things up when they finally go right? Can’t I have something good for myself? Is it so hard to believe that not all guys are like Yunho? But Mingi is his best friend and it started getting easy to spot similarities between them the longer I hung out with Mingi. So could he really be much different from Yunho? I wouldn’t know, now, I would never find out.

            I felt numb, both physically and emotionally, by the time I made it home. The house was empty and dark, rainclouds had gathered outside and I was thankful that I made it home before the downpour. It reminded me of Mingi, everything seemed to remind me of Mingi. I hated it, it made breathing harder as I peeled his clothes off myself and went into the shower, probably staying underneath the spray of the hot water for too long. My skin was all wrinkled by the time I got out and the rain came down heavily against the roof of the house, forcing me to dress up warmly and wear the hood of my hoodie as I was too tired and lazy to dry my hair. I was craving something hot to drink, but when my eyes fell on the hot chocolate in the cupboard I suddenly felt sick to my stomach and had to rush to the bathroom, heaving and heaving without throwing up anything. I felt like I was borderline dying, and I deserved it. I knew I did.

And when I was feeling my utmost worst, there was only one thing that could help. Drawing and painting. I stared at my sketchbook longingly, but decided to use a different one as that one was filled with sketches of Mingi’s eyes, and him performing on stage, him driving or him laughing with his boxy and gummy smile, his hands that were littered with rings, his peaceful face when he had fallen asleep once in the library while we were studying. But something that hasn’t happened before did happen now. No matter how much I stared at the blank paper, nothing came to me. My mind refused to conjure up any images, my hands refused to move. My grip on the pencil turned painful and I hissed as I pushed the sketchbook off my lap, throwing the pencil against the wall in frustration. I pulled my knees up to my chest as I listened to the heavy rain, staring at the window, watching as big drops rolled down quickly. The silence, the darkness, the numbness…it was beginning to be too much. I wished to see Mingi, I wished to talk to him, I wanted to fix this, but I couldn’t. I was an asshole and going back to him just hours later after being a dick and probably hurting him beyond forgiveness was an even bigger dick move. I just couldn’t do it, so, I closed my eyes and waited. For what, I didn’t know until my phone rang loudly, making me jump out of my skin.

I was stupid for feeling a flicker of hope that it was maybe him, but my heart settled when Seulgi’s smiling face greeted me once I grabbed my phone. I sighed and picked up, beyond grateful that she probably had a feeling that things weren’t going so well anymore. I could feel the small smile stretch onto my lips, the greeting on the tip of my tongue, but Seulgi beat me to it.

“What have you done.” I froze, heart falling into my stomach at the harsh tone of my best friend, eyebrows furrowing in worry. Seulgi never spoke like that to me—to anyone—she was a ray of sunshine and she never got angry, she was never disappointed, she never treated anyone roughly, “Y/N!”

I jumped at the way she yelled my name, gulping down nothing as my mouth had gone dry, “I—nothing. I did nothing—”

“You’re full of shit.” Seulgi snapped and I felt my lips tremble as her voice raised in anger, “How can you say you did nothing when Mingi has been at Wooyoung’s ever since noon and hasn’t stopped bawling his eyes out?! He’s not speaking, he’s not eating, he’s not even moving, Y/N. What did you do?”

“I—” I gulped, voice faint as I felt my eyes fill with tears, “I didn’t mean to, I—I told him it was nothing. That I—didn’t want to see him again. I just—I’m scared, Seulgi.”

“You’re the fucking worst, Y/N.” Seulgi’s tone didn’t soften, if anything, it got harsher and I heard someone in the background call out her name in a quiet warning, “How could you say that to Mingi out of all people?! Are you seriously joking right now?! Did you feel good playing around with him when he has made it so fucking clear that he was into you? That he likes you? That he wants to be with you? You aren’t even dense not to see things like this, Y/N, you straight up played with his feelings and then crushed his heart like it meant nothing.”

“I’m sorry.” I whispered, sniffing loudly as Seulgi scoffed. Hearing everything out loud and getting scolded by my best friend probably was the worst feeling ever. I knew I had fucked up colossally if she was taking Mingi’s side, rightfully so.

“I can’t believe you treated him like nothing,” A slight pause and then her voice dropped to a low whisper, “Like Yunho has treated you. You said the same thing to him, Y/N, aren’t you ashamed of yourself—”

“I fucking hate myself, Seulgi!” I exclaimed, frustrated and panicked and annoyed and wounded, “I didn’t mean for this to happen, but I’m scared! I can’t—what if he leaves me? What if he’s worse than Yunho’s ever been?!”

“We were teenagers back then.” Seulgi sighed and her voice softened the slightest, “And Yunho was an asshole from the very beginning, you just refused to see it. Mingi has always been genuine with you, fair, and kind. Yet you saw that and still threw him to the curb.”

“I’m sorry.” I felt a tear trickle down my cheek and I quickly wiped it away, refusing to cry. I didn’t deserve to cry.

“You should be saying that to Mingi, not me.” There was light shuffling in the background and then I heard different voices talking to Seulgi, “Seonghwa is here too now, I have to go. You better fix this even though I don’t know if you deserve his forgiveness at this point.”

“Don’t say that.” I whispered, but Seulgi hung up without saying goodbye, and suddenly I didn’t know what to do anymore. The phone fell from my hand as I stared with tear filled eyes at my mother’s guitar, flashes of Mingi’s excitement upon seeing it fresh in my mind, making my throat close up. I couldn’t breathe. Mingi wasn’t talking to anyone and it was because of me, I did that. I made him feel like that and I didn’t even know how to fix this anymore. Could I fix it? Or have I fucked up so badly that he’ll never forgive me? I knew for a fact that if I were Mingi, I wouldn’t forgive myself no matter how much he would’ve begged or tried making things right. Just as my head fell onto my knees and I squeezed my eyes shut, annoyed that the unshed tears kept persisting, there was a knock on my door. I hadn’t even heard my mother get home.

She gently pushed the door open and peered inside with a curious look on her face, looking excited as I turned my head to look at her. She grinned and suddenly stepped inside, holding up a small box in excitement. My eyebrows furrowed as I watched her grab a paper out of it, giving me a cheeky smile as she cleared her throat, “‘I hope every time you drink your hot chocolate out of this mug you’ll be reminded of me, doll – S.M.’”

I suppose that was all I needed for the cup to be full, to be tipped over the edge as the tears suddenly sprung free, ripping loud sobs from my throat as I grabbed at my hair, yanking on the strands harshly. My mother gasped in fright and I heard movement behind myself, then I felt hands untangle my fingers from my hair, placing them in my lap with one hand as with her other hand she cradled my head against her chest. She smelled like the sanitizers they used at the hospitals, infused with a little musk as it was my mother’s favorite scent, and I was suddenly so grateful for having her. I turned my body to hug her tightly, crying into her chest like I was a little girl once again. My mother sighed as I felt her pat my head and rub my back up and down, humming a song I knew all too well as we used to listen to it a lot while I was growing up. The weight of her chin felt comforting against the top of my head and I gripped her work clothes perhaps a little too tight, but I didn’t care. I have missed her embrace, I missed laughing with her and crying with her, I have missed talking to her. After Yunho left me, I became closed off. I didn’t let anyone know how I felt or what I was going through, and despite my mother being a nurse, she could only help me if I let her—and I didn’t. I was repulsed by any closeness and I needed to be on my own. Days turned into months and those into years, and it took me this long to realize I wasn’t doing as well as I thought I was.

“Mom,” I was still crying, but my sobs have stopped, “I messed up so bad.”

She hummed as her fingers tried to untangle the knots in my hair, “Does it have to do anything with whom the mug is from?”

I nodded wordlessly and she hummed again, tapping my thigh for me to pull back, “Is it that tall boy with sharp eyes, cute glasses and sweet smile, fluffy dark hair?”

“He’s blonde now.” I muttered as I sniffed loudly and disgustingly as I pulled back, letting my mom wipe my tears off my face.

“You hate blonde guys, though.” She muttered with her eyebrows furrowed as I sheepishly looked up into her eyes.

“I know.”

A beat of silence passed and then she started giggling, prompting me to giggle along, my heart still aching but the relief of being in her arms made me feel like I could breathe once again, “Well, that is no good then. I hope you aren’t crying because this S.M. boy went blonde—”

“Song Mingi, his name is Song Mingi.” I whispered as I chewed on my bottom lip, averting my eyes, “I can’t believe you already forgot his name.”

“Well, I’m particularly bad with names, starlight.” My mother chuckled and I felt a smile tug at my lips. She always found peculiar nicknames to call me by, “And he never came over for dinner, that was my trick to remember his name and well—get to know him better, I suppose.”

“He’s not coming over for dinner—like ever.” My tone was grim as I grumbled, picking at my cuticle as I looked down at my lap, avoiding the look of confusion on my mother’s face.

“So, things didn’t work out…” I hummed and sighed, pulling away completely from my mother’s embrace.

“I’m a fool.” I muttered as I pulled my knees up to my chest again, staring at my socked feet. My mother placed her hand on my shoulder and massaged it softly, “I hurt him and now he hates me. I said what happened between us meant nothing, but I was lying. I think I’m in love with him, mom.”

“Has he said that he hates you?” My mother raised her eyebrows in question and I shook my head, “Then he doesn’t hate you. Yes, you hurt him with your harsh words but if you really love him—what’s holding you back, my starlight? You’re a smart woman and you know how to fix your mistakes, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. So don’t just sulk and wail and make him hurt for no reason—”

“He’s Yunho’s best friend.” I whispered, peeking up at my mother’s face, surprised to find a smile that looked both comforting and amused.

“And does he know that?”

“What?” I asked confused, making my mother chuckle, “Of course he knows he’s Yunho’s best friend.”

“That’s not what I asked, starlight.”

“No, he doesn’t know.” I muttered and grimaced as my mother shook her head at me, “I never found the right moment to tell him, actually, things were never supposed to get this far, mom.”

“I see,” My mother hummed and leaned closer, “You know, I’m speaking based on many years of experience, but this Mingi boy doesn’t seem like the type to hold grudges for too long or judge you for your past. Sure, it must feel weird knowing your current girlfriend has dated your best friend, but that was like ages ago—and you’re still making a big deal out of it—”

“Mom.” I groaned, giving her an unimpressed look, but she only giggled.

“You know, you didn’t take after me for being so dramatic.” She pursed her lips and suddenly pushed me over, making me fall to my side with a loud gasp, “It’s one of the few reasons your father didn’t stick around for long—he was too dramatic.”

“I thought he left us.” I muttered as I sat up straight, making my mother roll her eyes at me.

“He certainly did after I told him I didn’t need a junkie in my house while I was trying to raise my child—” She rolled her eyes then stood up, extending her hand out for me, “And then he thought I tried to baby trap him—huh, what an idiot. Who wants to baby trap a broke dude who’s doing nothing with his life while I was in school learning to be a nurse and girlbossing my way through life?!”

“Don’t ever again say girlbossing, mom.” I groaned embarrassed as I let her help me up.

“What?!” She chuckled, holding my hand gently, “It’s cool, everyone at the hospital says it—well, the younger generation. Anyways, we’re going to cook yummy dinner together, and then I’ll magically make some ice cream appear from our fridge and I have some really nice wine hiding in the cupboard, waiting for us to consume it while you tell me everything about this Song Mingi guy. We haven’t had a girl’s night in so long, I missed you, Y/N.”

“I missed you too, mom, but,” I frowned as I let her pull me after herself, “you do realize I’m suffering and am on the verge of having another break down, yet you still want me to talk about Mingi?”

“It’s called therapy, honey, even if I’m not a therapist.” She shrugged as we walked down the stairs, “Besides, I’ve got some bomb advice to give you to win this boy over. I can’t believe I managed to raise a strong and independent woman that’s emotionally constipated!”

“Oh, my God.” I muttered under my breath, wondering just how many of her coworkers were too young for her to be hanging around, and why on Earth were they teaching my mother cringey slang.

But she was right. I did need her advice, desperately so, and having a girl’s night while I can talk about Mingi without feeling embarrassed to admit I am into him sounded nice—especially now that I have successfully fucked everything up.

『You run away when you just can't face it

Hide in the dark, but you know you hate it』

❱❱ Next chapter

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[romanshomeonwattpad]

Girl in New York | 4

pairings - art donaldson/reader | challengers au! |

“_ _ “ = Y/N

masterslist | next chapter | last chapter

sypnosis - after an unforgettable night with Art, the endless passion comes to a brutal end.

warnings - choking, finger banging phew phew, dirty talk, slut shaming, car sex, handjobs, manipulation, voyeurism, no protection (be smart) , pure filth, cheating

authors note — theres only two more parts. finished this series in literally less than five days omg. the power of white men

word count - 2k

© elliotsblunt 2024. do not repost, modify, or translate.

You were quivering in the backseat. From both the cold and anticipation. Art’s hand raggedly ran over your cheek, your back arching off the seat as he towered on top of you. Your lips hungrily moved against one another, his fingers finding the waistband of your black leather skirt. You wanted nothing more than to feel something inside you, whether it was his cock or his fingers.

Lifting your hips, Art pulled off your now dripping wet panties and tossed them somewhere behind him. Your bare pussy glistened in the moonlight, his thumb hastily reaching down and rubbing at your tender bud. His eyes were glued into your face, making sure it felt good. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let out a solid gasp of pleasure.

“It’s so wet and warm,” he purred, a peculiar smile curving onto his lips. His other fingers began to prod at your hole, causing your hips to jerk. You cried out as he chuckled, “C’mon, pretty girl. Take my finger for me.”

And that’s when Art slid it in. Just from one finger alone, he had you trembling beneath his touch. Every mewl and sob you released egged him on. He had his white button up rolled up to his elbows, showing off his flexing bicep that pulsed with every thrust. Your fingers gripped his wrist as he quickened his pace, “Art—more. Please.”

“More?” He cooed, the burn in your pussy deepening. Your eyes crossed when you realized he added a second finger. Nails digging into his flesh, your hips lifted upwards, demanding for more friction.

Art laughed darkly, sucking on your tit. The sight itself made your eyes roll into the back of your head. “What a slut you are. Letting a man who has a girlfriend finger fuck you in the backseat of his car,” he growled out, feeling your insides tighten as his fingers wiggle around within your core. The tip of them reach your g-spot, making your entire body tense. “Oh—right there? Is that your spot?”

“Art…”

His fingers were like magic. Rubbing and pumping in such a ludicrous away. You were like puddy under his touch. It was what you had been needing for weeks now, and your this upcoming wave of blistering heat pleasure was slightly scared you. It was like you were drowning, but images of water, it was passion. Exciting steaming hot passion. Your eyes tore open, looking up at the man whose eyes were completely black from desire.

“Cum for me,” his voice was animalistic, pecking your chin. His eyes seemed so innocent whilst asking for something so crude.

“Wanna feel it squirt on me.”

His thumb delivered a few more rough circles to your clit—and you were done for. Your ears rang as if a grenade went off, your throat feeling scratched and torn from how loud you cried out into the air. Ecstasy racked throughout your spent figure as Art guided you through it, sucking and nipping at the flesh on your neck. There must’ve been a few hickeys by now.

He looked like an angel. Timeless. Blonde hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks and nose pink. His attention was on you.

As you calmed down from your high, Art didn’t waste any time. He pulled you on top of him. Without you noticing, he had already unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his ankles. You straddled his legs as his nose touched yours.

“Jump on my cock. Please—let me feel it,” he whispered, not giving you a choice, and shoving his fat head into your sensitive pussy. His eyes watched as yours crossed, choking on a moan as he held your face. “Shit. You feel—fuck—so good.”

“Oh god,” your voice was hoarse, his cock fully sliding into your cunt. With a mind of its own, your hips began to jump up and down on his dick. Art grabbed your hips and began to brutally buck his own, the sound of skin slapping along with your cries filling the car.

“Look at me,” he demanded, pulling your hips down harder. Fire pooled in your abdomen, hands holding onto his shoulders for dear life as he ruts back up into you. Your eyes met his hooded ones. “Touch your pussy.”

You gulped, every thrust distracting you. Your fingers found their way to your pussy, rubbing your bud that peeked from its hood. It made your hips work against his harder, shockwaves rippling through your muscles. It was almost blinding how intoxicated you were on one another.

That familiar pit in your tummy returned. Without thinking, you pulled your fingers away, and onto his face. His eyes shut as he smelled your scent on your palm. “Fucking put those fingers in my mouth,” he barked, using his own to rub your cunt. You did what he said, and he sucked on your digits, groaning at your taste. “Delicious. Like candy.”

Your other hand slammed against his window, whilst he still sucked on the fingers of your other one. His eyes blinked up into yours. You got lost in them, feeling sparks of something in your heart. This was such a mess. He knew it too, but that didn’t stop the both of you. “Wish I could cum inside this pretty pink pussy of yours. It’s already creamy f’me.”

“I’m gonna—cum—“

“Me too, sweetheart.”

The nickname did it for you. You captured his lips into yours, as both of his hands grabbed your hips—forcing you down onto him through your high. His abs flexed beneath you as a searing sensation bursted in your core. His tongue licked and sucked at yours as he fucked you through your orgasm—resulting in his own. He pulled out and came all over himself and you, the warm liquid sticking to the flesh of your stomach and thighs. “Fuck, _ _.”

The both of you remained silent, heavily breathing as his forehead rested on your shoulder. yours resting against the cool glass of his window for a moment. It felt delicious against your sweaty skin. Taking a deep breath, you didn’t notice Art had wiped himself off the both of you already. Stealing his shirt up, his brow rose as you finished closing the last button with a cheeky smile.

“You ripped up my shirt—then used it as a jizz rag. I’m keeping this,” you teased, resulting in the corners of his lips turning upwards. You really did like that shirt, but he was cute enough to let it slide. It was growing a bit too small on you anyways.

You shoved your hand below you on the ground of the car, feeling for your cigarettes. Once you found the box, you faced Art who had been buckling up his jeans. “Want one?”

His eyes flickered over to the box, then to you. “Uh, no thanks.”

Plucking the tobacco stuffed stick between your bruised lips, you sent him a knowing look. He swallowed thickly before knitting his brows together, “What?”

“A light—please.”

“Oh—“

The car shook as he practically jumped off the seat, fishing into the back of his jeans. And then he lit the tip for you. A surge of energy rushed through your brain, leaving an icy sheet over the surface. Art got out, still shirtless, and went to grab something from the trunk. You assumed it was another shirt for him. The rain had came to a halt a while ago, perhaps when the two of you were pre-occupied.

You felt satisfied. It didn’t seem awkward or weird. At least—not to you. Although there was an odd feeling knawing at your chest—you decided to shrug it off.

Taking another puff, Art swings open the car and leaves it open this time. His elbow leaned against door, glacial colored eyes clouded with confusion. “You’re acting so….normal.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because….I….”

“….have a girlfriend? Ugh, don’t ruin my mood.” You groaned. Art chuckled, much to your surprise, grabbing the box of cigarettes from beside you and starting one up as well. As the smoke left his pink, swollen lips—something stirred inside your core. “Now that we’re talking about it—do you even love her?”

He scoffs, looking to the side. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I mean if you did,” you mused, stepping out the car as well. His eyes swept up and down your figure, long legs captivating his attention. You had just remembered you were wearing nothing but his shirt.

“You wouldn’t have fucked me that good.”

“_ _.”

“Art.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, crossing his arms. It was obvious he was feeling guilty about what had just occurred. To be frank, you didn’t know why you care. Usually you would have dipped right now, but beneath the moonlight, Art came off like a fallen angel. Blonde hairs falling over his eyes, disheleved from your hands running through them.

He was different than the other guys you’ve been with. And when you say, you meant chased, received, and then left. They were usually douches anyways, choosing their girlfriend in the end and wanting to have you as a bootycall. Only calling you at night, endless mediocre sex in hot cars.

But Art was a good guy. His emotions are in tune with what he does.

It made you absolutely ache in your core, making the thirst for his taste stronger. “You’re not a bad guy, Art. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

“Right,” he laughed in disbelief, hitting the stick in his hand. “And I wasn’t just balls deep in someone who wasn’t my girlfrie—“

You held your hand up, face twisting. “First of all, please don’t say balls deep. I just cringed,” you laughed. Art shut his eyes, letting out a few chuckles himself. It was nice to see that handsome smile return. “—and second of all, she doesn’t have to find out. I won’t tell her. This doesn’t have to happen again.”

He remained silent. His stare was focused on the ground.

“No one’s judging you. We’re the same,” you continued, tossing the burnt out cig onto the ground. Slowly, like a predator, you walked over to him. He inhaled sharply when your hand softly rested over the bulge growing in jeans. His perfectly sculpted abs tensed, “You like to feel good, just like I do. No complicated shit.”

It was like he couldn’t push you off. His fingers turned white, gripping the edge of the car door. Poking out your tongue, you licked his bottom lip, but not kissing him. “Let me make you feel good, Art.”

When he didn’t protest, fluttering his eyes closed, your fingers flew to his zipper. Slowly unzipping his jeans, you pulled his hard cock out, stroking it while whispering in his ear. “You’re so big in my hand.”

Collecting pre-cum at the tip, your thumb spread it to the rest of his dick before jerking it sensually. His head fell into the crook of your neck, completely giving himself over to you. It made you almost smile, but you bit it back, hastening your strokes.

He was yours.

“You’re such a bitch,” he muttered, his teeth sinking into the sweet spot on your neck. You were surprised he found it first try. Body twitching at the sensational strike of pain, you leaned into his touch. His words seemed to turn you on even more, your own teeth nipping at his bottom lip hungrily.

His muscles flexed beneath your arm, “This bitch is going to make you cum, Art.”

The large hand that was once gripping the car, flew to your hair, whipping your neck back. A moan tore from your throat as he lost control, fucking against your hand. Teeth clashing and lips sucking on your neck, one strong arm wrapped around you—the other holding the back of your head. His cock twitched at the sound you made, his cologne scented shampoo filling your senses as he dug himself deeper into the crook of your neck.

You were sure he had left two hickeys already.

“Art—“

“Fucking mine,” he growled out, your other hand gripping onto his chest. His hips stuttered as you began to twist your wrist towards tip of his cock, “Better not fuck some other dude after this, _ _.”

You laughed breathlessly, “After tonight—I need a week recovery max.”

Art lifted himself from your throat, looking down at you with a half-smile. But it dropped, his eyes fluttering shut.

And then he exploded with the call of your name.

“_ _.”

[professorlaytonarchive]

Dear fellow Professor Layton fans! I’m writing this post to explain the timeline of events about the search for Mansion of the Deathly Mirror to clear up any misconceptions or missing information you may have.

To start, Professor Layton and the Mansion of the Deathly Mirror (レイトン教授と死鏡の館 ) is a game in the Professor Layton series that was exclusively released for mobile. It was available on Professor Layton Mobile. The game features a brand new story formed by 6 chapters in total. Each chapter was his own i-appli, and they were released every two weeks starting from October 2008. As of June 2024, a translation of the original version is in the works, with the first chapter already released and as of September 2024 all 6 chapters have been preserved

Professor Layton and the Mansion of the Deathly Mirror -Remix- (レイトン教授と死鏡の館 -REMIX-) is an updated version of Professor Layton and the Mansion of the Deathly Mirroravailable to i-Mode devices through the Professor Layton Mobile and Mobile R portal. This version has different puzzles, slightly better animations and slightly different dialogues compared to the original version.

Synopsis

Professor Layton and his number one apprentice, Luke Triton, are invited to a party hosted by famous author Drevin Murdoch. At this party, he reveals to be in possession of a mirror that allows the attendants to talk to the dead. However, after Murdoch is found dead the following morning, it's up to Layton and Luke to find out the truth behind the Deathly Mirror, and the secrets Murdoch's Mansion holds.

(Credit: Keitai Wiki)

Chapter 1: A Single Piece

In 2014, a streamer managed to record the first three chapters of Deathly Mirror. A little while after, the streamer began to be harassed by multiple fans, eventually leading them to take down the videos. Due to the lack of preservation efforts at the time, the videos weren’t saved.

Years later, bits and pieces—such as screenshots, articles, and press videos—were found, but nothing concrete.

Chapter 2: A Picture Forming

In May of 2023, a Japanese fan posted the first part of what would become a complete playthrough of all six chapters of Mansion of the Deathly Mirror Remix. This was monumental for the Layton Lost Media (LLM) scene. However, during the 11 months it took to release the full playthrough, there were some difficulties with Western fans. The issues included harassment of the player for more videos, begging for the ROM (despite the player clearly stating they were afraid of Japan’s strict piracy laws), and other forms of harassment.

This period caused uncertainty and worry throughout the Layton Lost Media community, leading the community to strictly instruct members to cease any future contact with the player to prevent the playthrough from being lost before its completion. Around the same time, in February of 2024, thanks to the help of the user @/ponkikipon on Discord, we were able to preserve the ROMs of the original chapters 1-3. In April 2024, the playthrough of Remix came to an end with the release of the video for the sixth chapter. This allowed for the formation of Team Enigma, which sought to fully remake both the original and remixed versions of the game into one package, translate the original game into English, and expand their efforts into other translation projects. Chapter 1 is currently fully translated and available.

Chapter 3: The Final Piece

In September 2024, Keitai Wiki and a user by the name of @/yuvi on Discord managed to locate chapters 4-6 on a junk phone, marking the full preservation of the original Mansion of the Deathly Mirror. This allowed Team Enigma to bypass multiple roadblocks in the development of the remake and translation.

Please show your support by supporting Keitai Wiki, Team Enigma, and Team Professor Layton Archive.

https://x.com/rockmancosmo/status/1834626811646599498?s=46&t=r1PBA7kkYm_L_o06jhQMgw

[carminecherry]

RAIN STAINED CRIMSON | mikey sano

this is part five of the series kill the lights

⇝ PAIRING: timeskip!biker!mikey sano x fem!reader

⇝ SERIES SYNOPSIS: after moving by yourself to tokyo, you black out at a party and wake up with a new friend. as she sweeps you up in her fast-paced city life, you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper for her mysterious brother. but something dark is brewing in the city. as his past threatens to resurface, mikey must fight not only physical enemies but the mental battle of his feelings for you. he can't resist you , but could he ever forgive himself if something happened to you? he'll love you selfishly and protect you savagely.

⇝ PART FIVE LENGTH: 3.6k words

⇝ PART FIVE WARNINGS: violence, injury, blood, distress (18+ minors do not interact):

all characters are 20+; Alternate Universe! Canon Divergent. you meet up with emma for another coffee date and get the debrief. however, on the way back to your apartment, the comfortable life that you've known will be stained in darkness. there is a world of suffering that has never touched your life until now... something is set into motion and nothing will be the same.

⇝ AUTHOR'S NOTE: this one was pretty heavy to write. happy spooky month but please take care of yourself! more chapters coming soon! keep an eye on the tags and stay safe! <3

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.

You woke to rain. The droplets tapping on your window, drawing you out of sleep. The sound is barely louder than the hum of your AC. It was peaceful. The darkness the thick clouds provided left you dozing in and out for a few more minutes. The sky was churning shades of black and gray, thick like torn wool. The gentle patter of the droplets didn’t match the scene.

You finally rise, starting your routine. Your phone is your companion this morning, as your TV screen sits, black. There was still a gnawing feeling after the news stories yesterday. Two violent attacks in one day are highly irregular, at least here in the city. You knew your mental health would suffer more if you shuttered yourself inside for a second day. Seeing Emma would be good. Surely, her sunshiny personality would wash away some of the anxiety prodding you for attention.  

You leave, locking the door behind you. The rainy weather provided some relief to the heat of the previous week. It came in gentle waves, washing over you and your umbrella. The commute to the café was uneventful. You had a dutifulness that kept you from burying your nose in your phone like you would normally do. You watched the world pass by out of the train window, thin streams of water chasing each other. With each droplet the stream acquired, it grew fatter and heavier, rushing across the pane. You entertained yourself with this as you approached your stop, placing bets on which stream would win.

Emma was waiting for you near the ticket gate. She lit up when she saw you and you already started to feel better, your shoulders relaxing. You tap your train card to exit and the moment you’re through the gate her arms are around you. You’re starting to acclimate to Emma’s physical affection. “It’s so good to see you!” she says, swaying with you. “You too! I’m glad to see you’re in one piece” Releasing you, she whines, “I thought I was gonna die yesterday!”

You begin the short walk to the café. “I thought you were gonna die two nights ago. How come it hit you so hard anyways. I thought you were some crazy party girl, shouldn’t you know your limits by now” You tease. At that, she taps her umbrella into yours, the droplets shaking off. “You see, it’s because I’m a ‘party girl’ that I willingly surpass those limits, my friend. Often.” With that, the two of you arrive at the café.

It's quaint, tucked under the train tracks. The old brick is covered in thick ivy that hangs heavy with rain water. You push open the door, greeted with cool air and the smell of freshly ground coffee. The grinder hummed pleasantly, the sound of soft music mingling with the ambient noise. Your eye is caught by the source of the music; a vintage record player. There is natural wood throughout and dark, warm accents.

It was cozy and small with only a few other people seated at the counter. One typing away at their laptop, another lost in the pages of a fat novel. You tried to peek at the cover to no avail as you approached the counter and ordered. There are two worn leather sofas near the front window, the ivy from outside giving some natural privacy. The two of you sit there, sinking into the seats. You chat, waiting for your drinks. You feel at peace

***

“I can’t believe I did that!” She said, burying her face in her hands. “It’s all good, I think Mikey and Draken took care of it.” You say, taking a sip of your iced coffee. “On my LIFE, I’m swearing off liquor!” You look at her incredulously. She flicks some of the condensation water from her glass at you. “At least until next weekend.” She compromises. “Speaking of, there’s an event at a club I promote at. I get plus three if you want on the list.” 

This grabs your attention, “Really? That sounds like a lot of fun! I’d totally be down. What’s the vibe?” “It’s a hip-hop place, they want more cute girls in there to drum up drink sales. Basically, we just go, shake ass, and get free drinks from guys that pay the event markup. The club makes a fat stack and we party for free.” She says devilishly.

You could get on board with that. It’d been ages since you’d gone clubbing. You used to be a bit of a club rat in your university years. You imagine that clubbing in the city would be more fun than at the grungy college clubs you used to frequent. A question popped into your head, “You said plus three, are you going to invite anyone else?” “Yeah, Senju already said yes. I wish I could’ve introduced you at the party. I know you guys are gonna get along great. I also invited Yuzuha. She’s gonna try to make it work with her schedule.” Emma says thoughtfully pulling out her phone. You nod, the prospect of making more female friends is exciting.

Emma turns her screen to you, displaying a pretty girl with short, fluffy, white-bleached hair. She’s pixie-like with small defined features. “This is Senju” Emma says, swiping through a few pictures on her social media page. “And this is Yuzuha.” Emma turns her phone back to you. Yuzuha is more mature in appearance, sensual. She has long, silky, coppery hair that falls over her shoulders. “They’re so pretty.” You say, awestruck, unable to look away from the pictures as she scrolled through Yuzuha’s feed. “Wait till you see them in person.” She winks.

“I’ll make a group chat later so we can coordinate and you can add them.” She says, placing her phone on the table. She laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. “So, you and Mikey?” She says, a glint in her eye. Catching you mid-sip and off guard. You choke on your drink, some of it going down the wrong way. As you cough you manage, “What do you mean?” 

She laughs, a twinkling sound that cuts through the buttery air of the moody café. “You’re too easy to read. How charming~” The compliment adds to the redness in your face as you get your coughing fit under control. “No, I’m not.” You counter, doing your best to pull a stoic expression. She laughs in your face again. “You’re blushing ! Too cute, trying to be serious.” She gushes, your face growing hotter. 

“I mean, he gave me a ride home if that’s what you mean.” Turning to your drink for a distraction. “Boo~ you’re so boring. I’m talking about at the party. Gimme the goss.”  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You half mean it. You didn’t want to tell Emma about your dark fantasies about her brother . “Don’t be like that~'' She teased, the look in her eye told you she had something in mind. “Why? Did you hear something?” “You. Mikey. Sofa.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Oh, I mean we talked.” She hummed incredulously. “No, really. We just talked about bikes and stuff.” “Boooooring.” She huffs, thudding into the leather of the sofa as she reclines. “I thought it was gonna be something juicy. I heard you had him wrapped around your finger.” Your mind raced to replay the evening. In what way shape or form had you had that man “wrapped around your finger”. 

“You should check your source. I think they might’ve mixed us up with the couple on the sofa before us.” You pictured the pair again, their hot and heavy conversation. “He was practically inside of her before Mikey showed up.” Now this piqued Emma’s interest as she sat up from the sofa, leaning across the table to you, a conspiratorial look in her eye.

What had his name been? “Yeah, it was some guy Mikey knew, his name was like Hakk- something.” “Hakkai?!” Emma supplied excitedly. You shot her a finger gun, “That’s it! Blue hair, mouth scar.” You dragged your finger across your lips tracing the phantom scar the blue-haired man sported. “And she was GORGEOUS. Long brown hair, big,” You gesture to your chest, mimicking the woman’s endowment. “She was like on top of him. A houseplant might not have been the only thing Yuuki would be replacing if you catch my drift” The thought of cleaning velvet makes you cringe. “Once she saw Mikey she switched it up pretty quick though.” Remembering the way she had fawned under his gaze.

Emma made a face and snatched up her phone, “No. Way. Is this her?” Emma showed you a picture of the woman from the sofa, but in this picture she was in the arms of a different tattooed man. Another solid 10. “Yeah, that’s her!” You confirm. Emma makes a noise, fingers flying across her screen as she types a message to someone. 

“That’s Sera. Not to not be a girl's girl, but she’s a total wannabe and a homie-hopper. Hakkai should know better than that. I miss when he couldn’t even look at women.” You nod, soaking in the tea. Picturing a little Hakkai freezing up when a girl tried to talk to him was an endearing image. One in stark contrast to what you’d seen on Friday. “She’s been trying to get with Mikey for ages and she won’t take no for an answer. I guess fucking all of his friends is her plan B.”

You hum. You’d met your fair share of fuck boys and girls in university. After hooking up with a couple of them you decided that you preferred to stay out of the drama. “I guess that explains some things. They cleared out after he saw Mikey.” You sip thoughtfully, nearing the end of your drink. Remembering how Mikey hadn’t acknowledged the pretty brunette’s presence. It was starting to make more sense now. “That tracks” Emma replied, her phone buzzing but she makes no move to check it.

She finishes her drink, the ice settling as she returns the glass to its coaster. She runs her fingers up and down the side, tracing a pattern in the condensation. “Well, whenever you’re ready to talk about what happened with you and Mikey, let me know. He’s been acting weird all weekend” She said in a teasing tone. “Nothing. Happened.” You impress upon her. Tucking that crumb of information she tacked on at the end in your pocket. 

“Whatever you say~” She shrugs, finally checking her phone. She smiles rising from the sofa. “Mikey usually doesn’t let anyone on the back of his precious bike. So do with it what you will.” Two crumbs in your pocket. Your blush returns. You try to turn from Emma but it’s too late. She snickers.

“Let’s do this again, next Sunday. We can have ‘Sundates’.” She proposes. “I’d like that.” You smile moving to exit. “I’ve got some errands to run out here so I’ll split after we get to the station.” You nod. The two of you call back a ‘thank you’ to the barista as the bell above the door jingles.

You say your goodbyes at the station and board the train. The rain falls harder now, in heavy sheets that pelt the windows of your train car. The train lurches to a stop one station before your home station. The doors open to the platform and an announcement plays, “Due to extreme weather conditions, the service on this train line will be temporarily suspended. We apologize for any inconvenience.” The message plays on a loop and you curse how close you were to getting home. 

You weigh your options. Truthfully, it wasn’t a far walk. Maybe 15 minutes. The platform grew more crowded as people retreated from the rain. The growing crowd made you nervous and you decided a 15 minute walk is preferable to elbowing your way onto a packed muggy train when it does start running again. You ready your umbrella and venture out into the storm. Thunder clapped loud enough to shake the trees, a sprinkle of extra water added to the downpour you were battling. It was amazing how loud just the rain was.

Your visibility was poor and you were having second thoughts about this adventure. You were about halfway at this point, too late to turn back. Over the sound of the rain you heard something. A voice. You stop dead in your tracks, frantically looking for the source. Again, a voice cried out. The pain in the voice sliced through the deafening rain. Your body was moving before you could think. If you had, you probably would’ve frozen. You round a corner, carelessly splashing through the puddles in the sidewalk. You’re met with an alley, tucked between two large buildings, the space somewhat sheltered from the rain.

It was then you saw a figure crumpled on the ground and a larger one standing over them. The larger figure, a man, loomed over them. His dark hoodie drenched in rain. Your eyes scanned down his back and landed on the knife in their gloved hand. The blade reflected back a sickening red. Your body starts to shake. You want to run, to disappear. The body on the ground curled into the fetal position and cried out again. 

“Help! Someone. Please.” Their voice cracking. The gurgle in their words made your stomach twist. The hooded figure stomped them once, then again. The wounded cried out with each impact. “ Oi oi- .” The attacker punctuated each blow. “It’s no fun if you don’t fight back~” His tone was saccharin and sing-songy. It makes your skin crawl. “I swear I didn’t-” The attacker kicked them hard in the stomach. The sound of retching pushing you over your fear threshold. “ If you’re gonna FUCK around you better be ready to find OUT! ” The hooded man’s deep voice echoes off the walls.

Now was the time to act. You could slip away unnoticed, pretend none of this ever happened, or better yet, call the police and have them sort it out. But in your heart you knew that if something didn’t happen now, that person was going to die. Thunder crashed again and you took a deep breath, forcing your body to move. Your eyes land on a pile of trash, tied up for pick up. Next to the bags you see a rusted pipe. You wrap your fingers around it, wet and grimy. You test its weight in your hand, dropping your umbrella, breaking into a sprint. The hooded figure stooped, coming to kneel over the smaller who tried to crawl away. He raised the knife.

CRACK! It was a sick, wet sound as you brought the pipe down on the man’s head. His body went limp on top of the figure below. You kick the knife hard and far into a pile of trash bags before grabbing the wet material of his hoodie and heaving him off and away from the other. You step, splashing a puddle that stains the hem of your pants red. You rush over, kneeling next to the injured figure, their body shaking harder than yours. You let the pipe drop. The figure crawls to you, hugging your legs with little strength. You see now he’s just a boy. No older than 18. His lip trembles, tears pouring from his eyes. He looks so scared.

You move to cradle him, your body blocking the rain. “T-thank you.” He cries weakly. You nod, the lump in your throat prevents you from responding. You look him up and down, your vision blurring through the tears. You count 2 stab wounds to his chest and stomach. The red is spreading through the material of his T-shirt faster than you care for. You manage, “I’m going to call for an ambulance. Can you press on the wound?” You wiggle to free your phone from your pocket, fighting the water on your screen to dial the emergency number. “Which one?” He tries to chuckle before wincing. He still has a sense of humor, that’s a good sign. You hit the speakerphone button as the line starts ringing.

It quickly connects and you steady your voice, telling the operator, “Hello! Please, I need help. There’s been a stabbing, um..” You look around, realizing you don’t actually know where you are, “Are you at the location now?” the operator asks, she has a soothing voice. “Yes!” You say ardently. “Alright, I have your location on my screen now, we have emergency service vehicles on their way to you, but it’s going to be a few minutes. Are you with the victim now?” “Yes, I’m here, he’s here. He, uh, he has at least two stab wounds to the torso.” You tell her frantically. The words feel strange and clinical.

“Okay miss, we’re going to apply pressure to the wound. I want you to look for something you can use, like a towel or blanket.” You look around the dirty alley. “Nothing, there’s nothing.” You say, a sob escaping. “That’s alright, so what we’re going to do is, I want you to use your hands to apply pressure.” “I-I am. I’m doing that.” “Good, you’re doing great. EMS is almost at your location.”

The stab wound in his chest seems to open further as the red seeps between your fingers. You quickly adjust your hands to apply more pressure to the wound, wiping your tears on your sleeve. “Please tell them to hurry.” You say pathetically, more tears streaking down your face. He starts to fade, his eyes fluttering “No. Stay with me.” You say firmly. 

He’s fighting. He locks eyes with you, “I don’t want to die.” He whispers, voice cracking. “Please, please, please.” You mutter, each a prayer that EMS will arrive. “I’m scared.” He says with a strangled voice. “I’m here with you. I’m here.” You cry. “ Mom .” He begs. You hear from your phone, “We’re going to do this together. EMS is a minute away. Hang in there” You hear a groan as the hooded figure reanimates. The boy sobs out, his limp body unable to move.  “Please, please, please.” You pray. The hooded figure groans again, bringing a hand to his head.

“Miss, I need you to talk to me, what’s going on?” You hear the operator ask. “Police! We need the police. The man, he’s waking up.” You squeak, your veins feeling electric. Then you hear them. Sirens in the distance. “Police are on their way, miss. They’re almost there. You’re doing so well.” The operator encourages. 

The hooded figure pushes himself up feeling around. He sees the two of you, his masked face streaked with blood. His or the boys you couldn’t be sure, “ You bitch. ” He says venomously, his golden eyes searing into you. The sirens are so close. “Please.” You beg the universe. He looks around once more, seeming to hesitate before he takes off; staggering out of the alley. Your eyes follow after him, sure you'll see him reappear. 

The body in your arms slackens. “No!” You cry, jostling the boy. “No, please.” You move again to adjust the pressure. You see them from the other end of the alley, the flashing lights of the ambulance.

What happens after is all a blur. You lean back on the wall of the alley, watching them work. You can’t look at your hands but you feel the warm liquid growing cold and sticky. He has a pulse, you gather from the paramedics. He lost so much blood, too much blood. They load him into the back of the ambulance and they are gone. 

You don’t remember when, but the police must have arrived. You feel a blanket being wrapped around your shoulders as you're led to a police car. “Yes. No.” Those are the only words that remain in your vocabulary. “Miss, are you injured?” “No.” "We're going to have the paramedics check you, okay?" "Yes." “We're going to take you to the station the station to help us file the report, are you able to do that?” “Yes.” “Is there anyone we can call for you?” “No.”

You don’t know how long you were at the station. How many questions you answered. You hear word that the boy was in serious condition at the hospital but doctors were hopeful. They said you saved him but it hardly felt like it. There was a familiar hole in your chest. How long has it been since this old friend visited you? You let the world move around you, there was a child-like comfort in releasing control to someone else. That a parent knows best and will act in your favor.

A police woman, perhaps a decade your senior, takes you to another room. She has kind eyes and her touch is soft. She helps you change out of your clothes. She told you they would be evidence. She uses warm, wet rags to clean you. You sit there and let her gently wipe between your fingers. She is attentive and steady. She moves slowly, like you're something fragile. Right now, you are. The minutes tick away before she is dressing you in a light, baggy shirt and sweatpants that are a bit too big. You let yourself be led to a police car. The edges of the sky taking on that luminous blue that previews sunrise.

You ride in silence. It’s not long before you are home. The engine is turned off and the officer exits the car, opening the door for you. He offers you an arm and you take it. “If you need anything. Please call or message me. Any time.” He hands you a crisp, white business card. You pocket it, quietly thanking him. He walks you to your door and makes sure you get in safely. You stand in your entryway, back against your door until you hear the car pull away. You slide down the wall and sit there. The smell of the cheap, plastic shoes from the police station is unpleasant. Still, you sit.

[rideofthevalkyriess]

home sweet home | chapter I

🌿 Pairing Small town au! - Doctor!Gojo Satoru x Teacher&Painter!OC/Reader; Doctor!Gojo Satoru x Dancer!Utahime Iori

🌿 Summary Satoru, or more formally known as Dr. Gojo was a great doctor from the big city. He lived a life that everyone thought was perfect: he worked at the city hospital, lived in a beautiful apartment in the center and was engaged to Utahime Iori. However, he had a big secret that he hid from everyone, which is that Satoru was actually already married to his childhood friend who he left behind in his hometown. And now, it's time for Gojo to face the past and the choices he made, especially his beloved wife.

🌿 Words 4.7k

🌿 Warnings [+18], smut, mature themes, angst, cigarettes and smoking, drugs, drinking/alcohol, adultery, commitment issues, marriage problems, divorce, death, illness and chronic disease, miscarriage, family drama, angst with a happy ending; (more to be added)

🌿 Author's Note Welcome to the first chapter of my new series!! I was inspired by one of my favorite comedies, Sweet Home Alabama. It's not the first time I've written, but it's the first time I've published, so please be patient. I also gave the reader a name as this makes writing easier for me. I hope you enjoy!

Satoru Gojo's life had fallen into chaos and it was entirely his fault.

But no one who knew him would claim that, as he was deceptive and good at keeping up appearances.

To the people who know him, Satoru, or more formally Dr. Gojo, is a great doctor in the city of Boston, his speciality being cardiology. He work in the city central hospital and live in a newly renovated old flat near Beacon Hill. 

In his free time, he plays basketball and enjoys learning languages, most recently German. Satoru didn't have a large social circle, as most of his friends were in the world of medicine. And according to these same friends, Gojo was choleric, perfectionist and impatient, which made him a difficult person to approach; but deep down, he just took his job very seriously.

The news that the hospital nurses were gossiping about was this: Dr. Gojo was engaged to Utahime Iori and they were going to get married the next summer. 

Such gossip was always accompanied by the story of how they met. It was a night when Gojo was on a night shift and Utahime was admitted to the emergency room with a knee injury caused by a fall while dancing. She was - and still is - a dancer by profession and well known for it. It turned out that it was Satoru who attended to her that night, and after a very promising diagnosis followed by release, the two exchanged contacts. 

Their relationship developed ardently and quickly, like the rhythm of the great city of Boston. It had only been a year since they met and they already had a wedding date set, much to the delight of Utahime's wealthy family.

However, his relationship with Utahime and the gossip about him were of little concern to Satoru. In fact, there was one secret that kept his mind occupied during the day and robbed him of sleep at night, and that was this: He was already a married man. 

And well married, to his childhood friend whom he had left behind in his old and  insignificant - in his eyes - hometown. 

But no one in Boston even dreamed or imagined that Dr. Gojo had such a deep and striking stain on his past as that of a failed marriage, so he secretly met with Hiromi Higuruma, a lawyer who specialised in divorces. 

Specialised or not, the truth was that Higuruma was a shark when it came to his clients and was the best lawyer in his law firm - and the most expensive too. It was he who discreetly prepared Satoru's divorce papers and encouraged him to take the papers personally to his wife, much to his client's displeasure. 

“You know, Dr Gojo, I think it would be a good idea if you handed over the divorce papers in person and had a heart-to-heart talk with your wife. I think you two must have a lot to discuss.” Higuruma advised as he gave him the papers. 

“I can't think of anything we need to talk about.” Satoru contested, looking away towards the office windows. It was storming outside and the wind was howling.

“Believe me when I say that divorcing couples always have something to say to each other. How long has it been since you last spoke? Two years? Maybe three?”

“Two years and a half.” Gojo quickly corrected, making the lawyer frown.

“...Well, think about my advice, will you? And you'll see that things will work out.”

That evening, when Satoru returned to his flat, he discovered that although the divorce papers were light, the weight they represented in his life was overwhelming. 

He put them down on the desk in his bedroom, and there they stayed for a few weeks, robbing him of his peace and sleep. 

Until one night, he decided to put an end to his misery - and insomnia - and return to his hometown, Fairview.

In the early hours of the morning when Gojo made his decision, he was very agitated. He emptied half his wardrobe, even though he only intended to be out of the city for a week. He vacuumed the entire house, even though he had a maid who could do the job for him. And he washed the car, even though it was spotless. 

At dawn, Satoru called his fiancée to tell her of his decision, while he prepared the food for the trip, which was going to be a long one. And upon hearing her fiancé's decision, Utahime was less than pleased.

“Why? Why all of a sudden?” She asked alarmed through the phone. 

“I want to visit my family before we get married.” Gojo replied quickly, while preparing the sandwiches and a salad. “That way I can announce the engagement to them.” He concealed it. 

«Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Uta.» Satoru thought to himself. «If you knew what was waiting for me in Fairview, you wouldn't say something like that.»

“Some things have to be said in person.” Gojo hid, as he finished preparing his food and carried his bags to the car.  “Don't worry, I'll be back in a week.”

And although Satoru had made a promise to his fiancée, it would be broken for the most unimaginable reasons. 

“I swear I'm going to get grey hair before I'm forty if you continue to get on my nerves like this.”

“But that's a good thing, we will match.” He joked, sitting down in the driver's seat of the car with a smile on his lips. 

“That's not funny.” Muttered Utahime. “Drive slowly. And watch out for wild animals.”

“I will.” Satoru reassured her. “I'll let you know when I arrive. I love you, Uta”

She didn't reply, but she didn't have to. Gojo knew her feelings, which were now a mixture of love and anger. He knew that she found it difficult to reveal her emotions, which often led to misunderstandings. But deep down, she loved him and was very worried about him. 

When the call ended, Satoru turned on the car and pulled his vehicle out of the carpark of his apartment.

The nervousness that had plagued him all night had ceased after talking to Utahime, whose voice always calmed him down, no matter what her mood. More calm, Gojo had the chance to enjoy the cool morning breeze and appreciate the beginning of spring.

The big city was as busy as ever. 

Traffic and shops were in full swing early in the morning, and this was the pace of life that Satoru admired, liked and desired.

As Satoru left the city centre and headed for the suburbs, the city rush diminished. But it was still beautiful in his eyes, because it was an interesting mix of the urban and the countryside. Big and small houses, with perfectly tended gardens and families straight out of a soap commercial. Perhaps one day, when he grew old, he would experience that lifestyle.

When Satoru left the populated areas for the motorway, he saw little more than green forests just awakened from the harsh winter. 

The rest of the journey remained like that, accompanied by the trees and the radio, playing classics from the eighties and nineties. 

Gojo knew he was in town the moment he spotted a large wooden sign painted in white, announcing "Welcome to Fairview, land of sailors and crabs", much to his displeasure and annoyance.

It was dusk by the time Satoru reached the center of the small town that had once, long ago, been his home. 

Near the beach, he saw the theater built on a pier, suspended over the sea. There he had unique memories of his teenage years, where life seemed easier and simpler. Satoru also appreciated the cathedral, illuminated by the fiery colours of the sunset, in the heart of the city. 

And deep in his heart, Satoru knew that he missed his town, but at the same time, it was this very community that made his spirit and heart sick. 

However, this was not the time for him to feel sentimental and nostalgic, as there were more important matters that called him to reason. 

Satoru drove to his old home, which he had bought together with his wife in their first years of marriage.

The house itself was nothing luxurious. In fact, it was a very old cottage, located at the entrance to the forest that surrounded Fairview. On arriving at the house, Gojo decided to appreciate - or rather judge - the place that brought back so many memories.

Although the house was small, its grounds were so vast that they followed the forest. Close to the cottage, there was a small lake with a newly built pier, which gave the place its charm. A small greenhouse was built on the other side of the lake, with walls and roof made of glass, supported by white painted steel.

The cottage was still exactly as Satoru remembered. Small and tall, painted white and decorated with reddish bricks that matched the thatched roof. The windows and door remained the same, made of light wood and very traditional. 

On the porch of the house, illuminated by fairy lights and decorated with a very nice garden table set, a dog was lying down resting peacefully when he heard Satoru's footsteps. 

The dog, a German shepherd, quickly lifted his head and his eyes went wide, like lamps, when he saw Satoru approaching the porch. With his ears raised towards the strange man, the shepherd began to bark quietly, like a whisper, warning him not to go near the house. 

Gojo, on seeing that large, unfamiliar dog, was startled to think that his wife no longer lived there. His wife wasn't the type to like such ferocious animals and this dog was very different from the beagle she used to own. 

“You're not Maple.” Satoru muttered, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. 

As soon as Gojo had spoken, the dog got up and started barking loudly, warning its owner that there was an intruder on the property. He reflexively moved away and decided it wasn't wise to approach the beast. 

Realising that he wouldn't be able to reach the front door, Satoru decided to try the back door, which was always unlocked. As he walked to the back garden, he noticed something that made him hopeful again. In the garage, which was always open, was his wife's old car, a 2000s platinum-coloured Mercedes that had belonged to her mother. 

The interior of the house remained the same as he remembered it. The floor and doors were made of oak wood, which matched the coffee table and shelves occupied by books and trinkets. The sofa was large and cream-coloured, as were the old walls. The ceiling was adorned with vertical wooden beams the same colour as the floor. And in the center of the room was a very old fireplace made of white stone with a stove in its interior.

A picture frame with a photograph from their honeymoon was carefully placed on top of the fireplace. Satoru smiled slightly and carefully picked up the frame to take a good look at the photograph he hadn't seen for years. 

The photo was taken in Greece, near the Aegean Sea, on a very hot summer's day. Gojo remembers that his wife felt very happy that day, in her translucent white beach dress and her hair blowing in the wind, as she searched for shells and whelks in the sand.  And he also remembers his wife complaining about the sunburn she got, later in the evening. 

“Satoru?” A female voice spoke, drawing him away from his memories. 

Gojo put the photograph back where it belonged and turned to face his wife, with whom he hadn't spoken for over two years.

With his discerning eyes, he judged and admired her from top to bottom.

To Satoru's eyes, his Emma looked very different and at the same time very similar to the one of his memories. She was wearing a light blue painting apron, all stained with paint, as was her face, which had traces of oil paint. Her blonde hair was quite long, down to her waist, and tangled into a braid. Emma appeared to have lost a lot of weight and her face was more defined and tired, with dark circles under her eyes.

For Emma, if it hadn't been for Satoru's height and unique silver hair, she wouldn't have recognised him. 

«Is he taller? No, he's stronger.» It was the first thing she noticed. The truth was, since his departure to Boston, Gojo looked herculean and healthy. The second thing Emma noticed was his beautiful, captivating eyes, and how much she missed having them around. Eyes embellished with delicate silver lashes that made him look divine. 

But, in the back of Emma's conscience, there was a small voice telling her that her husband hadn't come back for the best reasons or because he desired her again. 

«I know you want something from me, I just don't know what it is. Yet.» She reflected, as she watched Gojo smile widely.

“Hello honey, how have you been?” He greeted her teasingly, leaving Emma perplexed.

“What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?”

“Through the back door. You should be more careful, anyone can get in that way.” Satoru explained, slowly approaching his wife. 

“You've got a lot of nerve telling me that when you've just broken into my house! Through the back door!” Emma said, raising her voice as she pointed in the direction of the laundry room. 

“I know, that's why I'm warning you.” The man teased, boldly sitting down on the sofa.

Emma sighed at his audacity and put her hands to her head, trying to keep calm and avoid committing an offence.

“What are you really doing here, Satoru?”

Gojo, still sitting on the sofa, reached into his backpack and pulled out a set of papers, placing them on the coffee table.

“I want a divorce, Emma.” He revealed in a serious, firm tone of voice, which made Emma smile and relax. 

“You wish.”

«Ah, so that's what your visit is all about.» Emma thought, relieved, as she left the room and went to the kitchen to wash her hands from the ink. 

And Satoru, who didn't appreciate her response, stood up and followed her quickly.

“You don't have to make this any more complicated than it already is, honey. There are three copies, one for me, one for you and one for the lawyers.” He retorted. “I even made sure to tick it to make it easier.”

Emma looked at the papers in her husband's hands and didn't know whether to feel upset that he had insinuated that she was slow, or that he had shown up years later asking for a divorce.

She started laughing in disdain and disbelief.

“What?”

“You've got a lot of nerve for coming home, three years after you left, asking me for a divorce.”

“Are you complaining now?”

“Not really, I just expected something more extravagant coming from you.” Confronted Emma. “I'm not signing those papers. They're not in my interest.” 

Out of frustration, Satoru started rubbing his hands over his face, trying to moderate the throbbing pain in his head. 

“Come on Emma, why do you have to be so stubborn? Don't you want to leave this phase of your life in the past and start again?”

Emma, who had just washed her ink-stained hands, was furious at Gojo's words and accidentally broke a mug that was lying in the sink, causing the German shepherd to start barking anxiously outside. 

“I don't remember you asking my opinion or worrying about me when you left. Or when you decided that Fairview was no longer your home. You made that decision all by yourself! My God, Bear, shut up!” Emma scolded nervously.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the kitchen.

“Sorry, he's nervous because he doesn't know you and we're arguing.” Said the woman with a tired tone and looking away from her husband. 

“What happened to Maple?” Satoru asked, looking at the dog, who was also staring at him through the window.

“She died in her sleep. You weren't here…” 

Gojo stared at his wife patiently and saw that her eyes were watery, as if she was about to cry. He could tell that Emma was still suffering. And even Satoru couldn't help but feel sad about the death of Maple, who had been a good and special dog and was present in many of their memories.

From the window, it was evident that the sun had hidden and the night reigned outside. Looking at his wristwatch, Satoru realised it was already late and grabbed his backpack, preparing to leave. 

“I'll leave the papers with you, make sure you sign them.” 

Emma went into the living room and leaned against one of the pieces of furniture, admiring him again.

“If you leave it here, I'll put it in the fireplace.” Warned Emma with a provocative little smile, which made Satoru sigh and put his backpack down on the sofa. 

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” He grumbled. “All right, until you sign them, I'm not leaving.” Gojo said, shamelessly sitting down on the couch.

“Careful, that sounds tempting to me.” Emma teased, approaching him. “Go stay with your mother. I'm sure she doesn't know you're in town.” 

Satoru remained in silent and that was all Emma needed to hear. 

“Satoru, please.” 

He just handed her a pen, which made her even more frustrated.

“Do as you wish.” She said with a long sigh and turned away from him. 

But Emma wasn't someone who gave up easily or declared defeat after a lost battle. 

Cunningly and discreetly, she picked up the landline that was resting on one of the tables in the living room and locked herself in the bedroom, making an unusual call. And there she waited, until she began to hear loud sirens and flashing lights.

“I hope you've got something striped in that bag, it'll come in handy.” Emma joked, leaving the bedroom to the living room, where Satoru had been sitting on the sofa until then.

“Why would I-” Satoru complained, but stopped the instant he heard the deafening sirens of the police car. “You called the police? You know very well that the chief hates me!” 

“And with good reason.”

Few stories of rebelliousness could surpass those of Satoru during his teenage years. He was someone who collected achievements like a stamp collector. But despite the wide variety of stories, none surpassed the night he drank too much - as he never had in his life - and stole a car owned by Masamichi Yaga, the chief of the police of Fairview. 

What happened that night remains a mystery, but Gojo recalls rallying the car up a hill away from the town. By the end of the night, the vehicle was completely wrecked. Yaga never found out who had committed the crime, but he had strong suspicions.

“Hey Emma, I heard your call on the radio.” Satoru would recognise Suguru's sweet, concerned voice anywhere. “What's happened?”

“The intruder is in the living room. You can take him with you.” Emma explained, making Suguru confused and wrinkling his forehead. 

Geto walked heavily to the living room due to his uniform and the tiredness of a long day's work. But all the fatigue and exhaustion quickly disappeared when he ran into his old friend Satoru.

“Satoru?!”

“Hey, it's been a while.” Greeted Satoru excitedly, and moved to give his old childhood friend a strong hug. 

After a long hug and a few pats on the back, they separated. Emma enjoyed the reunion of these two tall, strong men, and felt nostalgic about her youth. Until Suguru decided to ask the question of millions. 

“You look well. Where have you been?” Suguru asked, making Emma and Satoru look at each other intensely. 

“Boston.” Gojo said, looking at Emma. “From what I see, you're still a policeman.”

“Yeah. They pay me well to walk around the city.” Geto jokes, fixing his uniform. “My God, Em, you scared the shit out of me. You know how worried I get about you living alone in such an isolated place.”

“Suguru, be a little more professional. You're handling the suspect of a crime.” 

“She doesn't live that isolated. On the way here I saw that they had built two new housing developments nearby.” Satoru replied, leaning against the back of the sofa.

“Still, she's a woman who lives alone in the middle of nowhere.” Suguru reminded him. “She's vulnerable here.”

“Vulnerable? Haven't you seen the wolf she has outside?”

“Excuse me! Firstly, Bear is not a wolf but a German shepherd. Secondly, I don't understand why I'm the subject of this conversation. And thirdly, Suguru, please, get him out of here!” Protested Emma, pointing her finger at Gojo.

“She's right Satoru, you can't force your way into a house.”

“But I didn't break in, I came in through the back door.” Satoru revealed with an insolent smile, causing Suguru to look in disbelief at Emma.

“Really? I already warned you to lock the doors, Em. You should be more careful.” Suguru reminded with a firm voice tone, making Emma feel ashamed. “As for you, this isn't your home anymore, you can't come and go as you please, Satoru. I will have to escort you out.”

“Use the handcuffs, please.” Emma says with a teasing manner. Gojo gave her a perplexed look.

“Suguru, if you can get her to sign these papers, I'll let you run me out of town.” Satoru suggested with a smile on his lips, staring at his wife. 

Emma recognized that cheeky grin, full of insistence and the threat of turning lives into a living hell.

«No one so arrogant should have such a charming smile.» Emma thought, looking away from her husband.

“Papers? What papers?” Suguru asked, as Satoru grabbed the documents and handed them to the policeman. 

“This is a private matter, Suguru.” She said, feeling uncomfortable as she watched Geto read the documents.

“A divorce application?” Questioned the policeman, looking bewilderedly at Satoru. He then turned to Emma, still surprised. “I thought you'd taken care of this.”

“Me too…” 

“Clearly not.” Satoru objected. 

“If you two are still married, it's his house too, Em. This is a domestic dispute.” Geto said slowly.

“...He didn't hit you, did he? If he did, I'll take him to the police station.” Suguru declared, leaving Satoru with a tense expression and a furrowed forehead.

The two men stared at her, tense and suspicious of each other.

“No Suguru, Satoru never hit me.” Emma confessed, to the relief of the two men. That was the truth, and although Gojo had many and countless flaws, being violent certainly wasn't one of them.

But the mood for nostalgia had cooled and an uncomfortable silence settled over the living room. 

“Well, you two have a lot to catch up on. I'd better go.” 

“Suguru, wait! Please don't do this to me! Take him away!” Emma asked anxiously.

“You make me crazy! Sign the damn papers!” Satoru asked Emma.

“There's nothing I can do. The law is the law.” Geto said, pointing at Gojo. “And he hasn't done anything wrong.” 

Nimbly, Emma moved and stood between Suguru and the front door, blocking his passage.

“Please, Suguru!” Emma begged, rubbing her palms together. “If you won't take him to the police station, at least get him off my property. I can't get stressed out.” 

Suguru looked at Emma closely and saw that she was desperate and distressed, noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

He let out a long sigh and scratched his forehead with his thumb - as he used to do.

“Satoru, I think we should go out and have a drink, what do you say?”

“Wait, are you kicking me out? You can't do that.”

“No, I don't have the authority to do that. I'm giving you advice, because you're being an ass.” Suguru responded, with Emma glaring at the two men. “It's getting late, and I'm sure this discussion can wait until tomorrow.” 

Gojo rolled his eyes and bowed his head, before grabbing his bag and heading out the back door without saying another word. Meanwhile, Emma and Suguru look at each other smiling once again.

“Thank you.”

“Just be careful. And lock the doors and windows of the house, please.” Suguru warned before going out through the front door to the porch where Bear was.

Geto petted the head of the German shepherd, that wagged its tail happily. Bear had known Suguru since he was a puppy and enjoyed the biscuits the man gave him.

Suguru opened the door and let him in, as it was already cold outside. Fairview might have a mild climate during the day, but it's nights were always freezing, with sharp winds. 

Satoru was leaning against his car, enjoying the night. The full moon's moonlight, delicate and shiny, reflected like silver dust over the garden lake. A light fog rose near the forest and in the trees, he could hear owls hooting and flying. 

Despite the cold, it was a lovely evening.  

“Nice car.” Suguru said, lighting a cigarette.

“Thanks, it's a BMW X7.” Satoru answered, still frustrated. He turned round and saw the patrol car. “Yours isn't too bad either.” 

Both remained silent.

“Have you got a place to stay yet?” Suguru asked, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“I'm going to spend the night at the hotel near the beach.” 

“Aren't you staying with your mother?” Geto asked, but Satoru didn't answer. “Does she know you're in town?”

“No. I didn't tell her…”

Suguru let out a long sigh and smoked again.

“You should visit them. Megumi talks about you all the time, he misses you.”

Gojo took a deep breath and looked down at his feet, crossing his arms tightly. Geto looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Look, a new bar has opened in town. What do you say we go there for a drink and catch up?” Just as he finished speaking, the radio in his uniform sounded, alerting him to a new occurrence. “Looks like we'll have to wait for another time.” 

“Hard day?”

“Yes, a very busy one. You must have brought the chaos of the big city with you.” Joked Suguru, finishing his cigarette and dropping it on the floor. “Well, I should go. It was good to see you.”

 “You too. Drive safe.” Satoru reminded, because Suguru was a driving maniac. Geto laughed and shook his head as he remembered something.

“Hey, there's a reunion of old friends this weekend. Just people from school and college. Do you want to come?”

“ I don't know if that would be a good idea.”

“It's nothing formal, just a casual get-together of old friends. We'll have dinner at six at Shells n'Roses and then go to a bar for a drink. It's Saturday, in case you change your mind.” 

Satoru nodded slightly and the men said goodbye with a pat on the back. 

However, even after Geto left, Gojo remained. In the company of the lake and the moon dancing on the water, he rethought his life and his choices. What his life was and what it could be. 

From the window, Emma saw Satoru and, although the man seemed eternally beautiful, with the silver moonlight shining on his white hair, she noticed that he seemed melancholic and quiet compared to who he used to be.

Although compassionate, the woman still felt furious and betrayed by her husband's actions and decided to close the curtains and continue her nightly routine. 

She had already experienced too many emotions for one night. 

Author's Note - Thank you for reading my story and feel free to comment or talk to me! Soon I will post this story over on AO3. If you want to be added to the taglist, please comment on the series masterlist. Bye~

🏷️ @kalopsia-flaneur ; @tojideckmuncher ; @hauntedcrownpost ; @nervousnightthing ; @slowlyshycomputer ; @kazehayaaa ; @blushedcheri ; @eolivy

[banjjakz]

final girl: jjk visualkei idol!au x stan!f!reader

author's note: this is a choose-your-own-adventure PWP series. each route will have its own host of chapter-specific warnings, but some general content advisories include: obsession, stalking, elements of horror, codependent/unhealthy relationships, imbalanced power dynamics, erotic descriptions of death, etc etc please see: main menu for navigation & guide for recommended route order. enjoy ~ ^^

> main menu > guide

[PROLOGUE]

➡ GAME START

The time: three o’clock in the morning. The place: one of Kabukichou’s countless dilapidated venues. The weather: piercingly frigid, biting cold which mercilessly impales your already tumultuous gut. Those in attendance: approximately three hundred other dedicated fans, and – of course – the main act:

Shinjuku Showdown.

As an underground idol group, ShinShow makes no effort to conform to some false overly polished, perfectly airbrushed boy-group image. What sets them apart from the rest of the underground crowd is their steadfast dedication to their unique concept: jujutsu sorcery.

Allegedly, all members of ShinShow are reincarnated sorcerers from various eras in Japanese history, reborn to entrance thousands with the preternatural capabilities of their musical talent. In this lifetime, they manipulate the cosmos not with mudras, but with peerless performances.

Many so-called stans claim to know their lore inside out; you, however, pride yourself on being a part of the slim majority of the fanbase who has walked with the members since the beginning. You were a fan of each individual member while they were preoccupied in other idol activities before eventually joining together to create ShinShow. This, you are convinced, sets you apart from the swathe of fresh blood clogging up the congested standing pit. Everyone loiters in one single cesspool of quivering, fanatic anticipation. You bet many others feel like prey, yearning to be caught in the captivating gaze of their preferred member. But you’re different. You aren’t prey.

After years of unwavering support including (but certainly not limited to): countless hours spent digitally streaming; months’ worth of paychecks devoted to VVVVVVVVIP Access Packages, pre-releases, physical albums, official merch; and premium music subscription services, you consider yourself the exact opposite of a creature lying in wait, ready to be devoured.

No, you are the one who does the devouring.

Consuming ShinShow content is the closest you have ever come in your miserable life to satiating the empty void weighing you down, siphoning the sleep out of your nights, rendering your few non-work-related phone calls devoid of any real meaning.

Walking with ShinShow has brought you to a new, enlightened state of being. You are cleansed anew each time you have the privilege of breathing in the same atmosphere into which they perspire, passionately entangled in the performance of their morose melodies. Screaming fan chants until your throat bleeds and pricking yourself with arts and crafts supplies in the effort to make your own cheering uchiwa are essential sources from which you derive a tenuous – but nonetheless persistent – will to live.

Supporting ShinShow has become a devotional act. And you are, if nothing else, devout.

Up above head, the house lights are snuffed into nonexistence. An impenetrable darkness asphyxiates all sense of vision and a charged murmur sweeps through the venue. Excitement runs rampant like an epidemic, spreading from phone charm to deco’d polaroid holder to custom-made fan slogan.

It’s time.

As always, you hear them before you see them: the isolated, mournful wailing of an electric guitar echoes throughout the atmosphere, seemingly pulling a shroud over the crowd and commandeering the entirety of your attention to the mysteriously black stage. Soon to follow are the crashing of symbols, the striking of drums, the unnerving thrum of that otherworldly bassline, and last, but certainly not least, the main vocal’s banshee-like shriek.

The show is absolutely charged with some sort of intoxicating misery. This is why you love them above all others – the unique, dreadful energy that pools wherever ShinShow performs is a testament to their unmatched skills as entertainers.

Even in the midst of a taxing live show, there is not a crack in the façade, not a chink in the armor. The drummer, despite pounding away with reckless abandon, displays an unshakable poker face of utter apathy, which would be made somewhat less terrifying if he didn’t have on his usual corpse paint: a white face, powdered and even like a geisha, bisected at the middle with a harsh black line cutting neatly from cheekbone to cheekbone. Even when shouting some of the raunchier, more aggrieved lyrics, his black-painted lips curl rather cutely around the vulgar vowels.

Just as dedicated to his craft, the bassist plucks out morose notes with limp hands and cold eyes, moving his body as a medical examiner might manipulate a cadaver’s stiff limbs. He’s got lanky, black hair with parted bangs brushing his impossibly long, doll-like lashes. Despite his pretty looks, he appears ultimately ghoulish, with a wan complexion, sunken cheekbones, and lips perpetually bitten raw. This is not to say he doesn’t get excited while performing – because he absolutely does! But when he moves, it is with a disconcerting preternatural speed. Is it truly the adrenaline rush of a live performance that moves him? Or does something else entirely occupy his svelte, hollow carcass?

Not to be outdone, the lead singer inspires as much awe as he does fear in the hearts of his catatonic, reverential fans. In stark contrast to his easygoing off-stage countenance, his on-stage persona lets his hair loose. Literally. A smooth, unbroken cascade of obsidian drapes his well-toned form from the crown of his head to the small of his back. Many of his female fans are envious of his well-maintained locks, and rant about this very grievance in pages and pages of obsessive online ramblings. With tastefully gauged lobes, a spear of shocking silver speared through his tongue, and swirls of ink lining the ribbed midsection of his throat, the band’s front man is an unapologetically alternative heartthrob. When he sings, it sounds like he’s trying to resurrect something long dead and gone through sheer force of will. How anything alive or otherwise could resist his siren’s call is an eternal mystery.

And last, but certainly not least, there is the guitarist, who stands a full head taller than the rest of his bandmates and at least twice as wide. What he lacks in the conventionally attractive, youthful bishounen image of most male idols, he makes up for with a physique gifted from above (or below?) itself. His muscles ripple, glistening with sweat and the remnants of many upended water bottles, as he shreds his strings and whips his unruly pink hair in all-consuming, passionate fervor. Out of all the members, he must be the most unapproachable – after all, his concept is that he’s an epochs-old evil curse who used to eat women and children for fun!  If it weren’t for his washboard abs and de facto stage outfits of open-faced robes and shredded T-shirts, you wonder how many fans he would have left to claim.

Before you know it, the performance draws to a close just as suddenly as it had spontaneously combusted into existence! During the final speaking mention, one of the members wields some lethal fan-service: some fan had thrown a pair of fox ears onto the stage. When he decided to not only put them on, but to pose with cute foxlike mannerisms, the gap moe is too much for the audience to handle. The crowd surges forward, and with a complete lack of any kind of barrier or barricade (this is Kabukichou, after all) you are sent flying into the alarmingly solid, wide, warm chest of the imposing security guard. He looks down at you from the tall bridge of his nose, wordlessly impassive save for the slight quirk of amusement that twists his scarred lips. Beefy arms stabilize you, dispelling your disorientation. Each of his large hands respectively span nearly the entire width of your upper arm. Wow. Sure, he looks well into his forties, but you think he could definitely have a shot as some niche-market idol. He’s even got dark fringe and a sharp jawline! The wrinkles aren’t too bad, either…. if you squint, he’s kinda…

Ahh, you have to pull yourself together! Making goo-goo eyes at this random stranger will ruin your chances at catching the encore. Hurriedly, you (not so) politely squirm your way back into the crowd front, a (not so) respectful distance away from the edge of the stage.

As the final chords fade out into the tepid night, you blink back tears of shock. While it is not unusual for you to be moved to weeping at a ShinShow gig, something about tonight feels markedly different. Is it just you, or were several of the members meeting your eye? Each song in the set saw a moment of charged intensity between either the drummer, the bassist, the lead singer, or the guitarist. In every instance, you flushed red-hot with disbelief, with wanton ecstasy at the thought that you were a passing object in their distracted, roaming gaze. The thought is enough to make you more than a little weak in the knees.

Shaking your head, you are forcibly evicted from your reverie when the house lights surge back to life. The show is over. The music is gone. The members have finally retreated backstage. Some audience members file out of the main exit, while others linger behind in naïve hopes of catching just one more glimpse.

What will you do?

➡ Loiter behind the venue.

➡ Sneak backstage.

[bigtreefest]

Chapter 5: From the Ground Up

From: You Catch More Bees With Honey Series

Pairing: Mob! Bucky x Farmer! Reader

Summary: It’s time for Bucky to take charge in your absence.

Word count: 4,065

Content/warnings: Interrogation, restraints (not in the sexy way), allusions to violence, swears, name calling, pet name usage, female reader, kissing, horseback riding?

Author’s Note: I REALLY loved writing this chapter. This is where we start to see the other storylines of the Outta Nowhere AU emerge, so keep an eye out as those get released.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

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Bucky was mad-no, he was seething as he paced back and forth in your home office. It was in the wee hours of the morning when his private jet had landed on the local airstrip. Within that same hour, Sam had personally escorted in the little nerd responsible for a good third of the turmoil going on in Bucky’s head: Jake.

Sam had taken the liberty of pre-binding his hands and duct taping his mouth shut. Bucky was going to enjoy ripping the goatee straight off his mousy little face.

Five hours ago

As soon as Steve had gotten off the phone with Bucky, he called the construction crew. They kept them on call for things like this, but the two of them never thought the stakes would be this high. It wasn’t often that someone important and non-expendable was put in this type of danger, let alone someone Bucky cared about. As he was finishing up the call and directing them towards your house, Sam reached out to him with a sticky note.

On it was a name and the address to an apartment in the city, along with Sam’s scrawled ‘pick her up on your way over.’ Steve nodded as he hung up his call and placed another, grabbing the duffel bag he kept packed by the door and heading out.

Three Hours Later

Bucky hadn’t left your side since the rocks collapsed. Luckily, the two of you had been able to find a small gap in the rocks where you both sat. It wasn’t large enough to keep air circulating, but it was big enough to at least allow the two of you to talk with each other. You and Bucky had shared so much, from him sharing his first business operation with Steve, to you detailing crazy college stories of when you, your roommate, and Curtis would hang out.

Bucky laughed along. There was a whole side of you he never knew. He had studied intently what showed up on paper, and he knew the hardships you’d faced from your deep conversation last week, but this? This was a whole new, more playful side. He was surprised to see your spirits so high despite the situation.

“I do not believe that one bit. No way you were climbing up clock towers at school just to steal the clock hands, or a random brick or whatever. You’re too straight-laced.”

You laughed and rolled your eyes as you leaned your head back against the stone wall. “Oh please, people already pay so much to go there, if anything, I had more than the right to do it. Our money pays for that stuff. Technically we owned it. Not the school.”

Bucky snorted. “You didn’t even pay tuition. Didn’t they pay you to go there?”

“That’s besides the point, Bucket. Fight the man. And anyway, if you think I’m straight laced, you should meet my roommate.”

Bucky grimaced. “Yeah, about that. She’s on her way here right now.”

Your ears perked up. “Decks is on the way? Oh, that’s good. She’ll be super helpful. She’s so organized, although, I can’t imagine she took well to whoever had to interrupt her beauty sleep. Who’s the poor guy?”

Bucky sharply inhaled. “Steve.”

“Oooo hooo hoo.” You laughed. “That’ll be a fun one for both of them. They’re either gonna love or hate each other. What are all the rest of the ETAs?”

Bucky looked at his watch. Well, really, he had been checking his watch this whole time to monitor his pulse, which was over 100 consistently since the tunnel buckled. He was shaking with concern for you, but kept his voice level to keep you calm, a trick he and Steve had worked tirelessly to master. “Ummm… looks like the construction crew should be here within the hour. And I’ll bet Decks and Steve will be pulling up any minute.”

You hummed in acknowledgment. “Anyone else coming that I should know about? So I can figure out where they’ll best fit around the farm? Decks is great with the animals.”

You hadn’t heard all of Bucky’s or Curtis’s phone calls earlier since they stepped out of the cave to make them with better reception. Bucky didn’t want you to know Jake was on the way, mostly because he knew you’d make him promise not to hurt the rat, and he didn’t want to have to make that promise with the high likelihood it would be broken. He decided a better move would be to change the subject.

“So where did the nickname ‘Decks’ come from anyway?”

“Oh! Well it’s actually-“

Bucky heard footsteps near the mouth of the mine. He did his best to politely cut you off. “Wait, Honey, I’m so sorry, quiet for one second.”

He sat there and silently listened, the rustling becoming closer and clearer until he identified it as hooves clopping gently against the soft ground. He heard Curtis’s voice say something vaguely before he moved to get his feet underneath him and brush off his pants.

“I think Curtis is here with Steve and Decks. I don’t want anyone else to come in, just in case it’s still too unstable. Can you tell me exactly what you need them to do?”

You nodded, even though you knew Bucky couldn’t see it and began to lay out the instructions. Decks and Steve weren’t here to clean out the tunnels, they were here to help keep the farm running until you were freed, and no one knew how long that would take. It was best to keep only those who could be closely trusted around until this was all figured out. God forbid the authorities come knocking, or worse yet, Cole. Bucky held onto your every word before briefly leaving the tunnel to relay the information.

Bucky returned to you shortly after instructing Curtis to take Steve and Decks back to the house so they could rest before their long day tomorrow. Everything needed to run as smoothly as possible to not raise suspicion from your absence, which they were going to claim was due to a corn crop farmer’s conference out in Iowa if anyone asked.

After another hour with you, Bucky let you know the construction company arrived and was starting to stabilize the ceiling so they could dig you out. “I’ve gotta go deal with some business, so I’ll be back soon. Plus, I can’t get in the way of these vehicles. But say the word to one of the crew and I’ll be back here in a minute flat. I promise.”

Bucky’s promises meant a lot. That was something you had learned in your conversations. He never said something unless he had a plan to deliver. A man’s word was everything in his line of work.

“Okay, I’m going to hold you to that!” You yelled back.

Bucky chuckled. “I’m going to send Sam back here as soon as he arrives. He’ll keep you company.” And with that, Bucky made his way back to the house.

So this is where Bucky found himself, walking back and forth menacingly behind Jake, who had been tied down to the guest chair in your office. Jake’s eyes shifted back and forth with nervousness as he tried and failed to hold back whimpers and near-hyperventilating breaths.

Bucky had been silent for only ten minutes. He liked the way it made them squirm. He could sit and stare all day, completely unbothered, as anyone he interrogated slowly lost their mind. Of course, there were other, more fun ways, to get information, but he wouldn’t dare mark up your home. He’d never let the one they called ‘The Winter Soldier’ be unleashed in your sanctuary. This is the closest he would ever get, though, and it would never be seen by you.

Bucky stalked around Jake and crouched in front of him. “A milk maid came in here and told me that you’d given him information about this farm. Care to share?”

Jake shook his head vigorously and whined through the duct tape over his mouth. Bucky leaned in closer. What was more terrifying than being yelled at by him? Bucky with an alarmingly level voice.

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite catch that. I can help you talk a little better, but you’ve gotta be quiet. There are people upstairs sleeping, and I can’t guarantee they’ll be as nice as me if you wake them. Promise to be good?”

Jake nodded carefully and slowly. Bucky reached for the tape at the corner of Jake’s mouth and ripped it off quickly. Jake’s head lurched forward, his mouth open with a silent scream between gasping breaths. Bucky examined the sticky side of the tape. There was no hair on it. The steam from Jake’s mouth must’ve reduced the stickiness just enough that it didn’t cause damage. Shame.

Bucky slammed his hands over Jake’s on the armrests of the chair. “Tell me everything.” He gritted out between clenched teeth.

Jake giggled uncomfortably. “Uh….there’s not really much to know, mister…sir….does this have to do with Peach? I thought she owned this farm now. Where is she?”

Bucky growled. “That’s not important right now, but yes, this is about this farm. Tell me everything you told the guy with the soft hands and the jackets that were too crisp to indicate a day of work in his whole life.”

Bucky had no intention to associate that with his own designer crisp suits that he wore everyday back in the city. That was different, it was a totally separate line of work, plus, he wasn’t trying to pose as something that he’s not when he wore them. Anyway, he’s not the one on trial here.

“Oh! You mean Cole? Fucking prick.” Jake mumbled looking down and to the side. “I can promise whatever he said to you was a lie. That guy’s always been awful. He hides a demon face behind his handsomeness.”

Bucky didn’t want to be on Jake’s side, but he couldn’t argue with that. But to keep him talking, Bucky leaned in closer, moving his hand towards the knife on his belt loop. Jake flinched and raised his hands in surrender as much as he could with his wrists tied down.

“Okay, okay, I promise I didn’t say much. At least not on purpose. I was at an investors party up in San Francisco when Cole bumped into me. He was bragging about how he had just inherited his parents’ company and it was way bigger than when we were in high school. Frankly, I didn’t care, I make an effort to forget about a lot from back then, mostly him, so I tried to disprove him by saying that there are still nice little farms around despite his family’s efforts. I told him I still had my mom buy me honey that Peach makes, herself.” He hung his head in shame.

Bucky huffed as he leaned back against your desk and crossed his arms. “Well, way to go. You know, they painted you to be some genius, but you’re an absolute idiot.”

Jake looked up and scrunched his nose. “Well I actually prefer the term loser, bu-“

Bucky raised his hand to stop Jake from talking. “I really don’t care. What matters is that you’ve made a mess for Honeybee that inconveniences all of us. I’ve gotta be the one to work on cleaning this up while she’s otherwise occupied.”

Jake cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow in confusion. “Who the fuck is ‘Honeybee?’ Are we talking about the same person?”

Bucky sighed and wiped a hand over his face, stopping with it covering his mouth. He looked at the helpless man in front of him. How had you ever dated this guy? If he used to be great, what on Earth happened to him? “God, you’re slow to catch on. Yes, it’s the same person, but I don’t think the sweet peach you used to know and love is in there anymore. Not after you abandoned her. And especially not after you gave up her operation on a silver platter to Cole.”

Jake swallowed as he caught on. He had seen the devious glint in Cole’s eye when they had run into each other, but just thought it was a product of Cole’s braggadocious success. Not his complete hunger for domination. Despite the way Jake left, he still cared for you. He didn’t want to see the thing you loved taken away, especially by the guy who caused him so much grief. The guy your family defended him from on so many occasions. He felt awful. You’d taken care of Jake when he was around, but when the opportunity came for him to do the same for you, he failed.

Tears began to well up in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. Whatever I can do to help, I will, please, misterrrr…….”

Bucky’s shoulders pushed back in arrogance. Jake squealed all the information he had and didn’t even know the name of the man interrogating him. That wouldn’t do, especially if Bucky wanted to eventually release Jake back out into the wild once this was all over. He made a mental note to have someone coach Jake on how to not give up sensitive intel so easily. But for now, Bucky would take advantage of the ease of informational access.

“Barnes. You get to call me Barnes.”

“Ooh! So like a cool nickname only I get to use? I feel so special.”

Bucky chuckled dryly at that. Jake really was clueless. “No. Not at all like that.” Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees as his face inched closer to Jake’s.

“Now tell me everything you know about the mines.”

Jake’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? Those old things? Yeah, Peach and I used to make out in the-“

Bucky waved his hand again as he closed his eyes, unable to look at Jake for another second. “No. Skip that part. What else?” He quickly said, dismissively.

“I know they’re old? Like crazy old and probably prone to collapse at this point. But Pe- I mean, your Honeybee does some occasional civil engineering contracting work. She could probably easily whip up a plan to reinforce them.”

Bucky looked at Jake more intently. He liked the way Jake said his Honeybee, but he couldn’t let that distract him right now. And anyway, you were very much your own person. Far from his. If anything, he was yours. He knew about all your business endeavors, but not those kinds of specifics. “Keep talking.”

“Yeah, I kept up with her after school-well, more like I asked my mom to keep up with her. Apparently she’s like, designed bridges for town and stuff. Why? What’s going on with the mines?”

“That’s not technically your business.” Bucky stood there, debating on his next move.

Jake’s eyes lit up as he gasped loudly. “Oh my gosh. Is she in trouble!? Did she get hurt in a mine!?”

Bucky slapped his hand over Jake’s mouth and whisper yelled at him. “What did I say about keeping it down?”

Jake winced and whispered back. “Sorry. Does Curtis know?”

Bucky nodded. “Yes. And he’s upstairs sleeping. Don’t. Poke. The Bear.”

Jake nodded again. He was being so compliant, Bucky figured he could let a few more details slip. Maybe Jake was a little smarter than Bucky gave him credit for. “She’s trapped in one of the smaller caves. I’ve already got a construction crew digging her out.”

“Wait wait wait. You guys have a proper plan for this, right? You’ve gotta put supports in first and then calculate the load-bearing rocks. You can’t just go willy-nilly digging or it could get worse.” Man, based off that language, Bucky had no doubt Jake truly did grow up around you.

“Good observation, Jakey. That’s where you come in. I know I could’ve just called you if I wanted to know what you told Cole, but I needed you in person to know how serious I am. Grab your little computer and we’ll get going so you can run the calculations while Honeybee talks you through them. You can still ride a horse, right?”

Jake moved to get up, only to be stopped by the restraints. Bucky turned around from the door, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Oh, that’s right, my bad. I’ll get you untied and then we can go.”

Sam was talking with you about where to put which construction vehicles when he heard hooves make their way to the entrance. Bucky dismounted the back of a horse holding a laptop, followed by Jake who was riding ahead of him on that same horse.

“Not a word of this, Samuel.” Bucky growled lowly into Sam’s ear with clenched teeth. “I’ve already threatened the kid with the same.”

Bucky still had no idea how to ride a horse on his own, but would never admit that, so he was actually extremely grateful that Jake could take the reins. Sam had taken the other horse to get to you, leaving only one back at the house for him and Jake to use.

Bucky handed Jake the laptop and patted him on the back harshly, making it more of a shove. This led him to the small hole where you and Sam had just been talking.

Bucky followed at a quicker pace, reaching the area just before Jake could and held his arm out in front of the blond to bar him from going any farther. “Hi Honey, it’s me. I brought you a little present to help out, I hope you’re not mad. It’s your old friend Jacob from high school. Say hi.”

“Jake? Like… Jensen?” You responded, trying to look through the small hole unsuccessfully.

“Yeah, Peach, it’s me. I’m here to get you out. A-and Mr. Barnes wants you to know he’s been nothing but kind to me.” Jake clutched his laptop firmly to his chest, leaning over to be heard better through the small opening.

Bucky gave a stern nod to Jake for already responding well to his coaching on the way over here. Jake sat down by the hole where Bucky had sat before and got to work.

“Okay, Bee. Like I told you before, you say the word and I’ll be here in a minute. You can time me.”

“Where are you going?” He could hear the slight worry in your voice.

“To run a farm. And by that, I mean listen to Curtis.”

You giggled. “Okay, Bucket. See you soon.”

He looked back and smiled before turning towards Sam and pointing into his chest. “You tell me the second she’s close to getting out. I’ll be there.”

Sam nodded. “Sure thing, boss. Need help getting back up on your horse?”

Bucky was already turned away and heading back to your house. He waved a hand dismissively. “No. I’m walking.”

Sam chuckled as he watched the mob boss trudge away. He knew something had shifted in Bucky’s feelings. And he definitely had his suspicions that Bucky couldn’t ride a horse.

When Bucky returned to your house, he didn’t go upstairs. He feared the creaking of the steps would wake Decks, Curtis, and Steve. Plus, he knew he wasn’t going to sleep. Why would he when there was so much to do to help you? He would just get in the way at the mines, so he went into your office. He pulled out the files and article you had planned to show him the previous night regarding Cole from the kitchen, and as he sat down in your chair, he saw a contract with a familiar watermark. Shit.

Fuck. Shit. Bitch.

The letterhead was from ‘Turners Farm Corporation,’ which he had expected, but the associated law firm was ‘Hansen & Co.’ Bucky had his fair share of law firms in his back pocket, but this was not one of them. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Lloyd Hansen was something of Bucky’s rival in the city. He was an unhinged lunatic. Where Bucky ran things with honor, poise, and calculated movements, Lloyd was messy, unpredictable, and reckless. He’d been trying to make multiple steps into Bucky’s territory, geographically and business-wise, but Bucky had done a decent job at shutting it down thus far.

And now Cole was in cahoots with Lloyd, well, not him directly on paper, just his bitch-ass sister who ran the firm. Bucky couldn’t believe-well, actually he could. He could believe that Cole would have teamed up with Hansen to build enough power for a takeover, especially considering it didn’t add up if Cole was making these moves on his own.

Fired by frustration that more than supplemented the sleep Bucky lacked from not just tonight, but this whole week, he snapped a picture of the contract and sent it to Sam. Sam would make sure it made its way through the right channels and contacts still back in the city. For now, Bucky had a more important priority than personally dealing with business: You. He had never been so grateful for Sam.

As he skimmed through the final page of the contract Cole had proposed to you, the first rooster crowed. Bucky got up to gather the eggs and make breakfast like any other day in the routine he’d grown so familiar with over just the past two weeks. But instead of cooking for you, he was cooking for the small army that came to your aid.

Curtis came barreling down the steps first, followed by Decks, and then eventually, Steve, who slumped and slinked down the stairs, reminiscent of Bucky’s first day doing the same. At least they were able to get themselves up.

Bucky plated their food, Curtis eyeing him with a small smile that Bucky failed to notice, and he sat down in his normal spot to start eating. He honestly didn’t have the appetite to do so, but he knew he’d crash without food since he already wasn’t sleeping, so he forced it down, preparing to go over the assignments with everyone once again.

Steve would be doing what Bucky had last week to set up the farmer’s market since it was scheduled to go again. Decks would be taking over the tasks you had, feeding the animals, and then doing sales with Bucky since people already knew his face. No need to raise more suspicion by introducing two new people to an event you were usually at.

Once everyone cleared their plates, they got to work, doing everything they could to be of assistance for the mob boss who was very evidently on edge.

It was early afternoon when Bucky got a call from Sam. He immediately picked it up.

“We’re close, boss. Only a couple more large boulders to go before there’s a big enough gap to pull her through.”

Bucky dropped the empty crates he was carrying onto the floor of the storage shed where he was returning them from the farmers market. Lucky for him, the storage shed was much closer to the mines than the barn.

Bucky was full-on sprinting in a way no one had ever seen. He never had to once he rose to power. All he did was walk, his long strides alone commanded enough respect. But this wasn’t about pride. It was about you.

He arrived at the mine entrance, breathing heavily, just as Sam was holding your hand, helping you step over a pile of sand and pebbles. Jake stood awkwardly to the side as you looked up from your feet to see Bucky quickly moving toward you. A smile took over your face and you sighed in relief. He scooped you up and spun you around before setting you down again and using his large hands to frame your face. Bucky didn’t care about the dirt and grime that had built up on the two of you. All he cared about was your safe return to his arms.

You watched as his eyes darted between yours and down to your lips. You wouldn’t hold back anymore. He had put all his resources into saving you, helping you. Without wasting another second, you leaned up on your toes and smashed your lips into his. When you pulled back, Bucky lost consciousness, collapsing in your arms.

Next >

Bonus A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Tbh I thought some moments in here were so funny, but I’d love to hear your thoughts!! Likes, comments, reblogs, and asks are sooooo appreciated!!! If I could, I’d make a secret handshake with you through the phone for following this plot line with me. 😉🤠

Series Taglist:

@scuzmunkie

@openup-yourmind

@vicmc624

@hawkeyes-queen

@blackhawkfanatic

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter V: We Don’t Have to Talk About it.

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev.

songs for this chapter: cool about it by boygenius, pink pony club by chappell roan

summary: the celebrations for Chris’s return continue, this time with the first Corroded Coffin show in years!

a/n: everything i write in these chapters makes me want to write more LET’S GOOOO. keep an eye out for a new tab in coming chapters ;)

chapter tags: mean!eddie, mean!reader, fighting, weed, drinking, angst, hurt/no comfort, talks of adult content creation | fic tags: Angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | This fic is rated 18+ MDNI

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Reblog/comment/like to support the author!

—

You are determined to have a lazy, relaxing day off. Your brother’s gone out for a job interview, so you once again have your apartment to yourself. You start by indulging in a greasy homemade bacon egg and cheese sandwich, made on a toasted everything bagel slathered in butter. You savor it with sips of coffee consumed on your front porch, hoping your nextdoor neighbors aren’t awake yet to pollute the area with cigar smoke.

When you’re finished eating, you pluck the book you’ve been reading from its spot on the couch and make your way to the bathroom. One compromise you’d refused to make when apartment hunting: you needed a bathtub. No walk in shower bullshit. You’d gotten your wish with this old duplex, the bathroom, though a garish purple color, came with a beautiful clawfoot tub.

You let the water warm before plugging the drain, peeling off your pajamas and wrapping yourself in your soft, freshly washed robe. You have a routine on days like this. You’ll take a bath, smoke a joint and sip your coffee in the tub while you read at least three chapters before the water gets cold. You queue your On Repeat playlist, not willing to skip around every song in your library. The music sets a nice ambiance humming through your bluetooth speaker as you sink into the warm water, bubbles creating a soft blanket over your naked form. You release a sigh as you slip up to your neck, relishing in the warmth engulfing you. When your muscles feel loose, you dry your hands on the towel you’ve set aside, and pluck the joint from the ashtray. The sweet smoke fills your lungs, causing a pleasant burn in your chest. You exhale slowly, grabbing your book from the makeshift side table you’ve put together.

Currently, you’re halfway through Normal People, your copy a bit worse for wear, pages water stained and spine snapped in several places. It’s already punctured your heart a few times, you can’t help but feel frustrated for Marianne. The high buzzes pleasantly in your brain as you read, creating vivid pictures in your head from the words on the page. Marianne morphs into you, and for some reason Connell has grown long, curly locks and grown an affection for silver rings. All of this, set to the musical stylings of Boygenius in your steam filled bathroom. You’re supposed to feel at ease, but there’s a coil tightening in your belly you’re not sure how to stifle, making your chest flutter with excitement.

It becomes nearly impossible to focus on the story, so you set your book aside in favor of your phone. You’re careful to hold it above the water, scrolling through your various feeds to see what your friends are up to.

Stevie (@ thehairington): i’m never letting rob aux again for as long as i live

rob (@ lilbirdie): not MY fault ur a big baby!!!!!

b (@ babybeez): … do i wanna know what song ?

rob (@ lilbirdie): pink pony club! i thot it would be fun!!

b (@ babybeez): oh ur evil

Stevie (@ thehairington): RIGHT!!!

You giggle, imagining Steve as he and Robin drive to work, breaking down as Chappell sings, “You're always on my mind / And mama, every Saturday / I can hear your southern drawl a thousand miles away, saying GOD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE,” and you wish you were with them. Maybe you’ll go bother them later, once you grow tired of being with only yourself for company. You exit out of Twitter and open Instagram, the first picture when your feed loads being the last people you want to see right now. It’s a picture of Eddie, clearly taken by someone else. He’s sticking his tongue out at the camera, standing in front of The Hideout.

@ thefreakmunson: come thru tonite, corroded coffin plays at ten.

Ugh, right. It’s Tuesday. Your mother is definitely gonna call you to work tonight, and your good mood flies out the window. As if reading your mind, your phone dings, but it’s not your mother.

Eddie (block later.): Is my favorite bartender workin tonite?? ;)

You seem to stab each letter as you reply:

god i fuckin hope not.

he replies only with :(

__

It takes another hour for your mom to text you.

mama: hi honey, i know i tell you every week you can have tues off, but i just got a call from chris’s buddies telling me they’re coming to surprise him tonight. would u mind? i’ll owe u

you love your mom more than anything, but you can’t tell her you’d do it for nothing, because it’s going to be torture. Ever since Chris joined the band when Gareth went to college, you’d been avoiding working Tuesdays even more than before. The band hadn’t played their usual nighttime slot since Chris had come home, so the crowd is expected to be substantial.

yea of course mom, see u at 8

mama: thx baby bee

You look at the clock, the red lights reading 12:00 PM. Still plenty of time to go get your friends to come out tonight, despite them both having to work tomorrow. Luckily, they love you, so you don’t expect to have a hard time. You take your time getting dressed, humming along to the music as you comb your hair and do your makeup. Once you're satisfied, You migrate to your closet to pick out an outfit for tonight. Something devious plays in your brain, and you want an outfit that will draw attention. You want to look hotter than you feel, hoping to trick yourself into confidence in the face of a possibly awful night. You look hot though, in a cropped black t-shirt and form hugging jeans, and take the opportunity to post a long overdue selfie.

—

“Bee!” Robin squeals when you enter the record store, far too excited to see you.”You look hot!” Now she’s complimenting you. Something’s up.

You make your way through the long outdated shop, surrounded by walls lined with records ranging from the 60s to 90s exclusively, and a floor dusty with loose boards that creak loudly with every step. It’s a miracle this place has enough business to stay open. You like to conspire that the owner Mr. Summers is in the Mob, and this place has been his front since it opened in ‘86. You keep that in your diary only, though.

“Should I duck and cover?” You direct the question at Steve, who’s standing at the counter with a big grin on his face. “Not you, too. What’s going on?”

“You’re gonna want to kiss him when you hear this.”

“Oh?”

“Do you wanna tell her?” Robin calls over her shoulder.

“Well actually—,”

“He got us Chappell tickets.”

Your mouth falls open so fast you feel your jaw pop.

“She’s in Indy this weekend, and I happened to have some extra money from, y’know,” Robin holds her hand up, “We do not need to hear about your OnlyFans, Steve.”

Steve shrugs. “And yet, I still let you reap the rewards.”

You squint at him. “Are you doing a bit right now?”

They shake their heads, faces flushed from laughter.

“Seriously?”

“Look me up, stevethestallion.” His tone is even now, all traces of joking gone.

You call his bluff, and type the website you definitely haven’t used before into the browser. When it definitely doesn’t already have you logged in, you type in the alleged username. “One or two e’s?”

“Just one, I can’t compare to Megan like that!”

You shake your head, hitting search. The page loads. The account is behind a 25 dollar pay wall, but the visible follower count reads 35K. The profile picture is faceless, a shirtless torso with an abundance of chest hair, and the smallest hint of a happy trail. You click on it, purely for further investigation. You find your answer when you can see the faintest outline in the background of the same exact Tame Impala poster that Steve has hanging over his bed.

“Oh my fucking god. Hell yeah, dude.” You laugh, and Steve seems to release a held breath. “What, you think I'd be, like, grossed out? This is hot. And a really smart financial endeavor, apparently.”

Robin nods in agreement. “With perks!” The three of you burst into laughter.

When you’ve settled, breathing heavily to avoid lingering giggles, you turn to face them again. “Now, after this I feel even worse for asking you guys for a favor, but I’m desperate.”

“You want us to come out tonight?” Steve doesn’t miss a beat.

You straighten your back, suddenly bashful. “How’d you know?”

He clears his throat, signaling Robin to continue.

“Eddie uh, invited us out.” She rushes out.

You suck your lips between your teeth, nodding stiffly. “‘Course he did, yeah.”

“Asked me if you were working.” She adds, and you meet her gaze, panicked.

“And you said?” She shrugs. “What does that mean?”

“I literally sent him the shrug emoji.”

“I mean, you are, right?”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Okay. This is fine. Everything will be fine.”

Robin cages you in, planting a hand on each of your shoulders. “You’ll get through it. Do it for Chappell.”

You lean into the dramatics. “Of course, for Chappell.”

—

Chappell owes you, big time. Tuesdays have gone from a quiet, boring weeknight with less than five hundred dollars in the register by the end of the night. Unfortunately, those days have long since ended since you’d left for college. Every Tuesday, Eddie’s band Corroded Coffin plays The Hideout, despite your begging and pleading with your mom to stop booking them.

“I can’t!” She’d reason, “Not if you and your brother want anything to help pay for my funeral!” She was being dramatic, for the most part. But they did bring in the green, as much as you hate to admit it. Apparently a popular music reviewer had given them a shoutout, garnering them an actual audience. You‘re happy for the guys, mostly. You just aren’t in the mood to be the people pleasing, flirty bartender tonight.

It’s almost ten when the van finally pulls into the back lot. “Where the hell have you guys been?” You hiss when your brother exits the driver’s side.

“Had to make a stop.” The irritation in his voice is palpable. You motion for him to elaborate, and he jerks his head to where Eddie is opening the back door, offering his hand out to help Macy climb out. “Sat in her fuckin’ driveway for twenty minutes.”

You glare daggers at the pair of them, and Eddie must feel them on his neck because he jerks his head, eyes immediately meeting yours. You don’t let up, hoping your expression translates the rage you feel in your gut. Eddie is the first to break the staring contest, looking back to the woman on his arm. She meets his gaze with a glare of her own, and he whispers something to her that breaks her grimace into a giggle. Your palms start to sweat.

“Go, we’ll start setting your shit up. Mom’s hysterical.”

“Okay. I’ll run damage control after. Sorry, Beebs.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not you that’s gonna be sorry.” You send another seething look to the pair walking to the stage door, attached at the hip and without even a halfhearted acknowledgement of their lateness. “Asshole.” You follow the rest of them inside, Chris on your heels.

“Where the hell have y'all been?!” Your mom exclaims when Chris enters the green room, a barely renovated office that fits about three and a half people at a time. You hand your brother off to be berated, and power walk to the stage to set up equipment. Your warpath comes to a screeching halt when you reach the wings, the scene playing out in front of you preventing you from moving further.

Eddie is sitting on a barstool, guitar forgotten on his lap as Macy stands over him, passionately licking into his mouth. Eddie’s eyes are closed, and he kisses her back with little restraint, the tent growing in his pants becoming obvious when the instrument begins to slide from his lap. He catches it without breaking from her, placing it on the stand next to him. You decide you don’t have time to wait for whatever this is to play out in its likely disgusting entirety, so you leave the comfort of the shadows and make your presence known.

“Ahem,” You clear your throat loudly, causing the couple to separate abruptly, each wiping the other’s saliva from their mouth. “Sorry to interrupt, but if you don’t want an entire crowd of pissed off drunks against you, you might wanna let me set up.”

“Hey, Bee.” Eddie recovers from embarrassment quickly, you’ll give him that. You nod in acknowledgment, knowing any words you give him will be laced with unnecessary venom.

“Eddie, baby, you wanna take this to the bathroom?” Macy’s tone is sultry, needy. You almost feel bad for her, being this hypnotized by Eddie’s charm. You wish you could help her, but it’s possible she’s too far gone.

“Yeah ‘course, baby. I’ll meet you there in a sec.” His gaze slides from her to where you stand across the stage, the only sounds coming from the patrons beyond the curtain.

“Don’t make me wait too long.” She slinks away, hips swaying. She brushes past you, leaving the sweet stench of her perfume behind. What demon did Eddie make a deal with?

“So,” Eddie muses, rising from the stool. “You’re workin’.”

“No shit, really?”

“Hey, don’t be mean. Just makin’ small talk.”

“That’s not necessary.” You unglue yourself from the floor, busying yourself with wires and speakers as Eddie keeps talking. “Just thought, y’know, you had tonight off.”

“I did,” You bite, “but then Chris invited the whole damn state of Indiana.”

“Ah, ‘course. The third homecoming party this week for the lovable Christopher L/n, convicted felon.” He chuckles, and you stop what you’re doing to respond. Something in you snaps, quick and clean.

“Fuck you, Eddie.” You spit, and he throws his hands up.

“Whoa, I was kidding!”

“Shut up, I’m talking.” His eyes bulge out of his skull. “You have the audacity to make jokes about Chris, but he could’ve brought you right down with him. You were 18, a goddamn adult. But he kept his fucking mouth shut to protect you. You know who he didn’t fucking protect? When her bullies learned he wasn’t home anymore, or when she had fucking no one on her side and the one other kid she found comfort in never called her again?” You let loose, doing your best to keep your voice even. “You ever wonder what would’ve happened, Eddie? If the roles had been reversed, and Chris had done what you did? Don’t even pretend you’d forgive him for that. There’s something else going on, and I intend to find out what it is.”

He doesn’t interrupt your rant, instead holding your intense stare with apparent ease. When you finish, he waits a beat, letting the metaphorical dust settle. Finally, he answers. “You have to let it go, Bee. There are some things you just don’t wanna know. Don’t need to know. I will never not feel guilty about what I did, but I can’t tell you anything else. I wish I could, really.”

You’re careful with your next words. “But, if I were to figure it out without your help…?”

He catches your drift. “I probably wouldn’t be able to deny it convincingly.” Eddie shrugs, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’ll let you set up. You gonna watch our set?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

Eddie snickers. “That’s my girl.” And he walks offstage before you can react to the statement, or demand he at least pretend to help.

—

You make it back to the bar in time to save your mom from the massive line of rabid patrons.

“Where have you been?” She half shouts over the noise, pouring a glass of Guinness for one of Stan’s high school friends, Scotty, you’re almost certain.

“Setting up the stage!” You shout back, failing to hide the irritation in your voice. You turn to the booze hound in front of you. “What can I get you?”

You sense your mom moving closer, still grabbing glasses and bottles to pass across the counter. “No need for the attitude, Beebs.”

“Ugh, sorry. Just not what I wanted to be doing tonight.”

“Oh, and I just adore being here?” She nudges you until you grit your teeth, forcing a smile. “You wanna tell Mama what’s wrong?”

“Nah, not right now. We’ll dish later.” You love gossiping with your mom, but she knows Eddie. She knows what he’s like, what your past with him entails, and she’ll surely have plenty of insight for you.

As you take another order, the house lights dim and the crowd goes wild. You can’t help but turn your head towards the stage, where your brother’s friends have formed a pit in the front, whooping and hollering as the band takes the stage. Chris points to his friends with his drumstick, causing them to jump around, playfully shoving each other to get the crowd moving.

Eddie comes out last, greeted with more wild cheers, a lot of them more shrill than those given to Chris. Girls throw themselves toward the stage, offering their wombs to him like he’s Paul McCartney in the 1960s. You watch, your vision red around the edges, as he blows a kiss to Macy in the front row, and she pretends to catch it. You have to look away to keep from gagging.

—

“Thank you, Hawkins! We have been Corroded Coffin, goodnight!” The band line up across the stage, taking their bows. Next to where you stand with Robin and Steve across the bar, Macy and her gaggle of friends whoop and holler obscenities. It disappoints you, watching such a beautiful woman have her bar set so low.

“Oh my god,” Robin follows your stare. “No fucking way.”

“I know, she’s stunning, don’t remind me.” You rest your chin in your hand, slouching over the bar.

“Of course she is, that’s Macy Miller!”

You blink at her, not understanding why her last name matters.

“She’s the bassist of Statuesque Dolls, they’re the opening band for Chappell’s tour!” The gleaming smile on her face vanishes when she looks at you again. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s Eddie’s latest muse, or something.” you shake your head from the thoughts of Macy onstage. She’s probably irresistible, a symbol of feminism and sex and rock ‘n’ roll.

“No fuckin’ way.” Robin shakes her head in disbelief. “He’s blackmailing her. Or something. Right?”

You shake your head. “Change the subject, Rob. Please.”

“Okay, sure. Steve is a pornstar.”

You burst into laughter. “A popular one! Good for him, really.”

Robin crosses her arms. “Good for him, sure, but what about me?! He’s my roommate, Bee!”

“Come on, you’re paranoid. He probably doesn’t film while you’re home.” She purses her lips, but doesn’t respond. “Don’t be such a conservative.”

She gasps. “How dare you!”

“Hey, ladies!” The subject of your conversation enters your huddle, a beer sloshing in his hand. “How are my most favorite people in the whole wide world doin’?” Steve’s cheeks are bright pink, stretched by his massive smile. His eyes are half closed, like it’s still too bright in the dimly lit bar.

“Someone’s not concerned about opening tomorrow.” You tease, motioning to his frothy drink.

“Oh, Melvin gave me the day off.” He beams, and Robin scoffs. “Sorry, Bob, snooze ya lose.”

“Oh, sure, ‘til I call out and he tells you to cover.” She winks before leaning over the bar to you. “Shots?”

You snort a laugh and grab the tequila off the bar. At the same time you finish pouring the third shot, a fourth figure looms over you. “You all takin’ shots?” Eddie’s eyes shine with eagerness.

“Yeah, you want?” Steve offers, and Robin digs her elbow into his ribs. You grab a fourth glass and slice of lime without a word, feeling the skin inside your mouth break between your teeth.

“Are we toasting?” He looks from your friends to you, and his expression softens. You shrink under his gaze, suddenly wishing you hadn’t said a word to him before the set.

“Um, not particularly.” Robin attempts to cut the tension, but she’s met with no response beyond a confused Steve asking, “What about, to friendship?”

Robin pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. “Dingus, read the damn room.”

“What?” He giggles, still not getting it. “What did I say?”

“No, Rob. It’s cool, I like that.” You hold your own shot glass up, signaling your friends to do the same. “To friendship, current and otherwise.” You chance looking at Eddie, and his eyes are already locked on you. He doesn’t look away when you catch him, only tilts his glass towards you before licking the salt from the back of his hand and downing the liquor. He doesn’t flinch, calmly reaching for the lime to relieve his palette. You follow suit, the burning nothing you can’t handle. Being a bartender has its moments, but this isn’t one of the prouder ones.

—

“So,” Your mother starts, spraying the bar with disinfectant as you finally lock the door for the night. “What happened?”

“What?” You pretend you don’t know what she’s talking about, busying yourself with a mop across the room.

“What, what? You’ve been snippy all night. I want to make sure you’re alright.”

You shrug. “Nothing happened specifically. The boys just get on my nerves is all.”

“Boys? Or Eddie?” Your mom gives you her Mother Knows All look.

“Ugh, whatever.” You don’t answer the question.

“Bee, you can talk to me. I know you’re going through a lot, your brother being home and all. You haven’t seen Eddie in, what, two years?”

“Three.”

“Three years! See, you’re taking a lot on at once. You know you can lean on me, right?”

You set the mop back in its bucket and walk over to your mom, picking up a rag and the spray bottle before moving to the tables. “Yeah, I know. But I’m sure you’re also trying to cope with your son being back, I don’t wanna add any more stress on top of that.”

“You’re my baby. Your stress is my stress, always.”

Your walls crumble at her affirmation. “It’s just, who does he think he is? He has the audacity to show his face around here after what he did! And Chris just lets him! It’s like nothing happened, and it’s pissing me off. Making me feel fucking crazy!” You usually don’t swear around your mom, but it all pours out of you. “And he talks to me like we’re buddies, like he didn’t ruin my fucking life when he sent Chris to prison.” You rub your tired eyes, awaiting your mom’s wisdom.

“Have you talked to Chris? Gotten his side?”

You roll your eyes. “I tried. He told me very little. Eddie was no help either.”

Your mom tosses her rag aside and leans her elbow on the counter. “Boys are morons, baby bee. I’m sorry. I wish I could offer something more profound. You’re talking to a divorcee, here.”

You laugh despite your mood. “Are we all just doomed? Forced to deal with this inferior species for the rest of our lives?”

Your mother chuckles. “Probably!”

—

taglist: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj let me know if you’d like to be added!

[kingofbodyrolls]

My Heart's Home (m) | pjm | thirteen

🐴Chapter summary: Jimin thinks back on all this bad decisions, and how much he has truly hurt you. He loves you, and he wants you back, but unable to articulate his feelings properly, he finds himself writing a letter to you. 🐴Chapter title: Love Letter

🐴Pairings: jimin x reader (main), jungkook x reader (only happens once in the first chapter), jungkook x OC (jessi), namjoon x OC (jessi), yoongi x hoseok, namjoon x oc, seokjin x oc, taehyung x oc

🐴Characters: female reader (isn’t mentioned by name and no “y/n”), Jimin, Jungkook, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, Taehyung and four female original characters.

🐴Genre/AU: ranch!au, slice of life!au, soulmate!au, cowboy!au + smut, humor, fluff, romance, slow burn and angst

🐴Rating: mature/explicit/R18 – this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact!

🐴Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

🐴Chapter warnings: low self-esteem, low confidence, hurt, sadness, overthinking, destructive thoughts, Jimin’s POV, angst, mention of sex.

🐴Status: completed 🥳

🐴Word count: 13.4k

🐴Taglist: @kookswifesblog, @kiki-zb, @babejinnie, @ownthesunshine, @allie-is-a-panda, @glllhjh, @bergandysam, @13-manggaetteok, @jeonsbabygirlsworld, @antisocial-mochi267,

*tumblr isn’t letting me tag you! There could be a lot of reasons for that, check out this lovely post about it.

🐴Now playing 💿 “Love Someone” by Lukas Graham. [Wanna listen to the serie’s playlist?]

🐴Author’s note: this is entirely from Jimin’s POV. Both OC and Jimin have been through a lot, and they have both hurt each other in different ways (but mostly it’s been Jimin hurting her 😭). In this chapter, we will get better insight into Jimin’s thoughts and his feelings all the way from the beginning! I really hope you like it— please let me know. I know Jimin has been behaving horribly, and I’m not excusing his behavior with the chapter, I’m simply saying that he is a flawed human like the rest of us, and no, we might not all agree or even understand his behavior, but.. 🥹 And if you don’t like these kind of chapters/stories were the story is essentially being retold from another character’s point of view, it’s fine, you are welcome to skip it, but if you want to know why Jimin has been acting like a douche, this one’s for you. Also, there are a bit of new stuff in here too, but it’s mostly just Jimin thinking about his bad behavior, lol, so it’s quite sad too 😭

🐴Author’s note— extra: I’m almost finished with writing the series and I got this cute idea to do a Q&A with the characters (questions for me is also okay). So, you can already send in your asks (could also be a comment/reblog, though I think asks are easier for me to keep track of). I’ll turn on anon asks, so if you prefer that, there’s that option. But please, be nice, okay? (not that I don’t expect that of you, I’ve just gotten nasty asks before). You can ask anything, to the characters, like why the behaved/thought/said something or what they didn’t say or do 🤭 You can also ask me about the story, the process or anything like that. As I said, the asks for the characters will be included in the Epilogue (I’ll also reply to the asks, I won’t reply right away, but keep them until the Epilogue will be released!)

You can send in your questions for the characters or me here → Ask away 💜*

*for people on AO3 you can also participate if you want to, just leave a comment (guest/anon or not), and I’ll reply to that and I’ll add your question in the Epilogue 💜

It’s been cross posted to AO3 if you prefer to read there.Wanna see the book cover?

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“We have enough to guide usWe have enough to lastWe’re not aloneWe never wereYou and I aren’t lostOh hold me very tightlyHold me fast and strongI am your loveWon’t stray from youYou and I belong” ‘My Heart is Like a River’ by Rebecca Lavelle

Fuck.

This was the last thing he expected. 

He never envisioned this moment, the one where you’d walk away, leaving him shattered and angry. He didn’t want this. Not in the slightest. Yet here he is, consumed by a turbulent mix of sorrow and self-directed fury, haunted by a year’s worth of regrettable decisions. He’s unable to find sleep, which is why he sinks into the couch at night, his knuckles white with tension as he grips a pen, its tip poised over the stark emptiness of the paper laid out before him.

He grasps the reasons behind your decision to end things, but the ache it leaves behind is unbearable. It’s a raw, searing pain that gnaws at him relentlessly. Understanding that he’s the architect of his own misery only compounds the agony. How does he begin to convey the depth of his remorse, the magnitude of his love for you? Every mistake he’s made weighs heavily on his conscience, a burden he’s not sure he can ever fully unburden. The prospect of reaching out to you now feels daunting, uncertain. He can still vividly recall the anguish etched across your face as you uttered those words, and the thought of adding to your pain is unbearable. For too long, he’s been a source of hurt, and the realization cuts him to the core. 

He despises himself for causing you so much pain.

Lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, he grapples with the enormity of his love for you and the depth of his remorse. Words, he knows, can only scratch the surface of what he truly feels. How does one encapsulate a torrent of emotions in mere letters? Yet, he resolves to try, to lay bare his heart in this letter, hoping that somewhere amidst the ink-stained pages, you’ll find a glimmer of understanding, a shard of forgiveness.

As he traverses the hallway, the resonating clinks of heels guide his steps, drawing him towards the kitchen like a siren’s call. Entering, he beholds a vision: a woman, clad in a summer dress that dances with every step, her attire an incongruous yet captivating sight against the rustic backdrop. A wry smile tugs at his lips as he observes her, her presence a curious enigma, tinged with a hint of déjà vu. Could it be? Has he crossed paths with her before, or is she merely a figment of his imagination, conjured from distant memories?

“Can I help you?” He ventures, his tone a blend of curiosity and a subtle undercurrent of intrigue. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the contours of your form, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you. Yet, met with silence, he repeats his inquiry, his voice carrying a note of gentle persistence.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, the nervous energy palpable in your voice as you fidget with the folds of your dress, “I’m looking for Jessi?”

He chuckles warmly, a playful glint in his eyes as he flashes you a disarming smile. “Who are you?” His curiosity piqued, he leans in slightly, intrigued by your unexpected presence.

“I’m Jessi’s sister,” you declare confidently, your arms folding beneath your chest. As the realization dawns on him, he’s flooded with a mix of surprise and nostalgia. Of course, you’re Jessi’s sister! How could he have missed it? Memories come flooding back, of days spent playing together as children, and he can’t help but feel a rush of warmth at the sight of you, his childhood friend. A hint of that old crush resurfaces, sending his heart racing in his chest.

His cheeks warm with a blush, though he fights to keep it concealed. Admitting that his crush on you never waned might be too much, too soon. “You don’t remember me?” He ventures, a flicker of hope in his eyes, yet tinged with apprehension. The thought that you might not recall him is unsettling; after all, he had his own struggles recognizing you, despite the unmistakable familiarity.

As you simply stare at him, he adds, “It’s me, Jimin,” a hint of self-realization accompanying his words. It dawns on him that he never properly introduced himself, contributing to the confusion.

“Park?” You echo, incredulity weaving through your voice as you study him, and a soft chuckle escapes him, granting you a moment to recollect the countless hours spent playing together.

“Yeah! Don’t you remember? We played together when we were kids,” he chuckles warmly, gently nudging your memory in the hope of rekindling the moments of your childhood, now flooding vividly back to him.

You were such a vibrant and spirited girl back then, and you’re just as captivating now. You used to play games with him and your sister, embarking on countless adventures around your ranch and his parents’ property.

As recognition dawns upon you, he observes the tension in your features melting away, replaced by a sense of familiarity. Gesturing for you to take a seat, he retrieves a glass of water, all the while marveling at your presence. You look breathtaking, and the realization that you’re back hits him like a tidal wave. It’s been two decades since he last saw you, yet the memories flood back with a vengeance, reigniting the flames of that childhood crush in his heart.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” he offers his condolences, aware of the complexity of losing a parent, especially considering the strained relationship you’ve had with her for years, details he gleaned from your sister. Your expression shifts into one of pain, but you quickly dismiss it with a “It’s whatever,” though he senses it's anything but. Respectful of your boundaries, he refrains from probing further, though he silently wishes you’d open up. If ever you needed someone to talk to, he’d be there in a heartbeat, ready to lend a listening ear and a comforting shoulder to cry on, no matter the hour.

He offers you a warm, reassuring smile, a gesture he knows he can manage in times like these. Just then, he hears the familiar footsteps of your sister approaching, “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Her usual nagging about work trailing behind her like a persistent echo. But sometimes, he thinks, a brief respite is necessary before diving back into the grind. With a chuckle, he bids you farewell, promising to return to his tasks shortly. As he returns to his work, a contented smile graces his lips, though beneath the surface, his heart races with an unexpected flurry of emotions, stirred up by your unexpected presence.

As the barn party kicks off, Jimin finds himself consumed by thoughts of you, his mind drifting back to the encounter in the kitchen. It’s a strange sensation, akin to the giddiness of a schoolboy harboring a secret crush—except in this case, it's not just a youthful infatuation; it’s a reunion with someone from his past. When you and your father left the ranch, he never imagined seeing you again, the sudden departure leaving him with unspoken feelings he couldn't articulate at the time. He regrets not expressing his affection for you back then, but in hindsight, he knows you were both just kids, and such declarations might not have been taken seriously anyway.

Now that you’ve returned and his dormant feelings have resurfaced with a vengeance, Jimin feels an urgent need to express himself. He’s torn between the desire to reconnect with you as friends or dare to hope for something more. As he attempts to rein in his racing thoughts, he realizes just how awkward he can be around women, especially you, whom he holds in such high regard. But despite his nervousness, his affection for you outweighs his fear of awkwardness, propelling him to seek a meaningful connection with you once more.

The barn pulses with the rhythm of the music, matching the frantic beat of Jimin’s thoughts. He caught a glimpse of you earlier, but amidst the sea of people, he’s lost sight of you. The desire to reconnect with you burns fiercely within him, igniting the hope of perhaps mustering the courage to ask you out on a date. As he navigates through the crowd, he can’t shake the anticipation building in his chest, eager to find you and seize the opportunity to reignite your friendship.

As Jimin steps outside into the darkness, his heart races with anticipation, but what he encounters crushes him like a ton of bricks. His eyes land on you, pinned against the wall by his own brother, Jungkook, their heavy breaths echoing in the night. The sight drains the color from his world, leaving him feeling hollow and breathless. It’s a visceral punch to the gut, witnessing you entangled with his brother in such an intimate embrace. He can’t bear to look, the sickness rising in his throat threatens to overwhelm him. With a quick turn, he retreats back inside, his heart heavy with sorrow, his body trembling with a coldness that belies the heat of the barn.

Your eyes, reflecting surprise and sorrow, haunt his thoughts relentlessly. Jimin’s anger simmers beneath the surface, fueled by the sight of you with his brother. Jungkook’s magnetic charm is a curse Jimin knows all too well. It’s a pattern he’s witnessed countless times— his dates inevitably gravitate towards Jungkook’s allure, leaving Jimin feeling like a mere shadow in comparison. The pain of this familiar betrayal cuts deep, gnawing at his insides. He curses himself for his own hesitance, wishing he had seized the chance to connect with you before Jungkook’s spell took hold. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t be entangled with his brother now.

His chest tightens with a mix of fury and resignation. Rationality tells him you owe him nothing, yet the sting of rejection cuts deep. It’s a bitter pill he’s swallowed before, a recurring cycle of dashed hopes. Jungkook’s effortless allure always casts a shadow over Jimin’s prospects, leaving him feeling like fate’s perpetual underdog. The injustice of it all boils within him, a potent blend of anger and despair.

The weight of disappointment crushes his spirit, suffocating any semblance of enjoyment. What’s the point of staying at the party when the sight of you with his brother taints every corner of the barn? It’s a bitter pill to swallow, realizing he’s become a mere spectator in the game of love, always on the sidelines while Jungkook effortlessly steals the show. With a heavy heart, he contemplates leaving, unwilling to dampen the festivities with his darkening mood.

Jimin’s heart clenches at the mere thought of encountering you again, knowing all too well the anguish that awaits him in your eyes. Since witnessing you with his brother, he’s been ensnared by a whirlwind of hurt and resentment, emotions he’s been struggling to untangle. Your return, alongside your sister, feels like a cruel twist of fate, forcing him to confront the turmoil bubbling within him. Avoiding your gaze has become his coping mechanism, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the raw vulnerability lurking beneath the surface. Deep down, he still harbors affection for you, but the shadow of your entanglement with Jungkook looms large, casting doubt on any potential future between you. He doesn’t think you’ll ever be satisfied with him, now that you’ve been with his brother. The bitter realization gnaws at his soul, threatening to consume him whole. Yet, he knows dwelling on such thoughts serves no purpose, only deepening the wounds already etched into his heart.

“Where’s Kook?” Your sister’s inquiry cuts through the heavy silence, offering Jimin a fleeting respite from the tumult of his emotions. Grateful for the distraction, he exhales a silent sigh of relief, seizing the opportunity to avert his gaze from you, if only for a moment longer.

“In the barn fixing his bike, I’ll get him,” he responds with a forced smile, determined to maintain a facade of composure despite the turmoil within. As he strides past both of you, he catches the subtle shift in your gaze, but he refuses to acknowledge it, steeling himself against the flood of emotions threatening to engulf him. Ignoring you feels like self-preservation, a necessary shield against the ache in his heart.

Jimin locates his brother, and together they make their way back to where you and your sister stand. Jungkook, ever the cocky one, can’t resist a jab, his smirk evident as he quips, “Back for round two?”

Jimin scowls at his brother’s remark, finding him insufferable as usual. Anger bubbles within him, exacerbated by the widened shock in your eyes, as if they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. With an exasperated eye roll, Jimin brushes off Jungkook’s comment.

“No, thank you,” you sputter, and Jimin can’t help but feel a glimmer of relief, sensing that you’re not interested in his brother’s crude advances.

“You’re welcome anytime, babe,” his brother teases, winking at you, and Jimin suppresses a sigh. Jungkook’s flirtatious nature is no secret, but at this moment, Jimin can’t help but feel a twinge of irritation at his brother’s antics.

“Enough of that,” your sister declares, her interruption a welcome relief from the tension swirling in the air. Jimin exhales slowly, grateful for the distraction, as the mere thought of you and Jungkook ignites a fiery surge of jealousy within him. He knows delving into the depths of his unresolved emotions would only unravel him further, and he’s not ready to confront that turmoil just yet.

He catches the subtle glances you steal in his direction, but your eyes dart away the moment they meet his. It’s a confusing dance of fleeting interest, leaving Jimin bewildered and uncertain. After all, you’ve been intimate with his brother, so why would you show any interest in him? The ambiguity of your gaze sends his thoughts spiraling, unsure of what to make of the situation. Deciding it’s best to avoid further speculation, Jimin opts to keep his gaze lowered, wrestling with the tumult of emotions churning within him.

The bar door swings open, and there you are, clad in nothing but pants and a bra. His gaze darts to your anxious eyes, taking in the tremble of your body as you and your entourage make your way over to their table.

“Did you lose a bet or something?” Jungkook’s voice rings out, accompanied by a sharp whistle and a burst of laughter. Jimin rolls his eyes, frustration bubbling up at his brother’s relentless teasing of you.

He watches as you effortlessly roll your eyes at his brother’s teasing remark, your composure unshaken as you confidently take a seat.

“Well. Someone doesn’t share clothes. Apparently.” You quip with a hint of playful spite, directing your gaze at your sister, and he can’t help but chuckle, hastily concealing it behind a hand pressed to his lips.

You’re introduced to Yoongi and Hoseok, and Soo-ah hands you a beer, initiating conversation. Jimin finds his gaze lingering on your exposed skin, noticing the goosebumps forming and wondering if you’re feeling the chill.

“Aren’t you cold?” He notices how you bite your lip, but you merely shrug in response. Jimin considers offering you his shirt, though he’s unsure of how you’d react. Despite being comfortable sitting shirtless himself, he contemplates making the gesture anyway—

“Here. You can have my shirt,” his brother beats him to it, and Jimin grumbles, clenching his hands under the table in frustration. Damn it. He had wanted to offer you his shirt, but now he’s too late because he hesitated and over-thought the situation. Again. 

God, sometimes Jimin really despises his brother.

“Well, look who’s playing the gentleman,” Yoongi teases with a playful smack to Jungkook’s chest, and Jimin can’t help but roll his eyes once more. He’s well aware that his brother always has an agenda, always.

“Easier to pick up the ladies like this, anyway,” Jungkook remarks with a smirk, confirming Jimin’s suspicions. Jungkook may not be aiming to win you back, but he’s always on the lookout for the next pretty face. It’s moments like these that remind Jimin just how shallow his brother can be, always thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

As the table empties out, leaving just you and Jimin, a palpable tension lingers in the air, thickening with each passing moment. He can sense your uncertainty, and it mirrors his own nervousness. The weight of the unspoken words between you feels heavy, almost suffocating. Jimin shifts uncomfortably, unsure if he should break the silence or let it linger, unsure if his words will only add to the tension.

“I’m sorry if I did something wrong,” your hesitant voice cuts through the tension like a knife, breaking the suffocating silence that had settled between you. With a nervous expression, you fidget with your beer, your eyes betraying a mixture of apprehension and genuine concern.

His breath catches in his throat, surprised by your unexpected apology. Nodding gently, he gestures for you to elaborate, his mind racing with a blend of curiosity and cautious apprehension. Though uncertain of the reason behind your apology, he’s prepared to listen, his thoughts swirling with tentative guesses.

“I’m sorry I slept with your brother…” Your words cut through the air like a chilling breeze, each syllable heavy with the weight of regret. In a hushed confession, you lay bare the source of your apology, and he feels his chest tighten in response. His facade wavers momentarily, a flinch betraying the torrent of emotions raging within him. Beneath the veneer of composure, a tempest of anger swirls, threatening to engulf him in its fiery grasp.

“Why apologize for that?” His voice carries a hint of curiosity, a mask for the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. With a casual sip of his beer, he studies you intently, his eyes flickering with a mixture of emotions. You’re allowed to fuck whoever you want, he acknowledges inwardly, but the bitterness lingers, souring the taste of his thoughts. It’s not so much the act itself that stings, but the circumstances surrounding it—his brother, the witness to your intimacy. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, and he can’t help but lament the unfortunate twist of fate.

“It just seems like you’re angry with me… or something,” you add tentatively, your words laced with apprehension. He notices the nervous edge in your voice, the subtle tremor betraying your uncertainty, and how you avert your gaze, as if unable to meet his eyes.

“Look,” he starts, leaning in slightly over the table, his voice measured yet tinged with underlying emotion, “I’m not really angry. Maybe I’m more disappointed?” Despite his attempt at rationalizing his feelings, he knows deep down that anger brews within him, though its target remains elusive—whether directed at you or his brother, he’s unsure. After all, they’re all adults here, and dwelling on this resentment won’t change anything. Deep down, he knows he’s harboring a sense of anger, not necessarily at you, but at the recurring pattern where his brother always seems to come out on top. It’s a feeling of disappointment that runs deeper than just this one incident—it’s a narrative that’s unfolded over years, leaving him questioning his own worth. And he recognizes, it isn’t your fault; you’re just caught in the crossfire of a longstanding dynamic.

“You are, of course, allowed to sleep with whoever you want to. It’s just… it’s always him.” His words carry a raw edge, laced with a palpable mix of frustration and resentment. Jungkook’s recurring presence in such situations gnaws at him, a constant reminder of his brother’s tendency to overshadow him. Yet, even amidst his own turmoil, he realizes the futility of roping you into their tangled sibling rivalry. It’s an unhealthy dynamic, one he knows all too well, and he doesn’t want to drag you into its murky depths.

He watches as a wave of realization washes over your features, but he feels compelled to add more. “All women are drawn to him. He’s always fucking around. Not that I’m saying I want to be like that, but sometimes, it would be nice to feel noticed, you know?” Damn it. He said too much. Did he have too many beers? No, he’s barely finished his first bottle, and yet here he is, pouring out truths from the depths of his heart.

Damn it, why did he say that? He curses inwardly, realizing he’s delving into territory he’d rather avoid. He desperately needs to steer the conversation elsewhere, pronto.

“You know… When I saw you that day in the kitchen after all those years,” he starts tentatively, hoping to shift the focus away from his raw emotions.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, a gesture betraying the turmoil within. “I never thought I would see you again when you and your father left,” he confesses, a mixture of longing and regret bubbling beneath the surface, camouflaged by a forced chuckle.

His nerves prickle like a live wire, urging him to speak, even as his mind screams caution. “Did you know,” he blurts, the words tumbling out despite his better judgment, “I had a crush on you when we were kids?” His throat tightens with apprehension, berating himself internally for the sudden confession. Was it just one beer he had? Because why on earth would he reveal this now?

“I had no idea,” you reply, your voice laced with surprise and regret, your features softening with an apologetic expression. “I’m truly sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, though the tension in his voice betrays his true feelings. His heart races with nervousness, cursing himself for his lack of restraint in revealing his past crush. But there's a deeper secret he keeps buried: his current feelings for you, perhaps even love. It's a precarious balance between wanting to confess and fearing rejection. He prays his mouth won’t betray him again, divulging more than he’s ready to admit.

Sensing the danger of delving further into emotions, he swiftly changes the topic, opting for safer conversational waters. Offering to fetch another round of beers, he steers the discussion towards lighter subjects. Yet, beneath his composed facade, he finds himself unnerved by you. There’s an undeniable allure to your demeanor— a blend of nervousness and confidence that both intrigues and intimidates him. He’s drawn to your self-assuredness, yet fears the intensity of his own feelings, wary of pushing you away with his overwhelming emotions.

“I’ve been considering heading back home. It just feels like I mess everything up…” You confess, your words tinged with uncertainty, and he feels a surge of emotion. Panic grips him at the mere thought of you leaving. No. No. He can’t bear the idea of you walking away, of missing out on the potential moments you could share together. Despite his internal conflict, a selfish desire whispers in his heart, urging you to stay, if only for a little while longer.

“No, no, you shouldn’t give up. Please, give it some more time,” he urges, his voice laced with genuine concern. Each word carries the weight of his longing, a silent plea for you to stay. Memories of his childhood flood his mind, reminding him of the warmth you brought to his heart. He can’t bear the thought of losing you again, not when he feels a flicker of hope reignite in his heart at your return.

Jimin has been surreptitiously observing you as you sort wool with Yoongi, stealing glances whenever he can muster the courage. Each time your eyes meet his, it sends a flutter through his chest, a silent reminder of the unresolved emotions swirling within him. He grapples with the realization that perhaps he’s been too quick to let his insecurities dictate his reactions, especially when he witnessed you with his brother. Yet, amidst the tangled mess of doubts and hopes, one thing remains clear—he still harbors feelings for you. With each passing moment, he wrestles with the notion of reaching out, of bridging the gap that has formed between you. Could there be a chance to mend what’s broken, to transcend the shadow of past misunderstandings? As he contemplates these questions, he can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there’s a glimmer of mutual interest between you two. But how does one navigate the delicate dance of reigniting a connection fraught with uncertainties? Jimin finds himself at a loss, grappling with the complexities of his own heart as he yearns for a sign, a signal that could pave the way for a new beginning.

Caught off guard by the sudden outburst, Jimin’s thoughts scatter like startled birds as your sister’s sharp reprimand slices through the air. He can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for you, knowing firsthand the intensity of Jessi’s temper. Watching your gaze falter, retreating from the accusatory finger jabbing in your direction, he senses your discomfort like a palpable wave washing over the scene. A surge of concern floods Jimin’s chest as he worries about the impact Jessi’s harsh words might have on you. Could this tirade be the final straw, driving you away for good? The fear gnaws at him, a silent plea echoing in his mind for some semblance of peace to return to the tense atmosphere.

As you take a hesitant step backward, Jimin’s heart clenches with concern, his grip on the clippers loosening as he watches you dart towards the door. Without a second thought, he abandons the tools and bolts after you, propelled by a surge of urgency to catch up and ensure you’re okay.

“Please come back,” Jimin’s plea is tinged with desperation as he watches you retreat towards the house. His heart races with a sense of urgency, knowing he can’t let you leave without offering some comfort. He longs to reassure you that your sister’s harshness doesn't define your worth, that everything will eventually fall into place.

As you pivot, a look of anguish etched across your features, you confess, “I fuck everything up Jimin.” His heart aches at your admission, wondering what else burdens your mind. “I feel utterly useless on this ranch,” you add, your voice heavy with self-doubt. Jimin's resolve strengthens, determined to offer you the solace and encouragement you desperately need.

“It’s to be expected. You’ll get better,” he reassures you, his voice laced with sincerity. Despite his efforts to comfort you, he notices how you’ve withdrawn into yourself, lost in your own thoughts.

“Do you think I belong here?” Your question catches him off guard and he gapes at you, but he already knows the answer to your question, so it’s easy.

“I do,” he says, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that belies the simplicity of the words. It’s a plea, a fervent wish whispered into the air, a silent urging for you to see what he sees – that this place, this ranch, is where you truly belong. Deep down, he knows it’s selfish, but damn it, he can’t bear the thought of you leaving.

“I believe you just need time,” he offers with a gentle smile, though beneath it, he can feel the weight of your uncertainty. It’s a small offering of solace, but he knows words alone can’t ease the turmoil brewing within you.

“I don’t think I fit in, and I feel like an imposter,” you confess, your voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. Each word strikes a chord within him, a pang of sadness laced with determination. He can’t bear the thought of you feeling out of place, not when he envisions you finding your footing here, becoming a part of this place he calls home. He believes in you, in your ability to belong, and he’s willing to give you all the time you need to see it too.

One thing is a childhood crush, but delving into the depths of who you are now, the adult version of you, that’s what he craves. He yearns to unravel the layers, to discover if there’s a deeper connection waiting to be unearthed between you two, something more profound and meaningful than just fleeting feelings from the past.

As the rain cascades down upon both of you, Jimin’s attention isn’t on the weather, but on you, on your emotions. “We should get back” he suggests, aware that the rain shows no signs of relenting. Yet, amidst the downpour, he seizes a moment of boldness, reaching out to intertwine his fingers with yours. “You belong here,” he affirms, his touch conveying a silent plea for you to stay, to weather the storm together, not just the rain outside, but the uncertainties within.

He prays silently that his words and gestures are enough to anchor you here, but deep down, he understands he can’t dictate your choices. The decision to stay must be yours alone, driven by your own desires and dreams. Yet, a fervent longing swells within him, an unspoken wish that you’ll choose to remain, not for his sake, but for your own. Oh, how he yearns for you to stay.

You left. It’s a twist he didn’t see coming, yet somehow, it makes sense. Your sister’s relentless demands and the weight of your own insecurities pushed you away. He empathizes; Jessi’s temper can be overwhelming, and she hasn’t exactly rolled out the welcome mat for you. And your self-doubt about your skills on the ranch? He gets it. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and he certainly wasn’t a master of everything from the get-go either. Improvement comes with time, and he believes in your potential to thrive.

Why does he find himself standing in front of your city home, heart pounding against his ribcage like a caged bird? He knocks, and when the door swings open, you greet him with a mix of surprise and puzzlement, yet your smile, soft and tender, ignites a wildfire of hope in his chest.

“Jimin?” Your voice carries a blend of curiosity and caution, eyes darting around to confirm his identity, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in their depths.

“Hey,” he greets you with a hint of shyness, his voice slightly uneven as if your mere presence has the power to stir up a whirlwind of emotions within him. You have this uncanny ability to make his heart flutter and his nerves dance, rendering him almost breathless in your presence.

“Come in,” you invite, and as he steps across the threshold, his senses are immediately greeted by the cozy compact hallway, each corner whispering tales of your daily life within the confines of your two-bedroom apartment.

“What brings you here, Jimin?” You inquire, your eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of anticipation, inviting him to share the purpose of his unexpected visit. His heart races with the weight of unspoken words, debating whether to reveal the depth of his feelings, to confess how much he misses you and yearns for your return. Yet, he hesitates, fearing that such raw honesty might overwhelm you, opting instead to tread lightly into the depths of the conversation.

“I came here because there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he starts, his gaze wandering around your apartment. An easel catches his eye, displaying a painting in the corner. He hadn’t realized you painted. Memories of your childhood passion for art resurface, but he hadn’t expected you to continue. Your dedication surprises and impresses him. As he admires the artwork, he can’t help but think how much it reflects your beauty and depth, a reflection of the intricate layers of your soul.

“You mentioned wanting to talk?” You inquire, drawing his attention away from your paintings. There’s a hint of curiosity in your voice, and he notices the way your eyes search his face, as if trying to decipher his thoughts. He feels a sudden rush of nerves, realizing the weight of the conversation he’s about to embark upon.

“Sure, let’s go to a cafe and have that talk,” he proposes, a spark of anticipation igniting in his eyes, his heart quickening with the prospect of finally opening up to you.

You suggest heading to a nearby café, and he readily agrees, the anticipation building as you walk the short distance together. Your demeanor betrays a hint of anxiety, and he can’t blame you—after all, he did show up unannounced, eager to talk. Arriving at the café, you both place your orders, and Jimin can feel the nervous energy coursing through him at the thought of opening up to you. But as he steals glances at your radiant smile, he knows he needs to gather his thoughts and make this moment count.

As you dig into your chocolate cake, you turn to him with a curious glint in your eyes. “So, what’s on your mind?” you inquire, your voice carrying a mix of anticipation and intrigue.

He can’t help but chuckle nervously, a subtle tremor in his voice betraying his unease as his hand moves to shield his smile. “It’s about you actually,” he confesses, his gaze lingering on you, as if searching for the right words to convey the weight of his thoughts.

He watches intently as your eyes widen, your lips parting in shock. “Me?” You echo softly, the word hanging in the air, laced with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

He feels his heart quicken its pace, his palms moistening with nervousness. “We miss you,” he admits, his voice a blend of longing and reluctance. Jimin knows he shouldn’t reveal too much, shouldn’t tell you how much he misses you. Yeah, the other’s miss you too and your sister actually regrets how she had been treating you. The words are close to spill out anyway. He can’t help it. Your puzzled expression prompts him to elaborate, “Everybody back home.”

The words sting him like a slap in the face. “That place isn’t my home anymore,” you declare, and each syllable feels like a dagger to his heart. He knows deep down that your old home could be your sanctuary once more, if only you’d give it another chance.

“It could be,” he responds softly, his words laden with unspoken longing. He wrestles with the urge to confess how much he aches for your presence, but he reins it in, wary of overwhelming you. Yet, glimpsing your paintings in your apartment, he discerns a silent yearning for the ranch.

“Everybody misses you, even your sister,” he adds, hoping to bridge the chasm between your worlds.

You scoff at that notion, momentarily entertaining the idea that your sister orchestrated his visit. He almost finds it amusing. Sure, Jessi might regret her actions, but her pride likely won’t allow her to apologize. He came here of his own volition, driven solely by his feelings for you. And as he gauges your response, he wonders if your sentiments mirror his own. He longs for certainty before taking the next step, eager to discern if your heart echoes his.

You spend the remaining time engaged in conversation about his heartfelt conviction that you belong on the ranch. He earnestly endeavors to sway your decision, silently yearning for your return—not just to the land, but to him. Yet, he hesitates to voice these sentiments, aware of the weight they carry. It pains him to witness your despondency, your yearning for the solace of a home—a comfort he believes he could offer, if only you desired it. Eventually, you concede to mull over the prospect of returning, a small glimmer of hope that lifts his spirits.

He’s reluctant for the day to draw to a close, even after both of you have polished off your cakes. So, he proposes a shopping excursion, and as you amble down the bustling street, he revels in the simple joy of your company. Witnessing you try on various dresses fills him with delight, but it’s the moment you find one that makes you radiate with confidence that truly captivates him. As you stand before the mirror, the dress hugging your curves in all the right places, he’s struck by the desire to gift it to you. Your surprised reaction to his offer, accompanied by a blush that tinges your cheeks, only serves to further enchant him.

As you return to your apartment and settle in to order food, Jimin realizes he’s extending his stay beyond his initial intentions. He’s wary of overstaying his welcome, yet he finds himself relishing every moment spent in your presence. Together, you indulge in a satisfying meal, the aroma of comfort food filling the air. With appetites sated, you delve into a conversation that spans the years since you departed from the ranch. Each shared anecdote and exchanged experience bridges the gap of time, weaving a tapestry of shared memories and newfound connection.

As he opens up to you, Jimin shares the tumultuous story of his family, particularly focusing on his father’s betrayal and subsequent remarriage shortly after his mother's passing. Recounting these painful memories is a struggle for him, as he harbors deep-seated resentment, especially towards his father for his infidelity. To Jimin, loyalty is paramount, and the thought of betraying a loved one is unfathomable. He reflects on the challenging dynamic with Jungkook, his stepbrother thrust into his life against his wishes. Initially resistant to the idea of a new sibling, Jimin grappled with conflicting emotions, navigating the complexities of familial relationships with grit and resilience.

He notices your curious gaze, fixated on the subtle limp in his stride, a constant reminder of a past he’d rather forget. Jimin understands the unspoken question lingering in your eyes, the same one that everyone seems eager to ask about. It’s a topic he loathes discussing—the limp, the accident, and the haunting scar etched into his flesh. Yet, he opens up to you, albeit selectively, glossing over certain details. He shields you from the raw emotions that still cling to the memories, like the overwhelming fear that consumed him in the aftermath, or the excruciating pain that once threatened to steal his mobility forever. Despite the physical healing, the pain persists, a relentless echo of the trauma that reshaped his life.

As if drawn by an invisible force, your hand ventures to his thigh, your touch igniting a cascade of sensations that electrify his senses. Each stroke sends a jolt of pleasure through him, coaxing his heart into a frantic rhythm matched only by the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. His body responds eagerly to your touch, craving more, yearning for the warmth of your hand in places where desire simmers just beneath the surface. Jimin knows he shouldn’t entertain these forbidden thoughts, but the allure of your touch is intoxicating, tempting him into a realm of pleasure he’s desperate to explore. With each passing moment, your hand inches closer to his dick, and he's powerless to resist the magnetic pull drawing him toward the world of lust.

“Is this okay?” Your gentle inquiry sends a surge of electricity through the air, and Jimin feels a wave of apprehension wash over him. He’s caught between the desire to surrender to the intoxicating allure of your touch and the fear of crossing a line he might not be able to uncross. Yet, despite the tumult of emotions raging within him, he manages to croak out a strained “yes,” his voice betraying the depth of his longing and the intensity of his arousal.

God damn it, he curses inwardly as a surge of desire courses through him, causing his body to react involuntarily. He shifts uncomfortably, prompting your hand to retreat apologetically as you murmur, “I’m sorry.”

He reassures you with a strained “it’s okay,” but inside, he’s reeling from the lingering sensation of your touch. Your hands had worked wonders, but it’s not just the massage that’s setting him alight; it’s the mere contact with you, igniting a dangerous blaze of desire within him.

He’s acutely aware of the charged atmosphere between you, a palpable tension that threatens to unravel with every passing moment. Seeking respite, you suggest watching a movie, and he agrees, grateful for the distraction. As the film unfolds, he finds himself more captivated by the way your eyelids flutter and eventually succumb to sleep, your head gently resting against his chest. With tender care, he brushes away the stray strands of hair that caress your face, his heart swelling with affection at the sight of you in such peaceful repose. He realizes, in that moment, the depth of his feelings for you—love, pure and unadulterated. Yet, the weight of uncertainty presses upon him like a heavy burden. Should he confess his love, risking the fragile bond of friendship that now exists between you both? Or should he continue to cherish these stolen moments, content in the knowledge that you’re by his side, even if only as friends?

“I love you,” he murmurs softly, the words slipping from his lips like a secret confession, a whispered promise to the sleeping form nestled against him. In the hushed stillness of the room, he finds solace in the act of vocalizing his feelings, the weight of his emotions easing with each syllable uttered. Though he knows you’re unaware of his declaration in your slumber, he takes comfort in the notion that the words hang in the air, a silent testament to the depth of his affection for you. Yet, as the echoes of his confession fade into the night, he realizes that his journey towards vocalizing his love has only just begun—a journey he’s determined to embark upon, armed with nothing but his unwavering devotion and the courage to speak his heart when you’re awake, ready to hear his words.

He hadn’t intended on staying the night, but your gentle slumber on his lap had rooted him in place. He couldn’t bear to disrupt your peaceful rest, and truth be told, he relished the sensation of your weight against him. He couldn’t recall when your head had found its way to his thighs, but the warmth of your presence was a comfort he couldn’t deny. However, the unwelcome arousal pressing against his jeans was a stark reminder of his body’s betraying response to your innocent proximity. Your soft murmurs and endearing sighs had stirred something primal within him, leaving him unable to conceal the undeniable evidence of his desire.

“Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry!” You exclaim, scrambling to sit upright, cheeks tinged with a delicate blush. He can't help but chuckle at your flustered reaction, finding your genuine concern endearing.

“It’s okay. I just woke up,” he assures, though it’s not entirely true. He’s been awake for a few moments, captivated by the peaceful sight of you sleeping. Is it a bit creepy? Perhaps. But at that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

You end up apologizing profusely for inadvertently resting on his injured leg, but he reassures you, insisting it didn’t hurt much. Suddenly, you offer to whip up some pancakes, and the idea sounds heavenly to him. He realizes how hungry he is, so the prospect of food is more than welcome.

He realizes he should head back home soon. Yesterday, he left without a word to his brother, and he certainly didn’t mention staying the night elsewhere. Jungkook might be in a panic by now, given the flurry of missed calls on his phone. Oops.

The pancakes you’ve whipped up are simply divine, and for a fleeting moment, he entertains the idea of staying here with you indefinitely. But reality pulls him back to the ranch, his responsibilities tugging at his heartstrings. Deep down, he yearns for you to join him there, to make the place feel complete once more. Yet, he knows he can’t impose such a request on you. Your decision to return must stem from your own desires. As the time draws near for his departure, he lingers a bit longer, subtly conveying how much he’ll miss you if you choose not to come back.

“I hope to see you again, maybe back home?” His gaze lingers on you, a silent plea echoing in his eyes. In that suspended moment, he senses a subtle transformation within you, a shift in the air that ignites a blush on your cheeks. And in that shared vulnerability, he feels his own heart quicken its pace, a silent testament to the magnetic pull you exert on him with each passing moment.

As you remain silent, he gathers his courage, emboldened by the delicate flush on your cheeks. Closing the gap between you, he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. A playful grin tugs at his lips, betraying the nervous flutter in his chest; he can feel the warmth rising to his cheeks, but he couldn’t resist the urge to express his longing in that fleeting touch.

“See you at home,” he whispers, the words carrying a weight of anticipation as he descends the stairs. His heart thunders in his chest, a symphony of excitement and nerves that threaten to overwhelm him. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, a wide grin splits his face, a telltale sign of the emotions bubbling within him. In that moment, he feels like a fool — a foolish, lovesick fool.

You’ve returned, and it’s like a missing piece of his world has finally clicked back into place. Since his visit to the city, everything between you seems to hum with a new energy, a subtle shift that he can’t ignore. The air crackles with anticipation, and he can’t help but notice the lingering glances, the charged moments that pass between you. He senses the attraction growing, weaving its way between you like a delicate thread. Perhaps it’s time to take the next step, to ask you out on a proper date. But first, there’s the matter of moving your belongings from the city back to the ranch, a task he embraces eagerly, knowing it’s a chance to be by your side once more.

He chuckles at the sight of neatly packed boxes, already lined up and ready to go. He had braced himself for a lengthy packing session, but you’ve surprised him with your efficiency. With everything neatly organized, the task ahead seems much simpler. Now, all that’s left is to lift and load the boxes onto the truck and trailer, and you’ll be ready to roll.

Despite the weight of the boxes and the growing ache in his leg, he soldiers on without complaint. He refuses to let you see the strain he’s under, determined to make this transition as smooth as possible for you. Together, you lift and carry furniture, ensuring that nothing is left behind. Finally, you slide the key into the landlord’s mailbox, marking the end of an era and the beginning of a new chapter.

As you navigate the road back home, he catches your gaze drifting to his leg, a subtle twitch betraying the discomfort he’s trying to conceal. Despite his efforts to mask the pain, he can tell you’ve seen through his facade.

“Does your leg hurt?” Your concern is palpable in the gentle tone of your voice. He hesitates, debating whether to offer a reassuring lie or admit to the discomfort gnawing at him. Ultimately, honesty wins out. “Yeah, a bit,” he confesses, unable to shield you from the truth.

Your hand ventures across the center console, landing on his thigh with a gentle, reassuring pressure that sends a jolt through him. As your fingers begin to work their magic, tracing soothing circles over his tense muscles, he feels his defenses weakening. Like an inferno ignited, desire surges within him, rendering him powerless to resist. A soft moan slips past his lips, betraying the overwhelming effect of your touch, and he knows he’s in trouble, especially while navigating the road ahead.

His mind is a whirlwind of forbidden desires, each touch of your hand stoking the flames of his longing. With every inch your hand inches closer, his body responds eagerly, aching for your touch. Yet, amidst the overwhelming urge, a voice of reason echoes in his mind, reminding him of the danger of indulging in such desires while driving. Despite the throbbing need coursing through him, he fights to suppress his carnal urges, knowing that some pleasures are too risky to pursue in the heat of the moment.

“Please stop,” his voice, a blend of desire and restraint, breaks the tension-filled silence, pleading for respite from the intoxicating allure of your touch. As your hand halts its tantalizing caress on his thigh, a palpable tension hangs in the air, his body yearning for the forbidden pleasure yet tempered by the awareness of the dangers lurking on the road ahead.

“I might lose focus on the road if you keep that up,” he confesses, his tone laced with a blend of restraint and longing, revealing the precarious balance between desire and responsibility. With each passing moment, the tantalizing temptation grows stronger, stirring a primal urge within him. For a fleeting instant, he entertains the reckless notion of pulling over, and just fucking you, like he really wants to do.

Jimin is rendered speechless as you glide through the doors, clad in the dress he picked out for you. The sight of you steals his breath away, igniting a fire within him that he struggles to contain. Your radiant smile lights up the room, and as your eyes meet his, it’s as if the world fades away, leaving only the two of you enveloped in an electric moment.

You take in the surroundings of the house, every detail seemingly more enchanting with Jimin by your side. As he gracefully pulls you into a slow dance, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you in a timeless embrace. The warmth of his hand in yours and the genuine smile on your face envelop him in a sense of serenity, and for a moment, he’s lost in the beauty of the moment, captivated by the sight of you.

You sway together in the gentle rhythm of the music, but beneath the surface, a tempest of emotions rages within Jimin. With every step, he feels the magnetic pull towards you intensify, igniting a wildfire of desire that threatens to consume him whole. The urge to whisk you away upstairs, to pour out his heart, to share every secret and desire, is almost overpowering. Yet, in the midst of this intoxicating whirlwind, fear gnaws at him. This unbridled attraction, so fierce and undeniable, terrifies him in its intensity, for it’s unlike anything he's ever experienced before, and it’s already reshaping the very fabric of his emotions.

As his brother, Jungkook, sweeps in to ask you for a dance, Jimin’s eyes roll with a mix of amusement and mild annoyance. Reluctantly, he steps aside, letting you be whisked away into the arms of his sibling, though a flicker of jealousy ignites in his chest. As you twirl away with Jungkook, Jimin can’t help but feel a pang of insecurity, wondering if he’s made a mistake by relinquishing your presence, even if only for a dance.

Meanwhile, Jimin gracefully makes his way to the piano, a glint of determination in his eyes. He settles onto the bench, his fingers poised over the keys with a mixture of nerves and excitement. With a soft, thoughtful expression, he adjusts the volume of the music, letting the melody fill the room with a gentle ambiance. As he begins to play, his heart pours into the music, each note resonating with a depth of emotion that only he can truly understand. With a voice rich with sincerity, he sings a love song, his eyes flickering over to where you stand, hoping that you’ll appreciate the gesture.

In the midst of the music, Jimin wrestles with his own conflicting emotions. He knows he should muster the courage to express his feelings directly to you, to tell you that he’s head over heels in love. Yet, fear grips him, the fear of rejection, of vulnerability. Despite the undeniable connection he feels between you, he hesitates, unsure of how you’ll respond.

Instead, he lets the melody speak for him, allowing the heartfelt lyrics to convey the depth of his affection. With each tender note, he silently hopes that you’ll understand the message hidden within the music, the silent plea for your reciprocation.

Your expression betrays a mixture of surprise and curiosity as Jimin finishes his serenade. Without a word, he rises from the piano bench, his hand outstretched towards you, a silent invitation in his gaze. “Please, come with me,” he implores softly, his voice laced with an urgency that belies the calm exterior he tries to maintain. With a gentle yet firm grasp, he leads you towards the door, a sense of purpose driving his movements.

As he leads you outside, Jimin can feel the weight of anticipation hanging heavy in the air. This could be the moment, he thinks, the moment he finally lays his heart bare before you. Or perhaps he should start with something simpler, like asking you out on a date. But with every step that brings you closer to the secluded spot he has in mind, his mind races with a whirlwind of emotions, leaving him uncertain of where to begin.

Now, with the night sky stretching out above you and the soft glow of moonlight casting shadows across your face, he finds himself unable to resist the pull of desire. With a sudden surge of courage, he pins you against the wall, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

His mind races like a speeding train, thoughts colliding and scattering in all directions, leaving him grasping for a coherent sentence. “Brothers talk,” he blurts out, cursing himself inwardly the instant the words leave his lips. Jungkook’s words about you after that night echo in his mind, a bitter reminder of a conversation he never wanted to have— he didn’t like hearing his brother talk about you like that. He wishes desperately to erase those words from his memory, to banish them to the darkest corners of his mind, but they linger like a stubborn stain, impossible to scrub away.

“I know you slept with Jungkook,” he murmurs into your ear, feeling the slight tremor that runs through your body. The tension crackles between you, a silent dialogue of unspoken words and hidden desires. He prays silently that you don’t harbor any strange fascination with brothers, because if you do, you’re in for disappointment. That’s not his thing.

“And I don’t mind. I like you,” he confesses, his words tinged with a mixture of vulnerability and sincerity. Despite the discomfort of knowing about your past with his brother, he’s willing to look beyond it because his feelings for you outweigh any resentment. The image of you being reduced to a mere conquest by Jungkook leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but he’s determined to move past it for the sake of what he feels for you.

“I like you too, Jimin,” you confess, and the weight of those words sends a surge of excitement through him. Finally, the confirmation he’s been yearning for, the green light to express what’s been building inside him for weeks. As he leans in to kiss you, anticipation electrifying the air, the door beside you swings open, and out steps his brother, wearing that infuriating grin. Damn it, Jungkook always manages to ruin the moment, the ultimate cock blocker.

You’ve been putting in long hours at the ranch alongside Yoongi, and he’s observed how effortlessly you’ve adapted to the work. He doesn’t mind the time you spend with Yoongi; after all, cultivating friendships here is important, and he’s glad to see you forming bonds in your new environment.

As he makes his way over to where you’re taming the wild horses, Jimin feels a surge of confidence coursing through him. Today feels like the right moment to finally muster the courage and ask you out on that long-awaited date.

He approaches, anticipation bubbling within him, but Jimin’s heart sinks like a stone at the sight before him. His steps falter as he witnesses your lips meeting Yoongi’s in an unexpected embrace. Shock and hurt intertwine within him, shattering the fragile hope he held of something blossoming between you both. It’s a painful echo of the moment he caught you with his brother, a wound reopened. With a heavy heart, he silently retreats, the weight of disappointment pulling him away.

Caught in the whirlwind of emotions, Jimin did notice the shock etched on your features. But confusion battles with hurt within him, a tumultuous storm raging in his heart. Was it betrayal he saw in your eyes? Or was it simply his own shattered illusions playing tricks on him? The thought gnaws at him—had you been toying with his feelings all along? 

The memory of you with his brother burns like a brand, leaving him grappling with a cocktail of emotions, unable to discern truth from illusion. 

You fucked his brother, maybe you want to fuck Yoongi too?

Though he hears your hurried footsteps behind him, he refuses to turn back, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Anger simmers within him, intertwined with a thread of sorrow, a tumult of emotions threatening to consume him. Frustration gnaws at him — frustration at you, frustration at himself for allowing himself to fall under your spell. For he realizes now, with painful clarity, that you hold the power to shatter his heart. And he can’t bear the thought of enduring such agony. It’s a bitter realization, but he knows he must protect himself. It’s better to walk away now, before the pain deepens any further.

“Jimin!” Your voice echoes urgently behind him, but he’s already near the door, his resolve hardening with each step. Maybe he can simply shut you out, ignore whatever explanation you might offer. He doesn’t want to entertain the possibility of hearing you out, even as you grasp his arm, pleading, “Jimin, it’s not what it seems—I need to explain!”

He doesn’t want to hear it. There’s a strange ringing in his ears, drowning out your words. It’s as if his mind is adrift in a sea of chaos, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Anger simmers beneath the surface, a volatile brew threatening to boil over. With a clenched jaw, he turns to face you. “You kissed Yoongi.” The words cut through the deafening silence like a knife, sharp and accusatory.

“No, I didn’t! He kissed me, and I didn’t want that. It meant nothing, okay?” Your words pierce through the heavy silence, but he’s not sure if he wants to believe them. He’s built a fortress around his heart, shielding it from any more pain. Watching you with his brother was hard enough, and now this? It’s not just the kiss itself that bothers him; it’s the unsettling feeling that you might be interested in anyone but him.

Since that kiss with Yoongi, he’s been nursing a hurt that gnaws at him relentlessly. Though he’s avoided speaking to you, he’s watched from a distance. Your once vibrant spirit now wears a cloak of sadness, but in Yoongi’s presence, you light up. It’s a comfort to see you finding solace, yet a pang of envy grips him. Watching you two together twists something deep inside him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Amidst the ache in his heart, he’s found himself seeking solace in familiar connections, even replying to texts from his former physiotherapist, Deiji.

Despite the gnawing guilt, he finds himself unable to bridge the growing chasm between you. The pain of witnessing your closeness with Yoongi ignites a jealousy that eclipses all rational thought. It’s not just about liking or loving you anymore; it’s about the exhausting cycle of feeling perpetually overlooked. He’s tired of being picked last.

Perhaps that’s why he extended the invitation to Deiji, fully aware that you and Yoongi would be there. In his mind, it’s a feeble attempt to feign indifference, a facade of moving on. He’s well aware of the pettiness of his actions, yet he’s powerless against the torrent of bitterness coursing through his veins.

He catches the glimmer of sadness in your eyes as they meet his across the bar, and a pang of unease twists in his stomach, a blend of hurt and confusion. He’s at a loss to comprehend why your gaze holds such sorrow when you’re evidently entwined with Yoongi. The sight of him enveloping you, a shield against the world, ignites a storm of resentment in Jimin’s gut.

Despite being officially with Deiji, a decision he’s uncertain about and made more out of a sense of emptiness than genuine interest, Jimin finds himself questioning his own actions. He doesn’t understand why he acquiesced when she asked to make things official; perhaps it was the notion that having someone, anyone, was better than facing the void alone. But the truth is, he doesn’t harbor strong feelings for Deiji. Aware of the wrongness of the situation, Jimin feels a gnawing guilt deep within him, a sense of moral turmoil that he can’t shake off. 

And with every stolen glance in your direction, a reminder of his divided attention, he's torn between appeasing Deiji and grappling with the realization of what he truly desires.

Each day, you faithfully show up for work, your presence a constant in the familiar routine of taming the wild horses alongside Yoongi. Yet, with every shared moment you spend with him, Jimin can’t help but feel a surge of spite and jealousy coursing through him. Despite his best efforts to suppress it, the sight of you engrossed in your tasks, your laughter echoing in the stables, stirs up a tempest of conflicting emotions within him. It’s true, you appear happy, your smiles lighting up the barn, but beneath the surface, Jimin senses a lingering sadness, a hidden ache that eludes his understanding.

Even amidst the swirling chaos of his emotions, Jimin finds himself unable to muster the courage to speak to you. The turmoil within him is relentless, leaving him uncertain if he even wants to engage in conversation with you anymore. His feelings are a tangled web of confusion, rendering him utterly lost within himself. It’s as if he’s been thrown into a storm of his own making, unable to find solid ground amidst the tempest of his conflicted heart.

Even his own brother, in a rare moment of clarity, has acknowledged the messiness of the situation and urged him to confront it. Yet, Jimin finds himself grappling with the futility of such a conversation. What words could possibly bridge the chasm between you when you’re with Yoongi and he’s with Deiji? It’s a tangled web of relationships, each strand pulling them further apart with every passing moment.

Recently, Jimin has found himself consumed by jealousy, a venomous emotion that twists his thoughts and clouds his every interaction. He’s engulfed by an unrelenting anger — directed at you, at himself, at the cruel hand fate has dealt. Walking about with a perpetual scowl, he broods in silence, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of longing and resentment. Forced to collaborate with you by Jungkook, he remains mute, the weight of unspoken words suffocating him. Jimin, once eager to engage, now fears the irreparable chasm that has formed between you, the inevitable drift driving a wedge deeper with each passing day.

For reasons unbeknownst to him, your sister insists on throwing a party to mark the cast coming off. This entails a dinner, an event Jimin dreads. The thought of facing you, knowing Yoongi will also be present, fills him with apprehension. It’s been weeks, perhaps even months, since he’s exchanged a word with either of you, and the prospect of reconnecting amidst the festivity feels daunting.

He’s been avoiding you for what feels like forever, yet here he is, standing in your house with his girlfriend, desperately trying to hide the turmoil churning inside him. It’s not a physical demise, he knows he’s being overly dramatic, but the emotional anguish feels suffocating, overwhelming every inch of his being.

He stands there, silently seething as he watches Yoongi envelope you in his arms, whispering about how much he’s missed you. Anger courses through him like a torrent, mixing with a bitter taste of something unpalatable, leaving him with a nauseating sensation, as if he could vomit at any moment.

He averts his gaze, sensing the sudden fury emanating from you, though the reason eludes him. Desperately, he attempts to divert his attention to Deiji, but it’s futile; he can’t shake the feeling of longing for you, despite the turmoil raging within him. Every glance towards you is a reminder of the pain of seeing you with Yoongi, of his own inadequacy to confront or resolve the situation. He feels trapped in a cycle of longing and self-loathing, unable to break free from the grip of his own childishness.

You glide into the charity gala, a vision of elegance and grace that steals his breath away. He shouldn’t be captivated by you, shouldn’t be allowing his gaze to linger when he should be focusing on his date. Yet, Deiji’s waning interest in him is palpable, a silent testament to the growing chasm between them. He knows their relationship is crumbling, and he can’t blame her for growing weary of his constant pining for someone else. The truth is, he was never truly invested in Deiji; she was merely a placeholder, a feeble attempt to fill the void left by your unattainability. Now, as he watches you from across the room, radiant and out of reach, he realizes the magnitude of his mistake.

Despite dancing with his girlfriend, his eyes are drawn irresistibly to you, tracing every step you take as you glide across the dance floor with Hoseok, then Yoongi. Each moment is like a dagger to his heart, yet he can’t tear his gaze away. It’s masochistic, really, subjecting himself to the exquisite agony of watching you in Yoongi’s embrace, but he’s transfixed, unable to look away.

Without warning, your expression morphs into one of raw anger, fury emanating from every pore as you stride purposefully towards him. Your voice, sharp and cutting, pierces through the music as you demand, “Why the hell are you staring at me like that?”

Startled and taken aback, his heart skips a beat as your sudden outburst catches him off guard. Beneath the surprise, a tinge of sadness tugs at his heartstrings. He realizes he shouldn’t be so transfixed on you, yet despite his best efforts, he finds himself unable to tear his gaze away.

“Shouldn’t your eyes be on your girlfriend, huh? Why the fuck do you keep gazing at me? Look at your damn girlfriend!” Your words cut through him like a knife, and the accusation stings. He feels a knot of sadness twist in his stomach, grappling with confusion as to why you've suddenly turned hostile.

“And while you’re at it, why the fuck can’t you talk to me like a normal human being?” Your voice crescendos, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. Jimin feels a pang of shame, wanting to shrink away from your justified anger. You’re hitting too close to home—he knows he should have approached you like a mature adult.

“You’re a damn coward, aren’t you? You shouldn’t be casting your eyes my way when you have a girlfriend right there!” You jab a finger in Deiji’s direction, her displeasure evident, but Jimin can’t muster any concern for her feelings. His heart thuds erratically, a tumult of emotions swirling inside him, each one adding to the chaos. He knows you’re right, and it cuts him deeper than he’d like to admit—yeah, he’s a coward.

“You fucking jerk. If you had the decency to communicate, to use your damn voice instead of making baseless assumptions, we wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation!” You unleash your frustration at him, each word a sharp jab, and he flinches involuntarily. Deep down, he knows you’re right, but the weight of the misunderstanding presses heavily on his shoulders. He just doesn’t understand the situation. Yoongi steps in beside you, attempting to diffuse the tension, but Jimin feels his heart plummet to the floor nonetheless.

“I fucking hate you! You’re stupid. I hate you. I fucking hate you. I love you. I fucking hate you. I hate you so fucking much!” You unleash a torrent of emotions, your words cutting through the air like knives, and his eyes widen in shock. His heart races erratically, his confusion mirroring yours. Why would you confess your love for him while Yoongi stands right beside you? It’s madness, and he feels like he’s drowning in a sea of uncertainty and conflicting emotions.

“You fucking bastard. Stop looking at me like that,” you spit out, catching him off guard once more. Despite the tension, he can’t help but burst into laughter. It’s wrong, he knows, but there’s something absurdly amusing about the situation. As you glare at him, he can’t shake the thought that you look oddly cute when you’re angry.

“Stop laughing. This isn’t funny!” You stamp on the ground, your frustration palpable. Jimin feels a surge of conflicting emotions, his laughter fading as he clings to the weight of your confession. What does this mean? He longs to ask you why you’re unloading on him, but you refuse to let him get a word in edgewise.

“I don’t want to hear it! You know what? I’m done!” With a sharp spin, you pivot away, leaving Jimin in a whirlwind of confusion. Desperate to understand your sudden eruption, he reaches out, his hand grasping for an explanation amidst the chaos.

“You can stick your dick where the sun doesn’t shine!” With fire in your eyes, you unleash the words directly into his face before storming out, leaving Jimin to face the fallout of your wrath. As the tension thickens in the air, all eyes turn to him, conveying their disapproval like daggers. Even Jimin finds himself grappling with the weight of his actions, acutely aware of the discord he’s sown.

Yoongi strides up to him, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “You know you’re a real dick right?”

Jimin’s jaw drops, the shock of Yoongi’s words reverberating through him like a sudden bolt of lightning. Never before has he witnessed this side of Yoongi, and the revelation leaves him utterly stunned, his mind reeling with disbelief.

“Why don’t you scuttle off to your precious girlfriend?” Jimin’s words slice through the air like venom, his anger bubbling to the surface with an intensity that threatens to consume him entirely.

Yoongi scoffs incredulously, “Girlfriend?” His steps carry him closer to Jimin, his voice dripping with a mix of disbelief and frustration. “You really think she’s my girlfriend, huh? Is that what’s been fueling your jerkish behavior?”

Jimin’s lips part, ready to offer a retort, but before he can utter a word, Yoongi closes the distance between them until their breaths mingle in the charged air. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he declares, his voice low and tinged with frustration, “I’m gay, you fucking idiot.”

Jimin’s eyes widen in disbelief as Yoongi’s words hang heavy in the air. Then, as Yoongi exits, a whirlwind of emotions sweeps through Jimin’s being, leaving him teetering between confusion and a surge of unexpected elation.

But hold on, that means that all this while he thought you were together with Yoongi, you were in fact mad at him? 

Fuck.

Deiji ended things with him, and he can’t blame her. He realizes now that he wasn’t truly invested in her or the relationship. In hindsight, it’s clear that it was the right decision for both of them.

He’s made an absolute mess of things, and now he’s left with the daunting task of picking up the shattered pieces and piecing them back together again.

He realizes the first step towards redemption is owning up to his missteps and extending genuine apologies for the havoc his actions have caused.

Your expression betrays confusion when he offers to aid in the search for Mikrokosmos, yet deep down, he yearns for the chance to finally unravel the tangled threads of misunderstanding between you. He carries the weight of knowing he should have initiated this conversation long before, but he’s here now, determined to mend what’s broken and bridge the chasm that’s formed between you.

He’s overwhelmed with gratitude as you lend him your ear, and when you extend an apology for your own actions—a gesture he feels unworthy of—he’s humbled. He recognizes he was the one in the wrong, and while he does offer his apologies, he feels they fall short of expressing the depth of his remorse. He struggles to find the words to convey just how profoundly sorry he is. In your presence, he’s painfully aware of his own shortcomings, yet he’s also grateful for the stark contrast of your unwavering kindness, a stark reminder of the person he aspires to be.

As you tenderly trace the lines of his scars with reverence, he feels something inside him fracture, but it’s not pain—it’s the barriers he’s built around his heart, crumbling in the face of your genuine affection. Never before has anyone shown such care and admiration for him in this intimate way. In that moment, his heart swells with a love so profound it threatens to overflow. In your presence, he finds a sense of completeness he’s never known before. Truly, you are the embodiment of sweetness and kindness, and he’s endlessly grateful to have you in his life.

He’s acutely aware that you deserve far better than him. In your unwavering sweetness and kindness, you shine as a beacon of light in his tumultuous world. Despite the countless times he’s put you through turmoil, you continue to stand by his side, unwavering in your commitment. A part of him struggles to comprehend why someone as remarkable as you would choose to be with someone as flawed as him. He can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t deserve a woman of your caliber.

As the blissful days turn into months and the connection between you deepens, it feels as though you’ve been together for a lifetime. It’s this profound sense of certainty that drives him to purchase a ring for you, a symbol of his unwavering devotion. From the depths of his childhood dreams, he’s always known, without a shadow of doubt, that you were the one meant for him.

Fucking hell.

Just when everything seems to be falling into place, Deiji unexpectedly resurfaces, bearing news that shatters the delicate balance of his newfound happiness—she’s pregnant. The weight of her revelation hits him like a ton of bricks, threatening to unravel the life he’s worked so hard to build. While she insists the child is his, he’s consumed by doubt, unable to find any concrete evidence to support her claim. Yet, in the midst of his turmoil, his gaze is drawn to you, and the anguish etched on your face speaks volumes. Despite the chaos swirling around him, he can’t ignore the palpable pain this situation is causing you.

He longs for the prospect of fatherhood, but the thought of having children with Deiji is a nightmare he can’t bear to entertain. If he were to embark on the journey of parenthood, he envisions it with you by his side. Yet, he’s keenly aware of your own hesitations or perhaps lack of desire for children, and he deeply respects your stance on the matter.

Damn, this just became a whole lot more complicated. But amidst the chaos, his resolve remains unwavering—he’s determined to be present for his child, and for you, no matter what. With every update Deiji shares, whether it’s pictures or ultrasounds of the baby, he makes a conscious effort to include you, recognizing the importance of keeping you informed and involved every step of the way.

However, he can’t help but notice the growing distance between you, and it’s a pain that cuts him to the core. The dilemma gnaws at him relentlessly—he’s torn between wanting to cherish both you and his impending child, yet he’s at a loss as to how to navigate the chasm that’s formed between you.

“I really think it’s best to break up,” you repeat, and he’s gripped by a suffocating sense of disbelief, as if trapped in a nightmare he desperately wishes to escape. How can you say this? The love he feels for you surges through him like a relentless tide, and the mere thought of breaking up is unbearable. Doesn’t your heart ache at the idea of leaving? Doesn’t love still reside within you?

“But I can’t bear the thought of losing you,” he pleads with a raw desperation, his heart laid bare before you. Every fiber of his being is consumed by love for you. Can’t you see? Can’t you feel the weight of his devotion?

“I know, I don’t want to lose you either. But as much as it pains me, I can’t go on like this. I need to break up,” your voice cracks, and his heart shatters into a million fragments. Both of you are unwilling to part ways, yet he's come to recognize the toll his situation with his child has taken on you, perhaps far more than he initially comprehended. Ultimately, he realizes he can't compel you to remain by his side, even as the agony of separation tears him apart.

“If that’s truly what you want,” he says, his voice strained with emotion as he struggles to form the words, “then I... I understand.” Each syllable feels like a weight upon his chest, threatening to suffocate him as he resigns himself to the heartbreaking reality of your decision.

“It is,” you confirm with a heavy finality, and in that moment, his heart shatters into a million irreparable fragments, scattered across the floor like the remnants of a shattered dream as you walk away.

Ever since you broke up, a sickness gnaws at him, but he desperately clings to the impending arrival of his child as a beacon of hope. Yet, intertwined with the anticipation is a bitter realization—he’s lost you, and it leaves a repugnant taste lingering in his mouth. He never wanted to be forced into a choice, yet it seems he inadvertently prioritized his impending fatherhood over you, a decision that fills him with self-loathing. Deep down, all he truly yearns for is to be by your side once more.

Every time his gaze falls upon you, your face is etched with profound sadness, and he’s torn between offering you the solace of space or the comfort of his presence. Though you still exchange words sporadically, the connection you once shared feels like a distant memory, a mere echo of what once was.

The ache of missing you consumes him, a relentless longing that claws at his heart. He yearns for nothing more than to be reunited with you, to reclaim the bond you once shared. But the weight of the situation crushes him under its unbearable pressure. Should he forsake his child for the chance to have you back? The mere thought is agonizing, a cruel dilemma tearing him apart at the seams. He’s trapped in a labyrinth of pain, unable to discern a way out of the turmoil engulfing him.

Fuck.

Reflecting on the myriad mistakes he’s made sends a searing pain coursing through his heart, each misstep a haunting reminder of the turmoil he’s inflicted upon you. The weight of his transgressions feels crushing, almost unbearable, yet amidst the wreckage of his past, one truth remains steadfast—you loved him, despite it all. Perhaps you still do, but the uncertainty gnaws at him like a relentless beast. Yet, in the depths of his remorse, his love for you burns bright and unwavering. He’s determined to find a way to convey his unwavering desire to win back your love, to fight for the chance to make things right and rebuild what was once lost.

That’s precisely why tears cascade down onto the paper as he pours his heart out in the letter destined for you.

Author’s note(2): Thank you so much for reading! 🌸 I would very much appreciate it if you reblogged the chapter, if you liked it ✨ A small review or a comment would also mean a lot to me, and even a like. But please, don’t be afraid to let me know what you think; your kind words makes me extremely happy 💜 Remember the Q&A that is coming in the Epilogue— if you want to send in some questions for the characters, you can do it now (and later too) → Ask the characters (or me), anything ❣️

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[the-bad-batch-baroness]

Where's Mommy?

Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Part 9

Summary: Wolffe's wife suddenly dies, leaving him a single father in the middle of a war.

Pairing: Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Characters: Wolffe, Cara (child OFC), Comet, Sinker, Boost, Warthog

Tags & Warnings: heavy angst, mention of death, off-screen death, spousal death, grief, hurt/comfort, family fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

Author's Note: I'm going to be honest y'all. I'm struggling with my health right now, so I don't think I did this part justice. It's a transitional chapter of mostly Cara just being a little kid and Wolffe having to deal with it. Nothing angsty, but we are headed towards more angst. As always, please enjoy 💚

Beta: Please meet my new beta reader/editor @beating-a-dead-plot!

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Wolffe packed up the rest of his wife's things, or at least, the pieces of her that he found the most important. His box was almost full, and he knew Cara was going to have a difficult time leaving some of her things behind, so he decided to leave a little room if she needed it. Putting the box aside, he reached for his duffle to pack his own few belongings that he kept at the apartment. At the very least, he could leave his duffle in the barracks. It was great for storing things that he didn't care about losing or damaging.

With everything packed in either the box or the duffle, Wolffe scanned the room one last time to ensure he didn't miss anything. He knew he'd never be back after today, and there was a lot he couldn't take with him. If he could fold up their entire bed and throw it into his duffle bag he would, but he couldn't. He huffed at the stupid thought while staring longingly at the bed, then his eyes caught on his wife's pillow. If he squished it, he could make it fit into his duffle, which is exactly what he did.

Now, Wolffe was sure he had everything that he could take with him. It was still not enough, though. How did one condense years of their life into a single box and a duffle bag? It used to make sense to him, during his time on Kamino. Clones were property, and property couldn't own other property, so he never had things outside of the standard clone-issued items he carried in his pack. His wife was the one who helped him understand that useless things could be precious.

With a heavy sigh, Wolffe slung the duffle over his shoulder and picked the box up off of the bed. He walked to the bedroom door to leave, but stopped in the frame, his feet stuck like they were sinking into quicksand. He turned and looked back into the room. This is where she slept. This is where they slept. This is where they made Cara. When did he get so attached? It was just a room. When did goodbyes become this hard? He forced his feet to move and flipped the light off for the last time.

On his way to the kitchen, his leg was attacked by a ferocious child.

"Daddy!" Cara yelled as she crashed into him and wrapped her arms around his leg.

Wolffe stepped back with his other foot to steady himself and Sinker quickly grabbed the box he was holding before it fell on top of Cara. With the crisis averted, Wolffe released a slow breath to calm himself as he felt the adrenaline course through his already stressed body. There was nothing in the universe that scared him faster than his daughter being in danger, even if he was the one causing the danger. He took a moment to breathe, then slipped his duffle off onto the ground next to him.

He bent down to peel his daughter off his leg and hoisted her up onto his hip. "What's the matter baby?" he asked.

She cupped her hands around his left ear and whispered loudly. "I need to tell you something."

Wolffe grimaced and tilted his head away. "Yeah? What's that?"

"I love you with my whole carrot," she said and then flung her arms around his neck to hug him.

Wolffe knitted his eyebrows together and repeated the word under his breath. "Carrot?" Maybe he just lost his hearing in that ear.

Comet walked by with Cara's box and laughed at Wolffe's obvious confusion. He leaned over and whispered in Wolffe's other ear. "Ka'rta."

Wolffe snorted and shook his head. "I love you with my whole carrot, too, baby."

"Daddy, I'm hungry," she said.

"I knew that was coming," Wolffe sighed. He placed her down onto the ground and walked off to find the pancakes he saved for her.

On his way to the kitchen, Wolffe spied Cara's box that was filled to the brim and then some. "Was there anything she couldn't fit?" he asked Comet, who was also looking for a snack in the kitchen. "I saved some room in my box just in case."

Comet didn't turn around from his foraging in the cabinets. "I think she's all set." He pushed a food box aside and grabbed a cereal bar. "Had to make some adjustments to the baby blanket, but it went over well."

Wolffe nodded to himself and sighed, but only because he was half listening and his mind was running in eight different directions. "Then I guess we're all set."

"Not quite," Comet said with his mouth full. Turning on his heels, he walked over to the bronze hook on the wall where the flower print apron hung and gently lifted it off. "I think Cara will want this someday."

The corner of Wolffe's lip raised in a small, but pained smile as Comet handed the apron to him. Wolffe scrunched the fabric in his hands and touched it to his face. It smelled like memories, but not the same memories as her pillow. Different memories. Memories of warm food, cheerful laughter, drinks being snorted out of noses, brothers gathered together to share a meal, and love. So much love that it made the War feel like a fleeting dream that he could forget about.

Before Wolffe could be brought to tears by his thoughts, he pulled the apron away from his face and folded it gently with reverence. Her memories deserved respect even if it was just a scrap of cloth. Once folded, he squatted down next to his box and carefully placed the apron in the empty space he left for Cara. She might not care about her mother's pillow or her chapstick like he did, but one day, she'd be able to wear that apron and remember how much her mother loved her.

Wolffe gritted his teeth and pushed his emotions back before standing up. He placed a hand on Comet's shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you."

Comet placed his hand on top of Wolffe's and squeezed back. "You're welcome."

"Daddy!" Cara called from the other room. "I'm hungry!"

Comet chuckled. "Better get a move on, daddy."

Wolffe rolled his eyes and sighed. "Don't make me regret thanking you."

Comet shrugged with a self-satisfied grin as Wolffe walked past him and towards the conservator.

While Wolffe looked for the pancakes in the conservator, the doorbell rang and his heart sank. It couldn't be that time already, could it? He knew they had to leave, but that didn't mean he was ready for it. He wished he had someone to tell him that everything would be alright, like he could with Cara. He could hold her, soothe her, and make her feel safe, but there was no one to do that for him, not anymore. His wife made him feel invincible during times of uncertainty, but now she was gone.

Boost answered the door and huffed. "It's about time you showed up."

"Well, someone had to take care of the battalion," Warthog retorted. "Not everyone gets to play uncle."

"Auggie!" Cara exclaimed and ran to hug his leg.

"Ad'ika!" Warthog smiled and picked her up, rubbing his nose against hers. "How's the youngest member of the Wolfpack?"

"I'm okay," she said.

From the kitchen, Comet watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow. "Auggie?" he asked. "Why Auggie?"

"She doesn't like to say Warthog," Wolffe explained as he pulled out the container of pancakes. "So, she shortened it... I think."

Comet crossed his arms. "How come we don't get cool nicknames?"

Wolffe rolled his eyes and placed the container of pancakes on the counter. "You really want to be called Come, Sink, and Boo?"

"Nevermind," Comet said. "I'm good."

Wolffe laughed. "That's what I thought."

Wolffe walked past Comet and over to the door to greet Warthog. He was not happy to see him, but that wasn't Warthog's problem, it was his. The general commed Wolffe not long after they left the hospital to let him know that he would be sending Warthog to pick them and their things up late morning and bring them to the Jedi Temple so they could get settled before the funeral that evening. The funeral. That was something else Wolffe had been trying not to think too much about.

Warthog bounced Cara in his arms and looked at Wolffe with concern. "You alright, Commander?"

Wolffe sighed. "That obvious?"

Warthog made a knowing face. "Kinda."

"I've been better," Wolffe breathed, hands sitting on his hips.

"Daddy!" she called while squirming in Warthog's arms.

"I'm right here, baby," Wolffe said. "What's the matter?"

Cara bent backwards in Warthog's arms to see Wolffe. "I'm thirsty," she whined. "And I'm hungry."

A lightbulb went off in Wolffe's head. "Cup," he said as he turned around and walked back into the kitchen. "I forgot her cup."

Warthog laughed and pulled Cara back upright. "You are a handful, aren't you?"

Cara scrunched her nose and wiggled to get out of Warthog's arms. "Daddy!" she screamed.

Wolffe sighed and turned to Comet. "Can you–"

"On it," Comet said and he walked over to the struggling pair. "Ad'ika, what happened?"

"Auggie is mean," she whined while pushing away from him.

"Auggie," Comet said with an accusatory tone. "How could you? She's just a kid."

"I didn't do anything!" Warthog exclaimed, mildly hurt by the accusation. He grunted. "Here. You take her. I'm going to go pack their things in the speeder."

Comet shrugged. "Suit yourself." He took Cara from Warthog and she settled down in his arms.

"I'm hungry," she whined again.

Comet sighed and walked them both into the kitchen, quickly finding the container of pancakes sitting on the kitchen counter where Wolffe left them. He opened the container with one hand and pulled out a colorful, yet oddly shaped pancake and gave it to Cara. She grabbed it from him and started nibbling on it. Warthog's arrival didn't bode well just for Wolffe. It put them all on edge. They knew the transition was going to be tough for Cara, but there were worse things on the horizon.

Cara easily downed the first pancake and Comet gave her another one. She took a few bites, then gave it back to Comet with the explanation that she was full. He thought about putting it back in the container along with the others for later, but then he felt his stomach growl and realized the little cereal bar he ate was not enough. So, he popped the nibbled pancake into his mouth and ate it himself.

"Hey," Cara said. "That was mine."

Comet raised an eyebrow. "You said you were full."

"But it was mine!" she exclaimed. "Daddy!"

Wolffe, with Cara's cup in hand, heard his daughter yell for him once again and decided it was time to take his child back from his overworked men. "Alright," he began. "Auggie I can understand, but Comet? Now you're just being fussy."

Cara made a whining noise and Wolffe traded Comet the cup for Cara, then took the cup from Comet and gave it to Cara who drank it down eagerly.

"See?" Wolffe said while running his hand through her dark curls. "You were just thirsty. And you probably need a nap, huh?"

Cara yawned and leaned her head against Wolffe's shoulder.

"Is everyone ready to go?" Warthog asked as he stepped back into the apartment.

The answer got stuck in Wolffe's throat and he rubbed Cara's back nervously.

"It's okay, daddy," she said and nuzzled her face into his neck.

Wolffe took a deep breath. "Yeah, we're ready."

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[pigeonflavouredcake]

How to reference in your grimoire

If you intend on sharing your grimoire with the public or you're a fan of a more academic style of writing then you're gonna want to reference your sources to avoid any kind of plagiarism.

You may have already learned how to reference at your college/uni, in which case follow that method, but if you haven't let me show you what i've been doing in my grimoire.

The referencing style I was taught in my degree is a form of APA 7th edition. This style is best for essays and small research papers and since my grimoire is essentially a bunch of mini contextual essays stuck together I thought it was appropriate.

Here's the format:

Author Surname, Author Initials. (Date of publication/release). Title of source: sub-heading/title of chapter. Publishing company/website. Place of publication/website link. [Format]

So for example, the book I'm currently reading is Buried by Professor Alice Roberts. If I were to reference this book in this format it would look something like this:

Roberts, A. (2023). Buried, An Alternative History of The First Millennium in Britain: Water and Wine. Simon and Schuster. London. [Book]

(Its up to you whether you decide to put the chapter before the book title, it doesn't make a difference, but I prefer doing it this way.)

This reference will need to follow an in-text citation. You can do that by adding a little number in parentheses next to your quote or paraphrase that corresponds to the number on your list of references OR you can make a mini reference following this method:

(Author Surname, Author Initials. (Date of publication). Page number if required)

So following this method an in-text citation would look like this:

(Roberts, A. (2023). p1)

Tips

If you are citing a source with multiple authors, organised them alphabetically by surname, your in text citation only needs to include the first one.

If you're referencing an online upload of an old source like Internet Archive or Project Gutenberg, include the original authors name first, uploaders name/ID second and mark which is which in parenthesis, then the date of original publication if you can find it, followed by the date it was uploaded to the site.

If you are referencing a film/TV episode, use the name of the director and include (Dir) next to their name.

If you can't find a date of publication/upload then write DNA instead.

Always put your references at the back of your grimoire. If your grimoire contains multiple chapters, group them by each chapter and then organise either alphabetically or chronologically. If your in-text citation uses numbers, organise your reference list chronologically. If you're using a mini reference, organise your reference list alphabetically.

This last bit is especially important for practitioners who intend to publish their work. Please please please do not skip referencing! I've read so many traditionally published witchcraft books who's authors don't do this or do it half-assed and I can't stand it.

Readers deserve to know where your information is coming from so they can be the judge on whether or not it's appropriate for them to practice themselves. Not doing so creates a cycle of ignorance among readers and new practitioners that encourages the spread of cultural appropriation, poor media literacy and poor historical and scientific understanding. Always cite your sources.

[pascaloverx]

Sweet Love

Summary: You're an up-and-coming writer, congratulations. To protect your beloved job, you're willing to do anything. Even strike a deal with the devil, better known as your sister's neighbor. You and Dean Winchester don't really see eye to eye, but in a moment of desperation, you agree to collaborate with him for a greater good.

Author's Notes: Many characters do not belong to me but to the Supernatural Universe (2005-2020). I hope you enjoy the fanfic's story. The fanfic will contain strong language and adult content. Dear readers, I'm here to let you know that if you enjoy this fic, please engage with it. Comments and likes are welcome. I appreciate everyone who follows this fanfic. Anyway, enjoy this chapter.

chapter nine

FINAL CHAPTER

The alarm rings, waking you up. It’s not even eight in the morning yet, but you need to adjust to your new life. You and Dean Winchester have been dating for almost two years, which is quite a while. You’re still neighbors, actually, and ever since your relationship changed drastically, he’s been trying to marry you. But all of this happened because, during a night of reconciliation, you both forgot to use protection, and nine months later, you gave birth to a baby. You had your moment of panic when you found out you were going to have a child with Dean.

You get out of bed, hearing your son crying from his room. "Bobby, mommy's coming to get you," you mumble as you quickly get up to grab your son. As soon as you reach his room and approach his crib, he stops crying.

"Who’s the most beautiful baby in the world?" you ask as you pick up your son and gently rock him. He’s too distracted trying to chew on your hair to pay attention to anything you say. Suddenly, the doorbell rings, making your son fidget excitedly. You rush to open the door.

"I knew my little boy would be awake." Bobby smiles when he sees his father at the door. Dean takes the baby in his arms and gives him a hug.

"Can you stay with him while I get ready? I don't want to make us late." You speak between yawns, while Dean nods, playing with little Bobby's hands, who is having a great time in his father's arms. You start picking out the right outfit for the occasion. Sam proposed to your sister, and today is the celebratory lunch for the newly engaged couple.

"Don't you find it odd that our siblings are getting married before us, even though we've already built a new life together?" Dean asks as he watches you from the door of your room. You look at him seriously. He knows you avoid discussing marriage. Having Bob was unexpected and unplanned. You want your marriage to be about something more than just that. Dean, on the other hand, wants to marry to provide a family for your son.

"We rushed the relationship process. They’re following the right flow. What’s really strange is that you’ve already slept with me and with your future sister-in-law. Do you think I should wear this red dress or this black dress?" you ask, showing Dean the options. He examines the dresses for a moment, while Bobby also looks at you with a sleepy expression.

"I prefer the black one; it will highlight your curves better. By the way, I like how things worked out for us. We didn’t plan to have Bobby so soon, but eventually, we would have had a child, right?" Dean starts rocking Bobby in his arms, resting the baby’s head against his chest. Bobby snuggles so comfortably in Dean’s arms, it melts your heart. You grab your clothes and toiletries to head to the bathroom for a shower. However, your silence about Dean’s question clearly bothers him.

"I don’t know, darling. You work so much with your investigations and the reports you publish, and when I release a book, I spend more time on tour signing it than at home. Without Bobby, we probably…" You realize you’re about to say something regrettable, but it’s already too late. You didn’t want to imply that you wouldn’t see a future with Dean if you didn’t have your baby, but that’s exactly what you ended up saying.

"So, from what I understand, we’re not going to get married because we had a child, and the only reason we’re together is because we’re parents of the same baby?" Dean says, visibly irritated, and you can tell from his furious expression that even the fact that Bobby is sleeping in his arms hasn’t calmed him down.

"I know what I said might have sounded that way, but that’s not what I meant. I just wanted to say that no one knows what our future would be like if our child hadn’t been born. But eventually, we will get married. It’s just that as long as I feel like you want to marry me because Bobby needs married parents, I won’t agree to marry you." At that moment, you feel as if you can’t quite express yourself properly. The father of your child seems to be getting more stressed. You drop the outfit you were planning to wear for your sister’s engagement celebration on the bed. You want to try and approach him, but he looks uncomfortable, creating a tense distance between you two.

"I’ll take the reason we're still together to change his diaper and put on his new clothes. Enjoy your shower," Dean says with a certain sharpness in his tone, preventing you from fully approaching him. You feel bad, maybe even a bit foolish.

"Dean, I didn’t mean to offend you. Or our relationship, just try to…" You can’t finish your sentence because he closes Bobby’s bedroom door in your face. You can hear him playing with your son while likely changing him. So, you turn, heading toward your bedroom to grab your clothes and take a shower. The weight of guilt lingers on your shoulders the entire time, and all you want is for this argument to be over.

Your shower ends up being longer than you intended, mostly because you’re not eager to leave and face more tension with your boyfriend. When you finally finish, you hurry to your room, getting dressed quickly, then fixing your makeup and hair. Dean still seems to be in Bobby’s room with him, probably avoiding further confrontation as well. The silence between you two feels heavy, but you know you’ll need to face it eventually.

"Do you want to talk?" Dean says, appearing behind you, leaning against the doorframe. You glance at him while finishing your lipstick, wondering if this is the moment he’s going to break up with you. There’s a pause, and the tension feels almost unbearable as you try to read his expression. His face is serious, but there's something softer in his eyes, maybe a hint of frustration mixed with hurt.

"I’m not with you just because we had a child, I want to make that clear. I love our family and wouldn’t change anything about it," you say, standing up from your vanity and slowly walking toward Dean. Before he has a chance to respond, you gently kiss him, as if needing that kiss to confirm that everything will be alright. But even as your lips touch his, Dean doesn’t seem to want you close. He gently pushes you away, carefully, as if he doesn’t want to hurt you, but at the same time, he clearly doesn’t want your closeness right now. The distance between you grows, not just physically but emotionally too, and it stings more than words.

"I love you, I love our family. But you and I… we’re not going anywhere. What I mean is, if I still have to prove my intentions about marriage after two years, then what’s the point of all this? You don’t want to marry me, and you just won’t admit it because you don’t want to lose me. But it’s wrong to want to keep me at arm’s length when I’ll never fully be yours. Just like it’s wrong for me to want to keep you as my girlfriend when we’ll never be more than that. And if you don’t want that, it’s fine. But I do. For the sake of our relationship, we have to stop fooling ourselves," Dean says, holding your hands against his chest, his forehead resting against yours. Tears are falling from both of you, though you try to be strong for the sake of your son. The weight of his words sinks in, and the emotions are heavy, but the truth in them is undeniable.

"Ending our relationship isn’t fair. You know you love me, and I love you. We have a child together. Isn’t that enough for you?" you say, your voice breaking with sobs and tears. At this point, it doesn’t matter if your makeup is smudged, if you wish this conversation had never happened, or anything else. The only thing that matters is the ache in your chest and the fear of losing the person you love, the father of your child.

"I want to keep respecting you. I want you to be the woman you are, to have what you want. But I’m not what you want, not anymore. And maybe what’s changed between us is that our futures aren’t the same anymore. Bobby will always be our bond, our son. Our love can last forever, but only if we let the romantic side of it fade away," Dean speaks softly, as if he's at peace with what he's saying. But you can't find that same peace. The words feel like a knife twisting in your chest, and the idea of losing him in this way—letting go of the romantic love you share—is unbearable. You don’t want to accept that this could be the end, even if he sounds so calm, almost resigned.

"I don’t want to lose you, Dean. Maybe we could make some kind of concession to each other. You could move in with me, or we could be like those couples who stay engaged for a long time before actually getting married. Please." You’re bargaining with the father of your child, hoping he’ll reconsider what seems like a definitive decision. But he pulls back, as if he’s unwilling to give in.

"You will never lose me. But I don’t think there’s a solution for our romantic situation. It’s ridiculous that it’s at a moment like this, but we need to understand what we have to do. As parents, we need to give our best for our child. If we continue dating, my resentment towards you will overshadow everything. And you’ll never fully trust me romantically. I’m grateful for you being by my side, showing me how beautiful love can be, and for the child we share, but we’ll have to go our separate ways when it comes to romance." Dean says, pulling away, wiping the tears from his face, and composing himself while you feel like a storm is dragging you away.

"Is it over then?" is all you manage to say amid the chaos of emotions you're feeling. Dean looks at you as he steps back further, preparing to leave.

"Until we can be on the same page about our future and what we want from each other, yes. You’re free, and so am I. I know it won’t be easy, that we’ll need to adjust some arrangements involving Bobby, but I’ll try to be the best father our son deserves. I’ll get ready in my apartment, and I assume you’ll want to go in separate cars. I’ll respect whatever you decide." Dean says, looking at you as if he’s waiting for confirmation that you understand he’s breaking your heart, but it’s for the greater good. You think about yelling, throwing something at him, or doing something dramatic, but your son must be sleeping in the next room, and disturbing him is the last thing you want.

"I want you to leave. I’ll take Bobby later. Don’t expect me to act like everything is fine, but I’ll do my best to be decent and not ruin my sister’s and your brother’s day. Now, just go, Winchester." You say, controlling yourself as much as possible to avoid breaking down and losing your composure. Dean hears your words and seems like he wants to come to you, to comfort you. But how could he fix what’s breaking? So, he leaves, taking part of you with him. You then try to collect yourself, going to your son and holding him in your arms while he sleeps peacefully. At least you have him amid all this.

END