#and now us!! from the beginning!! has returned to him

[spurbleu]

john price and his divorced vibes ring true in my heart and notes app once again. cw. slight suicide ideation.

“it’s me or there.”

that’s when it ended. four words, four years, give or take. snuffed out in the aftermath of a hospital visit that wouldn’t have been concerning if john were younger. if he didn’t have you.

he’s seen the cyst of it. the bloated, inflamed beginnings of a divide. the graves that anxiety digs under your eyes. the tears when he returns home- not from joy but from relief.

(maybe that’s always what it’s been- just assumed they were the same. it took looking at your signature on separation papers to make him realize just how wrong he was).

but tonight, you aren’t crying. not now- not in front of him. he can tell you practiced, by the ridged way you sit under the lamplight he had helped you fix last month, hands crossed over the dining room table (oak from the backyard). eyes that build a wall between your body and the woman he married.

“don’t make me choose.” is what he said, which didn’t sound like a real answer to him.

but there was only one reply that would’ve made you stay.

so he survives like he always has. still takes his coffee black, although has to relearn how to use the machine without your help. wakes up at five to a colder bed. still gets deployed for missions, where he doesn’t talk about it.

(still wears the ring, though.)

and without him really knowing it, years go by. he gets shot again, and this time he isn’t just lucky he’s alive, he’s surprised.

(angry, too. hoped that stupid, bullish operative would’ve made the fuckin shot. gave him an honorable death. born from steel so he might as well die by it. maybe it would have made you understand. maybe you would have spoken at his funeral.)

kate makes him take the office job he hid from you. hates it, but eventually the body aches subside and so does the resentment.

it’s early, when he catches sight of you in a café. can’t help himself, and suddenly he’s ordering his coffee with a little bit of cream, and finding your table.

you’re still wearing a ring, but it isn’t his. the subtle roundness of your stomach isn’t, either. that burns more than the cigars he quit last week.

you ask him how he’s been. he says fine. when he asks you the same, you mimic his response- although you’re telling the truth.

“still working?”

he forces a laugh. it comes out pained. “at a desk, now.”

you nod like you saw this coming. “how’s that?”

he tells you about the long days. the creaky chair that leaves faux leather pieces stamped to his trousers. about the annoying, young coworkers. about the window that overlooks a city he didn’t think could be beautiful- but when the sun hits it right he’s proved wrong.

once he meets your eyes, they’re glossy. a teary shine that shocks him until he’s forced to remember the way you looked at the alter. the flush of your cheeks. the curve of your smile, which is practically the same now as it was then, if not a little sadder.

because it hurts. hurts that he is only now accepting peace. that if he hadn’t idled, he could’ve had the very rare opportunity to keep. his promises, his good ending, his wife.

but he didn’t. and now the both of you have to look “could’ve been” in the face. a face that you had loved. a face that john, despite his best efforts, still does.

you wipe your tears and apologize. say the pregnancy is making you weepy. that you’re just so happy he’s doing well. that he’s safe. alive.

he nods. he understands. he lets you lie. because he knows, that as he stands, you want to ask him why. why it took him so long. why he couldn’t quit it for you, when he was always going to end up doing so anyway.

he leaves you without an answer for a second time, but this time it’s because he truly doesn’t have one.

but he doesn’t leave without saying, “I’m sorry.”

and maybe that’s enough.

you will never see him again. he will see you, once. at a playground, with a stroller, and a man who looks like he’s good to you.

he will walk to the pawn shop across the street and sell his wedding ring. the number they give him is far below what it’s worth, but he doesn’t correct them.

because but what would he know.

[youthguk]

Encore 3: Curtain call (Finale) | jjk (m)

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: “Some endings beg to be rewritten.”.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, unprotected sex (be responsible!), angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 13k

author's note: I don’t have enough words to describe what Encore means to me — but maybe that’s the magic of it. This story was born from a single spark of tension, and it grew into something raw, aching, layered, and deeply personal. I poured so much of my soul into this series — every whisper of heartbreak, every charged glance, every line of dialogue that trembled with what wasn’t said. From the first quiet heartbreak to the final kiss — thank you for letting me write it all. Encore will always have a piece of my heart.

part 1 | part 2 | final (you're here)

The hallway is quiet.

Dante’s penthouse suite glows gold behind you, warm and opulent, his cologne still lingering faintly at the collar of your dress, though he never touched you. You stand in your heels, spine stiff, lips parted — trying to think of something elegant to say, something that doesn’t sound like you’re choking on guilt and regret and the echo of Jungkook’s name.

He watches you with that half-lidded charm he wears like a signature suit, loose and luxurious, as if nothing ever truly touches him — not press, not rejection, not women who shift under his gaze but don’t fall.

You inhale sharply and speak, voice smooth even as your fingers tremble at your sides.

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t move. Just smiles.

“You can’t,” he repeats, like it amuses him. “Is this the part where you tell me about office ethics?”

You nod once, but your tone doesn’t waver. “It’s Vogue Korea policy. Editors don’t sleep with partners, clients, or hosts.”

“And I,” Dante murmurs, stepping closer, “am powerful enough to change policy.”

You meet his eyes — calm, perfectly still — and it should be easy to pretend. You’re practiced at this, at being unreadable, untouchable, above desire. But something cracks. And you don’t know if it’s the scent of Jungkook still trapped in your memory, or the way your heart has been aching in silence since you left him in that hallway, but the words leave your mouth before your pride can stop them.

“I can’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Because my heart’s already taken.”

Dante's expression shifts, a subtle change that sends a chill down your spine. His carefully crafted smile twists into something unreadable as he takes a careful step back.

And then, slowly, his lips curl into something that isn’t quite mocking and isn’t quite sincere. His voice is velvet with a blade hidden underneath.

“First time I’ve ever been used by a woman to get back at someone else,” he says, almost like a toast. “I hope he’s worth all this theater.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You can't bring yourself to answer.

You leave without another word, dress whispering around your legs, hair falling loose as the night finally breaks over your shoulders like a closing curtain. The air outside bites at your skin, sharp and alpine-cold, and the valet raises an eyebrow when you step into the waiting taxi without giving a destination.

“Anywhere,” you say, voice soft, eyes distant. “Just… drive.”

Lake Como flickers by like a dream unraveling, all soft lamplight and shuttered balconies and cobbled hills bleeding into the next. Your cheek leans against the window, chilled glass numbing the side of your face, and you watch the world blur as if motion will erase everything you did, everything you wanted, everything you still feel clawing beneath your ribs.

Lake Como's beauty feels like a cruel joke against your emptiness, its picturesque streets and twinkling lights mocking the deafening silence that reminds you with every step that he didn't come after you this time.

You don’t return until the sky begins to lighten with the haze of dawn, pale lavender washing over the peaks like the softest lie. Your heels echo on the marble of the hotel corridor, a ghost retracing her steps. You dig for your key card, heart still beating too fast, thoughts already shifting to how you'll pack your suitcase in silence, how you’ll leave everything that happened in Italy behind.

Rounding the corner to your door, you freeze in your tracks. The sight before you knocks the air from your lungs: Jungkook lies slumped against your suite door, his usually pristine appearance now a portrait of violence. His head rests back against the wall, revealing a swollen-shut eye and split lip crusted with dried blood. His black dress shirt, now wrinkled and stained crimson, clings to his beaten form while his raw, scraped knuckles tell their own story of the fight.

Your clutch slips from your grasp as instinct takes over. You’re on your knees in seconds, hands on his face, your voice breaking apart with panic as you shake him gently, his lashes fluttering under your touch.

“Jungkook—what—oh my god, what happened—what did you—Jungkook, wake up—”

His eyes barely open, dazed and unfocused, lips parting with a soft groan as you press your palm to his cheek.

“Shh—don’t talk, fuck, just—come on, I need—fuck, we need to get you inside—”

You fumble with the key card, hand trembling, managing to drag the door open and guide his weight into your arms. He’s deadweight at first, but then his hand finds your waist, clutches it faintly, and he lets you lead him inside — not out of strength, but because he trusts you still, even like this.

The suite is still dark. You ease him onto the velvet chaise by the window and rush to the bathroom for towels, first aid, anything — your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears. When you return, he’s sitting hunched over, elbows on his knees, blood dripping sluggishly from the corner of his mouth, but his gaze finds you when you kneel in front of him.

“Y/N,” he rasps, and it sounds more like worship than pain. “You’re here.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, tears hot at your temples. “Don’t talk. Not until I clean this up.”

You press warm cloth to his lip, swearing under your breath when he flinches.

“What the fuck did you do, Jungkook? Who did this to you?”

He doesn’t answer. You dab at the blood on his temple, your fingers gentle, and when you ask again — slower this time, voice shaking — he finally speaks.

“I went after him.”

You freeze and your hand stills against his skin.

“You—what?”

“Dante,” he murmurs, head dropping. “I followed you both. I couldn’t— I thought— I didn’t know if he—”

You close your eyes. “Jungkook—”

“He was alone,” he says, voice hoarse. “I found his place. I lost it. I yelled. Demanded to know where you were. I… I swung at him. I tried to hit him.”

“You what?!”

“His bodyguards came before I got far. They—” he pauses, gesturing vaguely to his bloodied state. “They handled it.”

“They told me you left,” he adds, quietly. “That nothing happened. That you said no.”

You stare at him, heart caving inward.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, hands trembling again as they fall to your lap.

“I know,” he breathes. “But I couldn’t lose you. Not again. I—I’d rather bleed for you than live pretending I don’t still love you.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Dangerous. Irrevocable.

You meet his gaze, see the red blooming beneath his eye, the vulnerability split right down the middle of his mouth, and you don’t think — you just lean forward.

And kiss him. Soft at first. Searching. Trembling. But then he surges into it — one hand gripping your thigh, the other cradling your jaw — and the kiss turns deep, slow, devouring. Your tears mix with the blood on his lip, and still you don’t stop. Your fingers curl into his ruined shirt, and his tongue brushes yours like a promise, like a prayer, like a please, please don’t leave me this time.

His lips are cracked, faintly bloodied at the corner, but the kiss is impossibly soft. He moves like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again, like this moment is a thread and he’s terrified to tug it too hard. His hands find your waist — trembling, careful — while yours grip the sides of his face, fingertips brushing over bruised cheekbones and sweat-damp curls.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make sense of all the ruined years. He kisses you like you’re the only reason he’s still breathing.

And when you finally pull away — chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, the silence trembling between your mouths — you whisper, “You need to stop.”

But he doesn’t let go. His eyes are glassy now, lashes wet, pupils wide with everything he’s been swallowing for years. His fingers slide from your waist to your hands, curling around your wrists like he’s trying to anchor himself in them.

“Please,” he breathes, and his voice cracks on the word and you freeze.

“Y/N,” he says again, and this time, the plea is quieter — more broken. “Don’t send me away. Not like this. Not when I just found you again.”

He’s crying now — not the dramatic kind, not the kind that demands anything from you. Just quiet tears slipping down his cheeks, landing in the creases of his lips, the bruises on his skin. The boy who left you all those years ago has become a man who’s falling apart in your hotel room, weeping for a version of you he never stopped needing.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice trembling, hands tightening slightly on yours. “I know I was selfish, and cowardly, and fucking blind. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not running. I’d stay this time. I’d stay even if it killed me.”

You feel your heart twist, stretch, threaten to shatter.

But you’ve rebuilt too many pieces of yourself alone to let them crack again now.

You reach up, thumbs brushing away the wetness on his face, and it breaks something in you to see how he leans into your touch like it’s the only comfort he’s known.

Still, your voice stays steady. “You need to go pack. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care about the flight.”

You step back slightly, but his hands follow — ghosting over your hips, then gripping them, desperate.

“Please,” he chokes out, voice cracking again, lower now, raw like his throat’s been scraped hollow. “Please don’t ask me to walk away. Not after this. Not when I finally—”

You shake your head, gently, firmly. “Jungkook—”

“I’ll stay,” he says. “I’ll wait. I’ll do anything. Just... don’t let this be the end. Don’t shut me out again.”

His eyes are shining, his hands trembling as they slide up your arms, as if trying to memorize the shape of you through his touch alone. He leans in again, forehead resting against yours, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye onto your cheek. It doesn’t sting — it only reminds you how close he still is.

“I love you,” he whispers, wrecked and breathless. “I love you more than I’ve ever known how to say. And I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything, but please—don’t send me back into a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Your eyes flutter shut. You want to say yes. You want to let him stay, crawl back into his arms, pretend it’s enough — just this moment, just this need. But you can’t.

You open your eyes and lift your hands, placing them softly over his as you gently — almost tenderly — remove them from your waist.

“You need to go,” you whisper.

His lips tremble.

You press a kiss to his forehead — one final grace — and then step away completely.

“This,” you murmur, voice steady even as it aches, “stays in Italy.”

He lingers in the doorway, eyes searching yours one last time. His fingers trace the doorframe, hesitating.

"Y/N..." His voice catches, barely a whisper.

You keep your gaze steady, arms crossed against your chest. The silence stretches between you like a physical thing.

Finally, his shoulders slump. Without another word, he turns away, each step heavy with resignation. The door opens with a soft creak, then closes behind him with a quiet click that echoes through the empty room.

You stand there in the darkness, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway until there's nothing left but the hum of the air conditioning and the weight of your decision settling into your bones.

Seoul, One Month Later

There is something strangely comforting about the hum of the Vogue Korea office — the way espresso steams through the marble-counter café bar on the sixth floor, the way heels echo down glass-lined corridors, and how every monitor glows with Pantone palettes, layout grids, and a rotating carousel of pre-spring collection drafts. You’ve always found sanctuary in this rhythm — the precision, the pressure, the need to be perfect and perform it effortlessly.

The November air is sharp, bracing as it filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seoul glints outside like a jewelry box, all chrome and movement, as you sip your Americano from a Maison Kitsuné mug and scan the proofs spread across your desk — feature layouts for Chanel Beauty, three possible headlines for the Balenciaga editorial, and a string of half-formed notes for a Seoul Fashion Week retrospective you were too tired to finish last night.

Your laptop pings. You don’t flinch. Another edit request for the holiday issue. You glance at the schedule on your phone — back-to-back today, copy deadlines and a round-table pitch for the February Valentine’s campaign — and somewhere in the middle of it, a fitting appointment with a model who’ll be shot draped in Loewe’s upcoming campaign shawls.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve trained your body to move without letting the inside show.

No one here knows what happened in Italy.

No one knows how you’ve been waking up at 3:17 a.m. every night since, sheets tangled between your legs, the ghost of his breath still hot on your neck. No one sees the way your hand freezes sometimes while drafting interviews, your mind skipping like a scratched vinyl — back to the way he whispered your name while tasting your skin. Back to the blood on his mouth. The way he kissed you like dying was an option.

You touch yourself to that memory more than you’d ever admit.

And when you come, you hate how softly you whisper his name.

But none of it shows. Not here. Not between the racks of sample clothes or in the chilled hush of the editors' lounge or when Kara walks by with that same acidic smile she’s been wearing all month. You’ve noted how her eyes linger on you longer than necessary — not in jealousy anymore, but in something more deliberate. It doesn’t matter. You’ve been avoiding her since Italy, and you plan to continue doing so.

You’re in the middle of annotating a Burberry accessory spread when the PA chimes: a department meeting in fifteen minutes. You slide on your blazer — cream Jacquemus — and gather your notes, making your way to the long oval conference room on the east side of the floor.

The glass walls are half-frosted, the room already filled with editors in signature blacks and muted creams. You take your seat. Smooth your skirt. Sip from your water bottle.

You are calm.

You are unshakeable.

Until you hear his name.

“I want to thank everyone for the incredible performance on the October cover,” your boss begins, her tone clipped, composed, the sleeves of her Céline coat folded neatly against her chair. “The BTS feature put us back on the map, and the numbers are better than projected. That being said, January needs to go even bigger. Jeon Jungkook will be launching his solo album that month, and we’ve secured him as our January cover.”

Your pen doesn’t fall. Your posture doesn’t shift. But inside? A slow twist, somewhere between the throat and the spine.

“Y/N will lead the campaign again,” she continues, not even looking at you — because of course, it’s a given now. “Photoshoot. Feature article. Backstage access. His team already agreed. You’ll follow his schedule — starting with the Louis Vuitton shoot next week, then trailing him through his album production.”

The table buzzes lightly with murmurs — approving, congratulating. Someone across the table says, “Well deserved,” and another smiles at you and adds, “Iconic pairing.” You offer a diplomatic nod. A perfect smile.

Kara doesn’t smile.

And then — sharp as broken crystal — her voice cuts across the table.

“Is she really the best choice for this?”

The room stills, you feel every eye in the room. 

You don’t look at her, but you hear everything in her tone — the ice, the bite, the implication. Your boss doesn’t flinch.

“She’s proven herself capable,” she replies evenly. “If you have concerns, Kara, bring them to me privately next time.”

Kara falters. Just a blink. But it’s enough. Her mouth sets into a tight line, and she looks away.

You blink once, calmly, and wonder — for just a moment — since when she’s become so reckless, so willing to sabotage in public.

But the thought doesn’t linger because your mind has already gone somewhere else.

Two weeks.

Two weeks in and out of shoots, tracking studio sessions, trailing the man you’ve spent every night trying to exorcise from your system. You know how he looks in soft morning light. You know how he sounds when he begs. You know how he tastes when he’s desperate.

And now you’re supposed to trail him with a notebook and call it journalism.

You swallow hard. Your hands don’t tremble. But you think — just for a second — that maybe this is where the real performance begins.

✦✦✦

It’s still early when you arrive at the studio — the kind of early where the lights are too cold, coffee tastes like necessity, and the air smells faintly of fresh paint and concrete dust. The Louis Vuitton team has already begun assembling the set, a curated dreamspace of vintage suitcases, faded wallpaper florals, and a stately brass bed that rests like a memory in the middle of the soundstage. Every element carefully chosen, every texture soft with nostalgia, as if the shoot itself is caught mid-sentence — a story without an ending, paused between what was meant and what became.

You move through the crew like silk — smooth, precise, unfazed — giving notes to lighting techs, nodding approval to stylists, adjusting a rack of garments that had been arranged slightly off-sequence. The shoot, your shoot, is titled “Une Lettre Jamais Envoyée” — A Letter Never Sent — and every frame is meant to ache. Garments are archival but lived-in, all sepia-toned cashmere and sharp tailoring softened by time. The concept is simple: the solitude of a man in a room filled with things he cannot throw away, haunted by someone who never answered.

The irony is not lost on you.

You check the call sheet once more, your voice steady as you walk through the logistics with the producer. Monochrome lighting for Look One. Diffused sun-flare for Look Three. Music low, intimate — you’d asked for Debussy, for that familiar aching piano to fill the air like perfume.

And when he arrives, you don’t need to see him to feel it. The room shifts.

The energy bends around him the way candlelight bends around the mouth of a bottle — quiet, warm, dangerous. Jungkook steps onto the set in full silence, a charcoal overcoat draped over his shoulders, his dark hair slightly tousled as if someone had already run fingers through it. His jaw is set, lips slightly swollen from either sleep or biting them raw, and his gaze scans the crew until it lands — unerringly, unrelentingly — on you.

But you don’t look up.

You don’t flinch, don’t pause, don’t show the way your stomach flips once, hard, like a page turning before the story’s ready.

Instead, you speak to the photographer, a veteran French lensman who prefers film over digital and only calls you chérie, no matter the chaos on set. He adjusts the angle slightly, then lifts his hand mid-frame and calls out across the room, “Y/N, can we get him styled a bit looser in the sleeves? It’s too structured for the concept.”

You exhale once, slow. Professional. Composed. You cross the set and you touch him.

Just his wrist, where the cuff sits too stiff against the edge of his hand. You unbutton it slowly, rolling the fabric back with careful fingers, exposing the delicate veins on his forearm, and then you do the same to the other — ignoring the way his eyes never leave you, ignoring the way he breathes like it hurts to stand still.

You smooth down the line of the coat. His skin brushes yours. Your fingers burn.

Still, you don’t speak. He does. A whisper, meant for you and no one else.

“I missed your hands.”

You don’t look up. Instead, you step back and signal to the photographer that the frame is ready.

The shoot begins.

Jungkook moves like poetry — like he knows what this campaign is about, like it was written about him. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed, one hand tangled in the hem of a scarf that doesn’t belong to him, and he looks like someone who’s been left behind but still hopes the door might open. His expressions shift with each shutter click — longing, silence, disbelief, ache — and every single one of them feels too close to what you remember of him beneath your fingers in Italy.

You manage the room like nothing’s wrong.

You direct the crew, review the monitor feed, adjust the tone when someone gets too loud. When Look Three is rolled out — the white cotton button-down, slightly wrinkled, collar open like he just woke up heartbroken — you hand it to wardrobe yourself, knowing full well how it will sit against his skin. You do not speak to him again. Not even when the stylist forgets to tuck the tag and the photographer gestures for you to fix it.

You step forward, one last time.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing his throat, and for a second he leans toward you — barely — as if the instinct is still there, like gravity. You ignore it. You tuck the tag. You fix the line. You walk away.

You finish the shoot an hour ahead of schedule.

You thank the team. Compliment the assistant stylist. Sign off on the film canisters and hand them over to the creative director. You do everything you’re meant to do, perfectly, professionally — and only when you sense him start to move behind you, feel the slightest shift in the air as if he’s about to reach for you, do you grab your bag and walk out, heels clicking loud and fast against the polished concrete floor, the sound of your escape echoing louder than his footsteps ever could.

You don’t look back. Because if you do — even once — you know this whole thing will burn.

✦✦✦

The next day of the schedule starts with a shutter click.

You arrive five minutes early, which is late by Vogue standards but early enough to look effortless. The studio is already lit in soft amber tones, flashes tested, light reflectors set in that subtle arch that frames the subject like an exhale. A quiet team of production assistants, stylists, and makeup artists hums around the space like bees in a glass hive. You take a seat near the edge of the shoot — clipboard in hand, pen capped, expression neutral — because today, you are not his past.

You’re just the editor and this is work.

Jungkook sits beneath the lights, draped in minimalist Givenchy, collar just low enough to hint at the ink curling across his collarbone. His skin is impossibly clear, styled to perfection, and you note — clinically, without emotion — that his eyes have dark circles under them that no amount of concealer can blur. Still, he poses like he was born under halogen, relaxed spine, parted lips, chin tilted, like he knows his angles and isn’t afraid to use them.

Across the room, Vogue Korea’s designated campaign photographer adjusts her lens and calls for frame five. You’re not on set — not yet — but you’re close enough to hear his voice when he answers a casual question from the stylist.

You’re also close enough to feel the air ripple when his eyes flick toward you between shots.

You’ve been in this industry too long to show weakness — not under studio lights, not with a photographer framing him like a god and a camera trained on every shadow.

Instead, you glance down at your notes. The interview outline is clean, with your handwriting pressed into the margins beside each question — an efficient, emotionless skeleton of conversation. You’re scheduled to ask about the album’s concept, the title RE:ENTRY, his intentions behind the tone, and any specific themes he’s chosen to highlight.

The theme is obvious. But you’ll ask anyway.

At exactly 11:30 a.m., the shoot breaks for rotation. You’re called over by the PR manager, and then by the Vogue photographer, who wants you on set to check visual tone and continuity.

You cross the studio slowly, adjusting your blouse at the wrist, pen still tucked neatly between two fingers, heels clicking softly against the concrete. When you step into the center of the lights, you feel it again — the way the room bends, the way his gaze wraps around you like silk that’s been soaked in heat.

You ignore it. The photographer points to a slight wrinkle in the shirt Jungkook is wearing. “Y/N, can you smooth that for me? It’s catching glare.”

You nod once. Step forward. Your fingers brush the hem of the shirt, then flatten over the fabric just above his waist. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his breath shifts — you feel it bloom against your cheek, and your skin prickles with memory. Still, your hands are steady. Your eyes never meet his.

You adjust the fit, step back, nod to the camera.

Then you return to your seat. The rest of the day is efficient. You conduct the first half of the interview in a lounge corner of the studio, Vogue’s photographer snapping lifestyle-style candids in the background. Your questions are clean, practiced — too practiced. You ask about sonic inspiration, the shift from being part of a group to working solo, what scared him most about releasing something under just his name.

He answers well. Articulately. Formally. As if you aren’t the one person in the world who knows exactly what the track titled Notte Bianca is about.

You nod politely. Take notes. The shoot wraps at 5:00 p.m.

You thank the team, nod to the brand rep, shake hands with the makeup artist who complimented your ring. You don’t look at him again. Not until the very end, when you sense — not hear, not see, sense — his movement behind you. A reach. A step too close. Fingers about to graze your wrist.

You turn your head sharply — not enough to meet his eyes, just enough to remind him that you saw.

And then you leave, your car door shuts with the cleanest click you’ve ever heard.

✦✦✦

The car ride to Jungkook’s studio is unnervingly quiet — no music, no notifications, just the rhythmic tap of your nails against the Vogue press badge clipped discreetly inside your tote. Outside the window, Seoul moves like water — all steel and winter glass, a city too fast to hold your nerves.

When the taxi pulls up, you almost miss it.

The recording studio doesn’t flaunt its purpose. It’s hidden behind a row of designer cafés and flower boutiques in Hannam-dong, masked in matte black brick, with only a brushed steel door and keypad hinting at what it guards. There’s no sign. No name. Just silence. Which, you realize the moment you step out into the crisp air, is entirely the point.

You let yourself in with the temporary guest pass his team sent the day before, and the door opens on a different world — warmth, hush, acoustics tuned to velvet. The air is low-lit and humming with equipment, the scent of coffee and ozone hanging above a polished concrete floor. On one side, a glass-walled booth with layered sound panels and a hanging condenser mic; on the other, a leather couch and a wall of analog gear that looks far too expensive to touch.

You recognize it instantly as a space meant for vulnerability — but guarded like a vault.

Jungkook’s voice reaches you before you see him.

“Hey.”

You turn, and there he is — already seated near the mixing console, one leg folded beneath him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingers idly toying with a capless pen. He looks… quieter here. Not styled. Not sculpted for press. Just him.

You nod, polite. Controlled. “Hi.”

And then — like before — you don’t sit right away. You set your bag down carefully, unfold your notes, pull out the recorder, and begin the slow work of building a wall between the memory of his mouth on your body and the man now waiting to be interviewed.

“Thanks for making time for this,” you add, walking to the velvet chair opposite him.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Thanks for not avoiding me anymore.”

You ignore that. You press record.

“This is for the January cover feature,” you say, your voice even, practiced. “It’s a longform editorial piece to accompany your solo debut. I’d like to begin with the album title. RE:ENTRY. Why that name?”

He shifts in his seat, looking toward the floor before answering.

“I liked the idea of burning through the atmosphere,” he says. “Coming back into something that used to feel like home, but being changed by the fall. Everything’s faster now. Hotter. You survive it… or you don’t.”

You nod. Your pen glides across the paper.

“And the sound?” you ask. “You move between genres — synth, stripped-down ballads, late-night R&B. What ties them together?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all from the same orbit.”

You look up at him.

He adds, “Even when I was making Private Room, I was still haunted by Encore. I wanted sex and silence in the same breath. I wanted the story to feel like it was begging for one more night.”

You don’t blink. “So Encore is the centerpiece track?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, and smiles like it costs him something. “It’s the one that hurts the most.”

You cross your legs.

"And Don’t Look Back (You Did)?"

“Regret. Ego. Silence.” He meets your gaze. “You’d know.”

Your pen stills — for just a second — but you move on.

“And Her Ghost Wears Chanel?”

He breathes out, voice lower now. “That’s about waking up next to people who still aren’t her.”

You don’t flinch. You just write the line down, word for word, inked sharp and clinical across the page.

There’s a beat of quiet. You can feel the shift — the closeness, the weight of everything unsaid leaning into the pause.

You redirect.

“Let’s talk about New Year’s Exit,” you say, voice crisp again. “It opens the album.”

He nods. “It’s about starting the year without something you thought would be permanent.”

“Someone.”

He doesn’t deny it. You lower your pen, pause the recorder gently. “Would you be willing to let me hear a track?”

He’s already moving.

He rises from the chair — graceful, relaxed, more fluid than you remember — and walks toward the mixing board. The entire room shifts with him, like gravity, like muscle memory, and when he turns back to you, the lights catch his cheekbones in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest.

He presses one key. And then Notte Bianca begins.

The track opens with the soft pull of fingers over a guitar string — warm, breathy, deliberate — and you feel it before you register the sound, something low in your spine tightening like recognition. The room doesn’t change, not visibly, but it feels different now, like every shadow is suddenly looking at you, like the light itself has gone still just to listen.

You remain seated, back straight, pen still in hand even though you haven’t written a word since he pressed play. Your eyes flick toward the console screen where the waveform glows and moves, but it’s his voice that finds you first — low, layered, textured with static and restraint, the way he always used to sing when he wanted to break your heart quietly.

"Lake light on your thighs / Moon in your throat / My name under your breath like it burned."

You don’t move.

"You kissed me like the night was rented / Like it wouldn’t last the drive home."

He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you.

You feel it — not just in the air, but under your skin, like heat rising too fast. The lyrics pour out in waves, brushed with the same decadence that coated the marble floors of that Italian hotel, the same pulse that dragged you toward him under that chandelier, the same unbearable ache of wanting him and hating him in the same breath.

You swallow once. Your pen is trembling now.

"You said nothing when you left / But your lipstick stayed in my lungs."

The last chord hangs for too long. And then silence.

You lift your eyes, slowly, knowing that if you meet his gaze for more than a second, your composure will unravel like thread under fire.

Jungkook doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the quiet linger between you like a question you haven’t earned the right to ask.

When he finally does speak, his voice is soft — not teasing, not smug — just quietly devastating.

“That one came out fast.”

You blink once, slow.

“It sounds…” You reach for a word, but none of them feel professional enough. “It sounds… expensive.”

He smiles faintly, almost sadly. “It was.”

There’s a silence again — not awkward, just heavy.

You flip the page in your notebook with a hand that pretends not to shake. “Is it about someone specific?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, fingers threading behind his neck, body angled like a challenge, like he’s trying to look relaxed while waiting to see if you’ll flinch first.

“Only one person would recognize it,” he says finally.

You don’t answer.Instead, you click your pen closed and lower your voice, just enough to remind yourself that you're still in control.

“Any other tracks you’d like to walk me through today?”

He tilts his head — a little amused, a little bitter.

“I thought this was just a feature article,” he says. “Not a postmortem.”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “They’re the same thing, sometimes.”

He stands.

And the room bends with him — subtly, but you feel it, like the soundproofing is no longer between the walls but between your ribs.

“I want to show you something,” he says. You don’t respond, but you follow him. 

The glass door to the recording booth is already cracked open, a soft glow pulsing from the mic’s standby light. He gestures you in, lets you step past him first, and when the door clicks shut behind you, the quiet becomes absolute — not silence, but a vacuum, the kind of hush you feel in your teeth.

He doesn’t move to the mic, standing behind you instead. Too close.

You can see your reflection in the glossy black of the sound panel in front of you, and the moment his voice drops — low and velvet — near the shell of your ear, you feel your pulse skitter hard behind your ribs.

“You didn’t ask about Private Room,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes.

Your voice barely works. “I didn’t think I needed to.”

He leans in from behind, breath warming your neck, his mouth not touching but close enough that your skin knows what he wants.

“Maybe you should’ve.”

You don’t know who moves first.

It could be you shifting your hips, or him closing the distance between his mouth and your neck. But the second he kisses you again, everything unravels. The studio is quiet — dangerously so — the only sound the low hum of the condenser mic and the soft hiss of your breathing when his lips skim your skin again, lower this time, finding that place beneath your ear that always made your knees tilt inward.

You stand there, frozen and burning, arms hanging useless at your sides while his hands move with a kind of hesitant worship — first hovering at your waist, then settling at the slope of your hips. Your skirt is short. You wore it because it was sharp. Professional. Structured. Not so it would make it easier for him to find your skin beneath it. But now, when his thumbs dip under the fabric and he groans softly against your neck, you know you made a mistake thinking you could stay in control of this.

You reach for him behind you, fingers closing around his wrist, guiding it higher — first to your ribs, then up, until his palm cups your breast through the thin fabric of your top. He breathes your name into your hair, barely a sound. You don’t respond.

You push backward, just enough to feel the line of him — hard, warm, pressed against the curve of your ass through too many layers. The contact sends a bolt of heat through your core, sharp and sweet and horrible.

He growls then, low and ragged, and spins you gently, urgently, until your back is against the padded wall. His gaze is molten, his lashes dark with restraint. One hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your lip.

“I don’t have a condom,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours, breath fanning hot across your mouth.

Your eyes stay on his, steady. “I’m clean. On the pill.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m clean too.”

You tilt your head, lips almost touching now. “Then fuck me. Raw.”

He kisses you — not sweetly, not gently — and it knocks the breath out of you. The kiss is wet, open-mouthed, all tongue and memory. His hands yank your top up and over your chest, dragging it to your collarbones while he palms your breasts, rough and aching, mouth breaking from yours only to attach to your neck, your jaw, the space just above your collar.

His fingers tug your skirt higher and he drags your underwear down in one motion, breath catching when he finds you soaked.

“You wanted this,” he mutters, almost angry.

“You left me,” you snap.

And still — your legs part for him.

He strokes you once, twice, and you arch into the wall with a gasp. He leans in, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re hard,” you whisper back.

He groans — deep, feral — and with one hand gripping your hip, he aligns himself and pushes in, slow and thick, stretching you open in a way that makes your jaw go slack.

The first thrust is unbearable. The second nearly makes your knees give.

It’s different — raw — in every sense. Hotter. Messier. You feel every inch of him, no barrier between you, no distance, no excuse. He presses you into the wall and begins to move, hips rolling deep, his breath catching against your neck with each thrust. One hand holds your thigh up, the other slides around your stomach, anchoring you to him as he rocks into you harder, deeper.

“You feel—fuck—you feel like sin,” he breathes, and the sound of it makes your head fall back.

You clench around him and whimper something that sounds like his name. His grip tightens.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin.

“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “Don’t.”

He fucks you like a memory he refuses to let fade — slow and deep, then fast and filthy, each thrust wet and loud and obscene in the echo of the booth. You’re both making sounds now, breathless and unfiltered. His hand slips between your legs, fingers rubbing where you’re swollen, and when you cry out, he curses under his breath.

“Don’t be quiet,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

You come fast — it crashes into you like the snap of a wave, your body going taut, your thighs trembling as your orgasm rips through you, pulsing around him.

He barely holds it together.

The rhythm stutters, grows erratic. He grunts something low against your shoulder, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and full, buried as deep as he can go. Your walls flutter around him, milking every drop, and he stays inside for a moment — just breathing, just holding.

Then, wordlessly, he pulls you off the wall. He lowers you into his lap as he sinks into the studio chair, still sheathed inside you, still hard, still not done.

You let your weight settle onto him, and for a moment, you both just breathe — foreheads brushing, skin hot and trembling, his hands skating up the back of your thighs with reverence that feels dangerous. You grind once, slow, a test — and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

You plant your hands on his chest, lift your hips, and begin to ride him — deliberately slow at first, dragging your wetness along every ridge of him, letting the stretch burn again just because you want it to. Your head falls back with a moan that echoes off the soundboard. He watches you like he’s in a trance, jaw slack, hands gripping the curve of your waist to steady you as you find rhythm again.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he groans, voice rough, low. “On me. All mine.”

You don’t answer — you just roll your hips harder, faster, chasing friction and heat.

He growls, leans forward, and his hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he guides you faster, helping you ride him with bruising force now. Your moans turn breathless, pitched higher, your thighs shaking from effort and overstimulation, and he leans in to suck a mark beneath your collarbone, murmuring filth against your skin as he does.

“Fuck, baby… You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He thrusts up once, twice — hard — and then holds you still as he comes, buried deep, heat spilling into you, a low growl rasping out of his throat. You shudder once more with him, clenching around every pulse of him, drunk on the stretch, the fullness, the rawness of it.

You collapse onto his chest again, trembling.

He breathes against your hair. “Round two?”

You smile. Slow. Lazy. Still wrapped around him.

“Not tonight.”

You pull back, fingertips smoothing the line of his jaw. You press one soft kiss to his lips — all heat and no promise — and when you stand, he groans at the loss of you.

You smooth your skirt down, roll your top back into place, gather your pen from the floor like it matters.

Then you look at him over your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you say, voice satin-sweet, already turning toward the door. “That was a very, very good fuck.”

[you can read the article of OC and Jungkook’s album tracklist here]

✦✦✦

The morning stretches itself across the Vogue Korea editorial floor in long, ivory ribbons of winter light, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows with theatrical precision, as if the sun itself is rehearsing a cue for your moment. The glass table gleams beneath your fingertips. Your laptop screen reflects back your masterpiece — the completed feature article for the January issue, centered around Jungkook’s solo debut, your words threading through each song like the fine gold stitching of a couture hem.

You’ve read it a dozen times this morning alone. Still, it holds. Still, it sings.

Each paragraph cuts clean. Every pull quote lands like a lyric that never needed melody. You’ve captured RE:ENTRY the way it was meant to be seen — not just an album, but a confession dressed in synth and sweat and late-night regret. It is, without a trace of false humility, the best work you’ve ever done. And the issue? Your issue. The layout. The vision. The headline structure. The branded social rollout. All of it — yours.

The room is full — editorial, design, digital, partnerships — everyone seated around the long conference table, coffee cups half-full, coats draped over the backs of chairs, winter breath still lingering in some of their voices. You finish your presentation with a confident click, closing the laptop and lifting your chin slightly as you glance toward your boss.

For a beat, there’s silence. And then it starts — a ripple of soft applause that swells into something louder, more genuine, until even the department heads are nodding to each other in agreement. Compliments bloom across the room like perfume. Someone says the piece reads like a movie. Someone else calls it transcendent. Even Hyerin catches your eye from across the table, mouthing a quiet “you killed it.”

Then, from the head of the table, a slow, deliberate nod.

Seo In-kyung, the Editor-in-Chief herself — rarely warm, never effusive — folds her manicured hands atop her tablet, tilts her head slightly, and lets the words fall in that sharp, measured tone she reserves for verdicts and final cuts.

“I don’t say this lightly,” she begins, her voice cool and commanding, “but your feature has set the tone for this issue in a way I haven’t seen in years. It’s layered. It’s intimate. And most importantly, it’s Vogue. I can already feel the ripple effect.”

You exhale slowly, the praise sliding over your skin like sunlight through silk, warm and grounding and almost enough to distract you from the truth that’s been haunting you since the night at the studio: that no matter how clean your layout, how polished your sentences, how composed your posture — you let him in again. And you’ve been ignoring every message since.

But for now, you’re untouchable. Or at least, you were.

Until Kara stands.

The sound of her palms meeting each other breaks through the air with a peculiar cadence — a slow, sarcastic clap, each strike louder than the one before. The entire room shifts toward her in confusion, and when she smiles, it’s the kind of curve that doesn’t reach her eyes, the kind of expression that warns before it wounds.

In-kyung’s voice tightens like a drawn thread.

“Kara. Sit.”

But she doesn’t. Instead, she adjusts the fall of her designer blouse, takes a step forward, and clears her throat delicately — the kind of theatrical gesture that lets everyone know she’s about to make the moment about herself.

“Maybe,” Kara begins, her voice sugar-laced and perfectly pitched, “if the rest of us were fucking with the people we were interviewing, we could all produce work like that.”

For a moment, you don’t breathe. No one does.

The room plunges into silence so deep it hums, and you swear you hear the central heating system kick on just to fill the space with something. Across the table, Hyerin’s eyes widen. One of the junior editors drops their pen. Someone mutters what the fuck under their breath, barely audible.

And you? You sit motionless. Perfect. Stunned. Your spine straight, your limbs gone cold.

Your name is not said. But it doesn’t have to be.

In-kyung straightens, rising from her seat like the ghost of judgment in ivory cashmere.

“Kara. My office. Now.”

Kara offers a slow, graceful blink, like a model turning for her close-up, and walks toward the exit with a posture that suggests not shame, but triumph. You follow, legs heavy and heart racing, still unsure how reality is moving beneath you when the ground feels like it should be giving way.

Inside the office, the door clicks shut with a finality that feels fatal. You don’t sit. Kara does.

She opens the folder in her hands and begins sliding photos across In-kyung’s desk with infuriating precision — one after another, each print more invasive than the last. There’s a shot of Jungkook’s hand on your back outside the gala limo. Another of him stepping into your taxi the following morning. A third from years ago, the two of you on the sidewalk in Mapo, your fingers linked, your faces flushed with the kind of joy only twenty-year-olds and fools believe is permanent.

You stare in disbelief, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“What the hell is this?” your voice cracks. “Were you following me?”

Kara doesn’t even look up. She keeps arranging the photos like artifacts.

“No need,” she says, light as air. “Your fuckboy is a walking goldmine of sasaeng activity. I just reached out to a few desperate little fan accounts. They practically threw this at me.”

Something in you shatters.

“Are you hearing yourself?” you hiss, turning to In-kyung with disbelief. “She bought photos from stalkers. This isn’t journalism. It’s harassment. Jungkook has no privacy and you’re—”

But In-kyung doesn’t raise her hand. She doesn’t shout and doesn’t look at the photos a second time.

She simply closes the folder in one deliberate motion, turns her eyes to yours — steady, unreadable, perfectly composed — and delivers her verdict with the same calmness she uses to kill stories at the pitch table.

“You’re fired.”

You feel the words before you hear them, the coldness of them landing first in your stomach and then rising like bile to your throat. You blink, stunned, trying to make sense of what you’ve just been told.

“What?”

Her tone doesn’t change.

“The article will be reassigned,” she says. “The cover credit will follow. You’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

You can’t move.

“This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “You’re rewarding her for a smear campaign built on sasaeng surveillance—”

You want to speak — to scream, to argue, to defend yourself with everything you’ve built — but your mouth doesn’t open. Kara sits still, smug and silent, as if she’s already lit the match and is simply watching the room burn.

“You made a choice,” In-kyung cuts you off, voice quiet, cold. “To violate our professional code. To sleep with a client. You gambled your credibility. And you lost.”

Kara exhales like a cat stretching in the sun. “Have a nice life, sweetheart.”

You look to In-kyung again, searching for anything — reason, mercy, even disgust.

But she’s already turning back to her computer.

You are no longer something she needs to look at.

“Please escort yourself out,” she says without lifting her gaze.

And just like that, you are erased.

✦✦✦

The office is quiet now — too quiet — the way a room sounds after applause ends and everyone forgets to look back. You sit alone in the corner cubicle that used to buzz with purpose, dragging your Vogue-embossed storage box closer with one hand, the other carefully wrapping cords, tucking notebooks, flattening printed drafts that once mattered more than breath itself. Your coffee mug — the one from Paris Fashion Week with the chipped handle and a faint lipstick stain that never came off — goes in last.

You don’t cry. Not because you’re strong. But because there is something so bitter, so insulting about the way it ended that it leaves no room for tears, only a scalding sort of fury that simmers behind your ribs like boiling perfume.

You don’t look at Kara’s desk. You don’t even let your gaze hover near it.

You think about the years it took to get here — from intern to editor, the nights you stayed late under flickering lights, rewriting celebrity copy while Kara slipped out early for rooftop events she didn’t earn. You think about the trust you built, the reputation for polish and precision, the way your boss once said you were the kind of woman who made Vogue feel like Vogue again. And now? One grainy photo from a sasaeng with a zoom lens and a grudge, and it’s over.

Your jaw clenches. When you close the lid on the box, the snap of it feels ceremonial.

Footsteps approach, soft-soled and hesitant. You don’t look up until Hyerin’s voice breaks the hum of your rage.

“They’ll reconsider. I know they will. You just need to wait it out.”

You meet her eyes — kind, worried, sincere — and something in you softens for a breath. But only a breath.

“I don’t want them to,” you say, your tone low, flat, final. “If this is what they stand for — if this is what they protect — then I don’t want to belong to it.”

Hyerin looks stricken. “Y/N…”

But you’re already standing, lifting the box with both arms. It’s heavier than it should be. Or maybe you’re just exhausted.

“I didn’t sleep with him for a cover,” you add, pausing at the edge of your cubicle. “But even if I had — I’d still have more integrity than someone buying evidence from stalkers. And they chose her over me. That’s all I need to know.”

✦✦✦

The taxi ride home is silent. Not a single notification or a single tear.

But when you step inside your apartment, place the box carefully on the floor, and shut the door behind you — it breaks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sharp inhale, a trembling lip, and the way your shoulders fold forward like they’re finally allowed to collapse. You don’t scream. You don’t sob. But your hands shake when you reach for your phone, and your heart races the moment his name lights up the screen.

You press call. It rings once, then twice.

“Y/N?” His voice is thick with disbelief, like he never actually expected to hear from you again. “Wait—are you okay?”

You don’t answer him right away.

“Do you know,” you begin, voice steady despite everything, “how many sasaengs follow you?”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that stretches too long.

“…Yes,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You swallow. “Do you know they’re selling photos of you?”

The panic in his voice is instant, sharp as a blade. “What? What the fuck—why are you asking? Did they follow you? Did they send you something? Y/N, what did they—”

“They didn’t come to me,” you interrupt softly. “They went to someone else. Someone who used it to destroy everything I worked for.”

Another silence. And then, his voice drops — low, furious, gutted. “Tell me who.”

You laugh — not out of humor, but out of something hollow and tired and cruel. “Does it matter? It’s done. I’m fired.”

“What?”

“I lost everything,” you say, softer now, like you’re just realizing it yourself. “The article. The credit. The cover. All of it.”

He curses under his breath. You can hear him pacing, hear the frustration laced into every inhale. “They can’t fucking do that. You worked for years—"

“I don’t care,” you lie.

“Yes, you do.”

You sit on the floor, legs crossed beneath you, staring at the wall like it might offer you something. “I care about writing. I care about fashion. But I don’t care about a company that protects stalkers and punishes women for who they love.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his voice shifts — softer, more cautious.

“I know you still love Vogue Korea like that.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t love them,” you say finally. “I love the work. I always did.”

There’s a pause. Then a breath. And then—

“You know the October cover? The BTS one?”

You blink. “What about it?”

“It was my idea.”

You frown. “What?”

He exhales, like he’s been waiting to admit this. “I found out you were working there. I pitched the cover, and insisted on Vogue Korea. I told them I wanted it — told the team I’d only do the solo campaign if they agreed. I didn’t know how else to get to you.”

“You…” your voice falters. “You did all that just to see me again?”

“Yes.”

The confession hangs between you, delicate and irreversible.

“And now they’re stealing your work from you — the very thing I pitched because I wanted you back in my world. I’m not letting them get away with that.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you whisper, “I hate that you still make me feel things.”

“I hope,” he replies, voice breaking just slightly, “you hate it a little less tomorrow.”

✦✦✦

The glass walls of the Vogue Korea conference room still gleam with that same sterile gloss — the scent of designer leather chairs, faint citrus from someone's perfume, and the cold metallic hum of power thickening the air. You shouldn’t be here. You know that. And yet, you sit at the long oval table, fingers clasped in your lap, spine straight, head high — not for them, not anymore, but for yourself.

You didn’t ask to come back. You wouldn’t have. Not after how they discarded you with such dispassion, like the work you bled for had never stained their brand bright enough to matter. But then the invitation had come. Not from Seo In-kyung. Not from the Vogue board. It came from HYBE, with your name printed in clean, exacting type, and a tone that wasn’t a request — it was a summons.

The door opens behind you.

Seo In-kyung enters first, all sharp angles and polished silk, her expression unreadable except for the faint crease between her brows — as if being made to explain herself is beneath her title. Kara walks in just a step behind, her expression a masterpiece of faux neutrality, lips pressed together so tightly that they’re nearly colorless. She sits without greeting you, without a glance. You return the favor.

And then he enters.

Jungkook was dressed in black head-to-toe — blazer open, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. His jaw is locked, his posture coiled and still, and there is something in his gaze that makes the whole room stiffen as he steps inside alongside his manager. You don’t flinch. You meet his eyes. And this time, you don’t look away.

Because if they fired you for loving him, then let them see it. He sits directly across from you, and the silence lingers just long enough to curdle. His voice is calm when it finally comes, but barely.

“I’ll make this simple,” Jungkook says, his eyes never leaving In-kyung. “I’m no longer consenting to my January solo cover if the credit for the article is assigned to the wrong person.”

A pause. In-kyung blinks once. “The credit is a formality,” she begins smoothly, tilting her head ever so slightly toward you, “though of course I understand there’s a... personal stake here.”

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift — but the temperature in the room does.

“No,” he says, tone even sharper now. “It’s not personal. It’s ethical. I don’t condone plagiarism. Or fraud.”

His manager clears his throat beside him, carefully composed. “We have emails, timestamps, raw drafts, BTS’s own recording sessions — all traced directly to Y/N’s involvement. Any change to her authorship would not only be inaccurate — it would be actionable.”

Kara shifts in her seat, the first sign of discomfort flashing in her eyes.

But Jungkook isn’t finished. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, and when he speaks again, the edge in his voice is no longer subtle.

“And even beyond the article,” he says, “I still don’t understand how she was fired. Not reprimanded. Not reassigned. Fired. And replaced with someone who sourced photos from fucking sasaengs.”

Kara’s voice shoots up before anyone else can respond.

“I didn’t take the photos myself,” she snaps, finally cracking through her composure. “I bought them. They were already out there. I didn’t create the scandal—”

“You weaponized it,” Jungkook cuts in, tone now dark and lethal. “You used stalker photos to humiliate a colleague in a professional setting. You endangered my privacy. Her safety. And you dragged a private relationship into a boardroom as ammunition. You think that’s not disgusting?”

His manager steps in before Kara can reply, voice cool, detached, lethal in its corporate precision.

“The fact remains that these images, regardless of origin, were disseminated within an official Vogue Korea meeting — and used to provoke professional consequences. From our legal standpoint, that constitutes a violation of privacy law and creates grounds for a breach-of-contract dispute. Unless remedied.”

In-kyung’s expression tightens. She smooths her skirt, then folds her hands, composed but calculating.

“We’ll reinstate the credit,” she says at last. “The article will be published under Y/N’s name as originally planned. And the cover will remain with Mr. Jeon.”

There’s a flicker of triumph in the air — but it doesn’t reach you.

Because you already know what you’re about to say. You speak before anyone else can.

“I’m not coming back.”

Jungkook turns to you so sharply it’s like someone tugged a thread from the center of the table.

In-kyung blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t return to Vogue Korea,” you repeat, voice steady, gaze pinned to your former boss. “You may put my name on that article — because I wrote it — but I will not work for a publication that values power and optics over people. That protects stalkers. That dismisses women for the crime of loving someone inconvenient.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Jungkook shifts again, slowly this time, turning his head toward In-kyung with that same quiet finality that has sold out stadiums.

“I want Kara fired,” he says, voice so calm it almost feels kind. “And I want that request noted in the official record. From the artist. Personally.”

You don’t look at Kara. You don’t need to.

Because this time, when you walk out of that office, the door doesn’t slam behind you.

It closes — soft, final, clean. The hallway feels brighter on the way out.

Jungkook catches up to you at the elevator, a half-step behind, and when he speaks, it’s softer now — less fire, more ache.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “Not for me.”

You turn to him with a bitter smile. “I didn’t. I did it for me.”

He nods once, and the elevator dings open. You both step inside.

“I owe you,” you say after a moment, voice low. “You didn’t have to show up like that.”

“I’ll always show up for you,” he replies, and for once, it sounds like a vow.

Silence settles again — warm, heavy — until he glances at you and adds, “Do you want a ride?”

You hesitate but nod. And this time, when you get into the car with him, it doesn’t feel like surrender.

It feels like agency.

✦✦✦

The car is silent for a while, the kind of silence that doesn’t ache — not exactly — but hums with something tentative and unspeakable, something that lives between the past and the possibility. Outside the tinted windows, Seoul glows with its usual contradiction — steel and chaos dressed in elegance, neon halos wrapped around glass buildings, traffic humming like a restless symphony beneath them.

You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap, your body angled toward the window, your thoughts stretched thin between relief and exhaustion. And then you hear him breathe in like he’s been holding it for too long.

“How are you?” he asks.

You glance at him, not expecting the question to land so gently.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice calm and even. “I’ve saved up enough to hold myself through a few months. And I have an idea. A project, maybe.”

He turns slightly, enough for you to see his profile against the soft glow of the passing streetlights.

“What kind of project?”

You pause, then let it slip — not with rehearsed polish, not as a pitch, but as something tender you’ve been nursing in the back of your mind.

“A digital magazine,” you say. “Something fresh. Modern. Built around voices that actually have something to say. Not just trends, but meaning. I want to tell stories again — without being filtered through nepotism and ivory towers.”

His mouth parts like he’s about to interrupt, to offer something, but you continue before he can find the words.

“And I’ll be fine,” you say. “I always am. I’ve got this.”

He nods, slowly, his jaw tightening just slightly.

“I could help,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, not pushy — more like a hand hesitantly extended in the dark. “If you need funding. Or reach. Or anything.”

You smile, soft and kind.

“I know. But it won’t be necessary.”

His brows twitch. “You sure?”

You turn your head toward him then, really look at him. “I got everything I ever had on my own. I want this to be mine, too.”

It’s not rejection, not really — but it’s a boundary. One spoken with grace, but firm enough to bruise. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. He only nods again, his lips parting for a breath that he never quite exhales, eyes now fixed on the blurred city rushing past.

He doesn’t say it, but you feel it anyway — the desperate, quiet ache of a man trying to find any way to stay in your orbit, even if all the lines have been drawn in stone.

By the time the car pulls up to your apartment complex, the tension has shifted. It’s not heavy anymore. It’s just there — coiled in the silence, lingering in the static between your fingers.

Jungkook reaches for the door handle, but stops when you speak again.

“You know,” you murmur, eyes sliding toward him, tone feather-light, “you could come up for a minute.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, letting the smallest smirk tug at your lips. “Your blazer is still at my place. I figured you might want it back.”

He blinks once, a beat of disbelief, then — a smile. Real. Wide. Bright in a way that makes him look younger, almost like the boy you used to know before the world taught him how to disappear.

“Right,” he says. “The blazer.”

And just like that, he follows you up the stairs.

The door swings open with a soft click, and the warmth of your apartment spills into the hallway — soft lamplight, the faint scent of fresh flowers, and something faintly sweet clinging to the air like vanilla and ink. Jungkook follows you in, quiet behind you, his steps slowing as he takes in the space — small, yes, but so meticulously curated that it feels like stepping into the pages of a life built by hand.

Your bookshelves are stacked not just with titles, but with memories — worn copies of fashion memoirs, old literary paperbacks with creased spines, a row of thick archival issues of Vogue from various countries, and a ceramic pen holder shaped like a Chanel No. 5 bottle. Your desk is minimal, sleek, but lived-in: a half-used candle, a leather-bound planner with sticky notes peeking out, a cup of cooling tea beside your laptop. On the wall just above it, perfectly framed and hung in a gold-trimmed black mount, is the October issue of Vogue Korea.

His cover. Your article.

You watch him approach it, his eyes scanning the glossy finish, the sharp serif headline, the tension frozen forever in that singular photo you both helped bring to life. He doesn’t speak, not right away. His throat works around the words he doesn’t say, and you leave him there, letting him take in the quiet proof that even now, even after everything, he still lives here — in your space, in your timeline, pressed between your fingerprints and your dreams.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” he says finally, voice low.

You smile gently, already walking into the small open kitchen. “Well, I wrote it,” you reply, pulling down two glasses. “It was mine before it was anyone else’s.”

He turns at that, and the look on his face is almost boyish — reverent, maybe. Like he’s seeing you again for the first time, not through a lens of guilt or memory, but through the stillness of now.

You return with the wine and a sly glint in your eye, nudging his elbow as you pass. “Don’t look so serious. We’re not here to mourn.”

He lifts a brow. “No?”

You hand him a glass and settle onto the plush, soft-blanketed couch that dominates your small living room, the cushions already sunken from nights spent editing drafts and reading fashion week recaps. You tuck your legs beneath you and raise your glass in a mock-toast.

“We’re here to celebrate. My freedom. My future. Today was a win.”

He clinks your glass gently, eyes never leaving yours. “To your freedom,” he murmurs.

The first few sips pass easily, the taste rich and deep. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker — something French and sultry, the kind of thing you play when you're pretending not to romanticize solitude. The conversation flows without effort, meandering through memories, playful jabs, late-night ramen disasters from your early twenties, the ridiculous way he used to sneak into your dorm through the laundry exit, how you once nearly got caught at a public library and laughed for fifteen minutes straight after.

He’s different now. Older, yes — carved sharper, his fame molded into his posture — but when he laughs like that, head tilted back, lashes low, he feels like the boy you never really stopped loving. Not completely.

And maybe he never stopped loving you either.

When the wine bottle is nearly empty and your legs are stretched lazily across his lap, the mood shifts. Not jarringly — no crash of thunder, no sudden silence — but something gentler, something that folds over the room like velvet being pulled across bare skin.

He brushes a piece of hair from your cheek, his fingers staying there, calloused and warm against your skin. His thumb drags softly along your jaw, then rests at the corner of your mouth as if memorizing the shape of your silence.

“You deserve the best things in this world,” he says, voice tender, achingly sincere. “And I wish I never disappointed you the way I did.”

You look at him, eyes wide and open, the sting in your chest blooming and soft all at once.

“I don’t want you to carry that forever,” you whisper. “We’ve both made peace with the wreckage. I want us to move forward — not with guilt. With hope.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You really believe we can?”

You nod, slowly, deliberately. “I believe in starting again. And I believe in us, if we choose it.”

That’s when he leans in.

There is no sudden urgency, no hunger to consume — only the slow, careful gravity of two people finding home in each other’s mouths. His lips meet yours like a secret finally spoken aloud. The kiss is slow and reverent, a study in restraint, his hand still on your face, the other slipping to your waist as if asking permission he already knows you’ll grant.

You move together like something rediscovered — nothing desperate, nothing rushed. When he lifts you into his lap, you don’t hesitate. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands glide beneath your shirt, and every inch of contact feels like returning to a language your bodies never forgot.

You murmur his name. He breathes yours against your neck.

“I love you,” he says, not as a plea, not as a promise — just truth.

You whisper it back, slow and trembling, as you guide his shirt off, as he lifts you in his arms and carries you toward your bedroom. 

The door to your bedroom creaks open as he carries you inside, the backs of his fingers still stroking your waist beneath your blouse, as though he can’t bear to stop touching you even for a second. The room is small but bathed in warmth — draped in deep tones and the faintest scent of your perfume that lives in the pillows and hangs from the edges of the curtain. He sets you down at the foot of the bed as if you’re something precious, something fragile and sacred, but the look in his eyes tells you he also wants to ruin you.

You pull your top over your head, slow, deliberate, leaving yourself in nothing but a bralette and that little skirt you forgot you were still wearing. He watches you with parted lips, chest rising, gaze molten as he reaches to kiss you again — slower this time, deeper, his tongue licking softly into your mouth while his hands slide over your thighs.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathes, voice hoarse, kissing your collarbone, your shoulder, his mouth tracing the line of your bra. “Do you know what it’s been like? Wanting you like this, every night, for years?”

Your fingers are already tugging his shirt out of his pants, unfastening buttons one by one, letting your nails graze the inked skin of his chest.

“I want you,” you murmur, breath catching as he kisses just beneath your breast. “All of you.”

He lowers you onto the bed with maddening control — pressing kisses along your ribs, your stomach, as his hands tug your skirt down your legs. You feel like fire under his touch. You arch into him, gasping when his mouth finds your inner thigh. His breath is warm, heavy, teasing, but he takes his time. He licks you through your panties first, a slow press of his tongue that has you already clenching around nothing, already aching for more.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “So fucking sweet.”

When he finally pulls your panties to the side and buries his face between your thighs, you forget every coherent thought. His tongue is slow and deliberate — soft licks at first, then deeper, firmer, as he moans against your skin like he’s starving for it. One of his arms hooks around your thigh to keep you still while his other hand trails up your body, palming your breast through your bra, rubbing his thumb over the peak.

You whimper, fingers tangled in his hair. “Jungkook…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, licking up and down your folds. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good again.”

And then his tongue circles your clit — slow at first, then faster, as he sucks you into his mouth and keeps your hips pressed down. You can’t stop the moans, the way your back arches, the way your thighs tremble under his grip.

You fall apart like that, shattering beneath his tongue, crying out his name as your orgasm crashes over you. But he doesn’t stop — not even when you twitch and squirm and plead. He licks you through it, groaning against you like he needs it, until you’re gasping, breathless.

When he finally comes up for air, lips wet and eyes dark, you’re already reaching for him — unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down with a quiet desperation.

“Please,” you breathe. “I need you inside me.”

He curses under his breath, leans over to grab a condom — but you stop him.

“I’m still clean,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I’m still on the pill. And you?”

His eyes lock with yours — hot and heavy and searching. “Yeah. I’m clean.”

You nod once. “Then fuck me raw.”

That’s when something in him snaps.

He strips down in seconds — shirt, boxers, everything — and when you see him, thick and flushed and already leaking, your mouth waters. You reach for him, running your palm down his length, watching the way his eyes flutter shut.

But he grabs your wrist.

“No teasing,” he growls. “Not this time.”

Then he’s on top of you — dragging your panties down the rest of the way, lifting your leg around his waist as he lines himself up and pushes inside.

You both gasp. The stretch is slow, hot, overwhelming. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, his name spilling from your lips as he rocks into you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice shaking. “You’re so tight. So warm. I missed this. I missed you.”

When he bottoms out, he stays there for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling at the sheer intimacy of it. You feel every inch of him, bare and pulsing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“I love you,” you whisper, your breath stuttering. “I love you so much.”

He kisses you then — slow, open, deep — and begins to move.

The rhythm builds gradually, your hips meeting him halfway, your fingers digging into his arms as he fucks you with long, dragging thrusts that make your entire body sing. The room is filled with your moans, your names falling from each other’s lips like prayers. There’s no distance between you anymore. No layers of pain. Just skin and sweat and love.

When he pulls your leg higher and goes deeper, you sob out a broken cry, eyes squeezed shut from how intense it feels.

“Look at me,” he pleads. “Don’t look away.”

You do. And you see everything.

When you come this time, it’s with him — bodies pressed close, lips locked, everything clenching and shivering as you fall together.

After, you lie in the quiet, tangled in each other, your fingers brushing over his chest, his lips on your forehead, your thigh, your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers again, soft and sure.

You smile against his skin. This time, you believe it.

There is no fight, no push-pull. Only warmth. Only skin. Only the slow, glorious ache of making love to someone who knows where your soul lives — and chooses to return to it.

The night unfolds like a second chance.

And when you both fall asleep — tangled, bare, with no lies left between you — it’s not the end.

It’s the encore that mattered most.

.

.

an: you can get access to early chapter and exclusive content to my stories here 🖤

taglist: @twiinkletae , @whoa-jo, @emixlyn, @maariinaaaaa , @strawberryberrygirl , @viacb97, @bhonbhon , @baechugff, @mrspotatas, @hrndzsposts , @zzztaegizz , @bubblyyz , @vandjklove , @queenmasterxx, @lynnnnnnn23 @alittlelostalittlefound @whoa-jo @azaood @mar-lo-pap @sweatycherryblossomluminary @jk-190811 @kelsyx33 @rkive994 @asyr97 @do-the-shammy @gracelyxxx @slut4jeon @alessioayla @deeznutkooks @thatbtssong @bjoriis @chxiosworld @ushymushygushy @vantaelis @ilovehotmen1234 @sillyminmin @kreighposts @llallaaa @anyarealita @youthguk

[applecidersturniolo]

details of you.

(the waiting game au.)

in which…yearning!matt can’t stop admiring stubborn!reader.

the air was crisp and cold, almost too cold, yet not enough for you to complain. your head resting on matt’s lap, the red and white flannel blanket laid crumpled beneath the two of you. matt’s fingers traced patterns on the exposed skin of stomach, the feeling of his flesh in direct contact with yours sent chills down your spine, gave you the butterflies in your stomach you tend to ignore.

matts eyes trace over your features, the way your eyes wander from cloud to cloud, the way your nose scrunches every time he picks up a piece of salami from the snack plate because you hate the smell. it’s times like these where he longs for you the most, wishing he could bend down and kiss your soft lips or maybe tell you how much he loves you, how much he really loves you. it’s almost like the words are sitting on his tongue patiently waiting to be expressed, yet he can’t. because you, y/n, you’re so close yet so fucking far.

“what are you thinking about?” you whisper gently, matt glances down into your eyes, he’s swimming in them. he wants to tell you that he’s thinking about you, about what you guys could be, what he wants you to be. “nothin’” he replies shortly, you let him lie.

you guys were now in the car, your picnic festivities packed away in the backseat, it was the rare occasion to which you were driving, matt sat in the passenger seat. as you road down the uneven pavement all matt could focus on was you, the mac miller playing on the car radio couldn’t even snap him out of his trance. he was too focused on you, the way your hands laid on the steering wheel, how when you got frustrated with other driver you wouldn’t scream out, you would just white knuckle the leather and mumble a what the fuck under your breath. he took in your side profile, the swoop of your nose, the small gold hoops in your ears, the way your jaw always just seemed to be clench, you could never relax.

“can feel you starin’” you mumbled as you cracked a small smile, matt’s face flustered, his thumb coming up to his mouth as he bites the skin, his elbow propped on the center console, “can’t help it..” matt whispers. the same butterflies that seem to have made a home in your stomach had returned, you swallow hard. “well stop,” there you are, masking the feelings you clearly want to unravel. but that’s just how you are, isn’t it? can’t let a good thing happen to you.

later in the day you end up at matt’s apartment, you two are sat on the roof of the building, staring up at the night sky, it seems to be a pattern between you two, always watching something, always looking too deep into things that most people simply gloss over. or maybe you’re trying to distract yourselves for something that is all to clear that sits right in front of you, that has made a bed in between the two of you.

matt’s looking at you again, but this time you’re looking back, your eyes glazed on his messy brown hair, the way it covered the top of his head and brows, his perfect eye lashes that seemed almost unfair of him to have, his blue eyes that you felt like you were merely drowning in, the bridge of his nose, the two or three freckles that dusted on it if the light caught it just right, the stubble that scratched away at his jaw that you silently wished he would never shave, and his lips, the pink pillows that he would wet occasionally with the same tongue he would use to whisper all the right things when you really needed it.

he was perfect, nothing short of it, but again, you could never let a good thing happen to you, not yet anyway.

so here you two are, stuck playing the waiting game.

this is only the beginning ;)

divider creds: @malsmind

tags: @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @joanakaulitz @kalel2005 @malsmind @oopsiedaisydeer @lyingonchris @sturns-mermaid @idefinitelyhateu @zenithsturniolo

[vinnyvamppp]

Hii, i wanted to ask for a Death goddess reader, who can never die/wishes to, and some Mark variants who are just obsessed with the smuts that they can have... (No Goggles, Shiesty, Viltrumite, Sinister in special)

It can even be romantic a bit, like she sometimes has to die to be able to live/experience the other day and after her death, she comes back but can't remember so Mark is helping her (in the most twisted way possible because no matter what he does, she always comes back to him).

~🤫

"And Still, You Return."

A/N: See, for some reason… this story had me conflicted. Taking a different approach, I decided to make the variants slightly ooc to match the dark romance feel.

Synopsis: Each time you die, the world begins again. You awaken reborn, stripped of memory but not of sensation. And always, they are waiting for you. Four versions of the same man. Four obsessions. Four lovers who each remember what you’ve forgotten—and will do anything to make your body remember them in return. Warnings: Obsession/Possessive Dynamics, Mutual Power Imbalances, Sexual Addiction, Codependency, Mythological Themes, DubCon, Momemory loss, Smut, and Mild Descriptions of Violence (landscape).

(4) Invincible!Variants x Death Goddess!Reader

Word Count: Sigh... Its a series of characters, ya'll know the routine by now. It's LONG.

They say dying feels like falling asleep. For you, it feels like unraveling silk. There’s no pain—at least not the kind you can name. Just a slow sinking, as if your bones are folding into dust and your skin is being kissed by cold air. Your soul detaches like fabric slipping from a shoulder—gentle, even graceful. Almost arousing, in a way that should terrify you, but never does.

You crave that moment now, more than anything. Envy swells in your chest with each dreadful soul that transcends your domain. Because dying is the only time you feel. The world always dims before you leave it—like someone blowing out candles one by one. And then it happens. The fall. The float. The hush.

And then: light. Heat. Breath.

You wake—always somewhere different. Naked or clothed in ruin. Alone or accompanied by the scent of wine and blood and ash. Your memories are gone, scorched into the ether like burnt pages. But your body is not innocent. It flinches at echoes, trembles under shadows. You’re born again with want trapped in your lungs and bruises you don’t recall earning.

And they find you. Or maybe you find them—drawn like a compass needle to the pulse in the dark that never stops calling you. There are always men. Always him. Versions of a face you almost remember—soft eyes, sharp smiles, hands that tremble with need or violence or both.

And they love you in the only language you still understand. Touch. Their mouths. Their skin. Their hunger. They call you love. Goddess. Mine.  And they remind you how it feels to be wanted. They make you feel real again, if only for the moment you’re beneath them—sweat-slick, gasping, sobbing against lips you do not know but remember somewhere deeper than thought. They say it isn’t love. But you know better. It’s something worse. And something more.

Lenless Mark - You wake on soft sheets. Warmth clings to your bare skin, but you don’t know whose bed this is, or why your thighs ache like you've been opened recently—used, again and again. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you, hunched like he’s been there a while. Watching. When he turns, his eyes are red-rimmed. He looks at you like he’s just seen a ghost crawl back into its body.

“Dude, you’re awake,” he breathes, standing slowly. “Fuck… you’re really here.” You flinch as he reaches for you. You don’t know him. But the way your body tightens—anticipation, heat pooling low—it tells you some part of you does.

His hand touches your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. Then his mouth follows, soft, warm, trembling. “You don’t remember me. Shit, you never do,” he whispers. “But I remember everything.” He kisses you like it hurts not to. His lips press harder, his breath hitching as he drags you under him, your legs parting out of instinct.

His hands are shaking. He murmurs apologies as he pushes the blankets away, as he kisses down your neck and over your chest, as he runs his tongue over your nipple and lets out a choked noise like he’s about to cry. But he keeps going. Its unusual. A man who gratified by you using him to your will, its left in such a pitiful state. His deep smile lines now tainted through trembling lips.

“I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—fuck, I just need to feel you again. I need to be inside you. You’ll let me right? Doesn’t matter.” He goes down on you like it’s the last time he’ll ever taste you. Moans into your pussy like it’s sacred, like it’s his, and he never forgot the way you sounded when you came. You gasp, thighs twitching, your hips lifting for more—and he takes it. He drags his tongue over your clit, slow at first, then fast and hungry as your gasps rise. He wants you to come fast. He needs to feel it.

“That’s it, babe—god, you still taste the same. I knew you would. You always do.” You come, legs wrapped around his head, and when he finally pulls back, his face is slick and his cock is already out, flushed and leaking, heavy in his fist.

“You don’t remember me,” he says again, voice cracking, lining himself up. “But you’re still wet for me. You still open up the same.”

He slides inside you slowly, thick and aching. His breath catches, forehead pressed to yours, and for a second, it almost feels like love. Like he could stay here, gentle, and pretend this is enough. But then you moan his name—a name you shouldn’t know—and he loses it.

He fucks you deep. Smooth strokes that grow faster, harder, sloppier. His hands dig into your hips like he’s trying to mold you to him. He whispers nonsense—you’re mine, you always come back, dude I missed you so bad—until it becomes a chant. “Dude, you remember. You do. I can feel it.”

You can’t answer. All you can do is arch and cry out, meeting each thrust with mindless need. There’s something inside you—some echo of recognition—rising with every stroke.

He kisses you again when you come around him, clenching so tight he gasps into your mouth. And when he follows, emptying himself inside you with a hoarse sob and a choked chuckle, he doesn’t pull out. He just holds you. “You’ll forget again,” he murmurs. “But your body never does. It always brings you back to me.”

Hooded Mark – You’re in a hallway now—dim, narrow, red light seeping from under the door at the end. You don’t remember how you got here. But the scent—leather, smoke, expensive cologne—hits you like déjà vu.

You knock once. The door swings open. He’s already smiling. That same cocky tilt of the lips that says I knew you'd come back.  The hood's down this time. He wants you to see him. “There you are,” he purrs. “Took you long enough.”

He steps aside, letting you in like it’s your place. And maybe it is. The room feels... familiar. The way his gaze crawls over you definitely does. “You don’t remember me yet, do you?” he asks, voice low as he circles you. “Good. I like it better this way.”

His fingers hook your waistband, tugging you back against him. You feel the hard press of him, already thick and aching through his slacks. His hand slides under your shirt—palm warm, thumb brushing over a nipple that stiffens immediately. “But your body remembers,” he murmurs against your ear. “It always does.”

He kisses your neck slowly, with practiced precision. Nips the skin. Sucks until you gasp. He knows exactly where to bite to make you moan. Then he spins you around, pins you to the door, and kisses you full on the mouth—wet, deep, tongue fucking you until your knees nearly give.

“Say you want me,” he whispers. You hate that you do. But your hands are already in his hair. Your hips grinding against his thigh. He chuckles. “That’s what I thought.”

He strips you fast—rough fingers, greedy grip. He doesn’t just undress you; he takes the clothes from you. Then he drops to his knees and buries his face between your thighs.

His mouth is ruthless. He licks you in long, hungry strokes, tongue flicking your clit just right, moaning like you’re the one devouring him.He fucks you with his mouth until your thighs shake, until you're grabbing his hood for balance. “Every. Single. Time,” he murmurs against your cunt. “I make you come before I even fuck you.”

And when you do—loud, gasping, face flushed against the door—he rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then pulls you onto his lap on the couch. He unzips, thick cock springing free. You barely get your bearings before he sinks you down onto him.

“Just like that. You remember now, don’t you?” You ride him hard, fast—his hands gripping your hips, guiding every thrust. You feel your climax building again, tight and hot and desperate. “Look at you,” he pants, eyes dark with lust. “You come back, you forget, and I still fuck you the same. You’ll never want anyone else. You can’t. I don’t want anyone else, no, not after this.”

You come around him a second time, your walls fluttering so tight it drags a strangled curse from his throat. He holds you there, buried deep, shuddering as he spills inside you. “Every time you forget me,” he says, panting, “I’ll make you remember this. I’ll make your body choose me. Every fucking time.”

He doesn’t kiss you after. He just pulls your head to his chest, and lets the silence settle.

Viltrumite Mark - You wake to rubble. The air is thick with smoke, ozone, and something deeper—metallic, hot.  You're lying in the wreckage of something that must’ve been a home once. You don’t know who you were here. But the ache in your body is wanting… perhaps familiar as you feel a familiar pull. Your body is humming, twitching with the aftershock of want.

You sit up—and there he is. He lands hard on the scorched earth, his boots cracking stone. He’s still panting, shirt torn down the middle, arms dusted with ash and a trail of crimson that’s not his. His gaze is heavy, but reminiscent of sorrow. “You came back.” He says it like an accusation. Like you owe him for the pain of waiting.

He’s in front of you in seconds, grabbing your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. You flinch—but your body doesn’t pull away. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he growls. “Then let me remind you.” He kisses you with teeth. With tongue. With fury. You gasp as his hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat.

“You left me again,” he snarls. “You died. Do you know what that does to me?” He lifts you like you weigh nothing, tosses you against the half-collapsed wall, and strips you with a violence that shouldn’t be arousing—but is.

Your nipples harden in the cold air. Your pussy clenches, slick and ready, as if your body knew this was coming. Maybe it did. Maybe it always does. He tears your panties off and drops to his knees, shoving your legs apart like you’re his prize. “Mine,” he mutters, voice shaking. “You’re mine. You were made for me.”

He doesn’t tease. Tongue dragging through your folds, lips sealing over your clit, sucking until your hips jerk, until you scream, until you grind against his face like you’re chasing your own destruction. He doesn’t stop. Not when you beg. Not when your thighs shake. He pins them down and keeps going, licking you until you’re crying his name—his real one, the one you shouldn’t know.

“That’s it,” he grunts, standing up, cock already in his hand, throbbing, flushed. “That’s you. You remember.” He slams into you without warning, it’s deep and brutal. Your back hits the wall, legs locked around him as he fucks you like he’s fighting God. Every thrust is punishment and a plea. He fucks you so hard your breath leaves your lungs. So hard the wall behind you cracks. “This is what brings you back. Not the memories. Not the words. This. My cock inside you. Me making you scream.”

You want to deny it. But your pussy clenches around him. Your body knows. It gives you away.

He doesn’t slow down. His grip bruises. His breath is hot against your ear as he growls every filthy thought he’s had during your absence. “I fucked my hand thinking about you. I wrecked worlds because of you. I killed with your name in my mouth. Just why do you keep leaving me?”

You come hard. The kind of orgasm that shatters you. You scream until your throat goes raw, until your nails rake down his back. And still, he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it. Then he finishes deep, thick spurts filling you as he throws his head back and cries.

When it’s over, he stays buried inside you.

He kisses your temple—shockingly soft—and breathes against your skin like he’s trying to calm himself. “You forget me every time,” he murmurs. “But I’ll fuck myself into your bones. I’ll live there. And you won’t ever get me out.” Sinister Mark -

This time, you wake in luxury. The bed is massive. The sheets are black silk, cool against your naked skin. The scent in the air is intoxicating—roses and spice and something darker, sharper, like a hint of blood in wine.

You sit up slowly. You’re not alone. He’s already waiting, lounging in a velvet chair by the hearth, wineglass in one hand, watching you like a predator watches prey that’s already been caught. “There she is,” he says smoothly, rising with the grace of a practiced host. He approaches with purpose, his voice low, warm, practiced—each word sliding into your ears like velvet over skin. “You’re beautiful when you forget me,” he says, setting the glass aside. “But I admit, I enjoy the moment when your body begins to remember more.”

He sits beside you, so close, but doesn’t touch you yet. Instead, he studies your face. Your lips. Your throat. “Do you feel it yet? That ache? That empty space I usually fill?” His hand moves then—slow, gloved fingers tracing the line of your jaw. Then your collarbone. Then lower. The gloves come off, one finger at a time.

“I remember the way you came last time,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “How wet you got when I said your name. You screamed for me. You bit me. I’ve practiced… over and over on how to make you feel good for when you return.” He removes the rest of your clothes with elegant hands, peeling the silk from your body like he’s unveiling art. Then he lays you back. And worships you.

His tongue moves over your skin in soft, maddening circles. He kisses the insides of your thighs, trailing slow, hot breath until your hips lift and your hands reach for him. He grins. “Still impatient,” he says, voice like satin over steel. “Good.”

He spreads your legs wider, lowers his mouth, and drinks from you like a god accepting sacrifice. He doesn’t rush. He teases. Licks. Circles your clit with slow, wet passes until your thighs tremble, until you beg, until you gasp his name and he stops.

“There. That’s it,” he says, eye twitching as if to fight tears. “You’re remembering, finally. One moan at a time.” He climbs over you then, and the sheer weight of him makes you gasp. His cock is long, thick, flushed at the tip and he knows it drives you crazy. He drags it slowly through your folds, teasing your entrance until you're whimpering, clawing at his back. “Tell me you want me,” he demands. “Even if you don’t remember why. Even if it’s a lie.” You say it. He slides in, inch by inch, and your back arches, mouth falling open as he fills you perfectly. Painfully slow. He kisses your throat as he moves, hips rolling in smooth, deep strokes, like he’s dancing with your body. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “You belong to me,” he whispers. “Even if you forget every word, every touch—I’ll make your body remember. I will etch myself into you.”

You come with his name on your tongue, a trembling, shattered cry. And he watches you the entire time, eyes locked on yours, like he’s memorizing your face. Only then does he let himself go. Moaning softly, biting your shoulder as he pulses inside you, warm and slow and deliberate.

After, he stays inside you. Lets the silence stretch. Then he kisses your temple and strokes your hair like a lover, not a captor. “Sleep,” he whispers. “Tomorrow, we begin again.”

…

You walk across the room naked, unashamed. You move like you’ve done this before. Because you have. A dozen times. A hundred. More. You return and they wait because they need you.

It's not always in the same place. Not always with the same face. But always them. Or some version of them. Always you—soft and open, forgetting everything they did to you... and letting them do it all again.

You feel them under your skin. In the way your nipples harden at a voice you don’t recognize. In the way your pussy clenches when the air shifts. In the way your heart stutters at the sound of a door opening behind you.

You try to tell yourself it’s not real. That none of this matters if you don’t remember. But something inside you is waking. A flicker. No—more. A fire. Why do they all need to fuck me to prove they knew me? Why does it work?

You fall back into the bed with a sigh and close your eyes. The world is quiet. But you know it won’t be for long. You’ll die again. You always do. But now… now you wonder if you’re dying to feel, or if you’re dying just to see them again.

If this is a curse… Why does it keep making you come?

Note: This is my first time indulging in a more dom leaning Mark, my entire world crumbled and rebuilt while writing this. Its painful to see sub Mark leave but damn I loved how creative this request was. Please let me know if I interpreted this incorrectly, I’ll have it fixed!

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[seyvia]

The Queens Chambers...

In the midst of a heated conversation, we find Prince Lumin and Queen Aine. "But it seems premature...? It’s only been a week since our return, and I ha—" Suddenly, Lumin is cut off. "Premature?! It’s been delayed! For two whole years, to be precise!" exclaimed Queen Aine.

"And you're hopeless when it comes to romance anyway, that much I know to still be true. You always have your face in your studies or newfound projects that you've never taken the time to consider one of your major duties as future king..." She says with exasperation.

Aine takes a deep breath and begins to soften her voice, "I do love your passion, but sometimes it gets in your way. There will be a time for it, but not now..." Continuing with a more serious tone, "Listen to me, I want to see you and the kingdom safe. We have become an even greater realm now more then ever before, and with greatness follows great danger. Your marriage to a princess could ensure our stability and our legacy. As the only heir to the throne, when you left to fight the decay, you left your people in a feverish panic, praying for your safe return. You owe it to them-and to me, to choose one of these girls that I deem worthy, as your future bride."

Lumin slides into a nearby chair to better process what his mother has said. She stands watching his face change from a worried frown into a look of complaisant understanding. He moves his hair back out of his face before saying, "You don’t need to persuade me any further; I will do as you wish." He gets up and begins walking away but turns back, "How many princesses did you invite?"

"A small number of eight." Aine response. "Eight!" Lumin exclaims taken aback. "But you'll only be met with four since I know how "busy" you are." She says, rolling her eyes at him.

"I wanted to request ten, but my advisors were strongly against it for some reason."

Lumin sighs, "Very well, I trust your judgment, but mother, please... be kind to them. They may be at your mercy, but they are still our guests." Aine smirks at him, "I'll consider it."

the Beginning - Before - Journey forth

most used pose by @surely-sims <3

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part twenty-one

I can't wait for these two to kiss because jesus christ!!! I don't think I've ever written this slow of a burn it's killing me

Warnings: our usual angst, Hotch being dumb but also reader being just a little overdramatic (but who's to say!), i promise these two are going to get over themselves soon

You return to Hotch’s office with snacks and coffee in tow, bringing the entire pot with you for convenience. You see he has grabbed your mugs from the conference room and you smile.

“Our provisions,” you joke, arranging everything on the smaller table by the couch. “Our eyes are going to be bleeding before we’re even halfway.”

Hotch lets out a chuckle as he hands you your mug. “I hope not.”

Your fingers brush again and you try your best to ignore the softness. You notice then that he has done some slight rearranging so the two of you will be sitting on the same side of his desk to look at the files. Probably something to do with the space, and so neither of you will have to deal with reading anything upside down, but still, it…does something to you.

Something you do not want to face right now, so you promptly squash it and move on. 

You clear your throat. “Should we start?”

He nods, a jerking movement like you jolted him from a daze. “Yes, we can go chronologically, I guess. I managed to secure some files from the first few times he was arrested for unrelated crimes.”

“Got it.” You settle down into the chair on the left, and Hotch takes the one to your right.

You realize too late that he’s left-handed, which means he is continually brushing against you as he uses his dominant hand to point to certain words and move other files around.

It’s fine, truly. Honestly. You don’t know what’s coming over you now. Why it never has before — but hasn’t it? Your mind flashes the memory of you crawling into Aaron’s lap to steer during the car chase, the way you felt him underneath you and the thrill it sent up your spine. You can try to blame that on the adrenaline of the situation all you want, but you know it’s a lie. You know it isn’t the only thing to blame.

You shake your head to shake yourself out of it, focusing in on the files. There is nothing unusual about the first arrests, some were even before you were born. Nothing out of the ordinary, so you and Hotch decide to set them aside on the couch.

Next are the arrests after you were born, beginning with some domestic dispute calls. You can feel Hotch’s eyes on you as the two of you go over them, but these were when you were a baby. You, thankfully, don’t remember these nights.

You make the decision to move on from them, confident that there aren’t any clues there. Not for anything you don’t already know.

The most damning, and the things you want to focus on, are the arrests and interrogations that occur after some of the first murders. Although the arrests were for unrelated incidents — domestic dispute, DUI — your father was still questioned as the city was on high alert. The DUI arrest in particular happened in Atlanta. Your father claimed to be on a bachelor party trip with some friends. The police bought the story. They believed the man they were looking for to be a local, not someone on a weekend trip. They let your father go with a warning.

“They didn’t even suspend his license?” you scoff. 

“His BAC was still under the legal limit,” Hotch notes.

“Yet they brought him in on DUI arrest,” you shake your head. “They absolutely amended that number when they decided to let him go. Charming bastard.”

“He does seem to talk himself out of all of these,” Hotch mutters.

“He could talk himself into and out of anything he wanted,” you reply, still glaring down at the reports. “My mom told me once that it was what made her fall in love with him. And what made her realize that one day he was either going to kill her or himself.”

Hotch’s head slowly turns toward you, but you don’t meet his gaze. You can’t. You keep saying things to him that you shouldn’t, things that feel like you’re breaking your chest open and almost daring him to do something about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You shrug.

“Let’s take a break for a moment.”

“Hotch,” you huff, finally turning to look at him. You gesture to the desk before you both. “Does it look like we have time for a break?”

“No,” he deadpans. “But five minutes won’t hurt. Because there is something I need to discuss with you, about Rossi.”

You sit back in your chair, cradling your mug in your hands. “Okay, what about him?”

“He told me he’s not skipping his guest lecture this year.”

“Why would he skip it?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing. Rossi mentioned it to you on the drive to the this morning BAU, so this isn’t new information for you. “It’s just for the weekend.”

“I know,” Hotch says, eyeing you warily. “Would you like to stay somewhere else while he’s gone?”

“Honestly?” you chuckle. “I kinda want to stay at his place.”

“Are you alright staying there alone?” Hotch prompts. “I know he has great security and all, but…”

“But it’s a big place,” you admit, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. Hotch tries not to stare at your mouth. “And it would feel safer knowing someone else is home just in case,” you sigh. “Maybe I can ask one of the girls, or…” You pause, eyes flicking up to Aaron’s. He sees you hesitate, but only for a moment. “What are you doing this weekend?”

Hotch blinks. Once, twice. “Me?”

“Yeah,” you almost laugh. “Come on, don’t tell me you actually have plans.”

“What if I did?”

“Do you?” 

“That’s not the point.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling at him. You’re smiling. At him. “Just come stay at Rossi’s for the weekend. It’ll be a good bonding exercise for us to…you know, learn to not kill one another.”

“We still could.”

“Yeah, we might,” you shrug, smirking dangerously at him. “Willing to risk it?”

Absolutely. He’ll risk anything for you, and maybe that isn’t a good thing, but he doesn’t care. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you nod. “Besides, I’m 99% sure everyone has weekend plans, and I don’t want them to keep canceling things just to deal with this unsub right now.”

Hotch frowns. No matter how many times everyone reassures you that they want to help you and that taking on this case is not bothersome, you still think it is. You still think you’re a burden.

Hotch didn’t have plans this weekend, nothing besides working overtime to continue investigating any leads, but even if he did have plans, he’d cancel them for you. Every time.

“Then I’ll be there,” he says.

“Good,” you smile. “Oh, I’ll have to ride with you, if I’m still not driving my car. Unless I can go back to driving it.”

Hotch mulls it over. “We’ll see where things are at in a few days.” It’s only Tuesday. A lot could change between now and Friday.

You roll your eyes at him, but for once, it seems entirely lighthearted. “I knew you’d say that.”

+++

You need to be psychologically evaluated. Or something.

The reality of what you asked Hotch — and the fact that he agreed — hits you barely an hour later, and suddenly you’re excusing yourself to go see if Garcia has heard anything back yet about the note left in your door.

You plan to ask her about the note, yes, but also to ask her what the hell is going on with you, but then it hits you that you can’t ask her that because you absolutely, under no circumstances, cannot tell anyone about this. You don’t even want Rossi to know because you know he won’t let either of you live this down, but it’s his house, and you’d be surprised if Rossi didn’t tell Aaron he should offer to stay with you. Except you, like a fool, invited him yourself.

You pause outside Penelope’s office, composing yourself. You have to act normal. You can’t freak out about this right now. And what are you freaking out for, anyway? You and Hotch are both adults, capable of being civil under the same roof for a weekend. It’s fine. It’s not like you’re attracted to him because that would be insane — and frankly, masochistic with how much he pisses you off. All the time.

Except today. Kind of.

God, you need to get a grip.

As you raise your hand to knock, Penelope’s door opens, and you both scream.

“What are you doing?” she shrieks.

“I was coming to ask about the note!”

She takes a deep breath. “You are psychic, my friend. I was just coming to tell everyone the news. Come on.”

She links her arm with yours as you walk back down the hall toward the bullpen. You catch her eyeing you through your peripheral.

“You’re jumpy,” Pen notes. “Everything okay?”

“Yep,” you say, definitely too fast. “Hotch and I have just been going over all the files he asked around for.”

Pen is silent for a moment. “Just you two?”

“Yes…” you turn your head to look at her. “Why?”

“Nothing,” she says, definitely too fast.

Neither of you say anything after that, walking the rest of the way to the conference room in silence. You pause outside Hotch’s office to clue him in, and he stands without hesitating.

The results from the lab are underwhelming.

“Nothing?” Morgan repeats.

“Nada,” Garcia nods. “I sent it to your tablets, so you should have it, but they found nothing. Zilch. Not even a whisper of a fingerprint is on that note.”

“So, he’s very careful,” Prentiss muses.

“And intentional,” you add. “This has to be part of his game. Whatever the game is.”

“Actually,” Reid starts, “I think it might have something to do with his identity — the game, I mean. Think about it: you don’t know who he is, we can’t find any leads, every time we get something like this note, we conveniently don’t have any fingerprints or— or even oils from the skin where he’d brush against it as he wrote on it— he thinks of everything.”

“Richard taunted you about not knowing him,” Hotch says from the doorway, quietly. Almost like he didn’t want to offer up that information.

“Kind of,” you agree, but not without casting a sideways glance at your boss. You already told the team about Richard saying you know who’s doing this, just that you don’t want to admit it to yourself.

Next to you, Pen squeezes your arm gently. “What did he say exactly?”

“It was just what I already told you guys,” you shrug. “He thinks I know who it is, and when I told him my dad is dead, he said he knew that. That he was sorry for both losses, so he somehow found out about my mom’s death, too — I don’t know how.”

“Are you sure there isn’t a family friend or…distant relative that could be doing this, for whatever twisted reason?” Rossi prompts.

You shake your head. “None that I can remember.”

You hear Hotch shifting behind you, straightening up in the doorway. You crane your neck to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t look at you, though. He looks at Rossi.

“Dave, can I speak to you for a moment?”

Rossi, of course, nods and goes to stand, unfazed by Hotch’s request.

You’re not the same. Annoyance begins to simmer just below the surface, like it always has. “You can ask me whatever you’re about to ask him.”

Rossi pauses, glancing between you and Hotch. You can practically feel the entire room holding their breaths, waiting for the inevitable sparring match to begin.

It doesn’t come. Instead, you and Hotch are locked into your usual glares, less angry than before, but it’s like embers with you two. One spark, one coax and the flames will return.

“I need to speak to Dave about this, alone,” Hotch says, his tone leaving no room for arguing.

Against your better judgement, you still try. “No, I’m serious. What is it?”

“Do you remember who kidnapped you?”

You struggle to answer. It’s not a matter of remembering because you never saw the man’s face at all. “No, I—”

“Then I need to speak to Dave about it, alone,” Hotch repeats, gesturing for Rossi to follow him to his office.

You can do nothing except watch them go. The round table room is left in silence after they leave. The sound of Hotch’s office door closing quietly with a click echoes in your ears as if it was slammed. 

“Okay, um,” you pause, trying to redirect. “I guess, what have you guys found in the letters, if anything?”

You try to listen to the team as they — mostly Reid — explain what they’ve deduced so far, which isn’t much. More personality clues rather than any tangible lead.

“And, uh…” Reid offers you a small, sad smile. “For what it’s worth, from what I can tell in the letters, he um— Your dad did really care about you.”

You nod slowly, somehow not expecting that to be a conclusion that Reid came to. But you’re weirdly grateful that he did, nonetheless. “Thank you,” you whisper.

You turn around to look at Hotch’s office, but the door is still shut and the blinds are drawn now, too. You sigh.

“Well, looks like I’ve been banished for the time being,” you turn to look at Pen. “Wanna show me how to hack something? Completely legally, of course.”

She grins, wide and mischievous. “Let’s go.”

+++

Inside Hotch’s office, the two men face each other in a standoff, equally as annoyed with one another.

“Yes, of course it crossed my mind, I’m not that dense,” Rossi all but snaps at Hotch. “But I could never convince myself that it seemed plausible enough.”

“You could’ve mentioned it,” Hotch fumes, one hand propped on his hip while the other rubs tiredly at his forehead.

“We had other leads that we had to follow.”

“Yeah, which are dead ends now.”

It’s not often that the two old friends argue. They bicker, they poke one another’s buttons, but it’s rare for it to go beyond that. So rare that it blows over quickly, like it does now.

“I told you the facts, and you’ve read them,” Rossi says calmly, gesturing to Hotch’s desk. “She never saw his face, he never did anything to her, and we never found him because he never became a problem again to give us anything to find him with. We had to move on. We had to let them move on.”

Rossi glances toward the window and Hotch knows who he means. You and your mom. They had to stop investigating and stop questioning and stop, for lack of a better phrase, beating a dead horse. So that you and your mom could move on, could start a new life.

“Okay,” Hotch exhales. “So, what if it’s the same person?”

“Then he’s twenty years older, like the rest of us.”

“Where does that put him?”

“I have no idea,” Rossi shakes his head. “She would barely tell us anything about him.”

“What?”

“She kept telling us that there was nothing to tell,” Rossi says. “She didn’t see his face, but she heard his voice. He didn’t harm her. Like Lila, she didn’t talk badly about him.”

Hotch remembers Lila right after she was returned. How calm she seemed. As if nothing had happened, really. How she refused to speak to a sketch artist.

“Are you sure she never saw his face?”

Rossi shrugs. “That’s what she told us, repeatedly. We had no reason to think otherwise. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Lila did see his face but refused to speak to a sketch artist,” Hotch pauses. “I don’t know.” 

What if you did see your kidnapper’s face, but were told to say that you didn’t? What if you willingly kept it to yourself because he didn’t harm you and let you go willingly? What if you’ve blocked it out — you were only fourteen — and convinced yourself that you never saw his face because for twenty years you’ve believed that you didn’t?

“No, I know,” Rossi nods slowly, the gears turning in his head. “But we can’t confront her about this, not head on.”

Hotch makes a bitter sound, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “I know. She’s not happy with me again.”

Rossi gives him a look. “Your timing wasn’t exactly impeccable.”

Hotch returns the look. “Just…maybe try to ask her about it?”

“Right,” Rossi says. “I’ll see what I can get her to remember.”

“Thank you,” Hotch sighs. “If she’s uh, not too angry with me then, will you send her back in here so we can finish looking through these?”

Rossi almost laughs. “Oh, you won’t be seeing her again today.”

“What? Why?”

“I think I heard her and Garcia walk by a few minutes ago, and besides, I am not the messenger,” Rossi holds his hands up in surrender. “Go find her yourself.”

Hotch is not going to bother you. He knows better.

[deer1nheadlight]

j a i l b r e a k

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big brother!Shimura Tenko x little sister!Reader

Rejecting Tenko is never a good idea. Running from him is even further down the good ideas list. Your brother loves you so very much, and nothing may stands in the way of his mission, not even your mom nor yourself. It's high time he stopped stealing your panties.

WARNING: rape, non-con to dub-con, incest, somnophilia, panty kink, breeding kink, manipulation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, almost caught sex, squirting. MDNI. Please block me and block the tags, as I would block you for your benefit if you do not like the content.

A/n: This is set in a quirkless alternate universe and we're fixing that one abominable character in my baby boy's life iykyk. I'm using his real name, and Tenko is 100% a pro gamer in our era change my mind (you can't). If he got to grow up normally, would his personality be different? Yep, absolutely. Am I gonna consider that fact here? Absolutely not <3

Word count: 7460.

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Your washed panties have been smelling a bit strange recently. Not just one or two, but the whole drawer of them. It's not a bad smell exactly, but it's this sort of musty musk that you'd expect more from a guy. You've never had such a problem before, and you're unconvinced that it's your poor pussy’s fault. You take care of yourself well, after all.

Another, probably bigger, problem is that they've also been disappearing gradually. You can't wrap your head around it at all, especially when a pair that you thought you'd lost forever suddenly reappears one day at the back of the drawer, even though you could have sworn you had emptied the whole thing to look for them before.

They're a pair of bunny-patterned underwear that's both cute and comfortable, perfect for any sports day. You'd always reach for them first after doing laundry until they suddenly went missing, after which you realized a few pairs were gone as well. But now they're here again, and you're crouching on the floor inspecting them as if they've committed first-degree murder. They… look exactly as you remember. Well-worn, with their tag cut off because it kept digging into your skin and several bunnies running around innocently.

But, they smell surprisingly normal. Like freshly washed laundry, what all your panties used to smell like — which ruins your last theory as to why your whole drawer has been taking on that musk. You were thinking that the wood itself might be emitting the scent, which then got on them. Theoretically, if that was the case, then the pair that have been lost inside there the longest should have the strongest smell as well. Yet, it's the opposite.

You're at your wit's end. You've tried washing them in hot water, washing them by hand, drying them in the direct sun, soaking them in detergent, just about every method the internet told you to try and at first, it would work, getting rid of the musk, but after a few days, that scent would return again. Maybe there really is something wrong with your lady part itself?

As you begin to pull down your skirt, intending to try and diagnose yourself, the door to your room swings open with no warning. Your startled screech does nothing to deter your intruder, who doesn't seem the slightest bit fazed to see you on the floor, hunching over a small pile of your own panties.

“Dinner's ready, be down quick or I'm eating all the karaage.” He grumbles, and as quickly as he came, he left, shutting the door on your floundering form. You curse him extra loud for good measure, but if he heard, he didn't bother to snark back. Damn Tenko and his inability to knock. You've told him a million times to stop barging in like that, but despite his ability to memorize every little fucking ability and stat of the characters in his game, he can't seem to remember your request.

Scooping up your clothes and shoving them haphazardly back in the drawer, you decide to continue the investigation another day. Maybe you'll just have to accept the strange scent, as embarrassing as it is to admit that you might smell like a man. You rush downstairs to have dinner, hopping into the seat next to your brother as usual. Tenko threatened to eat all the food, but like usual, he gives you anything in his bowl that you want and picks off the things you don't like.

“If you keep letting her get away with not eating carrots, she's not gonna be able to run fast like a hare!” Hana, your eldest sister, chides him and tries to knock away his chopsticks reaching into your bowl. She's often had to bear witness to Tenko’s excessive babying of you ever since you were born. Not that she babies you two much less, but her little brother is probably bordering on sheltering you now, and sometimes she worries it's terrible for the both of you.

“That makes no sense, and you know it. Plus, didn't the turtle win the race?” He rebuts, taking your carrot pieces anyway, and is rewarded with your happy grin.

“Speaking of, when is your next race, hun?” Across from you, your mom asks. You stop stuffing your face with food to think and suddenly remember what caused you to dig through your panties drawer earlier: your missing elastic underwear, specifically designed for long races. You know for a fact that the washing machines can't have swallowed them all, because you haven't even washed them in the first place. And your last practice was just three days ago, so you can't have forgotten to use them for that long either.

Strangely, all three pairs aren't in your hamper nor in your drawer. And they're terribly expensive; you don't know how you can explain this to your parents. “Kid?” Your dad asks, pulling you back from your spacing out. “Isn't it pretty soon? This Saturday, if I recall,” Tenko helps out. He always remembers your schedule, even when you forget it yourself, and you nod appreciatively. But your earlier scrunched-up expression causes Mom to worry. Maybe a lie won't hurt anyone.

“I… I think I may have outgrown some of my clothes. Or maybe I've gained some weight, or muscle?” Your dad raises an eyebrow when you don't seem sure of it yourself but luckily doesn't question you. Mom claps her hand, “Oh? Why don't you bring her shopping tomorrow, Tenko? You're dying to treat her with your big boy money, aren't you?” Beside you, your brother blushes slightly as he turns away huffing but doesn't deny the accusation.

Tenko is apparently some big shot in his industry or something. Ever since he started making money, he's been treating the family quite often and also saving up. However, he refuses to move out and favors splurging on you so obviously that everyone would make fun of him. Every weekend, he forces you to eat out with him for no reason in particular, and your closet is full of outfits you've only been able to wear once.

You don't quite understand the games he's lauded for being good at either, you only know that he's popular enough that the boys in your class were astonished to learn you're the sister of “Shigaraki Tomura.” Nevertheless, just like how he comes to every single one of your races, you also come to all of his tournaments. You tried to learn how to play his games once but gave up after you cramped your hand trying to reach the keys. You're much more dexterous with your legs anyway.

Usually, you don't mind going out with him for clothes shopping, but on this occasion, you're planning on getting both everyday panties and sporty underwear. You’ll probably have to visit a lingerie shop, and dragging a guy, especially your brother, along would just be awkward. So before Tenko could even pretend to be bothered about taking you out, you interjected, “Can you take me instead, Mom? Or maybe Hana-nee, if you're busy tomorrow.”

His chopsticks stop moving, and if you aren't so in tune with his body language, you probably wouldn't have noticed either. But you do, because Tenko and you share a deeper bond with each other than anyone in your lives.

“Why?” He already beats Mom to it before she can begin to ask. You want to answer, but in your struggle to find the words to dance around mentioning underwear in the middle of a family meal, he's already jumped to a conclusion. “I guess you're too good to hang around me anymore, huh?” He bitterly grits, a piece of carrot falls out from his bowl.

“No! That's not it, why would you say that?” You frown harshly. Tenko has this terrible habit of expecting you to randomly abandon him the moment you don't openly receive all of his affection. As a child, you learn quickly to never push him away. Why he latches onto you instead of literally anyone else, you don't know, but you love him enough to welcome it all willingly. Which is why you're offended to know he has so little faith in you. He can be so stupid sometimes.

Your brother doesn't respond and chooses to finish the rest of his food in silence, promptly cleaning up and then leaving the moment he's done, even when Grandpa tempts him with ohagi for dessert. Your mood stays low for the rest of the evening, and it doesn't help when you later on find two of your missing sporty underwear at the very bottom of your hamper, hidden inside your running shorts as if you've forgotten to separate them. The whole argument could have been avoided.

The next day, after Hana took you shopping, you knocked on Tenko’s door trying to make amends. Aside from underwear, you even bought a new skirt, which you hope if you pretend to try on for the first time for him like how you would if he'd taken you out, he would stop sulking.

“And, look, I even brought you my portion of ohagi I saved from yesterday!” You yell into the door, and finally it swings open. But before you could get a word in, the plate of mochi disappears from your hand, and he shuts you out again. You jiggle the door handle and rap on it insistently.

“Nii-san! Quit being childish! It's not a big deal, what the hell!” You slump against the wooden barrier. It's not a big deal, you said, blissfully unaware of how further and further away you keep running from Tenko. Your legs are really too quick, sometimes he wonders if he should cut their tendons off once you finish up your last year and move out with him. You used to rely on him for everything, from walking your first steps, to bathing yourself, to doing one plus one, he would teach you all he knew. Now that you've grown so big, you demand more and more independence from him every day. If only he'd been born a lot earlier, he would have stolen you away as soon as he could and not taught you anything so that you would always stay with him.

Your begging is cute; Tenko wants to listen to it forever. That is, until you become impatient and yell out something not cute. Something that maybe Hana has always wanted to say but doesn't have the guts to.

“Stop being so controlling of me!”

You regret it the moment it comes out of your mouth. By instinct, you know it's wrong, whether or not it's true. Your big brother has devoted his entire self to you since the moment you opened your little eyes. Despite being only 3 years older, he takes care of you just as much as your parents did. Hana can't even hold a candle to how carefully he watches over you. Even now, when you're technically an adult, you're still choosing those animal print panties when your friends are shopping for pearl thongs. But still, calling him controlling is violating an unspoken rule, because he's never actually forced you to do anything. You yourself enable his behaviors by always being such a good baby sister.

The door slowly cracks open to reveal your brother. He's glaring at you so meanly you feel tears welling up in your eyes. In the dim hallway light, his eyes almost look red, and coupled with his recently dyed pale blue hair, he almost seems like a different person entirely. His dry lips tell you he's forgotten to drink enough water again, but it's hardly the time to remind him when he's towering over you so suffocatingly.

“I-I’m sorr—”

“Go away then.”

That's two firsts today. You've never even insinuated that you want your brother to stop being involved in your life, and Tenko has never told you to go anywhere without him, least of all away from him. You feel as if a bucket of ice got dumped over your head, and at the same time hellfire licks your heels. Your words hurt him, and his words hurt you, so you do what you do best: run back to your room and stew in your own guilt-colored anger.

By Saturday, when you're having your next relay race, you siblings still haven't reconciled. Tenko has been shut in his room the whole week and only comes out for food and to go to the gym. You torture yourself with math homework even when you desperately need help and can't even ask Hana since she's gone on a camping trip until Monday. Your parents and grandparents tried their best to ease the tension but couldn't get you to make up. When things are awkward for the youngest and the middle child, everyone is affected. Even worse when the only other child is gone. No one laughs at the adults’ jokes, and even your normally stoic dad feels awkward as well.

In the girls locker room, you take your time getting ready. You're afraid of stepping out of the doors and facing what your gut is already telling you. Irrationally, you hope that if you try to delay the inevitable, maybe it won't come after all. But by the time the announcer starts his second round introduction, you know you're out of time.

Tenko isn't in his usual seat on the bleachers. In fact, he isn't here at all. You tell yourself that it doesn't bother you and take your frustration out on the tracks. When your teammates cheer and congratulate you for securing the team's place in the finals, you only feel more lonely because he still hasn't rushed up to sweep you away from the commotion.

Dad often has to come home late, Mom needs to take care of the house, Grandma and Grandad can't always make it to your games because of the heat, and Hana can be busy with university work. Only Tenko, who has never missed a single one of your races, nor a milestone, nor a life event, was always there to hug you despite your sweat and tell you how proud of you he is. For the first time, you experience what you think your beloved older brother feels each time you grow up a little.

No one can tell that you're crying a little in the shower. Your friend gets off a few stops before yours, and the rest of the bus ride home is silent as your sadness turns to anger. You've never had to go home by bus after an event before. Tenko would always drive you to get ice cream afterwards. He's horrible, absolutely evil to abandon you like this, all over not getting to take you out one time.

When the front door slams open without a greeting, your mom peeks around the corner just in time to see you stomping upstairs to your room. She knew something was up when Tenko came home without you. When he left earlier, she thought he'd finally stopped being stubborn and went to make peace, but apparently that was not the case. Being the good mother that she is, she decides to make sure your favorite dish comes out perfect today to celebrate your win.

Passing Tenko’s room, you stomp extra hard to make a point. If he's got any remorse, now would be the best time to show his ugly face and apologize. But he doesn't, even when you wait for another moment at the foot of the stairs to your room. Your anger boiling over, you walk back to confront him yourself and barge inside without knocking, like how he loves to do to you so much, only to find… the room empty. Which is strange, because you clearly saw his shoes at the entrance, and his bathroom’s light is not on.

The confusion quickly deflates you, and you walk back to your room without bothering to stomp around. That would be your mistake, although there is no conceivable universe where you would be able to avoid this event anyway. Tenko probably wouldn't have stopped even if he could hear you thundering back to your room, only that he might have been able to prepare better. Because as of right now, sitting half-naked at the edge of your bed is your older brother with one of his hands wrapped around his—his thing.

Your panties drawer is open, and the neatly folded rows of garments are messily strewn about the floor. In the palm he's fucking into are your panties; the stripes tell you that it's the newly bought pair you were wearing only yesterday. In his other hand, the one currently right up against his mouth, is the pair of elastic underwear that went missing a little over a week ago. It's turned a dark blue from the usual cyan, soaked through with what you can only infer is his spit.

“Ten…ko… nii-san?” Your brain hasn't caught up, but you manage to croak. And like the cruelest joke, spurts of semen spill out of his closed fist not a second later. As if—as if he's enjoying your reaction too. There's the most depraved grin stuck on his face that makes you the most frightened you have been in your life. He leans forward a little and spreads open his palm as if to show his cum off to you.

“Look what you do to me, brat.” Without warning, he flicks his wrist and the fluids fly across the room, landing on your exposed legs and thighs. You think some drops got on your face too, but you don't want to process that right now. His sudden movement causes you to flinch backwards and like a spindly-legged fawn, you trip over air to fall on your own butt. It's hard to make out what emotion you're feeling right now because fear, shock, and confusion are screaming for first place, creating a cacophony of noise so loud you start to actually hear a ringing in your ear. You're petrified, the realization of what happened strangles you like a snake. You could hardly breathe, but you know this familiar scent that is permeating the room.

“You're why—why my underwear has been—”

“Been missing and smelling like my cock, yeah. Honestly, why were you even embarrassed to ask me to go panty shopping?” He stands. “Coulda saved me the huge headache had you just been honest,” a step, “I would have driven you to that mall in the next prefecture,” another step, “be your damn pack mule like usual,” he's in front of you now. Your room has never felt smaller; there's too little air and you're suffocating. You're trembling, shaking, and scrambling away, about to either run or roll down the flights of stairs but two hands wrap around your ankles and yank, pulling you back inside. The door slams closed without locking.

Five fingers lock your jaw shut before you can let out a single yelp. The wooden flooring is too cold to be pinned down on in just your shorts and T-shirt. A choked sob wracks your body, which can't even writhe around because the weight of a grown man is on top of you. Where did he learn to apprehend people like a cop? You can't even kick up at his exposed crotch, you have no grip and no oxygen.

“Scream, and you'll never see me again.” His voice is the only clear thing in this situation, because your eyes are useless from the tears and your mind is shutting down. Never see him again? As in, he will run away and abandon you forever like today? After all of this, isn't that a good thing? It should be, but instead of yelling at the top of your lungs for Mom the moment he releases the hand muffling your mouth, you bite down on your own lips to stay silent instead. You can excuse this, you can keep quiet. Maybe he was too pent-up from never having a girlfriend, even at 21. Maybe he watched too much porn and was possessed by lust. Maybe he is just pranking you, a sick prank that was the idea of his friends.

Unfortunately, this makes you keep not breathing. You're turning pale and you don't even know it. Not until Tenko has to lean down to pry your lips apart with his teeth and force air down your windpipe do you remember the one basic bodily function you need to keep doing. Little by little, he feeds you the oxygen your dumb brain needs to work. After which it becomes a slow, sloppy kiss that mellows you out like a pacifier. You forget to struggle against his grip and your eyes become half-lidded on their own.

When he pulls away, a string of saliva still connects your mouths. He's smiling like he's genuinely happy, and his pupils look red like the other day. “See? Why can't you always be honest like this?” He cups your face, all five fingers caress your cheek and the thumb wipes away your tears. You give up wrangling with him because you know you can't overpower him, no matter how fast you can run. Since you can't fly, fight, or freeze, the only other option is to speak.

“I h-hate, hate—hic—you, nii-san! That w-was my firsh—first kiss,” you sound pathetic. It pains him to see you so boldly lie to his face. It seems that you still don't understand that he knows you and your body better than you know it yourself.

“Don't worry, it wasn't.” Even though you know that's not true, you can't confidently deny his statement when he's smiling so lovesickly like that. It scares you, and his next question scares you even more. “Do you never notice how you're so damp when you wake up in the morning?”

Your brother presses a kiss against your forehead. The act is anything but pure when his other hand is sliding your shirt up to your neck. It's more like a reminder to use your itty bitty brain.

“Remember your last birthday? When you had your first cocktail and beer?” He peppers kisses down your nose. “I strained my throat warning you not to pass out around men; you didn't fucking listen.” The kisses trail downward, deliberately missing your lips. “Any innocence you had was lost on that day, brat.”

No. No, no, no. No, that's not true. That day, he brought you to the bar after the family celebration. He was there, you were in good hands.

Ah.

You were in his hands. The same hands that are taking off your shirt, shorts, and bras right now, and are tying your wrists with the underwear strewn on the floor. Same hands that are picking your near-naked body up and laying you on the bed. You wished you had bought the cheap pairs that tear with a touch. The ones you have can hold up a suspension bridge.

“After every win, I'd reward you too. You're still too damn dumb to act so independent. Why do you think just a bottle of cider can knock anyone out cold, to this day? And that your pussy gets sore from running?”

It's so scary to be able to understand what he's insinuating. If only you were stupid enough to just take everything literally, maybe you wouldn't be crying again. He pushes your hands above your head, exposing you like a fish on the cutting board.

It's also scary when he doesn't act like how you imagine a rapist might act. You can't say it's molesting when his hands are petting you so tenderly. They're cold, and they soothe your burning skin, from your ribs to your waist, to down in between your thighs, then pressing against your still-clothed pussy. Instantly, you know something is wrong when Tenko pulls the gusset back and releases, it slaps against you with a splat instead of a noiseless pap. He grins because he knows that you know. You know that you're drenched.

“Hear that? I trained you well, didn't I?” You can only shake your head no, pressing your leg shut to prevent him from humiliating you further. It must be sweat, or maybe pee. You are really scared, after all. “Why are you, doing—hic—this? You're my br-brother, it's wrong!” You whisper between sobs. Why are you not screaming?

“Ah? Wrong? What's so wrong about being in love?” Large hands try to force your thighs apart. When your legs prove to be the harder limbs to manhandle, unlike your twig arms, he folds them upwards instead, bending you into the letter L. Your entire pussy is still accessible this way, but Tenko doesn't get to see your face. He has a love-hate relationship with this part of your body. On one hand, he would be happy to die between them. On the other, he wants to take them away so you can't run from him ever again. It's a blessing that his sanity is intact. Who knows what other versions of himself would do in another universe.

“What's so wrong with treating my girlfriend well?” Instead of taking off your panties, he did the opposite. Your brother pulls on the fabric so it would hug tighter against your pussy, the wet gusset outlines every one of your folds. Not that it even needed to, he's got his face pressed up all over your cunt and filmed it from so many angles, he could make a 3D model of it from memory. But touching your pussy and creaming it is arguably the best part, right up there with watching your knocked-out face make the lewdest expressions when you cum.

“And if you yell at me for being a little sister-fucking monster,” he pulls the fabric to the side, “then you're a fucking hypocrite, brat.” Three fingers plunge in at once without any warning, as if to prove a point. There is no resistance; your pussy accepts them greedily. You strain against the knots around your wrists and can no longer keep your legs in the air, they fall apart just like that. His meal looks a lot more appetizing now that he can always glance up to see your face.

“Why are you so wet knowing you've been raped in your sleep by your nii-san, huh?” Three fingers keep pumping in and out of you roughly, every jerk makes sure to abuse your sweet spot inside and your clit outside. “You're still gushing when you know that your big brother is rubbing his cock on all your clean panties. That he likes putting the dirty ones in his mouth and on his dick.” His tongue replaces his thumb on your clit, swirling it around to make obscene noises, which still doesn't shut him up. “I would have marked them with my cum if dried semen wasn't visible. I bet your cunt remembers my cock. It must leak all the time when you wear them.”

It's hard to focus on crying when you're being eaten out for the first time—that you're lucid for, anyway. His rambling doesn't make sense, his scent can't be the cause of why your pussy gets wet at random times. It should have been the opposite, that your pussy discharges more and is causing the smell. But at this point, you can't tell. Things you thought weren't possible are happening in front of your eyes; or, well, your pussy.

It's getting harder to think too, something is welling up as his hand increases its speed. He's sucking your clit lightly, lapping up your juice as it spills out and the other hand reaches up to pinch your nipple. You can't stop it, your hands are bound, but the sensation feels oddly familiar, as if you've experienced it many times before in your dream.

“Hey, have I told you before? You can squirt sometimes. It's why I have so many towels. But wet your bedsheet today, slutty sister.” So you did, at his command. However, Tenko is cruel. Instead of letting the stream run its natural course, he pulls the gusset of your panties back in place, interrupting the spurts, which forces you to feel everything run down your butt. You do it involuntarily, and you almost scream because you thought you'd peed yourself. Though when you peek at yourself, it's a clear liquid; the kind you can only make when you overhydrate yourself, which you didn't do. You've only heard hushed whispers about the ‘squirting’ phenomenon from your friends, that only some women might do it. You didn't think you'd find out that you're one of them today.

Up was down and down was up for a moment in time. After your first orgasm, you finally understand what all the fuss around it is about and why your girlfriends coveted it so. The experienced ones bemoan their boyfriends’ inadequacy, complaining about how they have to fake it all the time. Isn't it nice that your very own sibling, the one who loves you so very much, can give you one as easily as drinking water? Or, in this case, sucking the water out of your panties.

Then a bite on your neck grounds you back to Earth. It hurts a bit, but you don't think your skin broke since it doesn't sting. Tenko lazily crawls up to plant a proper kiss on you after that, making you taste the remnants of yourself. It's not as good as he makes it look, but the strangest, stupidest thought crosses your mind about what his cock might taste like instead. You immediately write it off as an intrusive thought born from your high. For some reason, your bound wrists that were above your head slowly draw down to wrap your arms around his neck. You feel his lips smile against yours. And he doesn't say anything, doesn't taunt you, or humiliate you. Tenko knows you really haven't broken just yet, but for this moment, he likes to pretend it's a year from now and you're pulling him in with love.

After a few minutes and you're aware again, you push him away. Then you're back putting on your indignant act, all high and mighty as if you hadn't just squirted from a bit of cunnilingus. You cum so quickly when you're awake, he'd have to eat you out for at least two orgasms before you'd start squirting in your sleep. Sometimes, he wishes he could jailbreak you as easily as he can with your phone and laptop. If only there was a manual on how to turn you into his good incest doll quickly, he'd read every page and learn every technique. But it's alright, he'll figure it out himself. For now, it's time to remind you who owns you.

“Flip over, ass in the air, baby.” Of course you don't obey immediately, only with a few slaps to your pussy and a pinch to your nipple do you squirm onto your stomach to hide away. He makes you present your butt to him in the most embarrassing way possible, with your panties clinging onto your crevices like a second skin from the mess earlier. Finally, finally your brother takes them off. In a normal situation, that would be a major cause of concern, but for you it's a relief to stop feeling like you've just wet yourself. He folds them neatly on your bedside table, away from the rest on the floor.

“This is my memento for today, you know? I'm gonna dry it and sniff it whenever I miss you.” The imagery is enough to make you cry, from your eyes to your pussy. You can't understand it, you feel gross but it is so happy, it betrays you for the nth time. “Cause you're awake today. And I'm finally fucking you from the back, baby sis…” A suspiciously delayed spurt of liquid escapes you, interrupting him. “Ah? Hah, so you get off on me reminding you that you're my littlest sister, huh?”

“No!” You deny too quickly and he chuckles. It's a terrible habit of yours, can't lie to your brother to save your life.

“Really? Don't want a reminder of who this cunny belongs to?” He taps on it gently, as if questioning it and not you. “Remember, it's big brother's property. Ten - ko - nii’s. Now let me fuck it properly so it can't forget.” At his words, you see the black hoodie he's had on tossed to the side and feel a hot rod shoved between your butt cheeks. It rubs up and down, threatening to slip further south and press inside of you. Terror rises again, this would be your first time, no matter what he told you before. It feels way bigger than three fingers, and everyone told you the first time would hurt like being ripped apart.

But when he sinks his cock in with one fluid stroke, you feel no pain, just unimaginably full and out of breath. It feels like he's inside your stomach, or your womb, and his veins keep rubbing against your pleasure spot inside, making your vision swim. The new position must be doing things to Tenko as well if his staggered inhales are any indicator. He's glad you can't see his face, it may make you piss yourself if you catch the feral way he's snarling to not moan out loud. Globs of drool drip down his chin to land on your anus, sliding down more to help lubricate your entrance, if it even needed help in the first place. He has to leave that other hole alone today, it needs to be worshipped properly on its own another time.

Being a good big brother, he allows you to catch your breath. But then, you both hear thuddings that aren't the ones from your hearts. They're from the floor, from outside. Someone is coming up to your room. Either that, or they're going to go do laundry. Tenko bites his lips to stop a groan because your cunt is clamping down harder. The thudding is right outside now, and it soon slows to a halt.

The door isn't locked. Out of everyone in the house, only Tenko would barge in with no warning. But sometimes, Hana does too, especially if she's excited. He leans down, presses his defined abs onto your back so you can feel every ridge and whispers in your ear, “Why don't you scream for help, huh?”

“Hun, are you alright?” Your mom knocks lightly. Thank gods, it's Mom. But oh gods, it's Mom. Her middle child is diddling her youngest on her own bed inside the room right now, she might get a heart attack if she opens the door. She's checking up on you after your little attitude show earlier. If you yell, she'd come in straight away and stop this madness.

“Why aren't you yelling for Mom? Don't you hate this?” You do, you don't. You don't know, he's being so mean. Why is he goading you into getting him caught? And oh god, why is he starting to move? It's a terrible, slow rhythm that's more appropriate for lovemaking than fucking you from behind. You apologize to your mother in your head profusely. The two abominations that came out of her are copulating just on the other side of the door, or more accurately, one is raping the other. If she turns the handle, your once normal family might just disintegrate to dust.

“Hun? Are you there?” She knocks again, and you have to answer soon, or she'll come in and check on you herself. In your ear, Tenko breathes, “Hey, just scream, and you'll never see me again.”

It's the same line that he used earlier, but it's taken on a different meaning now. If you scream, he will most likely get thrown in jail, get disowned, and get ostracized. You'd be saved, never have to see your rapist big brother again. But then, in a moment of extreme wisdom, you realize you'd be the one abandoning him. You don't want that. You'd hate that.

“Y-yeah, Mom! I'm here. I'm o-o-okay,” you swallow your spit and try to focus in spite of your melting mind.

“Dear? Are you crying? I know you've been upset with your brother. Speaking of, do you know where he is?” She asks, and you suck in a moan that's threatening to come out as Tenko reaches down to touch your clit. He's still pumping into you, not even letting up as you try to speak. In fact, when you have to answer, he seems to thrust in even deeper and harder. It's unfair, especially when he gets to bite down on your shoulder to stifle his noises. It makes you want to make him anxious as well.

“Yeah, he—he's in my room, actually. We're making ou- up, making up!” A hand grabs your hair and pulls back, forcing you to get on your elbows instead of pressing your cheek to the pillow.

“Oh! Good, you're in there, Tenko?” Her voice is a lot more chipper now. Your poor mother, clearly she's thinking her sweet children are reconciling and peace will once again be attained in the household, clueless to the fact that they're actually trying to fuck up the family tree. Without missing a single beat, he answers her, “Yep, I'm apologizing to her. We're having a chat. Can we have dinner later?”

“Alright, hun. I'm sure everyone will understand. Make sure to talk, okay?” She happily reiterates and leaves. The moment her footsteps start to fade, a sharp smack reverberates off the walls. Your butt immediately turns a cute pink, and your pussy clenches sinfully.

“What'd ya want to happen, hah? Wanna get back at me? When I'm being such a good big brother. Say it.” He yanks your hair lightly and slaps your ass again when you don't respond, a handprint forming.

“You're a, you're a good b-big brudder!” You blabber through squeals and breathy moans. It feels too good. Your brother shouldn't be making you feel this way, but somewhere inside your brain, you understand that only your brother can make you feel this way. “Yeah? Now the place I'm knocking on is your cervix. Past that is your womb, where my cum belongs. I'm gonna—fuck, gonna breed my baby sister. What do you think?”

“Noo! P-Pull ouuut! I, I, I don't wannaa—wanna get p-pwegnant!” Mewling it out like that sounds more like an invitation than anything. “W-well, too fucking bad. I'm creaming my lil sis' tight cunny a-and, sh-shit—and seeding it today.” He releases your hair all of a sudden, making you hang your head limply, too fucked out to use more muscles. Then you feel a pressure on your lower stomach, and you open your eyes to see that a hand is pressing down on it. You can now feel every drag of his cock in and out of you even more vividly, stirring up your insides and you can't do anything but leak more slick at the disturbing sight.

“Feel that? I'm in y-your stomach—my little wife’s stomach. If you get your period in a few days, I'm spanking this stomach until it gives me a baby. S-so make sure it takes today,” he moves his other hand to toy with your button again, tapping it even more roughly than how he'd treat his keyboard. The squelching noises from his brutal fucking fill the entire room and your head, you're afraid everyone downstairs may just hear it. This is the first time being on the third floor has done you any good. You know your bedsheet is drenched, just like Tenko wants it to be, because your knees are slipping and sliding against the copious fluids from your baby-making.

It's genuinely scary, the threat of impregnation. You're much too young, you only just got your university acceptance letter last week. But the more he says it, the more appealing it sounds somehow, being a stay-at-home mom and his trophy wife, married to the only guy you care for. No other boy your age could do what he does, they don't take care of your every want and need, don't treat you like a princess, don't understand your feelings at all. He's the only one who could, and in every classmate who confesses, you always try to find his look-alike. Your pleas become so weak and fake, they make him laugh aloud. “Tenko-niii, p-pleash don't d-do it…” So you say, but your hips are canting back and chasing his cock with every thrust.

A mean chuckle tickles your eardrum. “You suck at reverse psychology. Lucky for you, I love you so fucking much. Don't you love me too?” What can you say? You know the love he feels for you is different from yours for him, at least you think so. That's what you're trying to tell yourself. But it doesn't matter, because there's really only one answer to that question regardless of context. “I…I love y-you as well.”

Tenko kisses your cheek. How perverted, to do such a normal and sweet thing like he's still just your old Tenko and not the monster whose balls are slapping on your pubic bone. He pets your head, brushing away the hair strands sticking to your face. “C’mon, cum on my cock and I'll give you your treat…” Gentle, disgustingly tender voice coaxes you. You're ashamed of yourself for getting off on the dichotomy between his soft actions and the revolting things he says. It seems that he's also at his limit, his pumps become more erratic but much harder, trying to push himself as deep as he could.

“I wish—I wish I could get past your cervix, but I can’t, so just make sure not to spill anything, okay?” He warns, and not a second later, he thrusts forward so forcefully you topple over from your elbow to land on your face, ass still up in the air. Immediately, burning hot ropes of thick semen fill your insides, pushing straight into your womb. The virile seeds stick to your walls, and he only thrusts shallowly to fuck them in further. Your pussy, finally getting its long-awaited creampie, convulses and pitifully sprays your orgasm all over Tenko’s lap.

Little rivers run down his thighs, painting him in your essence. When he leans back to peek at the mess, whatever cum he had left in his balls all spurts out at the sight of a creamy white ring around his cock every time he pulls away. You really are fast, to have managed to put a ring on him before he can even nail down a design, and it's the most gorgeous thing ever.

Spread apart on his dick, his little sister came and squirted for him. It's so much better to hear you helplessly beg him to pull out while your cunt is milking him for all he's worth than to fuck you when you're drugged and barely conscious. He doesn't know if he can go back to forcing himself on you that exact way anymore when he can now fuck your fully awake brain out of your skull whenever he wants. Though, that wouldn't be rape, now would it? Especially when you're already so addicted to his cock just from one round.

He hesitates to pull out, but a lightbulb goes off above his head when he's searching for something to plug you up with. He unties the panties on your wrist, now red and chafed, then slides one of them on you. You blearily blink your eyes open when he manhandles you on your side and pulls you into a cuddle, which shouldn't feel as comforting as it does with his cum trying not to escape your pussy. This soreness in your body, your legs, and your crotch is far too familiar, something you've always written off as muscle fatigue after an intense race. He so very lovingly soothes over your injuries with his hands, which always feel like they can destroy anything, and coos praises in your ears that you can only half-heartedly deny.

Tenko is happy. After midnight, he'll take you out for ice cream. He'll properly apologize then, for pretending not to come see you perform today. It's an arduous journey to jailbreak one's sister, but he is nothing if not dedicated. Plus, you're the best little sister in the world, he has every faith that you'll excel at anything you put your mind to. The pecks to your forehead and affirmations of brotherly love lull you to sleep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━༺❀༻━━━━━━━━━━━━

Copyright © 2025 deer1nheadlight. All rights reserved.

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

I owe you an apology for voting for Princess x Knight. I wasn't really familiar with your game. I'm loving the saga of the servant and the knight. The last one I thought was interesting is that it's the servant who insists on staying close to the knight and touching him, while he's shy. Imagine being his squire or squadmate, and seeing your stoic colleague (or just someone unattainable) melt because the cool servant, who sometimes shares the royal leftovers with them, wants to help him with a mundane task. think it's amazing how both of them can be so polite and so horny at the same time.

Don't even sweat it baby, i totally see the appeal of princess x knight but im glad people are vibing with chubby servant reader :3

The knights knew of you beforehand. You were always so charming and sweet, it was no wonder that one of them asked for your hand. It was a shame that you couldn't go through with the ceremony due to his untimely death.

They continued to be kind to you, though. You brought the children little treats and sang songs and even began to teach them, to give them a chance at something more than servitude all their lives. They appreciated that, admired you for it.

They are not surprised when the new knight, Sir Adam Fischer, falls for you.

He becomes a different man because of you. Before, he was hard and rough, ready for battle at a moment's notice. You have made him soft with your presence. When you appear, he straightens, neck craning to look at you in the crowd. When he thinks of you, he stares off into nothingness, eyes glazed, a smile peeking through here and there.

The squires find it odd that someone so strong could be so weak for a woman. When you meet him at the stables, his shoulders relax as if he has taken a hot bath until the water runs cold. When you hand him a ripe fruit, he acts as if he's been handed a gift by the gods.

They do not speak of it, but they know he is bedding you. He is far more lax than he was when he first arrived, movements loose, as if he is feeling something better than his calloused hand wrapped around his manhood at night.

To some, you are betrothed when you share a bed. To others, a gift makes the marriage official. Most of the knights have settled on the latter, encouraging Adam to get you a ring before someone else sweeps you off your feet.

"You must hurry to marry, brother," they tell him one night in their cots. "She will not be available to you forever."

"Bold of you to assume I do not have a plan," he responds.

"A plan?" They crowd him, jostle him as he tries to sleep. "Tell us, what do you plan to do."

"I will only tell you if you keep your mouths shut. Now, let me sleep, before I pummel all of you."

The next morning, his shirt rips at the shoulder. The seamstress has enough work for the royals to do, so he is left shirtless until the evening when he tries to mend the shirt himself.

His hands are clunky, clumsy. He is doing a poor job, and poking himself in the process. The captain pities him and fetches you.

"Why did you not come to me immediately?" you asked as you sewed together the fabric. "I could have mended it for you earlier."

"I did not want to bother you, my lady. You had your own work to do today."

"I would have found the time."

It is a sweet sight, seeing the two of you in the stables, Adam watching you mend his shirt. His hands twitch, clench as he stares at you. His shoulders are lax but tight at the same time.

"There," you say when you finish, cutting the last of the thread. "It is not art, but it will do."

"Thank you, my lady."

He takes the shirt from you, his hands grazing yours. The look you two share is one that the other knights can only describe as love and longing. You stand from the bench.

"I must return to the kitchen before I retire for the evening."

"May I escort you?" he asks, standing as well. You glance around the room at the other knights who quickly divert their gaze.

"I do not think it would be wise, sir." You curtsy, begin to walk away, but he grabs your arm.

"I-I am hungry," he hurries out. "I... did not have enough for dinner. Please, my lady, may I have something else to eat?"

"I..."

"Tis alright, my lady," the captain chimes in, making everyone turn to him. "He is a soldier. The king would want him to be full, strong and ready for battle. He would understand."

The knights turn back to you. You blink, twisting your mouth before looking at Adam.

"I believe I can find something for you in the kitchen."

The two of you leave, Adam close to you, crowding your space.

"Why did you let him go, sir?" one of the knights asks.

"He needs to be with her. You will understand when you find love one day."

[alexanderlightweight]

Hello hello and happy Wednesday!! I hope your week has been good and continues to get better! I’ve been reading through your ao3 page and was wondering if you have anything for “all your cracks I’ll paint gold”? It’s one of my favorites! If not then consider this a free space to write whatever you want! Sfw/nsfw I don’t mind either! What’s something that made you smile today? Mine was my dog being cute while I brushed her she does a BIG stretch everytime I get to her back legs!

It has been a long week? like I don't even know its just been one of those weeks. the only thing getting me through it is writing? so at least there is that ^_^ and Nightshade who ensures I get plenty of cuddles and exercise.

Say stopped a bakery and got me taro and red bean buns which was really sweet of them and made me smile! and Nightshade got so upset that I left him at home today that we had to sit together on the ground because he kept knocking us both off of furniture with upset zoomies... in my lap lol. that sounds adorable, I love stretchy-paws

i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

all your cracks I'll paint gold

Alec’s place in the shadowworld is no longer certain and he knows that, yet despite how he should feel adrift, he feels nothing but certainty. 

Alec belongs to Magnus, in a way beyond the ties of Alec’s once-oaths to the Clave or even his tether to Raziel.  If Alec has a place in the shadowworld, then it’s simply to be and exist at Magnus’ side.

Alec is more than a husband, a lover or even a consort to Magnus.

He is Magnus’ devotee and his adoration for Magnus is what now ties Alec to the lifeblood of this realm and the power that binds it together.

Still, there’s no actual name for what Alec is now, or the place that he currently fills in Magnus’ life.

In fact Alec is pretty sure that the only reason they’re not going with just ‘consort’ is because Magnus didn’t feel that it was elevated enough.  And considering it’s his magic and power and the demonic runes of his bloodline that keep Alec whole and hale, then Alec is fine with him creating a fancy title or whatever Magnus wants to do.

As long as Alec has veto powers.

Alec is not going to let Magnus get away with making a pun that they’ll both have to live with for the very long rest of their lives.  Alec is only just beginning to enjoy living again and looking forward to the future, he doesn’t want anything to threaten that.

Especially not Ragnor’s naming sense and Magnus’ love for puns.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like it will come down to Alec needing to use his veto. Magnus returns from whatever library he threw himself into four hours before and there is so much delight in his face that Alec knows whatever Magnus has picked will be what he accepts.

Even if it is something terrible or a pun.

How could he not? When Magnus looks so breathlessly happy and utterly thrilled.

—

Of course his Alexander is on the roof.

Magnus wonders why he even bothers to think otherwise or look elsewhere and summons a portal accordingly.  His feet feel as though he’s walking on the breeze.  The mood boosting him and buoying every step the closer he gets to his sweet Alexander.

It took a rather long time and Magnus had to go through the archives of what titles had been lost to time, left unused, could be recrafted or just what he could use that would be sure to give Alexander a place of honor.

A title to bear with the same pride — if not more — than he did his title of bloodied shadowhunter and runed Commander.

All doubt flees the moment he sees Alexander’s gaze.

It’s soft and indulgent and so loving that Magnus knows he’s won without even trying.  Perhaps it would be a sad victory for someone else, but the fact that Magnus has won what he wants simply by being so excited that Alexander won’t say no, it thrills him.

Who else has ever cared for something as simple as stoking Magnus’ excitement rather than dimming it?

Besides Catarina and Ragnor of course.

Magnus can hardly take time to breath, the need to hold and touch and feel Alexander beneath his palms and magic is suddenly too intense.

The runes that have been seared onto Alexander’s skin go soul-deep and Magnus can feel the mutual longing engulfing them as they finally meet again.

Even just a few hours seem endless when it takes Magnus from his boy’s side.

“Beloved— Magnus greets and Alec kisses him without hesitation or comment, just a soft delighted laughter and the press of dry, sun-warm lips to his own. “I have—” and then Magnus has nothing to say because Alexander’s arms are around him and Magnus has better things to think about.

Like how Alexander smells like moss and sunshine and the sap of his favorite tree and Magnus nuzzles against him, breathing deeply and just letting everything in and around him settle.

A few moments pass as they sway in place and then Alexander presses a gentle kiss to his jaw and nudges Magnus with his nose.

“You have?”

His voice is deep and teasing and Magnus would love to let himself drift in the sweetness of the moment but alas, duty calls.

“I have you, darling. My consort, my love, a devotee to my very soul and the unholy blood in my veins, my archon.”

[boneapplet]

From Rust and Bone pt.3

Chronicles of the Lost Primarch

Relationship: Rogal Dorn x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: mentions of the heresy via nightmares, recovering from an injury, slight brief nonsexual nudity

Word Count: 1465

Requested tag:@noncon-photobomb

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Silence settles over them, Kessa stoking the flames, keeping silent as Dorn gives into exhaustion and falls asleep. His dreams plagued with twisted memories from his service to the Imperium. It feels as if no time has passed since he had first fallen asleep as he wakes with a jolt. Taking a deep breath as he settles himself, focusing on the things around him. The fire crackling low in its cradle of stone and rusted vent tubing. Outside, the winds scrape along the cave's mouth, carrying the last breath of the toxic season—acrid, dry, and sour on the tongue.

Kessa ladles something thick from a battered pot into a dented metal bowl. The scent is strong—root-heavy, spiced with salt and smoked bone. A stew made from what she had left from her last kill. Bringing it to him as he sits, propped against the wall beside the bed with a salvaged pelt over his lap, muscles still stiff from months unmoving.

“Found some herbs before the rain started,” she says, holding the bowl out. “Should be more palatable now.”

Dorn looks at the bowl. Then at her.

“I don’t need broth,” he says, voice firmer today. “I can handle real food.”

Kessa just raises an eyebrow. She doesn't argue—just returns to the pot and scoops into the bowl pieces of colorful roots and chunks of meet before handing it over. The fire crackles low in its cradle of stone and rusted vent tubing. Outside, the winds scrape along the cave's mouth, carrying the last breath of the toxic season—acrid, dry, and sour on the tongue.

Taking the bowl, fingers wrapped tight around its battered rim. Carefully sets it upon his lap. Gripping the spoon is harder than it should be. Balance is off. The bowl wobbles slightly as he fumbles for a stable position. Kessa doesn’t move to help. She just watches, eyes steady, lips pressed in a line. Let me try. That’s what this moment says. Not out loud—but in the way he shifts his grip. In the effort it takes just to steady the damn thing against his thigh.

He scoops a mouthful. The first chew is fine, the second is harder. By the third, his throat tightens. His jaw tenses. Muscles seize. His body, unfamiliar with bulk and texture after months of nutrient drip and thin broth, begins to revolt. He freezes; lips pressed shut. The strength in him falters suddenly, all at once. The spoon clatters into the bowl. His hand goes to his mouth. He leans forward, retching—not violently, just enough for the shame to sink in deeper than the nausea. The bowl teeters, then spills, stew hits the ground with a dull splash. He doesn’t speak, simply stares at the mess. Just breathing, shallow and low, chest rising in tight, ashamed movements. His single hand, the one that tried so hard to make this moment work, curls into a frustrated fist. Kessa doesn’t rush to him, doesn’t flinch.

“Told you,” she says softly. “You’ve been a drip-feed ghost for half a year. Your stomach forgot how to hold anything.”

He’s quiet. Anger simmering at the edges, but it’s not at her. It’s at himself, at this failure of flesh. A body that used to stride through catacombs of steel now can’t even keep a bowl of stew down. Lifting his head to look at her—not furious. Just tired.

“How long before it remembers?”

“Depends how patient you are,” she says, crouching to clean the spilled stew. “You eat in slivers. You chew more than you think you need. You learn again.”

“I’m not used to learning again,” he mutters.

Glances up at him, not smiling, though her gaze warmer than before.

“You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Either way, I’ll still be making broth.”

               Dorn doesn’t answer right away, chest rising and falling, breath shallow. Shame lingering in his throat—thicker than the stew. He’s not used to this kind of helplessness, this kind of vulnerability. Kessa finishes wiping the spilled food into a cracked tin basin. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t lecture instead she looks up again, she studies him—not the Primarch, not the war-thing in broken armor—but the man trying not to let his failure choke him twice.

Standing up, she sets the basin aside and walks back to the pot. Scoops another small portion into a new bowl. This time, less. Enough to try, not conquer. She returns and kneels beside him, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other.

“Let me help.” It’s not a question, although it’s not an order either.

Dorn’s jaw works—stiff, resisting. But not from pride, from habit. From old instincts honed across battlefields and star-wrecked fortresses. Only giving a singular nod. Taking a seat down beside him on the edge of the bed, close but not crowding. Holding the spoon with the ease of someone who’s done this before. Maybe for an injured beast. Maybe for a dying scavenger. Maybe once, a long time ago, for a sibling who never made it past their first vent season. Lifting the spoon which he welcomes into his mouth. One bite. Small. Slow. The heat settles in his mouth before sliding down. His body doesn’t fight it this time. Just… accepts it. Silence hangs between them as she feeds him, heavy but not cold.

Eventually, she speaks—not looking at him, but her voice steady “You’ve got bones like steel cables. But they cracked. So, you start over. Bit by bit.”

He chews slowly, jaw moving with careful rhythm. His one hand rests on his knee, steadying himself with the same control he once used to hold entire bastions together.

“You do this often?” he asks.

“Only when they’re worth the broth,” she replies without missing a beat.

Taking a moment to swallows the spoonful “And am I?”

She looks at him, spoon still in hand “You’re getting there.”

The second time around the stew stays down. It’s not a triumph, not really—but Dorn doesn’t spit it out, doesn’t double over, and Kessa doesn’t have to spoon it to him. That’s enough. The days that follow easily fall into a ritual of sorts. He starts small, picking up his own waterskin, folding the pelts when he rises, stretching beside the fire until the muscle tremors stop lasting more than a second.

By the fourth day of waking, he starts to move more—still wrapped in the pelt she threw over him after cutting him free. It hangs uneven on his frame, cinched at the hip with a vent-cord belt, baring too much of his torso and leaving his legs chilled in the cave’s recycled air.

“You’re going to catch sick like that,” Kessa mutters.

Standing up from her work bench “Come.”

She leads him to a runoff chute a quarter-klick above the cave—an old steam outlet from a long-buried manufactorum, where heated vent-water gathers in a stone catch basin. The climb is slow. His legs are still stiff, lungs shallow. Kessa doesn’t hover, but she doesn’t leave either. Upon reaching the basin, she dumps a jar of herb ash into the water—it hisses green and froths. He doesn’t ask what’s in it.

“Washes the stink,” she offers, already turning away. “Take your time. I’ll be examining the area to see what damage the rain has done.”

When he strips, he sees the truth of himself under daylight for the first time. Scars, fused skin. Muscles that once rippled with divine strength now drawn taut with weeks of atrophy. Pulling himself from these thoughts and distracting himself by washing away the grime. Hand over his scarred chest, ribs, through matted gold-and-grey hair. The water is shockingly cold, but as he washes away the filth it feels like shedding something.

Once done he makes his way to the shore, over to the rock where he had discarded the pelt. Laying there beside the pelt is a scrap bundle. Fumbling it with one hand, unfolds it. It’s not much—stitched synth-cloth, layered patches of beast-hide, some fabric he recognizes as pieces of her own wraps. They’re worn, but clean. Getting dressed, slowly. The act itself is a ritual—pulling himself upright, testing muscle, balance, memory. It feels strange to wear anything not sealed to pressure plates and armor sockets. Tucking the pelt under his arm and heads to where he could barely see her. She meets him halfway and descends back to the cave alongside each other.

“Had to resize ‘em,” she says. “Didn’t figure you for modest, but it gets cold when the pressure shifts.”

When he looks at himself in the mirror shard she keeps tucked behind a pipe—he doesn’t look like a warrior but looks like a survivor.

[qiu-yan]

Imagine, for a moment, that CSSR and WCZ make for their baby WY a cloth doll.

[warnings: concerning, nonconsensual bodily modification]

This cloth doll rapidly becomes WY’s best friend, and he takes it with him everywhere. Thus, even when WCZ and CSSR die and WY is left alone, he still has the doll. Even when WY loses everything else on the streets, at least he has his cloth friend.

Events proceed as they do in canon: WY is brought by JFM to Lotus Pier, JFM gives away JC’s dogs, an angry JC chases WY out of JC’s room, etc etc. Then, when JC goes to look for WY, he takes the doll with him; when JC then promises to protect WY from dogs, JC gives him the doll as well.

Then, as time passes, WY gets used to life at Lotus Pier. JC becomes his best friend and he starts to forget about the doll. Increasingly, the doll is left behind in WY and JC’s room as WY and JC have their own adventures.

As it turns out, throughout the years, the doll had, due to magic bullshit, cultivated a consciousness of its own. Now, as it sits abandoned by its previous best friend, the doll makes a wish: it wants to be human too.

The next day, around 1 year after WY’s arrival at Lotus Pier, the doll finds that it has become the human known as WY, and the human known as WY has become a doll.

At first, the doll is horrified. But soon the doll begins to forget that it was ever a doll. Within minutes, all of the doll’s memories of being a doll disappear and are replaced with WY’s own memories. The doll will henceforth be referred to as WWX, and the original WY (human transformed into a doll) will henceforth be referred to as the transformed doll.

Canon proceeds as described as in MDZS. The transformed doll survives the fall of Lotus Pier because JC, in a fit of nostalgia, takes it with him to Qishan for the indoctrination camp, and then forgets it in his qiankun sleeves.

The transformed doll then survives the rest of MDZS canon as well. During the 13 year time skip, JC keeps it on his person as a memento of WWX. 

Throughout this entire process, the transformed doll was conscious. It knew that it had once been a human named WY and that it had been transformed into a doll. However, because it was a doll, it could not move at all. As you might expect, this is a horrifying situation to be in, but even the transformed doll managed to get used to it eventually.

And then, one day postcanon, the transformed doll finally manages to gather enough energy to cultivate a golden core, break the transformation, and return to human form. The now-human transformed doll, henceforth referred to as WY, explains to a confused JC who he is and what happened.

At first, JC rejects WY because he cannot believe that people can turn into dolls and the reverse. However, WY, who still remembers that the 1 year he spent as a human in Lotus Pier was enjoyable and who doesn’t have anywhere else to go, is determined to stay at Lotus Pier. So eventually JC gets used to him...and then starts to get attached to him.

Nonetheless, WY and WWX are not the same person. There are some major personality differences between them - which stand out to JC rather starkly, given that WY looks exactly like WWX’s old body.

As it turns out, the fates of WY and WWX are linked. When WY is human, WWX is a doll; when WWX is human, WY is a doll. Thus, because WY has reverted to being human, WWX has now reverted to being a doll.

LWJ, WN, the Lan juniors, and all of WWX’s other loved ones are horrified to find that WWX has suddenly turned into a cloth doll, and seek any possible means by which to break what they believe is a curse. Eventually, their investigation leads them to lotus pier and to WY, due to some energy linkage between the two. And eventually, their investigation reveals the following: only one of WWX and WY can be human. If one of them is human, the other one will be transformed into a doll. Thus, the only way to return WWX to human form is for WY to turn into a doll again.

This information is known by LWJ, WN, the Lan juniors who accompanied the former two on this investigation, JC, and WY. WWX himself is not in the know, because he is currently a doll and because said doll was left at the Cloud Recesses for safekeeping. 

LWJ is uncertain how to proceed. Obviously he wants WWX back, but doing so would consign another innocent individual to a terrible fate. LWJ is uncertain if he can morally justify turning WY back into a doll just so that WWX can become human - especially when it was WY who was originally the real human to begin with. 

One evening a few days later, JC wakes up WY. JC tells WY that, while LWJ has moral hangups and is thus prevaricating on the correct course of action, WN has no such concerns when it comes to WWX and is thus plotting to turn WY back into a doll at this very moment. JC tells WY that WN is currently designing an array that will turn WY back into a doll, which can be activated from anywhere; thus, even if WY runs far away, WY will not be safe. However, says JC, he and his people have been working on a countermeasure: an array that will cement WY’s existence as human, such that any attempt to transform him will fail. Now, says JC, the array is finished, and JC wants WY to step into it in order to save him from WN. 

JC leads WY to the array, which is big enough to take up an entire room. JC asks WY to step into the array. WY agrees. 

As it turns out, JC lied. 

WY is transformed once more into a doll. Miles and miles away, in the cloud recesses, WWX reverts to human. 

[violetvines]

okay, so new theory:

disclaimer: i haven't reread the books in a long time, so i might have some facts wrong, and some of this may not make sense but it's been in my head for a while

what if everything tobias hawthorne did to his grandsons (the saturday morning games, training them to be better, faster, stronger) had a bigger reason? we all think that he did it because he was crazy and he basically made grayson a living robot and jameson a masochistic ticking time-bomb – but what if everything he did to them was warranted? (i am not defending him in any way, just thinking of possibilities)

we know that tobias hawthorne's game is finished... but it looks like alice hawthorne's game is just beginning

in the brothers hawthorne, tobias was asked if they would ever get to meet alice, and he replied "you're not ready to meet her yet" or something along the lines of them needing to be ready to meet her

we also know that tobias knew that alice had been alive this whole time but she never returned to live at the house and she never even attended the funeral as far as we know

which makes me believe that alice hates tobias – but why?

it could be because of odette – maybe she found out about their r/s or... it could be how tobias seemed to favour toby (not their son by blood) over his own children (skye and zara) – who knows how petty alice is...

alice seems to want to cut herself off from being a hawthorne and she doesn't seem to care about her grandsons (she nearly killed jameson and threatened to hurt anyone else he told which, if he did do, would definitely include his brothers)

let's go back to the part where tobias said that "they weren't ready to meet her yet"

what if it wasn't meant to be a cordial family occasion? what if they were supposed to meet her in a different way, aka now? what if "ready" meant that the day she sought them out?

jameson saw her in prague (and idk it's just so weird she happened to be in that street at the time he was, so she probably planned it as a warning of some sorts)

and i think this connects to tobias because she might hate him, but seeing how unhinged she is, she might be like "i love you so i won't hurt you, but i'll be after your legacy, i'll be after your grandsons"

so the reason why tobias needed to prepare them in that way (basically do what he did), was because he needed to prepare them for what would be alice's game – and this time, it wouldn't be a saturday morning game – it would be a game of life or death, because that woman doesn't seem afraid of hurting people

one more thing in the brothers hawthorne – tobias told grayson "some day it's going to be you" – and all of us, and grayson, thought it was the inheritance... but he never did specify what it was about

what if it was never about the inheritance?

what if it was something related to alice's game? what if he meant that someday, it was going to be grayson who would put a stop to this, and free them from alice?

grayson is part of the grandest game rn and it seems like alice's influences are on that island too – so he's a key player in this and would have the opportunity to face down with whatever alice has in mind (not to say the rest of them like nash, jameson, xander and avery won't but...)

idk but to me, it seems like alice is far more dangerous than tobias... and he always did say that there is nothing frivolous about a way a hawthorne man loves and he said "if she is the one, she will destroy you"

i honestly don't know where this is coming from but here it is anyway~

[the-ellia-west]

Khenan and Wild my babies - JoR yapping session

My goal here is Nuance (tell me if I did a good job, but mind you, it's 2am when I write this, so I may explain it really bad)

-

Khenan is an abusive father, and Wild is the victim, but the moral of these two's story and JoR as a whole is that everybody is human, no matter what they've done, and most people can change.

Especially in this scenario. Abuse Is a horrible crime, and it itself is not to be forgiven or forgotten, but abusers are not 100% evil people and CAN change. It's uncommon, (hence why I have several, multiple of whom do not change) but it is possible and they're not evil and don't deserve to be treated as any less than human. Everybody sins, everybody commits crimes against other humans, and if they see the problem with their actions they can and MIGHT change.

I'm yapping bc I'm exhausted but essentially: "Hurting people doesn't make you unredeemable as long as you put in the effort to change and make it right."

So Khenan's whole theme is that he's driven by emotion and impulse. He was raised Corrupt but he wants to do the right thing, only it's often undercut by bad things he finds himself wanting that he often gives into.

To understand this situation better, you have to understand that Wild is NOT the son of Khenan's wife. However, the marriage wasn't one of love at first, and Wild was the product of this after Khenan's wife (who remains unnamed for the moment but I'll call W) had to return to her home city for political shenanigans

I won't elaborate much on Wild's past for the sake of spoilers, but long-story short, Wild's powers are not natural for someone of his species, and his true mother had something to do with it. She died in childbirth, leaving Khenan without the first woman he truly loved, and Wild without his biological mother.

Now, another detail I've forgotten to mention, Khenan has a younger sister, more cunning and thought-oriented than himself. Suited for the job they were both born into where he wasn't. And what Vimadè loves to do more than anything, is dissect. And what more fun to dissect than the person who in her eyes, stole her birthright from her with only a few years. And because of her cunning and her quiet determination, she catches quick to his emotional cues and learns to yank her poor brother around like a Puppet.

(Not helped by this is that Khenan and Vimadè's parents preferred her because of her skills and Khenan was hit and burned and shut in dark rooms to negotiate his way out as long as he made himself useful to the family)

Now, because Wild was his illegitimate child, Khenan couldn't claim him publicly as his own, and ashamed of himself, would hand Wild off to the servants to be raised in the house. Wild would only be around four when one of the servants leaked that Khenan had likely hinted toward Wild being his son, (Maybe Khenan told his wife??????)

But over those years, when Khenan and W would talk to one another more and would establish more healthy communication, they would begin to truly fall for each other. But the leaked rumors not only got back to Vimadè, who made sure the rumors ended with the servant as she found the information more useful as blackmail, but Wild's two older brothers would find out as well, and would blame him for the injustice their mother received at the hands of Khenan's immediate older family

Skipping more because spoilers, Wild is used as a bargaining chip and a hostage, alongside some carefully-placed poison, to convince Khenan to give up his birthright and promise a bi-monthly meeting with Vimadè, who begins to plant seeds in Khenan's head about Wild's species and his mother's death. W takes an interest in Wild and begins to treat him like a son a little after all of this.

Eventually, things happen, and Wild loses his memory in a traumatic event that also modifies his appearance, causing him to wander the streets at 7-8 years old aimlessly without purpose

He's picked up by W because he 'reminds her' of himself. W becomes ill and later dies, after treating Wild the best he's ever been treated in his life, singing him songs and telling him she loves him and telling him stories, Vimadè convinces her parents to take custody of Khenan's older children from him, and he finds himself alone with Wild. (All Wild remembers is his name, that Khenan is his father, he thinks W is some sort of mother, and he's never been good enough to be considered a noble himself)

Khenan recognizes Wild. And up until now, he's tried his best to ignore his presence, as he looks like his mother and acts like W. And Khenan can't stand to look at him.

Later that Month, Khenan, agitated and unable to keep on as things are, impulsively hits Wild with a fire poker. Thankfully the flat bit so it causes no permanent damage, but it's what starts the downfall. Wild is 10 when his father hits him for the first time.

Now that all that backstory out of the way. Let's get into the real meat of this.

Khenan loves his son. He does. Khenan loves him more than Wild could ever imagine. But he'd angry, and the seeds of doubt and mistrust Vimadè planted in his head caused his emotions to turn darker, into an almost sense of Betrayal and fury. Because after all, hate comes from love.

Wild is terrified of his father. He loves him, but he fears him more. All he wants is to escape, he's been stripped down to his bare survival Instincts, suppressing all emotion but fear as he is desperate just to not be hurt. He's down on his knees, apologizing constantly for any mistake he makes, and is jump and hyper vigilant to other's vocal and visual cues and emotions, and just wants to avoid Khenannat any chance he can get.

In his heart he wants nothing more than for his father to love him, but he dares not to get too close because he's been hurt before by hoping. However, over the course of the Story he becomes more confident, he's still terrified of Khenan, but not quite so much as before, and he soon begins to resent him.

Khenan on the other hand, when he finds out Wild ran away, he panics, and frantically joining up with the villains and scouring the continent for news, finding out his son has joined a rebel group, but seemingly a relatively benevolent one, he begins to reconsider his actions and his love for his son, and who Wild is, and as the realization of all that he's done comes crashing down on his head, he slips into a deep depression, all his grief and other suppressed emotions flooding back in and he becomes desperate to make up for what he's done.

He decides Wild would be better without him, and even though he's desperate to see him again, he needs to make sure the group is good enough to take care of him, and he begins to work behind the scenes helping the villains to gather Intel just to make sure Wild will be okay with his new family, willing to settle for never seeing him again or even Wild hating him as long as he's safe.

But what neither of them realize is that Wild doesn't need Hate to distance himself from Khenan. He needs closure. They both Do. They need to talk.

By the way, if you stuck around to read my whole yapping session, plaleade leave a comment, even just a single letter or a period would just let me know you read this. Feedback would be greater appreciated, but anything is good! <3

@an-indecisive-nerd @sunflowerrosy @urnumber1star @homelessnerd @vesanal @darkandstormydolls @supercimi @corinneglass @sm-writes-chaos @thebookishkiwi @blargh-500 @lunaeuphternal @write-with-will @yolbert @thewritingautisticat @carb0n-m0n0xide @theweirdbox123 @inspirationallybored

[magical-girl-coral]

baron join me and whatever that means to you

Baron of the Baronies made some peace with themselves ever since Cassandra returned to her original form. They were not meant to be real. They were never meant to be born. They are used as a tool to hurt others, when the mission is done, they will folded back into their sad little box and put aside until someone needed to be tormented again. These are simple truths Baron could not avoid anymore. Which is why "surprised" wasn't even beginning to describe the emotion he felt when he saw Kristen Applebees enter their dimension willingly. The awkwardly build teen girl made her way to the small tea party he made for himself with shockingly calm demeanor. She gave him a wave of her hand. "Hi." Baron cocked their head to the side. "Riz Gukgak is not here, Kristen Applebees. If you are looking for your lost friend, I have not left my grounded room for many, many days, so it cannot be me." "Oh, I know that," she said with a shrug of her shoulders, "I actually came here to see you. Mind if I sit here?" Baron just stared at her. "If you wish. But I don't know if my stern father would want be to have company while I'm grounded for being a naughty little boy." Kristen coughed into her fist and sat down in front of him. "Man, we've gonna update you with some modern lingo." She poured herself a cup of tea. "And don't worry about Cassandra. I asked her if I could meet you before coming here. She said it's okay and tell if anything interesting happens-" "Why are you here, Kristen Applebees?" Baron asked tactlessly. "Straight to the point? Okay then." Kristen fixed her posture before taking a cookie. "As Cassandra's chosen, it's my duty to embrace every part of her, even the ones that others say are too corrupt to be reasoned with. And also, I don't know, I thought you'd be lonely? I kind of reconnected with my brothers lately cause I finally able to get them out of the Harvestmen and I realized you're kinda my little brother too? My creepy little super white brother who likes to haunt people's nightmares and has a weird relationship with their god/parent. Not that different from my little brothers I already have, come to think of it..." Baron was death gripping his pants. "That does not answer my question, Kristen Applebees. Why are you here with me?" "Because I want to get to know you," Kristen answered, her face flushing for reasons Baron could not understand. "Like, we only really see each other when you're send out to kill us, and it made me feel like you're left out. So, what can you tell me about yourself?" Baron held and leg go of his pants, not really knowing what to do with himself in a situation such as this. He had an oddly warm feeling in his chest, yet it felt as though his throat was closing and he couldn't breath. Baron realized that if he had eyes, he would be crying right now. He poured both of them under cup of tea as he began talking. "Baron of the Baronies came to existence during the spring break of last year..."

[scatmaan]

my favorite part of bg3 is that it allows olav to collect kids and be the dad he was meant to be

[hayanahed]

Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR

Dear Humanity,

I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my parents, two sons, and four daughters (two of them suffer from allergies).

I've witnessed the evidence of the tragedy that has struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I have survived amidst numerous previous wars. But today, we face the most dangerous and fierce battle in the current war. The urgent need intensifies for us, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs such as food, water, and safe shelter.

Here is our story - On October 7th, our lives changed forever, my family and I evacuated from northern Gaza to southern Gaza, hoping to return soon, but it wasn't meant to be. Our home was surrounded, burned, and then completely destroyed, Our home, once a fortress of hope, now lay in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.

The night before we left from the north to the south was terrifying. Shelling sounds were everywhere, making a loud noise that felt like it went through our souls. Every explosions shook the ground like earthquakes, sending shockwaves of fear through our trembling bodies. filling us with fear. The air smelled of destruction and blood, making it hard to breathe. When dawn came, we saw the devastation around us, realizing our home was now a symbol of loss and despair.

We ran into the streets and with each step we took into the unknown streets, we felt as if we were plunging deeper into the abyss of our shattered existence, leaving behind everything we own in our home: Clothes, important official documents, the car, and literally it's almost everything - the enormity of our loss weighed heavily upon us.

Our home it was where we found hope, safety, and made precious memories. Losing it felt like losing years of our lives, leaving us adrift amidst the wreckage of our shattered existence.

A brief video depicting the devastation that struck our home and our entire neighborhood in Gaza.

Desperate Plea: Escaping Gaza's Allergy Nightmare

I, Haya, suffer from severe allergy to penicillin-derived medications, and my sister, Amal, also suffers from severe allergies to medications from my family such as Paracetamol and Ibuprofen.

These allergies create a deep sense of fear and anxiety for us, as we live in a constant state of tension and fear of anything that may require a visit to the hospital. We fear being given inappropriate medications due to the unavailability of suitable treatments in Gaza because of war or lack of awareness and not informing the doctor of our allergies, which could lead to serious consequences threatening our lives.

MY Father Income

Our dreams are heading towards oblivion in the labyrinth of an uncertain future

My story, along with my siblings, represents a united team of four individuals, three of whom are skilled programmers and one graphic designer. We work as freelancers in the world of freelancing.

As for my younger sister, she is a student studying at the College of Architecture. She has always carried a big dream in her heart, a dream of being part of changing Gaza, of making it more beautiful and better. She looked forward to the day when she would receive her degree and start building this dream. But the beginning of the war changed everything. The destruction of infrastructure and universities cast shadows of despair over her dreams.

When I think of my brother in Belgium, I can't help but feel deep sadness. He has been suffering from unbearable anxiety and insomnia since the outbreak of the war. Sleep eludes him at night, and his physical and mental health collapses under the weight of these heavy burdens, negatively affecting his performance at work. Problems and challenges pile up in front of him without the slightest opportunity for rest.

We all feel psychological pressure and extreme anxiety. The war hasn't been limited to external attacks but has deeply infiltrated our daily lives. We search among the rubble for a little safety and the basic resources for survival. Every day comes with a new challenge that we must overcome.

As we sway amidst the rubble of shattered dreams, our souls wrestle and our hearts beat strongly challenging the ravages of war.

Our parents earnestly seek a way to rescue us from this hell, feeling the heavy responsibility for every moment we spend under the shadows of fear and destruction. They dream of a safe place where they can build for us a better future, filled with security and hope, for we deserve life in all its meanings of comfort and peace.

Perhaps this fundraising campaign represents a light in the midst of darkness, it is indeed the only hope we cling to firmly.

I appeal to the world as a whole to hear my cry and the mournful cry of my family in Gaza. We need the helping hand that reaches out to wipe our tears and build a bridge to safety.

Your donation is not just a donation; it's an opportunity to rebuild life and brighten a better tomorrow. Be part of our hopeful story, for we need your hand to start anew.

The purpose of the fundraising campaign

The goal of this fundraising campaign is to rescue my family - my parents, my siblings, and me - through the Rafah Crossing to Egypt, which currently requires $5000 per person. This campaign is our only chance to stay alive, and I humbly request your assistance at this critical time. I will provide you with a comprehensive breakdown of the expenses, committing to transparency and clarity.

All of our important links are here https://linktr.ee/hayanahed

Verified by :

⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet. (On Master list)

⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249 on their spreadsheet. Or you could see it as number 212 here is the photo for more clear proof

Thank you for your kindness and support.

.جزاكم الله خيراً

yours sincerely;

Haya Alshawish.