#and they’re still coming in the hundreds every day

[noc1818]

A Score to be Settled - Chrollo X Reader Fanfic

Hey everyone! I've had this idea for a Chrollo fic swirling around in my head for a while now, where Chrollo wrongs the reader, who's also from Meteor City, during their childhood. This event impacts them so deeply that they’re willing to go to any lengths to seek revenge and settle the score. This chapter is just the backstory leading up to the main plot. If you're interested in reading more, let me know—I’m really enjoying writing it and have a lot more I want to explore! Plus, it’s a fun project to help me get back into writing again. I truly appreciate any support!

Also, this is mostly unedited because I was too excited to share, so feel free to let me know if anything needs fixing!

A few warnings for this piece: Dark themes, death, angst, and intense struggles for survival.

Chapter One: The Debt

Meteor City - Residential Area, 1984

Digging through the scrap was a common occurrence in Meteor City. It was the only way to survive. It always astonished you that people would just throw out and dump some of this stuff without a second thought. Had they never had to scavenge for food or clothes? The idea of having a roof over your head and some form of food security felt like a distant daydream. But that was not your reality. Even at such a young age, the harsh truth of Meteor City was ingrained in your very being.

This had always been the case, at least since you could remember. Your first true memory was when you were five years old, hiding in a broken refrigerator with your little sister, Sumi, who was only two at the time, from some less-than-favorable characters searching the area. That was the reality for all the kids in Meteor City—except for Sumi. She was always a ray of light. Even in the darkest moments, she could spin a positive outlook, which, while uplifting, was sometimes a bit overwhelming.

Recently, she’d been going on and on about a group of kids, she’d met who performed shows for anyone willing to watch. Every day, she came back excited, telling you all about the latest show and its colorful cast of characters. You had promised her that one day you’d go with her to check out the performances. But the reality was that most of your days—hell, your entire childhood—had been spent scavenging and trying to make the best shelter you could for Sumi and yourself.

Still, if you were honest with yourself, your efforts were starting to pay off. You had gathered enough food and non-perishable goods to start a stockpile for the coming winter.

Not only had you been gathering food, but you had been saving Jenny, hoping to accumulate enough to get you and your sister out of the city. At thriteen years old, hidden in your makeshift shack and buried deep within an old metal tea kettle, you had quite a bit saved up. The reality was that it wasn’t much, but to a child with nothing, a hundred Jenny could change a life. Soon, you and Sumi would leave this scrap heap behind and start a real life. You’d be able to give her a solid foundation and a secure future.

As if on cue, scrambling down the narrow paths between the trash heaps, Sumi appeared. She ran toward you in her oversized pink sweater, patched and worn where the fabric had torn over time. She wore frayed blue shorts and dirty old sneakers. As she approached, you noticed her shoes were untied again and made a note to try to teach her how to tie them properly.

Upon seeing you, Sumi immediately called out, “Big Sis!”

Looking up, you gave her a warm smile and a wave. “Sumi, be careful running like that! You might fall!”

Hearing your call, she slowed down and made her way to your makeshift shelter. You had found a space between two scrap heaps, covered with metal sheets that mostly kept the rain out during downpours. You’d draped a cloth over the outside to help keep out the cold and block prying eyes from seeing inside.

Sumi walked over with a big smile, immediately hugging you tightly. “Big Sis, the show today was so cool! They were doing a musical.”

You hummed in acknowledgment of her excited ramblings. Your focus was more on her worn shoes and thinking how you might be able to get her a new pair. But Sumi bright, attentive eyes and her soft call of your name brought your attention back to the present.

“Y/N, are you listening?” she asked, tilting her head with a playful smile.

You nodded, ruffling her hair as you gave her your full attention. “Yes, I’m listening. Tell me all about the play. You said it was a musical, right?”

Sumi’s face lit up as she started rambling in detail about the play, the songs they sang, and the performances. It made you happy to know she had found something that made her so happy and allowed her to still be a kid.

Sumi’s gaze then shifted to the bread rations you’d found and set out for the two of you. She eagerly sat down on the dirt, ready to eat.

“Also, Big Sis, my friend from the play... Can she come over to eat sometime?” she asked, her brown eyes filled with hope.

Typically, you would say no. It was hard enough to feed just the two of you. But this was another kid—another kid from Meteor City—and she made your little sister happier than anyone else could. So, with a reluctant sigh, you nodded, saying, “Sure, but just her, okay?”

Sumi’s eyes widened, and she beamed. “Oh, good! She’ll be so excited when she gets back!”

That last part caught your attention—when she gets back. You wondered what Sumi meant by that, but rather than ask, you focused on the task at hand: getting something to eat. Hunger was often your main drive, having never truly been full your entire life. The two of you ate your bread and chatted the night away until it was time to sleep. You shared a torn-up mattress you’d found one day.

As your sister fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, you found yourself wide awake as always. The night was especially cold, even with the cloth covering the sides of your shelter. The cold air still billowed in, leaving you shivering to your core. Unable to sleep, you quietly got up and made your way outside.

Despite the chill, it was a beautiful night. The full moon illuminated the ruins of the city, casting a soft light on the heaps of metal scrap. The sky was clear—a rare sight since the smog usually made it nearly impossible to see the stars. But tonight, they shone bright and radiant, lighting up the darkness.

Little did you know, that on such a peaceful night, your life would change forever because of one mistake.

The sound of scrap being knocked over in the distance caught your attention. Despite your maturity for your age, your curiosity got the better of you. You crept toward the sound, the noise growing louder with each step. Expecting to find an adult out to cause trouble, you peeked cautiously around a corner. To your surprise, there stood a boy, slightly older than you.

He had his back to you, but you could make out his raven-like hair, which ended just above his ears. He wore a yellow-striped shirt and grey shorts, his sneakers as worn out as those of the other kids in the city. You also noticed his pale complexion. But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your attention—it was the palpable anger radiating from him.

The boy was frantically searching every crevice in the piles of trash, looking for something—or perhaps someone. When a spot didn’t reveal what he was searching for, he would kick and throw things, sending the scrap tumbling down. But it wasn’t just his actions that struck you. There was an energy about him, an intense, almost suffocating wave of anger and despair that filled the air, making it feel heavy and thick with emotion.

You stood frozen, unsure of what to do. You had never encountered such a crushing presence before. The weight of his emotions was almost too much to bear. It took him a while before he realized someone else was there.

He turned toward you, taking a moment to process your presence. Even at his young age, it seemed like he was studying you, trying to figure out who you were. His expression was unreadable, but your silence seemed to provoke him. Without a hint of fear or caution, he started walking toward you. You weren’t surprised—after all, what could a bone-thin girl like you possibly do to a boy older than you?

As he drew closer, you noticed something you would never forget—his eyes. Steely grey, cold as steel, eyes that no child should have. They held a depth of pain, rage, and fear. It was as though his gaze could pierce through you, reading your every thought. The emptiness in them was unsettling, yet beneath that emptiness was an ocean of raw, unspoken emotion.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze remained locked on yours, unflinching. Then, in a voice that matched the indifference in his expression, he asked, “Why are you out here?”

You hesitated for a moment, processing his question. Finally, you answered in your quiet, almost inaudible voice, “I couldn’t sleep... it’s freezing.”

He listened, his eyes still fixed on yours, and after a brief pause, he nodded slightly. His tone remained flat, as if unaffected by the cold, the silence, or even the raw emotions swirling between you. “I suppose it is quite cold tonight,” he said.

You ask him the same question in return. “Why are you out here?”

Without hesitation, he responds, “I’m looking for someone.”

You raise an eyebrow, puzzled. Why would he be out here, so late, searching for someone? And what’s more, he’s dressed lightly, yet he doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. Curiosity laces your voice as you ask, “Wouldn’t it be smarter to search in the morning, when there’s daylight?”

A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, as if that option simply isn’t available. “Not possible. I’ll find her tonight.”

Normally, you would’ve dismissed him, turned away, and continued with your own business. But he’s another Metor City kid, and something in the back of your mind nags at you. He’s not dressed appropriately for the cold, and if he stays out here like this, he’ll get sick. You remember finding a man’s jacket a while back, one that was too big for you or your sister, and you think maybe it’s time to put it to good use.

“You’re going to catch a cold out here like that,” you say, a note of concern in your voice. “Come with me for two seconds, and I can give you a spare coat we have.”

Your tone is free of malice, just genuine care, and that catches his attention. He gives you a curious glance, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to decipher your intentions. Every kid in this city knows that nothing comes without a price, that nothing is truly free. So when he speaks, his words are cautious.

“I don’t need the jacket.”

His dismissal stings more than you expect, and you sigh, visibly irked. You take a few steps toward him, frustration settling into your voice. “Just take it. We don’t need it.”

At the word “we,” he raises an eyebrow. He’s perceptive, you realize. He takes a step closer, and you suddenly feel the suspicion radiating off him. “You have others with you?”

The question catches you off guard for a moment, but you recover quickly. “Yeah, my little sister, Sum.”

He pauses, his face unreadable, before asking, “You’re Sumi’s older sister? You must be Y/N, then.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. How does he know your name? You raise an eyebrow, and he chuckles, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Ah, my apologies. Sumi talks about you a lot. She’s always at shows with me and the others.”

That explains it. He must be one of the performer kids Sumi has befriended. You smile, relieved to understand the connection. “Oh! You’re one of Sumi’s friends. She never stops talking about all the shows you all put on. I hear about it all the time.”

“I’m glad she enjoys them so much,” he says with a chuckle. “My name’s Chrollo, by the way. It’s nice to officially meet you, Y/N.”

You extend a hand to him, offering a handshake. “Nice to meet you too, Chrollo.”

As you both shake hands, the conversation continues, and you press him once more to take the spare jacket. He doesn’t seem to trust easily, but the fact that you’re Sumi’s sister seems to put him at ease enough to accept the offer. You can’t let one of your sister’s friends freeze, after all. In your world, you cherish the small acts of kindness, especially when life is so unforgiving.

When you lead Chrollo into your home, you notice his gaze lingering on Sumi, who’s still fast asleep despite the chilly draft in the room.

“She sleeps like a rock,” you say with a smile, reassuring him. “Don’t worry, we won’t wake her up.”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow, then shifts his attention back to you. “Really? She always seems so happy, so it’s not surprising.”

“She’s always been that way,” you reply, a fondness in your tone. “She’s able to find the bright side of things. I’ve always admired her for that.”

“That’s an admirable trait, but a bit naïve,” he remarks, his eyes scanning the room. “And you, Y/N? Which side do you find yourself on?” His intense gaze meets yours, as if he already knows the answer, as if he’s searching for something more.

You hesitate before answering, taking a moment to collect your thoughts. “While I’d like to see things in the best light, it’s not always something I can afford to do. Life is tough, especially in the city. I’m sure you know that. I guess, if anything, I’m just realistic.”

Your words hang in the air, and you meet his gaze. Life hasn’t been kind, not forgiving, and you’ve learned to take things as they are—even if that means accepting a certain darkness. It’s how you survive. It’s how you cope.

Chrollo watches you as you pull the coat from the cooler you’ve repurposed as a storage bin. You turn to hand it to him, but before you can react, he’s right there, standing so close that you nearly jump in surprise.

“Oh, my—” you start, startled. “You surprised me, Chrollo.”

He chuckles lightly. “My apologies. It wasn’t intentional.” He accepts the jacket with a graceful nod. “Thank you for this.”

You watch him pull the coat on. It’s a bit oversized now, but in a few years, it will fit him perfectly. The jacket is a unique shade of royal purple, with white fur lining the neck and sleeve ends—definitely a one-of-a-kind piece.

“Well, Y/N, I have a search to continue,” he says, turning to leave. But before he pulls the sheet up to shield himself from the cold, he pauses and looks back at you.

“I’m also a realist,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “But there’s something so lovely about dreaming, isn’t there? I look at this life from both spectrums. Sometimes, I even think those dreams we chase so desperately can become our reality—if we push hard enough. Just something to think about.”

With those final words, he leaves before you can respond, disappearing into the night.

You stand there, staring at the door as his words linger in your mind. At first, you feel a sharp irritation. He didn’t ask for your opinion, so why did he offer unsolicited advice? And as for his belief that dreams could be turned into reality with enough force—that seemed utterly delusional, especially for kids like you, or anyone from Metor City. Hell, you’d be lucky just to make it to eighteen.

But something about what he said sticks with you, curling into your thoughts like a stubborn seed. You don’t dwell on it for long. You curl up next to Sumi, trying to shake the thoughts away, and drift into sleep. But as you do, you can’t help but wonder… what if, just for once, he was right?

 The next morning, you wake up to the sound of Sumi’s sobs, her distress pulling you from sleep. Instantly, you pull her into a tight hug.

“Shh, Sumi, it’s okay. Tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt? What happened?” Your voice is steady and calm, a skill you’ve mastered over the years, both as her big sister and in moments of chaos. You’ve always had a knack for calming people in hysteria, and Sumi, in her younger days, gave you plenty of practice.

After a few minutes of reassurance and gentle prodding, she starts to calm down. She looks up at you, her eyes wide and teary, her lip trembling.

“Big sis, it’s… it’s all gone. Our food… our money… it’s all gone,” she says, before breaking into fresh sobs.

At those words, your heart drops. What does she mean? Gone? Your stomach twists with dread.

You pull away from Sumi for a moment, moving quickly to the cooler. There’s no way it could be empty. But when you lift the lid, your breath catches. The cooler is completely bare. All the food and supplies you had gathered for months—some even for years—are gone.

Frantically, you move the cooler aside, only to reveal an empty hole beneath it. The kettle where you kept all your jenny, your coins, your savings—also gone. There’s nothing left.

Panic rises in your chest. How could this happen? Who could have taken everything? Why didn’t you hear anything during the night? Your mind races with a hundred questions, each more frantic than the last. Beneath it all, though, a seething anger begins to bubble. How could anyone do this to kids who had nothing?

But then, Sumi’s sobs break through your clouded thoughts, pulling you back to reality. This is where you need to be the bigger sister. You need to calm her down, to give her the reassurance she needs, even if it means making false promises in the moment.

You pull her into another tight hug, patting her head in an attempt to soothe her. “Shh, Sumi. It’s going to be okay. I’ll figure it out. We’re going to be just fine, I promise.”

Your words, however, don’t seem to help. Sumi’s crying only intensifies, her distress deepening.

“No, Y/N, it’s not! It’s almost winter! I may be younger, but I’m not dumb. I knew it took you almost all year to gather what we had, and that was mostly lucky finds. This is my fault!” she says through ragged sobs, her nose sniffling.

“It’s no one’s fault, Sumi,” you reply, your own voice breaking slightly. You can feel the tears welling in your eyes, but you fight them back, continuing to hold it together. “We’re going to be okay. I’ll figure it out. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

But Sumi, seeing the tears in your eyes, crumbles further. “Big sis, you don’t understand. This is my fault! It was my friends at the play. They took our stuff. I shouldn’t have told Big Sis Sarasa where we live. She must’ve told the others. But I don’t know how—she’s been missing for a few days now!”

Your heart sinks, piecing together exactly what’s happened. It was Chrollo. He and his friends took everything. You allowed yourself to be blinded by the fact that he was another kid, someone you thought you could help. But instead, he took advantage of your kindness.

It takes everything in you to hide your shock. You can’t let Sumi see your own pain and disappointment. Instead, you swallow your anger and fear, and lie to her, thinking that protecting her from the truth is what’s best.

“Sumi,” you say, forcing a smile, trying to sound reassuring, “I bet your friends are just borrowing some food from us. Nothing to worry about. They’ll bring it back soon, okay?”

You can see the doubt in her eyes, but there’s a glimmer of hope there too. That spark—the same one she’s always had—begins to flicker. “Prove it, big sis. How do you know?”

You take a deep breath, hoping the lie doesn’t show in your eyes. “I just know, Sumi. I’ll make sure everything’s okay. I promise.”

Even though she doesn’t fully believe you, the fragile hope in her eyes is enough to make you cling to your own false reassurance. For her sake, you need to keep it together, even if it’s falling apart inside.

After Sumi had calmed down enough to be let go, you stood up, needing some space to think and to get some fresh air. You reached for the jacket you had thrown haphazardly over yourself the night before to stay warm, and as you put it on, a small white note fell from the pocket. Sumi, too absorbed in her tears, hadn’t noticed it before.

You hesitated for a moment, but your curiosity got the best of you. You unfolded the note, already knowing who it was from. It could only be one person—Chrollo.

The note read:

Y/N,I am sure you are angry, and rightfully so. It was nothing personal, of course—just my family needed it more than yours. Take this as a lesson and grow stronger from it. Never trust a stranger, no matter what they look like.Best of luck, and do take care of Sumi. Thanks again for your generosity.

As you read the words over again, the initial shock wore off, and a seething anger filled you. That bastard had taken everything—everything—because he could. And now he had the audacity to call it a lesson.

Your blood boiled. You would find him. You would make him pay.

In the midst of your fury, you didn’t notice Sumi, still sitting on the floor, glance over your shoulder and read the note with wide, curious eyes.

“Big sis? What does it say?” she asked, her head tilted, voice uncertain.

You froze for a moment, her question catching you off guard. Then, your mind raced. You knew Sumi couldn’t read—something that, under normal circumstances, would be a problem. But today, it was a relief. More than anything, you wanted to preserve that spark of joy in her eyes, to keep her from losing that innocence and hope.

With a forced smile, you turned to face her and lied through your teeth.

“Oh, it’s just a letter from your friends. They’re gathering more food and are going to bring it to share with us.”

At your words, Sumi’s face brightened. The sadness left her eyes, and joy returned to her expression as she beamed up at you. “Really, big sis? That’s great!”

You nodded, offering her a reassuring smile, though inside, your mind was still spinning with your plan for revenge. Sumi spent the rest of the day telling you about the shows and how amazing they were. You listened, but your thoughts were elsewhere, planning the next steps, knowing full well that your reality wasn’t one that relied on hopes and miracles. You would have to be ruthless to survive in this world—and you would.

Meteor City – Residential Area, 1995

Years later, you found yourself standing once again among the scraps of Meteor City, holding a small yellow daffodil. You gazed down at the modest grave, an unreadable expression on your face. Deep inside, though, the wound was still open and raw. The stone atop the grave was crudely carved with the name Sumi. Her grave was one of the few places in this wasteland where life seemed to thrive—a small patch of grass and flowers growing amidst the decay.

You offered a faint, sad smile, thinking that even in death, Sumi brought hope and life wherever she was.

Your mind wandered back to that brutal winter in 1984 when you lost your little sister. After the Phantom Troupe stole everything—your food, your money—you were left with nothing. For months, you scavenged, but it was never enough. The freezing nights and lack of food took a toll, and Sumi grew terribly ill. You searched high and low for medicine, anything that could save her, but the world wouldn’t help two poor kids from Meteor City. Every time you tried, you were chased away or kicked out.

As the weeks dragged on, one night Sumi’s fever spiked too high. You held her until she fell asleep, but then you heard it—those final, shallow breaths. That’s when you knew. Your sister was gone.

Now, standing over her grave, you reached into the satchel you carried and pulled out three items: a ticket to a masquerade ball, a key, and new identification papers. These were the tools you’d carefully acquired through a contact to forge a new identity—a whole new life in Yorknew City. They were your tickets to escape Meteor City, to avenge Sumi, and to strike at the heart of the Phantom Troupe. You couldn’t let them know who you truly were.

You had devoted your life to this, to rebuilding yourself and taking them down—especially Chrollo. He was the one responsible for her death. It was all for greed. But that was going to end now.

Looking once more at Sumi’s grave, you made a vow, your voice firm and steady.

“Sumi, I swear I’ll come back once the debt’s been repaid. After all, we’ve got a score to settle.”

With that, you turned away and walked towards the tinted car that waited to take you to the next step in your journey. The road ahead was long, but it was one you would walk with purpose. Chrollo Lucilfer—the leader of the Phantom Troupe—had no idea what was coming for him. You would make him pay, and you would not stop until you did.

[numum]

i have gained almost one thousand bot followers over the span of a week 👍

[lizziesangel]

RAFE CAMERON ⟢ high maintenance

x HIGH MAINTENANCE!FEM!reader ⟢ MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: 5 times rafe realises his girlfriend is high maintenance + 2 bonus scenes

WORD COUNT: 1286

GENRE: fluff

CONTENT WARNING: nothing

the first time

it started when rafe picked you up for a casual day out, only to find you carefully examining your nails in the passenger seat.

“ugh,” you groaned, holding out your hand to show him. “can you believe this? this nail tech totally botched this set. the gems aren’t even symmetrical.”

rafe glanced at your hand, blinking in confusion. “they look… fine to me?”

you shot him a glare. “fine? they’re crooked, rafe. i can’t be seen like this.”

“whatever, i’ll just go to my monthly nail tech next time,” you shook your head.

“monthly? as in, every month?” he asked, leaning in his car seat.

“of course,” you said, flipping your hair as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “you can’t just let them grow out, rafe. that’s tacky.”

you kissed his cheek and went to connect your phone with his car. he thought about at meticulously done french tips you just had done two weeks ago. if it makes you happy, right?

the second time

the first time he tried to make spontaneous plans with you was a disaster.

“hey, babe,” he said over the phone, “thinking we hit the beach today. i’ll be there in twenty.”

A horrified gasp escaped you. “twenty minutes? babe, no. i just had my hair done yesterday.”

“…and?”

“and? saltwater will ruin the toner!” you exclaimed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “do you even know how much a balayage costs?”

rafe didn’t know what a balayage was, but he learned quickly that your trips to the salon were not just occasional—they were events. events with price tags that could make a grown man cry. still, he couldn’t help but smirk as you swished your freshly done hair around dramatically during your next date

the third time

when you asked rafe to come shopping with you, he thought it’d be a quick errand—maybe one or two stores, tops. he quickly realized his mistake when you pulled him into the fifth boutique, arms already laden with bags.

two hours and three swiped credit cards later, rafe sat on a plush bench outside the fitting rooms, holding more bags than he could count.

“this season’s prada bag is finally in stock,” you announced, practically dragging him into the store. “and i need something new for dinner with my parents.”

“don’t you already have a closet full of clothes?” he teased as you rifled through racks.

“yes, but these are the new trends,” you said without looking up. “and besides, i need something for dinner this weekend.”

he laughed, shaking his head. “you already have a hundred dresses.”

“and yet none of them are right for this,” you said, holding up a sleek black gown.

“you buy new clothes every month?” he asked, watching as you tried on yet another dress.

“obviously,” you said, rolling your eyes. “what do you expect me to do, repeat outfits?”

rafe had never thought about it, but seeing how happy you looked with your fresh haul, he just laughed. “good thing i’m strong enough to carry all this,” he teased.

the fourth time

rafe was over at your place for a movie night when he spotted the lineup of perfume bottles on your dresser.

“do you seriously wear all of these?” he asked, picking one up.

“of course,” you said, settling onto the bed. “different occasions call for different scents. this one’s for daytime, that one’s for formal events, and this—” you pointed at another bottle, “—is my absolute favorite.”

rafe blinked. “you have a preference for perfumes?”

“well, duh. scent is everything. i buy a new one every season,” you say showing him a few. “like, this jimmy choo one is for summer, but this guess one is definitely for winter. but, the versace is for every season good.”

he squinted at the price tag on the one he was holding and let out a low whistle. “how often do you buy these?”

“whenever i run out or find a new one i love,” you said matter-of-factly.

rafe thought about his one bottle of cologne that he’d had for years and shook his head in disbelief. but when you leaned closer during the movie and he caught the faint scent of your perfume, he couldn’t deny that you always smelled amazing.

the fifth time

waking up groggy, rafe stumbled what your walk-in closet while looking for the bathroom. What greeted him was a wall of shoes—heels, sneakers, boots, all perfectly organized by color and style.

“jeez,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“oh, you’re up!” you chirped, appearing behind him. “do you like it? i just added those Jimmy Choos last week.”

rafe turned to you, half-amused, half-shocked. “you have more shoes than i have shirts.”

you grinned, unabashed. “well, yeah. shoes complete the look.”

shaking his head, rafe pulled you into his arms. “you’re insane, you know that?” he said, though the affection in his voice betrayed him.

you smirked. “but you wouldn’t change a thing.”

he kissed your forehead. “not even if i wanted to.”

+1

sarah and john b were lounging in the living room, casually catching up with rafe and you. you were perched on the arm of rafe’s chair, fiddling with your phone, when sarah suddenly leaned forward and sniffed the air dramatically.

“wait,” she said, scrunching her nose slightly. “what perfume are you wearing? it smells… expensive.”

you barely looked up, but rafe beat you to it. without hesitation, he leaned back and said, “probably something from her summer collection. she switches them every season.”

sarah froze, staring at her brother like he’d just announced he was running for president. “her what?”

rafe nodded casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “yeah, she’s into, like, jimmy choo or victoria’s secret or whatever. smells good, right?”

john b raised an eyebrow, looking between you and rafe. “dude, you know all her perfume brands?”

he shrugged, smirking as he kissed your temple. “gotta stay on top of it, man.”

sarah exchanged a wide-eyed look with john b, but you just beamed at rafe, completely unfazed.

+2

rafe, topper, and kelcd were hanging out on the dock, beers in hand, waiting for you to finish getting ready for dinner. the two were deep in conversation about their latest antics when rafe’s phone buzzed.

he glanced at the message and smirked.

“she says she needs ten more minutes,” rafe said, pocketing his phone.

topper groaned. “bro, she takes forever. what’s even the holdup this time?”

“probably her nails,” rafe said nonchalantly, taking a sip of his beer. “she just got them done last week, and there’s no way she’s ruining them before dinner.”

kelce nearly spit out his drink. “what?”

topper leaned forward, eyes wide. “hold up—you know her nail schedule? and her hair appointments?”

“something to do with chrome nails, i dunno.”

“dude,” kelce finally said, breaking the silence. “you’re, like… domesticated.”

“and she’s got that fresh hair thing going on too,” he added, shrugging. “she just had an appointment like… two weeks ago? a balayage, she won’t let anything mess with it. saltwater, wind, whatever—she’s not about that life.”

topper and kelce stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“what is a balgage?”

“no- a balayage.”

“how do you even know all that?” topper asked, baffled.

rafe frowned, genuinely confused by their reaction. “what do you mean? it’s just her routine. not that hard to keep track of.”

kelce laughed, shaking his head. “dude, you’ve got it bad. like, whipped bad.”

rafe rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “maybe. but, hey, at least i get to date a princess.”

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: NSFW, dubcon, bathroom sex, bullying, overall just really filthy smut, virgin insert, virginity loss, somewhat dom reader, somewhat bully reader, somewhat yandere reader

♡ FEM reader

You look like one of those girls that never smiles. Like, if he were to take that empty seat next to you in the lecture hall, you’d scowl with stink eyes and then proceed to fully ignore him. Yeah, a real bitch. That's what you look like—scary. He bets all your socials are filled with the same picture—the same deadpanned pouty face over and over, every single one with hundreds of likes and comments saying “Wow, babe!” followed by a dozen emojis from besties and horny admirers. Selfies in the mirror, showing off skin in your tight tops and short skirts—similar to the outfit you’re wearing now. Captions saying, “You can look, but you could never touch.” Yeah, he bets you’re a real attention whore. And the worst part is that you’re not even overselling, either. You’re gorgeous—even with that sour look on your face, he’d pay cold, hard-earned cash in exchange for a pair of your worn panties.

Yeah, there’s no way he’d dare sit next to you. He’s already sweating bullets just thinking about it. Even though you’re one in a million similar girls who wouldn’t give him the time of day, he's still one in a million loser incels who would do anything for it. And that’s the cold reality.

Even if he’d like to get just a whiff of your sweet perfume, he can’t. The status quo forbids it. He’s afraid the jocks will smell fresh blood in the water the moment he does, then swarm him in a matter of seconds, circling before tearing him to shreds. They’d beat him to a pulp in the bathroom, smash his head in over the sink—piss in the toilet, then flush it down with his bloodied face—and he’d have to walk reeking of it all the way home.

So, no—he really can’t sit next to you. 

But no other seats are available, and the lecture is starting soon… 

Why did absolutely everyone decide to show up today?

Oh fuck it, this isn’t high school. College bullies surely don’t bother with petty cases like this, right? They’re all about their frat initiations and rivalries to have enough spare time to beat him up over improper seating. Oh, but what if you’re one of their girlfriends—you’ll tell on him, and then he’ll definitely be beaten up, maybe even killed.

No. He’s overthinking—like always. No one is that mean. If you don’t like him sitting there, you’ll just tell him. And he’ll move. No harm done. Right? He’s not sitting in the stairwell when there’s a perfectly good and empty seat right there, right? Is he?

Yes. Yes, he is. 

“Hey, if you’re looking for a seat, this one’s empty,” a sweet voice calls out over his inner monologue, making him clutch the strap of his bookbag tighter with a flinch of his entire rigid body—his eyes peeled as he looked around to try and find the source of the sound even though he knew where it had come from. It’s as if the possibility of your voice sounding like anything aside from a she-demon was out of the question. But no, it is you. 

But there’s no way you’re talking to him, so he looks around again—there must be someone else in need of the seat aside from him. But then, why are you looking right at him? Are you pulling some type of prank? Are you really that cruel? You’re probably filming him or something—live-streaming—the chat’s blaring with ew, what a creep and omg, uggo alert right about now. He should just go home before the jocks, along with the rest of the internet, can get him.

“Are you okay?” you ask—but no, he must be hearing you wrong—there’s just no way, even though you’re looking right at him. “I think it’s starting soon—you should probably sit.”

It’s as if his fight or flight response is broken because he does the exact opposite of either—as if on autopilot, sitting down in a rush against his better judgment.

The lecture starts shortly, solidifying his choice, but he can’t pay attention. No, he needs to keep his guard up. Any second now, someone’s going to do a drive-by and throw a milkshake at him or something vile of the like, and you’ll have filmed it all even though he can’t spot you holding a phone—and then the entire hall would burst into laughter at his expense.

“Pst—” A soft whisper comes from next to him, from between the gloss of your pretty lips. You smell like candy and fruit, and it makes his gut tighten—both from anxiety and something more shameful. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a pen I could borrow? Mine’s all out’a ink.”

You give him an awkward smile, and he very nearly runs away. But no, he’s glued to the seat—with nervously wrecked hands shaking as he bends for his bag and unzips it, reaching for his pencil case painfully slow as if disarming some type of bomb. Redoing the same when he opens the case and rummages for a viable pen he could offer.

When he hands it to you, he’s almost sure you plan to stab him with it. But you do no such thing.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver!” You cheer instead, beaming with a much brighter smile than before. “I owe you!”

His ears ring with your praise. Blushing beat red as he rips away from your gaze—still unable to focus on what the professor is preaching—not when from out of the corner of his eye, he can see you sucking on his pen like a lollypop—or something else not so innocent.

Oh, he’d been so wrong.

So, so, so very wrong.

You do smile. You smile a lot, actually. You just have one of those faces that rests bitchy. But still, bubbly airhead or not, a girl like you still shouldn't be seen with a loser like him. It’s social suicide. And still, you’re on your knees before him in a dirty little bathroom stall—the same dirty bathroom stall he feared getting a swirlie, scraping the walls with his nails to try and thwart his assailants—only, now clutching the walls for a much different reason, holding on for his mortal soul as you seek to suck it out of his fat throbbing cock.

You want to repay him—you’d said—for the pencil. He hadn't understood why you’d winked at him before you’d all but dragged him off and flung him inside the men’s bathroom, having his very life flash before his eyes.

You both make the sloppiest sounds as you make an utter mess on and of him, making him cry on all fronts—cock weeping with thick pearly beads of pre while his eyes well up with tears down his flushed face, all sweaty with panic and bliss. 

The moans springing from his chest are virginal and raw and sweet music to your ears, panting for you like a puppy—you’re sure they can hear him out in the hallway when passing by. One of his hands clasps itself on top of his mouth, holding tightly to keep it all within—eyes shut and brows cinched. And yet, he makes no effort to shove you off—hips left jerking and jittering in response to your refined technique where you take him deeply, all the way down to the base, hallowing your cheeks, throttling him with your throat as your tongue wipes his creamy slit clean.

It’s painfully clear he’s never experienced anything like it, but that’s what turns you on the most. Sick as you are, you could suck him dry and savor every drop of him, knowing you’re the first ever to get a taste. But no, by now, your pussy’s so soaked you feel yourself dripping past the soggy lace of your panties, running down your soft thighs in waste.

He’s misty-eyed when you pull off with an ever-cruel pop—a sick mix of relief and sorrow warping his chest, feeling conflicted by the pulse making him think he’s on the verge of a heart attack if you continue—and another strumming his cock, making him think he’s going to keel over and die if you leave him unfinished.

Even so, he’s in a state of complete shell shock as you mount him on top of the toilet seat he’s melting against. Chest heaving, watching you as you lift your skirt up and peal your slick underwear to the side for him to lay his bleary swiveled eyes on your bared and dripping pussy.

“I love nice guys like you—” you moan, pouring the honeyed words down his throat as you ghost his parted lips with your spit-slicked ones, straddling his lap and shimmying ever closer until your tits squish against his chest. “They make me so wet, I lose all self-control.” 

He gulps in your shadow, looking up at you for mercy—cock twitching painfully between your thighs as your wrap your hand around his base real snug, giving him a nice tug as you line him up with your needy heat—making him all but squeal beneath you.

Your other hand makes its way into his hair, braiding your fingers within the locks to hold him steady—gently pulling his head back while leering down at him like caught prey. Playing with him just so, teasing him with your words, all in your sultry voice, making his head spin hot with a fever, “You’ll be a good boy and fuck me, won’t you? Pretty please?”

His breaths are heavy and wet, coming out shaky with his instant answer, “Y-yes—” all weak in a pathetic whimper that almost has you cum too soon.

“You’re so nice~ thank you,” you croon against his lips, kissing him sloppily with your tongue in his mouth as you shift your hips and start lowering your sopping cunt down upon his seeking length, taking him in with greedy ease, eagerly gripping his soft cockhead like a toy in a claw machine.

“Fhu—fuck—” he stutters under his breath, whinging before planting his teeth into his lip to keep it at bay—feeling like putty beneath you, sweaty and heavy and dumb, eagerly wanting all which you sought to give him—only more flushed at your mean undertones as you play with him like food on a silver platter.

You sling your arms around his neck and push your chest harder against him, moaning all too brazenly, “Oh! Fuck yes—that’s so good,” you sing while slowly taking him in further. “A nice guy with a big bad bully’s dick is the best!” 

He whines in return as his inches get eaten—each devoured one by one until his tip kneads into the mouth of your womb.

Sighing happily, you kiss his cheek and put your lips right at his ear with another wanton whimper, “You fill me up so so good.” Roosting on the size, thighs resting flush against his, feeling all giddy as it stretches you out oh-so-nicely. “Such a good toy-cock for me,” keening at the way it twitches inside you, pulsing in response to your tight walls, clenching it in ways it’s never before felt.

His eyes are already rolling back into his skull once you start lolling your hips—riding him, but keeping him deep at all times—lifting just enough for it to pull out only a little before sinking back down, making it settle into that perfect needy little spot inside you that makes your whole body shiver in delight.

“Mmh,” You suck his ear lobe, releasing it with a soft bite, before smiling down at him and his sweat-pilled expression. Cooing at him, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

He can’t even answer with words anymore, only giving a dumb mewl as he nods his head. But, of course, you’re already well aware.

“Mmh—” your eyes gleam with delight, giving his lap a mean ride, leaving him all but breathless, before asking, “D’you like it, virgin boy? ‘You like my pussy? Like the way it milks your chubby cock for your cum?”

He nods again, even more eagerly this time—looking downright pathetic in every sense of the word.

“Do you want to?” you offer to his desperation, feeling as though he’s falling apart at your fingertips, needing you to hold him together. “I’ll let you since you’re such a sweet guy—” you tease while clenching his cock, making it impossible to want anything else no matter the consequence. “In exchange for a favor, of course.”

He couldn’t care less what the favor was—way beyond willing to pay any price you ask of him as he finally makes a move and grabs your hips with a strength you hadn’t thought he had the balls to perform, planting you down firmly and holding you with such need as his hips jitter and stutter—resting his cheek on your shoulder in drool and tears with a lovesick groan leaving him as he fills your pussy up with his creamy spend.

His whole body shakes—spasming in cute little aftershocks as he clutches onto your body, hugging you tightly.

You respond in kind, cuddling him and kissing the top of his head. “That was so warm and filling—what a good boy—you did so well,” you murmur ever-sweetly while petting his head, combing through his sweaty locks with your long glitter-pink nails—keeping your voice saccharine. “Did you enjoy yourself, hm? Your first time cumming in pussy instead of your dirty ol’ sock?”

You pick his face up—cupping his sloppy jaw in both palms—his eyes half-mast and glazed as you nose-kiss him with a smile on your face.

“You loved it, didn’t you? Silly virgin boy…”

Your cunt tingles at the sight of him—wrecked beauty, sweaty and undone. You feel his cock unswell inside you and decide to lift off and release him—letting it flop out and splat on his tummy in a puddle of slick.

“Look,” you fuss, holding his face in direction of it. “You made such a pretty mess—isn’t it lovely?”

Your pussy is left glistening and puffy, still wanting and waiting for its final hurrah. Your breath turns headier and so does your voice, now with a new darkness to it as  you whisper, “Time for that favor, sweet boy.” 

He blinks dumbly, impossibly hopeless, wrapped so tightly around your pinky it’s pitiful. Of course, you take advantage—guiding his head to level with your cunt. 

“Open wide, tongue out flat.”

He obeys wordlessly. And oh god it makes your gut stir viscously—watching his tongue loll free between parted lips.

Your voice flares with bliss at the sight, shy of unhinged, as you giggle breathily, “That’s right—taste the pretty mess you made.”

He’s pushed face-first, trapped between your thighs with his jaw like an open cup beneath you, tonguing the mixed slick from your slit and slurping it all up without shame.

And fuck—it feels so good, you lose even more of your mind while tugging him even closer—all but pulling him off the toilet seat, making him kneel down on the floor instead. And still, he makes no effort to escape, but the opposite—seeking to go deeper into your cunt, crying into you as he laps up every last drop of yours and his arousal—making your thighs quake around him, grinding down against his mouth, onto his eager tongue, having it pet your clit over and over until you also come to the same sudden stumbling halt.

“Yes—yes! Oh, fuck! I’m gonna—it’s coming—”

And there it goes, ripping along your loins, surging from your lower belly. With both your hands tangled harshly in his hair, he’s not going anywhere, lips locked with yours as it starts pouring.

You’re squirting on him—hot and hard—on his tongue, inside his mouth, down his throat, in his belly. You’re squirting on him and he’s drinking it, he realizes—but even so, he isn’t able to stop. Instead, he unwinds his jaw even wider, digs his tongue deeper, and accepts every drop of the warm stream as it drenches his face and splashes down his collar and shoulders, utterly soaking his shirt, making in see-through as it clings to his chest like a second skin.

You’ve closed your eyes and thrown your head back, basking in every last little twitch of your body as you relieve yourself all over his face.

Finally, after a moment, you let go of his hair and step back—feeling refreshed and happy with your work—seeing the poor loser sit before the toilet, all drenched and exhausted with his limp cock spent and messy, looking like a beautiful wreck.

You smile, pulling your panties back in place, and you skirt down again before unlocking the stall and opening the door, only looking back at him for a moment, tapping your nail at a few matching pink scribbles written on the wall. “Here’s my number and address if you wanna have more fun." And then you leave, just like that. "Bye-bye~”

♡ BNHA – Amajiki, Deku, Shigaraki, Shinso ♡ JJK – Yuuta, Choso, Nanami ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Kenma ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Isagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Sakura, Nirei

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[slayfk]

posting here because this just doesn’t feel right to talk about in the horseimagebarn voice but this is extremely important to talk about.

my partner and i have returned to our hometown to stay with her family and my own has gotten a hotel here too (they moved to the town we currently live in after we did) so we are all safe and out of the thick of it

however there are tens of thousands of people who are not both in my own town and in the many surrounding it. appalachia will take an extremely long time to recover from this and there are more storms on the way. all i see on social media right now is people asking for shelter because their homes have been destroyed, or people asking for help searching for family members who are missing. hundreds of trees have fallen. hundreds of homes have flooded. roads are literally falling apart. preexisting sinkholes due to shitty pipes are opening up and consuming land. dams are on the verge of bursting and the only way to stop it is to release water so quickly it floods whole towns. all but one of our cell towers are down, so only people with at&t have service and the rest can’t contact anyone. over half the town still doesn’t have power. a major water supply issue occurred and the entire town is on a water boil order with no electricity to boil with. people are trapped in their homes and workplaces or out on the street because they have nowhere to go. law enforcement is blocking off roads but trapping people in the process. people have to be rescued by helicopter. our animal shelter has no water or power and boarding facilities have been flooded. entire villages like chimney rock nc are gone, and entire cities like asheville are cut off from the rest of the state and are completely inaccessible. ALL OF THE ROADS IN WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA ARE CLOSED. 400+ roads are closed because they are unsafe . that is INSANE!!!

when people say that climate change isn’t real, they don’t know what they’re talking about. climate change and its father capitalism are only going to continue to worsen lives in every way possible. i live in the mountains and our infrastructure is completely unprepared to handle hurricanes and it’s only going to get worse. it’s such a strange and eye-opening experience to live something like this when you think that it could never happen to you because that type of weather shouldn’t reach you in your environment. climate change doesn’t care where you live. it’s real.

western north carolina and the rest of the southeast that has been hit by helene need help. more people need to be talking about this so that the government DOES SOMETHING because the government historically fucking hates appalachia and it still does!!! the major state institution near me took DAYS to respond despite being the only place in town with power and wifi connection because they had to wait for the state to approve their response—they could have allowed thousands of people to evacuate days prior to the hurricane hitting us but they didn’t do anything before or after until it was too late!!! it’s bullshit!!! PLEASE get talking about this because something has to be done. climate change is going to continue happening and our mountains and the people in them are going to suffer immensely. hundreds if not thousands are now homeless. please talk about this look at the footage online of the wreckage and look how quickly our infrastructure crumbled. we need better. the people of appalachia deserve better.

i’ll get back to posting horses soon. but for now this is a lot. my friends are homeless and my family had to get off the mountain or be trapped there without power and water for days. we’re all safe but exhausted. i hope everyone who has been affected by this is staying safe. if you are in western nc, dm me. when i come back, if you’re in my area, im happy to bring supplies. stay safe everyone

[awrkive]

NEIGHBOR BLUNDER, pt. 1 — JJK

in hindsight, you should have seen it coming. had always known your luck – or lack of it, thereof – and the universe's meticulous plan of your downfall made it easy for you to get tangled up in a series of unfortunate events, which presents itself as the neighbor that lives across from you, jeon jungkook.

PAIRING jungkook x (fem) reader

GENRE r18+ (fluff, angst, (eventual) smut) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

CHAPTER WORD COUNT 18.2k

CHAPTER WARNINGS/MISC neighbor!jk, bsf!jimin, accountant!oc software engineer!jk, jk and jimin are chaebols lol, minjoon boyfriends <<<<3 mature language, this chapter's pretty tame (for now) but theres a lot of FLIRTING, if u squint this story is a mosaic of every shows i love lmfao, for the apartment complex just imagine the namil villa from the kdrama fight for my way NB!JK VISUALS

NOTES hello im back!!!!! remember the jk in tech xmas fic i told you about last year? this is it except its not a xmas fic anymore lmfao. had an idea to make it a full blown story and im just sooo excited to share it with u guys on this platform!!!!! if ur from wattpad, the chapter system is gonna be a little different here but the content is not <3 anyway let me know what u guys think!

READ ON WATTPAD | AO3

PART ONE | TWO

You never settled your relationship with the summer season. To put it simply, it was a love and hate sort of thing; you liked that it was dry, and the air always felt like it was filtered and healthy even though you were well-aware of the current shit-state of the Earth's ozone layer. There were beams and sunlights and street vendors and people lying on the park's ground. Summer felt nostalgic, like the first time you bought a vinyl in highschool and listened to Fleetwood Mac in secret because your mom was certain they peddled cocaine and all sorts of illegal drugs, and with a highschool friend you no longer talk to, not because of a friendship-breaking betrayal but something more melancholic than that like drifting apart as you got older — the ambience, generally, was what you loved the most about it.

But regardless of those, summer got hot. Sure, you could forgo layers of clothing and it was always nice to lounge about in short bottoms and strapless tops and sandals, but at the end of the day, you needed to set your AC on the lowest temp, and it cranks up your monthly rent a greater percentage which causes a detrimental result to your monthly pay. (And you always had to reapply make-up every now and then whenever you went outside because if not, you'd be a sweating mess.)

In the grand scheme of things, though, there was nothing more than you disliked than Park Jimin, your best friend since college, asking you to be his plus-one on his mom's birthday dinner. For the second time.

“I told you, Jimin, I’m not doing that anymore. Your mom called me fat and recommended a bunch of expensive skin care products to treat one single zit on the side of my forehead the last time you brought me there. I hid that with my bangs and she still saw it, like what the hell? The baked lasagna might have tasted good but I’m not stepping one foot in your house ever again.” You spat out, rolling your eyes at your friend who just dramatically flopped himself on your bed.

“Okay, so I’m really sorry about my mom. She’s a…” He trailed off, looking at you with meaningful eyes that weighed words you knew he couldn't exactly say without feeling bad, and you sighed. Nodded in understanding. Jimin’s face contorted into a cringed expression at that. “... yeah. But! Please. I swear! This is the last time. I just really need you to be there. They’re setting me up with Heesu, okay? You know that snotty nepo baby of the Kang clan who owns Kang Tech?”

“Jimin, you’re a nepo baby.”

He hit you with a pillow. “I am but I can earn a hundred thousand won without my family’s money. They can cut my credit cards and I'll still be thriving.”

You broke the serious demeanor and laughed loudly at his seemingly confident claim.

“I’m sorry but you could not even get a job at a burger joint without some nepotism let alone have a hundred thousand without your dad’s credit cards. Bitch, you’re just lying.”

“Fuck you. I was employee of the week at Seventh Street Burger.” He backfired, referring to that point in time in your sophomore year where you picked up a part time job during the summer at a burger joint and Jimin just decided to come along randomly. He got it because the owner knew of his dad.

“Yeah, because Sowon had a crush on you?” You said, remembering the owner’s daughter, who was also helping out at the store at that time. She was so smitten by Jimin you almost felt bad for her.

“Okay, fair, point taken. No need to be such a bitch about it,” Your best friend said with a dismissive wave of his hand, telling he was over it. You only laughed at that, boisterously, might you add, just to piss him off for no reason. Jimin deadpanned. “But seriously. I think they’re planning to marry me off to Heesu.”

Your face fell out of genuine concern this time.

“Oh my god, really?”

Jimin once again cringed visibly. “Yeah. I mean from a business lense it makes sense. But me marrying at 33? That makes me – like – a child groom.”

“Oh… yeah…” you trailed off, sympathizing with him. Not that you've ever been in the situation where your parents forced you in a sham marriage for their own wealth because there was no wealth to begin with. But you felt bad for Jimin. You always have, when it came to this particular subject.

You knew how it was with rich people, having known Jimin for almost half your life. It was true that arranged marriages were still a thing, and while Jimin seemed that he could pretty much do everything he wanted because of his free-spirited nature, his parents could still most likely make him marry someone he barely knew. Solely for business.

“Ugh.” Jimin groaned. “Should I just come out at the dinner so they can stop linking me to women? I’m gay as fuck, man. My cousin Park Youngdam would have a field day given that homophobic fucktard has been calling me the f word ever since he learned it in seventh grade.”

You shook your head, visibly cringing at his words. You didn't have family yourself. It was your mom who raised you alone for all your life, until she died five years ago. Didn't know any extended family. But frankly, you thought it was better that way than to deal with a complicated family like Jimin's.

“Nah. I mean if you’re ready, well, do it. But like, your parents are…” You two shared a look together again, and Jimin just slapped his palms over his face, indicating his doom. Your face twisted with another shot of deeper sympathy for him.

“This is it for me. They’ll marry me off to Kang Heesu and we’ll fly to the US and live in Massachusetts to fulfill her white picket fence fantasy. I’ll be a miserable husband and she'll be an even more miserable wife because she’ll eventually find out I’m gay. The neighbors will start talking and the white republicans will shun me out of the town church. We’ll have a surrogate baby and—”

“Jimin, what the fuck!” You hit him hard on his arm as you couldn't keep a straight face anymore at his dramatic monologue. “You’re not gonna marry Heesu and you won't live in fuckass Massachusetts and no one’s gonna shun you out of the town church and you won't have a surrogate baby.”

“It’s a possibility.” Jimin shrugged.

“I feel like you're guilt-tripping me into agreeing to be your date again at your mom's birthday dinner and I think that's very evil of you.” You said, squinting your eyes at him.

“Well, duh? But also, I’m really kind of lowkey highkey scared they’ll marry me off to someone now that I’m pushing forty.”

"You're quite literally seven years away from forty." You countered.

He looked at you with an expression of I know right! And he told you so.

"That's what I said to mom and dad, but they're acting like my sperm will freeze next year. God, I can't stand them!" 

Jimin, for all his jokes and unserious and bitchy behavior, was someone extremely important to you. Yeah, sure, he was rich as hell and he annoys you when he says something that reeks of too much nepotism but he was never intentionally snotty, never thinks he was better than everyone else (Jokes about how he thinks he has the fattest and juiciest ass in the world, though), and he wasn't at all like the rich people you've had the misfortune of interacting with at his mom's birthday party last year. He might be a self-proclaimed bitch but if you put him together with those people, he might as well be one of God's disciples.

For all his crass language and rather strong personality, Jimin was a doting friend who was there for you every single time. You could call him up at 3 am and he’d be at your door bringing Chinese take out and two tubs of ice cream, ready to hear you vent about your stupid job or a guy that you fumbled by being weird and off-putting because you didn't know how to handle a relationship. He was the kind of friend who would defend you in front of anyone else but will mercilessly tell you off and list down all points of your stupidity once you were in closed doors. He was the kind of friend that would ask you to be his pretend partner at a birthday dinner party, but he was your best friend ultimately and even if you had a big problem with his family and their extremely traditional (read: toxic) ways, you didn't want him to be pressured into coming out just so he could avoid to be engaged off to another random heiress. Didn't want him to do something he wasn't ready for. Didn't want him hurt or anything of the sort.

The last dinner wasn't even that bad, if you were to be honest. His parents were shitty, yeah sure, and the other guys in there that consisted of politicians and businessmen and people in the showbiz industry were something taken out of the toilet bowl for how stinky their elitist, better-than-you personalities were, but you both just totally forgot all about it by getting wasted at the local bar right after leaving. Not that his mom’s words didn't sting a bit or didn't make you a little conscious, but at the end of the day, you weren't actually dating Jimin so you didn't care what his parents thought of you.

Additionally, you didn't have something planned for the next two weeks when the birthday would be happening. You were supposed to, but that ship has long sailed when you fumbled a date with the guy at the IT department. For the record, you didn't really like him that much and he talked too much about his job and while you didn't mind that, it was getting a little too tiring. If you wanted IT lessons you would’ve majored in it in college. Still, Shin Taemu was handsome. And he wore those rounded glasses. Was tall. Had nice arms. Too bad he wanted to be the next Mark Zuckerberg. Fuck that guy.

“Ugh, I don't know,” you groaned. “It's just so disgusting to be your girlfriend, okay?”

Jimin audibly gasped. “How dare you? A lot would jump on this ass.” He said with incredulity seeping through his voice, pointing to his bum.

You rolled your eyes. “Not me, obviously. Before you take offense—”

“Offense taken.”

“—it’s just that you're like my cousin and when you call me honey I want to crawl out of my own skin.”

Jimin laughed at that while you looked miserable, remembering those moments from last year. Seriously, how could you have fooled anyone in that party that you were banging? You swore you looked like Ariana Grande and Troye Sivan in that one music video? (Jimin was the one who showed that meme to you, by the way.)

“So I won't call you honey. Just babe.”

“Ew.” You quickly retaliated.

“Ohh, the homophobia is sho-wing.” Jimin sing-sang, ever the mature individual he was.

“Fuck off, seriously.”

Jimin just giggled and then scooted closer to you. “No but like, are you coming? ‘Cause jokes aside, I'm just gonna find someone else if you really don't wanna do it. But you know you're always my first choice.”

“First choice when you do some stupid shit.” you countered, rolling your eyes for the nth time that night. Jimin would be the cause of your eye surgery if ever they got dislocated or something.

“That’s my biggest act of love.”

“I don't want it.”

“I’ll double what I paid you last year.”

“Double it again and give it to the next person?”

Jimin flipped you off. “I’ll give you my nintendo and I’ll get you a card at that coffee shop you love so much.”

That caught your attention. You raised your brow. “On god?”

“When did I ever lie to you?”

You deadpanned. “We won't finish this conversation if I list all the times—”

“Okay, okay, point taken. But I'm really serious. Please, please, please, please be my pretend girlfriend on my mom's birthday party please, please—”

“Shut up. Ugh,” you could already feel the big smile creeping up Jimin’s face when you let out a big sigh. “Okay, I’ll do it. Buy me boba now.”

Jimin tackled you to the bed and hugged you and kissed your forehead.

“Thank you! Best best friend ever.” he delightfully said, grinning widely, eyes almost disappearing in his triumph.

Your face contorted into a disgusted expression while Jimin just laughed as you pushed him so hard he almost fell off the bed.

“You are a disgusting limpy sack of dicks! Also, I’m not your best best friend, you don't have a wide selection. I'm your best friend. Period.”

“Unfortunately.” He waved you off and when you were about to retort something his phone suddenly rang. You watched quietly as he put it over his ear. “Hey, you just landed?”

If it was a private conversation Jimin would've left the room but since he didn't, you decided to stay in bed, kind of listening in to the conversation, but also not, as you turned the volume down of the show you were watching earlier on your laptop.

“Nah, you want me to pick you up?” Jimin sat up on the edge of the bed and you looked at him curiously. “Sure, I’m free, Kook. You have a place to stay? Hotel suite or something?” He nodded to whatever the other person was saying on the other line. “Oh, you're here for three months? Thought you were just flying in for mom's birthday?”

It was moments after they said goodbye that Jimin turned to you to ask, “Well, my cousin’s apparently staying here for three months. Got this job thing going on.”

“Is that one of the non-problematic twenty percent cousin lineage of your very complicated family tree?" You asked, referring to him telling you one time that his family, including the extended ones, was eighty percent shitty and twenty percent decent.

Jimin chuckled at the inside joke. "Well, yeah, he's one of the good ones. Knows I'm gay."

"Oh, nice."

Jimin stood up from your bed. “I’ll get you your boba and head off. Gotta pick cousin up or he’ll start throwing tantrums at the airport.”

“Add extra pearls please.” You told him, watching as he clicked away on his phone to get you your drink.

“I spoil you too much.” Jimin said, clicking his tongue, eyes still on his phone.

“What are you here for if not my glorified sugar daddy?”

“I will kill myself in front of you.” Jimin deadpanned, getting a chuckle out of you.

You didn't know the psychology — or if there even was psychology — behind feeling embarrassed when you were about to cross a path while carrying huge boxes. It was a normal task, and yet, it always felt like a huge walk of shame when you did it.

It was probably because you had to carry it over a flight of stairs, and there was no way you wouldn't trip on yourself carrying two heavy boxes in your hands that were already disrupting your vision.

Maybe it was your fault for choosing the pick-up option when you were checking out these furniture online, all because there was a huge increase on the fee for door-to-door delivery. For the record, there was a huge gap and the boxes were not really that heavy to the point you could not carry them both. It's just a lamp and a portable desk, you thought a week ago when you opted for the pick-up option, I could carry it all the way to the unit just fine — and obviously, your delusion has resulted to this very moment.

As soon as you managed to walk over five steps, you felt as if your oxygen supply just got cut back, panting like someone fresh from a marathon. Damn. You definitely needed to work out a little. Maybe do some squats for your New Year’s resolution, commit to it for three days straight then forget about it for the next 362 days of the year.

You looked ahead of you and a string of curses let themselves out of your mouth automatically as you estimated the number of stairs you needed to get through to get to your apartment.

This day sucked! It was Sunday and you planned to wake up at five am to have a productive day but then you slept through your five alarms and woke up at eleven am instead. You ran out of eggs and you had to go to the convenience store to eat a sad meal of yogurt and kimbap. And now there were these boxes that you needed to carry over what seemed to look like six million of stairs. You weren't Sisyphus! And where were your goddamn neighbors when you needed them?

"You need help, ma'am?"

"Jesus Christ—" you turned to look to your right only to see a man who seemed to own the previous voice.

And Jesus Christ, indeed.

He was wearing a white shirt and some shorts, Nike sliders on his feet and a pair of headphones on. He was wearing glasses. And he had a tattoo sleeve.

What the fuck.

What the fuck!

It has been so long since you thought a man was crazily attractive. Okay, well sure, the guys from the IT department were something else (or you just had a weird eyeglasses fetish, Jimin once pointed out, that you still — to this day — vehemently try to deny) but you’ve never been this taken aback by someone’s face before.

The guy’s lips tilted a bit, some sort of greeting maybe, and you quickly looked away, embarrassed, fearing that he caught you looking at him longer than necessary.

Oh god. This was pathetic! He was a stranger! He was a man! He just had a cute face attached to a very good body with an arm full of tattoos and he was tall but you were sure he wasn’t six feet two. Also, he had hair that looked fluffy from where you stood and a pair of eyeglasses but Jimin was just bluffing when he said you had a fetish for them. Right?

You were performing mental gymnastics until you realized he was asking a question.

"Oh! Uh, no, thank you. It's fine." You said, embarrassed at the way you almost jumped in surprise earlier.

But the whole thing was ridiculous. What, because there was a very fine man across from you the universe suddenly decided to fuck up your fate by making you be seen by that very man struggling with boxes all the way up to your unit? Couldn't it just have been on a day when you did your make-up and dressed up in that overpriced dress you bought hundred bad choices ago?

You fumbled with the boxes a little bit before continuing your way up, nevermind the guy whose response you didn't wait for because you needed to get the fuck away from him before you say something weird and off-putting.

Truthfully, you could use the help. But at what cost? A fine man carrying them? Okay, that wasn’t so bad. But what were you supposed to do with... all of that?

As if the universe was indeed trying to prove to you that you were, in fact, not its favorite creation, you almost tripped. And the guy most definitely saw it.

Fuck.

You turned to the side to see him looking at you, concern etching his face. You wanted to convince yourself that it was genuine concern because you'd commit something that would totally change the trajectory of his life if he was to laugh.

But you thought his own unit must be way up as well, as he was going to the same path as you, and if that was the case, he must have been a new neighbor in the complex because you've never seen the man before.

“Well, it’s not that heavy but…” you trailed off, looking blankly at the cardboard boxes. And then at him. "I could use some help, if you don't mind."

The guy just chuckled. Oh wow, his laugh was very... low.

You didn’t even know what the fuck that meant.

“I’ll get them for you.” He said, crossing the small distance between you and taking over the pile, leaving you with nothing in your hands.

“Oh, no, I’ll have that one. It’s fine.” You said, stepping closer to take the other one but he was already securing it in his hold, with stability this time, ready to take off.

He let out a small laugh again and you bit your tongue to not think about how cute he looked. If he was a new tenant, you hoped you didn't cross paths with him ever again.

"It's okay, ma'am."

He's got to stop calling you that before you do something drastic.

“It’s quite far from here, I'm all the way up to three-three-six.” You uttered, pointing forward, a few steps behind the guy, who hummed at what you said.

You quickly caught up to him. "Really, thanks for doing this."

"No problem, it's nothing." He said, smiling at you. Warm and kind. All cute. "I'm all the way up to four-four-six as well."

Your eyes widened. "No way, that's just across mine."

The stranger, apparently your neighbor now, grinned.

"Nice coincidence, huh?"

A sheepish smile formed on your lips. You didn't dwell on that comment too much. Knew it was just small talk.

"If you don't mind me asking, are you a new tenant here?” You asked out of genuine curiosity. You had never seen someone come out of the unit across from you out of all the four years you'd been here.

He nodded, agreeing with what you presumed.

"Yeah. Just temporary, though.”

“Oh…” A surprised sound. Maybe it was a good thing he was only staying temporarily... “I hope I didn’t inconvenience you or anything. You really don’t need to bring the boxes over to my apartment.”

The man just chuckled, dismissing your worry. “You looked like you could use a hand, these boxes are big. Anyway, I was just out checking 'round town. Settling in.”

From the sound of it, you'd assume he was not only moving in in a new apartment complex, but new city as well. Perhaps country? But he most definitely looked Korean. But maybe he came from abroad. Who knows.

“Yeah, there's a really nice coffee shop three blocks away. You should check it out sometime. Ji—my friend and I are obsessed with their iced caramel macchiato. And the boba.”

His brows furrowed in pure interest. “That must've been the one I passed by this morning. I’ll make sure to try that one.”

“You really should. And the barista gives you a brownie on Sundays if he likes you.” You shared like it was gossip, mentally taking note to visit the cafe sometime this week.

“And I'm sure not everybody gets the privilege?” The guy looked at you funny, and that made you laugh.

"Of course, yes! You have to earn it, I think. I feel like I spent over a million there before he started giving me brownies."

"Hope my charm works on him as well," he said, and it caught you off guard.

What did he mean, "as well"? Like he was speaking from the basis that you had charm and so he hoped he had it as well to get the barista to like him?

"Well. He's strict." Was all you could say, before you spotted your apartment. "Hey, I'll take it over from here."

The guy looked over the plated number on the door, reading three-three-six just as you said earlier. Trudging forward, he set the boxes down on the side of the porch.

"Thank you, really. This was really nice of you."

You extended your gratitude once again as if you didn't spend the walk up to here thanking him non-stop, sounding like a broken record. Thank god the guy didn't seem to mind your over-the-top gratitude, only waving his hand.

"Told you, it's fine. You need help with a few boxes again and just ring me up across," He joked, turning around slightly and looking at the door across your unit, Unit 446. It earned a chuckle from you. His face turned serious now, but there was still a charming smile on his face. “Hey. I’m actually pretty new in this town. I was thinking about visiting a few restaurants downtown, maybe you could recommend me some?”

You didn't mean to, but you took note the way his doe eyes seemed to shimmer even behind the frame of his glasses.

“My favorites are just, like, a ten-minute walk away. There’s this restobar near that drugstore when you turn left from this building, right?” The guy nodded, and you were slightly delighted he knew right away. “Yeah, their ramen's great, you'd thank me forever.”

He chuckled at the way you said it and you smiled.

Your interactions with new people were always a range from pure silence to oversharing; talking to them like they were your long lost friend whom you’ve milked goats with in your father’s orchard. It was probably just a product of introversion; not knowing the right approach to socializing.

“Thanks for the recommendation.” He said, a genuine appreciative tone lacing his words.

“You’re welcome. If I can ring you up to help me with some boxes, you can ring me up for some restaurant recommendation.”

"It's an exchange, then. Deal."

"Why not?" You shrugged, laughing along with him when he did so.

You both stood there for a while until seconds passed. You didn’t know exactly how to end the conversation, not that you wanted to, but there was nothing that went to your head to talk about more. And besides, he was probably headed somewhere, so you began to speak.

“Hey, so I’m going in—”

“What about we—”

“Oh.” You stopped. “Sorry, what was that?”

The guy just shook his head. “Nah, you’re probably busy. Thanks for the recommendation again.”

“No, seriously, sorry I didn't hear it the first time...”

“I was just gonna ask about the name of the restaurant.”

“It’s Midday Miso.” You told him, smiling.

“Midday Miso,” The guy nodded, “Yeah. Got it. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome, and, uh, thanks. For the help.”

You took your keys out from your shorts and you didn’t expect to still see him standing in front of you when you turned around. You jokingly squinted your eyes at him.

“Yeah, you first, get in.” He said with a low chuckle.

It was a little embarrassing and pretty stupid how your heart fluttered a bit at that.

“What a gentleman you are,” You respond with a snort, opening the door to your unit and pushing the boxes inside your apartment. When they were in, you turned to look at the guy again, saying, “Okay, bye for real. See you around. Hope you like Midday Miso if you try it. And the coffee shop. It's called Brown Coffee.”

“See you around.” He did a little wave that made you both laugh before you closed the door.

When the lock system clicked, you stood on your doorway for a little while.

And then fake-cried.

You quickly clicked on Jimin's pinned contact on your phone.

You [5:35pm]: JIMINNNNNNNNN You [5:35pm]: POP EMERGENCY You [5:35pm]: POP EMERGENCY BITCH IF U DONT RESPOND You [5:36pm]: I HAVE A DIABOLICAL CRUSH AND ITS GOING IN THE MEMOIRRRRRR

It wasn’t even one full minute when Jimin replied.

cuntress #1 [5:37pm]: oh my god SHUT UP!!! im at a training program for ghis stupid ass company my fathers been running fir 600 years cuntress #1 [5:37pm]: whats up cuntress #1 [5:38pm]: its always a crush and never a job 😒

You [5:39pm]: yeh so remember when i told u im oacking up my vagina last summer

cuntress #1 [5:39pm]: many such times

You [5:40pm]: 🖕 You [5:40pm]: SO raincheck!!! You [5:41pm]: COZ I just met a fine man at my apartment AND flirted with him You [5:41pm]: i think

cuntress #1 [5:42pm]: ohhhhh OK???? cuntress #1 [5:43pm]: cuntress #2 flirting???? now thats not uninteresting go on while i fake a restroom break 👀

You [5:45pm]: this story is not for the imessages baby get ur ass up and ICE CREAM WITH ME NOW.

cuntress #1 [5:46pm]: omg 😭😭😭😭 cuntress #1 [5:46pm]: i’ll be off 7:30pm wait for me 😭😭😭 cuntress #1 [5:47pm]: i also have #stories to tell

You [5:49pm]: 🤭

There must be a time where you finally grow up and learn to cook.

You were a twenty-eight-year-old woman and yet, your meals sadly ranged from instant noodles, canned goods, and food from the nearby twenty-four-hour provision shop. Sometimes, you had the gall to cook something from scratch—but with scratch you meant scratching off the labels from food take-outs and reheating them in your microwave.

Jimin had told you one time you would die at twenty-nine with your lifestyle. You told him he couldn't tell you shit because he didn't know how to cook either, he just worked out and ate healthy stuff, and you did, too! But Jimin knew you, and in an evil manner, clocked you with, "Buying fresh produce and not consuming them does not count as healthy living."

Anyway, you never understood why you were so bad at cooking. Your mother, as you remembered her, was decent at it but you guessed it was because she never really taught you and you never really bothered, either. In some immature way of thinking, you'd like to think it was a win for feminism as you were battling patriarchal standards by not conforming to stereotypical "female" qualities. But deep inside, you knew cooking should be a survival skill.

Well, maybe Jimin was right and you would indeed die at the ripe age of twenty-nine. On the bright side, at least you wouldn't have to pay off your student loans and your monthly rent.

In relation, not knowing how to cook meant impractical visits to the restaurant, and that was how you ended up at Midday Miso for dinner after your shift.

It was only a little over seven pm when you entered the restaurant, the ahjumma quickly greeting you and preparing your usual, a sign of familiarity that implied your countless visits ever since moving in at your current apartment building.

Regular visits meant usual sitting spot, and in your case, it was the high stools that faced the glass walls of the restaurant's facade where you could see the busy street making that little area of the town alive.

As minutes overlapped with one another, your food was served and you were hit with the waft of the restaurant's delightful signature beef ramen and bibimbap that the ahjumma made sure to add extra beef on.

Eating with a happy heart made you feel like nothing in the world mattered but you and the food before you, so, you didn't pay attention to the person who was coming to your direction and eventually sat beside you, but what caught you off guard was when said person suddenly said,

"Hi."

When you turned to the side to see who it was, your eyes widened as you said in both recognition and surprise, "Unit 446?"

"That's me." He, Unit 446—in the flesh—said with a low chuckle, twisting himself so that he was sat appropriately on the high stool. Still, his body leaned towards you when he continued to say, "Fancy seeing you here."

You grinned, flattered at the casualness of his approach.

"Same to you. I wonder who told you about this local gem."

He pursed his lips. "A nice neighbor across my place... whom I still don't know the name of."

"Oh, shoot!" You'd face-palm right now if he wasn't looking, but truthfully, you didn't even think about that! You've just been referring to him as the Staircase Guy slash Neighbor 446 in your head and when you told Jimin about him. You laughed at the thought. "That neighbor of yours is __."

Neighbor 446 nodded and extended his hand to you

"I'm Jungkook."

It was a little silly but you shook hands, anyway, and knowing it was, indeed, silly, you both laughed together at your joint connection.

Jungkook. Huh. Not exactly a common Korean name, but it wasn't rare either. The name does ring a bell though, felt like you've heard it somewhere before.

You brushed off the familiarity as inconsequential.

Unlike the completely casual attire he adorned the first time that you met him, he was now in some sleek slacks and a white polo which sleeves were ridden up half high, which exposed the vines of ink on his right arm once again. There's a coat that hung around the back of his chair, and he had forgone the glasses this time around, which was a bit of a shame on the part of your brain that might have a silly crush on him.

Jungkook's clothes seemed to mirror your own business casual ensemble, and that made you think about what he possibly did for a living. Maybe he worked a corporate job just like you, and the prospect might have made you down a little—only because as far as you were concerned, corporate people weren't the most pleasant people you could encounter—but it was not something you dwelled on too much because you couldn't care less. If Jungkook was corporate, he sure didn't seem to be one the way he was.

Besides, you wouldn't be the one to bring up the depressing and aggravating conversation about gross grown-up things like... jobs... Eurgh. You both could just talk about the weather or how insane the ahjumma's ramen tasted for eternity.

"Well, hello, Jungkook." You greeted him. All warm and soft, testing the syllables of his name on your tongue. Rolled off well enough. He had a nice name that sure fit his face for some reason.

"Hi, __." He mirrored the soft smile on your lips, and just as he said it, the ahjumma was heading towards your direction to give him his order.

In that usual way grandmas reacted, the ahjumma gasped audibly—and dramatically, might you add—upon seeing Jungkook, but what she said next made you want to dig a hole under your seat.

"__-dear! Is this young man your boyfriend?"

Good thing you weren't consuming anything as of that moment, because it would've entered the wrong track.

"Ahjumma!" You laughed, totally not authentic at all because your face didn't match it, looking at Jungkook who just sent a shy smile her way.

Ahjumma must have seen you both talking to each other and had completely jumped to a conclusion. An insane one at that! 

Shaking your head, you clarified, "This is Jungkook. A friend. He's new in town and checking out all the stuff around here. I recommended him this place."

You saw Jungkook nodding along with your words while he helped her set his table.

The ahjumma just shook her head. "I apologize, then," She looked at Jungkook and as if gossiping with him, whispered in a not very subtle way, "I keep on telling this girl to date already! Such young beauty shouldn't be wasted, you know."

A tsk-ing sound made its way through her mouth, and as much as you were starting to feel embarrassed that she was telling on you on Jungkook—who was literally a stranger to you a day ago and whom you may have a teeny tiny bit of crush on—you knew ahjumma did not have any malicious intent and just chose to laugh the whole thing off.

You heard Jungkook do the same.

This was ridiculous.

"Ahjumma, I told you, you're gonna be the first one to know when I date. For now I'm just a part-time accountant and a full-time promoter of Midday Miso." You pout at her, trying to dodge the topic of romance altogether.

Not in front of Jungkook.

"Ayee," She gave you a side-eye. "Fine. I'll bring over some extra beef."

You mouthed an enthusiastic "yes!" and raised your fist in the air with excitement, and Jungkook looked at the interaction with a smile on his face.

As the ahjumma walked away, you looked over at him.

"I'm glad you came by—" You identified his order to be the same one you used to be obsessed with the first few months you came to the restaurant. "—and ordered their best seller. You sure know how to be a tourist."

"Looked good on the menu. The ahjumma also seems to be nice. Seems like she's a close friend, huh?" Jungkook said.

"Totally."

And it was the truth. There was just something about ahjumma that made you feel reminiscent about the grandmother you've never had. Ever since you moved in and became a regular at this place, it felt like she's taken care of you and your relationship had been special since.

"This is really good." Jungkook commented after having his second bite, and you nodded in agreement. "She was serious about the beef thing?"

You chuckled at the mention. "Yeah, she always gives me extra."

"You just always get free stuff around these areas?" Jungkook joked which earned a hearty laugh from you. You remembered telling him about the free brownie on Sundays at Brown Coffee, a little bit surprised he recalled that.

"Now that you said that, I actually do." You proudly shared. You've been in this town for so long that the various faces just went from familiar to friends.

Jungkook nodded, his face showing amusement.

"I have to learn your ways, then."

"The secret to that is be incompetent at cooking. It means it's either take-out or eat out. Business owners around here have no choice but to see me every three days because I can't cook my own meal."

You could see Jungkook's amusement growing every second, and to add faux insult to injury, he joked, "Oh, bummer."

You decided to ride along with that.

"You mean you're a good cook? That's the real bummer! And here I thought we were bonding." You said, purposefully trying to sound scandalous at his implication of being a good cook.

He shook his head instantly, chuckling. "Okay, nah. I'm not that good. Just decent. But I'll have you know I can make a mean tangsuyuk. Any other complicated stuff is out the window, so there, we are bonding."

"I appreciate that you're under the assumption that I know where to begin with the non-complicated stuff. You're already putting way too much faith in me."

"I seriously doubt that." Jungkook laughed once again.

"You know what my friend tells me? That I'd die at twenty-nine because I don't know how to cook."

Jungkook almost keeled over hearing you say the words, and as much as you were amused at his own amusement, you decided to further add on the joke because you were enjoying this way too much.

"Wow. I wouldn't doubt you'd be an accessory to my murder the way you're laughing way too hard at my impending death. That's next year, you know."

Jungkook reached over for the glass of water and drank it. While he did so, the ahjumma had come over to give you the beef she promised. You did not forgot to thank her as soon as she went away. 

You did hope Jungkook didn't notice the malicious wink she sent your way.

"Fuck, sorry." Jungkook's laughter had gone down this time, but his eyes still showed a hint of mirth when he asked, "You're twenty-eight, then?"

You nodded. "Yep." Unfortunately, you thought.

"Oh, that's actually surprising."

A gasp left your mouth. Jungkook was quick to correct himself.

"I meant it's surprising because I thought you were way younger."

Oh.

"Don't flatter me. I won't share my extra beef with you."

"I thought—" He shrugged. "—Early twenties."

"I'm guessing you are in your early twenties." You joked back.

"Okay, now, don't flatter me. I know how old I look." Jungkook said with a dismissive tone, but nevertheless light-hearted. Just like how this whole thing was going.

God, you were so in awe of how good he was at talking to you that he was practically bringing out the extrovert in you you only ever show to exclusive people like Jimin.

"So, you're like, fifty, then?"

Incredulous, Jungkook burst into laughter. "Wow."

"Sorry, just that you sounded like you were five years from retirement! Anyway, you look like we're the same age?"

He shook his head. "Three years older. Turning thirty-one later this year."

Jaw dropped. Not physically, but mentally.

"Oh wow, you're basically—" a fucking DILF! What the hell!

Thankfully you managed to cut yourself off before Jungkook could think you were way off your rocks and embarrass yourself in front of him for eternity. You could just hear Jimin from miles away telling you off about calling thirty-year-old men DILFs even though you didn't know if they had a child.

What do you mean this guy was thirty and why did that just make him even hotter in your head... He's got to stop this madness before you do something completely incomprehensible.

"—A senior." Was the lame thing you came up with to finish your sentence.

"Ouch." Jungkook said, but his word was completely opposite to the expression he was wearing on his face the way he just couldn't suppress the grin that had been visible on his mouth since you started talking.

You brought your hands up.

"Totally didn't mean that in a negative way."

Which was the entire truth. So far, the things you knew about him was that he had tattoos, a nice body, a nice personality, good ass freaking conversationalist, and that he was thirty! Thirty! As in, the peak of male hotness. The evil psychological concept of most men only getting hotter as they age.

"I'm sure, I'm sure," Jungkok nodded. "By the way, are you heading out after this?"

"Oh, yeah. Don't have anywhere else to go. I have a nine A.M tomorrow so..." you shrugged, and he nodded in understanding.

"You work as an accountant, right, from what you told the ahjumma?" Jungkook asked you curiously.

"Yeah... it's a very tedious job." You grimaced a little bit. "What about you?"

He tilted his head a bit, picking up a dumpling on his plate. "I'm a software engineer."

"Oh, that's cool."

You nodded to yourself while you processed what he said.

Works in fucking tech; another thing you just learned about him. 

You weren't actively seeking out guys in tech, but why did they seem to come to you voluntarily? God forbid you saw someone who wasn't in there! Was every man working in tech now? Was Jimin really only being truthful when he said they were exactly your type?

"Have you made any software or is that, like, a wrong assumption about you guys?"

Jungkook merely chuckled at your retort.

"Not entirely, no. I've designed a few software in college—I'm still doing it. I'm just currently doing more business stuff now." He gave you a sheepish smile. "You?"

"Well, it's just... you know—I actually work at a tech company. I'm a junior accountant. And, uh, nothing interesting, really. You get to do cool math like programming, and I get to do boring math like calculating money I don't have. It's always a great day at work." You said, couldn't help the laugh that skipped your mouth at your own sarcasm.

Nothing like joking about hating your job to someone who you just met yesterday.

"Programming and coding are not all that, either. It's tedious and... it's just a really boring job. But... it all pays the bills."

You chuckled.

"Yeah. Totally."

Without minding it, you raised the small glass of soju, initiating a toast, one that Jungkook understood immediately and met you in the middle of it.

The night was still you when you walked out of Midday Miso, but unlike any other nights, it was with Jungkook this time walking beside you.

"So you just—what—hid him for three months?"

"Well, yes! I wasn't about to get a notice for that! And besides, he was really cute. But he's in good hands now, his owner still sends me pictures of him. He's very grown and big."

"That's insane."

You peered at Jungkook who watched you in awe as you told him about the story of Alfredo, the cat whom you rescued on your way home from work a year ago. The landlady obviously had her fair share of rules and regulations in her building, and keeping pets was an absolute no, which was a shame. Definitely wasn't a shame when you first just moved in the complex, but things got lonely sometimes when you were living alone and company was almost a luxury.

Anyway, as told, you managed to keep Alfredo out of the landlady's sight until you found a highly qualified parent on some online forum who you still kept in contact with to this day.

But as you watched Jungkook, you noticed the way his expression fell into something concerning. He looked worried, which made you feel the same way as a result.

"What are you thinking?" You asked him curiously.

"Oh, nah, I was just... thinking. See, I actually have a dog."

"Oh!" You looked at him wide-eyed.

He has a dog; another thing about Jungkook that would qualify him on the regular rounds of hot boy of the month on Twitter dot com. 

"Yeah."

"You didn't read the terms and conditions of the building?" Your eyebrows formed a concerned expression.

Jungkook chuckled and shook his head. "I did. I just—suddenly thought about him, is all. He's being taken care of some place. But, you know, I missed him, and I was thinking about getting him here and showing him around my new place and all that."

"Oh... that's a bummer, then. The landlady's strict, even with the small dogs, can you imagine? Is he small, by the way, your dog?

"He's a Doberman, so definitely a big one."

"He must be really cute. What's his name?"

"Bam." He smiled at you, and you could totally see the pride showing on his face at the mention of his dog. And with a tone that you could only identify as someone who's suppressing his enthusiasm a little bit, he added, "You wanna see a picture of him?"

"Sure!"

Jungkook took out his phone from his pocket and showed you images of a big, chocolate brown dog. Bam definitely wasn't like the other regular Dobermans you'd see around. His ears weren't cropped, and his tail wasn't docked either. You didn't know if the lack of surgery was intentional from his side, but you'd like to think he kept it that way because he knew it hurt the dog greatly. From how you've been knowing him, you were certain he just didn't want to put his dog under unnecessary pain, which was honestly heartwarming to think about.

Jungkook was becoming way too good to be true in you head little by little.

"Awe, he's adorable!" You cooed, especially when he swiped through the picture of his pet, Bam, as a pup in what seemed to be Jungkook's arms based on the familiar tattoos that peeked from the exposed arm as seen on the picture. The tattoos also seemed to be new at that time as well, considering that the skin was still yet to be fully covered like now.

"I'm flattered you think that."

"Where is he, by the way? If you don't mind me asking."

"He's at a... friend's place in New York. He's not very good at flying so I didn't bring him with me here, and I thought, I'll only be here for three months, anyway, so." Jungkook shrugged.

Three months. Well. He did say he was only staying here temporarily.

You nodded. "For business, right?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"You grew up there?" You kicked the stone that was caught at the tip of your shoe, putting your fists in the deeper part of your coat's pockets. Summer may be hot during daytime, but it sure as hell was cold on nights like these.

"Nah, I'm from Busan. Flew to California for college and have been there since. Until now, that is."

Jimin was also from Busan, you thought. Though he said they only lived there for a few years until his parents moved to Seoul, but he made sure to visit his hometown every now and then. Most of the time, he made you come with him which you never had complaints about. You lived in the city all your life so going there, especially in the more urbanized area where you and Jimin stayed. Felt like fresh air—which Busan had, quite literally.

"My best friend's from Busan too."

"Really? What about you?"

You chuckled before answering, "I, unfortunately, did not come from any interesting place. Born and raised in Seoul, through and through. Though my mom told me she lived in Daegu for many years prior to having me."

"Seoul is an interesting place, though."

"Eh. It's okay." You shrugged, and your nonchalance made you both laugh.

The walk to your apartment building from Midday Miso was not that far. Still, it was five blocks away and while you and Jungkook were currently sharing conversation together and seemingly walking the same path, you weren't sure if you were both walking together there.

As if he read your mind, he suddenly spoke after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

"You mind if we walk together to the building?"

You decided to joke to get the jittery feeling out of your system.

"Scared of the dark, Jungkook?"

"Sure... my five-eleven self is."

You squinted your eyes at him. He did not just go there!

"Is that a slight against my height because I'm five-seven, mind you."

Jungkook stopped in his tracks which made you do the same, and you watched as he put his hand on his waist while the other reach up to his face to place a finger over his chin, seemingly assessing you up and down. You looked at him incredulously.

"You're bumping your height to two inches." He seriously said.

You gasped audibly.

"Oh, shut up,"

You rolled your eyes and turned your back at him, continuing your walk as you heard him behind you bursting in laughter at your reaction.

"I'm kidding!"

You first met Jimin at a college party. He was five years older than you, supposedly out of college by the time you attended, but he always had a problem with rebellion–what with his ragged relationship with his parents, he would intentionally flunk his courses as a message to them that he'd always be a black sheep and a proud one at that, hoping it would be enough to convey that they could not force him to be the heir of their company. (Obviously, it had taken him nowhere, given that he was now currently attending a training program to work at said company).

But maybe it was a blessing in disguise that he was set back to five years for graduation. Because you got to know him, and he got to know you.

On the outside, you might look like the total opposite of each other–because Jimin was the definition of extroversion who wasn't afraid to put himself out there–while you, admittedly, were more reserved and usually shied away from any public attention.

As much as you were welcoming to a lot of people, you didn't have a lot of close friends growing up–at least not the kind of friends you'd see on TV shows–but when Jimin came to your life, you clicked so instantly you could not even figure out where you two exactly began.

The instant way you two clicked, you realized, was like your relationship with Jungkook nowadays.

Ever since that night at Midday Miso, you've been seeing a lot of each other. Granted that it was only in the same place, same time. You'd usually arrive past seven and he, a few minutes later. Jungkook, cladded in his slacks and long-sleeved polo, was becoming a usual sight after a shift, and your business casual clothes was turning as one for him as well.

Your usual seating spot became his as nights passed, and ahjumma, thank God, no longer asked you if he was your boyfriend. You were glad that she was slowly getting acquainted with him though, greeting him with a friendlier smile and tone reserved only for customers like you when he entered the restaurant, and Jungkook seemed to welcome the newfound friendship wholeheartedly.

On the consecutive nights you'd spent with him, it was almost as if you lived quite the same life. Though, you didn't know when he went to work. In fact, you didn't see him during the mornings even though in theory, it could be easy, granted that you both lived across each other. But strangely enough, you'd never caught him retiring to his flat to go to the bus station. You assumed he started earlier than you or way later.

You never asked, it never came up either.

Still, there was some sort of tranquility in the thought that you could spend some time with someone after your shift and just talk about whatever–and whatever meant a lot of things. Random at best. You once told him about the first raccoon you met in your life, and he told you all about the lioness he got to watch when he went to a South Saharan trip a few years ago.

Sometimes, the conversation went around what happened in the office that day. Jungkook noticed the little blot of ink on the cuff of your baby blue long sleeves, and you told him about the jammed printer in the accounting department. He'd told you later on about how he almost fucked up a report, said he was nervous because he was taking on a new role in the office.

Those moments were shared in long walks from Midday Miso to your apartment building, because naturally, you both established a small tradition of walking home together after a night of eating your hearts out at ahjumma's restaurant.

It was a rather sweet gesture, if you were honest to yourself. But you chose not to linger too much on the romantic thoughts that floated in your head, especially when you'd notice the way he made sure to walk on the outer side of the sidewalk, and when your fingers got too close the tips almost touched.

Because Jungkook, for how objectively good looking he was, was more than just his pretty face and physique.

He was kind and funny and genuine unlike any other straight men you've met in your life. Maybe the bar was low, but for all the times you've gotten to talk to him, he never showed any signs of ego most men would by the second hour of your meeting.

In the dating scene as an adult, a lot of men would come up to a date talking about how high they were placed at their company's hierarchy and how much they made in a month, and when they hear about yours, they'd always have a backhanded comment about how "you could only go up from there, right?" and those moments were always a bummer. Yawn-inducing, to be more accurate. Men and their predictability was boring and it was the reason why you'd declare to Jimin almost every time you got home from a date that you were retired from looking for them because most men just plainly fucking sucked.

But with Jungkook... was it different.

You found he didn't talk a lot, and one time you asked him if you were doing it–the talking–way too much, but he just chuckled and told you that he didn't mind.

Later on, you learned that he was just more of a listener rather than a talker, and that was not only a pure assumption of yours because he did listen attentively, alright. As for all the random things you've told him about, you never expected him to recall a single thing, not until one time when you passed by a food truck.

"Hey, didn't you say you like sundae?" Jungkook asked, and when you followed where his eyes were, it was at the food truck parked just a few steps ahead from where you both were.

"I do... wow. It's been so long since I saw a food truck around here." You said, following his steps towards the vehicle.

They had tables to dine in, and even if you were still full from eating at Midday Miso that night, the sundae was just too gratifying to decline. Jungkook was the same with the tteokbokki on his small plate, telling you he missed eating at one of these things, as they didn't exactly have anything like this abroad.

After he paid for the food (and of course not without a long, silly, light-hearted argument about it), he came back with two sticks of Melona ice pops which you looked at with widened eyes, animated expression written all over your face especially when he thrusted the purple yam flavor to you.

"Oh my god, how do they have these?"

"I was surprised as well... this is the first time in a while I'm eating this again." Jungkook said and then gestured to the ice pop in your hand, "You like the purple yam, right?"

"Yeah!"

You were about to ask him how he knew, but then you briefly remembered that one time you had a passionate rant about people hating on purple yam ice cream and why they weren't right.

And as you looked at Jungkook, he seemed to remember it all too well.

Jungkook showed genuine interest in the things you'd tell him about. He'd visit the cafes and restaurants you recommended to him as much as he could, and because you've come to exchange numbers with him eventually after almost two weeks of casually hanging out, they sometimes came during lunch break.

1 message received from Jungkook (Unit 446)

That day, you only exchanged contacts the other night, so seeing him on your phone so quickly like that caught you by surprise. It was welcomed though.

Jungkook (Unit 446) [12:36pm]: I went to Cafe Heaven for lunch and loved their ice americano

As soon as you read the first message, another one came.

Jungkook (Unit 446) [12:36pm]: This is Jungkook by the way :)

You laughed at his introduction. As if he didn't see you type his name on your phone last night–like he didn't jokingly complain about you putting the (Unit 446) in there but giving in eventually and also adding (Unit 336) to yours in his own contacts.

You [12:38pm]: Hi Jungkook! You [12:38pm]: im glad u went!!! u should also try their fettuccine alfredo

Seconds later, he sent a picture of the dish you just mentioned which put a smile on your face.

Jungkook (Unit 446) [12:39pm]: i'll get my refund from you if this doesnt taste good

You [12:40pm]: 1 week of friendship and ur already ripping me off 🤐

Jungkook (Unit 446) [12:40pm]: 😁 Jungkook (Unit 446) [12:40pm]: first bite Jungkook (Unit 446) [12:41pm]: second bite

What was he on, you didn't know. But you were glad that he was slowly coming around, his jokes getting more... how would you say it... less polite? He just stopped apologizing after he said them! He usually would in the first few days, but now in your newfound closeness, it was like you were out of that stage where you tiptoed around each other still, feeling the other one out, trying to figure them out, all that stuff.

Nowadays, it was just more natural. Smooth-sailing. Paradoxical, almost, because of how the relationship felt more defined as well as loose.

You found you liked it that way. 

Jungkook (Unit 446) [12:42pm]: I like it 👍🏻

And to your surprise, he sent you a picture of him, indeed, holding a thumbs up.

You'd like to think you were an expert on going along with the tide because even though you would be classified as introvert by most, you did pretty well in forming relationships with people–granted, most of them were fleeting, at best, hence the lack of bigger circles in most of your life–but you were great with making friends, regardless. 

And maybe it was how you ended up with this whole thing with Jungkook. Because you were friendly and open, although you wouldn't dare to take all credits because as you mentioned before, he was a great conversationalist.

He didn't talk much as you said, but he didn't ever make you feel like you were talking way too much because he made sure that you knew he was listening, and when he talked, it was always engaging; conversations with him transitioned to different subjects in perfect seugue you would never noticed how you jumped from Melona ice pops to the existential dread you fought every morning before going to work.   

When it came to humor, Jungkook's was different from Jimin's, of course, and your dynamic with your best friend could never be replicated with somebody else but Jungkook was close to truly becoming your friend, and for that, it was getting easier to ignore his handsome face.

You may have had an embarrassing moment of panicking mentally at seeing such a man in the first meeting, but nowadays, you could hold a conversation with him without thinking how hot he was.

Dare you say, you were starting to think more platonically about him rather than romantically. As you said, you were an expert on going along with the tide.

Or maybe that was too soon a declaration, because there were moments, like now, when you were certain juvenile flirting insisted on happening between you, steering you clear from completely feeling wholly platonic about Jungkook.

"I certainly have a bigger hand than you."

As if you didn't know that, Jungkook brought his hand up to show you it. Confused but not totally minding the whole thing, you proceeded to extend your own hand towards his, pressing them both together. Predictably, his hand could have engulfed the entirety of your own.

Jungkook laughed at the sight, and you didn't know exactly who broke the physical contact first but you were glad it was over as soon as it started.

But you couldn't have forgotten the electric zap along your spine when your hand got so close like that to his. Couldn't have ignored the hot feeling in your cheeks when you were made aware of what you just did.

Wow.

Were you guys flirting? Was he flirting? It was flirting, right? Juvenile, at best, because this was what kids did in high school! And Jungkook's hand was so...

You never imagined what it felt like–never even crossed your mind until now. Expectations about how his hand felt never formed in your head because you sure as hell never thought about that kind of thing happening in the first place, but Jungkook's hand was the right balance of soft and hard. Calloused in a way most men's hands naturally were, and soft like enough comfort when held and touched.

It wasn't clammy, thank god, but you also wouldn't have thought he had clammy hands, solely because he just looked like he didn't. But god, was it big.

And my goodness, did it make you feel things.

You drank your water fast and cleared your throat, subtly, so that he didn't think too much of it.

"O-okay, but that's just genetics. Doesn't mean you could throw stronger punches."

You said in retaliation to one of your useless debates which now covered the coin-operated boxing arcade machine across the bus station nearby.

Jungkook leaned back against the monobloc chair that was definitely way too flimsy for him.

You were currently hanging out at the dining area of the food truck you came across a few days ago, forgoing Midday Miso for the night. Lately, Jungkook and you have been exploring a few more places other than there. You've tried other restaurants nearby, but ultimately, Midday Miso was still the top favorite and the food truck was becoming a staple in lieu of its convenience and just the overall vibe of eating outside and feeling the breeze of summer night air.

"You got me curious about the boxing machine." Jungkook said, crossing his arms.

"I held the highest score there for like a week, you know? Only did it though to impress the kids who liked to watch."

At that, Jungkook's face lit up in interest.

"We should do that sometime."

"Oh... I see, I see. You wanna impress the kids, too?" You playfully accused, squinting your eyes at him.

He chuckled and waved you off.

"It can be a challenge." Jungkook shrugged and looked at you with a hint of mirth in his eyes.

You let out a puff of breath, amused at his obvious antics.

"What's the catch?"

"Well... free boba delivered to your door for a week if you get the higher score. How's that sound?" He looked at you expectantly.

You chuckled before saying, "I'm gonna rip you off so bad, Jungkook."

"Only if you win, though." He said with a mischievous smirk. 

"Oh, wow. When, you mean. When I win. So what's in it for you?" You leaned your elbow on the table and studied his face.

He looked at you for a while, then, the smirk from earlier was wiped off and exchanged with a much gentler smile.

"Home-cooked dinner at my place next week Friday."

Your eyebrows met.

"You want me to cook you something? Jungkook, do you have a death wish? I may either give you unintentional food poisoning or burn your house down, there's no in between."

"No," Jungkook laughed at your insane conclusion. "Sorry, I should've specified. I mean if you lose, I'll be cooking us a meal at my place."

"Oh."

You were left staring at him, a bit dumbfounded.

He just said he wanted to cook you guys a meal. At his place.

He was inviting you to his place. His personal space.

"It won't be better than Midday Miso but I think I can keep up." Jungkook added with a sheepish smile and scratched the back of his head in that seemingly boyish manner.

"Sure..." you responded, a bit delayed, much to your effort of not showing your big surprise at his offer. Before he noticed the way you were not believing what you heard, you chose to quip in a (hopefully) cheeky, "That is if you win, though."

Jungkook only hummed and then nodded.

"If I win."

He said, smiling at you.

This was dangerous.

The whole thing was teetering to something that was not very platonic, and just as you were starting to think this whole thing was!

Jimin always told you that you were bad at flirting, but in your defense, how were you supposed to know, exactly, if someone was flirting with you? A lot of people were friendly like that! Jungkook was maybe like that? Had you shown interest and he noticed so now he was playing into it? But that would be uncharacteristic of him. You didn't think he'd be the type to do something cruel like that...

But the tide was always rising and falling, they said, and the good thing was; you knew how to go along with the current.

So you did what you do best.

"Would you like to donate to the poor?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's a chance this card's gonna decline because I am the poor."

The cashier looked you in the eye with an even more impassive look than the one she had before you got your turn on the counter.

"Could've just said no." She said, punching your order away and you had to shamefully swipe your card and leave to go over where Jimin was.

"The cashier just snubbed me for being poor." You complained to Jimin, moving your coat to the next seat and settling in in yours.

Jimin took a sip from his latte and looked at you dead in the eye and said, "I'll call the manager if you want."

"Fuck off." You retaliated immediately. Jimin snorted at your way too predictable response.

See, this has happened way too many times more than what your fingers could count. You could not even pinpoint the exact time when Jimin started to joke about going full-on Karen-mode when you complained about a single little thing at the places you went to.

Anyway, you were currently on a lunch break when Jimin texted to see if you were free. What better way to spend your lunch than with your best friend? The company's canteen food was getting tired and they hiked up their prices. Your office's kitchen also ran out of Solhee's – your coworker – biscuits and so you thought you had to make do of Jimin's money for that day. You told him your motives yourself and as a petty retort, he told you to pay for your own pasta — at a café that was way too expensive for its own good.

You stole a bite off his churros, and predictably, he rolled his eyes at you.

"Why'd you want to see me, by the way? What's up? You don't have training?" you glanced at your wristwatch, reading 12:40pm.

Soon, you were casually taking over his plate of churros. For how ridiculously priced it was, it sure tasted good as hell.

"I got the day off." Jimin shrugged.

You eyed him suspiciously almost immediately.

"Did you really...?"

It was a few seconds before Jimin gave in and took back his plate.

"Okay, no, I ditched the training today but for the record it's for a very important reason."

You put your hand over your chest and contorted your face in an awed, touched expression.

"The important reason being... meeting me?"

"Ew, no," Was Jimin's quick, disgusted, response – which earned a laugh from you as usual.

From your peripheral vision, you saw the waiter heading towards your direction and so you waited for him to come over and serve you your pasta and frappe. After thanking him, you huddled closer to your best friend and asked, "Okay, what is it then?"

Jimi pursed his lips, making your eyebrows meet.

"It's kinda... bummer news."

"You're pregnant?"

"No, you'd be way too happy and I can't be a single dad," He shook his head as if not even wanting to imagine that.

"Namjoon looks like he's gonna take care of it with you." You sing-sang, sipping on your coffee and winking at him indiscreetly – emphasis on indiscreetly because you never knew how to wink properly.

What you did not expect, was the look on Jimin's face when you mentioned Namjoon.

"Well..." He trailed off, and you waited for it curiously; anticipating his impending answer in return because your conversation was always quick-witted like that. But right now, Jimin's expression was devoid of any jokes. 

Not something you expected when you just mentioned his boyfriend.

"I— did something happen?" You quickly dropped the teasing tone and exchanged it with a concerned one, eyes looking at him with worry.

Jimin closed his eyes for a while and let out a deep breath. "See, that's the bummer news."

"Do you want to tell me? Or we can just—"

He cut you off before you could even finish your sentence. But he did it with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes – and this was Jimin. His eyes did not not reach his eyes when he smiled!

"He's going to Italy."

"Oh."

When the pause prolonged for over a minute, with you looking at him mouth agape, Jimin let out a heavy sigh once again and shook his head.

"I know. It's work... and I always understood that. He travels a lot and we're both okay with it. But it was usually just around the country, not another continent. I mean, what did he mean Italy? And that's not even the worst part. He knew a month ago he was going but he only told me two days ago and he's leaving Thursday," Jimin looked at you to take a pause, seemingly trying to look for a reaction.

You thought, that's tomorrow.

As if he read your mind, he nodded, sounding almost defeated.

"I know."

"Oh, Jimin..." You said, not exactly knowing what to say.

Jimin and Namjoon had been together for over a year. At least, officially, because they spent the last three years just casually hooking up on and off. You liked them together and had been more than glad when they finally put a label to it – exactly why you knew Namjoon enough to not badmouth him when you usually would men Jimin usually dated. You knew perfectly well that Namjoon genuinely cared about your best friend and he loved him. So if Jimin was at a loss for this obvious mistake on his boyfriend's part, even more so you were.

"He's been blowing up my phone ever since." Jimin added, glancing at his phone on the table. "Intentionally didn't charge my phone today so I don't receive his calls and texts."

That prompted you to remember the message you received from Namjoon last night.

"Oh, that's why he texted me yesterday. He asked about you, and I told you through text but you didn't answer." Things were starting to make sense now, and as you observed Jimin's face, they were getting clearer. "You never talked since?"

Jimin pursed his lips. He took his coffee back to his mouth and sipped while looking away. "Nope."

"Jimin." You tilted your head.

He looked at you again, and you knew exactly that he was thinking the same thing as you: It was within his right to feel off about what Namjoon did, but regardless; Jimin was being a little petty, and he needed to communicate with his boyfriend instead of giving him the cold shoulder.

There was a pout that formed on Jimin's lips right after.

"I know. I just..."

"He could've told you sooner?" He nodded at your words. You mirrored that. "He should have. Italy is not Busan – it's not just a train ride away."

Jimin sighed, looking exasperated now. "I told him that exactly. I'm not even mad he's going to Italy, I just think I deserve to know right after he was told about it."

You nodded. "You should really talk. It sounds like he wants to apologize, anyway, given that he's now trying to talk to me to get through you."

"Sorry you got caught up in this. I'm gonna talk to him about it."

"Eh, it's fine. Joon and I are also friends, you know?" You shrugged, genuinely not minding Namjoon coming to you. 

You liked Namjoon and thought that he was the perfect match for Jimin. They were cute together and just seemed to... take the best out of each other. You'd go to any lengths to keep them together, as long as Jimin wanted Namjoon and as his boyfriend. You've seen Jimin go from relationships to relationships, some just fleeting and simple dalliances, and most destructive and were just... not good for him. You've never seen your best friend truly happy and committed in a romantic relationship other than with Namjoon, and as someone who cared about him, you'd do a lot of things to make him happy.

"Here's another thing, his flight is tomorrow at 11:30pm in the evening. Mom's birthday dinner is at 10." Jimin usually had his composure everytime, and it was very rarely you'd see him show any worry because he liked everybody to think he was in control of every situation. You smiled. Classic Jimin. He'd only ever show his true nature to you though, and that was exactly why he looked at you with worried eyes and continued to say, "I really wanna be there to send him off."

The call time for his mother's party was at 10 and naturally people would start swarming in way past that time. If Jimin were to sneak out way too early, you knew his mother was not going to be happy about it and his father would give him an even bigger shit for it. Sure, he could cancel, but what would he say? That their supposed cishet son is sending off his boyfriend at the airport for the night? He couldn't reason work either because he didn't exactly have one.

After having his wrongful DUI accusation last spring– which was actually already settled, on the grounds that it was definitely not DUI and the owner of the other car just overreacted to a fender bender, the media was adamant on tactically using that to taint his family's image and it unfortunately succeeded – hence, why Jimin had been laying low these past few months; going to training programs, obeying his parents more than usual, doing what they wanted...

You sighed. Your best friend deserved so much better.

"Don't worry, I'll find a way to get us to leave early." You told him after awhile.

Jimin arched his brow, intrigued.

Waving him off, you said, "I can fake something."

As if hearing some magic words, Jimin suddenly perked up.

"No way you're using the diarrhea card?"

Giving him a dirty look, you shook your head. "Nah, not during a dinner party. It's gotta be something new and less... gross."

"Oh, oh!" Jimin put a finger over his lip. "What about a sprained ankle? Can you pull that off?"

You deadpanned. "Okay, you ought to pay me more if you want me to do that."

"I can, but I won't. Stop ripping me off, I'm your best friend."

"Jimin, I'll save you from your family. I'm great at this." You said jokingly, but you hoped that he knew you weren't just jesting and were serious about it.

With the appreciation masking your best friend's face, though, you knew he got the message right away, but as you looked at him longer, you realize that he was about to say something and you quickly pulled back, shaking your head.

Jimin quickly reacted. "No! You know what, I'm gonna say it—"

"Don't say it." You quickly cut him off, giggling while you shake your cup of coffee.

"You can't keep me from saying I lo—"

"Jimin, I will tell everybody in this place you watch dubbed anime, I'm serious."

He gasped, quite dramatically.

"You did not just go there!" Then, he lowered his voice a bit, arching his brow at you, vindicative when he said, "You wore skinny jeans a month ago."

"How dare you, you wore a fuckass poncho last week. I saw on your IG story."

"That was from Namjoon and he also gave you one, FYI."

You grimaced. "Tell him I love him but I'm not wearing a poncho, Jimin."

"I was gonna tell you I love you and that you're the best person ever but now I have to rethink all of that." He rolled his eyes, and when the banter ended with you having the last words, you laughed at his face.

"God, you're just never beating me at this."

"Please, we both know you write your mediocre insults on your diary every night trying to one-up me, __. But let's talk about something else."

"I'm not even gonna acknowledge the diary thing but, sure, shoot." You said, starting to eat your pasta.

Jimin looked at your food full of judgement and grimaced. "Is that shrimp? Your doctor is growing grey pubes as we speak," He commented, and you knew he was referring to your shrimp allergy so you shushed him.

"This is vegan shrimp. It's tofu."

He just shook his head, disagreement written on his face. But he let it pass, anyway.

"Anyway, how's Mr. 446?"

The pasta suddenly entered the wrong track.

"Girl," Jimin was quick to offer you the glass of water on his side and you were just as fast to drink it. "You okay?"

"I'm sure there are existing cases of people dying because food got on the wrong track while they're eating, but yeah, sure, I'm okay." When you finished the water, you looked at Jimin who was just doing the same thing.

Crossing his arms, he eyed you expectantly. "Well?"

"I mean... what do you want me to say?" you told him, and you could've sworn you did not want to show anything on your face but you were certain there was a huge smile on it and for some reason, you couldn't help it.

Jimin's jaw dropped, expressions of disbelief and amusement when he asked you curiously, "What do you mean by that?"

"Okay, look, Jimin—" You scratched the back of your head, feeling a little sheepish to tell him all about Jungkook. "He told me we'd get dinner at his place this Friday if he wins this... thing."

His mouth was agape by then and you couldn't help but laugh.

"You... slut."

You would absolutely be rolling off the floor if you weren't at a public place the moment he mouthed the word, but still, you couldn't help but retort back.

"Shut up, you can't be the only one whoring around in this friendship." Jimin snorted at that and you both had to stifle your laughter when you noticed a woman from across the room eyeing you both.

This was one of the reasons why Jimin and you didn't belong in public places other than bars or clubs – because you were way too rowdy together for civilization.

"So you're saying you're whoring around?" He eyed you suspiciously.

"Wrong information. It's actually kind of platonic."

Jimin quickly waved you off. "Babe, if a guy invites you to his place, nothing is ever platonic about it. What do you think you'll do together there? Stare at each other for two hours straight?"

God, you hated and loved that he enables your delusions.

"Okay, you're being insane about this. It's just dinner," Trying to fight off the not-so-very-platonic things that suddenly played in your head after hearing his previous remark. To show that you didn't care, you added for good measure, "—And anyway, we had some sort of deal about it so it's not definite."

Your best friend just shrugged. "I'm all for it. But you're sure he isn't a serial killer, right?"

"Jimin, god, no," you chuckled at that. "I mean, I don't really know for sure, but we're friends now and as far as I know, he's never shown signs of psychopathy."

Jimin and you hadn't hung out in a while, so you haven't really told him all about Jungkook yet and the things you got to know about him. He didn't even know his name. As far as he was concerned, Jungkook was still Mr. 446, and you were fine keeping it that way. He had a lot on his plate right now, anyway.

"Just being cautious." He sing-sang, putting both his hands in the air.

You shook your head.

"Anyway, we also need to talk about what we're gonna wear tomorrow," Jimin suddenly said. "You got the Pinterest board I sent you, right? For the inspo."

Grinning, you grabbed your iPad from your bag and got to the link immediately. Your phone died on the way to the café. Good thing you had another device and brought it with you.

"I also added a few things in here. Gold and black's the theme, right?" You clarified, scrolling through the board you and Jimin both contributed to. Your best friend took it upon himself to transfer seats so he could be beside you and look at your screen at the same time.

"You're gonna look so good in Schiaparelli, babe," Jimin said while checking out the pictures you added.

"It's just an inspo, I don't actually need to wear a Schiaparelli." You chuckled.

"Who do you think your best friend is?"

You both laughed at that but it stopped when a notification popped up on your computer. Recognizing the address as your work email, you were quick to hover over it. When you were about to open it to see the full message, your iPad suddenly died.

"Shoot." You looked at Jimin with a straight face. "I forgot to plug it in. Didn't notice the battery."

Jimin grimaced. "Didn't bring any power cable."

"We'll have to do with a phone. Mine died."

You were just about to ask him for his but then you remembered what he said about avoiding Namjoon, hence, his phone was of no use either. 

"We're gonna have to freestyle."

Last year, Mrs. Park's party was held at a theater hall – your first time at one, by the way.

Tonight, it was at their mansion.

You've only ever been to the Park's a total of one time, which was now. Stepping a foot inside here for the first time in your life, the house felt unreal. It was the epitome of money and wealth and everything regal in the world – like a palace of some sort. They had butlers and guards at the gates so maybe that wasn't an exaggeration, but damn, Jimin truly came from money.

Regardless of how shiny the whole building was in both literal and figurative senses though, there was an emptiness to it. It didn't look lived in – which was a fair assumption for a house this big. It definitely did not look like people liked staying here, and maybe that was not a stretch, because as soon as he turned 18, Jimin moved away and lived in his own place ever since. You asked him on your way here and he told you it was his first time this year to visit his own house.

The decoration was sick, though. Granted, they must have surely hired people to do it but at least they'd hired excellent ones. You wouldn't have expected anything less from Jimin's mom.

Jimin and you arrived at 10pm sharp, and thankfully, people were already starting to fill the place up. It was now past 15 minutes to 10pm since you arrived and there really was nothing different that went on from last year; you saw some familiar faces, politicians, and celebrities. Jimin introduced you to some people as his girlfriend, and you got to have quick chats with his model friends.

You knew it didn't actually matter if you thought about it carefully, but there was truly nothing compared to the feeling you get when you see someone in the flesh that you only see on TV all your life. You didn't feel lucky to see them in person, per se, you were just poured over the realization that these people were actually real and they weren't just some sort of simulation to keep the entertainment industry of your country afloat.

Although, you did meet Han Sol – an actress whose works you genuinely admired. Jimin just told you her husband was his second cousin.

It wasn't later that Jimin and you were invited to his family's table, where some of his cousins and immediate family were.

The greetings went pretty normal. Normal as in: Jimin's mom didn't say anything about your weight first thing first. Granted, she didn't try to hide the look of disappointment on her face when she saw you with his son. Probably reeling at the fact that you were still "dating" each other even after a year — she was probably under the impression that it wasn't serious between you two last year. His father, meanwhile, was... quiet. As usual. A man who obviously didn't really say much except ask Jimin about the training program and his siblings' jobs.

Mr. Park didn't really talk to you, just like last year. Like you were almost invisible to him – and you were glad that was the case. He probably didn't like to acknowledge your supposed relationship in the first place. Probably knew that you were working a middle-class job and didn't want to know any further. But at least, he wasn't saying anything. That was nice.

"Where's your cousin?" Asked Jimin's mom suddenly, looking at his son.

"He said he got caught up in traffic. Sent 20 minutes ago." Jimin shrugged. You would ask him about which cousin they were referring to but they had like millions of it at these events so you didn't bother.

Mrs. Park shook her head disapprovingly. "That kid. Always late to the family dinners. Did Junghyun ever teach—"

"Hey,"

Your attention was then focused to the man who just arrived. Black tie, tall... dashing. Jimin was a good-looking individual and his family, as evil as they may be as per his words, were blessed with good genes. If you were to look at the new man that arrived to the table very carefully, you'd say he almost looked familiar.

"Oh, Junghyun!"

Jimin glanced at you and discreetly mouthed, "Cousin."

"Aunt, happy birthday." He said after laughing at Jimin's mother coos. He looked across the table and continued, "Hi, uncle. Jaeyul, Sunghoon, Jimin." They all greeted him back and you could feel the hairs on your nape starting to stand up when his eyes landed on you once again. "And this is...?"

"Oh, that's Jimin's girlfriend, __." Jaeyul, Jimin's brother said.

"Hi." you greeted him, waving a bit.

"Oh?" Junghyun immediately looked at Jimin, eyes not hiding his shock. When you trained your eyes on Jimin, you felt his fake smile. "That's great, man. I didn't know you had a girlfriend. Hi, miss...?"

"It's __." you filled in.

"Nice to meet you, __." He said with a smile. The more you looked at him, the more you could almost pinpoint who he looked like – but that shouldn't really matter.

Junghyun looked over Jimin's parents once again, "Anyway, sorry I'm a bit late, got caught up in traffic."

Jimin cleared his throat.

"How about you, Junghyun? Got a girlfriend yet?" He asked as soon as Junghyun sat on the opposite side of the long table.

You could see Jimin's mother's curiosity peaking at that.

"Tell us, dear. Last time you were dating Kang Iseul, right? The actress. You're still with her?"

Everybody at the table nodded while you almost choked on the smoked quail you were eating. He was dating Kang Iseul? She was a popular actress who announced a hiatus three years ago. That actress Kang Iseul?

Junghyun chuckled and shook his head. "Nah, aunt, that was my brother, and uh, no, I'm not dating anybody currently."

"Oh well. I just wish your brother stops dating that woman. I never really liked that girl. She acts way too self-righteous! I mean, who cut ties with their billionaire father and live independently just so they can say they're self-made? It's ridiculous." Jimin's mother said in that usual snotty tone of hers, and you could not possibly process all of what was going on.

If it wasn't clear to you a moment ago, it was crystal now. Unfortunately, you were a bit chronically online and were there in real time when one random tweet blew up about Kang Iseul being a nepotism baby. But was this guy's brother really dating her? The most important and concerning thing, though, was that: why was Jimin's mom always so annoying about who her family members date? And this was not even her immediate family, mind you.

"Jina," Jimin's father had a warning tone when he called her but Jimin's mom just shrugged him off with a "tsk!"

"Kids are so ungrateful nowadays, don't you think? Anyway, Junghyun dear, you remember the Kang gala I told you about two months ago?" Jimin's mom looked pointedly at Jimin and you bit your lip.

Of course, here comes her passive aggressive disapproval of you. 

"Kang Heesu and her sister Kang Hani will be there. Heesu is a wonderful woman," she chuckled, looking over at Jimin's direction subtly. You had to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes. Couldn't she be more obvious about acting as a wingman for Jimin and Heesu? But she continued, just like she always did. "I also heard Kang Hani is going for senior partner at Yoon and Yang, you may be interested. Pretty lady."

Junghyun just awkwardly laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jimiin's father suddenly spoke, making everyone look at him.

"Where is that kid?" He said, authority dripping through his voice. Jimin was obviously not close to his father, and who would be? Mr. Park was way too intimidating. You found it funny to think if he ever did anything remotely paternal towards his children.

"We were supposed to go together but he said he had something to finish. He'll be arriving later." Junghyun said, obviously not oblivious to the "kid" Mr. Park was referring to. You were way too uncaring to actually try to figure that out.

"I see." Jimin's father nodded. "How's Jeon and Min, Junghyun? I heard you were just appointed managing partner last week."

Junghyun responded with a "yes" and they started to talk about the law firm – you assumed – and other people they mutually knew related to the business.

You knew Jimin's complicated family tree was composed of all sorts of professionals, but damn, they had lawyers in here too. It was like out of a career day event at grade schools.

"Is it true Gukka's going to be CEO?" Jimin's mother said, joining the conversation.

You were glad they were doing all the talking. Last year, they talked to you like they were interrogating you and that was not nice.

"Well, dad's not giving up the company so soon. Gukka's going for interim CTO first." Junghyun said with a polite smile.

Gukka. That must be the brother of Junghyun, although it sounded more like a nickname than a real name.

"Your brother's a hard worker. He's looking at a CEO position, some are still at training programs." Jimin's father remarked with a pointed tone.

Oh, fuck me, you thought to yourself. You thought it was gonna take awhile for the comparison to start, but it seemed they were determined to beat their record of one hour from last year.

You tried subtly looking at Jimin to see if he was okay or anything, but you felt him squeezing your wrist under the table. His face was devoid of any emotion as he continued with his own food.

Junghyun, meanwhile, was obviously taken aback by the response and also looked over at Jimin. He was quick to recover, though – probably knew that was a jab at his cousin just like every other person in the room. Atmosphere grew tense, and you had to squirm in your seat a little bit.

"Training programs help a lot, though." Junghyun awkwardly laughed. You were starting to feel bad for him as well.

"Well, you're lawyering. Trainings are important. Mine's kinda stupid." Jimin said which made everybody look at him, including you.

"You're learning anything yet, son?" His father pointedly looked at him.

"We'll see."

Jimin's dismissive tone made you feel the eye roll he would've done after saying that.

Look, he rebelled for the most part of his life so him being passive-aggressive towards his family was not a new thing, but to witness it was both nerve-wracking and honestly... funny. His parents were such assholes so they probably deserved his attitude.

Mrs. Park smiled a fake one before looking at you.

"Well, what about you __ dear? You're a... what was that again? How is that going for you?"

Because you wanted to piss them off, you mirrored her fake smile and said, "I got fired six months ago at my accounting job."

"Pft—" you pinched Jimin's arm at his reaction.

Of course he'd laugh at that. You asked him how you could piss his parents off tonight just to get back at them from last year and he told you to pretend to be unemployed or you work a minimum wage job because that was their biggest ick. Jimin didn't know you were going to come through.

"Oh."

The look on Jimin's mom's face looked as if she heard the most scandalous thing ever, and if his father's frown was deep even before the dinner started, his face was now below the ground. It felt satisfying to get those looks on their faces. Good! They were such assholes. Imagine getting devastated at someone being unemployed? Okay – for the record, being unemployed was devastating but these people weren't sympathizing with that, they found it humiliating in an elitist way– criminal almost. 

You nodded, your lips almost getting tired from stretching them too far.

"Yeah. Anyway, I started working at a local burger joint. You should visit us sometime."

"I'm vegan." Jimin's mom said, her face now drained with the fake joy she's worn all night.

"We have vegan options." you quipped. Jimin once again made a sound beside you, hiding his laughter.

"Wait, really? They offer vegan options at a street burger joint?" Sunghoon, the youngest of the Park brothers, asked.

You almost laughed at the genuine curiosity in his voice. He was still in high school and from what Jimin told you, he was a nice kid. He wasn't very close to any of his brothers, though.

"Nah, it's the only one in town." You bullshit one more time, drinking the wine beside you. "Sorry, can I excuse myself for a minute?"

They nodded and you stood up, heading to the bathroom, brisking once you got out of their sight to get there more quickly.

It was now 10:30 pm – meaning, you had to do something to get Jimin out of here now if he wanted to be on time at the airport to send off Namjoon.

Once you got inside, you looked at yourself in the mirror and sighed. 

This whole thing was sucking the shit out of your soul, but you needed to get through it.

It took you awhile to finish your pep talk in the bathroom.

If only you could've have locked yourself in there to avoid socializing with anybody, you willingly would. But you were running out of time and unfortunately, you had something to do and that was to fake some illness to get both Jimin and you out of here.

When you got out to approach the family's table one more time, you suddenly stopped in your tracks.

The table was at least fifteen meters away from where you stood, but you could clearly see the side in which Jimin's cousin, Junghyun, sat, facing your direction. He wasn't the issue – no, far from it. It was the guy beside him who wore the same set of black tie as him; the face attached to the body who wore it though, was someone you did not expect to see.

Why the fuck was Jungkook, Unit 446, here?!

From where you were, you could see him engaging with Junghyun and Jimin's parents. You couldn't hear them, of course, but it was clear that they were acquainted – close – even from afar.

Why did he look so comfortable with the Parks? Why was he at the family table laughing and conversing with everybody, including Jimin? Why did he seem like he went to many of these, like this was just another Thursday for him?

There was a waiter who walked past you and you were grateful for it because had it not been the case, people would start to get weirded out about you standing on the same place longer than necessary, looking stoned. That was also an opportunity to run away from the situation without Jungkook possibly seeing and recognizing you.

"I'll take this," You told the waiter and grabbed the glass of champagne and quickly turned on your heels, heading to the opposite side of the family table where the Parks, and apparently, Jungkook were.

You found yourself heading to the bathroom again, your feet seemingly developing a mind of its own as it led you there unconsciously. You knew you'd be in trouble if they found out about you putting the champagne glass in the sink, but you needed to get inside the toilet and think over everything that was happening tonight.

What the fuck. What the fuck!  Again, why the hell was Jungkook here?

As far as you knew, he was just a regular man that happened to be living across from you. He was just supposed to be some guy you were regularly hanging out with nowadays. Your friend. Your crush – whatever! What he wasn't supposed to be is be here at your best friend's mother's birthday party and hanging out with his family!

Your phone dinged, a message notification from Jimin welcoming you.

cuntress #1 [10:32pm]: girl what happened I saw u going back to the bathroom?

You didn't know why it was suddenly too hot, but you felt the balls of sweat starting to form on the side of your forehead.

You [10:33pm]: im going with the diarrhea excuse

cuntress #1 [10:33pm]: tbh idc atp I just wanna go to joon 😔

"Shit!"

Right! Joon. Namjoon. Jimin needed to go to Nmajoon as soon as possible.

cuntress #1 [10:33pm]: also another cousin has arrived u rmr jeon jungkook he's junghyun's brother cuntress #1 [10:33pm]: love this guy but moms starting to compare me to him and I need out right NEOW im justt aking hits after hits jesusssssss

You could just feel the blood draining from your face as soon as you read Jungkook's name in the text.

Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook. Gukka. Kook-a.

That was why the Junghyun guy looked familiar. Because he had the same coloring of Jeon Jungkook. Because they were goddamn siblings.

You started to replay some memories in your head, trying to figure out if you've ever heard Jungkook talk about his family in one of your conversations. But as far as you remembered, he never did. All you knew about him was that he was from the States, and he only got here because of work and he had a dog and as far as you were concerned, his cousin was definitely not Park fucking Jimin, your best friend.

Pacing around the confined space of the toilet, you tried to wrack your brain if you've ever mentioned Jimin to him and in the event that you did, why he never told you that he was his cousin – but you came up blank. Blank because you never told him about your best friend's name... and in turn, Jimin didn't know what Mr. 446's name was, either. They were both genuinely oblivious about the whole thing and couldn't have made you a fool in the situation.

In short, you were the one who was stupid as hell for not connecting the dots sooner.

"Hey, you just landed?"

If it was a private conversation Jimin would've left the room but since he didn't, you decided to stay in bed, kind of listening in to the conversation, but also not, as you turned the volume down of the show you were watching earlier on your laptop.

"Nah, you want me to pick you up?" Jimin sat up on the edge of the bed and you looked at him curiously. "Sure, I'm free, Kook. You have a place to stay? Hotel suite or something?" He nodded to whatever the other person was saying on the other line. "Oh, you're here for three months? Thought you were just flying in for mom's birthday?"

It was moments after they said goodbye that Jimin turned to you to ask, "Well, my cousin's apparently staying here for three months. Got this job thing going on."

"Fuck me." You hissed, remembering that time when Jimin told you about his cousin staying here for three months because of work.

cuntress #1 [10:35pm]: its either ur taking a guinness world record breaker piss there or u really do have diarrhea now and ur shitting cuntress #1 [10:36pm]: anyway get this, jungkook's gonna be interim cto at your company did u know that??????????????????

You almost dropped your phone upon reading the last message.

What the hell did he mean by that?

Heart beating fast as if it wanted to break out of your own ribcage, you closed your eyes and read Jimin's message once again. There was no way he would be shitting you about any of this. He knew where you worked at and you knew your current company was his uncle's, and now that you knew Jungkook was his cousin...

Shit. Was this what they were talking about at the table earlier? About Junghyun saying his brother was gonna be interim CTO? Did he mean Jeon Jungkook all along? Your freaking neighbor?

Suddenly, you remembered the email you received that afternoon that you never bothered to check again because you simply forgot about it. Who even actually checks their work email? Literally no one. You spend your weeks facing your computer while email flew in like porn ads on a shady website, you weren't about to willingly go to the app and check it on your leisure time.

But maybe you should have.

Fingers involuntarily shaking in their wake as you switched to your work email on your phone, you clicked on the recent unread message that was on top from the HR department.

Subject: Invitation to Ceremony: Announcement of Interim CTO Dear Blue Nexus Inc. employee, We hope this email finds you well. We would like to inform you that a ceremony has been scheduled on July 29, 2028, 10:00 am at the AVR Hall 5, 12th floor. The purpose of this meeting is to announce the appointment of our interim Chief Technology Officer (CTO), Mr. Jeon Jungkook. As you may be aware, our previous CTO, Mr. Shin Juman, is currently on medical leave recovering from a stroke. While he is recuperating and undergoing treatment, it has become necessary for us to appoint an interim CTO  for an indefinite period of time to ensure the continuity and effectiveness of our operations. Your presence at this ceremony is highly valued as we introduce the new leadership to the team and outline our strategic direction moving forward. Light refreshments will be served. Thank you for your attention to this matter. We look forward to seeing you at the ceremony. Best regards, HR Department

You knew that feeling when you were just taking hits and hits? This was it.

So not only was Jeon Jungkook Jimin's cousin, he was also gonna be the interim CTO of the company you were currently working at. He was technically going to be your boss, and you would be both working in the same place all the while living across each other where he would see you taking out your trash every Sunday morning in your worn-out highschool PE shirt and pants. He was going to be your boss working at the company you complained to him about on the nights you walked together to your shared apartment complex.

You flirted with Jungkook. You flirted with the guy who was the son of the owner of your whole company building – and not only that, he was your best friend's cousin, to add salt to injury.

You [10:38pm]: jimin we need to get out of here

cuntress #1 [10:38pm]: ive been saying

You [10:38pm]: but i cant go out there again. Just tell them i had a problem in the bathroom??

cuntress #1 [10:38pm]: ok on it  cuntress #1 [10:38pm]: im kind of convinced u shitted in there tho????????

You rolled your eyes, but at the same time found an opportunity in that. Jimin can't know the truth.

You [10:39pm]: u cant judge me for having a very human experience fuck u the cake i ate earlier was giving cake boss

cuntress #1 [10:39pm]: KJAHFKGSIDFHDSHASFHSKJBF

You [10:39pm]: im literally doing this for u and joon

cuntress #1 [10:39pm]: IKNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!thanks to ur stomach problems cuntress #1 [10:39pm]: im going there

You [10:40pm]: make sure they don't see us again to really sell the whole im-embarassed-thing

cuntress #1 [10:40pm]: ON IT! Were going out the back door I don't think they'll notice

You couldn't even find it in you to laugh a little bit at your silly exchange and scheme, because you were way too stressed about what you just found out.

You let out a controlled, heavy breath, leaning your back on the door and shut your eyes aggressively.

"What the hell am I gonna do after this?"

PART TWO | ....

all right reserved © awrkive, 2024. no reposts, modification, and copying allowed. if you enjoy my work/s and have the extra means, please consider supporting me on ko-fi <3

[klaus-littlestwolf]

would you make a Klaus fic, where he and reader are under a sex spell? just a sex magic fic, you can decide on the plot🥰

love your fics btw💕

Warning:Dubcon cause sex pollen, talk and use of sex toys, desperate/passionate fucking, needy Hybrid sex, brief realization of Yandere behavior at the end

‘You’re joking!’ I exclaimed, unable to unhear what Bonnie had just told me.

‘No, not at all. We need to keep you away from everyone else because this spell can potentially effect others who come in contact with you. Caroline has already said you can stay in her parents cabin, Damon is taking you there now.’ She shooed me out of the room and outside to Damon’s car.

‘Get in the back!’ He snapped as I moved to slide into the passenger seat. ‘I don’t need this shit effecting me next-‘

‘Why can’t I just stay in the cell in the basement? That way I won’t be alone…I’m scared-‘

‘Because Klaus was hit by that shit too, we don’t know if he knows what it was yet and with how desperate he is for you every other day without being bewitched, I can’t even imagine what he would do with you now.’ He explained as if I were a small stupid child and I wanted to hit him desperately.

A warlock coming after Elena (as always) for Doppelgänger blood for one of his spells had attacked us. I had grabbed a potted plant outside of the Grille and cracked it over his head which gave Elena enough time to run and find Damon, though as he whirled around to me there was suddenly an angry Hybrid standing in front of me which gave the Warlock pause.

Klaus had seemingly taken an interest in me as soon as he arrived in town and while I don’t encourage him, I’m also not cruel or mean either, which seemed to make him think he had a chance.

The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a small spell bag before dumping some pink powder into his hand and blowing it at the both of us. I couldn’t help but inhale it, only breathing in more when I began choking and hearing Klaus do the same, my eyes and nose burning as I felt his hands holding onto me. Though he was still coughing himself he checked on me (which I found very sweet), hands on my face and inspecting me before brushing the powder off of me leading to me returning the favor. He had no clue what it was and neither did I but after a quick thanks I left to find my friends and a witch to tell me what the fuck I just inhaled.

Turns out we had both been choking on a very powerful potion that people had dubbed “Sex Pollen”. Many witches used to use it several hundred years ago but most stopped once people began insisting that it led to way too many people becoming effected (since all you needed to do was injest a drop) and ending up sexually assaulting whoever came across their path. The potion is typically in a liquid form but talented witches can make it in a powder, however it is about ten times more potent.

‘Stay here, theres food and water, TV, books. Everything you could possibly need. Caroline also bought you some…play things…to help. God this is so gross, they’re in the bedroom. Get out of my car-‘

‘No! How long do I have to stay here?!’ I snapped making him roll his eyes.

‘Bonnie said in the powder form it can take several hours to kick in but it lasts a few days, though with how much you breathed in probably a week at least. Go! Before you infect me too and we really have a problem!’ I grabbed the bag that Elena had packed me and slid out of the car, walking inside and locking the door behind me with a heavy sigh.

‘Fuck All Of You Assholes!’ I screamed, hating my friends for abandoning me just so they wouldn’t suffer as well before I looked around the cabin, finding the bedroom with a large California King that was quite comfortable. I also came across a basket on the bed which contained a rechargeable wand, a 7 inch pink suction cup dildo, a butt plug and a bottle of salted caramel flavored lube. ‘Why The Fuck Was She So Thorough?!’

I set the basket aside and stripped out of my shirt and jeans as I began feeling warm, climbing into the bed under the sheet and deciding to try and take a nap before I get hit with killer horniness.

The nap didn’t last more than an hour before I woke up rolling around restlessly, my body sweating now as a hot feeling in my stomach began intensifying. I couldn’t tell you how long I laid there writhing in misery before I heard a loud knock at the door, instantly hating the world that much more.

‘What are you doing here?!’ I snapped as I finally dragged myself to the front door, moody and uncomfortable which made me unable to be kind.

‘I thought I would come and assist you. Wouldn’t want you suffering through this alone, now would we?’ Klaus asked, looking every bit as put together as always but I could see in his eyes how desperate he was. I could also see his impressive bulge tenting his jeans.

‘How did you find me? I was-never mind. Go away Klaus!’ I groaned, moving to shut the door.

‘I followed Damon, he wasn’t very careful, my guess is he didn’t much care if I found you. They just wanted you away from them before they had to suffer too, your friends that you protected sent you away to save themselves. Seems really selfish to me.’ Any other day I would disagree but with how I was feeling I couldn’t argue with him, prompting me to agree.

‘You’re right…Fuck them! Couldn’t even put me downstairs! Had to leave me all alone!’ I raged as I was overcome by a cramping pain straight down to my pussy causing me to double over.

‘Invite me in Love, let’s help each other? It’s going to be days with only brief hours of relief between…let me help you get some relief?’

‘Klaus, I can’t-‘

‘You want me just as much as I want you, don’t lie!’ He growled, eyes glowing gold now as he showed how desperate he really was, so far gone that he wasn’t able to hide it anymore.

‘It’s just this stupid magic-‘

‘No! No, I’ve wanted you since I first set eyes on you, and you…you need me too.’ His hand reached down to grab his crotch, pupils nearly swallowing his entire eye whole. ‘I can make your pussy feel so good baby, you need me! Who else could go anywhere near as long as a Hybrid, huh?’ He was right, if anyone could help me it was Klaus, especially with how pent up he is himself. ‘Please Y/n? I need to be buried in your little cunt, and you know you need it too! Your fingers can’t help you the way my cock can and I know you’ve dreamt of my cock in your needy little pussy since long before this ever happened-Fuck! I Need You! Please?!’ He begged and as I felt a rush of wetness coat my panties I whined, nodding my head. ‘Say it Y/n…Say It!’

‘Come in Klaus! Please?! I need-‘ I didn’t get to finish my statement before I was tackled to the floor with the Hybrid yanking his pants open and shoving them down enough to free himself before tearing my panties off of my body and shoving himself into me roughly.

‘So Fucking Perfect! Knew your cunt would be perfect! Tightest little cunt-Fuck! Never gonna stop fucking you baby!’

‘Yes! Don’t Stop! Fuck Klaus, your cock! So good!’ Tears leaked from my eyes as he continued thrusting into my body. The sound of skin slapping together echoing through the house and out the front door that hung on one hinge from where the Hybrid had nearly ripped it off as he entered. ‘Oh Fuck!’ I threw my head back against the carpet as my first orgasm rushed through me out of nowhere, only realizing he had finished with me when I felt the hot cum inside of me as he continued thrusting, never once even slowing down.

‘I need to feel you squeeze me again Babygirl, cum for me! Cum for your Alpha!’ The second orgasm was just as strong as the first as I came and felt his body tense up as well before he finally stilled, breathing heavily into my neck.

‘I think…we’re in trouble…’ I panted heavily and he chuckled before looking down at me, hesitating only a second before pressing his lips to mine in a soft, lovely kiss. ‘Don’t stop.’ I insisted when he pulled back, grabbing onto his neck and pressing my lips to his this time as I enjoyed our kiss.

‘This isn’t how I wanted it to happen, I wanted to take you on a date, show you how much I love you…then I was going to fuck you…wanted to make you feel so good you would never leave me again-‘

‘It’s okay, you’ve just done it backwards…you can still take me out, just after this is over because I don’t think people would appreciate you fucking me over our table.’ I teased, enjoying the genuine smile that I got from him, only ever seeing it when he looks at me which has always made me feel special.

‘That’s the spell talking-‘

‘I liked you before that you idiot! I just never really thought you were all that serious.’ I admitted, pushing him up and feeling his (once again) hard cock slide out of me as he helped me stand up.

‘How could you think that? I’ve gone out of my way to show you-your friends told you I was using you, didn’t they?’ I nodded and he huffed a heavy sigh before wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me into a rough kiss. ‘I love you, regardless of any doppelgänger or your awful friends. After all of this I will take you out properly, I promise…but until then-‘

‘No! No more floor fucking, there’s furniture and a bed here for a reason, no more carpet, it hurts.’ I explained, feeling the rug burn against my back and ass.

‘No more rugs, but I need you now.’ He growled, lifting me by my thighs and appearing in the bedroom instantly, dropping me onto the bed. Just as he spread my legs he paused, glancing over to the table and reaching out to grab the basket with the things Caroline had left. ‘What-‘

‘Caroline left them for me. I guess she wanted to help me since I’m all alone.’

‘Interesting…does she know you well, or not?’ He wondered, picking up the butt plug and raising his eyebrows making me blush as my body started sweating.

‘Klaus! Stop the teasing and get inside me! The cramps are starting, so if you’re not going to help me then get the Fuck out and I’ll do it my-Ah!’ I cried out, feeling the rounded end of the plug pressing to my tight hole and rubbing against it. ‘Oh God!’ Klaus took the lube bottle and squeezed a healthy amount onto the plug before tossing it to the other side of the bed and pressing it back against my ass.

‘Relax Precious, this is going to make it feel so much better!’ He promised, pushing the plug harder until it popped into my hole. Klaus could feel his cock throbbing even harder at the sight of the jewel on the end of the plug. ‘You are so fucking perfect! How do you fee-‘

‘Klaus! Please?!’ I begged, pulling him closer and yanking at his shirt before getting it off and sighing in relief at the feel of his hot skin against mine.

Klaus shoved his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off, finally naked as well before taking hold of his cock and pushing himself back inside of me. ‘There you are love, feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? Both of your slutty little holes stuffed up?’

‘T-Too much-Never-‘

‘Never been so full before, I know Baby! I-Fuck!’ Suddenly as if he could no longer control himself he began thrusting into me frantically. ‘Mine! My Fucking Cunt!’ He snarled, Hybrid visage taking over as he fucked into me so hard I briefly wondered if he could shatter my pelvis like this.

‘Yes! Yours! All yours, don’t stop! Please don’t stop?!’

Y/n couldn’t have said how long Klaus continued like that. How long he thrust into her cunt at a painful speed, how many times the both of them had climaxed together while he still continued to fuck his (somehow still) hard cock into her, she couldn’t even say how many times he had buried his fangs into her throat in an effort to mark her as his like a werewolf marking his mate…and maybe he was. Odds are she was never getting away from him now-not that she wanted to.

It was a week later that Damon finally came back to the house to check on her finding the front door ripped open.

He ventured inside, not hearing anything and figuring that it was over for Y/n and who was inevitably Klaus that had torn the door off the hinges. He was prepared with jokes galore for the the drive back, excited to pick on the young girl for giving into the monster that had been after her for months but sadly he never got to use those jokes.

Damon opened the door to the bedroom to find his girlfriends friend snuggled into Klaus Mikaelson’s naked chest fast asleep. The Hybrid however seemed to have awoken as soon as he turned the doorknob, his yellow eyes finding his with an intensity that he had never seen. He bore his fangs, lifting his head and Damon (one of the only people who had never truly feared Klaus Mikaelson) was instantly terrified. It was like a bucket of ice water dumped on him, alarm bells ringing in his head declaring the danger that he is in prompting him to throw up his hands instantly. As Klaus moved to sit up, the young vampire shut the door promptly and hightailed it back to his car, peeling back down the driveway.

He doesn’t know how long that stuff will take to wear off but it definitely hasn’t yet and he would not be disturbing them again!

Y/n and Klaus were in the house for nearly 2 weeks before they felt as if their bodies were back to normal though they stayed for another week after that. No one could have imagined how close such a spell would bring them…no one except Klaus of course.

The witch he had hired to make that powder had done a wonderful job, money well spent in the Hybrids mind. The spell had worked better than he ever could have imagined and it had gotten him exactly what he wanted.

The only thing left to do was to kill the witch that had helped him and ensure that his mate never learned that he was the one who had dosed her.

He finally had his girl, he couldn’t let something so trivial ruin it.

Klaus Mikaelson Masterlist

[flemingology]

O is for the only one I see ─ alexia putellas x reader

part 2 of my l-o-v-e miniseries. full masterlist here!

in which: you and Alexia have your first communication mishap after a family meeting gone wrong

warnings: argument, miscommunication, insecure reader

wc: 7.9k

an: i hope you understand the concept lol. i think the name 'miniseries' makes it sound like it's all gonna be 1 continuous story but it's more a one-shot vibe based on a lyric each time, as i describe in the summary. nonetheless, hope you enjoy!

In the past few months, Alexia had seamlessly become a part of your every day in ways you never thought possible. From her quiet insistence on walking you to your car after late dinners to the way she texted you pictures of her travels when she was away for games, it felt... natural. Easy, even. But meeting her family? That was a whole new level, one you weren’t sure you were ready for.

The way Alexia spoke about her family never failed to fill you with warmth. The way she, her mother and her sister bonded together over the course of their lives was something you could only admire. They were pillars in her life, the people she would fall back on when everything else in her life seemed to be going south. And now, you were about to meet them. It wasn’t just nerves bubbling under the surface, it was the nagging doubt if you were going to fit in. If they would approve of you, think of you worthy enough to date their daughter.

Alexia didn’t date. Hadn’t, in a good few years. She held herself to high standards and her family knew that, so they only wanted what was best for her. Whether that’s what you were, they’d have to see. What if they don’t like you?

“You know they’re going to love you,” Alexia said, leaning against the bathroom door frame with her arms crossed over her chest, as you smoothed down your shirt for what felt like the sixth time in as many minutes. You shot her a glare. “You say that now. Wait until Alba starts grilling me like a detective.” She laughed, walking over to you and fixing your collar. She cradled your face, hands on your cheeks and pressed a reassuring, lingering kiss against your lips. “If Alba says anything, I’ll handle her. I just want you to be yourself.” You shot her a grateful smile, turning your gaze back at the mirror, taking your appearance in another time.

“Do you think this is too much? Or… not enough? I can change if you want, I have another couple options laying on the bed.” Alexia wrapped her arms around your waist from behind, and some of your nerves settled at the warmth that radiated from her embrace. She pressed gentle kisses against the side of your neck, you leaning your head back against her shoulder to allow her more space. “You look perfect. My family is not expecting royalty, you know. They’re just excited to meet you.” You turned in her grasp then, tucking a couple strands of hair behind her ear. “Excited to meet me? Or excited to see if I’m good enough for you?”

Your girlfriend–– it still felt surreal to call her that, chuckled at that, leaning her head against your shoulder. “Mi vida, stop. They won’t judge you. Mami will probably try and feed you whatever she’s been cooking since this morning the second you walk through the door, and my sister will ask you a hundred questions about how we met.” You stayed silent at that, taking a moment of appreciation for the kindness and understanding that came from your lover.

“You’re overthinking. They’re going to love you. How could they not?” Alexia tilted your head back up, her eyes meeting yours. “Because I’m not… you. I don’t have the perfect career or the perfect family. What if they think I’m not good enough?”

Alexia bit her lip at that, before taking your hand and leading you back to the bedroom. She sat down on the bed, signaling you to come sit on her lap. You did, your knees on either side as you faced her again. “First of all, I’m not perfect. And second, that’s not how my family works. They don’t care about status or titles. All they care about is kindness, respect, and whether you make me happy.” The Spaniard rested her forehead against yours as she spoke.

“And do I?” “Every single day.”

As you left the bedroom together, Alexia threw another look towards you over her shoulder. “Oh, and for the record, if anyone asks you about football. The answer is always Barca.” You giggled, rolling your eyes at her words. “Noted. You’re going to owe me for this.” “Dinner with the Putellas clan is a small price to pay. Trust me.”

The apartment door clicked shut behind you, and you’re met with the cold afternoon air on a wintery Saturday in Barcelona. You pulled your jacket a little tighter around your figure, already cursing yourself for having dressed too lightly for the occasion. The streetlights cast a soft glow on the quiet neighbourhood, the orange-yellow hues bouncing off the cobblestone pavement beneath your feet. You despised Winter. Despised the cold, despised the dark mornings and dark evenings.

Alexia’s car brought you back to your senses. It’s familiar, and the way Alexia’s perfume lingers and mixes with the faint sense of leather calmed you down. The soft hum of the engine the only sound between the two of you. You couldn’t bear the silence any longer though, as if it was weighing you down with each passing minute.

“Okay, let’s set some expectations. What’s the worst thing your family could say or ask tonight?” Alexia glanced over at you, an amused smile on your face as she expertly manoeuvred the steering wheel one-handed. “Worst thing? Hmm… Mami might ask if you know how to make paella. She likes to test people on their cooking knowledge.” You scoffed nervously at her words. “Great. Let me just Google how not to butcher a classic Spanish dish before we get there.” Alexia cocked an eyebrow at you. “Relax. You could burn your toast and they’d still like you.” You didn’t respond at that, and that led to your girlfriend briefly squeezing your knee, and then resting her hand on your thigh. “I’m serious. You don’t have to impress anyone. Just… be yourself.” You looked out the window, looking at the passing cars. “I wish I had your confidence.” “You don’t need that. You have mine.”

The roads were quiet for the time of day, but there’s a faint hum of life outside. The city felt alive but not overwhelming. Alexia’s playlist waltzed through the background, the songs that remind you of your lover calming your senses once again. You noticed the way she taps her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music, her relaxed demeanor helping you stay calm. You didn’t want to mess this up. It had been a while since Alexia had seen her family, properly, for more than a couple short moments after a game. Somehow, you hadn’t met them yet. The games you went to, they couldn’t come and vice versa. It was Alexia’s mum that insisted she brought you to the family dinner, something that on its own should’ve calmed your nerves, but the rational part of your brain was completely at the mercy of the overwhelming feeling of self-doubt.

The journey didn’t take as long as expected, traffic not nearly as bad as either of you had foreseen. Alexia’s hand was tracing soft, reassuring patterns on your thigh and your hand was on top of hers, steadling grounding yourself with her touch. Before you knew it, Alexia pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. “Oh God, I didn’t realize we were here already.” Alexia chuckled, but stayed silent for a moment. She let you come to your senses, knowing you were going to be fine, but just needed a moment to ground yourself. Your eyes searched the area, and you were overwhelmed by the sheer amount of cars that were all around the house. “Baby, how many people are here tonight?” Alexia winced at that, having forgotten to mention that it was never only close family when the Putellas’s came together. She tried to remain casual, though. “Eh, maybe like 20 people? Just a small group. It’ll be okay, amor.” You mumbled something incoherently under your breath and Alexia wished it wasn’t you cursing her out, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it as you opened your door and stepped outside.

“So, any final words?” You questioned, your hand resting on the doorbell, not quite ready to ring yet. “Smile. Be yourself. Don’t let mami overwhelm you with food.” You cocked your eyebrows at her. “Mhm, that’s a lot of pressure. What if I fail at one of those things?” Alexia pressed a kiss against your temple, mumbling her next words against your hair. “Then you’d still look cute failing.” You rolled your eyes. “Such a charmer, Alexia. I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” “Completely. But seriously, you’ve got this.” Your girlfriend took your hand in hers for a second and gave a reassuring squeeze, before she eventually rang the doorbell.

Eli’s face lit up inexplicably wide at the sight of her daughter. “Mi niña, look at you, you’re finally here.” She pulled Alexia into a tight hug first, and by Alexia’s body language, you could tell that she needed this. She practically smothered her daughter with affection, but Alexia quickly became second best the moment her eyes landed on you, her expression softening into one of pure warmth. “And you must be the one she hasn’t stopped talking about!” Before you could even fully process her words, she’s wrapping you in a firm, welcoming embrace. The scent of her lavender perfume and something faintly sweet invaded your senses, and it immediately struck you as a homely feeling. Her hug lingered just long enough to feel sincere, and when she pulled back, her hands settled gently on your shoulders.

“Come in, come in! Don’t just stand out here in the cold. I’ve been so excited to meet you." Alexia watched the interaction with a fond smile, her gaze flickering between you and her mum as you stepped into the warmth of the house. It felt almost surreal. The cozy hum of voices from the living room, the inviting smell of food wafting from the kitchen. You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this; this immediate sense of belonging. You couldn’t help but glance at Alexia, a smile creeping onto your face despite your earlier nerves. She noticed, her own smile widening in response.

But as Eli ushered you both further inside, you caught a fleeting glance exchanged between Alexia and her mum. It’s quick, almost unnoticeable, but something about it tugged at the edge of your thoughts. Maybe it was the slight furrow in Eli’s brow that smoothed out too quickly, or the way Alexia’s smile dimmed just a fraction before she responded. It passed before you could think too much of it, overshadowed by Eli’s bright chatter as she guided you toward the living room. But the seed of doubt was planted, small but persistent.

The living room buzzed with warmth and chatter as Eli guided you inside. The people gathered are lively, her relatives talking over one another, kids darting around in a chaotic blur, and a general air of familiarity you can almost taste. “Come, let me introduce you,” Eli said with a bright smile, tugging you further into the room. Alexia stayed close, her hand lightly resting at your lower back, an anchor as you’re passed from one family member to the next.

First, it’s Alexia’s aunt. A lively woman with curly hair and a booming laugh, pulled you into a tight hug as though she’s known you for years. “Oh, so this is her,” she said knowingly, nudging Alexia with a grin. “You didn’t tell me how gorgeous she is.” “Tía” Alexia mumbled, her ears turning pink, but the playful reprimand only made her aunt laugh harder. “And polite, too, I bet,” the aunt added, turning to you. “Please, call me Tía Marta. Now tell me, is she as much of a neat freak at home as she was when she was a kid? She used to get mad if I folded a towel the ‘wrong way.’” Alexia groaned behind you, but you laughed, feeling a little more at ease.

Up next is Alexia’s grandmother. She was smaller than you expected, her frame delicate but her spirit vibrant. She took your hands in hers, her skin soft and warm, and looked up at you with kind, twinkling eyes. “Eres preciosa, niña,” she said softly, her voice comforting. You managed a thank you in your best Spanish, and she beamed with pride. “Her Spanish is good!” she told Alexia in Catalan, patting your hand. “Abuela,” Alexia interjected gently, translating for you with a smile. “She says you’re beautiful.” “Well, she’s beautiful too,” you responded shyly, feeling your cheeks warm under the older woman’s approving gaze.

Then suddenly, a young cousin, the boy probably no older than six, bolted toward Alexia the second he walked in, arms wide and squealing her name. Alexia catched him mid-run, spinning him around effortlessly. It struck a chord somewhere inside of you, but you weren’t ready to develop the thought yet that was simmering at the back of your mind. “Who’s this?” the little boy asked once he’s settled in Alexia’s arms, pointing at you.

“This is my... friend,” Alexia said carefully, glancing at you with a flicker of hesitation. The little boy looked at you curiously before deciding, “She’s pretty. Do you like Spiderman?” Caught off guard, you stammered, “Uh, yes? I think he’s cool.” “Good,” the cousin declared, nodding seriously. “Because I don’t like boring people.” You shared a laugh with Alexia, who shook her head fondly.

At one point a couple minutes later, an uncle, already stationed near the appetizers, offered you a small plate. “Try this,” he said, holding up a slice of jamón ibérico. “This is the best you’ll ever taste.” You accepted it, and the flavor immediately melted on your tongue. “Wow,” you exhale, impressed. He grinned, nodding approvingly. “I told you. Good taste,” he said, pointing at you before winking at Alexia. “This one’s a keeper, eh?” Alexia chuckled, shaking her head. “She hasn’t even had the croquetas yet.” “Croquetas?” you asked, curious. “Just wait,” Alexia replied, her smirk confident.

Eli stole you away then, leading you with her to the sofa. “She talks about you, you know,” she said quietly, handing you a glass of wine. You blinked in surprise. “She does?” “Every time we talk,” she said with a smile, her eyes soft as they glanced toward Alexia. “You make her happy.” Your heart swelled, and you glanced at your girlfriend across the room, who was talking to her cousin again. She must’ve felt your eyes on her because she looked back, offering a small smile that’s just for you.

But then, there was a change in the air. It was not outright hostility, not even close. But as the introductions continued– they seemed endless, there was a distinct feeling in the back of your mind that you couldn’t ignore. A couple of the older relatives asked pointed questions about your work. Questions that felt almost like challenges, though they were wrapped in polite tones. “So, what do you do exactly? Must be quite demanding, no?” You answered as best as you can, without wanting to seem too affected by the unpleasant tone you’re being spoken to. 

As you were chatting with another of Alexia’s cousins, one of her aunts– not the one that welcomed you so warmly earlier, interrupted the conversation with a comment that caught you off guard. “Well, I hope you’re not one of those people who thinks dating a footballer is all glamour and fame. It’s hard work, you know.” The words are said with a faint smile, her tone almost teasing. Almost. But there’s something about the way her eyes lingered on you, as though she’s waiting to see how you’ll react. “Oh no, I wouldn’t think that at all.” You stammered, trying to laugh it off. Before you could say more, Alexia stepped in smoothly. It’s like she felt the discomfort oozing off you through the room, and she was by your side in a mere couple seconds to defuse the situation. “She’s not one of those people. Trust me.” Her aunt gave a small nod, her smile tight as she moved on to another conversation.

The exchange left you rattled, though you’re not entirely sure why. It wasn’t outright rude, but it felt like a test, one you’re not certain you passed. As the evening went on, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were under a microscope. Most of the family was kind and welcoming, but a few interactions left a sour taste, small enough to make you doubt whether you’re overthinking it or not.

Your mind drifted back to the glance Alexia exchanged with her mom earlier. Was it about you? Were they worried about bringing you into this tightly-knit family dynamic? You glanced at Alexia, who was across the room now, laughing with her sister. She looked completely at ease, as though she belonged in this moment in a way you could never hope to. The doubt crept in again, insidious and unwelcome. Did you really fit into her world?

The room was alive with conversation and laughter, but your thoughts felt far too loud. You were perched at the edge of the couch, smiling politely as Eli chatted animatedly with a group of relatives nearby. Alexia caught your eye from across the room, her easy smile fading when she saw the tension in your shoulders. Excusing herself from the conversation she’s in, she made her way over to you, her movements casual so as not to draw attention. She sat next to you, her hand comfortingly placed on the small of your back. “Hey, you okay?” You take a moment, hesitating on what to tell her, because the last thing you’d want is to be a burden. “Yeah, just a bit… overwhelmed”, you eventually settled on. Her hand softly brushed against your knee and it brought you a sense of comfort. “They already love you, you know.” Her words settled over you like a warm blanket, and for a moment, you let yourself believe them. You nod, offering her a small smile. Thanks. I think I just need a minute to adjust.” Your girlfriend squeezed your knee and then stood up, moving back across the room to where she was before she came over to you. 

You started to relax again, letting the hum of conversations wash over you, but then you heard it; a hushed voice from somewhere nearby, just loud enough to catch your ear. “She seems nice, but do you think she’s really with Alexia for the right reasons? I mean, it must be intimidating, dating someone like her. Maybe she just likes the idea of it.” The words hit like a gut punch. You glanced around, trying to place the speaker, and your stomach sank when you saw it’s the same cousin who’d been teasing earlier. She was speaking to another relative, who nodded slightly but didn’t add anything to the comment.

“Well, she does seem a bit… out of her depth. But Alexia must see something in her.” “Yeah, but for how long? I mean, Alexia needs someone who can handle all of this. The attention, the traveling, the pressure. Do you think she’s that kind of person?”

Your pulse quickened and your fingers tightened around your glass. It felt like the air had been knocked out of you. Why were they even talking about this? Your stomach sank further with each word. You fought the urge to stand up and defend yourself, although you weren’t quite sure you’d know what to say if you did. Were you really out of your depth?

You glanced back toward Alexia, wishing she’d somehow heard the exchange, wishing you could share the burden of what had just been said. But even if she had been closer, would you have had the courage to repeat the words? The thought of telling her felt unbearable. What if she agreed, even a little? What if, instead of reassuring you, she hesitated? You tell yourself off, firmly. It was Alexia that brought you here, Alexia that wanted you here. She wouldn’t hesitate. But before you can dwell on what you heard too much, dinner is being served and you’re all called to the living room.

The dining room was warm and inviting, with a large wooden table set for everyone. The atmosphere was lively, filled with laughter and overlapping conversations. Alexia was seated beside you, and her presence helped calm your nerves, even though the earlier comments still lingered in your mind. You tried to focus on the moment, enjoy the evening with Alexia’s family and forget about what you overheard earlier

.“So, tell us more about yourself. Alexia mentioned you work on some pretty impressive projects.” It was Eli’s voice that pulled you out of your thoughts. You were glad that everyone seemed to be in their own conversations, only a couple relatives really listening in to what you were going to answer.

“Oh, it’s nothing too special. I mostly enjoy being behind the scenes, making sure everything runs smoothly.” You worry, overthinking every word as if the people around you would be nitpicking every single thing that you said.

“Well, Alexia couldn’t stop talking about how talented you are. She doesn’t say that about just anyone, you know.” Her words made you feel a little more at ease, but the shadow of doubt from earlier lingered.

Dinner went smoothly for the rest. Conversation flowed easily between a couple of you, the steadying presence of your girlfriend aside you doing just enough to ground you. During a lighter moment, someone shared a funny story about Alexia’s childhood.

“Did you know Alexia used to practice free kicks in the yard until she knocked over the flower pots? I think my parents banned football from the garden for a year!” The family laughs, and Alexia playfully rolls her eyes, leaning in closer to you. “Don’t believe everything they tell you.”

At some point, a little further down the evening, Alexia leans in quietly, her hand brushing against yours under the table. “You okay? You’ve been a bit quiet.” she asks softly. You force a smile, one you know she won’t believe, but it’s the best you could muster up. “I’m fine. Just taking everything in.” She didn’t push, but her eyes lingered, and you knew she was onto you. But you appreciated her for not pushing.

As the meal ends and people begin to move around, Alexia finds a quiet moment with you, sensing your unease. “You’ve been amazing tonight, you know? I can see how much they like you.” You found yourself in a quiet corner in the kitchen, and you allowed yourself to circle your arms around her neck, Alexia’s resting around your waist. “You think so? It’s just… a lot to take in.” Alexia nodded, briefly brushing her lips against your forehead. “I know it’s overwhelming, but you’re doing great. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t know you could handle it.”

-

The silence in the car was heavy, but Alexia didn't push. She glanced at you every now and then, her brows knitting together in quiet concern at the expression on your face. She decided she could do no wrong by testing the waters. “You were amazing tonight,” she said softly. You nodded with a small smile, but it was forced. You continued staring out the window, replaying the events from the night over and over again, especially the words from one of Alexia’s aunts kept on ringing in the back of your mind.

The car ride felt uneasy. It wasn’t usual for you both to be so quiet, and it almost felt awkward. You knew you weren’t doing the right thing by not telling your girlfriend what was wrong, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. You felt as if, if you would recite the words that were spoken by one of her relatives, that she’d agree. That she’d realize that they were right, that you’re out of your depth and not made for someone with a schedule like hers. So you stayed silent. As much as it hurt you to ignore Alexia’s silent advances throughout the drive, whether that be a hand on your knee or a soft touch on your thigh, you didn’t dare speak up. Not if that meant you would put your relationship at risk.

When Alexia pulled into the driveway of your apartment block, you could feel the hesitation in her movements. You unbuckled your seatbelt and she did the same, but before you could reach the door handle, you felt her hand on your wrist. “Amor, wait…,” she spoke softly. You closed your eyes for a second, taking a deep breath before leaning back against the car seat. “You did great tonight. I promise. It was everything I hoped for. I’m so glad you finally met my family and they love you. Te lo prometo.” You gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but you couldn’t help but melt in the kiss that followed. You really shouldn’t have, should’ve held your walls up, because you knew you were in for a rough night as soon as your girlfriend left. But when she kissed you with that much fervour, pouring so many unspoken words in it, you couldn’t help but be at her mercy. “Call me tomorrow?” You nodded, but you weren’t sure you would. Stepping out of her car felt like floodgates opening. The emotions hit you like a brick: insecurity, shame, and the growing belief that this relationship was a mistake.

-

You ignored Alexia’s calls the following day. You knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. After all, she didn’t do anything wrong. But you couldn’t bring yourself to, not when you felt like every new word you spoke to her would bring her closer to realizing that you weren’t enough for her. Her texts start off light, reassuring. But when she realizes that you’re not going to reply, they come with an urge.

From: Ale I hope you’re feeling better today, amor. Let me know when you’re free?

From: Ale Hey, I’m getting worried. Are you okay?

From: Ale Please talk to me. Did something happen?

You read them but couldn’t bring yourself to respond. Each message felt like a dagger, reminding you of what you’re running from.

As the day dragged on, the insecurities became louder. What if you’re just another thing for her to take care of? You’re nothing compared to the people she’s surrounded with on a day-to-day basis. Her teammates, her family, they’re all… extraordinary. Alexia deserves someone who fits into her world effortlessly.  Not someone who feels like they’re constantly falling short.

You started analyzing every moment with Alexia, wondering if you’ve been blind to signs that this was doomed from the start. You were not made for this world. Not made for her. So you did the thing that you thought was best for you, best for her, you decided not to reply to anything she sent you. She’d get over it, she had so many other things on her mind that she probably wouldn’t even think twice. You’d get over it too, eventually. At some point. Probably. Maybe.

But God, were you wrong. On the other side of Barcelona, your girlfriend was miserable. She had sensed something was off since the evening before, but she didn’t want to pry, knowing that usually didn’t help her case in trying to get anything out of you. But now, as the afternoon bled into evening and she still hadn’t heard from you, prying was the only thing she wished she did. As far as she knew, things had gone quite well with her family. There wasn’t anything that she could remember that would warrant such a response from you, so she felt like her hands were tied in what to do.

She wanted nothing more than things to work out with you. She hadn’t felt like she felt about you in ages. You got her, you understood her, and she was so incredibly grateful for you. You were like a breath of fresh air in her clouded, busy life. So when she didn’t hear from you for a day, Alexia curled up into herself. She was worried, insecure, in her head and making up all kinds of scenarios that were way too obscure, but she couldn’t help thinking them anyway. What if you didn’t want her anymore after meeting her family? Was it not what you expected? Did someone tell you something about her that struck a wrong chord?

Despite the overwhelming thoughts that clouded her mind, Alexia manages to get out of her sofa that evening and try a different approach to get you back.

-

It’s well past 9pm when you receive a voicemail from Alexia, and you can’t help but listen to it. The prospect of hearing her voice was too good to turn down.

“Hola, mi vida. I don’t know what’s bothering you, but please talk to me. We’re a team, you know? You and I. Just the two of us. Let me in and we’ll work out what’s on your mind. And, check your front door for me. Te amo. So much.”

You hadn’t realized tears had welled up in your eyes at the sound of her voice, until one was rolling over your cheek. You quickly wiped it away, not ready to be vulnerable about this yet. Not when she was being so sweet. You mustered up the courage to get out of bed, walking the way up to the front door of your apartment. You checked the peephole, but nobody was there. You opened the door and spotted a bright bouquet of red and white roses on the ground, accompanied with a little envelope. Your first thought was about how Alexia had gotten into your building, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about that right now. You picked up the flowers and smelled them, a faint hint of her perfume mixing with the fresh scent of the roses. It hit you hard then, another few tears escaping your eyes.

The letter that came with, was even sweeter. It wasn’t much, not a love letter by any means, but just a small couple reminders of how much she loved you. That she was proud of you. That she couldn’t wait to see you again and hear your voice. It only felt more guilt rise up in you. How could you treat this woman, who clearly loved you to the moon and back, so poorly? But the guilt wasn’t enough to overshadow the insecurities. At least, not yet. 

-

The office was dimly lit, the desk cluttered with blueprints, pencils, and a cold coffee cup that you’re not sure you even took a sip from. When things got rough, work is where you turned to in life. Work didn’t make you insecure. Work didn’t make you doubt yourself. It was always there. Steady. A pillar of strength that would never disappoint you. You weren’t the only one who knew that, though. As long as it took you to open up about your professional life to a certain blonde, she now knew everything about the ins and outs of your life as an interior architect. She too, knew that this was where you retreated when things weren’t going your way. To experience some sort of stability. To make you feel like even though everything else around you was crumbling, you still had this. The hum of the building and the outside traffic was the only sound until the door swung open abruptly, startling you.

Alexia walked in, her expression a mix of worry and frustration. She looked out of place here, her casual sweater and jeans standing stark against the sterile, professional backdrop. She didn’t speak right away, just stood there, her gaze fixed on you. The silence felt suffocating. You haven’t turned around yet, but the mere presence of the person gave away who it was.

“I knew you’d be here,” she started with. “You shouldn’t have come.” You had turned around on your seat now, but were still avoiding her gaze. As much as you wanted to look at her, take her in, because you missed her, missed her more than you could put into words, you didn’t. Because then it would take approximately 3 seconds for you to give up the facade that you’d been putting on, and you weren’t ready for that. Not when you weren’t good enough for her. She stepped closer. “What else was I supposed to do, huh? You’ve been ignoring me for almost 2 days. I’ve been losing my mind wondering what I did wrong.”

There was a sense of hostility in her voice, and you didn’t like it. But, you guess you deserved it. You finally met her gaze then, and if it weren’t for the bags underneath her eyes and the concerned look on her face, you really would’ve thought she was angry at you. You stood up from your desk, taking a couple tentative steps toward her and crossing your arms over your chest. “You didn’t do anything, Alexia. This is on me.” You knew it was weak, and not good enough. But you couldn’t give her much more than that. “That’s not good enough. I deserve more than silence, don’t you think?”

Your throat is tightening, but you try your best not to let it sound in your voice. “I needed time to think.” “Time to think about what, y/n? If you even want to be with me?” You frowned then, looking up at her. You didn’t know it had cut so deep with her. It’d only been a day and a half, and you hadn't given her any clues on what this could be about, so for her to have made this assumption took you aback. It’s not what you wanted, or… maybe it was? It was best for the both of you, either way.

You decided at that moment it was best for you to open up, to relieve some of the tension for the woman standing in front of you. “I’m not good for you, Alexia. Can’t you see that? Your cousin, your family, they see it. And they’re right.” The Spaniard’s face hardens at that, her brows knitting together. ““I don’t belong in your world. I don’t know how to fit into it, and honestly, I don’t think I ever will. You deserve someone who can stand next to you without feeling like they’re constantly falling short.”

Alexia closes the distance between you, and you can feel her breath against your face as she speaks. “That’s bullshit, and you know it! You think I care what anyone else thinks? My family? My cousin? Do you think I’d be here right now, chasing after you, if I thought you weren’t good enough for me?” You interrupt her, but it’s a futile attempt. “No, you don’t understand-” “You don’t understand! I chose you! I want you! Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

It’s like someone opened up a can of bottled feelings within Alexia. You’d voiced it many times to her that you thought you weren’t good enough for her, and each time she’d patiently coaxed you back to her, melting your insecurities away with whispered promises and lingering kisses. What you didn’t know is that it had also taken an effect on her. She just wanted you to believe her, to be happy with her, to stop thinking that you weren’t what she wanted or deserved.

“Because I’m scared, Alexia! I’m scared that one day you’ll wake up and realize they were right. That I’m just this… nobody who got lucky. That I’ll never be enough for you.” Alexia’s expression softens slightly, but her frustration remains. She runs a hand through her hair and takes a deep breath, her voice quieter but still firm. ““You’re enough for me. You’re more than enough. But I can’t keep fighting to convince you of that if you’re not willing to believe it yourself.”

The words hit you like a dagger. Of all the ways the conversation could go, you hadn’t expected that. And it only further confirmed your thoughts. Alexia was realizing that this wasn’t what she wanted. “Maybe I’m doing this for you, Alexia. Maybe you’ll thank me someday.” Alexia’s voice was sharp as she replied. “Don’t you dare make this decision for me.” You flinch, but remain silent.

She steps back then, running her hands across her face. “I don’t know what else to say to you right now.” Her eyes linger on your figure a little longer, but then she’s gone. The sound of the door falling shut feels deafening, and you finally let the tears flow that you’d been holding in throughout the conversation. Argument? You didn’t know and you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

As she storms out of the studio, the cool night air hits her like a wall. Her chest feels tight, and her hands tremble slightly as she fumbles to unlock her car. She hesitates for a moment, gripping the door handle, debating whether to turn back. But the ache in her heart makes it hard to think clearly, and she sinks into the driver’s seat, resting her forehead against the steering wheel.

She didn’t know how it could’ve escalated this quick. For her, the meeting with her family went well. Of course, there was the odd comment, but she didn’t think it was major enough to cause an upset like this. It seemed like, in one day, you’d built a wall so high that she couldn’t reach you anymore.

She bites her lip, trying to keep the tears from falling, but a few slip out anyway. She feels a mix of anger, heartbreak and guilt, but above all that she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be feeling. She drives around aimlessly, not ready to drive home. Before long, Alexia realizes that she didn’t handle the argument in the right way. Instead of calming you down, she yelled, too lost in trying to make you see what she sees. By the time she finally gets home, she’s emotionally drained. She sits at her kitchen table, the undeniable sting from the unanswered calls and texts still there. Alexia had never felt this way about anyone, ever before in her life. And she wasn’t going to let you walk away because of some stupid comment or your own doubts. You were hers, and she was going to remind you of that even if it took everything she had.

Alexia starts her plan to get you back the next day. She comes to terms that barging into the studio again wouldn’t make it better, so she starts with something simple. She drives to your place and slides a little handwritten note under the door, a small one that says, “I love you. No matter what they say, no matter what you think. You are everything to me. Please, let me prove it. A.” She also sends flowers to your workplace, a bouquet of your favourite flowers with a little note attached to it, “You’re the only one I see.” She’s patient, very patient, but when she hasn’t heard anything from you by the evening, she starts pacing around her apartment.

She had done quite well at keeping busy throughout the day. After quickly dropping off the note, she went to training and was able to keep her mind off the situation for a couple hours. But when she came home, deep in the afternoon, and she couldn’t even get her post-training nap in because she was thinking about you, she knew she wasn’t gonna get anywhere.

Her fingers hover over your contact, but the prospect of rejection makes her hesitate. She lingers, but eventually decides it’s best not to. She was gonna let you come to her. And you did. The next morning, somehow you’d remembered that today was a day off for Alexia. She was sat at the kitchen table, sipping on her daily cup of coffee while scrolling through her phone. The doorbell startled her, not really expecting anyone at this time of day, especially not when she was still wearing her pajamas. But when she looks through the peephole, noticing your figure on the other side of the door, her heart skips a beat. She scrambles to unlock the door and open it for you, but when her eyes land on you it feels like all is right in the world. She has to refrain herself from throwing her into your arms, knowing that wouldn’t be the right thing to do right now. She gives you a small smile, one you return, and the warmth that spreads through her chest at the little gesture is unimaginable. She steps aside then, letting you inside of her apartment.

It doesn’t take long for Alexia to crack. She makes you a coffee and joins you on the sofa, and you had planned to start the conversation, but she didn’t let you. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. “For yelling, for walking out, for everything. I shouldn’t have done that.” You look down, nodding, fiddling with your hands. “I… I wasn’t trying to push you away, Alexia. I just-” “You’re scared,” she interrupts, and a relief washes over you at the realization that she understands your feelings. “And I get that. But, please, I need you to talk to me, not shut me out.”

There’s a couple moments of silence, and you readjust your position on the couch, your knees now flush to your chest with your arms wrapped around them. It was the only way to stop yourself from curling into her. You wouldn’t get to say what you wanted if you did. “It’s not just fear,” you admit. “It’s everything. What your cousin said, it wasn’t just about me. It was about us. Like I don’t belong in your world. Like- Like I’m just… some fling that you’ll outgrow.”

Alexia’s face hardens, jaw tightening and she reaches a hand out, but quickly retreats. “Don’t let them get to you, por favor. She doesn’t know anything about us, about you.” “But what if she’s right?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “What if I’m not enough? For you, for your family, for-” Alexia does follow through with her hand then, placing it on your knee, giving it a slight squeeze. “Stop.” Her voice is firm but not harsh, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. “You are enough. You are everything.” Your eyes meet hers, and you’re looking for anything that gives away she’s not speaking the truth. That she doesn’t mean this, that she’s just saying this out of pity. But you can’t find it. The only thing you find is a couple unshed tears, showing just how much emotion she’s pouring into this moment. “Do you know how much I love you? How much I admire you? Your kindness, strength, the way you light up any room without even trying. You’re the only one I want.” You go to speak up, but she lifts her hand in protest.

“What someone else thinks, whether it’s my family, my friends or anyone, doesn’t matter to me. You matter. You make me happy, and that’s all I care about. And if my cousin, or anyone else has a problem with that, they’ll have to say that to my face. And not behind your or my back.” Alexia straightens slightly, retreating her hand from your knee and placing them in her lap. “But I know I didn’t handle this right, and I’m sorry for that too,” she says earnestly. “I shouldn’t have lashed out. I was frustrated because I hate seeing you doubt yourself, especially when you’re so good to me, so good for me. I want to be better for you, better for us. But you need to let me in.”

You swallow hard, her words from the last couple minutes sinking in. You couldn’t believe how you deserved the woman sitting in front of you right now. So good, so honest, and all she wanted was you. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you, or… seem weak, I guess.” Alexia shakes her head, her gaze soft. “You’re not weak. And you’re never going to hurt me by telling me how you feel. We’re a team, remember? On the same side, mi amor.” The pet name sends a wave of warmth through you that you only now realize you missed terribly. “Besides,” she adds, her tone lighter now, “if our relationship has had to endure all the teasing from my teammates and the comments from fans, I’m sure we can handle a little communication hiccup.”

You laugh softly, and Alexia grins, relief washing over her. “There it is,” she says, her thumb brushing a tear off your cheek that you didn’t even know was there. “There’s my girl.” You let out a shaky breath, the weight on your chest lifting ever so slightly. “I’m sorry, too. For shutting you out. I’ll try to do better.” Alexia leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We’ll figure it out together.”

As the tension melts away, Alexia pulls you up, wrapping her arms tightly around you. The warmth of her embrace makes the world outside. She tilts her head to rest against yours, her voice soft as she speaks. “You’re never allowed to disappear like that again,” Alexia murmurs, her lips brushing against your temple. “Do you know how much I missed you? Two days felt like two years.” You nestle further into her, your arms circling her waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just needed space to think. But it wasn’t worth it. Being without you felt awful. I just kept convincing myself that you were better off without me and vice versa, but I know that’s not true.”

Alexia pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. Her thumb brushes gently over your cheek as she smiles, her expression soft. “You don’t have to run away to think, cariño. Just come to me, and we’ll figure it out together. Always.”

The weight of the past days begins to fade away as Alexia leans down and brushes her lips lightly against your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. Each kiss feels like a promise, her way to say that everything’s going to be okay. “Stop,” you say, giggling softly, though you don’t actually want her to stop. “You’re making it impossible to stay mad at myself.” “Good,” Alexia says with a smirk, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. “Because I’m not done making it up to you yet.”

She shifts, sitting back down on the couch and pulling you into her lap. You hesitate for a moment, but her arms tighten around your waist, grounding you. “This okay?” she asks softly, her lips brushing your ear. You nod, melting into her touch. “More than okay.” Her hands trail up and down your back in soothing strokes as you rest your head on her shoulder. The two of you sit like that for a while, in silence, before you take a nap together on the couch. As you lay in her arms, you know that that’s where you’re supposed to be. And you’re gonna battle every single one of your insecurities that tells you differently.

[rambling-at-midnight]

When the Truth Comes Out

Request: Reader asks, "So, when are you going to ask me to marry you?" I hope I did your prompt justice!

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: It’s been three and a half years since Jason asked you out, and he knows you’re the one. He knows every part of you, the good and bad, and loves it all. The problem is that you don’t know everything about him… and his secrets may ruin everything.

Word count: 3.5k

Jason’s never been one to window shop, but lately he’s been noticing the glint of jewelry.

You give him a weird look when he stumbles in the middle of the department store. It’s because a ring display caught him off guard like a punch to the gut, but he can’t explain that, so Jason waves off your concerned questioning.

You give him a weird look before turning back to the toy aisle. The two of you spent the morning bickering over what present to give Damian for Christmasukkah. You want to give him a keyboard to learn piano, but Jason’s sure that Damian would be happier receiving an art kit. He knows violin, which is a strings instrument, not whatever the piano is. Besides, the kid’s a brat. He’d want a full-size grand piano that originally belonged to Mozart or some shit and costs a hundred thousand dollars, which isn’t exactly pocket cash for the two of you.

And, sure, Jason’s got one of Bruce’s credit cards in his wallet—Bruce offered to give him one in Jason’s name, but it was the principle of using the stolen card, so Jason turned him down—but he’d be damned before he spoiled the kid any more than he already is.

He keeps his eyes firmly on you after that. It’s where they’re supposed to be, anyway.

You end up getting the keyboard after surreptitiously checking your bank account against your projected budget several times. It’s funny. After three years, you still think you can hide stuff like that from Jason. Probably because he pretends not to notice. He makes a mental note to stop by your landlord’s and see if the Red Hood can make any suggestions about lowering rent for your building.

As the two of you walk out of the store, a cold gust of wind tries to steal your breath away. You step closer to Jason, cold fingers twining with his, and he easily drapes an arm over your shoulders to keep you close. “Was that the last one?”

“I think so,” you reply, checking your list again. “The keyboard for Damian, massage gun for Dick, matching pajamas for Cass and Steph, Pokemon expansion pack for Duke, and the fuzzy socks for Tim.”

The socks are decorated with the words ‘I BREACHED CONTAINMENT’ in black stitching. Jason saw them in a tourist trap he saved from a D-list rogue and remembered how Tim looked like the bog monster after falling into the sewers the day before. They’ve been sitting in his closet since the end of August.

“I have too many siblings,” Jason sighs.

“Have you figured out what you’re giving Bruce?”

Jason bites his lip.

You say, “Ah. Well, you still have a couple days.”

Yeah. Jason has two. He’d been supposed to look out for anything to catch his eye in the store, but all he noticed was the stupid ring display.

He opens the car door for you, then shoves the keyboard in its box into the backseat and starts the engine. Jason drives home one-handed. The other holds yours loosely over the console. You’re checking your bank account again on your phone, frowning slightly, thumb brushing up and down Jason’s palm. He keeps an eye on you as he drives, playing idly by squeezing your fingers one by one until you have to try to hide a smile by looking out the window. 

He doesn’t let go of your third finger. Something nags at the back of his mind, like—

Jason realizes that he’s trying to find a ring, and his heart stops. The car jumps forward when he slams on the gas, and he drops your hand to put both of his on the wheel as he swerves around a minivan. You let out a startled yelp, hands flying out for something to grab onto. The stupid keyboard slides off the back seat and into the footwell.

Two cars lay on their horns when he nearly sideswipes them. Jason responds with an emphatic middle finger and cuts across three lanes to get away. The poor car doesn’t respond as well to his driving as his motorcycle does, and the engine whines as he leaves the other cars in the dust until he eases off.

As soon as the car reaches a relatively normal speed, you say, “Jay! What just happened?”

“Sorry,” is all he can say, keeping both arms stiff on the wheel. “Sorry, honey.”

“You okay?”

“‘M good. You good?”

“I’m okay, I was just…” You keep looking at him, and Jason’s skin prickles. Do you know? Can you tell?

Jason creaks like old wood, but he pulls back his right arm and puts his hand on the console, palm up. After a moment, you put your left overtop it. He can feel your pulse racing through the thin skin of your wrist.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

The day before Christmas, Jason still doesn’t know what to give Bruce. He’d hoped that baking would fix the block, but as he abuses the poor sopapilla dough, he’s no further to any answers.

You’re at the counter, offering moral support but not physical help. Jason’s a bit of a control freak in the kitchen when he’s anxious.

He’s not anxious. He’s not! It doesn’t matter if he gives Bruce something for Chrismukkah. Bruce doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. ‘Not trying to kill him’ is probably a good enough present.

Or the sopapillas. Sure, everyone’s bringing a dish, but no one said it couldn’t also be Jason’s present. But if he goes that route, then the pastries have to be perfect, and the last batch didn’t fluff up the way they did when Catherine made them.

“Jay,” you say after another five minutes of Jason punching dough that is already thoroughly kneaded.

“Yes, love?”

“I think the oil might be ready.”

Judging by the hiss and pops behind him, it is, and has been for several minutes.

Jason tries his best to follow his mother’s actions through his memory, but this batch doesn’t turn out right, either.

“Here,” he says wearily, placing the overflowing plate in front of you. “Let ‘em cool off.”

You wait as long as you can, fingers drumming on the counter as you watch tiny curls of steam drift up from the pile of pastries. Finally, you give in. “Oh my gosh,” you say around a mouthful that was a little too hot, judging by your wince. “Jay, these are amazing.”

“It’s not right, though,” he argues.

“Jay, I didn’t even think it was possible, but these are better than your last batch.”

He shakes his head stubbornly.

“Well, we’ll keep working on it,” you decide. “But really, if you bring these tomorrow, no one will complain. If they do…” You hold up a fist and shake it, mustering up (what you think is) a ferocious scowl.

Jason’s lips twitch. “What if Damian complains? Are you prepared to hit a child?”

“I can’t believe you would even ask me that,” you say. “I live in Gotham. I’ve been waiting for that moment my entire life.”

Despite himself, Jason laughs. He picks up one of the pastries from the dish and bites into it. They could have used more honey. Maybe that was the problem. But you’re right. These are good, and if they’re not, so what? It’s not like Bruce expects much from him anyway.

Jason’s chest squeezes.

Bruce should just be grateful that Jason is there at all.

Fuck.

It’s getting too hard to deny. Despite all his best efforts, Jason has to admit… maybe he does love his family.

It’s the first holiday season where he hasn’t been incandescent with rage toward one of them or another, and he’d underestimated just how nervous he would be. Despite everything that happened between them, he wants tomorrow to go well. The first night of Hanukkah is the same day as Christmas this year, which hasn’t happened for about twenty years. It’ll be Damian’s third Chrismukkah and the first where everyone is in attendance—Jason wasn’t on speaking terms with the family his first year, and Bruce was in the time stream and Tim was across the world last year.

“Hey, Jay.”

“Hmm.”

You swallow without making eye contact, and if he was paying even a little bit more attention, he would have known to prepare himself for what you said next.

“When are you gonna ask me to marry you?”

Jason is a selfish asshole. It’s a miracle that you haven’t figured that out yet after three years of dating him. He half-expects to come back to the apartment to find his stuff in bags. That’s the main reason he’s still out in the cold.

He’s in the middle of another drag when a teasing voice says from behind, “Ooh, must have been a rough day.”

Jason’s hand twitches for his gun, but he recognizes the voice. So he only rolls his eyes and says around the cigarette, “What do you want?”

“Your partner asked me to check up on you. Apparently you looked pretty freaked when you took off.”

Fuck. Jason groans. “How worried did they seem?”

“Ummm….”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, you kind of messed up.” Spoiler sits next to him, dangles her legs over the side of the roof, and lets them swing idly. “Or they messed up. I thought you quit smoking?”

He exhales a thick plume of smoke. “I did,” Jason says. Dying from smoke inhalation was bad once, but a habit is a habit.

“If it makes you feel any better, they seemed more concerned about you. Not, like, mad or anything.”

Well, that’s something.

“So what happened?”

Jason grunts. Maybe if he stares into the horizon long enough, Spoiler will give up. That was the technique Batman always used when Robin asked the tough questions like, ‘Why am I going home early so you can interrogate Catwoman on your own?’

It only worked sometimes.

Unfortunately, Spoiler seems immune.

Jason grunts and drops the butt of his cigarette. He itches for another, but you’ll already wrinkle up your nose at the smell of one. And, shit, what are you even going to think about him high-tailing it out after that question, leaving for hours, and coming back stinking of smoke?

“I’m a fucking idiot. And an asshole.”

Spoiler huffs. “Everyone already knows that, dumbass. They certainly do.”

“Thanks,” Jason says drily.

“Anytime!” she chirps.

Her heels beat against the side of the building.

She’s not leaving anytime soon, so Jason sighs and gives in. “They asked when I was planning on proposing.”

Spoiler gasps and jumps to her feet. “Oh my God!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yep.”

“So you’re engaged?”

“What? No.”

“What?”

“They asked when I would propose. That wasn’t a proposal… I don’t think so. I mean, there wasn’t a ring,” Jason says helplessly.

Spoiler socks him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Damn, but the girl can pack a punch. He rubs at the sore spot, scowling.

“You stupid idiot!”

“I know.”

“And you just ran away?”

Jason cringes and admits to his lap, “Yes.”

Spoiler hits him in the exact same spot on his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, stop that!”

“I’m going to kill you, Jason Peter Todd.”

“You could certainly try, Stephanie… Brown,” he shoots back.

“You don’t even know my middle name?”

“I don’t care about you.”

She lifts her fist again, but Jason twists out of the way before she can hit him a third time in the same shoulder. It’ll be bruised tomorrow.

“You don’t get it,” he says, balancing on the edge of the roof and feeling exceptionally unstable, even though he’s walked across ledges like this since he was twelve.

“What don’t I get? That you have an awesome partner waiting for you at home? One that wants to get married? One that—”

“One that has no idea who I am,” Jason hisses. He brandishes his helmet at the girl. “We’ve been together for three years. They have no idea that I’m the Red Hood. It made sense, at first; I can’t go around telling everyone I kiss what my identity is—”

“Right,” she scoffs sarcastically, “like you’re some kind of serial kisser, Todd. Half the city would know your identity if you did that.”

“Shut up,” Jason half-says, half-groans, and by some miracle, she does. “At first, obviously I couldn’t tell them. Then I wanted to keep waiting. I wanted to know that they were, you know, the one and everything.”

Spoiler fake-gags. Jason ignores her.

“And after that it was just too late. I waited too long. I can’t marry them unless they know about the mask, but who would agree to marry someone that’s been lying to them for three years? The entire time they’ve known me?”

“Huh,” says Spoiler.

‘Huh’ indeed.

“So I ran,” Jason says. “I don’t even know if I said anything. The next thing I knew, I was in the street with a pack of cigs and a lighter in my pocket. I came up here to smoke a couple before going back and ending things.”

“You—wait, ‘ending things?’” Spoiler’s head whips around, the white lenses of her domino widening. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t lie to them,” says Jason. “When I go back, I’ll tell them the truth. And they’ll break up with me for lying for years. I was just trying to put it off.”

The worst thing was, he wasn’t even trying to lie for most of it. You took his excuses easily, believed him about a boxing gym membership to explain away the bruises, and never uttered a complaint about the odd hours he worked. Every time he was late to a date or canceled, you understood. Every time he forgot something important, odds were that you’d forgotten, too, without him to remind you.

All things considered, Jason might have found the single least curious person in all of Gotham, if you hadn’t figured it out after three years. But he’d gotten so comfortable that he’d forgotten that it was a secret, really. It had all rushed back in when he heard your words like a smack to the face, and he’d panicked.

“You don’t know that,” Spoiler says softly.

“Could you forgive someone for something like this?”

She stays silent, and that’s answer enough.

Jason huffs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack of cigarettes and lighter, and considers them. Then he sighs and drops both on the ground. “Might as well get this over with.”

The cold Gotham air whips away the reek of smoke by the time he’s back at your apartment. Jason looks at the door like a condemned man looks at the gallows. He could sneak in through the window like he usually does, but he selfishly wants you to open the door for him. Show that he’s welcome now, even though he won’t be for long.

Seconds drag on like torturous minutes until he hears the familiar click of the lock. The door inches open with a screech.

Jason’s mouth goes dry at the sight of your wide eyes. “Hey, darling.”

Wordlessly, you open the door further and step aside to let him in.

Funny how a place he’s practically lived in can feel so unfamiliar. Jason shifts between feet as you re-lock your door.

The moment you turn around, he blurts out, “I’m sorry.”

You say the same thing.

“What?” Jason asks.

“You don’t need to apologize,” you say.

“No, I was an ass,” he insists. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“I didn’t mean to push you. I just saw you looking at rings, and we’ve talked about it, but still, marriage is a big step, so I wanted to be prepared,” you ramble. “I mean, we said that we could get married, but we never discussed when, or when the proposal would be—”

“Honey!”

You fall silent.

“Just wait,” Jason begs. He can’t stand any more of your endless understanding. You’ve only ever understood him, no matter what, and he’s going to miss it so much. He’s going to miss you so much. “Wait one second.” He retreats to the bedroom and returns a moment later with something clutched behind his back. Your eyes dart to the awkward way he’s contorted his arm.

Your face goes blank when he pulls out the spare helmet he keeps below your bed. He’d only used a domino when out with Spoiler, but that wouldn’t do for the grand reveal.

“I’m the Red Hood,” he says in a rush, then braces for your judgment.

You don’t react except to say, “Jason.”

He doesn’t understand. You’re not scared of the killer in your apartment. You’re not furious at the man that’s lied to you for three years. Obviously you don’t understand what he’s saying. “Honey, I’m the Red Hood. The vigilante.”

“Jay—”

You’re still just standing with no reaction. Jason holds the mask up so you’re making eye contact with it.

You push it out of the way and cradle his face with both your hands. “Jason Peter Todd, look at me,” you command.

Jason holds your gaze. It’s the last time he’ll ever be so close to you, and he never wants to forget what your presence feels like.

“Jay, I’ve known basically the whole time.”

What.

Jason blinks.

“What?”

“I already knew.”

“Honey, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I’m the—”

“Red Hood, yes, I know.” You muster up a tremulous smile. “And Bruce is Batman. Dick is Nightwing. Steph is Spoiler, Damian is Robin, Tim is—”

“Oh my God, you knew? How did you know?”

“Jason. My love. My darling. My honey bunchkin.” You give him a mildly scolding look. “I’m not an idiot.”

Jason’s ears heat. “And you’re not… mad?”

“That you’re the Red Hood?” You cock your head. “Of course not. I worry about you, of course. But you have to do it. I know that. Or am I mad that you tried to keep it a secret for three years?” You press your lips together to hide a growing smile. “No. I’m not mad about that either. You can’t exactly go around telling your secret identity to everyone you kiss. It’s just something I had to figure out on my own.”

“You knew,” Jason marvels. “You knew this whole time.”

“Most of the whole time,” you say. “But yes.”

“Oh my God.” Jason’s moving before he can stop himself, and he wraps you up in his arms and spins you around. “I thought you would hate me,” he confesses, still clutching you like his life depends on it. “When I finally told you.”

A soft hand runs through his hair. “Is that why you ran?” you ask softly.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, honey, I just—”

“I get it,” you interrupt.

“You were scared.”

A thought occurs to Jason with such clarity he nearly drops you. “Wait, so you were going to marry me even after you knew about the mask?”

“Of course,” you say. “I love you, Jay. Mask and all.”

“I don’t have a ring.”

“I don’t need one. Don’t you get it? I only need you.”

“I only need you, too.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Jason agrees, and he probably looks like a fool with his wide grin, but you can’t stop smiling either. He dips his head, and you rise up to press your lips to his, even though with both your grins you end up clicking teeth.

“Good,” you repeat.

“Good,” Jason says, just for good measure, and this time he makes sure the kiss is better. Lightning shoots up his spine and he pulls back to ask, “Wait, are we engaged now?”

“Um… yes?”

“That’s awesome.”

Your smile is so wide that your eyes nearly close. Jason’s pretty sure he looks the same as he sweeps you up and spins you around. You fit perfectly into his arms. He’s never going to let you go.

“My fianceé,” he says fondly. “I’m never going to get tired of saying that.”

“I’m marrying you,” you marvel, sweeping your thumb over his mouth. “I have the prettiest husband-to-be in the whole world.”

“I love you,” Jason confesses. “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

Seconds before your mouths meet for another kiss, Jason’s phone buzzes. On the off-chance it’s an important alert, he pulls it out, but it’s just Spoiler asking for an update.

Jason stows the device. “I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I know how to make the sopapillas the right way.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

It turns out that Jason’s right.

Making them with your help turns out to be what was missing the whole time.

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[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ/ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ᴋɪɴᴋ

KISS ME | Stalker!Harry x Reader, purge au

You left him with a taste of you lingering between his teeth, after the first time. With his appetite, it’s only fair he comes back for seconds.

★18+

I don't know what possesses me to write a psycho sicko every time the pumpkins start rolling out onto the doorsteps (see Hitchhikerry) but there is simply something in the air, I fear. This is ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ for the KINKTOBER projects.

PLEASE read the warnings, and please put yourself and your comfort first and foremost. Consume only what you’re comfortable consuming. This one is not intended to be read as a love story, and has sensitive topics, dark themes, and *dubious consent.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects and join the taglist for upcoming projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: dubcon. stalking. sexual assault. coping with sexual assault. under negotiated kink. unsafe sex (no use of condom, no negotiation prior). manipulation. mask kink. leather kink. daddy kink. breeding kink. p-in-v. oral (m to f). general manhandling.

WC: 12.3K

As always, Harry is just a faceclaim.

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. 

Gold and liserian and bluebonnet. Midnight and cherry-red massacre, seeping into the gutter grate with the sky glowing like a peachring. 

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. It’s unstilted, and smells like rust, and kerosene, and Summer feels a hundred miles away. A thousand, like sunrise on the twenty-second, milliseconds seeping like sand through a clogged hourglass. Like someone wedged their sticky fingers in through the top and stuck a piece of gum to the narrowed opening.

The miasma, even days later, when waste management hordes the lily-white cadavers into semi’s and street sweepers come out to pressure wash the asphalt, burns your nose like you’re huffing acid. 

And it feels like God cupping his hands around the continent and squeezing every ugly, brutish thing out. You wonder if the blood seeping between the asphalt slates sticks to the grooves of his palms. His fingerprints, casting massacre into the pitch sky, smudging asterisms together. You’re supposed to feel the holy spirit. 

(Feel it— don’t you feel it?) 

At the back of your tongue, in every empty room, like a nebulous haze of goodwill and unconditional love. When you were a kid, you wondered why feeling God didn’t make your skin itchy. It would, right? If the body of Christ stalled at your nape, looming over your shoulder. You were raised catholic, so it still lingers and sticks to the nook of your periphery like an oilslick, no matter how hard you knuckle at your eyes. 

You wonder if it’s that same holy spirit they’re tasting in the heme when they cough, supine on the sidewalk. If it’s God’s liquid love, righteous across every capillary, with the swing of a sword. A forefinger on a trigger. 

That’s what they say, anyways. Last Tuesday the blonde lady on Fox news said it was always God in our veins on the night of the holy purge— feel God (transubstantiation like a distant, muffled folklore ringing in your ears) cleanse your soul. Fox news always starts to lean on epistemic justification in Spring, and you wonder if people believe God is scrubbing them from the inside with a bathbrush. You wonder if they really even believe in God, anyways, when it’s all just a mangled apparatus for population control. 

(But God wants them to kill the poor people, right?)

Last spring, a man broke into your apartment. 

Charcoal bulk. Tapered obsidian. Wide shoulders, wide arms, wide, herculean thighs, in all black. Slate denim. Battered leather jacket. Those massive hands, coated in pure-nightfall leather. You remember them well, because you thought they resembled the thick, sheepskin gloves your grandfather would wear out in the snow—

Nothing besides black on him, besides the cruel arsenic white of a plastic doll mask stretched over his balaclava. Like those ugly, inexpressive porcelain things you’d find stacked up in antique stores. Your gaze lingered on the delirious scripture across the forehead. Kiss me.

He slunk in while you were in the bathroom. Cracked in your front door. You discovered a crater in the shape of his kneecap, days later, when you replaced the broken locks.

You found him on your couch like a stygian king, thighs split, like he belonged in your tiny living room in all his ominous, leathery heft, and for a second, you just stalled at the threshold with your heart at the base of your throat. Eyes wide. In stagnant impasse with this absurdly nonchalant intruder. Between a beleaguered rock and a hard place. He’d cocked his head at you. Dead silent, and your hindbrain prickled with parity of a slasher film clip— the kind you’d peep over your blanket, folded up to your nose with shaking hands, after bedtime. You weren’t allowed to watch the movie, at the time. But you always remembered that scene where the indifference rolled off the killer in lapping, tidal waves before he’d strike and carve a character open. 

Something scratched at your hindbrain. Some hysterical thread, clinging to the falsehood that this was a rancid illusion. A nightmare, limned in butter-yellow off the lamp on the side table. His dirty boots kicked up on your coffee table. Inkblots in the plastic cut-outs of the eye sockets, glimmering like hungry nightfall. Because it was the purge, sure, but it wasn’t you. 

Never you. It couldn’t happen to you.

Hindsight humbles the untouchable, crooked complex you wore on your shoulders. Your head, with your chin held high, behind the glowing string-lights tucked across your blinds and the bleeding street under your balcony.

(You remember you thought God prickled at your nape that night. May God be with you— that’s what they say.)

(God was cold, and it made your skin itch. Maybe he would have been warm, and kind, and you would’ve felt the goodwill and unconditional love if you didn’t ask so many stupid questions in kidhood during bible camp. If you didn’t bury your bible into the bottom of your nightstand when you realized they were justifying their gnarled agenda with the pages.)

You felt sick—

And he told you he didn’t have any interest in killing you. A purr, muffled by layers of stitched cotton and plastic. No interest in all that. Wouldn’t wanna hurt a pretty thing like you. 

Like a sarky paradox to all the formidable space he was taking up, in all his horrifying gear. 

Kiss me.

An irony to the ichor thumb-smudge across his forehead. An irony, you thought, to God with a bathbrush, and the date, and the time, and the uncomfortable, imperfect squeeze of you into the bracket of wrong-place-wrong-time. In your own apartment.

Aren’t you gonna thank me, he hummed, on his feet now, from across the room. Stalemate. Rotten stasis. Deadlock, at his discretion, with you, shaking like a leaf under the archway. 

For protecting you? That’s what he said. 

(If you weren’t frozen in place with the leftovers you had for dinner curdling in your belly— eye to eye with a facsimile of the reaper— you would have snorted. It was just so absurdly ironic that it nearly made your ribs ache.) 

He was so big, you thought, when his shoulders climbed and his chest swelled, under the animal skin. So rigid. You wondered if he was all bulk like that, under the layers, or if the loose coat, and the gloves, and the daunting mien of a predator just made him seem that much larger. You’re not a small thing, but he made you feel as much. Like a dolly. A maquette— a perfect marionette to toss around between his hands on the perfect night, the perfect date on the calendar. 

Lotta bad men around, tonight.

The floorboard creaked under his weight. One step forward. The carpet bristled under your heel. 

Aren’t you gonna thank me for protecting you? 

(Kiss me.)

You remember how you went along. Easy. Didn’t say no.

And you could chalk it up to survival— pure, self-preservational instinct— and the gunfire looming outside your window. No. You remember the swell of panic, the riptide of adrenaline tearing you into a deluge of auto-pilot. Something seeped into the hairline fracture across the line between saving yourself— and your dignity, your pride. 

(Something ugly, and wrong, and so out of place. So warm in a room so bone-chilling.)

You thought you were broken. The two choices, unequivocally, were always fight or flight. 

(So which synapse misfired, that night, that kicked your gears into neither?)

You remember ugly things from that night. It felt like your ribs were being pried open, and he was picking you apart, pinching some raw and deep to pluck it out between leather fingers, until you were squirming in a pool of your own spilled volition. Like milk knocked over on the counter. Left to rot. Curdle.  

Because it didn’t hurt. He didn’t hurt you. 

And maybe that was worse. Because you were supposed to kick, and fight, and scream, and you— 

Didn’t. 

And maybe at first, it was a form of endurance. Survival sense— shutdown, like a generator on its last limb, preserving its own continuance. Just go along, just survive, just—

It’s easier, you think, in retrospect, to justify that. 

What’s harder is that you remember you thought you were broken because part of you, eventually, didn’t want to kick, or fight, or scream. 

(Go for the eyes— that’s what they say— and where would you go, in those inky craters, under the shadows? Like polynyas brimful of tar. You’d drown.) 

You remember the way he called himself daddy— come sit on Daddy’s cock, tell Daddy how good he feels— and you remember the visceral burgeon of disgust swelling in your belly. 

The way it made you revolted, and shuddery, and white-hot. 

Wanting. Slick. 

Because he’s not your daddy. Wasn’t. Isn’t.

You knew it for what it was. A gross game. Meant to debase your conation. This scary man in his scary mask on this, scary night, in your home, here to take something for himself. A flinder of your rib— a cracked piece of bone, here to tuck it into the inside of his coat. To watch your face crease with the juxtaposing blend of repulsion and want, rolling down your spine like rainwater off a downspout, as your cunt fluttered. 

He fucked you stupid on his cock again, and again, and again, until the sun was scraping at the land with its hot fingers, and the corners of your room were white and blue. Took what he wanted, because he decided he could. 

And that’s the game. The brutal nature of humanity crumbling under the weight of anarchy, and unrestricted autonomy, even if only for a night. Bereft morals. Selfish whims.

(And you took it. Just took it. Didn’t put up a fight, not when terror started lagging behind pleasure.)

He ate your cunt, too, just the way you liked. For hours, with the plastic mask tucked up like the balaclava, to the tip of his nose. The hard edge, and the cotton, pressing into your mons when he rolled your clit with his tongue, pressed the flats of his white teeth against it. You remember that. 

His nice, clean white teeth, and his pink lips. 

He must’ve been a pretty man under all the unnerving guise.

By the time the siren screeched at seven, you were strewn on your sheets like puddy across the sidewalk. All worn, and tired, and malleable, which he seemed to like. Panting, sweaty, tacky. Covered in him. The sticky, pearlescent mimesis, like memorabilia. Your pink underwear dangling out of his pocket like a perverted token to pin up onto his wall like a poster, after. His hard, leather fingerprints, blooming across your soft love handles, where he held your bones in place (but you didn’t need him to— not when you were so willing to placate and assuage and give). The chiaroscuro made your ribs rattle when you breathed deep. 

You stared at the popcorn ceiling when his belt buckle clinked. Slotted himself back together, into unobtainable nightfall against the backdrop of daytime. 

There’s a lot of things that stuck with you from that night. He didn’t hurt you, and your skin stayed sealed, but according to everyone, a part of you maybe-died, or that’s how you should feel, anyway. So, you wondered if that gangrenous part of you was severed off, bleeding out onto the carpet. Between the floorboards, staining the ceiling of the apartment on the floor under yours. A nebula of rust red across plaster.

(You thought it was severed, because at first you didn’t feel it. Anything. Nothing. Numb. Pinpricks across your psyche like your hand when you slept on it the wrong way. Maybe he cut it loose when you weren’t looking— when your lashes fluttered, smogged in the haze of yellow string lights, when your cheek kissed the mattress, and sex.)

You remember a lot of things that make your chest feel tight, like cotton unspooling in the crevices of your lungs, and your head feel waterlogged, and your knees brittle. But you remember he told you, before he left, that he’ll see you next year. 

I’ll see you next year, sweetheart.

Like a portent. It should’ve been. In a way, it felt like a reassurance, and you hate that pulpy part of yourself. 

And what can you do? 

You’re a statistic. 

The label feels wrong. Permanent. Like a bumper sticker stamped onto your forehead with gorilla glue. You’re lucky, they tell you, after. What a close call, when you swallow preventive abortion pills and shiver at your own reflection passing in the mirror. You think, maybe, your guardian angel blinked, somnolence searing at the backs of its eyes. Because, maybe, angels sleep, too. You don’t know. They didn’t teach that in church. 

You go to therapy. The woman in the big, sable chair gives you this look. Crinkled countenance pinched in pity. How pitiful, you’re reminded, and how lucky you are to only be scratched by a freight train. You’re not smattered pulp on the railroad tracks, but in the cruel cosm, you feel like jam dripping down God’s hands. 

You ask her if it’s fucked up that it felt good. 

She tells you it’s not. 

But then, you ask if it’s fucked up that a crackled fragment of you, maybe-sort-of-in-a-way, wouldn’t mind if it happened again.  

That’s a different question. 

Because you’ve been mulling that thought over between your teeth, in the hollow gaps between mortified, pale-faced solaces, I’m sorry’s, I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s. It’s been festering, and feels like a chunk of you rotting under the sun. But maybe, if someone tells you that it’s okay—

If you had to do it over— you put it that way, like emphasizing a crease in a sheet of paper, and she gives you another, long, reticent look this time, instead of a response. 

(Because, maybe, putting it that way makes the insatiable itch in your arteries more relatable. Easier to swallow. Easier to tolerate. Maybe you sound like less of a freak, with the tumult.) 

Guilt for feeling pleasure is, apparently, very common, as indicated by the PDF she emails you that night to look over. Rape Victims and the False Sense of Guilt. 

Rape. The word rape, across the screen, makes you flinch. It’s such a small word in the sea of the text, only four Lilliputian letters. Teeny-tiny. But it feels big. Like a big deal— rape, that’s a big word. It’s razor sharp when it echoes behind your skull. It’s ugly, and it ends on a blunt, hard sound. No elasticity. No give. This unyielding, little word that shatters around you in its hideous, mangled phonetics— is that what happened to you?

You’re lucky. What a close call. I’m sorry that happened to you.

Pleasure is a natural, physical reaction. A bodily reaction. That’s what it says.

You can cope with that. Comprehend that. The rest is— loaded. Like an assault rifle, in spring. You don’t know how to peel the pieces apart. You never learned how to take apart a gun.

You know what a bodily reaction is. 

But nothing explains the chimera you chase after— the fantasy, when you’re plugged around two of your own fingers, weeks, months later, chasing the phantom ache. 

Liking masks is okay, but liking masks is only okay if there’s something preliminary about them. Liking to feel small and scared is okay, but only if there’s a safety net, and safewords, and you trust the other person, and know them like the pores across the back of your hand. A stranger isn’t allowed to make you feel this way. 

But liking this— thinking about this, with your head fuzzy and your skin simmering— is wrong. Bad. 

It’s okay, but you need to heal. Something bad happened to you, and you need to sweep your pieces into the dustpan before you start to put them back together. That’s what you read between the lines. It feels accusatory.

(Only, you don’t think you could mold them into the same form, if you tried. Stick them back into their rifted crevasses, when they’re jagged and misshapen.)

The things you feel are, by all definitions— according to the internet, and everyone around you— wrong. Ugly. Sick. You shouldn’t feel anything but nausea scraping at the back of your throat, pooling briny under your tongue, when you think about that night. About him. That’s what you find in the vats of their eyes when you tell people what happened, the stricken shape of their faces. Like you’re broken. Because you are broken. 

Some part of you has a big indigo bruise stretched across it, smarting something awful. Some part of you is fractured ceramic. 

You’re a statistic. A number. A sliver on a bar graph. It feels like throwing yourself headfirst over a rock face. Into a yawning abyss. You splinter upon contact with the water, but it doesn’t ripple around you. Just lets your dissevered pieces wade and buoy.

You don’t go back to therapy after the third time, and you spend all summer burying your esoteric predilections at the back of the shelf. Let them gather dust, because they’re shattered anyways, and you don’t know how to make any sense of the smashed fragmentations. They’re so jagged, they’ll cut the soft skin on your palms up if you cup them too close.

You move when your lease ends in the summer. Not really by choice, but the decision has the weight of all those ruckled, condolatory looks. Those I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s, like flour-sacks across your shoulders. Your apartment still reeks like him. It’s a phantom musk, whispering along your lungs. Cigarettes, and leather, and tangy sweat (it almost feels like it belongs— not unpleasant, like the brine across Poseidon’s abdomen). It’s uncomfortable. You long for it. You’re imagining it, you know that. 

Your new apartment is clean. It smells like bleach, and it has all different locks, and the promise spills in cobwebs behind your skull. You try not to get tangled in them.

And everything tells you it’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong— everything. A churning, gut feeling, when you sign the new lease, when you roll around your sheets in the middle of the night with your hand between your tacky thighs. 

You feel like you’re breaking an unspoken rule. You’re supposed to heal. This isn’t healing.

You consider booking that out-of-country trip in March. Week-long, just to stifle the premonition under the heel of your palm. The omen, that was still dripping heady, clotting the air alongside the stifling sound of the zipper closing its teeth together. Crinkling leather when he buckled his belt.

Your mom gives you a call. Tells you to come out to Maine for the weekend. You shrug the invitation off with your phone cradled between your cheek and your shoulder, and your laundry between your fingers. I’m fine, mom. I’m—

Fine. Cataclysmically. Okay. Bleeding out onto the tarmac with every step, like the incipient springtide. 

You cup a posy of daffodils between your hands with wistfulness speckling across your chest. 

You used to love spring. In kidhood, before the heavy, inordinate burden of purge-nights spanned across your shoulders, spring had the delicacy of a flower. The warmth of sunshine beading across your skin. The naivety of pastels. A callow touch of rose-tint.

You always knew living alone had its risks. In an apartment, no less, flimsy and unsheltered by security shutters and the bulwarks of a standalone. A danger, like a yellow warning sign. It’s the same precarious footing that warrants your mother’s calls back to your hometown every spring. 

(The same reason she called you last year. And you— stupid, stupid— didn’t go.)

You don’t know how to excuse yourself this year. Lack of self-preservation? Stupid, callow hope? You don’t know what you’re hoping for. 

(What you’re feeding.)

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been dusting the shattered shards on the shelf. 

Anybody else in your position would be halfway across the continent, and you’re shutting down your flower shop and turning in for the night. Pretending (that you’re pretending) you’re inviolable, like that headspace didn’t get crushed under his thumb last year. The clock ticks on the wall. 

The man who comes up to the register has a bouquet in his hand. A sprig of carmine carnations that crinkles when he lays it flat onto the countertop. He’s tall. Broad. Pretty— the first thing you think of, upon impression, mapping out the ridges of his face, the even slope of his nose, the burnt umber curl that spills over his forehead. Wordless. He stares at you. 

Just stares. Not quite boring into you, but lingering, inkpools fixed. Indescribably. Unremitting.

There’s a familiarity in his gaze. Something that weaves across you in unspooling, crepuscular cobwebs, something that prickles. And eye-contact feels like a stalemate. A competition; who will give first? Your mettle splinters in hairline fractures. 

“Is this,” your smile is flimsy. Brittle. Eyes dipping to the flowers he’s laid out. “…all for you today?” 

He smells expensive. Like amber musk, but something sticks to his scent like an afterthought. A note, in undertow. 

Smoke.

Like he washed his hands, brushed his teeth, but couldn’t kick the odor off his clothes, lingering in the stitches.  

Emotions dredge up from the pit of your psyche like his presence is the metal head of a shovel. Cold leather. A hot touch. Things you’ve left numb for too long, oozing, electric, alive. Your fingers flex on the stems, and the plastic clicks under your hand when you stare down at it. You can’t look. 

“Mm.”

You feel flayed. Raw. Like you’re going to come apart into tatters in the middle of the store. In front of a customer. You cast your gaze up. He isn’t looking at you anymore. Hands buried in his pockets, eyes listing across the melange of flower assortments you’ve got on display behind the counter. And you feel—

Embarrassed. Silly. Your cheeks heat, your heart thundering at your throat. It’s silly. 

“Oh,” you breathe as you roll the bouquet between your hands. Key in the numerical series to the system, “I like these. They’re very pretty. …Looks like today, it’s going to be… twenty-six.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Nothing at all, doesn’t make any motion towards procuring a payment method, and that nagging sense of worry spirals between your brows when you cast your inkpools up to find him staring again. Under your hands. There’s a judder to them. You watch his hand reach into the front-pocket of his jeans, and cull a cashfold. He licks his fingers before he separates the cash, and hands it to you. 

Your fingers brush. You swallow. 

You hand his change over with your fingers twitching. 

“Happy purge,” he tells you. Suddenly.

Your smile wobbles. Creases. Curls back up into a proxy of a cheery mien you have the resolve to upkeep. “Happy purge.”

His fingertips drum across the counter. “And may our souls be cleansed.”

It sounds droll. Wry. Like he’s making a mockery of every piece of propaganda the news channel paints across your screen, a week-long affair in snippets before commencement. You swallow. 

“Up for anything tonight?”

The question shouldn’t nick between your ribs. Scrape into the soft place— you’ll get loads of customers that ask. That participate, affluent folk. Young people, with grease smeared across their smiles when they tell you that they’re excited to exercise their God-given right. 

You shake your head. “No— no. I don’t… partake.”

The silence that congeals between you is suffocating. Heavy. You feel your poise withering. Shrinking back into you, under the weight of his gaze. It’s an eerie stagnancy, and you feel like you’re sinking to the depths. 

“You’re,” you tell him, trying to smile, but it doesn’t meet your eyes this time, “…all set.”

His eyes roam. Openly. Lash across you in bounds, slow, detail-oriented. It’s odd. Makes you feel strange. Finally, they fix on your face. No doubt, creased with discomfort. 

“Stay safe tonight,” he tells you, before he turns, bouquet in hand. 

“Right. You— stay safe,” you rock forward on your heels. The bell over the door jingles. 

You’re broken, but you’re not stupid. You twist the locks when you get home. Double-check every window. Turn off every light that you aren’t using. 

The announcement comes across the TV when you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out, the emergency broadcast has morphed off into a rerun of Friends. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Tuck your knees to your chest and stare at the clock? Roll into the fetal position and pray? 

May God be with you. 

The gunfire outside begins during the credits. You can’t stomach the harrowing scream that seeps across from the street below, so you plug your ears with your headphones, and you blast music until you feel like your ears are bleeding. Hole up in your bedroom.

You can’t discern the feeling that clots in your chest when you come out to your living room, eventually, to find him on your couch. In eerie stillness. Terror? Relief? 

He notices you. Swells when he breathes, all heft, just like you remember. The burgeon of fear that prickles at your nape, making your hair stand on end, you find, clots beside something you’re unable to dissect. For a long second, the both of you just breathe. Observe. 

He breaks the silence. 

“…Come tell Daddy hello.”

Daddy. Daddy— the titular moniker makes you bristle, startling you out of your stupor like whiplash. What are you doing? What are you doing?

You stall by the bathroom door. This game of cat and mouse is precarious. You’ll lose— that fact is brassbound. Undeniable. You don’t know what you were expecting. Why you stayed. You’ve got the short end of the stick, always. And still, you contemplate, lingering with your hand on the doorknob. The stagnancy in biding your time feels like staring at a snake coiling beside your feet. Waiting for it to lash forward. 

You take a slow step forward. Another. He doesn’t make any moves towards you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s keen to sit up. Content with the view of your dread snowballing. Mushrooming. Hands resting across his lap, his tree-trunk thighs split apart. 

Waiting. Watching. 

You don’t expect it when he sits up, grunting, to wrap his hand across your forearm. Lug you forward, into the alcove between his thighs. The brush of leather across your bare skin makes chills erupt across your skin. Manhandling you, like puddy between his hands. You’re supposed to fight, you’re supposed to kick, you’re supposed to—

Scream. You exhale when he twists you and forces you to sit on his knee. You’re stupid. What you’re chasing isn’t healthy.

You think he’s going to ask why you moved. Silly girl. Didn’t think I’d find you?

He doesn’t. 

“Been a good girl?” he drawls, instead, chest swelling in your periphery. It feels mocking, despite the casualness of his tone— unsanded around the edges. The irony of the position has your teeth set, like you’re a child on Santa’s lap, and not a grown woman on his. A petrifying— 

Half-stranger. Almost.

The revelation is uncanny to the way you’re searing under your skin. And there’s a thin line, you think, between coercion, and the way your heart batters a little faster, the way you clench your fingers together to avoid squeezing your thighs.

You don’t say anything. It’s rhetoric, because he isn't finished. He cups your knee under his palm, the dark leather, and says, “Kept your pussy to yourself, mm?”

Not your hands. Not your hands. 

Your pussy. 

The undiluted vulgarity trickles down your nape, makes you flinch, and you fist your hands a little harder, until the crescents dig into your palms. It’s still just as nonchalant, even-toned. But it’s crude, and it makes your face hot. 

Like he owns that. Like you belong to him, in some way.

(And maybe, in some way, some part of you does. That piece of your rib he still has tucked into his pocket from last spring.)

Your heart is in your throat. You turn your cheek. Away. Just enough, but the hand that was on your knee presses against the side of your face. Two fingers, gloved, that pry your attention back onto him. It’s almost effortless. Feels like he’s using hardly any strength at all, has your chin snapping back, and the weight of two fingers, against that groove under your cheekbone, has an ache radiating up into your temple. He’s feeling the ridges of your teeth through your soft flesh. Wrenching his fingertips into the hollow rift between the two rows, and your breath ebs your lungs in soft pants, free falling the gap between your lips. The slick, gummy inside of your cheek twinges under the pressure.

You stare back, and—

You don’t know what you find. What you’re looking for. There’s a hunger in the plastic cut outs, glimmering in the tenebrose, like a predator shimmering in the distance of the thicket. One that’s spent all winter hibernating.

He digs his fingers in a little harder. Makes your head tilt with an ease that makes your head spin. The sound that leaks out of you is embarrassing. So unlike you. So small, and vulnerable, and raw. 

It reminds you of feeling like you were being carved open, like you were having those pieces pulled out of you. Those fragments that you’ve buried deep behind your ribs, all yours. Delicate chattels between his fingers like a thread that he’ll tug to unspool you to the core.

His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth. Your lower lip. Rests there, all leather. It smells like charred tobacco. Tar. 

“Yes,” you breathe. Appease. The word comes out tangled with a frantic note, an exhale, and sounds garbled off your liquified, molasses-heavy tongue. 

Maintaining eye contact is difficult. Intense. Feels like wading a knee-deep morass with how treacly it makes your head feel, but it’s impossible to look away. With the angle he has your head, you feel snared into an unspoken standoff. Feels like you’re caught in a springe he’s laid out. You, with your rabbiting heart, and your ankle caught in a noose. And him—

Those deep-seated inkpools glimmer from the underbrush. 

“Is that right?”

It’s like a car crash, you think, stuck in limbo. A beatific maelstrom of metal scraping on metal. The beautiful, horrifying view, in the split-second of collision. Time in stasis. Slow motion.

You can’t look away.

He stops pressing to rap the pads against your cheekbone, instead, and the thump that echoes in your skull almost sounds hollow. Loud in your ears. The pang lingers in your jaw, like a dull ache, across your upper teeth, the inside of your cheek. 

There’s a split second there, where that bilious feeling slinks into your stomach and coils up, stretching between your lungs. That sick you find, buried under the galvanized cobwebs spooling your sense of self-preservation, like a haze of little, electric gossamers across your synapses. The incipience of a wave of nausea, softly lapping, at the thought that all of this, everything, is premeditated, and the gnarled root of it all sinks so much deeper than you’d ever expect. 

That he’ll know— knows— that you brought another man home last fall. 

It was stupid. A one off, scraped off a bar stool on a Saturday night after one too many whiskey sours, and the sex wasn’t even any good. You don’t remember it. 

But your head feels syrupy. You don’t know what’s worse: this burgeoning fear that you’ve disappointed him with— what? Free will? Autonomy? 

Or the slick ooze of the bone-juddering revelation that settles; he’s probably been watching you. Keeping tabs. 

(How else did he know where you moved? How to pin you under the pad of his thumb with such startling ease? You’re a thumbtack on a paper map, and a petrified part of you wonders if he’s got it— a chart of your whereabouts, your existence snared into a creased sheet— dangling next to the panties from last spring.)

If he knows about your liaison, he doesn’t indicate it. Opting to, instead, graze the shape of your lips with his thumb again, and push in to scrape the flats of your teeth with the leather. It’s gross. Feels strange— leather against the smooth inside of your lips, and when you breathe around it, you feel like you’re spinning out, headfirst, hurtling toward the ground. Something you don’t want to acknowledge rolls over, white-hot, in the pit of your tummy. 

“That’s good,” he settles on, and palms your breast so abruptly that it makes your lungs squeeze. Your throat clicks when you swallow. 

It feels so mechanical. Calculating. Collected. Nonchalantly purposeful— nothing gradual, no build up— like he’s here to reap and take, intent on what he’s looking for. But it’s all a startling, unnatural paradox, considering you were left so overly-satiated last spring, that you almost felt like a mindless shell of yourself. Entirely sapped. The enigma left your head clogged up and heavy for days. Weeks. Months. Your lashes flutter, dusting unfitting bliss across your cheeks like the speckling heat. Like pleasure is bulky, and rounded, and doesn’t fit into the jagged slot your anticipation has chiseled. 

He squeezes the doughy flesh in his hand, and scuffs your pebbling nipple with a side-swipe of his thumb. Then, the other. Long, thick fingers spanning, and coasting across your diaphragm, climbing your waist, the chiseled, swelling rungs of your ribcage, cupping under one of your tits again. He only stops at the soft sound that crawls out of your windpipe. Eyes flickering at the reedy, wanton whine that gushes through the seal of your teeth. The self-awareness makes you wither into yourself. Shrinking. Ecstasy feels like an agrestal parasite, mushrooming between your nerves. Budding in that slope under your navel.

(Wrong, wrong, wrong— a broken mechanism, misfiring. Grinding. Your eroded mettle squealing under the pressure.)

You can hear him breathing. He sounds like an animal. A panting beast. Feral. Untamed, wild, huffs stifled by ribbed cotton and matte plastic. He notches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches it. Tugs. A gust of your desperate breath escapes through that barren dearth between your teeth when he palms you by the front of your neck and pushes you against the back of the couch. 

It’s sloppy. Clumsy, an awkward angle from where you were on his lap— your limbs flail before you topple, and it requires more core strength on your part than you anticipate to sink back, but it isn’t violent. Aggressive. The coarse denim on his thigh abrades your naked skin when he twists to hover over you. Cushion denting under the weight of his knee. Your neck cranes back as he pins you to the back of the couch by the column of your throat. Head tipped back, nearly dangling over, neck straining. He looms over you.

Just—

Staring. Staring. You stare back and wonder if he feels your pulse hammering with the layer of the leather barricade between skin kissing skin. Like this, the mask is limned in shadows from the slant, and the crepuscular orifices under the plastic are even harder to make out. Harder to gauge. You want to gauge. You want to see—

You won’t have the upper hand. You know that, but prying for the threadbare margin of a hint, a motive, a reaction, feels like digging your fingers in for a last-ditch lifeline. 

His eyes are half-mast. Dark lashes spanned over the glint in pitch, mounted in white. You can’t see what he’s thinking. Can’t—

He reels forward, back hunched, leather jacket crinkling, and you feel the plastic mask tucked to your cheekbone. Your temple. Your hair. He reeks like santalum. Petrichor— the first rain spilling onto the pavement, scrubbing the bloodshed off into the grates— and the overwhelming scent of leather that clots in your nose. His mask scrapes your ear. He sniffs.

And you think, a little hysterically, that he’s smelling you. The recognition prickles in your skull, and climbs up your nape in a shiver. And it feels so— 

Animalistic. Primal. Indelicate. Like any sense of decorum flaking off and shedding like desquamate feathers, and it makes you feel so small. A frisson rides the ledges of your spine. Something shudders across his shoulders. Rattles them— you clock it in your periphery, stunned into subservience with your fingers twisting into the couch cushion. 

He sighs. Hums. Like he’s vibrating over you, buzzing, and the thought has that skein across your lungs tightening. The sound that seeps out of him is brassy. Low. Hungry. And the likeness that scrapes at your hindbrain, through the plume of reluctance and crushing desire, nearly makes you feel delirious— it almost sounds like a dog whining. Like he’s been holding himself back, and your scent is too much, chips an integral shard out of his flinty resolve. 

You don’t know why, but it makes you squirm. Makes your chest roll under him, hips shifting. Your eyes oscillate. Stutter from the ceiling fan to the corner of the room, because he’s smelling you and sounds like he’s falling apart. 

Your throat jumps under his hand. He drums his fingertip under your jaw, and it feels like the tick of a clock. He reels back. Slowly. Tipped over you, huffing with his head cocked. Almost panting. This harrowing monster, quivering in his skin, in all his heft, like he wants to eat you alive. Swallow you whole. His eyes slip. The feather-dust of his lashes kisses the pink-rimmed seam of his lower lashline, and he takes a deep breath, intumescent across the breadth of his shoulders. 

You swallow again, your throat still under his hand. The heel of his palm glued to your trachea. Your jaw arched back, under the press of his fingers. His eyes list. Stall across the apex of your denuded thighs, and the brief blip of pressure across your jaw, your throat, the fleeting restriction on your airway when he levels his weight and resituates, has your irises lolling and tainted gossamers stretching in sticky netting behind your skull. His freehand skates your abdomen. Prods your diaphragm, leather fingers grazing your belly button, the hem of your sleep shirt. Rucking it up. 

The boundary between arm-twisting and downright craving is negligible. It’s a foundation, under you— a poor excuse of a half-wall— crackled in fissures. When your hips hitch at the way he circles your navel, in a way, it feels like crumbled free will. Your own autonomy worn down and corroded by the chemistry spuming your veins (you tell yourself it’s artificial. A lethal injection of dopamine and melanocortin), because it feels like the hunger is pried out of you. Pulled out, tangled on his crooking fingertips. 

(And what do you have to say for yourself, when you need him like you need to eat.)

Your hips cant when he strokes his fingers over your waistband, across the sensitive, soft stretch of skin over your mons. You can still hear him breathing over the bloodrush, like spindrift, across the little, vibrating bones, deep in your ear. He sniffs, gaze pinned to the shape of your quivering thighs (juddering knees, swelling tummy)—

He knocks your legs apart with his thigh, until the plush of them spills around the shape of him. All broad, all muscle, all denim against your smooth skin, and he wrenches one of your thighs up with his fingers under your knee. Presses you back by the shin, with your sole planted on the couch cushion, and—

Like this, he has the perfect view. The perfect shape of your cunt, through your panties. They’re white this year. So unassuming, just a plain bikini-cut in ivory, but you wonder if he’s weighing the way they’ll look beside the other pair, like a sordid tchotchke. 

His eyes linger on it. You can’t see his inkpools, but they feel molten. Heady. Predatorial, and the shockwave riding the slanting arches of your ribcage makes it harder to take in a full breath. Lagoons spilling heat. They surge the soft shapes of your body like lavascapes, melting across your skin. 

You’re wet. You know that— feel the damp heat like you feel the want droning across your bones, lacing your muscles. And the sloppy, saturated shape of your dribbling pussy, behind the thin veil of a gusset, is no exception. You curl your toes. Dig them into the couch cushion. The carpet. Dangling onto the fragility of your self-possession (unraveling), and then he probes, with the tip of his index, right where your clit sits. A meager tap.

Your arousal is a tangible wad in your gut, and he plays with it between his fingers.

Desperation climbs to the base of your throat at an alarming rate. Echoes in your jugular as a thrum when his eyes sway between your face and the shape of your cunt. The shape of it under the entirety of his palm, swallowing you whole, between your legs, when he pastes his hand there. And he can’t feel the way it’s soaking, can’t feel how slick you are, but you wonder if the sheer heat leaches through the layers. 

If he can feel how hot and wanting you are, through the glove. 

He purrs like he can. Trails two fingers along the splitting fjord, your puffy lips. His thumb crooks into one end of your gusset just to let it snap back and watch the shiver roll up through your shoulders, huffing around a thick, rumbly noise that sounds amused. Drenched in humiliating mirth. A crater forms around his knee cap when he presses it onto the cushion. Between your split legs, thigh pressed flush to your cunt. Tight. 

“Gonna be a good girl,” he murmurs, face dangling over yours, and the words sound masticated. Starved. “—and let me eat that slutty cunt?”

There’s a fine line, you remind yourself, between being forced, and whatever the— you don’t want to admit it, won’t admit it, stuff it down— rapacious froth inside of you means.

He splits your lips with his fingers. Pries them apart like a butterfly to pin up and frame.  

Mental snapshots to encase on a shelf, mounted beside your underwear and a pushpin map with your face smattered in uneven, sawtooth cut-outs. All raw, and sloppy, and wet. Gushing down to the cleft of your ass— he can see everything, and his eyes rove like he’s mapping every bit of you to memory, your underwear balled and tucked into the pocket of his coat. Drinking in every delicate detail, your pebbled clit twitching under his thumb scuffing, and it’s so—

Humiliating. 

Embarrassing— shame clots in that interstice between your battering heart and your ribs, that soft spot it’s been dribbling into since he perched you on his lap like a little girl begging for a present. You screw your eyes, cup the heels of your palms over them. You can’t look— can’t—

He moans again. Gives you a heady hum, nearly as slick with want as you are between your thighs. Only, his is oil to your honey. Motor fluid to your syrup— a slippery smear of grease to sap. Rotten. Thick and coal-dark, like tar. Something gritty that catches like sand between his teeth when you try to close your knees. It’s a faulty maneuver, with your feet pried apart on his elbows, and you can only latch your knees, and—

It’s the wrong thing to do. 

A slipshod attempt to preserve your dignity, but what’s the use, when it’s porous enough for him to spew the virulent pollutant of longing for him? Noxious. Infectious. Enough to mill your pride from the inside into a powdered dust. Instead, he pries the folds of your cunt apart with one hand, on two fingers— an index and a thumb— and slaps the back of your thigh with the other. 

Your thighs quake. Plush flesh shaking upon impact, the searing heat wave that robs you of your ephemeral resistance— rolling the thought that this is gross, not what you want— and scorches it through to the core, until all that’s left for you to face is the overwhelming desire.

“Eyes on me,” he grunts. Dour. Unrelenting, until you peer through the spaces in your fingers like you’re watching a nightmare unfold, and let him wrest your knees back apart. “Yeah,” he tells you, hardly over the feather-light weight of a whisper, despite the way it feels like it’s crushing your skull from the inside when it swims your ears. “Just like that. On me, pretty girl.”

You can’t look away, so you chew on your fingers instead. Tuck them between your teeth, toes curling into the cushions. Your sleep shirt is in a discarded puddle of fabric on the floor, beside him. There’s something so uncomfortably potent in nakedness when he hasn’t even discarded his gloves. 

He won’t.

But an element of intrigue gets dredged up into the mist of your yearning when he sticks the pad of his thumb under the plastic chin of the mask to pry it to the bridge of his nose. Speckling the nebula, that clouds you, like stardust. Worse, yet, when he pries the balaclava to the same, angular slope, to show his bare chin, his full, pink mouth, his cupid’s bow. 

His nice, clean white teeth. 

His tongue, slinking out to smear across his lips. Like this, the cut outs aren’t over his eyes, and the pools of hunger are shrouded behind the plasticated layer. He feels with his fingers. Spreads your pussy apart, grazes his thumb pad across your throbbing clit, slick with your own sticky wetness, and you watch him purse his lips before a tacky, wet glob lands across your hood. Drool, dripping down, coagulating at your drenched hole. 

You shudder. Can’t look away— it’s—

Gross. It’s wet, and it’s rancid, and the feeling of it being smeared across your cunt, the feeling of a finger prodding at your rim, uselessly clenching at the air, makes your face crease. Brows pinching. 

(So why, then, do you feel so dizzy from the spiraling wave of your own lust fizzing across your veins?) 

You mewl. He tucks his fingers into his mouth. The same ones that have been smudging the amalgam of your slick and his own saliva, still tucked in that leather glove, and the sound he makes at the taste— pure hedonism, dripping around the plug of his own fingers— has your thighs hinging apart wider. Straining. 

It sounds so— shattered. So desperate. Frenzied. A sound like that, out of him, feels so unco that it nearly wrenches your head back. He groans around his fingers, sloppy, and grunts when he takes them out to feel for your hole, tease a breach with the middle digit, not quite bursting the threshold— 

And God, when he eats, it’s like he’s a man starved. Famished. All animal between your thighs, suckling on your clit, dragging his tongue across your hole, like it’s pure sustenance and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Slurping around you, bullying your clit between his teeth like he wants to chew you up to spit you out. Rinse and repeat. 

He drags his tongue across you, so obscenely, seam to hood, like he wants you to see. Wants you to watch— wants you to know that you’ve got this horrifying brute on his knees between your legs, kissing on your cunt. Wants that ugly revelation to stick to the inside of your skull like knotgrass spilling across your bones— a twisted thought you’ll never be able to tame out of fruition. You let this happen; let him take. 

(And worse yet, you liked it.)

“Sloppy, little pussy,” he grunts, the words muzzled against your sopping cunt, spilling against his mouth, dripping. Sticking in strings to his lower lip, the corner of his mouth— and he crooks his finger. Notches it against your rim. 

It feels wrong. Strange. Leather against your cunt, instead of skin, when he prods and—

Pops the tip in. Stretches your gummy walls to the first, gloved knuckle. The soft, wet heat of you pulsing around him like a heartbeat is lost on the leather, the barrier between your skin, but he’ll make up for it. He’ll make up for it, he’ll—

“God,” you mewl when he crooks the finger and stuffs it to the hilt, stroking the wet squeeze of your walls enveloping it. 

The brutal ugliness in the concept of this man prying you open, stretching you taut when he wedges his ring finger in beside the first, with a glove on, douses you in shame. Has a white-hot heat spewing, geyser-like, at your underbelly. 

The sounds, though, the wet-squelch of those leather-coated fingers fucking into you, spilling slick and shoving it back in, makes your eyes screw. Has a heat nipping at the apples of your cheeks the way it nips at your cunt when he grinds harsh circles around your clit. It’s too much. Nearly too much when he nicks the razor-sharp mantel of your nerve-endings and hones there upon the horrid, wheezing sound you make, the way your leg flexes out beside his head in jarred reflex. Like he’s punishing it. You. For congealing up in his teeth like an insatiable sweet-tooth he’ll never scrape off his enamel. 

You cry out. Knock the heel of your palm into his forehead. Into the edge of that eerie mask, the kiss me, unsmudged, but he’s unperturbed. Unruffled. Unyielding, the same way the brutal crash of pleasure spooling tight behind your navel, your burning, flexed core. 

He catches your wrists in his hand. Like two limbs of a lamb, ensnared. The most perfect, decadent feast to carry out on a charcuterie board, and the sound he makes against your cunt nearly sounds inhuman. Like a rabid, territorial animal at its mealtime, mouthing off at a hand that tries to intrude. Encroach. Take. The vibrations make your head spin. Dizzy— you’re so dizzy, and you don’t recognize that you’ve been holding your breath until the shuddery cry that tears its way out of your mouth is silent. A hiss of a breath that melts into a long, wet gasp. 

He tucks your hands to your tummy, and takes. And takes, and takes. It belongs to him, right? The garbled slur that slips through the negligible gaps between your teeth sounds fucked stupid, and he hasn’t even split you apart on his cock. 

Your fingers twitch, pressed to your mons. Try to reach— to pry— hips canting back, forward, away, into. Against his slippery chin, and his tongue, and his unrelenting mouth. 

And oh, how you unravel, under his jaw, like you belong there. Under his hands, and the tip of his nose tucked to your mons, and the flats of his teeth, grazing—

He doubles down when he feels the pop— the release— your pretty, little cunt fluttering around his fingers, sucking them back in on every twist out, like a vice.

It starts on a long, wilting mewl. A desperate note that laces across your vocal cords and seeps out, not by your own volition, and ends on a gasp. The cord snaps. Too taut. Too much. The ripples of the aftershocks, lapping at your core, red-hot, sloppy, and spent, and overly sensitive, crescendo into a horrible ache when he suckles over your clit. Draws a searing stripe across your nerve endings with the tip, stifling groans into your puffy sex. 

You squeak. Tremble, toes tensing. Flexing. Hips arching back, trying to scoot away. Off. 

“I— came,” you bluster, but it sounds hoarse. Distant, in the thundering thrum of your vertiginous headrush. “I—“ you try again, hips canting, and he swipes out with his tongue, catches something raw and smarting on the fleshy edge. 

You jolt. Spine twisting, distorting pleas between your teeth you’re swishing them across your gums. You wriggle your foot, wheedling it under the space where his mouth is flush with your cunt. “I— please—“

He wrenches your foot back into place so aggressively that all you can do is make a pitiful, helpless squeak. Lashes fluttering, writhing, gnawing into your lower lip when he rolls his tongue across your pulsing clit. The sound that rumbles across your core rattles you down to the marrow. It feels like he wants to chew you to the bone. 

And when he pops off, finally— finally— panting like he’s had his fill, sucking at one of your lips until it’s tender and kiss-bruised— satiated this quenchless thirst that riles in the apertures of his skeleton, humming in his musculature— you breathe. Just breathe. Catch it— snag it. A soft repose in recompense for the throb in your guts, between your legs. Crystalline beads hover, sprouted from the corners of your eyes, streaking across your lash line. Your gaze is lachrymal. Pools of an unspooled bliss, mottled overwhelming, shimmery and red-rimmed. 

And the breath you’ve been catching—

Is forced out from between your lips when his hand lurches. Pins you, supine, to the couch, fingers spanning your nape. Heel of his palm at your jugular. The abruptness of the motion has your heart lurching to your throat. It nearly kisses the shape of his hand.

(But you suppose, if that cracked bit of your rib belongs to him, then maybe a sliver of your lung does, too.)

Somewhere between the dazed stupor of you, panting like you’ve run a marathon, and laying you out on the couch, he’s fixed the mask back on. The balaclava. And the crass, dirty thought that his chin is still slick under the cotton, making it sodden, and hot, and tacky to his skin, seeps across you and cakes like cement. 

He stares down at you through the cut-outs. Your heart is a hummingbird behind the rungs, trying to break free, and you feel it in your pulse, where his thumb strokes. You wonder if he can feel it. You’re still in that balmy, soggy headspace with your muscles pliable, your head heavy. A pastiche of heaven in a come-down, roping its way across your bones and smogging your hypervigilance. 

You’re less unnerved to be stared down at like that— like you’re a meal for him to chew apart between his teeth, like he’s contemplating every possible scenario and picking through to find the prettiest position to put you in, how to grind out the prettiest sounds— with your head feeling like it’s liquified.

Your lashes flutter. You trace the seams on the ceiling, where it’s been repaired for water damage. Maybe someone bled out on the floor above, you think. 

But the warmth of the evanescent fog doesn’t curb the note of nervousness that paints its way into your respiration— like bleeding watercolor— when you hear his hands on his belt buckle. See the way he hovers over you, so large, and indomitable, eyes potent and intoxicant. Hungry. 

(He’s sated his appetite enough to hold him over, bar him from tearing you apart, but he’s still hungry.)

“Think it’s about time you start to give back, sweetheart,” he tells you. Dripping ichor-thick with want. Like blood melded with syrup. 

Even with apprehension dancing across your mind, you want him to fuck you. You want him to stretch you fucking dumb around his cock, just the way you remember he did—

But his next words make that reluctance buzz a little louder in your hindbrain. Alarms. The blood-curdling croon of the siren.

“What do you think, mm?” he mulls aloud, tracing the pad of his finger across one of your pebbled nipples, then the smooth, unmarred skin of your tummy, pausing over your belly button. “Should Daddy make you a mommy this time? Make it stick?”

Your gasp sticks to your throat. Tangles between your tonsils. Your nostrils flare when you try to take a deep breath as indemnification, and you blink up at him, you find nothing but firm resolve in those voids. Abysmal, and unrelenting. 

“I— can’t… have a baby,” you croak, a touch incredulous, but you sound alien in your own ears. Like you’re drowning. 

He cocks his head, tipped down at you, with that ugly, ivory mask. “Sure you can. That’s what you’re built for, isn’t it?”

And the degradation, being stripped down to the metal cogs, the tender technicalities of your biology, makes your cheeks blister. It’s demeaning. You hate it. Hate him, you hate him— something molten rolls in your underbelly. 

(Something hot lingers between your thighs.)

You feel your legs dipping when under the weight of his crowding closer, between your split thighs. Bent at the knee, feet planted. The couch creaks. And when the coarse brush of denim kisses your naked skin, you feel the heat from it like a furnace. 

“No,” you tell him, eyes carved into narrowed slits, and the demand in your own voice makes your bones tremble when you hear. You suck in a breath. 

He blinks. Something flickers, congeals, in his eyes, almost like you’ve stunned him with your gall. Your unrestrained defiance. And there’s something uncomfortably stifling in his gaze, searing down at you, when he tips his head. Almost like he’s contemplating your response. Rolling it between his fingers. His thumb draws a feather-light line over your mons, across the stretch of skin where your womb is buried under the soft layers of muscle and fatty tissue. 

“How do you think,” he kisses his teeth behind the layers— a muffled sound, but one you pick up on with your heartbeat in your ears, “it works out if I take you now, and they find you later? Keep you all to myself. Cancels out, doesn’t it?”

The indirect threat, framed as a hypothetical happenstance, makes something curdle in your blood like sour milk. The bile rolls in the pit of your tummy, and you feel your throat squeeze. Your exhale is a weak hiss. A wheeze, because you feel like the breath has been knocked out of you, alongside the foolish temerity.

The finger that’d traced a line across morphs into a hand, and he presses the breadth of it to your underbelly. Big. All leather, broad, your belly button peeking from the wedge between his digits. 

He sighs, and takes the hand away. Works it back over his belt buckle, until the tails are free-standing, bifurcated, and his fingers work over his zipper. It’s a huff that swells his shoulders, and you’re reminded just how big he is, over you. How massive. How staunch to his ideas— you wouldn’t stand a chance. 

“But maybe,” his head bows to watch where he’s working, and his tone is thoughtful. Menacing. Saturated with condescension, the same way you’re drenched with the remnants of your gushing slick, between your thighs. He meets your eye. “They wouldn’t look at all. Awful lotta people go missin’ altogether, tonight.”

You blink. Squirm. Thoughts of you, swollen and pregnant with his baby— chain-linked to his wrist, to a dreary, foreign bedroom like a dog to a doghouse in a backyard— makes you vitriolic. Angry. 

Horrified. 

(So why, then, does it make your head fuzzy? Kindles crackle at your underbelly, where he pressed his enormous palm.)

“No— no. I’ll be. You can—“ you shake your head. Try again. Placate. This is a gun, broken china on a back shelf. You can’t dissect it for what it means. Your ribcage shakes. “You can do— anything. Please.”

You imagine he’s sneering at you from behind the mask. Under the balaclava, lips crooked, when he tucks a thumb into his waistband and frees his cock. One hand squeezing at the root, stroking up. The motion has a slimy glob of precum blurting from the tip. It’s thick in his fist. Heavy. Mushroomed ridges vivid pink, long, fat. A little lopsided, skewed slightly to the left in his hold, arching towards you. 

He didn’t make you suck it last time, but you wonder if he will, tonight. Gag the bold subversion out with the subtle flex of his hips, your insolence— you, stupid, little thing, telling him no— with his cockhead spewing against the gummy wall at the back of your throat. 

The view makes you dizzy. Like you’re staring up to the summit of a mountainside with him looming over you. The peak that crawls over you, so tall, and makes you feel so insignificant. 

Those liquid gemstones have shed across your temples, but you don’t recognize it until his thumb swipes at the corner of your eye. A pillow-soft caress. It’s almost tender. Almost. Deliriously, you watch him smudge the same thumb, brandished in your tear, along his cockhead. The wet thumbprint coagulates with the slick there, weeping from his slit. 

“‘Course I can,” he tells you. 

There’s no gentleness in the way he manhandles you, then. Wrangling you, by the scruff of your neck, into a hover across his lap. Positioning you how he sees fit, with him seated back on the couch, and you dangling over his cock, angled up in the seal of his palm. Your knees split across either side of his lap. 

“But mum and dad,” he grunts, and when his cockhead prods against your seam, you gasp, flinching up. “should stick together. Don’t you think?” 

He drags it forward, smudging it against your spent core, and it catches on your clit, the overstimulated nerve endings there, enough to make you shiver. It wracks up your spine. 

There’s nothing romantic about the way he holds you. He doesn’t cradle you close with this sense of softhearted adoration— despite your vulnerability— only pulling you close by the nape when his slick cockhead slaps your clit, your mons, with a wet smack. You gnaw into your lower lip, muscles clenching. Seeking. He smears the tip back to your pulsating rim. 

“What’s’a’matter?” he coos, probably at the rucks between your brows, creasing across your forehead. Your eyes flicker up. “You don’t wanna be my sweet, little wife?”

(You do, you do— you—)

“Oh—“ 

The press of his tip wrenching you open, taut around him, knocks your head back. Makes your shoulders rigid, spine arching over him, and his chuckle to the gasp that clots in your trachea is dark. Rich. It fizzles into a husking growl, though, when he presses down on the tops of your thighs and sinks you over him. Against him. Stretching the wet, sopping heat around him that throbs like a heartbeat with every tight breath you take, every inch lower. Your knuckles scrabble. Notch into his leather jacket, crinkling, burrowing, balling. 

“There you go,” he hisses. Groans. You’re not looking, but you know he is. Feel the molten pools of his gaze fixed where he’s feeding his cock, unwavering. He nearly sounds awed— splintering apart— when he tells you, “Such a pretty pussy. Look at this slutty, little cunt. Swallowing me right up.”

It’s raw. Bare— skin on skin— as close as you can get, and the pang that smarts at your rim permeates all the way up to your head, until that too, feels plugged. Foggy. 

It’s too much. Too—

He flexes his hips up sharply when you stall, just enough to wedge in to the hilt, and it wrests a high sound of surprise out of you. Nearly pained. Liked a kicked animal. It snags on something deep with the motion, something you haven’t been able to reach with your own measly fingers, and you mewl. 

He gruffs a slur behind the mask, tethers it with a groan, a breath that sounds caught in his mouth, but you can’t make out what it is. Not over the thrum in your ears. The assault on your senses, the unstilted stretch that feels like it’s prying you apart. Splitting you down the middle. Your thighs tremble. A sting. A dull throb that spills in your underbelly, lapping at your sex in sweltering, warm waves. Your clit twitches. 

There is something so cataclysmic in the way he hollows you out. Carves himself deep, scoring you in a way that’ll leave you begging for a piece of him, after, when you’re empty. A piece of his rib in return. It’s wrong— you shouldn’t want this man, crave him like you crave sanctum and stability. Your frenzied desperation, panting over him, seated to the throbbing root, feels chock-full of a festering longing you’ve been burrowing down since last spring. Spilling over. It sprouts— and spring, you think, bitterly, is all about revival. Rebirth. Flowering— the yearning you’ve been hiding behind your teeth germinates across your shuddering shoulders. 

He makes you ride him. Grunting, spitting how he wants you to bounce on his cock like the good girl you are. Soft, sloppy, half-hearted grinds you can manage over him, until he takes over, hitched on a huff that sounds nearly exasperated, and ruts up into you with the leverage of his feet on the carpet. 

He fucks you like he’s sedulous to make good on his words. Hard, fast, bludgeoning your rationale until it feels like you need the tang of cigarettes and santalum in every wheezing breath you take, writhing over the shape of him. His thumbs on your nipples. His fingers under the weight of your bouncing tits. 

Every pummel up into you feels like it kisses the seal of your womb. Feels like it’s battering a little closer to fruitions, to threats, and omens, and promises. 

And you like it. Love it. Can’t get away, can’t get enough, pawing at his chest, and then his collarbones, and then his chin, fingers knocking the border of the plastic mask. Kiss me— you think it’s cruel. So cruel, that you can’t kiss him. Can’t make out the shape of his bared teeth, the glint of them with his lips snarling. You want to lick across them. Bite. Taste blood for doing this to you. For making you feel this way. You want to tear him apart. Catch his tongue against your incisors. 

The thought is a distant chimera. A daydream you can’t chase, snared in a limbo— just take, take, take. But over the crests of your cheekbones, your dewy gaze watches him. Watches him, the way he’s watched you. Unrelenting. It’s hazy at the borders. Your sight flecked with wetness, shuddering, like a camera in hands that can’t stay still, but you’re unremitting. 

“Spit on me,” he growls. It’s an abrupt request— command, brimful of authority. Perverse. Then again, when you don’t oblige, it spills as a rasping grunt, “Spit on me.”

It wheedles into your threadbare sense of logic, registers. Your brows weave. Pinch, face creasing when he delivers a sharp plunge up, into you, tip to root. It’s gross. Disgusting. Lecherous. You think about your saliva blooming across his face, the way his heavy balls will throb. 

You want to spit on him. You want to bite him, claw at him, hit him— you pucker your lips. 

It lands as a tacky glob stretching across the bridge of the nose on the mask. Seeping into the inner-corner of the eye cut-out. Glistening, slick. The sight is revolting. Nasty. Your lips curl down, your brows crinkle—

He groans. It’s loud. Suffocated on desire, hunger, want, akin to the noise he made sniffing at your hair like a monstrous hound. A fucking creep. 

One of his hands leaves your chest, his thumb wriggles under the plastic white mask. It gets discarded, tossed off onto the couch. 

The view of him in, only in a balaclava, is new. 

No less unnerving, but it’s different, and it makes your inhale tangle in your throat. Something clicks in your lungs. You hover over him, with his neck craned up at you, and his eyes are green. Two pools of epidote, eroding under the swell of his pupils. Hornblende inkblots. A long, winding wild forest. You could get lost in it. 

(And pitifully, part of you already has. Melting apart like gum under the sun, between his stupid, thick fingers.)

“Fuck. Again. Give me another,” he tells you. It rumbles, but it sounds like a plea. You feel it vibrating in his chest, under your fingers, first, then watch the divot of the balaclava wavering into his mouth when he takes in a breath between his teeth. The way the cotton is stretched, tucked, across the bridge of his nose. 

You spit where he breathes. Where he’s huffing with every brutal thrust of his hips. It speckles the ribbed cotton with shimmer, then melts into the black where his lips lay. You can’t see how it saturates the mask, but you watch the way it affects him. Watch him unravel— the way he breathes through his nose, long, deep, lashes fluttering and dusting along his cheeks as his irises loll, and you’re faced with the view of their pure ivory frames. The pink rim across his lower lash line. 

He hammers into you, mercilessly, with his leather fingertips against your clit. It’s too much. Too harsh. Pleasure and pain coagulate into a lagoon that sloshes your head, pulses between your thighs, under his incessant fingers. 

And when he comes apart, under you, you nearly tip over the precipice at the experience alone. He makes a ragged sound, a groan, hips stuttering, and spurts ribbon after ribbon of his cum against the spongy walls flexing around him. Into you. Against the seal of your womb— oh, God— you burrow your hot face into his shoulder, hips canting, and bite at the leather. 

“Fuck,” he slurs. Heaves— and you feel him melting under you. Thawing. 

Your spine ripples. The molten heat of his cum, sticking to you, plugged up by his throbbing cock, makes you feel feverish. Aching. Charred all over, from the inside. You take a deep breathe and taste his musk at the back of your throat. Lingering along your tongue.

It’s almost comforting. But the reminder of who this man is, and what he does (has done to you, is doing), crawls along the serenity of your haze like a poisonous treacle. You muster the strength in your core to rock up onto your knees, make to clamber off. 

“Okay,” you breathe, “Okay—“

The thought of repose is a bittersweet mirage, though, sparkling in the distance, when he nudges his hips back up from beneath you. 

It knocks into something that makes your lungs seize. You feel his tacky spend coated across the undersides of your ass cheeks, spilling against the inside of your thighs. Pooling in the thicket of dark, wiry hair that nests around the root of his cock, dusting his balls. He grunts, and when he jostles you over his lap again, you have to catch your balance with your hands against his pecs. 

His eyes are shimmery when you blink up at them. Expressive enough for you to clock the derisive mirth that curdles, in shavings, along the chrysoberyl flecks in the tumultuous seas, when he hums. “You didn’t think I was done, did you?”   

He’s not done. Not for a good, long while. But you suppose, that a year of self-denial, precipitous self-restraint, is bound to spill over, eventually.

(It’s just too bad for you that you ended up in the path of the hurricane, front and center.)

He fucks you again over the arm of the couch, with your ribs smushed to the ledge and your knees on the cushion. Arms behind your back, head dangling, tits aching with the press of his weight, every drag against the fabric. Fingers in your mouth, straining the corners wide, riding the grooves of your clamped, slick teeth. Pawing at your ass, squeezing the flesh, prying your cheeks apart humiliatingly wide.

He makes you cum again. And again, until you’re sobbing. Legs hitched over his shoulders, chin twisted, gnawing into your own shoulder to stifle your mewls. 

“Tell me your name,” you slur under him. With his chin over tucked your shoulder, his hum ripples across your eardrum like a humid gust. Rolls between your shoulder blades. 

“Tell me your name,” you beg, again, mottled with frenzied desperation that climbs your throat. You know those eyes. You know that face— the one that lies underneath. The misty contours of it scratch across your skull in the smog of a memory. You know—

Your lower lip wobbles when he cups over your sternum, takes your breast in a doughy handful, squeezing around it, drowning you in every wet squelch, every slap of his hips against your ass. 

“Daddy.”

When you wake up, he’s not there. Ephemeral. The night nearly feels temporal, if not for the slick between your thighs, dewy at your cunt, where your seam is still aching. Crusting along the insides of your thighs. 

You feel like every bone is out of place. Like everything needs to crackle and slot back. Worn, tired, when you kick your feet over the edge of the mattress and stand. It pangs between your legs, first. And then across your chest. 

Your underwear is gone. You know you won’t find it. 

When you check the clock it’s midday. Late, too late to even be considered sleeping in. You’ve wasted the twenty-second off into somnolence. There’s still a haze across your head. This balmy, misty thing that keeps you sluggish. Tired. You’d chalk it up to oversleeping, but. 

It’s short-lived. Hollowed by the vacancy. Something stirs in the back of your head— you should probably send a life signal out to your family. Let them know you’re not splattered across the sidewalk, somewhere, or worse yet—

You think about his words. Keeping you all to himself. The thought makes your shoulders shudder. 

On the way to the bathroom, you find carmine carnations in your kitchen. Mounted in a vase that belongs to you, plucked out of the cabinet over your fridge. Beautiful, beautiful carnations.

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Could I request Azriel and Plus Size reader where they’re both new to the mate bond and she overheard Azriel and Rhys’ conversation about the “Cauldron being wrong.” She left before she was able to hear Azriel call himself a fool for even believing it for a second, knowing that he’s already kissing the ground his own mate walks on. She starts comparing herself to Elain and then starts lashing out, going to Rita’s every night and avoiding Azriel whenever she sees him.

Cauldron Blessed | Azriel

Azriel (ACOTAR) x Plus Size Reader

Warnings: Mature themes (18+), swearing, body-image issues, angst, and eventual smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

'The Cauldron was wrong, so wrong.'

Those words played and replayed in my mind again and again, all day, every day, for the last week.

Wrong.

He said that the Cauldron was wrong- about us, about me.

Me, his mate- wrong.

It had been an accident, me overhearing them that night, a coincidence I had decided to come home early from my girl's night with Nesta, Gwyn and Emerie. Though with the Cauldron, there was no such thing as an accident, no such thing as coincidence.

I'd waded through the House of Wind, tipsy on wine and giggling softly to myself as I banged into the walls, thumping clumsily against the art pieces hanging and tripping over my own two feet. Giddy, I had been giddy, stumbling through the halls in search of him.

Azriel, my mate.

Only a few hours apart and I missed him, yearned for him, I felt the distance as if it spanned miles and the more I drank, the more I craved him. That's all I had been thinking of when I trekked through the empty halls, closer and closer to the lounge- just of my mate.

And that's when I heard it.

"The Cauldron works in mysterious ways," Rhysand's laugh drifted out to me in the corridor, and I came to an unsteady halt at the sound. "Feyre was my salvation; I didn't expect anything good to come to me Under the Mountain."

I smiled to myself, my hand coming to my mouth, shielding any sound that threatened to slip past- Az always teased that my lips loosened when I drank too much. Instead, I lean against the cold wall, warmth filling me as he gushed about my High Lady.

They were Cauldron blessed, that was clear to see.

"I think five hundred years of waiting for her was enough, brother," Cassian snorted, and I heard the faint sound of liquor pouring into a glass, wings rustling as one of the powerful males moved. "I know I never imagined my mate as a twenty-five-year-old human female, with a bite worse than mine."

I bit my lip as Cassian laughed, a loud, bellowing sound, so full of joy, so full of content, the mere memory of Nesta, human and utterly indomitable against him something that still brought him to his knees.

"The Cauldron must have a sense of humour," Rhysand teased, and I could practically envision Cassian rolling his eyes, a vulgar gesture thrown between the two males. "Connecting people in the most unexpected pairs, in the most unexpected ways."

"Like Elain and Lucien," Cass scoffs, loudly chugging back the remnant in his glass, "There's a pair I could never have foreseen, not in a thousand years."

"Proof that the Cauldron isn't always right," Azriel muses for the first time since I arrived, and my body almost croons at the sound- low and rough, moving over me as sure as if it were his hands. "She deserves better than any male friends with Tamlin, that's for sure."

She deserves better.

It was silly I knew, for the mere mention of her, the thought of her to make me feel nauseous, make my smile instantly fade, but I couldn't help it. It was hard for me to see a female as lovely as Elain Archeron and not feel inadequate by comparison.

Another who was blessed, so lovely that she had been gifted her seer abilities by the Cauldron itself as if her beauty and delicate demeanour weren't gift enough.

"Brave words, Az," Rhys whistled, and I had to force myself to blink away the picture-perfect image I had conjured of the middle Archerson sister, forcing myself to focus on their conversation instead. "Openly opposing the Cauldron."

"Brave or stupid?" Cassian counters tauntingly, and I knew he was drunk just from how loud his voice was, practically bouncing off the walls. "You think the Cauldron makes mistakes?"

"I know it does," Azriel challenges and it was that voice, that sure, quiet demeanour that I adored and desired so fiercely. I inch closer to the door, grinning at the idea of popping out and scaring them- but then he says it.

Says the thing that makes me stop dead in my tracks, makes my heart stop dead in my chest.

"Look at me and Y/N," Azriel sighs, and there's no joy, or adoration or yearning in his voice in memory of me, not like Rhys or Cass- no, there's dread. "The Cauldron made us mates... the Cauldron was wrong, so wrong."

There's a loud crack that echoes through the room, and it's that sound, and the feel of sharp debris against my palm, that pulls me from my memories. I blink through the tears, looking down at the crumbling marble sink, the corner pieces breaking off into my hands.

I sob through my teeth at the sight, small cuts leaking stark red blood down my fingers as I bring my hands to my chest. I can't see the looking- glass before me, not through the haze of tears, tears so strong it's as if I were made of them.

As if they had become a part of me.

It was all I had done the past week, cry and cry and cry- and avoid Azriel.

Every morning I skip training and breakfast, feigning fatigue or a full stomach, just so I wouldn't see him there. Each afternoon I'd get lost in the stacks and stacks of books in the library, so vast and endless that Azriel never stood a chance of finding me in the maze.

And at night I'd find solace wherever I could find a drink- Rita's, taverns, the Music Quarter, anywhere. Anywhere but at home, anywhere that I didn't have to see him.

I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the sight of his face, even now the thought of his tilted smile, the beam of his soft hazel eyes, the touch of his scared hands and wild shadows, it made my whole body wrecked with sobs.

I couldn't bear any of it anymore- because none of it was real.

Every smile and touch, every kiss and moment where our bodies joined as one, where he confessed his love and devotion to me, it wasn't real. Azriel thought we were wrong, a mistake, a confusion, just wrong.

My hands shook as I wiped the tears from my cheeks, rougher than necessary, blood-smearing, but I was tired of tears, I was tired of crying, of feeling so unworthy. I was unworthy of him; he was beautiful inside and out and deserved so much better than me.

I sniffed as I lifted my gaze to the looking glass before me, and my heart hurt at the reflection, knowing that this was what Azriel saw, that this was why he knew the Cauldron was wrong. Every curve and roll and inch of flesh that I had, all of it, it was all wrong.

And I hated myself for it.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I take a step back and then another step, away from the reflection that taunted me, and mocked me, before forcing myself to look away. I swallowed against the dryness in my throat as I moved across the cold floor of my bathing suit, my body desperate for my bed.

And as I step over the door's threshold, and back into my old room in the House of Wind, I know it's not the same as when I had left it ten minutes ago.

He was here.

"Azriel," I gasped, halting at the sight of him- sat on the edge of my bed, his broad shoulders and powerful wings rising sharply at the sound of my voice, those hazel eyes meeting mine and filling with something honeyed and warm. "Wha- what are you doing here?"

He rises from the bed, elegant and still, his shadows dancing around him at the feel of my presence, the scent of my skin, and I shiver as he watches me, keen eyes gracing my stiff figure.

"Y/N," He sounds almost relieved as he says my name and my breath is caught in my lungs as I stay rooted to my spot, and he seems to sense my unease, as he doesn't move any closer to me. "You've been staying here for a week now; I missed you at home."

Home- the apartment we shared in town together, a cosy space that we had made our own.

Another thing I couldn't bear to face.

"I've been catching up with the girls," I say quietly, ripping my eyes from him and walking forward on numb legs. I tug at the hem of my nightshirt, his nightshirt I had stolen, feeling too bare before him and his eyes narrow at the movement. "It's just easier to sleep here when we have plans every day."

As spymaster it was Azriel's job to scrutinise, to observe and I felt every single part of that slot into place as he watched me now, watched as I moved toward the bed. I wasn't looking at him, I couldn't hold his stare- and he couldn't figure out why.

His shadows dance through the room, through the distance between us and I jolt, biting my lip when one brushes against my bare thigh- before scurrying back to Azriel in surprise. He inhales a sharp breath when his shadow whispers to him, telling him that something is wrong, I was wrong.

"I know you've been spending time with the girls," Azriel continues slowly, his voice tentative and soft as I move to the other side of the bed, furthest from where he stood. "I just feel like I haven't seen you at all... I miss you, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

A sob threatened to rip from me at the name, so soft, so endearing on his lips and it took everything in me to not fall apart at that moment, to not crumble under the weight of it all. I shake my head, my back turned to him now and he watches as I tug back the duvet, my actions angry now.

"It's only been a week Azriel," I breathe through my clenched teeth, my tone so at odds with his and my body locking tighter at the sound of his impending footsteps. "Sometimes space can be good, it can be eye-opening, show us things we don't want to admit but know deep down."

My words hit him head-on, like a slap across the face- I don't need to see him to know it, I can tell just from the stillness in the room, the silence, so strong that even his shadows have withered.

I clench my eyes at the feeling, at the touch that strokes against my soul, him reaching out to me through the mating bond- and me slamming up every wall I have to keep him away.

"What does that mean?!"

I don't hear him until he's right behind me and when his large hand touches the small of my back, I jolt, stumbling into the bed to get away from it. I turn on shaking legs to face him, and I'm pressed into the mattress to keep the distance.

"What? Y/N-" His face pales, and I see the pain in his eyes, unlike anything I had ever witnessed from him before. It was raw, vulnerable as if five hundred years of existence couldn't hide the hurt, knowing that I had flinched from his touch, flinched from him.

A rejection- something he feared the most.

"Sweetheart, please, I don't understand," He shook his head, his beautiful face twisted into an agonised frown, and his voice trembled, weak, as weak as the hand that now reached for me, shaking as if scared to touch me. "Why won't you let me touch you? Why are you pulling away from me, why-"

He stops, and for a moment I think it's because of the tears steadily leaking down my face, the way my bottom lip trembles with the effort to hold myself together- but it's not. His nose flared, and the hazel in his eyes turned dark, narrowing down upon my hands.

"You're bleeding," He mumbles hoarsely and the pain in my chest triples when his scarred hands inch closer, my eyes fluttering shut the second he touches me, holding my palms in his and examining the small cuts. "What happened, sweetheart-"

"Don't! Don't- don't call me that, don't touch me," I croak out, my voice breaking and Azriel flinches at the cry in my voice, wings rustling when I yank my hands-free from his hold, as if his touch burned me. "Stop pretending, stop making me think you care, just-just stop."

"I don't understand, what do you mean pretending-" He pleads, his voice splintering, and I can see him thrumming with emotion, desperate to reach out to me, to hold me, but trying to respect what I had asked him. "I don't understand, help me understand what I did wrong-"

"I know how you feel about me, a-about us," I sob, my weak hands coming to my face, and I cry into them, so loud that nothing can muffle them, and I feel Azriel's' helplessness down the bond, still reaching for me, "It was cruel, to make me think-to make me think you loved me-"

"I do love you!" He snarls and my eyes snap open when I feel the familiar roughness of his hands against my wet cheeks, his grip unrelenting and needing as he draws me to him- and I don't have the strength to fight him. "Of course, I love you, why would you say that?"

His thumbs brush away the tears that won't stop leaking from my cheeks and somehow my fingers have found purchase in the material of his shirt, nails digging desperately, clutching him as tightly as he held me.

"You said it was wrong," I whisper, the words slurring in my throat, and I force my heavy eyes to his, force myself to look into those teary hazel eyes and confront him, with the burden I had been carrying alone this whole time. "You said that we were wrong, that the Cauldron was wrong."

His forehead creases, lines forming between the thick, dark brows as he peers down at me, and his hands don't release me, if anything they draw me closer.

And I see the moment realisation hits him, like ice-cold water seeping through his veins.

"I heard you talking to Rhys and Cass, you said we were proof," I gasp, feeling his shadows curl and wreath around my wrists and fingers, as if afraid to let go, as if trying to comfort me as I sniff. "You said we were proof that the Cauldron could be wrong, so wrong."

"I didn't mean you, Y/N, I would never mean you," He beseeches, his breath caressing my face, my lips and his eyes are so intense, so vibrant that I can't look away, "I didn't mean you, I meant me, I'm wrong!"

I suck in a harsh breath at his outburst and I feel it then- the self-deprecation, the vulnerability, the fear, it was all aimed at himself, it was all about him.

The silence stretches on as we stare at each other and my face must hold every ounce of my surprise and confusion, because he sighs, his forehead resting against mine. I see his wings sag behind him, as if defeated.

"I don't know how much you heard but I did not mean that the Cauldron was wrong to pair you with me," He mutters, his words unsteady, and my eyes flutter shut at his words, "I meant that the Cauldron was wrong to pair me with you- the Cauldron has blessed me but forsaken you."

"Azriel-" I gasped, and it was now my hand that lifted between us, my hand that cupped his stubbled cheek, forcing his eyes to mine. "That's not true, I'm not forsaken, I'm blessed, I'm Cauldron-blessed, Mother-blessed to have you-"

"Y/N you deserve the world, the sun and the moon and the stars," Azriel's voice breaks, a sob gurgling in his throat as he nestles against my palm, now wet with his tears. "I have spent five hundred years being unworthy of anything, and now that I have you, I will spend the next five hundred being unworthy of you."

He felt unworthy of me, he thought that he did not deserve me.

"Don't say that don't- you've given me the world and more," I shake my head, forcing every inch of surety and strength into my voice, "I love you, so much, so much that the thought of you thinking we were wrong, it killed me Az, because you're all I need."

He shakes his head against my hold, but his hands slip down my back, down my waist and to my hips and thighs, fingers digging into my flesh, holding onto my meat for leverage and pressing my soft body against his firm one for dear life.

"Not once did I ever think you were the problem, I thought it was me," His brow furrows deeper at my words, and I see the denial in his eyes, in his face, "I see a male who is beautiful inside and out, who is powerful and skilled, who has been a saviour to this Court in so many ways and I can't come close, I can't ever be equal to that Az."

"Y/N, no-" He growls, nails carving crescent moons into my flesh.

"I'm not a warrior like Nesta or a ruler like Feyre," I continue, and I open up the walls I erected to keep him out from my soul and mind, letting the mating bond flow freely again- to let him see all I had thought these few days. "I'm not beautiful like Elain... I'm not enough."

"You are everything," He hisses, and I can feel his overwhelming pain as sure as if it were my own as he graces over my feelings and thoughts- as he takes in every disgusting, horrific thing I had thought about myself, about my body. "You are everything and more to me, Y/N."

Power flashes through his eyes and then his head ducks toward me, capturing my lips in his.

Time seems to slow when his lips meet mine in a gentle collision, the kind of impact that steals the breath from my lungs, the kind I can't get enough of. Azriel grumbles at the taste of wine on my mouth, his tongue lapping at mine as if devouring the sweetness.

"Azriel," I sigh, like putty in his capable hands, and like always, he's skilled with how he handles my body, so easily turning us so my legs hit the mattress, my body weightless as he lifts me to sit on the edge.

"I have seen you navigate politics and arrogant High Lords in a way that has us all on our knees," He mutters against my lips, and I croon at the feel of his hands languishing up my thighs and hips, squeezing the flesh, his eyes dark with desire now.

His nose brushes against my cheek, so bare, as he kisses and trails his tongue along my jaw, moving down my neck and I can't do anything but moan softly as he lies me flat on my back, his powerful body towering over me, covering me wholly.

"I have seen you cut down soldiers triple your size as if they were little more than weeds in a field," His canines scrape against the racing pule-point at my neck and my eyes flutter, neck exposing for him and back arching when his hand cups my breast over my shirt.

He settles between my thighs, and he groans when his hard length brushes my wet core, the smell of arousal heavy in the air, the kind of stimulation that made us both dizzy with need. I arch my hips up to meet him, needing to feel something, anything from him.

"And I have seen males and females alike marvel at your beauty, at your body, desiring to see you without a scrap of clothing on," Azriel's voice turns furious, dark, as if the mere thought of someone else seeing me naked made him violent, honed to kill.

"Az, please," I mewl, fingers clawing at his back, feeling the muscles ripple under my touch, his shadows in a frenzy, caressing and dancing and wreathing around my body, feeding off every moan that escaped me. "I need you Az, please."

He presses long, wet kisses against my jugular and I sigh in relief when I feel his body shift, hips lifting and the sound of a belt clinking as he unhooks his slacks, freeing his hard length from within.

"I love you, sweetheart," His head lifts, face tight with sincerity and I can feel the thumping of his heart against mine, those intense eyes capturing me wholly. "I love all of you, I love all that you are-"

"Body," His fingers hook into my underwear, and I gasp as he tugs the wet material to the side, fingers brushing my clit.

"Mind," Our sounds meld as he rubs the tip of his cock against me, parting my folds, spreading my arousal from my entrance to my clit, and his breathing deepens as I whimper.

"And soul." He pushes into my entrance, stretching me just from the tip and automatically, my thighs clamp around his hips and my back arches at the feeling of him.

"I love you, Y/N," He pushes in until his long, thick length hits my cervix and my cunt is stretched thoroughly, throbbing around him. I trace my hands up his arms, nails scratching along every muscle, every strong, lean plane of him.

"I love you too, Azriel," I whisper back, and when my eyes flutter open, I see him above me and I know that nothing else, no one else could feel this right.

He doesn't move, merely staring down at me, his eyes burning like embers- feeling the thought as intensely as I did.

The Cauldron was right, so right.

----------------------------

@mis-lil-red @hyemishii @assaultsofthought @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @loveareum @infintyfandoms @sarawritestories @eerievixen

Comment to be added to the tag-list >3

[tra-archive]

Please read this whole post and reblog it, radblr. I don’t want anyone to forget this happened to me and I also don’t want anyone to forget how disgusting the TRA community is.

Next month, it’ll be one year since I was harassed, doxxed, and targeted by a disgusting person and their sick followers. I won’t say their name because they still have a cult following, but if you need a hint, look up the drama with photomatt in February 2024.

On my old account, an anon told me about an account getting banned from tumblr and the ensuing chaos from TRAs. I answered the ask and posted a picture of the person’s new account so radblr could block if they needed to. I had no idea who this person was until I got that anon ask, just to be clear.

The person found the post and reblogged it, accusing me of being the one who led a “targeted harassment campaign” against them and got their account banned, and told their followers “you know what to do” or something like that. Keep in mind, I didn’t know who this person was at all so I obviously wasn’t the one who got them banned. I also *gasp* didn’t use their preferred pronouns, so that was a huge scandal as well.

After that, their followers began to harass me and send violent threats to my inbox. (Edit: oh and this evil person accused me of sending them to myself for attention, which is so fucked up and misogynistic I don’t even have words for it.) Here’s the worst one that I still have trauma from to this day:

My account was then termed by tumblr. I made a new account and called for radblr to report the account for sending their followers to harass me. Well, this made everything worse because the hate I got on this new account was a thousand times worse. This person’s minions created multiple posts about me (look up m3nrbad for proof, that was the account name). There were hundreds of comments calling me misogynistic slurs and calling for me to be doxxed and even lynched. They also found my Reddit account and harassed me there too. I even got a few text messages to my PHONE NUMBER. I have no idea how this evil person’s followers got ahold of it, but I changed my number and my mother took me to buy a new phone just to be safe. Here’s what one of them said about me, encouraging their followers to false report me:

A short while after this, the evil person’s blog was termed again and they were (I think) IP banned from all of tumblr. The CEO photomatt threatened to take legal action against them. It had nothing to do with me, but I can’t lie, it felt so good seeing that happen to them after the hell they put me through. Here’s me reacting to the news:

TRAs on tumblr of course threw a hissy fit and attacked Matt for months because their leader was banned. They also acted like this person was being systemically oppressed by tumblr of all fucking places. Keep in mind this person is white and born male, acting as if they were so oppressed by a website.

I eventually deleted that other blog and made this one. I spent hours and hours blocking every single person who reblogged, liked, and commented on posts about me, as well as blocking almost every one of a big tra’s followers. I was determined to stop being harassed.

Anyway, I know I shouldn’t be dwelling on this because it’s just internet drama, but people still worship this person and act like they’re such a poor victim, and in reality that’s not true. That month was hell for me and my actual safety was threatened. If it wasn’t for some of you gyns being so amazing and funny on here, I would’ve never come back to radblr.

Thanks for reading all the way through.

-Sirona

[epigstolary]

Tough Guy

Tw: Fat shaming, toxic masculinity, gaining as femininity

I can’t believe you still try to act like the big, muscly tough guy you used to be several hundred pounds ago. I mean, come on, who do you think you’re fooling? You’re about as intimidating as a baby elephant. Sure, the deep voice and the sleeve tattoos probably probably made you look pretty tough when you were in shape and 200lbs of muscle; but baby, those days are long gone. There’s a ton of fat packed onto whatever’s left of your physique under there. Those tattoos have gotten stretched and folded over your fat rolls so much that I can barely tell what they are anymore. And I just can’t take the deep voice seriously when it comes out so husky in between the labored wheezing that passes for breathing with you. Nobody’s gonna be shaking in their boots when you’re out of breath just from sitting on the couch, are they?

And even when you do get up, you don’t exactly look like the picture of health and fitness. A slow waddle is your typical pace, all your fat shifting from side to side with each intended step, your body clearly having to fight against it to keep moving forward. And all your indulgence has left you with a wide, bottom-heavy, pear-shaped physique more reminiscent of a well-fed housewife than a strong, buff gymbro. Nobody’s going to be mistaking you for one anyway, though, since your lazy ass can’t help but get red-faced and exhausted after just a couple minutes of walking around. You talk a big game about your glory days and everything you could do if you put some time into conditioning. But let’s face it: you’re about as out of shape as someone can be, and those wide hips and thunder thighs don’t scream athletic or manly.

I know it must be hard for you, though, since that’s still the guy you are in your head. The big, beer-drinking, meat-eating, football-watching manly man. Well, you missed the part where all that beer had a ton of calories, all that meat had a ton of fat, and all that football left your fattening ass planted on the couch all weekend, every weekend. I totally thought you were going to say something eventually about not needing me to bring you so much to drink and so many snacks, but nope, you never seemed to notice that you’d worked yourself up to eating an entire party’s worth of food all on your own between Saturday morning and Sunday night. And it’s not like I was going to stop you, was I?

I’d have thought your bros teasing you about how fat you were getting would be enough for you to at least start thinking about it, too. They may not be the cut jocks they were when you were younger, but aside from a couple with dadbods, they’re all in reasonably good shape. But not you. And you let them pat and rub your belly to put you in your place every time they come over to watch the game, take their jokes about how the blobby flab inflating your arms is all muscle, let them snicker at you for finishing off the food they leave behind to keep to their diets. You think you’re still just one of the boys, when really you’re more like their fat, chubby mascot.

So here you sit, munching on nachos swimming in beef queso, eyes glued to the third match of the day. Love handles bulging over the waistband of your athletic shorts, overtaxed by the titanic rump, bulging hips, and bloated thighs anchoring you to your seat. Tits flopping across your beer belly as you shout at the refs on tv. Chubby, shapeless arms wobbling with your gestures as you criticize guys in peak physical condition, lecturing about how they should be playing when thirty seconds of that level of activity would leave you panting on the ground. And me, just smiling and nodding and agreeing, knowing those 2,500 calories of goo are going to be blowing you up even more by tomorrow.

This can’t last forever, of course. Eventually, you’ll wind up so fat, heavy, and hard to move that you won’t be able to ignore how far you’ve fallen. You’ll have to confront the (at least) quarter-ton body you’ve grown, and consider how blubbery you were when it stopped being manly. Spoiler alert: you passed that point a looooong way back. You’ll face the fact that there’s nothing masculine about a guy whose manhood is buried in several inches of soft, yielding lard. That there’s nothing macho about a guy who has to move fat out of the way so he can reach for the remote or his next meal. That nobody envies a former athlete who’s so bloated and heavy he can barely make it to the mailbox and back. That you’ve eaten yourself out of everything you used to know about yourself.

But don’t worry; I’ll still pretend you’re my manly man, and you’ll eat that up too so you don’t have to pay attention to the last of your fitness slipping away. I’ll tell you that you look so big and strong, while you’re shoveling those pork rinds into your mouth. I’ll giggle that you seem so tough and stoic, while you’re planted on the couch, huge fat rolls flowing in all directions. I’ll whisper that you’re still so fit and athletic, after you come back huffing and puffing from hauling your big back from the next room. I’ll say all the things you want to hear. Just keep eating for me, baby. I want my tough guy to be big, and strong… and big.

[suguru-getos]

— satosugu as boyfriends —

it’s hard to decide who’s your bigger fan, satoru or suguru. they’re so in love with everything you do & are so supportive! it took a LOOONNNGG way though— let’s say you met them when they were still in school & so were you. though — you were not a sorcerer. satoru doesn’t mind, he hated non-sorcerers before for making him the reason he’s so looked upto. now thanks to suguru, he wants to protect them. suguru knew you much before than satoru, you were his neighbor after all. how else could you hangout with people who have such major power differences?

things changed after the riko incident— you could see the hatred that suguru slowly festered within him. there were days satoru came to suguru’s apartment to relax & play games with their other juniors like nanamin or haibara. these days you could hardly see the fun… suguru goes out and comes home & that’s all. you and him used to play together as kids and despite you reaching out, suguru was shutting down.

it was until he killed his own parents — that satoru took matters into his own hands. killed hundreds of people & adopted, some girls!!?!?!?? what was even happening!! to protect you, satoru shifted you to the gojo estate. it was simple really, you were a non-sorcerer & suguru would not really care about your life right now just to prove a point.

a year went by just processing what was happening. of course— spending a year with gojo satoru also meant that you two had become incredibly close. earlier, you were invited by suguru over because you & him had always played gaming consoles together. right now, it was totally different. you didn’t know satoru was so mature, and so kind when needed, although keeping his childishness still intact. you were the only one he could openly talk about suguru with. not even shoko — her & yaga had started calling him geto to detach maybe. yet it’s endearing to see such fondness in satoru’s eyes for his bestfriend aka almost lover aka what could have been.

long story short— suguru could not kill you. it’s sickening to think he could do so with his parents but after a year or two when he finally went to the gojo estate having known your whereabouts & missing the chaste peck he stole when things were alright. he cried. hugging you tenderly. expressing how he thinks he shouldn’t have been high on adrenaline that day & did what he did… he wants people like satoru to suffer less. he wants to do something ‼️

it takes a while for suguru to start healing, no one suspects that the strongest sorcerer satoru gojo had secretly kept his best friend in the gojo estate along with his almost girlfriend. :33 even the girls are present with megumi and tsumiki & despite their contrasting personalities— things have seemed to settle for once.

you knew suguru liked to cook so you were now greeted by him preparing you the sweetest ever breakfast in bed, meanwhile satoru insisted you sleep with him (to protect you) :3 yeah as ifff 💁🏻‍♀️ man was too shy to make the first move just yet because you had been trusting him so good. afraid to fuck up. though when you agree? oh he is out of this world. suguru is happy too, in a way he also gets to spoil satoru like this.

satoru uses his old money to ensure you three go on trips at least once every 2-3 weeks. the recent one that you remember is paris. for new years !! it was beautiful to confess your love for each other and finally officially start dating. you were spoiled by insanely hot balcony sex that day. ;)

suguru has improved & also started honing his skills. though during one of the much intimate conversations, you had asked him to trust you enough to come home to after swallowing the sabotaging negativity of a curse & to let you kiss it away. <3 you trust him to follow through with it.

suguru can get especially testy when you’re around your period and satoru decides to mess with your mood. normally, satoru’s teasing is ignored but during those days he gets smacked from sugu. :3 satoru just wants your mood to be better :(( not in the same sense as suguru perhaps. so satoru takes on the role of your sugar daddy as usual. getting you your favorite snackies and stuff.

there is no power dynamic as such between the two of them. really— they’re just equals and you like that despite being in a relationship, satosugu can be switches to each other and daddy doms to you as always.

satoru was the first one who discovered that making you feel smaller, would regress you up a little. you’d cutely pout & get subby and babytalking to you during that rare occaision would actually get him you in the form of putty in his hands. so satosugu are mostly like “let daddy handle it sweetness.” / “oh no you’re too small for that, give me.” / “no baby you can’t reach there, let daddy help.” and ugh it makes you so fucking submissive for them they love that & YOU love that😩

satoru and suguru together decided to get you another cat which would be a cute little brother for your pet. they are such good pet fathers you often wonder how good they’d be to kids — oh wait, 😏 you have their adopted babies to witness that first hand too! how lucky! 🍀

nsfw hcs later alligator i’d elaborate on this more later too! enjoy my word vomit besties 👯‍♀️ send me jjk askies 🙇🏻‍♀️ thank you!

[imababblekat]

Bayverse TmnT X Reader; Injury HC's

@hellhound911 ,"Hello I love your writings! I was wondering if I could request with the Bayverse turtles where the reader is in a relationship with the turtles (not all at once, but the little scenarios you do) and they come home hurt really bad and the reader begins to help bandage them up and they are trying to keep it together but they let tears flow and they were worried what would happen if their special turtle died and despite being hurt, the turtles comfort their lovers and say that they love them and they aren’t going anywhere? Things like that? Just a thought whenever you can/want. Thank you!"

◉Story Notes: character injury(nothing explicit), tiny bit of angst with added comfort

~xXx~

Leonardo:

Leo’s used to putting on a strong façade for the sake of his brothers, but when he’s with his s/o he feels that he can let that all go and show how hurt he truly is

Yet, the second he sees his s/o’s eyes start to glisten he’s already gently grasping their cheek, worry drowning out any major pain his body was in

He hates that he made them worry so much, and feels guilty at not realizing sooner how coming to them so completely battered might affect them

Leo gets it though, he could never even begin to imagine if something happened to his s/o, which is why he’s out there every night kicking bad guys to the curb

He’ll spend the night at their place, offering them comfort and making them both tea despite his injuries, just so they can hold onto him as much as they need for reassurance that he’s safe, and also so that he may hold them tightly as well

Raphael:

This turtle is constantly getting himself into sticky situations that him and his s/o have a running joke of “x amount of days since Raph got his butt kicked”, that it’s never occurred to him what kind of toll showing up to their place at o’ dark hundred, bruised and bleeding would build up to

It’s not till after one particular bad patrol that his s/o, furious and tear stained while cleaning his wounds, breaks down and practically shouts at him for his carelessness

He’s so confused at first, but once things calm down and his s/o can properly explain how worried sick they are all the time that there will come a night he’s not knocking at their window does it hit him how serious this is

Raph makes his s/o a promise that “ain’t nothin’ stopping me from seen’ your pretty face, doll”, and while he’ll be out there still playing rough, he's definitely more conscious about his actions

Donnie:

Before his s/o, Donnie was always the one to fix his own wounds, but now he had someone he could go to for help

It was still rare that he ever had to, but the few times he did he had always had the sneaking suspicion that it bothered his s/o

He didn’t understand why till he asked one night after a heist gone wrong, and his s/o, bleary eyed and holding back choked sobs, admitted how they were terrified of there coming a time where his wounds were so great they couldn’t do anything to help him

It hit him hard, because if something serious happened to his brothers, they could always count on his expertise medical skills to fix them right up

Now, in holding his crying s/o close to his plastron, his brain was already kicking into gear plans to teach them all he knew, so that should a time ever come, not only his brothers, but his s/o would be ready

Mikey:

Mikey’s not exactly careless, but he is free spirited, and sometimes that would get him into trouble

Before his s/o, his brothers always made sure that he was tended to first if injured during a fight, but when his s/o came into his life he was always quick to run to their place to be doted on

However, one night Mikey is getting a nasty gash sewn up on his bicep and despite still having the energy to crack some light hearted jokes, his s/o is uncharacteristically silent

It takes a bit of prodding but eventually they tearfully admit that, especially after the Kraang incident, they’re terrified that someone will take him, their shinning ray of light, away from this world

Mikey’s heart is so absolutely broken hearing this; he’s so quick to pull his s/o in for a hug, shushing their cries and swearing to the heavens that nothing would take him from his loving angel

~xXx~

[allllium]

I really love your fics!!! They’re seriously just 10/10. Could you maybe do something with Jason Todd getting a crush on the new vigilante in town? Or him meeting his childhood best friend after being resurrected (possibly him saving them as Red Hood) and just SIMPING over how much they’ve changed since last time he saw them. Like, his mind just going “minemineminemine” and “Yes, I am now a married man”

Love your work!!! ❤️❤️

Miss You

~ Fluff, WC: 1,119

~ Jason meets you again

Jason had a best friend, before he died that is. Ever since he came back he's felt alone, no one being able to fill the hole left when he lost you. Lost you isn't the right word. He can go to you at any time, replace the friendship he craves to have again, but he won't. Call it pride, call it self-doubt, call it whatever you want but he'll never do anything to fix it. Not unless he has too.

You're walking along a strip of dark buildings. Not a smart choice but definitely the fastest to take after a long night shift. The only thing you want to do is fall into your bed and sleep a whole day away. Living in Gotham means you are no longer surprised or scared by the constant yelling and booming noises. Most of them are made by teenagers doing dumb things with their friends or random people deciding to fight in the streets. They don't last too long considering the millions of vigilanties that are always running around.

But tonight as you walk by multiple allies, on a dark street, near where you know multiple self declared "gangs" hang out, everything is silent. Somewhere else, anywhere else, that'd be a good thing. But right now it gives you the chills. Every step you take feels like it's being watched, no, like it's being analyzed. Like something or someone is trying to memorize every move you make. A gaze you somewhat recognize.

Jason doesn't mean to be a creep. He really doesn't. But he can't look away. After he died he never thought he'd see you again. Everyone told him you stopped showing up to dinners and didn't answer any of their calls. It was hard for him to think of never seeing you again, he didn't know a time in his life when he didn't know you. Now he finds himself sitting on a windowsill on the opposite side of the street, unable to look away from you. You've changed a lot since he last saw you, but somehow you still look exactly the same. Jason has never had a crush on you before. Of course he always wondered what being with you would be like, and he's thought a lot about how amazing it would be to kiss you, not to mention the hundreds of times you've had him blushing like a crazy person. But he's never had a crush. That'd be insane.

You continue walking around as if nothings bothering you. The last thing you want to worry about is someone watching you. It's probably nothing. On the other side of the street you can hear thumping every couple of feet. It doesn't take a genius to know the sound is coming from someone jumping from roof to roof. You look over just in time to see someone land on their feet. It's obviously one of the vigilanties, guessing by their size and stature.

Jason feels his heart almost stop when you look directly at him. He knows you don't know it's him, how could you after all this time and in the dark, but it makes him panic just a little bit. You'd think after everything he's had to deal with he wouldn't freak over such a small thing. It's not until he sees you raise your eyebrows expectantly that he starts making his way off the roof and towards you in the street. He can't believe how much you've changed, how amazing you look.

You watch intently as he comes closer. It only takes a moment before he's standing face to face with you.

"You better have a damn good reason for following me."

He doesn't answer.

"Hello? If you're going be a creep at least explain why."

All you can here is heavy breathing through his mask.

"Okay this is just weird." You begin to walk away but he grabs your arm to stop you. "Did you really just grab me?"

"I'm sorry." You don't recognize his voice but something is pulling at you. You let out an angry breath.

"Are you gonna explain yourself yet?"

"I wasn't trying to be a creep I promise." He starts to defend himself but trails off. "You walked by some bad people earlier and I wanted to make sure you got home safe."

"Mhm. What else?" You cross your arms over your chest, not believing he gave the whole explanation.

He pauses again. For a second you believe he won't answer. "You look good."

"I thought you weren't trying to be a creep, what the fuck?" You take a big step away from the man standing to your front.

"No no no no that's not what I meant." He tries to come closer to you but you take another step back.

"I don't care what you meant, that's weird man."

"Where do you live?"

"Okay I'm leaving now."

"No wait, again not how I meant for that to sound. I just mean I can give you a better explanation when we're not standing in the middle of the street." He rambles.

"Fine, but I expect no more excuses."

You reluctantly show him to way to your house. Now that you've been closer to him you recognize him as Red Hood, a newer vigilantie. He's a good guy, he wouldn't hurt you, right?"

"Here we are." You announce as you step up to unlock your door. Red Hood follows you a little too close.

"It's nice." He says quietly, almost as if he's unsure of his voice.

"Thanks. Now explain." The second the door is shut you demand to know more.

"I'm not really sure how to say this."

"Well you don't really have a choice do you?"

"No I guess not. I've never been able to say no to you." He makes a sound that almost seems like a laugh.

"Never? Do we know each other?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna need more than a single word."

Instead of saying anything he takes off his mask Suddenly every makes sense. Or as much as it can when you're dead best friend is standing in front of you.

"Jason." You smile.

"Hi. This isn't how I wanted to do this."

"No? How did you?" You take a step closer to him.

"Well to be honest I wasn't. I really didn't expect you to know I was there."

"You aren't very quiet." You turn away and take a seat on your couch.

"I should probably work on that." He sits next to you. You look amazing."

"Thank you Jay."

"Aren't you going to ask me anything?"

"I will later. Right now I just want to sit, I've missed you."

"I miss you too."