#how do you guys pump out so many chapters

[taegularities]

candles & flames: downpour | jjk (m)

bonus chapter II: downpour

Summary: One knock at your door — that’s all it takes for the clouds to burst. Because when it rains, it pours.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: established relationship, royal!au; angst!!, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: ok ok – rain metaphors, mention of a traumatic past, daddy issues?, illegitimate child plot, backstories, mention of mentally abusive relationship, cheating (not between jk and oc), jk kinda a homewrecker, lies, tears, breakdowns, panic, fears, abandonment issues, craving/pining sigh, arguments and fighting, very sweet kids, dad!jk <3; explicit sexual content: oral (m. receiving, super brief f.), fingering, teasing, kissing/making out, manhandling, biting, big dick jk, soft dom jk, soft/hard sex, unprotected sex (shhh, they're married), he spills on her ass, cmnf for a bit, some aftercare; hm… the ending. ➳ wc: 31.8k ➳ a/n: alright. i courageously fought through the pain; not sure how this will go for you. we've waited quite a while for this, and all your support for this series really pushed me to no end <3 i hope this is all you guys expected it to be. take it easy with this one; love y'all sm and as always, let me know what you think 🤍 ➳ a/n2: this is a bonus chapter for my mini-series candles & flames. reading the rest of the story helps!! find the mpost below <3 and the collaborative playlist here!

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

It’s fall.

Orange-red, beloved, drizzling fall.

And everything falls with its emergence. The leaves, the temperature, the warmth.

You’re bummed, experiencing the prior season coming to an end again; the colours are fading and the flowers disappearing. The trees are empty; pretty but a little eerie, too.

Hana insisted on a stroll since the sun still graced you this noon; by now, it’s gone again, hidden behind grey, monochrome clouds. It looks much later than it already is; great call to march outside since you were still able to pick leftover flowers in the garden with her.

In the middle of the drawing room, Hana leafs through the basket. Jungkook is largely free today, but he’s still busying himself with papers of some guest he’s expecting tomorrow. The man wishes to open a bar in the village and asked for an appointment with the town’s royal to discuss the profitability of the idea.

Jungkook is lost in thoughts, thick eyebrows furrowed, but your eyes are scurrying across the room, settling on your daughter. She’s carefully inspecting each flower, remaining on her favourites a little longer; kneeling with pursed lips.

She resembles her father down to each smileless dimple. She’s staring down, the same shape and arch of her lips, eyes big. Whenever she finds a particularly good flower, she jumps to her little feet, walking up to Jungkook to present her choices for him to admire.

Once she reaches her last favourite, she holds it up to him with a tongue sticking out, proud and childishly joyous as she says, “This is for you.”

“For me?” he drops the papers to the table, mouth open; cautiously takes the daisy between his fingers. “Gorgeous. I thought I was not allowed to have one?”

“You can have this,” she mumbles, lisping here and now, “I have many.”

“Right. Let’s see.” He lays it onto the documents he inspected, stretching out his palms for her. Obliging, she lets him pick her up and place her on his lap, immediately pumped when he asks, “Where did you find it? Want to tell me about it?”

And she does, with sheer enthusiasm so, explaining the spot and the colours vaguely. You know Jungkook still isn’t any smarter, probably not quite remembering where the daisies grow. He prefers the field in the distance over the garden.

Concluding her story, she soon tells him, “Can you keep this? Until I am big like you?”

“Oh…” You tilt your head. Your cheeks are hot like the summer that passed, watching him blush, melting with her in his arms. “Of course! Do you want to tell me why I am getting this one?”

“It’s pretty.”

“Ah. Like you then. You’re pretty.”

And Hana, aware and oh-so-humble, responds with her eyes on her fingers, nodding, “Yes.”

They do this sometimes. Exchange pretty things. She enjoys sharing her food or her collections with him, stuff she loves. She’s learned to show affection like this; makes him and you a part of herself this way. It’s a slightly different dynamic with the others in the room, though.

Because the moment her tremendous eyes look up, they darken a shade, displeased with the little body crawling to her basket, close to reaching in. Hana wriggles and jumps off Jungkook’s lap, her voice high-pitched when she starts whining, “Nooo! Not you!”

Right. There’s that, too.

The miniscule hand almost knocking over the basket, the same eyes as his sister’s, but the expressions a lot closer to yours. The surprise in his gaze is similar to the one you see right behind him, belonging to the partner in crime.

You rush to lift the near-accomplice before Hana can reprimand them both. And he looks just like you when he stares at you in shock, not minding the warmth, hands close to his body before they settle right on your clavicles.

He averts his gaze, following the drama on the ground. And the other twin, the one he’d been hurrying to, looks like your occasionally whining self, too, when Hana reaches him.

Jungkook might have enjoyed a copy of himself in her for years now, but you got two boys with your features instead. They clutch at you at all times, much as Hana sticks to her father.

Jaehoon, clever and thoughtful, secure in your arms, and then Jaehyuk, usually radiant, on the floor. Only right now, he isn’t as cheerful anymore.

Rather devastated, startled as Hana opens the small fist crushing a flower. He ogles around with wide eyes, already breathing towards crying, and then, finally — juts out his lower lip. Seeks your attention; and when he catches your tilted, worried look, he starts weeping.

As if your presence permitted his breakdown. You sigh.

His fist is closed tight, but when Hana sharply orders again, “Let go!”, he does, scrabbling away from her. She collects her possessions with a grunt; you inch closer to her the same moment Jungkook rises from his seat on the diwan.

Lifting the crying Jaehyuk in his arms, he plants a soft kiss onto the child’s temple, shushing him with a gentle, “It is alright. Look, nothing happened.”

But Jaehyuk still buries his face in Jungkook’s chest, crying harder, actual tears this time around. Jungkook squats down to Hana with a scolding look in his eyes, one eyebrow cocked as he explains, “Suhana, it is good to share.”

She doesn’t quite look at him; throws the remainders of the demolished flower into the basket, grazing the petals. Sulking, she defends, “But he destroyed them.”

“He is little. You did this as well when you were small.”

Hana shakes her head, convinced, “I do not think that I did.”

“Ah… really?”

“I don’t destroy pretty things!”

Jungkook mimics your sigh, kneeling down, and you shift your eyes for just a moment to check on the baby in your arms. He’s the calmest in the room, observing the rest of his family with curiosity. You smile a little; he’s beautiful, so innocent, so clueless.

So empathetic.

Worried when he sees his brother still crying, not imitating his sobs, but pointing to his other half before he looks at you as if you understood. Awaiting your answer.

You did understand, actually; you often do. So you nod, telling him, “I know. Jaehyuk is a little sad.”

Jaehoon points again, and then suddenly leans forwards. You hold him tight, walking closer to the rest, and he relaxes. Happy you obliged, a finger in his mouth. You set him on the ground when Jungkook does the same with Jaehyuk, listening in as your husband tries again—

“Look. You gave me a nice flower, so give him one, too. He’s your brother, right?”

Hana hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

“Don’t you love him, too?” You hum at his words, enforcing the message. “You should give nice things to people you love.”

“Yes. But he is annoying…”

She grants her siblings a look, a little calmer when Jaehyuk sniffles. Jaehoon shifts closer to his disheartened brother, touching his hand, knees close. They can finally sit on their own now, and they use the ability to keep themselves glued to the other.

A second passes before Hana adds, “Alright, he should have one. He is too small to get his own.”

You agree, “That’s right.”

Holding two different flowers towards the now far calmer Jaehyuk — Jaehoon’s presence seems to help — she inquires, “Good, which one do you like better?”

Her voice is authoritative, the classic older sister. It affects the twins for just a moment as they blink at her; but then, Jaehyuk regards the choices presented to him — though his eyes settle on the marigold quickly.

Opting to grab it, he hits the void when Hana pulls back, shaking her head. You’re about to nag again, seated on the ground next to Jungkook, much like royals should as your sister would jest, but then hold back when Hana speaks again.

“No. Grab it from here, yes?” She hands him the stem, and he listens, takes it as carefully as a baby can. “Yes, like this.”

And then he’s raising it to his cheek, fascinated by it, touching the petals after all. Jaehoon watches quietly before his beseeching eyes drift to his sister. His plea is soundless, but she understands; says, “You can have this, Jaehoonie.”

The daisy he receives is from the same spot she plucked Jungkook’s from. Pretty things for her pretty brother. He’s not sure what to do with it, though, but he imitates the way Jaehyuk plays with it so tenderly, more than happy to accept.

You catch the smile spreading on Hana’s countenance, balanced out by her sassy little, “But you have to work for more. These are mine.”

You laugh, content, “This is good enough.” You reach out to her cheek, caressing for a moment. “Be nice to each other. They love you a lot.”

She only nods, yet baffled when Jaehoon suddenly opts for her, climbing half onto her lap. She gives in, though she can barely properly hold them yet; so she reshifts him as well as she can, placing him in front of her, between her legs.

Like this, they look through the basket; he’s kind and soft, so he doesn’t do much anyway. Just stares while Jaehyuk busies himself with the flower until he gets bored and targets the toy he abandoned minutes ago.

They’re cooing and conversing, Hana speaking, Jaehoon incoherently babbling. You’ve heard this is good, talking to your kids; apparently, they’re vocal much more later on.

But the room is filled with noises and a stack of papers, so you turn to Jungkook and suggest, “I can take them somewhere else. You’re working, so I reckoned…”

“It’s alright,” he, however, assures, “I am already done. This is rewarding, actually.”

“Isn’t it tiring?” You regard the scattered children, full of love for them, but brimming with fatigue, too. “I am so… exhausted.”

“I know. I understand that you are,” he says, grasping your hand, knuckles to his lips, “which is probably why I should stay, too.”

He gets it. You know he truly does, never just says it.

Ever since the birth of your twins, stress, anxiety and restless nights came together to an undesired mix. Barely sleeping makes you prone to headaches and mood swings; one child was already difficult to manage, but three…

You haven’t rested in years. Your skin and your eyes have changed. More tired, more sensitive, your heart a little more feeble.

And the birth wasn’t easy, either. You lost a ton of blood again, another source of Jungkook’s resurfaced panic; but this time because there were two kids at once. You feel grateful, you do — but the days and weeks after they were born were hell on Earth.

You didn’t quite feel like yourself for so long.

But their warmth and Jungkook helped. Honestly, you can’t anyhow fabricate a world without him and his support even just in theory. And beware, such love isn’t given; you’ve seen friends and relatives wade through terrible experiences.

Jungkook is a man they don’t place in every corner of the world, so you’re thankful beyond imagination.

Because you survived due to him. You live because of the humble personalities in this brightly lit room, dimmed only by the grey afternoon sky. It’s a cruel world at times; some pasts are an accumulation of everything bad. Jungkook’s more than anyone’s you know.

Looking at him now, you can hardly believe he was once the sad boy stranded in the rain.

That crying, sobbing mess, freezing, seeking peace when he was inundated by misery. But…

Things came together well, right? The world is less terrifying like this.

You guess the warmth might fall outside all the time, but it never does in these rooms.

“And?”

The answer echoes less than it did a moment ago. The peeking head is retracting just slowly, still frozen between the open door and its frame. You don’t think his eyes are spying much of concern, and he confirms it when he shakes his head, responds—

“Nothing.”

“This should be good enough then.”

“Hm, yes. I don’t know. It took hours last time, as well.”

Without a piece of context, it’s a hilarious picture. Somehow, it even is with context; so you can’t help the quiet chuckle, silencing quickly to avoid waking up the tiny bundle slumbering in your arms.

You reprimand your husband, “But you can’t keep standing there for hours.”

The sigh you receive is deep and long. You understand his worries.

It hasn’t been long anyway — the night transpired just a while ago. Still in the back of your mind since Hana waddled to your room, knocking with the might that her fist could possibly conjure; you barely heard it, but you did.

You have been a light sleeper since she was born, so you were shaken awake rather fast. You welcomed her in with softness, veiling the horror in your voice. You were devastated when you saw her feet bare, standing in the dark hallway.

Luckily, the moment turned out not quite frightening — she couldn’t sleep. That was it. So you pulled her into your arms and off the ground, stroking her back and her head, planting kisses in her hair.

It took a while to lull her to sleep; to be certain, you kept her right next to you for the remainder of the nightly hours, even though her room was next door. She’d mumbled something about a poor bird, and you’d understand only minutes after her silence that she had seen a dead pigeon in the garden that day.

The nightmare this scene called forth prevented her from sleeping comfortably in her chamber for some days to come.

Jungkook had come to bed late that time, so he was long knocked out when Hana came. The regret doubled the next morning when you told him about the occurrence, and Jungkook blamed himself for the coming hours — only, the guilt extended. Still prominent.

Because he’s still glancing out, fearing she’ll come and knock again; fearing it might go unnoticed once more.

“I would hear it,” you reassure, “I always will.”

“What if you don’t?”

“I will,” you try again; you keep your voice low, soft, understanding his string of thoughts. But you miss him next to you, and you want the door to close. You insist, “I will, love. Don’t blame yourself for not hearing it, yes? You were tired.”

Jaehoon moves in your arms, a small fist loosening. He’s fast asleep, but you still wait before you speak again, assuring that he won’t wake up again. Jungkook must be thinking the same, because only once you sigh a breath of relief, he says, “You are tired, too. Don’t undermine your importance here—”

“Just come to bed, darling.”

Interrupted, his lips morph into a pout, round eyes regarding you for a moment. But it seems you render him at least a little delicate, aware of your effect on him, tilting your head by a few degrees. Your smile must be jarring; because the second you flash it, he gives in.

The door shuts behind him, and he offers an upward twitch of his mouth in response before he asks, “Would you reckon she’s too young to have her own room?”

“Perhaps… I don’t always feel very comfortable with her absence at night either. We have gotten too used to her, haven’t we?” You shake your head as he steps towards your side of the bed. “But she wanted this so bad.”

“Hmm… good thing she spends half of all her nights here anyway.”

“True. She got too used to us, as well,” you say before sitting up, eliciting a brief groan as you prepare yourself to put Jaehoon back in his crib. You can barely stand up; your body is exhausted, begs to stay in the resting state for now. “Alright then…”

But by then Jungkook’s helping hands are already reaching out, his back arching, bowing forwards. Carefully, sweetly, he mutters a little, “No, let me—” before he’s sheltering his son in his hold, slow and gentle as he tackles the task for you.

For a minute, he remains there, standing over the crib, gazing at the babies so peacefully dreaming away. He does this sometimes — lose himself in the sight. This is a fairytale for him. When he read all those books on parenting years ago, he didn’t think it’d come this easily to him.

Not that parenting has ever been particularly easy. Tears and arguments were frequent at points in time, but so were sacrifices and compromises. You knew what such a change did to a vulnerable heart and mind, so you fought through the difficulties with courage.

And it was worth it every single time. All in all, you don’t regret a thing; you’d repeat it all if you could. Jungkook is your dream; this life is your dream.

Never ceased to be.

Even now, as he returns to the bed and jumps under the blanket, you register an odd, sparkly feeling in your tummy. It always existed underneath, never diminished or decreased. Ever-so-present, you still cherish its intensity, even after all these years. Or perhaps because of the time that has passed.

Such passion isn’t a matter of fact. You know it isn’t.

Triggered by the funny, pleasant feeling in your body, your smile grows a little. Softer and more loving when he kisses your shoulder as if to greet you. Proceeds to place his head on your chest as his arms snake around your body, settling in his very own safe space.

“Are you feeling well?” his drowsy voice questions, just a little muffled as the lips graze your gown’s cotton.

“I am. You?”

“Just cold. I need a bit more of this,” he cuddles in, kissing underneath your breasts, right above your ribs. “It has been raining so much.”

“It has been indeed.”

“But,” he shifts, closer to you, “I’ve learned to appreciate it now.”

You chuckle. Time steadily passes, but some memories stay right at their assigned spots, like an immovable anchor. You’re proud, having replaced his terrifying images of nature’s showers with fond ones. And ever since, the rain has felt closer to you, too.

“That is something, then,” you say, “I’m just sad for the kids… they can’t stay out too long without feeling under the weather. If I could, I’d show them the sky all the time, too.”

“And how we’re connected to it?”

You laugh again; you wonder if he’s feeling warmer now. You’re inundated with the heat, at least. “Yes, this.”

His grip tightens just a little, a fragile attempt to draw you deeper into him. This is all the laws of physics allow — no gap left for him to close. Yet, he tries. His kiss wanders up as he raises his head, lips missing your clavicles by a bit; thumb stroking the side of your mounds.

“Love,” he calls quietly; when your eyes move to his, you see a change in them. They’re fog-shrouded and somehow questioning. “Do you feel tired?”

You’re surprised; you expected something else. The question doesn’t match his expression.

For a moment, you assume that your answer might serve a bigger purpose, so you weigh it back and forth before you decide on a straightforward, “Less than usual. It’s been so long since we fell asleep together.”

Maybe that’s what’s keeping you awake. Maybe that’s what he wants to hear.

Because he nods fervently against your breasts, cheek pressing against them, and agrees, “It has been. Yet, do you know it has been only three days in reality?”

Oh. Dang. You guess there is no true limit to your mutual obsession. You shrug, “Feels much longer.”

“Well, in that sense…” Warm digits touch your arm, circling your elbow and then travelling up your skin. “There is one good thing about Hana sleeping in the other room, yes? We’re alone for once.”

“Unless she once again catches us in the middle of—”

“Don’t remind me.”

You giggle, but the sound dies when he pushes his palm under your short gown sleeve, caressing your shoulder and then the lower part of your neck. Angling your head, you close your eyes, somehow spitting, “Are you planning something, Sir?”

His leg moves further over your own; there’s a growing firmness between them that you can’t ignore. He teases, “Sir? Now, that is new.”

“Mmh, do you like it?”

“Admittedly, it is somewhat odd, but… it’s still something.”

“Then, what is going on now?”

“Well, it’s… very boring to talk about it. Lemme just—”

The palm covering your tits is sudden, but the mouth exploring them isn’t. You felt the touch from miles away, satisfied and alight when his teeth graze over your perked nipple. His hand, restless, works on pushing down your nightgown to bare one side, and he’s…

Impatient, as you’ve known.

His tongue is hot and soft, the tip of it merely teasingly brushing over the freed nipple as his hand pushes your tit up, further into his face and towards his mouth. You sigh. He sets fire to your nerves; you feel each of the licks affecting your body.

Then, amidst the comfortable, sweet journey, he suddenly bites.

You gasp, followed by a tiny exclaim of an, “Ouch,” and work on playfully escaping his advances — to no avail. He laughs against your bud, his hands stronger than your dishonest attempt as they pin your arms to the mattress.

His eyes are evil, an eyebrow cocked, lips parted as he breathes, “What?”

“You’re about to lose it again. I can see it!”

“Ah… do you— do you not want me to?” He’s still in a daze, his words mumbled. He moves back just a little, wondering if you’re not quite where he is tonight. But you shake your head the moment he suggests, “I’ll hold myself back if I need t—”

“Oh, can you?”

You’re smiling, so he’s quickly encouraged to offer a grin of his own; honestly admits, “No… but I will for you.”

“You will for me?” The everlasting beam on your face is inevitable; how could you keep your cool, pretend you’re not thoroughly warmed when he says things like these? “While I appreciate how thoughtful you are… I’m not a fool.”

Not a fool. I won’t decline.

“Then… May I kiss you?”

“You’re asking so politely, how could I—”

There’s no time to reject, even if you wanted to. His kiss is abrupt and hard, though his lips still refrain from any aggression just yet. He lifts his hands from next to your head to above it, dragging your captive arms with them.

As his head tilts, deeper in the kiss, his tongue mingles with yours with a tempting hum so unique to his voice — as if he’s tasting a delicatesse. Your mouths are in main action, but both your bodies are reacting in their entirety, too.

In constant motion, winding, closing in.

His upper body urges you down until you’re flat on your back; the nightgown settles back over your tits again as you move, but he grabs your flesh above the clothing, kneading. Clumsily, with his eyes still shut, he attempts to unlace the front of your gown.

You wait for his intention to manifest into reality, readily letting his palm brush over your hot skin, your neck, your jaw. But once he opts to undress you fully, your patience dwindles, and you let him know, “I don’t want to wait this time.”

“Ah, alright, alright… This is how we’re doing things tonight?”

Your poor dress will be wrinkled up by the morning; you know by the way he’s hiking it up your leg this time, stopping at your waist, force of habit. There’s a satisfying, delighted smile on his face, mixing with a pleased sound when he discovers you’re bare underneath the gown—

And it seems it motivates him more rapidly to tug at his own trousers. You nod as if to encourage him further, hands seeking out the hem of his pyjamas. But you’re as useless from this angle as can be.

So he sits upright, slipping out of it, pushing it down his thighs until it’s wrapped around his knees. He’s no better, really; just as naked, just as uncovered underneath the trousers, as if the two of you planned this, or hoped for this.

Kneeling, he pushes your legs apart, spreading until your flexibility stops. He settles between them properly, leaning down, and uses the position to kick off the rest of his disruptive trousers. The length of his cock, as unbelievable as ever and quickly hardening, presses against your damp cunt — bliss for the moment, but torture for the next.

The way his cock dips between your folds and rubs along your pussy’s growing dampness feels almost deliberate. As if he’s tormenting you, demonstrating his power over you, stiff past your hole and up your tiny clit without ever diving in.

But you won’t lie — you could probably come from this alone. It’s embarrassing, being so weak in his presence. And the filthy sounds, wet and inappropriate, don’t help a bit.

So you’re not sure whether you’re relieved or agitated when the touch finally vanishes but his mischievous smile doesn’t. It’s somewhat weak, hindered by the lust clouding his brain, but it’s insane and misbehaved either way.

He’ll kill you one day; or you might kill him. You don’t know who might end up asserting the more hazardous dominance.

For now, it’s you who’s surrendering. How could you not, considering he’s conjuring his own battle plan right above you, hand reaching between his and your legs and underneath the blanket to—

Damn the tip of the digits against your clenching cunt. He’s not even inside, but you react immediately. Know to bite your lower lip when he circles your clit a little, the position and the spread legs keeping you from shutting your thighs.

Your head falls to the side; Jungkook considers it an opportunity. He plays around your nub further, testing the waters, and when you moan out, he closes the gap between the two of you, latching onto your neck to suck and kiss and bite.

“Fuck,” you curse, incessantly hoping the kids are deeply asleep and won’t have to witness their mother’s foul language this early on. “Fuck, start already—”

He knows you aren’t talking about his fingers; they’re already in action, tapping your clit, drawing over it. Then moving down, slipping along your wetness, already drenched when he decides to ram a finger in.

Yet, he understands you’re still referring to the member standing tall, anticipating and urging for you but holding back either way. No, instead he chooses to drive you crazy first, using a free hand to grab your chin and turn your head back to him, going for another messy kiss.

And you can’t do more than give yourself to him so willingly, wincing and whimpering as he finger-fucks you as well as the position allows. It’s not ideal like this, and to your chagrin, he can’t use his skills fully, but the fact that he can turn your thoughts this incoherent speaks volumes already.

You can’t wait… can’t wait for him to bury himself in you.

Half hovering over you, he soon loses the strength to keep himself afloat, dipping and retracting his fingers to lead his cock there instead; still, once again, without fucking you dumb yet. You’re drifting, but still too sane for your liking.

Your wetness helps him toy with you some more; he keeps pumping with his hand as he humps you once, twice, and you mutter his name and a couple mumbled pleas — but he remains as wicked as ever.

But when the dam breaks and your mind explodes, you exclaim his name again in pure desperation, half your brain gone when he pushes just his tip inside you and continues jerking off to make himself as hard as he can.

Eventually, you demand, “Put it in!”

The shake of his head is vile. Your eyebrows furrow at the man, and you try to grind up into him — he doesn’t let you. Only the head remains inside you, and he keeps doing his thing, not leading it in or out, just drenching himself.

You reprimand, “You’re being impossible tonight.”

“Aren’t I?” he responds, like a naughty child who’s caught and proud of its sins. He presses another peck to your lips, his words breathy when he reveals his true thoughts, “No, sweetheart, it is just that— you aren’t ready. That’s it.”

You aren’t ready? You feel like you’re overflowing. But you understand; there’s no room for impatience after all. It’s happened before — him pushing in, only to realise it was too early, that it pained you instead of pleasuring you.

“Well…” you start, dumbfounded. He noticed and you didn���t — the ultimate proof that he knows you inside out. “You could’ve said this earlier. Put it in my mouth then.”

“Huh?”

“Right now. This will help, too.”

“Oh… yes? I— I won’t reject the offer.”

Of course he won’t. In fact, he climbs up the bed quickly, lifting, caging your body between his knees. The sight is incredible; thighs as wide as your face, muscular. You hold onto them, bask in the sight of the dangling package, harder by the moment.

With effort, he says, “Just for a second.” The tip taps against your mouth, hot as he pushes it inside. Thick and heavy on your tongue, his cock twitches, affected by the swirl of the wet muscle and the hollowing of your cheeks. “Yes… not long, no—”

He must be talking to himself. Keeping himself from thrusting and fucking your mouth all the way to the end. And when you bop your head up and down, lightly touching his balls and the parts of the length you can’t swallow, he restates, “I really do not want to wait.”

You let go for a moment with a slurping sound, agreeing, “Fine by me,” before you come back to go in harder. Giving him all you can, crossing your legs, seeking reprieve.

And you think you’d quickly overflow, by virtue of his enticing reactions, if the moment wasn’t so short lived.

Because it seems he reaches a limit when your drool starts flowing down the side of your face, nasty and warm, your throat still working full time on not gagging. On staying quiet. It’s become a task by now.

And for the first time tonight, Jungkook doesn’t serve the devil, but pulls back.

While it’s a pity — why didn’t he finish in your mouth? — you won’t deny your selfish part. The one that craves and awaits, glad when his body disappears beneath the sheets again, his head with it.

What—

Won’t he start? You didn’t expect him to fall out of your sight entirely. And there’s not much guessing needed until you understand that he’s aiming for his favourite spot, his tongue lapping up your juices a moment later.

He kisses your cunt just once, slides a stripe between your folds, and you’re certain his goal is much more profound. Normally, you’d be fully down for this, but you’ve reached a limit you can’t bear anymore.

So you whisper, “You don’t need to.”

He doesn’t register it right away, spitting and feasting further; more kisses, more tongue, untamed until you grip his hair and raise his head off of you. He obliges surprisingly easily when you pull him back to your lips, reiterating, “I don’t want to fucking wait. Just…”

“I know,” he says, peck after peck, in between each word, “I know. I have had enough, too, I have—”

His arm steals your breath when he twines it around your body like a vine, arching your back, lifting you by mere inches. Both his hands are busy; caressing your sides or your face; he’s confident about the touch, about the eagerness the two of you harbour for each other.

Which is why he doesn’t even guide his length towards your pleading heat anymore, gliding up and down; hard enough to stand tall against it, poking as if knocking. The thought makes you laugh for only a moment before your lungs suddenly empty—

Part of his cock slips in effortlessly; there’s no resistance, no struggle, no need to glance down and complicate matters. You welcome him easily; match his smirk, proud and unsurprised about your keen craze when he says, “Wasn’t supposed to happen already. I wanted another moment to—”

You vigorously shake your head. “Too late. Too damn late—”

The last word comes out strained as your body comes in motion, moving against him. And he matches your pace and fervour, shoving himself in harder. Unable to resist anymore, all the teasing vanishes along with his patience.

Instead, he bottoms out at once, and you yelp, an unintentional volume that he immediately shuts with a hand over your mouth and a chuckle. Jungkook enjoys playing the beast when he’s with you like this, but he can’t suppress his amusement when he shushes you.

“Are y-you trying to wake the mansion, huh?”

But his words are nothing but a breath, airy and quiet. Such a whistling whisper that it, much as your noise, might just be enough to wake everybody, too. The irony is comical.

You shake your head and his hand with it, relying on your nose to breathe the oxygen still left in the room. Your neck feels hot, your face and body burning up. Not quite sure whether it’s the way he’s handling you or whether your leg is actually trembling like this.

His strokes, slowly starting, shake up your body at least. The friction drives you insane; his length, reaching a mind-boggling depth, renders you so stupid each time. Thick against your walls, leaving no gap, no spot untouched. 

You’re boiling under his hand, somehow glad about the muffled sound. Because if he didn’t silence you like this, you’d be wreaking havoc right here, an unbridled mess wrapped in your husband’s body.

They say love and passion fade sometimes; that affection lessens when you get used to it, bored of it. But the two of you haven’t reached that stage yet — you doubt you ever will.

Because the flames that have surrounded you ever since you fell into these depths for the other… they don’t ever seem to dim. Who would’ve thought that a candle could turn into an inferno?

No, your body signals more than enough; this isn’t boredom. This isn’t a reduction in adoration. You feel the devouring and the worship in each thrust and touch and kiss and gaze.

In each curse and movement, how he shifts you and you wind. Dancing in the sheets and shivering under the goosebumps as he hears your stifled moans drowned out by his palm. If he could, he’d listen all day; if the circumstances allowed…

He rams into you hard but slowly and only raises the pace gradually; once he’s gotten used to the effect, however, and seeks to possess you more, he sends your body up the sheets. Each time, over and over again, restraint thrown overboard.

You mewl with a raised head and tightly shut eyes; his hand drops just a little, and you, in your misty moment, dig your teeth into the finger still covering your lower lip. The sound he lets out suggests pain here, but then again… lust there.

His voice is feathery, mellow; as if he’s softly charmed, seduced rather than achingly bitten.

Lips apart and eyes hooded, he relocates his hand just a little, twisting it until the thumb grazes your chin, hand laying on your cheek as the forefinger dips into your mouth. It’s difficult to focus; what does he look at?

The way his digit is gently trapped between your teeth, the tip of it teased by your tongue? The arch of your mouth and how his finger presses against the lower lip? Or the heat that grows under his palm, the rise of your chin, the eyes rolling back before shutting?

A feral urge expands in him, growing like a well-watered seed; he doesn’t know how you do it, but you encapsulate all his beginnings and ends in a moment, now and always.

Your hair is a mess by the time he removes his other hand from it, not quite sure when he grabbed a patch at all. He pins one of your legs to the side, angling it, and you breathe unsteadily, mumbling a tiny, “Oh— Kook—”

“Yes.”

It’s not quite a dialogue, but neither of you cares for it. There isn’t much to say at all. And neither any calls of his or your name, nor his quiet, “I love you so much,” do the emotion bubbling in his stomach justice.

In all honesty, he could explode just looking at you. You’re a wonder of nature, aren’t you? You pump relief and craze and comfort and insanity into him, one after another and all at once.

“Baby,” you call out the moment his teeth drag your damn gown down your tits again, kissing them, nibbling at your nipple. “I think I might already— soon…”

You don’t know whether it’s because it’s been so long, or because Jungkook knows just well how to fuck you right, but you’re nearly bursting. Or is it the mental picture of the movements he’s granting you?

Elegant yet beastly thrusts, hips and ass and upper body swaying up and down steadily; slow, then fast, then soft, then hard… rhythmic and then stuttering—

He wipes the hair off your forehead, and then whispers warm and close to your ear, “Hey, do you… know how obsessed I am with you?” A peck to your earlobe, and you wind, ticklish and pleased. He shifts to your lips, the kiss an inch away. “You—you’re all I’ll ever need.”

You can’t serve as much of a smooth and rational answer as him, but you still tell him all lost, “Then— be with me… me, always, yes?”

He chuckles; you’re not sure why. Perhaps this is such a matter-of-fact for him that he doesn’t need it spelled out. “Yes… yes. What else? Where else would I go?”

Away from you — even for a moment, even just a bit. Right now, you can’t bear the thought of a hint of a distance between the two of you. You want him close, closer, part of your heart, thawing with you in cool falls and cold winters.

“You’re pretty,” he then proceeds, tugging at your lip, “don’t know where to touch you. So pretty.”

“Everywhere. Just don’t stop— touching me,” you begin, every now and then interrupted by an exhausted kiss, “at all.”

“Right.” And still, he backs away out of the blue, all touch gone except the gentle rub along your hip, and you stare up at him with big eyes, body so empty before he orders, “Turn around.” He’s acting tough, but you see the madness in his eyes the moment he says it. “Quickly.”

Quickly.

You know what he’s thinking without him vocalising any of it. Know what he’ll do before he does it.

With quivering limbs, you oblige, helped by his hands as he hauls the gown easily over your body, crumpling it up and placing it next to the pillow. Within a moment, you’re bare, head to toe.

He keeps you on your knees, reluctant to wait a second before he enters you again. His hand lands on your ass, pulling apart to see better, and once all in, he starts moving again.

You don’t need to glance back to know that the muscles of his back and his ass are flexing, tanned and golden. The veins of his arms are probably protruding, his abs and chest damp, latter heaving. You know he probably resembles some textbook God, and maybe that’s what topples you over the edge.

That and… the hand on your clit.

Softly circling, the nub immensely sensitive, limbs buckling and weak. You require all your might to not fall and close your legs and sob.

But the tears are inescapable; one or two tip over your waterline when you finally come to an end. His prior teasing and the anticipation already drove you too close to the peak, and it seems that now you’re surrendering eventually.

You shake, your arms more so than the rest of your body. Wobbly, you try to keep yourself upright, but as the blur covers your vision and the waves crash over your pelvis and stomach, you let your cheek fall to the pillow. Hands clutch the sheets.

The tremor is out of control.

And you’re still riding out that high, aided by his continuing shoves and hammering. He’s generous when he pushes you all the way down, a hand on the small of your back as he says, “Take your time— I’m almost there, fu—”

Take your time with what? You don’t know; the chances are high he doesn’t either. Or is he talking to himself again?

To no avail, though, because he’s manic, uncurbed. Your cheek digs into the pillow, the bed moving more than it has during these moments lately. He’s chasing ecstasy, calling your name and little words, such as, “Love, sweetheart, darling,” over and over again like it’s his sole vocabulary.

His lips move over your shoulder and to your back, featherlight as opposed to how he’s fucking you. The care with which he kisses your skin leaves you gasping, affects you whole, and you feel the shiver down your spine, along your arms.

You want to stay awake all night. Want this to keep going.

Funny, how this very thought is followed by a question you neither expect nor grasp, “Have I… kissed you too much already? Are you sick of it?”

You think your eyebrows furrow, or perhaps you imagine it, because there is no way your facial muscles still have that much energy left. But he must be out of his mind, daring such questions. Is there such a thing as getting sick of him?

“Why—”

This man never lets you finish. There is an art to interrupting without irritating, and he’s mastered it — because you can barely complain when his hand wraps around your neck, cautiously lifting and turning your head to make out with you again.

The tongue sneaks into your mouth right away; the kiss is barely a kiss, too filthy and chaotic to be called such. Rather, you’re eating each other up, mixing your moans, crazed by his drilling until his breaths turn laboured and his sounds hoarse.

They come straight out of his throat, sweet in your ears. And before you know it, he’s getting to his knees and rapidly pulling out; you feel vulnerable and tender, thoroughly worn out. The heat is blistering and your mind gone — but you still notice the ropes landing on your ass.

Sticky and hot and plenty. Scattered over your flesh; you contribute some, too, moving your ass left and right just a little, and it seems he’s enjoying it. Groans as he pumps on; when you look back at him, eyes halfway closed, you give him the rest.

And a couple seconds later, tongue poking the corner of his lips, he’s done.

Panting, whispering something you can’t understand, weak… but done. Close to falling onto you until he realises he probably shouldn’t.

Instead, he lays down next to you. Your eyes are closed, but you immediately feel a loving brush over your cheek, ridding it of the strands sticking to your face.

You shake your head — or at least, you think you do. It’s probably more of an attempt, just a slight movement before you playfully scold, “Great… what do we do about this now?”

Jungkook swallows, calming down as he responds, “Over there— there’s a jug of water on the table still.”

“…And?”

“I will go and find a cloth?”

The careful question in his tone is so sweet. You’re not sure if he intended to stain your skin like this before the lust took over him. What a fool for you. Enough to barely ever think of the consequences, be they big or small.

In this sense, you could say that falling for you happened without a single thought for him, too, didn’t it?

He was chasing a different plan. Didn’t fathom that he was losing himself in you. And when he did, he didn’t consider the aftereffects and the risks of what his uncle had come up with; Jungkook didn’t care much about anything at all but being with you.

He’s told you many times.

Back when you hid in that room, or touched in the carriage — in those fleeting moments, the future didn’t consist of what his relatives needed, but of what he could give to you. Who he could be to you.

In hindsight, he was so in love with you. Looking at your relationship, you can’t compare the affection you started out with for each other with the overload of passion now, but… goddamn, he was so in love with you. You know.

And the truth is that no matter what obstacles life may place on your road ahead, neither of you will love the other less than the minute before.

You laugh when you meet his big, brown eyes, asking, “Is there any cloth in this room?”

“I… I think I brought one before. Should be on the table…”

“Might be good enough.”

“Or I can get one from the kitchen.”

You scoff. “You want to sneak around the mansion now? Really?” You lift your upper body, balancing it on your arms, catching him as he licks his lips at the sight of your bouncing tits. You nod towards the table. “That will do. Go and free me from your stuff.”

“Tsk. Good.”

You were right; his idea sufficed. And the kids are still asleep — a double win for you. In theory, you’re ready to crash for the night, succumbing to fatigue. But the truth is that only your body feels spent; your brain doesn’t just yet.

So as Jungkook wipes over the flesh of your ass, you confess, “I’m still not tired enough.”

“Mmmh, me neither.”

“…So what now?”

He falls back to his side with another grunt, throwing the dirty cloth to the floor. You reach out, grazing his chest, playing with the cotton he’s still sporting. He probably knows what you’re hinting at, despite being already battered, but he ignores your advances just to—

“Mh-mh,” he rejects, “I want to talk. I just… I need to hear your voice for a bit.” He stops the finger on his chest, raising your hand to his lips, and kisses each knuckle. Dramatically, he adds, “What would I do without your voice?”

You ponder. Then jest, “Still hear it in your mind somewhere.”

“Yes, very true. I still always do in the office.”

You laugh, so gripped by the emotions stuck to your heart. “So, what would you like me to say?” He shrugs, an indicator for, “Anything.” So you ask, “Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“Yes… story. Yes, tell me one.”

“I can think of one right away. Sort of a lullaby.”

“So it’s got to be a good one,” he says as he covers you with the thick blanket. An arm over you pulls you closer to him. “Right?”

Your eyes drift to the window. You’re lucky, sleeping in a bedroom with a view. Jungkook’s office has one, too, but Hana’s room, while next door, doesn’t. You’re at the far end of the corridor and this mansion’s wing, risking much, so exposed.

Perhaps you’ll move your room to a safer place in the mansion soon. But for now, you’re grateful for the sky, the stars, the moon. The pouring cloudburst.

Jungkook might have caught your distraction; because he wraps one of your hair strands around his finger, inquiring, “May I guess?… Is it a story about the fall and the rain?”

Your lips twitch upward to a smile. Flooded by past pictures, you refuse to end the night, preparing for a concluding tale as you say—

“How did you know?”

When it knocks at your chamber door the next sunrise, you could swear you haven’t slept more than a handful of hours. The exhaustion weighs on your eyes and muscles, body limp as you stir awake. Your voice is still hoarse.

So you’re startled.

Not just because it’s early or because of the interrupted, peaceful slumber; and not just because there’s a knock at the grand, adorned door, either. In reality, it occurs regularly — for Jungkook and his work, or to remind you of your children’s riding and violin lessons, or to inform you of the arrival of guests.

This time it’s the latter. Yet, you’re alarmed, not even because of the guest, but because it’s Sunday, and you don’t usually expect a visitor on Sundays — unless, perhaps, something is transpiring down in the village that needs your urgent assistance.

But — these things are rare. People here regard it as their rest day, too. It’s why you wake up drowsy and confused, ready to sleep the fatigue off and hoping it’s nothing too grave. Squinting an eye shut, you glance at the longcase clock in the corner of your room.

Seven in the morning.

You register a mumble of a voice next to you, low and gravelly, welcoming the staff inside who, a second later, informs, “Visitor for you, Lord Jeon.”

Jungkook sighs. A hand emerges from under the heavy, floral blanket, rubbing his tired, puffy eyes. He hums in gratitude, telling the informant he’d be downstairs in a minute; and when the young man has stepped away, Jungkook half turns to you.

His voice is still husky and half asleep when he gently wipes a strand behind your ear and says, “Go back to sleep. Might be Byun for the boxing ring. I should be back in a little.”

You only nod, moving his cradling hand with it. You can barely speak, fighting the urge to yawn. Frankly, you wouldn’t know what you’d be uttering anyway, though your mind is still present enough to understand that he’s kissing your knuckles and then leaving his side empty.

Falling back into the mattress, you once again hope for a speedy get-together on the floor down below; but when you awake again, the clock indicates the passing of over a full hour. The bed is still half vacant.

You wonder what’s going on, gradually cracking your eyes open to the ceiling until your brain fathoms well enough that a meeting this early shouldn’t take so long, and that anyway, there’s no reason for a business visitor to come by this soon into the day.

So you clear your throat, sitting up at the edge of the bed. You wrap yourself in your gown and your silk coat, arms folded as if to protect yourself. It’s just cold; a chill autumn day.

And as you walk down the staircase, you hear faint chattering from the main hall, like a tiny whisper from here. There’s only some staff in the welcoming hallway, but they’re guarding the parlour. That’s where the voices are coming from.

Nobody hinders you from entering the room when you do. Of course not; there’s no reason to.

But the atmosphere is still oddly charged when you step in, meeting Jungkook’s pale face from afar. You blame it on the sleepless night, just as much as the somewhat dark circles under his eyes.

Still, it gets weirder as you near; because he’s looking at somebody who has their back turned to you. A woman with long black hair, gazing down; and when Jungkook detects you, he looks terrified.

Uprighting himself, blinking, drawing a breath too deep to not worry.

You automatically assume the worst; bad news from the city? Some issues in the village? Or a girl trying her charm on your husband? Wouldn’t be the first time.

You round the chair she made herself comfortable on; and your surprise increases, skyrocketing when you notice that she didn’t come alone. There’s a child next to her. Proper and sweet, certainly older than Hana.

His hands are neatly folded in his lap, hair combed back. He’s just listening, it seems, to whatever they spoke about. And his face… his face looks familiar somehow; as does the girl’s, yet in an entirely different way.

“Good morning,” you greet the woman and she responds with a nod. “Is everything alright?” you finally ask, turning to Jungkook, a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t come back.”

But Jungkook doesn’t answer. Your heart grows a little more wary. Because, why is he so speechless? Why does he look scared, eyes wide, chest risen, as if he’s holding his breath? Blinking faster.

The woman is back to staring at her legs, shifting her hand to grip the little one next to her; and the boy looks like he doesn’t want to be here at all. At the same time, however, he starts to admire the fancy interior of your mansion.

The lustre, the floor, the table, the chairs. Everything you’ve grown used to.

“What is wrong?” you try again. Panic watered by Jungkook’s lack of response, you gulp, but still steady yourself and remain polite. “May I ask… who are you?”

You’re looking at the woman again. She glances up to you. She’s gorgeous — full and curved lips, light brown eyes, pitch black hair. Looks young; about your age. She doesn’t answer, but Jungkook’s quivering voice does.

“This is Jihyo, darling.”

Well, alright. Doesn’t tell you much. You’ve seen her, maybe even heard the name, you think. Is she from your town? But you can’t assign her any significance…

“What does this mean?” you inquire.

“She… She wanted to talk to me,” he explains, “she came all the way from a village close to our hometown.”

“Ah. To say what, exactly?”

You don’t want to sound agitated; but the suspense is growing unnecessarily, and you want whatever truth out. And honestly—

The tension forms a little something in your head. Not enough time has passed for him to properly answer, but you still repeat, “To say what?!”

You feel like you have a hunch… you’re starting to come up with theories. And the worst of them dizzy you, make you want to yell and throw up, tempting you to smash a nearby vase.

Did he… could he do this to you…

No. 

“Jihyo and I knew each other… way before you and I got married. Way before.”

He echoes the last two words as if to reassure you; like the verbal equivalent of a soft hand on your back, rubbing you in comfort. But… the tactic doesn’t quite bear fruits. Your chest tightens more; the fatigue of the morning eventually fades.

“And?” you prompt, regarding her. “Why aren’t you saying anything then?”

“I have… to him. I—I do not quite know if it is my place to—”

“No, it is not,” you interrupt, “maybe you’re right. My husband should explain, no?”

But he’s stuttering as much as her. You don’t lose your patience often with him, or with people for that matter. You’re a cheerful person, fuelled by the miracles of the world. But…

This is pulling out your worst self.

“I—” he starts.

Terrified. What the hell is going on? You wait — wait more as he swallows. And then, when he drops the explanation, your heart falls with it. Bursts, plummeting from such a height.

“Jihyo and I met for a while and… she just came and told me that this… he’s—”

You understand.

You understand immediately because your guts warned you the moment you saw his expression. You look back and forth between him, her and the child, realising the similarities once and for all, well aware from experience why similarities are a thing in a family and…

You can barely hear yourself emit the words once they tumble out; like your voice isn’t your voice, and your thoughts aren’t your thoughts, “This… is your son?”

Like you’re living somebody else’s day who’s about to trudge through a life-changing, agonising event. Because this can’t be happening to you. Actually, it’s not sinking in at all; you’re fantasising, and you refuse to believe reality. 

“Jihyo says he is my son,” he paraphrases, as if he doesn’t really believe her, either, “he’s uhm. He’s six years old.”

Your mind begins to calculate immediately. Sudden dread fills you — because wait. Weren’t you together at that time? Did Jungkook hide from you, lingering in the dark, and yet another past is catching up to the two of you?

No. Hold on once more.

You got married to him five years ago. Were engaged and together for a year before. That makes six. You curl in the fingers in your mind, keeping up your math.

It’s been wrong all along, so you need to be correct this time.

Okay, so, if her — no, his, their son was born six years ago, it’d mean that Jungkook had been with her not too long before you. That’s not way before you got married, is it?

Your breath hitches. You blink the way he did before — not sure what to do or say. Your eyes move over to the rosy cheeks of the child again. He looks so innocent, still clueless, even though he perfectly understands what Jungkook just said.

Who the man is to him.

Of course. Same doe eyes, button nose, shape of face; like a damn copy. Not that the truth hurts enough, no — it had to be accompanied by another of his faces. Not in your own sons, somewhat in your daughter, but in him.

But you guess everybody is confused.

Even Jungkook. Most of all Jungkook, right?

Jihyo says he is my son.

Why? Does he not realise it?

That must mean he didn’t know, did he? And the child didn’t know either.

Jeon Jungkook, your husband of half a decade, has a son he never knew of. Older than Hana. Predating all of your history with him, alive and a toddler already back when you so profoundly believed that you were the first to share this very bond with this man.

To be the first for him at least once. But…

You’re not.

“Say something,” you hear him plead.

His voice is a little farther away. Your eyes drift back to him; he looks miserable, a hand reaching out. His fingers graze the tip of yours, but you retract in time. He sighs in absolute sorrow, face falling, as if his chest is surrendering.

You barely whisper when you answer, “What do you want me to say?”

It’s him and you; the woman is quiet, and you’re shattering. She can’t do anything anyway. Only contorts her face in pure guilt when Jungkook, defeated to the core, begs, “Anything.”

“As you wish.” Another glance at her. She’s looking at you, too. “Why are you here now?”

Her eyebrows raise; she’s caught off guard, but she still has an answer ready. Of course; Jungkook heard all of it minutes before you are, so it must be easy.

“I… I haven’t been doing well. The man I was supposed to marry left when he found out I carried somebody else’s child… even— even before that, actually.” Jungkook breathes air through his lips as she explains; you can’t tell why. “And I need help. Any help.”

“I see… And you couldn’t come years earlier, I assume? When I didn’t have three children of my own?” You lift the corresponding number; your cheeks are fiery hot. “When there was nobody I’d have to explain this to? How…”

You shake your head, disgusted with your attitude, but more devastated by the situation. So you spit, “How selfish are you?”

Her mesmerising eyes are so big; with her and Jungkook’s lives combined, their son could only end up with these grossly sweet eyes, pupils fracturing your heart. She’s looking at you as if you’re about to eat her.

Then she apologises, “I’m sorry… I tried to get by for as long as I could.”

“Didn’t you know we have a family?!”

“I knew! I— Of course I knew.”

Jungkook is royalty; people in your city know the two of you. Know your story. You wonder what this will do to you both.

“And,” you continue, “you still thought it’d be a good idea to bring chaos to our home.”

“I did not wish for this at all,” she defends, “I felt terrible all the while, and… I was so desperate, please try to understand. I need something, anything and… If his father can provide any of it in any way…” 

His father… his father…

You might spiral. The same thoughts circle your head at a pace that might make you faint.

This woman. This child. And his father.

You can’t breathe.

So you don’t respond to the sheer idiocy she just uttered, still in disbelief; the denial will be over in a minute. But for now, it hurts and you’re confused and absolutely out of touch with reality, and… fuck, your stomach—

You put a palm to your chest; the rise and fall is heavy. And just as he calls your name, you bolt away.

Just a second before you once again feel his fleeting digits miss your wrist, a lingering ghost touch as you run.

The first instinct your feet follow leads you to Jungkook’s office.

Somewhere in a corner of the mansion, you have your own chamber, dedicated to your time and your moments; but somehow, you still land in a room drenched in the scent you’re fleeing from.

And it’s counterproductive, the way you’re moving. Fast enough to dim his calls, but slow enough for him to catch up, too. Like you want him to follow. You know he’d find you even if he wasn’t hot on your trail, because you like to hide there.

But on other days, it’s you finding solace in him, not away from him.

You’re dizzy, deeply breathing when you shut the door behind you, both palms on the heavy door. You keep them there as if they could guard you from the disaster outside. But they don’t. None of it might.

Because he’s still right there, busting your glass heart when you hear steps outside, nearing; closer, too close, the corresponding voice hesitating for not a moment—

“Open… open, please.”

And suddenly, you’re crying.

There is no warning, no quiet tear falling, no steady progress. The stream of shock and grief is immediate, and it leaves your eyes, passes your cheeks, collects at your chin so fast that you barely notice the door blurring.

You’re sobbing; your forehead collides with the cold of the door, the carvings unpleasant against your skin. Where are your kids? They must still be asleep. Or maybe somebody is already — hopefully — taking care of them.

Jaehyuk gets all moody when Jungkook or you stay away for too long. You don’t think he should be this attached to you, to not learn to trust others. But trust is fragile and the child seems to know and… and… you know as well. You wish you could be as oblivious as him, though.

The world doesn’t work that way. No, it’s cruel and painful and everything good spoils someday, becomes rotten.

Doesn’t it?

Why does the voice on the other side cut you in pieces?

God. You want to return to your children. You want back to what you had last night; you crave their warmth, and his warmth. Of your children, his children.

But wouldn’t it remind you again? That the number isn’t uneven as you thought. That there’s more out there; he has more pieces out there that you’re not part of and… fuck. Fuck.

“I d-do not want to,” you finally reply, stuttering, words cut.

He silences. Maybe because he can hear you weeping. But he tries again, “Please… open.”

You shake your head against the door, but you know such a choice won’t lead anywhere. He’ll stay right there and you’ll keep telling him to leave, and despite his guest downstairs, he’ll persist.

So your hands sneak to the handle, weakened by the shaking. Jungkook doesn’t barge in until the door cracks open a slit; and when he steps into the room, you tumble back, out of his reach.

You don’t want his embrace. You don’t need his arms.

No, that’s a lie.

You do, but you can’t brave them right now. Body weightless, you rely on your voice, stating, “You never told me.”

His face is fallen, cheeks rounder when he looks to his feet. They’re flushed; the hue is so different from what you’re used to seeing. It’s always accompanied by a smile and crinkles around his eyes, sometimes shy, sometimes delighted.

This time it’s something else. Embarrassment and guilt and pain.

There’s a crease between his eyebrows, smoother due to your quiet tone; but it’s still there, distressed. Pained when he admits, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know a thing.”

“Who is she?”

He knows that, at least. You need to move away from pointless questions and throw those that you’re certain he possesses knowledge about.

He says, “She’s somebody I knew… so long ago.”

A thought after another creeps into your head, like a parasite, feeding on your sanity. You feel crazy and sick when a horrifying idea makes its way through, but you can’t resist the question regardless of the answer.

“Was she… was she one of the people you tried things with? To escape town…”

“No… she wasn’t part of any of this.”

And you cannot say if this is better or worse than what you expected. He wasn’t as terrible as to try with this many women. But if she wasn’t part of that stupid plot, and you were, does this place her higher in worth than you?

You weren’t good enough to be approached without a deal. To be fallen in love with unintentionally. But she was something else. It seems there was something, right?

But he’s with you. He chose you. You’re his wife, the woman he spends his days with, the only thought in his head. He’s loved you throughout the years; he’s devoted to you like the moon to the stars, not to her.

And he’s standing here, his eyes begging, his fingers quivering. You’re the subject of his desire and the name in his heart; he never even mentioned her. Fuck, he breathes for you… but you can’t seem to breathe.

You’re the mother of his children, yes. But so is she.

“Did you… did you get with my sister or me to forget about her?”

Fuck, you’re breathless. Why are you breaking like this? Why does the moment feel like this? When is it going to be over? Will you wake up easier?

“No…” he says, shaking his head immediately, “no. You know how it started. It had nothing to do with her, just with him…”

“So what?!” you spit, unable to contain yourself, somehow not affected enough by the big, sad eyes, pleading and fearing. “Who was she?”

It hurts. It hurts not only because of the obvious circumstances but — your love was born out of a facade, out of a lie. Even if he loves you genuinely now, even if you’d die for him without hesitation — the two of you happened as part of a different purpose.

But she never did.

She was real. Whatever he had with her or felt for her, it stemmed out of something authentic.

Your face heats up when you inquire, “…Did you love her?”

“I…” He hesitates. Fucking hesitates. But then says, “I didn’t.”

“You’re lying.”

You don’t know if he is. You can usually tell; this seems a little more complicated. One, you’re clouded by your own judgement. Second, the situation isn’t easy; Jihyo so obviously belongs to parts of his history.

Jungkook insists again, “I didn’t love her.”

“But you felt something.”

“I don’t know,” comes back, and something inside you falls, even if it shouldn’t, even if you had nothing to do with whatever was before you came along. You hate it, but you can’t stop yourself from plummeting face-forward into pain when he says, “But she was nowhere close to where you are now. Or where you were even back then.”

Can you believe this? The but pierces through you, repeating in your mind, as if saying, “No, she was less than you, but still something.” How do you know none of it will return with a child present in his life?

“But she was enough for a child,” you retort, “and… I don’t know how careful you were with others, too…”

“I was. I was careful.”

“But not with her!”

He doesn’t respond. This isn’t you; you don’t make others feel bad. You endorse empathy and joy. No, this isn’t you and it frightens you. If you had it in you right now, you’d take him into your arms. He’d deserve it, considering that he’s as surprised as you, falling as much as you.

Suffering like you.

But your thoughts are going haywire, and they keep falling out, “I thought I was the first one. I wanted our children to be our first—”

“I thought so, too,” he defends, “it’s what I would have preferred, baby, I… If I could just…” He gulps; it’s as if you can hear it from afar, in this quiet, empty room. There’s a pause between his words before he steps closer, whispering, “Please, I love you—”

“No, I…” You back away again. Shield yourself. You can’t take a single touch right now.

“Can we mend this?” Jungkook asks; the question splits you in half.

Because what could you do, really? This very real fact looms over you, might do so forever.

“Mend what?” you echo. “That you have a child with another woman? What is there to mend? This is reality and you cannot undo it.”

When you look closely enough, his eyes shimmer with tears, too. The sparse sunlight seeping through the windows for the first time in hours upon hours highlights the glimmer, but there’s nothing soft about it. You recognise dread in it.

Jungkook has been abandoned before, and ever since he married you, he’s been just as afraid, too. It took months and years for the two of you to find a remedy, to decrease the terror. To make him trust your presence entirely. To help him understand that you’re here.

Now, by the looks of it, it seems he isn’t sure anymore.

He tries again, desperate, out of his mind, “Just somehow. Somehow, we can fix this, right?”

“Fix what, Jungkook…?”

“Please.”

You’re moving in circles. He keeps imploring you to reconsider, and you remain clueless about what exactly he’s begging for. You just want to know where this is going. Who she is. Who she was. 

“Please what…” you whisper, eyes drifting to the ground. “What are we going to do about it, Jungkook? It’s important to think about, right…? Who was she to you?”

Who she was?

Jungkook’s memory is fragmented.

Pieces of what she really used to be to him evaporated long ago, just when he turned to look at her properly for the very last time on that warm early summer night. Back then, her smile was fake, apologetic, as if she’d committed an unforgivable crime.

As if sorry for wasting his time, for hurting him, for watching him leave when she wished for him to stay a little longer.

A similarly sad smile, yet so different in nature, appeared when she greeted him so gently in the hallway today. He was frozen in the staircase, stuck on that damn smile that haunted him for weeks and months back then, trying to understand whether she was actually here.

Wondered how he could make her disappear again. It wouldn’t fare well with how he lives his life with you now, he already knew. She was interfering.

And… the familiar smile told him she wasn’t here to deliver any good news. And even though he doesn’t remember it all anymore, he hated how the expression brought back the flood of past images.

The first fuzzy image was of a smile, too, albeit incredibly faded. More optimistic, tender. Enthusiastic, craving the solace and joy of the night as much as Jungkook had.

She stood on the far opposite side of the spacious hall back then; even through the dancing couples, he could see her gleaming, absorbed in a conversation with her dearest friends.

Jungkook had seen her before; perhaps once or twice, but he could barely remember her face. It was as if he was actually looking at her for the first time that night. He didn’t think she generally attended too many parties; and when they’d crossed paths before, they’d probably been a little younger.

He just…

He couldn’t remember her being this striking.

He couldn’t recall the dimples or the vibrant smile or the sparkle in her large eyes. Far away in the room, Jungkook lightly bit his lip as he observed, cocking an eyebrow when she gasped to something her friend had said.

As if he was standing next to her and hearing it, too. Mimicking her reaction, caught in a bubble.

And it took her a little to notice him, too. But when she did, her friends’ eyes followed, an immediate elbow teasing her sides as much as their words. Jungkook could only imagine what they were saying.

What are you looking at?

Is it your turn already? With him, yes?

Oh, and the season has barely begun!

He could read parts of it off their lips. Lifted his ego a little. But he averted his eyes nevertheless, despite the resistance in his movements, only to shift back every now and then.

To his chagrin, the night didn’t offer too many opportunities to near where she stood, but as the event snuck to its end, at least a sliver of hope twinkled, even for just a minute. Approaching the carriages at the same time, he found her waiting not too far from him.

Her family was missing just like his; but he was comfortable here, staring at the sky, breathing in the late spring breeze. But her gown, while heavy, wasn’t accompanied by a shawl, her arms bare.

He used the chance to ask, “Aren’t you cold?”

She stared up in surprise, not quite expecting a conversation. Yet, smoothly, and either bold or courageous or sweet, she answered with a confidence so enticing, “Hmmm, no. I guess I felt warmed enough throughout the night.”

Interesting. So very interesting.

Jungkook’s lips twitched upwards, an enthralled smile; his voice sounded somewhat different when he asked, “Is that so?”

“Mhm. I’ll thank you another day, though.”

Behind her, her folks neared, and he looked ahead and then down, smile still plastered to his face. Even when she’d left, the sparkle remained in his eyes.

That was it for now.

Jungkook’s and Jihyo’s paths crossed again merely a week later. He understood in that time apart that the tiny interaction had caught him somehow; he was relieved when he saw her again at the next party.

Brave, he joined her where she stood, scanning the finger food before settling on some tartelettes. He’d been hopeful throughout these days, yes, but Jihyo didn’t show her face too often; so he didn’t lie when he confessed, “I didn’t expect you here.”

“Well…” she answered, “I hoped to see you. I told you I’d want to thank you.”

“Mhhh, I’m still not sure what for, though.”

She shrugged her shoulders, smile so vibrant. “It was a pleasant night. I felt warm throughout.”

She’d said the same thing last time, waiting at the carriage, moonlit and breathtaking. He smirked a little, satisfied by the flow of the dialogue; then argued, “But it is the summer season. Heat is all that is ahead.”

“…Isn’t it?”

Something stirred in Jungkook. He wouldn’t analyse her words on other days, but her expression was telling. Made him fearless, whirling his mind as he asked, “Have you explored this place yet?”

“No. I never get to do so much. But,” she said enthusiastically, licking cream off her snack. Jungkook couldn’t look away. “I wouldn’t mind walking around. It is hotter inside anyway.”

And matching her fierce response from before, Jungkook added, “…I doubt it.”

He was right. She’d prove it quick minutes later. In the backyard, stopping in the middle of their walk, he felt the warmth, the heat when she pushed him into an empty corner, lips crashing against his.

Jungkook’s blood scorched indeed; the outside wasn’t cooler. In fact, it burned. He burned. And she burned, too. Her skin, her shoulder, the mounds of her breasts underneath the dress that he pulled down.

There wasn’t any room or chance to proceed too far, but somehow, Jungkook was content with this.

It made him crave harder; and he enjoyed the feeling. The temptation. The yearning for all he hadn’t yet seen, yet felt. He hungered for her; she was the opposite of what the world held, brought him excitement.

Today, he doesn’t know if it was this very exhilaration or the need for distraction or something else that dragged him back to her over and over again. He recalls his heart nervously jumping, but he can’t recall it blooming. Never the way it did with you. Never.

But she still evoked something different. Reprieve from his days, his sorrows, the grief in his big, old home.

He never told her any of this, but he assumes she saw. Sometimes, she’d raise his chin when they met in private, mouth breathing close to his, asking if something was wrong. He’d deny. He’d dive into her eyes and lips instead, forget about it all, enjoy her empathy.

She’d somehow worry, he thought, and then kiss him, tell him it was alright, no matter what it was. That she was there. And he’d appreciate it. Would like the warmth, the care.

And still, he’d go home to tears, suffer all over again. But when he fell asleep, he’d think of her, forbidding the last thought of the night to be anything dreadful, anything but the same pretty smile.

She offered madness. She offered humour, sweetness, and most of all, relief.

Jihyo always refused to walk around town. She never hesitated to decline his offers.

Jungkook was alright with this; didn’t question her rejection at first; he didn’t know what the two of them were, anyway. There were fuzzy feelings somewhere, something twinkling in his mind and his guts and his chest.

He didn’t think love felt this way, however.

He regarded love as a much stronger sentiment than what they had. What was it that they indulged in anyway? Ablaze days and nights, baring themselves behind locked doors, lips on her skin, her sides, her waist, her flesh. Hands on, under, between her legs.

The digits would dig into her hips and remain; his tongue tasted her up, up and down, in and out. Taking in her scent, lapping her up, showing her new things. Body against body. Buried in her, glued to her — could that be love? No.

It was just that, wasn’t it? Yes, he’d stopped meeting other women. Yes, he’d be distracted at events.

He would spend his time with his boys, but let his mind and eyes travel far from them; even the presences hiding in those halls that he’d usually mock or annoy or disregard, projecting his own insecurities onto them, dulled.

Jihyo was beautiful. Jihyo captured focus. And he called Jihyo’s name until he even muttered it when alone; she breathed it until he could only hear his own name in her voice.

But.

It wasn’t love. Even today, he knows it never was.

Yet, even then, he could imagine this for a while. If he couldn’t love her now, he thought, maybe he could love her some day. He couldn’t tell, but he could imagine it. Who knew? 

Then again, it seemed he would never find out, anyway.

Some days, some time later, Jungkook eventually started thinking how odd it was that Jihyo never wanted to go out. To tell somebody about them; would it be so bad?

He presumed it was because she didn’t want others to know. He understood, truly; at an age where people would pressure one into obligations just when they saw others together, he didn’t want them to rumour yet.

Then again, Jihyo and he were connected somehow; sometimes he thought that was enough, too. Deep under the sheets so often, sharing stories sometimes, and perhaps they weren’t for the public to hear.

And there was something mysterious about them that nobody would understand, anyway. He couldn’t wrap his finger around the mystical nature of the two of them, but he started to understand she had him good.

Yet…

Yet. Something was wrong with her. So entirely wrong when she’d keep him hidden in rented rooms or in the dead dark of the night.

When she’d refuse his offer to promenade through the park, be fully against his invitations on some days without a proper reason at all. Or, when she’d skip events that she promised to attend, and then told him she hadn’t been sick — just not in the mood.

And one day, he decided to ask.

A very futile intention; the urge to ask was quickly overshadowed by kisses too intense. He already wanted to see her again even before the evening was over, no matter what she’d answer. He was already dreaming of her body, despite towering over it right now.

Would these dreams ever stop?

His nights were sleepless anyway, just like this approaching one. Hands on his own skin, today replaced by her, pumping and fondling. All over him when he climbed onto her and pushed in again.

He couldn’t free himself of the itch she caused just yet; kept scratching. Then again, he was so clueless about who she was at this very moment. Fond of her, but confused, too.

Aware of how much he thought of her, but having no issues retorting things snarkily, like when she mumbled underneath him, “You can’t live without me,” and he effortlessly rose from her neck, swollen lips answering, “Oh, I can.”

And he could. They were confusing in nature, but he knew that he could.

Because she was veiling something that he thought might distance her from him, so he started keeping himself mentally distanced either way. Even though it proved harder these days.

But the two of them were still something. They got along; there was humour in this, attraction and fire. And he felt heavenly inside her every damn time.

In the midst of it, he told her, “We could try harder.”

Perhaps she misunderstood; perhaps she couldn’t read his eyes and his tone yet, because she pulled him closer, deeper. He let her. Wouldn’t voice these thoughts properly again until he dropped next to her and said, “I like spending time with you. And I want to try more.”

He didn’t notice right away — her hesitation, her silence.

It took a second to even look at her; and when he did, he recognised the sudden guilt in her eyes instantly. Remorse, pain. Like he’d just broken something with his idea that she’d kept whole. Only now, she couldn’t save it anymore.

He didn’t know what it was, so he wondered, “What is it?”

“I…”

Then again, it wasn’t hard to figure out anyway. He deduced, “…You don’t want it.”

“It’s… not that I don’t want it.”

“I mean. It’s alright, you see? We aren’t this far, so if you want to reject this, I do understand. I will live.”

“I might have to reject it… you, Jungkook,” she confessed, and he had to admit that he wasn’t overly enjoying what he was hearing, “not because I want to, but it’s…”

And the universe had cruel ways of interrupting. Always.

Because her words halted somewhere between him and her and then vanished into thin air. Cut by strong, arhythmic knocks at the door. The sudden interjection startled them, dropped the quiet hearts into the pit of their stomachs.

As the door worked on being unlocked, she whispered a tiny, anxious, “Please… you might get hurt.”

And Jungkook understood; jumped off the bed, slipping into his trousers within seconds before dashing to the back. The wardrobe was empty, ideal to hide; it’s what he knew she wanted, for him to stay anonymous.

Jihyo, still bare, sat up on the bed, and Jungkook, in the dark with only a gap to observe the outside happenings, waited. Waited until the door opened. Until a man, more or less a stranger to him, only minimally familiar, stormed in with furious eyes.

He didn’t stall a second before his anger ambushed her. Jungkook’s fingers tingled to crash the door of the wardrobe open; even from here, it was abundantly clear that the man struggled to not hurt her.

But right now, he relied on the fury in his tone; Jungkook assumed it was a brother or friend raging about her indecent behaviour. But it soon became all too obvious that he wasn’t. Somebody of such a relationship doesn’t snap like this.

No, Jungkook understood. Knew what the issue was when the man asked, “So you’ve started getting naked for others? Is that it now? That’s what you whore have been doing?”

For others…

She tried, “Listen, I—”

But he cut her off, “No! I promised you everything. Why do you despise me so much? You couldn’t wait for us to be wed, but needed to satisfy your needs elsewhere? Why do you despise me, huh?”

Jihyo didn’t hear much of what he said, zeroing in on specific statements, and whispered, “You do not give me everything. Not even close.”

Fuck.

If it wasn’t clear already… Jungkook’s mind spun.

Jihyo was promised to somebody else and was using Jungkook with a purpose and intention, as a means of fulfilling whatever she needed to fulfil. And he— he was the homewrecker, the third wheel, not her focus the way she was his focus.

Despite the mistakes he’d ever made, despite his damn flaws, he never wanted this.

What was he? A placeholder? Thrown aside the moment she’d marry him? Why was it that Jungkook’s existence was regarded as something so low, stomped beneath people’s feet, like he was nothing at all?

Who knew? There wasn’t even a second to think about it, to ask about it.

Priorities shifted, inquiries shoved away; when the man reached low, snatching a patch of her hair to pull her off the bed, sirens chimed in Jungkook’s head. It still mattered to him, not seeing her hurt; but his instincts were deep-rooted.

Nobody, including Jihyo, should have to experience this.

So Jungkook pushed the door open, met with a gasp, surprise and wrath. The man didn’t need to ask who he was or what he was doing here; he knew immediately, more than cognisant of the wretched situation.

Jungkook was ready to throw some insult onto him, words already on his lips, arms reaching out to defend her. But he didn’t need to; the guy had already let her go, taking a swing within a second before his fist landed on Jungkook’s jaw.

It could’ve been worse; he could’ve broken it. Jungkook knew right away that the damage wasn’t as terrible as it had the potential to be.

But his tongue still felt warm, tasted metallic. He took a deep breath through his nose, dizzy for a moment, still sane enough to hear the stranger say, “You can have the slut.”

There was another blob of disgust landing on Jungkook’s face; no doubt that the man bid him farewell with one last literal spit on Jungkook’s cheek. Then, the door fell into its lock, and it got quiet again.

Or… not quite.

Jungkook lacked words; there was nothing to say anyway. He was the culprit after all.

Worried hands settled on his body; he didn’t notice how much he’d sunk to the ground, one knee hitting the floor. But when the exploring fingers touched his waist, up to his armpits and his elbows, he stood tall again.

She was trying to lift him. To check for wounds, despite the clear drops of scarlet red he was leaving on this rented room’s floor. Eyes shutting for a second, he slapped the concerned palm off his arm, dodging it when she came back with a quiet, “Jungkook…”

“Shut up.”

“Please listen—”

“Listen to fucking what? You’re…”

There was no ending to the sentence. He didn’t know what she was. A fraud, maybe. But he didn’t have it in him to insult her somehow; perhaps because she, too, was already in enough pain as it was.

When his eyes opened, they glared. To his feet, to the side, into her wet gaze. She was nearly hiccuping, but he couldn’t get himself to give into the empathy entirely; the anger simmered in the pit of his stomach, threatened to come to a full boil.

Yet, he registered when she said, “He doesn’t treat me well, he— he’s controlling. And emotionally abusive, he— please,” she grabbed his hand, but he pulled out of her grip, “I can’t marry him, not if— not if I’m scared he might raise his hand at me.”

“Then don’t fucking marry him. You have this choice,” Jungkook said, spitting into the corner; the colour was disgusting. “Controlling and abusive, however? You sound perfect for him.”

“I don’t… I can’t. I can’t stay with him, but I— I could stay with you. I would.”

Jungkook scoffed. She had to be joking. Undoubtedly; there was nothing in him capable of believing she meant this. Not when she’d refused just this idea mere minutes ago.

He shook his head; he wouldn’t have any of this. Even if she left this man… even then…

He couldn’t do this because she made him do something so easily that he abhorred. He’d seen the love between his father and his mother before, and then witnessed the hatred between her and his uncle.

After all these years of affliction, he knew the difference between love and despise.

Knew where affection could grow, where it would wilt. Where it’d be replaced with hostility.

She wasn’t made for him; he wasn’t in the mindset for her. And he was wrong after all; he didn’t love her and he never could have.

“Please, don’t go,” she begged as he picked up his clothes, wiping his mouth on the bed sheet, ready to leave. “Please, I—”

She followed him all the way to the door; Jungkook resisted each push and pull, charging towards the exit with resolution. And when she blocked the door for too long, sobbing onto her body, he fletched his teeth, sharpened his jaw, clasped her wrist before he turned her around.

Arm pinned to her back, cheek pressing into the door, she kept crying, and then, finally, sighed. She gulped; then lowered her face, forehead to the cold of the wood, and too courageously as always pleaded, “Be with me one last time. Just… just once.”

And her tone… her voice… her curling fingers…

They tempted him. Something about this, something about her tugged him in again, like an invisible force. And for the tiniest moment, he hated himself for thinking this way. But deep inside he knew the truth.

That he still craved her. Still wanted to feel her once more. Still hungered to bury himself in deep, leaving scars and marks as if to punish her just once. But…

But he remembered. She’d turned him into somebody he wasn’t. So he couldn’t. He’d carry the regret to his grave.

So he let her go, using the moment of weakness, shoving her away slightly — she let him. She understood to give up. And he, with a coat over his shoulder, left.

A hand over the bleeding wound, and the other over his injured mouth.

If he wakes up now, you won’t be able to take it.

It was already difficult, breathing through every second of the rest of the day. Overthinking, but never quite processing the information you received. From the very moment you woke up to the story Jungkook narrated and everything that followed, the seconds have been hell.

Everything… everything—

The remaining conversations. With her, with the village bartender he expected. You don’t know how he survived any of it, functioned at all; using his brain at full capacity, reading through papers when you were sure the letters were blurring in front of his very eyes.

And how he looked at you after he was done and returned to you, reaching for your limp hand…

The hurt was prominent, your heart still reluctant, but you let him; what good would it have done to send him away? He kept coming back. Sat there for an hour until you told him to tend to his guest, to discuss whatever he needed to.

Truth was, you didn’t want him to go… but you didn’t want him near, either.

Your mind kept circling around a hundred and thousands of things. The woman sitting downstairs, fiddling and nervous, the child still next to her. Possibly bored. She’s aware of her past as much as you are, of the role she played. Of the hurt she caused.

The more you think about it, the more it pains. The more it seems like a tragedy, like an anti-fairytale. Fabricated.

So unreal.

It’s as though thinking it senseless could make it less real. You’re married to him now, but you still feel small, shrinking, insecure and hurt and unable to make any of this coherent.

You needed silence today. You wanted your mind to divert, conjure different, more pleasant thoughts, memories of better times. But this proved worse; so somehow, you ended up overthinking the situation to death.

You don’t want the children to wake up again. Hana is fast asleep, Jaehyuk dozing. It was Jaehoon’s subtle whimpering that finally shifted your attention twenty minutes ago; your arms were too weightless to carry him, but you did, swayed him, blended out your brain with his sounds.

By now, he’s already drooling over you again. You hope he stays just like this; hope Jaehyuk doesn’t notice the empty side of their crib. 

There’s something about this, the twin intuition. You had heard about it before, but it is truly fascinating, the way they communicate. You’re still baffled that Jaehyuk stayed as unmoving as he did when you pulled his brother towards you, comforting yourself with his warmth.

But you have to admit…

You’re exhausted. More so mentally than physically. Your body yearns to drop. The up and down pacing only drains you further.

You should set him into his crib again. He’s fast asleep anyway; everybody is. Just you aren’t. And your husband isn’t.

In fact, he’s not even in this room with you. Heart palpitating and chest paining, you’ve been waiting. He slipped in and out of the rooms you were in for hours, and you kept sending him away, sickened by the apologies, not even certain what exactly he was apogising for.

For having a child? For once tending to secret meetings with a woman you don’t know, ambiguous about what he felt for her? You don’t know.

And…

Honestly — your heart isn’t splintering because he made a mistake, really, did he? You and him were nothing back then. No. You’re fractured because of your own damn expectations. And because you wanted life to lead somewhere else.

You didn’t want somebody to become such a part of your love and marriage like this.

You sigh to breathe out the ache, deep from your stomach, hoping it’ll lighten the load. But it doesn’t really. Not even Jaehoon’s little hand over your chest does, his head on your shoulder, the scent of his baby hair.

And once the door to the bedchamber creaks open, you don’t feel relieved, either. Your heart stirs more, if anything. Scared your son might hear or notice, you hurry to put him down again, draping a blanket over his little body before you shut your silken robe.

Jungkook appears as if he’s lived a dozen lives in a day. His pupils have shrunk, shoulders low, hair as uncombed as in the morning. He didn’t bother; as little as you. He halts when he sees you standing in the middle of the room, surprised about the random spot you chose.

Endless affection flashes across his face, transparent yearning, as though he hasn’t seen you in days. Within a moment, the expression calms a little, and he pulls himself together enough to ask, “You are still awake, darling?”

You hold yourself tight, as if binding your body together. Clearing your throat, you say, “It’s… I don’t know if I will be able to sleep tonight.”

“…Me neither.”

“What happened?”

You gesture to the ground, referring to the parlour. She’s probably not even there anymore. She was all day; and she journeyed. She must be tired.

Jungkook explains, as if reading your mind, “Jihyo… she’s in one of the guest rooms.” You nod. He cards through his hair, continuing, “She said the guy she was supposed to marry never told anyone what had happened that night… I— I don’t know why. He never came back at all, but I figured that bit. She didn’t want him to, and I told her he shouldn’t have either way.”

He sighs; so do you. Feelings or not, you guess Jungkook has never been a bad person. It still feels odd. He then says, “And then she was abandoned by her family when they learned of her pregnancy and she wouldn’t tell anybody who the father was…”

Of course not. Somewhere, she must have cared.

“They sent her to some faraway aunt who was apparently a tyrant… and she ran away when her boy was a year old.”

Your dropped chin lifts, an immediate response forming in your mind. Your boy. Your boy, too. But you don’t spill it. In truth, you don’t even need to. As if written all over your face in big, bold letters, Jungkook sees right through you.

He halts, gives himself a moment to be sure it’s what you’re stuck on, and then tells you, “…I know but… I have no connection to him. She does. I have none at all.”

“She does, and now she’s here… actually here…”

“She’s here because it was nearly impossible to survive for her,” he insists, the tone of defence sharp and clear, “but somehow she still did. It’s gotten more difficult now, however, and—” He’s struggling more now; while some words pour out, others are whispered. Like, “As the father of her child… she says it is both our responsibility to ensure he is well. But…”

As the father of her child, as the parents of their child.

He’s not wrong; and you guess that if it wasn’t happening in your own household, you’d be much more lenient about this. You’d be nodding along, agreeing that a father should be present, that a child deserves it.

You’ve been part of an orphanage filled with lonely kids for too long to think otherwise.

But it surely is different in moments like these. You feel like a hypocrite.

“But?” you prod.

“She understands if I say no, too. I have my own family now.”

Yeah…

Did she need to tell him that? Did he know by himself; are these her or his words? You wonder…

“You say she always struggled,” you draw back to again, “why did she never reach out when she knew she was with child already?”

He rubs his eyes. Tired, his body somewhat more worn out than ever. Barely looks active; the shoulders are in an entirely new position. Or no… not new. You’ve seen it before — it’s just been years now.

“She thought I wouldn’t bother,” he says, “she thought… I’d abandoned her once and for all. Which I reckon I did.”

“And…” You’re scared to ask. You swallow. “Would you have aided her? If you’d known.”

He quietens. You’re not too fond of the hesitation loudening the silence. You know he’s thinking, eyes unfocused, imagining the scenario you narrated without probably really wanting to. You brought this to yourself, so you’ll need to be patient.

And you are, until he finally concludes, “I would have… I— I would have felt like I owed this to my child. I can’t— sweetheart, it’s not my nature, please understand. I wouldn’t leave a woman alone with this if I was anyhow part of it and—”

“And… If you’d known… we wouldn’t even have happened, right?”

Jungkook shakes his head again, the movements even lazier now. You’re afraid he might drop and faint. But he breathes in, then out, uprights himself, “It doesn’t matter what would have or could have happened. I did approach you and I did fall in love with you and we did happen. Isn’t… isn’t that enough?”

You blink; then blink more. A shaky breath escapes your lips to keep your voice as steady as doable. “Yes… I assume…”

Another pause. More stalling until the thoughts previously forming in your head become less of a tangled, messy garn and get clearer. You just do not know how to voice them; to keep the man who brought stars down to the ground to you whole.

You don’t want to hurt him. But you don’t understand how to handle the next few days any other way.

But you don’t say it yet. You wait. Listen as he begs, “Please tell me… tell me what you’re thinking. I don’t know what to do.”

You lie, “I don’t know, either, Jungkook.”

His strong hands get ahold of tufts of his hair again, butchering his mane more. The gesture isn’t aggressive, but he still looks so out of his goddamn mind. Desperately, he steps closer, breathing, “You know that I love you, yes?”

…You’ve seen needles at your seamstress’ place before. They always strike you as effective, professional. Sharp. The sting you feel reminds you of when her needle digs into fabric. Perhaps worse.

Perhaps it’ll turn into a sword in a moment.

“Only you,” he adds, but then halts, a shake of his head correcting himself before he tries again, “no. Only you and them.” His eyes briefly dart to the crib, a reminder to lower his voice, even though the shudder makes it hard. “I haven’t thought about her in yea—”

No…

“You haven’t thought about her once?” you interrupt. It’s one of the things your derailing mind tried to convince you of today. That she never really disappeared. “The woman you were involved with like this… you never ever thought of her or regarded her important enough to tell me about her? To think about her?”

And now he’s confused. Why do you keep asking questions? You’re your own worst enemy, really. Then again, how does one stop this toxic curiosity from overflowing in a moment like this?

“I don’t know,” he admits. Not a needle anymore… “She might have crossed my mind as somebody who once existed in my life. Not in a romantic manner. Nor in a yearning manner. I did not miss her, you see?”

He moves closer, hands lifting. You only now see how pale he is, his skin so close, eyes nearly lifeless, but not quite. They’re still filled with so much emotion and pain as he continues, “And I certainly did not care enough to prioritise her over you anyhow.”

Palms cradle your face. Usually so warm and comforting, they’re icy today, as if his blood has frozen in his veins. And he sounds so utterly dehydrated when he says, “She was never important enough, no…”

“I— I see.”

He waits. His breath falls on your face before he runs his tongue between his lips nervously. His waterline is damp, but holding back. You wonder when he last ate, when he last drank.

You guess he’s not as concerned about himself when he requests, “Tell me what you are thinking.”

A lot. Too much to condense into one single thought. But you still pick out one of the million swirling around and throw it out, “I am wondering… about what you will do now. I will assume you will help.”

You see how much he hates to admit it; you nearly take it back before he, however, tells you again, “I may have to.”

“And… if you do. What will it look like? Will you— I do not know. Will you meet her regularly, send her money, see the child? Build a bond? Have… have two families on either side?”

“I d-don’t think it will be like this, I—”

“How will it be then?”

His hands drop. He shuts his eyes, but opens them again a minute later. “I will provide… I might get to know him. But I do not plan on making them an integral, main part of my life. I don’t want this to come between us or have the children think wrong of me, and… you’re my priority.”

You know…

As the wife of somebody like Jungkook, you have seen the hardships that come with a traumatised mind. One that so deeply fears he will step into his family’s shoes, mimicking the misery he once experienced.

He’s been afraid of passing on generational trauma for years, and he battled the fear… you know he doesn’t want to start at zero. You don’t want it either. And you genuinely do not perceive him as a bad father; quite the opposite.

Jeon Jungkook gives his all. He loves with his all. He worships with his all.

But you still think this needs time and patience.

So you confess, “I believe you… I do. I just. I think this will change things. I cannot stop thinking about you moving back and forth, nurturing two families, and yes, I am selfish, but… I always assumed I was the only one.”

Not before. Not long ago. But now.

You would’ve been content with somebody like her being out there and never finding out about it. For the very first time in your life, you’re selfish, and it hurts, it burns, and you loathe that you cannot turn it off.

“I did, as well…” he confirms. “But you’re the only one that matters.”

“What about your son? Do you have it in you to not care?”

“He’s a child I never spoke to!” he argues, voice rising by an octave. “I just… fuck, I do not know. Baby, I… I don’t want to be a pendulum. I’m not swinging between two spaces… I will never perceive anyone as more important than you.”

“I see.”

Pause. Then, “…Please look at me.”

You feel another clump rise to your throat. It’s more dense this time, inevitable, and it affects your speech. Accompanied by something lifting to your head and making it heavier. You tell him, “I can't.”

“…Why?”

“I just can’t.”

“You ca—” He shifts, eager to bring you back to him; you’re already miles away and he knows. “Baby… Do you still love me?”

You could scoff. But you don’t; instead, you feel the liquid starting to pour. Like the rain these days, less comforting now, it drops out of your eyes. You somehow very well expected it, but the amount of the drops still surprises you.

Like a grey sky indicating a gloomy day, yet not a reliable preparation for a downpour.

Your inhale is sharp, cuts the air, and your eyebrows painfully furrow when the tears collect. You answer, “Of course I love you, I— Fuck, of course I do. It’s why this hurts so much!”

“I… I know.”

His gaze is similarly wet, suddenly an ocean, but he blinks the despair away before he crushes you in a hug. Jungkook is never afraid to cry, but restraining himself is something he’s practised for the kids… and even for you, it seems.

Shit, but— you’ve told him so many times. So many times to not hold back for you. You don’t either. You don’t either, right?

“I know,” he repeats, “I— I don’t know why these things happen, I’m—”

You shake your head against his chest, sogging his clothes as you mumble, “I can’t blame you, can I? It was your past, yes, but I wasn’t part of it, and… it’s still so much.”

“For me, too… for me as well, darling—”

“I just— I think I need distance, Jungkook.”

Wait… 

Wha—

That’s when the world stops spinning, frozen like his blood. The heart he has so gently guarded so far detaches from the rest of what lies beneath his ribs, and jumps into his throat, pounds in his ears.

The profound hope that he misheard you is needless, he already knows. He’s been hyper aware of your every movement and word today; he knows what you said and he knows he’ll have to let you. But…

“…What?”

The decision still leaves him stranded on an island. Away from this house and you and his children. Desolated, he as its lone habitant. And the image is surreal.

“I need to go away,” you elaborate again, digging deeper into the wound. Can he rewind the morning? No. You add, “Just until you have this sorted out with her and it’s done, and—”

“I have,” he carefully voices, convinced, so, so convinced, “there is nothing more to say.”

But you’re not with him just yet; you argue, “But she should stay for a little, shouldn’t she? I… I am not too fond of the scenario, but from an empathetic perspective, you should know about your son. Be in the loop…”

Yes, you do hate the idea. Yes, it contradicts your distaste for the image of him walking to and fro between families, providing and keeping her in his life. But, after all is said and done, his son will still be his son.

And you are only heartbroken, not heartless.

“I just…” you continue, gulping. “I can’t be here while she is. And I don’t want you to send her away already, either. Her journey seems to have been long and… she’s just trying to live.”

“Where… where do you want to go?”

“Home.”

The resolute tone you decide on hurts. Not because he’s against your family or your place back in the city, but because you seem to have thought it out already. That you want to leave. That you want to be away from him.

The woman that latches onto him the moment he crawls into bed after work; from the man who clutches your body throughout the night, wakes up delirious from your scent.

It stings. It burns.

“Just for a little,” you say, as if to cure the injury. “I… I need to be away.”

Jungkook’s throat is knotted up and dry. He almost doesn’t dare to ask, but he knows he’ll keep wondering when you’re gone. So he spits, “And then?”

“And then… I will see.”

Doesn’t matter anyway. He guesses that the wondering part won’t change, no matter what he inquires, no matter what you respond.

“…Why does this sound like a possible goodbye?”

He might faint. He doesn’t know how long he’ll have to be awake without you. Doesn’t know what’ll follow this disaster. Doesn’t know anything. Most of his life, he’s been haunted by this uncertainty, and he hates the return of it.

And you’re not saying anything; the moment gets worse as you close your eyes for a bit, staring down, unable to answer because you probably don’t know, either.

But…

“Please say something,” he urges, abandoning questions and pleas, diving straight into statements as if this could make them definitely true, “you… you will come back. You won’t leave after this.”

There’s agitation in your voice, merged with desperation when you speak again, “Jungkook, I can only think so far right now—”

“No, please…”

“What do you mean, pl—”

“I can’t lose you, no matter what.”

“But right now, I can’t take this either, Jungkook!” you snap. Perhaps it’s his big eyes throwing you off guard or the unknown future or the fresh hurt. Something in you breaks as your voice starts to vibrate, eyes watery. “I don’t want to be— another. And I can’t fully make you abandon them either, and… I still don’t know how to live with such a change and—”

And. And. And.

The list goes on. That’s the problem. It’s an overwhelming mess, a never ending string of thoughts. 

As the light in your eyes dims, usually so blindingly bright on other days, Jungkook’s eyes overflow. First a single drop of a tear, then half a dozen. He blinks them away, but suddenly there’s a river across his cheek, collecting to a sea at the chin.

And you look similar.

Shattered like glass. Your broken pieces are tiny; they resemble dust. God, albeit without a single intention, Jungkook has hurt the wrong person.

Desperation at the front of his tongue, he doesn’t know what to say. Nothing more to do but to revert back to pathetic begging—

“Please… don’t go.” His voice quivers, the sigh even shakier; his soft hands, the ones that held you just last night, rub his face in anger towards himself. “It’s who I used to be… I didn’t know.”

“Yes, it’s what used to happen, b–but it doesn’t hurt any less, fuck, and…”  Breathing is as hard as speaking. Your tears run again when you add, “And what if there are more? What if more of them come knocking at our door and we don’t know yet?”

His chest is rising high, falling low. Lower lip never still. You know panic is growing beneath his chest, and you want to wrap your arms around him, keep his pure heart from breaking. But what can you do?

Yours is splitting, too.

Worse when all he whispers again is, “Please don’t go.”

It’s a hopeless attempt. You know; you hear it. He’s still trying but he’s not truly expecting you to change what you decided on. Yet, you ask, “Please understand.”

He’s still not moving; but you think he understands indeed. Because he nods. Doesn’t look at you anymore. The sniffles are familiar, painful as he questions, “What about the children?”

You feared this question. The delivery of it proves harder than you thought; your tongue nearly gets tied, “I… I will leave the twins here. Travelling might be difficult with both of them when I am alone.” You look to the wall; to the little beds on the other side of the room. “Can I take Hana with me?”

You know it’s killing him as much as it is messing with you. You know what it means when he breathes in, but doesn’t argue with you as he nods again. Jeon Jungkook loves you; he loves you to every end of the universe.

And you’ll love Jeon Jungkook for the rest of your life, too, despite it all.

But this is needed.

He asks, “How long will you be away?”

“I don’t know…” you admit. “Hopefully not long.”

“I see.”

“I am sorry.”

All grand arguments end in silence or insults or apologies. There are no more words to utter. Jungkook is at a loss for hope, at the far end of a tunnel. If he could still convince you, he would; but your decision sits.

So all he manages is—

“I am, too.”

There’s a nod. Your tired eyes. You looking to the side, then to the bed, approaching it a moment later with a body falling so weightlessly. When he joins minutes later, you’re turned to the side, and he watches the back of your head, the mane falling, urging to touch it just a little.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns away, too. 

Until you fall asleep and for the rest of the night, you don’t feel a touch on you as you do on other days; but relying on your remaining senses, you do hear the sniffle. Do register the movements next to you.

One more time for a little, approaching while.

The place is empty when Jungkook wakes up. He’s woken up three days in a row now, and he’s never wanted to — every damn time, the place would be empty.

And he can’t breathe.

Ever since she stepped over the threshold and re-entered his life and you chose the sheer opposite, he hasn’t drawn a proper breath. This isn’t how things should be. They’re switched up, plainly wrong.

The room is empty; it has been this vacant before, but the void is yawning now, tormenting. Feels like it might never end.

A couple sunrises ago, you left with a lasting, gnawing touch. Before you stepped down the porch, your palm lay in his for a minute; despite the hurt, you still seemed to want to leave remnants of what he means to you.

Your hand was warm in his; and your eyes, albeit filled with some sort of cold distance, still carried some of the warmth, too, your gaze glassy. You were pulling yourself together so well. For him, yourself, the confused child clinging to you.

Hana thought you were visiting the grandparents out of nostalgic longing. She thought she’d be away from him for a fleeting moment. She’s too young to understand the passing of time, after all.

So she didn’t complain, but she looked dissatisfied. Unwilling to embark on this little vacation. Pouted at her father, but listened to her mother.

For her, he was keeping himself whole, too — but when your fingers slipped away from his, the heat still lingered. Like a red scald, as if he’d held his palm into a flame. Perhaps that’s what set him off.

Perhaps just as much as when the hole between your bodies widened bit by bit, and you disappeared in the distance after the carriage had engulfed you. The impulse to run after you grew consistently and rapidly, but his feet were cemented to the spot, legs stiff.

When the carriage turned, however, and only then, they carried him down. There was a faint sound in the background, like the whispering breeze of autumn, and Jungkook barely understood what it was until he realised his lips were moving.

It was him, not the wind.

Him, in a quick downward spiral, bedazzled by the lunacy and the tears obscuring the world; repeating something he knew you were already too far away to hear. You wouldn’t register any of it anymore; he hoped you’d feel it somehow.

“Please, don’t leave,” it was, wasn’t it? A desperate, “Why would you leave?”

The echoes in the mansion were suddenly much more prominent. Not just of his steps; his own voice in his head had an echo, too, but it was a lot louder, pure torture. Pressed against his ears, as if he was falling from the clouds and into burning hell.

The sounds were blocked by nothing but the wind.

This has been feeling neverending ever since. So infinite.

And maybe it’s this very horrendous fear that disables his lungs; that he might end up like this, without your touch, without your smile, without the future he drew in his mind every single day. It always, always contained you.

He loves you; he’s told you so many times, but it’s never been this apparent. And it’s drying him out, the goddamn loneliness. Blocking his throat. Shit, this place he settled on for you and his family, to give you the best life possible — its vast size is backfiring.

Because—

Fuck. Fuck. What is a spacious room good for if he can’t fucking breathe?

There isn’t anybody in here to hear him panting, surviving; he forbid it. But the loneliness dawns on him again, and he chants with tears dropping on the ground, not making any particular sense, over and over again, “Don’t leave. Please. Please don’t leave—”

As if his brain got stuck here the moment you left, playing the pleas on loop to drive him insane. His own brain is driving him insane. The betrayal is beyond belief.

He’s losing his mind; he’s well aware of this. Pondering, thinking whether the empty rooms in this mansion compete with the vacancy in his mind. Maybe not.

Because the mental rooms are plenty; his hand trembles to push down any handle on his way. There’s this long corridor, leading to these rooms, and whenever he does find the courage to open one, he finds himself in a void.

And he opens them every day, all the time. When he’s asleep. When he’s eating. When he’s wandering around, downing yet another bottle. Always hoping there are scenarios where you’re still with him, in his arms, leaving the pain behind to steer towards the same eternal love you’d been targeting before you left.

But he comes out hopeless each time. And it’s cruel, how vast the corridor is. As if his mind is deceiving him, making him believe there’s a future somewhere that you’re in… but your absence says differently.

He understands; the rooms in the mansion are empty because you’re physically gone, but the ones in his mind inhabit only him because the joyful hopes faded the moment you stepped into the carriage.

Now they’re filled with darkness and fear. What if you don’t come back? What if you do, only to deliver words he doesn’t want to hear, and then to depart again?

He hears nothing but his own voice in those rooms, and it keeps convincing him of his own barely-there worth, and that he always fucks up and that people leave and that they stay away. Convincing him that this is it.

This is how his life was supposed to go. To lift him up, but then to throw him into purgatory again  because somehow, this is what he deserves. Karmic payback.

The times he ever stops hearing these accusations and destructive statements is when other sounds interrupt them. Which has been rare, since he’s avoided conversations and social touch, except for when it was necessary and the village demanded it.

Luckily, this hasn’t been the case, and he’s been able to wither in peace.

There are still exceptions. He still has his children. He remembers; he tries. But his body is frail. Attempts its best to keep him a good father, like now.

Now, when it reacts to the incoherent call. It’s a quiet cry, a sign of waking up; Jungkook can’t remember arriving in his bedroom, but he knows exactly he’s here when he hears the sound.

Ah… right. He told the maid to get them to sleep and then bring them to their crib only ten minutes ago. He did, right? There’s been plenty his imagination has been conjuring, but the conversation feels real.

Even in a state like this, he doesn’t think he’d ever leave his children alone in this room, if he could prevent it. Sometimes, staff is around. Sometimes, he is. Sometimes, you are.

Were.

Right. Right. You might not return. But then again, you will, won’t you?

You love your children as much as he does; you’ve given all of you to the boys as much as you did to him and Hana. They have captured possibly bigger pieces of your heart than he has. You will return, even if just for them.

And then…

What if you take them with you? Or, what if you leave them here? What if, either way, he has to live a life without you?

These little pieces of him would remind him of you, too. They’re part of you, they’re half of you — but he’d see the entirety of you in them. He does even now as he walks over, watching Jaehyuk stir and Jaehoon weeping.

He hasn’t woken up his brother, but he surely has shot an intense ache into Jungkook’s chest.

Looks like you when you cry. Is this odd? Is it even possible, comparing such round, young features to your more defined ones? He doesn’t know, but he can’t unsee it either way.

And his hands burn and pain, his eyes on fire when he lifts him up, whispering Jaehoon’s name with a shush. There’s a change in behaviour immediately, but it’s not enough. The sobbing turns into quieter cries when he sees his father, but…

There’s something else Jungkook interprets.

Your scent is still everywhere. And for those few days, their way of feeding has been slightly different, too. They’re probably noticing the sudden shift. And yes, Jungkook offers comfort, but your absence lingers, and they understand it as well as he does.

“I’m here…” Jungkook whispers, standing in the middle of the room. For a second, Jaehoon grips the strings of his father’s white cotton shirt, but then his lips arch downwards again. “I know. But I am here, you see?”

As Jaehoon’s sorrow doesn’t lessen, Jungkook sniffles, too, lifting his head for a moment to prevent the tears from falling onto his boy. He takes a couple steps back until he plops back on the bed. Offers a hand to Jaehoon who wraps his tiny fingers around one of Jungkook’s.

Jungkook shakes his head, his sigh tired, and then opts for a nod instead as he repeats, “I know. I don’t think it’s enough either, me being here.” He gulps. “And her being away.”

His throat clogs up. He clears it, the tremble coming back to his lower lip as he asks in his son’s direction, “You miss Mama, don’t you?”

And as if aware, Jaehoon cries harder again, winding in Jungkook’s arms. He doesn’t know what to do to calm the tantrum, doesn’t know how you do what you do that he’s not able to do. He doesn’t think he’s failed as a father. He doesn’t think of himself as incompetent.

But he’s helpless without you. The two of you operated as a unit so far, as one big part of this universe. With half of it gone, he feels like he’s lacking half a brain, not quite functioning.

So he adds, “I do, too. Believe me, I miss her so much, too…” Ongoing crying. “I know.” Ongoing crying from both sides. The adult and the child, hurting the same. “I am sorry, sweetheart.”

And he’s not sure who he’s saying it to. To Jaehoon; to Jaehyuk. To Hana. To you.

To the hurting child he used to be, and the longing young adult that craved for too much. He’s apologising to everyone and over all the mistakes he’s made, all the regrets he carries with him.

And as he does, he’s not certain when his cries overshadow the ones of his son, or when the latter’s finally stop, only Jungkook’s misery still sounding. He doesn’t know how to stop this from hurting and how to nurse two children in a room without you, because you’re a piece of this—

You’re a piece of the picture. With you ripped out of it… isn’t it too lonely?

It is. God. God, the void swallows him whole.

And he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know where to go and how to bring you back; if he ran to your city now, where the two of you grew and loved, would you appreciate it or hate him more?

Wait…

Do you…

Hate him?

He doesn’t know. How could he, sitting here, breaking down, mind all empty yet filled. Cruel. This is cruel.

So cruel how he forwards his mood to his children the way he learned never to do. How he can’t breathe, can’t think. How his words lose their meaning after a while, yet stay a mantra, still true  but so out of your reach.

I’m sorry.

I messed up.

I’m sorry.

Please come back.

Your seamstress is as clueless as you'd like to be.

It's probably part of her occupation, the cheerful, sweet, chatty nature, or perhaps, she's in that line because of that very characteristic of her. She's always been like this, so you shouldn't have expected anything different today.

It isn't as though the world joins you in your grief just because you're feeling it. Earth keeps moving.

Coming back home alone was hard. Hana was asleep most of the time, but the moment she woke, she sought his presence profusely.

You wonder if she noticed why he kissed her goodbye so often and told her he loved her a dozen times and gulped down the first hints of yearning with a clogged throat and damp eyes.

She probably doesn't know. His adoration was quieter than hers — because she wailed when he didn't come home, hated the surroundings she'd already seen before but forgotten.

Her father isn't around and she's angry about it.

Maybe you should've left her there. She isn’t as connected to you as she is to him, and while the twins might notice your absence, they won't quite make sense of it yet.

And you, you're stuck in this absolute consciousness that comes with adulthood, aware of everything.

Aware of where you are, who you're with, who is missing. Aware of how you won't be able to weep in your sister's arms forever; so aware that having beautiful dresses sewn won't bring you permanent satisfaction.

But everytime you think back to the last days, you break. The picture of him home alone, theories about what he might be doing, how he might be coping. Whether he's crying like you, fallen like you, feeling incomplete because he's in those rooms with only half of him.

That's how you've been feeling. You're a fraction of yourself.

After three days of solitude, Hana has learned to settle on pouting. It’s odd, the contrast between her and the town, always the same. The latter is as alive as you knew it. And Seung, the seamstress you used to frequent, is still the same amazing woman, too.

Grown, a little older, but the sheer opposite of a quiet Suhana, of a dejected you.

Your sister is holding Hana’s hand, the other tiny fingers busy with the fabric of the dark yellow dress. You’re in a cursory surface conversation with Seung, trying to be polite despite everything, asking how she’s doing, how her husband has been.

She got married years before you did, and she was always incredibly vocal about her relationship with her spouse. They’ve been a key and a lock; she’s spread hope for love amongst many other girls before.

You were one of them. And the hope bloomed, even when you were met with hurdles and thought you’d end in misery.

In all honesty, you truly thought you were an exception to the many rocky marriages. Sure, you never assumed yours would end up a constant fairytale; Jungkook and you have your days, too.

You just… held onto hope, more so when you fell for him, and you never ever thought you’d experience such a low.

Seung still tires of babbling about her husband soon; she enjoys detailing her fabulous life, but she never makes the entire talk about solely herself. So you expect it when you soon hear a question back, “Lord Jeon has also always been such a gentleman, too, though. I enjoy his company thoroughly. Is he not with you today?”

You barely manage the lazy shake of your head, but you smile to cloak the hurt covering your heart, flooding your insides. The agony is always searing; you feel it everywhere, as though a torch lit you on fire. Every damn mention of his name makes your body sink.

In this town, the people have gathered that he’s a fragment of you, that he’s right wherever you are. But not today. Today, he’s with somebody else entirely; it enrages you, and yet also reminds you of how much you miss him every sickening moment of the endless day.

But you still act as though the praise towards the wonderful man you know doesn’t drag another knife across your heart. You suppress your tears and nod, agree with her.

Of course you do. You enjoy his company, too. You’re not oblivious to your husband’s charm; he’s the heart of every conversation. The poetry in every novel after all.

“He did not join me this time,” you answer, smiling away the seconds to hide the difficulties in your home. Hana sighs, as though she’s understood that something went awry; as if she doesn’t believe it when you say, “But perhaps next time!”

Perhaps. Hopefully. 

Your sister brushes the topic off with a wave, focusing on the task on hand. You welcome the diverging topic, just in time for the finishing touches on the dresses you ordered. Seung asks you to slip into them for a final inspection.

The first one is a light purple gown; you do not have a clue where you might wear it, but you enjoy the feel of it. Your sister nods in approval, compliments, “This colour suits you well. You haven’t worn it in so long.”

“I have. I wear it a lot back at home,” you say, remembering a similar shade in your mansion, unaware of where your thoughts are heading until you say, “Jungkook got me a gown in this colour once.”

She pauses for a moment. Seung fumbles at the hem of the dress, busy making it and you pretty; but your sister notices, sighs for a second before she responds, “He has a good eye, then.”

“Yes… he does.”

He likes you in almost every colour, though. He’s baptised you with the name of the rainbow many times before. Thinks every hue brings out something different in you; and that you lend it some additional meaning. Your aura and your energy mix the colours in a palette.

“To something new; to something special.”

You nearly whimper when his voice returns in your head. Despite the circumstances, all you ever remember it in is in joy. When his words are followed by a chuckle and dimples. When the bangs, not cut recently, fall into his eyes, like curtains.

You don’t think of the shaky goodbye days ago… rather, you recall the moments before the world fell apart, drenched in sweetness and grace and warmth.

It becomes difficult to stand here, to let Seung fondle with the fabric. To listen to your sister’s praises and watch Hana’s feet dangle off her seat, hitting the leg of the chair with puffy cheeks and a jutting lower lip.

The view is already too much, and you close your eyes, blending it out. Which proves hard when your husband is mentioned over and over again; of course he is. Two halves of a soul… of course he is.

It’s been like this at each visit, so nobody would expect things to change this time.

And every damn time his name falls, Hana looks up. Big eyes, akin to a doe, personifying hope and love and yearning. If… if there was a way to contact him and let her talk to him for only a minute, you wouldn’t hesitate.

In fact, leaving her there with him could’ve been an option. But you need some comfort, too, don’t you? And he might not be in the proper state to take care of anyone right now. You intensely hope he is looking after himself.

But she keeps sulking. Despising the distance as much as you fear it, asking over and over again, and your dam only breaks and overflows when you step down the podium, asking, “Do you like this?”

And she, uncaring, shrugs, asking, “Can we go back to Daddy?”

You take a deep breath. Your skin tingles, a wave of discomfort filling you head to toe. Head heavy, you yet again register the change in your throat and voice, holding back as you try to pacify her, “Soon, darling. We’re just visiting aunty and the grandparents for a little, remember?”

She does, but it doesn’t help. Somehow, it makes her pout harder. Yesterday, she was crying; now, she’s handling the bad mood differently. Maybe this is worse. You thought children forget, that they distract themselves easily, but Hana’s affection is infinite. Integral to her.

How could she forget? You know who you’re talking about. How could anybody forget about him, ever?

You tuck in one of her black locks, inquiring, “Which dress do you reckon I should get?”

Another shrug. Seung tries, “Would you like to take a look for yourself, as well?”

“Be nice, Hana,” you say, “do you want to? You can say no, too, though.”

It takes a moment until she looks up. Her eyes change when she sees the variety presented to her; as if she didn’t regard any of it since you stepped into the shop. But eventually, she says, “Alright. I will.”

She hops off the chair, small hand in Seung’s palm, walks around to take a look at her choices. Her forefinger is hooked in her mouth as she focuses, only coming out, slightly damp, when she points at something she likes.

Your seamstress approves of most of what Suhana prefers before moving to the colour, “Which one shall we pick for you?”

“I like them all,” Hana says. It’s tough to choose until it isn’t. Once she’s settled on one, staring at it with intensity, you understand she’s decided, calling for you, “Mama.”

“Yes?”

“This is Daddy’s favourite colour.”

A tender shade of sea green. She’s right, it’s his favourite. Or at least a preferred one. You guess you can’t escape him, no matter how much you try, no matter how many miles you leave between him and you.

You ask, “Do you want to take it?”

But she seems unsure all of a sudden again. The finger has dropped with her expression, and she digs the heel of her shoe into the floor, yet nodding, “Yes… I want to surprise Daddy.”

“He will love it, baby,” you say, blinking rapidly. You point to the colour she chose. “This dress then, please?”

“Certainly. Measurements?” Seung says, material already draped over her shoulder; she walks over to the measuring tape, readying herself but…

Hana has long lost her motivation again. You see the light dim with each second, and you prepare yourself to convince her to bask in the excitement a little longer. But she won’t. Instead, she declares, “I don’t want to.”

“What?” Seung voices. “It only takes a moment—”

“I don’t want to,” Hana repeats, “I want to go home.”

“The dress?”

“No.” She inhales, arms dangling at her sides, the childish whining painful when she pleads for the millionth, aching time, “I want to go back to Daddy now.”

Fucking hell, Suhana, how?

How do I take you back already?

If you could, you’d step out and curse into the world. He’s too far away. You’re too far away.

You left with a purpose, bid him goodbye to find peace within yourself. Peace with the fact that a woman is probably still sitting where you have welcomed guests so happily before. The woman that presented him yet another child, his blood and soul.

How do you explain to your daughter that returning might hurt worse than being here, and that his expression will shatter you? That he’ll fall to his knees again, remind you that nobody has ever loved a girl before like he loves you.

That nobody will ever find this much adoration again. But that then, a second later, you’ll remember that until you die, you won’t be the only one anymore?

How do you cope with this? How do you bring your child back into this home, in a mood like yours, without a solution just yet?

In that house where he’s grieving like you, you’ll hear the echoes from everywhere, and the pain will intensify. His touch might linger on you, and the walls will scream and the bed will scream and the rooms will scream.

Yell the memories you made there.

The dinners you shared. The food he fed you with his spoon. The times he’d spill soup on you in the process and laugh it off, crack a dirty joke when the tissue drew over your cleavage.

And the times he kissed you at his office door, promising he’d be in the bedroom soon; the times you still knocked an hour later because he isn’t just a good husband and father, but a good leader for his people, too.

And… and…

The bare skin on the mattress next to you. Warm, sweet, hugging you in, lips on your shoulder, your back, your ear, your body. Engulfing you. Under you, above you, with you. The whispered words and the promises.

Vows that he fulfils during the days and the nights. Raising his children with deep-sitting sentiments, turning his own pain into power and using it to bring happiness to them and to you all the damn time.

Sleepless nights, giggly days, dances in empty rooms and conversations in laughter and tears and hurdles and successes.

Every wall and bed and room will scream out the question whether you remember.

Do you remember it all? Everything you’ve become with him in all those years. Do you remember? Do you? Will you ever forget?

Everything falls. The leaves, the temperature, the warmth. Your damn heart.

And it’s then that you can’t take it anymore. Maybe because you see him in your own daughter’s eyes; maybe because she keeps trying to manifest him, as if he’s right here.

So you break. Quietly but aggressively, grabbing her hand as you say, “Enough. No dresses for you. We’re leaving.”

And you do. Suhana doesn’t like the way you pull yourself and her out of the shop. It’s not painful and you’re not violent or rushed; but maybe she hears your altered voice and sees the torment in your face, because she keeps calling for you until you’re home.

Your sister attempts her best to distract you, promising she’ll grab Hana’s gown before you leave and whatnot — but you’re lost in thoughts, still overwhelmed by a flood of memories. You don’t snap at Hana, even though she taps your wrist, asking why you’re mad and where Daddy is, and once you enter the hall in your previous house, you finally snap—

“Get yourself together!” You’re glaring. You never usually do. “I cannot fly to him. Practise patience for a while, alright?”

It shuts her up, but it does something to her expression, too. She’s tearing up, sniffling all of a sudden. Close to breaking, too, when your mother comes out to greet you, and you ask, “Could you just… could you play with her for a bit? Distract her? I just…”

“Yes,” she immediately says, offering Hana her hand, who takes it reluctantly. She’ll be a little angry at you for a few hours. Won’t want you near her. So she obliges. “Take your time, love.”

So you do. Instantly so. Your sister helps, dragging you up to your old room by your elbow, just in time before you finally break down.

She wraps her arms around you as your tears cascade, your chin on her shoulder, shaking, hands unsteady as you lower the sound of your sobs. This isn’t your first time crying here; but it’s the first time the tears blind you entirely.

Your sister lets you mourn for a while, rubbing your back, sitting at the edge of the bed as she mumbles something you can’t make sense of. She’s always been good at comforting you, but this time, she doesn’t know much about the issue itself. Unable to say much.

Instead, she asks, “This isn’t just a casual fight, is it? You had a very bad one.”

“I’m just…” you try, but she shushes you again, tells you it is alright to take your time. You gulp, then start again, “I don’t know what to do.”

“It is this serious? What happened?” She’s concerned, but curious, too. “You still don’t want to tell me?”

You shake your head against her shoulder, and she sighs. You say, “I need to figure this out with him first. Unbiased…”

“I understand. I am here, though. You can stay here or with me… Seokjin knows, so he won’t mind.”

“But… I just—”

“These things happen, love. You know it. Marriage is all compromise and patience.”

You know. Of course you know. Didn’t you have these same exact thoughts all day? You’re aware of the basic foundation of marriage, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

“Does it… always work out?” you ask.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have a strong feeling that he and you will.”

“…Why? How?

Maybe she’s saying it because she’s trying to lift you up. Maybe it’s part of comfort, to say things people want to hear. But your sister isn’t this type of person; you’ve appreciated her straightforward nature since the beginning of time, and if she didn’t believe in what she said, you’d consider her switched with somebody else.

Which is why you trust her words when she speaks, partly because the sincerity seeps through them from beginning to end, or because you’re well aware of this universal truth, “It’s rare… seeing somebody love like this even after years. Of course there’s always affection, but… sometimes love fades. His doesn’t. He really does feel strongly about you.”

“…He does.”

“See, you’re not doubting it. Maybe that’s enough for now.”

You would never leave such a statement open to debate. Even if a dozen women stood at your doorstep, reminding you of his lustful past and little mistakes, you’d send them away with a nonchalant wave.

Yes, the situation now differs from such a fantasy to its core, but even then, you know to trust in his heart. It’s just the future you’re scared of. The back and forth, the facts presented to you; in the form of a memory and in the form of a child.

Breath heavy and chest aching, you tell her, “I just don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know either,” she admits, voice quieter now. “But— my first instinct would be… to tell you to go home. I think you need it. Your actual home.”

“And then what…?”

“Whatever your guts tell you to do. What are they telling you now?”

You puff out an exhale; you’re sick of crying. Your head hurts, as if devoid of oxygen. “That I am scared.”

She nods, well aware, digs further, “What else? If you think about the situation, do you see a solution at all?”

Thinking about it… thinking about it…

Properly pondering, you guess you’re not quite at the end of the road. There’s a wall in front of you, but it’s shrinking; if you give it an actual thought and look up, you might be able to climb over it. It’d just need… inhumane strength.

“Maybe… in theory,” you say. “Perhaps.”

Short pause, silence cutting the air. It’s still light outside, but the sky is grey again. No birds chirping, streets and alleys quieter. You think you hear a couple voices, a carriage passing under your window…

You miss the noise. You miss his voice.

You miss the way he sighs in the evenings, staring into a book you might have annoyed him into reading before looking up, noticing your gaze. Smiling at you, overwhelmed by love, leaning in as the novel closes and his lips open…

So your answer shoots out of you when your sister asks, “What else are you thinking?” Clear and ardent and brimming with certainty as you say—

“That I love him.”

The smile she flashes is tiny but telling. Something blooms in her eyes, as if filled with hope, and the little, unconscious gesture, manifesting in her expression, returns the longing to your heart.

A thumb wipes your tears before her hand covers yours, and with a voice so soft and gentle, she concludes, “You really do. Go back, yes?”

And you don’t have it in you to consider her wrong anymore. No matter the hurt, you don’t think you should stay any longer at all. You won’t deny that you needed the escape for a bit; but maybe this suffices.

And in hindsight, maybe you knew how this would end all along.

THE CHAPTER ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

tumblr doesn't allow making very long posts due to the 1k block limit, so you can find the rest of the chapter and its 7k portion in this reblog! <3

[throwmethroughawindow]

i wanna write so bad but once I open up the doc… my brain is literally empty and I’m so sleepy??? What is happening I have so many IDEAS‼️‼️🗣️🗣️😭😭😭

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter I

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x F!Vestal!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 1.8k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, More tags to be added (!)

AO3 I Series Masterlist I Masterlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

guys, where do we even start. i can't live with his end so i am rewriting it. enjoy <3

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house posticum - a servant's entrance cubiculas - roman bedrooms

You didn't think it would lead to this.

A beloved General, a just man, kneeling in front of his opponent in the sand that covers the arena floor, the cloud of its dust settling onto the two men facing each other. The particles glisten in the scorching heat of the relentless sun above you, just as violent as the battle you have just witnessed.

It is not something you have ever truly enjoyed, hearing the last gasp of a dying man, seeing the moment a blade enters his stomach. Watching the winner shout with glee. Watching the dead body be dragged away.

But sitting in the specifically reserved area near the Emperors is good custom. Custom keeps one alive.

Custom is also hard to uphold when the man your heart is set on is fighting to keep his life mere feet below you.

You see Acacius’s lips move, see the pleading look in his eyes.

And then a soft thud echoes through the Colosseum as Lucius drops his sword and falls to his knees across from the General.

You wipe your hands furiously on your white gown, trying to keep your hands from sweating as your heart pumps wildly in your chest. You wonder what would happen to it if the sword would've found Acacius’s torso instead. Or his neck. Maybe it would've just given out, unwilling to beat any longer if his was not doing the same.

“No! Kill him! Soldiers!” The Emperor's cries reach you even through the uproar of the crowd, which is unwilling to accept any match that doesn't end with death. Rome always wants death.

“Archers!” He yells and you hold your breath as they draw their bows in unison, tips pointed right into the middle of the arena where the two men are still kneeling.

“Move,” you whisper under your breath, almost as if you believe Acacius can hear you. But he doesn't. He stays on his knees, upright, seemingly waiting for the arrows to hit. An archer to your left releases his arrow with a slight tremor in his arm–and misses by inches. It hits the sand behind Lucius instead, a small cloud of dust rising around it. But your eyes are drawn to the gentle movement of the General as he raises his arm.

“Hold.”

He doesn't have to scream the command. But his deep voice still travels throughout the Colosseum with urgency. The voice of a man who knows how to instruct his soldiers, how to make himself heard even on the battlefield, in the face of death. Even if it's his own that is imminent.

His reminder rings out in your head.

“How many of them will be loyal to you?” – “All of them.”

The archers hold their fire, no arrows following the first one. You turn your head to catch a glimpse of the twin Emperors, both practically jumping up and down with fury as they yell at the archers, at the guards, at anyone who will listen. “We'll have his head! We'll have the General's head for this! How dare he defy us–”

The bows are lowered as soldiers march into the arena, roughly placing cuffs around both men's hands. Acacius doesn't try to intervene with their orders this time, slowly rising to his feet and letting them lead him back towards the gate, though you don't miss the small stagger in his step. It makes a wave of worry wash over you.

“We’ll have your head, General! You will not live to see another battle! You will not even live to see another sunrise!”

Your blood runs cold at that and you stand up abruptly, your head bowed as your feet carry you back into the outer corridor of the Colosseum, a light breeze greeting you as the angry yells and curses from inside the arena grow more quiet.

You have given everything for Rome. Your vows, your service. You will not give him.

***

The moon is hiding away behind a large cloud when you slip out of the house and onto Via Nova, the sounds of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog filling the night. Having fulfilled your duties for the evening and claimed that the scene at the Colosseum gave you a dull headache, you retired early. When the sounds of the other women in the house died down, you took your chance.

It isn't far to the domus Acacius and Lucilla reside in, your own quarters located just below Palatine Hill. On a clear day, you can see the stone walls of his house from the garden you use to grow herbs.

After about fifty feet, you turn, following down a more narrow path that allows you to travel in the shadows. A few minutes later, it leads you to the posticum of the noble home, an entrance off to the side, used mainly by the servants–or visitors unwilling to be seen. Acacius has taken to keeping it unlocked whenever he knows you are coming. You pray that it still is.

A light push against the wooden door is all it needs to swing open with a small creak, making you hold your breath as you place one careful foot in front of the other. The last thing you need is to alert any guards to your nightly visit.

But you’ve learned how to walk in the shadows and which streets to avoid. You know that the second step from the bottom creaks if you put too much weight on it. It feels like the stone walls of his house are silent witnesses to the amount of time you have spent tip-toeing to his quarters after everyone else has retired for the night.

You distantly wonder if they have allowed him the comfort of his own bed as you enter the atrium, already turning right towards the cubiculas–and pause when your gaze flickers around the open space.

Acacius is hunched over on a chair, a thick metal cuff sneaking around his ankle, the chain fastened securely around one of the columns that line each side of the open room. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice that he is wearing nothing but his red tunic, the gold details on the edges already worn and fading. He shivers in the cold night air, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He looks so different from how he did in the arena just mere hours earlier. Smaller, somehow.

When you step forward, his head turns, eyes widening as you step into the dim light and recognition flickers over his face. “Dulcissima.”

You try to give him a smile but you're sure it fails miserably. Instead, you lessen the distance between you, passing the fountain in the center. “Acacius–”

“By the gods, what are you doing here?” He whispers, his soft brown eyes looking up at you. He sounds scared, his voice quiet but rough. Up close, you find that not only have they left him chained up in his own atrium but they have also not tended to his wounds. Caked blood and dirt decorate his skin, a part of his hair matted down with something that you hope is the latter.

You ignore his question. “They sentenced you to death.” No matter how hard you try, you can't keep your voice from shaking.

“They sentenced me to death the moment they learned about the plot,” Acacius mumbles quietly. “You know this. It was always going to end this way.”

“Where is Lucilla?” You ask quietly, casting a quick glance around yourself, almost expecting her to step forward from behind one of the columns. Even if you know you have nothing to fear from her. In fact, she may be the only person who understands what you are currently feeling.

“She is with two of the men. On their way to Lucius,” he admits, turning his body a bit more into your direction, which immediately forces a small grunt out of him. You suck in a sharp breath, though you're not sure whether it's in response to his injury or to what you just learned.

“He may already be dead.”

Acacius glances up at you with a look you can't quite place. Then he nods. “He may be.” He shakes his head ever so slightly. “But he has friends in the Colosseum. You forget whose son he is.” The General pauses again, his eyes searching your face as his whisper becomes more urgent. “Why are you here?”

A small sigh escapes you as you take two more steps towards Acacius. “Because you forgot who I am.”

It takes a few moments before recognition flickers in his eyes–and he understands. That as a Vestal, you may pardon with a touch of your hand. Even slaves. Even those sentenced to death.

He has seen you do it, once or twice. When prisoners called out to you as you passed by them with the jug of holy water. Begged you to place your palm on their head, to allow them to live. And they did. But this? This is different.

“No.”

“Marcus,” you say softly. “It’s the power they have given me, the role they have cursed me with. I may as well use it for good.”

“Dulcissima, they will know,” he protests, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight onto his legs and stands up. “They will know about us. They do not even need proof to put you on trial.”

“I do not care if they put me on trial,” you blurt out, taking a step forward just as he takes two back.

“Do not lay your hand on me,” he warns, raising his hand not unlike the way he did in the Colosseum earlier.

“Marcus. Please.” You’re begging more than asking. You don't think you could take it. A Rome without him.

His back hits the marble column and he curses under his breath just as you reach him. The chains meant to keep him from escaping turn into chains that make sure you can save him. Even if he does not want saving.

The tremor that has been a constant in your hands since seeing Acacius fall to his knees in the arena has disappeared, your fingers stretching slightly as you stand on tiptoes to reach for his head.

Soft, dark curls greet the tips of your fingers and you sigh in relief, mumbling a prayer as your hand comes to rest on his head like a crown. A shuddering breath leaves him, his eyes cast downward. Tension bleeds from his body, his shoulders sagging. A softness his soldiers never get to see.

It is a reminder of the nights you’ve spent together, always hidden and always too short. With whispered promises and silent prayers to Vesta to forgive you for loving him. You do not know how not to. And you don't ever want to find out.

But the way you bend upward, lips meeting his forehead–it simply comes more naturally than it should.

notes: thank you for reading! feel free to follow me on here or twitter/ao3 for updates on the next chapters! also, i would love to hear yalls thoughts so feel very free to leave a comment <3

! when commenting or reblogging, please make sure to hide spoilers from others !

[sierrale8ne]

40 DAYS AND 40 NIGHTS CHAPTER TWO

thought i’d be lying if i said ‘i didn’t want you to myself.’ when you look me in my eyes and, tell me that it’s mine, i…

pairing wnba!paige bueckers x singer!oc

taglist @thaatdigitaldiary @ohbueckers @patscorner @wbbgetsmewetter @makethemhoesmad @authentic-girl03 @rosemariiaa

kalena speakss 🪽! wanted to give yall another chapter tonight since college is kicking my butt atm and idk when the next update will be. hopefully soon tho!

May 2025 — Los Angeles, California 

“I just don’t see why you keep acting like our relationship doesn’t matter. I'm tired of acting like it doesn’t piss me off.” Julian spoke, disrupting the peace I had created for myself as I got dressed in the bathroom.

We were supposed to be getting ready for the Sparks home opener game against the Dallas Wings. I was exhausted from getting into LAX at an ungodly hour of the night, and now the conversation was giving me a headache.

“Ju, are we together?”

“Yes—”

“Did you ask me to be your girlfriend?” I turn around, slipping the mini gold hoops in my hand into my ears.

“No, but—”

I cut him off before he gets the chance to defend his position. “Then we’re not together.” I sigh. “I like where this is going, I really do, but we can’t keep having this conversation, Julian. I’m tired of it. This is just the way my career is working out right now.”

“So what? You make more money when the public thinks you’re single?” Julian asks. He’s very visibly frustrated, as he has been since before I even stepped off the stage in New York.

“No. I make more money when I keep the main thing the main thing. And right now the main thing is my music.” The words bounce off the wall for a moment, silence cutting through the air. I feel bad. He really is a great guy, and I hate to put him in a position like this, but it’s the way it has to be. “Ju’ come on. You have to understand where I’m coming from. I’m sorry.”

My hand reaches out for his shoulder, attempting to lessen the blow. Instead he steps back from me, shaking his head with a huff and leaving the bathroom. 

“Have fun at the game, ‘Raye.” He speaks as he leaves, and it’s my turn to huff.

I turned around. Looking intently at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

This is the closest thing I’ve had to a relationship in years, and yet, I’m spending the majority of it fighting over something dumb. But is it really dumb, or am I being insensitive?

I really do like Julian. He’s funny and sweet, he never fails to go out of his way to support me; I mean he just caught a flight to see me on Jimmy Fallon. He buys me flowers, he cares about communication, and all the little things. But for some reason I Just can’t keep up with it. 

It sucks.

—

May 2025 — Crypto.com Arena, Los Angeles, California 

The atmosphere in the arena is booming, and oddly enough I find myself surprised at how many people have filled Crypto. I’m seated courtside, underneath the basket nearest to The Sparks bench. The game is halfway through the first quarter and at a timeout when I take my seat. 

I have on a burgundy leather set from Fashion Nova. The shirt is a cropped button up that I only fastened at the bottom button and matching shorts. I’m wearing a pair of matching burgundy Prada slingback pumps that my recent success has gratefully allowed me to purchase. 

I sent a last minute text to my sister, telling her that Julian bailed and I would love it if she joined me, hence the slight tardiness. 

I’ve never seen Cassie as excited as she is right now. She’s beaming with energy, you would’ve thought she’s been planning this for months rather than being invited last minute. She’s for sure more of a basketball fan than I am, I credit that to my uncle. Whereas my dad made me more of a football fan.

“You’re gonna be getting infinite Christmas gifts this year for this, oh my God.” Cassie jokes with a kool aid smile on her face. I giggle, brushing her off.

“I’m glad you’re having fun, Cassie.” I giggle, brushing her off playfully. My phone dings, and I pull it up from my lap to check the notification.

Hey I feel like shit about earlier

Talk when you get home?

It’s Julian. Of course it’s Julian. I try to fight the urge to frown but I can’t help the way the disheartened expression forms in my face. I shut my phone off, shaking the feeling off and turning back to the game.

The buzzer sounds, alerting us that the game is starting again. It allows me to finally bring my attention back to the game. The Sparks are down seven, but you couldn’t even tell that the fans were bothered by it. 

“Jumbotron.” My sister whispers to me and I notice the camera moving past ‘celebrity row’ and getting shots of everyone.

“Bro.” I groan. I don’t hate it, it just gets so awkward. The camera man stays out there for too long and then I forget what to do with my hands. 

But regardless, the camera approaches me and my sister. I look up briefly at the Jumbotron before back down at the camera in front of me. A smile spreads to my face and I wave emphatically. Fortunately it doesn’t take very long and the camera man backs away a little.

Only briefly though, because within a matter of seconds he’s crashing to the ground and his large camera falls into Casandra’s lap.

During all the basketball games I’ve ever watched, I’ve always wondered how common the players run into the media crew or the stands. And every time I've sat in an arena, I’ve always said it would never be me. So you can imagine my surprise when a 6 '1 Paige Bueckers fell right on me after getting fouled going for a layup, knocking over the camera man in the process.

“Oh shit, man you good?” Paige asks him. Her hand helps steady him on his feet and Cassie hands him his camera back, mumbling hurriedly if he was alright. The man nods, patting her on the back.

My eyes meet hers, and suddenly I’ve never seen a prettier set of eyes. A shade of blue that was indescribable. Her hand reaches out to the both of us, palms outstretched as she asks, “Are you guys okay?” It comes out as a stutter and I barely notice it but it’s there.

I nod. And then I remember she still has free throws to shoot. “Yeah. All good, thanks.” I smile. Paige turns around, brushing her teammates off with thumbs ups and high fives when they ask if she’s alright. 

I would be an idiot to say that I wasn’t a little star struck. Sure, I wasn’t completely up to date with all things basketball, but I knew more than enough to know just how much Paige Bueckers was loved in the basketball community. Hell, the city of LA basically through a parade when they got that #1 overall pick.

She was a superstar, in all possible definitions of the word. You couldn’t go more than five minutes without seeing her face on TikTok or some commercial. 

And she was stunning; the last five seconds of me staring at her confirmed it in my mind even more.

—

“Thanks, Holly.” I beam with a smile. It only takes a few seconds of me walking away from postgame to hear yelling in my ear and Cam’s long arms around my shoulders.

In the least cocky way possible, I played an amazing game. Yes, the defense I faced tonight was different than when I was at Connecticut and efficiency wise I did struggle a bit. Who am I kidding— I played phenomenal.

26 points 9 rebounds and 7 assists, the pick-and-roll with Dearica racking up many of those. The team came out with a narrow win over the Wings, getting our season off on the right foot.

“That’s my fuckin’ rook!” I hear Azura Stevens hype me up. I dap her up cleanly, the smile on my face physically impossible to get rid of. For only being on the team for a month, they did a great job of welcoming me with open arms. 

I could definitely get used to this.

A towel hangs around my neck, picking up all the sweat from the game. I’m walking towards the locker rooms with a few of my teammates when I get pulled back for some autographs. I don’t say no, honestly I can’t remember the last time I refused to sign an autograph. Or if I ever did. 

There’s a young girl in front of me alongside her mom. She has on the UConn National Championship shirt from a month ago, her eyes wide as she pushes my sparks jersey up to me. I sign it with a smile, my heart swelling in size when she squeals and thanks me profusely.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for coming out!” I grin. My feet carry me through a few more fans. I sign all sorts of memorabilia from hoodies, to jerseys, phone cases, and shoes. As well as a wild number of selfies before I hear my name.

“Paige, come here!” It’s Rickea, as her voice has become widely recognizable in the last month that I’ve been here. “Oh my God, walk slower!”

I roll my eyes as I pick up my pace. She’s standing courtside with her warmups on. “Finally. I wanted you to meet a friend of mine. Maraye, this is Paige.”

When I look over it’s the girl from the TV last night, standing there with her purse in hand and— oh my God I ran into her like an hour ago. I fell into her lap. Oh my God this is embarrassing.

She looks even more gorgeous than when I was drooling over her last night. Her hair is the same, from what I can remember, but her outfit is completely different. The color she has on is similar to the one from last night, but the set shows off so much more skin. Her legs are toned, the top she wears is unbuttoned just enough to give me a show of the lace black bralette under it, and her gold septum shines in the arena light. 

“Hey.” I greeted her and the girl who sat next to her earlier in the night. “I do apologize about earlier by the way.”

“Don’t worry about it. It happens.” She reassures me.

“P, Cam, and I were watching the show last night. You did great, Raye.” Rickea pushes at Maraye’s shoulder. My eyes catch how she blushes in response. 

“You on a world tour or something? New York last night, and LA tonight.” I joke, and she laughs. Her laugh is possibly more angelic than her singing, and the way her accent popped out when she spoke might even have an edge on that.

“Nah. I just couldn’t miss opening night. Kea’ would never let me live it down, plus my sister is like a huge hoops fan.” She explains, gesturing to the two women next to us. 

I’m towering over her as I look at her but she still keeps eye contact with me. My eyes never leave hers, I didn’t even want them to.

“I was just telling her about Cam and Ben’s dinner party on friday.” Rickea starts. She turns to face me, but I’m still stuck on Maraye and her— well her everything. Rickea swats my arm as slyly as she can to get my attention. My eyes rip away from the musician with an incredulous force. “You are going to that, right?”

“I, uh, I’m not sure. I gotta check on when Drew and my dad are coming to town.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there then?” Maraye speaks. 

Someone please help me figure out why her eyes are so mesmerizing. They’re big and a perfect shade of brown. The slight tilt of her head when she asks me nearly drives me crazy.

“Yeah maybe.” I nod before looking at Rickea. I don’t know how long we’ve stood here, but what I do know is that coach will hand our asses to us on a silver platter if we’re late to the first media session of the season. “Yo, we gotta…” My head tilts towards the tunnel.

“Oh shit you’re right. It was so good to see you guys!” She jumps, pulling Maraye and her sister into a group hug. “Tell y’all folks I say hi!”

The four of us exchange waves and we walk off the court. By the time we make it to the tunnel Rickea is letting out a loud cackle and pushing me away from her. “You’re not even trying to hide it!” She laughs. I know exactly what she’s talking about but I act clueless, it’s too early for my teammates to be ridiculing me over my choices in women.

“You are sooooo going to that dinner party.”

A smirk spreads on my face and I roll my eyes. For the first time all month, I can’t even disagree. Nothing is stopping me from going to that dinner party.

[a-hobit]

I hope you all read that heartbreaking letter from horikoshi on Twitter because I could cry rn. I have TRIED to do a weekly comic and I couldn’t even do TWO fuckass pages a week and to do 13 - 20 even with assistants (the level of detail in MHA is insane and I love that part about it!!) feels imposible with keeping up a healthy lifestyle. He’s SO sweet and cares so deeply about how his effort effects people down the corporate line as well as the readers. It’s so sickening to read his apology for not being able to pump out chapters every single week like a fucking machine. I’d rather wait ten years to see the end than read about my favorite author deteriorating just to get the manga out within the next year or so. I LOVE MHA so much! And I wish I could tell him how many people couldn’t care less how long it takes!! Once again I wish I could do anything to make this guy see that everyone doesn’t mind how long it takes and once again every heartfelt and sincere English reply will never be read. I hope the Japanese readers can get him away from this awful mindset.

[a-daydreamers-stories]

Hey! This is an AU I thought would be fun and thanks to my friend @sherriesherbet I decided to write it! I'm not an expert in COD or UFC, so things will be wrong, sorry. This will be multiple parts, not sure how many yet. Hope you enjoy it!

The reader is a plus-size reader, this will be an 18 + story, minors do not interact

Never done this fandom before so if you'd like to be tagged for future parts let me know

Chapter warnings: Violence? Nothing really specifically mentioned yet

Chapter 1

Reader’s POV

“Please come with me! I won these two amazing tickets and my bud that was supposed to go is sick.” My brother whined out as he looked at me with big puppy dog eyes. I sighed and instantly regretted letting him into my apartment, it was my night off and I had been looking forward to lounging in my pjs as I ate takeout and watched sitcoms. 

“Don’t you have any other friends to take?” 

“No! Everyone else is busy or out of town since its last notice.”

“And you assumed I wasn’t busy?” I raised an eyebrow at him, he turned to look around my living room and then to the pjs I was already wearing. 

“You are?” 

“Yes I am,” I huffed at him and folded my arms over my chest as I snuggled deeper into the couch. “Now fuck off, I’m not going.” 

“Please! I have no one else, I’ll get you dinner too! Anything that you want just please come with me…” He begged even going so far as to get on his knees and hold his hands together. 

“Fine... Fine! I’ll go, what the hell do I even wear to this?” 

“Just go put on jeans and a shirt.”  He jumped up and fist-pumped the air like the dork he was. 

“Whatever you owe me,” I grumbled as I got off the couch, pushing him onto it as I made my way to the bedroom. I quickly showered and changed into jeans and a nice black tank top before putting on my sneakers. Walking out of my bedroom my brother popped up from the couch as I did with a big smile on his face. I couldn’t help but smile back, though I did shake my head at him. 

“Ready?” He asked excitedly. 

“Yeah, I’m ready.” After grabbing my phone and purse, I nodded and gestured for him to head out of my apartment. We left my apartment before I locked it up and headed to him to his car. “So how did you win these tickets?” 

“Radio contest spent a whole day listening to get these and I swear I called like 20 times but then I won! They’re amazing tickets too, fucking front-row seats!”  

“Okay okay calm down before you start hyperventilating.” 

“I’m just so excited!”  

“I can tell, remember to breathe though I don’t want to die because you passed out at the wheel.” 

“Shut up,” He playfully pushed my shoulder as he continued to drive towards the stadium. I couldn’t help but laugh, it was so funny to watch him get so excited like a teenager going to their first concert. We eventually made it into the stadium, parking had been a nightmare situation to try and figure out. He pulled out the tickets and we were guided to our seats, my brother moved into his seat and shot me an excited grin as I sat beside him. 

“Are you going to fangirl when these guys come out?” 

“No!” He narrowed his eyes at me in a playful glare. 

“Uh-huh,” I smirked at him and he rolled his eyes before something behind me caught his eye and he gasped. 

“Oh god…” 

“What?” I asked in confusion before looking in the direction he was looking in, an older man with mutton chops was slowly coming down one of the walkways. Tight black t-shirt molded over his wide shoulders and straining on his biceps and jeans that molded to a very delicious ass. The back of his shirt had the number 141 on it. “Who’s that?” 

“That’s John Price, he’s the head coach for the 141 Academy, his top boys are fighting tonight, and behind him coming out for the first fight is Gaz!” 

“Gaz? What kinda name is Gaz?” I asked as I spotted the handsome bronze man, probably somewhere near my age or my brother’s, coming down the hallway behind him in gold UFC shorts. 

“Well his real name is Kyle Garrick but he goes by Gaz in the ring.” Gaz flashed a smile and waved at the crowd causing a lot of girlish giggling and whistling as he moved to the ring. John patted him on the back and whispered in his ear, Gaz nodded back to him twice before flashing him a bright smile and clapping John’s shoulder. He practically bounced into the ring, full of energy and oozing charm. It was hard to believe someone as pretty as him, fights for a living but then his fight starts and you can see the hardness settling into his features, making him a little sharper and his entire focus is on the fight. 

He and the other man in the ring are similarly built but Gaz is faster and more calculated with his strikes, it doesn’t end in a knockout but Gaz does win the fight in the end. The referee lifts his arm at the end which causes a quick grimace to fall on Gaz’s face before he flashed the crowd a blinding smile, that’s only slightly bloody, which causes the crowd to lose their minds as they erupt into ear-piercing screams. I couldn’t help but clap for the man before he got out of the ring and John patted him on the back with a proud smile, saying something to the fighter. Looking him over before nodding to a different hallway than the one he came out of. 

“He’s sending him to the medic to get looked over, the other guy managed to hit him pretty hard in the ribs.”  My brother explained as Gaz walked away, cheers following him as he went. John moved his sight back to the other hallway and a few minutes later another man appeared from there, this man had a mohawk and was a bit broader than Gaz had been with blue UFC shorts on. 

“Who’s this one?”  I asked my brother. 

“Oh! This is Soap! He’s from Scotland.” 

“Soap? Why the fuck is he called Soap?” 

“Because he’s a slippery motherfucker.” My brother smirked and I snorted at that rolling my eyes. 

“Alright, gotta admit that’s pretty original for a UFC fighter name.”  

Soap stopped in front of John and started talking, it was still too loud to hear him clearly over the crowd but there were bits and pieces of an accent that reached us, John rested his hands on Soap’s shoulders and made the younger man look at him before he started talking to Soap. Soap nodded to him, a smirk on his face, there was a cocky yet capable attitude to him. John squeezed Soap’s shoulders before nodding to him and stepping aside, Soap got into the ring. The man he was facing was slightly taller than Soap and not quite as wide. 

The fight started and it was clear why they called him Soap, even with his wide frame, Soap dodged hits smoothly. He taunted his opponent with a smirk and a cocky joke but while his opponent grew hot-headed, Soap remained cool and calm. Gaz came back in the middle of the fight and stood next to John to watch Soap’s fight. He cheered Soap on from the sidelines till the fight ended and Soap was pronounced the winner, the crowd went nuts for the Scot. 

His lip and was split and he had a black eye forming but overall he was in good shape as he made his way out of the ring. Gaz patted him on the back in congratulations and John rubbed his head affectionately as Soap beamed at the two of them. John pointed towards the Med hallway and Soap shook his head before saying something to John with a lopsided grin on his face. 

There was a hush that settled over the crowd suddenly and I looked at my brother confused, he nodded excitedly towards the hallway the men of the 141 Academy had been coming out of. My breath caught in my throat as I turned to look at the man coming down the walkway, he was an absolute tank of a man in red UFC shorts. Taller than the other two fighters and his biceps were bigger than my head, with crocodile scars covering them and the upper part of his chest. 

“That’s Mace…” My brother whispered in my ear, his voice in awe. 

“His UFC name is Mace or his actual name?” 

“Honestly? No one knows, he only goes by Mace.” My brother shrugged. We watched as Mace made it to the other men by the ring. John nodded toward him and Mace threw him a feral smirk and a nod in return, before getting into the ring. The crowd erupted into loud cheers and screams as he made it into the ring. This fight was the most interesting so far, Mace was a vicious opponent and his opponent couldn’t do more than block the harsh blows that Mace landed. By the end his opponent was a bloody mess that had only managed to land a few good blows, even though they didn’t seem to phase Mace much, it didn’t surprise anyone when the referee lifted his arm as the winner. He got out of the ring and wrapped an arm around Soap’s shoulder, smirking as he talked to him, Gaz, and John. 

“Next is the main event of the night, it’s the last fight!” My brother told me and then pushed my shoulder excitedly as the hallway door opened again. My gaze traveled to the man coming out and my eyes widened as my stomach fluttered, this man was huge too. Just as big if not a little taller than Mace, though his arms were slightly smaller, he was no less intimidating though maybe more so with the look on his face. He had blonde hair, that was short on the sides and slightly longer on the top. He had scars on his face, small ones scattered along his face, a large one going diagonal from his chin to the bottom of his eye, and another larger one going down through his eyebrow on the other side. He had on black UFC shorts but right above where the short ended on his right leg was the design of a skull. 

“That’s Ghost…” 

“Ghost?” 

“Yeah, no one knows what his name is either. They just call him Ghost.”  

“Let me guess because he’s a killer in the ring?” I smirked though I couldn’t take my eyes off the man as he made his way down to the ring. 

“That but he’s also a spooky fucker.” My brother chuckled. Ghost stopped in front of the other fighters and John, who spoke to him for a moment. Ghost just gave John a curt nod before he made his way into the ring. There were no smirks, no waves, he barely acknowledged the crowd gathered to watch him fight, only that his eyes scanned over the stadium while he waited for the fight to start. 

A shuddering breath escaped me as his eyes met mine pausing in his scan, the only thing that came to mind as this god of a man looked at me was to smile at him. His head tilted slightly and I could have sworn I saw a tick of one side of his mouth, almost like he would return it before he looked away towards his opponent. An intense focus settled over his face as he rolled his broad shoulders, waiting for his opponent to strike first.

[emisprocrastinatingbywriting]

Alone and Forsaken

Summary:

Alone and forsaken, Joel Miller hides himself away at the end of the world. After losing Sarah he was a shell of a man, trying to drown her memory in the blood of any soul that dared to cross his path. No matter what he did, Sarah haunted him. Then came Ellie, the girl he had been through hell with. Joel felt his chest crack open for her and from then on he decided that wherever Ellie went, he would be there. The Fireflies had other ideas. Joel had fought hard, he had torn through that hospital slaughtering anyone that he came across but he was too late. After practically burning down all of Salt Lake City, Joel banishes himself to a cabin in the middle of the woods. Resigned to his fate, his self imposed exile is soon interrupted when he finds you. Broken, starving, and on the brink of freezing to death, Joel has no choice but to let you into his life. With the winter winds in Montana being particularly piercing this season, he is forced to wait until the spring thaws the ground so that he can dump you on Tommy’s doorstep in Wyoming. Can he keep you at arm’s length until then? 

Warnings: Postoutbreak!Joel, mentions of child loss, mentions of religious trauma, brief mentions of Tommy and Maria, mentions of Tess, grieving Joel, Slow burn, eventual smut, eventual soft!Joel, A/B/O dynamics, unspecified age reader age (reader is in her mid-20s and Joel is 56), mentions of violence, Joel really needs a hug in this

A/N: This is my first fic so let me know what you guys think! I'm going to continue to put chapter warnings, both you and Joel are traumatized in this. This is going to be a bit of a slow-burn so strap in folks!

Chapter 1/20 - More to come!

Chapter 1: Withered and Gone

The thundering of his heart pounded in his ears, almost deafening him to the sound of each bullet that ripped into anyone in his way. Joel barely registered their deaths. If asked today he wouldn’t even be able to tell you how many people he slaughtered. Forty? Sixty? One hundred? He had no idea. Filled with a primal fear that pumped battery acid through his veins, he pressed on until he made it to the door.

That door. Joel hated that fucking door. He knew what he would find on the other side, he had seen it every other night for the last four years. Knowing didn’t change anything, it never did. Whether it was him cradling Sarah in his arms while screaming for Tommy and feeling her tiny body turn cold, or being confronted with Ellie’s skull cracked open while a stranger sliced through her brain, knowing didn’t make it better. 

Joel woke, as he did every night, with his heart slamming against his ribs and bile rising in his throat. His eyes were wild as he searched desperately for someone he would never have again, two someones that were gone forever. Nostrils flared, Joel huffed the stale air around him, searching haphazardly for the smell of strawberries and vanilla or cinnamon and ginger. For Sarah and Ellie, his pups. 

Joel was greeted with nothing but his own musk, the scent gone sour from the memories haunting his dreams. Running shaky hands over his flushed face, he cursed under his breath before getting up for the day. Knees popping and back twinging in protest, he forced himself into the tiny bathroom connected to his bedroom. Ignoring the weathered face in the mirror, Joel hauled himself into the shower and let the warm water soothe his tense muscles.

After Salt Lake City, Joel had resigned himself to living in the first dilapidated hunting cabin he could find in Montana. It was what he deserved after failing her. Again. He was a bad Alpha, an even worse father, he had let not one but TWO pups die under his care. Living out the rest of his days in some shithole was the least he could do. 

Having stumbled back to Wyoming, Joel reached Jackson and collapsed at the front gate. He remembers Tommy above him, trying and failing to shake him out of the daze he was in. He remembers the unfamiliar smells of the clinic, Tommy and Maria coming to see him. He remembers a beta doctor coming in to explain the lows he would experience in the coming months, being an alpha who had lost their pup.

As if he didn’t already know. 

Joel couldn’t stay there. He couldn’t stand the softness of the sheets, how Tommy looked at him with sorrow and Maria with guarded pity, how his innocent nephew looked up at him with Tommy’s eyes - the eyes that were the same as his, the same eyes he passed on to Sarah. It only got worse when he left the clinic. Walking through the streets of Jackson reminded him of Ellie. He had to restrain himself from burning the place to the ground. After turning quite a few heads in town with his bitter scent and chilling presence, Joel left quietly in the middle of the night. He left a note for Tommy with the patrol hanging around the front gate and departed for his exile. 

Sleepwalking through Wyoming, he finally made his way into Montana where he found the cabin. It must have been the treasure of some reclusive hunter, as it sat smack dead in the middle of the forest without a single road in sight for miles. The building was one story, with a slightly rotting front porch that was overhung by the tin roof. Black solar panels were clamped on the green tin roof, light reflecting against the glass and burning his eyes.

Joel approached it cautiously, pricking up his ears for any potential danger. Who would leave this oasis out here? Hearing nothing, he approached the log building and climbed the slightly softening stairs. Pushing open the door, he was greeted with nothing but dusty air. Taking one step into the room, he could tell nobody had been in this cabin for years. Dust covered the coffee table and moth eaten couch in the living room. Yellowing books lined the shelves and a taxidermied deer leered at him from the wall. 

Pushing forward, Joel found a puke green kitchen with a plethora of expired canned food and knitted dishcloths in a variety of bright colors. Next to that, a hallway that led him to a bathroom with a kitschy painting of a monkey in a wig brushing his teeth. Joel stared at it for a second, wondering who the hell would have bought something like that. Was he that type of person before the world went to shit? He couldn't remember. 

His tour of the house continued and he found two bedrooms. The first was a master suite with a large bed and a dust soaked brown comforter. He ignored the pictures that lined the walls and shifted through the dressers for anything useful. He found some pants and flannels around his size, as well as some smaller clothes that clearly belonged to a woman. Maybe the owner had a wife? Joel tsked at himself, he needed to remain focused on the task at hand. 

Joel dropped his bag, keeping his rifle notched against his shoulder as he approached the last door to the cabin. Surely if a clicker was going to jump out of him it would have already, but humans don’t typically alert their prey before pouncing in his experience. Joel didn’t smell anything as he approached the door but he remained tense. He didn’t trust his senses anymore. Hell, he hadn’t even smelled the Fireflies that approached him as he did compressions on Ellie after the tunnel. Years before that, he hadn’t noticed the soldier's scent sour after getting the orders that would kill Sarah. 

“Stupid, so fucking stupid, bad alpha, bad provider…”, he growled before shaking his head, trying to clear his mind of the poison that seeped into his soul with every waking moment of his miserable life. 

Half expecting (and half hoping) to be shot dead the second he enters the final room, Joel was greeted with a sight that punched him in the gut. He stumbled back a few steps before a wave of dizziness lurched him forward again. Ears ringing, he fell to his knees and let out a pained cry. 

The room was simple, with flowers painted lovingly on the walls and comic books stuffed into the tiny book shelf on the wall. Tears began to stream down his face as he shakily crawled forward. Joel grasped the only picture that sat on the peachy nightstand. Practically choking on his own cries, he dusted off the frame and looked at the picture. 

Two girls sat on the front porch. The girl on the left was tomboyish and silly, holding a fishing rod in one hand and throwing up the peace sign with the other. The other girl was softer, hands covered in paint and smiling wide while holding a painting of what looks to be a Disney princess. In another life, that could have been them; his pups, Ellie and Sarah.

“It’s not them, it’s not them, it’s n-not them,” he mumbled to himself, trying to ignore the similarities while his heart rate soared.

He could feel rage building up in his chest as he looked at the girls, his vision going blurry and his jaw popping with how hard he ground his teeth. 

“IT’S NOT FUCKING THEM!,” he yelled, launching the picture at the wall and shattering the frame. 

Joel stayed on the floor for hours before he collected himself, giving one last look to the room before closing it for good. This place would do fine, he decided. It was secluded enough to keep him in his solitary confinement. The cabin sat near a river with clean flowing water and had seeds and canned food in the cabinets. It even had a tomb for his dead girls to serve as a constant reminder of his failure. Scratch that, his failures. This would be where he spent the rest of his life. Alone, as it should be. 

For four years, Joel secluded himself in his cabin. The place had a few adjustments since then. The dust was shaken out of the blankets and the windows opened to wash out the dankness of the place. He had planted seeds and started a garden, put up traps around the area for meat, and even fixed the porch after he had almost fallen through it one morning.

Tommy found him a couple months after his arrival and he managed swindle his brother into helping him get the solar panels working so that he could have power. The younger Miller had lingered, trying to convince his brother to follow him back to a life in Jackson but Joel had just growled at the beta until he backed off. The only concession Joel agreed two was a meet up two times a year, once before winter hit in November and once again at the break of Spring in May. He knew Tommy just wanted to check in on him and as annoyed as he was, he also knew that it was the only way he could avoid the beta dragging him back to Jackson.

Jackson didn’t need the measly produce and game that Joel provided, Joel knew that. His brother needed proof that Joel was still breathing, and this was the only way Tommy knew he could get it. 

Joel’s head pounded at the thought of his idiot brother as he tried to rinse off the memories that plagued him. He stood under the scalding spray for a few more moments, willing himself to relax. He wondered briefly if it was his rut that was coming but he quickly brushed that off. He hadn’t had one of those since Tess was still alive. Whether it was stress or that he was aging way too fast, they had just stopped one day. Not that he minded, he hadn’t cared much for the monthly desperation and now he didn't think he deserved the pleasure a release would bring him.

Turning the valve, Joel stepped out of the shower and toweled off. His body was practically on auto pilot as he went through his routine of getting dressed. He crammed whatever food he could find into his mouth before putting on his boots and heading out to check the traps. 

The air was chilly as Joel stepped out. He quickly zipped his jacket while cursing the wind that bit into his wide frame. Joel stopped to look at the sky briefly and wondered if it would snow soon. A week into November and the temperatures had dropped drastically. He wondered if this winter would be as brutal as the last. One day he had not even been able to get out the front door with how much snow had come. After 24 hours, he had to literally dig himself out. 

Sighing, he headed into the trees surrounding the cabin. Every trap he crossed was empty, save for the last one near the river. That was usually the case, with animals that sought water easily getting snared in the wire. The trap held a good sized rabbit. He grinned as he thought about the stew that he would make with the gamey meat.  

“You’ll do just fine darling,” he drawled, releasing the snare from its neck before he shoved it in his pack. 

Joel turned, deciding to return to the cabin so that he could properly skin his new found treasure but something stopped him in his tracks. His spine straightened. Is that? No, it can't be. His nose lifted in the air, searching for something that could not possibly be true. That’s when he heard it. 

It was quiet. The noise barely carried over the wind and the river nearby but his ears zoned into it immediately. His instincts were trained for this. Joel waited a second. He was sure that he had finally lost it, but then he heard it again.

A whine. 

Not just any whine, no, this whine was high pitched and light. It floated on the cold air over to him and smacked him in the face. The scent of lavender and peppermint dizzied him and his heightened senses picked up another strangled whine. This whine had sweat forming on his brow and a need to protect tensing all the muscles in his legs. He was sure of it now. This was the whine of an omega. 

For a second Joel just stood there dumbfounded. What the fuck was an omega doing all the way out here? Were they alone? Did they need help? Were they hurt? If they are hurt then they need his help. He has to help, need to be good, need to protect, need to…

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Joel gritted out, rubbing his eyes as his headache worsened with every second he stood there. 

Another gust of cold wind brushed against his face and the sweet scent surrounded him again. He smelled the sharp note of panic in the aroma and his legs moved forward before his brain could process the action, his instincts taking over for him. Bounding through the trees, he ran towards the riverbank. His eyes wheeled around his surroundings, a gasp leaving his mouth as he spied a small lump near the rushing waters. Heart pounding in his ears, Joel raced towards it.

-You-

How long had you been lost? Weeks? A month? You didn’t even know anymore. You had been a part of a group of people, being the only survivors from a larger place that had been overrun by infected. After dodging infected and raiders for nearly a year, your luck had to ran out.

Your group had ran out of gas on some godforsaken backroad and were utterly stranded there. Hoping to find something in the small town - could you even call it a town? - your group had trudged into the small strip of dilapidated stores with one sorry looking gas station in the center. 

Everything had happened so fast. One moment you were outside the gas station watching a squirrel skitter up a tree near you, the next there were gunshots and screaming. Infected tore apart the face of your friend, an older omega named Miriam who had taken you under her wing, right in front of you. You remember screaming and immediately twenty dead faces turning in your direction. Miriam’s alpha, a soft yet stern woman named Rachel, had stepped in front of you cocking her gun. You whined and whimpered, legs shaking and scent downright acidic with terror as you cowered behind her. 

“Go Y/N,” Rachel yelled at you, squaring up as the runners and clickers darted towards her. 

You couldn't leave her. What would you do? Where would you go? Rarely had you ever been allowed to be alone and you never really wanted to be. Being an unclaimed omega in a lawless world meant that you had to stick to groups with those that would protect you, lest you become a raiding group's plaything.

Rachel pushed you back and started firing. Whining behind her, you tried to pull her towards the guard rail. You needed her, how would you survive alone?

“GET OUT OF HERE OMEGA!,” Rachel boomed. 

That flipped a switch in you. It was a biological kick in the ass that had you turning and sprinting across the road. Jumping over the guardrail, you looked back over your shoulder and saw Rachel slicing through the advancing dead. With her emptied gun somewhere on the ground behind her, you watched as a clicker launched itself at her and tore into her flesh. 

With Rachel’s last instructions to you bouncing off the walls of your now empty brain, you turned and sprinted into the forest. Passing nothing but trees, you ran until you were gagged and retched. Your chest was practically on the verge of exploding by the time you stopped and your legs gave out. Collapsing on to the cold ground, you laid beneath the foliage and drifted. 

That had been weeks ago, or months, you weren’t sure at this point. It’s not like keeping a calendar was on your mind. Plus, your heats had stopped from the starvation your group had faced for the past year. You tried counting how many days you had been lost by the nights but soon, with only a bag of granola in your pack and bottle of water depleted, the days and nights had blurred together.

This was how you were going to die. You felt like laughing and crying at the same time. You had been young when the virus hit, maybe 5 years old, and had watched it pick off every member of your family until it was just you and your mother. Your mother had been kind once, you think, but aren’t entirely sure if that was true or wishful thinking. 

A fairytale made up by a lonely child in a dying world perhaps?

You shook your head. No, she had sung songs to you at one point but that was before. After the infection, after your father died, she had kept you safe while bouncing around QZs in search of some sort of safe haven. That was until she met Josiah, a preacher that took you both into his group and quickly became your stepfather. 

You had tried to like him. He seemed sweet at first, giving candies to you and the other children at camp, offering to teach you how to tend to the garden, bringing you a pair of pink shoes that you were so excited to have that your mother pinched your arm just to get you to stop squealing. However, things shifted after your mother and you got more comfortable in town. It became clear that worshipping was the only way that Josiah would let you stay.

Your mother followed along, biting her cheeks and dragging you with her to bible studies and all night prayer services that bruised your knees. But you could tell that she hated every second of it. You could feel it in the way she wrenched you forward everytime you protested going to the services that you hated. You had been to religious services briefly before the outbreak, your mom taking you to Catholic mass once for Christmas eve and your father taking you to celebrate Purim at the local synagogue, but you were way too young to really understand the meaning of any of it. By the time Josiah came around, those memories were barely a whisper in your brain. 

Things got worse from there. Josiah became the centerpiece for the group and everyone bowed to his every decree. The alphas were at the top of the pecking order, never to be questioned especially by an omega. Omegas were to be demure, quiet, dutiful, and were meant to be completely under the coverture of their alpha. Betas were given slightly more leeway than omegas, but would never be in a leadership position at camp and would only be allowed to mate with other betas. Anyone breaking the strict biological guidelines were brutally punished. The methods were downright inhumane depending on Josiah’s mood or the level of perceived “heresy.” 

You prayed for years under Josiah’s tyranny that you would present as a beta. Sure, you would never lead like an alpha but that never appealed to you anyways. You were caring and you wanted to help people. Plus, maybe if you were a beta they would let you become a doctor. The majority of the group were also betas and many were your age. Being a beta would mean that when the time came, you would have more than enough people to choose from for mating. 

Much to your dismay, you presented as an omega and everything got worse. You didn’t have many friends, mainly Jake and the ladies that lived next door; Miriam and Rachel, but now you were stuck inside the house. Josiah wanted to keep you from sin, so he locked you away “for your own good.” You were forced to dress more conservatively, to eat less to maintain your figure, to pray more, to upkeep the house, to never look an alpha in the eye, etc. All the while, inside the house, you tiptoed around the rage of your dulled mother and the leers that your stepfather gave your developing figure. 

By the time the infected had overwhelmed the dinky gate that protected your community, you had already been planning on escaping for months. Leaping into a car with Miriam, Rachel, Jake, and a few others, calmness washed over you amidst the destruction. You knew that your mother was probably dead, and you had seen your stepfather get his head ripped clean off of shoulders by a massive clicker, but you didn’t feel anything but relief.

The year after you left, although it was hard with the constant running and fighting, was actually the best year of your life. Nobody expected you to be anything, nobody pinched you, nobody made you pray, nobody smacked you if you made eye contact. You were just you. 

“And now look at you,” you chuckled, “stumbling through the woods with no fucking idea where you are going.”

If you didn't find shelter soon, you knew that you would die. You needed to eat, to rest. There was no way you would last another night in the forest.

Your stomach growled violently, practically shaking your frame with the force. You lifted your nose in the air, searching for a whiff of anything. At this point, you were open to eating a squirrel. You shambled through the trees for hours, vision blacking out around the edges as you tried to find any trace of sustenance. Then you heard it: the loud roar of flowing water nearby. 

A new sense of urgency pierced through the delirium and you staggered through the vegetation. The urgency made you clumsy and you faceplanted on the rocky bank. A small whine escaped your mouth as you hauled yourself up onto your hands and knees. Your palms smeared blood across the rocks as you crawled towards the water. Dizziness scrambled your thoughts but you pushed through with your heart leaping in your chest and eyes bleary. Faltering as a wave of nausea and dizziness rocked into you, you lost your balance and crumpled just a few inches from the water.

You whined again, louder this time. Frustration welled up in your chest with your goal so close, yet so far away. As you laid there, contemplating whether or not it would be easier just to give in and die, a breeze came from the trees and carried over the most delicious scent that has ever graced your nostrils.

The smell of sandalwood and bergamot glided over the air and wrapped itself around your senses. You felt your body immediately sag along the shore, your eyelids drooping as a feeling of peace overwhelmed you. You weren't sure what was happening, having never felt this calm in your entire life but you didn't question it and gave in to the peace.

You didn't even flinch when you felt a pair of strong arms turn you over and lift you into the air. The comforting aroma coated the back of your throat and warmed the tips of your fingers, making you snuggle into the warmth pressed against you. You rubbed your face into the source as you felt yourself being whisked away.

A soft hum came from your carrier and you heard a deep comforting voice say, “It’s okay omega, I’ve got you. Not gonna let anything happen to ya darling.” 

You had never fallen asleep so quickly in your entire life.

[proxylynn]

Blorbo: Mr Puzzles

{The new boy...Here comes the boy, hello boy, welcome! He is here!}

[I've seen a lot of SMG4 over the years and in the blink I take a break (mostly due to a bunch of life shit that kept me from doing anything) they pump out so many arcs and new characters...even killing beloved ones...RIP Axol, I miss you. Yet then they drop this guy and well...I don't know if I can describe him in words that can come close to covering how perfectly done he is!

Mr. Puzzles is the main antagonist of the SMG4 series, acting as the overarching and true antagonist of Season 13 and the main antagonist of Season 14, being introduced in the PUZZLEVISION story and in the following sub-series. As of WOTFI (War Of The Fat Italians) 2024, Mr. Puzzles has been put into an asylum, but has been stated to return at some point in the future. This is awesome because unlike previous characters (in my opinion, so no get mad) Mr. Puzzles is built with simplicity yet developed heavily. When it came to the early vids, watching new characters come in and kinda drag along episode to episode was a bummer. Granted they gained experience making the show as the years went on and it shows in the evolution of the show now. But that damned those characters to me (like Meggy) who not only felt shoved into so many episodes but then had to get arcs to give them character that wasn't in the beginning where it was needed. They have gotten way better at this, thankfully, and Mr. Puzzles is a good example of this story character being brought in with clear intent. And this is clear with his motivations and background.

"Growing up, Mr. Puzzles dreamed of building his own creations, like an amusement park, and getting appreciation for it, but his father dismissed him for lacking "creative vision." Disheartened, he became obsessed with watching every piece of media, dedicating his life to television. Eventually, he beheaded himself and replaced his head with a cybernetic TV set, somehow surviving the transformation. Now a living embodiment of television, he created Puzzlevision and, after discovering SMG4—the "stupidest show [he's] ever seen"—he began curating its chaotic misadventures, determined to make them more substantial to his taste."

It's such a simple base but executed so well and it only gets better with his personality. He maintains a complex personality rooted in a strong ego and an expectancy for control. He often craves attention, evident from the name of his entertainment company, "Puzzlevision," and his persistent desire to be in the spotlight. He manipulates those around him, including the SMG4 crew, making them obsess over their objectives, and turning them into adversaries for his twisted shows. Despite his friendly façade, Mr. Puzzles has unstable mental tendencies and sociopathic traits, demonstrating a troubling lack of empathy and a talent for exploiting others for his benefit. His unstable mentality can make him have severe breakdowns when something keeps going wrong, and his temper reflects it as seen in "Mr. Puzzles' Incredible Game Show Spectacular!". His dedication to entertainment is so compulsive, that he has transformed into a cyborg with a television set-like appearance, and once he took over Didneyland and replaced it with Puzzle Park, he fused with the engine room of his new amusement park, becoming its power source, all of this symbolizing his obsessive nature. Even though he possesses ruthless ambition and a craving for control over his entertainment platform, Mr. Puzzles is still able to be affable if he wants to, as evidenced by his temporary bond with Leggy. He experiences deep emotional distress when she is taken away, revealing his underlying vulnerability and bit of humanity.

The PUZZLEVISION story is 25 main chapters but 51 overall episodes and the growth of character done with Mr. Puzzles is something I'll praise the team for. They could have just as easily slapped together another shitpost one-off villain like before and called it a day, but they didn't. They cooked. And what came out of their kitchen was a character that makes me WANT to keep watching. So I'm gonna keep watching. I want to see more of this. I want to see how the growth continues. I WANT TO SEE MORE MR. PUZZLES!]

[greycaelum]

Hi! Could you maybe make something protective Satoru-like? Maybe the reader is bothered by some drunken while coming back home?

Overall just angsty-fluff with comfort. Your style of writing is really to my liking and I've been thinking of taking a request for a while. I hope its not too much ❤️

Kaleidoscope Series—Love Me Now, Love Me Never Chapters: { Tipsy }

—Gojo Satoru X Sorcerer Reader

𑁍 Synopsis:

"You sure you don't need me to drive and pick you up later? It's a den full of wolves." Satoru crossed his arms, leaning on the doorframe as he watch you wear the Jimmy Choo black pumps fitting your Friday night fashion for a girl's night out. "Satoru, baby. You don't know how to drive." You looked at him and sighed. "Y'know I don't need to drive, I can just whisk you away in a second back to bed!" He gasps dramatically and argued.

𑁍 Genre: mild angst to comfort, sfw (mild suggestive content)

𑁍 WC/CW/TW: (1.3k)—/ alcohol, suggestive violence (not towards reader), the reader being bothered in the club—/

𑁍 A/N: Hi sweetheart, I hope you like this one. Drunk trope isn't my forte but it was fun writing this, better late than never —Grey,

Having a Gojo Satoru as a boyfriend means there's often a 6'3 giant lurking around you. Or if he's unavailable, undoubtedly one of his subordinates is tailing you in the shadows. It's a compromise you both reached knowing your lover has many enemies and it's for your protection too. Satoru won't take it kindly if ever something to you. He will lose it.

"You sure you don't need me to drive and pick you up later? It's a den full of wolves." Satoru crossed his arms, leaning on the doorframe as he watch you wear the Jimmy Choo black pumps fitting your Friday night fashion for a girl's night out.

"Satoru, baby. You don't know how to drive." You looked at him and sighed.

"Y'know I don't need to drive, I can just whisk you away in a second back to bed!" He gasps dramatically and argued.

You giggled and threw your arms around Satoru's neck. Satoru won't have to admit it, but you have him wrapped around your finger.

"Call me when you wanna come home, 'kay?"

"Okayyy~" 

That was the plan... Until Utahime started wailing about still having no prospects for marriage even at her age. Shoko is too busy having a drinking contest with herself and you... well, Satoru's lightweight tendencies must be rubbing on you. Just one glass of margarita and you can tell that you are already tipsy, two more shots and you knew that was enough for tonight.

"Mei-san can I leave the two of them to you? I'll go home, I'm feeling a little lightheaded."

"I don't mind. Should I call Gojo for you?"

"No need, I'll call him. See you around Mei-san."

You made your way through the bar. It's so loud with the full-blast speaker and people dancing on the stage, some are getting a little more frisky in the open.

Did Satoru also go through this kind as a teen? You know he doesn't drink but did he ever go to a bar too? Did he also make out with some random girls and do the deed? Did he also—?

The dark thoughts are suddenly attacking you from all directions.

"Hey Miss, you look so lonely, care to spend some time with me?" A tall guy approached you, just from his scent you could tell he was wasted.

"No, I'm on my way home. Don't bother me." You stumbled a little but managed to grab onto the nearest wall to support yourself. Damn, maybe you should've stayed home instead.

"Awee c'mon, going home?" hiccup "Your cat at home got no tuna or somethin'?"

Fuck, the liquor in your veins is starting to get dizzying.

"Her cat is actually a territorial one. Now, fuck off from my woman."

The familiar cool spicy scent overpowered the bitter taste of liquor surrounding you, your body collided with a hard chest and a hand over your shoulder guided you close to his side.

"Hey, hold on to me alright pretty girl? 'M gonna get us home in a second."

True to his words, you feel the ground melting from your feet and in a second landed back on the floor of your home. There's a faint aroma of the chicken noodles you love.

"Satoru..." A small whine like a child escaped your sealed lips. You don't have the energy to wash up or even take off your clothes. You just brought up your arms asking for a carry.

"Y'know, you're too spoiled." Satoru sighed and hugged you while your feet clumsily took off your black pumps and left them there.

Satoru watch his girl act like a baby, whiny and more needy than usual as he carried her to the sofa and brought the warm mug of noodle soup to her hands.

"I told you to call me. What if I didn't come?"

Satoru helps you take off your makeup and at the back, he's running the water in the tub for you. He wants to scold you but the sight of your hazy eyes and flush cheeks will only evoke something else other than anger in him.

"Liar..." You slurred. "You always come even if I don't call..."

It's the perks of having a sober man who is too protective to let you go in a den of wolves as he would often phrase it, and yet still supportive enough to let you go on a girl's night out.

You don't wanna get used to him being a superman in your life but he does show up at the split second before the pinch. And you can't help but be complacent at the thought Satoru will always be there to catch you. Selfish... You silently berated yourself and finished the second mug of soup.

You stared at Satoru who is now drying your hair after a quick bath you had. The thoughts from earlier came running back to you.

Satoru set down the blower and that's when you turn around and crawled between his legs, your noses hit as you took his glasses down and stare into his cerulean orbs.

"Babe... wanna get frisky with me?"

"B-Baby?" Satoru uncharacteristically stuttered at the sudden aggressiveness, but he easily recovered and look down at your plump lips that seems to invite him to take a bite.

"Uhmp!" You gasped and felt yourself being rolled into a burrito roll towards your side of the bed and Satoru patting your head before he drop a kiss on your forehead.

"Ask that question again when your sober, you drunkard." Satoru chuckled at your pout and frown.

"'m not a drunkard! Satoru you coward!" But no matter how you spite him Satoru merely shrugs and gently pats you to sleep.

He watches you murmur empty threats with that feisty mouth towards him while he hums and lets you tire yourself out with the liquor in your veins still making your thoughts fuzzy. He thinks you're really cute when you're drunk, and if he was a lesser man he doubts he'll have the strength not to rail you all night.

But Satoru doesn't like the thought of doing it when you're barely sober to give him decent permission. So he painfully stuffs a pillow between the two of you while you're rolled in the blanket as he shushes you to sleep.

The next day, you woke up almost rolling down the bed to free yourself from the blanket. Satoru was already downstairs. He looks at you with a knowing smirk as you approach him for a morning hug and kiss.

"Hey, ask me the question again, Baby." Satoru hugged you as if he could press you any closer to him when even a thread can't pass between the two of you.

You could feel the fast beating of his heart against your chest.

"... What question 'Toru?" You pat his back and look at him. Did you ask something weird last night?

"..." Satoru stopped swaying you and frowns before running his hand over his face.

"Eh? Did I do something while I'm drunk?" What's with his reaction? You tried going back to your memory but you can't remember anything more than him giving you chicken noodle soup.

"This is why I don't drink." Satoru huffs and pouts at you. You're hopeless when you're drunk. Satoru looks at your (his) clothes. His shirt looks oversized in your frame running down to your mid-thighs while your hair falls freely to your back, your legs are in his full view, plump and full to his touch while you wiggle your bare toes in the warm insulated flooring.

"Hey Baby... wanna get frisky with me?" He rasped, tipsy with you.

—GreyCaelum

PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME

Check out the Masterlist for more

All rights and credits of the Jujutsu Kaisen character(s) mentioned images(s) and songs(s) used, belongs to their respective owner(s)

General/Kaleidoscope Series Taglist: @ice-icebaby @aeanya @gummy-dummy @tender-rosiey @lexiene @nevermoresworld

[quinloki]

quin-uhhh:

would you?!

Fic authors self rec! When you receive this, reply with favorite five fics you've written (include links, and if you want- a few thoughts about each one), then pass on to at least five other writers if you're up for it. Spread the self-love ✨

If you don't, I'll just... I'll just... well I won't do a thing but please?!

many fist pumps,

▲ I'm a symbol now

\o/ Tri, my sweet friend, you are - if anything - a symbol of good cheer =D ♥

Let's see, five favorite fics I've written. That's much easier than trying to pick just one ^_^

Birds of a Feather Marco/Reader ( tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - This is my most recently completed fic, at least at the time of this post, but I love it so much. My passion for Marco feels like it came out of nowhere and has made itself reigning champion in my thoughts. But a story I expected to be relatively short, ended up almost twice as long as I expected, and it was so easy. It was fun to write, and I think it goes down smooth, despite being nearly 90k words people consistently devour it in a single sitting.

Quicksand Sir Crocodile/Reader ( tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - Not sure if you're a fan of the sandy crocodile-themed warlord? Tread carefully, reading this title is statistically likely to convert you. Quicksand has an alternative ending because the story was originally intended to be a very dark Yandere - to the point that Doflamingo would've been the "good" guy. That's not how things went, and I'm quite glad for it. Quicksand going its own direction is what helped seal the deal in creating the Tales of the Grandline Metropolis, which is currently 3.8 completed stories. (it'll be at least 8 before it's done).

A Light Touch Eustass Kid/Reader ( Ao3 / Wattpad ) - My first Eustass Kid/Reader story. Set in the same AU as Quicksand, it was started from a pun, of all things. I figured Kid would be fancy tech stuff like neural-linked prosthetics, and the idea that would make a prosthetic for the reader after they lost a hand was something I wanted to write. Creating something like that would take a light touch, and if it glowed, that would be a different kind of light touch and getting close to Kid requires a light-- you get the point. Like I said, it's all based off a pun, but I'm really proud of the story, it's one of my favorite re-reads.

Some Direction Zoro/Reader (tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - A Modern AU where the government mandates who you marry. I have to give thanks to @lyndsyh24 for not only inspiring me to write this one (start to finish in a single month, I was obsessed!) but also for allowing my to play in the AU she'd built up. From Matchbook to the laws themselves, it's all thanks to Lyn. Zoro started out as one of my favorite characters in the series - I still have love for him, and I'm always happy to write him, but he's taken a bit of a back seat to my top three. Still Some Direction is a story I'm really proud of - even if I worry there'll be a mob after me for who the antagonist is 😅

Family Ties Doflamingo/Reader ( Ao3 / Wattpad ) - I was torn on this last choice - even with five slots it's hard to decide between stories I suppose ^^; Also, oops, apparently I only put the first ten chapters on tumblr... I need to fix that >.> Ahem, anyway, Family Ties is the first fic I wrote after over ten years of not writing at all. It's my first reader insert, my first true multi-chapter too. When I wrote it, it was the longest fic I'd written by nearly 50k words. I wrote it because I wanted a more morally ambiguous reader compared to what I'd been reading. It's not a dark fic though, it's pretty tooth-achingly sweet, honestly, but it's currently the only fic I have where the reader is a murderer in a very undisputed and direct manner.

Honorable mention I almost posted as piece 5 - The Dragon's Clause - my Sabo/Reader Noble/Fantasy/Magic AU, and also the only title I mention that's incomplete. But it's a an ode to my favorite genre, and a great many of my favorite tropes.

[a-killer-obsession]

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 51 - Udon, Again

Stupid ass Kid. Time for Plan B.

Word Count: ~3k

You felt like absolute fucking trash when you finally woke up. Between your injury from Kid, sleeping on the floor, and hours of sobbing yesterday leaving you dehydrated, you felt like you'd been hit by a meteor, rolled up like a carpet and tossed into the sea. Waking up alone was hard, harder that it had been in weeks. For the first time in your life you were truly independent, and it was hard to accept that right now you didn't even have a crew. It was just you, by yourself, just hoping like hell that you could find a way to get to Heat before it was too late, if he was even still alive.

You lifted your shirt to examine your stomach, frowning at the deep purple bruise that was already forming, in the perfect shape of Kid's fist. Well, at least he'd used his flesh arm. You'd never have imagined he would lay hands on you - you understood it was a high stress situation, but that didn't make it okay. You weren't sure you'd ever forgive him for that, and you had a feeling if Killer came to his senses and saw the injury that it wouldn't bode well for Kid. Even Heat might turn to violence if he saw the bruise. The two of them were possessive of you, but the question was if they were possessive enough to go against their captain. You had no doubt Heat at least would leave the crew for you, but whether he'd physically fight Kid was another thing altogether. Kid was stronger than him though, so you hoped he wouldn't fight on your behalf.

Below your bruise was the fading scar of your hysterectomy, and your heart hurt thinking about Dawn, so far away. You hoped she was doing okay, and that she was too small to truly miss you. Above all you hoped you'd see her again soon, you missed her greatly, and you were getting really sick of making your hands hurt by expressing milk with the manual pump. You felt awful for leaving her, but you had to remind yourself that it wasn't forever, and it was for the best. You had to bring at least one dad home, or you didn't know how you could keep going on your own. You weren't suited to being a single mother, you didn't feel strong enough, not after everything you'd been through.

You let yourself lay back down, curling into a tight ball with a whimper, thinking about Killer and Heat and Dawn and missing them all greatly. It didn't matter that you technically saw Killer yesterday. That wasn't him, that was some other guy who had taken his body without permission, you just had to kick him out. You just wished there was something, anything, you could do to know whether Heat was alive. Not knowing was ripping you apart, every time you thought about it you felt like you couldn't breathe. You could at least hold faith that if he was dead, maybe you would have seen his ghost by now, because surely he would be searching for you. You saw many ghosts in Wano, those who had died suffering under Kaido's rule, but thankfully none you recognised.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to soothe your searing headache. Rummaging through your duffle there was barely anything left, just a single bottle of water and a few apples. You could go without tomorrow, as long as you got the information you needed out of Killer, and once you got back to the capital you could steal more. You chugged the water greedily, hoping it would help your headache, and ate both apples before dealing with your heavy breasts. You drank that too, there was no point wasting it and you needed all the carbs you could get until you got back to the capital. At least your bag was light now, only containing the manual pump, a small med kit, and a map. You slung it over your shoulder and put your mask in place on your head, giving the shack one last look to ensure you didn't forget anything before making your way to Udon.

Your plan was just to cloak yourself and find Killer. Nobody would see you, but he would know you were there because of his haki, and you hoped you could get information out of him before he gave you away. All you needed was a location for where the rest of the crew were being kept, then you could be gone. You just hoped you wouldn't need to use pain to get the information out of him. There were things your devil fruit could do if you needed it, to inflict pain that would bring any man to their knees until he gave up the intel. It was a horrible thought, but you were desperate to get Heat back, and at this point Killer felt like a lost cause. You couldn't convince him to come back to himself last time, and if Kid couldn't either then who could? If he ever did come back to himself, he would forgive you for doing what you needed to do to get the rest of the crew back.

Udon was in chaos as you arrived. You scaled the walls as you had before, perching at the top of the innermost wall to take stock of the situation. Some sort of samurai match was taking place between Luffy and an absolute circle of a man you would find out later was named Queen, one of Kaido's top men. Kid and Killer were being hung upside down over a large pool of water, and you could hear Kid yelling at Killer, who ignored him and merely laughing maniacally in return. No, not Killer - Kamazo. It was clear he wasn't himself, and gave no heed to Kid's desperate yelling for him to remember who he was. This was no good, there was no way for you to get the information you needed out of him like this, when they were so exposed out in the open. Weirdest of all though was that you swore you saw Big Mom at the gate on your way here. Surely you were mistaken, though there had been that article in the newspaper about Big Mom and Kaido that you hadn't been able to read, right before arriving in Wano. Maybe it was something to do with that?

You swore to yourself as Kid and Kamazo were lowered head first into the water. You really didn't want to help Kid right now, but you couldn't just let him die, right? As for Kamazo, whether or not he had stolen Killer's body, you needed him alive for information. God fucking dammit. It took significant concentration, given the distance, but you were able to form a small circular barrier around each of their heads, ensuring they had at least some oxygen. It wouldn't last them forever, but it was better than nothing, especially as the water weakened both of them. There wasn't much else you could do right now, but it didn't matter, because other things were already at work here.

Big Mom broke down the outermost gate, and you saw the mangled metal soar through the air as she threw it. All hell broke loose as the guards within Udon focused their attention on the invader, Kid and Kamazo entirely forgotten. You had a feeling the guards didn't realise who they were dealing with, as a loudspeaker sang out over the prison, “The intruder has broken through the second gate! Now approaching the third gate!”

She broke through the innermost gate to the courtyard you could see best, screaming about red bean soup. Queen turned into some sort of long-necked dinosaur and began fighting back to no avail, Big Mom easily grappling his head and slamming it down. He slapped his tail against the ground in anger, jumping into the air and diving down at great speed to make his attack. Big Mom countered, grabbing him by his long neck, swinging him in circles until every bystander was dizzy from watching, and throwing him at one of Udon's great walls with a deafening crack, the tower he hit tilting and threatening to collapse. You understood well why she was an emperor, Queen was one of Kaido's top men, and yet she'd taken him down without even using her devil fruit. You shivered to think how strong Kaido must be as well.

The tank of water containing Kid and Kamazo broke apart, the scaffolding that held their chains breaking with it and dumping them on the ground with a gush of water. Luffy and Big Mom began fighting as the Beast Pirates scurried to evacuate, and an explosion blew out from the fight, prompting you to form a shield of air pressure to protect Kid and Kamazo, on instinct alone, making you grumble in annoyance as you registered what you'd done. Still invisible, Kamazo sensed you were there, laughing as he stared right at you from your perch on top of the wall, making you unsettled, while Kid was too distracted right now to focus his haki, his head moving every which way trying to figure out where the fuck you were. It was clear you were somewhere, he just couldn't figure it out, and he looked pissed.

A short man with a large head threw the pair a set of keys, and you realised at that point that you were no longer needed here. As soon as Kid could get his seastone off, he could escape with Kamazo on his own, if he didn't kill Kid first. Exasperated and annoyed that you'd protected Kid, you left. You didn't want to be around when he got out, because frankly you didn't want to talk to him. Angry that your plan to get information had failed, you fled back towards the rundown shack. You'd have to find a new way to get that information. Surely Kid would drag Kamazo somewhere, likely nearby since he knew of the area. You could wait till he left Kamazo unattended, or eavesdrop as he got the information out of Kamazo himself, then go to free Heat before Kid even had a chance to get there. You had to get to him first, because you had no doubt Kid would sprout lies to Heat about the nature of your leaving, and you might never see him again. He may even go after Dawn, being that you'd shown Kid on the map where she was being kept. You'd told him as a backup, in case something happened to you, but now you regretted that choice. Then again, you never thought Kid would hurt you like he had.

You stood at the entrance to the ruined building, deciding instead that it would be better to find a different place to hide, since Kid knew this spot. It was the only shelter he knew of, so he would no doubt come here. It took a while, but eventually you were able to find another half destroyed building with a single intact room to shelter in. You slumped down in the corner, exhausted, exasperated and frustrated, with nothing to do except wait for Kid to get to the town and drop his guard so you could interrogate Kamazo. If Kid even managed to get him here at all. You had your doubts, you knew you were capable of disabling him, but Kid and Killer had always been equal in strength, and while Kamazo was a sloppier fighter, he had the edge of wearing Kid's best friend's face - you didn't know if Kid had it in him to truly fight him if it came to it.

You couldn't care less right now if Kamazo won the fight, you'd just had to accept Killer was gone if it came to that. You could probably capture him on your own, long enough to get information, but you wouldn't be able to keep him. Another encounter with Kamazo would no doubt end in one of your deaths, and it couldn't be yours, Dawn still needed you. Killer would understand. However, if Kid won, well that was an issue. Kamazo was your only lead to finding Heat, and he was stupid enough to destroy that lead without thinking if he got into a serious fight with the assassin.

Elsewhere, Kid made his way in the general direction where he remembered the abandoned town to be, followed closely by an eerily quiet Killer. The fog in the blonde's mind from the last several weeks was finally clearing, and he felt ashamed of himself. Not to mention that now that he was in his right mind, he was overly aware of his exposed smile, and the uncontrollable laughter that came whenever he spoke. There wasn't much he could say anyway, he felt deeply embarrassed that he'd lost himself, that he'd been out of prison and yet had done nothing to help his crew, that he hadn't recognised his best friend, that he'd attacked you. There was tension in the air as he walked behind Kid. He wished the captain would just turn around and yell at him already, punish him for his insubordination, so he could at least feel a little like he'd gotten what he deserved. Kid hadn't spoken to him since leaving Udon, and he wondered if his betrayal was so great that the redhead would never forgive him.

The two remained silent as they walked through the streets of the ruined village, the only sounds being that of dirt crunching underfoot, and the various wildlife that had reclaimed the area. Kid grumbled to himself as he tried to remember exactly where the shack you'd taken him to was, since there was a significant lack of buildings still standing enough to serve as shelter. After circling several blocks, he finally found it, sitting down with a huff inside, watching Killer warily as the first mate entered behind him and sat a little ways away. A rogue bout of laughter escaped him from the stress of the tense situation, and he failed to muffle it with his hand. Defeated, Killer pulled his knees to his chest and let his head fall against them with a groan, his kimono falling open either side of his legs.

“Yin um… said about the SMILE fruit shit,” Kid finally broke the silence, “you… you okay?”

“Not really,” Killer laughed. He was so anxious that the laugh may have been real, he couldn't really tell.

“Right,” Kid replied, emphasising the ‘t’ with a pop, “of course you're not okay. Sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” Killer sighed, trying his best to look at Kid, but unable to keep eye contact when he felt so exposed.

“It kinda is though,” Kid grumbled, “it's my alliance bullshit that got us here.”

“It was Scratchmen that got us here,” Killer corrected, “and fucking Kaido.” Killer paused, looking around the small room with a realisation. “Where's Yin?”

“Scared her off,” Kid mumbled under his breath. Killer's heart hurt, remembering how he'd attacked you.

“I don't blame her,” Killer sighed, burying his face in his knees again, “I must have fucked her up pretty bad when I attacked her, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa.”

“She's not scared of you,” Kid huffed, “she knew you weren't yourself. It's me she's scared of.” Killer's head perked up, looking discerningly at the captain who reeked of guilt.

“Kid,” Killer said sternly, “what did you do?”

“You really don't know?” Kid replied, “you were there.”

“My memory is patchy,” Killer sighed, “what did you do to piss her off? I know she was at Udon, so why is she not here?”

“Look, I was angry, okay?” Kid tried to justify himself, “I didn't mean to!”

“Kid.” Killer snapped. Kid shivered, it was the same tone Killer used when they were young and Kid was in trouble.

“I may or may not have yelled at her when she tried to stop me from inevitably getting shot and captured,” Kid wouldn't look Killer in the eye, not knowing how he would react to the next part, “and then… I may have punched her in the gut. And she may have told me to go fuck myself and quit the crew. Wait, no, that was before I punched her.”

“Kid!!” Killer shouted, “What the hell is wrong with you! It took months to get her to trust you and you just go and throw that all away? What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“I fucked up okay?!” Kid yelled back, “you know what I'm like when I'm stressed!”

“That's no excuse for punching a woman!” Killer yelled back, “especially not when that woman is your best friend's girl! You're fucking lucky I don't have the energy right now to beat the shit out of you.”

“I'll take a raincheck,” Kid sighed, “it's the least I deserve.”

“Do you know where she would go?” Killer asked as he stood. It was clear you needed him right now more than Kid did, he had to find you, make sure you were okay, and make sure you knew he was sorry for hurting you.

“There's not many places she could get to without resting first,” Kid grumbled, “she's probably nearby. In another house or some shit. Where are you going?”

“To find her, dumbass,” Killer snapped, before choking on a string of laughter. He shook his head as he composed himself, “Stay here, I'll find her and come back tomorrow so we can all go find our crew, together. And for fucksake don't draw attention to yourself, in fact don't fucking leave this room.”

“Fine, whatever,” Kid grumbled as Killer left to find you. He curled in on himself as soon as Killer was out of sight. You were right, things had changed; if Killer had to pick between the two of you, Kid was no longer his first choice.

[NEXT CHAPTER]

HIATUS NOTICE - Wavelengths will be on hiatus for at most a couple of months while I deal with irl chaos. There's only a few chapters left so my plan is to release them all at once over a week, I hope you all look forward it ❤️

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Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @iggy5055 @eyes-ofhell @luvnisstuff

[melswifeasf]

Find my way back to you pt 3

previous chapter || next chapter || series page

Pairing: Samantha Carpenter x Fem!OC

Summary: Sam comes back after five years.

Warnings: none.

notes: are you guys enjoying this series? should i keep writing?

the beeping sound of Tara’s heart monitor could be heard throughout the room. it had been a day since the incident and Tara was out of surgery. she had already made her statement an hour ago and ended up falling asleep again with all the drugs they were pumping her with. Estelle hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to her, she had been making her own statement and Judy had forced her to go home so she could take a shower and take off her uniform seeing as she hadn’t left the hospital since Tara was admitted.

honestly, Estelle didn’t have the energy to go home and do quite literally anything but Judy left her with no choice.

she didn’t take long, just took a quick shower and took an hour nap. it’s not like she could sleep, every time she closed her eyes she could only see that stupid mask.

Estelle had a redbull in hand as she walked into the room. she had her hair down, slight waves tumbling down her shoulders. she was out of uniform for the first time in hours, wearing a simple black shirt that was tucked into her blue jeans and a black bomber jacket on top. funny how Estelle would never wear such a thing in her teen years and yet now it’s most of what her wardrobe consisted of. it’s not like she had much time to have a life outside of work, not because she was forced to work extreme hours but because she had no idea how to live anymore.

pathetic how one single person can change an entire persons whole universe. even more pathetic considering they were only high school loves, the ones people always say don’t last. they were right.

at the sound of the door opening Tara looked toward it. her eyes landed on Estelle who had her drink in one hand and a bag of chips in another, a slight almost sad smile on her lips.

“i got your favorite” Estelle said as she held up the bag of sour cream and onion chips. Tara smiles softly in appreciation.

“thanks” she said lowly. Estelle approached her and handed her the chips which the teen girl gladly accepted.

there’s a beat of silence as Estelle takes a seat on the empty chair beside Tara’s bed. the younger girl placed the bag of chips on the table beside her whilst Estelle watched her intently. that night she hadnt realized all the injuries the girl was left with. she only remembers having seen the gash on her stomach and her leg being broken. now she knew about the hand and the many stabs that were spread around her body.

the idea alone made Estelle’s mouth run dry and tears begin to prick at her eyes but she quickly blinked them away.

“how’re you feeling? like, physically?” Estelle asked already knowing how the girl must be feeling emotionally, asking would be a waste of words.

Tara shrugged with a ghost of a smile on her lips, “i’m on all kind of drugs so i can’t really feel anything” she said honestly making Estelle chuckle.

“figures” she mutters as Tara breathes out a laugh. they fall silent once more as Estelle looks down at her fidgeting hands.

“i-..” she clears her throat softly, “i’m so sorry Tara” she said lowly her eyes not leaving her hands as tears burn in her eyes. she didn’t want to be the one crying, she had no right to, not after what Tara went through and yet here she was, not able to contain the burning tears beginning to fall.

Tara’s own eyes began to shine as she shook her head, “no” she whispered, “it’s not your fault”

“i should’ve been there sooner” Estelle said finally meeting her eyes, “i should’ve been closer. i should’ve installed a better security system. fuck, i should’ve shot them right through their fucking head” she shook her head and sniffled softly.

Tara held her healthy hand out making Estelle look at it, it took her a second before she placed her left hand on top of it. “it’s not your fault” Tara said firmly even with the tears in her eyes, “you never could’ve known this was going to happen. you did everything you could and i’m so thankful you were there” the young girl cried.

Estelle stood up from the chair and sat on the bed, wrapping her arms around Tara carefully so she wouldn’t accidentally hurt her.

Sam left five years ago, taking Estelle’s heart in the process but she left behind the girl who needed her most. the girl who had to learn how to make her own food, to get over her fear of the dark and learn how to make it seem like she wasn’t home alone practically everyday.

Estelle vowed to protect Tara like she wasn’t able to protect Elias.

Estelle had texted Amber per Tara’s requests to let her and the rest of her friends know that she was awake. Amber was the first to arrive followed by Wes then the twins. they all began to rant about how they couldn’t believe it was really happening and how glad they were Tara was okay as soon as they stepped into the room which cause Estelle to look at them in slight amusement.

she never really understood how they were all friends, they were all extremely different. she knew Amber and Tara were practically best friends - although Estelle always had her suspicions when it came to the two. Amber was always very possessive toward Tara and Tara never really seemed to mind that. but when it came to Wes and the twins, she didn’t really understand that part. she liked them all, maybe Wes a little less because he was just.. weird.

an hour later, after the group of friends got comfortable in their seats and did their best in trying to reassure the tara she was going to be fine, the door to their room opened, and Tara's sister appeared on the other side.

Estelles eyes snapped toward her as she leaned against the wall. her posture stiffened immediately and she pushed herself off of it slowly, her smile leaving her lips in a millisecond and instead is morphed into an emotionless expression.

her heart skipped, stopped and almost as if she had been revived it started hammering in her chest rapidly. she could feel her ears pulse and her hands begin to sweat as an extreme heat overtook her body. she could feel eyes on her but she didn’t look at anyone except the girl that just walked in.

she was hesitant to come in, only taking small steps as she looked around at the teens she used to take care of. her eyes stopped on Estelle longer than they had the rest but she tried to cover it up as her eyes locked with her sisters, the shyness went away and she crouched down beside her, softly setting her hand on Tara's shoulder and asking, "how are you feeling?"

if the sight of her pale sister who looked like she was in a state between life and death didn't hurt her enough, the words she threw at her were heart wrenching because of the doubtfulness in her voice, "you came."

Sam's escape from Woodsboro had lasted so long that it left her sister doubting she would even show up after she had been hurt, and the realization of that hurt Sam a lot because she never meant for the strand between her sister and herself to get to a point of no return.

"of course I came." Sam spoke softly, trying to lessen any doubts Tara might be feeling of how much she loved her. "this is my boyfriend, Richie." she said and as she turned to face her boyfriend her eyes met Estelle’s no longer than a second before she faced her boyfriend and stood up.

the man wasted no second in jumping into the conversation, “It's so nice to meet you. I'm so sorry if I'm intruding."

Tara too looked at Estelle before she ran her eyes across the man she had no intention of ever meeting, but knowing he was supposedly Sam's boyfriend, she decided to give him a polite smile and said, "nice to meet you, too."

everyone else in the room was looking between the exes and the tension was beginning to suffocate Estelle. every single muscle in her body felt like a rock and there was a huge knot in her throat that made it hard to swallow and the weight on her chest wasn’t helping her breathing either.

she wouldn’t left already if she knew it wouldn’t get everyone’s attention but she knew it would and Sam was near the door.

for the first time since the two had met, Estelle felt like an outsider in Sams life. hell, she felt like an outside in the room. she knew she didn’t belong and yet there she was.

Sam looked different, her hair had blonde highlights and she looked more mature. her face had defined itself and her body looked more mature now.

this wasn’t Sam Carpenter, the girl Estelle fell in love with. this was someone else and it felt like a fucking bullet to Estelle’s heart.

Sam had met every single one of the teens in the room a long time ago when she needed a few extra bucks and decided to babysit a few of them, so she went around the room and gave them a hug as she greeted them. she stayed near Wes longer than the others, softly thanking him for calling her and telling her about Tara's condition.

it was funny how Sam was trying her damn hardest to not meet Estelle’s eye or to not let her eyes even glance in her direction.

Estelle almost scoffed but keep it in, for Tara. she didn’t deserve her making a scene. neither did Sam. both for different reasons completely.

she moved back to where her boyfriend was standing and introduced them to him, "these are Chad and Mindy, the twins, and Wes. I used to babysit them all."

Wes was slightly embarrassed at that comment, or more so confused as to why she needed to add that last sentence in. "which is always how I like to be introduced." Wes pitched in sarcastically.

Amber chuckled which got Sam’s attention. she turned toward her, finally noticing her for the rust time and an uncomfortable smile formed on her lips. “and Amber, hey”

Amber nodded toward her, a matching smile on her lips “hi, nice to see you."

Richie turned to Amber and introduced himself,

"hi, I'm Richie."

"hi."

Estelle coughed awkwardly leaving Sam no choice but to meet her eye. Estelle felt her breathing labor as their eyes met. she expected to see a reflection of who Sam was once but she didn’t that, she couldn’t see the adoration, the love, the affection. it was as if Sam was looking at a stranger, a wannabe that had nothing to do in her life.

“Estelle. hey” she said making Richies head turn in her direction so fast it was as if he had been pinched.

“Sam” Estelle said simply. “well, i have to go. ill be outside Tara” the girl said looking at her. Tara sent her a smile along with a nod.

without another word toward either of the sisters Estelle began to walk toward the door where she looked at him with a slight scowl.

he didn’t say anything but Estelle didn’t need him to, she already knew what he was thinking. she laughed quietly with a shake of her head as she walked out of the room.

fuck them both.

there was an awkward beat of silence once Estelle left and the heavy weigh of her absence was lingering amongst them which Sam feel uncomfortable as she began to speak quickly hoping she’d fill the silence, "where's mom?

"she's stuck at a conference in London. she called me earlier." Tara filled her sister in, and it just seemed like she was trying to justify her mother for not being there.

"yeah, for all of ten minutes" Amber mumbled dryly but they all heard.

Tara's mother wasn't always occupied with her work, but after her divorce, she latched onto her job as a sense of security. at first it was minor, sometimes just a weekend or a couple of days but then it had gotten to the point where she left Tara home alone every few days for a long duration.

Tara didnt say anything and she looked sorrowful and Amber quickly said, "look, guys, Tara's really tired. maybe we should just give her some space."

it only took one glance at Tara for them to agree with Amber's statement. they each said their goodbye's and exited the room silently. Sam trailed behind them, thinking her sister might want the room to herself while she sleeps, but it turns out she was wrong.

"not you, Sam." Tara called after her. "I want you to stay."

a smile made its way on Sam's lips, and she nodded as she walked back towards her sister.

"if it's okay with you, I could sleep here tonight."

Tara didn't have to think at all about the request, "I'd really like that."

"Okay."

Amber reached down to touch Tara’s arm “do you have your extra inhaler?”

“yeah i’ll be fine”

“okay.” Amber nodded and grabbed her things before leaving the room.

Richie took that as his time to leave, and he gave Sam a look to let her know he'd be outside.

once they were alone Tara began to break down, finally being alone with the person she loved most, her walls crumbled completely.

Sam hugged her sister tightly until her tears died down and the only thing that could be heard was the chatter outside of the room.

“why was Estelle here?” Sam spoke for the first time in almost an hour. she knew how close Tara and Estelle were before she left, Estelle was practically at their house everyday when they were together and she figured they would maybe keep in touch, it was a small town after all but she didn’t not expect her to be in her sisters hospital room when she walked in.

“she’s my friend?” Tara said although it sounded more like a question than it did a statement.

“oh.”

“yeah” Tara shrugged. “plus she was the one who got there when..” she trailed off not able to finish her sentence but Sam quickly shook her head.

“i get it” she assured her quickly, not wanting her sister to finish her sentence.

eight years ago..

the parking lot was filled with students that friday afternoon, some of them were killing time before practice whilst others were trying to figure out who would be throwing the best party that night.

Estelle leaned against the hood of her brothers car with his friends. thankfully their girlfriends had already left to get ready for whatever party they would be going to. Estelle didn’t think she could deal with them and their stupid comments.

she was included in some of the conversation as Elias and the two guys talked about the newest rumor being spread around school. she wasn’t that interested though, she had gotten a ride from her girlfriend earlier but they got into an argument meaning she had to catch a ride back home with her brother.

she sighed in boredom as she scrolled through her phone carelessly. until footsteps getting near her made the dark haired girl look up from the small screen.

she squinted, the sun bright on that particular October afternoon. as soon as her eyes adjusted she was met with Sam Carpenter who sported a shy smile.

“hey” she said first making the conversation between the boys die down completely and turn to look at her.

“hey” Estelle responded.

Sam glanced at the guys for a quick second, “i just wanted to thank you for taking me home the other day. i was really fucked up” she admitted a bit sheepishly.

Estelle chuckled, “you were extremely fucked up but it’s all good. you’d do the same for me” she shrugged.

Sam nodded. there was a split second in which her eyes glanced down at Estelle’s slightly exposed chest, her shirt not covering as much as it should.

Estelle bit back a smile at the action and as soon as Sams eyes met her own, the taller girl had a matching expression. Sams checks turned a bit rosy as she realized she had been caught.

she cleared her throat, “i’ll see you around”

Estelle nodded, “yeah”

without another word Sam turned and began to take her leave when Estelle’s voice stopped her. “just make sure to stick with weed this time” she called out. Sam didn’t respond verbally but Estelle still heard the laugh escape the tall girls lips.

Estelle watched the girl walk away, in awe at how her hips moved with every step that she took. she never really noticed other people, the only attractive person in the whole school was the girl Estelle was already dating but now seeing Sam up close, god she was so wrong.

“the fuck was that” Elias laughed snapping Estelle’s eyes away from Sams body quickly and turn to look at him.

the boy had an amused yet questioning look in his eye, “nothing” she quickly responded. “she just got high off her ass with the pills you sold to her and i had to take her home” she shrugged.

she didn’t get a response causing her to meet his eye once more. Elias only chuckled with a slight shake of his head.

“uh huh”

[blue-slxt]

Two Can Play

🔞Minors Do Not Interact🔞

A/N: So this is my first Lo'ak fic and I'm really hoping it came out well. It's a little shorter than the other chapters since this one is really just to introduce the premise. Huge thanks to @pandorxxx for the inspiration. If you haven't read her Search & Rescue series, you should absolutely check it out. All characters are aged up.

Next Part

Pairing: Lo'ak x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

Warnings: Smut, P in V (really quickly), Sexual Tension, that should be it for this chapter

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: You have a reputation for getting around, but there is one person you refuse to give in to. What happens when you both make a bet to see who will fall for the other first?

“Ooooh fuck, Tetxi!” you moan as your head falls back reveling in your third orgasm of the night. He held on to your hips rocking them back and forth wanting to reach his own release.

“Shit, I’m so close!” he says through gritted teeth. That was your cue to hop off and finish him off with your hand. He groans at the loss of contact with your warmth, but he’s quickly thrown back into his pleasure with the touch of your skillful strokes. After only 3 quick pumps, his hot seed spilled all over your hands. Too easy. Beads of sweat trailed down the sides of his face as he tried to catch his breath.

While he’s still regaining his composure, you’re already getting your clothes back on.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks half-jokingly.

“Well, it is time for dinner.” You tie your top together behind your back wanting to leave this conversation quickly. Tetxi swings his legs around to stand up, “Here, I’ll go with you.”

Sheesh, not this situation again. “That’s okay. I’m a big girl, I can go by myself.”

His face drops, “So that’s it? We just fuck and then you’re running off?”

You internally roll your eyes struggling to keep your patience, “Look, it’s not that big of a deal. We just did what we came here to do and we had fun and now it’s done.”

You make sure that your loincloth is tightly secured around your hips and take your leave bidding him a swift and short ‘bye!’.

You walk through the gathering crowd looking for your best friend, Ako. You spot her signature half-up, half-down braids off to the side and run up behind her to throw your arms around her, “Found you!”

She jumps and squeals in shock at first before realizing it’s you. “Eywa, you nearly scared the life out of me!” a laugh laces through her words. She cocks her eyebrow at you, “So how was your night?”

“Average. Tetxi was fun and he got the job done, but ultimately, nothing really special.” You shrug your shoulders recounting the event.

This was a regular occurrence. You had a bit of a reputation in the clan for getting around. You didn’t let it bother you since it was true and you felt no real shame about it. You were young and trying new things. What was so wrong with that? There would be plenty of time for settling down and having a family later, but that was nothing you really needed to concern yourself with right now. Especially with so many attractive males in your clan, how were you supposed to choose just one right now? It only made sense to try them out before you made a final decision, didn’t it? They say that no man will want to take a mate who’s been passed around so much, but as far as you’re concerned, the right guy for you won’t care. Who cares if other people don’t like it? It’s not their choice. That’s why Ako was your best friend, she never judged you for your decisions. She was clear that your lifestyle wasn’t for her, but she respected your way of doing things. What more could you really ask for than that?

You had to admit, though, it was starting to get old. You had gone through all your top picks, second choices, backup plans, and even the drunk picks. Most of them were nice enough, but a lot of them just wanted to see if the rumors about you were true and were delighted when they found out they were. The real issue was that about half of them always wanted something more. They would want to see you more often, they would get possessive over you and your time, or they would ask you to be their girlfriend. You had clear boundaries around your escapades, though. You weren’t going to be their girlfriend, there was no pillow talking, no saying the L word, and absolutely no cumming inside of you.

There was really only one boy in the whole clan that you were insistent on not sleeping with.

“Don’t look now, but your favorite guy is coming this way” Ako jokingly nudges your shoulder.

You roll your eyes and groan already knowing who it was without even turning around. A big slender arm drapes itself around your shoulders, “Hello ladies.” He coos.

“Hello Lo’ak.”

Ako grins playfully at your expression.

“Aw don’t be like that, sevin.” His fingers find your chin to guide your face to his, “When are you gonna stop giving me the cold shoulder and let me actually make you feel good?”

This was also a regular occurrence. If anybody’s reputation rivaled yours, it was definitely Lo’ak. He had run through just about every girl in the clan at least twice. As the Olo’eyktan’s son, he got away with it. People didn’t judge him the way they did you. It drove him crazy that you were the only girl he couldn’t smooth talk his way into her cloth and you enjoyed having that kind of power over him.

You playfully lean your face into his and glance down at his lips, “In your wet dreams, Lo’ak.” You make sure to say his name extra sensually just to fuck with him. He feigns a pained look on his face. As much as it drove him crazy that you wouldn’t fuck him, it also drove him crazy. He liked this little game you two played. It just made him want you more. He loved a challenge. The other girls that would willingly fall at his feet were no real fun for him. He used to love how easily girls would flock to him, but he grew bored of it.

“Come on, Ako, let’s go grab some meat before it’s all gone.” You use your tail to gently push Lo’ak off of you as you intertwine your arm with your best friend and walk away. Lo’ak can’t help but lick his lips at the way your hips sway from left to right when you walk. You may or may not have done that purposefully to tease him a little more.

Dinner carried on per usual. At one point, you did catch Tetxi glaring at you through the crowd. He was upset and that was understandable. He wanted something more with you; something emotional, but that wasn’t going to happen. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, he would make a good mate for anyone, just not you. He wasn’t your perfect fit. From the look on his face, you figure he wouldn’t want anything to do with you for a while, so you make a mental note to yourself to take him off the roster.

It wasn’t necessarily that you kept a steady rotation. More often than not, the guys would approach you first. It did make you feel just the tiniest bit guilty hurting his feelings, though. Oh well, that was neither here nor there at this point.

…

The next day, you offered to help Ako gather fruit in the forest.

“I just don’t get it. A lot of the guys you’ve been with weren’t even half as handsome as Lo’ak and he clearly likes you. So, you won’t fuck him because….?” Ako questions.

“Because…” you continue for her, “Lo’ak doesn’t like me; he barely knows me. He likes the idea of having me just like Tetxi, Rokew, Veki, Pxayul, and a ton of others. They all want to be ‘the one to change me’ and that’s not going to happen. Besides, there’s no way Lo’ak could handle me.”

“Wanna bet?” his voice chimes in through the bushes. He walks through the foliage to the clearing where you two were.

Here we go again. Ako smiles and raises her eyebrows at you, “I think I saw some yovo fruit over there that was ripe. I’m gonna go grab those.” She walks off to give you both some privacy. You silently curse her for leaving you alone with him.

“You spying on me now?” you shift your weight to one side and rest your basket on your hip.

“Not spying, just happened to be strolling by and heard you running that pretty little mouth of yours.” His smirk is smug as all hell. “I think it’s cute that you think I couldn’t keep up with you.”

“Sweetheart, I know you couldn’t and I don’t feel like making you fall in love with me.” you’re even more smug than he is.

He gets closer to you, “Care to test that theory out?” he walks in a slow circle around you eyeing your body up and down.

You don’t make any attempt to stop him. Let him see what he couldn’t have. “What exactly did you have in mind?” You couldn’t deny that your curiosity was piqued.

He comes back around to your front looking down at you cocking his head to the side. “It’s simple. We challenge each other to see who falls first. First one to cave has to admit defeat.”

Taking one step forward, your chest presses against his, “You’re on.”

He leans his lips down to your ear, “Oh, yawne, you have no fucking idea what you’re in for.” He presses a quick kiss to the shell of your ear. It makes your core tremble, but you knew better than to let that show, especially to Lo’ak. Your poker face was unbeatable. When he pulls back to look at your face, you hold a sly smirk on your face. “You’re gonna have to do better than that…” you reach around to stroke to base of his queue, “yawne.” You whisper the last word.

You could see the way his body reacted to your touch. His jaw clenched and he huffed out a big breath. You had this in the bag.

You push him back with your hand on his chest, “I had better get going. These fruits aren’t gonna harvest themselves.” He steps back still looking over your body flashing the tips of his canines when he smiles, “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Maybe.”

You set of into the same direction Ako went, fighting the urge to turn and look at Lo’ak’s face. You could practically feel the way his eyes bore into the back of your body, but you have to uphold your appearance of indifference. You can’t help the smile that creeps its way onto your face.

Ako notices the look on your face and is surprised to see a pleasant smile instead of your usual exasperation that you wore after an interaction with Lo’ak. “What is that face?”

“What face? There is no face. This is just my face.” You try to sound as aloof as you can.

“Mhmmm” she knew better than to believe you, but she also knew you’d tell her in due time.

You both continue to harvest until your baskets are full and it’s time to head back to Home Tree. You had some free time so you both decide to stick around and help prepare the food for dinner. Lo’ak is standing around talking with his brother and some of their friends. He looks over at you often. And when you would catch him looking, he would shoot you a wink and you’d shake your head to yourself turning your attention back to what you were working on. Ako catches these little interactions you two have and her eyebrows come together in confusion while she’s trying to put the pieces together.

“Okay, what the hell is going on? What happened in the forest?” she finally asks you straight out.

Ako was observant and you knew you wouldn’t be able to get something this big past her.

“Just a little wager that we have going on. He thinks that I’ll fall for him before he falls for me. But this is already a done deal as far as I’m concerned.”

She eyes you for a moment processing the new information. A smile breaks out on her face. “If you don’t think you’ll fall, then why does your tail keep swishing when he looks at you?”

You scoff, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, come on. I know you well enough to know that your tail only moves like that when you’re actually happy.”

Your ears flatten against your head suddenly acutely aware of your body movements, “Don’t you have more vegetables to chop?”

She raises her hands in mock surrender and goes back to what she was doing.

Once it’s time for dinner, you sit with Ako as usual and right on time, Lo’ak approaches you. “Mind if I join?” the question is for both of you, but his eyes are focused on you.

“We don’t mind” you give him a sickeningly sweet smile.

He situates himself right next to you, his knee just barely touching yours. The slight brush of his leg against yours wasn’t lost on you. He’s testing the waters, but it would take more than some fleeting touches to get your attention.

You grab a piece of meat and moan lightly when you place it in your mouth. “Mmh…it’s so good tonight.” You act like you’re casually talking to Ako, but Lo’ak’s eyes snap to your face at the noise you made. And he watches intently when you lick the flavor slowly from your fingers. This was too easy. It’s harder to stifle your own laugh than it is to get in his head.

Ako sits on the other side of you enjoying the little show you two are providing her with. She decides to help stir the pot a little.

“Hey Lo’ak, could you pass me that bowl next to you?” she gestures to a small bowl of fruit next to him. He grabs it and passes it to her behind you. His hand runs across the small of your back when he pulls his hand back and his touch leaves goosebumps on your skin in its wake. You shake the hair out of your face trying to fight back the shudder in your body. You see how Lo’ak smiles to himself next to you and you continue to eat your food trying to look unphased.

You both continue on like this for the rest of the dinner. When it’s time to return home, Lo’ak offers to walk you back and Ako nearly pushes you into his arms accepting the offer for you. You shoot daggers at her with your stare, but she just giggles back at you before walking off into the direction of her own home.

Walking back home with Lo’ak is full of a lot of silence, but it’s not an awkward silence. You wonder how long this little game of yours will carry on for. If you were being honest, you gave him maybe a week or two at most until he was completely head over heels for you. There was no way you were losing this. If for no other reason, you were one of the most stubborn people you knew. Once you set your mind on something, there’s no getting you out of it.

You come out of your thoughts just in time to realize that you’ve reached your home. Lo’ak turns to face you and dramatically gestures to your tent, “We have arrived.”

“Oh, why thank you, sir” you say equally as dramatic making you both laugh.

You start to walk towards the opening, when he speaks again.

“Do I get a reward for getting you home safe? I mean I protected you from tripping on all those loose branches and everything.” He teases.

You roll your eyes playfully and slowly walk up to him. “Oh, I’m just so grateful,” You coo. You rest your hand on his chest and lift yourself up on your toes to just barely brush your lips against his. “I could show you just how grateful I am,” your hand glides down his body to rest at the waistband of his loincloth. You can feel how his breath fans your face just a little faster. A smile pulls on your lips. “Good night, Lo’ak.”

You fall back onto your heels and walk into your tent. Lo’ak stands stunned outside your tent for a little longer than a moment.

It’s now that Lo’ak realizes that he’s really going to have to step it up to get to you. He needs to get creative if he’s going to make any kind of progress. That’s something that he can worry about later, though. Right now, he needs to get back home and take care of his growing bulge while your voice and touch is still fresh in his mind.

[cultherent]

An Accidental Email [Ch.3]

𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

TW: a little bit of smut, alcohol

Chapter 3

Thursday:

“Y/N, today I need the finalized video of the commercial. It needs to be uploaded tomorrow morning. If you two need to stay after work, file the correct paperwork for overtime.” You nodded at your boss with determination. “Please send me your final draft. I’ll leave edits, then after you revise, that should be all.” You left your boss’s room, making a B-line to Katsuki.

“Okay, I just met with Aizawa. He said when we have our final draft to send it over to him.” 

“Alright. I’m almost done with the editing. I’ll send my part over for you to stitch it together.”

“Perfect.”

“The commercial is looking good, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

. . .

“Fuck me,” you groaned, your head in your hands. You had only one strand left of living. Your boss had so many revisions, it crushed both of your spirits. So much to the point that you basically had to refilm a whole new commercial. It was around 7 at night, your job had ended several hours ago and everyone was gone. 

Hearing a bang from the desk beside you, you saw how irritated Bakugo was. With a reassuring glance, “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We’ll get this done.” He glared at you, not saying a word but instead clicking furiously with his mouse. You chuckled which caused him to stop and look at you again. 

“Let’s take a break.”

With his lips scrunched to the side, “That’s probably a good idea.”

You guys ordered some fast food for pick up then went to put on your coats. “You dropped your scarf,” Bakugo stated, staring at the floor. 

“Thank you for the informative comment. Are you gonna pick it up?” His nose flared and he just stared at you. “You’re literally closer to it,” the corner of your lips extended as far as they could go. “Seriously?” Bakugo grinned and started to turn around. “Bakugo, hand me my scarf.”

“No.”

“I said hand it to me.”

“I have better things to do like pick up my food.”

“My?” In an instant, you picked up your scarf and wrapped it around his body, pulling him into you. His back laid on your chest and your lips met his ear, “So, you're just being outright rude, huh?” Bakugo’s breath hitched when he realized the predicament he was in. “Y’know what happens when you aren’t nice to me, you’re punished.”

“You wouldn’t,” Katsuki challenged as he turned his head to face you.

Your hand curled around him and you placed your hand on his neck. “I wouldn’t?” You whispered. You quickly tied his wrists together with your scarf before pushing him onto the ground, he sat at your feet. He looked up at you, a mixture of irritation and lust flowed around his irises. 

You bit down on your lip, he looked hot sitting below you. You bent down slightly and grabbed his hair at the base of his scalp. Yanking it slightly, he let out a moan. Smirking to the sound, you stood straight and slipped your shoe off. You pressed on Bakugo’s cock, a little surprised he was already hard.

You chuckled, “Really?” You grabbed onto him, causing him to fold over a bit. Moving his coat off, you flicked his nipples with your toes; he shivered. You caressed any part of his body that made him react. “No way, you’re extremely sensitive.”

Bakugo groaned, not really wanting you to know about that. You unzipped his pants, revealing an aggressive tent in his boxer briefs. Your foot lazily caressed his clothed cock. You took this time to take your chair and sit down, grinning at the comfort of the cushion. You fastened your pace and it seemed like he was getting to a point of climax. “Are you going to cum already?” You grabbed his hair, pulling him closer to you as he spat out nasty profanities from your stopping motions. 

“Just keep fucking going, cunt.” 

“Sorry, forgot who was taking orders,” you crouched down, pumping him with your hands. Feeling how fast you were going, he was going to bust in under a minute. You watched as his legs clenched and his eyes rolled back, but you stopped and placed your finger over his hole. He yanked himself from almost falling back and stared in disbelief. “This is a punishment, what did you think was gonna happen? And the fact you still bad-mouthed me. You should know who you’re speaking to.”

Walking behind him and picking up his coat, you throw it onto his head. “Let’s go, the food is almost ready.” Bakugo choked back words as he looked at you. “Now, I would've said the food is cold, but you were about to cum in 3 minutes.” You smirked, knowing you were able to take a jab at him. Walking closer to the door, “Chop, chop. I’m hungry and we have work to do.”

. . .

Friday:

“Did you hear about the company party going on tonight?” You looked up from your monitor, Todoroki beaming. You raised an eyebrow causing him to continue. “Aizawa has paid for us to go to a bar not too far from here as a reward for our hard work.”

You nodded with a smile, “So he’s paying for the drinks?” With a nod, your smile turned into a devilish grin which caused a confused look on Shoto. 

“Also, what did Aizawa say about the video?”

With a sigh, “After redoing it, he liked it.”

“Don’t tell me you guys were here all night.” You nodded in defeat. “Well, this night goes out to you and Katsuki.”

. . .

“MORE SHOTS!!!” One of your coworkers screamed as others drank their drinks in one sip. You chuckled as you danced, the background music making you sway. Before coming to the bar, you went home to change, and you wore a tight-fitting dress that showed off your best assets. You did your hair and makeup and took photos outside with the other ladies you worked with.

“Let’s fucking send it!” Katsuki downed a purple vodka shot, his head shaking from the burning of his throat. He wore a loose button-up, his cardigan discarded beside him. He glanced at you, smirking.

You rolled your eyes, your attention focusing on Shoto who approached you. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel amazing, honestly. I needed this after last night.”

“I’m glad,” he smiled. “I didn’t say, but you look lovely today.”

Your cheeks heated, “Thank you, Shoto. You look great as well. I love the design on your shirt.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey Y/N, come here,” Bakugo stared at you, his eyelids heavy, he looked tipsy. 

“In a minute, I’m talking with Todoroki.” He glared at you and sat on the barstool right next to you. He pouted to himself, sighing loud enough that you could hear him over the music as you tried your best to continue your conversation. “Give me a second,” your eyes apologized and your coworker understood. “What is it?”

Katsuki looked at you and grinned, walking away from you to do God knows what. Your eyebrows scrunched, your palms flipping to the air to your confusion. As you turned around, Shoto was gone, talking to someone else. You groaned as you sat alone at the bar.

. . .

“Woah there, I think you’ve had too much to drink,” a male coworker held Bakugo up by his shoulders. Bakugo slurred his words as he held a cup in his hand. Frowning, you walked over, changing his alcoholic drink for water. Sitting him down, you grabbed a water as well, “I bet you can’t chug this concoction.”

His eyebrow raised, “You’re going down.” He drank the whole cup, cheering to himself that he won. You chuckled to yourself as you motioned him to get up. When he did, his knees gave way. You held him up with all your might, not wanting him to fall. “I’m gonna take him home!” You told your coworkers.

“Do you need help, he’s pretty heavy.”

“No, don’t worry. I got him.” You were pretty strong, you had to be. Sometimes you have to carry heavy equipment around for work, you can’t just simply say you can’t do it. “I’ll order a taxi.” Bakugo stood on his own, but he rested his head on your shoulder. “Can you give me your address Katsu?”

“I like when you call me that,” he nuzzled further into your shoulder, his smile forming from ear to ear. “It’s way better than Cocksuki. That one is mean. But, I do like it sometimes…” You felt something press against your side, and your eyes immediately darted to him as he started moving it against you.

Moving him off you softly, “Bakugo, address.”

“Can we go to yours?”

“No, give me your address, that’s an order.” He stayed silent, pretending he was asleep. “You’re lucky you're drunk.” You put in your address on your phone, the taxi came shortly.

Verifying it was your taxi beforehand, you helped Bakugo in then you went in yourself. You listened to the sound of the car driving as Katsuki’s head fell softly onto your shoulder. You looked over to see his eyes shut, his chest moving up and down. He snored quietly. 

“Right here is perfect. Come on Bakugo, we’re here.” You helped him into your apartment and plopped him onto your couch. “Wait right here.” You went to grab him some blankets and pillows, but when you arrived you found him on the floor. Placing the things on the couch, you moved towards him, “Are you alright?”

Katsuki crawled to your leg and looked up at you, his eyes bright and puppy-like. His cheek pressed against the side of your calf, “I want to be yours. Do whatever you want to me.”

“Bakugo-” you blurted, shocked by his words. You thought to yourself that he was only like this because he was drunk, so you motioned for him to get on the couch. He clung onto your leg, not letting up. “Katsu, you're drunk. You're not talking right, you need to rest.” His head went between your dress as he kissed your thigh, “Hey!”

“Call me that again, I love it,” he purred, his hands slowly moving up your legs. Pulling back, Katsuki fell onto his hands. 

He looked up once more, “I could be your pet.” Your mind raced, you were extremely overwhelmed by everything going on. He crawled over to you on all fours, “Let me please you. Let me serve you.” Your hands covered your eyes, you couldn’t take any of this anymore. 

It wasn’t right to do anything he said without his consent. Funny how you thought this, look at your situationship. You’re blackmailing him into sexual punishments which were for your own satisfaction, yet this was your line breaker. 

“I’m sorry, Bakugo. I can’t do this. You’re drunk.” The man pouted as he sat up on his legs. 

“I’m not even drunk, just a bit tipsy.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Have a good night, Katsu.”

[slutforsnow]

U.A. High's Reaper

Chapter 1

Word Counr: 1.5k

Only… Koton forgot her headphones in the classroom. She had begun to search for them in her backpack on the way to get food and find a quiet place to sit and plan, only to discover she left them on her desk. Groaning, she made a U-Turn making her way to 1-A once more but was greeted by a large group of students in the way of her getting to the classroom.

“"Per deos immortales, me interficere." ["By the immortales, I'm going to kill myself.”] Koton sighed, fading into the shadows and reappearing beside Midoriya.

“...-know what a future pro looks like; now move it, extras,” a certain blonde voice chided, sounding irritated. Peeking over as she grabbed her headphones, she noticed it was the spiky haired douchebag that snickered when Midoriya got a question wrong whereas he would get it right. What was his name again? Oh, right, Bakugo. Blasty, she'd refer to him based on his hair and seemingly explosive nature whenever the greenette spoke.

“Tch,” She scoffed, shaking her head in disapproval at Blasty's bold sentiment. Him, a future pro? What a laugh, if anything, Koton was the better future pro and HE was the extra.

“Hah-? Ya got somethin’ to say, Death?” Blasty demanded, glaring towards her.

“Just that you're a moron, but you're making that pretty obvious already,” She replied with a snicker which only pissed him off.

“DO YOU WANNA DIE-?!”

“So this is Class 1-A… I came by to see you guys and what you're made of .. but you just sound like an ass,” a new voice chimed in, making his way to the front as Blasty and Koton turned to face this new unimportant person. “Are all hero course students arrogant?”

“I dunno, are all morons like you this stupid?” Koton sassed back, arms crossing, headphones tight in hand as the newcomer scoffed and threw his gaze towards her.

“Hm.. you all are definitely egotistical. Don't get cocky though.. I, much like many others, applied for the Hero Course but unfortunately we were forced to choose another track. This Sports Festival will also see who's really fit for the Hero course and many of us might transfer in.. and to make room, they'll transfer you out,” The purple haired boy informed, frowning.

“Tch, like they'll transfer me out,” Koton snarled with an eye roll. “Be prepared to put your money where your mouth is and lose, cacas labe. That goes for you as well, Blasty.” [cacas labe = shit stain]

Koton shoved her way through the crowd, headphones on and cutting out the sound of another guy, yelling about he was going to come for her and Bakugou. How childish. Disgraceful.

—————————————————

As the two weeks of intense training went by, Class A was pumped up with excitement as well as dread for the festival. Dread for some students because they were nervous about not standing out, like Kirishima with his Hardening, as if you didn't stand out, the less offers you would get from Pro Heroes.

However, Koton's mind was elsewhere during the training. Koton would sneak away to train in the dark, her mind reeling with ideas on essays and drafts for how to change the Sports Festival for it to be a Pro-Hero only event, often pausing her training to jot down an idea she was particularly fond of. Seriously, U.A. was supposed to be a prestigious hero academy yet the Sports Festival was a huge way for villains to attack the students.

For her actual training, she would wander further from Tokoyami and Dark Shadow. They wouldn't find out how strong her Quirk was yet. No. That way it would catch her classmates off guard and they'd be frozen, unsure of what to do… Well, mostly. Shoji, being extremely suitable for spying, had picked up on Koton's

training sometimes without her knowledge, so Koton had to make sure to take him out one way or another when the time came.

She would not be undermined. No way, not in a million immortal lives would THE Koton be undermined and do the worst thing after death; lose. Ugh, the thought of failure made her sick to her stomach. There was no way she'd embarrass the man who raised her.

Shaking her head, she stopped walking, allowing her classmates to walk ahead to the waiting room. Pressing the palm of her hand to her forehead, she made a small grunt until the nausea faded. Of all times to almost make herself sick, why did it have to be now?

“You're going to make yourself sick doing that, kid,” a much deeper voice chided, shaking his head. Koton looked up, a small smirk growing on her face.

“Nick,” She greeted with a nod and the older man nodded in confirmation.

“Do me proud, mutum asinum [dumb ass],” He told her, digging his knuckles into her skull as she snickered. “I got permission to come out and see ya. Same with Will.”

“Yeah, yeah, don't worry Nicky-boy, I'll be fine and make our home proud,” Koton remarked, playfully pushing the elder's hand away. Nick only chuckled, putting his hand in the pocket of his long black trench coat.

Nick was 5 years older than Koton, standing at 5'10” with a chubby build as well as a baby face that made people believe he wasn't 21. He had shoulder-length faded purple hair, pulled back into half-tail, curved with American 1980s bangs. His eyes were as dark as obsidian, his skin olive toned. If not for his scars of battle, Nick would have considered himself to be attractive. Alas, he did not.

“You better or I'm banning a certain musical from the house,” He teased, chuckling. “Now go, I love you, kiddo.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Bye, Nick. Love you too.” She waved him off, turning and walking to Waiting Room #1. Nick chuckled to himself and faded into the shadows, reappearing beside his husband in the crowd, who greeted his love with a kiss to cheek.

In the waiting room, Koton wasn't acknowledged for her late arrival and sat at one of the tables, thinking. Midnight hadn't given more specifics on this damned Festival, only that she'd be the First Years referee, whatever the hell that meant. She closed her eyes, sighing in silence.

This was it. No more hiding her ‘Quirk’. They'd see the real deal… Well, mostly depending on how strong her opponents were. She'd only give them the strength they'd give her. She planned to toy with them. Humiliate them… especially that fuckass blonde. His loud mouth, his cockiness, his arrogance… There was only room in the class for one person with all of that and it'd be her. She'd knock him down a peg… or six. He needed it. Badly.

A small smirk etched its way onto her face at the idea of knocking Blasty down a peg or two. His anger reminded her of a chihuahua or a pomeranian, so knocking his ego down was going to be fun. She'd kill his cocky persona violently and without remorse. Make him see who the real future number one pro would be. He'd be in the 20th or 30th rankings with his rank personality.

A bit later, Iida left and returned, announcing to the class that they had to get their game faces on and that they'd be leaving for the arena soon. Not long after, Todoroki made his way to Midoriya.

“Oh, hey Todoroki,” Midoriya greeted, looking surprised to see him. At the sound of Midoriya's voice, Koton opened her eyes, glaring towards the two boys.

“Midoriya…it's no secret that I'm stronger than you and knowing that you have All Might in your corner, I still plan to beat you,” The cold-spoken male declared, pulling a startled gasp from Midoriya. All Might in Midoriya's corner, huh? She'd investigate that.

“What's with all these declarations of war lately…” Kamniari asked, leaning back in his chair to face the two with a nervous laugh as Kirishima got up walking towards Todoroki, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey man, what's the deal, why are you pickin’ a fight all of a sudden-?” He questioned.

Todoroki pushed Kirishima's hand off of him. “We're not here to be each other's friends.” At least one of these dumbasses had a brain.

“Todoroki.. it's no secret I'm not as strong as you, probably none of us are compared to you and your power,” Midoriya began.

“Whoa, easy, man i think youre being a little hard on yourself- and us,” Kirishima interjected but Midoriya kept going.

“I'll probably not make it past the first round… but just know I'll be aiming for the top too,” He finished, meeting Todoroki’s fierce gaze. The waiting room was filled with a tense silence and Koton couldn't help but revel in it. Oh, this was too good. She'd show them all that she was the best. These pathetic lovers, children of heroes, and rich bitches, and nepo babies would be proved that family lineage isn't everything. She was getting riled up at the idea of destroying them. Gods, this would be good.

Ding!

“Let's go, Class A!” Iida announced, breaking the tension in the air, leading the class out to the arena.

Go time.

[the-hinky-panda]

June Bug Series: Chapter 1

Title: June Bug

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Goodie Carangi x OFC!Reader (June)

Summary: You're a business owner that's trying to fly under the radar in Tulsa but that's going to be extremely difficult when you fall for Goodie.

You’re stuck in a rut. A boring, dull, exasperating rut. It’s your third time in the same week coming out to the barn to spend time grooming your ten year old mare, Ruby. It was something you did whenever you needed to get out from behind your desk, out of the four walls of your home. You’re usually not this frequent a visitor to Fennario Ranch and your presence has finally piqued your friend’s interest. 

“If you keep showing up to groom that horse, you’re going to brush her until she’s bald.” 

You stop mid stroke and run a hand over the horse’s coat. “That can happen?” 

Margaret chuckles. “God, no. It was a joke.” 

“Oh.” You go back to brushing Ruby’s flank. “That wasn’t funny.” 

“It was a little funny.” Margaret sits on a tack trunk. “I’m not used to seeing you out here so much in one week. You’re getting dangerously close to running into Cal at some point.” 

“I’m not too worried. Your staff always gives me a heads up when he pulls in.” 

“So you can go hide?” 

“So I can avoid confrontation.” 

“Considering how often you’ve been here this week, maybe some confrontation would be good for you.” 

You flash her a grin over Ruby’s withers. “You just want me to run him off because he’s bugging you now. Wait, aren’t you seeing someone? That guy from New York?” 

Margaret gives you a side eye. “Define ‘seeing.’” 

“Call it whatever you want. He can do your dirty work for you. In fact, I wouldn’t mind seeing Cal have his ass handed to him by some mobster from New York City.” 

“Then maybe you should make friends with him.” 

“What? And have him find out about our little business venture? If he’s really affiliated with the mob then we’ll have to pay a kick-up to him. I already brokered a zero kick-up fee to Kansas City. I don’t want to have to sweet talk my way out of another situation like that.” 

“Alright,” Margaret sips her coffee. “Don’t make friends with him but he does have a guy that works the casino floor that’s from New York as well. He’s your type too.” 

“My type,” you scoff. “And what exactly is that?” 

“Clean cut, good shape, dresses impeccably. He seems personable.” 

Okay, that is your type but you’re going to be damned to let Margaret know she hit the nail on the head. “Sounds boring.” 

Margaret sighs in exasperation. “God, June, come on. You need to get out and have some fun. Loosen the fuck up for a change.” 

You drop the brush back into the tack box and pick up a carrot, snapping it in half before giving it to Ruby. “I’ve been researching through the latest group of men and-” 

Margaret interrupts. “No. No work. Go by yourself. Do something wild and pick someone up.” 

“Oh yeah, a one night stand will solve everything.” 

“Maybe not everything but it’ll take the edge off. You know, let him do all the work for a change.” 

You nod in resignation at your friend and business partner. “Alright. Fine. What’s this guy’s name?” 

Margaret smiles at you. “Ask him yourself.” 

And that is how you end up spending the entire evening at the newly opened Bred 2 Buck Casino and Cabaret. The name kept popping up in your research as an upcoming hot spot in Tulsa and it was also the only place you were guaranteed to not run into your ex-husband. So you pulled out one of your many little black dresses, slipped into a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps and headed to Tulsa’s newest casino.

Some people go to museums to analyze the art, you go to establishments such as this to analyze the patrons. And there were a wide range from out of state high rollers playing black jack and craps to locals who would play $20 on the slots and then go listen to the live music while they sip on mid-shelf whiskey. After making a couple passes through the casino floor and losing fifty bucks on a slot machine just to fit in with the locals, you settle near the end of the bar where you can still hear the house band but the bass doesn’t rattle your martini glass. You’re content to sit in peace but a whiff of expensive cologne alerts you to someone taking the seat next to yours. 

Here we go. 

***

Goodie noticed you the moment you stepped onto the casino floor. You’re dressed in an elegantly cut black dress and expensive heels, your hair is in a sweeping updo with small white flowers tucked into the dark waves. You move around the floor in measured, graceful steps. When you pass behind him at one of the craps tables, he catches the scent of jasmine and cedarwood. Your eyes meet his briefly as you move past the table and he realizes that noticed isn’t a strong enough word. 

Colpo di fulmine. The thunderbolt. 

Fifty-five years old and it happens precisely as his mother predicted it would. No warning, no prelude, nothing. He’s already taken half a step away from the craps table he’s been monitoring to follow you before he comes to his senses. He keeps one eye on the table and one on you as you drift between the gaming tables. You take a seat at one of the slot machines and it strikes him as odd. You don’t seem to be a slots gambler, not with your sense of high style and grace. 

By the time the wannabe oil baron craps out and the pit boss starts to reset the table, you’ve left the casino floor and his heart sinks. He takes a shot and scans the bar and cabaret area and sees you sitting at the bar. The relief he feels is ridiculous but then the nerves return as he approaches you. He can see the small frown, the subtle downturn of your mouth, as he takes the seat at the very end of the bar and the bartender slides him a vodka and lime. 

“You don’t strike me as a slot player.” 

Your eyes scan his face and the frown straightens. “And what kind of player do I strike you as?” 

God, you’re stunning. And that is the proper word because he’s struggling to find his words, his breath. He is properly stunned. But words are his speciality. “Poker.” 

“Poker? Really?” You raise a finely arched eyebrow. “How’s that?” 

“You look like a woman who likes the challenge of reading a room, reading a person.” 

“And you figured this out just by sitting down next to me at the bar?” 

“No, I figured it out by watching you scope out the casino floor. All the craps games were too hot at the moment for you to jump in. Blackjack’s too simple to engage you. Roulette, same. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why in the world you played the slot machine.” 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who enjoys watching people.” You finally give him a smile and his heart nearly stops. “As for the slot machine, what can I say? I was in the mood for something different tonight. New experience, so to speak.” 

“I get that,” he laughs. “If you can’t tell, I’m not exactly from around here.” 

“No kidding.” There’s a mischievous glint to your eye. “Let me guess, Jersey?” 

He puts a hand to his heart. “Ouch. You wound me.” 

That earns him a soft laugh from you as you pick up the speared olives from your martini. “My apologies. I may have never been to the east coast but a New York accent is very hard to mistake, especially here in Tulsa. But there seems to be an odd influx of youse guys.” 

“That’s not too bad,” he teases. “For someone who’s never been, you’d blend right in.” 

“Well, what can I say,” you look him directly in the eyes, “I like mafia movies.” 

He understands exactly what you’re implying but he’s not sure how to take it. Is this simple flirting? Digging for information? Were you sent by someone? No, it was exceedingly rare that women were sent to deal with family business. But with Chickie’s unstableness recently, he wouldn’t put anything past him. He chooses to proceed as if this were a regular conversation and see where it leads. “Oh yeah. What’s your favorite?” 

“I was an avid Sopranos fan. Never missed an episode.” 

Goodie scoffs. “Sopranos was shit.” 

You actually laugh. “You don't like it because it took place in Jersey.” 

“There was that.” He can feel his phone buzz in his pocket and he knows he has to get back to the casino floor. You notice the dull sound and motion to his suit jacket pocket. 

“It sounds like duty calls and I don’t know your name.” 

He takes out a business card and writes his name and number on the back of it. “To be fair, I don’t know yours either.” 

You take the offered card and narrow your eyes. “Goodie?” 

“It’s a nickname,” he shrugs. “My real name’s Dennis but no one calls me that.” 

That answer satisfies you enough that you return the information. June. Simple, elegant. It fits you. He puts your drink on his tab and heads back to the casino floor. Someone hit big at the blackjack table and needed to cash out their eight thousand dollar winnings. It was a young guy partying with his groomsmen before getting married the next morning. By the time he had handed over the money and saw the very happy groom-to-be out the door, you had already left the premises. Just as he was wondering if you would ever use his number, his phone buzzes again. Pulling it out and wondering what the issue is now, he sees it’s from you. 

The next free night you have, let’s do dinner.  -June

***

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