#i’ve been curating a life i’m in love with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

p0orbaby · 4 months ago

Text

A Tide of Tender Mercies

summary: oh, no, i think i’m in love with you

warning: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (alexia receiving), some angst, reader being stubborn af

a/n: thank you to @muffinpink02 for helping navigate the sexy part ! also i’ve deffo repeated some bits but i cannot for the life of me be bothered to sort it out

word count: 7k

part 1

The chalet is…well, perfect. It’s the kind of perfect that only comes from meticulous planning, obsessive list-making, and a kind of restrained indulgence that most people would never understand. Set high above a tiny Swiss village known for its fondue and twenty-something millionaires, it sits against a backdrop of mountains sharp enough to slice the clouds. The exterior is severe, almost aggressively minimalistic: crisp white stucco, blackened wood shutters, and glass doors that could double as showroom installations. The effect is daunting, beautiful, and—if you’re being honest—a bit over-the-top. You chose it, naturally, because it’s the type of place where “just a fling” can occur without a single hint of domesticity.

Inside, everything is pristine, hand-selected, curated to within an inch of its life. You were adamant that the linens be Egyptian cotton, but not the gaudy kind; they’re 800-thread count, light enough to seem insubstantial but woven to feel solid, unyielding. They’re arranged in clinical folds on the bed, starched and pressed in a way that suggests they’re almost afraid to be touched. You’ll mess them up later, but for now, they’re an artwork of restraint.

And then there are the wines, selected with the sort of care that would make a sommelier weep. It’s silly, of course—Alexia doesn’t normally drink during the season, so she will hardly glance at the labels, but you’ve assembled an array that hints at depth nonetheless. An entire wall of Swiss Chasselas, a few rare vintages from Bordeaux, and an stupidly expensive pinot noir that tastes like dirt but cost enough to suggest you know what you’re doing. The idea is that if she gives in to something sophisticated, she’ll find it here. If she doesn’t, you’ll find her something else. Something that says you’ve thought of everything. Which, of course, you have.

The whole thing has a sort of perverse charm, really, how every detail has been obsessively pre-arranged to ensure that she knows you’re not in this for anything serious. And yet, here you are, flying her across Europe to the kind of setting people book for anniversaries and life-altering proposals.

There’s a sort of humour in it, if you’re willing to look. You even laugh to yourself, laying out the spa towels in the bathroom—too thick, too plush, a little too “I love you”—knowing full well she won’t notice them. She’ll think of them as “towels,” and if she does notice, it’ll be because she needs a new one. But that’s fine. It’s all part of the performance, all part of the thing you’ve constructed around this chalet, around her arrival, around the notion that this is—what? Casual? Fun? Whatever word fits it neatly enough to deny what you’re feeling.

And then there are the candles. Oh, God, the candles. You tried to keep them simple, restrained, the kind of scents that evoke a distant memory rather than a specific moment. Sandalwood, bergamot, a flicker of pine; nothing too floral, nothing that says “romance,” but hints of something just familiar enough to feel safe. You even toyed with the idea of an unscented option, just in case the pine felt too… suggestive. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve learned to lean into it, to control it, to package it neatly. If it’s planned, then it’s deliberate, and if it’s deliberate, then it’s just for fun.

“Why all this?” you imagine her saying, eyebrows raised, maybe laughing as she notices the excessive stock of Swiss chocolates in the cabinet. You have them lined up in neat rows, the artisan kind—no corner-shop Toblerone here—and each one is individually wrapped in foil that gleams in the dim kitchen light. You picture her rolling her eyes at the small mountain of truffle boxes, asking if you’ve stocked up for a wedding. And you, of course, would shrug it off, offering some deadpan line about Swiss tourism. Or a joke about Swiss efficiency. Or something suitably bland that keeps the tone right where you want it—on the edge of humour, a step away from real. You’ve prepared for every reaction, really. Which is pointless, because she hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s the first time she’s been here. The place is new, purchased after a very well-timed therapy session that conveniently rebranded “self-indulgence” as “self-care.” The therapist’s exact words were “If you want to be your best self, find the spaces that let you breathe.” And you took that literally, flying up here for private viewings until this place caught your eye. Well, maybe not your eye. But it was one of those rare places that looked exactly like the pictures, maybe better, and it had the kind of aesthetic that screams “I need nothing from you” while begging for a sense of purpose. You bought it almost instantly.

And now, after weeks of fine-tuning, she’ll be here soon. You catch yourself arranging the books on the side table, pausing over which titles to leave out—a mix of philosophy and modern fiction that says “I read but don’t take it too seriously.” You laugh to yourself at the pretension of it, yet you leave the carefully selected titles exactly as they are.

It’s silly, really, because the goal here is detachment, the freedom to keep things light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that as you straighten the pillows on the sofa for the second time, catching your own eye in the polished mirror that hangs in the foyer.

“You’re being weird,” you say out loud, imagining her walking in, that quick smile flashing, eyebrows raised in a way that says, “Is this all for me?” You picture her laughing, maybe rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. But you have an answer for that too, prepared in advance, a casual shrug.

“Just a little atmosphere,” you’ll say, as if it’s nothing.

You check your watch. Thirty-two minutes until Alexia arrives. Thirty-two minutes to double-check that every single minutely considered, utterly detached detail says, I couldn’t care less—or, more precisely, I care in exactly the right amount of less. Because she needs to know that this is nothing. That this trip to an over-the-top chalet overlooking a town mostly inhabited by 19-year-olds in cashmere is simply an exercise in relaxation, togetherness, a concept you’re fairly sure you’re allergic to.

She doesn’t know it yet, but you bought the place partly to show her. Partly to remind her, subtly, that she could disappear tomorrow and you’d still have this. Because that’s the problem with Alexia, isn’t it? She’s not really yours. She’s something you can enjoy, display even, but never own. The complete opposite of the real estate you’ve added to your collection. You stand there, glass in hand, the Lagavulin you’ve graciously poured yourself warming your fingers through the crystal, staring out at the Alps with the vague thought that an obscene number of people have had their ashes scattered here, somewhere along this ridgeline. It’s an unsettling idea you rather enjoy.

She texts, something about a delay on the tarmac, and you stare at the message for a beat too long, analysing the exact wording like you’re looking for hidden subtext. As if there could be subtext in the word “delayed.”

A casual fling, you remind yourself, should never be complicated by subtext.

To pass the time, you scan the kitchen once again. The coffee is fresh-ground, of course, from a bag that cost as much as an entire year’s supply from anywhere normal. It’s pre-portioned in tiny glass canisters your assistant found online that look like vintage apothecary jars. The labels are printed in Helvetica Neue because you once read that it’s a ‘subtly superior’ font. Ridiculous. But also, it’s perfect. There’s also a miniature mountain of imported Spanish oranges on the counter, carefully arranged in a hammered copper bowl you don’t remember buying. You could make mimosas, you think, if you didn’t know she’ll insist on starting with a protein shake instead.

You put a bottle of Alpine mineral water in the fridge just for her, chilled to the exact 4.4°C she prefers. Yes, it’s an oddly specific temperature preference. No, she didn’t tell you directly. You overheard her mention it once, offhand, to someone else. Which is exactly why you’re bound to a polite indifference if she asks why it’s there. It’s simply what the fridge was set to. Nothing personal.

Just the thought of her walking in has you adjusting your posture as if she’s already watching. Alexia doesn’t miss a single detail. Once, she commented on the way you have a tendency to pull your sleeves over your hands. You haven’t done it since. Now, you check that every piece of clothing you’ve chosen is deliberately, carelessly oversized—but only to the point that still reads as flattering.

Then, at last, you hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. You scurry to watch from the window as she steps out of the car you sent, and she’s immediately caught in that glacial alpine light, her features so stark and defined that it’s almost cinematic. There’s a sharp thrill—one you won’t admit to yourself—in seeing her here, framed against this scene like she’s the final piece in some high-budget film. The coat she’s wearing is slightly too large, lending her a relaxed, indifferent air, as if she’d picked up the first thing she saw on her way out the door. Effortless, in that way that would feel studied on anyone else.

You stand back from the window just before she glances up, retreating into the comfort of shadows. Timing is everything. You’ve thought this through, down to each calculated second. It’s critical, after all, that she finds you not watching, but instead lingering at a perfect remove, preferably with a slight air of distraction. You’re aiming for a kind of aloofness, as if her arrival is the least interesting event of the day.

She’s about to ring the bell when you move, deliberately slow, to the door, letting it swing open just as she raises her hand. There’s a brief, barely perceptible pause as her eyes meet yours, a spark of something unspoken passing between you both before she raises an eyebrow, a look that hovers between amusement and challenge.

“Missed me?” she asks, dryly, though there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. She’s close now, close enough that you can catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, something dark and woody and just the right side of familiar.

You tilt your head, giving her a slow once-over, and shrug. “Not especially,” you say, voice low, careful to keep the tone perfectly flat. But you let your gaze linger just a second too long on her collarbone, barely visible where her coat has slipped slightly, enough to make her catch it, her mouth curling up at the edge. It’s a deliberate game, one you’ve both played a hundred times, each move rehearsed, practised to the point of art.

She’s barely through the door when you feel it—that unmistakable tension, thickening the air between you. It’s almost tangible, a static hum just beneath the surface of polite conversation, something that pulls at you like gravity. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something you’re not quite willing to name, because if you wait too long, the feeling will settle into something more familiar. Something too close to comfort, which is the last thing you want.

She doesn’t seem to notice it, of course, her mind likely on dinner plans or the slow crawl of the evening. You, however, are already teetering at the edge of patience, every nerve just slightly too aware of her. She walks in, drops her bag by the door with a casual grace that feels almost too natural, like she’s done this a hundred times, like she could do this forever if you asked her to. And you wonder if you’d even want that—something so predictably domestic, the quiet comfort of a routine. No. You want her in ways that defy that kind of simplicity, in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

You watch her from the corner of your eye as she takes in the room. Her eyes linger on the minimal, curated details you agonised over: the leather-bound books you never plan to read, the art on the walls meant to suggest a taste for something more sophisticated than it is. She’s oblivious, seemingly caught up in the novelty of the place, and that’s exactly what you intended. She can’t know how meticulously you set the scene, how every pillow and chair is positioned with an almost obsessive precision. All she has to do is be here. You’ll take care of the rest.

There’s a slow, unhurried quality to her movements, an ease that��s infuriating because it’s so at odds with the pulse of urgency rising in you. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel with a soft, idle curiosity. Her fingers trace over the edge of a photograph you don’t remember putting there, something abstract and distant, chosen for the way it says absolutely nothing about you. It’s maddening, really, the way she lingers in the space, claiming it without meaning to, as if her very presence could overwrite the hours you spent constructing it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she says, her voice light, unaware of the way it cuts through the silence with a sharpness that’s almost physical. There’s a half-smile on her face, something unreadable that you can’t quite shake off.

You shrug, adopting an air of disinterest you’ve perfected over the years. “Thought you’d appreciate the change of scenery”

She raises an eyebrow, still oblivious, her focus now on the bust of Venus of Arles by the window. For a second, you want to laugh at the madness of it, how she’s here, right in front of you, while you’re clawing at the edges of your own restraint.

But she’s still gazing around, her fingers brushing the edge of a table as if she has all the time in the world. As if she doesn’t know what you’re holding back. You take a slow breath, exhale, feel the tension coil tighter inside, and think that if you let this linger for even another second, you’ll start to resent the calmness of it, the quiet rhythm that feels too much like waiting. Like settling into something you’re not prepared to face.

“Wine?” You ask in a futile attempt to keep things just this side of civilised. The offer hangs in the air, a thin layer of normalcy that feels like it could snap at any moment, but she only nods, glancing over with a slight smile, one corner of her mouth lifting in that way that’s halfway between polite interest and something more.

“Sure,” she says, her voice smooth, without a hint of awareness. “You pick”

You turn to the wine rack with an exaggerated casualness, scanning bottles you chose with this exact moment in mind. You could explain the notes of every vintage, how each one was picked not because it pairs with any particular food—because let’s face it, dinner’s not exactly on your mind—but because it suggests a kind of sophistication, a subtlety. You choose a bottle of red, something full-bodied and just slightly bitter, almost as if in silent commentary on the situation. You pour, slowly, setting the glass down in front of her with a kind of precision that’s both reverent and clinical. She reaches for it, her fingers grazing the stem, the gesture infuriatingly graceful.

The first sip seems to surprise her. “Good choice,” she murmurs, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the glass.

The silence stretches on just a moment too long, the air thick with something that isn’t quite tension, more like a coiled spring just waiting for one of you to press down. You feel it building as she shifts, glancing around the room, and suddenly, you realise she’s working up to something. There’s a certain deliberateness in the way she moves, a careful consideration in her stare, and you know—know—she didn’t come all this way just to admire the decor.

“Look,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, carrying a weight that tells you she’s not talking about the view. “I’ve been thinking—”

But you can’t—won’t—let her finish. Not when you know exactly what she’s about to say. You cut her off, leaning forward, your tone light, easy, deliberately dismissive. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to talk, Alexia”

She freezes, mid-sentence, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, a blend of surprise and—annoyance, maybe? But she masks it quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I thought you’d appreciate me being… honest,” she says slowly, as though testing the waters, watching you carefully.

“Honest? That’s what we’re calling it?” You let a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, a practiced expression, something designed to be just detached enough to hold everything at arm’s length. “Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your deflection, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Better than what? Talking?”

Talking. The word hangs in the air, innocent, innocuous, yet loaded in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to. You shift, taking another sip of wine, letting the liquid burn down, hoping it’ll smother the way her eyes feel like they're peeling away all your practiced layers. It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, but the feeling creeping in now is something else, something you’re not used to. It feels inconvenient. Like an itch you can’t reach.

You try to fire back, something witty, something cool, but the words catch in your throat, your mind scraping empty. It’s frustrating, the way she’s caught you off guard, how she’s unraveled your carefully crafted reserve without even trying. You reach for your glass again, swirling the wine, stalling for time, anything to avoid that knowing look in her eyes.

But then it dawns on you, like a spark catching flame—there’s still one thing left to do to regain control. Something you can do that would put you back in charge, bring this uncomfortable vulnerability back into something physical, where you excel. You set your glass down, slowly, purposefully, letting the silence stretch taut between you both.

She watches you with that smirk, that trace of challenge, as if daring you to break this moment of stillness.

“Come here,” you say, low and steady, injecting just enough command to leave no room for debate.

“No”

She says it so simply, so carelessly, that for a moment you’re almost convinced you misheard her. It’s infuriating, really, that one little word has the power to throw you so entirely. Your pulse stumbles, and you feel the ground slipping from under you, just enough to catch you off guard.

“Alexia.” You give her a look that’s intended to be definitive, final, but it lands with all the power of a weak threat. Her smirk widens into a full, infuriating smile, the one that says she’s entirely aware of the effect she’s having on you.

“Just hear me out,” she says, with a kind of softness that’s more unnerving than you’d like. “You’re doing that thing. The thing where you turn everything into—” She pauses, gesturing vaguely with her hand, searching for the right word, “—into some kind of performance”

It’s an odd, unnerving feeling, this loss of footing. Normally, you’d have a witty reply ready, something cutting or clever, but instead, you feel like she’s stripped you bare, left you standing there with nothing but honesty, and you hate it.

“So now you’re the expert?” you reply, finally finding your voice, though it sounds sharper than you meant. “Since when do you—”

“Since I started actually falling for you,” she says, cutting you off, her voice low but clear. It’s not even particularly dramatic, the way she says it, and somehow that’s worse. Like she’s not trying to turn it into anything, not expecting any kind of reaction—just stating it as a fact.

You feel a flush rise to your face, and you mask it with another sip of wine, a hasty attempt to cover up the sudden jolt in your chest. She waits, just watches you with that maddening calm, as if giving you all the time in the world to come up with some kind of response.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid and unfamiliar. You feel the urge to laugh, to make light of it, anything to disperse this feeling building between you, something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“You don’t have to make this into… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing between you. “Let’s not get sentimental”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms, looking impossibly patient. “I told you I’m just trying to be honest. I thought that was allowed”

“Honest,” you repeat, as though the word itself is foreign. And maybe it is. Honesty has never been the thing you reach for. Honesty is for people who can afford to look foolish, who don’t mind slipping, stumbling a little. Honesty is… unnecessary. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s got you so rattled now.

You set your glass down, more forcefully than intended, and close the distance between you with a deliberate slowness, a silence that says everything you aren’t willing to say out loud. She watches you, unmoving, waiting, that infuriating patience of hers still intact.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “If youre falling for me, fucking show me”

Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement mixed with something warmer, something that makes you feel like you’re the one being dissected here. It’s maddening, really, how effortlessly she manages to get under your skin, slip past all those careful layers. And yet you’re already reaching for her, pulling her closer, desperate to change the pace, to turn this moment into something you can control.

There’s a split second where neither of you move, holding the charged silence like it might be the only thread of control left. And then it snaps. You reach for her, not gently, fingers curling around her wrist with enough force that she has no choice but to be pulled in. Her smirk flickers, only slightly, and there’s something about the momentary surprise in her eyes that makes your grip tighten further, anchoring yourself as much as her. It’s a flash of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of bravado, one you’re keen to shatter.

You pull her toward you, and the air shifts, that faint hint of uncertainty cracking into something far messier. Your hand finds its way to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a kind of reckless precision, not even aware of how tightly you’re holding on. You don’t waste time; you’re not even sure there’s time to waste. And as soon as you lean in, catching her mouth with a kiss that’s anything but tentative, you feel her resistance melt, her lips parting under yours with a roughness that’s almost defiant.

She meets you with equal force, as if each clash of mouths, each bruising press of skin, is a way to gain back her own control, and you revel in it, the give-and-take that feels as calculated as it is chaotic. Your hand slips to her jaw, holding her there, your thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth with a kind of ferocity that toes the line between possessive and desperate. You know it’s not going to be gentle; there’s a part of you that doesn’t want it to be.

You’re moving backwards, feeling the edge of the marble island press into your spine, but it doesn’t matter. She’s everywhere, her hands gripping the fabric of your shirt, blunt nails scraping against your skin as if she’s staking a claim, as if she’s finally caught on to the pace you’ve been trying to set and decided to match it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Her words slip out like a slow, deliberate knife cutting through the air between you. The tone, sharp, unfamiliar, though has been the soundtrack to your late-night thoughts. It’s almost as if she knows, like she’s caught you in the act of something that’s always been just below the surface. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, eyes darting between your face and the space between you two, as if trying to read the faintest tremor in your expression. It’s always a game with her, always a step too far.

Yes.

“No,” you manage, your voice betraying you—cracked, thin, like a lie too rehearsed. The words come out wrong, but they come out anyway, forced through a tightening chest.

The moment stretches, each second fracturing, bending and folding into itself. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a shadow—everything slips just out of reach, and the harder you try to grasp it, the more it seems to twist away, leaving nothing but the sensation of your own breath hitching in your throat. You fucking hate this. You hate the way her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, as if trying to remind you of your place, of the expectations that have always followed you both like a silent, mocking echo.

No, you don’t hate her.

Fuck. You love her.

The thought is an ugly, dissonant thing, a weight that doesn’t settle easily, like a slow-moving tide pulling you under. The water’s cold. You can’t feel the bottom. You don’t know which way is up, and the only thing you do know is that, somewhere along the line, you’ve let yourself drown.

Your pulse is almost deafening in your ears, hammering in time with your desperate need for air. There’s something about the way she stands before you—still and deliberate, eyes trained on yours—that makes the room feel smaller, closer. You think you can hear her thoughts. Feel them. It’s maddening, how much she seems to know you, how she’s always known the way you bend. How much she’s learned to manipulate that bend, until you almost forget what it’s like to be anything but this: a response.

You swallow. The taste of her is lingering on your lips, sweet and bitter all at once, like a bad memory. How many times has this happened? You don’t know anymore. The last time feels as far away as the first time—when she leaned in, the weight of her body an invisible promise. But tonight, there’s something different. It’s in the way she watches you, cold, calculating, her fingers still gripping the edges of your shirt, the only real connection between you two in the moment.

She inhales slowly, the rhythm deliberate, like she’s listening to a song you can’t hear. The silence is suffocating.

“You’re lying,” she says, low and accusing, with just enough venom to make you flinch. There’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, something fleeting, something knowing. You want to reach out, to take her in your hands and pull her close, but the distance between you both feels like a universe. The space feels like a reflection of everything that’s wrong with you: the empty conversations, the meaningless gestures, the ache that’s always there, just beneath the skin. It’s maddening, this tension.

And yet…

You want her. Fuck, you need her. You don’t know if it’s because you love her or because she knows how to make you feel more alive than anything else. She’s become your addiction, your fire, the only thing you can’t quit.

Another shift in the air. Another breath from her, shallow and calculated. It’s not a question anymore, not a challenge—it’s an affirmation. She knows, and you know, too.

You close your eyes for a moment, just long enough to lose yourself in the fleeting memory of something that almost felt like peace. The sound of her voice, the taste of her, the way she touched you. It’s all a blur, a disjointed collection of moments tied together by one inescapable truth: you’ll never be able to walk away.

Not this time.

When your eyes open again, she’s still standing there, eyes not leaving yours, studying you. Everything feels slowed down, almost too slow. Like time is bending around her, twisting the seconds into something thick, sticky. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but it holds you in place, an anchor, a force. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, the dull tap of your own pulse in your ears.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You don’t need to.

Her fingers slide along your chest, trailing down in that same slow, infuriating pace, until they settle on the edge of your shirt again, the same place they started. She doesn’t look away, her lips curving upward in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s like she’s trying to decide whether you want to hurt her or fuck her. And the problem is, you’re not sure you can tell the difference anymore.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like that might keep you steady, like that might stop you from doing the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

Loving something. Someone. Loving Alexia.

“What are you so afraid of?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost gentle, and it’s the softness of it that makes you unravel completely.

You don’t think—you can’t. One second you’re standing there trying to convince yourself you still have your palms wrapped around this situation, and the next they’re on her, pulling her in with a force that’s almost cruel. Your mouth finds hers, hard and unrelenting, and she gasps into the kiss, her fingers clutching at your shirt, wrinkling the silk, as if you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

She tastes like spearmint gum and coffee. You imagine her shivering as she steps off the plane, teeth chattering in the wind, and too polite to mention it. But your driver notices, you pay him to notice, so before her luggage is out of the cargo, a café con leche is being pressed into her gloved hands.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. It’s a collision, hard and unrelenting, her mouth crashing into yours with a force that feels like defiance, like she’s daring you to stop pretending. To stop holding yourself together so tightly you’re liable to snap.

Your hands are already on her, pulling her close, so close it feels claustrophobic, but you can’t stop. You can’t make yourself pull away because then you’d have to look at her, really look at her, and confront the unbearable softness in her eyes. You’d have to hear her voice again, saying the one thing you’ve been trying to ignore since she first murmured it like a needle under your skin:

“What are you so afraid of?”

What you’re afraid of is this. Her. The way she’s stripped you bare with no effort at all, no grand gestures or declarations. She’s unravelling you with the weight of her presence, with the simple fact of her being, and you hate it almost as much as you crave it.

Your teeth scrape against her lower lip, harder than you mean to, and she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her nails dig into your shoulders, gripping onto you while you take your rightful place at the helm of this godforsaken dance.

And she’s letting you. Letting you press her against the edge of the table, her legs bumping into the thick, varnished oak. The table was handmade by some artisan you don’t remember the name of, its surface polished to a high gloss that reflects the warm light overhead. You’d spent weeks agonising over the purchase, debating wood grains and finishes with a level of scrutiny that felt absurd even at the time. It’s the kind of thing people like you do when they’re too scared to focus on what matters.

But now it’s just a table. A thing in the way, a thing that’s caught between you and her.

Her jeans catch on the wood as you push her back, and the sound is sharp, cutting through the fog in your head. You hesitate for half a second, your hands hovering at her hips, fingers brushing the cool metal of her belt buckle.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, her voice low and breathless. It’s not a reproach—it’s almost amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in your head, and it’s ridiculous to her that you’re trying to wrestle this into something it’s not.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you say, and it’s true. Or it’s a lie. You don’t know anymore, and you don’t care.

The belt comes undone with a soft clink, the leather sliding through the loops of her jeans in one smooth motion. You let it fall to the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile lost beneath the ragged breaths you’re both taking. Your hands are shaking slightly as you undo the button on her jeans, the metal cold against your fingertips.

She doesn’t help you. Doesn’t lift her hips, doesn’t make it easier. She just watches you, her gaze steady and unwavering, like she’s daring you to keep going.

And you do.

You yank the denim down her thighs, your movements jerky, almost frantic, and it’s not until the fabric crumples on the floor that you realise your hands are still trembling. She notices too, her lips twitching into that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, something that cuts right through you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and the words make something inside you snap.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one swift, unceremonious motion. The damp lace clings for a moment before it slides free, pooling at her knees before hitting the floor. You don’t stop to think. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the doubt that’s been clawing at you since this started.

Her scent hits you first, heady and intoxicating, and for a moment you freeze, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. But then she moves—just slightly, her hips tilting forward in an unspoken plea—and it’s all the permission you need.

You press your mouth to her, your tongue sliding through her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that pulls a broken sound from her throat. Her taste is sharp, almost sweet, and it floods your senses in a way that makes you dizzy. Her thighs close around your head instinctively, caging you in, and you let out a low, involuntary groan against her skin.

“Fuck—” Her voice is high and breathy, her fingers digging into your scalp now, hard enough to sting. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You don’t. You press deeper, your tongue finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circling it with a precision you didn’t know you had. She jerks against you, her body arching off the table, and you use the opportunity to slide your hands up her thighs, holding her steady.

The table creaks beneath her, the sound of the wood groaning under her weight mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth against her. It’s filthy and raw, every sense overwhelmed, and you’re not sure if you’re doing this to prove a point or because you can’t bear to stop. Maybe it’s both.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and you want to mark it, to leave evidence of this all over her skin, but you can’t pull away. Not when she’s gasping your name, her voice breaking like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.

You slide a finger into her, slow at first, just enough to make her hips stutter against your mouth. She’s tight, impossibly so, and you feel her clench around you as you add a second finger, curling them just right. Her moan is loud, sharp, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

“God, you—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, and it sends a twisted sense of satisfaction through you. You focus on her clit again, your tongue moving in quick, precise circles as your fingers work her open, the slick heat of her making it almost too easy.

Her legs tremble around you, and you can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. You don’t let up, don’t give her a second to recover, pressing her higher and higher until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs clamping tight around your head as she rides out her orgasm, and you keep going, drawing it out as long as you can until she’s pushing weakly at your shoulders.

“Enough,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, and you finally pull back, your lips and chin wet with her.

You look up at her, and she’s a mess—her hair sticking to her damp forehead, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

Then, slowly, she reaches for you, her hands shaking as she grabs at your jumper and pulls you up to meet her. Her kiss is rough and desperate, her teeth catching on your lower lip, and you realise she’s not done.

Her hands don’t go for your own clothes like you’d expected. Instead, they move to your thighs, her grip firm and commanding, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, she’s lifting you. The sudden change knocks the air out of your lungs, and you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, locking you against her. The motion is seamless, like she’s done this before—or like she’s always known she could.

You try to tell yourself you hate how easy it feels, but you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands find her shoulders, her jaw, her hair—anything to ground yourself, but nothing works. You’re still dizzy, still untethered, even as her lips crash against yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing controlled. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip, her tongue pushes into your mouth like she’s trying to devour you, and you let her because for once you don’t want to think about what comes next.

She’s walking, you realise belatedly, the steady rhythm of her steps making your body rock against hers. It’s disorienting, the way she carries you so easily, like your weight is nothing, like you’re the fragile thing here.

You kiss her harder to prove you’re not, nipping at her lip until she growls low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through you and pulls a small, involuntary moan from your lips. Her hands tighten on you, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and it sends a sharp thrill up your spine.

The hallway blurs around you, the world narrowing until it’s just her—her mouth on yours, her hands gripping you like she’ll never let go, her body impossibly solid against yours.

When she finally kicks the door open and lays you down on the bed, it feels like surrender. Not hers. Yours.

You don’t realise how tightly you’ve been clinging to her until she pulls back, your fingers still knotted in the collar of her shirt. The fabric wrinkles between your hands, and for a moment you just stare at each other, the room charged with something you don’t have the words to name.

Her eyes are dark, searching, but there’s no smugness, no trace of victory there. Instead, there’s something softer, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and steady, and it undoes you more than anything else she’s done tonight.

It’s too much. The weight of her words, the way she says them like a promise, like she means it. Your chest tightens, and you shake your head, your fingers releasing her collar to press against her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.

But she doesn’t let you push her away completely. Her hands slide up your sides, gentle now, her touch a sharp contrast to the bruising grip she had on you moments ago. She’s watching you, waiting, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

You hate her for it. You hate her because she’s right.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracks, barely audible, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to,” she says simply, and the honesty in her tone is unbearable.

You want to argue, to fight, to push her away, but your body doesn’t move. You just lay there, your chest heaving, your hands trembling against her. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

Because this isn’t about sex anymore.

It’s about her, and the way she looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. It’s about the way your body feels like it’s breaking apart under the weight of it, like you’re finally being seen for what you are—what you’ve always been.

A liar. A coward. Someone too afraid to let go, too afraid to feel, too afraid to love.

Her lips brush yours again, soft this time, barely there, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not enough to drown in. Not yet. But it’s close.

“Let me in,” she whispers, and it’s not a command. It’s an offering.

You close your eyes, and for the first time, you don’t resist.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

472 notes · View notes

caitified · 5 months ago

Text

wag life

caitlin clark x reader

warnings:none

caitlin clark wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when she moved to indiana. the city was new, the team was different, and for the first time in a while, she found herself in an unfamiliar place where everything felt… temporary. it wasn’t like iowa, where she’d been rooted for so long. but she was ready for the challenge—both on and off the court.

what she didn’t expect, though, was you.

the first time she saw you was at a community event shortly after she moved. you stood out to her immediately, not just because you were stunning, but because of the way you moved through the room with an effortless kind of confidence. you were younger, about three years her junior, but you held your own, charming everyone around you. caitlin was intrigued before she even realized it, her eyes following you across the room.

you were talking to a small group of people, your laughter carrying across the room, and caitlin couldn’t help but smile to herself. she wasn’t usually shy, especially when it came to meeting new people, but something about you made her hesitate. you had a presence that drew people in, and she wasn’t quite sure how to approach you without seeming out of place.

just as she was about to turn away and head to another part of the event, you caught her looking. you smiled, your eyes lighting up as recognition crossed your face.

“you’re caitlin clark,” you said, walking over to her, your voice confident and friendly.

caitlin smiled, a little taken aback by how easy you made it to start a conversation. “guilty,” she replied, her tone playful. “you know me?”

you laughed softly. “of course. who doesn’t know caitlin clark?” there was a teasing edge to your voice, but caitlin could tell you were sincere. “i’m a big fan. and i’ve been following your move here.”

caitlin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “oh yeah? so, what do you think of indiana?”

you smiled, shrugging a little. “it’s home. you’ll get used to it. we’ve got good people here.” there was something warm and reassuring about the way you said it, and caitlin found herself wanting to know more.

over the course of the night, the two of you fell into easy conversation. caitlin learned that you were a bit of a social media sensation—a famous influencer who had built a following through your fashion sense and your passion for sports. you talked about how much you loved attending games, how you always made sure to support your favorite athletes. you were younger, but there was a maturity about you that caitlin admired.

“i have a feeling i’ll be seeing you at a lot of games,” caitlin teased, taking a sip of her drink as the two of you stood near the bar.

you grinned, not missing a beat. “you can count on it. i’ll be front and center, cheering you on in the best outfits you’ve ever seen.”

caitlin chuckled, already feeling a pull toward you. there was something easy about being around you, and it wasn’t just because you were a fan. it was the way you seemed to understand her, even in the short time you’d spent together.

by the end of the night, caitlin found herself wanting more. so, as the event was winding down, she took a chance.

“hey,” she said softly, her tone more serious now. “would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? i’d love to keep this conversation going… without the crowd.”

you smiled, your eyes bright as you nodded. “i’d love that.”

from that dinner, things moved quickly. you and caitlin fell into an easy rhythm, your lives beginning to intertwine in ways that neither of you had expected. you made it clear early on how much you supported her—showing up to her games, wearing her jerseys, and posting about her on social media. but it was more than that. you didn’t just show up because of her fame. you showed up because you believed in her.

every time caitlin looked up in the stands, there you were—smiling, cheering her on, decked out in carefully curated outfits that matched the team colors or had some subtle nod to her. the fans loved you for it. they loved how devoted you were to caitlin, how you seemed to bring a new energy to her games. and caitlin loved it too.

you became known as the ultimate wag—always supporting caitlin in the most fashionable way possible, your relationship slowly becoming public as people began to notice just how often you were by her side. it wasn’t long before fans started calling you caitlin’s biggest supporter, and they adored the way you were unapologetically proud of her.

but it wasn’t just about the public displays of support. it was the quiet moments that meant the most to caitlin. the way you’d be there for her after a tough game, offering her comfort without saying too much. the way you understood the pressure she was under, always knowing when to push her and when to give her space.

one night, after a particularly grueling game, caitlin found herself in your apartment, exhausted but happy to be with you. you were curled up on the couch together, your head resting on her shoulder as you scrolled through your phone, probably looking at the photos you’d posted from the game.

“i don’t know how you do it,” caitlin said, her voice soft as she watched you.

“do what?” you asked, looking up at her.

“keep up with all this,” caitlin replied, gesturing to your phone and the whirlwind of attention that always seemed to follow you. “you’re constantly in the spotlight, and yet… you still make time for me.”

you smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “because you’re worth it,” you said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “and besides, i like supporting you. you make it easy.”

caitlin felt her heart swell at your words. you weren’t just her girlfriend—you were her biggest fan, her partner in everything. she pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“i don’t think i could do this without you,” she admitted quietly.

you looked up at her, your expression soft but full of affection. “good thing you’ll never have to.”

please keep the requests coming. i love your ideas! thanks for all of the support

#caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark #wnba imagine #wnba x reader #iowa wbb #indiana fever

371 notes · View notes

focusonkayjay · 2 months ago

Text

Wildly Wealthy Koreans (final + epilogue); inspired by Crazy Rich Asians

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: photographer/ filmmaker! jungkook, rich girl/ fashion designer! reader, established relationship, angst, fluff, smut

Series summary: When you invite your boyfriend, Jungkook, to accompany you to your brother's wedding in your hometown, Daegu, he’s overjoyed, eager to meet your family and experience a side of your life you’ve never shared with him. However, once he uncovers the truth about who you really are, he’s unable to grasp the full extent of your reality. The situation becomes even more complicated when a certain someone makes him feel profoundly unwelcome, leaving him to question not only your world, but also his place in it.

Disclaimer: This series is heavily inspired by the movie Crazy Rich Asians, with the storyline closely following the original film's plot. However, I wanted to reimagine it as a fanfiction, where Jungkook and OC take center stage as the main protagonists. While I’ve kept the core elements and themes from the movie, I’ve added my own touches here and there, such as altering certain character dynamics and incorporating a few original settings. Some scenes are directly inspired by the movie, and I’ve worked to recreate them in a way that it hopefully resonates with the fans of the movie. Hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 9.7k+

Chapter Warnings: your mother, talks about culture, roots etc, cultural jabs (??), some dialogues taken straight from the movie.

A/N: AHHHH, I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS SERIES IS FINALLY OVERRRRRR 🥺 i still remember debating whether writing this series was a good idea or not, and i’m so incredibly glad i decided to go for it. seeing it through to the end has been such a rewarding journey. a quick reminder (as always) to those who haven’t watched the movie, PLEASE DOOOO. it’ll help you truly capture the essence of this series and catch all the little references sprinkled throughout the story. thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to every single one of you who stuck around and read through the entire story. your unwavering support means the absolute world to me, and i hope the ending left you feeling as fulfilled and happy as i feel right now. thank you again, endlessly, for being a part of this journey. love you guys <333

final

Jungkook's eyes roam around the serene interiors of the photography museum. The space is dimly lit, with soft spotlights highlighting the carefully curated photographs mounted on minimalist white walls.

The polished wooden floors gleam under the subdued lighting, their faint reflections adding warmth to the otherwise cool and modern design.

Large floor-to-ceiling windows on one side let in streaks of natural light that mix with the artificial glow, casting gentle shadows across the room.

A faint hum of classical music plays in the background, blending with the quiet murmurs of a few visitors who walk slowly, lost in thought as they admire the exhibits.

Each photograph is encased in sleek black frames, their details brought to life by the perfect interplay of light and shadow.

Jungkook’s gaze shifts towards the entrance. His eyes narrow slightly as he spots a familiar figure entering. Her presence commanding, with large, oversized sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose and a crisp sky blue suit that speaks of meticulous tailoring.

Her posture is poised but guarded, exuding both authority and apprehension. She glances around, as though searching for something... or someone.

When her eyes finally land on him, she stiffens slightly, her polished demeanor faltering for the briefest moment.

There’s a pause, a moment heavy with wordless tension, as their gazes lock. Then, as if deciding to confront the inevitable, she begins walking towards him. Her heels click rhythmically on the gleaming wooden floor, each step echoing faintly in the otherwise hushed space.

Jungkook exhales slowly, his fingers fidgeting in his pockets of his jecket, and forces a small, polite smile. “Thank you for meeting me here.” he says softly as he bows when she reaches him, his tone tinged with restraint.

Your mother lowers her gaze, the sharp lines of her expression softening slightly as she removes the oversized shades that had shielded her face. Her hands fold the glasses and tuck them into her blazer's pocket.

Her eyes flicker briefly to Jungkook before shifting to the museum’s visitors, who linger quietly in their own worlds. She crosses her arms, her movements calculated, and slowly begins walking further into the gallery, her gaze wandering over the photographs lining the walls.

Jungkook follows closely behind her, the faint echo of his boots blending into the quiet hum of the museum. His gaze flits from one photograph to the next and the air between them is heavy with the kind of silence that feels almost alive.

After a few moments, she halts abruptly in front of a large photograph, the sharp sound of her heels ceasing like the punctuation to an invisible sentence. Jungkook stops a few paces behind, watching as her eyes narrow, drawn to the image before her.

The picture is striking... a serene lakeside scene where the water glimmers under a golden sunset. At the heart of the image are a mother and her daughter, waist-deep in the water. The little girl throws her head back in carefree laughter, her hands splashing water toward the sky, droplets catching the light like tiny jewels.

The mother, her arms outstretched to steady the child, wears a wide, radiant smile... one that speaks of pure, unfiltered joy. The intimacy of the picture is palpable, the bond between them immortalized in the frame.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jungkook’s voice cuts softly through the silence, his eyes also fixed on the photograph. His tone holds a quiet reverence, as though he understands the story behind the image without needing to be told.

Your mother remains silent for a long moment, her arms still crossed. Her sharp eyes scan the photograph, lingering on the mother’s expression, as if she’s trying to decipher something beyond the surface. Finally, she breathes out, her voice low. “It is.”

As they walk side by side through the museum, Jungkook’s eyes linger on the photographs, each one a silent universe frozen in a frame.

His gaze stops at a photograph of a weathered lighthouse against a stormy sky, its beam cutting through the chaos.

“You know...” he begins, his voice low but steady. “Photography has this way of teaching you about life." he says, crossing his arms.

"Every shot is a lesson of patience, perspective, and timing. Sometimes, you’re staring through the lens, thinking you’ve got the perfect frame, but then you realize… it’s not right. The light’s too harsh, the angle's too narrow. That’s when you step back, adjust, and try again.” He pauses, his hand brushing lightly against the edge of a nearby frame.

“Life is a lot like that. The things we don’t understand... the moments that hurt us or confuse us, they start to make sense when you’re willing to shift your perspective, even just a little.”

Your mother remains quiet, her gaze briefly shifting to him before returning to the photographs, her expression unreadable.

“You called me here..." she says eventually, her voice sharp and direct, breaking the delicate quiet. “I assume it’s not for a photography lesson.” She glances at him over her shoulder, her tone laced with a challenge.

Jungkook looks down, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Well then…” His voice trails off as he walks past her taking a few steps ahead, his hands slipping back into his pockets. His eyes move over the walls, scanning each frame with a focus that seems both casual and intentional.

“I know the truth about my mother bothers you...” he says, his voice steady but quiet, his words carried by the subdued hum of the museum’s ambiance.

Your mother doesn’t respond immediately, but she follows him as her eyes settle on the photographs alongside his. Each image seems to hold its own gravity... a bustling street in monochrome, a child peering through a cracked window, a lone bird perched on a barren tree.

“But you didn’t like me the second I got here.” Jungkook continues, his steps slowing until he halts entirely. He turns to face her, his dark eyes meeting hers with an intensity that demands answers. “Why is that?” he asks, his tone calm but weighted, the kind of calm that conceals gallons of restrained hurt and confusion.

Your mother stops a few feet away as she looks at him for a long moment, her expression impenetrable. "You know..." she begins, her voice firm yet laced with an undercurrent of contemplation.

"As a photographer, I’m sure you've experienced those moments... when you’re behind the lens, capturing a scene so carefully, so purposefully, and yet, there’s just something... a detail, a shadow, or perhaps an element that doesn’t quite belong." She pauses, letting her words settle between them.

Jungkook furrows his brows, listening intently, trying to grasp the weight of her meaning, the cryptic nature of her expression.

"It disrupts the rhythm of the image... the frame." she continues, her voice almost detached now, as if the words have found their own path.

"No matter how perfectly you’ve set everything up, no matter how much you try to step back and adjust, it pulls your attention, ruins the flow, and shatters the harmony you so carefully crafted. It doesn’t blend in the way it should... it stands out, but not in a way that completes the image. It’s a blemish, an imperfection in an otherwise perfect picture."

She steps closer now, the silence between them dense, her gaze unwavering as she delivers her final words, her tone colder, yet still rich with intensity.

"You’re like that to me." she says, her eyes locking with his, the words biting with an unspoken finality. "You don’t belong in the frame."

Though the sting of her words cuts deep into Jungkook’s core, he forces a chuckle, his gaze dropping to the floor as if to shield the emotions threatening to surface. "Why?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, as though he’s not unraveling inside.

"Because I’m not rich? Because I didn’t grow up with extravagant tea ceremonies or grandiose parties? Because I wasn’t born into a family with old money?" His head tilts slightly, eyes lifting to meet hers with a quiet defiance.

Your mother’s lips curl into a thin, airy grin, shaking her head slowly as if dismissing him before he’s even begun to understand. "You’re a foreigner." she says with finality. "American." she adds.

Jungkook’s expression falters, confusion clouding his features as he tries to digest the weight of her statement.

She gazes at him, eyes sharp, as if everything is already clear to her. "You were raised in a world where detachment is a virtue. Detached from your culture, your traditions, from the things that truly matter. All you care about is your own happiness." Her words hang heavy between them, like a wall that she’s built with her own hands, each syllable an obstacle too high to climb.

Jungkook’s brow furrows in bewilderment as he tries to reconcile the disconnect. "But... don’t you want Y/n to be happy?" he asks, his voice tinged with desperation, as if the question could bridge the vast divide she’s creating.

She laughs softly, a hollow sound, and begins walking again. "It's an illusion." she murmurs, almost as if speaking to herself. Jungkook follows, each step heavy with the weight of her words, yet unwilling to retreat.

"We understand..." she continues. "... how to build things that last. Things that matter. Things with roots, with purpose... not just fleeting, ephemeral happiness.... Something... you know nothing about." She glances back at him, her eyes sharp.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, a storm of frustration rising within him. "You don’t know me." he says, his voice low but firm, a quiet challenge hanging in the air between them.

She stops in her tracks, eyes flickering to a large photograph on the wall. The image captures a fading sunset, its colors blurred and intertwined... beautiful but transient, as though it were about to disappear entirely. "I know you’re not what Y/n needs." she says quietly.

Jungkook stands there, a silent fury building in him, but her words cut deeper than he expected. He meets her gaze once more, eyes resolute. "Well, she asked me to elope with her yesterday." he says, his words sharp, almost defiant.

At this, your mother’s composed exterior falters, visibly cracking for the first time. Her eyes widen in shock, as though she had never expected such a revelation.

Jungkook watches her carefully, a quiet understanding crossing his mind that she had definitely not seen this coming. "She said she’d walk away from her family and you... for good." he presses on, his voice firm.

He watches her closely, observing how her shoulders tense, how her breathing catches, and how her eyes fall to the floor as she tries to process the weight of what he’s said.

A quiet chuckle escapes Jungkook’s lips, catching her attention. "Don’t worry..." he says, voice soft but tinged with something darker. "I turned her down."

At this, your mother exhales deeply, a sound of relief that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She takes a moment to regain her composure, trying to steady herself with a practiced sigh.

"Only fools fold a winning hand." she mutters, the words a hollow attempt to mask the vulnerability seeping through.

Jungkook shakes his head, a quiet frustration brewing within him. He glances at a photograph on the wall, a few feet away, its stillness contrasting sharply with the tension in the air.

"There’s no winning. You made sure of that." he replies with a nonchalant grin, though the words are heavy, laden with truth.

"Because if Y/n chose me, she would lose her family." he continues, taking a step closer to her. "And if she chose her family, she might spend the rest of her life resenting you."

She looks at him, her throat visibly tightening as the gravity of his words slowly settles in. It’s as if each syllable he speaks punctures the layers of her reality, sending ripples through her calm facade.

"So... you chose for her." she murmurs quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, almost like she’s testing the truth for herself.

Jungkook smiles softly, a tender yet sad curve of his lips. He purses them, his voice carrying the weight of something deeper. "I'm not leaving because I'm scared... or because I think I’m not enough." he says, his words slow, as though he’s carefully peeling back the layers of his own vulnerability.

Your mother tilts her head, and in the soft glow of the museum's lighting, her eyes shimmer slightly, betraying a crack in her usual strength.

"Because maybe for the first time in my life..." he pauses, his breath hitching ever so slightly. "I know I am." he continues, his voice a fragile admission of self worth.

Your mother looks at him, her expression hardened with forced composure, her gaze flickering between the raw honesty in his eyes and the vulnerability in his voice. She’s trying to hold herself together, trying to remain unshaken.

Jungkook’s voice falters, a soft sigh escaping him as he shrugs. "I just... love Y/n so much." he says, his tone thick with sincerity, tinged with sadness as his eyes glisten.

"I don’t want her to lose her family... her brother, her father, her grandmother. I don’t want her to lose you." he adds, his words dripping with the painful understanding of what it would cost you to choose him over them.

He shakes his head slightly, the words painful on his lips, each one a reminder of the battle between love and sacrifice.

"These past few weeks have shown me how much she cherishes everything she’s grown up with, and I would feel horrible if she walked away from all of that... for me." he says, his voice low but heavy with the weight of his own realization.

"I don’t want to snatch her away from her family..." he continues, his gaze locked with hers now, steady and unflinching. "I want to be accepted by her family instead." he says, his voice laced with an earnest desire to belong, not just to you, but to the life you've already built.

"So I just wanted you to know..." His voice trails off, thick with emotion, as he turns away, his gaze shifting towards the far end of the museum.

"That one day... when she marries another lucky guy... someone who’s enough... for you." he says softly, turning back to her, his eyes red-rimmed but steady.

"And you’re playing with your grandkids... when the orchids are blooming and the birds are chirping, that it was because... of me." A bittersweet smile curves on his lips, though there’s a sadness that lingers in his gaze, one that speaks of a future he knows he won’t be a part of.

"A poor, raised by a single mother, low-class, immigrant nobody." he adds quietly, the words cutting through the air with a finality that resonates deeper than anything spoken before.

Your mother stares at him, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear the fog that has settled over her mind. The weight of his words lands on her like an ice-cold splash of reality, each syllable reverberating through her, leaving her momentarily paralyzed.

She watches as Jungkook doesn’t give her the chance to respond. He turns on his heels, his back retreating from her, and walks away.

Her gaze follows him, eyes fixed on his retreating figure as he crosses the museum floor towards the exit, each movement seeming to echo the finality of their conversation.

Jungkook stands by the trunk of the car, his hands steady but his heart in disarray as he carefully places his luggage inside.

The conversation with your mother replays in his mind and despite the ache that seems to weigh down every fiber of his being, he knows he’s made the right decision... at least, that’s what he tells himself.

When you asked him to elope, Jungkook had nearly given in. The mere thought of a future with you was intoxicating, the idea of having you by his side every day, every night, a dream he had long held close.

For a brief moment, he was ready to throw everything else aside just to make it happen.

But the thought of you walking away from everything you’ve ever known... cut deeper than he could admit. It was unbearable.

He loves you too much, so much that the idea of snatching you away felt selfish, almost cruel. And so, despite the way it shattered him to his core, he had to turn you down, even as it tore him apart.

He remembers the way your face fell, the way tears streamed down your cheeks as you begged him to reconsider. The way your voice broke when you pleaded with him to choose you.

But deep down, he knew he couldn’t. Loving you meant protecting you, even from himself. It felt wrong... wrong to ask you to sacrifice so much, to leave behind the people and the life that shaped you.

Now, as he prepares to return to New York with his mother, the reality of his choice weighs on him. He feels the emptiness like a missing piece of himself, as if a part of his soul had been carved out and left behind with you.

But sometimes, he thinks, that missing piece is necessary. It’s a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of love, even if it feels like a gaping, unhealable wound. This pain... it’s the price of doing what’s right, even when every part of him wishes he hadn’t.

Jungkook hears the faint rolling of suitcase wheels as Yoongi emerges from the house, pushing his second piece of luggage with an exaggerated nonchalance.

Behind Yoongi, his family stands in a quiet semicircle, their expressions a blend of sadness and pride as they watch Jungkook prepare to leave.

"Good for youuu..." Yoongi drawls, his voice laced with his trademark sarcasm as he nudges the suitcase towards the car. A guard promptly steps forward to load it into the trunk, but Yoongi keeps his gaze fixed on Jungkook.

"Walking away from Y/n and her family's fat-ass property portfolio." he jokes, shaking his head dramatically. Despite the ache in his chest, Jungkook manages a soft laugh, his lips twitching upward for the first time in what feels like days.

"You’ve got no one, no net worth..." Yoongi continues, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity. He steps closer, his usual smirk softening into something more genuine. "But you’ve got integrity. And that’s why I respect you."

The words hit Jungkook harder than he expects, and he blinks rapidly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. "Thank you for everything, hyung." he says, his voice low but steady as he steps forward, his arms extending towards Yoongi.

Without hesitation, Yoongi pulls him into a firm hug, patting his back once with a quiet kind of solidarity. "You’ll be fine, kid." Yoongi murmurs, his words almost inaudible but carrying a weight of belief that Jungkook hadn’t realized he needed to hear.

Your gaze is fixed on nothing in particular as you stand in your room's balcony, the evening sky painted in muted hues of twilight. The breeze brushes against your skin, teasing the hem of your nightgown, but you hardly notice. Your eyes, dry from crying, remain blank, and your cheeks still bear the streaks of tears long dried.

You feel hollow, like a shell of yourself, standing motionless as you think about how Jungkook's probably headed to the airport right now. The ache in your chest is so consuming that even the idea of moving feels insurmountable.

When you asked him to elope with you, you saw it... the flicker in his eyes that told you he was ready to say yes. In that moment, you felt hope surge through you, as if for the first time, the impossible was within reach.

But just as quickly, the hesitation crept in, dimming the light in his gaze. He told you he couldn’t do it, that he couldn’t take you away from your family, your roots, no matter how much he loved you.

He said he would feel wretched knowing you had severed ties with your mother, your brother, and everyone you held dear... all because of him.

And you understood.

Of course, you understood. That was the kind of person Jungkook was... selfless to a fault, someone who carried the weight of his decisions like stones in his heart. But understanding didn’t make it any easier.

You were desperate... desperate to keep him in your life, to promise him forever. After what your mother had done to him, after everything he endured, you were ready to walk away from her.

Was it a rash decision? Maybe. Impulsive? Certainly. But at the time, it felt like the only choice, the only way to salvage the pieces of your heart.

Until he said no.

Until he told you he couldn’t do it. That he was leaving. That he was going back to New York.

Suddenly, your sorrowful thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on your bedroom door. The sound feels like an unwelcome intrusion, pulling you out of the haze of your grief. You sigh heavily, already guessing who it might be.

“Tae, I don’t want to eat.” you call out, your voice hoarse and quiet. Turning away from the balcony, you walk back into your dimly lit room, expecting the footsteps to retreat.

But the knock comes again, a little firmer this time.

You click your tongue, frustration bubbling beneath your despair. “Tae—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as the door creaks open slightly, revealing a figure you weren’t expecting.

It’s not Taehyung.

It’s the person responsible for the ache in your chest, the reason your world feels like it’s crumbling.

It’s your mother.

Your eyes widen as the door opens further, revealing her figure standing there, clutching a box in her hands. You barely register what it is but whatever she’s holding doesn’t matter, because she's literally the last person you want to see right now.

Before she can speak, you turn away, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave. You retreat to the balcony, arms crossed tightly over your chest as if to shield yourself from the storm brewing within.

Your gaze locks on the horizon, though, once again, it lands on nothing in particular... just the empty expanse that mirrors the void in your heart.

“Y/n-ah...” she calls softly, her voice careful, like she’s treading on glass. You don’t answer. Instead, you shift your weight, maintaining your focus on the skyline.

You sense her hesitating, but she doesn’t leave. A few seconds pass, and then you hear her footsteps approaching. She stops at the edge of the balcony, leaving a deliberate gap between you. It’s as if she’s giving you space while still insisting on being near.

“Y/n.” she says again, her tone gentle yet resolute as she steps just a bit closer. You don’t turn, biting down on your lower lip to hold back the urge to ask her to leave.

She exhales softly, the sigh heavy with something unspoken. From the corner of your eye, you see her glance at you... at your tense posture, your clenched jaw. She knows you won’t meet her gaze, but she stands firm, determined.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me...” she begins, her voice wavering slightly. “But just hear me out. Let me say my piece, and if you still want me to leave, I will.”

You stay silent, your resolve teetering. When she continues, her voice carries a vulnerability you’re unaccustomed to.

“When you left for New York to chase your dream… I was terrified.” she admits, her words unsteady. “My little girl was going so so far away from home... from me and the thought of you forgetting everything... your roots, your family, it scared me.”

She hugs the box she's holding a little tighter to her chest, her gaze shifting to the same skyline you’re fixated on. “I thought if you followed your happiness, you’d become… selfish. That you’d waste your potential, drift away from everything we worked so hard to build for you.”

Your jaw softens ever so slightly, though you remain silent.

“But your father and your brother... they consoled me every day.” she continues. “They told me about all the wonderful things you were doing, and I was grateful you were thriving, even though it hurt to be apart. And when you called off the engagement with Wooyoung…” She pauses, sighing deeply.

“I didn’t understand it then, but I see now that you just wanted something different... something that made you happy.”

Her lips curve into a small, bittersweet smile. “However, I thought once you came back after doing everything you dreamed of, we’d settle everything. I’d find you an eligible man, someone who was on your level. I wanted to make sure your life was perfect.”

At that, your posture stiffens.

“I wanted you to be the perfect daughter-in-law...” she adds, her voice cracking slightly. “Not like me… because, you know, I was never your grandmother’s first choice for your father.”

Your chest tightens at her words, the weight of her confession settling heavily in the room. Growing up, you’d heard fragments of the story... the disapproval your grandmother had shown, the rejection your mother had quietly endured.

Though she rarely spoke of it, the shadow of those memories lingered, unspoken but ever-present. You’d always wondered if it still haunted her, if the echoes of that rejection had ever truly faded.

“And then you came back home...” she says, her voice softening further. “But not alone. You brought Jungkook.”

Her eyes glisten as she looks down at the box in her arms. “He wasn’t what I expected. He grew up in the States, he was raised by a single mother… He didn’t fit the mold I’d envisioned for you. And it scared me. It felt like you were slipping away, choosing someone who couldn’t possibly measure up to what I thought you deserved.”

“Jungkook deserves me.” you interject sharply, finally turning to face her. Your voice is cold, your gaze piercing. “He deserves every bit of me.”

Your mother doesn’t flinch at your tone. Instead, she smiles faintly, almost wistfully, before continuing. “I see that now.” she says, her voice steady but laced with emotion.

“But at the time… I didn’t. Somewhere along the line, I started projecting all of my own insecurities onto him. My disapproval, my disdain... it wasn’t about him. It was about me.” Her voice cracks slightly, and she pauses to steady herself.

“I realize now that I was projecting the rejection I faced all those years ago. The way your grandmother looked at me, the way she thought I wasn’t good enough for your father… I passed that burden onto Jungkook.” she explains.

"I know it doesn't justify my actions..." she adds quickly, her voice trembling as she struggles to hold onto the last threads of composure. A bitter smile curls at her lips, but it falters almost immediately.

"But... I was worried about you, Y/n. And..." She hesitates, the words catching in her throat. "A part of me was dealing with my own ego... the part that never healed."

Her confession hangs in the air, heavy and raw, and you can feel your chest tighten as you process the vulnerability in her voice.

Slowly, you blink, your eyes fixed on her face. For the first time, you notice the fine lines around her eyes, the weariness etched into her features, and the way her usually composed expression is now a fragile mask threatening to crack.

"I know what Grandma did hurt you..." you begin softly, your voice carrying an edge of gentleness you didn’t know you could summon. "But, Mama..." You step closer, just enough for her to notice but not enough to touch.

Her eyes dart to yours, unsure but yearning for something... acceptance, forgiveness, or maybe just the chance to be heard.

"Dad loved you..." you continue, your voice steady now, though the emotion behind it swells with every word. "He loved you so much that he went against everything Grandma wanted. He fought for you. He chose you."

The faintest glimmer of a tear shines in her eye, and her lips part, as if to say something, but she stays silent.

"And just like Dad loves you..." you say, your voice softening, "I love Jungkook. I love him with everything I have."

Her breath catches audibly, and you can see the weight of your words settle deeply within her. The truth you’ve spoken reverberates through her, leaving her visibly shaken, even though she had always known it in her heart.

"But what you did to him... how you treated him..." Your voice falters, your throat tightening as you remember the pain, the humiliation he had to endure and a tear slips down your cheek. "It didn't only hurt him... It hurt me too, Mama. It hurt me more than I ever thought possible."

The sight of your tear breaks something in her. Her face crumbles, and she reaches out instinctively, her trembling hand brushing your cheek as she wipes it away.

Her touch is hesitant, as though she fears she no longer has the right. "I know, my sweetheart." she whispers, her voice quivering as her own tears begin to fall, mirroring yours. "I know..." she repeats. She exhales shakily, her tears now streaming freely. "And I’m so, so sorry. To you. To Jungkook. To both of you."

Her hand falls away as she takes a step back, clutching the box in her hands like it’s the only thing holding her together. She inhales deeply, her shoulders trembling under the weight of her confession.

"I met him earlier today." she says a few seconds later, her voice breaking as she glances at you with tear-streaked cheeks.

Your eyes widen in shock, but before you can process her words or form a response, she continues. "I spoke to him, and it was like seeing everything I had refused to see all this time." Her voice cracks, and she presses a hand over her mouth as if to hold back a sob.

"Speaking to him made me realize just how blind I’ve been. How cruel. How selfish." She sniffs, lowering her hand as her gaze drops to the floor.

"I was ruining something beautiful, something so pure. And I let my own pain, my own insecurities, take control. I was so afraid of losing you that I never stopped to see I was actually driving you away myself."

Her words, raw and trembling, cut through you like a knife.

"You and Jungkook..." she continues, looking back at you, her eyes brimming with remorse. "What you have is rare. It’s the kind of love people search for their entire lives. And I almost destroyed it because I couldn’t let go of my own scars."

Her voice cracks again, and this time, a sob escapes her lips while her shoulders shake as she cries openly in front of you, a sight you never thought you’d witness.

You stand there, tears streaming down your own face, as you watch your mother unravel under the crushing weight of her own guilt. It’s as if the full gravity of her actions is only now sinking in, as if she’s just beginning to grasp the depth of the pain she’s inflicted on her own daughter.

Several seconds pass and then her voice wavers, but there’s a quiet urgency as she interrupts your thoughts. "You should go to him."

Your breath catches, your teary eyes snapping up to meet hers. "Mama—"

"I won’t stop you anymore." she interjects, but there’s a newfound resolve in her tone, her trembling lips curving into the softest, most bittersweet smile, though tears continue to spill down her cheeks.

"I see it now... the depth of the pain I’ve caused you." she confesses, her voice quivering with regret. "I can’t keep standing in the way of my own daughter’s happiness. I can’t be the one to destroy something so real, so pure, and so beautiful."

Her words shake you to your core, and you feel something inside you shatter... walls you hadn’t realized you’d built around your heart crumble under the weight of her sincerity.

"Go to the airport, Y/n." she whispers, your name breaking on her lips. "Go to him, right now."

Her words are a lifeline, pulling you out of the despair you’d been drowning in for so long. Relief floods your chest, overwhelming and liberating, as tears continue to stream down your face.

You nod frantically, your breath hitching as emotions surge through you like a tidal wave.

You don’t bother to change out of your nightgown or worry about your disheveled appearance. You turn towards the door, ready to bolt out and make your way to the man who holds your heart.

But then, just as your fingers graze the doorknob, her voice calls out again. "Wait!"

You freeze mid-step, turning back to her with wide, glistening eyes. She strides towards you, holding the box she’d been clutching tightly to her chest all this time.

"Take this..." she says, her voice soft yet trembling as she extends it to you. Confused, you glance down at the box, then back at her. "What… what's this?"

Her gaze softens, her expression a poignant blend of pain and tenderness. "It’s something he needs to see..." she murmurs, her voice trembling yet resolute. "Just give it to him, sweetheart. He’ll understand."

You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the box as uncertainty flickers in your chest. But the quiet urgency in her voice, coupled with the way her hands linger on the box as though letting go is both a release and a plea, pushes you to act.

Nodding, you take the box from her, its weight pressing against your chest as if carrying not just its contents but her unspoken regrets and hopes.

Without wasting another moment, you turn and run... your feet carrying you down the hallway, your heart pounding as you descend the staircase in a blur. The house feels suffocating, every second urging you to escape its confines and race towards the love of your life.

The moment you spot the guard outside, you request him to call the driver and within minutes that feel like eternity, your car pulls up. The headlights slice through the darkness, illuminating your urgency as you slide into the back seat, clutching the box tightly.

The car hums to life, gliding down the long driveway that stretches like an endless thread leading out into the world beyond your home. The city looms ahead and you press your forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Your tears continue to fall, but this time they carry a different weight. They’re not born of despair but of something else entirely... a release, a hope, a fragile kind of determination.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you dare to believe that maybe, just maybe, this road will lead you home. To him. To a love worth everything.

The hum of activity in the airport lobby surrounds Jungkook, the soft murmur of voices blending with the gentle tapping of suitcase wheels on the polished floor.

The bright fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow across the vast, open space, while the large windows showcase the sprawling tarmac outside.

The quiet rush of people moving in all directions adds to the atmosphere... passengers checking in, families hugging goodbye, and the occasional call over the loudspeaker announcing boarding times.

It’s a place filled with anticipation, yet for Jungkook, the air feels heavy, weighed down by a deep ache that refuses to be soothed.

The large screens hanging from the ceiling flicker with departure times, the destinations glowing in bold text. His flight is soon, but the seconds seem to stretch endlessly as he watches the planes taxi down the runway in the distance.

Each passing minute only deepens the knot in his stomach, the looming uncertainty of what’s to come gnawing at him.

Sitting beside him, his mother watches him closely. Her gaze is gentle, understanding the turbulence within him even if she can’t fully share it.

She leans forward slightly, her voice soft and filled with concern, "Kook..." she calls, her words breaking the silence around them. "You're sure you want to leave?"

His heart aches at the question, the temptation to stay and resolve everything with you pulling at him, but he knows deep down, that this is something he must do.

He exhales deeply, glancing at his mother, forcing a small smile. "Yes, Ma." he says, the words coming out slower than he intends. "It’s the only right thing to do."

But even as the smile touches his lips, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They’re distant, clouded by the pain of knowing he’s about to walk away from something that means more than just the world to him.

The silence settles back around him, a heavy weight pressing on his chest as his thoughts inevitably drift back to you. He can't help but wonder if he’s making the right choice, if walking away from the love he's known for so long is really the only answer.

But before he can sink deeper into the spiral of doubt, a sudden commotion at a distance pulls him from his thoughts. Loud footsteps echo through the terminal, and the sound of frantic running cuts through the usual hum of voices.

Without thinking, his head swivels to the source of the noise, his eyes narrowing as he instinctively watches the movement. What he doesn’t expect, however, is the sight of you... familiar, yet out of place, desperately scanning the crowd, your gaze flickering from face to face, frantic and lost.

His heart skips a beat. Confusion floods his senses as he watches you weave through the standing passengers, your steps quick. You’re clutching something tightly in your hands, a box, perhaps.

His feet move before he can stop them, standing up from his seat, his eyes not leaving you for even a second.

His mother, sensing the shift in his demeanor, stands up as well, her eyes following his gaze. “Kook, what happ—” she starts to ask, but her voice trails off when she sees you too. A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips, though Jungkook doesn’t notice it. He’s too lost in the storm of emotions as he watches you... his heart racing now.

You’re moving erratically, your gaze darting around as you stop by random chairs, still searching, still looking. The urgency in your movements is unmistakable, and Jungkook’s confusion only deepens.

But then, your eyes lock with his. The moment freezes in time.

“Kook!!” Your voice shatters the stillness of the moment, cutting through the noise of the airport like a beacon in the chaos, a lifeline thrown with every ounce of desperation and hope.

The urgency in your cry tugs at his heartstrings, and in that instant, Jungkook feels everything... the hurt, the longing, all rushing toward him, sweeping him into a wave of raw emotion. It’s in the tremble of your voice, the frantic search in your eyes, the way you seem to need him like air itself.

He instinctively steps forward, reaching out, but you’re already running, your feet light and swift, propelled by a determination that can only come from a heart that knows exactly what it wants.

When you stop just a few feet away, everything hits him... the disheveled state of you, the tears streaking down your face, the nightgown you haven’t changed out of, as if you’ve left everything behind, every comfort, just to be here.

His heart aches at the sight, his need to protect you overwhelming him. But before he can speak, you beat him to it.

"Kook, I'm flying back to New York with you." The words burst from you, each one carrying the weight of everything you’ve held inside, every thought, every feeling, every breath you’ve taken since he left. You’re breathless, your chest heaving with the strain of the words, and your eyes never leave his... desperate, yet filled with a certainty that makes his heart ache deeper than it already does.

Jungkook’s breath catches in his throat. This is the last thing he expected to hear. This is the last thing he ever imagined he would face at this moment, but the emotion behind your words... the sheer depth of it, strikes him like a tidal wave.

His eyes flicker to his mom, standing just behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder, as if silently telling him to breathe.

"I'll be in the washroom, okay?" His mom’s voice is soft, distant, but Jungkook barely registers it. His mind, his heart, is consumed by you. He doesn’t even notice when she slips away, leaving the two of you in this fragile, raw moment, suspended in time.

His heart races, torn between the pull to stay with you and the reality of the life he's supposed tp have without you. "Y/N... please..." he whispers, his voice thick with the weight of everything he’s trying to say and everything he can’t.

"Please, don’t make this harder than it already is." His voice cracks, betraying the vulnerability he’s trying to hide. The truth is, deep down, he knows he can’t keep you away anymore.

He knows you’ve made your choice, just as he’s made his.

But you shake your head slowly, tears glistening in your eyes, and the steady resolve in your voice pierces through the pain that’s been festering between you both.

"Kook, ever since we started dating, not a single day has passed where I haven’t imagined a future with you. Not a single day where I didn’t wonder what our lives could be like, what we could build together."

You take a step closer, and he can feel the gravity of your words pulling him in, the sincerity behind every syllable. "Since day one, you’ve been the only thing on my mind, Kook. Every single day, you’re the first thought when I wake up, the last one before I fall asleep." You let out a soft laugh, though it’s laced with a sob, and his heart breaks all over again.

"You’re all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever dreamed of. You’re the one I’ve imagined growing old with, the one I’ve pictured beside me through every storm, every moment, every day. You’re the only one I see... now, tomorrow, and forever."

His breath hitches, and he feels as though the ground beneath him could collapse at any moment. You reach out, your hand trembling, and he steps forward instinctively, his hand brushing against yours in the most delicate touch.

"I want everything with you, Kook. I want the quiet mornings in our cozy little apartment, the smell of coffee filling the air, the sound of our laughter echoing through the walls. I want our own little family... maybe even a dog... a Doberman, just like you’ve always wanted." You smile, and the tenderness of it catches him off guard, but the tears that shimmer in your eyes tell him everything.

He smiles back, though he can’t hide the way his eyes glisten.

"I want the mundane moments, the everyday life, because those are the moments that make everything else worth it. And I want it all with you." You pause, your voice breaking, but your eyes never waver, never falter in their devotion.

"Because to me, Kook, you are my future. You are everything I’ve ever needed. And wherever you are in the world, that’s where I belong." You smile, caressing his cheek, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Jungkook feels like he’s home.

"And no matter who wants to get in the way, no matter who tries to break us apart, I’m not going to let that happen." You whisper, your voice low and fierce with the love that burns between you.

And as the words hit him, Jungkook feels every bit of his own resolve crumble. The only thing he’s certain of now is that you are his heart, his everything. And nothing, no one, could ever change that.

"Really?" he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet filled with a fragile kind of hope. It’s as if he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he speaks too loudly. He takes a cautious step closer, his eyes searching yours for any trace of doubt.

But there isn’t any. None at all.

You nod, the certainty in your small gesture lighting a spark in his chest. His lips curve into an airy, disbelieving chuckle, the sound tinged with a kind of relief he hadn’t known he needed.

"Really." you affirm softly, a small laugh escaping you... a laugh so full of love and promise that it unravels him completely.

That’s all it takes.

Before he even realizes it, his hands are cradling your face, his palms warm against your skin, his touch reverent, as though you’re something fragile, something precious. And in truth, you are.

When his lips meet yours, it’s as though the world around him disappears... the hum of the airport fades, the distant announcements and the shuffle of hurried footsteps dissolve into nothing.

In this moment, there is only you.

He kisses you with everything he has, everything he’s held back, and everything he didn’t know he was capable of feeling. It’s not just a kiss... it’s an unspoken promise, a confession of the depths of his love, a bridge over the years of pain and longing.

Every part of him, every fiber of his being, is poured into this moment, because now, nothing else matters.

Because at this point, Jungkook knows... he wants everything with you, too. He’s always wanted it. A future where your laughter fills the air, where your shared dreams come to life.

A home that feels alive because you’re in it, your warmth lighting every corner. A family that grows in love and chaos, where his mornings start with you by his side and his nights end the same way.

It’s you... only you. The only constant in every vision he’s ever had of his future. The one person who makes him feel like he’s enough, like he’s whole.

As the kiss deepens, Jungkook’s hands slide to the nape of your neck, his fingers threading gently through your hair. It’s as though he’s anchoring himself in this moment, desperate to make it last forever, to ground himself in the reality that you’re here, with him, choosing him.

But then, you pull back, your hands pressing lightly against his chest, breaking the moment. “Wait…” you breathe out, your voice trembling slightly. The sudden shift leaves Jungkook momentarily dazed, confusion flickering in his eyes as his hands hover near you, reluctant to let you go entirely.

You bring up the box in your hand, holding it out to him. “Mama…” you start, swallowing hard as if the weight of the moment is catching up to you. “Mama told me to give this to you.” you say, your voice soft.

Jungkook’s brows knit together as he glances at the box, his confusion deepening. The mention of your mother makes his posture stiffen. “What is it?” he asks softly, his voice cautious as he hesitantly takes the box from you.

“I don’t know.” you admit, shaking your head. “But she said… it’s something you need to see.”

Jungkook lets out a shaky breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he stares at the box in his hands. A storm of emotions brews inside him... apprehension, curiosity, even a flicker of hope but mostly, there’s a gnawing sense of dread.

He doesn’t know what to expect, but his mind is already spiraling. Is this going to be another sign of disapproval? Another way to remind him he’ll never measure up, never truly belong?

He forces himself to stop, shaking off the intrusive thoughts as he carefully lifts the lid. His heart pounds in his chest, his breathing shallow as he peers inside. And then his breath hitches.

Inside the box is a photo frame. The wooden edges are simple but elegant, smooth beneath his fingertips as he picks it up. His eyes fall on the picture encased within, and his lips part in quiet disbelief.

It’s a photograph... a snapshot from the day of the tea ceremony, the first time Jungkook met your family.

In the picture, he stands slightly stiff beside you, surrounded by your family. At the center sits your grandmother, her expression serene yet proud, flanked by your parents on either side. Beside your mother stand Taehyung and Miyeon, their bright smiles radiating warmth.

On the opposite side, next to your father, it’s you and Jungkook. You’re beaming at the camera, your joy evident and infectious, while Jungkook offers a softer smile, his hand resting securely in yours.

Jungkook remembers that day vividly. How awkward he’d felt, how he’d hesitated when you asked him to join the family photo. He’d insisted it wasn’t his place, that he didn’t belong.

But you had convinced him, tugging him to your side with a reassuring smile that melted his defenses. Even then, he had been aware of your mother’s watchful gaze, uncertain if his presence in the frame would be seen as an intrusion.

His gaze lingers on the photo now, taking in every detail. But it’s not just the image that strikes him... it’s the frame. The way it borders the picture, enclosing the memory within its sturdy embrace.

The frame, with its polished wooden edges, doesn’t trap the image but preserves it, making it whole. In this small, simple structure, he sees the way this memory is safeguarded, cherished, and elevated.

And in that same breath, it strikes him... this is what belonging feels like. This frame doesn’t exclude him… it includes him. It holds him within its bounds, just as you do, just as your family does, and now, even your mother.

And it hits him all at once.

He belongs. He belongs inside the frame.

The realization washes over him like a tidal wave, a flood of warmth and emotion that he can’t contain. The photograph isn’t just a picture... it’s a symbol. A message from your mother.

It’s her unmistakable way of telling him that she no longer sees him as a blemish or an imperfection in an otherwise perfect picture... that he’s no longer an outsider.

This was her approval, her apology, her final affirmation that he belongs... to you, to your family, and to everything that makes you who you are.

His throat tightens, his chest swelling with an overwhelming mix of emotions... relief, gratitude, love. His eyes, brimming with unshed tears, flicker to yours. You’re watching him intently, your own emotions mirrored in your gaze.

“I belong…” he whispers, the words trembling on his lips, as though uttering them aloud might shatter the delicate truth he’s only just beginning to grasp. His gaze meets yours, and his soft, incredulous smile carries the weight of disbelief, hope, and a longing he can finally put to rest. “I… I belong.”

You nod, stepping closer until your hand gently covers his. “You always have, Kook. You’ve always belonged.” you whisper, your voice tender but certain, as though sealing a promise he hadn’t realized you’d made long ago.

In an instant, he shifts the frame and box into one hand, his other arm pulling you tightly into his chest. The embrace feels like a shield, a cocoon against the noise and chaos of the world around you.

You wrap your arms around him in return, holding on as though you might never let go. The distant hum of airport announcements fades, muffled and irrelevant, as the two of you become the center of each other’s universe.

“I love you, Kook.” you say softly, your voice barely audible against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He nods, pressing his cheek against the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair.

“I love you too.” he whispers and when he pulls back, it’s just enough to look into your eyes. Without hesitation, he leans down, his lips capturing yours in another kiss.

But this kiss is different. It’s not just a declaration of love... it’s everything. It’s the apology he never got to fully say, the gratitude he feels for your unwavering faith in him, and the silent vow that he’s yours, now and forever.

When you finally part, your cheeks are damp, and so are his, but neither of you care. You smile up at him, teary-eyed but radiant, and he mirrors your expression, his face soft with wonder and relief, as though the final piece of the puzzle has clicked into place.

“God...” you laugh suddenly, breaking the moment with a sheepish grin. “I just realized…I’m still in my nightgown. I probably gave everyone a show running like a maniac through the airport.”

Jungkook blinks, suddenly becoming aware of your surroundings. “Shit, baby, you should’ve changed! Aren’t you cold?” His hands instinctively move away from you and within seconds, he’s shrugging off his coat.

“Kook, I’m fine.” you protest lightly, but he’s already draping the thick fabric over you with careful precision, his brows furrowed in concern. “Still...” he mutters, stepping back to adjust the coat around you. “You could’ve caught a cold. What were you thinking?”

You slip your arms into the sleeves and laugh. “I wasn’t thinking. I just had to get to you.”

From a short distance away, Jungkook’s mother watches the two of you in silence, her luggage resting by her side. Her lips curve into a faint smile as she observes her son, who had been so weighed down by sorrow just days ago, now standing tall and glowing in your presence.

Relief floods her heart, seeing him laugh, seeing him love, and most of all, seeing him be loved in return.

The sharp crackle of the intercom shatters the stillness, the announcement of your flight echoing through the terminal. “Wow...” he murmurs, exhaling deeply. The reality of it all is finally settling in. “This is it, huh?”

“We’re going back to New York together.” you remind him with a smile, and he nods, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Wait, though...” he says, his brows knitting together in sudden confusion. “Where’s your luggage?”

You grin, a mischievous twinkle lighting your eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have it arranged.” you say. He laughs, shaking his head in affectionate disbelief because he had momentarily forgotten who is girlfriend really was. “Of course, you will.” he says.

As the two of you turn to walk towards the gate, your hand in his, you spot his mother by the seats. She holds her luggage now in one hand, her posture relaxed, her expression warm. You offer her a shy, almost apologetic smile, and she returns it with one of quiet approval.

Just before Jungkook can lift his bag, you pause, tilting your head towards him with a playful smirk. “Kook...” you begin. “You know my family has ties with the airline, right?”

“Yeah…?” He narrows his eyes, already sensing where this is going. “So…” you drawl, dragging out the moment. “I might have upgraded our seats to business class again.”

epilogue

7 months later;

"And you may now kiss the bri—"

The words barely leave the officiant's lips before the room erupts into cheers and applause as Jungkook steps forward with a wide, boyish grin, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you into a kiss that’s nothing short of passionate.

The world around you blurs as he leans you back ever so slightly, his lips molding perfectly to yours, and the crowd’s whoops and claps grow louder, egging him on.

You can’t help but giggle against his lips, your bouquet clutched tightly in one hand while your other arm winds its way around his shoulders.

“Woohoooo! My baby sister is finally married!” Taehyung’s voice booms above the commotion, his excitement cutting through the noise like a firecracker. His dramatic declaration sends a ripple of laughter through the room, the joyful energy bouncing off every corner of the hall.

Jungkook pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughs softly, clearly enjoying the infectious joy of the moment.

You smile radiantly at Jungkook before intertwining your fingers with his and walking down the aisle together. The flower petals fall gently from above, catching the golden light like tiny, delicate whispers of a blessing, creating a dreamy haze that feels almost surreal.

The crowd's cheers and laughter are like a harmonious melody, and you can’t help but laugh softly as you wave to your friends and cousins, who coo and awe over the two of you.

Playfully, you lift your hand, wiggling your fingers to show off your ring, earning exaggerated gasps and more cheers. Jungkook chuckles beside you, squeezing your hand affectionately as his eyes scan the sea of familiar faces.

His gaze lands first on his mother, seated near the aisle, her hands clasped tightly together as she watches her son with pride. She’s smiling... a smile so genuine and full of love that it makes his heart ache in the best way. He smiles back, his lips curving into something soft, something grateful, and then his attention shifts.

He spots Yoongi next, standing amidst the crowd, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a grin. Yoongi raises his hand, offering Jungkook a thumbs-up with a playful holler that has the people around him laughing. Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head slightly but appreciating the support from his closest friend.

Then, his eyes drift to the other side of the room, and they find your mother. She’s radiant, as always, with an elegance that commands attention without effort. But what truly catches him off guard is her expression.

When their eyes meet, it’s not the cold, scrutinizing gaze he once feared... it’s warm. Her smile is soft, genuine, and holds something he never thought he’d see... acceptance.

The world seems to slow for a moment as she dips her head slightly, a silent gesture of approval, a mother’s quiet way of saying... Take care of my daughter. Always keep her happy.

Jungkook feels his throat tighten, emotions bubbling to the surface as he nods subtly in return with his own silent promise... I will. Always.

<-part 7

—fin. ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

series masterlist

my masterlist <3

series taglist: @mirinaeii @taetaecatboy @tsukiesimp @lovingkoalaface @taekrve @jaytheatiny @loverofannabeth @jaerisdiction @whoa-jo @parkinglot-nights @reneeblack6230 @rrosiitas @shellyyy177 @majesticjung-97 @wobblewobble822 @primadonnasdream

permanent taglist: @rpwprpwprpwprw @kimyishin @somehowukook @allie-in-the-moon @nightappple @jksoftii @mimi1097 @yooforeaa @jkaxl @jinglthembalslikethat @puppybunnyjkay @jiijeon97 @ninisica @rerefundslocals @kgamboa11 @lizzikoo @madussthoughts @kelsyx33 @mafersame @yoonstaar @autumnbear @taetaecatboy @goldenjeonkoo @dragonflygurl4 @fairypjminie @claudialemusr @kooko007 @matryoshka-poetry @strawberrymangoshortcake (let me know if you wanted to be added !! <3)

251 notes · View notes

roseyodditea · 3 months ago

Note

Hello, I really love your Harumasas work! I hope you always stay healthy and happy! May I request Harumasa x reader which Harumasa first time caught up reader doing cutting/selfharm? He's really good at comforting people who's suicidal, I think he's good at comforting his BF/GF who's suicidal too ...

I tried to write this more from Harumasa's perspective and left the reader's mental health issues vague in order to attempt to comfort the most amount of people. I remember how comforting fics like this were when I was in the throws of my mental health problems. I hope I did it justice

At Least for the Night - Harumasa x gn!Reader

Summary -> 1.5k words. Harumasa comforts you once he deduces a secret you were trying to hide. Warnings -> Self harm, injuries, blood, medical supplies, please protect your peace and skip this fic if you need to

Harumasa crouched in front of your bathroom sink, digging around for the bandages you said were in there. A wound from a Hollow opened up while you two were having a dinner date at your apartment and he wanted to clean it up before he risked infection. He reached for the first aid kit and opened it, his instincts from being surrounded by medical supplies kicking into high gear. He grabbed the ointment and the wrap bandages and something in his mind screamed in alarm, but he was a bit preoccupied to notice what it was.

He was used to the cold feeling of the cream on the wound on his arm, and he was quick to wrap it before neatly repacking the first aid kit. It wasn’t until he closed the lid that his brain finally caught up to what he subconsciously noticed. He opened the kit back up, his eyes scanning over every supply. They all matched the brand of the kit, all being used at an expected rate for someone like you… but the bandages. He flipped through the adhesive bandages again, noticing a lot of the ones left were the smaller, unusable ones of about six different brands. The bigger ones were all used up, and the roll of cloth bandages was a different brand from every single adhesive one he found.

Harumasa sat on your bathroom floor, his mind going into overdrive as he tried to think of a logical reason for this. The first aid kit was less than a year old going off of the packaging of the lesser used supplies, but you seemed to go through so many bandages. He stared intently as he washed his hands, scanning your bathroom sink for any hints. He looked for anything that would hint why you’d need so many bandages. Blood thinners maybe? Childrens bathroom supplies in case you had a niece or a nephew that were a bit clumsy? He tried not to let himself get caught up on it. He dried his hands before he closed the kit and slipped it back under the sink, standing up and walking back to the kitchen where you were cleaning up after dinner.

He felt bad being as scrutinizing as he was, but his eyes scanned you, that cold and calculating look of a scout covering up the normally soft look you say from your boyfriend. You glanced back, a bit uneasy with how he was staring at you. “Uhh.. You found them alright?” You ask, desperately trying to break the tension.

“Yeah. I found your bandages. A lot of bandages, actually.” He said, his interrogation tactics he had learned from Section Six starting to shine uncomfortably in the safe environment of the apartment you had worked so hard to curate.

“Is that a problem?” “Do you have something to tell me?” He stepped close, making you feel trapped against the sink.

“Haru, what’s going on?” You tried to change the subject defensively, shifting and trying to ignore the way your pants scraped against the semi fresh scabs hidden underneath.

Harumasa softened a bit, letting out a breath. “I’m just worried. I’ve been surrounded by doctors all my life and I’d like to know if my absolutely lovely partner was having some health complications.” He eased up and took your hand before kissing it, slyly watching the way your sleeve fell naturally. Seeing nothing, he knew he’d have to change his tactic.

“No health complications. Just clumsy I guess.” You respond, turning back to the sink. Harumasa wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder, watching you wash dishes. He didn’t say anything else, just… watching. “Are you alright?” Even if he didn’t have hard evidence, Harumasa had been recognizing the signs for a while now. He prayed he was wrong and just paranoid, but the bandages were the last nail in the coffin of his suspicions. He held you tighter and hid his face in your neck. “I love you. I’d be devastated without you.” You froze, wondering if he actually knew or if it was a wild guess. “What are you-” “Don’t. Please don’t lie to me.” He pleaded, genuinely emotional. “You don’t have to defend yourself, you don’t have to explain a thing, you don’t even have to promise you won’t do it again. Look, (y/n), I get it, I do. But I want you to be better, and I know that can’t happen overnight. So let’s take it one step at a time. Are you alright with that?”

Tears gathered in your eyes no matter how much you tried to will them away. Having this… angel leaning on your shoulder, holding out a hand to help you felt so terrifying. “I… I don’t know the steps. I don’t know what to do.” “That’s not what I asked. I asked if you’re alright taking it one step at a time.” He comforted, squeezing you close. “Do you want to change? That’s the first step.”

“I want to get better.” Your voice cracks out weakly, your hands starting to shake around the plate you were rinsing off. Harumasa took it out of your hands and kissed your cheek gently.

“Good. Good… Do you currently have any injuries?” You nod hesitantly, not fighting back as he turns off the sink and leads you to sit on the couch. He rubbed different shapes on your shoulder. Square, circle, triangle, back to square. He repeated the pattern a couple times before switching the order, giving you something grounding to focus on. He took your hand and placed it on his chest and took deep breaths, helping you focus on your own breathing.

“Can you tell me where they are?” He asked, his golden eyes filled with tenderness, not an ounce of judgement. Even as you gestured to your thighs, he didn’t look at you with pity. “Can I see them? Touch them?” He asked and let out a breath as you nodded. You shimmied out of your pants so he could see the hastily thrown on bandages. He lifted one of the cloth wrappings around your thigh to peek and nodded. “You stay right here. I’m going to go grab the first aid kit and show you how to take care of them properly, okay?” Once again you nodded, more tears spilling.

He came back and sank to his knees in front of the couch, gingerly unwrapping and removing every bandage so he could see the old, new, and scarred cuts across your thighs. He assessed the damage before depositing some of the topical antibiotic onto his fingers, gently rubbing it over every scab and open wound.

“Aren’t you supposed to be lecturing me? Telling me never to do this again? And how I’m hurting the people around me?” You tried to steel yourself, pushing down those tears and building your mental walls back up.

“I suppose I could, but I don’t think that would be very beneficial.” He said gently. “I’m more worried about harm reduction right now. If you’re set on hurting yourself, taking away everything you have to do it with will just lead to you getting creative and dangerous. I’d rather make sure you know how to care for injuries so you don’t risk infection. We can work on breaking these habits later. One baby step at a time.”

Silence hung too comfortably for the circumstance. You expected more yelling and disappointment when he learned this about you. You expected him to leave and never turn back. You expected anything but this wonderfully gentle man taking care of you with a tenderness you never thought anyone would show you. More tears spilled down your cheeks, but this wasn’t the hot, suffocating tears you tried to choke back earlier, but instead warm tears full of a feeling you had only dreamed of.

“Can you stay tonight?” The question didn’t even finish leaving your mouth before Harumasa nodded. He tugs the bandages into place, making sure they were more secure than the last set you had hastily thrown on. He sat on the couch and opened his arms, happily accepting you and all your baggage into his loving embrace.

“Of course. I’ll stay the night and I’ll hold you or just sit next to you or whatever you need.” He reassured, kissing the top of your head and squeezing you into him.

“I think… I just need you for now. At least for the night.” You mumbled against his chest, happy to relax against him.

“Well, unfortunately for you, you’ve got me for a lot longer than just one measly night.” He smiled as he heard a soft chuckle leave your lips.

Hotlines for different countries -> https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines

A/N -> Remember there's always avenues to get help or support no matter what stage of life you're at. Stay strong, and remember even a single spec of improvement is still improvement! <3

#oneshot #harumasa x reader #zzz harumasa #asaba harumasa

135 notes · View notes

onepieceisreeeeaaalll · 5 months ago

Text

HOW THEY EAT

Hey! I wanted to add another piece of kinktober content even if I’m not doing the daily challenge. I’ve recently had more free time so I’ve been writing again. I plan on putting up more SFW content and drabbles soon, but I’m admittedly having way too much fun writing smut lol.

CHARACTERS: Law, Zoro, and Sanji

CW: NSFW!! Afab reader x Character; manhandling with Zoro; mention of overstimulation; (sort of) dom Law and dom Zoro

Only did a little bit of proof-reading so I might edit as I go. Enjoy!

Edited for redundancies.

———————————————

LAW - Deliberate

Law is a man who takes his time. His whole life has been so fast-paced, urgent and exhausting in its own right. So, when it comes to pleasuring his woman, Law is insistent in the fact that he wants to take his time. After all, the best things in life are savored, right?

Mussed black hair is all you can see just barely peeking over your breasts, his head snug between your legs. His lips trail and nip over your inner thighs, sucking and leaving small red and purple marks in their wake. With every small, wanton sigh and gasp that leaves you, Law knows he’s doing a good job. Praise is his love language, after all, though he'd never admit that.

His breath ghosts delicately over the lips of your pussy, puffs of air that come between kitten licks against your skin. He savors the descent, relishing in every little noise and twitch of your body. It’s not until you’re practically whining for more contact that he finally kisses at your needy, aching clit. The movement is testing, always careful to see just how much you want him. If he decides you don’t want him enough, he’ll return his attention back to your thighs. Those occasions when you aren’t ready, he’ll bite at your stomach and thighs until you’re a panting, tortured mess. The majority of the time, though, he’s fairly practiced at getting you there with ease. So, after kissing at your clit, he’ll lick a delicate strip along your slit with the tip of his tongue.

It’s when he hears you breathe a curse under your breath, or moan his name softly, that he’ll formally dig into the bountiful feast before him. Strong hands hold your thighs apart with a firm, needy grip.

One thing about Law is that he really knows how to use his tongue. Sharp, cutting remarks somehow translate to the way it curls and laps over you in the bedroom. He is incredibly skilled and always intentional with it. With a flat tongue, he’ll begin where he thinks best to get you aroused, that beautiful bundle of nerves that sits atop your anatomy. He loves this point of contact, using his tongue to slowly circle your clit with the tip of his tongue before flattening it to stimulate it up and down, side to side. It’s slow, deliberate, and meant to very carefully curate specific responses from you. Eventually, if you’re twitching and begging for more, he’ll keep licking and sucking at his own pace to try and draw as much pleasure from you as possible.

If this wasn’t enough, when he’s trying to build you up, he’ll use that tongue of his to speak the filthiest, most possessive things possible against your flesh.

”Mmm…fuck, (y/n). Tastes so good for me…all mine.” He’ll mumble after retracting his tongue, the breath over your cunt driving you crazy.

If you whine or complain about the break in contact, he’ll just smirk, his eyes tearing away from his meal to look up at you. Law's eyes are always dark with pupils blown out from lust. The look alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

”Look at you, so impatient. So goddamn needy.” Law smirks, “And so loud. What did I say about keeping quiet? You’re gonna have to try harder than that. Or should I just stop, since you can’t follow a simple rule?”

When you shake your head quickly in response, trying to prove that you’ll be good - you’ll be patient, quiet. He lets out a small hum against your cunt. He’ll click his tongue almost teasingly, as if trying to use the sound alone to drive you crazy. He loves when you become a desperate, pleading mess. There’s nothing more beautiful to him.

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like that.” He'll pause, moving his tongue to trace slowly back and forth over your clitoris. “Be a good girl and keep that mouth shut.”

It’s when his tongue moves lower, lapping to tease at your entrance before sliding tantalizingly slow up to your clit that he really has his fun. Once again, Law takes his time between these two locations - it’s about the journey, not the destination. Not that you agree, of course, but he wants to show you how much better things are his way.

He'll continue like this, moving back and forth between teasing your entrance and your clit. It's almost like a game to him to see how slow he can go before you're absolutely a keening, sweaty, panting mess. Law will chuckle to himself, sending vibrations through your flesh. Once again, this is intentional, just as everything is. This man knows what he's doing and he lives for the thrill of seeing what he’s done to you. It’s his own way of marking you - reminding you that no one else has this power over you. Just Law.

When he's finally had his fun, that's when he'll finally satiate both of your growing need to see you orgasm. Using his tongue, he'll quicken the pace of his movements, entering your aching pussy and rubbing his nose into your clit. He eats with a new sense of determination with the sole intention of getting you off. If he decides you're being too loud, he won't bother to vocally reprimand you again, instead opting to reach up and shove his fingers into your mouth. If you suck on them, he'll reward you with a groan and a strip of his tongue to your clit.

Law won’t stop until he's pulled at least two orgasms from you. It's only when his dick is throbbing painfully against his pants that he'll finally relent, kissing up your body and positioning himself to fuck you stupid.

———————————————

ZORO - Hungry

Zoro is the kind of man who eats his meal like he's been starving for weeks. It doesn't matter how long it's been since he's last eaten you out. To him, it's seemingly never enough. The swordsman is insatiable and you damn well know that when he wants something, he gets it. If you don’t give it to him, he’ll take it. Not that you’re complaining.

“Get on the bed. Now.”

It's not a request. It's a demand.

If he's had a hard day, he's been known to launch you onto the bed himself with a searing, rough kiss. Nothing about this man is gentle, not even the way he is with you. Zoro likes to manhandle, though he’ll always be careful enough to not hurt you. He just has a lot of pent up energy and is more than willing to show you just how much he wants you, pushing beyond his stoicism to make his desires known. He’ll never use words to tell you that he likes to eat you out, but he doesn’t have to. Zoro is a man of action and it shows.

Sometimes he won't even wait until you're fully undressed. Zoro will drag you to the edge of the bed and hook his strong arms under your thighs to pull you close. He'll begin licking you over your panties with a flat tongue, the smell of your arousal elicits grunts and groans from him. When the fabric is so wet from the combination of your slick and his saliva, he'll finally pull them aside or rip them off to remove any barriers. If there are a few words that can best describe Zoro when it comes to oral, it's impatient, greedy, and voracious.

His tongue immediately delves into your folds and licks at your entrance. He'll move his tongue up to your clit in aggressive, hungry laps before sucking on your labia. No flesh goes untouched by him. Zoro isn't one to half-ass anything he really cares about and your pleasure is no exception. When he begins to eat you, he'll go full-throttle. He's a disciplined man - he has to be in order to meet his goal of becoming the world’s greatest swordsman. When it comes to you, though, there's no sign of restraint. Zoro doesn't just eat, he consumes.

Zoro is messy. Saliva will mix with your juices on his cheeks, his nose, and drip down his chin. He doesn't care about staying clean, he can deal with it later. For now, all he can focus on is the ambrosial sight before him and the pretty sounds coming from your lips. God, he loves the way you sound. The noises alone are enough to make him double his efforts as a reward for how good you’re reacting to him. In fact, if he doesn't think you're being loud enough, he might reach a hand up to slide over your stomach to your chest, fondling a breast and pulling at your nipple. He's also been known to pull you further off the bed, using his strength to hold you up just so he can have access to slap your ass. Every yelp or whine from you results in a groan from him that vibrates over your folds.

He will return every noise you make ten-fold. He’s typically pretty quiet outside of the bedroom, but when it comes to sex, he doesn’t hold back. He wants everyone to hear how good he’s making you feel and how good you’re making him feel. It’s his way of showing off, the possessive and gloating mean-streak showing. Zoro will groan loudly against you, grunting and slurping in order to make sure you know just how much he’s loving every second of eating you out.

Zoro loves to tongue-fuck you more than anything. He’s gotten into the habit of bringing a thumb around to focus on your clitoris while he reaches as deep as he can. To him, it’s one of the most arousing, sensual things he’s ever experienced. Feeling your soft, velvet walls constricting against the muscle of his tongue is downright erotic to him in every sense of the word. Sometimes, he'll pull out just to dirty talk to you, though most of the time, he's too focused on the task at hand. The times he talks dirty, though, his voice is gruff and low. He gets drunk on pussy the same way he does saké.

“So tight for me already. Guess I'm not fucking you enough.” He'll mumble, placing kisses against you before diving right back in. He doesn't even care if you respond, all he wants is to continue his meal.

All the while, his calloused thumb is working over your clit with a renewed sense of urgency. He's not gentle, but he’s careful enough to make sure the feeling isn’t too overwhelming or painful. His digit will move back and forth, sometimes up and down depending on his mood, pressing at a moderately fast rate. When he feels like you aren't reacting the way he wants, he'll press against the delicate bundle slightly harder but at a slower, agonizing pace. He's also a fan of tracing his tongue back up to make sure it's wet enough for his thumb to glide over you with ease.

He won't even bother counting the orgasms he pulls from you - he'll eat until he's full. When he's finally satisfied, when you're an absolute babbling wreck above him, he'll finally pull away to take his cock out in preparation for a very, very long night. Zoro always leaves a clean plate.

———————————————

SANJI - Dedicated

The curly-browed cook has always appreciated a good culinary experience. When it comes to your pussy, though, it's almost ritualistic the way he consumes. Like any good cook, he doesn't just eat, he tastes. There's a sort of reverence that comes from Sanji's handling of you, as if he's a lowly servant worshipping some kind of ancient goddess. If you asked him about it, he'd tell you exactly that - he's appreciating the body of someone who he doesn't deserve. If you tell him that he does deserve you, he won't have it. To him, you're so beautiful and above him that its not even quantifiable.

Sanji wants you to be comfortable, laid out on the bed and already undressed. He'll start at your ankles, slowly kissing up your legs to appreciate every inch of your lower body. He'll take his time, whispering compliments against your skin as he runs his hands along your calves and thighs. Sometimes he'll take the time to massage you, but this depends on how patient he is. After a particularly long day, he'll settle for cutting to the usual routine, though he'll never skip the legs. Sanji is a legs man, through and through.

“Mon coeur, so perfect…you're so soft.” He'll murmur, his lips ghosting soft trails over your knee. “I can't wait to make you come, angel.”

Sanji will fluctuate between using his tongue and his lips on his slow ascension towards your pussy. He can already feel you shaking for him, and if you complain, he'll laugh softly against your skin and apologize. After all, he's not cruel. He knows exactly what you're wanting and he's not one to let his woman suffer and beg.

He'll gently run his hands over your thighs before kissing over the lips of your cunt. Sanji treats your pussy lips the same way he treats the lips of your face - the kisses are gentle, heated, and intense. His gaze will never leave yours. He wants to look at you while he goes down on you if for nothing more than to see those beautiful eyes looking down at him.

When he finishes his gentle ministrations, he'll take his time licking long strips over your slit with a flat tongue, lingering on your clit where he'll dig in side to side with the tip of his tongue. He loves the way you moan, the soft sighs that leave you, and he'll smile easily against your flesh.

Sanji likes to taste every part of you he can. He'll lick and gently suck at your clit, your labia, and of course your entrance. He'll circle around the entrance, bringing his tongue back up gently to your clit. He likes to taste everywhere he can, to savor the rich aroma that comes from your pussy. He'll fluctuate between licking and kissing at you, continuing to whisper praises.

“You're so amazing, so gorgeous…so delicious.” He'll say before diving his tongue into your entrance, moaning into your skin. His hands will run up and down your thighs, holding them apart gently so that they don't close over his head. He's a fan of your thighs closing around his head, but he likes to wait until he's made you orgasm before he lets it happen. It's like a reward for his efforts.

One of his favorite ways to drag an orgasm out of you is to pull his tongue from your entrance, licking and sucking at your clit gently while fingering you. Sanji is very good with his hands. He’s a chef, after all. He’ll ease one finger into you at a time, focusing on the way you tighten around them. When he feels you pulse or flutter in that very specific way that tells him you’re close, he’ll curl his fingers and tease at your g-spot. When you do come, he’ll bring his tongue back down to your entrance and pull his fingers out, lapping at the pooling liquid. Sanji swears nothing tastes better than your pussy when you come.

Sanji doesn't eat with the intention of getting his own pleasure afterwards, though he'll palm himself as he works to ease the tension in his pants. He especially likes it if he can feel your leg or foot brush against his erection. He swears that he can come just from the sight and feeling of you finishing on his tongue. It's an addiction that he's developed, and he's not sure if he can ever fuck you properly without eating you out first. Your pleasure matters to him and it's shown in the way he effortlessly moves his tongue across your folds.

Sanji will bring you to orgasm as long as you'll let him. He doesn't want to hurt or overstimulate you, but he'll go seemingly for hours if you'll let him. When you've finally had enough, tugging on his hair as your signal, he'll kiss up your thighs and stomach until he reaches up to your face. He'll let you suck your juices from his tongue and lips, a small smile lighting up his face.

“What do you think, beautiful? Tastes good, right?”

Sanji always cares about your opinion of his work, whether it be cooking or the way he pleasures you.

#one piece #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #sanji x reader #zoro x reader #black leg sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa smut #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #one piece smut #one piece lemon #kinktober

282 notes · View notes

paucubarsisimp · 13 days ago

Note

Thank you so much for a Jude fic! Pls could you do another with Jude of reader comparing herself to models on instagram and thinking of getting surgery or something to appear more attractive and more of a typical wag. Jude finds out and he’s broken that you feel this, he reassures you telling you loves you just the way you are and that you don’t need to change.

insecure

pairing: jude bellingham x reader

summary: in which you don’t feel like you’re enough for jude

warnings: angst, insecurities

a/n: please leave some fluff requests, i’ve been writing too much angst lately 😭

tagged: @barcapix, @universefcb

the quiet of the room felt almost suffocating, the kind of stillness that made every passing second stretch into eternity. you sat on the edge of the bed, the cool glow of your phone casting shadows over your face. you scrolled aimlessly, your mind not really absorbing what you were seeing, but your eyes couldn’t help but land on one perfect image after another.

a picture of a wag in a sleek black dress, her face framed by soft curls and glowing skin, her figure tall and impossibly slim. she looked like she belonged to a different world—one that was untouchable.

then another. a model with a smile so flawless it almost felt too perfect to be real. and the comments… the adoration, the hearts, the likes pouring in.

you caught yourself biting your lip, a wave of insecurity crashing over you. why did it feel like you were never enough? you knew these women were carefully curated versions of themselves, but it didn’t matter. the comparison still stung. you couldn’t stop thinking that no matter what you did, you’d never look like them. never feel like you measured up.

your fingers hovered over the screen, scrolling through the photos. your reflection in the glass of your phone was a stark contrast to the flawless images you were absorbing.

maybe if i lost a little here… or… i could get a little work done. just a little surgery. a tweak here and there.

the thought was dangerous, but it had been creeping into your mind more frequently lately. if you could just change a few things, you might finally feel like you belonged in that world. maybe then, you wouldn’t feel so… invisible.

the door creaked, and you didn’t even hear him come in. jude stood in the doorway, his presence filling the room without saying a word. his eyes immediately landed on you, but more importantly, on the phone in your hands. he watched for a moment before his voice, soft but filled with concern, broke through the silence.

“hey, you okay?”

you didn’t look at him right away. you couldn’t. not when the weight of the world was crashing down on you. you bit your lip, trying to keep the sting of your own insecurities from spilling out. “yeah. just… tired,” you murmured, hoping he’d believe the lie. you quickly glanced down at your phone again, pretending to scroll through something, anything to avoid meeting his gaze.

he didn’t buy it. jude never did. he stepped into the room, his presence gentle but insistent, and sat next to you, his eyes never leaving your face.

“i know that look,” he said quietly. “what’s going on, babe? talk to me.”

you swallowed, feeling the lump in your throat grow, the vulnerability inside you growing heavier. there was no hiding it anymore, not from him. not from someone who knew you better than you knew yourself.

“it’s stupid,” you whispered, voice shaky, not trusting yourself to speak louder. “i just… i don’t look like them, jude. the models, the wags, the way everyone looks… they look perfect. they have everything. and i don’t. i just feel like… like i’m not good enough. not for you, not for this life. not for anything.”

jude’s brow furrowed in confusion, a wave of pain crossing his face. he’d never seen you like this before—so raw, so exposed. so unlike the confident, strong person he knew you to be. but it was clear now—your mind was trapped in a spiral you couldn’t break free from.

“what are you talking about?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion, as he reached for your hands, trying to ground you, to pull you back from the edge. but you pulled away slightly, unable to meet his eyes. the shame felt too heavy to bear.

“maybe i could do something about it,” you said, so quietly that you almost didn’t recognize the words coming from your own mouth. “maybe i could… get surgery. just a little here and there. to fix… fix what’s wrong with me.”

jude recoiled as if you’d slapped him, his face draining of color for a moment. you couldn’t read the expression on his face, but it was almost like the breath had been knocked out of him. his grip on your hand tightened, and he pulled you closer, looking straight into your eyes, searching for the truth beneath your words.

“don’t you dare,” he said, his voice a mixture of hurt and disbelief. “don’t you ever think for one second that you need to change. you’re perfect, just the way you are. you’re my perfect.”

you shook your head, your heart racing as you felt the tears welling up in your eyes. “but i’m not, jude,” you whispered. “i’m not like them. they have everything. the body, the face, the life. they look like they belong in this world, and i feel like… like i’m just standing on the outside looking in.”

the tears finally slipped down your cheeks, and you could feel the weight of everything crashing down on you. you couldn’t explain why it felt so impossible to just feel okay with yourself—why you felt like you’d never measure up. but the pain of not feeling good enough, of not feeling beautiful enough, hurt more than you could ever put into words.

“you don’t need any of that,” jude said, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was a fierceness in it that took you by surprise. “you are everything i’ve ever wanted. you’re perfect just as you are. i think you’re perfect. i love you, just the way you are. you don’t need to look like anyone else. you don’t need to be anyone else. you are enough, do you hear me?”

the intensity in his words made you falter, and for a second, you believed him. but the doubt in your chest refused to loosen its grip.

“but what if i don’t feel like i am? what if i don’t feel like… i’m enough?” you whispered, the question hanging in the air like a heavy fog.

jude’s eyes softened, and he wiped away your tears, his thumb gently tracing the path of each drop as if it could erase your pain. “then let me remind you every single day. you are enough. don’t you see? i’m the one who gets to call you mine. and that means everything to me. i don’t want you to change. i want you just the way you are.”

you didn’t know how to respond. the weight of your insecurities felt so much heavier when he said it, like you didn’t deserve his love, his belief in you. like you weren’t worthy of it. but jude wasn’t giving up on you. not now, not ever.

“you don’t need to change anything,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms. “you’re already everything i could ever need. please, just let me love you the way you are. because i don’t need anything else.”

your body shook with the release of all the emotions you had bottled up. the weight of his words, the truth that pierced through the fog of your self-doubt, was like a healing balm. you melted into him, feeling the heat of his love seep through your skin, into the broken pieces of yourself you’d been trying to fix.

“i love you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“i love you too,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “just as you are.”

and for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

#football #footballer x reader #football imagine #jude bellingham angst #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham #bellingham #jb5 #jude bellingham imagine

78 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

Text

Code of Conduct 5

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss has a difficult time keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work.

Characters: Steve Rogers, this reader is known as Rosie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Mr. Rogers leaves without saying a word. His face is pale as his hand opens and closes in a fist at his side and he strides past your desk. You watch after him, thinking for a moment that you should follow. No, he has to sort this out on his own. You’ve already done too much.

You go through his calendar and cancel his only other meeting. You don’t think that’s going to happen.

It’s strange sitting there alone. Mr. Rogers comes and goes often but not know when he’ll be back puts you on edge. An hour passes then another. You spend your lunch outside in the sunshine then come back in to the stale office air.

Your phone rings and you answer. You’re surprised when Rogers’ voice comes from the speaker. You expected it to be Dizzie for some reason. She’s been awfully quiet today.

“She changed the locks,” he croaks.

There’s static on the line and thrum that’s so loud it nearly drowns him out.

“Sir?” You sit up straight.

“Peggy. She locked me out. I don’t... I don’t know what to do. I’ve just been sitting here in my car...” his voice is a dull murmur.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers. Is that—can she do that? Can you call your lawyer? The police?”

“Police told me to call the lawyer. Lawyer says it’s gonna take a while so... yeah.”

“I’m so so sorry,” you touch your cheek. “I can’t even imagine... that’s horrible.”

“Yeah, I mean, who would leave you, Rosie? No, that’d be crazy.” He sniffles, “guess I deserve this. I worked so much, all so I could give her the life she wanted but it turns out I worked just enough to drive her away.”

“Sir,” you utter.

“Guess I could go to a hotel. I mean, might as well spend the money before I have alimony to pay,” he laughs crisply. “Bucky’s not picking up. I thought maybe I could stay there but... just because my life is falling apart doesn’t mean he needs to pick up the pieces.”

He sounds so broken it makes your heart rend. Something about his cadence also worries you. He doesn’t sound healthy.

“Sir, where are you?”

You realise then what that noise is. Water.

“By the bridge. The water looks cold.”

You swallow and stand up. “I’ll come to you, alright?”

“Rosie? Why...”

“Just, it’s okay, sir, I’ll be there. Is that Collingswood Bridge? I love the flowers there.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he answers.

“Alright, I’m on my way okay, so let’s stay on the phone.”

“Rosie, why do you sound so upset?”

“I’m not upset. I just think you need a friend so I’m coming. Did you want me to message Mr. Barnes as well.”

“I told you, he’s too busy for me,” he mopes.

“But just in case--”

“Oh, woah!” He exclaims.

“Sir, what--”

“Nothing, nothing, I just... this bridge is so high up.”

You tamp down your worry and take a breath, “sir, I canceled your meetings. Oh, did I tell you, they’re opening a new donut place downstairs too! I know your favourite is the one with the sprinkles.”

“You remember,” he says softly.

“Of course, sir,” you assure him.

You keep chattering about nothing in particular as you swipe up your bag and race out of the office. You try not let him hear you panting as you rush down to catch a cab. You mute the phone to tell the driver to head to the bridge then get back on the line.

The conversation rolls on as you don’t let Rogers stop talking. You get out with a hasty thanks and tip to the driver. You rush down the bridge without looking ahead and only after you’re halfway down do you see your boss sitting on the railing. Holy moly.

You slow and walk up to him slowly, letting out quiet mhm’s and uh huhs and you grab onto his forearm. He flinches and you tug on him. You won’t be able to stop him from going over if he slips but you didn’t want to just call out to him and give him a warning.

“Rose!” He looks at you and lowers his phone. “How’d you get here?”

“Mr. Rogers, please, will you get off the railing?” You ask softly.

He stares at you then looks out at the water. He laughs and turns to hang his legs over the inside of the bridge. “Sure, Rosie. Were you worried?”

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, sir,” you cling to him until he’s on his feet. He glances down at you grip and you finally let go.

“I’m good. I’m great, now that you’re here. Did you find me a room yet?” He asks.

You wince. You’ve been on the phone this whole time. When does he think you did that?

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Of course, of course,” his eyes are red from tears, his cheeks pallid and streaked.

“Um, I’m sorry, everything’s booked up,” you say, “how about you come to my place? You can stay on my couch. Just for tonight.”

“Really?” His brow wrinkles, “you’d do that for me?”

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. You don’t think leaving him alone right now would be smart. Nor could you forgive yourself if anything happened. “It’s fine. My place is just a bit small.”

“Mm, I don’t mind,” he smiles and pushes his shoulders up in a shiver as a breeze blows across the water. “It’s cold out here.”

“It is, sir,” you agree. “Where did you park?”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #au #bad bosses #code of conduct #drabble #mcu #marvel #avengers #captain america

231 notes · View notes

bunnwich · 10 months ago

Text

It's Supposed to Be Fun

(a letter to my friends in the twst fandom)

I've been wanting to make this post for a while and these thoughts may seem scattered but I’m gonna try to express them.

Lately, I have seen many friends and moots that either are leaving the fandom or feel guilty over not having posted in a while or losing interest in twst. On the other side, I also have friends being harassed.

This a reminder to remember why you joined this community to begin with. I know that keeping up with the fast-moving pace of fandom and comparing ourselves to others, can skew our perspective on these things.

It’s supposed to be fun.

Why do we post art or write? Sure, partly for recognition, there's no denying that. But, why do we create, I mean really? For enjoyment. Not for others, not to be “popular” FOR JOY.

So, whether you’re dealing with people critiquing you or feeling guilty about not creating. My question is this: Why waste so much of your time on something that makes you miserable?

Did it stop being fun? Why? Haters? Loss of interest?

To my friends who feel guilty for not creating and not sure if they lost interest in twst:

Don’t feel guilty. At one time, the creation of your twst content was natural. It's what you did for fun with friends or for yourself. Revisit that mindset and think - if creating twst content now will bring that same joy it did before.

If the answer is no, then maybe it’s time to pivot. It’s okay for interests to fade. It doesn’t mean that time, memories, or the friends you made are lost. Connect with your friends, we will understand! We still love you! It's not a race there's no time limit, just pick up were you want to. Draw fanart of old events or OCs.

To my friends who have been harassed:

I say this with sincerity…. People who harass others over fictional characters are fucking losers.

Like… There’s no other eloquent way to encapsulate it. I’m starting to not care for the reason anymore - If you harass or be shady to others over a ship or fictional character. CONGRATS! YOU ARE A LOSER.

We all join fandoms as a hobby, for fun. We’re all just kids in the sandbox playing pretend again… and if you are the type of person to go up just to “kick the doll out of someone’s hand" or make commentary on how “their way of playing is wrong." You’re a loser. I have a life outside of twst, we all do. Someone saying my ship is wrong or cringe is just so laughable to me. We have to make fun of these people more for being so goddamn lame.

Imagine being so unhappy that when you see someone having fun you HAVE to comment on it. By all means, if it gets you through the day...talk shit to close friends or even post about it on your own blog. (THAT WAS ALWAYS ALLOWED.) Don't bother creators directly. Don't be a loser. I sure see tolerance leave people’s bodies when they see a fandom opinion they don't like. (And this is coming from someone who has lots of opinions on these things! But that's why I always put the disclaimers that, hey this is just MY opinion.)

Discussion is one thing, unhelpful comments are another. We shouldn’t give these people the time of day. Curate your online space. Yes, when you post things online you are subjecting yourself to scrutiny. But, we as creators need to stop letting these people have power over us. Period. We do this for free!! FOR FUN. The best thing you can do is create shamelessly.

Delete weird replies, block whoever you need to do to rid yourself of these people who have nothing better to do. Keep your peace. It’s supposed to be for fun. You don’t owe anyone a response.

The twst fandom is like a little family to me and I guess I feel protective over the people in it? I have made many friends and memories because I joined it. And even dispite a handful of the negative experiences (AKA: A couple of “losers" that I’ve had to deal with.) I’ll always look fondly back on this time.

The key for me has always been to just…create for myself. I originally made bunnwich for me and one friend to make fun little arts about our Yuu’s and now I get to have lots of friends to share it with! I’ve transitioned from an OC blog to probably more of an Oc x Canon blog…but I don’t care tbh. I just…draw what I feel like. I know there are people who probably dislike me for that or feel strange about my content and that’s fine. I’m still gonna keep drawing it, loser.

And I just want you guys to do the same, twst or not.

I can’t forget that all my followers and friends are a bonus, if I had never joined tumblr I’d still be drawing the silly shit I draw in peace. And while yes, I do want to grow as an artist and sell more merch and keep growing... I can’t forget my initial excitement for this silly little game. I like to talk about it. I like to write about it. It inspires me.

It’s supposed to be fun. Please remember that. I know it can be discouraging to have others being shitty to you. Or going through a creative drought. But, try not to let this stop you from creating what you love.

#Anyways just had to get this out #feel free to ignore #I love you guys alot and idk if this is helpful but I hate to see you guys upset #ren speaks🌱#twst

344 notes · View notes

multi-fandomfuckboy · 8 months ago

Text

Stranger Than Fiction

Part 28: Games

Billy Hargrove x Reader (Slowburn)

Part 1,... (Masterlist)...Part 28, Part 29 (Coming Soon)...

AN: lol I'm back on my bullshit. Word Count: 3,874 Warnings: allusions to abuse

It’s a short ride. Neither of you speak, allowing the music to fill the space between you. It’s comfortable. You listen to each song as the cassette plays through the specific mix curated by its maker. Max had shown you a few of these ‘mixtapes' Billy had made the day you waited with her. You don’t fully understand how he’s able to get each song to seamlessly blend into the next despite the variation in artists and rhythms.

Then a song comes on that grabs your attention. It’s the same loud tune, a guitar continuously strumming along with the beat of drums and bass. The thing that stands out to you are the lyrics.

“People think I’m insane, because I’m frowning all the time… I need someone to show me the things in life that I can’t find I can’t see the things that make true happiness, I must be blind.”

“Who sings this?” You ask, glancing sidelong at Billy.

“Black Sabbath.” He tells you, keeping his eyes ahead. “It’s one of their older songs but it still holds up.” He explains pulling to a stop in front of his house. When he moves to cut the engine your hand reflexively grabs his wrist, stopping him.

“Wait. I want to hear the rest.” You tell him, using your other hand to turn up the volume. Billy doesn’t fight you, watching you in silence as you listen to the rest of the song.

“Make a joke and I will sigh And you will laugh and I will cry Happiness I cannot feel And love to me is so unreal… I tell you to enjoy life I wish I could, but it’s too late”

Your heart gives an uncomfortable squeeze for a beat as the song ends. There is a tense moment before the next song begins where you notice Billy's pulse under your fingertips. You don’t know why you're squeezing Billy’s wrist so tightly. You slowly uncurl your fingers, sitting back in your seat. The lyrics bounce around in your mind as you sit there. Billy finally cuts the engine, ending the music as well.

“You okay?” Billy finally asks, lifting a brow. You nod.

“Yea, it’s just weird. How something can sound so loud and angry but under it all it’s actually really sad.” You explain. “Like a cry for help.” Billy’s lips quirk up slightly.

“Maybe that’s what they were going for?” He says. “Music is just another way to tell a story. I’m surprised you’re not more into it.” He tells you, moving to exit the car. “If you thought that was good I’ll have to show you some Bon Jovi.” He goes on as you follow him out of the car and up the steps towards the house. “I’m assuming you have no idea who that is.” Billy says with a smirk.

“Yea yea, save it. Max already thinks I’ve been living under a rock for the past 17 years.” You reply with an eye roll. Billy huffs a laugh.

“That little shit wouldn’t know dick about music if it weren’t for me.” He says, pulling out his keys. His words are harsh but there is no heat to them.

“Well this is a first.” You quip as he unlocks and opens the front door, stepping to the side to let you enter first. “A whole different experience than coming in though the window.” You joke, stepping into the house.

“We can always go around back if you’d feel more comfortable.” He jokes back, following you in. You take a moment to really look around as Billy closes and bolts the door behind you. You’ve never been in this part of the house, only glimpsing at it through windows. It’s not a large space and it’s clear that 4 people occupy the small domicile. Bits and pieces of everyones lives are scattered around.

“I think I’m good.” You reply. You notice that there is a clear clash in interior design through the house. The free weights contrast with the decorative rug under them. Beer cans stacked next to decorative shell decor on the mantle. Someone had tried to make this house a home, but there was something off. It felt like two personalities were struggling to mesh into a comfortable middle, it was unstable, chaotic.

Billy moves around you to lead you deeper into the house but before you can move any further Max’s voice calls from her room.

“Billy, I need to go to the arcade! Where did you-oh.” She stops short seeing you in the living room. For some reason it feels like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, a pit of anxiety taking root in your stomach.

“Hey Max.” You greet, giving her a half wave. She just watches you skeptically. Her narrowed eyes dart between you and Billy.

“What’s your malfunction?” Billy snaps after the silence lasts a moment longer than is comfortable.

“Are you two dating?” Max asks bluntly.

“What?!” Both you and Billy ask in unison. You share a confused glance before turning back to Max. Your face heats exponentially.

“Mind your own business you little shit.” Billy bites at the same time you try to explain.

“He’s tutoring me in history.” A smirk, eerily similar to Billy’s, spreads across Max’s face.

“Is that what they call it these days?” She asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, a taunting lift in her brow.

“If you want a ride, I would shut the hell up.” Billy says sternly, narrowing his eyes at the redhead.

“Jeez, learn how to take a joke.” Max huffs with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She ducks back into her room, leaving you and Billy in the living room. Billy just shakes his head, clenching his jaw as he heads for his room.

“I swear if her attitude gets any worse Neil is going to lose his shit.” He mumbles, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Be ready in 20 minutes!” He yells after her. The only confirmation that she heard him comes in the form of a dramatic groan.

“That’s how all kids are at that age. I was so argumentative my mom and I didn’t have a pleasant interaction for weeks at a time, and don’t get me started on Hopper. I’m pretty sure I took years off his life with my attitude.” You chuckle fondly at the memory of your painful growing years.

“Sometimes being a kid isn’t a good enough excuse.” Billy replies calmly. Your stomach twists uncomfortably remembering how Neil had looked at his own son that night not so long ago.

“Neil and Susan are in Indianapolis Christmas shopping, so I’m playing chauffeur for the day.” Billy explains, entering his room and heading straight for the bed, flopping down on it.

“I don’t mind helping watch her.” You offer without much thought. You hover in the doorway, suddenly nervous about being in his room alone with him. It’s not like you had never been in his room alone before, you spent many nights sitting across from him on the bed pouring over history lessons, keeping your voices low to not wake anyone else in the house. But something about being here in the daylight, not sneaking around, it makes your stomach swirl. You glance around, his room looks the same as it always does. Bed half made, cigarette butts stamped out in the ashtray next to the cassettes on the nightstand. You do notice that there is now a small dent in the wall next to the mirror, but you can’t be sure that it wasn’t always there.

“Neil would kick my ass if he knew I pawned my responsibility off on you.” Billy explains, propping himself up on his elbow to see you. You absentmindedly skim your fingers over the outside of the doorframe.

“It’s not ‘pawning’ them off on me. We would do it together.” You reason with him. Your fingers catch on something cold and metal on the outside of the doorframe. Leaning back to glance at what you’re touching you see the latch of a lock. Glancing at the outer side of the door you see the other half of the latch. Something cold prickles down your spine.

This isn’t just a teenager wanting privacy, the way this latch is set up, it would function to lock the door from the outside. Why would anyone need that? Your mind struggles to make sense of it.

“He wouldn’t see it that way.” He tells you flatly.

“Then don’t tell him.” You say simply, stepping fully into the room. “I’ll help you out today and I’ll be gone by the time they get home. “ you explain, sitting gently on the edge of the bed next to his legs. “Just like when we painted the porch.” You remind him. You watch something dance behind his eyes at the memory from this summer that feels like a hundred years ago. “Consider it part of my tutoring payment. I know the food isn’t a fair trade.” You insist. When he finally nods, giving in, you have to smile.

“Fine. But only because the idea of dealing with a prepubescent she-devil by myself makes me want to stick needles in my brain… and leaving her alone is not an option.” He tells you, sitting up next to you. His thigh presses against yours, and the proximity sends sparks over your nerves.

Remembering the promise you made yourself before leaving home you try to scoot away to put some distance between your bodies. Billy notices the movement immediately.

“Oh sorry, am I making you nervous?” He asks, leaning in even closer, one of his arms going behind your back. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you can feel him if you lean back even slightly. You struggle to hold his gaze.

“No.” You say simply, not trusting your voice to say more without shaking.

“You sure?” He asks, lifting a brow. You feel him lean in even closer, you swear you can feel the heat coming off of him. You force yourself to hold his gaze and remain still, fighting the urge to pull away. Like a game of personal space chicken.

“I’m fine.” You practically whisper, your voice sounding too loud with how close he is. When he chuckles you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. His eyes shift between yours. You can see the flecks of green in his sky blue iris. Your breath mingles with his and you smell his last cigarette mixed with spearmint gum. You swallow thickly, gritting your teeth together in defiance.

“You can tell me if you’re not.” Billy insists, his voice just as soft. He’s flirting but you can hear the seriousness laced in his tone. He’s making sure you know he’ll stop, if you ask. Something about that knowledge eases the panic in you. Shifting slightly you tilt your chin up, watching him the way he always looks at you.

“I’m okay.” You say more confidently. You see his adams apple bob as he swallows, his eyes seeming to darken. His gaze flickers to your parted lips so quickly you think you imagined it. Your mouth suddenly goes dry, your stomach flipping at the memory of what his lips felt like against you-

“Right, that’s what ‘not dating’ looks like.” Max’s voice calls loudly from the doorway. You feel like a bucket of ice water has just been poured over your head as you pull away from Billy. Embarrassment floods through you as Billy leaps from the bed lunging towards the door.

“Fuck off!” He yells, slamming the door closed.

“I still need a ride!” Max yells from outside the door, pounding on it for emphasis. Billy’s shoulders are tense as he stands with his back to you, his arms braced against the door. You see him take a deep breath, then another, bowing his head as he lowers his arms, slightly adjusting the waistband of his jeans.

“You sure you want in on this shit show?” He asks, turning to lean back against the door. Max pounds on the door again, shaking its frame. You manage a dry laugh, trying to shove all the mortifying shame you feel into the back of your mind.

“Oh this is nothing. Try telling Mike Wheeler a campaign needs to end early. Kid turns into a gremlin.” You tell him, pushing yourself off the bed. Billy lifts a brow.

“I’m more surprised that you know what a gremlin is.” He admits teasingly. You roll your eyes.

“I do have a life outside of this room you know.” You tell him. You won’t admit that the only reason you know the plot of gremlins is because Steve insisted on catching you up on all the big hits you had missed while you were in the hospital, not that you had actually seen it in theaters.

Billy watches you approach with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Come on Hargrove, put on a brave face. I hear they can smell fear.” You joke, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to be late!” Max yells, pounding harder.

“Be my guest Loca, I always knew you had a death wish.” Billy says with a smirk. Your heart pounds at the memory of your first meeting. It feels like a million years ago, like you were an entirely different person, and looking at Billy’s confident smirk, the teasing glint in his eyes, you wonder if he’s a different person now too.

Without another word, Billy whips open the door to reveal a very agitated Max.

“Finally!” She exclaims, turning on her heel striding towards the front door, her bag already slung over her shoulder. Billy shoots you a look over his shoulder before following after her.

“Hey, Max?” You call, slipping in front of Billy to catch up to her. She only glances at you, still heading for the door. “Do you mind if I tag along to the arcade?” You ask. Your words cause her to halt, turning to face you with the full force of her scrutinizing glare. You feel Billy come to a stop behind you, her eyes dart to him before returning to you.

“Did he ask you to babysit me?” She asks indignantly.

“No!” You say, throwing your hands up. “I just thought you could teach me some stuff. I’m not very good and I hear you kick the boys' butts on a regular basis.” You explain, hoping it comes off as genuine. She studies you for another beat, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of allowing you to come with her. Finally, she shrugs.

“Fine. But don’t try to talk to me while I’m playing. It throws me off.” She instructs, turning for the door. When her back is turned you quickly give Billy an enthusiastic thumbs up, earning another eye roll.

The three of you climb into the car, Billy turning the volume up to his usual bone shaking level as he whips out of his spot, speeding down the road. It’s a short ride into town, especially with how Billy drives. When he comes to a stop outside the arcade you climb out, pulling the seat forward to allow Max out.

“I’ll meet you in there.” you tell her. Needing no explanation, Max jogs to the doors slipping into the dimly lit building. You can see the boys' bikes already lined up outside. “You coming?” you ask Billy, leaning back into the car.

“Hell no. I can babysit just fine from here. You couldn’t pay me to go into that dork pit.” He scoffs. You roll your eyes at his stubbornness.

“Oh come on, tough guy. Where is your sense of adventure and whimsy.” you ask, only receiving an unimpressed look in return.

“Whimsy?” He asks, his lip curling at the word.

“I’ll buy you a coke.” you offer, hoping that bribery will soften his resolve. Billy’s lips press into a firm line, you can see his jaw tick as he grinds his teeth.

“Fine.” he says after a moment. “But I have to run an errand real quick.” He tells you. Thinking this is some kind of trick to get out of coming in, you narrow your eyes.

“You promise to come in when you get back?” you ask, extending your pinky to him. He lifts a brow, a dry laugh escaping him.

“What are you 12?” He asks. When you don’t show any signs of joking he heaves a sigh, linking his pinky with yours. “Fine, yes. I promise I’ll come back and watch you be terrible at dig dug, dork.” He promises with a teasing smirk.

“Good.” you smile, letting his pinky go and stepping back. “And I’m not that bad.” you clarify, closing the door and allowing him to pull away from the curb.

It turns out that you ARE that bad.

Max allows you to take the first turn, even offering you pointers, but by the end of your third turn she takes over explaining that she can’t stand watching you throw away quarters like that. You’re a sorry excuse for a gamer, your brain having trouble communicating quickly enough with your hands on the controls. It’s alright though, you have more fun watching Max and the boys take turns trying to beat each other's scores.

The longer you observe the group of adolescents the more you note the change in dynamic among them. Max and Lucus are openly interested in each other but don’t seem to know how to navigate this new realm of relationship. Mike appears distracted, constantly glancing at his watch. You assume he’s anxious to see El. You know that Hopper has started allowing the two to hang out at the cabin and though you’ve pushed for El to have more social time, Hopper's old habits die hard. His paranoia is persistent. You can’t say that you don’t understand where he’s coming from.

Dustin and Will seem more irritated than anything with the new shift in priorities within the group.

After roughly 30 minutes of watching Max wipe the floor with the boys scores, you venture to the opposite side of the arcade. You want to give the group space but also stay close enough to keep an eye on them. You scan the games, searching for one that you can play without too much instruction. Ms. Pac-Man seems to be simple enough, and it’s located in a spot that allows you to watch your group bounce from game to game.

Inserting your first quarter you begin the game. You’re able to keep up at first, but when the ghosts start to speed up you can't seem to evade them quick enough. After your 4th quarter your pride is stinging.

“Fuck…” you curse to yourself as once again you are cornered by the little red ghost. Before you can insert another quarter, you feel someone approaching from your left, coming too close to just be passing by, tensing your hand itches to lash out but you stop yourself when you realize who it is.

“Hey.” Keiths’ monotone voice greets you. You know him from school, and to your knowledge the two of you had never actually spoken to each other.

“Hi Keith.” you reply politely. You aren’t sure why he’s approaching you. You know that he works here so possibly you were doing something wrong. “What’s up?” you ask. Kieth seems to swallow past something in his struggle to speak.

“I see you around sometimes.” he tells you, unable to meet your eyes. You don’t know what to say to that.

“Yea, I babysit so I come in to keep an eye on my kids sometimes.” you tell him.

“That’s cool.” he mumbles “You know I could help you with some of the games if you want. Are you alone today?” He asks. You know he doesn't mean for it to sound as creepy as it does but you can’t help your slight cringe.

“No, I’m actually with-” you move to gesture towards Max but are cut off when Billy appears next to you, casually draping an arm over your shoulders.

“Me.” He finishes for you, keeping his eyes on Keith who looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“O-oh, cool.” Keith manages to mumble, taking a step back. “Nevermind then” he manages to get out, obviously resisting the urge to turn and run. Understandable with the way Billy is glaring daggers at him.

“I’ll see you around.” you offer Keith a kind smile. He only nods sheepishly before retreating further into the arcade. Sighing, you swat at Billy’s side, causing him to drop his arm from your shoulder with a chuckle.

“What was that for?” he asks, doing his best to look genuinely confused. You see right through it to the self satisfaction he's really feeling.

“Did you have to mad dog him? He was just saying ‘Hi’.” you tell him. Billy scoffs, moving to lean against the game.

“Yea, right.” He says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You didn’t see how he’s been eyeing you, trying to work up the courage to come ‘say hi’.” he tells you, throwing air quotes around your words.

“And how long were you watching that?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. Billy shakes his head, his curls falling across his forehead.

“You’re missing the point.” He tells you, deflecting the question.

“What point is that?” You ask, shaking your head as you dig a quarter out of your pocket and lean over to place it into the game. When you straighten up Billy has taken a step into your space. You could take a step back to give yourself some room, but you don't. You stand your ground, tilting your head up to meet his stare head on.

“The point is that you’re playing a game you don’t know the rules of and guys like that-” he jerks his chin in the direction Keith had run off. “Will take advantage of that.” he tells you, his voice low. You know he’s too close. That you should take a step back. That the way he’s looking down at you is too personal. That either one of you could close the distance between you with a breath.

“I’m not really good at games.” you admit, feeling the heat rushing to your face. Still you can’t seem to look away. Billy’s sharp gaze seems to soften slightly at your admission.

“I know…” He says softly, his eyes shifting between yours. “I just watched you die 4 times and not even make it past the first level of Pac-man.” He says, his teasing smirk overtaking all the gentleness that had once been in his eyes. Finally, you pull back shocked.

“You stalker!” you accuse, Billy just chuckles turning to face the game. “And I was multitasking.” you try to defend your abysmal performance, gesturing to the group now huddled around galaga.

“Sure, sure. Let me show you how it’s done.” he says confidently, starting the queued up game.

“Hey! That was my quarter!” You protest. Billy only chuckles again.

“I’ll get the next one, crazy.” he tells you, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.

AN: sorry this took so long... again!

@official-starcourt-mall@lem0ns77@bethii1 @wysteria-arts @fanficfanatic204 @theshinyrock @spacedaddydinn @raidxny @emmyawards1 @lucxxy @leia9817 @wounded-writing @taisab02 @goblinpit @howlerwolfmax @kilvru3 @blueberry-birdie @flamewriterr @im-julessssss @tsukibaby1@mikeyswifie@superblyspeedydragon @let-love-bleeds-red @m-rae23 @msrawog @speakinglikeconstellations @taintedxkisses @pineapleavocado @hawkinsavclub1983 @arael-asuka @velvet-spider @extra-3motions @uniquecookiepainterbear @crimsonsabbath @mushy-mushroom04 @jevdidv @vermillionwinter@black-kitten-imagines@sammysgirl1997@fillechatoyante @chaoticbilly @tmriddler @stanseventeen@katzenwahnsinn@wisdomcrys@twoochickens @devrill @loadivine@hermankopusortizorsumshite@0bsessedwithfictionalcharacters @primalsnack @peachyaeger@royaltysuite @sunnmoonsstuff @sobleedstherose@harmonics0537 @urmom-0987 @halbhohehalluzination@ladyapplejackdnd

@tulipsandlulis@gremlinfuck @perilous-pasta @candy12110@ccanineal @idkwhyimhere18 @ronnasey @friendlyneighborhoodgrunge-hippy

@chansmaze@sammararaven@tanyaherondale@actual-mom-steve-harrington@harringtonfan4@trenko-heart@maackiimoo@haleypearce@orangechickenpillow @bekindmydarling-blog @urmomgov

@krazy99 @clenchedfist @renaroo123 @bee-1n-space @puppybittingotherpuppy @neonbanshee @cannonize @rhumphr4 @chansbackdoor @cg94 @untoldshortsofthefandoms

@joyisalover @hibyewhy @rosey96 @spacegirl7777 @longingforasteroids @tayhar811 @lizzy6 @simpforbuckyb @laneyspaulding19 @dimskies @nyenye

@awesomesauce-abbie @blueray222

@alexa4040 @blackholegladiator @strangerthings1983fan

@curlszx88 @bdudette @eddiessweetheart86 @haleybarnesx @decadentwastelandtrash @all-for-kpop

@sophiaj650 @dystopianhellscape @punchyprincess23 @luvrsbian

@myrcellavonswartzschild @awk-sauced

@laceypdf @amberpanda99