#it's something about the hurt/comfort of it all. it resonates so well with them. it's spawned so much of their characterization for me :)

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

Sophie Oliveira-Shepard Alenko-Oliveira and Kaidan Alenko-Oliveira - ME3 (2/?) "I want to be your strength. Your soft place to land." Mass Effect 3: Legendary Edition (2021) + Bonus

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 3

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

You try to keep her away from Sylus. Or rather, you try to keep away from Sylus and protect her at the same time. It’s odd. Odd in a way you hope to never experience again.

Every time you grab her hand to drag her elsewhere, you want to burn your hand. Washing it simply isn’t enough. You want to bleach it, to scrub it, to do away with the hand that touches her. Not because you hate her, but because you can’t.

She’s just so… beautiful. In every sense of the word. Beautiful eyes, beautiful hair, beautiful face, beautiful voice, beautiful laugh, beautiful personality. She has all of it. You feel disgusted whenever she gives you that weak smile after you take her to her room after yet another failed resonance Sylus tries with her behind your back. She tries to be strong despite her fear.

“I’m sorry about my foolish boss.”

“It’s fine,” that wobbly smile is still there.

She doesn’t trust me yet. Good.

Miss Hunter needs that weariness in her. She needs that caution. There’s a shine about her people will take advantage of otherwise. Sunlight in human form that makes you want to protect her from any pain. Pain that trembles against your skin on the off chance you’re close enough to her threads.

Souls of many lives are weaved within each one. Hurts and pains and fears and sorrows she doesn’t remember, but others do, shake within each cosmic fiber. She is a being of suffering and care. Of hatred and love.

Yet she carries it with such grace. With such humility and beauty you can’t help but stare. Stare with eyes of envy that thankfully no one has noticed.

“It’s not fine, Miss Hunter. You haven’t done anything to deserve this.”

An evil part of you, one that you’re so ashamed of it’s probably why you treat her so delicately, thinks she does. She deserves it for the crime of being the soulmate of the man you love. She deserves it for having so much love while you have none. That part of you blames her. Hates her for her very being.

It says that she’s the reason you’re alone. That maybe one of her various potential soulmates was meant to be yours, but she stole them. You ridicule that part of you as you carefully place down a meal on her bedside table. Miss Hunter doesn’t even give it a glance. She just rubs one of her wrists in her hand.

“I said it’s fine.”

You could almost laugh at her words. She’s trying to act tough, to seem unafraid and strong in this unknown environment. You’ve spent far too much time studying people to even be fooled for a second. But you say nothing. Instead, you push the plate closer to her.

“Eat,” you try to give her a comforting smile. “It’s probably been awhile since you’ve eaten, correct? And the drug in your system doesn’t flush out well on an empty stomach.”

She says nothing.

“Miss Hunter,” you try a different approach. “I have nothing to gain by drugging you or poisoning you or hurting you in whatever way you’ve concocted in your mind.”

“Your boss would probably say otherwise.”

That hurts a bit, hearing confirmation that she fears her own soulmate. And hearing anything negative about Sylus tends to sting your heart. But that’s neither hear nor there.

She has every right to feel that way.

You keep telling yourself that over and over again. That, and the fact that this will pass, that you’ll one day see these two happy and in love (while you break on the sidelines).

“Ah, but we’re not talking about my fool of a boss. We’re talking about you.”

“What about me?”

She fidgets in place. You relax yourself more when she does. She doesn’t need to see how she affects you. With so many unknown factors around her, and Sylus’ harsh treatment, she needs something steady. She needs you. Even if she doesn’t realize it.

“How you’re doing in all this?”

You know it’s a futile question, but you ask it anyway.

“You kidnapped me, and now you’re concerned for my wellbeing?”

“My foolish boss and the twins kidnapped you, not I. I had no say in this. My boss tends to do this when he knows I won’t agree with something.”

Her expression and body language change ever so slightly at this. Maybe because she now doesn’t associate you as much with her pain. Maybe because she sees that you’re more like her in this situation: lost and angry. Either way, it works out well for you.

Miss Hunter angles her knees to face you a bit more. Her shoulders are less tense. And the hard look in her eyes seems to soften.

Good. Good. She needs to see me as a safe space.

You pull up a chair to sit across from Miss Hunter. You make your posture as relaxed as possible and give her another kind smile.

“Just because I work with that man, doesn’t mean that I get a say in everything he does. Our introduction would’ve been much smoother otherwise.”

“You mean my kidnapping?”

“No. There wouldn’t be any kidnapping in my equation because I have no need for such disgusting methods.”

“But you work for a man who does.”

Miss Hunter seems perplexed by you: someone who clearly has a different approach to things to the harsh man that is your boss. He’s only shown cruelty to her. You almost want to revel in that, how he treats his other half terrible but treats you so gently, especially after your fight a few days ago.

He’s been borderline groveling to you since then. Cooking your favorite meals, buying more material for jewelry business, and even gave you an update that James apparently survived your shootout. He hasn’t forced you to talk to him. He’s given you space without you needing to ask for it. He’s apologized.

”I’m sorry.”

Whenever he said that, you could tell he was holding something back. Was he refraining from using his intimate nickname for you? Was he stumbling over an excuse? You didn’t know. You just knew you were grateful for it. Sylus used to struggle with apologies in the past; now he said them to you without hesitation.

The sound of Miss Hunter lifting the glass you brought her off the table brings you of the memory.

“I don’t suppose you and your bosses back at Linkon think the same on every matter regarding Wanderers, do you?” You force yourself to focus on the conversation at hand. “It’s the same here. I prefer a more civil resolution to things than my boss.”

“Then how would you have gone about my… arrival?”

“The normal way: through a conversation and a simple business deal.”

“I would’ve much preferred that.”

“You and me both, sweetie.”

“So why didn’t you? You two are clearly close.”

Not for much longer now that you’ve shown up. You keep that thought to yourself.

“Sylus wouldn’t let me,” you finally say his name, and it feels dirty on your tongue. “Demanding bosses and annoying colleagues exist even in the N109 Zone.”

Miss Hunter lets out a genuine laugh. She seems to relax further, and you mentally give yourself a pat on the back.

“Sounds like you should just quit then.”

You snort at her.

As if I could ever leave him.

Sylus had such an iron grip on your heart that it was comedic. A tragic comedy, but a comedy nonetheless.

“Does Sylus seem like the type to just let people quit?” She gives you a look and you laugh. “Besides, I’m needed here.”

Miss Hunter doesn’t interject, so you continue, “The N109 Zone may be a mess, but it’s my home. My only home.”

That was only partially the truth. The full truth was that you made this place home because the place you used to call home carried too much pain. Too many memories of happy soulmates and broke promises.

Will the N109 Zone be the same after she and Sylus get together?

You look at the girl in front of you, study her scared and sad eyes in order to shake off the thought. This girl needs someone in her corner right now. She needs an ally. And no matter how much it hurt, you would fulfill that role. Right up until she replaces your role in Sylus’ life and you bow out.

You’ve started your life over before; you can do it again.

You speak again once you’ve gathered yourself, “And no regardless of how difficult it can be to live here, I want to stay. I want to stay and improve it bit by bit.”

“You think Sylus will help you do this?”

“You sure do ask a lot of questions, sweetie,” Miss Hunter splutters, and then seems to admonish herself for showing such emotion. “Relax, I’m only teasing. But, to answer your question, yes. I do think so. He has done so. While I don’t agree with him on everything, I do believe he’s the lesser of many other evils in this place.”

She scoffs. Then she takes the plate of food you placed down earlier on the dresser table and puts it in her lap. She doesn’t touch the silverware, but you hope for that to change.

“If he’s the lesser of many evils, I wonder what they’re like.”

“Please don’t,” you keep your tone light, but exasperated. It’s the same one you give the twins when you’re done with their shit and tired; Miss Hunter smiles slightly at it, much like how the aforementioned twins and Sylus do.

“Why not? Worried I’ll make trouble for your boss? Who knows, maybe I’ll find someone who will give me the princess treatment rather than whatever this is.”

You almost say something about how truly bad of an idea that is. That those other people would’ve tortured and killed her for whatever it is these people want from her. But you hold your tongue. She has enough on her plate; she doesn’t need any extra baggage.

“Maybe you’re right,” miss Hunter is rightfully surprised to hear you agree with her, even though on the inside, you’re screaming at yourself. “Maybe you’re wrong. Are you willing to risk it?”

“Maybe I am.”

“Than I’ll take you to where you want to go.”

It’s quiet between you two for a moment. That is until Miss Hunter takes the fork on the plate you gave her and finally takes her first bite of food. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but hold it in.

No need to make a big deal. That’ll just make her more uncomfortable.

“I’ll take you anywhere in the zone, even to my enemies. I’ll make my boss understand that if and when I do.”

“Why would you do that for me?”

“Because you’re innocent. And my boss knows how I feel about innocents. It’s why I started working with him.”

You get a bit wistful at remembering your first encounter with Sylus. And how it all ended with a bang.

“He turned my life upside down that day,” you say, almost more to yourself than to her.

“And as much as your sudden arrival turned my life upside down again, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to whatever plagues you.”

She gets a bit rigid at that. But you see the truth in her eyes: pain and a bit of gratefulness. She needs someone to talk to, someone to unload the hurt in her heart. But, your relationship with her isn’t there yet.

“Like I said before, I’m fine. I don’t need your concern.”

“People that are fine don’t come here, sweetie,” the pet name just slips out of your mouth again.

Nothing is said between the two of you for some time. All the pair of you do is stare: you at her plate and her at the floor.

Then she mutters, “I know. But I just had to.”

Your heart weeps for this girl again. She’s been through a lot, is carrying a lot, and is scared and alone in arguable the most dangerous place in the world. Her own soulmate is treating her like trash. And all she as to rely on is someone who wishes she would just disappear.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because in my line of work, I see many people like you. Grieving people. I’ve seen it, and I’ve gone through it. And I know this isn’t what you need.”

Miss Hunter freezes at your words. And your heart sinks a bit more. Seems the idea of you having human emotions like grief didn’t occur to her until now. Ironic, given that she’s your biggest source of grief.

That just makes you want to laugh even more. What right do you have to grieve over a relationship you never had? A relationship you never could have?

She pushes the fork across the plate. And for a moment, you hope that she’s opening up to you. You two will be seeing each more often after all, with her being Sylus’ soulmate and you being his closest companion. So you two should get used to one another.

Then she puts the fork down. She shoves the plate further away from herself. You hope is shot to pieces.

“I’m suddenly not hungry anymore. Sorry.”

You sigh again.

“You can’t this up forever, sweetie.”

“Watch me.”

On any other day, you’d admire her stubbornness. That unwillingness to yield for even a moment despite the obstacles that lay ahead of her.

“It’s not healthy.”

“Again, why do you care? Like, what’s the actual reason and not some excuse.”

“Because like I said before, you’re an innocent. An innocent dragged into a mess of a situation I’d like to help you out of. That is the truth.”

You keep circling back to that one point: she’s innocent. Because not only does she need to hear that, but you do. This girl has done nothing to you. She hasn’t broken your heart; you did that to yourself.

Any progress is good progress.

It’s your motto in your line of work. Because even anger can be used if you know what you’re doing.

“Sweetie,” you keep your tone careful, but not patronizing; Miss Hunter is a grown woman, but you don’t want to spoke her. “Grief isn’t something you can hide with an attitude.”

“What would you know? What would you and that boss of yours know about real grief rather than the lie you’re trying to tell me?”

He knows. You both know it quite well.

Sylus knows grief all too well. The days when his memories as a dragon get the worst are also the days he teases you more often. He’ll make fun of you, make your work life a living hell, and push you around those days.

But he’ll also cling to you. Be stuck to you like a barnacle on a whale. He’ll hold you close and never let go. He’ll sometimes beg you to never leave him when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. Or he’ll wonder aloud about how he worries if you seem him as some kind of monster, a fiend.

Sylus drowns his grief in attitude. He burns it with flirting and gun fire during the night. Then he dowses it in the smoke of hushed words and spending just a little more time looking for something in the mirror.

“This isn’t about him. It’s about you. It’s about what you need. And how I can help you get it.”

A knock at the door stops her from saying anymore. You gather up the plate, school your expression, and open the door to the ever-chipper Luke.

“Bossman needs little Miss Hunter ASAP.”

Your body stiffens ever so slightly at that. It reminds of the crucial fact that you’ve been trying to drill into your skull lately: she’s his soulmate. He needs her; not you.

Shards of glass dig into your heart at Luke’s words. And maybe it somehow reflects in your face because Luke tilts his head at you.

“Lady boss?”

His tone isn’t like it normally is. The teasing is gone. The sass is gone. Instead, he looks at you the same way you used to look at him and his brother when they first came to work for Sylus. Back when they were angry little children who had only each to rely on. Back when you were slowly but surely earning the trust of two brothers who had learned from a young age no one was to be trusted.

That look makes you pat his head and force a smile onto your lips. You didn’t need to worry the twins. You didn’t need to worry anyone. You were fine. You’ve been prepared for this for years; you should be immune to anything it does to you.

“Roger. We’ll be out in a bit.”

You close the door gently. You turn to Miss Hunter who already has a bitter expression on her face as she walks towards you. You try to give her a smile to cheer her up. No matter how you felt about her, no matter how much you wanted her gone, seeing her upset made you upset. Stupid empathy.

The two of you walk to Sylus’ office in silence. But that doesn’t stop you from the occasional glance at your companion. She wears her emotions so clearly on her face that it makes you all the more curious about her. What her life is like in Linkon. What her childhood was. Who her other soulmates are.

At that thought, you stare at her threads again. They were like branches from a tree, sprouting from her heart and curling out before fading. Their appearance wasn’t anything specular; everyone’s thread looked the same before connected. You wonder how her thread to Sylus would change once their bond established. You wonder what they would have.

Shared dreams? Shared pain? Matching tattoos? Or, and this is your personal favorite, some sort of melody? It was a rare form, one of the rarest, for soulmates to connect via a song that only they knew. It couldn’t be replicated, it couldn’t even be recorded; it was just theirs.

You stomach hurts from just the thought alone. It would all be just another thing you were exempt from. Not just in the case of Sylus and Miss Hunter, but in the case of everyone. Because you don’t have a soulmate.

You keep your gaze away from her threads once that thought crosses your mind. You suppress at chuckle at her expression. Looking at Miss Hunter’s face, you’d think you were bringing her to an interrogation.

Or execution, a darker part of you whispers. You tell that part of you to fuck off.

You open the door to Sylus’ office. There was never any knocking between the two of you at times like these, when you had business to be done. And just because he was doing crazy things didn’t mean you were going to start doing that now.

You lead Miss Hunter to him with reluctance. They touch, and when nothing happens from that, Sylus steps back to leave her on the ground.

“Three days and we’re not even able to achieve a simple resonance.”

And so the show begins once again.

@eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @madam8, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[thetarotyapper]

how would people describe your beauty to others? (pick-a-card reading)

paid services 18+ paid services tarot community ko-fi

(how to pick a card? observe the given options and choose the one which you feel the most drawn to. scroll down to read your message!! remember, this is a general reading, so take what resonates! ps.- if you feel drawn to more than one card/image/pile, feel free to read the others too!! if the chosen pile doesn't relate to you, feel free to choose another. the choice is yours<3)

𐙚⋆.˚ pile 1 𐙚⋆.˚

3 of wands, temperance, the high priestess, the hermit, 3 of cups, 2 of cups

babe, you are LITERALLY the GLOW UP pile. not only is your facial features captivating, but you're also SMART. you're the definition of “beauty with brains”, like im not even kidding!! your facial features and structure is so perfectly balanced, you are the standard. like you're perfect. i'm not over-exaggerating here because it's true. people have noticed your glow up and your transformation and i can hear people whispering to others, “they used to look so different before but now they're unrecognisable!” 

your beauty catches people off guard and something about your face just beings me this sense of peace. it's almost like your face takes over your personality - and you have a kind personality. basically, your face is so beautiful and kind, it gives people this sense of comfort. people can't even get jealous over you because they're too busy lost in your beauty. and also because they know they can't be you heheh :b 

i’m see that before you might've struggled with body-image or you would've been insecure about the way you looked, but you put in the effort to transform and look at you now babe - catching people's attention and leaving them speechless! what makes you even more captivating is that you're smart. like ugh what do you not have??! you are everything.

you also have this mysterious and guarded look and i also feel like this is your energy. people find you so alluring because you're not easy to read. people want to get close to you. please want to know you. omg suddenly i hear a guy saying this while pointing at you, “you see them? (im actually getting a lot of feminine energy from this pile so hi my loves🤭) that person right there? they're so hard to get, and they're so irresistible”. 

some of y'all who chose this pile might be a part of the queer community and im seeing that you gain a lot of attention from both masculine as well as feminine energies. you're so hard to resist, pile 1. people want to know you but you do not open up so easily. im also seeing that some of y'all would have been victims of bullying (im so sorry, love. please know that people love you and care about you. you're beautiful and you matter<3) and now that you've changed for the better, everyone wants to get close to you. i have personal beef with whoever hurt you (⁠ノ⁠｀⁠Д⁠´⁠)⁠ノ⁠彡⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

im also seeing that men in relationships are literally ready to risk their current partners to get a chance with you. but you're not that type of person. you're gaining a lot of attention, pile 1. you might feel overwhelmed at times and a little put-off because all this seems so odd to you because this sudden attention is just too much. before, you struggled with being in your skin and now you're comfortable and happy with yourself. i see you being proud of yourself and you know what babe? you should be!! because only you know how far you've come. you know what's the sad part about your reading, pile 1? previously, people didn't really give you that much attention or your presence was dismissed by many but now that you've had a glow up and you look so beautiful, EVERYONE wants to talk to you. my advice would be that people don't deserve you if they weren't with you during your worst. all you need is yourself, so don't entertain the ones who don't deserve to be in your energy, love<3

𐙚⋆.˚ pile 2 𐙚⋆.˚

10 of swords, king of wands, page of pentacles, 5 of cups, the emperor, page of wands

YOUR EYES, BABE. YOUR EYES. something about your eyes just called out to me. they're intense, dark and dominating. people feel INTIMIDATED by your beauty. something about you is just so jaajajjakka like i can't wrap my head around it. more than your beauty, it's your energy that speaks. your energy is what makes you so captivating. people describe you by your energy. i hear people saying, “they're not easy to talk to”, because you make them nervous, babe. no, nervous is not the word. anxious. yes, that's how you make people feel. i see that people are even scared to lie to you. it's almost like you see right through them. IT'S YOUR EYES, LOVE. UGH, SO BEAUTIFUL AND CAPTIVATING. and the fact that y'all stand your ground and are so mature is what makes you so sexy….

you could be at a party with thousands of people around you and you'd still somehow capture people's eye. your energy and your beauty is something that cannot go unnoticed. your beauty just calls to people….you know? i hope i made sense. your beauty is so controlling and authoritative, people literally want to obey and worship you. pile 2, i'm not doing justice to you. like i don't know why but i feel like the way i'm describing you is not doing justice to your beauty. but that's the thing, people don't know how to describe you. there's no words to describe your beauty. it's just so out of this world. you're ethereal. you're everyone's dream person. 

im getting a feeling that you might be sexualized a lot by people or that you might've been catcalled a lot - oh love, im so sorry :( people look at you as this “prize” or “opportunity” they want to claim, but what they fail to notice is that you are a human being and that you have emotions. ugh people like that piss me off. pile 2, you're gorgeous and i'm so so sorry you have to go through all of this. take a deep breath and exhale slowly. when you're ready, we'll read the next part okay? no pressure<3

i'm seeing that currently you're in the process of a transformation and that your aesthetic or your looks are not “fixed” yet. either that means your features are still changing (maturing) or that you like to try out different clothing aesthetics and make-up. you like to experiment with your looks a lot. people can't mess with you and people don't even want to mess with you. i'm seeing some envious eyes here. some people are jealous that you can pull off ANYTHING and they can't. you're the type to slay in pyjamas.

pile 2, you give me the vibes of someone who is still maturing or someone who is still quite young. please stay safe out there because humans are unfortunately our worst enemies. the world is becoming a better place, but not everything is perfect. please take care of yourself and protect yourself. because i don't like the energy of the people around you. you need to be a little cautious because not everyone is a well-wisher, love.

𐙚⋆.˚ pile 3 𐙚⋆.˚

justice, 3 of swords, page of cups, the fool, the lovers, king of pentacles, ace of pentacles

my lovely pile 3, your beauty is PIERCING. it's so raw and beautiful. i hear people thinking, “what makes them so different? they look like any other person but god…there's just something about them that i can't ignore!”. you get people flustered and frustrated, pile 3. people don't know how to act around you. they feel so conscious and nervous around you. people felt intimidated by pile 2, oh but they're scared of you, pile 3. 

the way you talk is very attractive and people love listening to you talk. you just make so much sense. you also have a very confident gaze, people are afraid to make eye contact with you. your beauty pains their heart. but you know what pains them even more? it's the fact that you're not theirs. i wouldn't be surprised if people fantasize about you. you possess the type of beauty that has people HOOKED. you're the airport crush. your face is just so hard to forget - and the fact that your natural/bare face is so attractive, it makes people go crazy over you. you have this touch of ���freshness” or like a “clean-girl-aesthetic” vibe - like people just love your bare face. 

many people literally fall in love with you during the first encounter. but can you even blame them, babe? the previous two piles had a very strong and dominating energy, but your energy is so soft and soothing. i'm also seeing pink and plump lips. i have no words for your beauty, pile 3. how are you even real? you have such a youthful face and your skin literally GLOWS. you might be into skincare too. it's just the way you take care of yourself is what makes you so attractive. 

i see people telling others that you are so naturally pretty and others will have a hard time believing that fact until they see you. i see people stopping and staring at you. you give me “grey sweatpants, pull over, bare face, lips gloss and mascara” typa vibes, but somehow you are still so effortless. how does it feel to be god's favourite, pile 3?😭

i'm also seeing that you might wear these headbands to pull your hair back so it doesn't fall in front of your face and it makes you look so cute because i feel like your headbands have these cute animal doodles or something of that sort. 

many people are curious about you, pile 3. you also have this childlike energy and some people see you as naive and might think of taking advantage of you. please be careful of such people, dear!! they're just soul-suckers. all they care about is exhausting your energy for their benefit. also, one thing i love about you pile 3 is that your emotions are literally shown on your face. someone might say something very stupid and you might try to hide your emotions by putting on a fake smile but before you even know it, you already have a disgusted expression on your face. because of this, many people might be a little scared to talk to you because they feel like you will judge them. many people might think you're mean and full of yourself and that's why they are scared of approaching you.  something about your voice is also very attractive. as mentioned before, people love listening to you talk. you could yap for hours and people would still be on their knees, looking up at you and worshipping you. for them, every word that comes out of your mouth is like a prayer. people are addicted to you, babe.

hi loves!! i hope this reading finds you in good health and i hope you are doing well. take care of yourself and i will see you in my next reading. thank you for being here<3

(note: tarot & oracle cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, feelings and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not predict the future in a fixed way. this is a general reading so take what resonates!)

જ⁀➴ all credit for the pictures & dividers goes to their rightful owners and creators.

[hermetiqa]

Reminder: it doesn't matter if you saw this reading a day or a week or a month or a year after posting this. My readings are timeless. You'll see this when you're meant to see this and receive your message.

How to pick a pile: close your eyes and take a deep breath before picking a pile. If you feel drawn to more than one pile, it's alright, you may take the piles that you're drawn to. What's important is to take it how it resonates and leave what doesn't.

Note: please feel free to give me a feedback on my asks about the reading! I would highly appreciate it and it'll be a huge help for me to improve as a reader.

MASTERLIST SHOP

PILE ONE

Hello, Pile 1! Welcome to your reading. So what I'm getting is that your future spouse's first impression of you will be a mix of emotional, intellectual, and practical nature. Your future spouse will see you as their soulmate or "the one" the moment they see/meet you. When you meet, they'll be in the stage of life where life's testing them real bad. I feel like they're one of the fixed signs who will be heavily affected by Pluto in Aquarius and their life will be such a rollercoaster ride. So when they meet you, they'll feel like this rollercoaster ride has just ended because you'll be their comfort zone. I'm seeing that you could have a masculine energy who's emotionally intelligent and/or connected/in touch with your emotions. Your future spouse admires this trait of yours and it makes them want you even more in their life. I'm also getting that your future spouse sees you as someone who's practical and might be good with money. You could be financially stable or money flows easily for you. They see you as someone nurturing and caring, to the point that you're really committed to them and to your relationship.

PILE TWO

Hello there, Pile 2! Welcome to your reading. First of all, what I'm getting here is that your future spouse will see you as someone who constantly learns something new. You might meet at a university or institutions or workplace where you're required to learn and enhance new skills. To your future spouse, you're a logical person and you might have masculine energy. I'm getting the IDGAF energy here and this might be their first impression of you. They see you as someone who doesn't tolerate toxicity and bad behavior. When someone does you wrong or dirty for the first time and they apologize to you, you'll accept and forgive. But if they do it again on the second time, that's a goodbye to them. There will be no third time. You don't give a fuck whether they'll be hurt when you cut ties because first of all, that's their fault and you're simply protecting yourself from their energy. I'm also seeing that your future spouse will see you as someone who knows what you want and you just do your thing and get it. Just like in Ariana's song 7 rings, "I want it, I got it" which I keep hearing right now. I also feel like when you meet, you might be in a "stuck" situation or you're mentally foggy and they'll notice this so your future spouse will have the urge to help you or approach you and be in their strongest masculine energy because they see you as someone with masculine energy, and they'll try to beat that. Not because of ego, but because they know you have high standards and well, they want you so they'll try to fit in those standards, but not in a fake or pretentious way, but in a way that they'll be a better person.

PILE THREE

Hello, Pile 3! Welcome to your reading. Well, this is such a passionate and fiery energy here. I'm getting that your future spouse's first impression of you is that they'll see you as someone who's fiery. You have a lot of courage and when someone tests you or makes your life a bit difficult, you don't back down. Instead, you fight back. I can see that your future spouse sees you as someone who's expanding your finances. You're trying to make your financial life stable here, or even more than stable. You could meet at a workplace, specifically in business-related workplaces. I'm seeing a woman wearing a white blouse, dark blue/navy trousers and 3-inch black heels standing in front of a desk and typing something on the computer, helping someone get their work done or looking at their work. This could be you or them. I'm also seeing that your future spouse sees you as a passionate person, you're passionate in your job and you get all your work done. I feel like you could be the CEO here. I'm also seeing that your future spouse will be really physically attracted to you when you first meet (to a sexual level). They'll be starstruck when they see you and it'll feel like the world suddenly stopped moving.

[dollishmehrayan]

# “YOUR LIKE A PIECE OF ART!” ── .✦ ( batboys with a s/o who has a lot of tattoos. )

a/n: this was a request by anon actually (here) anyways omg a lot of you guys are sending nationality requests like Irish!reader, Moroccan!reader, Canadian!reader and etc omgg anyways yesterday I took a small break and now I’m back!!! So yeahh tags: (batboys x a s/o who has a lot of tattoos)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Absolutely adores your tattoos. He finds them mesmerizing and often asks about the stories behind them.

"Wait, this one—what does it mean? And this one? You gotta explain it all to me!" He’s so genuinely interested it’s adorable.

Loves tracing his fingers over them absentmindedly. It’s his favorite way to relax, especially after a long patrol.

If you’re open to it, he’d love to get matching tattoos with you. Something small and meaningful, like a star or an acrobat silhouette.

He’s always hyping you up. “God, you look so cool! How did I even land you?”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Finds your tattoos ridiculously attractive. You’re like a walking piece of art, and he can’t stop staring.

“Another one? Damn, I’m gonna run out of compliments if you keep adding masterpieces to your body.”

Appreciates the rebellious vibe that tattoos give, but loves that yours are deeply personal too.

If you designed any of them yourself, he’s in awe. “Wait—you drew this? Babe, you’re a genius.”

He won’t admit it, but he’s been low-key considering getting a tattoo himself—something to match or complement yours.

Loves running his hand over them, especially while you're cuddling. He’d act cool about it, but he’s secretly obsessed.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

At first, he might be a little shy about it—he’s not used to tattoos or the culture surrounding them.

"So… do they hurt? Like, a lot? Or just a bit?" He’s curious but hesitant to admit he’s interested.

After you explain the meanings and the artistry behind them, he gains a deep respect for your tattoos.

He’d geek out over the symbolism if any of them are literary or historical references.

Secretly thinks you’re the coolest person ever. Your tattoos add a boldness and confidence that he’s drawn to.

If you ever wanted to get another one, Tim would offer to help you research the best tattoo artists.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

He’s intrigued but tries to act indifferent. “Tattoos are superficial… but I suppose these are aesthetically pleasing.”

Secretly, he’s fascinated. He’ll examine your tattoos closely and ask about their meanings when he thinks you’re not paying too much attention.

If any of your tattoos are animals or nature-related, he’s deeply impressed. “A bunny? You’ve chosen well.”

Will jokingly criticize any tattoo he doesn’t like, but you know he’s not serious. He secretly admires all of them.

If you tell him you’re getting another one, he might suggest an animal that resonates with your personality. "Perhaps a panther would suit you."

Low-key, he’d be jealous if anyone else commented on how cool your tattoos are. He doesn’t like sharing your attention.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

At first, he’d be a bit taken aback—it’s not something he’s used to, and he’s very traditional.

But once he understands that your tattoos have personal meaning, he respects your choices completely.

“You’re a work of art. Literally and figuratively.” He means it sincerely, even if it’s cheesy.

He might not be entirely comfortable showing off your tattoos in formal settings (Wayne galas and such), but he would never ask you to hide them. Instead, he would encourage you to flaunt them confidently.

Secretly, he’s fascinated by the process and would love to watch you get a tattoo one day, just to understand it better.

If anyone makes a rude comment about your tattoos, Bruce would shut them down instantly with his trademark icy glare.

RANDOM CONVOS WITH THEM THAT WOULD HAPPEN ── .✦

with dick

Dick: “So, if I get your name tattooed, does that mean I own your heart forever?”

You: “Only if it’s spelled right.”

With jason

Jason: “If you ever get a tattoo of my name, make it small. I don’t want to be embarrassed when you dump me.”

You: “you think I’ll dump you randomly?”

jason: “who wouldn’t, I’m a high maintenance guy.”

With tim

Tim: He accidentally zones out during a conversation because he’s staring at a detailed tattoo and trying to figure out the design.

With damian

Damian: “Tt, if I were to get a tattoo, it would be far more impressive than yours.” You: “Damian, I literally have a dragon sleeve.”

With bruce

Bruce: “Do all of these mean something? Or did you just think they looked… fashionable?”

You: “Some are meaningful, but yeah, Bruce. Some just look cool

[loudstan]

Bestie

Summary: A project for your botany class goes wrong. Now you and your friend who you have a very obvious crush on are stressed and horny.

Pairing: Werewolf! Yangyang x Witch female reader

Warnings: Smut, sex pollen, phone sex, JUST THE TIP IS NOT A SAFE METHOD FYI, friends to lovers, I would call this couple dumb and dumber. Also I need him. No angst (FINALLY)

Yangyang was a weird guy. 

That’s what you thought when he joined the same botany class as you for elective credits, and he was already muttering something about how he hated it before it started. He wasn’t talking to anyone in particular but he was dropping his bag and sitting on the available seat next to you so you could hear him.

“Then why did you enroll?” you asked, a little annoyed. He was kinda cute, but a grown adult whining about his chosen class was a turnoff.

“All the good classes were full already,” he replied petulantly. “I’m not even good with plants. I killed my mom’s cactus when–” his sentence died out when he turned to look at you and he just stared at you dumbly.

You lifted your brows, expecting him to finish the story about how one manages to kill a cactus, but he just stared.

“What’s wrong with you?” you finally asked.

“H-hi,” he said instead of replying, with a nervous yet cheerful tone, contrary to the one you had heard earlier. “I’m Yangyang.”

You frowned. You had met a few weirdos on campus, so you assumed he was just one of them. Still, you decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, offering your hand for him to shake.

His eyes lit up and he grabbed your hand, but he immediately pulled back with a …moan?

“Fuck, bad idea,” he murmured, standing up and getting away from you like you had just burnt him.

Fairly enough, your hand felt incredibly hot after he touched it and a comforting warmth was now expanding in your chest.

“Bad idea,” he repeated, grabbing his backpack and running towards the door. “Nice to meet you, Y/N!” he yelled before disappearing. 

Yangyang was euphoric like never before. As he ran home he felt the cold wind hit his reddened cheeks and the still-fresh memory of your citrus scent mixed with the ocean breeze so perfectly he found himself with his arms wide open and inhaling deeply. It smelled like happiness. Holy shit, your scent should definitely be called liquid happiness and sold in tiny expensive bottles. But then other people would get to smell you.

A low growl resonated in his chest and he stopped dead in his tracks, placing his palm on his chest to feel the vibrations. 

Was he being possessive?

Wow, so the others weren’t exaggerating when they said imprinting made you unreasonably jealous and clingy. ‘Wolf instinct’ they called it.

He resumed his way home, now feeling the fatigue and pain that everyone told him about when entering an unscheduled rut due to imprinting, which he also mistakenly thought was an exaggeration. 

“Skipping class already?” Ten asked, unimpressed, as soon as Yangyang opened the front door.

“Yes, but it's an emergency,” Yangyang said, out of breath and dragging his feet to come in.

“What’s wrong?” Ten asked with a concerned tone this time.

“My dick’s about to explode.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m so serious,” Yangyan groaned, barely making it to the sofa and flopping on it. “Imprinting better be fucking worth it because this hurts.”

“Imprinting?” Ten repeated incredulously. “You imprinted?!”

The younger nodded tiredly. “She’s so hot, hyung. Everyone’s gonna be so jealous.”

Ten squealed excitedly. “How did you meet?”

“We 're in the same botany class and…fuck, I really need to be her partner for the project.”

“Wait, botany class with Professor Lawson?”

“Yeah, why?” 

“I know the guy,” Ten said with a smirk. “I’ll have a word with him. I’m sure he won’t mind helping you out.”

“Oh, thank god. Thank you so much,” Yangyang murmured weakly.

“Tell me more about her! What’s she like?”

“Well, we established that she's the hottest woman on Earth. She also has beautiful eyes that look so cute when annoyed.”

“You annoyed her already?”

“And her voice is so addictive,” Yangyang continued, ignoring the question. “And she has this super delicious scent…” he groaned, not noticing that his hand was going down to his trousers.

“Yangyang, do that in your room! Have some shame!” Ten exclaimed, forcing him to stand up and pushing him to the stairs. “Go upstairs and I’ll bring suppressants in a minute.”

Surprisingly, Yangyang was obedient this time, forcing himself to make an effort to go to his room. He usually took suppressants before he could even experience a pre-rut, so he didn’t remember the last time he felt this tired and needy. He took the pills Ten gave him and took off his pants, knowing very well that no pill would be too effective now that he had met you and that he had to take care of himself the old-fashioned way.

Honestly? He was happy to do it if he got to think about you to cum.

“Hhmmm…” he bit his lip and arched his back when his fingers—the same ones that had touched your skin earlier— finally circled his cock.

He remembered how soft your hand was. How would it feel if it was your hand touching him instead of his?

He chuckled. Your hand probably wouldn’t be able to grasp all of him. You would have to use both.

“Yeah, Y/N,” he whispered, closing his eyes and imagining he had you there with him. “It’s okay, just g-go slow, hm?”

In his vision, you stubbornly tried to grab him more firmly and jerk him faster. In reality, he tugged at his cock until reaching the desired speed. “Ooohh, you like it that much? Mhmm? You can have it, Y/N, g-go ahead…”

He ran his thumb over the tip a few times, imagining it was your pretty tongue teasing him. “Oooooh yes, baby, that’s my girl, right there…”

He quickened the pace, occasionally teasing the tip again. He was so close already and he had barely touched himself.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispered letting out a breathy laugh, thrusting into his fist. “Fuuuck I’m so lucky.”

Would you let him cum on your face? Would you close your eyes or keep them open and meet his gaze?

“Y/N–Oh!” His eyes screwed shut and he tossed his head back. His mouth opened in a silent scream and his toes curled when his orgasm hit and cum covered his fist and lower belly…and it kept coming out. “Ooooh, what the f-fuck, whatthefuck, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N…” he babbled out incoherently, tossing at the neverending pleasure. 

When he finally stopped coming, he opened his eyes slowly and looked at the ceiling in astonishment.

What the fuck was that? Was every orgasm going to feel like this from now on? What would happen when he finally got to do it with you?

He couldn’t wait to figure it out.

You, on the other hand, thought you wouldn’t see Yangyang again, assuming he had dropped the class. So you were more than surprised when he showed up next week, standing in front of you and clearing his throat to catch your attention.

“Oh, it’s you,” you sighed. 

“We’re together,” he mumbled, showing you a piece of paper with your name on it.

Great. Not only was there a lunatic in your class, but you were stuck with him as a partner for a project.

“Why didn’t you drop the class?” you asked honestly. “You said you didn’t like plants.”

“I don’t hate plants,” he shrugged, sitting next to you. “They just die on me.”

You glared at him in disbelief. “You do know your grade depends on your ability to keep plants alive, don’t you?”

“Are you good with plants?” he asked back.

“Yes,” you hissed. “Unlike you, I want to be in this class.”

“Then you can teach me,” he shrugged.

“Or better yet,” you offered. “I’ll do everything and write your name on the report. Just don’t get on my way.”

“Mr. Lawson!” Yangyang called for the professor, raising his hand. “Y/N doesn’t want to follow the rules–”

“He’s kidding!” you yelled quickly, grabbing Yangyang’s arm and hitting his back.

He groaned and then laughed like he enjoyed this type of attention coming from you.

“Yangyang, I won’t risk my grade for you.”

He smirked lazily. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He shrugged.”Yeah, we just have to learn to work together.”

“I don’t know if you can’t tell, but I already dislike you,” you said.

He shrugged again. “I kinda like you though.”

You blushed immediately, not expecting such words to come out of his mouth.

“J-just promise me you’ll carry your weight and maybe we can try to be friends or something.”

“Friends,” he savored the word. “Sounds good.”

You opened your book, ready to end the conversation there and concentrate on the class when you remembered something.

“Why did you run off like that? That time when we shook hands?” you asked, turning to look at him and freezing in place when his eyes met yours. They looked hungry, and predatory, unlike before. How did he keep changing his aura like that?

“Something urgent came up,” he said, still holding you captive with his gaze.

“What was a bad idea?” you asked.

“Hmm?”

“You said ‘bad idea’ before you ran away.”

His eyes hardened and then he looked at your lips, but he didn’t reply. 

The warm sensation came back, but this time traveled down your chest to your stomach and then went even lower.

You crossed your legs quickly and saw him smirk. Could he know what you were feeling?

“What was a bad idea?” you repeated, a little unsure you wanted to know the answer this time, but right then the professor started talking and you quickly looked to the front, focusing on the class.

“Shaking your hand,” Yangyang’s voice whispered, right next to your ear, giving you goosebumps and making you sit up straight, tense.

“Why was shaking my hand a bad idea?” you asked nervously, still not daring to look at him.

“Mine was sweaty,” he said unexpectedly, trying not to laugh when you turned to look at him with an annoyed expression. God he was going to have so much fun with you. “It’s really embarrassing.”

“Your hand wasn’t sweaty,” you countered.

“You didn’t feel it because I took it back fast enough. I’m a very considerate guy as you can see.”

“I think you’re just annoying,” you said, deciding he was not worth your attention and concentrating on the class again.

“Deal with it. I’m your new friend,” he said casually, opening his book.

“I never said–”

“No takebacks.”

“But I–” “Shh, bestie. I’m trying to pay attention to the class,” he nagged you. “I’m not risking my grade for you, Y/N.”

You scoffed, irritated. You assumed he would be a handful, but as time went by you discovered that he wasn’t as terrible as you thought. He was surprisingly diligent; taking detailed notes, asking relevant questions (some of which you wished you had thought of yourself), and even correcting you when you made a mistake (much to your disdain). 

You had no idea how he managed to pay attention when he was looking at you the entire time. At first, you thought you were imagining things, but he made it very obvious, sometimes not even bothering to look away when you caught him staring. He often stared at your neck and chest, biting his lip so hard you thought he would draw blood, other times he would stare at your crossed legs as if he knew that you were fighting your arousal due to his intense gaze, but most of the time he stared at your face, clenching his fist like he was fighting the urge to caress your cheeks. 

You got the most piercing glares when you wore something a bit more revealing. 

It was a regular summer day when you decided to wear the prettiest floral dress you owned. The fabric was light and fresh, not too tight but it hugged your curves nicely. Most importantly, you felt both pretty and comfortable.

“You’re here?” Yangyang asked casually without looking up from his phone as you placed your bag next to your seat. 

You had sat next to each other for at least a couple of months now, and you were working on the final project together which meant you also met often outside of the class. Sometimes you went for food or ice cream after hours of writing a report and you genuinely had a good time whenever you hung out. You could confidently say that you were somewhat friends by now. 

You hummed and sat down. “How was your weekend?”

“Eh, nothing interesting,” he shrugged, scrolling down. “Have you seen this video–” he finally looked up to show you something on his phone but he stopped mid-sentence when he saw you.

“What video?” you asked.

“What are you wearing?” he asked back.

“A dress?” 

“Why?”

You roll your eyes. “I never question your fashion choices, do I? Plus, I think it’s pretty,” you said, grabbing the hem to pull it down and cover your legs a bit more since the dress had rolled up when you sat down. “What’s wrong with it?”

No sound came out of his lips but he mouthed a very clear ‘fuck’, as he tried to decide if he should focus on your legs or your clavicle.

You blushed and muttered a ‘whatever’, deciding to ignore him for the rest of the class for your own sanity. The last thing you needed was him checking you out and feeding your fantasies that you had unwillingly conjured along with developing a huge inconvenient crush on him. 

You had tried to deny your feelings for weeks, but after the first month, you couldn’t help thinking of him when you pleasured yourself, wondering what he would feel like inside of you. Finding out he was a werewolf only made you even hornier, having heard about how intense sex with one could be. 

You also wondered what he would sound like, if he would go slow like the tease he is or fast and rough to hear you scream.

 Maybe the latter because he seemed to like eliciting sounds from you. You could tell by how often he annoyed you, scared you, and even tickled you until he got some type of vocal reaction from you. 

He would often call you cute when any of those scenarios happened and then his hands would linger a little too long before you slapped his arm and he laughed.

Your crush had intensified by the time you had your midterms and you got an A+ for the report you wrote together. He gave you a high five before impulsively pulling you in for a hug.

And god, he was so warm, and his chest was firmer than you thought and his hands felt just perfect on your waist.

“You did amazing,” he purred right next to your ear, causing you to let out an unexpected whimper.

You both tensed at the sound. You had never been more embarrassed but then you felt his grip tighten and his heartbeat accelerating on his chest pressed against yours.

“Oh, fuck me…” he groaned, nosing your neck.

Your eyes rolled back and you wanted to tell him that you would gladly do so until you heard someone clearing their throat. 

Professor Lawson was not enjoying the show.

You quickly pulled away from each other and never spoke about it again. But Yangyang was always staring, sitting too close, grazing…

Right now, his shorts allowed for his bare legs to gently rub yours and it was making you imagine things that weren’t appropriate for the place and time. The fact that his breathing sounded slightly agitated didn’t help and neither did having him manspreading to feel your touch better so shamelessly.

You gulped before deciding to be bold for once and spread your legs slightly too, pressing your thigh closer to his. 

He inhaled sharply.

He decided to be bold too by slowly dragging one of his hands under the table and gently patting your outer thigh with his fingertips.

You gasped and he retrieved his hand immediately, but you grabbed his wrist, feeling his quickened pulse where your fingers were.

This was a bad idea and you knew it. You were in public, in the middle of class, yet you found yourself shakily placing his hand where it was again not daring to look at him but hoping he would get the hint.

He kept his eyes on the whiteboard, but his fingers drew small patterns on your skin, making you wetter than before. 

You gathered some more courage to place your hand on his thigh, wanting to do the same for him, but as soon as you made contact with the hot skin exposed by his shorts he moaned loud enough for the people on the desks around you to look at you. 

You quickly took your hand away and he did the same. You still didn’t make eye contact and you knew this would be another one of the so many not-so-friendly moments you shared that would never be spoken about again.

Once the class was over, and even though you were mortified, you cleared your throat to speak.

“Uh, we need to talk about–”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to!” he quickly said with wide eyes, fearing a rejection before he even had the chance to confess.

“No, we absolutely have to–”

“How about you take your time to think about it–”

“Yangyang,” you deadpanned. “It’s about the project.”

“Oh,” he let out a relieved sigh. “What about it?”

“Remember I told you I’m going to visit my family for two weeks?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I can’t take our plant with me.”

“Oh…OH?” Yangyang’s eyes widened when he realized what that meant. While he was quite good at the theoretical part, he was still terrified of killing the plant so you were the one to take care of it all the time. If you were away then that meant he had no choice but to take the plant with him.

“You’ll be okay, right?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I’m terrified,” he admitted.

“It’s only for two weeks,” you reminded him. “You are more than capable of taking care of our baby during that time.”

He blushed hard when you called the plant ‘our baby’ and smiled like an idiot thinking of this being the first of many things you would share. And then he nodded, telling himself that it would be fine as he walked with you to your dorm to receive the project you both had worked on so hard for months.

The Scarlet Sugar Plum was a beautiful plant and, if properly nourished, its leaves could be used as an ingredient to make a Love Potion, which Yangyang was sure was a sign that you were meant to be.

He placed the pot near the window in his room, smiling dreamily. 

Our baby…

But a week later he was glaring at said plant with a sour expression. He didn’t get it. He gave it plenty of sunlight and water so why did it look so weak and dry? The before colorful leaves were turning brown and some of them had fallen, and he feared it soon would be nothing but a bent stem.

You were going to kill him.

Worse: you were going to be disappointed in him.

You were going to hate him and never want to talk to him again and he wouldn’t get to properly confess and he would die alone without his mate and–

Fuck…There had to be something he could do…

Maybe he could buy a new plant? 

No, you would notice immediately that it wasn’t the same one.

Then…he had heard some classmates talk about this potion that would make a plant grow bigger and stronger. The problem was that it wasn’t legal because the side effects could vary and end up making a plant poisonous. 

Was he willing to break the law so you wouldn’t hate him?

…Yes.

You suspected nothing when you texted him asking for a picture of the plant and saw that it looked healthy and strong, even with an extra flower.

“Told you you could do it!” you exclaimed happily when he called you later to catch up. 

“Just hurry up and come get your baby,”  he complained.

“Our baby,” you corrected him. “She’s your project too.”

“I was talking about me,” he replied and you could hear the teasing in his voice. “I’m your baby.”

“You behave like one,” you laughed.

 “No but seriously, hurry up. She misses you.”

“She misses me or you miss me?” you teased.

“I miss you,” he said with no hesitation. 

You blushed, not knowing what to answer for a second and then you paid attention to his breathing. It sounded agitated.

“Are you okay?” you asked. “You sound a little out of breath.”

“Yeah,” he groaned. “It’s just really fucking hot today.”

“Turn the AC on. Don’t be stingy!” you joked as a way to distract yourself from how hot his little groans sounded.

“It’s on!” he complained. “Maybe the problem is me. Am I in rut? Why am I in rut?! it’s not time yet…” he rambled on.

You bit your lip. Yeah, there were times when he had no filter around you, but this was the first time he spoke so openly about his rut.

“Oh, when is it supposed t-to happen, then?” you asked casually, hoping he wouldn’t notice your stutter.

“At least in one more month,” he breathed out. “Fuck, being a werewolf sucks sometimes…”

“It’s kinda cool,” you admitted.

“What’s cool about it?”

“Well, you have a better sense of smell, don’t you?”

“That’s both a blessing and a curse,” he chuckled weakly.

“Why’s that? Because of odors?”

“Because some people smell too fucking good,” he sighed. “Make it hard to control myself.” “O-oh,” you gulped. “Like who?”

“I think you know who, bestie,” he purred, making you shiver.

What was going on?

Was he this direct because of his rut?

You breathed shakily. “W-well, you are also faster and stronger than us humans. That’s pretty cool.”

“Hmm, yeah it can be cool,” he admitted. “I could catch you easily if you tried to run away…”

You gasped and he hummed. You heard some movement too.

“W-why would I run away?” you laughed nervously, feeling your panties sticking to your pussy.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t…” you breathed out.

He moaned loudly and you heard the sound of a zipper.

“Yangyang,” you rubbed your thighs together needily. “I think I should hang up.”

“No, fuck!” he groaned. “S-stay a little longer, hm? Talk to me.”

“A-about what?”

“Anything,” he breathed out and for a second you could hear a wet sound that made it very obvious he was touching himself. “W-what else is c-cool about werewolves?”

“You have a g-great sense of t-taste,” you said, very consciously sliding your hand into your shorts to feel your wetness over your panties.

Oh god. Were you really doing this?

“Yeah, f-fuck,” he moaned and the fapping sound became faster. “Taste so fucking good,” he sighed dreamily. 

“What tastes good?” you asked, grazing over your clit.

“You–shit!”

“You d-don’t know that…”

“I’m sure,” he replied between moans. “Someone w-who smells so delicious has t-to taste good…”

“Fuck…” you breathed out, rubbing your clit slowly.

“Wanna know what else is cool?” he panted. “Our body temperature is higher…haaa… so m-my tongue is hot as fuck–Mmm…Wanna feel it, bestie?”

Your eyes rolled back and you moaned shamelessly.

“Oooh, yes t-that’s it, imagine it, baby,” he urged you, making you clench at the nickname. “Feel so fucking good, yeah?”

“So g-good,” you panted, rubbing faster and hearing him moaning your name.

“Have you ever seen a knot?” he asked between groans. He couldn’t see you shaking your head but he continued, assuming your answer was no. “N-nothing could make you feel as f-full, ah…filling you up j-just right–fuck…Would ruin you for any other man…”

“Please…” you begged, almost tasting your climax.

“Fuck you so good,” he spoke with slurred words. “Bet y-you’d take it all, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you muttered, arching your back.

“Ah, haa…Y/N you’re d-doing amazing– oh god…”

“Yangyang!”

“FUCK! Yes, s-say my name j-just like that,” he whines, very obviously fucking his fist and panting desperately as he heard you murmur his name again and again like a mantra. “Oooh fuck, take my knot–”

You didn’t even try to hide the embarrassing moan that came out of your mouth when you had the most powerful orgasm of your life.

While talking to a friend on the phone.

And moaning his name.

You were coming down from your high when you heard him laugh breathlessly.

“So fucking good…” he murmured.

Oh god, you had had phone sex with Yangyang.

“Uh, so, I hope your rut goes well,” you said awkwardly.

“It would if you were here,” he said, still daydreaming.

“Haha,” you laughed nervously. “You’ll find someone to bang next time!”

“Huh?”

“I heard Cassie has the hots for you!”

“B-but…just now…we–”

“Hey, happy to help, bestie!” you interrupted him. “But next time you’ll do that with someone you like.”

He groaned. “Y/N, what–”

“Gotta go! Take care of our project!” you faked a cheerful tone and hung up, turning your phone off and throwing it away nervously to then proceed to scream into your pillow.

Now he knew for sure.

He knew you had a crush on him.

Fuck, you were so embarrassed. He was horny because of his rut, but you had no excuse to moan his name like that. You probably sounded pathetic begging for him.

Maybe he wouldn’t care? Yeah, maybe he was thankful that you helped him out and you would continue being friends. All you had to do was not address it, just like all the other moments of tension you kept sharing and then pretending that never happened.

It would be fine.

Everything was fine.

You kept repeating that to yourself to calm your nerves when you stood in front of Yangyang’s house a few days later. 

It was an old-fashioned house but it was huge, which made sense considering he told you he lived with his pack. 

“I’ll get it!” you heard Yangyang’s voice scream from the other side of the door after you rang the bell. “Why are y’all just standing here? Go away!”

There was a moment of silence. And then you thought you heard him say ‘Fine, but act normal.’

The door swung open and Yangyang welcomed you with his characteristic smile.

“Hey!” he greeted, giving you a friendly hug.

You sighed, relieved. Nothing had changed. He wasn’t awkward around you.

“Hey, you!” you smiled until you noticed at least a dozen eyes on you. A group of men, who you assumed were his packmates, were looking at you with big smiles on their faces.

“Oh, hello!” you said nervously.

They replied cheerfully. Too cheerfully. And Yangyang quickly grabbed your arm and pulled you up the stairs with him.

“Ignore them,” he told you once you entered his room and he closed the door. “They don’t know how to act around girls.”

You snorted. “Oh, so I’m a girl to you now?”

He frowned. “You’ve always been?”

“We’re friends,” you reminded him, deciding to do damage control just in case. “We’re basically bros. You don’t see me as a girl and I don’t see you as a boy.”

He gave you an unreadable look but before he could answer you reached for the plant.

“Oh my god! She grew so much!”

“Yeah…” Yangyang agreed.

“You did a great job! You didn’t need to be afraid, see?”

He bit his lip nervously.

“Normally they don’t grow more than one flower a month, you know?” you babbled out. 

“U-huh…”

“And the leaves normally wouldn’t be this shade of green until winter!”

“Uh…yep…”

“And the scent is normally not this sugary…” your voice became a murmur.

You turned to look at him and he looked away.

“Did you do anything special?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I followed the instructions.”

You looked at the plant, taking a deep inhale at its scent, and then looked back at him. “Yangyang.”

“It’s healthy, isn’t it?” he asked defensively.

“But it isn’t normal.”

“Guess I discovered my natural talent.”

“Yangyang,” you warned him. The air was starting to feel hot and it was irritating you.

“Maybe I’m not as hopeless as you think.”

“I never said you were hopeless.”

“But you imply it!” he brushed his hair with his fingers, frustrated. He was flushed and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

“I didn’t–,” you groaned. “I just want to make sure!” you said, feeling slightly suffocated by the sweet scent of the plant.

“I…fuck! I’m sorry, okay? I fucked up!” he admitted, sitting on the bed.

“What did you do?” you asked, fanning yourself with your palm.

“I cheated,” he said defeatedly.

“How?”

“I used Gloom Dust Potion.”

“What?! Where did you get that?”

“The black market, of course,” he grumbled.

“How could you be so careless!” you yelled.

“But I wasn’t! That’s what makes this so frustrating,” he yelled back. “I measured the water, I made sure the room had the right temperature I even set alarms to check on her in the middle of the fucking night! I did everything and it still whithered and I don’t know why I’m such a useless man but I really tried my best because I wanted to give you an A+ and I wanted you to be proud of me and now you hate me–”

“Woah, hold on! I don’t hate you!” you said quickly.

He covered his face with his palms and you kneeled in front of him. “Hey, Yangyang, look at me,” you told him. 

He didn’t reply. 

“Please?” you asked softly.

Hesitantly he uncovered his face and gave you a shameful and sad look. He really had tried his best and he felt terrible about it not working out.

“I don’t hate you,” you repeated.

“Are you sure?” he asked with a small voice.

“Very sure,” you said, cupping his face with your palm.

He let out a soft moan, leaning into your touch.

That’s when you noticed that he was burning up.

“Yangyang, are you okay?” you asked.

“Sorry about the project,” he mumbled, nosing your palm.

“Forget about it. I think you have a fever,” you said, about to retreat your hand and go call for help but he grabbed your wrist and brought you closer again.

“I’m so sorry,” he slurred.

“It’s fine,” you said.

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m not, okay?”

“You’re so good to me…” he whispered.

You frowned. “Yangyang, I’ll go get one of your pack brothers.”

“Did you use this hand?” his question caught you off-guard.

“What?”

“When you touched yourself,” he clarified, scenting your wrist. “That night on the phone.”

You blushed furiously.

“W-what?” you repeated dumbly.

He brought your fingers to his mouth and licked them. It was true that his tongue was hotter than that of a human.

“Yeah, I bet it was this one–fuck…” he moaned.

Your knees wobbled. 

“Yangyang,” you gasped. “Let go. You have a fever.”

“But your skin is hot too,” he mumbled before sucking your index and middle finger into his mouth.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, feeling your head spinning. He was right. You felt incredibly hot and not only that. Your pussy was throbbing and your nipples had hardened under your shirt way before Yangyang had started acting weird.

You were too irritated to notice before but both you and Yangyang got turned on incredibly fast as soon as you entered the room. 

“W-wait oh, no,” you spoke again, pulling away from him and hearing him whine. “I know what’s happening,” you said, making your way to the plant.

Yangyang followed your every move with his eyes like he was hypnotized.

You got closer to one of the flowers and inhaled deeply, only to feel more sticky wetness accumulate between your legs. 

You groaned.

“Yangyang, we need to get out of this room,” you said, going back to him and trying to make him stand up.

“Why?” he asked, not budging.

“The potion intensifies the properties of plants. Ours is used to emulate the feeling of a crush…the feeling of liking someone, right?”

“Right,” he said, trying to process your words.

“Because of the potion, instead of just a crush, you get something bigger. Lust. Desire,” you deduced. 

His eyes widened. “I turned our plant into a fucking aphrodisiac!? So that’s why I’ve been so horny this past week?”

“It’s not your fault,” you say quickly, pulling his arm. “You didn’t know this would happen.”

“Wait,” he said, standing up and towering over you. “Does it mean you’re turned on too?”

You blushed even harder if it was possible. “Yeah, well, that’s what aphrodisiacs do…”

He closed his eyes and inhaled. “Fuck…you’re right. I can smell it…”

You cleared your throat awkwardly. “Yeah, well…Anyways, let’s get out of here.”

“No way, they will see my hard-on and I’m never going to live it down!” he groaned.

You fought your eyes from looking down. “That’s not important right now!”

“And they’ll smell you,” he added, making you halt. “My entire pack will know you came out of my room aroused.”

You muttered a hushed curse and sat down on his bed.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated timidly, sitting beside you.

“Stop apologizing,” you sighed. “We can still pass the class with what we have done so far.”

He didn’t say anything, staring at his lap.

“Hey,” you said, reaching for his hand. “I promise. I’m not mad. We’re still friends, okay?”

He gave you a weak smile and his thumb caressed your hand. 

“Now we only need to think of a way to get out of here without being seen,” you said, looking at the window.

“You’re not jumping out the window,” he deadpanned. “This is the third floor.”

You sighed, flopping on the bed with him following, lying down next to you.

 “The other option is going out when we’re not turned on anymore,” you said.

His hand squeezed yours involuntarily. 

“Oh,” he said. “Maybe it will wear off after…ya know…”

It took you a few seconds to understand what he was proposing.

“You’re suggesting we get off while the other is in the room?” you turned to look at him.

“I w-won’t look,” he promised.

You licked your lips.

“I won’t look either…”

His eyes widened and his ears turned red. 

“R-really? Are we gonna….oh my god…” he squirmed a little as he felt his member twitch.

“I mean…it wouldn’t be t-that different from that time…on the phone…” you whispered.

He groaned.

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t have a better idea,” you breathed out.

You stared into each other's eyes for a few seconds.

“Okay,” he whispered, letting go of your hand. “I’ll turn around,” he informed you, turning to his side with his back towards you.

You took a deep breath in and did the same.

You could feel each other's heartbeats when you were back to back.

“Ready?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah…”

You moved first, slowly sliding your hand into your pants. Your breath caught in your throat when you touched your pulsating clit and then you let out a shaky breath when your index teased it.

You heard him sigh and felt him move slightly. He tried to be quiet when his hand touched his dick, but when he heard the wet sounds of your hand caressing your folds he moaned.

You thrust a finger inside and a whimper escaped you. Yangyang groaned and you heard him whisper what sounded like ‘yes…’

He wasn’t being shy and you were able to hear and feel exactly what he was doing even without looking. 

Another finger entered you and you got lost in your fantasy, imagining it was him doing this to you as you heard his groans.

“Faster,” you accidentally said out loud and were about to apologize, mortified, but you felt him moving his hand faster as he moaned your name.

And you ended up matching his rhythm. 

You weren’t sure if it made a difference if you were looking or not. You were touching yourselves in the same room, back to back, at the same speed and very obviously thinking about each other.

“Are you close?” his question was directed to you, not caring about pretending anymore. “Y/N,” he called your name clearly when you didn’t reply. “Please tell me you’re close…”

“Y-yeah…” you replied shyly and he inhaled sharply.

“Touch your clit,” he instructed after a broken moan. “I’m touching my tip too.”

You whined, using your other hand to draw circles on your clit and your orgasm washed over you. You came with a sob and your body tensed while he murmured profanities and grunted behind you.

“Fuck…” you murmured when you were able to see straight again, still feeling your pussy clenching.

“Fuck…” he agreed, trembling slightly.

“I think it didn’t work…” you admitted.

“Yeah,” he agreed again, and you could feel that he was still palming himself. “I’m still hard as fuck…”

“What do we do?” you whined, tiredly.

“Let’s keep going,” he proposed with no hesitation, still moving his hand behind you. “One more should do…”

“Or…” you trailed off.

“Or?”

“We could…touch each other?” you spoke barely above a whisper but he heard you loud and clear because he turned around and sat up quickly.

“What?!” he asked.

You groaned, embarrassed. “Forget it, it was dumb…”

“No, no, it’s not dumb,” he cooed, patting your back.

You shook your head.

“Y/N, please,” he sighed. “I heard you the first time, but I want to be sure I got it right. You want to touch me?”

You still refused to reply or look at him.

“Because…I would like to touch you…” he confessed quietly. “I would like that a lot…”

Slowly you sat up and made eye contact with him. Your cheeks were burning just like the rest of your body, due to arousal and embarrassment. 

“Really?” you asked equally quietly.

“Really,” he said. “So what’s the plan?”

You took a deep breath in before speaking again.

“We can help each other,” you bargained, trying not to lose focus as you watched a drop of sweat travel down his neck. “We’re friends, after all. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Yangyang gulped.

“Yeah, we’re just friends,” he spoke shakily. “Just two friends affected by a dumb plant.”

“Exactly,” you nodded, breathing heavily. “It’s normal to be horny. It’s the plant. It’s not because we like each other.”

“Totally. It’s not like I imprinted on you when we first met or something,” he mumbled, fixated on the way your lips moved.

“…What?”

“What?”

“Did you just say you imprinted on me?” you frowned.

He averted his gaze, clearing his throat. “I said it’s not like I did,” he replied. “Meaning I didn’t.”

“Okay,” you conceded, sitting closer, “then it should be fine, right?”

“I think it would be more than fine,” he assured you, though he sounded strained, not fine at all. He closed his eyes when he felt your fingertips on his jaw.

 “What do you wanna do?”

“Is there anything you���re not comfortable with?” you asked.

 “Anything you wanna do’s okay,” he said, locking eyes with you.

You lowered your hand so it was now on his neck. “Anything?” you purred, applying only a little bit of pressure and watching in awe how he rolled his eyes and groaned.

“A-anything…” he repeated.

“But what do you want to do?” you asked, allowing your hand to go lower, using your nails to tease him over the material of his shirt sticking to his chest.

“Y/N…”

“Is there nothing you wanna do to me?” you teased, lifting his shirt a little and placing your palm on his lower belly. You were also looking for reassurance. You would feel like a loser if you were thirsting over your friend when he hadn’t fantasized about you once.

“I–I don’t know,” he lied. If only you knew all the things he wanted to do to you.

“Hm…I guess you don’t want this enough,” you sighed, starting to withdraw your hand but he quickly grabbed it and placed it right on his crotch. “Y-yangyang?!”

Instead of replying, he forced your hand on him harder with a strangled moan and you felt something hard twitching right against your palm before even more wetness spread on the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Oh, my god, Yangyang…” you whispered in disbelief, gently pulling your hand away to inspect the sticky substance on it. “Just like that?”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “I…uh…I’ve been exposed to the plant for too long, I guess…Sorry…”

“Are you feeling better–Oh!” you gasped when he suddenly pulled you on top of him.

“Are you kidding me?” he groaned, hiding his face in the crook of your neck while hugging your waist. “I just came in my pants, feeling the warmth of your hand while looking at you– I’ve never been hornier!”

How he admitted to it so openly made you blush. “Should we do more, then?”

You felt him nod. And before you could ask what was next, the muscle of his thigh flexed under you, causing you to let out a surprised gasp. He tensed at the sound, holding his breath and waiting patiently for your next move. Only when you moved your hips and he heard you moan weakly did he dare to exhale.

“Y/N, are you–? Oh god, oh god…” he breathed out against the sensitive skin of your neck, in utter disbelief because there was no way the woman of his dreams was riding his thigh. 

“Is this okay?” you asked nervously, slowing your hips down just in case you were doing something he wasn’t comfortable with, but he whined, holding your hips and guiding them to move again.

“It’s so okay,” he quickly assured you. “Use my thigh all you want…”

“J-just once, okay?” you told him, but you were actually trying to convince yourself.

He didn’t reply, too busy bouncing you on his leg and getting lost in your little sounds.

“Hmm?” he asked absentmindedly, placing a wet kiss on your collarbone.

“I s-said this is– Yangyang!” you grabbed onto his shoulders for support and arched your back, feeling like you were about to explode.

“Yeah?” he breathed out, nibbling on your earlobe.

“I’m cumming–” you barely managed to whisper.

“Do it,” he urged you, helping you move faster, “do it, do it, c’mon, it’s gonna feel really good, baby, c’mon–,” he stopped mid-sentence and his eyes widened when he finally witnessed the beauty of having you cum right in front of his eyes. He had imagined it plenty of times, but he could never picture it right; he had no idea your voice could get this high-pitched, that your pupils would dilate this much, that you would feel this hot and wet on top of him…God, all his fantasies were wrong, so wrong, they could never do you justice. He had to memorize every single detail and never get off to anything else.

You were still coming down from your high when you felt a pair of warm lips on yours, soft and gentle. Yangyang was kissing you. Your platonic friend who stole your fries and called you a bro.

With a sudden yelp, you pushed yourself off him, standing up.

“What?!” he asked.“What’s wrong?”

“You kissed me!”

“...Yeah, and?”

“You can’t do that!” you exclaimed.

“You said we should help each other out!” he reminded you.

“Yes, but as friends,” you explained like it was obvious. “Kissing is too…intimate for friends.”

Yangyang stared at you with wide incredulous eyes. “Kissing is too intimate but humping my leg isn’t?”

“Yangyang, you don’t just kiss anyone!”

“You don’t fuck yourself on just anyone’s thigh either!”

“Right, but–,” you sighed and decided to come out clean. “I worry that if I kiss you I could end up feeling a bit confused.”

He looked up at you and listened attentively. “Confused how?”

“Like,” you tried to organize your thoughts while your body was burning up and a hot guy with a raging boner in front of you. “What if I like it?”

He stared at you, waiting for an explanation of how that would be a problem, scoffing when you didn’t elaborate. “God forbid you have a good time in a consensual sexual experience,” he mocked. 

“I mean, what if I like it too much?” you clarified.

“What does that even mean?” he groaned, accommodating his hard-on and trying to understand the words coming from your mouth.

You were starting to get frustrated too. How could you explain properly that you were scared of falling even more for him while you were clenching at the view?

“Just no kissing, okay?” 

He frowned and looked at your lips, mulling it over. He didn’t understand, nor did he like it, but he agreed regardless. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he finally said. “Anything else is off limits?”

“Do you have a condom?”

He shook his head.

“Then we should probably avoid penetration,” you said. “I’m not on the pill or anything like that so…”

“Right,” he gulped. “Let’s be careful. Anything else?”

You tried hard to think of more things, but your brain was foggy and everything was too hot, too suffocating.

Yangyang was feeling it too and he didn’t have the patience to wait for your entire list of forbidden things. “Y/N, my dick hurts,” he spoke with difficulty, pressing his palm on his crotch to relieve the discomfort. “Just tell me!”

You gulped and pressed your thighs together. “I uh…can’t come up with anything right n-now…thinking is h-hard…”

“Y/N, please,” he whimpered between elaborate breaths.

“How about you name something and I tell you if it’s okay or not?” you proposed. It should be easier this way.

“Can I fuck your tits?” he asked immediately.

You gasped and felt yourself get wetter at the suggestion. Yes, you told him to say what he wanted, and you knew he was blunt, but he had never been this blunt.

“What? Too intimate for you?” he asked half-seriously, half-mockingly.

“N-no, it’s…it’s fine,” you replied. “But how do we do it?” you asked nervously.

“Lie down,” he instructed with no hesitation, like he had thought about this too many times. 

You complied and got back on the bed, nervously lying down and waiting to see what he would do next. 

He slowly climbed on top of you and you felt your heart beat so hard and fast you worried it would break through your ribcage and escape your body. Yangyang was on top of you. Sweating, desperate for you, and his eyes looked at you with something you could have easily confused with love in a different situation. 

With shaky hands he grabbed the hem of your shirt and started pushing it up, pausing when his fingertips touched the lace of your bra. He held his breath and his eyes met yours silently asking ‘Is this okay?’ and continuing when you bit your lip and nodded.

He barely grazed over your covered breasts when he finished wrinkling the fabric of your shirt near your neck and his dick twitched excitedly and the view of your hardened nipples under the thin material of your bralette.

“Y/N…” he whispered just to savor your name, humping your stomach in an almost unperceivable way. “Can I?”

“Just do it,” you whined, maybe wanting this more than him.

He nervously placed his hands on top of your breasts and let out a needy moan when he finally felt your softness and warmth in his palms. “M-maybe I’ll cum like this,” he commented. And he was totally serious because he was leaking again.

“No!” you said too quickly. “You said you’d fuck them,” you whined, arching your back and pushing your tits further into his touch, making him squeeze harder.

“Yeah? Want that?” he asked breathily, delighted at how quickly you nodded. “Shit, okay, okay…” he said, letting go of your chest and standing up to step out of his pants and boxers.

You used the opportunity to quickly take off your shirt and bra, too eager to be used and very pleased to see him freeze when he looked back at you and saw you half undressed. His jaw hung open and he just couldn’t look away. After all this time stealing glances at your clavicle and fighting his boner every time you hugged and he felt your boobs against his chest, you were willingly showing them to him. And he was about to fuck them.

“F-fuck…” he breathed out, straddling your chest. “Can I really?”

“Yangyang,” you whined, hitting his arm. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“One more?” he asked hopefully.

You rolled your eyes, but you were getting impatient enough to humor him. “Will you fuck my tits or not, Yangyang?”

He groaned, grabbing his base firmly to stop what wanted to come out. He took a deep breath in and positioned his member between your breasts, letting out a shaky breath when it slid on your skin, trapped between your boobs as you pushed them together.

“Shit, Yangyang…” you gulped when the tip of his cock got a little too close to your chin. “You’re kinda…”

“What?” he half-moans, sliding back and forward slowly.

“Big,” you whisper in disbelief.

He snorts, continuing the slow rhythm of his hips. “Perks of being a werewolf,” he shrugged. “This is average…”

“No way,” you laugh too, gasping when he pinched one of your nipples playfully.

“I swear,” he said half-laughing, half moaning as he accelerated his movements slightly. Everything felt so relaxed and fun with Yangyang. 

So natural.

“Mm…Bet you would fill me up so good…” you commented absentmindedly, actively daydreaming at this point.

He halted, looking at you with wide eyes. “What did you just say?!”

“That you…would fill me up good?” you repeated, blinking up at him.

Oh, so he heard you well. 

“Y/N, are you trying to kill me?” he asked.

“It was just a thought,” you mumbled.

“...Are you thinking about it right now?”

“Can you blame me?” you asked back. Of course you were. How could you think about anything else in this situation?

He groaned, thrusting hard. “Yeah? Do you imagine me inside of you moving like this?”

A soft moan escaped your mouth and you nodded, feeling droplets of hot precum land on your chest.

“Fuuck…it’s a shame we can’t,” he honestly lamented, rutting faster. “I really wanna…”

“Yangyang,” you called his name, your hands leaving the sides of your boobs to reach for his hands. “Yangyang, wait.”

He whined, looking at you in panic. What if you changed your mind and wanted nothing to do with him? He would cry. He would cry all night.

You pushed him lightly, making him stand up next to the bed as you sat up, and oh my god he really was about to cry because it looked like this was the end, until…

“Hold them,” you instructed, placing his hands where yours were before, on each side of your breasts. “Push them together, okay?” 

He nodded. Anything you said as long as you didn’t actually make him stop. He shuddered when one of your hands caressed his hip bone, and then he noticed where your other hand was going…all the way down your stomach.

“Oh god,” he gasped, finally understanding the new position with him standing in front of you and you sitting on his bed, touching yourself. He bent his knees slightly to slide his cock back where he wanted and his eyes rolled back when he pressed your breasts together so tight that his tip released a tiny stream of white liquid. “ I love your tits so much,” he blurted out, resuming his chase for pleasure.

“Is that why you’re always staring at them?” you teased, tapping your clit.

“Y-you knew?” he asked nervously. Fear flooded his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Instead, he thrust up faster, moaning uncontrollably.

“You d-don’t even try to hide it,” you reply, moving your fingers faster.

“I didn’t mean to stare,” he whined. “They’re just pretty.”

“Yeah?”

“Y-yeah, so pretty–Oh!” he moaned loudly when he felt something hot and wet touching his tip. You had opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, meeting his dick when he thrust up. “Y/N, fuck, fuck, are you for real?!”

You licked around the tip messily and that was all the answer he needed, he threw his head back and rutted against your soft skin once, twice–

“Oooh…Nngh….shit…” he moaned, letting go of your breasts and trying to focus his gaze as he looked down and saw you wrapping your lips around his tip, sucking softly. “You’re so fucking hot…”

When the taste of his cum invaded your tastebuds you felt another orgasm hit you and you moaned around him, while your thighs shook.

“I love you.”

You let go of his dick and looked up at him. His eyes met yours as he pushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“What did you say?” you croaked.

He seemed to snap out of it, blinking and pulling his hand back, taking a step back as well. “Nothing,” he said quickly.

You tilted your head. You heard him say he loved you. It was his voice…

“Are you sure?”

“Yep,” he said, looking away awkwardly.

… Maybe the plant had hallucinatory effects too?

The tingling sensation in your center told you it wasn’t enough, and that immediately made you go back to solving the issue of why you both were half undressed in the first place. “Yangyang, I think I need more…”

“Oh, thank god. I’m still hard,” he sighed, kneeling in front of you and leaning in for a kiss before he quickly stopped himself, remembering the limits you had set. “Sorry, I forgot.”

You licked your lips and looked at his face. He wasn’t as red as before, and you also weren’t feeling as feverish as before. “I think it’s wearing down though. Maybe we just need one more.”

He nodded. “We can just rub one off quickly.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, lowkey hoping he meant you would do it to each other and not to yourselves.

“Or…” he hesitated.

“Yes?” you asked eagerly.

“We could– uh… I could…” he gulped, losing his confidence as his mind was getting clearer. “I dunno how to explain but, can I try something?”

“Sure,” you breathed out.

“Can you take your pants off?” he asked timidly, surprised when you did it immediately.

“Now what?”

His chest rose and fell heavily. He pushed you back until you were on your back on the bed again and he positioned himself between your legs pressing your bodies together and groaning at the wetness of your panties now sticking to his dick too.

“Oh, yes,” you moaned, arching your back and pushing your hips closer to his. “Best idea you’ve ever had–”

“No, I meant–wait,” he interrupted you and stilled your hips. He lifted the hem of your panties right where your inner thigh met your center, just enough for him to slide his dick under them and rest it directly on your wetness.

You gasped, grabbing his arm quickly. “Yangyang!”

“Shh, it’s okay,” he assured you. “I won’t put it in,” he explained, placing one of his hands on top of where his dick was nested, pressing down but leaving enough space for him to thrust his hips. He did it once, showing you how the little trap he had made with your panties and his hand allowed his cock to slide against your clit deliciously. “Like t-this…okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Y-yes, yes–Oh!”

He sighed in relief, sliding against you more earnestly. “Feel good?”

“So good,” you admitted, opening your legs wider for him. “Wish you were inside though–” you blurted out.

His cock twitched and he groaned, snapping his hips harder. “Yeah? I d-don’t think friends do that haa…ah…”

You shook your head, moving your hips to match his rhythm. “They don’t,” you breathed out.

“I don’t think they do anything we’ve done in the past hour either,” he continued.

Again, you shook your head. “B-but it feels so good…”

“Yeah? You like your friend’s cock rubbing your pussy?”

You were about to reply when Yangyang’s harsh thrusts got a little out of control and you felt something poke your entrance just enough to have you clenching around it. You moaned and he quickly pulled away.

“S-sorry, it slipped,” he said anxiously. “W-we can stop–”

“Again,” you begged, trying to pull him back on top of you.

“Y/N, we can’t–”

“Just a little,” you bargained.

He stared at you, dumbfounded, and then shook his head, as if he was trying to wake himself up. “We’re not w-wearing protection and–”

“Just the tip,” you insisted.

He groaned. “Y/N–”

“Please?”

You stared into each other's eyes, knowing damn well that you were not thinking clearly, but not caring at this point. Silently, he grabbed his dick and placed it right where you wanted it, pushing just enough for you to engulf his tip and have both of you moaning wantonly.

“This is a t-terrible idea,” he mumbled, pulling out and pushing back inside, driving himself (and you) crazy. It wasn’t enough, yet it was so good.

“It’s okay–ah!” you tried to excuse your poor choices. “We’re j-just ooh…helping each other out–AH!”

“Uhuh,” he nodded, building up his rhythm and switching between thrusting the tip in and sliding against your clit. 

“Fuuuuck– You’ll be ascended to best f-friend for this, Yangyang–”

“Oh, hell nah. Fuck that.”

Just like that, Yangyang’s lips were on yours again. This time very on purpose.

“Y-yangyang w-wait,” you whined, though you were responding to his kiss too actively, sucking on his bottom lip eagerly. “Told you it’s gonna b-be confusing if we–oh!”

“Drop the act, Y/N,” he said between kisses. “Are you telling me you see me as a friend after all this?”

You whimpered. Was it that obvious?

“We’re not fucking friends,” he panted. “You’re not gonna push me deeper into the friendzone when your pussy is trying to suck me in like this.”

“B-but you said–”

“I lied, okay?” he confessed. “Yeah, I imprinted on you. No, I don’t wanna be just friends. And yeah, I know kissing you will make things even more confusing,” he admitted, rubbing and pressing his cock on your clit harder to have your eyes roll back as he continued kissing you. “I want to confuse the fuck out of you until you think you like me back. I don’t give a fuck if it’s unfair. I like you too much–no. I love you –oooh, fuck, fuck,Y/N!”

Your heart skipped a beat at the confession and a dumb smile formed on your lips and then he moaned and grabbed both your hands, positioning them around the base of his cock and holding them there as something started to grow.

“Oh my god…,” you sat up with difficulty staring in disbelief. “Is that your knot?”

He nodded wordlessly, applying pressure on your hands to signal you to squeeze there, hard. When you did he closed his eyes, his body tensed as he spilled spurts of cum on your center, smearing it all over your folds.

You kept squeezing and massaging the inflated base as he whimpered and thrust his hips up weakly. Finally, cum stopped coming out and he sighed.

You didn’t even have time to worry about your still pending orgasm, too preoccupied with processing his earnest confession, and by the time you reacted, he had already crawled down and taken your panties off.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “I made a mess…” caressing your labia and ironically making the sticky mess worse. “Lemme clean it,” were his last words before he slid his tongue between your folds.

Your hands quickly grabbed onto him, pulling his hair to get him closer to where you needed him the most. “Yes, Yangyang, please–”

“What the fuck you taste amazing,” he mumbled against your center, licking incessantly. 

“That’s your own c-cum,” you laughed, interrupted by a moan when he tried to talk while still attached to your  pussy.

“Mixed with yours,” his words were muffled as he moved his lips and tongue lazily to collect as much wetness as he could. “So good together…”

“Yangyang,” you spoke shakily, pulling harder to get him to your clit which he seemed to be avoiding on purpose. “N-not there, here…”

He kept lazily lapping at your inner labia, ignoring your instructions. “I’m helping you clean, like a good friend.”

“No, no, no, please make me cum,” you begged shamelessly. Your climax was so close you could taste it but he was playing with you.

“I dunno,” he detached himself from you and rested his face on his palms, locking eyes with you. “Making you cum with my mouth is too intimate for me…”

“You fucking–AH!” your complaint was cut short when he flicked your clit with the tip of his tongue just once, making you squirm desperately. “Yangyang, come on!”

“But what if you get confused?” he teased, swirling his tongue around your clit slowly.

“P-please, please, please, oh!” you sobbed when he stopped again.

“You sound confused, Y/N,” he cooed, kissing your inner thigh. “ Wouldn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“Fuck our friendship!” you finally yelled. “I like you. I like you so much. Kiss me, eat me out, fuck me as much as you want, please just do something…Oooh!”

He finally shoved his face between your legs and engulfed your clit with his lips, sucking, allowing you to guide his head however you wanted. He hummed in delight at your confession, determined to make you cum harder than ever to reward your honesty.

“Yes, yes, yes, Yangyang, don’t stop, please, right there ah, ah, ah!” you beg, thrusting your hips up.

You felt him chuckle and it was enough for you to reach your orgasm with a silent scream, arching your back and shaking while he lapped your juices eagerly.

And then you felt a sharp pain in your inner thigh.

“AH! What the fuck, Yangyang!” you exclaimed, sitting up rapidly and catching him with his teeth sunk into your soft skin. 

His eyes widened at your reprimand, and he switched to licking the wound in a comforting manner.

“Why did you bite me?!”

“Got carried away. Sorry…”

Well, at least he didn’t cum inside you, just like you had agreed on. But you hadn’t considered that you two may end up tied up together in other ways.

“Yangyang…does it mean we are–?”

He looked at your panicked eyes and then back at his mark on your body.

“Maybe? I…I don’t know?” he said nervously. “Normally we bite our mates on their neck or somewhere around that area.”

“Then this one probably doesn’t count, right? We aren’t bonded or anything,” you lied to yourself. You knew it made zero sense that a mating bite only worked in a specific area of your body, but you were in no condition to process that you were bonded for life after your not-so-platonic crush ate you out in a house full of werewolves.

He caressed the wounded area lovingly. Something that felt weirdly like electricity traveled from his fingertip which was in contact with your skin all over his body, making him shudder and inhale sharply. He was 89% sure you were bonded, but he ignored his instinct to give you the answer you wanted. 

“I guess it doesn’t work if it’s not on your neck.Maybe.”

“Okay, cool,” you sighed, letting your body finally relax now that the horniness was gone.

“Cool,” he echoed, biting his lip nervously. “So uhh…Wanna grab something to eat?”

“That pizza place down the street?” you suggested tiredly.

“Sure,” he said, standing up and grabbing his pants. He said the next part carefully. “It’s a date.”

You smiled to yourself, trying not to laugh at his nervousness. “Yeah, it’s a date.”

Yangyang could have died a happy man right there and then. He got dressed quickly and helped you sit up and get dressed too. He looked at your exhausted face and he found it endearing, especially with how it lit up after he gave you a soft peck.

You both would deal with the failed botany project later and the fact that everyone in the house probably knew what you did.

…And with the very real bite on your thigh that you both refused to acknowledge for now.

[bts5sosempire]

A/n: another blurb cuz why tf not? Another Dad!Simon and this man deserve all the softness in the world. Plus, I am not a professional in baby-ology, so take this cute drabble with a grain of salt. 🤟🏻

Simon was convinced his child hated him; the first six months were hard. He might as well get a reward trophy for participation in creating one of the prettiest girls in the world instead. The man tried to get his daughter to get used to him, but every time he hold her, the baby girl realized she wasn't in her mother's arms and they wriggled, before fussing and let out a few cries before going to a full-blown one. Thus, this lead you having to drop whatever you're doing and tend to the baby instead as Simon take over the current chore(s).

"Simon, just give it some time."

The sentence you always use to comfort him, but he still feels a little discouraged, maybe a bit hurt on the inside at the baby's refusal to be in his arms. He was excited for nine months to see his baby girl, but only for her to reject him once she came out of the womb.

"She'll come around, and once she do it'll be worth the wait."

.

The only time the baby seems to stay content in his arms, albeit a little angsty like always when you're not around, and the calmness appears to remain stagnant only for a moment until she starts fussing again; their little whimpers begin to bubble out, as wondering glossy little beady eyes search the room for you as they feel disconnected from their mother who was nowhere to be seen. Simon does his best to quell the child and soothe them before they can cry again.

But alas, it failed as their eyes had tears wounded up in them, and he already knew the signal cries she was going to make. So he had to speed dial you on call and put you on speaker to talk to the child. Honestly, Simon felt terrible for calling you for something as minor as this when he promised to take care of the baby and that he 'got this' for the next few hours when you did the shopping run. "Sorry, Love, it seems she wants to hear you."

Once the baby has heard your voice, they immediately stop crying and listen intently to your sound, like in a trance. The man felt hopeless about the child wanting you only, not him; he watched how they calmed down into obedience as he rocked them from side to side. The amazing things you do that soothe the child in a heartbeat.

But it wasn't until your voice was directed at him.

"Simon, I know you're doing your best trying to have her adjust to you, and I want you to know that I am proud of you for not giving up."

His heart warms at that.

.

It was late noon when he let his baby girl sprawl on the floor inside her playpen as he was watching a show while keeping an eye on her. The moment the little girl gained consciousness as a separate entity from her mother, she began to roll over on her stomach before crawling to sit up, and her little eyes glossed over, looking around the playpen, searching for the maternal needs before it landed on Simon who took his eyes off her for a fraction.

Her little bottom lips begin to quiver and poke out before bursting into tears as Simon quickly steps into his fatherly instinct and scoops up the baby into his arms, silencing her. They bleary wipe their beady tears away with stubby fingers before looking up at him and seeing her father's eyes looking down at her. She sniffed as Simon wiped the snot away with a thumb under her nose, "It's okay, I got you," his voice deeply resonated when he patted her back as his baby girl kept looking at him like it was seeing him for the first time in a different light.

With another sniffle and a little disgruntled noise, she rubs her eyes again and presses her forehead to the thumping side of his heart, slowly calming down. She realized it wasn't so bad to be in her father's arms and have another parent close to her to ease her separation anxiety.

It felt like magic for Simon, how she eased her miniature body into his instead of rejecting him and crying for you until you had to come and get her. He continues to soothe her while swaying from side to side, and you pop out of the corner on the open archway into the living room from the kitchen to see the rainbow after the storm.

You were about to say something, but you quietly mouth:

"I told you so; enjoy it."

With a smile.

[softtdaisy]

oooh or 14 and hotch :3

ultraviolence / aaron hotchner

summary. aaron had a hard time dealing with your relationship, his feelings for you and seeing you put yourself in danger constantly as your boss. until it explodes.

words count. 2 477

prompt. “I’ve had worse.”“And that’s why I’m angry.” from here

what to expect. is it angst? yes again. reader gets hurt so mention of blood and bruises, very brief mention of abuse and torture. aaron is sad and deserves a hug

a/n. thank you again for your request sweetie, I love writing stories from your idea 🥹 I really love this story I could write more about these two so I really hope you will love it too!! 🫶

criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

This case was absolutely awful. 

The team left for Los Angeles on Sunday night after a new victim was discovered. It was the fifth in less than two weeks, and the police finally decided to call the FBI for help. Little did you know how horrifying the situation was.

You got the call at Aaron’s place. 

Nobody knew that you were seeing each other. It might not be appreciated for your boss to find comfort in one of his team member's arms. At least, not by the people above him. 

Because unbeknownst to you and Aaron, the team was making bets about when you two would conclude, to which Emily assured it was already done. And about when you would make it official, to which Derek said it would probably never happen considering Hotch needs to keep his private life…well, private.

His phone ring woke you up from a very nice dream that had just begun. After spending the evening together, you and Aaron started spending the night together too. You’ve been in bed for less than an hour when you heard the ring and felt his arm around your waist moving to grab the phone. There was something reassuring in the way he was keeping you against him, with his other arms around you and one of his legs on top of yours to prevent you from moving. He put one last kiss on your hair before answering. 

“Hotchner,” he said with a raspy voice that was caused by you. And it only made you want to start again to hear your name with this voice. Your hand even got lost on the hair in his chest, unconsciously. 

But the reality struck you back. And sooner than you thought, you were back in the office.

Nobody asked why you arrived with Aaron or why you were wearing the exact same clothes as the day before. While your boss had time to change his shirt and tie.

Nobody asked at that moment, and soon, the questions seemed pointless once you discovered the case.

The atrocity of the torture these poor women went through made you all so angry that nothing in your life seemed more important than giving them justice.

Maybe you shouldn’t have worked with your heart more than with your brain these past days.

Maybe you shouldn’t have offered to be the bait to catch this monster.

Maybe you shouldn’t have insisted when Aaron kept saying he refused to let you go there and put your life in danger.

Maybe you should have paid attention to the worried look on your colleagues' faces and not assimilated it as being reluctant to get between the two of you.

But you still ended up at the monster place to catch him. 

You saw Aaron’s look on you when you left the car. It was a mix of worry for letting you get in the lion’s cage and a little bit of arousal, having an idea of what you might look like on a date with him. A date he hoped he could get after the case.

A hope that slowly died during the night. 

When your mic stopped working, Aaron had to fight every single feeling in his body to not run and get you back with the team. He knew you were on a mission and that if you didn’t get any proof, this would have been worthless. Yet, not knowing if you were still safe was killing him. And Rossi noticed how he threw his headset after you lost contact.

One hour.

Two hours.

Three hours went by.

And then a gunshot resonated in the air.

Everyone on site ran from the van to go inside the unsub’s house. Before they could finish climbing the stairs outside, you opened the door. Some still ran inside to make sure the unsub was under control. 

Emily and Derek stayed outside, close to you.

Aaron stayed at the bottom of the stairs, unable to move.

Your dress was ripped at the bottom, and one of the straps was torn and hanging loosely on your chest. Your hair, perfectly done when you came in, was now tangled. And the bruises.

It was killing Aaron to see them on your beautiful face, with your bleeding lip, and others growing on your arms.

It was killing Aaron that he couldn’t see them all.

“I’m fine,” you sighed to stop Emily and Derek from talking on top of each other. You had a big enough headache already. But you still gave them a small smile to prove that you weren’t mad. Just tired.

You wished you could easily accept their worries, but you couldn’t. You just wanted this to be done. There are some reactions you can’t control like that.

When you finally walked down the stairs and came closer to Aaron, you imagined he would be just as worried and asked you multiple questions. But he didn’t.

He ignored you. Worse, before doing so, he gave you the disappointed boss look. One that made the features on his face harder, meaner. One that reminded everyone who was above everybody in this team. A look that you hated. 

The following hours were just as blurry as the rest. Emily came with you to the hospital to make sure you weren’t alone and weren’t in danger. The medics took good care of you, from what you could memorize. The only thing you remember was the single tear that ran down your face with the sudden realization of what happened.

You almost got abused. You almost died there. And the only arms you needed after that moment were firmly closed against the chest you loved to sleep against. 

After Emily brought you back to your hotel room, you expected to have a lonely and sleepless night.

You just had the time to put on a loose shirt before you heard the knocks on your door. 

Just with that, you knew who it was.

Emily never knocks more than twice.

Spencer’s are gentle, like he feared bothering.

“Aaron,” you sighed, opening the door.

His ones were louder, probably coming from his boss' status. But not brutal. Almost like he was trying to contain his strength and not appear arrogant.

You turned around once he heard his steps behind you. You didn’t need to see him. You didn’t even want him around tonight. And you didn’t want to look at him because you knew a part of your heart wouldn’t resist him.

Because you knew, you knew how he would look.

So you ignored Aaron for at least a minute. Until you couldn’t stand the silence in the room suffocating you. 

Like you imagined, Aaron had taken off his tie and shirt and replaced them with a grey sweater that you absolutely loved on him. An old one that faded a little here and here that made him look younger. His hair was still wet from his shower.

But you didn’t expect him to stay by the door frozen. His eyes were locked on the bruises on your skin, and there were still marks of anger on his face.

“What do you wa…” you started, rolling your eyes from the situation. But Aaron cut you off sharply.

“That was stupid.” 

You hated that tone. This wasn’t Aaron. This was Hotch, your boss. And even in other situations, you didn’t remember hearing him like that.

His arms were crossed on his chest, and his eyes finally went up on your face. If a look could kill… “This was irresponsible and dangerous. Look at you.” 

Aaron was not a man to scream. You’ve never, ever heard him scream. But the way he would make his voice harder and sharper was maybe worse.

“Oh, come on,” you sighed, taking a step closer to him. Maybe it was provocative behavior, but you opened your arms so he could have a better look at your body. The way he closed his eyes for a second proved to you that it worked; Aaron had a disgusting taste in his mouth. “I’ve had worse.”

And that was true. You got shot during your first month at the BAU and spent two days at the hospital while the team was still working the case. You couldn’t count the number of cuts you’ve gotten through the years because you were never scared to go or use inappropriate paths to get what you want. Some of these cuts even got infected. Your doctor kind of hated you, to be honest.

But apparently, this wasn’t a good argument for Aaron because he took another angry step towards you. “And that’s why I’m angry.”

“Oh, you’re angry, SSA Aaron Hotchner?” You noticed his pupil get bigger, making his eyes look darker. 

Sometimes, Aaron hated his full name because it was a reminder of who he was and who he couldn’t be. An ambitious man, for sure, he was doing a great job but also a man who seemed austere and who could never be the husband he wished he was. You knew that, he told you during a sleepless night away for a case. And you were hitting directly in the right place.

“We both know why you’re here, Aaron.” You pursued and pointed a finger at him. “You didn’t blame Derek for hurting the officer by accident because he was too focused to care about people around last month. You didn’t blame Emily for almost breaking her arm running after the unsub when somebody was already after him last week. You didn’t blame Sp…”

“Stop it.” The first one sounded like a threat. “Please, stop it.” This one sounded like a pleading.

And in any other moments, you would have stopped. But you were tired of walking on eggshells with Aaron about your relationship and your job. And the link between both. So you selfishly kept pushing him. “Say it. Admit it.”

“What? That I love you? Fine, I love you!” 

The whole room went silent. All that you both could hear was him being out of breath and your heartbeats. It was like your world exploded, and tension could only fall down now. 

You stayed like that for a whole minute, standing and looking each other straight in the eyes. Waiting for one of you to give up and speak. Until Aaron had enough and sat on your bed. You watched as his hands went from his neck to his face, which he hid for a second or two, and ended on his hair.

“It’s not you I’m the most mad about. It’s me,” he continued, looking down at his feet. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still mad at you for not listening and rushing straight into danger.” 

You let out a small laugh because, of course, he was angry about that. But this laugh gave him a small smile too. One that maybe you needed without knowing it.

“But I know my feelings make my perception of your actions and my reactions more biased. The idea of losing you tonight made me so anxious, and when I saw you coming out, bleeding and bruised… I was so angry at you for putting yourself in danger, at me for putting yourself in danger. The boss and the…whatever I am for you met to create a bigger and angrier version of myself.”

Aaron was so focused on himself that he didn’t hear your footsteps coming closer to him. It wasn’t until your knees touched him that he realized he was there. And when he moved his face up, you realized how vulnerable he looked. 

You never thought Aaron loved you and certainly not that much. It never came to your mind that maybe you were stressing him from something more than the boss and teammate relation by not being scared to go into a dangerous situation. But the way he seemed hurt to look at your bruised face made you realize that with every hit you took that night, Aaron got hit harder.

“Can I?” you asked, pointing at his thighs. He simply nodded, and you softly sat on him. Sure to not lean too hard on your bruises, but also because you wondered if you might break him too. A thought that you noticed in his eyes too from the way he barely looked at you and the way his hands were grabbing the sheet, not you. “Touch me,” you whispered. 

You slowly put a hand on his neck to caress his skin and his short hair. “I’m fine, Aaron. Touch me.” 

“This is my fault,” he sighed, putting his forehead against yours. And if it wasn’t the touch you were asking for or expecting, you took it. Because it was already a step forward. “I can’t have this type of reaction anytime we are on a case. That’s not a boss's posture. That’s not…”

“That’s a boyfriend posture I can understand,” you replied. Your nose softly brushed his, and you loved the shivers you felt in him. “Sure, it’s not easy, but we can work on it. If you want to.”

When you noticed Aaron was closing his eyes, you did it too.

And when you felt his hands slowly going on your hips, not grabbing it like he always does but barely touching it, you smiled.

“Tonight wasn’t easy, not for me obviously. But I get that it wasn’t easy for you either. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work on that.” You spoke quietly.

Again, Aaron didn’t answer, and you could tell the night had exhausted him. From catching the unsub, fearing he would never see you again, to confessing his feelings to the woman he hoped he would never lose.

You stayed like that, cuddling in silence for as long as you needed. Until Aaron offered that you both sleep in your own room, to take the night to think about you. And mostly to rest after everything that happened. And no matter how much you wished you could be in his arms to find peace, you accepted. Because he was probably the one who needed more to be by himself. 

You wanted this to work, and you would go at his own pace.

“And Aaron?” You called, grabbing his hand before he left your room.

He turned around, frowning. He looked so tired you wondered if he wouldn’t fall asleep on you if you didn't let him go. His chest was almost glued to yours, and you enjoyed that touch while it lasted.

“I love you too.” 

You wished you could memorize that smile forever. The way it softened his traits.

Aaron learned to give you two kisses: one on your forehead and one on your lips. 

Something that you knew would become a habit, a secret language. A wordless goodnight and I love you.

A promise to make things better.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part nine)

warnings ; well.. oral (f recieving) light choking, he hits it from the back, front, idk i lost count, she feels him in her stomach? (realism has left the chat)

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; here it is. my baby. my pride and joy. my biggest accomplishment that i will be hanging on my fridge with my hello kitty magnet. not even kidding i rewrote this part four times. four full rewrites. not because the words weren’t working, but because i knew this part had to hit just right.

writing that was hard!! i love these characters so much it physically hurts sometimes. ive lived inside this world for months now, and bringing them to this point broke something in me in the best way (also healed me??? idk dealers choice) the process wasn’t pretty. there were pacing debates, deleted scenes, google docs full of one-sentence paragraphs. through all of it though, one woman held my hand: miss taylor swift.

required listening for this part is this is me trying by tswift. (it’s actually required, the lyrics are THEIRS)

to all of you who’s sent me theories, essays, questions, unhinged keysmashes, character analyses, or even just a quiet “i love this” — thank you. thank you for seeing these characters the way i see them and for lovingly watching on the sidelines when two people experience the ache of wanting something they’re afraid they’ll ruin. you’ve made this story so fun to write!!! i hope, when you reach that last line, that it all feels right to you too. enjoy!!

playlist here

series masterlist here

When you were seven, you ran away from a kitchen fire before anyone else smelled the smoke. You bolted — barefoot, wild-eyed, arms flailing — as the toaster sparked and your mother screamed your name. You learned two things that day: one, that survival is instinct and two, that no one follows a girl who flees first. Ever since then, you’ve made an art of it, of leaving before you’re left, of outrunning the collapse before it’s had time to announce itself.

Even now, you still run like the building is burning.

You book a one-way flight back to Los Angeles with a violence that surprises even you, fingers stabbing at your phone screen, credit card number punched in before the doubt can catch up to your impulse. No pause for breath. No moment to excavate what just splintered apart in Seoul. Just the brutal efficiency of escape.

When the plane finally lifts, Korea dissolving beneath a cotton shroud of clouds, you search yourself for something that might feel like catharsis. But there's only absence. A vacuum where emotion should live.

Not the sweet release you'd imagined.

Not the peace you'd convinced yourself would follow.

Not even regret, which might have offered its own strange comfort.

There's a stillness inside you, resonating like footsteps in an empty gallery after the crowds have gone. You've become a visitor in your own body, observing from the outside.

The campaign, with all its frantic choreography of stress and miracles has finally wound down. The endless parade has halted: no more lighting to approve, no more impossible deadlines to somehow bend to your will through sheer force of determination. No more 4 A.M. calls with production when everything threatened to fall apart.

(No more Jungkook. Almost. You can taste it on the tip of your tongue.)

Tomorrow, it all launches.

You should be electric with anticipation. You should be riding the intoxication of knowing that in storefronts across continents, space is being cleared for what everyone predicts will redefine the brand's trajectory. Success is waiting,, yours to claim.

Instead, you're suspended in a strange limbo. Present but not present. Moving through the the world like someone playing the role of you in a film about your life.

You've become the most convincing ghost in your own story.

You slip back into the LA office like that same ghost returning to familiar hauntings, moving with that quietness people develop when they've spent years trying to be noticed while simultaneously proving themselves indispensable. The ritual feels stolen from another life: coffee warming one palm, the other hand clutching your phone with determination, as if the device might try to escape.

You lose yourself in the launch preparation, drowning in press releases that need one more edit, retailer confirmations requiring verification, social media calendars demanding timing. You orchestrate influencer packages like a general deploying troops, analyze backend metrics with the intensity of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics.

Because busy hands can't text people.

Because typing another email means not typing his name.

Because every spreadsheet you complete is another reason not to wonder what he's doing right now.

When Jungkook's name illuminates your phone screen for the fifth time that day, something in your chest contracts with such sudden pain that for a moment, you forget how to breathe. You've developed a new skill: the swiftness with which you decline his calls, a movement so practiced it's become second nature. Your finger swipes across his name each time.

Voicemail. Another notification. Voicemail. The red badge multiplying like evidence.

Everything bearing his digital fingerprint gets redirected to Daniel. Meeting conflicts that need resolution, approval requests for campaign deliverables. Some tedious back-and-forth about choosing the right cover image for the website that would have once made you call Jungkook directly.

"Can you handle it?" The question leaves your mouth without inflection, your eyes never lifting from your laptop screen, afraid of what Daniel might read in them.

Daniel stands in your doorway, silent long enough that curiosity finally forces you to look up. The expression on his face carries such naked concern that you almost flinch.

"Are you really going to ghost your own campaign's face?" His voice is soft, which somehow makes you feel worse.

"He's not my anything," you say, the words emerging with a coldness that surprises even you. "He's the brand's."

The look Daniel gives you could incinerate entire cities, reduce them to smoke and memory. There's judgment there, yes, but beneath it something more dangerous: understanding. He retreats without pushing further.

You drag yourself to your hotel in Los Angeles at the hour when even the most dedicated workaholics have surrendered to basic human needs like sleep and food that isn't delivered by Uber Eats. It greets you with the enthusiasm of an abandoned museum exhibit — pristine, untouched, vaguely disappointed.

You answer emails until your retinas protest and your fingers develop their own Stockholm syndrome relationship with your keyboard. The clock on your laptop blinks an accusatory 2:17 A.M while you craft responses.

The Calvin Klein countdown timer on your open browser tab pulses with all the subtlety of a doomsday clock, a digital reminder that your exit strategy is right on schedule. This was always your personal three-step program: Get in. Get it done. Get out.

Jeon Jungkook was supposed to be a line item in your professional portfolio, not the tenant currently occupying all the premium real estate inside your head.

The fact that your brain has apparently thrown him a housewarming party complete with intrusive thoughts as party favors is just your psyche's idea of a practical joke.

One that unfortunately, you do not find the least bit funny.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The launch doesn't just hit. It is literally a tidal wave. #jungkookcalvinklein is trending on Twitter at the ripe hour of 9am.

Before you've managed to convince the coffee maker that yes, today definitely requires the triple-shot setting, Times Square has transformed into a shrine to sculpted abs and Jungkook’s face. Stores unveil installations that somehow make minimalism feel maximalist.

He's everywhere.

Christ, that jawline probably has its own insurance policy, with Calvin Klein jeans on that defy the laws of physics by simultaneously hanging too low and fitting too well, silver chains adorning him.

The public response is teetering on obsession; less consumer enthusiasm and more mass religious conversion. You half-expect to see people speaking in tongues while clutching Calvin Klein shopping bags.

You don't even have time to perform your planned emotional collapse, which you'd scheduled right between "approve final press release" and "pretend to eat lunch." The universe, it seems, has no respect for your Google calendar.

There are calls to field, interviews to prep, press appearances to manage. But then, just to your luck, digital confetti in your inbox: the New York office is hosting a last-minute happy hour to celebrate the global rollout. The invitation lands with little subtlety in bold letters: SENIOR STAFF AND GLOBAL LEADS ONLY, with enough exclamation points to suggest someone's enthusiasm has escaped corporate blandness.

Your decision-making process rivals light speed. You book the flight with the impulsive confidence of someone fleeing a crime scene, pack your garment bag with a dress you haven’t worn in a while. It’s flowy, with an open back that lets you feel the breeze.

Daniel plops himself in the seat beside you on the plane, a one-man information hurricane disguised as your colleague.

You let his voice become white noise, because right now, even corporate jargon is preferable to the unauthorized commentary running through your head, the one narrating all the ways you're not thinking about Jungkook (which, ironically, is all you can think about.)

By the time you two land in Manhattan, it’s dusk, that magic hour when the city sheds its skin and slips into something more comfortable. The streets buzz with that New York electricity that called you even as a young girl in Busan, a current that used to light you up from the inside but now just makes you wonder if you ever really loved it at all.

The SoHo rooftop has undergone the standard office-to-party transformation: string lights creating the illusion that accounting departments can be romantic, glasses clinking.

For the first time since Seoul, you almost feel like a person again instead of a walking collection of unprocessed emotions wearing business casual. Not fixed, not whole, but at least functional, kind of like finding your favorite sweater that you thought was ruined in the wash.

You slip back into your social persona with ease. Your laugh doesn't even sound fake to your own ears, which feels like progress. The champagne bubbles tingle pleasantly, reminding you that sensations other than dread still exist.

It’s always been in your nature; telling stories, entertaining others. Your hands paint disaster scenarios in the air, voice dropping conspiratorially at just the right moments. When you describe finding the missing sample jacket locked in a janitor's closet, your audience erupts into that specific kind of corporate laughter. Even Daniel, standing beside you like your professional shadow, can't help but crack up.

It feels almost like... okay. Not perfect. Not Seoul-never-happened. But upright and breathing, like a houseplant that survived your vacation.

The moment shifts when Daniel's fingers tap your elbow gently. "Hey, walk with me for a second?" he murmurs.

"Sure," you respond, the word automatic as your brain runs rapid calculations on what this could possibly be about.

He leads you away from the celebration, past colleagues swapping war stories and marketing puns, until you reach the edge of the rooftop where the Manhattan skyline lights up the sky.

You exhale slowly, watching the city sparkle before you, thousands of windows lit up. The view is breathtaking in that uniquely New York way that somehow makes your problems feel both microscopic and monumentally important.

"Have you spoken to Jungkook?" Daniel asks carefully.

The question cuts through your momentary peace. Just like that, the city lights dim, the champagne goes flat in your veins, and you're back in Seoul, watching everything fall apart in high definition.

You don't answer immediately. Jaw clicks into lockdown mode. Your arms fold across your chest, the universal body language for "absolutely not having this conversation right now." If emotional armor could make sound, yours would be clanking into place.

Daniel watches you with that particular expression he reserves for when you're being self-destructive but he's too smart to say so directly. It's the look that has always made lying to him impossible, which is precisely why you've been avoiding direct eye contact.

You stare down at your drink where bubbles perform their slow surrender, fizzling into oblivion against the rim of your glass. There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but you're too tired to figure it out.

"No," you finally admit, "Not since Korea."

Daniel nods once, the motion small but definitive. "He asked if we were coming tonight."

Your heart performs an acrobatic routine that would qualify for the Olympics, some complicated tumble of hope, panic, and an unfortunate third thing. The champagne you've been nursing suddenly seems very fascinating.

"And?" The question emerges more breathless than you'd prefer.

"I didn't answer," Daniel replies with a shrug. "Wasn't my place."

You swallow hard enough that it feels like forcing down something solid.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he adds, tone dropping to that specific frequency of friendship where truth lives. "But I figured you'd want to know."

Somewhere in this universe, Jungkook might be wondering if you'd show up tonight. The thought lands like a stone in still water, ripples expanding outward.

What would he have done if he'd seen you here?

What would you have done if he flew from Seoul?

Worse: what might you still do?

You remain silent, lips pressed together in a thin line of indecision. Your voice might crack, words may betray you.

The truth is, you're standing at the crossroads of pride and longing, and you have absolutely no idea which direction to take.

You tilt your glass back, letting the alcohol wash across your lips before words form in your throat. “I don't know what you think you saw," you say, your gaze sliding sideways to catch Daniel's expression without fully committing to eye contact. "But I promise you, it's not some great love story."

Daniel makes a sound, a gentle hum that vibrates with something like understanding. “Never said it was," he offers,. "But something definitely happened. You've been walking around like someone left the door open and the wind knocked everything over inside you."

"Poetic," you say sarcastically and roll your eyes.

He shrugs. "I minored in creative writing."

A laugh escapes you, unexpected and genuine,"You minored in talking shit."

His grin unfolds slowly. "So? I'm right."

The silence that follows feels weighted, layered with everything you cannot bring yourself to say. Words gather in your chest, pressing against your ribs like birds against cage bars, but none find their way to your tongue.

Part of you — the part that still wakes at 3 A.M replaying conversations that cannot be undone — wants desperately to believe that your spiral has gone unnoticed. That you might still appear whole from certain angles, in certain lights.

When he speaks again, his voice has softened even more. “You know, you never really do things for yourself."

The observation catches you off-guard, slipping beneath your defensesd. Your brow furrows,"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean..." His hand lifts in a gesture that encompasses everything. His fingers trace the invisible architecture of the career you've built, brick by exhausting brick. "You do this. All of this. You're a fucking workaholic. But when was the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Just for you?"

"I wanted this campaign to succeed," you retort. Your posture straightens, shoulders squaring against accusation.

"For the company," he fires back, neither unkind nor relenting. "For the brand. For the headlines. For the part of you that refuses to lose. But not for you. Not really."

Your fingers curl more tightly around the stem of your glass. Because, like, yeah… you keep a tight ship and all, but it’s what your multimillion dollar contract calls for. In the distance, a helicopter cuts across the skyline, its searchlight briefly illuminating clouds from beneath, revealing their hidden dimensions.

Daniel turns to face you more fully, his expression shifting more dangerously sincere. "What's all this success worth if there's no one to share it with?"

You attempt a laugh that emerges more like a strangled hiccup. Your lips part for a comeback that refuses to come out while your traitorous brain launches into a highlight reel of Jungkook: his sleepy morning smile across hotel pillows, the weight of his shoulder underneath your head during that night on the beach in Busan, his laughter spilling into crevices of the hotel bar. The memories arrive uninvited, like party crashers bringing gifts you're afraid to open.

Daniel nudges your arm, pulling you back from the your thoughts. "Look, I'm not saying go get married in a garden or whatever. Although, now that I think about it, the photos would be incredible. Very Architectural Digest meets romance novel."

He grins before his expression softens. "But maybe... just maybe... it's okay to let someone in. You know, that thing humans have been doing since, like, forever."

You meet his gaze then. It's terrifying, like standing at the edge of a high dive you're not sure you remember how to use.

He's not pushing, not wielding your vulnerability. He's just reminding you, in the way only Daniel can after years of watching you build emotional fortresses, that beneath your exoskeleton of competence and control, you're still embarrassingly human. Still allowed to want something that doesn't come with metrics, target demographics, or quarterly reviews.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the skyline,"I don't know how to do that," you admit.

"Then start small," he says with the gentle pragmatism of a man suggesting you try a new coffee shop rather than rewire your entire emotional circuitry. "Text the guy."

You shake your head, but the gesture lacks conviction. Your fingers twitch slightly against your glass, as if already rehearsing what they might type.

You squint slightly at the skyline like the answers could be written in neon across the Empire State Building: YES or NO in flashing lights, visible from miles away.

Daniel stands beside you, patient in his silence. He's always had this gift; knowing when to push and when to simply wait, creating space for you to stumble toward your own conclusions at your own stubborn pace. Somewhere beneath the layers of denial, a small, persistent voice wonders what would happen if, this one time, you stopped running long enough to find out what might catch up to you.

Finally, you exhale. "And say what?" you mutter, mouth twisting into what might be mistaken for a smile if not for the panic flickering in your eyes. "Text him: 'Hey, can't believe I ended things between us, how's your day going? Fantastic, thanks for asking!'"

Daniel chokes mid-sip, whiskey catching in his throat as laughter erupts. Amber liquid splashes dangerously close to his shirt cuff. "Jesus Christ," he wheezes, eyes watering. "Maybe workshop that a bit before hitting send."

You laugh too at that. The momentary lightness evaporates as quickly as it appeared, leaving something heavier in its wake. Your next breath feels weighted.

"He said something I can't forget," you add, voice dropping to that particular register where confessions live. You trace the condensation on your glass with one finger, drawing invisible patterns that might spell out what you're afraid to say directly. "During this fight we had... about my family."

Daniel's expression shifts, humor draining away. He watches you with that careful attention that always makes you feel seen. "What'd he say?" he asks.

You shake your head, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the rooftop's edge. The city lights blur and sharpen with each blink. "That I didn't even want to see them. That I was back in Busan for days and didn't bother. He used it like an insult. Like proof that I don't care about anything."

Daniel's silence stretches between you, allowing your words room to exist without immediate judgment. Long enough for you to lift your glass again, for the alcohol to slide down your throat and bloom warm in your chest, for you to wonder if maybe you've said too much or not enough.

Then he speaks tentatively, "Okay. Not great. But..."

You raise an eyebrow, the gesture sharp with defiance. "But?"

"But he's also not wrong." When your eyes narrow dangerously, he lifts his hands in theatrical surrender, "Not about using it against you.. that was a dick move, solid eight out of ten on the asshole scale."

His expression softens. "But about the rest of it. You kept pushing everyone away. I think you told me to forward all calls from your mom to ‘Satan’ one time. You were so scared of being known, it was easier to hide behind quarterly reports than have coffee with the people who gave you life."

Your mouth opens, a rebuttal forming on your tongue. But the words evaporate before they reach air, leaving you momentarily speechless. Some part of your brain, the part not currently occupied with denying everything, whispers that maybe, there's a sliver of truth worth examining here.

Daniel shrugs casually, with the demeanor of someone sliding the final piece into a puzzle. "Look, I don't think he meant it to hurt you. I think you hit a nerve, and he lashed out. Poorly."

He shifts on his heels, "But he also... I don't know. He kind of seems hopelessly in love with you."

You blink rapidly, as if your eyelids might somehow filter this information into something manageable. "He- what?"

A grin unfurls across Daniel's face. "Dude's clearly gone. I've watched him stare at you like you personally invented the concept of desire. Dont tell anyone this, but he’s also been blowing up the rest of the team’s phones asking if he should expect to hear from you."

You scoff, eyes rolling skyward, but a sensation you've been systematically ignoring since Seoul unfolds within you. Since before Korea, if you're being honest, which you rarely are with yourself. The memories surface unbidden: Jungkook hunting down honey butter cookies because you'd mentioned liking once. The way he'd placed the bag in front of you without comment. The thousands of other tiny gestures you'd filed away as "just being cordial" because "being in love with you" seemed too terrifying a folder to create.

"I didn't..." you begin, then falter. The words hover, “ I don't think I know how to let someone be in love with me."

The confession hangs between you, delicate and honest. Daniel doesn't look away, "Maybe," he says simply, "it's time to learn."

The words settle over you, not a weight but an opening, a door unlocked but not yet pushed ajar.

Daniel drains the last of his drink with finality, eyes fixed on the skyline. The casual observer might think he's admiring Manhattan's glittering architecture, but you recognize this particular silence — the loaded pause before he drops something he's been strategically holding back. It's the conversational equivalent of watching someone wind up for a pitch.

And sure enough, after a calculated beat, he says, "You do realize the contract is done, right?"

You glance sideways, eyebrows lifting in a gesture that attempts indifference but lands somewhere closer to alarm.

"All the promo's scheduled. Launch assets are live. My inbox is starting to go down," he continues, ticking items off an invisible check list. "You're technically free. No more approvals.”

His voice softens around the final blow: "No more excuses."

You lean against the railing, the metal cool against your forearms "What are you saying?”

"I'm saying..." He turns toward you fully now, "You don't have to pretend this is about work anymore."

A scoff escapes you. "Please. Me? And a k-pop idol?"

Daniel delivers a look so deadpan it could be preserved in a museum, the perfect distillation of "are you actually serious right now?" compressed into a single facial expression.

You clarify, hands animating the air between you like you're conducting an invisible orchestra of denial. "The biggest k-pop idol. Like globally famous. The same dude who gets murdered everytime there’s so much as one dating rumor." Each descriptor escalates in pitch, as if the accumulation of external obstacles might somehow outweigh the internal ones.

Daniel lifts his hands in surrender, though his expression suggests he's winning whatever battle is being waged. "Yes. All true. Also.. just so we're keeping track, he's the same guy you've spent the last few months hooking up with, traveling the world with, fighting with like some married couple, and if I'm not mistaken, spending all your time with."

Your eyes narrow to slits. "You make it sound so romantic," you mutter, each word dripping with sarcasm.

"It kind of was," he says with a shrug, "In a HR-nightmare kind of way."

You roll your eyes for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but there's no real resistance behind the gesture. If anything, you're fighting back something dangerously close to a smile.

Daniel nudges your arm, “I'm not telling you to drop everything and chase some wild fantasy. I'm not suggesting you write his name in your planner with little hearts or anything. But… if it is something, if it's more, then maybe you owe it to yourself to find out."

You stare down at the streetlights below, watching headlights weave through intersections. The city continues its relentless dance, indifferent to your crisis of heart. Somewhere down there, people are making decisions far less complicated than yours; ordering takeout, hailing cabs, choosing which Netflix show to fall asleep to.

"You should take a few days off," he adds, less the colleague who's seen you demolish incompetent vendors and more the friend who once held your hair back after three too many tequila shots at the holiday party. "You can actually take them. The company will somehow survive without you micromanaging every press release for 72 whole hours."

You don't answer, silence a familiar shield.

"I'll cover anything that comes up," he says, the offer weighted with a kindness you're not sure you deserve. "But I think you need to go."

He doesn't say where. He doesn't have to. The destination hovers between you.

Still, you say nothing, your fingers tracing idle patterns in the condensation on your glass. But something shifts in the atmosphere around you, not a decision yet, nothing so concrete or brave. More like the subtle change in molecular rearrangement that animals sense before humans do.

Because maybe there's a version of this story where you don't end up alone with your accomplishments for company, where professional triumph isn't the only warmth in your bed. The thought bubbles up, ridiculous and terrifying and somehow not entirely unwelcome.

You've spent so much of your life building walls with the focus of someone who believes safety lies in being alone, you almost forgot what it feels like to stand before a door that's already open, waiting. The possibility stretches before you, an invitation to step through and see what might exist on the other side.

Daniel slips away, leaving behind only the lingering scent of overpriced whiskey and words that hang in the air. You remain at the railing, arms folded across your chest in what your therapist would probably call a "defensive posture" if you actually went to therapy instead of just reading psychology articles at 3 A.M.

For a while, you just breathe, an activity so basic it shouldn't feel revolutionary, and yet somehow does. One inhale. One exhale. One heartbeat after another.

Then, with the slowness of someone defusing a bomb, your hand migrates to your pocket. Your fingers close around your phone, that small, glowing rectangle.

The screen illuminates instantly, revealing a notification dot so aggressively red it might as well be screaming. You tap the voicemail icon with the hesitancy of someone poking at what might be a sleeping bear. The app lags for a moment, probably collapsing under the sheer weight of messages you've been studiously ignoring.

112 unheard messages.

You stare at the number, a monument to your impressive commitment to avoidance. Gold medal material.

You haven't listened to a single one. Haven't allowed yourself even the smallest peek behind the curtain you pulled.

Your fingers hovers above the most recent message, trembling slightly. You press play before the rational part of your brain can stage an intervention.

"Hey."

His voice arrives like an ambush, rough around the edges, frayed.

"I don't even know if you'll listen to this. You probably won't. But I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Your grip on the railing tightens, as if holding onto something sturdy might somehow anchor you against what's coming.

"You're not answering. You won't text me back. Daniel says you're 'handling things.' Whatever the fuck that means."

“You always do this. You disappear when things get hard. But this isn't just some hookup anymore. You know that."

You press the phone against your ear with unnecessary force, as if the closer it gets the more sense everything might make.

"I said something I shouldn't have. About your family. I know I crossed a line and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Your throat constricts, performing an impressive impersonation of a python with its prey. The apology lingers in the universe for a second too long.

"I wanted you to know me. But… I think I forgot that I'm only just starting to know you. And I want to. God, I want to know you so bad."

The voicemail ends with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than any dramatic declaration. You don't move. You don't blink. You barely breathe. Your brain, that overachieving organ that's kept you ten steps ahead in boardrooms and client meetings, suddenly finds itself speechless.

You press play on the next message with the reckless courage of someone who's already jumped from the plane and figures the parachute situation can be sorted out mid-fall.

"Please talk to me."

The sound travels from your phone directly to some unguarded part of your chest.

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking you're gonna call. And then you don't. I get it, I do. But I miss you."

"That's pathetic, right? Missing someone who keeps running from you?"

The question hangs in the air, unanswered and devastating. You find yourself shaking your head in automatic response, as if he could somehow see you through time and digital space.

Your thumb hangs over the screen, hesitating for the briefest moment before tapping to the next message like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts. And the next. And the next.

Each message is a progressive study in yearning — Jungkook's voice traveling through octaves of exhaustion and vulnerability you didn't know existed. Each one reveals another layer of him spiraling, leaving behind a man who can't understand why someone disappeared.

"I think I'm in love with you.”

There it is. The message that finally breaks through the elaborate wall of denial you've been maintaining. Kind of like the sprinkler system activating after the fire's already spread to every room.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, your body's desperate attempt to keep everything contained as your eyes begin to burn with the particular sting that follows with tears. You lock your phone with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.

The breath you draw in trembles, your chest expanding around a feeling you've been ignoring since Seoul.

You can feel it now rushing toward you with the unstoppable momentum of a train whose brakes have failed. The devastation you left behind, casually strewn across continents like discarded clothing. The truth you didn't want to admit, even in the privacy of your own thoughts. The stupid, impossible, terrifying fact that somewhere between contract negotiations and late night 1-on-1 strategy sessions, between stolen moments in hotel bars and shared laughter over take-out containers that he forced you to eat, between arguments that felt too personal and kisses that felt too intimate, Jeon Jungkook somehow slipped past every defense system you'd installed and became more than just another project to complete.

He became the person you think about when good things happen.

The voice you want to come home to on difficult days.

The laugh that somehow makes everything lighter.

Oh.

The realization lands with surprising gentleness.

Oh shit.

You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand for tears that somehow manifested on your face. For the first time since you left Korea, the weight that's been compressing your lungs begins to lift. Not because the ache has diminished or because the fear has subsided, but because you've finally granted it permission to exist.

The realization settles into your bones, that what you want has never resided in quarterly projections or campaign metrics or the professional detachment you've perfected over years of holding people at a distance.

What you want, what you've wanted while convincing yourself otherwise, exists in a hotel room in Korea where a boy with gentle hands and knowing eyes has been waiting for your voice. The thought arrives with clarity, cutting through layers of cynicism and self-protection: you've been running from the very thing you most desperately need.

Your fingers find your phone with newfound certainty, navigating to your travel app with none of the hesitation that's characterized every interaction with this device recently. The flight options materialize on the screen. You select the earliest departure, credit card information autofilling as if your technology recognized this decision before you made it. The laughter and chatter from your coworkers seems so far away despite how close they actually are.

It’s just you and the simple, terrifying recognition that some journeys can only be postponed, never avoided — and the surprising discovery that stepping toward what frightens you can feel remarkably like coming home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Okay… so you’ve definitely done more degrading things before. Right?

You're sweating through your blouse with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a deodorant commercial (and failing. To your own detriment.)

This isn't the "post-workout glow" fitness influencers pretend is attractive. No, this is your body's formal declaration of mutiny, a rebellion against rational thought executed through every pore. Your armpits, palms, and the back of your neck have formed an alliance dedicated to transforming your clothes into soggy evidence of your composure.

What the fuck are you doing?

Outside Jeon Jungkook's front door, you've established a pacing perimeter worthy of a security detail, shoes padding against pavement. The neighborhood is all manicured hedges and tasteful architecture, houses standing witness to what is undoubtedly the most unhinged moment of your professional career.

You halt abruptly, pivot, and resume your trajectory in the opposite direction. Each step carries you further into the absurdity of your situation while bringing you no closer to resolution.

"What the fuck am I doing?" The question emerges as a desperate whisper, fingers wrapped around your purse strap "What the actual fuck am I doing?"

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, offers no response. Not even a convenient sign from the heavens, no fortuitous text message, not so much as a symbolic bird flying overhead. Silence, highlighting the void where your rational decision-making process should be.

The most devastating part of this is your complete lack of preparation — you, who once created a thirty-page document for a photoshoot involving a temperamental cat. You, who color-codes your calendar down to 15-minute increments and keeps emergency protein bars in every bag you own. You, who has never entered a meeting without 3 different strategic approaches and a mental flowchart of possible outcomes.

You flew across the Pacific Ocean on nothing but emotional autopilot, your normally meticulous planning abandoned. You landed, changed your shirt three times in the Incheon airport bathroom while arguing with your reflection, and then navigated to this address with single-minded determination.

His address was acquired through means that would make your company's legal department develop hives. Extracted from the Calvin Klein executive contact database with the moral flexibility of someone who has left all professional ethics back in Manhattan along with her common sense. The violation of privacy policies sits in your phone.

You are experiencing what can only be described as a crash landing; no runway in sight, no landing gear deployed. The metaphorical wreckage spreads across this quiet street, invisible to everyone but acutely, painfully apparent to you.

You excavate your phone from the abyss of your bag and open the Notes app for the third time in 10 minutes, staring with mounting horror at the single sentence you managed to compose somewhere over the ocean — the grand thesis statement that was supposed to carry you across this threshold:

"I'm sorry, and I think I like you."

You blink at it, the words swimming on the screen like poorly translated instructions for assembling complicated furniture. A scoff escapes you in part disbelief, part surrender to the cosmic joke your life has become.

Jesus Christ. That's the line?

That's the earth-shattering revelation that propelled you across international date lines and multiple time zones?

It has all the weight of a middle schooler passing a folded note in math class. "I think I like you" — the verbal equivalent of bringing a water pistol to a nuclear war. The confession carries all the emotional awareness of someone who just discovered feelings exist yesterday and hasn't figured out the instruction manual.

You are pathetic.

You shove the phone back into your bag with force, bearing witness to perhaps the most pitiful declaration of affection ever composed by an allegedly successful adult. Another shaky breath fills your lungs, doing absolutely nothing to calm you.

You haven't knocked yet. You're just standing here, marinating in your own anxiety sweat. Your current strategy appears to be hoping for divine intervention. Perhaps the earth might split open and swallow you whole, or a targeted meteorite might strike just this spot on this particular street in Korea. At this point, even a localized power grid failure would be welcome, anything to ensure that no one ever discovers the depths of your desperate, transcontinental travels for this man.

You feel that urge to run again.

But your feet remain rooted to the concrete, overriding any escape plans.

Underneath the panic, the dampening of your shirt, and the chorus of doubt performing a full operatic production in your head, you know exactly why you're here.

Because of that voice on the phone that carved something permanent into your memory.

Because of the way he looked at you across crowded rooms.

Because for once in your existence, this isn't about control or power or securing the optimal outcome.

This is about choosing someone, even if it makes your knees perform a dance of terror. Even if it required theft of confidential information from a database you definitely shouldn't have access to.

You take one more breath, and step forward with the confidence of someone who still has approximately 14 seconds before complete collapse.

Your knuckles connect with the door in what's meant to be a confident knock but comes as more like the hesitant tapping of someone who's not entirely sure they've got the right house and is already formulating an apology to potential strangers.

The door swings open. There's no cinematic pause, no buffer zone during which you might remember how to be a functioning human capable of speech and basic facial control.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing in his doorway like some kind of domesticated Greek god, barefoot in sweatpants that hang from hipbones, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his torso. His silver chain catches the light, hair artfully disheveled.

There are shadows beneath his eyes that speak volumes, the look of someone waiting too long for a response that never arrived, for a message that never delivered.

He looks frozen in a moment of suspended animation.

And you.. well, you look like someone who's just realized they've accidentally booked a one-way ticket to their own reckoning without packing appropriate attire. Your professional persona is dissolving faster than cheap mascara in a rainstorm.

Your mouth opens automatically, but your brain has apparently decided to go offline. Not a greeting emerges. Not a witty remark. Not the apology you composed and discarded a dozen times between your airplane seat and this moment.

How do you explain what it means to see him again?To see the evidence of what you did inscribed across his features? To stand there and have a million feelings rushing into you?

And worst of all, to realize that somewhere along the way, between "professional boundaries" and "conflict of interest," you've managed to accomplish something you never planned for: you've fallen catastrophically, inconveniently, undeniably for Jeon Jungkook.

His eyes sweep over you once, then return for a second pass. There's a flicker of disbelief in his expression, as if his brain is running diagnostics on whether you're actually standing on his doorstep or if he's finally cracked and started hallucinating ex-whatever-you-weres.

And then, with the simplicity of someone handling something that might shatter, he says your name.

No accusation coloring the syllables. It’s your name, floating between you like a verbal lifeline extended without judgment.

You swallow with enough force to be audible, fingers doing that twitchy dance at your sides. The emotional menu before you offers several options — spontaneous crying, inappropriate nervous laughter, or your personal favorite: the tactical retreat.

But you stay put. No running shoes required.

You look at him with all your barricades temporarily offline. You’re thinking of that beach, that night you tried to bury. Thinking of the way he looked at you then, like you were still salvageable. Thinking of when he told you, “Hi is a good place to start.” You didn’t say it at your mother’s house. Couldn’t. But maybe now, with the weight of everything lingering in the quiet, maybe now’s your second chance.

So you take it.

"Hi," you whisper, the syllable emerging with all the confidence of a first-time public speaker.

He stares at you. You stare back.

Finally, Jungkook breaks the silence, his voice scratchier than you remember. There's a rawness to it, an edge that suggests maybe he got tired of speaking into the void of your unanswered messages. “What the fuck are you doing here?"

And just like that, your mental hard drive crashes. The speeches you rehearsed somewhere over the terrain vanish like airplane meals — unmemorable and completely inadequate for the situation.

You stand there, watching his chest rise and fall with slightly uneven breaths, and realize that you're going to have to improvise without a safety net.

The only thing your brain can process is the sound of blood whooshing behind your ears and the embarrassing tremor in your fingers as they begin to battle the suddenly complex engineering marvel that is your purse zipper.

"I—" you stammer, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy asking someone to dance. "Hold on—just—"

You excavate the dig site formerly known as your handbag, pushing past convenience store receipts, a lipstick, and a charging cable that's currently charging absolutely nothing. Your fingers finally close around what you've flown across the world to deliver.

It's not exactly presentation-ready; it’s crumpled like it's been stuffed in a blender, folded and smudged around the edges.

With the triumph of someone who just discovered treasure, you extract the contract. His contract. Holy grail of paperwork.

The very same contract for Calvin Klein that consumed months of your life, prompted 17 panic attacks, and served as the professional excuse for every personal boundary violation you've committed since meeting him.

You unfold it clumsily, then thrust it toward him like an artifact that could explain your entire emotional state without requiring actual human communication.

"Your contract is up," you announce. "It ended this week."

Jungkook blinks at you with confusion. His eyebrows pull together, creating that little crease you've definitely never memorized. "Okay...?" he questions.

You look at him with the desperate stare of someone whose entire communication strategy is telepathy while your throat constricts. The words scream inside your head with megaphone clarity: Don't you get it? Don't you see what I'm trying to say?!

But all that emerges is a breath.

He glances down at the paper, then back at your face "I know," he says slowly, "I was there when I signed it."

A sound escapes you. This is what your life has become — standing on a doorstep, physically shaking, brandishing legal paperwork like it's a love letter. You, who once negotiated a seven-figure deal without breaking a sweat, reduced to communicating your feelings through expired contractual obligations and hoping he somehow translates this into "I've made a terrible mistake and flown across the world to fix it."

He's still examining the contract, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as if proper legal documentation might suddenly reveal invisible ink.

It's really just paper and ink and legal jargon that somehow became the flimsiest of excuses to orbit each other's lives.

Your fingers tighten around the document before it goes limp in your hands, dangling between you. “You think I care about this contract? Do you really think I flew across the world to remind you about paperwork? What am I, the world's most dedicated courier service?"

His eyes lock onto yours now. He's silent, still, letting you speak.

"I don't give a shit about Calvin Klein," you continue. "Or the campaign. Or the storefronts. I mean... I do, I did, but not like that. Not more than this." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the contract, which has now been demoted from legal document to impromptu prop.

You're fully in verbal freefall now, thoughts colliding in real-time, each one crashing into the next before either can reach a proper conclusion.

"Do you know what you did to me?" The question is more of a whisper. "You made me feel things I don't let myself feel. You made me lose control. You — God, you made me talk."

His jaw tightens eyes simultaneously sharp and soft. He's bracing himself, his body language shifting.

"For the first time in a year, I saw my mother," you continue, the confession tumbling out with the momentum of something that's been held back too long. "I held my sister. I went home."

You blink rapidly, your eyes performing emergency protocols to contain the tears. "Do you know what kind of man it takes to make me do that?"

Jungkook's lips part like he's about to speak, but nothing leaves, as if the dictionary of possible responses has been wiped from his memory. You step closer, closing the distance between you.

"You got me to sit on a beach and tell you things I've never said out loud. You got me to let you in. Without trying.. or asking." Your hands wave vaguely in the air, as if trying to physically grasp the concept. "You just... did. You're the first man who's ever made me feel something that wasn't transactional. You make me feel like a person, Jungkook.“

He's standing with the frozen stillness of someone who just discovered they're in a minefield, but his chest is rising and falling. You know he's hearing it all; every word, every crack in your voice, every truth you've been swallowing since you pushed him away.

"I didn't come here to fix anything," you murmur, "I just needed you to know that you mattered. That you weren't some mistake for me."

And then, quieter, “You were the only thing that ever felt real.“

Jungkook blinks once. And then again. If a human could display a buffering sign, it would be rotating above his head right now.

He's speechless, which considering he's a man who performs in front of stadium crowds and has entire teams dedicated to crafting his public statements, is quite the achievement to add to your professional resume.

You just let him look at you. There's no persona to hide behind, not anymore.

And the longer he stands there, wordless as a statue, watching you, jaw clenched tight, the more your stomach flip-flops inside you.

You've never been this exposed. Not even in the heat of his bed, when physical nakedness seemed like the most vulnerable state possible (how adorably naive that belief seems now.) This is an entirely different category of exposure.

Still, he says nothing. The audacity of this silence is almost impressive.

So you redirect, falling back on the one thing you understand: paperwork.

Your fingers tremble, but you manage to grip the contract and tear it straight down the middle with surprising dramatic flair.

Again. And again. And again.

Until it's nothing but corporate confetti. Thin little fragments of legally binding language and signature and structure, falling in what your brain identifies as a metaphor so on-the-nose it would be rejected from a first year creative writing workshop.

"I don't care about this," you whisper, gesturing to the paper carnage. "I mean, I do care about this. Just… not the way I care about you." You immediately recognize this as the kind of line that would make you roll your eyes if you heard it in a movie, yet here you are, delivering it with complete sincerity. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. His silence has evolved from awkward to actually embarrassing now.

You’re starting to think you may be too late. Maybe he got back together with his ex. Maybe him and Jennie are fucking again.

You blink back the burn in your eyes, throat closing around words. "Please," you breathe out, "Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I didn't fuck up another thing in my life—"

You barely finish getting the words out before he moves.

One second you're standing there, and the next, his hands are on your waist, pulling you in, grounding you like gravity suddenly remembered your specific coordinates.

To your surprise — he’s kissing you.

The world narrows to this: his hands on your body, warm and solid and real. The faint scent of his musky cologne mixing with a body wash that is uniquely him. The pressure of his lips against yours, lip ring cool against your warm mouth.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders if this counts as a successful business negotiation or a breach of ethics. The rest of your consciousness tells that voice, quite firmly, to shut the hell up.

You melt into him, shaking and breathless, fingers curling into his t-shirt as your lips part under his with enthusiasm.

This isn't some tentative, exploratory first kiss from a Hinge meetup. This isn't the calculated kiss of someone testing chemistry before deciding if a dinner date was worth the investment.

This is a kiss that announces "you're home" with little to no subtlety.

His mouth remains attached to yours as he backs into the doorway, pulling you along and tethering your body to his like you might run. His paranoia, you have to admit, isn't entirely unreasonable given your track record of vanishing acts.

The torn contract lies abandoned on the welcome mat. The wind shifts behind you as the door clicks shut with finality.

Inside, it's warm. Dim. Quiet. Smells like a mix of spices and some kind of candle. His soft lips move over yours, intoxicating enough that your educated brain has forgotten how to form coherent sentences in any known language.

He walks you backward through his home, the kiss breaking only in microsecond intervals.

"I waited for you," he whispers between kisses. You respond with a sound between a whimper and a sigh, palms pressing into his chest as he lightly pushes you against the nearest wall with surprising authority. His breath fans hot against your cheek, “I told myself to let it go. That maybe I'd imagined all of it, that you didn't feel the same."

You gasp as his teeth graze your skin with just enough pressure to short-circuit your higher reasoning capabilities. One of his hands slides up beneath your blouse, his touch somehow managing to be both needy and soft.

Your last coherent thought before surrendering entirely to this expected plot twist is that Daniel is never, ever going to let you live this down when you return to New York.

"I've never felt this way about anyone," he exhales against the base of your throat, words tumbling out. "Not once."

It’s real when he says it. All of it. Every emotional shard he left scattered across like breadcrumbs, still waiting for you to come back and attempt the world's most ill-advised puzzle reassembly.

You pull him closer with upper body strength you didn't know you possessed, kissing him like your respiratory system has been recently reconfigured to run exclusively on Jeon Jungkook. Your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, cataloging the warmth of him, the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Jungkook..." You begin, caught between a moan and a murmur.

But he shakes his head, kissing you harder, "Don't. Don't say anything yet. Just be here." The request comes with the desperation of someone who's still half-convinced they're hallucinating.

You have absolutely no idea of how you've navigated this far into his house. Your last clear memory involves standing on a doorstep watching shredded corporate paperwork fall to the gravel.

The walls blur, corners cease to exist. Every hallway becomes a perfect clone when your mouth remains fused to his. You maintain only peripheral awareness of your own movement, shoes occasionally slipping against the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, his hands gripping your waist to steady you. You careen into one wall, then another, turning his home into an obstacle course neither of you seems particularly interested in navigating efficiently.

He's talking through it all, and you don't realize you're crying until his thumb brushes over your cheekbone in adoration.

"I thought I lost you," he mumbles, his mouth creating a cartography of your features; the edge of your lips, the angle of your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You were gone. I thought that was it."

You shake your head, and he doesn't even wait for verbal confirmation before kissing you again. Deeper this time, with the kind of attention to your body that makes you wonder if perhaps your entire professional career has just been an elaborate prelude to this specific moment in this hallway with this person.

Your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, tugging the fabric upward in what's meant to be a smooth, seductive motion. He lifts his arms automatically anyway as if he is just as desperate to eliminate any non-skin barriers between you.

His shirt gets tossed somewhere, your hand firmly planted on the plane of his chest, the taut muscle underneath.

"Fuck," he mutters against your collarbone, as he presses you against yet another wall (his home apparently consisting of nothing but convenient vertical surfaces.) One hand slips beneath your blouse while the other slides up your clothed thigh with intent. "You can't do that to me again."

"I won't," you promise, hands trembling against his chest "I swear."

He kisses you again like he doesn't quite believe you but has decided the potential heartbreak is an acceptable risk if it means having this fragment of connection.

Clothes begin their gradual migration to the floor — not the choreographed disrobing of movie sex scenes where garments somehow land in artful arrangements, but the realistic, occasionally awkward shedding. Your blouse gets caught on one earring. He helps with buttons while simultaneously trying to maintain mouth-to-mouth contact, resulting in misaligned kisses that land at the corner of your lips.

There's a brief, silent negotiation about whether your shoes should come off before or after your pants. Jeans are discarded, fingers brushing against your lace underwear.

You don't even care about the logistics anymore, the who-goes-where and what-happens-when that your organizational brain would typically want to map out. You just know one essential truth.

You need him.

Not in the scratch-an-itch way of previous encounters.

You're letting him see you now, unfiltered and unedited.

You don't try to steady your hands as they trail down his sides. Don't stabilize your voice to hide the crack when you whisper his name like it's become a more honest version of your own. You don't armor yourself when he looks down at you, shirtless and flushed, and murmurs with wonder: "You came back."

And that's when he lifts you, hands sliding under your thighs, holding you firmly to him. You wrap your legs around him, arms circling his neck, surrendering to being transported like the world's most willing hostage.

You have only the vaguest awareness of your surroundings. Some room, presumably his bedroom, though frankly it could have been his kitchen or laundry room and you wouldn't have noticed or cared. Geography has become thoroughly irrelevant to your current priorities.

The only thing actually registering in your sensory catalog is him; breath warming your collarbone, skin pressed against skin, lips trailing slow, wet kisses along the slope of your shoulder. He lays you down on his bed, gaze taking inventory of every inch of you.

His expression carries the stunned disbelief of someone who can't quite convince himself he's allowed to have you after you pulled your disappearing act.

The room is quiet except for your combined breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. Jungkook's palms drag up the sides of your thighs with a confidence that makes your skin tingle in anticipation, thumbs grazing the curve of your hips. He lowers himself, dark hair falling across his forehead. He presses a kiss just above your knee that sends an electrical current straight to your core which has apparently been in hibernation.

"You always look like this for me?" he murmurs. His fingers toy with the delicate hem of your lace underwear — the good ones you'd packed with what you now recognize was blatant optimism disguised as practicality. His eyes flicker up to catch yours, and you recognize him on his knees in his own bedroom, and suddenly breathing seems like an advanced skill you never quite mastered. "Spread out, soft... waiting?"

You can only nod, lips parted and pulse fluttering beneath your skin. Because when he's like this, looking at you like you're some kind of miracle he's afraid to blink and miss, it's impossible to maintain the illusion that you were ever in control of this situation.

Your eyes flutter shut, hands curling into the sheets. He hasn't even properly touched you yet, but you're already unraveling faster than a cheap sweater in the dryer, undone by nothing more than his mouth hovering in your general vicinity.

You feel the delicate tug of lace between your thighs, the slow drag of your underwear as he bites at the waistband. He pulls them down with his teeth like he's personally offended by the concept of using hands for their intended purpose, savoring each millimeter of progress.

He drops the lace to the floor with casual disregard, like it’s unimportant — which, right now, it is — and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your soaked core.

You jolt visibly, audibly, a shaky sound catching in your throat as your legs try to twitch closed out of instinct. Not that he allows this sudden attack of modesty to proceed.

No, he’s already got his hands under your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to his mouth, to the heat of his breath, to the place he plans to keep you until you forget your name.

And then he hooks your legs over his shoulders with practiced expertise, essentially wearing your thighs like the world's most inappropriate neck pillow.

“There we go,” he mutters, like he’s pleased with himself, like he’s settling in. His fingers dig into your thighs to maintain his access route, thumbs brushing over skin softly that somehow makes everything worse (or better, depending on your perspective.) He’s spreading you wide open for him, singing your praises, “Nice and close. Stay just like that, baby.”

And you do, despite your brain's distant, feeble protests about maintaining some semblance of dignity. Your hands scramble through the sheets, heart thundering in your chest.

A single coherent thought manages to penetrate the fog of sensation overtaking your higher reasoning capabilities: you are so, so screwed. Metaphorically, for now. Though given current trajectory, the literal interpretation seems imminent.

His grip on your thighs tightens just before his mouth finds your cunt. It’s one singular lick, tongue dividing between your folds. Your fingers dive into his hair with the desperate urgency of someone grabbing the last life preserver on a sinking ship, threading through the soft strands until you're practically clutching his head. “F-fuck!”

It’s consistent laps up and down your folds, your juices coating his lips, the coldness of his lip ring sending you into oblivion. He doesn’t ease up. He doesn’t tease. He devours you, tongue beginning to speed up.

You feel completely exposed, like you've accidentally sent your most private thoughts to a company-wide email thread, and somehow this vulnerability only intensifies everything, your body apparently interpreting danger signals as "please, sir, more of that."

Then his tongue flicks across your clit with the precise timing of someone who's memorized your particular user manual, and the noise that escapes you resembles something between a hiccup and the beginning of an embarrassing performance. Some pathetic little "uh" sound bubbles up from your throat.

You’re spread out beneath him, legs shaking, sheets twisted in your fists as he keeps going — his tongue relentless, lips slick, chin wet with you. His jaw glistens with evidence of your arousal, creating the kind of mess that would horrify you normally but currently registers as the hottest thing you've ever witnessed.

He groans against you, the vibration adding yet another layer of sensation to the overwhelming cascade, a sound so deep and raw it seems to originate from somewhere primal. Maybe he's just as far gone as you are, equally lost in this moment of reconnection. Or maybe… god, who cares, he just really can’t stop.

Your brain is syrupy now, thick and slow, synapses misfiring as your body spins somewhere between pleasure and delirium. Every drag of his tongue has you twitching, every suck of his lips on your clit sends another wave crashing through you, and your body doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

“Fuck—Jungkook, I—I can’t—” you gasp, practically ripping his hair out of his scalp. Your voice has adopted qualities you've never heard before — high, fractured, entirely unbefitting for someone who once made a junior copywriter cry with a single raised eyebrow.

“I love eating this pussy,” he mutters, muffled against your soaked cunt. Like he's experiencing a religious epiphany that happens to be centered between your thighs. “Swear to god, I’d live here. Every damn day.”

You respond with a choked sob that would mortify you in literally any other context but seems perfectly reasonable given that your central nervous system is currently experiencing the neurological equivalent of fireworks.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in one long, devastating stripe. “So good for me. You feel that, baby? The way you’re dripping all over me? The way your little cunt’s beggin’ for it?”

Your hips buck upward, but he counters this rebellion, mouth locking around your clit with such pressure that your eyes roll back like they're trying to retreat into your skull for safety.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice containing equal parts possession and wonder, as if he's surprised by his own declaration. “You know that? I’m never letting you go.”

You’re gone. Dizzy, spinning, stars behind your eyes. There’s a scream climbing up your throat, and your entire body is about to break apart, lit from within by a chain reaction that has precisely one catalyst: him, him, him.

Just when you think you’re about to tip over the edge, when every muscle in your body is coiled and quaking, Jungkook pulls back slightly, enough to keep you hovering. His tongue slows to an excruciating crawl, tracing soft circles around your clit. Barely there. Absolutely criminal.

Your whole body jolts, hips twitching helplessly, chasing more, chasing anything. But he keeps you right there, locked in with the pads of his fingers bruising your thighs.

"N-no—don't stop," you whimper, voice hitting notes that would embarrass you in any other context. "Feels so good, I—fuck, since when— since when did you get this good?"

He hums against you, the vibration hitting exactly where you need it most, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. His tongue resumes its torturously slow rhythm, each deliberate stroke designed for maximum frustration. He's moving like he's got all day to keep you on this edge.

"I mean it," you babble, vocabulary reduced to the primitive language center of someone who's forgotten they once intimidated an entire marketing department. "God, it's—fuck, I swear, what the fuck, it feels so —ahh— good!”

You glance down, desperate for visual confirmation that this is actually happening, and discover he's already looking up at you. Eyes dark and hazed over like he's sampled something significantly stronger than the recommended dosage, half-lidded and wild.

And the moment your eyes lock, it hits you like a punch to the chest. Somehow, it feels too raw.

His tongue doesn’t stop, slow and cruel in its own way, but his eyes stay locked on yours. Completely unflinching, intense, like he wants you to see him, like he’s trying to tell you something with every flick of his tongue.

Your tone fractures like cheap glassware. "Jungkook... please, please don't stop, I can't—"

He doesn't (clearly a man who follows through on his commitments.)

Just when you think you’ve adjusted to the slow torture of his tongue, Jungkook shifts.

This time, there's no trace of the earlier restraint. No more teasing. No more measured patience. His tongue flattens and drags against your slit, before circling your clit rapidly, flicking in tight, rhythmic strokes that have your entire body seizing.

You cry out with sounds that would be mortifying if recorded, hands clutching his hair like stress balls. "J-Jungkook—oh my God—don't stop, don't—fuck, please—"

"Keep still," he whispers against you,"Take it just like this."

And then he’s back on you, tongue working you over, flicking fast, then flattening again, sucking your clit into his mouth and rolling the sensitive nub over in devastating circles.

You're spiraling into some delirious dimension where coherent speech is a distant memory. "God—fuck—Jungkook, what the fuck, you're—nnh, please keep going."

He chuckles into you, vibration shooting through your spine. “Want you to cum on my face.”

And then — just when your nerve endings have adjusted to his particular brand of torture — he pauses.

You whine at the sudden loss, body shaking, on the very edge of begging. But then you feel it: two fingers, thick and warm, sliding slowly into you. The stretch makes your back arch, mouth falling open on a broken moan as he sinks them deep and curls them just right.

Your walls clamp around him instantly, greedy and desperate, like they've been waiting for exactly this intrusion.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, eyes flying open. “Fuck!”

He pulls his mouth back a bit to speak, lips slick with you, fingers never leaving you. “Hmm, I’ve always known how to fuck you right.”

He leans in again, multitasking with impressive coordination; his tongue returning to your sopping wet core with determination while his fingers establish a rhythm inside you that can only be described as diabolically perfect. They curl against your sweet spot that makes your vision develop lens flares at the edges.

"Cum for me," he begs, "Cum on my fingers. Cum on my tongue. I want all of it."

And there's nothing left in your arsenal of resistance to fight this particular hostile takeover.

Not when he's looking at you with that expression. Especially not when his fingers are pumping inside you.

Your orgasm tears through you with a force that feels almost violent, body snapping taut beneath him as your back arches off the bed and a involuntary cry rips from your throat.

This is a full system meltdown. A white-hot supernova behind your eyelids, a full-body seismic event that has you gasping for oxygen. Your thighs clamp around Jungkook's head but he doesn't even flinch — he holds steady, fingers maintaining their rhythm, mouth still attending to your clit with dedication.

Everything in the known universe disappears except the overwhelming input of sensation; his mouth, his hands, his voice murmuring something against your trembling flesh that your pleasure-scrambled brain files under "process later" in a folder that may never actually be opened.

And then — oh God. There it is.

A gush of warmth, uncontrollable, spilling out of you before you can stop it,, and maybe you do squirt, maybe it’s just a near miss, but who’s to say? All you know with absolute certainty is that you're essentially baptizing his face, and the animalistic sound he produces in response is obscene, so proud, that it sends another aftershock ripping through your core.

Your whole body vibrates. Wrecked. Utterly demolished.

Jungkook finally pulls back, face glistening. He looks both flushed and triumphant, eyes dilated, staring at you like you've just performed some rare cosmic event he was lucky enough to witness.

"Holy shit," you exhale, "What the fuck was that."

He has a shit-eating grin on his face, wiping his chin with the back of his hand in a gesture that should be gross but somehow isn't, managing to look simultaneously cocky and awestruck. "Guess I don't have to wonder if you came."

You release a sound that exists somewhere between laughter and delirium, flinging an arm over your eyes. “I think I just blacked out," you murmur, the confession slipping out too easily.

Jungkook leans over you, starts to get off his knees, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another softer one. "Good," he says.

You blink at the ceiling with disoriented wonder. "Fuck, I missed this. Even if it wasn't that long of a break."

He chuckles. "I don't care how long it was, I still missed it."

You blink through the haze clouding your vision just in time to witness Jungkook fully rising to his feet at the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on you. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs. Then he's there, hard, thick, and flushed, cock cradled in his hand as he strokes himself.

His eyes trail over your body with the thorough documentation of someone creating a visual archive. You can feel yourself responding in eagerness, walls clenching around nothing like they're experiencing separation anxiety.

"I'm never letting you go again," he says, voice dropping the playful edge, becoming something serious. “You get that, right?"

You attempt to formulate a response, but discover your mouth has apparently decided to cosplay as the Sahara. All you can manage is a nod that barely qualifies as movement.

He’s slightly hovering over you, arms sliding under your thighs, clamping around them as he drags you down the bed in one swift movement. You gasp as your ass makes abrupt contact with the edge of the mattress, cool air hitting newly exposed skin while your legs fall open, and then — holy evolutionary biology —

His cock slides through your folds, the weight and heat of him dragging against your already hypersensitive clit like a match strike against sandpaper. You whimper, legs twitching, your body apparently unable to decide if it's too sensitive for more stimulation or desperately craving it.

He repeats the motion again. And again. The thick, velvety length of his cock glides through your slick evidence, teasing your entrance. He lets you feel every ridge and vein without giving you the satisfaction of actual penetration, slaps his length against your juices a few times.

"Feel that?" he speaks softly, "That's mine. This whole fucking pussy. All of you." The possessive declaration should trigger your feminist alarm bells, but your body apparently didn't get the memo, responding instead with an endorsement.

Your hips jerk upward instinctively. “Jungkook, please."

He looks down at you, pupils so dilated they've nearly consumed the black holes. His jaw clenches, sweat creating a subtle sheen at his temple that catches the dim light. His cock twitches against you, leaving another hot trail of precum across your folds like some kind of territorial marking. “Say it," he growls, "Say you're mine."

Your fingers claw at the sheets, completely useless against the solid weight of him positioned between your thighs. You're wet to a degree that should concern you, but it somehow doesn’t. “Jungkook," you moan, "Please. I—I need you."

He grits his teeth, cock jumping between your folds. His expression broadcasts a man barely maintaining his composure. “Say it," he repeats. "Tell me you're mine."

You gasp, legs shuddering in his iron grip. “I'm yours," you whisper, the words escaping before your pride can intercept them. "I'm yours, Jungkook. I'm fucking yours. Please.. just fuck me. I can't, I need it, need you—"

That's all it takes; your desperate declaration being the final passcode to unlock whatever restraint he's been maintaining.

He growls under his breath incoherently, pushing his full length devastatingly slow into you.

And the stretch..

Sweet merciful heaven, it's always been llike discovering a new dimension of sensation. Always been the best you’ve ever had.

He's thick, pressing deeper into you than before, walls struggling to accommodate him. Each inch creates a delicious burn that makes your mouth fall open silently.

Your back arches, hands flying to his forearms with a desperate grip. Your lungs attempt to remember their primary function.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses through teeth clenched, the grip on your thighs now firmly in bruise-manufacturing territory as he watches himself disappear into you. "You're so tight. Shit, always so wet for me."

You attempt to form words, but they never come. You're too full, stretched beyond what you thought possible. All you manage is a whimper as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, the substantial weight of him seated so deep you feel claimed from the inside out.

He hovers over you, his forehead brushing yours with unexpected tenderness. "You feel that?" he says under his breath. "That stretch? That fullness? That's me, baby."

You nod frantically, nails creating temporary artwork on his toned arms, walls clenching around him with rhythmic pulses. “I can feel you everywhere," you whisper, "You're—fuck, you're so deep, I—"

Jungkook holds still inside you for one suspended moment, long enough for your body to adjust to the size. Your legs twitch where they remain trapped in his grasp, feet dangling in the air.

Then, without verbal warning or mercy, he withdraws completely.

All the way out.

The sudden emptiness hits you like sensory whiplash, your walls clutching at nothing, muscles fluttering with panic, and then he pushes back in unhurriedly, dragging every impressive inch into your slick cunt.

Head tilting back, you moan out something that sounds like a profanity. He follows your movement like he's tethered to you, leaning down with a groan.

That's when you feel it; the gentle tap of cold metal against your chin.

His silver chain. You never really did appreciate that jewelry piece.

It swings, providing cool metallic kisses against your overheated skin. The visual of it dangling above you, catching light with each oscillation, nearly sends you to heaven.

You will never get tired of this man again.

You grab him by the neck with the decisive urgency of someone who's finally stopped overthinking everything, dragging him down against you, crashing your mouth to his with absolutely zero concern for technique or dignity.

Fuck, the taste.

You taste yourself on his lips, a complex, slightly salty sweetness that you'd never admit to anyone you find strangely intoxicating. Mixed with the warmth of his tongue and the slick slide of his mouth, your brain temporarily suspends all higher functions. He maintains that unhurried rhythm below, deep thrusts that end with a grind.

Your teeth accidentally catch his bottom lip in your eagerness and his breath hitches against your mouth.

"God," you exhale into his mouth, "you feel so fucking good. I-I missed you so m-much.”

Jungkook moans wantonly, forehead pressing against yours in that surprisingly tender gesture that somehow makes everything more intimate than the actual sex itself. His hips maintain that tempo, drawing out pleasure.

"You drive me insane," he whines. "You're so fucking tight, so perfect. I could do this all night. Never get tired of being inside you."

You shudder, gasping into the half-kiss, legs tightening around his waist with newfound plans to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies.

When he thrusts again, harder this time, you swear the room performs a slow rotation around you. He breaks the kiss with a muttered profanity that somehow sounds like poetry, staring down at you. In this moment, in this bed, with this man… you’ve never felt more safe and loved.

Yet the careful, teasing rhythm he’s been making love to you with shatters like fine china dropped from a height.

Jungkook drives into you with a force that makes your breath catch, his hips connecting with yours. The soundtrack becomes deliciously obscene — skin meeting skin with wet smacking. The headboard begins its own contribution, banging against the wall with a volume that would concern you if you weren't well past caring about such mundane considerations.

You cry out incredibly loud, “Oh my God — fuck — Jungkook, don't stop," your nails drag across his back and shoulders, anywhere within reach, as your body jerks beneath him.

"Not fucking planning to," he responds with grim determination, thrusting harder, deeper.

Thank God he doesn't have neighbors.

High, broken sounds emerge from your throat that seem to bypass your vocal cords entirely. And Jungkook? He's producing a collection of grunts and groans, punctuating each thrust with your name.

"You hear that?" he pants, fucking into you with enough force to make the bedframe collapse at this rate. "That's how wet you are for me. That sound—fuuck—you hear how good it sounds?"

You can't formulate a coherent response but your body registers only the essential data points: the way his cock hits that sweet spot each time, the way your walls grip him, the feel of his muscles underneath your fingertips.

You're the visual definition of dishevelment — hair stuck to your face, eyes glazed mouth open and—oh god—actually drooling slightly as you beg for more.

Jungkook's hand comes up to grab your jaw with gentleness, tilting your face to meet his gaze. “You are so, so beautiful."

The sincerity punches through your pleasure-riddled brain. You suddenly recognize this look — the one he's been giving you for weeks while you've been busy pretending he wasn’t. The realization lands with the subtlety of a piano dropped from a third-story window: you're the oblivious protagonist in your own romantic story.

Without warning or consultation, Jungkook rearranges your legs, hooking them over his shoulders like he's claiming ownership… which, at this particular moment, feels like a completely reasonable arrangement.

He thrusts back in, so deep your mouth drops open in a silent scream. Your walls clamp down on them, juices leaking out onto the sheets below you.

"Holy shit," you gasp, "I can't, I can't, you're so deep, Jungkook, I—"

Somehow, in this moment of incoherence and surrender, you've never felt more genuinely yourself. There's something terrifying and liberating about being seen so completely, being known in this most primitive, honest way, and that you’ll let him have you like this.

He groans, abs flexing with roll of his hips. From this angle, escape from visual impact is impossible; he's looming above you, hair falling into eyes, jaw squared. His chest rises and falls in a quick, shallow rhythm but has decided breathing is less important than the task at hand.

"Fuck," he growls, gaze traveling downward to where your bodies connect, where every drag of his cock exhibits a ring of cream soaking his base. "Taking me so well. You're so fucking tight baby, squeezing me like you want me to cum."

You respond with some sound, legs twitching on his shoulders, toes curling behind his back with enough force to cause minor cramping.

"You were made for me," he rasps, "Made to take my cock."

His hand slides to your lower abdomen, pushing down with gentle pressure, and… wait, what is that? You can actually feel him inside you, a distinct bulge moving with each thrust, and your brain momentarily abandons pleasure to engage in scientific inquiry. How is that even possible? Isn't that one of those myths perpetuated by romance novels written by people with questionable understanding of female anatomy? Yet here you are, experiencing the impossible, your own body betraying your skepticism.

"Oh my God," you cry out, "I can feel your—I can't— Jungkook, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he counters, leaning further forward. He pounds into you, driving his hips even faster. "You're doing so fucking good for me. You're perfect. So perfect."

The praise sends you down a delirious spiral. It's embarrassing how effective simple validation can be, how the right words at the right moment can dismantle any fears you had.

Jungkook's rhythm falters momentarily, before he suddenly stills, cock pulsing inside you with a distinct throb, your walls gripping him with contractions. “Get up," he rasps.

You blink up at him with the unfocused bewilderment of someone who's forgotten how limbs work, body vibrating.

But then his hands are under your thighs, guiding your legs down. He helps you upright, being as careful and soothing as possible. As soon as you’re vertical, back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, he grabs your face with urgency and kisses you — not the polite, exploratory kiss of early dating, but the kind that has already memorized the topography of your mouth.

His tongue slides in with confidence, and you respond with some sound that gets muffled in his mouth, drunk on the cocktail of hormones, endorphins, and the intoxication of tasting yourself on someone else's lips. Jungkook grips your jaw, hand trailing down to play with one of your pebbled nipples.

Without warning or a proper transition period, his other hand executes a perfect southward journey to your ass and delivers a sharp smack that somehow hits the precise intersection of pleasure and startled indignation.

You gasp, body performing an involuntary jump, and he grins against your lips with the smug satisfaction of someone who's just confirmed a long-held hypothesis (which is that you’ve always liked it when he slapped you. Which he knew.)

"Atta girl," he murmurs, "Now turn around."

You comply eagerly, positioning yourself on wobbly knees on the bed and arching your back in what you hope resembles sexy feline grace rather than a person about to cum in under five seconds. Your hands clutch the sheets with a desperate grip.

Behind you, the mattress creaks with his movement, his hands beginning a leisurely expedition up your back, wandering against your spine. He leans in, his breath cool on your overheated skin, and begins planting kisses down your spine. Each contact of his lips sends tiny electrical currents branching outward, tongue occasionally making guest appearances.

"You're unreal," Jungkook whispers, his voice carrying the raspy quality of genuine awe. "Every inch of you."

And then his hands find your hips with purposeful intent, pulling you backward, and you already know.

You already know you're not ready; not in the sense of being unwilling, but in the way that your body is still recovering from the previous position and probably needs another moment. Normally, under other circumstances, you might’ve stopped whoever, but because it’s him and somehow it feels like it’s been too long, you whimper in excitement.

He taps his cock against your slit a few time, collecting the arousal, and that elicits another wanton moan from you. He slides back in easily, and the sensation of fullness is immediately overwhelming, spine curving in automatic response like you're trying to make space for him inside your body. Your forehead drops to the mattress as a cry escapes your throat, “O-oh fuck, Jungkook!”

"Fuuuck," he groans behind you. His hips connect with your backside forcefully, and repeatedly. "This pussy's fucking perfect. God, I’m going to fuck y-you everyday."

Your entire form jolts with each impact, hands clutching the sheets. Your sensory awareness has narrowed to a hyper-focused inventory of feeling: every inch of him, each purposeful grind of his hips, the smell of his leftover aftershave still on your body, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room. “F-Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That pretty much sends him on a rampage.

His hands press flat between your shoulder blades, effectively pinning you as he speeds his tempo.

"You like this?" he pants against your ear, breath hot against your neck as he leans over you. "Being bent over, dripping all over my cock?"

Your moan comes out high-pitched, needy, and completely stripped of dignity.

"Yes," you whisper, "Yes, Jungkook — fuck, it's so good. You feel so good—"

"That's right," he groans, emphasizing his point with even more forceful thrusts. "Say my name. Let me hear who's fucking you like this."

You obligingly repeat it, volume increasing with each iteration, “Jungkook—Jungkook—"

With absolute certainty, you realize your impending orgasm has become less a question of "if" and more a matter of "how explosively.”

His hand leaves your back. And suddenly, he’s reaching around your front, fingers slick with his own saliva (you think) as they find your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make your whole body seize up.

“J-Jungkook— oh my god —” you choke out.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he begs against your ear, his weight looming on you. “Gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little thing you are?”

And yes, of course you are — your body is already approaching the cliff edge — but your brain knew that while your whole being simultaneously sends a very clear memo: We are absolutely fine with this particular brand of objectification at this specific moment, thank you very much.

You attempt to formulate a verbal response, but your vernacular has apparently gone on strike, only a stuttering noise that emerges from you. “Y-yes. Please make me cum, oooh.”

His fingers speed up, merciless on your clit, and his other hand tangles in your hair and pulls. Spine arching, head yanked back until you’re forced to look up, eyes wide and glassy.

"Fuck, fuck," you practically sob, his fingers entangled so deep in your scalp as he gathers his own makeshift ponytail. "I can't—I oh my god—"

"Yeah?" Jungkook hisses, lips brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness given what's happening elsewhere. "That cockdrunk already?"

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum again, I—ahh, fuck," you babble with the coherence of someone experiencing a minor stroke, words slurring together, "Jungkook, please—"

"That's it," he bites his lip roughly, nearly drawing blood, his thrusts increasing in both frequency and force. Every circle of his fingers winds the tension tighter in your core. "Say my name while you lose your fucking mind on my cock."

Your mouth drops open in a perfect O, the pressure building in your stomach. Through it all, he remains the constant; grinding into you, fingers maintaining their devastating rhythm on your clit, hand still firmly grasping your hair.

God, you’re right there, so close you can almost…

Jungkook suddenly withdraws completely, creating a void so unexpected your body responds with a sob that comes from somewhere deeper than conscious thought, your entire body trembling and slick and utterly wrecked.

But before you can think again, he's gripping your waist, flipping you over onto your back, your body responding with the cooperative limpness of a rag doll. Thighs still unfortunately shaking from everything he’s done to you. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s back between your legs, spreading them wide, staring down at the soaked mess between you two.

“Need to see you,” he pants, pupils blown wide. “Need to watch you cum.”

He's kissing you again, less a romantic gesture and more like someone attempting to consume you through your mouth. Tongue hot and demanding, lips slick with everything you’ve given him. It’s messy, desperate, teeth clashing, breaths swallowed. Your hands claw at his back, his hair, needing something to hold onto as he thrusts back into you.

You cry out into his mouth, sound mangled, your head spinning as he fucks you hard from above. His chain swings again with every thrust, cold metal smacking into your bouncing breasts.

Jungkook’s tattooed hand comes up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around the skin, enough to remind you who’s in control.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, and what you find there makes your internal organs perform cartwheels. Possession, worship, and hunger, as if he's been starving for years and you're the first real thing he’s had.

"You're gonna cum for me like this," he whines. His hand maintains its position at your throat, his chain now swinging with abandon, occasionally delivering metallic kisses to your chest. Hands are firmly placed on your hips, your legs flailing with each thrust. "Right here, while I'm inside you."

Your clit throbs at his words with almost painful insistence while your walls contract around his cock, your body apparently making decisions without consulting your brain first.

"Jungkook, right there," you mewl, hand gripping his shoulder tightly, "I can't—I'm gonna—I'm—"

"That's it," he grunts, reclaiming your mouth in a kiss that effectively silences whatever embarrassing sounds were about to escape. “Cum for me, baby."

And you do.

Your orgasm doesn’t just hit — it erupts. It detonates from deep inside you, hot and electric, tearing through your entire body like a lightning strike. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs snapping around Jungkook’s waist as your cunt clamps down on him, squeezing so tight it rips a guttural noise from his throat.

You’re sobbing something that might be his name, might be a prayer, might just be air torn from your lungs.

The world performs an impressive disappearing act. Your vision whites out. You're gone, temporarily relocated to some dimension where only he exists. Every muscle in your body spasms and shakes. It's raw and messy and completely unhinged.

Jungkook feels every microsecond of your unraveling. Each pulse. Each ripple of your body's meltdown beneath him.

"Fuck—" he groans, hips stuttering as your walls flutter around him. His grip intensifies — at your throat, your hip, anywhere he can establish anchor points — his self-control visibly deteriorating with each passing second. "Jesus Christ, you're— fuck, you're squeezing me so hard — baby, I'm not gonna—"

He’s panting now, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he tries not to lose it. This whole time you've been running from him, pretending not to notice what's been right in front of you; his almost painful beauty, the devastating architecture of his features, the way his eyes contain entire universes. (Okay, fine, you noticed. Sometimes. Often. Constantly. But admitting it then would have meant admitting other things you weren't ready for.)

"Look at you," he manages, the words coming out with obvious effort as he watches you completely disintegrate beneath him. "You're so goddamn beautiful when you cum."

"Shit," he gasps, "you're gonna make me—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

And still, he doesn’t stop praising you, even as his self-control cracks beneath the weight of your body convulsing around his cock.

“So tight. So wet. You’re perfect,” he growls, each compliment landing like a physical touch. “Made for me. My perfect girl.”

Even as his composure fractures atop the weight of your body, he continues his litany of praise. He's trembling above you now, jaw tightly clenched, every muscle locked as he continues moving through your climax, pursuing his own with increasingly desperate determination.

"Jungkook, fuck, I can't—" you sob, the overstimulation too much for you to even breathe, let alone think.

With one final, decisive thrust, he finishes, harder than he ever has in his natural life.

A sound escapes him, raw and primal and startlingly vulnerable. His head drops to your shoulder, hips moving with an erratic rhythm. His body pulses inside yours, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, your toes curling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—" he whimpers, hips making two more valiant efforts as he empties himself completely. "So good my girl, so fucking good—I can't, shit—"

This moment of complete abandon is when you finally let yourself see him. Not Calvin Klein's global ambassador. Not South Korea's beloved idol. Not the carefully constructed public image or even the man who you cared less about in those first meetings. Just Jungkook, beautiful when his own walls are down.

You spent so long running from this, from him, pretending not to notice how the light catches his features at certain angles, how his eyes tell stories when he looks at you, how the slope of his nose looks like somewhere butterflies land.

Now, watching him come undone because of you, inside you, the realization lands with catastrophic clearness: he was always yours to have. Completely, irrevocably yours in a way that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

His whole body trembles with aftershocks, chest heaving as he presses impossibly deeper, seeking maximum contact. Jungkook’s hand migrates from your throat to your waist, fingers grasping the warm skin.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from sadness or even overwhelm, but from some emotion too big for your body to contain. Your legs try to remain wrapped around him, but your muscles give out entirely. Your whole body has gone pleasantly boneless, nerves humming, heart performing a drum solo against your ribs.

He pants against your collarbone, his chain now a cool, slightly sticky presence trapped between your overheated bodies, lips brushing your jaw with tenderness.

"I didn't mean — fuck — I didn't mean to cum that hard," he murmurs, voice sandpaper-rough.

You manage a sound that's adjacent to laughter, breathless and slightly broken, your lips struggling to form actual words through the haze of endorphins. "It’s okay."

He allows his weight to settle near you, forehead resting against your shoulder, still intimately connected.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you really want to.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You don't know how long it's been since the world stopped spinning on its axis, time having apparently become an optional concept rather than a reliable constant.

The sheets beneath you are warm, air carrying a complex bouquet — skin and breath and something that exists in the undefined territory between forgiveness and desire. Your legs remain stubbornly intertwined with his own, as if your body is staging its own rebellion against separation, operating on some fear that distance equals disappearance.

Jungkook has maintained silence. You've been equally restrained in your contributions to the non-conversation.

But his hand continues its cartography against your skin. Slow, featherlight circles mapped across your back. Periodically, his lips find your hairline, the gesture so natural it seems less of a conscious choice, but instead an involuntary reflex.

Your head occupies the territory of his shoulder, lips occasionally brushing his collarbone in what could be kisses or simply the accident of proximity. Beneath your ear, his chest rises and falls, his heartbeat a steady percussion under your palm.

You allow your gaze to travel upward.

You look at Jungkook in his unfiltered state — eyes heavy-lidded with satisfied exhaustion, torso bare of everything except his tattoo sleeve, the silver chain and a thin sheen of cooling sweat that catches what little light seeps in from the hallway. A faint crimson mark decorates his jaw where you clearly got too excited. He looks beautifully dismantled.

"I want to make this work."

He blinks. Then freezes in place like someone who's just spotted a rare and potentially skittish creature.

You register when he stops his movement against your back, feel the subtle hitch in his respiratory rhythm before it recalibrates to steadiness. But what matters more is what doesn't happen. He doesn't retreat. Doesn't deflect with humor. Doesn't repackage vulnerability into something more manageable.

Instead, he turns his head to look at you with an expression of wonder, gaze soft around the edges, mouth slightly parted as if he's afraid that acknowledging what you've said might cause you to take it back.

"I don't know how. I'm not... I don't want to be your girlfriend yet. I know I'm not ready for that," you admit, the confession emerging with all the tentative vulnerability of someone stepping onto ice they're not convinced will hold. "But I want to try to get there with you."

You don't explicitly mention fear, don't need to catalog the specific anxieties currently living in your chest. It's encoded in every accelerated heartbeat, every microexpression, every subtle tension in the muscles that have spent years building barriers around your emotions.

You're not hiding behind power dynamics or professional distance or the fortress of pride you've constructed brick by brick. You're just here. In his bed. Body curved around his like a physical manifestation of the promise your words have just placed in the air between you.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a sound that is the audio equivalent of relief wearing joy's clothing, and presses his forehead to your scalp.

"Then let's try," he murmurs.

The silence expands between you, but it isn't awkward at all.

You adjust your position slightly, one leg claiming territory around his waist. His skin radiates warmth against yours, offering a security that feels foreign but essential. Yet your throat constricts anyway.

"Well," you sigh, "I don't know how to be with you, to be honest."

His eyes move to yours. As always, he doesn't attempt solutions. He listens with the rare patience of someone who understands that witnessing is sometimes more valuable than fixing.

You lick your lips and continue, "I don't know how to be someone who texts good morning. Or someone who talks about their feelings over dinner. Or someone who... who knows how to let another person in without feeling like I'm losing something in return."

The admission costs you something — you can feel it leaving your body, years of self-protection dismantling in real time. For a woman who's built her career on knowing exactly what to say and how to say it, this raw honesty feels like jumping off a bridge with no harness.

He remains silent. But his gaze holds yours with steady assurance, eyes dark and patient in the dim light like he's prepared to wait as long as necessary for whatever comes next.

You hesitate, but then add ,"Is that okay?"

The question hangs between you two. About whether someone like him, who seems to navigate genuine connection with the ease of breathing, could possibly want someone like you, for whom emotional transparency feels like a foreign language.

For what seems like ages, he doesn't answer.

Then he lifts a hand to your hair, brushing it back from your face with a sweetness that makes your chest ache in places you didn't know could feel.

"Yeah," he affirms, "That's okay."

Two words. Simple. Direct. And somehow containing the most profound acceptance you've ever been offered.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he continues, "I don't need you to turn into someone else just to be with me. Honestly, i would hate that.”

His thumb traces your jawline, eyes maintaining their focus on yours steadily. “I just need you to try."

You blink back the tears threatening to compromise your maintained image as someone who doesn't cry over boys or sad movies or particularly moving commercials featuring rescue animals.

"That's the problem," you confess, "I don't know how to try without trying to win or turning everything into something to conquer."

"I know," he says with the certainty of someone stating that water is wet. "You're the most guarded person I've ever met."

You narrow your eyes with mock indignation. "You're terrible at comforting people."

Which… is a lie so transparent it wouldn't fool a toddler. The man clearly possesses emotional intelligence bordering on supernatural — he somehow got you, corporate warrior queen and professional feelings-avoider, to actually visit your family after a year of strategic absence. If that's not evidence of psychological wizardry, nothing is.

He smiles genuinely, "You didn't come all the way here because I'm good at comforting people."

Your lips twitch traitorously, the beginnings of a smile staging a coup. Jungkook leans closer, "You don't have to know how to be with me right now. You just have to stay."

You press your face into the sanctuary of his skin, inhaling his scent. “You're not afraid?" you ask.

"Terrified," he replies without even a millisecond's hesitation. "But I'd rather be afraid with you than safe without you."

The line would sound rehearsed coming from anyone else, but his voice carries this authenticity of someone speaking their unfiltered truth. He looks at you like you're the answer to questions he didn't even know he was asking, like someone who's found their favorite person in a world of seven billion options and is amazed by his good fortune.

You don't respond verbally. You don't need to.

Because your arms remain wrapped around him, your body more honest than your words have ever managed to be. And you haven't let go or run away yet — a physical declaration more powerful than any verbal agreement.

The soft moment only lasts so long, however , because he's a man and therefore incapable of sustaining emotional vulnerability beyond the FDA-recommended dosage, his chest rumbles with that low frequency that signals a subject change is imminent.

"So," he says, "wanna hop in the shower with me?"

The question carries all the subtlety of a neon sign, but you find yourself smiling anyway — partly because it's such a perfectly timed relief for the emotional pressure that's been building, and partly because even this transparent attempt at distraction is infused with affection. His eyes still look at you like you've personally hung the moon and stars, even while proposing something as mundane as shared hygiene.

You blink for a moment. Then lift your head just enough to give him a look that questions both his sanity and possibly basic human biology. “You're joking."

He returns your gaze with an expression balanced perfectly between amusement and innocence. "Why would I be joking?"

"Because it's physically impossible that you still have anything left," you retort ,eyebrows climbing toward your forehead in a silent judgment of his audacity.

He just shrugs, "I hydrate. I stretch. I take care of myself."

You drop your head back onto his chest with a groan that contains multitudes; exhaustion, disbelief, and a reluctant hint of admiration. "Oh my god."

He grins, entirely unbothered by your exasperation, fingers tracing a path down your side. "You're the one who came crawling back to me, remember?"

You lift your head again, fixing him with a glare that would wither lesser men. "Crawling is a strong word."

He arches a single eyebrow. "You showed up at my house with a crumpled contract and a face that said please, take me back my lover."

You have the simultaneous desire to slap him, kiss him senseless, and then perhaps slap him once more for good measure. But you opt for your mouth opening, then closing again, resembling an indignant goldfish as your brain frantically searches for a comeback and finds the cupboard disappointingly bare.

"Yeah," he smirks, "that's what I thought."

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him squarely in the face with it — the universal last resort of those who have lost the argument but refuse to concede defeat.

He laughs as he effortlessly confiscates your improvised weapon and tosses it aside. With fluid coordination, he tugs you back toward him, arms locking around your waist.

"I'm serious," he murmurs,"Shower with me."

His expression might be teasing, but his eyes tell a different story, one where this request is about far more than shared hygiene. They look at you with the softness reserved for someone who still can't quite believe you're actually here, in his bed, in his arms, agreeing to try.

You pull back just enough to examine him properly, the way his smile goes slightly lopsided when genuine, how his eyes crinkle at the corners when they're not performing for a lens. And underneath all of that visible surface-level perfection: relief. Quiet, unmistakable relief that you're actually here, that this isn't another near miss in your shared history of almosts.

You trace a thumb along his jawline, "If I go in there with you, you're not allowed to make a single comment about your 'stamina.'"

He presses a kiss to your wrist. "Fine."

"Or your flexibility."

"Okay."

"Or how good your skin looks wet."

He snorts with amusement. "You do like it though."

You deliver one final shove to his shoulder, the gesture containing all the force of a gentle breeze as he begins to sit up. His arms are already reaching for you again, the blanket abandoning its post as he pulls you back into him. A laugh escapes your throat before you can intercept it, muffled against the skin that's become more familiar to you than anything.

This unexpected development is precisely what you never permitted yourself to envision. What your risk assessments classified as statistically improbable.

But here it is. Materializing in this moment. Occupying this bed with the certainty of something that's always been inevitable.

You look at him again, and he returns your gaze.

Perhaps love isn't orchestrated declarations or cinematic gestures performed with optimal lighting.

Perhaps it's this.

The quietly profound silence that says despite all logical arguments to the contrary, you stayed.

And the next few days unfold with that same magic of moments you weren't supposed to have; soft, unanticipated.

You extend your return flight as if you’re postponing a dentist appointment. Once. Then again and again. Until the concept of departure transforms from definitive plan to vague hypothetical.

Your hotel sends increasingly concerned emails about your room you haven't seen and don’t plan to. Your suitcase maintains its position in the corner of Jungkook's bedroom, untouched and increasingly irrelevant.

Now? You essentially live here.

At least, that's the only conclusion based on available evidence.

Your limbs are entangled with his at all times; on his comfortable couch, in his ridiculously large bed, half-conscious on the floor in front of his massive TV. Your hairbrush has made good friends with his bathroom drawer. There's a bottle of your overpriced moisturizer holding territory on his nightstand. His kitchen now carries the scent of your morning coffee, and he never allows you to prepare it without supervision.

"Let me do it," he insists, "You'll make it too strong."

"You're weak," you counter, "Own it."

But he just shrugs with nonchalance, delivers a kiss to your cheekbone, and activates the kettle anyway.

Daniel, from across the world, hasn't made contact. He doesn't need to. Your discretion levels are currently hovering around zero.

You sent him a single text, a masterpiece of vagueness claiming you're "taken care of." His response consisted of three laughing emojis and a GIF depicting a calendar engulfed in flames. You chose not to follow up on that particular conversation thread.

No other member of the team has demonstrated the courage needed to disturb your unauthorized sabbatical.

For perhaps the first time in your adult life, you experience zero guilt about any of it.

For once, your life isn't structured around the strategy decks at dawn and press releases at midnight. You're eating toast over Jungkook's kitchen sink, while behind you, he performs a lip sync routine using a wooden spoon as his microphone. You're curled up on his couch wearing one of his shirts (which naturally, fits you like a dress), your laptop exiled to the coffee table. His head rests in your lap while he tells you tales from his trainee days that simultaneously explain his discipline and make you wonder how anyone survives the k-pop industry with their sanity intact.

You find yourself watching him smile, the authentic ones that transforms his entire face and makes something in your chest bloom. Somewhere between months ago and this moment, your brain recategorized him, filing him under "person I might actually miss" rather than "professional chaos requiring PR aide."

Each night, you fall asleep in his bed with windows slightly ajar, Seoul's night air drifting in, his arm draped across your waist.

Some days you wake to find him already conscious, just... looking at you, blinking as if he’s conducting reality checks.

"You okay?" you whisper during one such morning surveillance, voice still rough with sleep.

He nods. Smiles that stupid bunny smile that makes you all fuzzy. “Just making sure you're real."

You don't try to respond. Kiss him instead.

You don't know what comes next in this unscripted thing you've stumbled into. Your professional life has always operated according to meticulous planning but there's no PowerPoint template for whatever this is. No key performance indicators to measure the success of accidentally falling for the person you were supposed to keep at a professional distance.

Finally though, when reality does come crashing down, when the email confirmation materializes in your inbox, it feels like some alternate version of yourself made these arrangements. Some corporate doppelgänger who still prioritizes quarterly projections over the way Jungkook's voice sounds when he's half-asleep.

Your return to New York.

A city that once represented the pinnacle of your ambitions, now reduced to a collection of skyscrapers and deadlines.

You stare at the itinerary, thumb hovering over the screen. The return remains theoretical until you forward it to your assistant.

Subject line: returning next week. please keep calendar clear until I land.

What your assistant doesn't know… is that this departure comes with a loophole.

Not so much an ending as a comma in a sentence still being written.

There's another ticket purchased with the stealth of a spy. Under Jungkook's legal name. Scheduled for precisely seventy-two hours after yours — a buffer zone necessary for him to navigate the bureaucracy that runs his existence. A whispered promise that he'll follow once HYBE's legal department, publicity team, and some other people sign off on the logistical nightmare that is "globally famous person attempts to ‘try things’ with c-suite member of said person’s latest marketing campaign.”

There will be tabloid landmines to sidestep. Calendar schedules to master. Seemingly trivial concerns that will eventually mean something, like calculating time differences before sending texts, ensuring you’ve made space for his skincare in your New York apartment, and perfecting the art of arriving at the same location via different entrances.

“Trying to make it work” with an international popstar, it turns out, requires the same level of strategic planning as a corporate merger.

Right now, though, you're standing in the doorway of Jungkook's apartment, performing the world's most reluctant exit. Your suitcase waits by your feet, coat draped over your arm, heart lodged so firmly in your throat. The car service downstairs is undoubtedly charging by the minute while the driver wonders what drama is delaying your descent.

Jungkook’s standing before you, barefoot and hoodie carelessly thrown on, eyes carrying sleepiness. Beneath that morning haze, he's unmistakably present. Awake in the way that silently pleads don't leave without saying what we both know is true.

You haven't told him yet. The words you've been rehearsing in your head.

The truth you've been aware of for days while pretending otherwise.

His voicemail still plays on repeat, the one you finally had the courage to hear on that Manhattan rooftop, glass abandoned as his voice crackled through your phone speaker.

"I think I'm in love with you."

He never demanded reciprocation. Never presented it as a transaction. And now you're stuck thinking about your mother's favorite lecture, delivered with the exasperation reserved for a child too smart for her own good. "Don't lie if you can't carry it."

As your fingers make contact with the cold metal of the door handle, you pause. Turn to him.

Your eyes connect with Jungkook’s — they’re always wide with anticipation, patiently waiting, hopeful in that quiet, unassuming way he hopes for things. Your mouth opens, words still stubbornly refusing to leave.

Finally, with the triumphant relief of someone who's been holding their breath underwater, you manage to speak.

"I.. I-I think I'm starting to fall in love with you too."

He blinks at you. Like perhaps his sleep-deprived brain has misinterpreted that. Like maybe this is some elaborate dream his subconscious has constructed to torture him.

But then there’s that slow, sunrise smile that spreads across his entire face. That small, stunned shake of his head. His eyes soften, and he steps forward, reaching for your hand like it's the only anchor in a storm.

He presses his lips to your knuckles — a gentleman's compromise, the only part of you he apparently trusts himself to touch without dragging you back to bed.

"I'll see you in New York," he mutters.

In some way, those words say exactly what you know they mean. You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat, forming a smile that doesn't look like you're about to cry.

The distance between Seoul and New York has never seemed so vast and so insignificant.

And when you walk out the door, heart thundering, you slide into the backseat of the car. Not any less yourself, not someone’s girlfriend, but with the promise of something new. Hands are still buzzing, gaze lingering on the city you used to avoid calling home.

As the driver pulls away from the curb, you feel your phone buzz once in your lap.

Eomma.

You blink at your phone.

Without hesitation, without fear, without guilt, you answer the call.

“Hi, Eomma,” you say, smiling softly. “I’ve missed you! Sorry I didn’t call since last week, I was crazy busy. But I do have a story for you.”

Everything in your chest feels entirely new.

Because at this point in time, you’re not running from something.

You’re walking toward it.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

note ; if you’re reading this — welcome! you survived the end of the price of desire, and i love you for it. thank you for reading.

now to show my love and affection… i’ll be doing 3-4 epilogue drabbles/blurbs based off your guys’ requests (bc it’s no fun if im just doing whatever i please, duhh!!) send in some ideas (smut, fluff, even some angst) of what you would want to see as epilogue blurbs and i’ll choose the ones that inspire me :-) THIS IS NOW CLOSED! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REQUESTS 🫶

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs @magicalnachocreator @wisebouquetbarbarian @futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7

[thehighladywrites]

“JUST ONE MORE, I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT.”

⋆˙⟡ pairing: rhysand x reader, inner circle makes an appearance , madja makes an appearance

⋆˙⟡ summary: feeling ready to finally have kids, you tell rhys who is over the moon. madja gives you a special tea to help boost ovulation. how does that turn out for you?

⋆˙⟡ warnings: a fuckton of smut, fluff, rhys cries, so does reader, breeding, aphrodisiacs ( i think ), boosting tea, pregnancy, pregnancy smut ig, Big dick daddy construction worker Rhys😍😍, protective rhys like super protective, obsession and possession. Rhys develops a new obsession with reader🤷🏽‍♀️

⋆˙⟡ amara’s note: i need a break. holy fuck. also, can i go next🧎🏽‍♀️ Plus english isn’t my first language so if there’s any errors or mistakes, i’m sorry😭💗

“is that what you’ll be teaching our children, darling? To be snappy when someone asks you something?”

Rhysand took great pleasure in provoking a reaction from you. Your day had been rough, with even the slightest annoyances causing you to snap at him. From criticizing his breakfast chewing to berating his small handwriting in his reports, your frustration peaked when rhys playfully teased, leading you to unleash a stream of unpleasant words.

And now, he was dangerously close to you kicking him out of your bedroom. You stood there, making the bed with him on the other side as you tucked in the sheets on either side.

“Fuck off, Rhys. I'm teaching my kids that their father holds the title for being the most annoying ass in Prythian's history. They'll also be well-informed about your love for relentless teasing. I'll caution them to steer clear, as mommy doesn't want them influenced by your habit of being an annoying provocateur,” you flashed him a fake smile before tugging the sheets from his hands.

His laughter resonated through the room as he threw his head back, closing the distance with a confident step. Looking you up and down, he met you face to face, his eyes filled with mirth and a touch of affection.

“Let's pray to the Mother that they don't inherit your bratty behavior,” he teased, flicking your nose, enjoying your reaction.

“And yes, before you can come up with some crude insult, you're without a doubt the most pouty, bratty, headstrong person I've ever encountered.” His smile held a mix of playfulness and genuine fondness.

“I should feel insulted, but strangely, I don't,” you admitted with a smile. Playfully ushering him back to his side of the bed, you continued fixing the sheets, ready to settle in for the night.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Lying awake, Rhys's words echoed in your mind. The thought of having children together stirred a mix of excitement and doubt. The responsibilities of being the high lord and high lady of the Night Court loomed large, and the question of balancing it with parenthood lingered. Despite the uncertainties, a deep yearning surfaced – a want to put more focus on kids and maybe ease of the work load.

Unable to sleep, you chose to scoot closer to your mate as you put your head on his pillow, running your hand through his hair and finding comfort in the rhythm of his shallow breathing.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

The bell chimed as you entered Madja's clinic, finding it empty. You weren't supposed to be there; you had told Rhys you weren't feeling well to avoid going to the Hewn City with him. He grew concerned and insisted on staying, but after some persuasion, he reluctantly left. Now, you had the perfect opportunity to visit the healer in secret.

“Hello? Madja, are you here?”Your voice echoed in the empty clinic. After a long pause, you turned to leave, but just as you did, Madja opened a door, wearing gloves and a mask, looking confused.

“Y/n? What are you doing here? Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” You all loved Madja deeply as she was like a second mother to everyone. She expressed concern, worry evident in her eyes. You reassured her, mentioning that nothing was wrong. She nodded, explaining she had a patient and would be done in a few minutes. Madja suggested making yourself some tea and taking a seat while you waited.

After a while, Madja finished with her patient and led you into her office. She took her place behind the big table, and you sat in front of her, ready for whatever conversation lay ahead.

“What can I help you with today?”

Taking a deep breath, you opened up about your desires. “I wish to get pregnant, and I wanted to know if there's anything to know beforehand. My grandmother was Illyrian, so I think I could carry the babe, but is there any more information I should know about?”

Your words hung in the air, waiting for Madja's guidance.

A warm smile graced Madja's face as she took your hand.

“Congratulations, I'm so happy for you. Fae pregnancies are rare, and it might take a few years of trying before you see any results. Don't get discouraged; it's normal, and it generally takes a few decades for couples to be blessed with a babe. But let me check your bones to see if you're ideal for pregnancy.” Madja's hands emitted a golden glow as she held yours, assuring you that your bones were indeed a match and that you would be able to carry your and Rhysand's children.

You thanked her with a hug and stood up, ready to leave to tell Rhysand that you were ready. But you were still nervous about how long it would take. Decades seemed like a long time and you just hoped you wouldn’t get disappointed in yourself.

Madja seemed to sense your sprialing thoughts and directed you to the medicine room. She handed you a packet of some sort or herb or leaf. You looked at her with confusion asking her what this was.

Madja explained, “It's a special tea made to boost ovulation. Both of you should drink it before trying, but I have to warn you, it does have side effects. The tea activates a primal need, making you both feel like the first day of the mating bond. There will be possession and jealousy, and a strong chance of fighting unwanted guests. Some patients of mine have almost killed someone because their mates were looked at too long. Males typically get very possessive during conception so don’t be surprised if he snaps at someone who’s too close. So, again, only do this when you're alone.”

The gravity of her words settled in as she outlined the potential intensity of the tea. You nod thanking her again before winnowing back to the house.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Rhysand was pissed off and tired as fuck. The entire night was a mess, thanks to the annoying council. He toyed with the idea of going back and killing them all but thought checking on you might be a better move. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him, and irritation etched deep lines on his face.

Rhysand walked into the house, absentmindedly unbuttoning his shirt until he halted in his tracks as he passed the kitchen. Something caught his attention, and he turned, curious about what was happening.

Rhysand was taken aback by what he saw. There you were, clad in tank top and shorts, preparing food in the middle of the night. He thought you were seriously unwell, given that you couldn't get out of bed earlier. Worried, he approached,

“Love, what are you doing up? Please, let me take you back to bed. I'll finish it up and bring it to you, okay?”

You warmly smiled at his concern but shook your head. “I'm fine, baby. I'm not sick. I'll explain everything. Just sit down at the table, and I'll be there in a minute.”

He raised his brow and you with amusement,

“So, you just didn’t want to go to the meeting? You should have told me; we could have skipped together. They were driving me crazy today. Kier wanted a higher position, Lord Orlon wanted more money, and everyone just wanted more and more and more.” His frustration with the incessant demands from the council echoed in his words.

You couldn’t help feeling guilty at the weariness in his eyes, you pouted and stepped closer, standing between his legs. Gently, you brought his head to your chest, cradling and kissing it. His arms wrapped around your middle immediately as you cooed comforting words, offering solace in the warmth of your embrace while stroking his hair gently.

“Aww, I'm so sorry, honey. I promise I'll never let you go alone. What can I do to cheer you up?”

He raised his head, mischief in his eyes, and his hands roamed up your tank top, grazing your waist and the sides of your boobs.

“I can think of something that'll earn you my forgiveness.” His playful tone sparked heat in you and you almost lost focus as you entertained the thought of Rhys’s offer. But you shook your head and smirked at him.

“Did you forget I had something to tell you? You’re quite insatiable, you know?”

He slumped his head on your chest, planting a kiss on the covered area as he warmly chuckled. Drawing you closer, he settled you in his lap, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. Rhys gazed up at you with enchanting deep violet eyes, their subtle twinkle a sight you adored.

Inhaling deeply, you contemplated ripping off the bandaid. It should be fine, right? He's always discussed future children, their names, rules for them, etc. Yet, despite everything, a touch of nerves crept in.

Rhys, sensing your hesitation, securely gripped your waist, assuring you that you could share anything with him.

“Rhys, sweetheart, I'm ready to officially try for children. Are you on board? I know you've talked about wanting kids, but is it still something you still want-”

Rhysand embraced you tenderly, tears of joy gliding down his cheeks. He buried his tear-streaked face in the warmth of your neck, softly murmuring his heartfelt thanks, each word carrying a sweetness only you could inspire.

His tears triggered an emotional response in you, prompting happy tears to well up as you smiled tenderly at him.

“It would be my highest honor to have children with you, my love.”

Rhys kissed you, chuckling, drawing you closer and peppering tiny kisses all over your face, eliciting joyful laughter from you.

“While you were away, I chatted with Madja, and she shared some tips about conceiving. She mentioned it might take a bit, so she's advising not to worry if it doesn't happen right away. She even gave me this special tea that's supposed to boost ovulation and help speed up the process. What do you say we give it a shot tomorrow or tonight?”

Rhys grinned mischievously, “Well, it's a bit surprising I haven’t already gotten you pregnant, but I guess Madja's tea might just be the secret ingredient we need.”

“I agree, Mr. Cocky, your charms might need a backup plan.” Your smile wavered as he got closer to your neck, and it completely faltered when he gently blew air on your neck before giving a playful bite.

You trembled, grabbing rhys’s shoulders to steady yourself as he kept nipping lower and lower. He palmed your tits through your thin tank, pulling and pinching on your nipples, marvelling at your scrunched up face of pleasure.

His finger moved to trail down the arch of your back while he unwrapped your legs from around his waist.

“Let's free you from these,” he murmured, gently hooking your shorts by the elastic and sliding them down to your thighs. Granting you a brief moment, he allowed you space to stand and shimmy them down to your feet, casting them aside with a tender ease.

Your confirmation to having kids flipped a switch in his brain. Numerous times had you stopped by nurseries to admire the cute babies, helped lost children find their mothers in the town square, babysat for your friends that had kids. Rhysand’s mind was filled with you carrying your child on your hip, you and him sitting down teaching them everything they needed to learn.

The mere thought of getting you full of his children, your heirs and the fact that you would carry your children, made him impossibly hard. You belonged to him, and soon, the world would see the evidence in your growing belly. It was his way of making sure everyone knew he had claimed you for good, in the most intimate and lasting manner possible.

Rhysand gazed up at you, his eyes veiled by thick lashes, filled with a darkened desire. His pupils dilated, larger than you'd ever seen, revealing the intensity of the lust that consumed him.

“I’m going to get you nice and knocked up by the end of the month, fuck what Madja said. I’m putting a baby in you soon enough, don’t worry about a thing. Just lay down and let me work on it, what do you say, sweetheart?”

His raspy, desperate voice sent cold shivers down your spine and arm. You mindlessly nod, begging for him to start.

“ Please, baby… make me a mother…” you ask so sweetly and nicely, rhys could never say no to you.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Throughout that night, the following morning, and the entire subsequent day, Rhysand kept you awake, leaving little room for sleep. In the span of those days, you only paused for food, as he fucked you to the edge of insanity. Perhaps you should have considered that you'd chosen the most powerful man in history as your baby daddy— of course he’d have no trouble fulfilling his task with relentless success.

Rhys's eyes had darkened with a singular focus – getting you pregnant. He worshipped your body, treating you like a deity with every touch, as if you were the subject of his devoted prayers.

He had stopped for maybe half an hour to research the most ideal positions for baby making and had put you in them atleast twice, much to your exhaustion and pleasure.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Reluctantly, you both knew you couldn't remain secluded from your responsibilities forever. The rulers of the court could only be inaccessible for a limited time, forcing you to eventually confront the outside world.

“Baby, we need to go soon, remember?” You found yourself trapped between his sturdy arms, lying beneath him on the soft bed with your legs wrapped around his middle. His kisses on your neck and grew more intense, leaving behind a trail of increasingly visible bruises.

Expressing disapproval with a sound, he playfully nipped at a sensitive spot on your neck, eliciting a mix of laughter and a gasp from you simultaneously.

Rhysand absolutely hated the idea of leaving the haven of warmth and love you two had created. He cherished the solitude you shared, not wanting to face the world's challenges.

All he wanted was to stay wrapped up in the tender embrace of his mate, savoring the moments of closeness and hoping for a future filled with just the two of you.

“Darling, I'd ditch the whole Night Court for a bit more of your love. The outside world's a drag compared to your warmth. What do you say we skip the ruling and responsabilities and keep our own little haven, just the two of us?”

Summoning the will to decline felt nearly impossible; you genuinely, sooo badly, really didn't want to leave the room until everything was done. Explaining your perspective to him, you made a deal that if you both tackled just dinner first, you'd be all his afterward. With reluctance, he got up, the two of you quickly freshened up, taking a hot shower and got dressed for dinner with your friends.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Making your way to the dining room, you were met by Cassian with a teasing grin,

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living. I was starting to think you'd built a permanent nest in there. Ready for the real world or still basking in the afterglow?”

Catching a glimpse of Rhysand's impassive expression, it was clear he was beyond unamused as his eyes zeroed in on Cassian. You knew him well enough to sense that Cassian's continued teasing might push him to snap, especially considering his reluctance to be outside with the others now that he was trying to put a baby on you.

“Cass, I wouldn’t. Let's just enjoy the meal,” you said, clapping your hands with an exaggerated smile. Taking Rhysand by the hand, you guided him to the table, hoping to diffuse any tension and shift the focus to the meal.

You stuck to him like glue, even following him when he stood to get another bottle of wine. Sitting on another chair was out of the question. Instead, you made yourself comfortable in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. You purred at his warmth and safety, wondering why the hell you even accepted this dinner in the first place. You'd much rather stay under warm covers in your bed with him by your side.

In these past few days, Rhysand had become remarkably possessive aswell. Normally unfazed by casual gestures from friends like hugs or pats on the shoulder, he surprised himself. When you and Azriel reached for the salt at the same time, Rhysand instinctively pulled you back, narrowing his eyes at Az as if marking his territory.

Azriel, ever perceptive, observed the tension, smiled to himself and wisely chose not to escalate the situation. He sensed a new energy surrounding you both, noticing how much you clung to each other. He nodded toward the salt, indicating you should take it first, showing he had the sense not to get in the middle of whatever was transpiring between you and Rhysand. It was something Cassian would usually dive headfirst into. The guy had a knack for finding trouble, and Azriel clearly wanted no part in it.

The dinner proceeded with everyone staying clear from you and Rhys. Usually, you'd playfully scold him for being overly possessive, telling him to ease up on the overbearing bat act. However, you relished in his attention and protective demeanor. Madja had told you this would happen but you didn’t realize it would apply to your family.

Right, Madja. You had almost forgotten about the tea she'd given you, the one to speed up the pregnancy process. With your friends leaving after dinner, whether they wanted to or not, it seemed like the perfect time to test it out.

Gazing at Rhysand beside you, you communicated your thoughts silently, begging him to try the tea out with you and then going back to your previous activities. He nodded in understanding. Sitting up straight, he glanced at everyone.

“I need all of you to leave, right now,” he stated calmly, sipping his drink with his usual nonchalance.

Everyone paused mid-chew, glancing at Rhysand with confusion. Azriel swiftly vanished into his shadows, and Amren departed without so much as a goodbye. Mor and Cassian remained, bewildered, as they questioned the sudden disruption.

“What? Why? I'm not even done eating,” Mor protested, pointing to her full, steaming plate.

Rhysand narrowed his eyes, flicking his hand and cleared the table.

"There. I moved everything to your table in your apartment. Now, get out," he gritted, and they hurriedly made their exit, with Cassian managing a loud laugh before leaving.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

The kettle's whistle grew louder as you were lost in Rhysand's lips. Seated on the table, his arms on either side of you, the moment was pure delight, your hands traveling his body as you toyed with the waistband of his pants. The whistle became unbearable, forcing you to reluctantly break the kiss as you sighed and made your way to brew the tea. The leaves, red and golden, intensified in color as you poured the boiling water in.

“Damn. That looks deceptively inviting. Like it would lure us in with its pretty colors and then make our hearts stop,” he joked, joining you and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, playfully holding you in a mock chokehold.

“Huh, deceptively inviting... sounds a lot like someone I know,” you teased, lazily kissing the strong forearm wrapped around your throat. His laughter resonated, his chest rumbling, and you felt the vibrations, savoring the moment.

He kissed your temple before letting you go, guiding you back to the table to drink the tea. Both of you nodded in agreement before simultaneously downing the concoction. The taste left you both with a disgusted expression as you placed the empty cups back on the table.

“That tastes like shit. Did Madja say what it was made of?”

You scrunched your face at the aftertaste before replying,

“I find it best not to ask her anymore. Remember the time she had us all eating that soup with fermented fish guts as a cure for that winter fever?”

You shudder at the memory of everyone lying in the hospital, with Madja taking care of the lot of you. It dawned on you that she was feeding you stuff that would've made you even sicker if you found out then. The taste of the mysterious tea was the least of your worries compared to Madja's unconventional remedies.

Rhysand shook his head at the unpleasant memory,

“You’re right. I’d rather not know.”

You giggled at his words, before standing up and putting the cups in the sink. Turning around, you looked at Rhysand with a tilted head, wondering if he was feeling anything because you certainly weren’t.

“Are you feeling anything? I’m not sure if it’s taking extra long for the tea to activate or something but I’m not feeling anything yet.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, pondering your words for a moment.

“Honestly, I don’t feel any different either. Maybe it's just a placebo effect or Madja's way of amusing herself with our reactions. Either way, we'll survive it.”

You nodded at his words, yes that made sense.

“Okay, let’s go to my office and catch up on some reports while we wait for the effects to kick in.”

You both headed to your office, the boring tasks providing a welcome distraction while the mysterious tea's potential effects lingered in the background. As you delved into work, the anticipation of what might unfold kept a subtle excitement in the air.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

An hour in Rhysand was starting to feel uncomfortable. His forehead and neck was starting to feel warm and he mindlessly unbuttoned the first buttons of his shirt for some extra cooling.

You on the other hand still felt nothing, if anything, you started feeling very sleepy, eyelids heavy as you tried blinking back the tiredness that washed over you.

“I’m feeling really tired, rhys. Can you take me upstairs?” your voice was low and laced with sleep, complete opposite of your mate.

Not being able to find his voice, he stood up from the chaise, his movements more desperate, and walked over to you before bending down and picking you up.

Something that should've been a mundane task.

However, this time he couldn’t help but notice the difference in size, how easy he could pick you up in his arms, how your breasts moved under your shirt, the way the curve of your ass pressed against him with every move, the softness of your skin and the intoxicatingly sweet smell of you. A low, suppressed growl vibrated through him as he tightened his hold, relishing the warmth and unmistakable presence of his mate.

A possessive and obsessive surge overwhelmed him as he held you, an intoxicating certainty that you belonged to him, and he had earned every inch of your love and affection.

Rhysand was utterly obsessed with you, he showed in the way he was watching you like a hawk while he put you down on the soft bed, tucking you under a blanket.

Rhys knelt by the bed, his gaze fixed on your sleeping form. His pupils dilated so much, transforming the familiar violet of his eyes into a dark, almost onyx shade. His face and chest had taken on a dark shade of blush, as blood rushed to his cock at the sight of your peaceful form.

He couldn’t look away when you turned around, blanket having rolled up, showing him the lenght of your legs, so smooth and soft, Normally, the sight wouldn’t have made him behave like some sort of teenager seeing a girls tits for the first time and it made him feel like a disgusting pervert. Here his mate laid, unaware that he was lusting over something as juvenile as her leg.

Deep down, he didn’t really care. Rhysand felt like he was on top of the world.

Waves of pleasure surged through him, heightening his senses and intensifying every touch and sensation, the feeling of the sheets against his palms sent electric waves through his body. The world around him seemed to shimmer with and a blissful euphoria enveloped him, creating an intoxicating sensation that left him utterly captivated.

You stirred, sensing Rhys gaze by the bed. As you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of him, his eyes locked on your sleeping form. His eyes, once a familiar violet, now darkened to a deep, almost black hue.

The effects of the tea finally kicked in, and your body responded with waves of pleasure. Your heartbeat quickened, the world around you blurring into a hazy backdrop as you fixated on the rhythmic sound of Rhysand's heavy breaths. A searing warmth pooled in the lower part of your stomach, almost like molten lava, urging you to clench your legs, all while a whimper threatened to escape your lips.

Feeling overwhelmed, you sought relief in the bathroom, flinging off the blanket and splashing cold water on your face and chest. Bracing yourself on the sink, you took a few deep breaths before returning to your room. As you opened the door, eyes lowered, you collided with something soft yet firm. Looking up, you found Rhysand, gazing at you with a tilted head, as if studying you like a puzzle.

“Oh, hi baby, didn’t see-”

Before you could finish the sentence, he pounced on you, grabbing the back of your head as he crushed your lips against his. Your eyes widened in surprise, hands instinctively grabbing his biceps to steady yourself.

His other hand wrapped around your waist, forcefully pulling your body towards him, leaving no room for any space. As his front pressed against yours, you felt his hard erection poking at your stomach.

A desperate need for more coursed through your veins like a wildfire, the tea intensifying every sensation. Your nipples tightened, craving his touch with an almost primal hunger. In his arms, you practically melted at his animalistic touch.

It all felt so fucking good, you moaned loudly when he started licking and kissing your neck, gently biting your earlobe before going back to giving you hickies.

Tears formed in your eyes as you brought a hand down your panties, hoping to relieve yourself before it got too much, however frustration filled you as your efforts were wasted. No matter how much you rutted against your fingers, it wasn’t enough. If only made you more needy and frustrated.

” ‘need help, rhys, please—”

Your tears eventually fell as you whined, face covered in salty tears as you begged your man for more, more of him, more of anything.

The desperation in your voice prompted Rhysand to pick you up and drag you to bed, gently pushing you into it. He swiftly undressed before pulling you towards the edge of the bed by your ankles, ripping of whatever clothes you had on. An animalistic move if anything but it made you even more wet.

“We’re not fucking leaving until I get you pregnant. I need you nice and round, filled with my cum, do you understand?“

His words were gritted, as if he was holding himself back, restrained by an invisible force.

You nodded, desperate for him.

“Please, let me make you a daddy.”

With a low rumbling growl he throws your legs over his shoulders and ruts into you so hard, the entire bed starts shaking. He bullies his big cock in you as you squirm, trying to initially get away as if you’ve never been fucked by him before. Rhys doesn’t slow down because he knows you can take it, he knows that you’re his equal, made for him as he is for you. And when you beg him to go harder he only smiles wickedly, satisfied that he knows you inside and out.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

You don’t remember know how many times he has finished in you.

You're crying uncontrollably and struggling to breathe. Rhysand gives you a gentle smile and plants a kiss on your swollen lips. His cock throbs at that fucked out expression in your eyes, and he has to look away to avoid blowing his load too soon. His mouth tucks itself into the curve of your neck. Your skin slapping continues as those quick thrusts fill the room.

If he didn’t have his hands around your legs to keep them up, they’d have fallen down ages ago. Your whole body feels loose and sloppy, a stupid, fucked out smile on your face as your teary eyes roll back in pleasure.

“Shhh, baby it’s okay. Let me fill you up again. I promise it will feel so, so good.”

You nod absentmindedly as you both come for the umpteenth time.

He was paying close attention to how your hole tightened around him, his sloppy thrusts making the white ring around the base of his dick drip with even more cum.

“You’re so fucking good to me, baby. Gonna look so pretty with your belly all round with my babies.”

His head was thrown back, eyebrows scrunched and jaw slightly dropped as he slowly thrusted in and out, milking the high before he pulled out and slumped forward, making you whine at the feeling. His sweaty body rested on top of yours, and his head lay on your rising and falling chest. His hair was damp, and with a shaking hand, you ran your fingers through it.

“I’ll clean you up in a second, darling.” Just as he was getting up you wrapped your legs around his waist. He scooped you up, arm around your ass as he brought you to the shower to clean you up. Rhys didn't put you down, knowing you might fall, so he washed you while you clung to him.

After the much needed shower, he wrapped you both in a huge fluffy towel and magically changed the sheets as he brushed you hair and put you in one of his shirts.

“Rhysie?”

“Yes, love?”

“I think we need to fuck one more time, please?”

His eyebrows rose at your words. Never did he think you’d say anything like that. His initial shock was replaced by a proud laugh.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

And he did.

He gave you more orgasms, and just as he was ready to pull out after dumping his load, you wrapped your legs around him and begged him not to pull out.

Rhys gave you a soft kiss and pulled you closer as you finally slept, exhaustion pulling you into a deep slumber.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

There wasn't much surprise when he successfully put not just one but two babies in you, twins.

Rhysand's male pride was on overdrive. Twins were really rare, and the fact that he managed to knock you up with them in less than a month was almost cause for a celebration. Well, he would throw a party if he didn't grow so damn protective.

If you thought Rhysand was protective when trying for a child, then this Rhysand was on another level. He actually gritted his teeth at Madja after she put her cold fingers on your body, making you hiss.

Let’s not even discuss when you started showing…

The moment he learned of your pregnancy, Rhys acted swiftly, weaving layers of intricate shields around you. It wasn't merely about your safety; it was a manifestation of his deep obsession. The shields were a fortress protecting not only you but also the sweet new scent you emitted, a fragrance that had sparked an intense possessiveness within him.

Rhys had become utterly obsessed with that unique scent, ready to unleash his fury upon anyone who dared to get too close and catch even the faintest whiff of something that was sacredly reserved for him alone.

During the announcement for your friends, the presence of Rhysand by your side, standing assertively close, made them wary of getting close to you. As you both stood together, your radiant happiness contrasted against his dark, protective demeanor.

You were a bit bummed, wondering why no one wanted to hug you or atleast shake your hand, then you took one glance at him and let out a sigh as you rolled your eyes.

“Oh, please. They’re not going to eat me alive, baby. It’s fine I promise.”

You embraced Mor and Cassian warmly, reciprocating their hugs, though they avoided prolonged eye contact with Rhys. Azriel's shoulder clap and rare smile conveyed a similar sentiment to a hug, and Amren, nodding, raised her glass in approval, a subtle twitch of her lips indicating her satisfaction.

You skipped back to Rhysand and gave him a kiss, calming him down as he gave you an appreciative smile.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Pregnancy had made you both extra needy. Rhys got hard everytime he thought about the fact that you were actually carrying his babies, and you got turned on because he was walking sex.

He built a new nursery from scratch, adding an entire new wing to the river estate. Initially, you doubted it would be finished in nine months, but you quickly learned not to doubt him – he always kept his word. Lo and behold, a whole new section of the house emerged, ready for the babies and any future additions to your growing family in only 3 months. His dedication spoke volumes about his commitment to you and the little ones on the way.

He channeled his inner builder during this project, and it never failed to amaze you how desperate he made you feel. Walking around the house wearing nothing but a work belt, sweaty from new constructions, he was a vision of strength and capability. Often, you stood from afar, watching him skillfully build things, savoring the sight before the need to get fucked took over.

Your lips were bitten in silent admiration as he stood there in nothing but linen pants, hanging dangerously low on his hips while building the crib. He looked absolutely delicious , and the appreciation for his craftsmanship would be handsomely rewarded by you.

“Are you going to stare at me all day, beautiful? Come inside, I won’t bite unless you ask me to.”

A mischievous glint danced in his eyes as he stood up, sauntering toward you with a grin. His hand extended playfully, a silent invitation to join him.

Deciding to tease him back, because let's be real, you need him bad right now, you chuckle and let the playful banter unfold.

“And what if I do want you to bite? What if I ask you to get us back to our room and fuck me? Would you do it?”

You looked up at him with wide eyes, attempting to portray someone innocently asking a casual question.

“Have I ever said no to you in my life, darling?” he teased, his smile darkening, before winking and leading the way back to your room.

Rhys had vanished your clothes, leaving you bare as he worshipped you. His teasing words and soft caresses brought you closer and closer to the edge.

“You're going to be the best mother ever, such a good mommy for my babes. Nurturing and caring for them. No one is better than you, my love. No one loves as purely as you, fuck,” he whispered urgently, his neediness and desire lacing every word.

His whiny, rasping words were the finishing touch you needed before coming all over his creamy cock with a cry.

Yet again, he took care of you, cleaning you up as he always did. Your mate, ever the loving and caring male, ensuring your well-being with a tenderness that spoke volumes about his deep affection for you.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

The arrival of your twins turned into a joyous celebration, filling Velaris with happiness over the birth of the new princess and prince. Your friends, throughout your journey, provided unwavering support, guiding you through the hardships and challenges of being new parents.

Now, a new chapter of your life had opened, one you couldn't wait to share with your one true love, marking the beautiful beginning of your happily ever after.

🏷️ taglist: @callmeblaire @acourtofladydeath

[n109hunter]

Fates Rewritten -

pairing: sylus x mc word count: 3,058 summary: After MC wakes up from an all-too-real dream, she struggles to piece together the fragments from another life - and rushes to seek out the only person who can soothe her sorrow. tags/warnings: SPOILERS for Beyond Cloudfall (Sylus Limited Myth), first person, angst, emotional hurt + a little comfort, established relationship a/n: This is my entry for the fanwork contest on twitter. I wish I'd had a little more time to polish it, but deadlines be deadlines. It was largely my need to get some of the intense emotions out after reading Beyond Cloudfall and "fix it" in a mostly canon compliant way.

(ao3 link)

I woke in a cold sweat, body aching with the all-too-real memory of growing horns and a tail - but more than that the pain of losing him. As if I’d really lived it. As if I’d really lost him. 

I’m vaguely aware of tears streaming down my face as my hands clutch mindlessly at my chest. Unable to calm the racing of my heart, my lungs burn as if I’d just been fighting a horde of wanderers. My waking mind rails against the possibility of any of that being real, but I know - I know too damn well it was all true. My mind and body resonated with those memories and the damning pain too deeply to have been false.

A wellspring of grief swells up from my chest, emotions too big to name let alone reason with overwhelm me and get lodged in my throat. I have to see him. It’s the only thought I can firmly grasp onto as I choke on one sob after another. 

Trembling from head to toe I climb out of bed, scrambling around my room as my body attempts to go through the habitual motions of getting ready. I go to grab a shirt but quickly drop it on the floor in favor of a jacket - I don’t have time to change, my pajamas are fine, I just need to see him. As I leave my apartment I almost forget my helmet, before hurrying back frantically to grab it. 

It’s dark outside, probably some early hour - I could have called him, but those kinds of thoughts weren’t processing. The overlap of memories is disorienting: I didn’t have anything like a phone I could have called him with in that lifetime. 

An orphan, raised on stories of slaying dragons, branded a sorceress to be executed… To be told such a fanciful story would have been one thing, but to remember it? Not everything entirely, nor clearly, but I remember enough. More than that: I remembered how I felt, and I can feel it all too keenly myself. The desperation, the anger, the desire, the hatred… And the love. The depth of our bond that tugs at me so violently now: I need to see him right fucking now. 

From a street lamp overhead Mephisto tilted his head as he watched her amble towards her bike, her movements… odd. He was a smart enough bird to know something wasn’t right, and sent a message to Sylus. 

I don’t think about how it is probably exceedingly dangerous to ride in my current state of mind. I’m too preoccupied taking countless fragments of moments and holding them to the light, seeing how they overlap.

“Do you know what you look like right now?” His voice asked me, layering gently over itself in two very different times. 

“What a smug expression.” || “You’re a young dragon who just grew her horns.”

I remember when, indignantly, I bit his hand in an act of defiance against fate. And I remember when, with that confident, captivating look on his face, he bit my hand playfully in the café.

Speeding down the streets towards the N109 Zone, countless memories re-arrange themselves in my mind. How many times? How many times had he reached out to me, spoke to me in a secret language only we could know, hoping to trigger a spark. 

And I had known it all along, deep down. From the first time I saw him, when I looked into his eyes and felt that insatiable urge to devour him. When I absorbed the aether core and saw that dreadful moment where his clawed hand grasped mine and stabbed him through. Every time our aether cores formed the linkage between us, or even that time in the cathedral, where we played the organ together… 

“You actually remembered.” He had said.

How many times have I asked him to explain? And now… Now I think I might understand a little of why he didn’t. At the very least, I can’t imagine how to explain it if it was me who remembered first. 

But at the end of my dream I was left alone, clutching the last fragment of his soul as my body painfully transformed. It was then I woke up with an anguish too great to bear, but also: a smoldering determination. Or rather, maybe it was better to call it ‘defiance’, of the fate we’d been handed. But I can’t fathom what might have possibly come next. With a grief that big, part of me doesn’t want to.

All I know for sure is: I have to see him. He’d been bearing the burden of it all this time alone, I can’t bear the thought of him being alone one more moment. To say nothing of the sickening nausea that wrenches my gut remembering how it had felt to watch him die. I have to see him with my own eyes, feel him with my hands, know that he is real and alive.

By the time I arrive at the base I’m somehow more disoriented than I had when I’d woke up. I feel like a time traveler several times over. The ride had been such a blur I barely remember it, which is a scary thought, but I don’t care to linger on it. My mind and body feel out-of-sync, and when my body sways it takes a second longer for my mind to correct it. I feel… drunk, almost, or drugged, like the first time I came to the N109. 

What am I going to say to him? I wrack my brain for a single word to start with, but before I can grasp anything I’m torn back to a dream within a dream in a flower field, I think of the flowers he took me to see a few weeks ago. 

Sylus is so damn good at reading my mind, would he know just by looking at me? 

The familiar sound of a crow calling startles me, and when I shake my head the synchronization of my body and mind gets a little better. Mephisto lands on my shoulder, and it’s a comforting weight. 

“…Were you following me?” I stroke a finger against his neck absently, out of habit. He leans into it as if enjoying the attention, but I suspect it’s more of a friendly gesture for my sake. 

The doors swing open and the faces of the twins greet me. 

“Hey there, boss-lady.” Kieran starts in his usual, friendly tone, but then it shifts as if he’s unsure of something. “Uhh, boss isn’t here right now, but he’s on his way.” 

“He said to get you anything if you needed.”

For a moment I simply stare back at them as my brain processes these new inputs. As often as I come here nowadays, it wasn’t like they needed to roll out the red carpet for me or anything, so this welcome is… a little odd. Then it clicks, and I glance at Mephisto again.

“You told on me.” It feels nice and a little grounding to know my favorite mechanical crow is still looking out for me like always.

He turns his head away and gives a short, indignant caw. He’s being stubborn and a little shy.

“I’m just going to wait in his room…” I tell Luke and Kieran as I walk in, handing my helmet over to them. They step aside, but I hear them trailing behind me a little ways down the halls - they’re shuffling and dragging their feet on purpose.

“All right, but… just let us know if you need anything.” Then, silently, they fall back into the shadows. 

Do I look as bad as I feel? My face does still burn from crying so much, and I feel tired enough for two lifetimes of shared memories. 

Once I step into his room though, an inexplicable comfort washes over me. I feel a tension unravel and a new wave of grief as I hug myself, consoled in the smallest sense seeing signs of him.

Mephisto flutters over to his perch, but keeps a silent eye on me. Lingering in the middle of the room, I scan the familiar sights slowly. The art on the walls, the records and record player… My heart twists recalling that he hadn’t appreciated music ‘back then’. 

It all makes sense, doesn’t it? The hordes of trinkets and weapons he collects are much the same as back then. I can’t help but wonder how many of the weapons were collected from people who had tried to kill him, like those kept in his lair in Tarus City. 

A searing anger kindles within me at the thought of it, and a realization follows that once again my beloved has been branded a villain in this life. I cling to the anger, it’s so much easier to deal with than all the pain and grief, but it isn’t nearly enough.

I can’t bring myself to sit so I simply stand in the middle of the room, hugging myself tighter. What I need to do is get my thoughts and emotions under control, and figure out just what the hell I’m possibly going to say to him. But just thinking about how to open her mouth and utter the words makes me feel like I’ll start sobbing again. Or vomit. Maybe both.

Maybe he already knows. We’re bound together, we’ve shared dreams before… Again my thoughts derail as a heat warms my face recalling a certain dream I had a few months ago. I pat my cold hands against my cheeks, and internally squash down my shame. So what if he knows about that? 

Except, he knew all along and never told me so many other things, too. Part of me desperately wants something to be angry and indignant about, but instead all I’m left with is a sweetly sharp and aching pain: I love him so much. He’s always trying to be so considerate of me, and I know it’s because he wants us to live this life that we have together, right here and now. I feel so sure of it in the depths of my soul, as if his heart beats steadily alongside my own whispering this answer.

Tears are running down my face again. How can one person cry so damn much?

The door opens behind me, and I realize I haven’t thought of a single thing to say to him. My throat feels tight and my brain is just as uncooperative as it’s been this entire time.

Behind me the familiar sound of his footsteps approaches, and he softly says my name like a question, gently coaxing me to look at him. 

He told me before: between him prying and me opening up, he prefers the latter. Today, I might need him to pry a little. But more important than anything: I need to see him. 

That one overwhelming feeling that brought me here turns me on my heel. Without hesitation I rush to him, taking his face between my hands and tracing every detail with my gaze. He does the same, searching my face for answers - not yet reading my mind, it seems. 

I trace his jawline with my fingertips, brush my thumbs over his cheeks, my attention lingering briefly in places where scales grew like armor once. For the first time since I woke up I am seeing clearly, my body and mind in sync, the world and all things settling into place as I trace a finger down the bridge of his perfect nose and then brush it over those irresistible lips. 

And of course, those eyes. His utterly captivating eyes that pull me in and keep me. It hurts to think that I might have ever been afraid of him. I know now better than ever before (and I definitely knew it before) but he is, of course, utterly deserving of that fear. But not from me. Never me.  

Sylus’s hands rest on my waist. He doesn’t move away from my inspection, and for several moments says nothing either. He simply watches me in return, a slight furrow in his brow as he waits patiently - no doubt assessing every possibility as to what might have drove me here in this state. He’d raze Linkon - even the world - if something upset me. If I asked him to. 

I need to put his mind at ease. I wet my lips and take in a breath, but the words die on my tongue. 

“What happened?” He asks gently when he sees me struggle. Then, with a hint of pain -or maybe guilt- in his voice: “Did you have another bad dream?”

Despite everything, I smile. I also barely choke back a sob, but I still can’t help but smile. His hands draw up to cup my face and gently wipe the new tears from my raw cheeks. I manage a small nod to give him some measure of an answer, as I give him another look-over. 

He’s here. Alive. My dragon is here with me. I have to tell him I remember. 

But those aren’t the words that come spilling out.

“I love you.”

That’s the most important thing. Even if I can’t stop myself from crying again, I have to tell him this, even if I’m shaking as I press my hands to his chest, gripping the fine fabric of his suit and leaving wrinkles. 

“I love you so much, Sylus.”

He looks a little stunned, which I might have delighted in any other time. It’s subtle, because it’s Sylus, but his brows are slightly raised and lips parted as he tries to make sense of the state I’m in and the words I’m saying. Maybe I’m making it worse. 

“You-?” He starts to speak, maybe to ask something, or maybe he figured it out. But at long last the next words are there in my mouth full of bitterness and relief, hope and grief, and too many emotions to name let alone stomach, so I fling them out to be rid of them at last.

“I remember.”

It barely scratches the surface, but it tells him what he needs to know for the moment. In dozens of moments in our time together I have seen looks like this one on his face. Where memories overlap and he has to carefully bite back his words and feelings. I understand it very well now. Right now he’s wondering: ‘How much?’ and it’s not as though I could answer that for him in a single word. I’m certain there is still so much I don’t remember. 

“Is that so?” He asks slowly, brushing a hand over my hair soothingly. “And what exactly did you remember?” 

Yeah, I should have seen that one coming. I touch his face again, gazing into those stunning ruby eyes as I try to find more words. I’ll start simple.

“I remember a dragon.” Yes, that’s an easy place to start. In my memory he is breathtaking beyond words. “A beautiful, lonely dragon, who spoiled me rotten.” I feel a smile return to my lips, and I can feel the smug satisfaction of the Sorceress burn hot in my chest. ‘Rotten’, yes, by the standards of the Ivory City. But she had embraced her true desires, her true self.

Sylus closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a quiet laugh, a smirk on his lips. 

“You actually remembered.” He sighs, and though he sounds relieved, there’s some other emotion I can’t quite place. It might be close to the ‘guilt’ that sometimes colors his voice when he feels bad about plaguing my dreams with his wounds. Which seems fitting, in a strange sense. Painfully fateful in another.

How many of those dreams were actually ‘real’? Like the dreams we created between our bound souls, like warmth born between clasped hands. 

It doesn’t matter right now. Probably. 

“But… you left me.” I can barely get the words out, they’re quiet and break under the weight of emotions, but at the very least I don’t cry any more. I might actually be all cried out, but my head is definitely starting to hurt about it. 

“You should know that’s not possible.” He speaks in a low, soft voice. There’s an undercurrent of forcefulness that betray strong feelings, but he’s purposefully speaking so very gently. He takes my opposite hand, twining our fingers together. “Our souls are bound together. I am always with you.” 

“But you died.” I know it’s true, I felt it. He isn’t exactly denying it either. 

“And I’m here now.” 

His words are irrefutable. That’s all that matters now, isn’t it? It’s also not like I haven’t seen him survive the impossible before. It isn’t an answer, not exactly, but it settles some of the loud confusion in my head regardless. 

I touch my fingers just below his right eye. A familiar hunger thrums gently in me, but it doesn’t frighten me. For now, it’s enough knowing that it’s proof of our bond.

“Yeah…” I murmur, aware of how unconvincing I sound. Softly holding my chin he leans closer, so his eyes are all I can see.

“And I’m not going anywhere.” His words sound like an echo of our oaths to each other. The ring clear and strong, unwavering; the confidence he always embodies reverberates within me. I squeeze his hand tightly. 

“Good.” I feel my resolve overlap with the Sorceress’s from that moment he nearly slipped through her fingers completely. “You’re not even allowed to think about leaving me.” Her words overlap with my own, and I watch a smile form on his lips. “You’ll always be tied to me. Forever.”

That’s right. We’ll tear down any fate that tries to keep us apart with our own hands, and then we’ll reforge it into whatever we desire - together.

He lifts our hands and places a soft kiss against my knuckles. Time and again I’ve seen emotions pass over him that I couldn’t understand, but now I see more clearly. The warmth of relief eases his shoulders and bolsters him. I think… maybe he didn’t even expect my remembering to soothe him as much as it does. 

“That,” he says as his thumb sweeps over my lips, “is a fate I will gladly accept.”

[pitchsidestories]

a blessing in disguise II Victoria Pelova x Codina!Reader

masterlist I word count: 3158

a/n: hi, we hope you enjoy the oneshot and that the time jumps aren't too confusing !

warning: her ACL injury is mentioned.

“Vic, can I ask you a favour? I know you had to return to London, so I was thinking.”, Laia begun nervously during their phone call.

“What?”, Victoria impatiently interrupted the Spanish defender. She had no time for the polite fussing around of her teammate. 

With a sigh the Dutch midfielder realized, she did have that, plenty of it since she had to be subbed of in the qualifying game in Finland because of the injury with three letters which every footballer hoped wouldn’t occur to her.

It did happen to her and immediately she felt bad for acting like this in front of a friend who has been kind ever since she joined the club.

“My cousin is coming to London for a visit. But she’s arriving early.”, Laia continued more rapidly.

“And you’re still in Spain with your national team.”, Victoria remarked. There she would prefer to be as well instead laying helplessly on the sofa without the comfort of Viv or Beth at her side who knew all too well what a horror the injury meant.

“Exactly and I can’t leave.”, the Spanish player added.

“She probably planned to stay at your place?”, the midfielder assumed.

“Yes, she did. But I forgot to leave the spare keys somewhere. Can she stay with you? It’s just for a few days.”, she asked her.

“Uhm, sure.”, Victoria replied.

“Thank you, I owe you.”, Laia responded gratefully.

“You’re welcome, that’s what teammates are for.”, the Dutch footballer smiled fondly, she was so thankfully for the team she played for and every person who was a part of it, her heart was full of warmth when the young woman thought of them.

“I’ll let my cousin know that she can stay with you.”, the defender answered in equal parts cheerful and relieved.

It didn’t take too long until someone rang her front door. Getting up with her injured knee was a challenge on its own, but hearing her ring once more, made Victoria curse under her breath:” Godverdomme!”

The midfielder almost regretted it once she saw the beaming face of Laia’s cousin. Because damn the university student was beautiful, Victoria thought to herself.

“Hola Victoria, nice to meet you, I’m y/n, Laia’s cousin, she told me so much about you already.”, you greeted her with a huge smile on your lips.

“Uhm, hi. Come on in.”, the Dutch player blushed while stepping aside so you could enter her home.

“Gracies.”, you muttered in Catalan.

“You’re welcome. You can sleep here.”, Victoria explained, showing you her guestroom which was beautiful and let a lot of light in when the sun shone.

“It’s pretty.  you commented, before taking a closer look at your host, rising worriedly an eyebrow at her, did you hurt your leg?”  Since you and your cousin Laia has always been very close you knew a lot about injured players and spotted one easily.

The dutch player scrunched her nose, obviously uncomfortable with the attention being shifted towards her injury.

“Oh… yeah, happened with the national team. That’s why I’m home while everyone else is in camp.“, she replied, the sadness resonating in her voice.

You immediately felt bad. But seeing her struggle to move around her own home gave you an idea.

“I’m so sorry to hear this. Did you have dinner yet?“, you asked innocently.

Victoria paused, surprised by the question: “Uhm… no.“

“Is there a supermarket nearby?“, you continued which seemingly only added to her confusion.

“There’s one down the street.“, Victoria said, pointing vaguely in the direction with her thumb.

You smiled at her: “I’ll cook something for you as a thank you for letting me stay here. That way you can rest your knee.“

“You don’t have to… really.“, Victoria declined quickly.

You felt it was out of politeness so you shook your head: “No, it’s alright. Do you like paella?“

The football player considered you for a moment as if she was unsure what to make of this situation. But then the corners of her mouth quirked upwards and she shrugged: “You’re cooking so you get to decide what you want to make. I’m just here to eat.“

You grinned back at her: “Okay. I’m trying to be quick. But I might need your keys so you don’t have to get up again to let me back in later.“

“Here.“, Victoria produced a bunch of keys from the pocket of her sweatpants and handed them to you.

“Gr- Thanks.“, you corrected yourself before you could fall back into Spanish again.

You pocketed the keys and made your way to the supermarket alone.

It took you a while to find your way around. There was a lot of things to discover and it took you a while to find all the ingredients.

Carrying bags of groceries, you returned to Victorias place.

“I’m back.“, you announced yourself.

“I was just texting your cousin because I thought you’d ran off with my keys.“, Victoria called from the living room.

“Well, I can’t get far with just your keys, right?“, you answered while you paced the bags on the kitchen table and got to work.

As the football player limped over to watch you, you continued: “But this explains why Laia texted me that I should hurry up with grocery shopping. I just assumed a certain dutch woman got hungry and impatient while I was away.“

“I wasn’t impatient.“, she grimaced.

You laughed lightly, happy with the fact that you two got on so well that you already resorted to teasing each other.

“Uhu sure. Get ready to taste the best paella you’ve ever eaten.“, you smirked.

You could feel Victoria watch you with raised eyebrows: “You’re bragging too much.“

“Oh, you don’t believe me?“

“I believe you when you’re done cooking.“

“Go and try it.”, you nodded encouragingly after you cooked the paella, it’s delicious scent was filling the whole kitchen.

With closed eyes the Dutch woman took her first bite before admitting:” Oh wow, that’s actually pretty good.”

For her it tasted after vacation spent in Spain, when the day in the water was over and the sun was about to set, a cold Sangria on the table to drink alongside it.

Meanwhile the recipe for the paella had a special place in your heart as it was one passed from the women in your families to the next generation.

Meaning this meal reminded you of home, on weekends spend at the countryside. You missed this, but you knew that this adventure was worth the yearning.

“I told you so.”, you told her delighted.

“Yes, you were right.”, she sighed dramatically.

“I’m glad you liked it.”, you blushed.

“This is so good. I’m glad you made this huge pan full.”, Victoria raved about your cooked dinner.

“I’m sure there’ll be some leftovers.” A bit later you realized you were wrong.

“Turned out that I underestimated football players appetite.”, you laughed whole-heartedly.

“You absolutely did.”, the midfielder grinned mischievously.

“But I guess that means you did really like my paella.”, you observed smiling.

“Yes, you can stay here. You passed the test.”, the Dutch player winked at you.

“Thanks?”, you giggled nervously.

“Just joking. Thank you for cooking.”, she replied genuinely.

“You’re welcome.”, you muttered, you were grateful for her hospitality. Not everyone would let a stranger sleep in their place even when she was the cousin of a teammate.

“I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to.”, Victoria went on earnestly.

“No worries.”, you waved it off.

“I’ll make breakfast in return.”, the midfielder decided.

“English or Dutch breakfast?”, you asked her.

“Whatever you want. But don’t expect too much.”, she warned you.

“I won’t.”, you assured her.

“Good because I’m shit at cooking.”, Victoria confessed.

“We’ll see about that.”

“Oh, you’ll see.”, the Arsenal player smirked.

The following day, the breakfast wasn’t as bad as your host claimed it to be, but your day was supposed to be even better than that.

“Vicky, can you look after Myle this afternoon? I’ve a doctor’s appointment.”, Vivianne questioned her teammate on the phone.  

“Sure, I love the doggo.”, Victoria agreed happily.

 “Dank je !”, the older woman voice sounded relieved.

“Geen dank. Tell Beth I said hi.”, she responded cheerfully.

“I’ll. Also you texted you’ve a roommate at the moment. Will she be there too?“, Vivianne asked, her voice dripping with curiosity.

Her dutch teammate shrugged: “Probably. Unless she wants to explore London on her own.“

“She’s Codis cousin, right? I assumed that as a child from the country side, she would like dogs.“

Victoria frowned but she decided to bite back the question of where Viv knew that from. Knowing the older dutch player, she would probably only get something vague or mysterious in reply anyway.

Instead, Victoria played along: “I mean who doesn’t like dogs?!“

“Exactly.“, Vivianne grinned back.

The sun even made rare appearance in the afternoon while you followed Victoria to go dog sitting.

As soon as the dutch football player had opened the door, a small brown dog was already waiting for you, wagging its tail.

You immediately dropped to your knees in the middle of the floor to pet the dog: “Oh my god. Myle is adorable!“

“Right?“, Victoria smiled down at you while she walked past, deeper into Beths and Vivs apartment.

“Yes, she’s such a cutie!“

Happily, the little dog started to climb up on your lap and lick your face. You giggled.

“Myle, come here.“, Victoria called from the living room and Myle immediately followed her call.

Victoria was sitting on the sofa, the dog right in front of her when you joined them.

“Show y/n what we taught you.“

You laughed: “What is she supposed to do?.“

“Watch.“, Victoria said, holding up one finger. “Sit!“

There was a small pause at first but then Myle sat.

You clapped your hands excitedly: “Well done, Myle.“

“Now lay down. And play dead.“, Victoria commanded.

You watched as the small dog laid down and then rolled over on her back.

You bent down to give rub her belly: “Good girl!“

Victoria looked almost as proud as if it was her own dog: “She’s so talented, right?“

“Yes, she’s a really smart puppy.“, you agreed. You could not get enough of Myle.

“The whole team loves her.“

“I can see why.“, you smiled. Your cheeks felt like you had been smiling the whole time since meeting the dog.

“So it’s a big honour to be dog sitting.“

You thoughtfully studied the football player for a small moment before suggesting: “Do you think we could go for a little walk? If that’s okay with your knee?“

“Sure, who’s going to stop me?“, Victoria smiled confidently but the short look of worry that had flashed across her face did not escape you.

You gave a one-shoulder shrug, trying to match her energy: “I don’t know. Your team doctor, the physios…?“

“They’re way too busy to watch me all the time.“, she joked as she determinedly got up from the sofa and searched for Myles leash.

You nodded slowly: “Okay, let’s go then.“

Despite the pain in her knee, Victoria was eager to show you the beautiful sides of her home of choice. After a short ride on the tube, you walked down the streets of Notting Hill.

Due to her injury, you took several breaks which you didn’t mind because it gave you the time to admire the pastel-coloured houses.

“The city is beautiful.”, you beamed.

“Don’t fall in love in love. You’ll never leave.”, the Dutch woman warned you jokingly.

“I’m only here for one Uni semester as an exchange student and already left my heart in Barcelona.”, you reassured her.

For a second the midfielder was too stunned to speak, before she caught herself again: “Wait. Are you saying you’re staying here?”

“Yes, for one semester.”, you affirmed.

“Oh, I thought you’d just visit.”, Victoria mumbled, while redoing her high ponytail nervously.  

“No, I’ll be here a bit longer than that.”, you said.

“I see..”

“You don’t like that news?”, you raised an eyebrow at her.

“No, I do. That means you can make more paella for me.”, the football player disagreed delighted.

“Okay, I can teach you how to cook it.”, you offered her gladly that she loved your family recipe as much as you did.

“Promise?”, she looked at you big-eyed.

“Promise. Maybe Laia and your other teammates could join us if they want to.”, you thought out loud. Grateful to be able to get to know some more people outside of university, maybe even becoming friends with some of them.

“Sure, they could.”, Victoria replied half-heartedly. Normally she loved to spend time with the fellow Arsenal players, but the thought of sharing you with them wasn’t something the Dutch woman looked forward to. Watching you cook was very intimate experience for her.

“Could be fun.”, you tried to convince her from your idea. The rest of the walk with the dog was uneventful. Still, you wondered why the midfielder was a bit more distanced than before. Got something you said lost or misunderstood in translation?

“Thanks for taking care of Myle.”, Vivianne remarked once she returned from the appointment to pick up her puppy.

“You’re welcome, she’s such a good dog.”, you waved it off, already falling for the dog’s charm like everyone else in the team.

“Myle got a new fan.”, Victoria commented with a cheeky smile on her lips.

“I’m not surprised.”, the proud dog owner grinned.

“I can’t wait to see her again.”, you hummed.

“You’ll soon enough.”, the midfielder promised you.

You enjoyed the days you got to spend with Victoria at her place.

It was like you two had always known each other, there was nothing awkward about it.

You loved cooking and Victoria was more than grateful to have some help around the house.

But your time as roommates was about to end on the day Laia returned from her national team.

While your cousin helped you transfer all your stuff to her house, Victoria sat in her kitchen talking to her dutch teammate.

“You fell for Laias cousin.“, Vivianne said with her typical dutch directness.

The younger player grimaced: “I didn’t fall for her.“

She could basically hear Viv roll her eyes. “If you say so… Then why did you look so sad all day about the fact that she left for Laias apartment today?“

“I’m not sad.“, Victoria protested again, slowly getting irritated with her teammate.

“Tell that to your face, Vic.“, the older player chuckled.

“My face is fine…“

“Vic…“, Beths voice said, she apparently had taken the phone from her girlfriend.

“What?“

Upon the sound of Victorias annoyed voice, even the England winger gave up: “Oh, doesn’t matter.“

For a while there was radio silence between you and Victoria. Finding your way around university took up most of your time and energy. Laia also took it upon herself to show you London whenever you both had some free time.

You were supposed to be working on an assignment when Victoria called.

“Sorry, Vicky. First week of university was a lot. But I’ll be at your home match this weekend…“, you started to apologize before she even said a word.

“I- you will be?“, she asked surprised.

“Yes. Got to see my cousin with her team.“, you smiled.

“She’ll be great.“, Victoria promised you, her voice sounding a bit more chipper.

“I bet so.“

“You’ll see.“

For some reason, after that phone call, you could barely wait for the weekend to come.

Your cousin even provided you with an Arsenal shirt for the game.

You wore it proudly as you watched the game in the stands, cheering loudly whenever Laia had the ball.

The game ended with a clear win for Arsenal.

While people started leaving the stadium, Victoria slowly limped in your direction.

She was still not walking too well but she grinned at you.

“Nice outfit, y/n.“

“Oh thanks.“, you laughed and turned around to show her the Codina on your back.

“Looks good on you.“

“It does, right?“, you winked at her.

“Oh yes.“

“Vicky wants you to get a Pelova one.“, Laias voice joined the conversation as she appeared in front of you.

You turned to the injured player: “You do?“

Victorias cheeks reddened as she asked Laia: “What? Why would I?“

Laia shrugged: “You said that earlier in the dressing room.“

“Oh. See you, Vicky. Laia, we’ll meet each other later.”, you bid goodbye abruptly.

“Where’s she’s going?”, the Dutch woman asked your cousin confused.

“I think home, why?”, she replied, but there wasn’t an answer coming from her friend as the fellow footballer tried to catch up with you.

Surprised you turned around once you felt her gaze on your back:” Vicky?”

“Where are you going?”, Victoria questioned slightly out of breath.

“Home. Laia’s question made you uncomfortable, so I thought it might be better when I leave. But you should know that I really enjoyed the week we had when I arrived in London.”, you explained quickly.

“So did I. Y/n, my door is always open for you.”, the midfielder offered kindly.

“That’s nice of you.”, you commented, smiling thankfully.

“I mean it.”, she emphasized.

“What if I don’t like you like a normal friend?”, you searched in her light eyes for an answer to the question which made your heartbeat faster.

“You mean the way you want to wear my jersey at games?”, Victoria grinned excitedly.

“Si.”, you muttered blushing.

“If I get you my jersey, will you kiss me?”, the Dutch woman pressed on delighted by that idea.

“The answer is yes.”, you replied laughing.

“Wait here.”, she told you smirking before walking as fast as she could with her injury to the changing room.

“Vicky, what’s going on?”, Beth wanted to know noisily.

“I’ve to hurry up.”, Victoria waved it off.

“She’s getting her girl, Beth.”, Vivianne observed. Sometimes it scared the younger player how well the older one could read her thoughts and doings. But this time she had no time to tell her off.

“How can we help`”, the blonde asked cheerfully.

“Help me find a clean jersey with my name on it.”, Victoria answered.

“Found one.”, Beth cheered after a couple of minutes of searching.

“You got the jersey.”, you remarked amusedly, once she handed it to you.

“Told you.”, the midfielder stated proudly.

“I guess it’s time to fulfil my part.”, you said while your lips collided into the softest most heartfelt kiss.

“I wanted to do this since you cooked me paella.”, Victoria confessed.

“When don’t stop now.”, you threw her a cheeky smile before she kissed you again, more eagerly than before.

What a coincidence it was for you two to meet each other the way you did, later when your girlfriend was fully recovered from her ACL injury, she would call the start of your romance a blessing in disguise.

[i-hate-accidents]

I feel like Benedict would be so frazzled when his love is in labor. He would insist on being in the room with his wife

the author took immense liberties with this idea. she hopes you enjoy it nevertheless and offers her thanks for sharing it with them~

the author would also like to name that, whilst a she/her femme, the sort of reader who the author wrote with in mind would likely not resonate with being called 'wife.' she would likely prefer 'partner' or a more gender inclusive term. <3

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ ✕ ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

i hate accidents: a drabble

femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington

summary:  the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son

sections:  I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball

y/n:  bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents

content warnings:  pregnancy (no birthing/labor)

word count:  891

tagged: @mikariell95 @omgsuperstarg @flyestvenustrap @nowheredreamer @jimblejamblewritings

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ ✕ ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“you are thinking of something.”

you smile; your husband knows you too well.  you continue to rub at your protruding stomach. 

“our child can kill a scottish king,” you respond.

benedict laughs through his nose, his ocean eyes crinkling in the adorable way that they always do whenever he is truly delighted. 

“if you hadn’t said 'scottish,' i might have needed to turn you in for treason.  why do you say that, love?”

you struggle out of your lounge, swatting at your kindly husband’s offer to assist you, and waddle over to your shelves of books.  you drag your forefinger across the spines until you emit an ‘aha!’ and pull the book.  flipping towards the end, you find the pressed wisteria you used to mark the verse and read,

“‘for none of woman born shall harm macbeth,’” you look up from the words to benedict as you beam with pride.  “see?  the premiere attribute for assassinating a fictitious monarch, and here our child has it because of me.”

your husband returns your beam as he approaches you and leans in to plant a soft kiss on your temple.  shifting himself to be behind you, he wraps his arms around your waist and rests his hands on the low of your stomach.  you lean into the comfort of his embrace.

“and how shall we support our child with their nefarious intentions?” benedict inquires.

you hum.

“both their parents are quite proficient in fencing.  perhaps it is a trait that they shall inherit?”

“that seems certain.  their parents are also quite good at sneaking about; that ought to be of use to them for their plot.”

you snort.

“i think you are too generous, love.  there is a certain eldest brother who has vehemently disproved time and time again that we are, in fact, quite terrible at sneaking about.”

benedict nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, causing you to giggle.  you can feel his smile against your quickened pulse.  it is silly; how he is your husband— how he is the father of your child to-be!  and yet, he still makes you feel this way.  he still makes these damned butterflies flutter within you.

“more incentive to keep practicing, no?”  you feel benedict’s smile broaden into a grin.  “for our child, of course.”

stupid benedict.

you shake your head with all the affection in your heart.

“for our child.”

a small silence falls amongst you.  you should allow yourself this comfort.  you should allow yourself this peace.  but—

“do you think i can do it?” 

you had meant to say it as plainly as you could, but the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes choked your words into a whisper.  benedict releases himself from the embrace, one hand still on your stomach, as he shifts to face you.

“do what, my love?”

the crack in the softness of his voice and the gentle circles you feel on your stomach from his touch make you close your eyes.

“birth our child.  raise them.  what if it is too much?  what if i hurt them?  what if i—” you flutter your eyes open to the tear-blurry sight of disquiet in ocean eyes, “what if i am not the parent they deserve?”

he says your name, and that is enough to allow your tears to fall.  you start to look down, feeling the weight of your shame settle within you, but benedict does not let you.  he gently cups your face, lifts it, and kisses wherever tears roll down your cheeks.  benedict murmurs ‘i love you’ with each kiss until he whispers,

“i am fearful too.”

you pull your face away from his and see how his throat bobs, as it always does right before he wishes to say something more firmly.

“i am fearful that i will fail them.  i am fearful that i will not be even an inkling of a father to our child as my father was to me,” benedict heaves a sigh, and you see how he wills himself not to let his tears fall.  “but,” his throat bobs again, “then i remind myself that our child has you, y/n.”

you place a hand on his cheek and softly rub your thumb against his skin.

“you can cry too, benedict,” you manage.

he huffs out a laugh as he allows a tear to fall.  you gently press your lips against his cheek to capture it.

“yes, but i am not the one carrying our child.”

you look down at your stomach and then up at your husband.  you offer a small smile.

“i suppose it is your fault that i am in such a state.”

that makes benedict laugh fully. 

stupid butterflies. 

he tries to look down and away, suddenly shy by the very silly observation you have made, but you do not let him.  you shift your head and capture him with a kiss between his chin and his cheek, gently pushing his face up and murmuring ‘i love you’ into his skin.

perhaps your and benedict’s fear shall never go away.  perhaps you two shall never be the perfect parents you wish to be for your child.  but your child was created out of real, true love.  a love that protects, that laughs, that nurtures, that comforts, that heals.  and perhaps, that is enough.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ ✕ ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

[anxiousnerdwritings]

Imagine tiny, eleven year old Weasley!Reader standing in a dark corner at Ollivanders and watching as Ginny is handed wand after wand until finally settling on one and she turns around with a satisfied smirk to show her baby twin brother her new wand as Molly pays the shop keeper and he’s so excited and steps forward to take her place and select his own but excitement turns to confusion as Molly grabs him by the scuff and pulls him away from the wand maker, saying something about brothers having to make sacrifices for their sisters, and Ron is patting him on the back with a look of understanding that bonds them on a fundamental level neither Ginny nor Percy truly understand as they step out onto the street together

It just breaks my heart

Why must you hurt my heart too???😭😭😭

Poor baby Weasley!Twin!Reader and Ginny are so excited to finally get their first wands. Twin!Reader patiently waits his turn, imagining what kind of wand he’ll end up with and feeling nothing but pure happiness for his sister when her wand finally chooses her. Ginny proudly shows her wand to Twin!Reader smirking and almost smug that she got to get her wand first only for her whole mood to change when they’re leaving without getting one for Twin!Reader. Ron is comforting Twin!Reader a little ways ahead as he leads him to the second-hand shop they know all too well, meanwhile Ginny is still hand-in-hand with her mother trying to process what just happened. She’s not paying too much mind to what’s going on around her until she hears her father tell her mother that they had enough to get Twin!Reader his own wand too only for Molly to brush him off. But Ginny wasn’t going to let it go. And thus cemented the day Ginny realized how terribly her mother treated her brother.

Ron knows this song and dance all too well though but even he can admit that Weasley!Twin!Reader gets the brunt of it from their mother. Especially if he resembles Grandma Cedrella’s side of the family. This experience would really hit Ron, making him realize that he really isn’t alone. If anything he’s got it just a bit better than Twin!Reader. I think from here on Ron would really resonate with Twin!Reader, after all he can understand Twin!Reader on a level that Ginny and Percy couldn’t fully grasp even if they wanted to.

Maybe the following year when Ron’s due to get his new wand, Twin!Reader ends up with his own new wand too. Whether it was Molly finally giving in, or someone else had anonymously payed for it in full, or Harry just outright bought him one. Hell, maybe Weasley!Twin!Reader doesn’t end up with a new wand from Ollivanders at all but rather ends up making his own.

[hunieday]

Yuki - 16PRODUCERS Rabbit Chat

Please note that I am not a professional translator and I'm only doing this to share the side materials to those who cannot access them, if you notice any mistakes please let me know nicely. Enjoy!

Momo: (Good morning... Momo from Re:vale here...)

Momo: (Today I’m at Yuki’s place early in the morning…. To have a very exceptional conversation... Okarin, can you hear me…)

Okazaki Rinto: Thank you for your hard work, Momo-kun! But what’s with the odd energy, it’s as if you’re playing a wake-up prank?

Momo: (I’m keeping the energy low since Yuki’s still stuck drifting in dreamland…)

Yuki: I’m sleepy

Momo: Kyaa! Yuki’s here in person!! Even sleepy Yuki is super handsome 😍✨

Momo: Yuki just got up from the sofa! 🥺🌟 Okariiiin! How are things going in the studio?

Okazaki Rinto: Yuki-kun, thanks for your hard work as well. So I’m supposed to be stationed in the studio?

Okazaki Rinto: The president walked out to attend a meeting just now, so it’s really quiet here. I just made some coffee!

Momo: You’re all set for the discussion!! And guess what, Yuki’s brewing some tea for us too! 😭 Such a gentleman...! 😭✨

Momo: Camera crew, zoom in closer‼️

Okazaki Rinto: There’s a camera crew?

Momo: I’m the camera crew!

Yuki: Momo brought two phones today for some reason.

Momo: Well yeah, since we’re gonna talk via rabbichat today I wouldn’t be able to capture your beautiful face otherwise!!! So I brought my spare phone to record you 😎😎

Yuki: How dedicated

Okazaki Rinto: How very dedicated.

Momo: Hey wait a sec, I just noticed while I was snapping pics but is your neck hurting, Yuki!?!?!?!?!?

Yuki: You caught me. I probably slept wrong.

Yuki: I fell asleep at the desk while I was composing and now I can’t turn my head to the right

Momo: Huhhhh!!!! Then I’ll sit on your right side to protect your neck!!

Yuki: Absolutely not. I won’t be able to see your face

Momo: Wait a sec,,,,,,

Momo: Yuki, aren’t you pulling the Super Darling gun a bit too early in the morning….being this beautiful should be illegal!?!?!? 😭😭

Yuki: Only for you, Momo.

Yuki: But what exactly are you protecting my neck from?

Momo: Oh you know, a stray baseball flying in from the right, or someone bumping into you and making you stumble!!

Yuki: That’s straight out of a manga.

Yuki: So what would you do if a water bucket came flying in from the left?

Momo: I’ll dash to block it and say something like “close call…”!!! lolololol

Momo: Wait, Yuki, why’s your manga knowledge so extensive!?!?

Yuki: Ruri-san made me read some when I visited your house.

Momo: What the hell is nee-san plotting lololololol

Yuki: It was pretty interesting.

Okazaki Rinto: I’m glad you seem to be enjoying yourselves over there! Now then, shall we get started?

Momo: Sorry Okarin lolololol we’re sitting across from each other and ready to start 🤩 

Okazaki Rinto: Good! They requested a laid-back, relaxed conversation for this, that’s why we’re doing it through rabbichat.

Okazaki Rinto: Let’s start with Yuki-kun, how did you feel when you heard that Momo-kun was going to produce your song?

Yuki: I was really happy of course. Momo always gives me energy with his warm words, so I was curious about what kind of melody he would give me through this production.

Yuki: Momo’s very good at conveying his feelings, so I always felt like he’d have a knack for creating music that resonates with people, something that lingers in their minds and stays in their hearts, warm and comforting.

Okazaki Rinto: I see…! That’s a perspective only someone who regularly composes music would have.

Momo: Oh you... You always make me happy with your words, Yuki 🥲

Momo: But to be honest, it was suuuuper stressful….

Yuki: Really? Even though “Can’t Stop Emotion” turned out amazing.

Momo: Yuki,,,,

Yuki: It’s tough, but also a lot of fun, right? Making music I mean.

Momo: Yeah. It was a lot of fun.

Momo: I didn’t fully compose the song myself since it was a team effort, so I didn’t fully understand everything you do but

Momo: Having to convey my feelings through something other than words and gestures was super difficult, but I was so happy. How do I explain it… I treasure that feeling!

Yuki: I can relate

Yuki: Whenever I’m working on a new song, I start cursing everything around me. I contemplate never working on anything like that ever again, quitting songwriting altogether. But when I’m finished and I hear Momo’s voice on the song, I realize that “ah, there’s no other job that could make me happier than this.”

Momo: Yuki,,,Can I sit next to you,,,,?

Yuki: This position is very comfortable.

Momo: Awwww ‼️ I got rejected 😭‼️

Okazaki Rinto: So Momo-kun, how did you decide on what direction to take amidst all your hard work?

Momo: First and foremost, I thought about what kind of Yuki I wanted to portray! Like the Yuki who’s not a morning person, the Yuki who’s super proactive when it counts, the Yuki who’s sensitive and overflowing with emotion, the Yuki who’s amazing at cooking, super into cleaning, who’s just a kind, dashing gentleman with a beautiful voice…

Momo: But at the end of the day, I wanted to shine the spotlight on Yuki’s passion for music. A quiet, calm, yet fiercely unwavering flame. I wanted to express that dignified strength and the freedom in his boundless music.

Momo: And that’s the reason why the intro is quiet and minimalistic, but as the chorus hits, the music bursts forth like it’s flying, flapping its wings, dancing, being set free, going on a journey! Those are the feelings that resonate within me when I listen to the music Yuki makes for me!

Yuki: You really put a lot of thought into this

Yuki: You have real talent, Momo

Momo: Huhhh???!!! you don’t have to flatter meee 😆 even though that makes me happy 😆✨

Yuki: I’m serious.

Momo: Y-You really made your point come across...

Okazaki Rinto: What on earth just happened over there?

Momo: Yuki sat down next to me 🥹🥹

Yuki: I made sure to face him from the side that doesn’t hurt.

Yuki: It’s just as you described, Momo. When I got the demo, I was moved by how the song felt like it was taking me on an ever-changing journey.

Yuki: I felt the same way I did the day you brought me out of that dark place, showing me so many new and different sides of this world.

Yuki: Maybe that’s why the song felt familiar to me.

Momo: You’re the one who changed my world, Yuki!

Momo: Back when I thought there was only one path for me, when I felt trapped and depressed, I came across the music you wrote.

Momo: It warmed my frozen body, frigid to the tips of my fingers, brought color back to my world, and filled me with the urge to move ahead, to be passionate about something.

Momo: I poured all those feelings from back then, how I feel now, as well as my desire for us to always stay at the top into the lyrics!

Yuki: I wouldn’t have been able to move forward if not for your words.

Yuki: I felt like giving up on everything at some point, I could’ve thrown it all away. But you’ve always been there to save me. That’s why it’s all for y-

Yuki: No

Yuki: Nevermind, I don’t think I can say that right now, but I will tell you this

Yuki: "Can’t Stop Emotion" will be my treasure, always and forever.

Yuki: Stay by my side and keep singing with me, Momo. You’re the absolute king, unparalleled by anyone.

Momo: Okay,,,

Momo: A long, heartfelt message from Yuki,,,I’m eating so well,,,

Okazaki Rinto: What a wonderful day for you two to be honest with each other. I’ll keep supporting Re:vale forever and beyond!

Okazaki Rinto: Alright, can you please tell us more about the costume?

Momo: Sure!!! First of all, Yuki’s like a snow fairy who descended upon us during winter, so I pictured the stars shining brightly in the clear winter night sky 🪄🧚‍♂️☃️

Yuki: A fairy, huh?

Momo: You’re such a beautiful fairy that your face stands out amidst the clashing patterns! I wanted to show off your gorgeous sex appeal, that’s why I decided to express that with a variety of intricate patterns💫

Momo: And then I added chiffon material to the jacket to evoke the image of the starry sky, with scattered, shiny silver details all over, paired it with slim-fit pants to accentuate Yuki’s figure and balance the outfit for a sharp, smart look!! 💫

Yuki: Your fingers move so fast when you’re talking about me that it’s impressive

Momo: Well I am talking about Yuki after all 👍👍

Okazaki Rinto: Thank you for the passionate explanation! What about the details in the photoshoot itself?

Momo: Didn’t it look like a snow fairy had descended!? 🪄🧚‍♂️☃️ I really wanted to make it snow for real, but I didn’t want Yuki to feel cold, I was thinking about what to do and then it hit me…

Momo: Why not use light to represent that snow!? And that’s how we got Yuki, sparking gorgeously like the handsome man he is 🌟

Yuki: Everything was dazzling for real 

Momo: That’s how much Yuki shines in my eyes! From the first time we met until now! Forever and always!!

Yuki: Really? You’re always shining bright, Momo.

Momo: For real!? 🥹 Then we can always enjoy that light together 🎄

Yuki: That’s true ^^

Okazaki Rinto: It’s Christmas, so that works perfectly!

Momo: I love how you’re always watching from a distance without interrupting when we’re like this, Okarin 🥹

Okazaki Rinto: I’m flattered! As much as I’d love to see more of your shenanigans, it’s time for you to say a few words to your fans…!

Momo: "Can’t Stop Emotion" is like a selfish wish of mine. It doesn’t portray the gentle, idol-like Yuki. Instead fully expressing my admiration, my love for him, my passion and my promise to keep going as the kings.

Momo: So, I hope our fans listen to this song and continue supporting us, forever and ever. We’ll fly towards the miracle waiting for us tomorrow!

Yuki: Momo called it “a selfish song”, so I want everyone to know how elated I am and how tremendously important it is to me that Momo’s being this selfish.

Yuki: And I feel so much more determined now that this song has been gifted to me. I’ll continue to be the absolute champion, together with Momo. And I hope all of you will follow us.

Yuki: Thanks to Momo, I’ve rediscovered the joy of creating music. I know what it’s like to push through everything to go on, to aim higher and higher. That’s why Re:vale is invincible.

Yuki: There’s no one greater than us, is there? Let’s move towards the future we want to see with you, with everyone.

Momo: Yuukiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Yuki: Momo’s crying now.

Okazaki Rinto: Maybe he’s still hung up on the fact that you couldn’t wipe his tears last time!? (1)

Yuki: Today’s a Re:valeful day, so come over when you’re done, Okarin.

Okazaki Rinto: What do you have in mind?

Momo: Oh yeah, we’re gonna rewatch all our past live performances! We’re gonna reminisce over drinks! (๑>؂•̀๑)👍

Yuki: It felt like the right time to reflect on everything we’ve done so far, especially fresh off producing songs for each other.

Okazaki Rinto: Is it really okay for me to intrude on such a special day...?

Momo: Of course! Re:vale’s journey would be incomplete with you, Okarin!

Yuki: Re:vale’s what it is because you’re here with us.

Okazaki Rinto: Thank you so much! I’ll bring something tasty with me!!

Momo: Hell yeah! Then, let’s chat until morning!! 🥳

(1)This is a reference to Momo’s 16PRODUCERS Rabbit chat.

[floofyroro]

To Be Held

Pairing: Crosshair/Reader

Words: 682 (fic vignette)

Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, semi-established relationship

Summary: In a quiet moment together, you inquire about Crosshair's scar.

A/N: Many drabbles sit untouched in my notes app. I'm getting tired of staring at my longer WIPs and I think I just need to share something at this point. Please accept these crumbs and let me know if this resonates with you. 🙏 Part 2 is here.

Your touch is feather-light against his temple. He allows his head to lay limply across your lap and despite how intimate it feels, he can’t find any reason to care. Not when your fingertips trail back and forth from his cheeks to his neck. When they reach his shoulders, you press into him, making quick work of any lingering tension.

“What’s the story behind this scar?” 

He goes rigid and you must notice because you pause your minstrations as a result. 

“I’m sorry.”

A pause. 

“I… we don’t have to talk about—“

“Bracca,” he interrupts you, causing you to quiet. 

“It happened on the planet Bracca while I was still serving the Empire.”

His voice feels hoarse from disuse. When your touch resumes, albeit with more hesitance, so does he.

“I was… targeting my brothers and Omega. But I was facing an ion engine when it ignited. I... couldn’t get away in time.” 

The breeze picks up once more, the curtains billowing in the background. Crosshair welcomes the salt-licked sensation that’s brought in by the wind, finding that it contrasts nicely against the rise of his own internal body temperature. 

His body seems to remember the moment far too well. Crosshair has to tamp down against the rising fear, the rising anxiety that threatens to overtake him. He feels it all creeping over his shoulders but this time…

This time, your touch is already there to combat these ghosts. It takes your lithe fingers, your dexterous thumbs to press into him and he finds that maybe he can move on from these moments, these ghosts. 

If only while by your side.

While you remain silent, he reassesses.  Perhaps with time, you’ll come to find that he isn’t worth the commitment, that his baggage is too daunting to carry. With each layer that he bares before you, he finds that his confidence in being vulnerable is challenged. Will continue to be challenged. He wonders that with time, it’ll ease.

You sigh. 

He waits, anticipating a form of rejection. He wonders if looking up into your eyes would reveal a look of disgust.

You don't give him much time to ponder further.

Your hair trickles against his nose before he registers that you’re leaning down to cradle his head to your chest. Soft hands support him, and the sound of your heartbeat thrums against his cheek, his temple. 

It’s a rather nice sound. 

“You have been through so much.” 

It takes him a moment too long to parse the meaning of your words. These aren’t words that should be directed towards him. No, not with the mountain of sin weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

Instead of accepting them, he focuses on your heartbeat, the sound a balm for these thoughts.

It’s a soft, lulling thing.

But your caress against his temple, his scar, is what brings him back to you. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He… 

His chest tightens because yes. He can admit that he has gone through enough. An arm snakes around you in his own attempt to return the embrace, the action surprising yet natural. 

You tighten your hold on him in response. 

“I’m sorry, Crosshair. But I’m so glad you’re here now,” and he opens his eyes to find that his gaze is clouded, his cheeks dampening as he tries to inhale steadily, “here, where you’re safe. Here, with me.”

There’s a crack in your voice and it causes his heart to stutter. He isn’t used to this. This.. feels too good to be true. Is he dreaming? The rational side of him berates such a thought because obviously he’s awake and he’s here, with you, with kind words directed towards him, their meaning a nectar which he feels drawn to, finding that he’s ravenous for more.

Instead of speaking, he uses his palm on your back to pull you closer, the pressure of your chest against him welcome and grounding. Without a second thought, his fingers brush against your spine, your shirt catching against the callouses on his hands.

He’s never been good with words anyway. 

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