#like there's so much i could go on and on about

[girl-lostconnection]

Thinking thoughts about husband!Simon Riley who’s the biggest fucking gossip there is. He might not talk to anyone but somehow he’s always there when people talk.

Partially because he’s that good at blending in with the shadows and minding his business, partially because until he actually makes a sound no one would notice that he’s somewhere in the corner, sipping his usual cuppa.

And he has no one at work to share the gossip with!😔 Not like he can go and share with his subordinates that he heard the hottest gossip about someone’s divorce. And not like Price himself feels like chatting about someone’s divorce when he has his own happening.

Good thing that he has you! Simon comes home and everything is exactly the way it is, the only difference being him staring at you like you are supposed to do something.

Like you are supposed to ask him.

Takes you a couple questions to fish out what’s going on with him but as soon as you are in? He’s going to spill every detail, he’s gonna walk you through entire dialogue that was happening in the rec room, he’s nodding very enthusiastically when you gush and ask questions and gasp because yeah, that’s him. He brought you the gossip, he made you have fun.

All part of his devious plan, yes, that’s right.

Simon who remembers EVERYTHING that was said, who drops bombs of conclusions he came to himself basing on what he already heard around the base. You practically shaking him by the shoulders because god, the man brings tea that’s PIPING hot.

So I’ll stand by what I said, Simon Riley is one very good gossip king who’s more than happy to have someone to discuss information with because honestly? The gall of some people to discuss certain very private things out in the open???

He’s also the hypervigilant guy, the most attentive one, he picks up on signs and mood shifts so if you get in the cab/car after the gathering you attended together and something was definitely going on there…The only thing you will need to do is say “Am I crazy or…?” and his head snaps to look at you so fast, his vertebrae makes a little snapping sound.

Because yeah, he saw that too. Also, did you see that the husband there was a little too close to his co-worker? The one in the read sweater? The one that has exactly the same bracelet the wife had?

Yeah, love, the one with blue stones. He could bet there is an affair going on and wife found out but actually…what? So wife is having an affair too? You sure, love? She was looking at WHO?

Oh, he’s having so much fun with that. I feel like he has a hobby of people watching so gossiping just makes it even funner. And he enjoys this bonding sessions you two have, splayed together on the couch — you giggling so hard he can feel how he melts.

Yeah, husband Simon is a big gossip guy. And he’s your gossip guy. Which means while you wanna hear all about his day and observations — he will tell you everything.

[inkskinned]

idaho is already moving to repeal same-sex marriage. they say it's an overreach of the governmental power, and that the law should be determined by "state's rights".

trump is expected to sign an executive order banning trans women in women's sports. in the article i've linked there, he notes that the "biggest hand" (most applause) he gets is when he attacks trans women. isn't that interesting.

i know my own father voted for him. my own father, radicalized by podcasts and bad youtube, voted for this; felt smug about it. he genuinely believes the dems want to "put christians in camps." as if the dems could ever get off their silken asscheeks and actually do anything. i wish they had strong enough messaging to be misattributed like this.

my girlfriend and i worked the polls on election day, counting ballots. my father was eating noisily beside us. "see? you're freaked out about nothing." after all, i live in massachusetts: beautiful, expensive, no-working-transportation MA. the only state to go all-blue.

"if it's state's rights, you'll be fine," he said. i'd been sworn at a few days before this. a year ago almost to the day, i got hit in the head with an empty beer bottle. he said i was being dramatic. after all, first-adopter "the gay state" Massachusetts would rather explode than get rid of same-sex marriage. so what should i care, after all.

this man is a deacon. i guess he expects me not to get out of the car in any red state. i guess he thinks my relationship dissolves across certain borders. he doesn't see why it's concerning that i can't leave, because why would i want to. who wants to go to idaho? who cares about the real, living, breathing people in idaho.

(but then again: who cares about the real, living, breathing humans on deportation planes. they're not us. after all, my father came here legally. i am an american citizen because of birthright citizenship. i am even debating this because he immigrated.)

i texted my mom about it. i feel sick. no matter how much activism and research and outreach i do: it's always shocking to see a room full of people who hate you so much that they take legal action against you. on my small ex-work-laptop, i watch the shaking hands of people in idaho begging their representatives to reconsider. the fear in their voice is palpable. no person should have their relationship threatened this way. the motion still passes, 46-24.

it's all just happening so fast. i feel i am pushing my hands through glass pieces, watching the cuts before i feel them.

people often reference "first they came for..." when stuff like this happens, and while that's fair - there's a very quiet part of me that always says they're already at your door, you complete idiot. the same force that governs trans women's bodies will also be used against cis women. the censorship about supposed "DEI terms" will also be used to stifle science in general.

it won't just be idaho.

[monstersholygrail]

Imagine a big terrifying Alien who’s only heard about love and affection from watching human interactions and romance movies. And ever since then he’s been such a lovable and cuddly guy, but only for you, the one who showed him these great treasures.

Now you can’t go a second without his large hands on you. The way they curl around your limbs and pull you tight against him. His hands that always seem to wander, squishing your soft flesh in his palms, pinching and tweaking at your sensitive nipples, and sliding down to cup and rub the curious heat between your thighs.

And if you could ever manage to sit in your own seat again it would be a miracle. The alien immediately drags you down onto his lap whenever you go to sit down. If you dare to sit next to him or god forbid across from him, he’ll just pick you up and plop you right back into his lap, not caring that he’s knocking over everything on the table in his path.

It’s all innocent, he’s just exploring new sensations with someone he trusts. At least that’s what you tell yourself. Ignoring the knowing glint in his eyes and excusing the alerts you’ve been getting about someone accessing unauthorized websites on your computer.

It’s too hard to think right now anyway as you rock against his skilled fingers that curl inside of you, hitting that spongy spot that has your eyes rolling back. Your thighs and his a mess as they’re drenched in your release. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you cum tonight.

He just won’t stop touching you, long thick digits reaching the deepest parts of you. Gliding along your gummy walls and igniting your nerves with every flick of his wrist. Loud squelching echos in your bunker and you’ve long stopped trying to be quiet. Who cares if your crew knows what you’re doing? It’s just another lesson, that’s all.

“O-oh what a good— good mate. Doing so w-well f’me. Can’t get enough, can you? So desperate for my fingers,” the Alien murmurs in your ear, lust seeping into his tone.

You squeeze your eyes tightly, trying not to think about how he learned to talk like that. But instead letting his praise wash over you as he slips in another thick digit, scissoring his fingers and stretching you so deliciously. Ragged moans tear from your throat, body arching into his touch as you grow more and more tense.

Cute little pleased clicks from the Alien’s throat drown out your cries of pleasure as you shake in his arms. Your release gushing all over his fingers and adding to wet spot forming on your bed. He still doesn’t stop, working you through it till overstimulation has your toes curling and your body twitching.

You know he’ll keep touching and touching till you cum all over again and your hips roll back into his, wanting even more. You can feel his massive bulge digging into your ass and promising pleasure out of this world. And you’ve been to many of them.

With a gentle tug, you guide the Alien’s hand out of your core, watching it drip with your release. The Alien hisses at you, very put out that you’ve stopped his loving touches. But you gently shush him and turn around to straddle his giant lithe frame. Your hands already moving to the hem of his sweatpants.

“I think maybe we can move onto your next lesson now. There are many forms of human intimacy you’ve yet to discover, sweet one,” you say seductively.

Just as you slowly tug his sweatpants down enough to have his fat cock pop out from its confines and slap against his toned stomach. His length soaked with his own release just from your grinding but still rock hard.

Oh, he had so much to learn…

Part 2…?

[voyter]

STAGED FOR THE SEASON ! ... christmas special

pairing. jeon jungkook x fem!reader

going back home for the holidays meant facing his ex — the one he still couldn’t let go of. determined to win her back and spark a little jealousy, he brought you along… as his fake girlfriend.

word count. 18.3k words warnings. fake dating au. angst. friends to lovers. jk not over his ex. FLIRTING !! TENSION !! jungkook comes to his senses a lot in this. angst. lots of teasing. smut. unprotected sex. oral (both!receiving). quiet sex hehe. munch jk again sorry i love an eater. a little male masturbation. he looks at her while he strokes it bites lip. dom!jk (still a sub enthusiast tho). oh did i mention angst ?

ana's notes. merry christmas in february !! im crying THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING. i swear this was originally supposed to be posted in december, but i ended scrapping after scrapping. that led to the writing taking much longer than i thought it would and i actually still hate this LMFAO but i did not spend all that time on this just to not post it. so here it is. just .. here JUST TAKE IT. next fic will make up for this mess, i promise x

Jungkook was a wild individual, his life practically a highlight reel of impulsive decisions and stories that somehow always ended with him escaping a war. From his childhood to his teenage years and everything in between, you’d heard your fair share of them — events so absurd that you sometimes questioned if they were even real.

But as wild and ridiculous as those stories were, nothing could have prepared you for what he was saying right now.

“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend for Christmas.”

You froze, staring at him in pure bewilderment. It was so random — like, literally, what the fuck?

The two of you had been lounging comfortably on your couch, a shared blanket draped across your laps as you caught up on each other's lives. The conversation had been perfectly ordinary. He’d just asked about your holiday plans, and you’d told him you were spending your holiday break from work in your apartment.  

And then he said this, like it was nothing.  

Now, judging by the way you were looking at him — eyes wide, utterly dumbfounded — Jungkook couldn’t tell if there was a ghost standing behind him or if his question was genuinely out of pocket.

Jungkook shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Well?”  

You blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of his words. Is he okay? “I’m sorry?”

“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but just hear me out,” he said, sitting upright in one swift motion, his previously slouched posture disappearing as if the words themselves had straightened his spine. “I’m going home for the holidays, and you know how my mom is close friends with my ex's mom, right?”  

“Mhm…” you hum slowly, even though you already know where this is headed.

“Well, my mom invited her over on Christmas… and Misa’s gonna be there,” he says, the words spilling out like a reluctant confession. His gaze shifts to the floor, as though the hardwood could offer him some kind of solace or escape from your reaction. There’s a slight edge to his voice, like he’s bracing himself for your judgment, and his fingers tug at the thread on his jeans.  

“Kook…” Your voice drops to a quieter tone, heavy with exasperation, before a sigh escapes your lips.  

Now, you’ve heard that name a few times. And each time you did, it felt like an unwanted stone hurled into calm waters, rippling outward until it disrupted everything.  

You didn’t dislike Misa herself — how could you, when you’d never even met her? What you couldn’t stand was the effect her name had on Jungkook. It wasn’t just sadness or nostalgia that overtook him; it was something deeper, something heavier. Like a wound that had never fully healed, her name had the power to knock the air out of him, leaving him raw and vulnerable every time.

The first time you heard of Misa was through Jimin and Taehyung. According to them, Jungkook and Misa had been childhood friends who started dating in high school. But that love didn’t survive graduation. They were heading to different universities — she to Ulsan, and him in Seoul — and while Jungkook had begged her to make it work, she never wanted to do long distance. It was practical, maybe even logical, but it had wrecked him.

Jungkook never pursued relationships after her; he didn’t see the point. Love, in his eyes, was a gamble he wasn’t willing to take again. Instead, he sought out fleeting connections with girls he found attractive, indulging in temporary pleasures without the weight of commitment. It wasn’t fair, and deep down, he knew it. But as messed up as it was, he couldn’t stop himself.  

Because he didn’t want to love anyone else.  

Love had burned him once — left him raw, scarred, and reluctant to open that part of himself again. It was easier this way, safer. No expectations, no vulnerability, no chance of heartbreak. Just meaningless hookups that kept the loneliness at bay for a little while.  

“You already know what I’m going to say,” he says quietly, his voice subdued yet heavy with expectation.  

“Yeah, I do,” you snap back, unable to hide the sharp edge in your tone. There’s a bite of attitude behind your words, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

And of course, you do. He wanted you to come with him, to play the part, to make her jealous. Everything Jungkook did seemed to circle back to her. Every action, every thought, every breath — it all revolved around Misa. She was an unshakable presence in his life, even in her absence, consuming his every waking second.  

And that’s what stung. Not for yourself, but for him. Because she wouldn’t have broken up with him in the first place if she thought about him the way he still thought about her. If she cared even a fraction as much as he still does.  

You could only stare at him, your expression a mixture of pity and quiet disappointment. He had so much to give, so much love that could be directed toward someone who might actually deserve it. Yet here he was, stuck in a loop, still thinking about someone who chose to let him go.  

“I know,” he says softly. And the worst part? He really does know. He knows exactly what you’re thinking because he’s heard it all before. And it frustrates you to no end because knowing and doing are two very different things.

You’ve never held back from telling him exactly how you feel. As one of his best friends, you had every right to be upset about it. Watching him go through girls like they’re disposable wasn’t just reckless; it was self destructive. You’d made it painfully clear how detrimental it was for him to still be hung up on his ex, and even more so to avoid meaningful connections altogether. But despite your blunt honesty, Jungkook has never made an effort to truly change.

He never takes the time to get to know the women he hooks up with — it’s always a simple fuck and go. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves no room for growth or healing. But Jungkook’s stubbornness is both his armor and his downfall.

Before you could scold him, you catch yourself. You take a breath, reminding yourself that emotions, especially Jungkook’s, aren’t something he can just flip on and off. Instead of letting your frustration bubble over, you pause, choosing empathy. You let yourself step into his shoes, imagining the weight he must carry, the way old memories cling like cobwebs in the corners of his mind.

Jungkook has always been there for you, through thick and thin.

Now, it was your turn to return the favor.

“I’ll do it,” you said, finally breaking the heavy silence.

His head snapped up so fast you flinched, half expecting him to pull a muscle. His hair bounced with the sudden movement, and his eyes were wide, shining with a mix of disbelief and cautious hope. “Really?”

“This is very stupid, Jungkook,” you replied, your tone firm but tinged with a resigned gentleness.  

“It is,” he agreed without hesitation, nodding like a chastised child. Because he knew you were right — it was stupid, immature even. The two of you were grown adults for crying out loud, and here he was asking you to fake being his girlfriend just to get under his ex’s skin.

You only sighed, the weight of your decision settling over you. “Then I guess we should lay down some boundaries,” you said, your voice steady, though your stomach churned with unease.  

His face lit up with a bright, almost childlike smile, his eyes sparkling with hope. He still couldn’t believe you were agreeing to this. “Right-”

“I’m not kissing you,” you interrupted, your tone firm.

The joy drained from his face in an instant, replaced by pure, unfiltered horror. “What? No one is going to believe us if you don’t let me kiss you!”  

“Then we’ll just say we aren’t comfortable with PDA,” you countered with a shrug, as if it were the simplest solution in the world.  

“I always kissed Misa in front of our parents!” he argued, a faint whine creeping into his voice.

“Then we’ll say I’m not comfortable with PDA,” you shot back, emphasizing your words. “Kook, I just don’t think it’d be appropriate.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he reluctantly nodded. As much as he hated the idea of limiting the act, he understood where you were coming from. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. “Fine. Can I at least kiss you on the cheek?”  

“Yeah,” you said, offering a small smile.  

“Great,” he replied, perking up slightly. “We must be touching at all times. I was always very clingy with Misa, so it needs to look natural…”  

You almost grimaced at the thought. You let out a long sigh, nodding reluctantly. “Fine. Touching at all times. But keep your hands where I can see them.”  

“Relax,” Jungkook said with a grin, leaning back smugly. “I’m not a perv. Maybe we should practice-”

“If you touch me, I will hit you,” you cut him off, glaring.

Days after your little agreement with Jungkook, you found yourself sitting in the passenger seat of his car, the heater humming softly as it worked to fight the cold winter air that seeped through the windows. The trunk was packed tightly with your bags, a visible reminder of the journey ahead, and the winding highway stretched endlessly before you under the dull gray sky.  

Initially, the plan was simple: head to Busan on Christmas day, just in time for dinner. But Jungkook’s mom insisted that you both arrive a day earlier to rest after the long drive. The suggestion didn’t bother you — in fact, it seemed practical. Yet, it also meant one extra day to brace yourself for the moment you’d stand beside Jungkook as he faced the girl who broke his heart.

With an acrylic nail caught between your teeth, you stared out the window, taking in the scenery as it changed around you. It didn’t snow here; the air was crisp, the breeze carried faint traces of salt from the sea. The bustling cityscape of Seoul was a stark contrast to the quieter, more laid back atmosphere of Busan. You found yourself admiring the differences, marveling at how a different part of Korea could feel so distinct yet familiar.

The person beside you was lost in thought, grappling with something entirely different.

In just about a day, Jungkook would come face to face with the girl he once swore was the love of his life — the one who had ruined love for him. Nine years ago. Almost an entire era of his existence had passed since they last saw each other, back when he was just a seventeen year old kid. She had been the center of his world once, and even after she broke up with him, she still lingered in his mind.

During the midst of the long drive, you’d fallen asleep. The steady hum of the car and the rhythm of the road had cradled you into a peaceful slumber. But as the journey came to an end, so did your nap, when you felt a gentle pressure on your arm.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting the soft glow of the garage door in front of the driveway. You blinked a few times, your vision adjusting to the new surroundings, before pulling your headphones off your head.

“Sleep well?” Jungkook’s voice broke through the haze of sleep, his smirk evident even before you looked at him.

“Mmm, sitting up and with my neck bent? Slept so good,” you tease, a sarcastic smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you stretch your stiff limbs.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but there’s a playful edge to his response. He presses the button to turn off the car. “Let’s go inside. I’m fucking beat,” he says, his voice casual, but the tiredness in his tone betrays how much he’s ready to be done with the drive.

You stretch one more time, a satisfying crack running down your spine as you unbuckle your seatbelt. You glance out the window, your eyes falling on Jungkook’s childhood home. It’s a beautiful house, its exterior glowing warmly under the lights, casting long shadows. 

It’s a home that likely holds countless memories for him. You can almost imagine the sound of laughter, of family dinners and the warmth of his parents’ love. The kind of place where so many moments, both small and monumental, are tucked away in corners.

“Coming?” Jungkook calls, his voice carrying a teasing edge. You snap your head toward him, catching the sight of him leaning down, his head poking just enough from the car door so he can see you clearly. His mischievous grin matches the playful tone in his voice. “Or you gonna sleep in here some more?”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curving into a smirk. “Keep fucking with me, and I’ll drive your car back home and leave you here,” you warn, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He clicks his tongue in mock frustration, rolling his eyes dramatically, clearly amused by your threat. “Girl, hurry up,” he retorts, the playful irritation in his tone betraying how little he actually means it.

You chuckle before you grab your purse and swing the door open. The cold air rushes in, sharp and biting against your skin, but you barely notice as the playful tension between the two of you lingers in the space between the car and the house.

You shut the car door with a soft thud before making your way to the back of the car. Jungkook is already there, pulling out the suitcases like it’s second nature — his sleek black one in one hand and your unmistakeable pink one in the other.

“I could’ve got it myself, you know,” you say, reaching out to press the button that automatically closes the trunk.

“Sure you could’ve,” he quips without missing a beat, effortlessly balancing both suitcases as if they weigh nothing. “But I can’t have my girlfriend going around carrying her stuff. That’s what I’m here for.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, though the smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrays your true feelings. You two weren’t even inside yet and he was already playing boyfriend. “You’re annoying.”

Jungkook merely smirks, adjusting his grip on the luggage with practiced ease. "Yet, here you are," he teases, his tone dripping with playful arrogance. Without waiting for a reply, he strides past you, carrying both suitcases as if they weighed nothing. Of course, he wasn't just dragging them by the wheels; Jungkook wouldn't dare let them get scratched up. He doesn't even glance back as he says over his shoulder, "And you can't say that to me. I'm your boyfriend, remember?"

You let out a soft laugh, biting back a retort, and simply trail after him, the cold breeze nips at your cheeks as the warmth of his playful energy draws you closer.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon not long before you woke up. The neighborhood was peaceful, a stark contrast to the buzz of the city you were used to. It felt like time moved slower here, as if everyone respected the rhythm of each other's lives. The only sound came from the faint crunch of pavement beneath your Uggs, a small echo that followed you as you walked behind Jungkook toward the front door.

Jungkook reached the door first, the suitcases set down on each side of him as he pressed the doorbell. The sound of the melodic chime was faint but clear, cutting through the stillness of the night. You barely had a second to process it before the door swung open.

The first thing that hit you wasn't the warmth of the house or the inviting scent of cinnamon, pumpkin spice candles, or the faint pine from the Christmas tree you could see in the distance.

No, it was her.

The woman who opened the door was stunning. She stood there, framed by the doorway, dressed elegantly in a red blouse that complemented her bold, perfectly applied red lipstick. Her silky, dark hair fell in long waves around her shoulders, each strand catching the soft glow of the porch light. Her skin was radiant, practically glowing, free of any signs of age or stress — you just knew her husband didn’t stress her out.

"Ah, finally! I was wondering when you'd be here," she exclaims, her voice warm and inviting as she immediately pulls Jungkook into a hug.

"Hi, Ma," he chuckles softly, his tone affectionate and familiar.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to plant a kiss on his cheek, her smile widening as she takes a moment to admire her youngest son. Her eyes then shift to you, and her expression brightens even more. It's as if she already knows you, her warmth extending effortlessly as she steps forward and wraps you in a hug without hesitation.

You glance up at Jungkook over her shoulder, and he's already mouthing a quick, sheepish apology behind her back. Caught off guard, you freeze for a moment, but the comforting scent of her home wafting from her brings you ease. You lean into the hug, letting her warmth envelop you.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, finding your hands and holding them. “Oh, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says softly, saying your name in a tone that feels so sweet, so genuine, that it tugs at your chest. Her gaze is filled with awe, as if she’s seeing someone she’s already heard so much about, and the kindness in her eyes makes you smile despite yourself.

"It's nice to meet you, too," you chuckle softly, your voice warm and genuine. Her kindness is infectious, and you can't help but feel at ease. "Thank you for having me over," you add, meaning every word.

"Oh, of course!" she exclaims, her excitement bubbling over as she grabs your hands tighter. "I'm so glad you could make it. It's been far too long since I've seen this one with someone."

"Mom," Jungkook says, his tone edged with a mixture of embarrassment and impatience, ready for her to end her swooning.

"Alright, alright," she relents, though the affectionate smile on her face doesn't waver. Releasing your hands, she gestures toward the doorway with a gentle nudge at your shoulder.

"You two must be tired. Let's get you inside."

You step forward as she guides you in, the warmth of her gesture matching the atmosphere inside. Jungkook stays a step behind, standing at the side of the doorway to let you and his mom enter first.

The moment you step inside, the welcoming heat of the house envelops you, melting away the lingering cold that clings stubbornly to your layers of sweaters. With a quiet sigh of relief, you slip off your shoes, letting the warmth of the carpet floors guide you further in. Each step feels like an invitation, the comforting atmosphere drawing you deeper into its embrace.

The living room greets you with a cozy glow, the Christmas tree taking center stage. It's adorned with ornaments, from handmade crafts to glimmering baubles, all illuminated by warm string lights that cast soft reflections onto the nearby walls.

The kitchen's dim lighting spills softly into the space, complementing the golden ambiance. Picture frames hang on the walls, each one a memory.

Mrs. Jeon dismisses you both, urging you two to go upstairs and wind down before dinner. You and Jungkook hum in acknowledgment before he starts up the stairs, his hands gripping the handles of the luggage. You follow closely behind, your pace matching his slower one as he hauls the bags up. The steps creak softly beneath your weight, and your eyes wander to the walls, taking in the baby pictures framed and lined up with care.  

“You were such a cute kid,” you tease, a fond smile curling your lips. “What happened?”  

Jungkook glances back at you, feigning offense. “Don’t act like I’m ugly now.”  

“I didn’t say you were,” you reply sweetly, trailing just behind him.

“So, I’m not ugly?” Jungkook asks, setting his suitcase on the ground before turning the knob and pushing open the door to his bedroom.  

“That’s also not what I said,” you reply, a hint of amusement in your tone.  

He picks up his suitcase again, carrying it into the room and placing it neatly beside your pink one. “Kind of is,” he teases, his words drawn out as if savoring the moment. “Keep it up, and I might start thinking you have a crush on me.”  

“Ugh,” you groan dramatically, scrunching your nose. “You wish.”  

He chuckles, the sound light and carefree, as he strides over to his nightstand and flicks on the lamp.  

The warm glow washes over the room, casting a nostalgic ambiance. Your eyes sweep across his childhood bedroom, taking in the details. Posters of anime characters and superheroes still cling to the blue-painted walls, a testament to the boy he once was. Shelves crammed with trophies, medals, and action figures line one side of the room, proudly showcasing his accomplishments and hobbies. In the corner by the window sits a desk, cluttered yet organized, as if it had been left untouched since his teenage years. It’s clear Jungkook’s mom hadn’t touched his room all these years, preserving it like a time capsule of his youth.  

"I guess one of us is taking the floor," you remark, breaking the silence as you shut the door behind you.

Your eyes flick to the bed in the center of the room, the blue-and-white striped comforter tucked neatly over the mattress. It's spacious — easily big enough for two.

Jungkook turns toward you, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "Yeah, I'll take the floor," he says, his tone light but certain, as if he's already resigned himself to the discomfort.

Despite all the teasing and playful banter you two always fall into, moments like this remind you of who Jungkook truly is: thoughtful, selfless, and entirely too earnest for his own good.  

“Are you sure?” you ask, your voice quieter now, tinged with hesitation.  

He nods firmly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  

You return his smile, stepping closer to the bed and carefully placing your purse on the neatly made comforter. Sharing a bed with Jungkook wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, but it still felt like a line — one you weren’t entirely sure either of you wanted to cross.

The brief tension in the room dissolves as Jungkook clears his throat, shifting the atmosphere back to something more neutral. He moves to unpack his suitcase, crouching to place it on the floor, his hands working through the neatly folded clothes inside. You lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight.  

Grabbing your own suitcase, you busy yourself as well, the sound of zippers and rustling fabric filling the space. The simplicity of it feels grounding, a quiet prelude to the whirlwind you both know is coming.  

The rest of the evening unfolds seamlessly.

After unpacking, you and Jungkook join his parents for dinner, the warm glow of the dining room making everything feel cozy and intimate. The food is delicious — homemade and hearty — and the conversation flows easily. You find yourself genuinely enjoying their company, feeling more at home than you expected.  

After dinner, you help clear the table despite Jungkook’s insistence that you relax, and his mother beams at you in gratitude. By the time you and Jungkook finally head upstairs, your stomach is full, your cheeks are sore from smiling, and a comfortable warmth lingers in your chest.  

While Jungkook was in the bathroom, unwinding for the night, you stood in his bedroom, slipping into something more comfortable for sleep.

Reaching behind your neck, you unclasped the last of your accessories, your fingers brushing over the familiar chain. And that's when you felt it — the delicate metal snapping apart in your hands.

Your breath hitched as you stared down at the broken necklace, your heart sinking. The piece that had been passed down to you, the one that meant so much, now lay in two fragile halves in your palm.

“No!” you exclaim, your voice sharp and panicked.

Jungkook appears in the doorway within seconds, his brows furrowed with concern, his hair falling into his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks, scanning the room as if preparing for the worst. 

“Oh, nothing, sorry,” you pout, holding up the broken chain in your hand, the delicate locket dangling from your fingertips. “My necklace just broke.” Your tone is softer now, but the frustration and sadness are evident. 

Jungkook steps closer, his expression softening as his eyes fall on the piece of jewelry. “Let me see,” he says, his voice calm and steady. 

You hand him the chain, its links split cleanly apart, and the locket, small and aged, but clearly well-loved. His fingers brush yours as he takes it, inspecting the damage with a gentle touch. 

“I’ll get you a new one,” he offers without hesitation, his voice firm with intent. 

You shake your head, though you can’t help but smile at his kindness. “Thanks, but it’s okay,” you say, your voice carrying a bittersweet note. “It was my grandma’s. She gave it to me before she passed.”  

His gaze shifts from the broken chain to your face, his expression softening further. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and apologetic. 

“Don’t be,” you reply quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It’s a feeble attempt to deflect, and you know it. So does Jungkook. He’s perceptive like that — always has been. But instead of pressing the matter, he lets it slide, his silence a quiet mercy.

You walk toward your toiletry bag sitting on the dresser, rummaging through it in search of your lotion. Behind you, Jungkook sneakily pockets the broken necklace without a word.

Without hesitation, he heads for the closet, his movements fluid and unhurried as he retrieves a couple of comforters, draping them over his arm.  

He drops the bundle onto the floor beside the bed and crouches down, carefully arranging his makeshift sleeping area. The soft rustle of fabric fills the room as he spreads one comforter out as a base, smoothing over the creases with practiced ease.  

“You really don’t have to do that,” you murmur, your voice gentle as you settle onto the bed, watching him.  

Jungkook glances up at you, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fine,” he replies, the simplicity of his words carrying an unspoken certainty.  

You observe him as he finishes setting up, his movements unbothered, almost second nature. When he finally stretches out on the floor, arms folded behind his head, he looks far too relaxed for someone who willingly chose the hardwood over the comfort of the bed.  

“Comfortable?” you ask, raising a brow, your tone laced with amusement.

“As comfortable as the floor can get,” he jokes, running a hand through his hair with an easy grin.  

You shake your head, chuckling softly, but the warmth spreading through your chest lingers — a quiet appreciation for his effort.  

The room settles into a comfortable silence, the muffled hum of the night pressing in through the walls. The faint scent of fresh linens mingles with the soft sweetness of your lotion, wrapping around you like a gentle cocoon. You tug the covers higher, the warmth seeping into your skin as your gaze drifts downward.  

Jungkook lies sprawled out on the makeshift bed, his face partially illuminated by the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The golden light casts soft shadows along the sharp angles of his jaw, highlighting the quiet ease in his features. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but the calmness about him is infectious, settling over you like a lull.  

“Mom told me she likes you a lot,” he says suddenly, his voice low and steady, breaking the stillness.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by his words. “Oh, really?” you ask, aiming for a casual tone, though the slight waver in your voice betrays your curiosity.  

He nods, resting his head on one hand, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "Yeah," he murmurs, his voice soft yet laced with amusement. "She said I should treat you well… so I don’t lose a good thing."  

His words linger between you, unexpected yet undeniably warm. A surprised smile tugs at your lips as heat creeps up your neck, spreading faster than you’d like. You glance away, attempting to play it cool. "That’s really sweet of her," you say, keeping your tone light despite the flutter in your chest. "But how exactly are we going to break it to her that your beautiful, amazing, perfect girlfriend… isn’t actually your girlfriend?"  

Jungkook huffs a small, disbelieving laugh, his eyes narrowing slightly. “We’ll figure that out soon,” he says, voice low and certain. “For now… don’t worry about it.”

You wake up abruptly, blinking against the morning light streaming through the curtains. Your mind feels hazy, and you can’t quite piece together the moments before you fell asleep. Sitting up, you glance toward the floor, only to find Jungkook’s makeshift bed empty and disheveled.

Right on cue, the door creaks open, and in walks Jungkook. Your breath catches in your throat. His hair is damp, droplets clinging to the strands and dripping onto his broad shoulders. A towel hangs precariously low on his hips, barely covering enough. His tattooed arm, ink running from his shoulder down to his fingers, flexes as he pushes the door shut behind him. Your gaze betrays you, trailing down the contours of his chest, his toned abs glistening with water droplets, and further down to the deep V-line teasing just above the towel’s edge.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice casual as if he isn’t standing there half-naked and looking like a walking thirst trap.

“You’re naked,” you mock.

He glances down at himself, running a hand lazily down his abs, a motion that only emphasizes his physique. “Nope, I’ve got a towel on.” His lips curl into a smirk as he meets your gaze. “Why? You tryna see more?”

“Jungkook!” you exclaim, heat rushing to your face as you yank the blanket over your head, effectively shielding yourself from the sight.

“I’m kidding!” he laughs, his voice rich with amusement, and you can practically hear the grin on his face.

After a moment of muffled indignation, you peek out from the safety of your blanket. Jungkook has turned to his dresser, his back muscles shifting and flexing with every movement as he searches for clothes. You hesitate, your gaze lingering longer than it should, admiring the way the morning light outlines the definition of his shoulders and back.  

“Are you done staring, or should I pose for a picture?” he teases without turning around, his voice laced with playful smugness.

You groan, throwing yourself back against the pillows. “Unbelievable.”  

He chuckles again, pulling out a sweater and jeans. “Relax. I’ll get dressed in the bathroom.” He tosses a wink over his shoulder before heading back out, leaving you alone to cool down your burning cheeks and racing heart.  

The room feels quieter once he’s gone, but his presence lingers in the charged air, heavy and undeniable. You throw the blanket off with a sigh, sitting up and running a hand through your hair, trying to push away the thoughts swirling in your mind. His teasing smirk, the droplets of water trailing down his skin, the way he stood there so casually — it was all too much.  

You stand abruptly, the need to escape the confined space overwhelming. The cool floor beneath your feet grounds you slightly as you make your way to the door. Heading downstairs feels like the only option, the only way to clear your head and put some distance between yourself and the overwhelming presence of Jungkook.  

The staircase creaks softly under your weight as you descend, the faint hum of morning activity filtering up from the kitchen. The smell of coffee drifts through the air, warm and inviting, a contrast to the storm of emotions brewing inside you.  

The open space of the living room feels like a relief, but the image of him lingers in your mind, unshakable. You take a deep breath, your steps slower now as you reach the kitchen, hoping the steady rhythm of the house will settle the tension knotting in your chest.  

But even as you move through the familiar space, you can’t help the way your thoughts betray you, replaying the moments upstairs. The sight of him, so effortless, so... distracting. You shake your head, trying to push it all away, determined to focus on anything else as the morning unfolds.

As you make your way to the kitchen, the sound of someone moving around greets you. Mrs. Jeon is already up, a warm smile on her face as she spots you. "Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?"

You hesitate for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I did. Thank you."

Her smile widens, and she hands you a steaming mug of coffee. "Good. Jungkook's not giving you a hard time, is he?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Not yet."

Oh, he definitely already was. But she didn’t need to know that.

She chuckles softly, the sound warm and familiar, as you take a sip of the coffee she brewed for you. You savor the drink, the warmth spreading through your chest, and just as you’re about to compliment her coffee making skills, Mrs. Jeon speaks first, her voice breaking the silence.  

"So, I assume you know who's coming over tonight?" she asks. Her gaze meets yours briefly, a knowing look flickering in her eyes.

The question catches you mid-sip, and you lower your mug slowly, nodding in quiet acknowledgment. You haven't fully unpacked the weight of what's to come tonight, but denying it feels pointless now.

Mrs. Jeon's expression softens, the corners of her lips curving into a kind, almost maternal smile. "I'm sorry, honey," she says, her tone gentle but sincere.

“No, there’s no need to apologize,” you reply, doing your best to sound steady, even as a flicker of unease gnaws at the edges of your composure. “It’s… really okay.”  

“Surely it isn’t,” she says softly. “If circumstances were different, I wouldn’t have put you in this situation in a heartbeat.”  

Her words hit you harder than you expect, stirring emotions you weren't prepared to confront. It's like a sudden weight pressing down on your chest, an ache that you can't quite place. You swallow hard, the once comforting warmth of your coffee now tasting bitter on your tongue.

"Thank you," you murmur, your voice soft and measured. Your gaze falls to your mug, fingers curling tighter around it, as though its warmth might quiet the unease swirling in your chest. After a pause, you add, "I really appreciate it, but as long as Jungkook’s okay, I’ll be okay."

Mrs. Jeon hums, the sound warm and heartfelt, a quiet acknowledgment of your sincerity. “You’re a good one,” she says, breaking the silence. “Jungkook’s been through a lot over the years. Seeing him happy like this... it makes me happy, too. So, thank you — for being there for him.”

The words strike a chord, and you feel a sudden, sharp pang of guilt twist in your stomach. You glance up at her, her kind eyes meeting yours, and it takes everything in you to keep your composure. She believes you’re the reason for Jungkook’s happiness, that your relationship with him is real, and the weight of that misunderstanding feels heavier than ever.

“It’s nothing, really,” you say, though your voice wavers ever so slightly. “I care about him a lot and he’s always been there for me, too.”  

She offers a genuine smile, her expression warm and inviting, but before she can say anything more, the soft creak of footsteps descending the stairs catches both your attention. You glance toward the staircase just as Jungkook comes into view, his presence commanding.  

He’s dressed casually yet somehow manages to look effortlessly put together in a beige knitted cardigan layered over a plain white tee, paired with light-washed baggy jeans that hang perfectly on his frame. His hair, still damp from his recent shower, clings to his forehead in soft strands.

The morning light streaming through the windows catches the subtle sheen of water in his hair, making him look... warm, almost domestic in a way that feels oddly intimate. He steps forward, sock-covered feet brushing against the floor, and suddenly, it feels like the air in the room has shifted.

"Speaking of the devil," Mrs. Jeon teases, her playful smile accompanied by a raised eyebrow in your direction.

You let out a soft giggle, as you lift the mug to your lips. The warmth of the coffee spreads through you, rich and comforting, a small distraction from the nervous flutter in your chest. It's delicious, just like everything else she's prepared since you arrived, a subtle testament to her care and hospitality.

"Oh, talking about me already?" Jungkook's voice pulls your attention as he strolls into the kitchen.

"Only the good things," Mrs. Jeon replies warmly, turning to grab a mug from the cabinet. She reaches for the coffee pot and fills the mug, steam curling into the air. "Good morning, sweetheart."

"Morning, Ma," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly from sleep.

Then, without warning, Jungkook steps closer, wrapping his arm casually around your shoulders. Before you can react, he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, the soft warmth of his lips lingering far longer in your mind than on your skin.

If Mrs. Jeon weren't standing right there, you would've shoved him away playfully. Instead, you do the only thing you can — lean into the moment, letting the weight of his arm anchor you in this charade.

Mrs. Jeon's smile doesn't falter as she watches the two of you, her gaze warm and affectionate. She hands the coffee to Jungkook, who mutters a soft thank you before taking a sip, his arm still comfortably draped around your shoulders.

He’s good at this — too good. The way his smile comes so effortlessly, the way his body instinctively leans into yours as though it’s second nature, makes it almost impossible to remember that this is all just an act, a carefully crafted part of the plan.  

You thought this would be easy. After all, Jungkook had always been just Jungkook to you — a friend, a constant presence, someone familiar and safe. But now, with the memory of his bare torso lingering stubbornly in your mind, your cheeks flush at the worst moments, and your thighs press together involuntarily when the thought sneaks back in.  

Mrs. Jeon moves gracefully around the kitchen, her voice warm and full of life as she talks about plans for the day. You nod and hum in agreement, but your mind is far away. Guilt churns like a storm in your chest, heavy and unrelenting, rising anew every time Mrs. Jeon sends a kind, approving smile your way.  

When she looks at you, it’s with such pride, as though she’s thrilled her son has found someone like you. And for a fleeting second, you almost wish it were true. You wish you could live up to the image of the person she clearly thinks you are. But you’re not. You’re just playing a part in a story she doesn’t know is fake.  

Jungkook’s hand rests casually on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing against your shoulder lightly, as if to remind you that he’s there. The touch should be comforting — it is comforting — but it also sets your nerves on fire. The warmth of him, so close, so steady, only makes the tightness in your chest worse.

The room is suffocating despite its cozy charm. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling breakfast mingles in the air, but it’s not enough to drown out the heaviness in your heart. Still, you press forward, past the discomfort and the guilt. If nothing else, you remind yourself, you’re doing this for him.

What was once a quiet, serene home now buzzes with warmth, laughter, and conversation. The lively energy catches you off guard, and before you can fully take it in, a high-pitched voice squeals through the air.

"Kookie!"

Your attention snaps to the source just as Jungkook's face lights up, his entire demeanor shifting into something softer, more playful.

"Jihyun!" he calls back, crouching slightly and stretching his arms wide open in anticipation.

A little girl, no older than four, comes bounding into view. She's dressed in an adorable red blouse and a denim skirt, her two space buns bouncing as she sprints toward him. Without hesitation, she flings herself into his waiting arms, colliding with him in a way that makes him stumble back a step with a playful groan.

He lifts her effortlessly, holding her securely against him as she giggles wildly. "I missed you so much," he murmurs into her shoulder, his voice tender and full of adoration.

"Me too!" she replies, her small arms wrapping tightly around his neck. The pure joy in her voice makes your chest ache in the sweetest way.

You can't help but smile as you watch the interaction, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of Jungkook so effortlessly in his element. The way he holds her, talks to her, and grins from ear to ear — it's a side of him you don't get to see often, and it's undeniably endearing.

She pulls back slightly, her tiny hands still gripping Jungkook's shoulders as she admires his face with a bright smile. You can't help but admire her in return — her big, glossy boba eyes are so reminiscent of Jungkook's that it makes your heart squeeze. She's adorable, with a lively sparkle in her gaze and a face that's impossible not to love.

Jungkook glances at you, catching your gaze as he tilts his head slightly, silently beckoning you closer. You step forward, your hand naturally resting on his bicep as you meet his gentle smile.

"Nini, say hi," Jungkook coaxes softly, bouncing her in his arms just enough to make her giggle.

The little girl turns her attention to you, her eyes wide and curious as they meet yours. For a moment, you're captivated by the way they seem to shine, full of wonder and mischief.

You give her a warm smile and a small wave. “Hi," you say softly, your tone as gentle as the moment feels.

Her lips curl into a shy grin, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she mimics your wave and chirps, "Hi." Her voice is small and sweet, and you feel your heart melt instantly.

"This is my Nini," Jungkook says, his tone affectionate as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. He then introduces you by name, emphasizing it just enough for her to catch on.

She tilts her head slightly, testing the sound of your name on her lips. Her tiny voice repeats it, and the way she says it with a soft lilt makes you smile even wider.

"Good job," you say gently, your voice full of encouragement. "You said it perfectly."

She beams at the praise, her little giggle filling the space as she snuggles into Jungkook's chest. He scrunches his nose, fingers lightly tickling her sides, drawing more laughter from her tiny frame. The sight is endearing — so much so that it disarms you completely. This isn't the Jungkook you're used to seeing. It's a domestic, almost paternal side of him that pulls at something deep within you, leaving your thoughts to wander places they shouldn't.

You know better, but your mind betrays you. There's something about the way he holds her so effortlessly, the way his smile reaches his eyes, that stirs a warmth low in your tummy. Whatever the reason, the thought of Jungkook as a father, with kids of his own — and worse, the intrusive idea of them being your kids — leaves your face getting all hot.

Still, the thought lingers in the back of your mind, unwanted and insistent. You try to focus on anything else — the hum of conversation in the other room, the clinking of plates — but all you can see is the way Jungkook glances down at her, his love for her so visible it practically glows.

"What's up, bro!" a man exclaims, striding up to Jungkook with an easy grin, pulling him into a tight hug. Jihyun squeals, sandwiched between the two of them.

"Hey," Jungkook greets, patting the man's back with a grin of his own.  

The man’s focus shifts to you, his demeanor softening into something more formal but equally welcoming. His eyes light up with a polite curiosity, and he steps forward, extending a hand. "Hi, I’m Junghyun, Jungkook’s brother."  

You take his hand, matching his smile with one of your own as you introduce yourself. His handshake is firm yet warm, the kind that immediately puts you at ease. There’s a quiet confidence in his manner, one that seems to run in the family.  

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he says, his smile lingering as if he’s sizing you up in the most good-natured way possible.  

“Likewise,” you reply, your voice steady, though there’s a faint flutter of nerves in your chest — meeting Jungkook’s family feels like crossing an invisible threshold.  

Jihyun squirms free from Jungkook's arms, her little body wriggling with determination until she finally escapes his grasp. The moment her feet hit the floor, she reaches for you, her tiny fingers slipping into yours. She tugs at your hand — gently at first, then more insistently — as if she has something very important to show you in the living room.

"Thief!" Jungkook calls after her, feigning offense.

Jihyun only giggles, her mischievous little laugh filling the room like music. She glances back at him with a playful grin before tightening her grip on you and pulling you forward, eager and excited.

She leads you to a cozy spot on the carpet where a toy tea set is laid out, its bright colors inviting. She sits, pointing to the space across from her. As you settle down, your gaze flickers to the woman seated near you. She cradles a baby in her arms, her beauty striking but softened by the warm smile she sends your way.  

“Would you like some tea?” Jihyun asks, her voice carrying the kind of serious charm only a child could muster. She holds up the tiny porcelain teapot with both hands, her expression adorably earnest.  

You play along, grabbing the delicate toy teacup and its matching saucer, holding them forward. “Why yes, I would love some,” you reply, your tone as playful as hers.  

Jihyun’s giggle is pure delight as she mimics pouring tea, her little hands moving with exaggerated precision. You both lift your cups and take pretend sips, the air between you filled with laughter and the sweetness of a make-believe moment.  

The woman beside you watches the scene unfold with a soft chuckle, her baby gurgling quietly in her arms, adding its own tiny contribution to the cheerful atmosphere.

“You’re really great with kids,” she says, her tone sincere and appreciative.  

You glance over, returning her smile with one of your own. “Thank you. I’ve had my fair share of babysitting over the years.” Your gaze flicks to Jihyun, who’s now meticulously arranging plastic pastries on the carpet. “She’s absolutely adorable.”  

“She is,” the woman agrees, a soft laugh escaping her. “Though she can definitely be a handful when she wants to be. But she gets away with it because she’s cute.”  

You chuckle at her playful tone, shifting your gaze to the little one nestled in her arms. “And what about this one?” you ask, nodding toward the baby.  

“Much calmer,” she replies, glancing down at the tiny bundle in her arms with obvious affection. “At least for now. Ask me again when he starts walking — then I might have a different answer.”  

You chuckle, the warmth of the moment settling around you like a cozy blanket. Your gaze drifts to Jihyun, who carefully lifts her teacup to her teddy bear's snout, her tiny hands steady with concentration. The sight tugs at your heart, a soft smile playing on your lips.

"I'm Yeona, Junghyun's wife," the woman says warmly, her smile reaching her eyes as she shifts the baby slightly in her arms.

You return her smile, introducing yourself as Jungkook's girlfriend. The words feel foreign on your tongue, but not entirely unnatural.

"I've known Jungkook since he was a teenager, and I haven't seen him with someone in a long time. I know you're probably tired of hearing this by now, but we're genuinely so happy to have you here."

You tilt your head slightly, a soft warmth spreading through your chest at her sincerity. "Thank you, I'm happy to be here," you reply, your voice gentle but genuine.

The baby in her arms suddenly coos, little arms flailing as his tiny face scrunches up with curiosity. Yeona glances down at him and then back at you. "Do you wanna hold him?"

You blink in surprise. "If it's alright?"

"Of course!" she says, carefully moving to hand him over.

You extend your arms, palms open, as she passes the baby to you. His tiny weight settles against you, warm and soft. He doesn't cry or fuss, his wide, innocent eyes locking onto yours. Instead, he lets out another coo, his small hands curling in the air as if reaching for something unseen.

“Do you want kids?” Yeona asks, her tone casual but curious.  

The question catches you off guard with its directness, especially since you’ve only just met her. Yet, there’s no malice or prying in her voice — just genuine curiosity. It’s a question you realize no one has ever bothered to ask you before. Oddly enough, you appreciate her candor.  

“I do,” you admit, your voice soft but certain.  

“Good,” she replies with a knowing smile. “Because I know he does too.”  

Before you can form a response — before you can explain that you and Jungkook aren’t quite what she thinks you are — Yeona rises gracefully from her spot on the carpet, heading toward the kitchen.  

You exhale, a mix of emotions swirling in your chest. That’s when you feel it: a familiar warmth pressing against your back, a weight that immediately grounds you. A chin rests lightly on your shoulder, and a hand — adorned with tattoos you’d recognize anywhere — reaches forward to gently touch the baby’s nose.  

Just then, the baby in your arms fusses, his tiny hands swatting at Jungkook’s fingers as if to protest the playful intrusion. Jungkook chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. You glance back at him, a playful glare in your eyes.  

“Stop it,” you whisper with mock sternness, shifting the baby slightly to soothe him. But Jungkook only grins, clearly enjoying the little moment.  

The thought of leaving this — leaving them — in a few months presses heavy on your chest. This family dynamic, this love and connection, feels so genuine. And yet, deep down, you know your place here isn’t meant to last.

But the warmth of Jungkook’s presence, the ease of the laughter surrounding you, makes it harder to remember that this is all an act. A role you’re playing, despite how genuine it feels. Despite how often they tell you how happy they are to have you here.

The sun goes down, and the Christmas lights strung all around the house cast a soft, warm glow that dances across the walls. Their gentle twinkle feels almost magical, a comforting contrast to the slight edge of tension creeping into the evening. The dinner hour is drawing near, and with it, Misa’s arrival looms closer.  

But despite the weight of anticipation in the air, Jungkook feels a surprising calmness wash over him — much calmer than he had been just days before. Maybe it’s his niece laughing her lungs away, a sweet distraction that tugs his focus away from the knot of worry in his chest. Or maybe it’s watching you, seamlessly blending into his family like you’ve belonged here all along. The sight of you laughing with his sister-in-law in the kitchen stirs something in him he hasn’t felt in a while — something warm, soft, and a little dizzying.  

His gaze follows you as you make your way toward him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. You settle onto the couch next to him, your closeness becomes all too apparent. Your knees are bent, legs resting lightly on his thigh. His arm stretches out along the back of the couch, hovering just behind your shoulders.  

The space between you is minimal — comfortable in a way that feels almost... intimate. It’s the kind of closeness that real couples share, a moment so effortlessly tender it catches him off guard.  

But he isn’t uncomfortable. Far from it. There’s a quiet ease in how natural this feels, and for a moment, he lets himself savor it. This — whatever this is — doesn’t feel like an act at all.

“Warming up quickly, aren’t you?” Jungkook teases, his big, round eyes glinting with amusement, the soft glow of the lights catching on his lip piercings.  

“Well, I’m considered family here, so I kind of have to,” you joke, giggling softly at the way his eyes widen in mock surprise. “No, but seriously,” you continue, your voice lighter now, “everyone is very nice and welcoming.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it here,” he says, his tone softer, sincerity threading through the words.  

“Me too,” you reply with a gentle smile, a warmth blooming in your chest that you try not to overthink.

Your gaze drops to Jihyun, who is engrossed in her dolls on the living room floor. Toys are scattered all around her, but she's focused on the one in her hand, turning it this way and that. You can't help but smile softly, your attention anchored to her every movement.

Jungkook doesn't look away. His eyes remain on you, not the child or the cluttered mess around her, but you. He watches the way your expression softens, the way a small, unspoken tenderness lights up your features as you watch Jihyun.

And for him, that's all there is. The conversations buzzing faintly in the kitchen, the faint tick of the clock on the wall, even the weight of the evening ahead — it all fades away.

But then your focus shifted. Your gaze lifted from Jihyun to the new arrivals at the door, and instinctively, his followed.  

And there she was.  

Misa.  

Her hair is different now. Gone is the bold cherry red that once defined her vibrant, carefree spirit, the color she wore like a crown in high school. Instead, her hair is sleek and black, the deep shade a striking contrast to the one he remembered so well. It gives her an air of elegance, of maturity, but there’s still something undeniably familiar about her — the subtle tilt of her head, the curve of her lips when she smiles.

She looks older, more refined, yet still unmistakably herself, as if time had simply smoothed out the edges of the girl he once knew so intimately. It’s like flipping through the pages of an old, beloved book, only to find that some of the words have changed. There’s nostalgia, yes, but also an overwhelming sense of uncertainty that settles in his chest, heavy and persistent.

That smile. The same one he loved for years. Those eyes, the ones that once held his world in their gaze. Her politeness, her grace — they’re all still there, but it’s as though everything else is different now. The way she moves, the way she carries herself. It’s familiar, yes, but also strangely foreign, like he’s looking at someone he used to know but hasn’t seen in far too long.

It confuses him. He should be excited. But he’s not. Because this isn’t the Misa he remembers. This is someone else entirely — someone he doesn’t know how to reach.

When she approaches, he stands from the couch, his hand instinctively reaching for yours. You take it, the gesture both reassuring and strange, and stand beside him as she makes her way toward them.

"Hi," she says, her voice soft, but with that unmistakable warmth he’s always known.

It’s a simple greeting, but it hits him like a wave. For a moment, he freezes. The words don’t come as easily as they once did. She’s standing there in front of him, and yet, it feels as if there’s an entire ocean between them.

"Hi," he responds, his voice a little breathless, as if his mind has been running a marathon trying to find the right words to say.

“It’s been a while,” she says, her smile warm, genuine.

He chuckles awkwardly, the sound forced but heartfelt. "It has. How’ve you been?"

“I’m doing good,” she replies, nodding slightly, her expression soft but sincere. There's a certain calmness about her now, an ease that shows in her eyes, and it hits him all at once — she’s doing well. Without him. Without ever needing him. "And you?"

He nods, but the smile doesn’t come. It’s a stiff, practiced motion, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Me too."

Her smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of something in her gaze, something he can’t quite place. It’s fleeting, gone before he can analyze it. Her attention shifts to you then, and for the briefest of moments, he’s left to stand there, caught between the past and the present, unsure of which direction to take.

"Hi, I’m Misa," she says, her tone warmer now as she extends a hand towards you.

You take her hand with your free one, your smile genuine but soft, offering your name as you introduce yourself. Misa’s grip is firm but warm, and she smiles, the edges of her eyes crinkling in a way that reminds you of someone who’s seen the world and learned how to navigate it with grace.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says sincerely, her voice calm but warm, like a gentle breeze that carries a subtle weight.

“You too,” you smile, matching her warmth.

You take a moment to observe Misa as she stands before you, and it’s hard not to admit she’s undeniably beautiful. The way her features seem to fall into place so effortlessly, how her smile is radiant but reserved, just enough to pull you in without revealing everything. It’s easy to see why Jungkook was so captivated by her in the past.

Now, seeing her in person, it’s like the last piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. The woman behind the stories, behind the name that always seemed to linger in his conversations, now standing right in front of you.

It’s almost surreal, meeting her. There’s a strange satisfaction in finally putting a face to the name that you’ve heard so much about. The realization settles over you like a quiet understanding. She’s beautiful, yes, but there’s something else too — a softness, a strength, an elegance that feels like it has been built over years of lived experience.

“Well, I won’t keep you two,” she says with a smile, her voice warm but carrying a certain finality. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” you and Jungkook reply in unison, the words almost automatic, yet carrying their own weight as she turns to greet the others. Her presence lingers in the air, the faint scent of her perfume still hanging in the space where she stood.

Jungkook’s eyes follow Misa as she greets the others with that same effortless charm. But it’s different now. The girl he once knew, the one who filled his thoughts with reckless dreams and laughter, isn’t here anymore. The girl in front of him is someone else — someone more polished, more refined, and maybe a little bit distant. 

He feels it, that ache in his chest, a tug of something he can’t quite name. It’s like he’s mourning the loss of someone, of a version of Misa that only existed in the past. The way she used to laugh, how she would look at him with eyes full of mischief and warmth. That’s the girl he remembers, the one he never thought he’d lose touch with.

But now, the girl who used to be his best friend, the one he could confide in, is standing just a few feet away from him, and he doesn’t know her anymore. Not really. The way she’s carrying herself, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she looks at him — he’s lost that closeness, that ease they once shared. It’s like she's become a stranger wrapped in familiarity.

And it hurts more than he thought it would. He feels it deep in his bones, this shift, this subtle but undeniable change. He thought he was ready for this moment, ready to see her again. But nothing prepares you for the feeling of watching someone you once knew inside and out transform into someone unrecognizable.

Jungkook’s grip on your hand tightens involuntarily, his eyes following Misa as she moves through the room, laughing with the others, her attention elsewhere. His chest feels tight, and the weight of the years spent apart suddenly hits him like a wave. He’s standing here, surrounded by people, but it’s like he’s alone in his own thoughts, trapped in the past he can’t quite shake off.

“You okay?” he hears your voice, soft and gentle. You’re looking at him with concern, and for a moment, it feels like you’re the only thing grounding him in the present.

He swallows, trying to push the tightness in his chest away, but it lingers. “Yeah, just…” He trails off, not sure how to explain it. How do you tell someone that seeing her again feels like losing her all over again? That the version of Misa he’s been holding onto for all these years is gone, and he doesn’t know how to navigate the space between them anymore?

“Just feels… different,” he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as though saying the words out loud will make them too real. And maybe they already are.

The house grows livelier, the comforting scent of homemade food filling every corner.

Mrs. Jeon and Misa’s mom work side by side in the kitchen, their movements fluid and practiced. They bustle around, chopping, stirring, and laughing at the small jokes they share, not letting anyone near their territory. You, eager to lend a hand, tried multiple times to help, but Mrs. Jeon shooed you away with a gentle but firm hand, her eyes twinkling as she insisted you relax and enjoy yourself. 

Meanwhile, Jungkook, his brother, and their father are deep in conversation. Their voices rise and fall in a rhythm that feels so familiar, punctuated by bursts of laughter that echo through the house. Their father’s laughter is loud and boisterous, full of life, as he catches up with his grown sons — talking about everything from their childhood to what they’d been up to since the last time they’d all been together. It’s a rare moment, one that makes the room feel warm and full of love.

You, in contrast, are seated on the floor, a small toy in one hand as you help Jihyun build an impressive block tower. The little one giggles each time you manage to stack another piece, her tiny hands eager to mimic your movements.

Yeona and Misa sit across the room, talking softly between themselves, their conversation a quiet hum against the liveliness of the house. It’s clear they’re speaking about things you don’t fully understand — topics that feel far more mature than anything you’d normally discuss.

They carry themselves with a kind of quiet confidence, a level of poise you’ve always associated with people who’ve been through more than their fair share of life’s ups and downs. There’s a grace to how they both interact, almost as if they’ve mastered this whole adult thing without breaking a sweat.

You can’t help but feel a little out of place. There’s a maturity about them that you can’t quite match, one that makes you feel like you’re not quite there yet — like you’re still fumbling through things they’ve long since figured out. Their conversation, so natural and poised, makes you wonder how much you have yet to experience, how much you still have to learn before you can carry yourself with the same ease.

It’s not that you think they’re better, but there’s something undeniably different about how they present themselves. You wonder if you’ll ever feel as sure of yourself, as poised as they seem to be, or if you’re just going to keep stumbling along, trying to keep up.

"Auntie," Jihyun calls out, her small voice cutting through the noise in the room. You snap your head around, eyes wide, trying to process what you just heard. Did she really just call you that? The word lingers in the air like it doesn’t belong to you, like it's some unfamiliar title you’re not quite sure you deserve.

You stare at her for a moment, trying to make sense of it. Her innocent gaze is fixed on you, her small hand outstretched in an inviting gesture, as though it’s perfectly natural for her to call you that. She tilts her head slightly, her brown eyes full of trust, as she says it again, "Come with me."

A flicker of surprise crosses your face, but there's a warmth growing in your chest that you can’t ignore. Jihyun’s eager smile tugs at your heartstrings, the innocent way she looks at you, as if you’re exactly who she wanted.

You blink a few times, shaking off the surprise, and let a soft smile slip onto your lips. “Did you just call me Auntie?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

She nods enthusiastically, oblivious to the impact of the word, her small face lighting up with joy. “Yes! Come with me, Auntie.”

For a moment, you just stand there, processing her innocent certainty. It’s unexpected, yet there’s something so pure about it. You can’t help but feel a twinge of warmth spreading through you, a connection forming in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Maybe it’s the way she looks at you, or how she’s trusting you in this simple, childlike way.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips. You glance around the room, half-expecting someone to laugh or correct her, but when nothing comes, you realize that, for Jihyun, this just makes sense. 

With a fond smile, you step forward, your heart lighter. “Okay,” you say, taking her small hand in yours, letting her lead you to whatever adventure she has planned.

Her tiny hands wrap around a few of your fingers, tugging you along with her insistent little grip. You let her lead, smiling softly at her enthusiasm as she weaves through the crowd in the living room and drags you toward the kitchen. When you reach the archway that frames the transition between the two spaces, she halts abruptly, turning to you with wide, innocent eyes.

"Stay here," she commands with all the authority a child her size can muster before darting off again.

Confused but amused, you lean against the archway, watching her scurry away. Moments later, she reappears, this time with Jungkook. He's laughing softly, his brow furrowed as he follows her like he doesn't have a choice.

"Nini, what are you doing?" he asks, his voice tinged with playful exasperation.

She doesn't answer, not until she's positioned him squarely in front of you. Then, she takes a step back, clapping her little hands together as though presenting her masterpiece.

"Mistletoe!" she exclaims triumphantly, pointing above you.

Your jaw drops, eyes immediately darting upward. Sure enough, hanging from the archway is a small sprig of mistletoe, placed there at some point in the evening's festivities.

Jungkook chuckles, his laughter low and rumbling. "You sneaky little-" He reaches out to grab her, but she squeals and darts away, her giggles echoing through the house. She runs straight to her grandfather, climbing onto his lap.

Jungkook's dad grins, his hand resting protectively on her head as she peeks out. "It's tradition, guys," he says with a laugh, his tone light and teasing.

"Come on, this isn't appropriate," Jungkook protests, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears are slightly pink, though he keeps his composure.

"Since when were you so shy?" Junghyun teases, his tone light and playful as he watches the scene unfold. There's a mischievous glint in his eyes, clearly amused by his daughter's antics and Jungkook's uncharacteristic hesitation.

"Hyung," Jungkook mutters, his jaw tightening as he throws his brother a sharp look. But it only fuels Junghyun's grin.

"She's just trying to spread some Christmas spirit," Junghyun continues, feigning innocence but failing to hide his amusement.

Jungkook is respecting your boundary, you know he is. He remembers what you said — no kissing.

But standing here, with his eyes flickering to yours, the laughter of his family around you, and the weight of his presence so close, the rule you set suddenly feels... unnecessary.

Your gaze drops to his lips, just for a second, and you realize the thought doesn't terrify you like it did before. Kissing him wouldn't be bad. In fact, it feels like the only thing that would make sense in this moment.

Jungkook clears his throat, his voice quieter when he speaks. "We don't have to-"

But before he can finish, you take a step closer, your arms instinctively finding their way around his neck. His words falter, replaced by a breath caught in his throat, as your lips press softly against his.

The living room erupts instantly — dramatic whoops and cheers filling the air. Jihyun squeals in delight, clapping her hands as if she's just orchestrated the most important moment of the year. Her giggles echo above the noise, the proud little culprit reveling in her success.

Jungkook freezes for the briefest of moments, his body tensing under your touch, as if unsure whether to let himself lean into this. But then, slowly, he softens, melting into the kiss. His lips are soft, warmer than you expected, and there's a gentle hesitance in the way he responds — like he's carefully toeing the line, wary of your boundaries but still allowing himself to savor the moment.

The world seems to narrow to just the two of you, the noise of the room fading into a distant hum. His hand slides to your waist, a light but steady anchor, as if he's holding himself back just a little.

You're the first to pull away, a sudden awareness creeping in as the cheers and playful jeers of the room remind you just how many people witnessed that moment. A kiss like that, even if innocent enough, feels a little too bold in front of his entire family. No one really wants to see their son or brother making out with their significant other.

Jungkook looks at you, his lips pink and slightly swollen, cheeks flushed with heat, and his dark eyes still locked on you like you'd just turned his entire world upside down. The intensity of his gaze sends a wave of warmth through you, but you brush it off with a soft laugh, breaking the tension as you glance toward Jihyun.

"You're a little drama starter, aren't you?" you tease, scrunching your nose playfully at her.

Jihyun, as proud of herself as ever, lets out a delighted squeal and climbs off her grandfather's lap, running away from you before you can reach her. You laugh, chasing after her for a moment, her giggles filling the room as she darts behind her dad for safety.

Jungkook stays where he is, still rooted in place, dazed and a little shell-shocked. He watches as you effortlessly transition from teasing his niece to chatting easily with his family, your warmth radiating in a way that fills the room. You blend in so naturally, as though you've been a part of his world forever.

And that's when it hits him — how easily you've warmed up to everyone, how seamlessly you've become a part of his family's dynamic. He can't help the soft smile tugging at his lips as he watches you, his heart full but uneasy, knowing moments like these are only temporary.

Then his eyes flicker to the reason why you're here. Misa sits quietly on the couch, her posture relaxed as she watches the scene unfold with a faint smile on her lips. Her gaze follows you as you playfully chase after Jihyun, your laughter filling the room. The sight of you, so at ease, so vibrant, draws everyone's attention — even hers.

For a moment, Jungkook feels a twinge of something familiar, something that once drove him to the edges of heartbreak. Seeing Misa here, so poised and serene, was supposed to reignite the ache, the longing for what he once had.

But it doesn’t. And he’s beginning to realize why.

The rest of the night flowed smoothly, a seamless blend of good food, warm laughter, and light-hearted conversations that filled the Jeon household.

Dinner was amazing, every dish perfectly cooked thanks to Mrs. Jeon and Misa’s mom. You sat next to Jungkook at the table, his arm brushing against yours occasionally, a quiet reassurance of his presence. Jihyun had insisted on sitting on your other side, her boundless energy keeping you entertained throughout the meal as she chattered away about everything and nothing.  

But like all good things, the evening eventually wound down. Plates were cleared, leftovers were packed, and the gentle hum of conversation turned into goodbyes. Tomorrow, you and Jungkook would be leaving, heading back to your lives where the pretense of being a couple wouldn’t follow.  

You crouched down to hug Jihyun for as long as you could, her small arms clutching you tightly. The thought of this being the only family event you’d attend, knowing you wouldn’t see her anymore, stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated. She burrowed into your embrace, her sleepy form warm and soft against you.  

Her dad gently took her from your arms, whispering for her to give you one last goodbye. Jihyun’s tiny voice murmured a goodbye before she rested her head on her father’s shoulder, her eyes already fluttering shut.  

You watched as their car pulled out of the driveway, the taillights fading into the darkness. A frown crept onto your face as a quiet sigh escaped your lips. Jungkook’s hand moved to your back, his touch steady and comforting, rubbing slow circles to ease the weight of your thoughts.  

A familiar voice broke the moment. “It was nice meeting you again, truly,” Misa said, stepping closer.  

You turned to her, offering a polite smile. “You too.”  

Her gaze shifted to Jungkook, a subtle hesitation flickering in her expression before she spoke. “Can I talk to you for a second?”  

Jungkook’s eyes immediately darted to you, as if seeking your approval or reassurance.  

“Take him,” you said lightly, flashing a small smile in Misa’s direction before meeting his gaze. “I’ll be upstairs.”  

As you disappeared into the house, the door clicked shut behind you, leaving Jungkook and Misa alone on the porch.  

The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the rhythmic chirping of crickets. Jungkook shoved his hands into his coat pockets, his breath clouding in the chilly night air. Across from him, Misa crossed her arms, pulling her coat tighter around herself in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.  

“I knew this would be awkward, but I feel like… I owe you a conversation. After everything,” Misa starts, her voice tentative, as if she’s unsure whether she’s even allowed to say this.

Jungkook lets out a humorless laugh, his breath fogging in the cold air. “You didn’t think to do this… oh, I don’t know – nine years ago?”  

His tone is laced with sarcasm, but the hurt cuts through it unmistakably. Misa flinches at his words, and for a fleeting moment, guilt flashes across her face, making her look smaller than she usually does.  

“I loved you, Jungkook…” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “But we were so young. It was bound to happen.”  

“No, it wouldn’t have!” Jungkook snaps, his frustration bubbling over. “If you really loved me, you would’ve made it work!”  

Misa’s eyes glisten under the porch light, and her voice trembles as she responds, “You think I wanted to leave you? I couldn’t stop crying for years, Jungkook! But I was seventeen, and I was terrified! Walking away was the best thing for both of us!”  

“It destroyed me, Misa!” he fires back, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “You didn’t do what was best for us. You were just selfish.”  

“Selfish?” she retorts, her voice rising as she takes a step closer. “Jungkook… we were kids! We lived miles apart. How would that have worked? You think it was easy for me to make that choice? It wasn’t ideal for me either, but it was what would’ve made the most sense.”  

Jungkook shakes his head, his hands balled into fists in his pockets. He lowers his gaze to his shoes, his voice softening into a near whisper. “We could’ve made it work…”  

“I’m sorry,” Misa says, her tone laden with sincerity. “I really am.”  

For a moment, silence falls between them, the kind that feels both heavy and oddly freeing. Jungkook finally lifts his eyes to meet hers, searching her face for something he isn’t sure he’ll find.  

“Are you happy?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.  

Misa's lips curve into a small smile, one tinged with both pride and nostalgia. "I am. I recently finished my last year of med school," she says, her voice soft but steady. "It was... tough, but I did it." She pauses, as if letting herself truly feel the weight of her accomplishment before adding, "And... I'm engaged now, so yeah, I am really happy."

Jungkook smiles — a genuine, heartfelt smile that reaches his eyes, yet beneath it lingers something else, something quieter. A twinge of jealousy, not because he believes it should have been him, but because she has moved on while he remains tethered to the past. But despite it all, he is truly happy for her.

"That's amazing," he says, his voice genuine, though slightly hushed. "I'm... I'm proud of you."

“Thank you,” she says, her tone soft. “How about you?”  

His mind races through everything he’s endured since Misa left — the heartbreak, the years of questioning, and now, the realization that he’s no longer the person who once pined for her. “I don’t know…” he finally mutters, his voice distant.  

Misa tilts her head slightly, studying him. “Is she not making you happy?” she asks softly, referring to you.  

There’s no point in lying anymore.

His response is immediate, but it comes with a shake of his head. “We aren’t together.”  

Misa’s eyebrows raise in genuine surprise. “Really?” She crosses her arms, the disbelief clear in her voice. “Could’ve fooled me.”  

Jungkook exhales sharply, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation. "I brought her here because I knew you would be here."

The weight of his confession lingers in the cold night air, his words a reluctant admission of vulnerability. Misa tilts her head slightly, her expression softening as the meaning behind his actions clicks into place.

"Well," she says, pulling her hand from her coat pocket with a subtle flourish, revealing the diamond ring on her finger, "I hate to break it to you, but it didn't work."

Jungkook chuckles under his breath, shaking his head at himself, at the situation, at how ridiculous it all feels now. Misa laughs with him, the tension breaking like the first crack of sunlight after a long storm.  

“She did warn me. I guess I should’ve known better,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.  

“Yeah, probably,” she teases lightly, her smile softening as she looks at him. “But hey… at least you tried.”  

Jungkook nods slowly, his gaze lingering on the door as a faint smile graces his lips. “Yeah… being with her didn’t seem all that bad, though,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Misa.  

Misa smiles knowingly, crossing her arms as she tilts her head. “Go for it,” she says softly. “You deserve happiness too, Jungkook.”  

He lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I just… I don’t want to ruin things between us. What if it’s too much, too fast? What if it’s not what she wants?”  

Misa raises an eyebrow, her tone light but firm. “Well, if rejection is what you’re scared of, I’ll tell you right now — that kiss was anything but friendly.”  

Jungkook chuckles nervously, his cheeks warming as he shakes his head. “You think so?”  

“I know so,” she replies confidently, her smile turning teasing. “Trust me, Jungkook. If you’re even half as obvious with her as you were with me, she knows. And honestly? She probably feels the same.”  

Her words hang in the air, filling him with equal parts hope and doubt. Jungkook glances at her, taking in the sincerity in her expression. For a moment, neither of them says anything, the quiet sounds of the night settling around them. Then, Misa steps forward and wraps her arms around him.  

He returns the embrace, his hands resting lightly on her back. “Thanks, Misa,” he says, his voice muffled against her shoulder.  

She pulls back just enough to look at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You don’t need my thanks,” she replies softly, her tone carrying the warmth of an old friend. Then, with a playful smirk, she adds, “Just don’t mess it up.”  

He huffs a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I’ll try not to.”  

And then, with one last glance at him, Misa steps away. The sound of her heels clicking against the pavement echoes softly in the quiet night as she climbs into her car. The engine hums to life, and within moments, she's driving off into the darkness, her taillights disappearing down the street.

Jungkook exhales, watching as his breath dissipates into the cold night air. The weight he had carried for so long — the lingering feelings of the past, the questions left unanswered — fades, piece by piece. Misa's departure isn't a loss; it's a quiet closing of a door that had been left ajar for far too long.  

He turns back toward the house, the warm glow from the windows beckoning him inside. Jungkook steps through the door, closing it behind him, ready to run toward whatever comes next.

You were upstairs, unwinding from the day. Just as you were about to head to the shower, Jungkook makes his way into the room, closing the door behind him.

"How was it?" you ask, sitting on the edge of the bed, your gaze flicking toward him as he closes the door behind him.

"Good," he says simply, but his tone is distant, as though his mind is somewhere else.

Your brows knit together. "You sure?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his jaw working as if he's chewing over his next words. Finally, he speaks, but it's not what you expected. "Why did you do it?"

You blink, confused. "Do what?"

"Kiss me," he says, his voice steady.

You chuckle softly, trying to lighten the mood. "Everyone was watching us, Kook. And Misa. It would've been obvious if we didn't kiss."

He shakes his head, taking a step closer. "You didn't do it because of Misa, did you?" he says, his tone firm.

You tilt your head, looking up at him, and a small smile curves on your lips. It's playful, teasing, and it's enough to make his heart stutter. That smile tells him everything he needs to know, but still, you say it anyway. "It was just a kiss."

He narrows his eyes slightly, his lips twitching into a smirk. "You said no kissing," he reminds you, leaning in just enough to make the air between you crackle with tension.

"Well, I changed my mind," you reply, your voice light, though there's a hint of something more in it.

"Because?" he presses, tilting his head slightly, his smirk widening as he waits for your answer.

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Because it was easier than explaining why we weren't kissing under the mistletoe."

"Hmm," he hums, unconvinced, taking a step closer. He's so close now that you have to tilt your head further to meet his gaze. "That's the story you're going with?"

"That's the truth," you say, holding his gaze, though your lips betray you with a small, mischievous smile.

His tongue runs across his bottom lip as he chuckles softly. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

"I've nothing to lie about," you say, your voice steady, though the spark in your eyes betrays your composure.

"Yeah?" he asks, his tone low, challenging, as he steps even closer.

You nod, humming softly, your confidence unwavering.

And then, without warning, he crashes his lips onto yours. The kiss is sudden, stealing the breath right out of your lungs, catching you completely off guard. His hand rests behind your neck, pulling you into him.

For a moment, you freeze, your mind racing to process what just happened, but then instinct takes over. Your hands find his chest, gripping his shirt to steady yourself as you melt into the kiss. His lips are warm, insistent but not rough, like he's been waiting for this moment and isn't about to let it slip away.

When he finally pulls back, he's slightly breathless, his dark eyes locked on yours, a smirk tugging at the corners of his swollen lips. "There's no mistletoe. What's your excuse this time, huh?"

You narrow your eyes at him, your breath uneven as you glare at his teasing grin. "Just shut the fuck up already," you snap, grabbing his face with both hands and crashing your lips onto his again.

He barely has time to react, but when he does, his hands grip your waist, pulling you even closer. He smiles into the kiss, that cocky, boyish grin you've come to know so well. It only spurs you on, your fingers tangling in his hair as the kiss deepens, all the tension, teasing, and unspoken words melting away into something neither of you could deny anymore.

"God, you're bossy," he mumbles, his tone playful but laced with something much deeper.

"And you talk too much," you retort, your voice muffled as you kiss him again, determined to shut him up properly this time.

“Do I?” he asks, his voice a low, husky almost-moan against your lips.  

You hum in response, your breath hitching as his fingers trace a featherlight path down your spine. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching, teasing.  

“Yeah?” he asks again, tilting his head, that signature smirk tugging at his lips — the kind that tells you he’s up to no good.  

“Yes, Jungkook,” you breathe, the impatience laced in your voice only making his smirk widen.  

His fingers move to the buckle of your belt, unlooping the strap with agonizing slowness, his knuckles grazing the bare skin of your stomach as he works the metal free. The sound of it sliding through the loops is deliberate, a slow tease, a promise.  

“I should really stop talking then, shouldn’t I?” he murmurs, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your parted lips.  

“Yeah, you should,” you say with a knowing smile, rolling your hips forward slightly, urging him on.  

His fingers move with purpose now, popping open the button of your jeans before dragging the zipper down. His hands, warm and firm, press against your hips as he kneels slightly, hooking his fingers into the waistband and peeling the denim down your legs. The fabric pools at your ankles, leaving you in your underwear, the cool air against your skin a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. 

Jungkook’s grip on your hips tightens as he pulls you effortlessly to the edge of the bed. A soft giggle escapes you, a playful attempt at resistance as you nudge him with your foot, but he catches your ankle with ease. His thumb traces over your skin, a slow, deliberate motion before he dips his head, pressing a featherlight kiss to your ankle.  

The warmth of his lips trails up your calf, each kiss slower than the last. His hands glide along your legs, fingers pressing into your thighs as he moves higher, his breath hot against your skin. A shiver runs through you, anticipation building with every unhurried touch.  

Pausing at the inside of your thigh, he lets his lips linger, the heat of his breath sending a ripple of want through your body. His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear, dragging the fabric down inch by inch, his eyes fixed on you the entire time. The room feels smaller, the space between you charged, heavy with something unspoken but undeniably felt.  

He takes his time, savoring every inch of exposed skin, as if committing the moment to memory. Your body hums under his touch, muscles tensing in expectation. His hands, his lips — every movement feels intentional, like he’s unraveling you piece by piece, without a single word spoken between you.

He leans back in, his lips grazing your skin as he presses another lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, the warmth of his breath ghosting over you and making your muscles tense in anticipation. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you firmly in place as his mouth finally descends, lips parting to taste you without hesitation. 

The first brush of his lips against your clit is teasing, and when he seals them around the sensitive bundle of nerves, the contrast of heat and the chill of his lip piercings sends a sharp jolt through you. A strangled gasp escapes, your back arching instinctively as pleasure pulses through you.

Your fingers weave into his hair, brushing the strands back to get a better view of him. His brows are furrowed in deep concentration, like a man savoring his favorite meal, every movement of his tongue precise, every suck deliberate. His grip on your thighs tightens as if he’s anchoring himself to you, determined to keep you right where he wants you.  

Your thumb traces over the scar on his cheek, a gentle contrast to the heat pooling in your core. “Much better,” you tease, your voice barely above a breath, though the playful lilt doesn’t go unnoticed.  

At that, his gaze flickers up to meet yours, dark and laced with something dangerous. His eyes lower in a silent warning — one you barely have time to process before he hums deeply against your clit, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure straight through you. Your body jolts, fingers tightening in his hair, but he doesn’t let up. If anything, he redoubles his efforts, dragging you even deeper into the fire.

You push your hips further into his face, desperation guiding your movements, and he welcomes it — welcomes you. His mouth works you over with relentless hunger, tongue flicking and curling, lips sealing around your clit with dizzying precision. His nose presses into you, dragging against your cunt with each movement, and you know he probably can't breathe.

But Jungkook doesn't give a fuck.

If anything, he buries himself deeper, groaning as he drowns in you, hands gripping your thighs like he never wants to leave. He's proud, eager, insatiable — wholly unbothered by the thought of suffocating between your legs. If this is how he dies, he'll do it happily.

You throw your head back, biting down on your lip to stifle the moans threatening to spill from your mouth. The pleasure is overwhelming, your body trembling beneath his relentless tongue, but you can't risk being loud — not with Jungkook's parents somewhere in the house.

The walls are thin, far too thin, and the last thing you need is for them to hear what's happening behind this closed door. Your gasps come out shaky, uneven, each one catching in your throat as you fight to stay quiet. But Jungkook isn't making it easy. He hums against you again, the vibrations shooting through your core, and when your fingers tighten in his hair, he only doubles down, eating you like he doesn't care if you get caught.

Despite Jungkook's reckless determination to die between your thighs, his body betrays him. He suddenly pulls away, chest heaving as he gulps in deep, heavy breaths. His face glistens with your slick, flushed from the lack of air and the heat of the moment. His ears burn red, lips swollen and glossy, eyes dark with raw hunger. But he doesn't waste a second — he leans back in, stealing one more kiss from your throbbing core before standing.

His hands go straight to his belt, fumbling in his urgency, fingers nearly trembling as he rips it off. His pants and boxers are shoved down in one swift motion, and his cock springs free — thick, flushed, the pretty pink tip leaking evidence of his arousal. It stands tall, curved slightly, twitching as he wraps a firm hand around the base.

A groan of relief slips from his lips as he strokes himself, his head tipping back for a moment before his gaze locks onto you again, hungry and unashamed.

"That hard from eating some pussy?" you tease, smirking as you watch him.

Jungkook lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as his grip tightens around his cock. "You should be honored. I nearly nutted in my fucking pants doing that." He steps closer, lips curling into a smirk of his own. "Take your shirt off."

You smirk, tilting your head slightly. "You first."

Jungkook huffs out a playful scoff, rolling his eyes, but he listens. With one swift motion, he reaches behind his back, gripping the fabric of his sweater before yanking it over his head and tossing it aside. His toned chest and arms flex with the movement, muscles rippling beneath his inked skin. The sight alone makes your stomach clench with anticipation.

But what really gets you is the way he immediately wraps his hand around his cock again, resuming his slow, deliberate strokes. He's getting harder, impossibly so, the veins along his shaft becoming more pronounced. His eyes stay locked on you, dark and hooded, drinking in every inch of your body like he's imagining all the ways he's about to ruin you.

"Your turn," he murmurs, voice thick with desire.

You take your time, dragging out the moment as you lift your sweater over your head, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air prickles against your skin, your bare shoulders exposed, but your bra still remains, teasing him just enough.

Jungkook's jaw flexes. His thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, spreading the precum leaking from his slit, but his patience is thinning.

"All of it," he commands, voice firm. There's no room for argument.

You reach behind your back, fingers deftly working the clasp of your bra. The moment it unhooks, the straps slip from your shoulders, the fabric going slack against your skin. With a slow, deliberate motion, you pull it off completely and let it drop to the floor, joining the rest of your discarded clothes.

Jungkook's breath stutters. His strokes slow for a moment as his eyes drink you in, dark and full of heat, pupils blown wide with unfiltered desire. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, jaw tightening as he exhales sharply through his nose.

Feeling like a third wheel between Jungkook and his cock, you slip off the bed and onto your knees before him. His brows furrow slightly when you wrap your fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand away from his aching length. His cock twitches in the cool air, glistening with precum, and you don’t hesitate — leaning in, you drag your tongue slowly from the thick base of his shaft up to his flushed, leaking tip.  

A sharp breath escapes him, his chest rising and falling in anticipation. He lets you take control for a moment, but then, instead of letting you simply pull his wrist away, his fingers slide down to lace with yours, gripping your hand in a silent, desperate plea. Your lips part, taking him in, your tongue swirling over the sensitive head before pressing flat against the underside. 

“Fuck… gonna- make me fucking cum already, baby,” he groans, voice thick with pleasure, his grip tightening around your hand.  

But just as he teeters on the edge, you pull off with a wet pop, a teasing glint in your eyes as you look up at him. His cock twitches in protest, a string of spit connecting your lips to his flushed tip.  

“Want you to fuck me,” you murmur, voice laced with need.  

Jungkook exhales a shaky breath, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Yeah?”  

You nod, biting your lip, heat simmering between you.  

His jaw flexes as his eyes darken. “God, you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about fucking you.” His grip on your hand tightens briefly before he lets go. “Get on the bed, baby.”  

Your heart pounds as you stand, climbing onto the mattress, anticipation thrumming through your veins. He doesn’t waste a second — his lips crash against yours, the force of his kiss sending you toppling onto the bed. His body presses flush against yours, a delicious heat radiating between you as he deepens the kiss.

Jungkook pulls away from the kiss, breathless, his forehead nearly touching yours as he looks down between your bodies. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking himself slowly, teasingly, as if grounding himself in the moment. But then, he stills.  

“Fuck, I don’t have a condom, baby,” he murmurs, voice tight with frustration.  

You reach up, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the flushed heat of his skin. “It’s fine,”  

His dark eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching. “You still sure?”  

You groan, your patience hanging by a thread. “Jungkook, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m never talking to you again.”  

He chuckles, before finally giving in. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open as he guides himself forward, the thick, swollen head of his cock pressing against your sopping entrance. He teases you first, dragging the tip through your slick folds, spreading your arousal before finally pushing in with a slow, deliberate thrust.  

A sharp gasp rips from your throat as he stretches you open, inch by inch, your walls clenching around him as they struggle to accommodate his sheer size. The delicious burn of fullness has your back arching, your thighs trembling around his waist as he buries himself deeper. Your nails bite into the inked skin of his shoulder, desperate for something to ground you.  

“Gosh, you’re so big,” you moan, voice breaking as pleasure swirls in your stomach.  

Jungkook groans, his head dropping for a moment before he lifts it, watching the way your body takes him in. His jaw clenches, restraint evident in the way his fingers tighten on your thighs.  

“You can take it,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “I know you can.”  

He presses in further, inch by inch, until he bottoms out, the head of his cock nudging deep inside you. A deep, guttural moan escapes him as he stills, giving you a moment to adjust, his thumbs stroking over your skin in a silent praise.

"Okay, you can move," you whisper, your breath shaky with anticipation, giving him the green light.  

Without hesitation, Jungkook pulls back, the thick head of his cock dragging slowly out of you, the wetness between your bodies creating a squelchy sound that fills the room. He pauses for a breath, then pushes back in, the pressure of his thick shaft sliding into you with a deep, satisfying thrust.  

Your body trembles with each movement, the slickness between you amplifying the sound of him sinking into you, the heat building in your core as his rhythm deepens. His hands grip your thighs tighter, the tension in his muscles visible as he focuses on every inch of you, filling you completely with each stroke.  

He leans down, capturing your lips in a desperate, hungry kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours as his fingers dig into your hips. His lips trail lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, along the sensitive column of your throat, until he reaches your collarbone. He latches on, sucking at the delicate skin, leaving a mark that he knows will be there in the morning.

His thrusts grow quicker, rougher, his grip on your waist tightening as he pounds into you. The bedframe slams against the wall with each movement, the rhythmic banging growing louder, impossible to ignore.

"Fuck," Jungkook grits out, a mix of pleasure and panic flickering across his face. You feel too good — too warm, too tight, too perfect — but reality crashes in. His parents are near, and the thought of them hearing what's happening in the bed he used to sleep in as a kid sends a chill down his spine. Without hesitation, he pulls out, breathing heavily as he grabs your hand. His dark eyes flicker with urgency as he tugs you up. "Get up,"

Confused, you obey nonetheless, your legs still shaky as Jungkook leads you across the room. He drops down onto the chair by his desk, spreading his legs slightly, his dark, impatient gaze locking onto yours. He holds his hands out, palms open, a silent command.

"Come here," he murmurs, guiding you with a tilt of his head.

You hesitate, glancing between him and the chair. "You serious?"

Jungkook huffs, his jaw ticking. "You want my parents to know we're fucking in here?" His fingers flex, beckoning you closer. "Hurry up, babe. A few more bounces, and I got you."

You sigh, but the heat in his eyes makes it impossible to say no. Stepping between his legs, you plant your hands on his broad shoulders for support before straddling him.

His hands immediately find your lower back, one strong arm keeping you steady while the other wraps around the base of his cock, guiding himself against your entrance.

A shudder runs through you as you sink down onto him, inch by inch, until you're seated fully in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you. His grip tightens around your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he takes control, lifting you slightly before helping you bounce on him.

The familiar coil of pleasure tightens in your stomach, overriding everything else — the growing cramp in your leg, the sharp pressure of your knees pressing into the hard wooden chair. None of it matters. All you can focus on is chasing your high, the way his cock fills you so perfectly, the delicious friction driving you closer and closer to the edge.

But Jungkook's attention is elsewhere. His eyes are locked on your tits, mesmerized by the way they bounce with every movement. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he leans in, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth. A sharp gasp escapes you as he sucks greedily, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. His hands slide up your back, pressing you closer, desperate to feel as much of you as possible.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging at the dark strands, while your other hand grips his shoulder for support. His groan vibrates against your skin, sending a shiver straight through you. The heat between you is unbearable, all — consuming, and you know neither of you will last much longer.

Jungkook's hands roam lower, squeezing your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you jolt. He grips both cheeks, spreading them apart as he helps you move, guiding you up and down on his cock with a firm, steady hold.

His own breaths are ragged, his restraint hanging by a thread as he watches you unravel above him.

"Fuck- M'gonna cum!" you whine, your voice breaking, the desperation in your tone making his cock twitch inside you. The pleasure is too much, too overwhelming, and you can't contain your volume.

Jungkook reacts instantly, his mouth leaving your tit as his hand flies up to cover your mouth, muffling your cries before they can slip past the walls. You moan helplessly against his palm as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around his cock in tight, pulsing waves. Jungkook groans, his brows furrowing as he feels you squeeze around him, the sensation almost pushing him over the edge.

"Keep going for me, yeah?" he rasps, his voice thick with need as his fingers dig into the fat of your ass. He thrusts up to meet your movements, the rhythm growing more desperate, more frantic.

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as you hum against his palm, your muffled moans vibrating against his skin. The way he fills you, stretches you, has your entire body trembling.

"Yeah, make me cum, baby," he groans, his head falling back against the chair, jaw clenched tight as he teeters on the edge.

His hand slides from your mouth to your hip, his grip tightening, fingers digging into your skin as he takes control. He guides you faster, his thrusts growing more desperate, more erratic, chasing that final, dizzying high.

Your walls flutter around him, the sensation pushing him closer, pulling him under. His breathing turns ragged, his muscles tensing beneath you as pleasure coils tight in his core.

"Fuck- just like that," he grits out, his hips snapping up to meet yours in a final, desperate push.

A few more bounces, and he breaks, a deep but quiet groan spilling from his lips as he comes, his release shooting hot and deep inside you. His hands squeeze your waist, holding you down against him as he rides out his high, every pulse of pleasure leaving him breathless.

You push his damp hair back from his sweaty forehead, your fingers combing through the strands with gentle care. His chest rises and falls beneath you, still heaving from the intensity of it all.

Leaning down, you press a soft kiss to his lips, slow and lingering, a big difference to the desperation from moments ago. Jungkook hums against your mouth, his hands sliding up your back, holding you close as he melts into the kiss.

When you pull away, his eyes flutter open, laced with exhaustion and something softer — something tender. A lazy smile tugs at his lips as he exhales a satisfied sigh.

"All this over some mistletoe," he teases, his voice still slightly breathless.

"The drama," you drawl, rolling your eyes playfully as you tease him back.

Jungkook chuckles, the sound deep and warm, vibrating against your skin. His arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush against your damp skin, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss there.

His cock softens inside you, but neither of you move just yet. The heat of the moment has faded, replaced by something quieter, something softer. 

“Oh!” Jungkook suddenly exclaims, his eyes lighting up as if he’s just remembered something. “I got you something.”  

You shift off of him, settling on the edge of the bed as he moves to one of the drawers. His movements are purposeful but unhurried, fingers sifting through its contents before he retrieves a long, slender gift box. He turns, extending it toward you with an expectant look.  

“You didn’t have to,” you murmur, meeting his gaze as you hesitantly take the box from his hands.  

“Just open it,” he insists, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.  

With a soft breath, you lift the lid, and your heart stutters. There, nestled inside, is your necklace — whole again. The delicate chain, once broken, gleams under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, looking as flawless as the day it was first given to you.  

Your breath catches, fingers hovering over the pendant before carefully picking it up. “Kook…” you whisper, eyes lifting to his.

“I know how much it meant to you, so I got it fixed this morning,” Jungkook says softly, his voice laced with warmth. “Merry Christmas, baby.”  

Your chest tightens, emotion welling up as you blink back the tears threatening to spill. His thoughtfulness, the effort he put into something so personal to you — it means more than words can express.  

A watery smile spreads across your lips as you rise to your feet, wrapping your arms around his neck. You kiss him, a soft press of your lips against his. Then again. And once more, lingering just a little longer this time.  

You were glad you came. Even if the initial plan to make Misa jealous had failed, it didn’t matter anymore. Because, in this moment, with Jungkook, this might just be the best Christmas of your life.

© voyter 2025, all rights reserved.

[suiana]

yandere! officer who holds a rather high rank in the military. he's proud of it too! i mean, it's the 1800s. how many men do you know that hold the rank of an an officer? and a high ranked one too at that! not many, that's for sure.

yandere! officer who's ALSO your childhood friend. how convenient is that, huh? you would hate it if he was also your fiancé, huh? 😂😂😂 i mean, what an absolute COINCIDENCE that would be... oh yeah, did i mention he was the one who proposed marriage? not your father, not his father. him.

"father, must i really get married to him? he's just my friend!" yet, your words fall on deaf ears as your father merely lets out a sigh and shakes his head. damn it, there's no getting through to him. it's like he's already made up his mind. "I've already told you, he's a good man to marry. you should be happy that such a noble man wants you." yeah, noble status. that's all there is, huh? it's not like you can say anything though. you're just the child of a small no name noble, who are you to reject someone who's highly respected in the military? but hey, at the very least it's your childhood friend that you're close with. you're sure that he just wants your friendship out of this. it's not like he's madly in love with you or anything...

yandere! officer who's definitely in love with you. you don't even have to be a genius to know that, just looking at him will tell anyone and everyone that he's madly enamoured. and as always, everyone but you knows it.

"you love me?" your breath hitches, eyes widening as you feel a warm flush creep up your cheeks. no way... he... likes you? your childhood best friend who's been showing obvious signs of a crush ever since the two of you were kids? "yes... i would think that was obvious by now." his words are flat, face deadpanning at you. despite the exasperation in his tone, his eyes are soft and the corner of his lips are upturned. "you are the only one in my heart, mein liebling."

yandere! officer that has a different side he shows to others and one reserved specifically for you. he only ever bears his heart and soul to you, his future spouse. he could care less for others, you come first and foremost. sure he might have pledged allegiance to the nation but you're his one and only. he'd betray the country if it's for you, throw away everything he's worked for just to make you happy.

yandere! officer who has discovered your... apreciation for his uniform. he finds it interesting to say the least. oh, so you think he looks attractive? he doesn't get what's so good looking about his uniform but he'll gladly wear it more often if you like it so much.

"schatz, i need to change out of my uniform-" "just give me a minute..." your fiancé could only look down in silence as you stared intensely at his attire. you're doing it again. he doesn't even know what you're doing, just staring at his uniform with your pretty eyes and serious expression. he thinks you're appreciating him but he's not quite sure. you never say anything after all. all you do is simply stare quietly. you don't even as much as touch him! "you can... touch, y'know? you don't need to just stare." he sure hopes you do. what he'd give to feel your hands on him... and he's pretty sure you want to touch him too. or maybe you want him to touch you? "can i?" "of course you can. we are to be married anyway." "nah... i think I'll just... look..." man. looks like he's going to be just standing here for a while, huh? oh well, as long as you're happy. it's not like he has anything better to do anyway.

[felassan]

David Gaider: "If I really dig into my empathy, I can kinda see the thinking here. Like, let's say you don't actually know much about games. You're in a big office with a bunch of other execs who also don't know much about games. What are they all saying? "Live games do big numbers!" "Action games are hot!" Your natural response? "We should make more action games, and all our games should have live service!" Cha-ching, right? Then some uppity devs spoil your buzz by saying "that doesn't apply equally to all games" or "we have an established IP with an audience that has certain expectations". You frown. You go look at their sales. Good, sure, but not as spectacular as live service and action games! Profit's great, but what's the point if you're not #1 in the charts? If you're not making headlines? If the devs can't make it work, this is THEIR failure. This, after all, is the future of gaming! Eventually, you're going to ask yourself why we (the company) even bother with those other games. Like single player games. It's a question you've asked aloud before. The fans bristle, but you're not here to supply every audience what they want. You're here to make money and increase share value. Maybe I'm being unkind. There are certainly all sorts of lessons a company could learn from a game like Veilguard (I still haven't played it, so I'm going off what other people have said), but "maybe it should have been live service" being the takeaway seems a bit short-sighted and self-serving. Not that there's any shortage of that, when it comes to deciding why a game doesn't do well. For the anti-woke crowd, for instance, there are woke games that do well and woke games that do poorly and only the ones that did poorly did so *because* they were woke. Says more about them than the game. My advice to EA (not that they care): you have an IP that a lot of people love. Deeply. At its height, it sold well enough to make you happy, right? Look at what it did best at the point where it sold the most. Follow Larian's lead and double down on that. The audience is still there. And waiting. ❤️" [source thread]

--

User: "Maybe they can sell the IP to Larian. Or someone else who would treat it respectfully." David Gaider: "I suspect Larian is, smartly, done with working on third-party IP. You do all that work, and the IP overlords do little more than dictate the minutiae and make your life difficult and then you have to cut them a huge slice of the proceeds too? Not a lot of studios are going to bite THAT hook. [source] I know you said SELL the IP, but there's no way EA will relinquish its hold on an IP that could potentially do big numbers. In their ideal world, a studio takes it on, does all the work, and they rake in the cash. Giving up that kind of potential would require BIG money... and who would buy it?" [source]

[gf2bellamy]

lipgloss — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you leave a lipgloss mark on spencer's cheek content warnings: nothing a/n: i malfunction when i see glasses spencer

You let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping forward as you rested your chin on your hand. Across from you, Spencer sat at his desk, completely engrossed in his work, the soft scratch of his pencil against paper filling the otherwise quiet bullpen. His brows furrowed in concentration as he made notes in the margins of his case files. 

“Spencer,” you whined, drawing out his name. “Do you think Hotch would say anything if I just went home?” 

Spencer glanced up at you, his honey-brown eyes softening the way they always did whenever he looked at you.

“I think he might,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But you could always say you weren’t feeling well. Technically, boredom is a form of mental fatigue.” 

You let out another sigh, this one even more dramatic. “I’m just so bored,” you groaned, dragging out the last word. 

Spencer’s lips twitched in amusement before he returned to his notes. You stared at him for a moment, then perked up as an idea struck you. 

“I’m gonna make myself a coffee,” you announced, standing up and stretching. “Do you want one?” 

Spencer shook his head with a small smile. “No, that’s okay. But thanks.” 

He picked up his pen, going right back to his work. You lingered for a second before stepping closer to his desk, your lips curling into a small, mischievous smile. With no one else in the bullpen, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

Spencer froze. His pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling across the desk. His head snapped up, his face already turning an unmistakable shade of pink. 

Your smile widened. “What?” you teased, tilting your head. 

“You—” He blinked rapidly, his blush deepening. “We’re at work.” 

“And?” You arched a brow, feigning innocence. 

Spencer opened his mouth, then shut it, clearly searching for a response. Finally, he huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head before picking up his pencil again. 

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but the small, fond smile on his lips gave him away. 

You grinned. Mission accomplished. 

You made your way to the break room, yawning as you prepared yourself a much-needed cup of coffee. The scent of freshly brewed caffeine filled the air, and just as you reached for a mug, you heard loud voices echoing from down the hall. 

Garcia and Derek. 

As you poured your coffee, you caught snippets of their conversation—mostly Derek chuckling about something Garcia had said, followed by her dramatic gasp. They had obviously just come back from their little break.

By “little break,” they meant sneaking off to grab food somewhere without telling anyone. Classic. 

Once your cup was full, you wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, only to immediately flinch and mutter a curse under your breath. Too hot. You blew on it a few times before deciding to just endure the heat, making your way back to the bullpen. 

The second you stepped inside, you were met with two pairs of wide, mischievous eyes locked onto you. 

“Oh my god, it is hers,” Garcia said, practically vibrating with excitement. 

You froze mid-step, raising an eyebrow. “Uh… what?” 

Your gaze flickered between them and Spencer, who was now sitting at his desk, very clearly avoiding eye contact. His ears were turning a suspicious shade of pink. 

Slowly, you walked over to your desk, setting your coffee down as you eyed them warily. Garcia and Derek were standing on either side of Spencer’s desk, arms crossed, looking like they had just cracked some kind of case. 

“Okay,” you said cautiously, dragging the word out. “Why are you all looking at me like that?” 

Silence. 

Spencer, still blushing, pretended to be very, very interested in his paperwork. Garcia and Derek, on the other hand, exchanged a knowing glance before Derek let out a low chuckle. 

“You sneaky little thing,” he teased, shaking his head. 

“What are you talking about?” You sat down slowly, still staring at them like they’d lost their minds. 

Garcia gasped dramatically. “Don’t play innocent! We know what you did.” 

Your heart skipped a beat. “What—?” 

Derek smirked, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just won the lottery. “Your lip gloss.” 

You blinked. “What about my lip gloss?” 

As if on cue, your lips instinctively pressed together, feeling the slight tackiness of the gloss you’d applied earlier. Garcia let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head. 

“You left a mark,” she said dramatically. “A very clear mark, right on Dr. Reid’s cheek.” 

Panic surged through you. 

Your eyes darted to Spencer, then to Garcia and Derek, then back to Spencer again. He was already looking at you, and now it all made sense—the blushing, the way he had been avoiding your gaze, and the way Garcia and Derek were practically bouncing with glee. 

Oh. Oh god. 

You leaned in slightly, taking a closer look. And there it was. A faint but unmistakable pink smudge on his cheek. 

Spencer huffed, finally speaking up. “She’s not letting me wipe it off,” he accused, nodding toward Garcia. 

Garcia gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Excuse you, Doctor! It’s called preserving evidence.” 

Derek chuckled. “Yeah, man. We gotta document this. It’s not every day you get physical proof that you two are—” 

“Shh!” you hissed, eyes widening as you quickly glanced around the bullpen. 

Your relationship with Spencer was still a secret, and the last thing you needed was someone overhearing this conversation. You shot both Garcia and Derek a glare, but they were absolutely thriving off of your reaction. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Derek teased. “It’s just us.” 

You turned back to Spencer, who was looking at you expectantly, silently pleading for help. With a sigh, you grabbed a napkin from your desk, stepping closer to him. His eyes flickered to yours as you hesitated for just a second before reaching out, gently swiping at the mark on his cheek. 

His skin was warm beneath your touch. 

You tried to focus, but you could feel Garcia and Derek’s eyes burning into you. 

“There,” you murmured, inspecting his face. The lip gloss was gone, but his blush? Very much still there. 

Garcia clapped her hands together. “Awww, that was adorable.” 

Derek grinned. “Man, if y’all think you’re still fooling anyone—” 

Spencer groaned, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Can we please move on?” 

Garcia waved him off. “Fine, fine. But just know—this isn’t over.” 

She and Derek finally turned away, giggling to themselves as they walked off, no doubt already plotting their next round of teasing. 

You sighed, rubbing your temples before glancing at Spencer. He still looked flustered, but there was a small, barely-there smile on his lips. 

“You okay, genius?” you asked softly. 

He nodded, exhaling as he glanced at you. “You know they’re never gonna let this go, right?” 

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “Yeah. We’re doomed.” 

Spencer chuckled, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile too. 

Even if Garcia and Derek were onto you, at least work wasn’t boring anymore. 

[summertiide]

hence nothing remains except for our regrets

sometimes you just gotta smash your interests together like playdough!!! here's the Great God Grove gods in OFF's style!

shoutout to @weirdalchemy for the sketch of Huzzle Mug's pose and a ton of help in working out the other ones!

the full-sized + unsprited sketches / some assorted rambling under the cut!

turning them into little 200px max sprites lost some of the detail i really enjoyed on some of them (thespius basically lost all of his hair flowers, and bauhauzzo lost a few nice rock-chipping details i was super fond of u_u), so i figured i'd include my sketches also!

a few extra design notes from while i was trying to figure everything out

i wanted to keep Miss Mitternacht really simple, and tried to lean into the early-game boss sort of look! (i was also trying to remember how to get the sketchy-pencil texture to translate into the smaller versions, oops)

Cobigail and Inspekta were the first ones i thought of when i decided to make all of them! Cobigail's jumpscare face was an instant pick, even if i lost all of those extra little lines in the spriting process

drawing typewriters is a nightmare. people who draw Click Clack all the time at his typewriter are stronger than i could possibly imagine

i got stuck on Thespius for a while, and he was the second to last one i finished - he's a lover, not a fighter!!! i wound up sort of trying to take an angle similar to Sugar's in OFF, an optional boss who you have to deliberately go for (i have this distinct vision in my mind of a boss track for him called "Swansong")

Bauhauzzo is meant to look kind of stuck in the ground, like an obelisk!

Inspekta was taken for sort of a "busted doll" look, from that bit in the art book where they said he was animated to "move like a plushie"! he was my favorite of the bunch to work on, even if the hands were kind of a Situation

it was kind of a bummer that more of King's eye-veil didn't turn out in the sprite, but i couldn't quite find a way to make it show up without making it hide her face too much! people drawing her posing with the sword was a huge source of inspiration, though, it just felt right

i might do more of these sometime soon - maybe the Bizzyboys as a sort of group fight? i also thought about doing a Godpoke Batter type of look but i couldn't quite figure out how to finagle that, but i may try again later on!

[dilf-docs]

My Baby's Fit Like A Daydream

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: your relationship is finally out to the world. now, pedro and you will explore what it feels like to have your love out in the open.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, FLUFF, the empire of bad humor strikes again, hurt/comfort bc all roads lead back to angst, a brief mention of bodyshaming, this is lowkey pwp my bad, dirty talk, fingering, p. in v., bathroom sex ijbol, exhibition kink (they be fucking everywhere but in a bed), degradation kink (he calls her a slut twice), the one and only creampie (twice), so naturally: breeding kink, ALSO pls stop the husband!pedro reqs, i beg. a delulu girl can only take so much 💔

word count: 10,991 words

side note: not one but two requests to be fullfilled! this is as a sequel to call it what you want. also, spam time: i happen to write in wattpad as well, and i have a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) but it's on spanish tho. if u speak the language and would like to tune in, read it here AND spam again but speaking of the ptwt dynamic, why don't we become moots? check my (new) stan twitter account here (i had one in 2022 that i had since 2016 but entered a crisis and deleted it lol)

part: I/II

The news had spread like wildfire.

As soon as you hit the red carpet, hand on hand, rings finally on display―shining under the spotlight, your phone had been blowing up nonstop: every show, podcast, tabloid, news outlet and social media had been talking about it. California had turn into an easter egg playground; everyone was eager to know it all.

(They had found the church where you married, the dress boutique, jewelry shop where Pedro bought the rings―the employees ratted him out, even sharing pictures of the moment, your husband posing with them without knowing of the future treason. They too had found the place where the reception took place, and even the name of the priest who had married you, but he refused to give the hungry press any details. God Bless)

In short, it had been a hell of a week. You figured dissapearing for a while was for the best, but with some interviews still left, that option had been discarded. Still, doesn't mean you couldn't retreat for a couple of days to the tranquility of your home while it was time to show up again. Well, as peaceful as it could get, since reporters were camping near your house and roaming around Hollywood Hills like vultures; the neighbour's nagging was just another layer of problems in your shit cake.

"I'm sorry, Louis. Walks will be postponed for a while" you talk to your cat, but the lazy bastard just stretches and lays down again. "Yeah, I can see you're affected. Don't cry"

"It's not the cat's fault" Pedro emerges from behind, "don't take it out on him"

He takes a sit next to you, two mugs in hand. He gives you the one with a chocolate steam, a souvenir he bought when you visited your home country last summer. You wonder if that's a trip you'll ever be able to make again.

"I'm not. Just- It's horrible that I can't even go outside my own house and walk the same roads I've walked in four years because the press is hidden with cameras in, I don't know, bushes!" you exclaim, quiet rage carried within your words. "It's unfair, really. All I want is to walk my damn cat without a flash up my ass"

Pedro nestles his face in your neck, nose carressing the skin. Giggles leave your lips, the sensation ticklish.

"It'll pass. It always does" he says, voice assuring, probably because he's used to the violation of privacy, but you're not. Getting bigger, is this the price to pay for making a name for yourself and claiming out loud who you love?

"I hope so" you murmur above the quietness of your home, a sound as eerie as fake, devoid of it's tranquil nature as a world of invasion awaits outside.

"Do you trust me?" Pedro speaks, voice unwavering. He holds your gaze, steady brown challening your shaky orbs.

"I do" you speak up, yet you wish you could believe it. You believe in him, there's no question to that, but do you believe in yourself? That the love you'd put out to the world would be treated with the same care and respect you have treated it in secret? For a fleating moment, you miss the secrecy.

"Then trust me this will be over sooner than expected" he presses a kiss to your lips, soft and sweet, feeling remanents of chocolate he licks away, as you mockingly yell ¡Qué sucio! but it's devoid of malice. "In time, this will become another anecdote we'll share with our kids, and laugh with our grandkids when we get older"

You smile, feeling tears in the corner of your eyes. Oh, doesn't he turn you into a pathetic sappy wife?

"Well" you sniffle, giggling to push back the tears away. "About the old part..."

He playfully kicks your side. "Uno ya no puede ser romántico, que le salen con estas cosas. Your generation could use some respect, you know?" (one can't simply be romantic anymore)

Pedro gets up, picking the mug from your hands as both rings brush together, the gold shinning under the morning Californian sun.

"And your generation could take a joke" you quip, lips curled up like you hadn't in weeks.

"Very funny, y/n. Thought you loved me" but then he's pressing a kiss to your temple like kissing you once isn't enough, promising to return after washing down the mugs.

"I do!" you shout to his dissapearing broad frame as he enters the kitchen, and he playfully makes a dissmissing move with his palm.

The laughing dies when your phone chimes next to you.

You shouldn't really, but the curiosity that draws you in is as intense as a magnet. The phone burns on its position, screaming for you to open it, despite being told by your husband that the best was choice was to ignore it until the buzz had died down, but you're afraid the turmoil isn't nowhere to be finished. Comments can be mean, he'd said, they can hurt you. Pedro said he'd learn with time to ignore it, but he was experienced. You weren't, so naturally, as your husband and protector, he wanted to shield you from the pain.

Although, both of your fandoms had been pretty supportive of your relationship, some user even claiming to suspect it, making threads full of easter eggs and connections that validated the theory which was now a reality. I've connected the dots, followed by pictures of you sharing wardrobe, slips on interviews, similar backgrounds in your posts across social media, and of course, the two Gladiator Ii interviews. Many resorted to making edits or screaming over your pictures in the premiere, demanding for more content you had yet caved in to share (there was a gigantic carpet of evidence sitting heavy in your cloud).

So, in a way, this support made it hard for you to truly dimension the hate Pedro warned you about: all you saw was fans being happy and showering you with love, making paparazzi to be the only problem as for now.

That's it.

You cave in, turning the phone on as you bite your lip, searching first your Instagram: a bunch of new followers, many with variations of ispunk on their usernames, as well as a swarm of comments on your recent posts. There's a small voice in your head telling you to turn away, but your thumb moves without thinking, clicking on pictures of the red carpet―a carrousel of you and then a picture of you both at the end, one fans had been gushing about the last couple of days, rings on display, practically up their noses. You were smiling, and Pedro was looking at you fondly, his other hand holding Lux but his gaze never leaving yours; he was too perfect to be real―yours.

You unconsciously smile at the captured moment, love obvious on your faces, so you open the comments, thinking it would be the same support or love radiating of the comment.

But boy, weren't you wrong?

It was all the same, support lost between waves of hate. Variations of bodyshaming, age shaming and even gold digger claims were on full display across the comment section. "She's ugly" "In it for the money, am I right?" "I thought Pedro had better taste, lol" "She got the role in Gladiator II because of nepotism. Or cocksucking" and then a cruel answer that read "Right, threesome with Ridley. Ew, what a whore!"

Worst of it all, some even had Pedro profile pictures, or usernames and accounts dedicated to him.

Your heart was beating like crazy, chest heavy and hollow, face red with emotions you couldn't quite place (embarrasment? fear? rage? sadness?) as you kept searching across Twitter*, doing a quick skim of the trendings that included you. The same hate speech pattern was all over the timeline, some betting for divorce in a couple of years (even months!), while others took their time dissecting your looks and relationship. As if they knew. Long gone were the edits and harmless threads: the hate wave was here to stay. Some where even being a bit racist, the irony of it all, being Pedro himself was latino and didn't shy away from it, rather proud as he didn't miss an opportunity to shot out his dear Chile. Or any social issue, as a matter of fact, very vocal on his political beliefs.

This was fucking ridiculous, and if the cameras were an issue, this swarm of negativity is what really took a toll on you, the flashes as you went grocery shopping now barely a scratch. No, this was worst. All you wanted to do was cuddle in a blanket while wearing one of Pedro's shirts and dissappear. Too much noise. Too much hate. You can feel it creeping up your body, tainting your soft curves, wrinkles, acne scars and face. It's like rough hands, tugging harsh, ripping your vocals because you can't scream; no words to express this pain.

You knew one day it would come, but never imagined the hurt and to what extent people were capable of. Cruelty. Dissecting your life and body like it was a show for them to be entertained: your marriage was a circus and your body a joke.

It hurt their condescending dismiss of your love, questioning as if the gap were only numbers and not a pillar of your relationship that made you and Pedro closer, despite the bridge in age. You were reduced to a middle-age crisis, and he to a filthy man pinning for a younger girl. Your body was turn apart, despite no real flaws existing. Humans are meant to be so, not perfect, but real, and that was the problem: you had turn into an object―a target for their dards to pierce through.

Your body shakes violently with cries, deafening your ears that you don't hear when Pedro walks in.

"Why are you crying?" he rushes to your side, panic on his voice. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

You barely manage to shake your head, and then his eyes scan all over your features, until they land on the phone on your hands. The worry turns to anger as he asks:

"You looked at them, didn't you?"

He isn't yelling, but it would be better if he did. This contained fury, fading into dissapointment, as if you were a naive child scolded by their parents makes you feels small and stupid, as if you knew no better.

"I'm sorry-" you manage to choke out among tears, "I know you told me-"

"I told you" he interrupts, words laced with wrath, "so this wouldn't happen. See what happens?"

"Why are you talking to me like it's my fault?" you yell, and Pedro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. "I didn't ask to receive all this! Do I deserve the death threats, shame and hate?"

He walks past you, and it's like a slap to your face. Was he going to behave like this? Didn't it matter how you felt, or was it something childish that could be brush to the side like nothing? Insecurities you hadn't even think of come crashing down on you, doubts creeping up and attacking you from all sides. It's horrible. You try to hold onto the good memories, praying you don't loose him. You can't. You just can't.

"Answer!" you demand, tears spilling like a broke dam.

"I was just closing the windows. Or do you want to fuel the talk, huh? Give the hungry hoard more to bite?" Pedro then stands to hold your gaze, and you hate that you can't place his emotions. Anxiety corrodes your brain: was this really the beginning of the end?

"Do I?" you dare to speak up, and even if its loud, it comes out drowned, the exhaustion from the emotional turmoil taking its toll on you. "Do I deserve it?"

"No, you don't, carajo!" Pedro bursts. "You don't deserve any of that, which is why I didn't want you looking at those things!"

He sighs, realizing the anger is misdirected.

"I'm sorry"

Your broken wails are the only thing to be heard. He hates himself for being a part of it, even if not the biggest.

"No, I'm sorry for being so stupid" you sob. "I-I just wanted for people to be as happy for us as I am with you"

"Come here" but he's the one cutting the space to embrace you.

His scent calms a part of you, body still rocking with violent shakes.

"You're not stupid. Nor ugly, or any of those things people are calling you. No, mi amor. You're beautiful, smart and talent. They fail to realize I'm the lucky one. So please, don't be hard on yourself, yeah? I can't bear to see it. Less if I know it's not true. You didn't ask for it; you don't deserve all that bullshit"

He presses a kiss to your temple, arms that hug you tighter holding you close close up to the point his heartbeat melts within your own.

I won't let you go. You won't fall as long as I got you.

"We'll get through this, yeah? Think of the future, and what's to come. It's hard, that I know, but let us enjoy the moment. Life is too precious to waste it away" he brushes stray tears with his thumb, softly and full of love that words aren't enough to express. "I'm here" the out loud, "and I'm not going anywhere. That's a promise"

Later that day, Pedro posts a carrousel of unseens, even one of your wedding (a video of your first dance), telling people to leave you alone. That he loves you, and that no malicious news, fans or comments will ever change that―suck it energy laced within his rageful statement.

Safe to say, in the next weeks, hate is barely a small voice whispering in the back of your neck, one that hushes down with each kiss and/or words uttered by your one and only devoted husband.

mandoshoney: y/n protection squad pull up, we ride at dawn starlightt180: unhing3dprincess WHERE ARE U??? PTWT IS IN SHAMBLES AND NEEDS U MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAA elysyannemimi: i feel like a kid scolded by their dad. pedro has achieved the ultimate daddy status bobgirlll: is no one going to talk about how rageful/protective pedro sounded in that story????? NEED MORE FERAL PEDRO RN GRRrrrr ps. photos so cute, wish that was me lol pyramiidsf: i hope y/n is okay, ppl can be so cruel sometimes but at least she's got pedro on her side <3 he's such a perfect man :,)

It had been days since your fight.

In an sweet attempt to cheer you up, Pedro had taken you out for dinner to a fancy restaurant you can't remember the name of. If they'll snap pictures of my wife without my permission, I might as well show you off. So, per his petition, you had wore a little black dress that hugged every curve of your body perfectly and pushed your tits to the top. Stunning, he had growled, and it had been hard to push him off as he devoured your mouth in your house's doorstep.

"Let's give them talk" you had agreed.

So now you sat at the restaurant, Pedro filling your cup of wine for the third time in a row, talking about all and nothing: about politics, the weather, your siblings, Louis the cat, upcoming gigs around your home you wanted to go to, how support had risen and the hate had dwindled, the numerous calls of job offers and interviews to keep on milking your relationship... life had never been more hectic.

"You know, maybe the dress was a bad idea" he takes a bite of his meat, tone nonchalant.

"Yeah?" you challenge, cheeks flushed with alcohol, "why's that? I thought I had to look good. What changed your mind?"

"Turns out" he looks at you, gaze piercing through your body, brown warm eyes darkening, "I figured something"

You know your husband. It's still fresh in your mind the first day you took a notice of it: jaw clenching, gaze fixated at nothing and white fists balled up on to the sides, arms swinging while fingers itched. A vein on his forehead would pop, and brows would melt together in a furrow. It happened when you got recognized by a fan, on your early days, and he had taken a picture of you, uploading it to social media. Dating Pedro had been going on for little to five months, and the way this guy hugged you from behind, hand resting above your ass, had made your then-boyfriend see red. His posture stiffened, demeanor changed and face adquired all the characteristics above. There was only one correct answer: Pedro was jealous, so fucking jealous.

So here he is now, jealous to the bone, alcohol increasing the rage.

"And that is?" you push his buttons, something you normally wouldn't do, but you're drunk and God, so sex-starved. His possesive side was always hot, yet now? It had a layer of allure it didn't have before, the idea of calming him down long lost.

"You know what it is" he answers, but you tilt your head to the side, acting confused. Pedro growls, clenching the glass a bit too tight; you fear it'll break.

"No, I don't" you serve more wine in your glass, savouring the liquid. Some spills into your mouth, and you lick it while not breaking eye contact. "Enlighten me"

"Turns out" the words come out strained, a whirlwind of emotions burning in the tip of his tongue, "that I wanted people to look at my wife, but I looked their looks and realized I don't like how they look at her"

He rambles the words out, speech pattern slurred and ideas clashing into one another, clearly drunk.

"I see" you draw out, demeanor calm, but your panties have started to get wet.

"No" he hits the table, making your eyes go wide and people turn to your table. You should be embarrased, but you're only aroused. "You don't see what I see. And I hate it, I fucking hate it" he seethes, words spit out over your unfinished meal.

"Dessert?" the waiter appears from seemingly nowhere, menu on hand.

Pedro doesn't even look when he answers, "Sure. Bring your best"

"The chef's suggestion is Soufflé, a classic dessert from his country"

"That'll do" Pedro looks at you, but his brain seems to be somewhere else. Like he's thinking. "How long will it take?"

The waiter ponders the answer, yet doesn't think any weird of it.

"About twenty to thirty minutes. Would that be alright? Or would you prefer to switch to one of our quick-fixes? They're as delicious as our fresh and-"

"No" your husband interrupts, eyes shinning with something akin to dangerous. "We'll take the soufflé. Just want my wife to eat the very best"

The waiter smiles. "Sure, will be back in a few. More wine?"

Pedro stops the action, removing the bottle's neck from pouring more red liquid in your glass.

"Won't be needed"

They excuse themselves, leaving both of you alone. The restaurant bubbles with chat and instrumental music from a band playing on a corner, but all you hear is his heavy breathing and your heart.

"I wanted more wine" you pout, not even knowing why you said it.

He smiles devilishly. "I'll give you something better than that"

How does it happen, you have no idea, but then Pedro gets up with a brash move, chair making a sound that draws attention. He smirks, his auburn reflecting on the candle glowing in the center with a light that's menacing.

"I'm going to the bathroom" an announcement that feels like a threat that runs through the newfound tension; it could be cut with even a butterknife.

You sit there in silence, too stunned to speak. Your phone chimes in what feels like an hour (it's been a few minutes, probably three). You open the notification, a single text from Pedro.

I'm waiting.

So this was his plan all along, huh? Maybe he's gotten bored of sex on a bed and room like normal couples, because ever since that time you sucked his dick in his trailer, Pedro has shown an appetite for public sex. Well, more like just shown but never done. Guess that changes as of tonight.

I'm coming.

Truth is, after the reveal and fight, you hadn't had sex since that time before the London premiere. Press tour hadn't finished, and the movie was still playing in theathers, but it feels much longer the time you had gone without having his dick rearranging your insides. That changes as of tonight.

You practically leap out of your sit, rushing to the restroom, which is too fancy for your liking. You're unsure how to proceed, and it should be because you realized how stupid and reckless this is, but it's more because you don't know which door Pedro is behind: men or women.

You knock softly on the ladies room first. "I'm here" you speak, voice small.

After a few seconds, a muffled voice from behind replies: "Me too"

You giggle as he pulls you inside, mouth devouring yours in a hot kiss.

"The lock!" you squeal, yet Pedro is busy buring his face between your breasts, pulling the dress down until he's nipping at the skin before licking the spot with his tongue. Your back is pressed against the tiled white wall, cold meeting your now heating skin.

"Mmm, missed this" he mumbles in a drunken state. "Needed my girls so bad"

His words elicit a moan out of you, a way to comunicate that your body too had been aching for this.

"Please, Pedro-" you whimper, trying to get rid of the pretty dress. He doesn't say it, but his movements command for power, big hands dragging your dress down until the black cloth falls to the floor in a sound filled with grace, it feels merciful.

"Black panties? But I thought I was a man with a plan" he groans, calloused digits ghosting over the wet patch in the middle. He smells your arousal off his fingers, and this is so nasty but you're so into it.

"Two can play" is all you answer, eager fingers unbuckling his belt as you unbutton the formal pants and pull them down to his knees, so with his underwear.

"Sure thing" he chuckles darkly. "Just look at you, baby. So loud, but you gotta be quiet. ¿Quieres que alguien entre y te vea así? Fucking slut, begging for my cock" (do you want someone to come in and see you like this?)

He's always been sweet-talking you through sex, and you know he doesn't mean it aside from being lewd words, but you also didn't know you could be aroused by it. Change is welcome, to say the least.

His hard dick is immediately stroking at the apex of your thighs, like he's got no time to loose, kissing you roughly like he hasn't eat and your mouth is his meal.

"Twenty minutes" he grumbles, groaning.

"Or thirty" you add, whining when his cock brushes dangerously close to your dripping folds.

"Can't believe you're this wet already" he chuckles, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh, lost in the inside of your mouth.

"I've been wet since before we left the house and you kissed me"

"And I kissed you" he adds. "No sé ni por qué putas te traje si sólo quería quedarme en casa y comerte" (i don't know why the fuck i took you out if all i wanted was to stay at home and eat you out)

You moan at his dirty mouth, clicking your tongue as a way to say so.

"You dirty old man-" it dies in your throat when he glides inside your folds with ease, a finger slipping in, then two, as he curls them. Your head rolls back, landing against the door with a hollow thud.

"Dirty? But you enjoy this, don't you?" his fingers buried up your hilt. Your eyelids flutter, whimpering drowned by your lips, bitten so deep you think you start to taste blood. "Bad news, mami. You're as dirty as me"

You choke in your words. "No-"

"No what?" Pedro mocks, sliding his digits out of you and shoving them inside his mouth, sucking on them while looking at you. You whine at the display and loss of them, knowing he's tauting you for fun. "Don't tell me you don't want someone to come in here and see you acting like a dirty slut? To see you almost coming here and now with just two of my fingers"

"Fine. What if I want to, huh? Just give me your damn cock already and quit teasing"

Words were lewd, but Pedro smiles with adoration.

"That's my girl"

His length springing free to slap against his now smooth stomach, your mouth drooling.

"Sit"

He glares back, "in the toilet?"

"Well, do you happen to see a couch or bed?" you quip. "That's right: you were the one who chose the bathroom, desperate old man. So needy, aren't you?"

You see your husband turning around, ashamed, and you laugh. "I didn't think it through" and you avoid to add a that's quite obvious snarky type of reply.

"Want me as much as I do?" Pedro doesn't protest anymore, grunting some spanish curses before sitting on the cold surface. "Good. Then comply"

You swing a leg over his lap, not afraid if the thing breaks, dragging your wet folds against his cock. He moans, gripping your thighs hard, biting at your lower lip to hide a growl that seems to erupt from deep within his chest.

"Gonna ride you, baby. Is that okay?" you take the lead, and Pedro gets frustrated that you're taking up a plan that was originally his. Despite such, he just finds himself nodding wordlessly like a fool.

You line up, desperate to have him inside of you. But you go slowly down, taking his size, maybe because you're drunk or because you'd never fucked in a bathroom before. Because, really, how will you even try to explain your PR team a broken bathroom?

You gasp as he bottoms out, struggling to catch your breath with the relentless push. His strong arm cages your waist, as he moans in your ear, bodies going up and down in sync. His slides are smooth across his length, helping you find your pace.

"Fuck" you whimper, legs starting to shake. "I think I-"

"I know" he interrupts you, a quick kiss to your earlobe. "It's okay; I've got you, linda"

He thrusts upwards, toilet creaking as Pedro keeps you in place.

You bury your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your moans, skin slapping against skin loudly, his movements becoming faster. The pressure keeps on adding, until the tightness on your walls is too much, and you're collapsing over his chest, folds spasming as he empties his load inside of you, seed deep in your walls, dripping down your legs.

"Oh, shit" you gasp, "Pedro!"

"Perdón!" he shouts, then covers his mouth. "Mierda, no quise ser tan ruidoso. Ay, carajo. Didn't want to spill all over you-" (sorry! didn't mean to be so loud. oh, fuck)

"There's a sink" you start, "and toilet paper. We'll manage"

"Right" he looks at his watch, "we got about ten minutes"

You smile, cheek resting against the warm skin of his neck. "If the chef took the whole thirty"

"There's only one way to find out" he gasps for air. "Pero, ¿no estás llena? Still up for dessert?" his big hand finds it's way to your tummy, you still contentedly stuffed full of him. It lingers, and when you look into his eyes, he averts his gaze, ashamed of whatever he thought. (but, aren't you full?)

"After this, I need some sugar to make it home" your eyelids drop. "I'm starving"

He presses a loud kiss to your head, "that's my girl"

"Yours" you pull back to rest your forehead against his. "Just yours"

He jolts forward, capturing your mouth in a hot kiss, and you smile into it.

"Good. Now, I'll give my good girl what she deserves" he takes some toilet paper to clean his spilling load out of you, kisses running from your face to neck. Then, gently so, lets you dress in again, exiting the bathroom first to give you some cleaning up space. When you come back to your table, the Soufflé is there.

"Eat" he commands, voice thick and rough. You smirk, giving it a bite as you look into his eyes: hair disheveled, puffy lips and droopy eyes. The bite mark seems to shine, or maybe you need to lay down for a while. "Y no mires atrás, ¿sí? We got ourselves a crowd" (don't look back, yeah?)

That night, you upload a story with a picture of the dessert with a caption that reads: best meal I've ever had. The context is lost until news of your bathroom affairs hit headlines next morning, but you don't notice: your phone happens to be dead, and you're too busy getting railed in what could count as round two to charge it.

pompeiianbollockr: hello just woke up and saw the pictures WTF TMZ??? did they really do #that 😭 bring back public shaming unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they fucked in that fancy ass restroom ㅤㅤmostannoyingbillioner: unhing3dprincess QUEEN U ARE BACK 😭 BETTING UR GRANDMA AGAIN? OH IKTR WE WERE LOOSING THE ANCIENT TEXTS poppysplayground: ohhhhh they're so nasty (do u want a third) ㅤㅤann-gell: poppysplayground fr like INVITEN

The interview for Entertainment Weekly's behind the cover for Gladiator II was supposed to just include Paul and Pedro, but taking advantage of the free publicity and buzz your announcement made, they added you. Especially after the news about your restroom affair had hit, courtesy of TMZ; the rumor wasn't taken into account in the beginning, but now added gasoline to the gossip fire. Just what the movie needed: free promo.

You're sat in the middle of the two men, dressed in white as well, to match their attires with a flowy dress that loosely resembles that of Rome's. Then, Paul begins to speak.

"I saw the film for the first time when I was about 13 with my dad" he talks about the original movie.

"I saw it in the movie theater when it came out" you imagine a young Pedro lined up to see Russell Crowe's magnetic performance and let out a small smile. "I saw it twice, because of how emotional the movie was. Obviously it's incredibly visceral, and epic and the kind of movie you rarely get to see made, uh, these days"

You look at him, elbow resting on the arm chair as your body is all turned to his side. Truth is, you love listening to him, especially when he seems so invested, love for the subject rooted in each word.

Pedrito, you'd affectionally call. Ésto es una conversación, no un monólogo. And he'd blush embarrased, only for you to laugh it off, saying you would turn mute if that meant for him to continue speaking. (this is a conversation, not a monologue)

"It had an impact emotionally. I remember that, I guess, sadistically I was drawn to a second time go back again because, weirdly, it was very comforting. I remember it perfectly came out in year 2000. Right?" he asks, and Paul and you agree with a yeah. "I can remember what theater I was in and everything-"

"What theater was it?" Paul interrupts his passionate talking.

Pedro stops, "It, uh-" he rambles, before you all laugh.

"What about you, y/n? Were you even born?" Paul jokes, making you roll your eyes at his antics and deliberate desire to keep nagging you like some older annoying brother.

"I was like, born a year after you, Paul. But I didn't watch the movie until I was fifteen" you feel the gaze of both men fall upon you. "The first Ridley Scott movie I watched was Thelma and Louise, as you all know. Then my dad insisted I should watch it, and finally, at fifteen, when I had given up on my dreams to go on one last epic trip to the Grand Canyon, he played it. My eyes, they were, like, glued to the screen. I couldn't stop thinking about it for a while" you leave a small lingering touch on Pedro's arm, "just like he said: epic and emotional. Also, I had a huge fat crush in Joaquin Phoenix that lasted until I was twenty"

"That was like, seven years ago!" Pedro yells, making Paul snorts. "I feel deceived"

"Qué dramático. We're both married, you big baby!" you laugh, then make a joke before the next conversation starts: "You wouldn't think he plays an epic Roman General, would you?" (how dramatic)

They film some shots of you and the boys before moving to the next talk.

"I was doing a play in London at the time. I'd met with Doug and Lucy who are the producers of the film in LA, and then a zoom was set up and I spoke to Ridley for about 5 minutes about what Gladiator was going to be about. And then we spoke for the next 25 minutes about like, gaic football and dogs, and then I thought we'd do like camera tests and- but no, he just-" he shrugs. "I found out about two weeks later"

Now it's Pedro's turn.

"I knew that the project existed. I knew that Paul was doing it. I think it started with an actual like meeting with Ridley to go and sit down with him and I, whether or not the movie was going to happen for me or not, I was like I'm going to go meet Ridley Scott" he jokes, making you both chuckle. "It wasn't even about getting the job, it was like I'm going to go and sit down maybe five minutes, ten, twenty, as many minutes as I can"

"It was in LA" you speak up, "in his offices"

"Yeah, and thankfully he was willing to talk about all the things I wanted to know about, in terms of other movies, and that's what it really turned into"

"He's a wonderful Storyteller" Mescal compliments. "You could sit down with Ridley for-"

Pedro makes a joke, speaking over him. "Give me another one, give me another one-"

You still kind of hate the guy after his supposed comments on your husband's weight, but won't talk bad about a man who gave you work and your biggest role to the date yet, so you explain how it happened to you.

"I wasn't even planned to appear on the movie. As a matter of fact, my character was squeezed in last minute. Ridley is, just as they said, indeed, a storyteller" you smile. "The truth is, I worked with Cuba, his granddaughter, on a proyect together, a photography one. I was in London at the time, auditioning for a movie, when we met"

"London?" Paul asks.

"Yes" you laugh, ashamed. "I traveled to London with some of my savings, because you know what they say about not doing and then regretting. But I do regret it; I cried for my money to be back!"

"You didn't get the part" Pedro adds, barely containing a snicker.

"I didn't" you sigh, "Cuba saw me sitting alone on a café, eyes red with tears of failure and talked me into capturing such vulnerable moment. She didn't know me but made my day better, and she took some of the most beautiful pictures I've seen of myself. So, in a way, I won. I mean, she's the reason I got the role: my name came up on a phone call with Scott, as I had already made a name for myself, and showed him the pictures. He got in contact with my agent and I got the role after auditioning. Call that friendship nepotism"

"Didn't Pedro tell you about it? I find it funny that he was in the movie and didn't get you in" Paul comments, curiously.

"We were supposed to remain a secret, and the sudden connection when we had barely interacted according to the public, would've been weird. So no, Pedro rubbed his role on my face and then I came home with the new script as he received his. We both won our roles separately, and until we got it both, we realized just what it would mean"

"But now we're here" Pedro speaks fondly, taking your hand. "Rome conquers it all"

You can only hold his and stare back lovingly.

"Oh" the Irish man feigns disgust, "don't get all lovey dovey on me!"

The topic changes again, as Paul speaks.

"We meet early in the film, and this is again kind of Ridley's genius. He shoots it in a way that it feels plausible, but in like- the real action of that there's no way-"

They start talking ovwe each other excitedly about the process of filmaking, Pedro listing all the settings were the epic action takes place.

"We lock eyes" Pedro jests, "we lock eyes"

"All right" Paul plays along. "Three, two, one"

"i'm right here" you say, pushing your body to the front. "You got me third wheeling in my own marriage"

Paul laughs, breaking contact.

"Time for you to get a taste of your own medicine. You've made the rest of this press tour unbearable!" he protests, but his tone is devoid of complain.

"Marcus Acacius represents like-" Mescal then speaks about your husband's character, "he's a Roman general"

"No, he is the general of Rome" you correct, smirking.

"Be careful, princess. Don't let the emperor see you all over his General" the blue-eyed man next to you mocks, and you roll your eyes again.

"Will you ever let me live?"

Paul then talks about his character. "I'm like a lieutenant in the numidian Army. I kind of see Acacius as this, he- he represents everything that I hate about, uh, the Roman Empire"

"Well, the Roman Empire is expanding and expanding" Pedro takes the word, "and invading Numidia just to gain more and more power, and we realize that there really is kind of no ceiling to the lust of that power"

"And that's to do with the Emperors, right? Like, played by Joe and Fred who are wonderful" Paul adds, complimenting both actors in the process. "And let's not forget our Empress too"

You make a face at that, feeling in the need to defend your character.

"Empress Alba is tragedy. I think she embodies well the feelings of helpnessless all women felt during that time. She's an object, another shiny possesion subjected to her husband's amusement, so she drowns in all pleasure available to forget her existence. Lucius hates her because he sees all the filth of Rome in her, like, this whole debauchery and squandering while the people beg for scraps. But it's a pattern seen across history, isn't it?" you pause. "I think it's interesting to compare her to Lucilla, because she's loved by the people, seen as human- despite being noble. It's sad because it's until too late that Lucius realizes she's a victim of the system he hates"

Pedro smiles at your little intervention, loving the way you explain a character you'd play so graciously. One of your favorite movies is Marie Antoinette, by Sofia Coppola, so probably it felt personal to you in some level. God, hadn't you made him watch it at least ten times?

"It unravels through the film that I've kind of miscalculated who I think Acacius is, just as with Alba" Paul comments.

"His character misunderstands my character just like Paul misunderstands us" Pedro quips, making both of you laugh.

"Then it kind of culminates in a big fight that we have in the-"

"Doesn't it always?" you add. "Wouldn't be an epic without it"

"Do you want to talk about it?" Paul dares, jokingly.

"No we're not talking about it" he cuts him off.

"Who's the better fighter'" Paul asks after some silence. Pedro dares him with a go on.

"I would say I'm better the better share. What you think?"

"I would say Lucius is the better fighter"

"Lucius is the better fighter" Pedro repeats slowly, incredulous. "Do you want us to fight? Lucius is a better fighter than the general of Rome, who survived decades and conquered" Paul tries to defend himself but Pedro doesn't let him. "I fight four men before I get you, and I call it off!"

"Yeah, but I think if you hadn't called it off -"

"You don't think I would have do some sort of mature aged learning-"

They end up discussing a bit more until you clear your throat.

"Why don't you ask for a third party to break your tie?" and you point towards yourself, mouthing a cute me with your painted pink lips.

"No!" Paul immediatly opposes, "It would be biased, silence her!"

"Have you seen Acacius' arms?" you gauge Pedro's arms, biceps flexing under the white attire. "It definitely isn't biased, at all"

The conversation carries on after some more shots. In some, you pose seriously, but in between such, you laugh along with them, Pedro even hugging you and Paul from behind in one of both. No kisses yet, but you know fans will be rabid just with the lingering touches and flirty undertones in your interactions.

"We began together in Morocco, and I think seeing that set and the scale of the production so quickly, desensitized me to the scale of the of what- Malta was in the Coliseum, and Ridley moves at such a pace, which I actually think really helped me because you don't have time to kind of sit there and and kind of bask in the wonder of it" Paul talks. "Because you're shooting three or four scenes, build your expectations of how to meet the size of, it or anything 'cuz 'cause it's impossible" Paul looks at Pedro and asks: "and I think Ridley; did I tell you what Ridley said first day of shooting to me? He came out to the tent while they were dressing the set, thousands of extras, everything fire, camels and he comes in, and he's- he's smoking a cigar, and we're all stood around and he's like Are you nervous? and we're all like No and he slaps me on the back and goes Your nerves are no good to me, before we filmed anything. But I think it was like- it's funny, but it's this idea that this is your playground, and you have to kind of step into it and own it. So, I-I don't actually really remember my first walking into the Coliseum, 'cause I feel like I lived in the Coliseum for about three or four weeks"

"You lived in the Coliseum of your mind" Pedro quips, making Paul laugh.

"I do remember, you know, when I first walked into the Coliseum, you know. It- it gave me chills. Like, literally chills. Look! I still get the goosebumps" you point your arm. "Honestly, all of it felt just too real, and I couldn't help but for a moment, think I actually was in Rome- that I belonged to nobility"

Pedro takes your hand and kisses it gently. "That's because you do, princesa"

"One of the things that I have never experienced on a movie before, is that there was so little left to the imagination" Pedro expresses. "Me and the rest of the ensemble are together in the emperor's box, and there's this enormous battle that's taking place, and Ridley composed all of the off camera for us in the emperor's box, with Paul leaping from one ship to another taking two men down what would you call that?"

"A cloth line flying" Paul answers.

"Clothes line?" you try.

"A flying- a flying clothes line" Pedro decides, carrying on "just so that we could know what we were looking at. I couldn't f*****g believe it"

"That's true" you remark. "The result goes so hard- I mean, it looks amazing" you sheepily laugh. "The action, the violence, the epic... it all shines through. It just- it makes sense"

The conversation shifts again.

"The legacy of the first film is so profound, and has such a strong place in so many people's, like, hearts and minds, it's inescapable, but I was looking at it- and I was like" Paul shares. "The screenplay does a lot of that work for you in terms of like, the rubbing the dirt between the hands. the kind of DNA and the genetics that Lucius inherits. I remember reading the script and there's like, a moment in the script where it's Lucius puts on the breastplate and it's written like Lucius now becomes Maximus"

"But Lucius, despite being a son, is also a man" you counter. "He isn't Maximus"

Paul agrees.

"I kind of tried to park that to one side, because ultimately, where Lucius is coming from at the start of the film, he has a very different journey than Maximus does, and I was hoping that whatever DNA- and even just the physical gestures, was going to be one part of- a kind of small part of the performance" he explains. "What I tried to do is figure out exactly who Lucius was and where those differences lay between Lucius and Maximus"

"One of the things that I loved most about my character is that he's introduced in the beginning of the movie, in this very epic battle sequence, that I think in its own way homages the first film" Pedro shares. "But even better, because we follow him back to Rome and discover his direct connection to one of the only characters that is living and with us from the first movie, and I loved being a a kind of thread, an invitation, into what we know from the first movie by being Connie Nielsen's man"

Paul looks at you silently, before poking your side: "Someone is real quiet with that comment"

You narrow your eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"I am Connie Nielsen's man as Marcus Acacius, but as Pedro Pascal, I'm all y/n's"

Your face goes red at how easily you are to be understood, your husband answering just what you wanted to listen.

"Ha! Look at your face, I was right!" Paul ridiculises you.

But after such an embarrasing moment, he shifts the conversation again.

"There's a moment where Pedro has this, uh- it's so clever from a- from an acting standpoint, but also in the in the script like, you see this brutalizing Force come into Numidia, and there's this section where there's the burning of the bodies, and that it's one of my favorite shots in the film" Paul muses. "It's this closeup on Pedro, when he says Vae Victis to the conquered, and you feel like it's a really difficult thing to communicate in one line, that you see: Oh, this General is, kind of wearing this responsibility with great difficulty and shame"

"I wasn't doing that at all" your husband deadpans. You stiffle a giggle.

"You were very good in it" Paul argues back with a smile.

"That wasn't what I was playing" he insists, serious but Paul asks What were you playing? and you all laugh.

"If I had a favorite scene, I'd say it'd be naval fight" you mention. "The colliseum is filled with water, and it's this- it feels like a thing that has never been done before, and with the people cheering and the buzz, and the announcement and echo of the drumming, it's as if you were there, in the crowd. The tension is palpable, the violence is thrown at your face but the scariest one, is the one that lies underneath. Uh, Lucius character tries to attack the General while we, you know, the royals and especial guests, are sitting at our box, and he gets so close, it serves, I think the bottom climbing the ladder to bite the ankles of the top. Obviously, that before we know who Lucius actually is, but I think it's kind of cool"

The interview is ending, the last of your twelve-minute conversation being filmed now.

"I am really excited for everyone to see Paul" Pedro beams, making the younger one laugh. "I'm sorry but it has to be said. You are sensational in the movie" then adds, "and pretty easy on the eyes"

"Everyone in this movie is easy in the eyes" you quip, looking at your side. Pedro coughs a bit before speaking again, even if a faint blush is coating his cheeks.

"-And he worked so hard, and I got to see that happen like, in front of me, and on the day and just lead with Ridley, this enormous crew and this enormous cast... To get to see that, on the big screen, is really exciting and I think people are going to- they're going to love it"

"That's very kind" you exclaim softly with a smile, then add. "I'm sure of it, especially if you were a fan of the first. Both are very interwined, although each film is its own thing" you comment.

"For a lot of us, the actors, we haven't worked on a film on that scale" you violently shake your head "and I think, there's a little bit of trauma bonding that went on with, kind of having to- kind of feel like, total impostor syndrome within it all. But to see your friends operate at that level on a film of that scale, doing like incredible work. I think, across the board, I haven't seen a film on this scale for a long long time rhat's rooted it has the scale and the performances, and I personally think it's one of Ridley's greatest pieces of work"

senhoritamayblog: y/n was SO REAL holding pedro's arm and talking abt how he'd beat paul bc he's beefy ME WHEN moltisantiii: you know what i think ridley's greatest piece of work is? giving us this trio youlooklike-clarabow: y/n is truly a princess 🥹 i don't know if i want to be y/n to be with pedro or pedro to be with y/n ㅤㅤann-gell: youlooklike-clarabow well, she's the people's princess after all!

You haven't even left the room when Pedro is all over you, kissing your neck on that sweet spot of yours that elates a little breathy whine. Doesn't he know you well?

"What are you doing?" you manage to squeak out as his needy big hands grope your body, flesh soft under the flowy white dress. He grunts when he catches your panties, embarrasingly wet already at just a few sloppy kisses and eager touches.

"What do you think?" he whispers against your ear as you both try to walk away from where voices can be heard, and then Pedro is guiding you to a room, closing the door behind him. If he was able to walk to the room while kissing you, he must've seen it in a passing. Had your husband plan this all along? Greedy needy old man.

"What I think, baby, is you're forgetting something" you push him off, giggling. He makes a little pout, making it hard to keep your ground. "Now that everyone knows we're married and we suddenly both go misteriously missing at the same time, they'll just put two and two together. I mean, does it really take a smart person to figure it out?"

Pedro doesn't back down, still caging your frame against the locked door.

"So?" his annoyed and tense voice only makes you laugh more. That turned on was he? Pedro seems annoyed at your fit of laughter, his pants tight.

"What do you mean so? We almost got caught by Paul last time!" you chuckle amused. "And, are you seriously going to pretend TMZ didn't air our bussiness just about last week?"

"Well, maybe you should've thought about it before" he goes back at the task of attacking your mouth, words spewing in between hungry kisses. You mouth a little taunting innocent looking Before what? and then Pedro is talking while his gaze is glued to yours, tightening his arms around you, and the answer is just about that. "You should've thought about it before getting all flirty with me, grabbing my arm in front of the camera like the naughty girl you are. So fucking needy you can't hide it for a few hours, can't even go through an interview without touching me, looking at me, being possesive at a fictional marriage even" your face burns hot with embarrasment at that. Oh, was he being nasty on purpose? Why bring that up? "Haven't I taught you manners?"

It's hard to force yourself to hold his gaze while standing still. Taunting. Defiant.

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you chastise, "do you want people to know we are raw dogging in the dressing room? That's the manners you so badly talk about"

His face goes red, his demostrations stopping for a bit as he studies your now serious face.

"Wait, do you want to raw dog in the dressing room?" he gasps at the boldness in your words, which, to be fair, is kind of exaggerated, as you both have said worst stuff before. "That's not what I had in mind"

"That's not?" you arch an eyebrow. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. You can't just kiss my neck greedily and touch my body eagerly like a goddamn starved horny idiot, and then expect me to not act up on it, you old man"

There's silence before he speaks up again. "Y/n, you talked about manners"

You take a deep breath in, making sure the door is actually locked.

"Well, fuck them manners"

You capture his lips on a hungry kiss, same kind of force you had made fun of him, just minutes ago. He's pushing his tongue inside of you, as his hands move up to your shoulders and back down to your waist. You rub yourself against him, looking for some kind of friction, and his big calloused hands pulls your waist closer in an attempt to do the same.

"Manners maketh man" he's reciting, and such stupid proverb and line from one of his old works shouldn't turn you this much. Pedro lifts up the dress until your body is devoid of the cotton, murmuring about how unfair it was for you to taunt him with translucent cloth, tender flesh hiding under the white. So hard to focus on interviews, mami, when you're close to me or something like that, as you're too lost in the fire. No bra? Fuck, baby. Do you want to kill me?

"Sofa" you command, eyes darting to the furniture so you can show him where. "Now"

You take off your panties in a go, revealing the slick that's just a few seconds from running down your legs.

"I see, my legs won't be the only thing drooling" you mock his agape mouth. He takes off the blazer with shaking hands, sitting as you get on top of him. Pedro kisses his way down your neck, sucking on the skin. How will you get out of here without comfirming suspicions? Surely, there must be something inside here that could be of help.

"Well, I've wanted to do this for a while" he mumbles against the now red patches of before honey-ed skin. Again? you think.

"Have me or fuck again in public?" you ask out loud, and even if you're laughing, there's a layer of fondness in your voice. "I'm starting to wonder if you have an exhibition kink, papi"

He breathes a little no before biting right above your collarbones, his tongue then releaving the pain with a wet slick move over the flesh as you let out a whine.

"Busy schedule, mami. A husband's gotta find a way to make time for his pretty wife, even if it means fucking her in the goddamn dressing room" he says into your ear. Pedro had done more interviews than you, and between that and filming for his other projects, he's right. "So what if they find out? Need them to know who you belong to. I'm just a devoted husband, will you punish me for that?"

You caress his face, pristine hair now disheveled, the gel succumbing to the heat and sweat trapped in the room.

"Look at you, naughty boy. El burro hablando de orejas" you laugh, "but of course I won't. Need you too so bad" (look who's talking)

His finger wanders down to your pussy, big hand roaming around the area. His middle and ring finger run over it, the golden band starting to shine with your arousal. Fuck, that just made you wetter.

"Shit, baby. You're so eager... wasn't lying when you talked before"

"Needed you since you kissed me today, when you woke up" your teeth grit at his lingering digits. "Your dick rubbed against my bare thigh, fucking hard"

Truth is, you're always horny; being married to Pedro Pascal does that to you. But mornings? Waking up to that handsome face and girthy dick? You really be testing yourself sometimes.

"Jesus, mami" he whistles. "So fucking dirty, thinking about me all the interview because my morning wood grazed your skin, you dirty naughty girl"

Pedro finally slides his fingers inside of you, making you squirm under his gaze as your back archs. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you're all mine" he moans and you squeeze his shoulders, nails digging and bruising his skin under the shirt that sticks to his skin, body heating up like a furnace.

"Please, Pedro" you plead, lip biting your under to supress a whimper. "Please curl your fingers, need to have you- feel you inside. Fuck-"

Your words cut off as he moves his fingers with learned ease, his thumb rubbing your clit as a treat.

"Mmm" you murmur with pleasure, back arched again, your tits too dangerously close to his face. Without much thought, he licks your nipple and then devours the whole breast with his mouth. All while looking at you, this absolute horndog. Your nails dig in deeper as you pronounce his name in a shaky exhale. Wanting more. Begging for more.

"Mmm? That's right" his palm on your waist squeezes lightly, more pressure on his grip. "Can't speak 'cause I'm making you feel so good, huh?"

You don't answer, instead throwing your head back, nails digging deep to the point he winces, making a face by the pain. You mouth an apology, but then he licks your nipple again, and teeth move to your nibble your earlobe―you're not sorry anymore.

"S-stop" you choke out, body shivering.

"What? Can't take what you asked for? No muerdas más de lo que puedes masticar, niña mala. Bad girl" (don't bite off more than you can chew, bad girl)

His lewd words elicit another moan out of you.

"I-I can. In fact, I want- no, need more. I don't want to cum on your fingers" you whisper in his ear, hot breath probably why he shivers. "Pull down your pants, pretty boy, because I want to cum on your dick"

"Fuck, mami. What a dirty mouth" he moans.

Eager hands try to lower his pants as your fiddle with the same feel, the borrowed wardrobe struggling to get off in the current position. His underwear goes next, and you squirm as he aligns his tip with your dripping entrance.

You moan and he grunts, as his dick enters your tight folds, sounds clashing onto each other as so do your bodies, fitting perfectly. His hands travel from your waist to ass, his head against the back of the sofa, your hands that were before on his shoulders now on his chest.

"Such a pretty view you're giving me, wifey" he tries to laugh, but the sound comes out strained along each powerful stride of his cock that buries inside of you, each bouncing harder, his hands pathethically running over your ass, back, hips, and legs, as his eyes devour the way your tits jiggle with each thrust, tongue burning with desire to suck on the skin again. "So beautiful, and all mine. Only mine. Mía"

His words drip with devotion and wordship; all the love in the world. Pedro calls you beautiful, goddess, and a string of spanish words crossed with adoration. Mami. Linda. Princesa. Diosa. Hermosa. It has your orgasm looming over, head spinning and pussy stretched, walls tightening.

"I'm close" you whisper, riding him with soft-paced movements as his turn sloppy.

You see stars, walls almost kicking his dick out as you coat it in your slick, arousal dripping down until it's coated his balls and smeared the white attire. Fuck. Now Pedro's moving his waist, hunting for his own orgasm.

"Me too" he breathes out, "stay with me"

His hands travel sloppily to your waist, lazily holding you still with his calloused digits.

"Quick, baby" you breath out, "I'm sensitive"

"I'm almost there. Just hold on a little longer" then a whine before shakily pleading. "Please, please, just wait for me"

You move your hips slowly, aroused by his needy pleads, robbing a moan out of him. "Cute" you praise, making his cheeks redden with sweat and blush.

He is cute: hair messed up, mouth red and puffy, and brown puppy eyes.

"I love you so much" Pedro let's out, and it sounds like a confession, despite being married for so long.

"I know, baby, I know" you reach for his face, removing some sweat beads from his forehead, and he leans on the touch, closing his eyes as another gutural growl erupts from his chest. "I love you too"

You keep on riding until you feel his dick twitch inside of your walls.

"We need to stop doing this" you pant out.

"Too late for that, bonita. At least no one found out this time" Pedro laughs. "But you like the talk, don't you? Gonna give 'em something to talk about" he pants, "will fill you up so good you won't be able to walk without my seed spilling from you" sweat beads from your face fall onto his. He obscenely licks the salty drops. "Te voy a dar tantos hijos, que no cabrán en la casa. That way they will know you're mine" (will give you so many kids, they won't fit in the house)

You moan loufly, folds now coated on thick ropes of hot cum, as his movements come to a stop, slowing down until all that can be heard is your uneven breaths trying to recover.

And on cue, there's a knock at the door. Shit. You both remain silent, as if it would stop, but the knocking turns persistent.

"Pedro, I know you're in there"

It's Paul freaking Mescal, again. You might just have to invite him next time if he keeps showing up like that.

"Should I go?" Pedro whispers, and you shrug, stating it would be weirder to pretend he wasn't if Paul knew he was. "How do I look?"

You eye him up and down, eye glistening with dissaproval, red cheeks giving away your thoughts as if the furrowed eyebrows and ashamed gaze didn't already.

"We are fucked"

"No" he giggles, "we just fucked"

"That's not funny!" you roll your eyes, playfully smacking his chest. "Please, look into the mirror and try to fix yourself a bit. If not, we're doomed to be remembered as a horny couple. Oh, we were going so well! Fans will make fun of us and the press will call us horndogs" you lament, exaggerating your voice.

"Oh, shush. We wanted to be able to be in public. This is what it feels like"

You blush. "Maybe we can reduce the public aspect a bit..."

Pedro snorts before doing a quick fix to his appearance, walking to the door where Mescal patiently waits behind. Oh, of course; that little fucker. After the TMZ news dropped, he connected the dots and know that whatever happened in that trailer when Pedro told him to fuck off, wasn't holy at all. Now, he's probably laughing or scheming.

"Paul!" Pedro opens the door. "W-what's up?"

The younger man does a quick scan of his friend, barely able to hide a laugh.

"Looking radiant, my friend" he answers with a shit-eating grin. "They need to do some re-shootings. Have you happen to seen y/n? She just keeps dissappearing when you- oh, when you do!" he mocks. "Well, if you ever happen to find y/n, tell her you both need to get a good fix unless y'all want to show up on TMZ again. I'm pretty sure you can find something in this dressing room to cover those marks, yeah?"

He finally breaks down laughing in front of Pedro's shocked face.

"Ah, you guys are the absolute worst" he folds in a fit of laughter, "so fucking horny you end up fucking in bathrooms and dressing rooms!"

Your voice can be heard from inside as you growl, face red with fury and shame:

"Hijo de puta" (son of a bitch!), "don't make me bring Daisy Edgar-Jones into this!"

l-u-n-a-m: they're just milking their relationship atp for promo but i'm not complaining need more pictures of the photoshoot NOW vnightx: istg if they don't stop flirting in front of my single ass face. i need a gun at0michips: have i gone insane or does pedro have love bites ㅤㅤmybritishstyle: MI HIJO DOES NOT HAVE LOVE BITES. HE JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS

*i'm never gonna call twitter as X. it's still twitter, and will always be. fuck that ugly bigot filthy billionaire hoe called elon-trump-cocksucker-musk.

[dante-mightdie]

long awaited part three of lowselfesteem!reader and simon

part two

invisible clothes

that’s what you called them, the rags you don when you have to integrate with the general population but you would much rather not be noticed. clothing that is so bland that it isn’t nice enough catch an eye but not hideous enough to catch any negative attention

you had told simon about them once, when he called you out on wearing them every time you stepped out in public, including your dates with him. especially since he knew you had a very elaborate wardrobe with a tailored sense of style

clearly they aren’t invisible enough to hide you from johnny’s guilty eyes from across the store aisle. you sigh when he comes up to you, tapping your shoulder to get your attention. he shifts uncomfortably on his feet

“I know ye probably hate ma guts, lass but ye should ken that simon shut down all of that bet talk after your first date. Ah just bring et up to annoy ‘im.” johnny says, with a nervous chuckles at the end. you don’t laugh alongside him

“okay, fair enough. look, he’s miserable without ye! he comes to the pub just to get pished and mope about how he fucked it all up with ye.” johnny continues, a pleading look in his eyes, “he’s supposed to he coming by to drop off some things of yours tomorrow. just hear him out, please, lass.”

you roll your eyes at him, continuing to grab what you need from the shelves in front of you. not even bothering to look him in the eyes when you finally begin to speak

"why should I? why am I always expected to think of other people even when they hurt me? you and simon didn't think about me or my feelings when you made your stupid bet. neither of you stopped to consider that I was just a person who simply wanted to be left alone." you say with a scoff, "he'll be lucky if I don't slam the door in his face."

johnny shifts on his feet, looking down at the floor since he feels too uncomfortable to look directly at you, "fair enough. take care've yerself, hen."

you bite back tears as you watch him skulk off in the corner of your eye. you stand there for a few more minutes, staring at the stacked shelves in front of you to distract you from the war raging inside of your head

-

it's late at night, nearly midnight, when there's a knock at your door. you let out a sigh, already knowing who was disturbing your doomscrolling at this hour. and when you open the door, you see him. you’re brooding prick of an ex-boyfriend. he at least has the decency to look guilty, like a dog caught ripping up the couch cushions

except he wasn’t a dog, he was the love of your life. and your heart isn’t so easily replaced like a cushion. though he definitely treated it like somewhere to rest his head

“hey.”

you scoff, you’re not sure why. there isn’t anything inherently wrong with what he said but it still annoyed you. he annoyed you. with his stupid stormy eyes and his stupid jokes and freckled shoulders that you used to connect like dots late at night

“just give me my stuff and go, simon. don’t have time for this bullshit.”

he doesn’t flinch. he saw that hit coming, and sometimes you gotta let them swing at you especially when you know that you deserve much worse

the exchange is quick, a box with small memories passed over to you. a couple items of clothing, a book and some toiletries. before you can slam the door in his face, he jams his heavy boot into it

“wait… love, I… there’s somethin’ else. I never gave it to you but it’s yours. got it for you and I’ll never give it to anyone else.”

the glare you give him only falters when he places a small velvet box in your hand, he pauses the speech you can definitely feel coming on. looking at you expectantly to open it. you do, waiting for him to laugh at you when you find nothing in there. ridicule you for even thinking he would consider making you his wife

but all he does it look on solemn, the beautiful ring twinkling as a devastating reminder of what could have been

“I kno’ I ‘ave no right to ask. I wouldn’t insult you like tha’ lovie. you can hate me, I deserve it. but you don’t deserve it. I won’t let you hurt yourself over what I did. you deserve to know the real extent of how bad I fucked up. maybe it’ll help to look at tha’ ring and know that I’ll spend the rest of my life having to know I lost the woman who should be my wife.”

there’s no chance to respond, not like you’d know what to say anyway,

“I’m sorry.”

and then he’s gone.

[imsofreakingtired]

GREY HAIRED SEVI MY BELOVED

thank you @demothers-empty-blog for putting this idea into my head. it has taken over my soul. i need to see her healthy and happy and aging so bad it's a carnal need

~~~

it's early in the morning. you watch drowsily from the bed as Sevika stands in front of the mirror, checking over her reflection as she pulls on her cloak. she frowns at herself, pushes the hair out of her eyes. she catches your gaze in the mirror's surface. you're watching her softly as you always do - how could you not? she's beautiful no matter the time of day. then out of the blue she says, "i should dye my hair."

"huh."

she smiles wryly. "i mean, i'm really starting to show my age, aren't i?"

you raise yourself from the bed. "sevika," you say. "as your wife, i say this with the utmost love and adoration. touch your hair and you die."

she turns around, raising an eyebrow at you. "you don't want me to get rid of the grey?"

you climb out of bed and walk over to her. you tenderly arrange her short bangs over her forehead. streaks of grey matching the stormy color of her eyes.

"they're the most beautiful part of you and i would kiss each individual strand if i could."

she laughs. "that's a bit much."

"yeah, well, you married a bit much."

"damn right i did." she pulls you close. "gimme a kiss to get me through the day."

she kisses your smiling mouth, but before she can deepen the embrace you pull away and push her head down toward your face so you can kiss her hair.

"don't even think about dyeing it," you say. "promise me."

"if you like it so damn much," she pretends to grumble, "i promise."

"good. now go knock 'em dead at the council, baby."

~~~

note: impromptu fluff drabble before the avalanche of angst ye be warned <33

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

More Doki Doki Battle Academy OP AU

even MOOROEEE of themmmmmahhhhhhh babyeyyy i even added some dialogues fir some extra flavourrrrr (kuma and bonney's gif there would be a sprite he would have in his dialogue scenes. i dont think it would be a gif like this, more like everytime you look back at him, bonney would be in a different spot)

original DDBA designs post (has more lore there, go look at it plese :3

imagining the vinsmoke/strawhat beef going like this video

design stuffs and more lore:

preface: sorry this is so much writing and im not going to grammar check it cuz aint no body got time for that.

The world of this au is like pokemon with different gyms you can fight through and beat, there's a big league of pro fighters, and there are schools for teaching you to be a better fighter.

One of the schools is called the Germa 66 Private Battle Academy, it goes from grades 1-12 and its where the Vinsmoke siblings all went too (at least until sanji broke off from the family at some point) and its run by Judge Vinsmoke, their father.

i am thinking that the Vinsmoke kids would still be genetically modified and Kuma would be a cyborg in this too.

design stuffs:

Ichiji: i tried to make him as punk as he would feasably get away with living under his father's rule. Big "combat" boots, fingerless gloves, black undershirt. He likes his style and would probably go all out if he didnt have to conform to his school uniform, thus i put a little heart on his boots.

Niji: i also made him like his style. The rings on his fingers, his nikes shoes, his big headphones. Like a gamer who thinks this is what fashion is. I think he would love listening to music too so i put his heart on his headphones.

Yonji: big stakly guy. Hes a lot more hands-on than his brothers so i put lots of emphasis on that area. i put his heart on his hand wraps because i think he would really love fighting. I think that Yonji is most like his father in that enjoyment, but i think Judge wouldnt like how casual Yonji's style is.

Reiju: y2k queen. I love this design on her so much im so bummed that she would have already graduated from the academy and i cant put her in a Hit Me Baby One More Time-esque uniform outfit, shed fucking KILL THAT SHITTT. Anyway though, reiju's heart is subtle yet in plain view, the locket around her neck. i dont think she would let anyone look at the contents but i do think that absolutly it would be her mother on one side and her brothers on the other. She wouldnt like people looking at it because that would mean someone could see that her dad isnt in there and she would get it a lot of trouble with her father about it.

Power ranger fits: i made them full on power rangers. its what they deserve. Since reiju has a butterfly motif in canon, i thought it would be fun to also give her brothers a bug motif of their own. ichiji is a wasp, niji is a dragonfly, yonji is a stag beetle. If sanji stuck around, hed probably be a lady bug lol. Also the masks they wear, the eye window part, it’s like tear tracks coming out but in a way that doesnt look like thats what they are. But it’s meant to show how judge forcing his children to be these people is causing them pain.

thank you @zethsdumpster for being my Vinsmoke specialist and helping me come up with a lot of their design stuff!

Doflamingo: i tried to make him a Nasty Nasty man. Like if a used car salesman made it big. Like if Macklemore was MackleMORE. i love the idea that he likes to tan himself, but he doesnt take any of his clothes off to do so, so he just has the absolute craziest tan lines ever. i put his hearts on the gold chain around his neck, he loves his wealth but not much else. i love the idea of him having two very expensive watches on each wrist. there may be more watches up his sleeve too. i also gave him fluffy dice around his neck, like he's one of the cars that he's selling.

Rosinante: i couldnt get away much longer without putting the heart man into the heart 'game'. i couldve went off more with the hearts of his design but i didnt want him to become nearly as flashy as his brother. i wanted him to be understated and fade into the background when doflamingo is around. he is dead in this au btw sorry :/ this is his design when he passed, but doffy's design is present day him. anyway, Rosi's hearts are everywhere, its in the outline of his big huggable fluffy coat, its on his hat thats pulling him down, it would be on his shirt too if it wasnt covered by his coat in this image.

Bonney: SHEEES SO CUUTEEEE AAAAAAAA i love her. I based her design off of Avril Lavigne with her iconic necktie/tanktop/baggy pants looks. i tried to make her outfit look like she could feasibly fit in it when she ages herself up, especially her big ol shoes. the heart in her design is in her neck tie. The stereotypical visage of a dad is a man in a tie who goes to work, and she loves her dad, so her heart is in her dad tie.

Kuma: I didn't change much of him from his design in canon, but since bonney would be more in his life in this version, i wanted to give him more visual indicators of her being there. like the height chart on his leg, or the fuzzy hat she crocheted for him (she also made her own hat for herself). Also, the pattern on his shirt is one that looks like a paw, but if you took off that outer layer, if the pattern continued, the design would be a sun, and i just think that was really clever ehe ehe.

Hancock: Basically i tried to make her the baddest bitch in the universe. My program crashed like 3 times making her which is so funny. Procreate couldnt handle her. I based her design off of Medusa. at first i had her snake be made out of marble, but it eventually wound up at Obsidian. She has no visible hearts on her design and thats because it would be the scar on her back, which she tries to hide. i like the idea that this very visibly revealing outfit would be perfectly tailored and reinforced to never move a single inch to let anyone see what theyre not supposed to. I dont know how i would justify her being able to turn people into stone in this AU, so im just not going to make a decision on whether or not she can do that.

ive been working on these designs off and on ever since i made the first post on this au and im real happy i can finally put more out.

if you got to the end of this, thank you so much for reading~ i hope you enjoyed :)

[copper-16]

Reminds Me That There's A Room To Grow

Alexia had lost her childhood love at the last moment. Or did she?

{a/n: Hello everyone! Fair warning: I make a lot of changes about the “world” in the fics I write. Alexia grew up in Madrid in this and started out at Atlético Madrid (don’t worry she’s still the world’s biggest culer, trust), and the timing, clubs, etc are often somewhat fudged because I am lazy. If you come on here and start correcting me I’m just going to block you because this is a STORY, it’s not supposed to be accurate to real life because it isn’t real life. This starts in March of 2021, but there are a series of flashbacks. Reader is a few months younger than Alexia in this.

This story can either be: just the 1 part with an ambiguous ending if everyone is satisfied with that, 3 parts with a more solid ending, or 10 parts with a longer story structure (and I like the ending better personally but to each their own). Curious as to everyone’s thoughts are, and it’ll probably dictate how much I end up writing! I hope y’all enjoy the read! Title is from Drops of Jupiter and Spotify link can be found here!}

Dahlias. 

Resilient. 

Warm-hearted. 

Protective. 

Optimistic. 

Mysterious. 

Grounded. 

Alexia thought of the intricate flowers often. She even went so far as to plant some in a garden box on the balcony of her apartment, just so that in the warmer months she could go out and trace the petals gently under her fingertips. A reminder of everything wonderful she had been fortunate enough to have in her life, held in her grasp for just a little bit longer out in the warm air. 

She admitted it was a long time ago, but even if she tried to move on she simply couldn’t. 

—

Alexia is grateful she opted to wear pants for the event, if for no other reason than the fact that she has somewhere to put her hands. The event was on the smaller side, not quite intimate but still not overwhelming either. It’s March now in Barcelona, with warmer weather and sunshine, even if the event for this evening is held indoors. 

It was for Spotify, bringing together ambassadors of the brand from around Spain to interact and connect with the team. Naturally, Barcelona has sent Alexia and Robert along with a few of the staff members to represent Barcelona. The midfielder has spent the better part of the event making small talk, trying to be polite and sociable. These events are inherently exhausting for her, but she still understands the importance of them, even if there isn’t quite enough football talk for her liking. 

As grateful as the blonde is for the visibility of the team and women’s football, there are still moments when she has to force herself to remain appreciative. She sometimes misses the days of kicking the football around in the dirt, where the heaviness of expectations never plagued her. She misses cozy nights on the couch laughing until her stomach hurts or having someone pull her from her work, insisting that she take a break. 

The footballer struggles to remember the last time she took a break. Her life is full steam ahead, all of the time. It was rewarding and exhausting all at the same time. Even when she has a day off or a moment of peace, it never quite felt like hers. 

Everyone expects something of her. 

Everyone wants a part of her. 

But nobody wants her in her entirety. Nobody has in a long time. 

When the midfielder finally breaks away from the delegate of Barcelona members under the guise of going to the bathroom, she takes the time to just explore. The event space is lovely and spacious, with high ceilings and a gorgeous conference room 

She is aiming to head toward the restroom, but she wanders aimlessly. The brunette ends up in a hallway with a gorgeous light fixture, and she finds herself looking up at it in vague awe. She catches movement in her peripheral vision, and when she glances down, her breath catches in her throat. 

It can’t be? 

Could it be? 

After all of this time? 

Your head is turned up toward the light fixture as well, your face partially obscured by the angle of your neck tilting upward to admire the beauty of it. The dress you’re wearing is a deep emerald green, a crushed velvet material with a high cut neckline. There are draped sleeves that barely hit your mid bicep, and the cut of the gown is long enough that it hides that you’re wearing loafers over more socially appropriate heels. 

You’ve always claimed that a woman who spent her life stuffing her feet into uncomfortable shoes simply wasn’t doing life right. 

The ceilings are tall, and the hallway is nearly empty, but Alexia is pretty sure that there is a lack of oxygen in the air. 

And then you turn your head down from the lights above you, making direct eye contact with you.

Her heart stops for just a moment, unable to comprehend the reality of the moment. 

But the footballer realizes at that exact moment that it’s really you. 

—

When Alexia is six, her immediate family moves from the Mollet del Valles to Salamanca for her father’s job. Besides her Mami, Papi, and Alba, the rest of her family stays behind in Barcelona, a fact that Alexia both hates and struggles to understand. 

Concepts of a job and moving are a little far out of her realm, but she tries her best to calm Alba when she cries quietly out of homesickness. Alexia is strong and refuses to cause trouble, so she takes the move with a silent despair as she is abruptly pulled from everything she has grown to know and placed in a new environment. 

Her Mami explains to the two girls that they will return to Barcelona in the summer for a few weeks to visit family, and that they can still go to Barcelona games here in Madrid. The little brunette girl struggles to contain the disgust her face twitches with at the thought of Real Madrid, and Eli forces herself to hold in a gentle laugh. 

In Alexia’s second week of living in Madrid, she meets you. 

Your family lives in an apartment down the street, with your Mama and Papi alongside your two younger brothers. There’s an area between your house and Alexia’s for children which could technically be classified as a park because of the pathetic patch of grass inside a ring of concrete. It doesn’t matter for Alexia, who brings a basketball outside to play in the space after growing bored one afternoon. 

You were already out there, sitting in the small grass patch and playing with the flowers, gentle in the way only a young child could be. That precarious edge where you could crush the petals at any moment, but for whatever reason don’t. 

The brunette perks up, her steps quickening at the sight of you. She has yet to make a single friend here considering that school has not yet started, and now would be the perfect time. 

“Hola,” she introduces herself apprehensively, soft spoken but not exactly shy. You look up at her, surprise melting into a small smile that seems to spread through the rest of your body. 

“Hola,” you repeat, and Alexia sets the basketball down before sitting beside you. 

“I’m Alexia, I live over there. I just moved here,” she explains as she points toward her own apartment complex. You nod in recognition, turning to the opposite side of the street to point out your own home. 

“Nice to meet you Alexia,” you state resolutely, but your focus is still on the flowers underneath your hands, the  caléndulas. 

“Are you a big fan of la flores?” She questions, and you nod, tucking some hair behind one ear as you look over at Alexia. 

“Flori loves la flores,” the brunette declares, giving you a nickname that will stay with you as she pulls you up to go play basketball with her. 

—

When Alexia is seven she joins the Atlético Madrid academy, playing alongside boys her age. She also learns that you hate football with a burning passion. 

After that day in the street, the two of you have become fast friends. One could not be found without the other, wandering around the streets playing imaginary games or dancing together. You could even be coaxed into a game of basketball or handball sometimes if you were in a good mood, but never football. 

It’s strange to Alexia, because football comes so naturally to her. It is a part of her family, but it is not a part of your family. While you are light on your feet, graceful in dancing, other sports are not your cup of tea. 

You’re smaller than Alexia is, smaller than the average girl your age, and it shows when you’re trying to play games with everyone. You never complain about it, weathering the storm of fouls and near fatal injuries from competitors twice your size without so much as a spot of negativity. 

But Alexia knows that it is not your favorite, and she only asks you to play sometime. 

“Come on Flori, please? I need to practice before tomorrow?” Alexia begs, and though you threw her some sass, you quickly agreed when you saw the look in her eye. 

The desperate look on her face was enough to convince you that she really did need help. 

While you weren’t terribly skilled at football, you weren’t horrible at it either. You agreed to help Alexia because she is your absolute best friend in the whole entire world, and when she looks at you with that face, you know she really means it. 

It is all worth it when she comes home the next day, dropping her bag at home and sprinting over to your apartment. She barges past your Mama at the door to run to your room, jumping on your bed and telling you every detail of the day with excruciating detail. 

You want to listen to every single minute, filled with warmth from the clear excitement on her face. You’re happy that she is happy, and you know that football brings her peace in the same way dancing does for you.  

Which is why when Eli asks Alexia to stop playing football at school as a result of her joining a team outside of school, you are the one who covers for her. You easily vouch that she was pushed on the playground rather than scraping her knees playing football. 

The look her Mami gives you lets you know she doesn’t believe you, but she lets it slide regardless, much to your relief. 

—

When Alexia is eight, she learns of how fiercely protective you are. 

It had only been a small thing, a disagreement on the football pitch behind the school you all attended. She was playing with some of the other girls, the few ones her age who still wanted to play football. The ones who didn’t mind getting their knees muddied and running until their lungs gave out. 

Not that it mattered how much they tried, because Alexia always beat them anyways. 

You had chosen not to participate, electing to teach Alba how to weave daisy chains and making sure that your little brothers weren’t getting into trouble while they played together. You had just moved Alba’s hand gently to show her how to twist the stem of the plant correctly when you heard the ruckus. 

You lift your head, taking in the scene in front of you with a renewed urgency when you notice that Alexia was on the ground. One of the other girls is practically standing on top of her, she was so close to the brunette. The girl, Isabella, is practically pink in the face with her anger, yelling about some foul or dirty move on Alexia’s part. 

You didn’t care though, standing up in a flash and stomping your way across the football pitch to the two girls. 

Alexia is by no means a shy person, but she usually leaned toward being more reserved. She has a deep sense of justice though, and has always pressed for everything to be fair, even when it was not to her advantage. 

When she played games with Alba, the brunette would hold her dominant hand behind her back or close her eyes to even the playing field. And while she never let Alba win without reason, she was never overly cruel in her celebrations either. Especially not as one would expect a bigger sister to be. 

She did not have a chance to get a word in edgewise today, not when you stuff your body between the two girls and press your finger into Isabella’s chest, all but shoving her back. 

You tilted your head up in defiance, a positively ferocious look on your face. 

“Hey! There is no need to yell,” you argue ardently, your face twisted in complete and utter vexation at Isabella’s tone toward your best friend. 

Isabella just stares down at you for a moment, probably more shocked to see you there than bothered by the words you just said to her. You were smaller than her and Alexia, and it is rare to see you get angry or irate like this. 

“Right…sorry Alexia,” Isabella says after a moment, offering a sheepish smile before she turns away, walking off of the field over to a few of her other friends. 

You let out a small sigh as your body language settles into something more relaxed and calm. When you look back at Alexia behind you, you find her looking up at you with a tilted head and a look of confusion on her face. 

“What?” You question carefully, back to the serene best friend that the Catalan had come to know over the last two years. There is concern pooling in your eyes as she stood, brushing the dirt off her knees. 

“Nothing I…” she pauses for a moment before she shakes her head, a tiny smile gracing her lips as she lets out a chuckle. “Thank you Flori.” 

You smile up at her broadly before you turn and make your way back to your younger siblings, sitting down and going right back to teaching Alba how to make a daisy chain as though nothing ever happened. 

—

When Alexia is nine, the two of you dance together. 

You are both signed up for folk dance classes by your respective mothers, who have become powerless in trying to keep the two of you apart. The pair of you might as well be attached to one another, as if you need the other in your orbit to continue on with life. 

It’s not that you both don’t have other friends, because you do. But the connection between the two of you is strong, not understood by anyone else. 

Dancing with Alexia is different. She makes you laugh in ways you cannot quite understand, and despite being only nine years old, there is a gracefulness to her movements that the other girls do not possess. There’s an ease to your steps when you are partnered with her, almost as though you two can anticipate the movements of the other without speaking about it. 

Perhaps football has helped her dance abilities, you wonder silently, but even that might be a stretch. 

You aren’t sure it matters though, not when she looks at you with that wide smile that she only ever seems to give you. 

—

When Alexia is ten, she finds you on her walk home from football practice. Her Mami had just started letting her walk home alone, alongside another boy from her team who lived in the area. It wasn’t a far walk by any means, but it gave the brunette a feeling of huge independence that only a ten year old could possess. 

She has just turned the corner to head down her street when she hears loud, loathsome voices. 

“Flori, really? That’s a stupid nickname, just like you are a stupid friend. She only hangs out with you because it is an easy option, not because she likes you.” 

Alexia doesn’t even have time to consciously think before she sees red and surges forward, finding you cowering just slightly under the intense gaze of two older boys. They are in the year above you and Alexia in school, but they always hated the brunette because she was better at football than they were. 

It seemed that their response to this embarrassment was to take out their anger on you. 

Alexia could tell you were trying to show minimal fear, but you were a good head smaller than the boys who towered over you. Luckily for you Alexia wasn’t about to let them get away with it, and she came around the corner yelling in anger. 

The boys weren’t expecting her, and they certainly weren’t expecting the vehemently angry words that flew out of her mouth. 

You watched the exchange with a strange sense of detachment. 

Were you a stupid friend for Alexia? She was getting better at football now, getting noticed by people and places much bigger than the little neighborhood you guys lived in. She could be popular, have any friend she wanted. No longer was she beholden to you in any way. 

When Alexia grabs your arm gently, you look up to find that the boys are nowhere to be found anymore. It is just your best friend with you, her eyes scanning over every feature on your face with a furrowed brow. 

You let out a tight breath as you realize that you two were alone, sinking down to sit on the curb. Alexia joins you, taking your hand and holding it tightly in her own. 

“Are you alright?” She asks softly, and you don’t answer her for a long moment. 

“Do you think that I am a stupid friend? Do you wish you had more popular friends?” You counter, not really answering her question. You don’t want to burden your friend with your own emotions, sticking to the facts of the case rather than the maelstrom of unease swirling in your stomach. The brunette all but flinches at the question, shaking her head fiercely. You turned to inspect her face gently, to see that there were no signs of lying in the set of her jaw or the twitch of her eyebrow. 

“Why would you think that?” She prods softly, her voice only loud enough for you to just hear it. Alexia can tell that this is about more than just what the boys said. The crinkle in your brow gave away the depth of your worries, especially to the footballer. 

“I am not like you Alexia. I don’t like sports, or getting dirty, or playing with the boys. I am not talented like you, I will never be the star people think you will be. I hear them whispering about you, certain that you will be great,” you insist, reticent to a fate that you have seemingly already aligned for yourself. 

But then Alexia moves, crouching down in front of you instead of remaining beside you. 

“I don’t care about any of that if you aren’t my best friend,” she confesses with a sharp intonation, and she means every word of it wholeheartedly. 

She never thinks of herself as doing anything with football, because there is no path for a woman like her to play professionally like the men do. Even if there was, she has no clue if it is something she would want for her future. 

She loves football dearly. 

But she also loves you, and she tells you as much. 

“I will always need you in my life, no matter what. Now that you are here, you are stuck with me and I refuse to give that up. You are my best friend, and I don’t care what I do in life or who I become, you will always be my best friend Flori.” 

And despite everything that told you that you probably shouldn’t, you believe her with everything in you. 

—

When Alexia is eleven, she moves in with her aunt and uncle in Barcelona for the year to train at La Masia. 

You miss her terribly, even though life moves on. Your schedule every week is filled with friends and dance and time spent outside, but it’s never quite the same with Alexia. When you receive a little flip phone, your heart leaps at the thought of being able to talk to her even when she is far away. 

The two of you call every day, and patiently you listen to her describe every bit of frustration and excitement about football. It’s a huge opportunity to play in La Masia but there remain huge obstacles, and the program for the girls is unorganized and frustrating at best. 

You listen patiently, and Alexia is reminded all over again of how her life wouldn’t be the same without you. 

Gratitude and a strange swirling feeling twist in her belly, but it fills her with a warmth all over regardless. 

—

When Alexia is twelve, she returns to Madrid. The La Masia program for the girls has fallen apart, and she comes back to Atlético Madrid. 

She comes back home to you. 

You are unsure of when her smile started to make your stomach flutter, or when the brush of her hand against yours made your heart jump. And honestly, you don’t care. It is the most natural thing in the world to you. 

When she holds your hand for the first time and glances over at you shyly, you simply knew that your heart belonged to her, and somehow hers belonged to you too. 

—

When Alexia is thirteen, you ask her to be your girlfriend. 

Perhaps it's silly and juvenile and you two are the only ones who believe in the seriousness of it. 

She is caught by surprise at you asking, and suddenly the footballer finds herself throwing out her elaborate plan she had come up with to ask you in the following weeks. 

Alexia says yes to you, unequivocally and with a soundness she has never felt before. 

The first brush of your lips against hers lasts for a few seconds, but it’s exhilarating in an entirely new way.  

It’s perfect, as is the way her arms wrap securely around you.

—

When Alexia is fourteen, the two of you begin to experiment a little more for the first time. 

It’s awkward and bumbling sometimes, but there's a layer of comfort and ease above it all. Her lips on yours and the feel of her body next to you keeping you grounded and comfortable, ready to stop at any moment. 

When she pulls away, you find yourself giggling at the tickling sensation of her eyelashes against your skin. You bury your head into her chest, holding tightly to her as you feel a laugh rumble in her chest. . 

Even as she gets better at football and you grow into your own intelligence, it’s still the two of you together, taking life at your own pace. 

—

When Alexia is fifteen, she begins to struggle in school. 

You are the first person she talks to because she knows that you will meet her without judgement. You have always been a good student, and don’t mind spending the time patiently tutoring her. Topics that she should probably understand but do not are broken down into easily digestible ways, and for the first time in weeks her arithmetic work begins to make sense. 

She is able to continue playing without any problems, and her marks improve rapidly with her focus and your dedication. 

“Thank you Flori,” she sings as she walks out of the first session, and you can’t help but laugh at the tone of her voice. 

The footballer beams at you when you declare that your payment is a kiss for every correct answer. 

She pays her pension and then some without an ounce of complaint. 

—

When Alexia is sixteen, she makes her first team debut for Atlético Madrid. It’s a proud day for the whole family, and you sit squished between her father and Alba as you watch her race onto the pitch. 

There’s a sharp determination on her face, and though she only plays ten minutes you can tell she is going to be good. You can’t say you’re surprised, and when she turns toward her family and you and beams as the game ends, you know that you wouldn’t be anywhere else other than here. 

—

When Alexia is seventeen, she reminds you of what you mean to her. 

Atlético games are never terribly well attended with how little importance is placed on women’s football. But there is still a steady crowd, and it is beginning to grow more and more. 

Alongside that growth come some…interesting characters. 

You’re a regular in the stands, alternating between reading your book, watching the game, and doing homework. It’s rare for you to miss a match, though you have missed a goal or two when your nose is shoved in a book. Luckily, Eli, Jaume, or Alba will nudge you if Alexia is doing something important. If they aren’t there, then one of the other players' family members will, a fact that you’re extremely grateful for. 

Your commitment is unwavering, but your interest in any sort of PDA or anything is limited. Alexia is much the same, a characteristic you’ve always been grateful for. 

But then a group of girls from your school start to show up at games. There’s four of them, always sitting in the front row of the stands, no matter what. They cheer Alexia on as though she is their best friend, despite the fact that she told you herself she doesn’t really know them. When the footballer comes toward the stands after games, they rush to greet her. They fawn over her easily, throwing their arms around her for hugs and pressing chaste kisses to her cheek. 

You always find yourself standing awkwardly in the background, wishing to talk to your girlfriend but unable to stop staring at the scene in front of you. 

At first, it’s more funny than anything. You and Alexia’s family joke about her fan club and delight in the way her cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. 

But they never stopped coming to games. And by the time you figure out that they aren’t going to stop, you realize that perhaps you need to take a step back. Those girls are popular, sweet, they love football and seem to understand everything. You are intelligent and well liked, but nowhere near as popular or well versed in the game Alexia lives and breathes by. Trying to follow along to each whistle or hand signal is impossible for you, and your interest in learning comes and goes like an ocean tide. 

“I don’t think I can come on Saturday, I have a calculus project I need to work on,” is what you tell Alexia one weekend. But the brunette didn’t buy it for a single second, raising her eyebrows suspiciously. 

“You always just do it at the games – I’ve seen you in the stands with a glue stick before you were so determined to be there,” she points out, calling your bluff easily.

“Well…this is important Ale. It’s our final year of school, I need the marks to get into university,” you defend weakly, but it’s a lost cause. Your grades are extremely good, and you’ll have your pick of schools. One calculus project will not make or break that opportunity by a long shot. 

“Is this about those girls from school?” Alexia questions softly, her voice careful. You glance over at her and sigh after a moment, knowing that there's really no use in lying. The brunette could read you like the back of her hand. 

You don’t even need to voice your concern for Alexia to know exactly what you’re thinking, and she moves to sit down next to you on the edge of her bed. 

“I promise you with everything in me that I do not care about those girls. I don’t care if you are certain that they are nicer or popular or more pretty than you are. You are perfect to me, and I don’t care about them at all. I only care about you, and I only want you. You are my peace and my life, not them,” the footballer insists, and you look over at her with a quiet resignation. 

“Even if they understand football better than me?” You ask, your voice impossibly small. Alexia smiles sadly, reaching out to gently cradle your face in her hands. 

“When I look at the stands, it’s you I search for. It’s you who makes my heart skip a beat when I realize that you’re there. It’s you who fills my stomach with butterflies and sets the wind into my sail. How could I even notice them when I have you, Flori?” 

At the next game, Alexia politely smiles at the girls but moves straight past them to charge up the stands, still in her kit and boots. She gently lifts your calculus project off your lap so that she can press a resounding kiss to your lips, smiling into it when you gasp into her mouth with surprise. 

—

When Alexia is eighteen, two things happen. 

Everything somehow falls together, and falls apart all at the same time. 

The first is that her father dies. 

It's not unexpected, though the reality is still jarring. It feels like she is free falling, unable to find a moment of stability or rest. 

She finds herself in her old bedroom in her Uncle’s house in Barcelona, avoiding the mass of people downstairs paying their respects. While the sympathy of others is heartfelt and sincere, it’s heavy. 

She already feels heavy. Any more of it and she might break into a million pieces, that she is sure of. So she escapes up stairs for a moment, leaving Alba with a cousin and her Mami with an old friend. 

A knock at the door pulls her from her thoughts, and she looks over to see that you have poked your head into the room. 

“Ale?” You inquire gently, the question unspoken between the two of you. Four years of dating and endless years of friendship have left you with an innate ability to know when the brunette needs space, and that doesn’t feel like where she is right now. 

You’re nothing if not respectful though, aware that as much as you sympathize, you really might not have the answer here. Nothing this big had ever happened in your relationship before, or in either of your lives before. There was no book or manual to prepare on how to deal with a grief so complete and overwhelming as this.  

Alexia loved her father deeply, and no amount of time to anticipate or process her thoughts of his illness actually prepared her from the shock of him being gone. 

You had loved Jaume too, how he passed out love like it was free to give, how he laughed without inhibition, how he welcomed you into the Putellas family with ease. But it wasn’t the same, and you were aware. You knew that you felt only a slice of what your girlfriend did, and even just this amount of grief was unbearable. 

You didn’t know how the footballer was even standing. 

Alexia’s eye’s silently pleaded with you to come in, so you did. You moved across the room before laying down on the bed next to her until the two of you were laying parallel, staring up at the ceiling together. You’re exhausted as well with all the stress and worry, but your first thought is always her. 

It always has been. 

No words are exchanged between the two of you for a long stretch of time. 

What is there to say? 

Your heart aches for her, and for her loss, for her family. Alexia screws her eyes shut, trying to regulate her own breathing. Everything about her feels erratic and out of control.

The footballer turns to her side, tucking herself into your body. She clutches to your arm tightly, forcing herself to copy your steady, dependable breathing. 

As much as she needs her Mami and Alba in this time, she has to work to be strong for them. She was the person they looked to, the decision maker, the leader. They need her, and she would kill herself before she neglected that need. 

But you are her strength, you always have been. You are the one who protects her, whose only thought is her. You have always been constant and steadfast for her through anything, a pillar of strength. She relies on you, and it scares the hell out of her. 

And yet you’re right there, and you seem to take it with a practiced ease that makes Alexia want to sob with gratitude. 

Loss engulfs her and brings her back, your steady hand in hers the entire time. There is rarely a moment when she needs you and you are not there for her, always attuned to her moods and thoughts. 

But then a huge curveball is thrown in Alexia’s way. 

Two weeks after her father passes away, Barcelona calls her. They are creating a women’s team, and though it is not professionalized, it is a team. 

Alexia accepts the request on the spot, not even stopping to consider the consequences. 

It doesn’t matter, the answer would still be yes. Her Mami and Alba are thrilled, quickly deciding that they all should move back to Barcelona together. It was time, and as much as they had built a community here in Madrid, Barcelona would always be home for them. 

Alexia goes to you that night and asks you to move with her. She explains her plan vividly, how you can go to school, she will play football, and you both can get part time jobs. You’ll get a little apartment together, actually start the beginning of your lives together. 

There was never a world in which you were not together, not with how happy you both were together. It was a no-brainer, an easy solution to a problem that had never existed. Life for her didn’t exist without you in it. 

Alexia would move first, and you would follow her in two months once you had received your university acceptance letter. It was a fool proof plan in the Catalans mind. 

At least, it had been a fool proof plan. 

The night before Alexia was scheduled to leave, you arrived at her door. The surprise and excitement on her face quickly gave way to intense concern when she saw the trepidation on your face. 

“Can I come in?” You asked gingerly, stepping inside as the Catalan made way for you to come into her house. 

“Yes, of course you can,” she replied, following you into her kitchen and taking a seat across from you at the table. For several moments there is silence as you seem to work up the courage to finally choke out the words you need to say. 

“I…I can’t come to Barcelona with you Alexia,” you finally stated, your hands folded neatly in your lap

“What?” Alexia isn’t sure she heard you correctly, because certainly you couldn’t be saying what she thought you had said. 

“I have to stay here with my Mama, to help her with the boys and the house and everything. I’ll get a job for a year before going to school, I think,” you explained slowly. 

“I…okay. Are you sure Flori?” You nodded with clear reservation, but the brunette continued forward regardless. 

“Well then…we can call. And take the train to one another when possible, and then maybe when the boys are older you can come to – what is it?” Alexia’s voice grinded to a halt when she finally seemed to notice your despondent expression

“I cannot come Alexia, and I don’t know when I will be able to. I will be very busy, and I am sure you will be as well, so perhaps it’s for the best if–” You were cut off, unsurprisingly. 

“If what?” Alexia challenged, her anger flaring. It’s not really anger, it’s fear, and you see right through her. But still you do not yield, your expression entirely unreadable to the midfielder. 

It only makes her more and more mad that she cannot tell what is going on. 

“Are you just going to give all of this up? I don’t even know what life is like without you, and what – now it gets a little hard and you call it quits? Did you ever even care about me? Did you ever even love me, or has this whole time just been a huge li–”  Alexia yelled from across the table, her hands slamming down to splay on the wood in front of her. 

“Enough!” You yelled, standing suddenly. Alexia seemed surprised at your outburst, but there was nothing other than a quiet resignation across your expression. There was no anger or outrage or fury on your face, but rather a strange form of acceptance mixed with defeat. 

When you spoke again, it was with softness and finality as the footballer looked up at you. 

“I love you Alexia. And I am very excited about this new journey you are going on, even if it is not with me.” 

You walked over to her side of the table before bending down to press a kiss to her temple.  You slipped out the door in a flash. Alexia was so completely thrown off that she didn’t have an answer or a response, she didn’t even have time to stop you. 

She had never sobbed so hard in her entire life than she did at the dining room table that night. Grief had become her shadow, but this was an entirely new kind of grief. It poured over her, consuming her, and she for once found herself completely lost in it. 

When she arrives in Barcelona, it is with red rimmed eyes and a renewed resolve to make something of herself. 

If it meant losing you, it had to be important. 

—

Alexia left Madrid when she was eighteen. 

Barcelona Femeni wasn’t even a professional team, and she was a nobody who had come into the system with promise and drive but nothing to her name. 

Throughout the past nine years, so much had happened to her both personally and professionally. Barcelona was not the same team at all, having been professionalized a few years after she arrived. They were taken somewhat seriously now, with titles and dominance in the domestic league. Though the Champions League eluded them, Alexia knew it was coming. 

She was in the prime of her career, playing better football than she had ever expected herself. The brunette was achieving everything that she had wanted, and she remained hungry and focused toward the future. It was never enough for her, and she always thought she could be doing better. 

There were times though…when she stopped and wondered. 

Was it worth it? 

She wanted so badly to say yes instantly. Football was her passion, her purpose, it had always been her goal to be the best she could be. It had driven every decision she had made in her entire life, and she wanted so desperately to believe in it wholeheartedly. 

But there had always been a flicker of doubt. She held it closely to her heart, never sharing it with anyone, not even Alba or Eli. She did not want to seem weak or doubtful of her decision.

Her apartment was empty, devoid of practically any women, and that had been her choice. Even after all of these years, she couldn’t bring herself to commit to anyone long term. 

The brunette wanted to be angry at you for staying behind, but she couldn’t bring herself to really mean it. She loved you far too much, and the ache of missing you only seemed to strengthen as the years bled on. She had other women, she really tried, but never did she feel the same connection that she had with you. 

Alexia had admittedly tried to look for you, when her initial hurt had bled away in an embarrassingly short amount of time. But you were a ghost. 

The footballer wasn’t surprised, considering that you had never been a big social media person. She found some of your relatives online but their accounts were mostly private and rarely were you photographed. When she returned to Madrid for games, your family was gone from the home you had been raised in, and she wasn’t shameless enough to start banging on neighbors doors to find out more. 

Your phone number had seemingly changed by the time she worked up the nerve to call you, and eventually it just seemed wrong. You never reached out to her, at least not that Alexia was aware of. 

She had simply been forced to accept the fact that she had lost you, for reasons she still did not comprehend or understand. All it took was one singular month to lose both her father and her…to lose you, and that thought gnawed away at a piece of her soul relentlessly. 

But suddenly here you were. 

Nine years later, and here you stood right in front of her. 

“Hello Alexia,” you stated, your face a veil of carefully constructed neutrality, even if your heart beat was erratic beneath your dress. The sound of your voice seemed to bring Alexia back from wherever in her mind she had been. 

“Hi…hi there,” the brunette stuttered, resisting the urge to reach out and touch you. She couldn’t quite get herself to believe that you were standing in front of her. . 

“I know it’s been awhile but it’s…it's good to see you. Congratulations on your team's success these last few years,” you commented gently, a true smile on your lips. 

“Oh, yes, thank you very much. You…you follow the team?” Alexia inquired, her eyebrow furrowing in confusion. You had always been so apathetic to football, she never could have imagined you sitting in front of the television watching games. 

“Ever since you moved to Barcelona,” you confirmed with a nod of the head. Alexia felt her perplexity only ballon in size. 

If you still cared, why did you let her leave in the first place? Why did you give up so easily? 

A silence lapped over the two of you, but it was filled with so many unsaid words, so much tension that had never existed before. 

Alexia and you both looked the same, and yet somehow completely different. You could tell how much the footballer had grown into herself given the ease at which she stood, her hands tucked in her pants pockets loosely. There was an air of elegance and power to her, hazel eyes piercing into you with purpose. 

She looked at you as though she never wanted to look away again, and selfishly, you felt hope in your heart that perhaps…

“Are you with anyone?” You asked suddenly, surprising yourself with the forwardness. It could be interpreted as for the event specifically, but the potential broader implication suffocated you despite the fact that you were the one to ask the question. 

“No, I am not with anyone Flor–” Alexia cut herself off, seemingly realizing her mistake. 

It didn’t feel like much of a mistake to you, and you longed to hear the word come out of her mouth, just once more. If this was the end for the two of you, you would have sold anything you owned to hear her say it just once more. 

You nodded slowly, before replying that you were here alone as well. 

“Perhaps…perhaps we could go on a walk?” Alexia suggested, and you allowed her to set the pace of whatever you guys did together. After all, it had been you that had left in the first place, a fact that you would never forget. 

You nodded in affirmation, explaining that you needed to grab your clutch before you could meet her at the door. 

It was divine timing as well, considering that your boss had just let you off for the evening and you were planning to go home soon anyways. This was a more welcome surprise than whatever you had been planning in your mind. 

—

There was a wave of relief that rushed through Alexia when you appeared in the door frame a few minutes later, almost as though she was positive you were not going to arrive. But there you were, a light jacket thrown over your dress and a small purse in your hand. 

You both walked out of the event space together, silence lapping between the two of you as you continued forward. Alexia was struggling to organize her thoughts in any sort of productive way. She was so caught off guard by everything. 

She thought she would never see you again. 

“How long are you in Barcelona? Just for the weekend?” She questioned, her voice soft. You shook your head, your posture straight and somewhat tense. 

“No actually, I live here now. I moved a few years back,” you replied, voice unwavering. 

Alexia couldn’t help the stab of hurt that ran through her heart at that piece of information. She had always wondered deep down what she had done to cause all of this, why you had let her go. At first the distance was the only thing in Alexia’s mind to explain the break up, but now she knew you had been here for years. She didn’t understand it, even after nine years. Every piece of logical information told her that you had loved her, and yet here you were. 

Was any of this even salvageable? 

Did she want it to be? 

“Oh…I see,” her voice was flat, but in a way that oozed grief rather than true apathy. 

“I come to your games sometimes, once I moved out here,” you admitted, thinking of all the times you had sat up in the stands watching her play. The brunette glanced at you in clear shock, and you shrugged, unable to conjure an appropriate answer to explain yourself further. 

Things were…things had been so complicated. By the time all of it had cleared and the world made sense to you again, she was gone. You knew you had lost your opportunity to be with her, to be a part of her life. 

As much as it haunted you, it was the reality of your life. You never could have changed what happened, but that didn’t mean it cut you just as deep as it did Alexia. 

But perhaps there was hope for the two of you, here and now. Maybe it would be messy and complicated and painful, but it would be real. There was so much left unsaid between the two of you, and whether the two of you could face it headfirst or not would make or break the whole situation. 

“Where did we go wrong? How did all of this fall apart?” 

The question was sudden, a shock but not a surprise. 

You took a deep breath, stopping and looking back at Alexia. The Catalan had stopped walking when she had spoken, as though she was unable to move forward even an inch. Her hands were balled into fists, and everything about her body language communicated her discomfort. 

“Did I do something to make you stop loving me? Where did I mess up?” She questioned, nearly begged. 

Was her career worth losing this, losing you? 

Had she lost you? 

“Alexia, you did nothing wrong. You were perfect, you are perfect,” you promised, summoning every last bit of strength to imbue into your words. You walked back to her, reaching out carefully to place the backs of your fingers to her cheek, just barely touching the warm skin there. She closed her eyes at the feeling as tears burned in your eyes. 

“I lost you,” she whispered, both startled and settled that you still smelled the same, your perfume unchanged after all these years.

“I know, I know. But I’m right here now, I’m right here,” you vowed, still unsure and desperate of what to say. 

“I know that this is fucked up, and complicated, and it’s been years. I might as well be a stranger to you, but I need you to trust me when I say that nothing that happened was your fault. I made the decisions I did because it was what I had to do, but don’t for a minute think it didn’t kill me inside. Don’t you dare think I didn’t spend the last decade of my life missing you,” implored, almost as if trying to force her to understand the depth of your love, even after all this time. You turned your hand to cradle her cheek gently, your thumb stroking across the skin there as you spoke again. Your voice was barely audible, crackling with emotion. 

“Maybe this is crazy for me to say, but I don’t think I ever stopped loving you. And if I never see you after this, I want you to know how much I loved you. How much I still love you. ”

She reached her hand up to grasp at your wrist, holding your hand in place against her cheek. 

“Please don’t leave,” she murmured, and you nodded insistently. 

“I’m right here. I’m right here Ale.” 

The look of relief on her face at hearing you call her that was palpable. 

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stood there, lost in one another. It could have been a minute or a year, and you didn’t care. You would have stood there forever, content to ignore the rest of the world if Alexia remained this close to you. 

But eventually the telltale signs of rain began to stir, drops of water falling onto your jacket and in your hair. You pulled back, taking Alexia’s hand and squeezing it before you reached for your clutch. Opening the bag, you pulled out a business card and a pen, writing your personal number on the back of the card. 

“The number on this is my office, but the back is my cell. If you still want to…if you decide you want to talk more, call me,” you insisted lightly, placing the card in her hand. 

“I promise I’ll pick up,” you soothed after a moment, your words gentle. 

Alexia stared down at the card, at your loopy handwriting, for far too long. It reminded her of being fifteen, watching you write equations on the wall for tutoring. It was jarring, and it stirred up emotions she didn’t realize she had buried. 

When she looked up again you were gone, and yet not a single ounce of her felt alone as she stood on the sidewalk. 

She had a new possibility. The chance to return to who she was in her youth and understand the past. Or the option to continue forward in her career, focusing solely on football and her dedication to the sport while leaving the past behind. 

She had no idea what she would do, but at least for once she had the choice to decide.

[pitchsidestories]

look at us now II Renée Slegers x Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 2689

summary: former lovers reunite at Arsenal.

author's note: hi, our first Renée Slegers fanfic, let us know your thoughts on it. As always this is purely fiction, enjoy. 🤍❤️

image sources

 “So, you hired another assistant coach without telling me?”, Renée asked incredulously, well aware that except for her, the room was full of very important looking men.

One of them nodded sternly: “You needed another one. We made the decision for you.”

Renée closed her eyes for a brief moment and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to protest. She was Arsenals new head coach after all.

With forced calmness, she asked: “Who is it?”

“You know her already.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. She opened her mouth in order to ask what that was about to mean when you finally made your appearance. You had waited all morning in anticipation to surprise your former teammate with your presence.

“Hello Renée.”, you greeted her as you walked into the room.

Recognition flashed across her face, followed by genuine excitement. She got up from her chair, beaming: “You!”

Before you knew what was happening, she wrapped her arms around your neck and pulled you into a way too tight hug.

“Yes, it’s me. Don’t strangle me, please! That would be sad first last workday at the Arsenal.”, you laughed.

“You’re so stupid! I missed you so much.”, Renée giggled but finally let go of you.

For a second, you stood there and took each other in and it almost felt like nothing had changed since you played together in Sweden.

“I missed you too but now every player and staff member are staring at us which is kind of awkward.”, you admitted, nodding towards the door where the first pairs of eyes tried to figure out who the newest addition to the team was.

“They’re just curious about you. Let me introduce you.”, Renée suggested, leading you out of the conference room.

You followed patiently.

“Renée, who’s that girl you almost couldn’t let go of?”, Beth asked, blinking innocently at you.

“That’s y/n. She’s the new assistant coach and we used to play together for Linköpings.”, Renée explained. You didn’t miss the slight hint of pride in her voice.

Your eyes found another Swede between the players.

“Actually, I played with Stina too.”, you added.

The striker smiled at you: “Good to see you again.”

“You too. And I can’t wait to get to know each of you.”, you said towards the crowd.

Renée turned to you: “You will love them.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it.”

“Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Suddenly, your hand was in Renées as she dragged with her towards the football pitches. You could still feel the eyes of your new players on you as you followed Renée.

The eyes of Stina's teammates were expectantly drawn to her once the two of you had left the room.

An edgy laugh escaped the blonde’s lips: “What? Why are you all looking at me now?”

“Tell us!”, Beth commanded grinning.

The Swedish striker began to play nervously with her blonde hair: “Well what do you want to know?”

“About our new staff member and Renée of course!”, Leah replied thrilled.

Using the same excited tone as her, Beth added: “Obviously.”

“Not if she was a good baller or had a good sense and understanding of the game.”, Stinas eyes flashed in amusement.

“Actually.”, threw Kim in who was unlike the rest of the players indeed interested in that side of you.

The England captain clicked her tongue disapprovingly: “No, Kim.”

“We want the tea, Stina.”, Alessia told her.

She paused dramatically, during which everyone held their breath tensely, before admitting:” Yeah, they used to date.”

“When they were players or did, they continue to date once she became the head coach?”, Leah asked the forward curiously.

Stina cleared her throat and answered in a serious voice: “They ended it once Renée retired and took the coaching job in Rosengård.”

After this revelation the room fell silent for a second before Beth concluded with a heavy sigh:” Oh, that’s sad.”

“They seemed okay with it.”, the Swedish striker remarked.

Meanwhile Renée and you were walking along the training pitches, it was a cold day, but the golden afternoon sun warmed your faces. It was where you heard yourself say: “I’m glad that you don’t seem to mind that I took the job, Renée. Considering how things have ended between us in Malmö.”

“We mutually agreed to end this relationship.”, the Arsenal head coach remembered, while the smile disappeared from her face.

“True, it was the best solution at that time.”, you nodded.

Slowly, as the sunlight disappeared, the warmth returned to Renee's dark eyes, confessing:” I’m just happy to see you again.”

“Same. Nothing more.”, you agreed.

“That’s good.”, she observed.

At the end of your tour, you wished her goodbye:” So, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. See you tomorrow.”, Renée waved at you, her gaze following you until you were gone.

With a heavy heart the Dutch woman reminisced about all the wins and losses you had shared together in Sweden until her career ending injury put an end to it. Like a disco ball, Renée had put the shards that had caused the separation into each other to turn the pain into something bright.

She was content with her work, so love life wasn't a big issue until you came back into her life and made her wonder if maybe she should expect more from life.

The next day, you entered the training ground in a cheerful mood. “Good morning, Stina!”, you greeted your former teammate warmly.

“Morning.”, Stina beamed brightly back at you.

There was no time for small talk as Kelly Smith approached you: “Y/n?”

“Yes?”, you asked surprised. Sometimes you still couldn’t believe that you were working with her. Not only was she a legendary player for England but also for the whole of womens football.

She still smiled politely at you: “I think Renée is looking for you.”

You nodded once: “I’m coming.”

Renée was already on the pitch, one foot on a ball and her arms folded over her chest as she waited for the players to arrive.

You caught her eye from the other side of the field and smiled at her.

For a split second, Renée lost her balance on the ball, stumbling forward but catching herself quickly.

It all went by so fast, you had no time to worry about her.

“You’re good?”, you called out to her, teasing.

You had the feeling that somewhere behind you, Kelly was holding back laughter.

Renées cheeks had turned a slightly darker colour: “Yeah, of course.”

“Kelly said you wanted to see me?”, you said as you finally crossed the pitch.

“I do.”

You leaned forward, whispering: “I saw the dinner invitation in the locker room.”

The corners of Renées mouth quirked up: “Good. Are you free tonight?”

“Yes, I am. Will Kelly and the boys join us too?”

“No, it’s just us.”

Somehow your brain stopped working in that exact moment. You weren’t prepared for you and her. You had been thinking of nice little staff dinner where you had the opportunity to get to know everyone better. Being alone with Renée made your heart race a little.

Hesitantly, you accepted the invitation: “Alright… I guess I’ll go back to work.”

“Okay.”, Renée nodded.

Luckily, the players entered the pitch at that moment.

Beth who had caught the end of your conversation, stared at Renée with hopeful eyes: “Is that a date?”

“No.”, the head coach replied matter-of-factly.

Victoria elbowed Beth in the side: “Stop seeing things, Beffy.”

“I don’t”, the winger protested.

Kim rolled her eyes: “Yes, you do. You’re delusional.”

“You will see.”, Beth said full of confidence before Renée sent them to warm up.

Against your better judgement, you found yourself in a tiny but charming restaurant that night.

“The dinner is so delicious, Renée.”, you said, taking a sip of your wine.

She smiled at you almost shyly: “Glad you like it.”

“Next time we should bring the whole team and staff here.”

Her face turned a bit more serious: “Yes, we should. But first I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“About something specific?”

“No, just to catch up.”, Renée explained whose cheeks were slightly reddish in colour, you weren’t sure whether it was the wine or her nervousness. 

Instead of looking into her curious dark chocolate brown eyes, you stared at the wine glass in front of you as you confessing: ”I left Sweden because I needed a change.”

“A change?”, she repeated your words in a sincerely interested tone.

For a moment, you paused while the waitress lit the candle in the centre of the table, the flickering light made the conversation even more intimate: “To heal from heartbreak. What about you? What did I miss?”

“Not much. I tried to focus on football after leaving Rosengård.“, the football coach admitted casually. Whilst Renée undid her low hair bun so that her dark brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders.

With an amused smile on your lips, you remarked in disbelief:” That doesn’t sound like the fun Renée I knew from Linköping.”

Memories of her with a big cigar in her mouth and a ridiculous hat after winning the Swedish league came to your mind.

“Hey, I’m still fun.”, protested the Dutch woman, pointing her fork at you.

You cleared your throat and replied more seriously:” Yes, the players seem to think that too.”

“I take that as a compliment.”, she responded happily.

“You should, they’re really great to work with so far.”, you acknowledged.

Her radiant grin was infectious:” I think they like you too.”

“Only Beth is a bit annoying with..”, you began, thinking about the huge interest the English striker had in your private lives.

Renée waved your worries off:” Yes, I know. But that’s just how she’s, she only has good intentions.”

“I guess that’s true. I mean would be crazy if you still would have -.. , right?”, you started to ramble.  

She lifted an eyebrow at you: “Would have what?”

“Feelings after a mutual breakup.”, you finished your previous sentence flustered.

The brunette spoke your name gently.

“Yes?”, you glanced at her expectantly.

Fiercely and passionately, Renée continued: “Of course I do. I didn’t break up with you because I didn’t have feelings for you anymore, I broke up with you because I suddenly was your coach, and it was wrong to date a player.”

Afterwards, there was a dramatic silence at the table. “Well, I’m not a player anymore.”, you said matter-of-factly.

“I’m aware of that.”, she answered with a wistful smile.

Slightly sheepishly, you asked her:” Was that why you wanted a dinner with me alone first?”

“To see if we could get back together? No. I wanted to know how you’re, what you’ve been up to?”, the football coach tried to be professional again.

“Now you know.”

“I do.”, Renée confirmed, playing with the idea to order some dessert for both of you as it was a speciality of this restaurant.

Much to her disappointment though, you stood up:” Thank you for the dinner, it was a nice catching up.”

“Yes, I agree.”, the brunette waved at the waitress, signalling that she was ready to pay for the two of you.

The first game of the year and also the first game in your new job was against Crystal Palace a few days later. To your delight, the girls played great, winning the game 5:0 and building their confidence in this first game.

“Great win, girls.”, you clapped your hands as the referee blew the final whistle.

Renée appeared on your side.

“That’s exactly what we wanted to see.”, she agreed.

“Oh yes, well done everyone.”, you smiled and handed out water bottles to the players. They high-fived you, done but happy while Renée said a few words to the players.

Happily you watched as the players rightfully celebrated their win until an elbow to your side made you look up.

Renée was grinning at you: “Good job from you too.”

“From me? I didn’t do much yet.”, you said, feeling heat rise into your cheeks.

“You did everything I expect from my assistant coach. Arsenal made the right decision, we’re a good team.”, Renée said softly.

You nodded, smiling gently at her: “Yes, we are.”

“Come on, let the girls celebrate.”, Renée said, nodding in the direction of the sidelines so your players could have the pitch to themselves.

You didn’t follow immediately. Instead, you pointed to a few reporters that stood on the side, waiting for their first interviews. “The media already calls for you.”

“On my way.”, Renée winked and disappeared into the direction of the cameras.

Just when you were wondering when exactly she became so comfortable giving interviews, Leah stepped into your field of vision.

“Leah? Shouldn’t you celebrate with your teammates?”, you asked jokingly.

She shrugged with a smile: “I was about to. It’s not everyday that you score a goal as a defender.”

“I know. That’s why you need to enjoy every second of it.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”, you laughed.

Leah pushed you gently towards the rest of the team: “Celebrate with us!”

There was no way you could decline now, so you agreed and followed along: “Alright.”

A few minutes of jumping and hugging several players later, Renée found you on the pitch again.

Her eyes glowed with amusement: “Did they manage to get you to celebrate with them?”

“I couldn’t say no to that.”, you admitted

“Of course not.”, Renée laughed.

“See?”

She winked at you: “Enjoy your first win.”

You toasted to her with a random water bottle that somehow had ended up in your hand: “To many more wins.”

“Yes, please.”, she laughed.

“Y/n! Come with us!”, Beth interrupted your conversation and waved you over.

“Where are we going?”, you asked.

“It’s a surprise.”, Mariona replied instead of Beth, smiling excitedly.

It was already night when you got home and when you saw Renée's number light up on your mobile phone, you held your breath for a moment, although you didn't know exactly why.

“Sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you up.”, she apologized quietly as you answered her call.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips: “No, I was still awake, the Arsenal players can stay in pubs forever let me tell you that.

“Oh, I know, they did that to me too once.”, the Dutch woman remembered fondly.

“Kim and I left at the same time.” Teasingly you added:” So did you call me because you have come up with a masterplan against Chelsea or is it something else?”

“It’s something else. There’s something I need to talk about with you”, Renée admitted.

Your heart began to race: “Sure.”

“I kind of miss what we had back when.”, the head coach confessed.

The moment she said that you caught yourself reminiscing about memories of the past “Me too. We had some good parties with the team back then too.”

“Y/n.. I meant us. You and me.”, Renée clarified.

You felt the hope rise in you: “Do you think we could start again?”

“I don’t know, would you even like that? Or would you rather want to keep it professional.”, she began to nervously ramble.

You had heard yourself thinking out loud: “Pretty sure both can work this time.”

“Yes, but I want to know what you want.”

“I want to be with you. Renée, you’re an idiot, why are you standing outside in the cold?!”, you whispered into the phone, your eyes wandering off to the window where you noticed her in flesh and blood under the golden glow of the streetlamp light.

“In case that you say yes. What did you expect me to do? Go back to bed?”, Renée questioned with a warm laugh.  

Soon you got up to go to the front door: “Wait, I’ll let you in.”

“Thanks.”, she replied relived.

“You look like you’re freezing, come inside.”, you observed while you let her inside.

The brunette thanked you once more, kissing you, her icy lips melting on yours as the door closed behind the two of you.

[pathologicalreid]

all the debts i owe | s.r.

in which Spencer takes your kids into account when deciding whether or not he should take a plea deal, and it doesn't go the way you expect

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: prison reid, takes place during 12x14 "collision course", i love my little reid family so much word count: 1.29k a/n: caamp song fic caamp song fic caamp song fic everyone cheered!!!!

Somehow, you felt like you were invading a conversation that you shouldn’t be a part of. Emily and Spencer knew this world much better than you did, and you were nothing more than a fly on the wall, grateful to be in close proximity to your husband after a few days of him being in jail.

You’d stopped by yesterday, dropping off a bag of his belongings and leaving them with Emily. You had wanted to see him then, if for nothing more than a confirmation that he was still breathing, but he was finally getting some sleep. The comfort of knowing that he had Emily watching over him had to be enough.

Spencer wasn’t allowed to keep his wedding band on. It was something that the jail was going to hold on to, but Emily had intervened and arranged for you to keep it.

The gold band weighed heavy against your chest, suspended by a chain around your neck for safe keeping, you kept it tucked into the collar of your sweater while you watched Spencer and Emily talk. “Please, just think about it,” Emily pleaded with him. “Think about the evidence.”

“I know,” Spencer assured her. “Scratch dots his Is and crosses his Ts. We know that,” he responded, brown eyes flickering over to yours for just a moment.

Leaning heavily against the wall for support, Emily shook her head, “But a jury won’t. A jury will only see what Scratch wants them to see.”

You shifted on your chair, resting your elbows on the table and propping your head in your hands. “You think they’ll convict me?” Spencer asked, a string of hurt threaded through his voice as if the thought of a jury of his peers thinking he was a killer caused him physical pain.

“I don’t know,” Emily answered, her voice barely above a whisper, “But if they do. Five years—that’s doable. You are young. You can have a life after that.” You were grateful for Emily; it seemed like she was doing the begging that you didn’t have the energy for.

“Not as an FBI agent,” Spencer rebutted, “I’d be a convicted felon.”

Her face softened as you watched, “Yes,” she acquiesced, “but you’d be free.”

At the first sign of tears in Spencer’s eyes, you felt water lining your own, “The FBI is my home. It’s where I belong.”

Emily looked at you for help, but you couldn’t get yourself to speak. You understood Spencer in a way few people ever could, the idea of him not being a part of the BAU made your chest ache as much as it did his. “You don’t belong in prison, and if you play Russian roulette with this… twenty-five years. That is a lifetime.”

Your husband lifts his chin in a display of false confidence, “If Scratch is framing me, you guys will get him. I know you will.”

“Yes, we will. I promise you we will never give up, and we will exonerate you.” Familiar silver started to line Emily’s eyes as well, “But what if we can’t do that this week? Or this year? Or this… decade? Because I know we can’t do it before your arraignment.”

Spencer turned to look at you, fully facing you for the first time since you arrived at the conference room this morning. “Thirty, twenty-seven, and twenty-five.”

Emily shook her head, confused. “What? What is that?” Her dark brows were knit together, looking between the two of you as she waited for an explanation.

You faced the two of them, wiping your sweaty palms across your jeans, “That’s how old our kids would be when he gets released.”

“They won’t even know who I am,” he said miserably, looking up at the ceiling to stop tears from gathering in his eyes.

Standing up from the chair, you stepped over to him, taking your rightful place at his side. “You could take the new deal, Spence,” you reminded him. “Five to ten—”

“I need to see them grow up,” he pleaded, brown eyes boring into you as he begged you to understand. Spencer always accounted for every possible outcome. Despite the haze of the past few days, you were sure that he knew what he was getting himself into.

You nodded up at him, taking one of his hands in yours before glancing over at Emily, “Can you give us a minute?”

Prentiss sighed and gave the both of you an understanding look before she slipped out of the room. “I need to see them grow up,” he repeated himself, dragging his free hand down his face while you squeezed his hand comfortingly.

“I know,” you whispered, “but with the deal… five years.”

“Or ten,” he countered. “Ten years… Nell would be in high school.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea, your oldest baby in high school, and just like that, you understood Spencer’s decision. You’d be there, outside in the world with your kids for those five to ten years; you’d see all of the in-between. Spencer would miss everything, learning about his own children through phone calls and letters, he’d play a passive role in their lives. If there was even the slightest chance that he would plead not guilty and win, then this whole nightmare would be over. “You have to fight,” you said, announcing the conclusion that he had already come to.

He nodded in confirmation, “Angel,” he whispered, “I don’t want you to come to the arraignment.”

Your breathing hitched, “What?”

“I want you to be with the kids. You’re the only parent they’ll have for who knows how long,” he explained himself.

You hadn’t worked out what you were going to tell the kids. They were too young to understand. Finn was barely out of the newborn phase, Livvy’s vocabulary was expanding every day, and Nell… Spencer was Nell’s best friend. Steeling your expression, you nodded once, “Okay, I won’t go.”

His lips parted and closed like he wanted to say something but stopped himself, you squeezed his hand in an attempt to be encouraging. “Just in case things don’t go the way we want… don’t wait for me.”

You dropped his hand, shaking your head in horror. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing from him, without a second thought, you reached into your shirt and pulled his wedding band out, leaving it on the chain, “For better or for worse, Spencer.”

“This is far worse than anything we could have ever thought of,” he continued, trying to give you an out. You could leave and he wouldn’t fault you, but you’d fault yourself.

Instead, you waved away his offer, “It would be an honor to wait for you. If that’s what it takes for me to see you again.”

He kissed you. Ducking his head until his lips met yours, there was nothing chaste about it. You both knew it was the last kiss, and it had to be good enough to last a lifetime. It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before, fueled purely by emotion; you kissed him like you’d never see him again. You gripped the collar of his sweater to discourage him from pulling away, and you tried to memorize the feeling of his hands on your waist.

A hollow feeling filled your chest when he pulled away, “I love you,” you breathed.

He nodded, resting his forehead against yours, “I love you too.” He pressed another small kiss to your lips, “I’ll make this up to you.”

You let yourself be pulled into his embrace, burying your face in his chest. You held onto him because this moment couldn’t last forever, but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to drag it out.

[a-mint-bear]

Comfort Object

Male Yandere x Reader

You see a really weird "job" post online, and the money seems too good to be true. But you aren't really in a position where you can turn it down...

You hope it doesn't get weird.

---

It was a very… concerning “job” posting.

But desperate times, and all that. 

It had shown up about a week ago, and it wasn’t hard to see why no one had taken the poster up on it as of yet. 

Bedmate Needed

● 11 pm to 6 am

● $25/hour up front

● Riverside Motel

● Room 44

● Not a sex thing

The last note seemed tacked on in a later edit, but it was still… not great.

You’d have to be either a gullible idiot or a desperate one to go for a job like this. Unfortunately, you were the latter. Very much so.

You couldn’t take another night on the street. It was getting so cold out. The promise of a warm bed was almost enough to lure you in on its own. But the money… 175 bucks just to sleep in the same bed as some internet creep?

Despite the clarification in the post, this had to be a sex thing, right?

You hadn’t gone that far, despite everything. It’s not like you hadn’t considered it… but the thought was too terrifying. Making yourself completely vulnerable to a stranger that could just decide you were less than a person and do whatever they wanted to you? You had to draw the line somewhere.

But at this point, you weren’t sure that there was a line you weren’t willing to cross anymore. 

. . .

The Motel wasn’t the seediest you’d ever seen around town but it wasn’t a place you would’ve voluntarily stayed at even two months ago. Back when you had options. 

Creepy post guy opened the door after a couple of knocks, with an awkward, pregnant pause between them. He wasn’t quite what you expected for an internet creep, but he was still a sight to see.

Really bad posture and dark, greasy-looking hair, with the darkest circles under his eyes you’d ever seen. He looked like he was about to pass out at any second, but he held it together long enough to gesture you into the room. 

“Hey…” His voice was low but he sounded nervous. And so, so tired. “You’re… You’re a little early. That’s…that’s fine. Uh, come in.”

You felt his eyes on you as you passed him, and it didn’t help your anxiousness. Not one bit. 

“Hey so, I-I really…I uh, need a shower.” He stumbled over his words with a breathy, nervous laugh. “Unless you wanna sleep next to a… fuckin’ sweaty mess all night. Do you wanna go first or…?”

You must’ve looked nervous because his eyes went wider, digging into his pocket.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to… Oh, uh…here.” He nodded, pressing the money into your hand. “Up front, just… just like I said. You just…just seemed like you maybe sorta needed one too.”

Some part of you must’ve still had an ounce of pride left because your whole body felt on fire with shame, embarrassment so consuming that you froze up. It had been a couple of days…

He just looked away, seeming like he was embarrassed himself. 

“I w-wasn’t gonna like… try to join you or peep on you or nothin’!” He tried to assure you, eyes darting in a panic and talking a bit too fast. “If I, like, go first? I won’t get mad if you change your mind and leave… I get it. I’m not gonna like… go after you or call the cops or nothin’ like that. I just…”

He stared at the floor, nails digging into his arm as he seemed like he was having trouble breathing.

“I really… I really need this.” He was so quiet, but his voice was so desperate.

You couldn’t really be considering this, could you?

He seemed more like a weird, awkward, sad guy than a real danger or some kind of pervert.

And you really did need a hot shower. 

It seemed like a safer bet to have him go first, if you were really going through with this. And it would give you a chance to look around the room for a spot to tuck away your pocket knife, just in case.

When he was in the shower, you did just that. The spot between the mattress and bed frame would be easy to grab at if things got hinky.

If things got all touchy-feely, as you suspected they would, him finding that on you or leaving it in your pocket when your clothes got tossed wherever would be really inconvenient. 

Steam rolled out of the bathroom when he stepped out, shirtless but with sweatpants and a towel around his neck. He was thin, almost alarmingly so, but you could still see muscle, enough to pose a problem should he decide to overpower you.

This was your last chance to back out, before you’d be vulnerable to this odd stranger.

But even if you left, the money wouldn’t last long, and it’s not like you had any other options. 

You were so grateful that the motel tub wasn’t disgusting, but you would’ve gotten clean regardless. Two days worth of sweat and funk was washed away and it felt so heavenly… But it was hard to relax when you were trying to stay hyper alert of any noise that could be that man trying to get in or even eavesdrop.

But…

Nothing. 

You finished your shower and brushed your teeth, doing everything you could to feel clean that a motel bathroom could provide. And there was no sign of the guy. 

But you had to go back out there eventually. You supposed you could lock yourself in here and get a full night’s sleep indoors, even if it was on the floor of a motel bathroom with your back against the door, but part of you just said “fuck it” and warily peeked around the doorway into the bedroom.

The lights in the room were dim, but warm. He was sitting on the end of the bed, one knee tucked into his chest, staring at the tv as the bright colors of a nightly talk show reflected in his eyes, but something told you he wasn’t really watching. His eyes met yours and you froze.

“It’s almost eleven…” He mumbled, his head resting awkwardly on his shoulder. His hand ghosted over the spot on the bed next to him. “… Will... will you stay?”

So many thoughts raced through your head. What would happen if you laid down beside him? You could probably deal with sex… even if it felt a bit wrong. But if he wanted to hurt you?

Your brain reminded you:

What do you really have to lose?

When you told him you would stay, sitting next to him, you could see him relax. Just a bit.

“If you still want to leave-”

But you cut him off, almost afraid he would talk you out of it after you’d made up your mind.

Avoiding his stare, you told him you had nowhere to go.

The bed was cold, it might take a bit to warm up with the two of you in it, but it was the least of your concerns at that moment. 

“So it’s...” He’d spoken up so suddenly, you hoped he didn’t see you flinch. He was staring at the ceiling, seeming just a tiny bit calmer. “... it’s fine if you just… lay there or h-hold onto me, or play on your phone or whatever, anything is fine. Just… just don’t leave ‘til mornin’. Okay?”

A worrying pause, but you told him you understood.

And that was that. He laid next to you unmoving for almost an hour before you had the nerve to move at all, shifting slowly to your side to face him.

His eyes were shut, his breathing even, but somehow you knew he was still awake. It was like he was trying to sleep but it just wasn’t coming to him. He looked so worn down, like he could just keel over any second. It definitely made him less intimidating, but you weren’t letting your guard down, no matter how much your body was screaming at you to just let go.

Despite your better judgement, you wondered if he really was being genuine about this not being a sex thing. It was a relief, sure, but it just raised more questions.

Why were you here?

. . .

You’d stopped looking at the bedside clock a while ago. It had to have been hours by then.

Your anxiety and dread somehow felt quieter under the lull of impending sleep. Despite everything, your body was at least grateful for a warm bed and hot shower, and if you didn’t sleep there now, you didn’t know when you’d be able to sleep somewhere warm any time soon. 

Every moment that ticked by, you felt your resolve slipping. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, just to let go… This whole situation was weird, but you just wanted to sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hoped against everything that he would just fall asleep.

Just this once, he didn’t want to have to follow through with it. But he was so damn tired. There was this ache behind his eyes that he could feel in his bones, his mind never stopped racing… 

He could feel your body heat in the bed next to him. You had either been very scared or very considerate, you’d only moved once since you laid down with him. 

He hated that he had to do this. He felt sorry for you, he really did. But it was drowned out by the buzzing in the back of his brain. The constant whispers in his ear. 

There had been so many before now, it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten caught. But this was a huge, dangerous city. Everyone in it was just a blip to anyone paying attention. 

He could feel their skin under his palms buzzing at the back of his brain. How their eyes stared into his, burning with betrayal, fear, helplessness. How he saw them fade away.

How it was the only thing that worked to let him finally sleep. The only thing that quieted the whispers, at least for a little bit. 

Some booked it after getting the money. Some just showed up and straight-up robbed him. Some tried to leave in the middle of the night, thinking he was asleep. But if they stayed and fell asleep, that was that.

He told himself that he gave them all a chance. 

If you managed to stay up all night, you’d be safe. But he really needed this… It was already day three, and he’d never made it past day five without completely losing it. Trying to fight this, it was too hard. The longer he stayed awake, trying to avoid what had to happen, the worse he felt. The louder the voice got. The deeper the ache in his bones. But the more often he did it, the easier it got. And that was worse in a different way. 

It was wrong. He wasn’t so deep in it that he couldn’t see that. The morning after, he always hated himself and what he did. 

But as the days went on, it would all creep back in. And doing it again felt less and less horrifying to him. 

You were scared. He could tell. And you had every reason to be, he told himself. But it just meant it would take you longer to fall asleep. 

He could wait all night. And if you made it the full seven hours, you weren’t what he needed. You’d be free from him, from this. Hopefully you wouldn’t come back, no matter how badly you needed the money.

He wondered what you meant by having nowhere to go.

But he tried not to wonder too much. It would make this harder. 

He could hear your breathing getting slower, your body relaxing into the bed. You wouldn’t last much longer. 

His eyes shot open when he felt you suddenly touch him, tucking your forehead into his shoulder. You weren’t quite asleep, a cuddler? He almost laughed to himself when half-asleep you looked a bit frustrated, like it wasn’t enough.

You muttered something about being cold, lazily scooting your body closer to him up the bed. He felt his breath catch when suddenly, his head was pulled to you, tucked into your chest as your arm circled him. He was suddenly the little spoon, but facing you. He could hear your heartbeat. 

He wanted to say something, wake you up or wriggle free to make what he had to do easier on you when you fell asleep. He felt a hand in his hair, playing with it and idle gentle nails on his scalp. 

It was… nice. Everything felt calm, the buzzing and horrible thoughts were still there but they were being drowned out by the warmth of your skin, the thump of your heart in his ear.

You were mumbling something. He held his breath, trying to hear.

You told him, or whoever you were dreaming about, maybe even no one at all, that he was okay. That he was safe. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes open. Something was different this time. He felt all his control slipping away, and for once, he wasn’t scared. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke to a sunbeam across your face, and the strange man in your arms, sound asleep. According to your phone, it was 10 am. You were grateful for the extra hours in a warm bed, but would he be mad? Did he have somewhere to be?

You couldn’t remember anything past drifting off next to him, but the two of you were tangled together, he seemed so comfortable.

Now that it was over, and your anxieties were much quieter, you really got a good look at the guy. He wasn’t… unattractive, you supposed. He was all elbows and ribs but laying against your chest made him look so soft and harmless. 

Wasn’t the worst way you’d ever made 175 bucks.

You wondered if he’d shell out the extra 100, or if that would be pushing your luck. 

Either way, it would be best to wake him up.

Gently scratching at his scalp, you told him it was getting late.

You watched as his eyes struggled to open, and for a few calm moments, he just laid against you. After a beat, he gasped and jolted up, head swiveling around the room in a panic.

“I…” He seemed really out of it, almost scared. “I actually…”

He stared at you, eyes wide. You told him it was ten in the morning, hoping everything was okay and if it wasn’t, that he wouldn’t take it out on you.

He grabbed you by the shoulders, and for a moment you were sure something bad was going to happen, but somehow, it was even worse.

He was crying.

Breaking down, sobbing hard as he just kept staring at you. Even with the odd night you’d just had, this was somehow the weirdest part. 

Despite yourself, you asked him if he was okay. He pulled himself together and you were startled again when he touched your face, his thumb gently grazing your cheek. It was tender and sweet, and it was freaking you out a little. Just a tad. 

“You… It was you…”

All you could think to ask was if you should get going, maybe trying to make it seem like you had someplace to be, or were at least trying to be considerate of his time. But it didn’t seem like he was taking the hint. 

He grabbed your hands in his, the sudden contact made you jump. He pulled them to his chest, he was too close. The way he was looking at you…

“Can we… Can we do this again? Like tonight? Please?” He was practically begging, the look in his eyes changing. That nervous, achingly tired gaze was hopeful. And so warm.

“You can have the room, if that’s what you need!” he offered, maybe somehow having picked up on your current situation. “I can pay more too. Just p-please…”

He held your palm to his cheek, staring up at you.

“I need you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a bit of a different one from me, but i kind of liked how it turned out

that feeling when your new yandere was totally gonna off you but you were just too comfy

he's never gonna let you go. you're the only thing keepin him from killing again, ya know?

i don't have a ton of yanderes that actually kill, as odd as that seems. but this guy is one of them

he's not supposed to be a huge commentary on any particular mental health conditions, i did a bit of "research" into psychosis induced insomnia (using that term VERY loosely), but like does he hear voices because he can't sleep, or can he not sleep because he hears voices? who can say? certainly not I, the dummy who made him

i wrote this one pretty much right after my last big deadline ended, but it got reworked a bit cause it just needed some tweaks:

the yandere started out as tired but crass, kind of a dick, and when he switched after that good night's sleep it felt off. It felt more interesting if he was a bit pathetic and creepy, it felt like less of a red flag for the reader to stick around

the reader was originally going to be a straight up s*x worker that got hired by the yandere for him to kill, but it didn't really feel like my place to make that commentary on violence against s*x workers or to more or less soften it with a yandere love interest. it just didn't feel right for something so unserious

but ive been having horrible writer's block lately, so i thought i'd finally put this one out. i need to read/play some yandere stuff and get inspired. let me know if you have any recommendations y'all ✌️