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[justforpay12]

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[alpha-mag-media]

Fans say ‘this can’t be a thing?’ as Golden AGENT award is given to rep at centre of Chelsea and Liverpool transfer war | In Trend Today

Fans say ‘this can’t be a thing?’ as Golden AGENT award is given to rep at centre of Chelsea and Liverpool transfer war Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[ur-mag]

Erling Haaland’s agent hints at shock transfer clause in Man City contract that other clubs ‘don’t know anything about’ | In Trend Today

Erling Haaland’s agent hints at shock transfer clause in Man City contract that other clubs ‘don’t know anything about’ Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[vrsenterprises]

The Advantages of Using VRS Enterprises for Money Transfer

The Advantages of Using VRS Enterprises for Money Transfer

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Here are some tips for using VRS Enterprises safely:

Verify the authenticity of the website: Before you start using VRS Enterprises, make sure that the website is authentic. You can do this by checking the company's website address and looking for the security certificate. Protect your personal information: When you are using VRS Enterprises, be sure to protect your personal information. Do not share your personal information with anyone you do not trust. Use secure payment methods: VRS Enterprises offers a variety of secure payment methods. When you are making a payment, be sure to use a secure payment method, such as a credit card or debit card. By following these tips, you can use VRS Enterprises safely and securely.

[luvismenu]

Only When It's Us — JJK ,, index ,, about taglist

Chapter 02 — distraction ✎

fic summary: you both say it’s nothing serious, but with every touch and argument, it gets harder to stay away.

nsfw warnings: smut; lots of kissing, lots of touching lol, oral (male recieving, fem too? kinda), sucking fingers, doggy style, unprotected sex (shes using birth control so yep, be safe!) use of ‘good girl’

wc: 6k

📜 permanent taglist: @lovieku @kyuupii @fluttershypoo @deluluisdasolulu @ddanasjk @mar-lo-pap @jungkooks-wife @diamondjeon @nnybtitts08 @lil0u0 @butnotmontana @fr0ggieth1nk @minimoninini @whoa-jo @lola75111 @iswearimover5feetall @rispwr @leemonis-blog

📜 series taglist: @deepikhaprakash @rjooniesdimples @sweetmimosa28

abt series taglist: send me an ask w the series title !!

“i have to go.”

“why don’t you just come back home? you can start over, and this time, maybe you’ll be more like your brother.”

you sigh.

“mom, i don’t want to be him,” you say quietly, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice. on the other end, you hear her let out a soft, disapproving tsk, a sound that always manages to make you feel a little smaller.

“aren’t you clearly struggling with school? if you were here with us, with your brother, we’d help you. you’d be fine,” she insists, as if coming home would magically fix everything.

you roll your eyes.

“i really have to go.”

“___, just listen to—”

but before she can finish, you end the call, staring at the blank screen for a moment.

there’s an unsettling feeling in your chest, one that refuses to fade, no matter how much you try to brush it off. its like a quiet reminder of all the things you’re trying to avoid.

go back home?

after everything you’ve been through to study what you want, to finally live on your own terms. every argument, every latenight fight with your parents, all just to claim a bit of freedom.

you worked so hard to break free from their expectations, to stand on your own.

you even transferred universities just to escape the constant pressure back in your hometown. no matter what you did, it was never enough. every choice was somehow wrong, not ‘their way.’

you can’t go back now.

not until you’ve made it, not until you have something real to prove them wrong. you have to be successful, if only to show them that your way was the right way all along.

“hey, are you done thinking? never seen anyone contemplate cheerios this hard.”

min yoongi’s low voice pulls you out of your thoughts. you look up, finding him behind the cash register, his lips curving into a small smile.

“just wondering if i can actually trust your store’s products. what if you are some sort of cheerio secret agent and you're trying to poison me?” you joke, handing him the money.

“oh no, you figured it out. we’ve been poisoning the cheerios. now how am i gonna explain to my boss that our mission failed?” he dramatically placesb a hand on his forehead as if you revealed his deepest darkest secret. you can’t help but chuckle, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit.

“bad day?” he asks, his gaze softening a bit as he opens the cash register.

min yoongi; your friend.

well, he's more like your senior. he graduated last year and he is working parttime at this convenience store cuz he thinks in this way he could spend some time outside.

you didn't question him about it any further.

you don’t usually come here unless it’s an emergency, and breakfast for tomorrow qualifies as pretty urgent, or so you tell yourself.

“something like that,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

he nods slightly. “well,” he begins, “i’m sorry i can’t give you a discount,” he adds, trying to lighten the mood.

you chuckle, the corners of your mouth lifting. “aw, that’s too bad. i thought i might get these cheerios for free.”

he smiles softly, “maybe some other time,"

you smile back at yoongi and turn to leave. but then you almost bump your head against a man’s chest, stumbling back in surprise.

that was close.

you look up to apologize, but your words get caught in your throat as you take in his appearance.

he’s handsome.

no, that doesn’t even begin to cover it. his face is sculpted to perfection, with sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass. his dark eyes seem to pierce right through you, and his long, dark hair falls effortlessly over his forehead.

but there’s something else,

he looks... mad?

you quickly gather yourself, your cheeks warming slightly. “sorry,” you blurt out, stepping aside to let him pass.

as you walk out of the store, you catch a snippet of conversation behind you.

“are you still upset about her, jungkook?” yoongi’s voice carries just enough for you to hear.

you try to shake it off, not wanting to dwell on whatever is unfolding behind you. it’s not your business, after all.

you step outside, the cool air hitting your face as you leave the store, and try to focus on the tasks ahead of you.

“it doesn’t make any sense, hyung,” jungkook scoffs, the frustration bubbling up inside him.

“when did she ever make sense?” yoongi replies dryly, not backing down as he meets jungkook’s glare. the tension in the air feels thick, but yoongi isn’t afraid to speak his mind.

“from my point of view, you’re now a free man. free from all the bullshit you’ve been through,” yoongi explains, hoping to lift jungkook’s spirits.

“what bullshit? i was happy. we were happy,” jungkook frowns, his confusion evident. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, struggling to comprehend yoongi’s words.

“that’s what she wanted you to think,” yoongi replies, his tone serious. “and to be honest, that’s what you always did. you did whatever she wanted. you changed for her.”

“i loved her,” jungkook insists, his voice a bit softer but still filled with conviction, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

“did you? really?” yoongi presses, searching jungkook’s eyes for any hint of doubt. he knows this is a tough conversation, but it needs to be talked out.

jungkook looks away and mutters. “you don’t get it,”

yoongi’s expression softens. he presses his lips together as he looks at jungkook, feeling bad for him. “i’m sorry, jungkook. but you really have to let it go now. it’s been two weeks. it’s time to start moving on.”

jungkook stays silent.

instead of responding, he reaches for a lollipop displayed near the cash register, the bright colors contrasting sharply with his gloomy mood. he hands yoongi some money, more than what the lollipop costs, as if he’s paying for more than just candy.

“do you want the change, or can i keep it as a tip for my great service slash friendship?” yoongi tries to lighten the mood, hoping to bring a smile to jungkook’s face.

and it does.

jungkook’s lips curl into a faint smile, a small but genuine response. “keep it,” he says softly.

as jungkook turns to leave, yoongi watches him go, feeling sad for his friend.

“bad day indeed.”

you're sat on a bench in the park near the convenience store, lost in your own thoughts. the quiet sounds of the evening settle around you, the faint rustle of leaves, the distant hum of traffic, and your own sighs mingling with the cool air.

you’re not really thinking about anything in particular, just letting your mind wander in that aimless way it does when everything feels overwhelming.

then, a loud voice cuts through your thoughts.

“no, i know you're hiding something from me!” someone snaps, his voice taut with irritation. “fine! have it your way then.”

curious, you glance over and recognize him immediately; the same man from earlier at the store, the one you’d nearly bumped into.

he’s pacing as he talks on his phone, one hand running through his dark hair in exasperation. his jaw is clenched, his brows furrowed, and you can practically feel the tension radiating off him even from a distance.

after a moment, he ends the call with an aggravated sigh, stuffing his phone into his pocket as he makes his way into the park, still visibly upset. he barely notices his surroundings as he walks closer to where you’re sitting.

he sighs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, muttering something under his breath as if willing the frustration to melt away. you can’t help but stare a little, like an idiot.

then his eyes snap open and land directly on you.

“got a problem with me?” his voice is sharp, cutting through the silence between you.

you blink, startled, and stand up instinctively. “excuse me?”

he turns fully to face you, his eyes never leaving yours. “i asked, you got a problem with me?”

“no.” you shake your head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“good.”

wow. nice attitude.

just as you’re about to walk away, he calls out again.

“never seen you around here before.”

“pardon?” you turn back, surprised.

“you’re yoongi's friend, right?” he asks,

you cross your arms, giving him a wary look. “why do you care?”

he shrugs, almost nonchalant. “my bad, just curious. never seen yoongi smile at a normal customer before, so i assumed.”

“oh,” you reply, softening just a bit. “well, i guess you could say we're friends.”

he raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you guess?”

you offer a small shrug of your own. “he used to help me when i was still a freshman, and he still tries to whenever he can. i'd say he's like my teacher, in a way. it’s not like we hang out or anything, though.”

he tilts his head, considering your words. “well, consider yourselves friends. trust me, he doesn’t just help anyone.”

you narrow your eyes slightly, still wary. “and who are you, exactly?”

“jeon jungkook,” he says, extending a hand with a surprisingly polite nod. instinctively, you reach out and shake it, his grip firm. “since you're yoongi's friend, i think we go to the same university. though this is the first time i’m seeing you.”

“same, i am ___,” you pull your hand back.

“what are you doing here, in the middle of the night? didn’t your parents ever tell you not to go out alone?” he asks, the way he talks is somewhere between teasing and serious. you can't quiet get what it is but something about it grates on your nerves, like he's playing at being concerned but in a way that feels almost mocking.

“i could ask you the same thing,” you shoot back, meeting his gaze head on.

he doesn’t flinch, only tilts his head slightly. “i always come here,” he says, his voice calm, almost like a matterof fact.

“same,” you respond. “during the day.”

he quirks a brow, “so why are you in my night shift?”

you scoff, a laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “this isn’t your place or ‘shift,’ you know."

“well, you come here during the day; i come here at night. sounds like shifts to me,” he says with a shrug, and you catch the playfulness on his face.

“guess i’m overtiming, then,” you say, glancing away to hide your own smirk. “don’t mind me.”

he stays silent.

“you’ve got your own shit to deal with, huh?” he says, his voice breaking the quiet.

“why are you talking to me?” you blurt out, catching him a little off guard. “i mean, you don’t even know me.”

he raises an eyebrow, unphased. “i could ask you the same thing,” he replies, mimicking your answer from before.

you narrow your eyes, folding your arms. “i don’t think i want to talk about my problems with a random stranger.”

“problems…” he echoes, looking you up and down like he’s trying to figure you out. “let me guess. got into a fight with your boyfriend?”

“no,” you say quickly, rolling your eyes. “i don’t have one.” for a second, you think you catch a flicker of surprise on his face. “what about you? girlfriend mad at you?”

his face shifts, something almost vulnerable passing over his features before he looks away. “guess you could say that,” he mutters. “since she broke things off with me.”

a silence stretches between you two.

“i’m… sorry to hear that,” you finally say, feeling the awkwardness settle around you.

you didn't expect that.

honestly, the idea of someone like him getting dumped hadn’t even crossed your mind. a guy who looks like that—that intense aura—doesn’t exactly seem like the type to get left behind.

you assumed he’d be the one calling the shots, the one walking away. but here he is, single and clearly dealing with the aftermath of something that’s weighing on him. its surprising.

a thought crosses yourmind.

if someone could leave him, someone who had a place in his life and a claim to his heart, maybe he’s not as perfect as he seems on the outside. maybe there’s something beneath the surface, something that’s harder to deal with than his looks would suggest.

it’s like a puzzle you didn’t even mean to start solving, yet here you are, wondering if there’s more to him than just that handsome face.

but then you shake the thought away. he’s a stranger. a random guy you happened to bump into, quite literally, at a park in the middle of the night. it’s not like you’ll see him again after tonight. or, at least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.

because, really, why should you care?

whatever his story is, it’s none of your business.

“anyway, hope you figure your problems out.” he says, his gaze flickering away as if he’s eager to dodge any deeper conversation.

“likewise,” you reply.

without warning, he pulls a lollipop from his pocket, holding it out to you. “here,” he says, waiting for you to take it.

you reach out slowly, raising an eyebrow. “thanks?”

he smirks, “again, did your parents never tell you not to take candy from strangers?”

“maybe i like to be a little rebellious,” you say, smirking back at him and he shakes his head smiling.

“well, go ahead, eat it. i don’t want you tossing it away. i spent a lot on that sucker,” he says, a playful grin spreading across his face. despite the oddness of the moment, a corner of your mouth quirks up.

you unwrap the lollipop, examining it with a critical eye before giving him a look that says it all.

he catches it, tilting his head in curiosity. “what?”

“i don’t think i like raspberry flavor,” you admit, holding the lollipop up like a trophy of sorts.

he squints at you, “you’ve never tasted one before?”

you shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “i don’t like raspberries, so i’m guessing this is more of the same.”

he shakes his head, lips twitching into a smirk. “that’s pretty bold, making assumptions without even trying it.”

“just give it a taste; maybe you'll like it,” he suggests, a teasing smile forming on his lips, clearly wanting you to try it. deep down, he doesn't even like raspberry flavor; he just picked it out randomly at the store.

“uh, no thanks. i don’t want that nasty taste on my tongue,” you reply, scrunching your nose a little . “but thanks, you could have—”

your words are abruptly cut off as he grabs your hand, the lollipop still held tightly between your fingers. in one swift motion, he leans in, wrapping his mouth around it. his tongue swirls around the candy, and then he pulls it out, his lips glistening with a reddish-pink hue that matches the flavor.

you're completely taken aback, eyes widening in shock.

oh what the fuck.

“yeah, you’re right. it does taste nasty,” he says, licking his lips as he releases your hand. “give it to me, i'll just throw it away or something”

suddenly, the lollipop feels trivial compared to what he just did. you stand there, completely speechless, your mind and heart racing as you try to process what jus happened.

“what?” he stares at you.

“you’re good with your tongue,” you say, the words slipping out before you can really think them through.

he pauses, his eyes widening for a second, and he chokes on nothing, almost like he’s been caught off guard mid-breath. “uh, what?” he finally manages, blinking rapidly.

realizing how that might’ve sounded, “i just meant... the lollipop. you seemed pretty skilled with it,” you clarify, though you’re aware it’s not really helping.

what are you even trying to say?

he looks at you, a smirk playing on his lips now. “uh-huh, sure,” he says, teasing you. “that’s what you meant.”

you roll your eyes, trying to play it cool. “don’t flatter yourself, i was just making an observation.”

but the way he’s looking at you now, dark eyes glittering with amusement and something else you can’t quite place, makes it hard to pretend that slip of the tongue didn’t mean more than you intended.

“so, do you want to suck on it?”

“huh?” you blink.

suck on what now?

“the lollipop” he clarifies, a small smile playing on his lips.

oh.

you clear your throat, fighting to keep a neutral expression. “no, definitely not, especially now that you had your tongue all over it.” you try to scrunch your nose, but any attempt at showing disgust falls flat with the heat rising in your cheeks.

“alright then, just asking if you changed your mind,” he shrugs, still holding your gaze.

“i still don’t want it,” you say quickly, trying to sound convincing.

“okay.” he blinks, unfazed.

“okay,” you repeat, awkwardly.

he gestures to the lollipop still in your hand. “uh, so… are you gonna keep holding it?”

you glance down, pulling your hand back. “i’m gonna throw it away,” you declare, though it feels a bit ridiculous now, given everything that just happened.

“i hope so,” he says, one side of his lips quirking up.

why do you kind of like his smile?

you try to shake your thought off, tossing the lollipop into a nearby trash can, trying to act as casual as possible.

“well, guess that's the end of that,” you say, hoping to sound nonchalant. he nods as he crosses his arms.

you raise an eyebrow, mimicking his stance. “do you usually hand out half-eaten lollipops to strangers?”

he laughs, low and soft, the sound surprisingly warm in the quiet night. “only when they look like they need a little distraction.”

you tilt your head. “oh? and what made you think i needed one?”

his eyes meet yours, his expression softening. “just a hunch,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur. “we all got stuff we’d rather not think about, right?”

a pause.

there’s something unspoken between you two, a quiet understanding in the way you hold each other’s gaze.

he's right.

you are stressing about things you'd rather not think about, things that seem to cling to your mind no matter how hard you try to push them away.

and then there's him, a stranger but somehow not, going through his own mess. you can see it in his tired eyes, the way he keeps looking off into the distance as if trying to shake off whatever weight he's carrying.

you realize you don’t mind it; you don’t mind his company, or even the strange comfort of this shared silence.

both of you are here, each trying to forget whatever it is that’s eating at you. maybe that’s why this moment feels so easy.

”yeah,” you finally say, “guess we do.”

“i gotta go now,” you announce, hoping to put an end to whatever weird tension is building between the two of you.

he doesn't say anything. no goodbyes, no attempts to stop you. so you turn and start walking away, trying to shake off whatever just happened.

but before you can take more than a few steps, his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist. you stop, surprised, and turn back to face him. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough to make you pause.

you meet his gaze, and there's something in his eyes—something intense, something that makes your stomach flip.

“would you like a distraction?” he asks, voice low, almost like a whisper meant just for you.

you blink, not sure if you heard him right. “what?” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

instead of answering, he tugs you gently closer. your body stumbles forward, and your hands land on his chest to steady yourself. his heartbeat is strong under your palm, and suddenly, everything feels too close, too intense.

he looks down at you, his eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something. “i think i do,” he mutters. “don’t you?”

your mind is racing, trying to make sense of this.

is he asking what you think he’s asking?

he’s a stranger. someone you barely know beyond a couple of conversations and an awkward encounter in a convenience store.

yet there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something that makes it hard to think straight.

“yes,” you hear yourself say before you can even process it.

his lips curve into a satisfied smile, and without another word, he leans in and kisses you.

the world seems to stop as his mouth meets yours. it’s not hesitant or soft; it’s urgent, as if he’s been wanting this for longer than the short time you’ve known him. his hands slide up to your face, cupping your cheeks as he deepens the kiss.

your fingers clutch his shirt, feeling the heat of his body against yours. it’s messy and impulsive, and he doesn't even care that you’re both in the middle of a park, under the dim glow of the streetlights.

right now, all you can think about is him. the way he tastes, the way he kisses you desperately.

maybe you do need this distraction.

his hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, letting the kiss deepen. his lips are soft, and you moan as if you're melting into the kiss. there's something about the way his mouth moves against yours; like he's been waiting to do this.

“wait—” you pant as pull back, your heart pounding against your ribs, trying to gather your thoughts. he looks into your eyes, his brows furrowing slightly as he asks in a low voice, “what happened?”

“we're... we're outside,” you point out, glancing around.

he tilts his head, his brows raising slightly as if that’s the least of his concerns. “so?” his voice is low and almost teasing, like he finds your hesitation cute.

you let out a scoffing laugh, “what do you mean so?wee’re literally in a children’s park.” you gesture to the swings and slides nearby, deserted at this hour but still... it’s a public space.

he pauses for a second, “my car’s parked just over there,” he nods towards a sleek vehicle at the edge of the park, his lips curling into a smile. “we could, uh... relocate or—”

before you can even process that, your curiosity gets the better of you. “wait— you have a car?” you cut in, a little surprised.

he chuckles. “yeah, and it’s a pretty one at that.” there’s a glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this back-and-forth with you, like it’s some sort of game.

you sigh, still trying to wrap your head around the craziness of this entire situation. “okay,” you murmur, almost to yourself, deciding to just go with it. what’s the worst that could happen?

he releases his grip on you, but only so he can grab your hand and guide you towards the car. the walk feels a little awkward now, a heavy tension hanging in the air. you're not sure what to say.

what’s the protocol for walking towards a car with a guy you’re about to hook up with?

as if sensing your nerves, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “come on, my car’s comfy. don’t worry,” he says with a grin, trying to lighten the mood. the way he’s holding your hand... it’s surprisingly tender, making it feel just a little less awkward.

when you reach the car, he opens the back seat door for you. you hesitate for a second, “you won’t, like, kidnap me or something, right?” you half-joke.

he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “for someone who’s so aware of the things you shouldn’t be doing, you sure do them anyway,” he teases. his words send a shiver down your spine, both a warning and an invitation.

but you ignore that nagging voice in the back of your mind. instead, you climb into the seat and he follows you right away.

“why are you—” your words are cut off as he crashes his lips against yours, the urgency in his kiss making you lose your breath. one of his hands grips your waist, pulling you against him, while the other tangles in your hair, tugging gently to tilt your head for better access.

the way his lips move against yours, hot and hungry, sends sparks shooting down your spine, and before you know it, you're moaning into his mouth, matching his intensity. your hands scramble to find something to hold onto, eventually locking behind his neck as if he's your lifeline.

“are we seriously gonna fuck in your car?” you gasp, your words shaky when he pulls away just enough to start trailing hot kisses down the side of your neck. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer.

“no,” he breathes and sucks on a sensitive spot just beneath your ear, his teeth grazing the skin before he soothes it with a slow lick. “just couldn’t stop myself,” he admits, voice low and breathy, and then his mouth is back on yours, devouring you with a hunger that makes your head spin.

your hands move restlessly over his broad shoulders, wanting to feel more, wishing his clothes were gone so you could touch him everywhere.

his hands roam your body like he's memorizing it, fingers pressing into the curves of your waist, teasingly brushing against your chest. each touch has you arching into him, wishing he'd just tear your clothes apart already.

it's all too good.

too overwhelming, and before you know it, five minutes have passed with the two of you tangled in each other. when he finally pulls back, panting, his lips are swollen and glistening. your chest rises and falls rapidly as you try to catch your breath, both of you staring at each other in the dim light of the car.

he’s leaning back slightly, his hard on pressing against your thigh. it’s impossible not to notice how turned on he is, and it only makes your own arousal spike.

you're so fucking wet right now.

you’re laid back on the seat, eyes locked on him, watching the way he runs a hand through his disheveled hair, pushing it back revealing his forehead.

“hotel? or my place?” he asks, trying to catch his breath “hotel’s just a minute away, but my place… well, it’s a bit further.”

you can practically see the options laid out in your mind like a checklist.

a) go to the hotel, have your fun, and slip away without looking back. no strings, no regrets. just a quick fuck and disappear like it never happened.

b) go to his place, let him fuck the shit out of you, see if he’s worth all this heat between your thighs. maybe wake up in his bed with his arms still wrapped around you... and if he's good enough, maybe get his number so it doesn’t have to be a one time thing.

you bite your lip, your decision already made before you even realize it.

“yours.”

the drive to his apartment is quick, the tension between you both barely held back. you're glad it’s late at night, because the two of you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other and you don't want anyone witnessing it.

the second you step into his apartment, the door slams shut behind you, and it's a scramble to rid each other of clothing. shirts are yanked off, belts undone, pants shoved down until you're both stumbling towards his bedroom in a mess of heated kisses and needy touches.

“o-oh fuck—yes baby, suck it just like that,” jungkook throws his head back, moaning, his breath ragged. he’s sprawled on the bed, legs spread wide, hands gripping the sheets. you're on your knees between his thighs, sucking him hard, your lips stretching around his thick length.

you glance up at him, eyes half lidded, watching the way his abs flex as he tries to keep himself steady. “shit... you look so fucking hot,” he rasps out, voice rough. his gaze darkens, and he pushes himself up, one hand threading through your hair.

“can you take it, baby?” he asks, his voice low, a hint of a challenge in his tone.

you know exactly what he’s asking. you nod, barely managing it with your mouth full, and he smiles, almost wickedly, his eyes gleaming.

“good,” he murmurs, his grip tightening just enough on your hair. “tap me if it’s too much.” and with that, he starts moving his hips, fucking into your mouth with slow, deep thrusts.

you gag slightly as he pushes deeper, but you relax your throat, trying to take him in. the room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him moving in and out, his groans echoing off the walls.

“fuck—you’re taking me so well, baby,” he praises, his voice thick and raspy, sending a wave of heat straight to your core. each time his cock hits the back of your throat, it forces a choked gasp from him, his hands instinctively tightening in your hair.

your eyes water, tears pooling at your lashes, but you don’t stop, even as your throat aches. your nails dig into his firm thighs, using them for balance as he fucks your throat. you want to show him just how much you can handle.

“i’m gonna—” he grunts, voice rough and strained. a hot burst of his release fills your mouth, and you swallow it all, not breaking eye contact with him for a second. his chest heaves as he watches you, mesmerized, as your tongue slides slowly along his length, cleaning up every drop. his jaw clenches, the sight clearly driving him wild.

“get up,” he orders, voice still a little breathless, and you obey instantly, letting him pull you to your feet. “on the bed, all fours.”

you get onto the mattress, positioning yourself as he asked. there's a moment of stillness as you feel his gaze roam over your exposed body. your heart races, anticipation building as you wait for his next move.

“you’re dripping,” he murmurs, leaning in closer until his breath is hot against your soaked core. he licks a slow, deliberate stripe along your folds, and your eyes flutter shut, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips. his mouth envelops your pussy, sucking and licking with an rhythm that makes your thighs tremble.

he pulls back just enough to catch his breath before moving up, positioning himself between your legs. his right hand trails upward, skimming over your skin until his fingers brush against your lips.

instinctively, you part them, taking his fingers into your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue around them. the low chuckle that escapes him tells you just how much he enjoys it.

“you like that, hm?” he asks. you moan softly around his fingers, your response muffled but desperate.

he withdraws his fingers, his lips curving into a satisfied smirk. leaning down, he wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you slightly until your back is against his chest. you can feel his length pressing against your ass, you move your hips a little causing a little friction.

his hands slide over your breasts, kneading them with just enough pressure to send shivers down your spine.

you melt into his touch, your head lolling back against his shoulder as his fingers pinch and roll your hardened nipples, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

“want me to fuck you, baby?” his voice is soft against your shoulder as he places feather light kisses along your skin. he nips gently, his hands never stopping their teasing, and you can’t help the whimper that escapes when his fingers pinch just a bit harder.

“y-yes,” you mewl, voice shaky with need, “fuck me, jungkook.”

he squeezes your breasts harder, a groan rumbling from his chest as he sinks his teeth lightly into the curve of your shoulder.

“yeah? can i fuck you raw?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a whimper. “p-please.”

his grip on you loosens slightly, and he leans back to look at you, his eyes dark, like he's stopping himself. “you sure?” he asks, one last time, his tone gentle but urgent.

you nod quickly, breathless. “i’m on the pill,” you assure him, and the tension in his shoulders eases.

“fuck. okay, bend over.”

without hesitation, you resume your previous position, arching your back and presenting yourself to him. he groans softly at the sight, his hand sliding down to rub slow circles over your entrance.

he teases you, slipping a finger inside, making you moan softly as your walls flutter around him. he withdraws his finger, watching the way you clench around nothing, desperate for more.

grabbing his cock, he taps the swollen tip against your slick hole. you whine, impatience leaking into your voice, “just fuck me already.”

a smirk curves his lips, and without another word, he pushes into you.

you grip the sheets tightly as you take him in fully, your walls stretching to accommodate his thick length. a choked gasp escapes your lips, eyes squeezing shut at the delicious burn that quickly morphs into pleasure.

each inch fills you so completely, leaving you breathless, your body trembling at the feeling.

“fuck,” he groans behind you, his voice low and rough, a sound that makes your toes curl. “you’re so tight, baby... taking me so fucking good.” the words are almost a growl, filled with barely restrained control as he fights the urge to pound into you.

his hands move to your hips, gripping them hard enough to leave marks, steadying himself as he sinks even deeper.

your moans spill freely now, raw and needy, muffled slightly by the pillow you bury your face into. he starts to move, slowly at first, pulling out just enough before thrusting back in, his cock brushing against that sweet spot inside you.

the rhythm is torturously slow, each stroke making you whimper, your back arching even further in a silent plea for more.

“please... more,” you manage to gasp out, your voice shaky. “jungkook, i need it.. need you.”

“yeah?” he rasps, picking up the pace, thrusts becoming sharper, each one driving you into the mattress. “want it harder, baby? want me to ruin you?”

“yes.. yes mmph- more!” you cry, your voice breaking as he slams into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. your nails claw at the sheets, the friction of his hips against your ass making stars dance behind your eyelids.

his fingers snake around to your front, finding your swollen clit, and he rubs it in tight, quick circles. your entire body jolts, your hips bucking back against him as you let out a loud, broken moan.

“oh, fuck, that’s it, that's a good fucking girl,” he hisses, feeling you clench around him, your walls fluttering as you near the edge.

“you’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you?” he growls against your ear, bending over you now, his hot breath fanning against your neck. he bites down on your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to drive you wild.

“you're gonna cum like the good girl you are?”

“yes n-ngh.. i’m close.. s-so close,” you whimper, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. his fingers press harder against your clit, his thrusts turning frantic.

“cum with me, baby” he demands, his voice thick and commanding. that’s all it takes. your body shatters. your vision going white as you scream his name. your walls squeeze him so tightly, milking his cock, and with a deep, guttural groan, he loses himself too, spilling inside you as his thrusts grow sloppy.

he stays buried inside you, his chest heaving against your back, both of you panting heavily. he leans down to press soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder.

after everything that just happened. you've made up your mind.

you're definitely going to ask for his number.

a/n: erm.. don't get into random strangers cars !! haha

[giftedclairvoyance]

Lorraine had been working with the FBI, helping solve cold cases by using her gift, for a few years now. The first few times, they'd flown her out to D.C., paid for her hotel room, and given her money to use to eat daily. After it became a regular thing, they transfered her over to working out of their office in Bridgeport. Closer to home, and she didn't have to stay in a hotel.

It was also where she met the man who royally pissed her off.

Ed Warren was a hotshot FBI agent, top of the sector he worked in, and just about every woman's walking wet dream. He worked out in the field, following the leads Lorraine figured out and led them to from her place in the office, and of course, ended up with all the credit when a body, or killer, was caught thanks to her. She absolutely hated it

@ed-wwarren

[livin4woso]

Chapter 1- breaking the media

You knew that clubs would be interested in you but definitely not this one. You were 16 and playing for arsenal after transferring there when you were 13. You started your career off at sunderland your home club with the aspirations to be like the many legends from sunderland including beth mead, lucy bronze, Jordan nobbs there were plenty to idolise so when arsenal had offered you a place on the u16s at 13 you couldn't resist. Your parents had very little care for the fact such a large club was interested with you and had no intention to move from the north east to london so therefore sent you to a foster home for your time at arsenal. The people who you had lived with were amazing and at some points you believed they were better than your own biological parents who gave no interest in your career and no care for you in general.

Your time at arsenal was amazing you were flying through the age groups and here you landed on the first team of arsenal. Now maybe this was due to the plenty of injuries of the backline and of laura the right back which just so happened to be where you played on the pitch that lead you to your debut but you were estatic to say the least. You only played half the game but didn't mean that you couldn't leave your mark on the pitch you had executed the perfect slide tackle on lauren hemp swiftly removing the ball from her feet as she edged nearer to the box.

That tackle had left jonas an impression and many other teams beyond the wsl. You began to make more frequent appearances on the team but only as a sub but still each time you stepped on the pitch the media was all over you the next star girl who was gonna be the big thing. All the titles and names should have put pressure on you to do better yet it never did infact it was motivation to carry on. Summer had arrived the end of the season meant big transfers arsenal had missed out on winning the title race yet you were the most popular conversation topic of where will you move next or if you would stay at arsenal. Now the conversation was relentless everysingle club had wanted a piece of you and for good money from what you had heard but it was ultimately your decision and a little bit of arsenals choice after they had turned down bids from Manchester city and Chelsea early in the transfer window.

Of course you wanted to stay at arsenal, you thrived there your idols were there you grew up admiring leah williamson, beth mead and vivianne miedema, you had a few offers on the table that your agent had given to you yet none of them beat arsenal or had come close to the same pay check but that wasn't the reason you were staying it was more of the bragging rights to say you were friends them even though you were like the adopted child of arsenal many complained that your presence was aging them but it was only for jokes they loved you really. Then the call came at 11.40pm just as you were about to crawl in bed after a long day of pre season grind as unlike the other girls you couldn't go on holiday and get drunk on a beach you were 16 you couldn't even legally drink but that didnt stop you. You were exhausted as sleep weighed on your eyelids then the phone rang.

"Barcelona are interested in you" your agent said to you. "WHAT, YOU'RE JOKING" you shouted almost waking up everyone in your house. "Yes but if you want to go you need to have an answer by tomorrow, the contract is a multi year so it will be constantly updated each year..." your agent began to ramble on about the terms of the contract "yes" you splutter out interrupting his long speech "yes what?" He asked back almost fed up of your frantic behaviour "yes, i want to go its the only club i would leave arsenal for and im not gonna get another chance like this" you said firmly there was no hesitation behind your words "right then we will final up the deal with arsenal and Barcelona and we will figure out an appropriate wage" he said almost scoffing at that last comment and going back to his professional terms (ramble) which meant nothing to you.

Once he hung up the phone you lay in bed in the darkness when reality hit you "omg im going to play at Barcelona" you said to yourself "OMG IM GOING TO PLAY AT BARCELONA" you repeated to yourself this time shouting almost squealing in fact. You couldn't believe it was happening, and you drifted off waiting for the deal to finalise it. It was going to be a long process of negotiation, but it was on you were willing to wait out for .Soon the red and white iconic kit would change to a blue and purple equally as iconic kit and you had a chance to write a legacy one which you knew would catch the medias attention, maybe even break it.

[horreurscopes]

so after months of apartment hunting hell and many rejections from apartments i fell in love with that hurt more than any romantic breakup i have ever had, i moved into a new place about two months ago and i thought i would love it but there were many little things here and there that were obscured from me during the tour and it's not working out and it's making me so incredibly unhappy (unresponsive management, loud neighbors, and it's so filthy from the last tenants [bathtub has jets??? which i thought was sick until i found out they were full of biofilm because they have never been cleaned out and yes i have disgusting pictures] and it's really dark because it's north facing and has scaffolding around it and the broker just made stuff up about the scaffolding being about to be taken down but it seems its just not going to come off because it's cheaper for the owners to have the scaffolding there to comply with safety law than it is to actually fix whatevers wrong with the building) anyway. so now, a really cool gorgeous place that's significantly cheaper and SO sunny and much better that i immediately fell in love with went up on streeteasy, so i thought, hey, it will be super mega tough to pull off but i can probably transfer my lease (wherein you find someone to take over the contact and are free of it) and move again, but then the listing agent messaged me that the current tenants had decided to stay and i was bummed out because the same thing had happened to me months ago during the beginning of my search with another place i really liked, so i looked it up and hey, turns out last time it happened it was the same leasing agent. so what i think is happening is that because it's such a desirable place at such a low cost, the broker probably has too many people who want it and just brushed me off with a lie because they can just do whatever they want. so i pretend i didn't see the cancellation email and show up to the building anyway, and ring the apartment number, and im LET IN but when i go up the stairs and walk into the place turns out it was true and the tenant's friend IS taking the apartment and they're like oh we're so sorry the broker was supposed to cancel ): and I'm like oohhhh nooo...... oh well! because at least i got closure lol

but i shit you not, as im walking out the tenants yell at me through the window to come back in because they JUST heard from their friend that he backed out and actually, the apartment is back on the market, and im the only person who knows and has seen it. so i stay for a solid hour just talking to the tenants who let me know the #honest ins and outs of the place, and that the broker basically did nothing (what is new) because they took the pictures in the listing and the guy hadnt even stepped foot in the place.

anyway it's a great story, kismet meant to be etc, im imagining my entire life in that apartment, until i realize i can't move in because the broker's fee that *im* supposed to pay (on top of first month + security deposit, which i would've had to figure out/loan out anyway because i definitely don't have enough money to put those payments in before getting the security deposit and rent refund for the rest of the month back from the CURRENT place) is fifteen (15)(IX) FIFTEEN percent of the annual rent. fifteen percent of the annual rent. FIFtEEn PercEnt. Of The Annual Rent. For Doing Nothing. so long story short i briefly thought I'd try to fundraise like $7k for all of moving expenses but then i deflated like a depressurized blob fish..... the unstoppable force of panache grit and scrappiness alone will get you far but it's not enough against the immovable object that is nyc capitalism. hashtag american dream hashtag bootstraps

[wpfforex]

Mutual Fund Agent in Vikaspuri, Mutual Fund Service in Rajori Garden Wpfforex.com provides expert forex insights and resources, along with Mutual Fund Agent in Vikaspuri and Mutual Fund Service in Rajouri Garden, helping you make informed investment decisions.

[alpha-mag-media]

FA launch probe into Jermain Defoe’s transfer from Tottenham to Portsmouth over alleged dealings with unlicensed agent | In Trend Today

FA launch probe into Jermain Defoe’s transfer from Tottenham to Portsmouth over alleged dealings with unlicensed agent Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[ur-mag]

Football agents vote on worst Premier League transfer of the summer with Chelsea involved in FIVE of top eight | In Trend Today

Football agents vote on worst Premier League transfer of the summer with Chelsea involved in FIVE of top eight Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical cursing, suggestive themes, brief mention of childbirth, kissing, domestic!Simon, brief military-based discussion

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Thirteen of Ink & Needle

Archie's solicitor comes for a visit. Evie goes into labor. You and Simon talk over breakfast.

Chapter Twelve // Chapter Fourteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

“Please give me some good news, Mister Grant.”

Leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, you cross your arms over your chest as Ewan Grant, Archie’s personal solicitor, comes to a stop just inside the entryway. Jennifer Hopkins, the estate agent for Evie and Archie’s house, sits on the couch with her assistant Mollie. The two of them talk in hushed voices, their gazes focused on the stack of paperwork and open laptop computer resting on the coffee table.

Ewan Grant sighs, more from exhaustion than annoyance, as he sets his dark brown briefcase on the counter and removes his tweed coat. The whole situation with Archie’s family has been a hassle for everyone, but Grant speaks with the family directly, and that is an entirely different beast.

“Will Lady Evelyn be joining us?” asks Mr. Grant, adjusting his rain-spattered spectacles.

Evie is upstairs resting. The two of you have been in Cambridge dealing with more house business over the last few days. She’s so close to her due date, and any burst of energy is starting to wear her down. While you’ve taken much of the mental and physical load onto yourself, it doesn’t seem nearly enough to do anything substantial. You’re floating in stasis. Directionless. Unsure of where you’ll float off to.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” you chastise, a smile spreading across your face.

Evie might have gained a title when she married Archie, but she rarely enjoys hearing it used. To her, she’s simply Evelyn Green from Southern Missouri, and Archie is—was—Archie. Just Archie. That is how you see them, and it how they’ve always wanted to be seen.

Those are—were—their wishes, and you’ve always respected that.

“Old habits,” he chuckles, removing his glasses and inspecting the lenses.

“You’re forgiven,” you smile. “But really, how are things?”

Mr. Grant reaches into the front pocket of his suit jacket and extracts a small cleaning cloth. “You want to know if the Williams plan on seizing everything?”

You shrug. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

This has been an ongoing issue since Archie’s death. He wasn’t even dead a week before Evie started receiving communications from the family about “cutting off family money,” as if Archie and Evie only lived off what the family was kind enough to give them. It’s a farce. Everything given was promptly donated, and everything Archie and Evie earned on their own belongs to them.

At the end of the day, that is what needs protecting.

Mr. Grant rubs the cloth against one the lenses. “The Williams wish to contest everything. Unfortunately for them, they have little ground to stand on.”

“That’s a good thing then?” you ask hopefully, pushing off from the counter.

“Oh, yes,” nods Mr. Grant, moving the cloth to the other lens. “The family money is the only footing they have, but even that isn’t guaranteed.” He holds out his spectacles for examination. Nodding, he returns them to his face.

“Now,” he continues, opening the briefcase and removing two leather-bound folders. The topmost one he holds up in front of him. It’s thin. “This is everything they could easily lay claim to. In actual court, these assets could be transferred to the family.”

Mr. Grant sets it down on the counter. Reaching for it, you open it up, scanning through the few documents inside.

“There isn’t much here,” you muse, finding the last page blank.

“No, and it’s not anything significant. The family allowance is there but anything gifted cannot be returned. They can only shut the tap off.”

“They’ve already done that,” you mutter, closing the portfolio.

Mr. Grant presents the other portfolio. This one is larger. Thicker. “Everything in here will be much more difficult for them to seize.” He sets this one on top of the other folder. “These are all of Lord and Lady Williams’ assets. Personal investments. Property. Private income.” Mr. Grant adjusts his glasses. “Since there is also a legitimate child and heir, that will also curb much in Lady Evelyn’s favor.”

Your head snaps up. “Are they saying the baby isn’t Archie’s?”

“Goodness, no,” says Mr. Grant quickly, waving his hand in the air. “Not that I have heard. Even if they try, paternity tests are easy to acquire, and contesting the fact without proof will only put them in a bad light.”

You shut the portfolio. “But will they actually do it?”

Mr. Grant frowns. “Challenge the paternity?”

“Try to seize all of Archie’s assets,” you correct.

He nods, lips pursing slightly as he considers his next words. “You want my personal or professional opinion?”

“Both?” you ask with hesitation, wanting to know but also not.

Mr. Grant taps the edge of the counter a few times before speaking. “Professionally, they might. However, it will be an uphill battle. The Williams might be aristocracy, and their titles, land, and money seem infinite at times, but Lady Evelyn is the widow, and she is about to give birth to Lord Archibald’s child. That is far more important in the court’s eyes.”

“How so?” you ask, genuinely curious. As an American, these rules and regulations are entirely foreign to you. Yes, there is vast wealth in the States, but there are no Lords or Dukes or Baronesses.

“No child means most of his assets would revert to the family and Lady Evelyn would likely receive a comfortable settlement. But a child means the assets can move forward so to speak. That’s important to the courts. It shows a continuation. If the family tries to seize everything, it’ll place a shadow over the proceedings. The judge will want to know why when there is an heir for the inheritance.”

“And personally?”

Mr. Grant laughs. “They’re peacocking.”

You grin, covering your mouth as you stifle a snort. “So, I can start moving some of this?” You gesture behind you, indicating the house.

“The Williams Estate hasn’t officially filed anything. However, they are also immediate family, so they can contest the will. Have it picked apart for inconsistencies to make the process unbearable.” He shrugs. “Might tie up some of his assets. Make it more difficult for Lady Evelyn to use them. Assets directly tied to her should be fine.”

“Evie wants to sell the house. Can we do that?”

“The house is under Lord Archibald’s name, not the family’s estate. When I helped draw up the paperwork, I don’t recall a cosigner, but I will go through the records again to make sure.” Mr. Grant glances into the living room before his gaze returns to you. “Everything inside the home is…fair game, as you Americans put it.”

It’s a relief to hear. Evie doesn’t want to look at this place anymore. She wants it gone. If the solicitor is giving the go ahead, you can start selling, donating, or trashing items in the home before the estate agent prepares for showings.

“Thank you, Mister Grant. I’ll make sure Evie sees these and that the information is passed on.” Lifting the portfolios, you tuck them against your chest.

“How is she?” he asks, genuine concern in his tone.

Happy with a fake smile. Crying when she thinks no one is looking.

“Tired,” you answer, because it’s the truth. “She’s tired.”

Mr. Grant nods, sighing softly, his shoulders heaving. “I came here directly from the Williams estate. Usually, I don’t wait long before someone greets me but…”

“But what?” you probe.

He shifts on his feet, clearly agitated. “I don’t know if it’s even my place, but I think it should be said.” Mr. Grant glances over your shoulder at Mollie and Jennifer, the middle of his brow creasing with concern.

“Speak quietly,” you instruct, leaning in a bit.

His gaze lingers on the two women before returning to you. “When I arrived at the Williams estate this morning, I spent almost an hour waiting in the drawing room before anyone came to speak with me. That is highly unusual. Many would consider that not only improper but horrible manners. While I object to their treatment of Lady Evelyn, the family has always been traditional when it comes to hospitality.” He shakes his head. “Tis most strange.”

“Did something happen?”

“Well,” he begins. “Someone came but it was one of the household staff. Brought me tea and some finger sandwiches. Said it would be a bit longer. So, I waited. Waited a bit more. Eventually, I decided to wonder off.” Mr. Grant’s smile is like that of a child who just pulled off a deliciously perfect prank. “The estate itself is one of those old manors. The whole ‘upstairs downstairs’ business. Found a few new hires that don’t know it’s not good to talk.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Apparently, I was kept waiting because someone from British Intelligence was there asking questions about Lord Archibald’s death.”

“He was killed in the States,” you say, even though Mr. Grant already knows this information.

“‘Looking into his death’ is what they said. Sent his body back home without a proper investigation. Lord Archibald is from an important family. Covering all possibilities, I suppose.”

“Should we expect someone?”

Mr. Grant inclines his head. “That would be my guess. Unless Lady Evelyn has already spoken to someone previously.”

You weren’t here for the week of Archie’s death. Evie was completely alone. Someone might have talked to her then.

“I’ll check with her,” you nod. “Thank you for saying something.”

“We certainly don’t need any more unpleasant surprises. Given everything that’s happened.”

You rub at your temples, a headache starting to form there. “You’re talking about Adam.”

Mr. Grant snorts. “Nasty business and a deeply unpleasant man. I’m not surprised by his behavior toward you in the slightest.”

“It’s fine,” you mutter. “It’s over.”

Adam is the last person you want to think about. That entire conversation in the restaurant is just another thing you want to forget. Simon’s fury toward the man sent Adam into a spiral. All the chest-beating silliness between the two men only made things worse. At least, potentially. But you don’t blame Simon for any of it. He was only trying to protect you.

Mr. Grant picks up his coat and begins putting it on. “If the family contacts you directly, refuse. Make sure I’m present for any future interactions.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I can’t see them wanting to visit us.”

Mr. Grant retrieves his briefcase and the two of you head for the front door. “Though their behavior says otherwise, I suspect they’ll want to see the child.”

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately. “After everything they’ve done?”

He shrugs as he turns the handle. “Like I said. If they make an appearance, call me.”

You watch until his car disappears down the drive. When you reenter the kitchen, Jennifer and Mollie are up and alert, their faces eager.

“Good news?” asks Jennifer, her hands clasped in front of her.

“We can start selling things.” You place one hand on your hip and gesture at the large living room. “But I’m concerned about sticking to a schedule once the baby arrives. If most of this stuff needs to go, I’m not sure how often Evie or I can be here.”

Jennifer nods. “I can bring someone in to do appraisals and estimate the value of everything in the home. Perhaps even host an estate sale to help push it out quickly? You won’t have to lift a finger.”

 “Great,” you reply, throwing up your hands. “Do it.”

Jennifer and Mollie say their goodbyes, exiting quietly, but leaving a mountain of paperwork behind. It’s just more shit piled on top of more shit. It’s a never-ending river of garbage that you’re floating on. One thing can shift, and you’ll slip right down into the swamp.

Outside the patio doors, the sky is gray, and rain falls gently from the low clouds. Autumn is in full swing, nearing Halloween if you have the date right. Once the baby arrives, everything will be different. Evie will need a different kind of support, one you’re absolutely willing to give, but aren’t entirely sure how yet.

And then there is Simon. Your wraith. The man you think about nearly every waking moment.

Stress is eating away at you like termites embedded in wood. It’s dissolving the good memories you’ve recently formed with him. It’s hard to forget what he did in the dark and how he made you feel. Difficult to ignore the sensation of his mouth and tongue between your thighs, or how his fingers slipped inside and curled so sweetly.

It is odd to you that he hasn’t tried for more. Men are pushy creatures. They’re prone to acting in selfishness. At Riot Room, you and Simon were like colliding atoms, exploding and meeting in frenzied repetition. Simon is moving slowly this time. He’s being careful. Maybe he thinks you don’t see it, but that isn’t true.

Your wraith is learning your habits and curiosities. He listens, but he also talks, sometimes pushing to the point that you want to slam your fists against his chest. Simon is gentle. Rough. Sometimes all at once. There is so much comfort in the way he treats you, the way he turns to you when you’re in the same room. It is haunting. Clinging. Occupying your mind and emotions where there is already little to spare.

Every touch and kiss are laced with possession. Every glance and gesture are a mark. A statement of ownership. Yet there is nothing about Simon that feels like a cage. He’s saying mine without barricading you from the world.

And you miss him. All the time.

The moment you’re no longer with Simon, his absence is like an open wound. It cuts deep, leaving hollow spaces behind.

“Did they all leave already?”

You turn at the sound of Evie’s voice. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, dark hair a mess from the pillow.

“Jennifer and Mollie left a bit ago. They’re going to bring in someone to appraise everything. Maybe do an estate sale. If that works for you.”

Evie wraps her cardigan around her tightly, approaching the patio door, coming to a stop beside you. “That seems like a lot of work.”

“You want do it while you’re taking care of a newborn?”

Evie smiles softly. “Not really.”

“Ewan Grant stopped by as well.”

“Archie’s solicitor?” You nod. “And you didn’t wake me?”

“You need the sleep,” you counter. “Plus, if I woke you up, it would take nearly half the day for you to roll out of bed.”

Evie snorts and rubs the top of her belly.

“He left some information about Archie’s assets. We talked about—well…” you trail off, unsure of how to broach such a sensitive topic.

“It’s fine.” Evie lightly squeezes your upper arm. “I can take a look.”

Sucking on your bottom lip, you recall Ewan Grant’s mentioning of the British Intelligence officer coming for a visit. Is this the right time to ask? Should you say anything?

But when will it actually be a good time?

“Evie?”

“Hm?”

“After Archie died, did anyone come visit you?”

Evie frowns. “Many people did. Even his family though I could tell they hated it. Why?”

“I don’t mean family or close friends. People outside of that sphere. Anyone you didn’t expect?”

You’re trying to say it without saying it. The whole thing was a mess. Evie was told that Archie was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that came from the American mouth, not the British one.

Her frown only deepens. “Well, yes. I received plenty of visitors that Archie worked with or went to school with. Mostly people I didn’t know but wanted to give their condolences.”

She’s not picking up on your line of questioning which means you’ll need to be more direct.

“What about police?”

She shrugs. “When his…body came home.” Evie glances out into the rain as her eyes begin to water.

You fear pushing too much, but a surprise visit from British Intelligence sounds mighty inconvenient at the moment.

“Mister Grant brought up a few things during our conversation that I just need some clarity on.”

Evie simply nods, still staring out into the rain.

You’ll ask later. You’ll ask another time. It’s clear that this isn’t the place to do it.

Glancing down at your watch, you groan. “Oh hell. We’re running behind. We need to go, Evie.”

Bags are packed quickly, the two of you returning to London by train.

It’s late, the sun just below the horizon by the time you walk into Amelia’s house. Dinner is reheated, wine is had (only by you and Amelia), and a romantic comedy is watched with a massive bowl of buttery popcorn.

Evie is asleep twenty minutes in, and Amelia follows after thirty. You remain up, watching the rest before waking Evie and sending her off to bed. Amelia eventually finds her way as well. With the quiet, you catch up on a few work emails and finalize several things before sending them off for approval.

When your head hits your pillow, sleep hits you like a fist to the face. There are no dreams to be had, just a dark endlessness you’ll forget upon waking.

But it’s not the alarm or the morning light that wakes you.

It’s a small, warm hand on your shoulder that startles you into consciousness.

“What?” you mutter, turning over onto your back, one hand reaching out in the dark for Evie. You don’t find her, but your palm crosses over dampness. It’s not a cold wet. It’s warm like room temperature bathwater.

You blink a few times, the dark of the room still sitting heavy on your eyelids.

“Evie?” you call out, the dredges of sleep clawing at your vocal cords.

The reply is a whimper, and then a sharp inhalation.

There is fear in that breath, one that startles your senses into action. Reaching for the bedside lamp, you tug on the small chain. The lightbulb illuminates, and with it comes a brightness that makes you flinch.

“Evie?” You twist toward the rest of the room, searching for her.

She’s standing next to the bed, one hand cradling the bottom of her belly, the other resting against the edge of the mattress. Her eyes are wide and there is a dark stain down the insides of her pajama pants.

“Oh God,” you whisper. “It’s happening.”

Evie nods frantically. “It’s happening.”

The air kicks in, blowing gentle heat into the room.

Machines beep. Voices chat beyond the open door. Evie quietly rests in her hospital bed. Her eyes are closed but you’re not entirely sure if she’s sleeping or not. Using your elbow as a support, you rest your chin in your palm, staring down at the adorable little bundle in the hospital-provided bassinet.

The tiny newborn is all pink cheeks and soft coos. Lillian is a precious thing, and named after Archie’s little sister who died young. She’s wrapped up like a human burrito in a white blanket embroidered with yellow ducks. On her head is a pale pink cap.

Lillian wiggles in her wrap, her cooing becoming a disgruntled gurgle like she’s angry at the world but is too tired to voice her frustration.

A soft knock draws your attention away from Lillian and to the open door.

Amelia stands there in a yellow rain coat and black rain boots, both speckled with raindrops. In her arms is a large, flat takeout container. From this distance, you can’t see what’s inside, but you can hazard a few guesses. She’s grinning, her smile stretching toward her ears.

“Hello, Amelia,” sighs Evie, her eyes blinking slowly as she sits up to greet the woman.

“Brought you something,” giggles Amelia like she’s entirely too pleased with herself. She nearly skips over to the bed, presenting the container to Evie.

Pushing off from the ledge you’re leaning on, you go to the side of Evie’s hospital bed, extending the small tray that emerges from the side. Swinging it over Evie’s lap, you secure the safety lock to make sure it doesn’t slip away and spill whatever Amelia has brought.

Amelia sets the massive container down. It nearly dwarfs the tray it sits on. She removes the lid and sets it aside.

“You brought me sushi,” gushes Evie, immediately opening the chopsticks and lining up the packets of soy sauce.

Of everything Evie’s been craving, it’s sushi.

“Oh, yes,” replies Amelia. She glances over at you with a knowing smile, one that immediately puts you on alert. “Brought that, and a few other things.” She nods toward the door.

You immediately turn the moment a large shadow steps into view.

It’s Simon.

He looms like a dark beast in the doorway, not coming in but not leaving either. His gaze is darting everywhere like he’s checking the place out. Simon carries two backpacks. One is draped over his right shoulder and the other over his left. In his right hand, Simon grips a large, black duffle bag. In his other hand, he holds Amelia’s pink purse with white flowers on the strap.

Behind him are two nurses, their faces stricken by his sudden appearance.

Bravo is not with him.

Amelia shrugs. “Needed an escort.”

“In a hospital?” asks Evie, amused.

“It’s like having a scary dog with you,” jokes Amelia, gesturing over her shoulder at Simon. “No one stopped us.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Evie cackles as she tears open a soy sauce packet with her teeth.

Simon enters the room slowly, placing all the bags on the ledge under the window. He pauses there like a phantom, surveying the three of you before heading in your direction. Lillian coos and Simon freezes.

His balaclava-covered head turns to the bassinet. Simon shifts, leaning to the side, staring down at the small bundle. You can’t read his expression. The only thing you can gauge is his gaze. It’s intense, focused, but impassive.

“You should go home and rest, dear.” Amelia’s gentle voice tugs you away from your wraith. You turn back to them just as Evie shoves a piece of sushi into her mouth.

“I’m fine,” you reply, but even you hear the exhaustion. You’ve been at the hospital for nearly a full day, and the time between going to bed and the time that Evie woke you up was only a couple of hours.

You haven’t slept at all.

Amelia tuts. “I knew you’d say that,” she says. “It’s why I brought Simon.” She nods in his direction, but you don’t have to seek him out.

Simon is already beside you, one large hand resting on your lower back. Instinct triggers, and you lean into his touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Warmth floods in from where his hand makes contact, invading your system like a virus.

“That’s thoughtful, Amelia.” You lift your hand to gesture toward Evie. “But—”

“Shut up and go,” interrupts Evie as she talks around the sushi in her mouth. “We can manage.”

You open your mouth, another protest forming on your tongue, but Evie is having none of it.

“Go,” she repeats, shaking her head, eyebrows rising toward her hairline as she picks up more food.

You’re not about to argue with a woman who just gave birth.

“Okay,” you agree. “Fine. But call me if anything happens.”

Simon’s hand remains at your back while you retrieve your coat and purse. The two of you take public transit back to Clapton. It is then that the exhaustion truly sets in. The gentle lull of public transit causes you to drift off a few times, but Simon wakes you when it’s time to depart.

He does not take you to his flat. Instead, he takes you to Amelia’s. On the stairs, your feet are lead. They drag, and it’s a wonder how you even make it into the bedroom. Simon does not disturb you, giving you privacy as you shower and change into comfortable clothing.

You never make it back downstairs.

Collapsing face first into the bed, sleep comes suddenly. It is the dipping of the bed beneath you that rouses you briefly from sleep. Reaching out, you find Simon. Your arms wrap around something large and hard. It’s not his arm. Likely his thigh.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he’s warm and perfect and so goddamn close. You snuggle up to him and return to that blissfully dreamless state.

When you wake again, it is with the sun’s rays on your face.

Simon is not in the bed.

Pushing up, you glance around the room. There is no sign of Evie or that anyone has stopped by to grab anything. Stretching your arms over your head, you ease out of bed, surrendering the warm covers for the chilled air in the room.

Downstairs, you find Simon.

He’s in Amelia’s kitchen. There is breakfast on the table and the morning news is on. It plays from the little, boxy television on the counter. It’s muted but closed captioning is on.

“Morning.”

Simon glances over his shoulder. The balaclava is pushed up to his nose, the rim of a tea mug hanging before his mouth.

“Morning,” replies Simon, setting the tea on the counter and striding toward you.

He always does this. The moment he can be near you, Simon takes it, seizing it like he would a prize.

There isn’t a chance to ask a question or reply to Simon’s greeting. His arm snakes around your waist, hauling you against his muscled chest, mouth meeting yours for a kiss that sucks the air from your lungs.

It is fire. It is light. It is a beating heart. Lifeblood.

Simon’s hand cups your cheek, and the possessive, nearly primal way he kisses you softens to a delicateness that sends a tingling sensation down to your toes. His thumb traces over your chin, and then presses against your bottom lip when Simon pulls away.

“Hungry?” he asks, and your stomach answers for you.

There are waffles, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, several types of juice, buttered toast with two kinds of jam, and fried sausage.

“We feeding an army?” you ask, unsure of where to begin.

Simon shrugs. “Idleness makes me nervous.”

“So you made everything in Amelia’s kitchen?” The soft song of the dryer decides to go off immediately following your question. “Are you doing laundry?”

“That a problem?”

You pause. “No.”

Simon smirks behind his mug and takes a sip of tea. Placing the cup back on the table, Simon piles his plate high with extra sausage and eggs.

Leaning forward in your chair, you decide to poke.

“Did you take the trash out?” Simon glances up, the same smirk still plastered on his face. “Vacuum?”

He remains silent.

“Clean the bathrooms?”

“Mop the floors?”

“Remove the weeds from Amelia’s garden?”

“Are you done?” replies Simon blandly, his gaze unwavering.

You shove some toast in your mouth as answer.

Simon leans back in his chair, all casual sensualness. “You’re much better like this,” he says, voice dropping slightly.

“Much better how?” you ask, taking another bite of your toast.

“With your mouth full,” he purrs.

You nearly choke on the bread, cheeks flaming. Simon’s chuckle is soft but victorious. He got you back, and he’s enjoying it.

You cough, dislodging a bit of toast. “Has anyone called?”

Simon nods. “Amelia did. Said she’s being released today.”

“When was this?”

“An hour ago.”

You sigh. “I’m not sure how it is here, but it might be a while yet before they come home.” Simon makes a sound in his throat but says nothing.

The window above the sink is cracked, and from it comes the sounds of traffic and songbirds. Resting an elbow on the table, the last two days come flooding back, infiltrating your head. Ewan Grant’s conversation whispers in your ear, insisting.

British Intelligence.

That’s what he said, and you have no idea if they’ll come to Amelia’s door. But Simon is former military, and he might know something.

“Can I ask you something?”

Simon glances up from his plate. “If it’s to ask about what else I’ve cleaned I don’t want to hear it.”

“No,” you laugh. “No. I—” You pause. “I want to ask about your military service.”

The gentle playfulness melts away replaced by a neutral expression. It’s not unnerving but it does make you cautious about how you’ll approach the subject.

“Is it something specific?” asks Simon.

You shake your head. “Not exactly.”

Simon sets his fork down on his plate. Leaning back in his chair, Simon’s gaze becomes pointed. “You’re worried about something.”

“Is it that obvious?” you mutter.

“What’s wrong? Is it that prick from the pub?”

“No, Simon,” you say quickly, the stress of the last few days coming back like a hammer to the finger.

“Talk to me.” Simon’s voice is so soft, so full of concern that you blurt out the question without second guessing the decision.

“Did you ever work with British Intelligence?”

You glance up and find a blank expression on Simon’s face. He’s no longer leaning in his chair but sitting up, completely stiff and alert.

“I worked with a lot of different agencies. Why?”

You look away, staring at the clock on the wall. “So, you weren’t part of it?”

“No,” replies Simon automatically. “I was part of Special Air Service. Some of my missions happened because of intelligence information but I never directly worked with them.”

It’s helpful, but not. If they come knocking, you don’t know what to expect.

“Why are you asking me this, love? What’s on your mind?”

Sighing, you decide to spit out. You have no reason to hide anything from Simon.

“Archie’s solicitor came by. He mentioned that someone from British Intelligence was at the Williams’ estate. Following up about Archie’s death.”

“Did they come here? To Amelia’s?”

You shake your head. “No, but they might.”

Simon is tense. Not only can you sense it, but you see the tightness in the way he holds himself.

Your voice cracks. “Should I be worried?”

Simon’s shoulders heave as he inhales.

“No,” he says after a long moment. “It’s probably nothing.

“Probably,” you repeat softly, pushing the cold eggs around on your plate.

Probably, as if saying so will somehow make it true.

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[12woso12]

Dorothy lands in North London- Prologue

Arsenal buy America's top defender: You.

TW: mentions of mental health, suicide, please don't read if you don't feel up to it

You were built to survive pressure. You were moulded perfectly by the drunk slurs of your father and the untimely death of your mother. There wasn't a single moment that you couldn't handle, you took everything the world threw at you as though you'd been and done it all before.

World cup penalty? No problem.

Injury setback? Bring it on.

Arsenal transfer? Hell yes.

You took everything in your stride, laughing at your own misfortune, finding humour in the darkness. That's how you'd handled your mum's suicide: with insensitive jokes and a cheeky grin that never quite managed to meet your eyes. Most of your frustrations were taken out on the pitch, rough tackles or risky arguments with the opposition had resulted in you being the most carded playing in the NWSL at just 16 years old.

But your aggressive nature on the pitch never seeped into your personality away from football, you made sure of that. You'd do anything to ensure you never inherited your dad's temper and hurt people the way he'd hurt people. The way he'd hurt your mum...the way he hurt you. It was essential that your frustrations were kept firmly on football.

The year you were first called up to the USWNT was the year you finally made enough money to move out. You were sixteen and desperate to escape the clutches of your dad and his disastrous ways. The call up was a long time coming, the NWSL hadn't seen a player with as much potential as you since a teenage Alex Morgan first appeared on the scene.

The call up gained you more attention than you were used to. Granted, you were pretty well known in the States already having played with Gotham city for a year but the media attention you gained for a national call up? That changed the course of your life forever.

Your first tournament with the national team had been nothing short of incredible. It was the 2019 World Cup and you'd spent the entire group stage sat on the bench until Becky Sauerbrunn had gone down injured in the round of 16 and suddenly, you'd been given the chance of a lifetime.

Courageously, at your big age of sixteen, you played in every game until the trophy was in your hands and you were being hailed as the next Bobby Moore. A comparison you were incredibly embarrassed about but one that your teammates, Alex especially, were more than happy to keep reminding you of.

Five years later and you were coming to the end of your contract with Orlando Pride after playing two seasons for them. You were weighing up options for the future, you'd received enough interest from teams across the world to make the decision challenging enough and it was Marta who'd first noticed your troubled expression at training which was an unusual sight compared to your normal sunny nature.

'What's the matter, kid? Your face stuck like that or something?' Marta approached you after drills, concerned as you struggled to shoot her a smile. If there was someone who had all the answers, it was Marta.

'I don't know what to do' You began dropping onto the pitch as the rest of your teammates scurried inside, eager to get to lunch. Marta sat herself down besides you frowning.

'What?' she questioned

You sign and shrug, deflated. 'I've got a lot of interest for my next contract. Obviously Orlando want me to stay but...Gotham want me back, San Diego have been in touch. Even some stuff from Europe'

Much to your surprise, Marta chuckles. 'Kid if i had your problems i'd never want a problem-free life again. You're a superstar! All this attention is deserved'

A small smile stretched across your face. You supposed that Martha did have a point, you were in an incredibly lucky position.

'The offer from San Diego did sound promising...' your mind began to wonder to the conversation you'd had earlier with your agent. He'd be ecstatic about the deal they were willing to offer, there would be a lot of money involved.

'San Diego?' Marta scoffed 'Anjinho, you should set your sights further. If Europe come looking, you make sure you are found.'

You sighed. Europe was just so far away. 'Arsenal have been interested for a while'

Marta slapped you gently on the shoulder 'Arsenal!' she exclaimed 'You love Arsenal...why would you pass on their offer?'

'They're a top team, i mean Leah Williamson plays there. Alessia Russo, Kim Little. I can't hold a candle to them' It was true, you thought. You were only 21, why would they need a kid when they have all the experience and expertise of England's captain?

'Don't be estupida. They would be lucky to have you. You can't spend your entire career in the states. You're too good for that. Way.Too.Good.'

You feel pride seep into your bones. If the great Marta thought you were good, then that was definitely a compliment worth keeping close to your heart.

'Go to Arsenal.' Marta continued. 'Get as far away from here as possible'

'Yeah?' You asked nervously.

'Make yourself found, kid'

Part 1