#nightmare-filled home au

[starrybluenightz]

Nightmare Filled Home

|Chapter one|

There's two worlds.

He knows there is. He's been to both. He's lived in both. He's made friends in both… or at least one friend in one and more in the other.

But, he is also aware one isn't real.. After all, his reality is dark and twisted. He struggled to survive everyday, there's always a horror around the corner, waiting to swallow him whole.. He stuck living his life on repeat in a constant cycle of pain and cruelty..

The fake world? It's full of joy, pure happiness even. It's colorful, cheerful. There's no twisted adults meaning to harm him or others. He's surrounded by unconditional love and care. The days aren't repeating, there's always something new happening. He doesn't have to fight for survival, because there's nothing dangerous in the fake world..

He can only go to the fake world in his dreams. Oh, he's tried so hard to go there when he is awake. But, no matter how much he's tried, he can't..

Those dreams are rare. Most of the time his sleep is filled with terror filled nightmares, them increasing to horror of his life all the time..

He's nicknamed the fake world his 'dream world’, because that's essentially what it was. It was.. Kinda like a safe space for him. He was protected and safe there..

It was always jarring when he woke up from that pleasant world. The contrast between the two was large, colorful safety to dark danger. He was always dazed after waking up because of it.

And when fell asleep only to wake up from his reality, even then he was dazed. He always felt fear beat his heart quickly, but he was slowly soothed by his Home's comfort. Surprisingly, the Home he has grown to know, even with it being alive, has never spooked him. Never once did it make him feel afraid. That he was grateful for..

Speaking of, Home was using some kind of invisible power to gently nudge him to get him up for the day.

He honestly wanted to stay in his bed for longer. It was comfortable, the blankets always soft and warm to the touch. The real world never had warmth, it only being warm when the oven in that hospital was set ablaze. And comfort also wasn't something you could get in the other world either.

They also smelled like apples, which was something he's quickly learned that he loves. He's pretty sure Home specifically makes them smell that way for him. It was honestly quite sweet of the sentient house.

Home continued its gentle prodding, the noises that make up its words cooing him into a more awake state. He responded with grumbles, him nuzzling his pillow and thus hiding his face.

There was a brief shaking of the building that he had by now recognized as Home’s laughter. The sentient building always happened to find the way he acted in the morning amusing, but it was never in a mean way like he had once thought it was.

It took a while, but he was eventually able to tell that his friend and living space was extremely fond of him and never meant him harm. Home always was gentle to Wally, always showing extreme care for and to him that ,before he found this strange dream world, he'd never even thought was possible. It made him feel all warm on the inside, and once he realized that Home wouldn't stop showing him that care and truly meant it he ended up bawling and crying.

He had never cried before in the real world, but this dream world somehow managed to get him to. It was like a weight off his chest, and he actually felt safe in this place.

Eventually Home’s prodding succeeded as the small puppet groaned, him rolling to lay on his back and pushed up his face mask to glare up at the ceiling with a pout. He spoke softly, his voice a sleepy monotone,” Home… do i have to get up…?”

The house responded with a few knocks and creaks, and the blue haired puppet instantly understood that yes, he did have to get up.

Wally normally never talked, especially in the Real world. But, there was no sign language variant in this dream world for four fingers, at least not that he had found anyways. Maybe there was… He'd have to ask Barnaby, his best and dearest friend. Barnaby was always happy to answer his questions, and usually he'd make a joke to get a laugh out of the smaller puppet.

Wally didn't really know how to laugh.. not the way his friends did. It wasn't something that came to him easily… a lot of things weren't to be honest. He personally thinks it's because of the real world.

The only laughter there was from cruel adults.. He shivered at the memory of his reality, him quickly pushing his memories of the other world away. He wasn't there right now. He was at Home. The small neighborhood that has shown him nothing but kindness since he first woke up in it.

He breathes in deeply, and the smell of apples brought him back to where he was as well as calming him. After a moment, he sat up. The long messy curls of sapphire that makes up his hair fell into his face and briefly blinded him. He let out a hum, him quickly moving his hair out of his face as a small yawn left him.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he did, and he could hear things being moved around. When Home first did that, Wally had panicked and had been on edge, afraid that something will jump out of the shadows and attack him. But, this world never had shadows except at night, and he slowly stopped reacting badly to the stuff being moved around when he had his guard down.

He lowered his hands, his eyes immediately finding out what Home had moved. A small smile formed on his face once he spotted the items that were usually used in his morning routine in this dream world.

Home always did his hair. He personally had no idea how to, so it was always nice to have help from his friend.

The small puppet swung his legs over the side of the bed, him taking off the facemask fully and hanging it on the bedpost. He then stretched, a satisfied hum leaving him at the pops that sounded out from it.

He soon dropped his hands to where they rested at his sides, him hopping off the big bed and onto the floor. He slipped his feet into his slippers, and headed over to his mirror to begin his morning routine.

After he had swapped his PJs for his usual colorful attire and his hair was done up into its pompadour, him looking in the mirror to check his appearance.

Before this dream world, he never really focused on it. After all he didn't have a reason to if he could die at any point. But now… now he prided himself in it. It was nice. He was never covered in grime, or dirt, or ash here.

He readjusted his ascot, him contemplating if he should tie it in a bow or leave it tied the way it was. In the end he decided to leave it. He can tie it like a bow next time.

He smiled, making sure his smile was the same cat-like soft one it should be. It was by pure luck he was able to smile at all. It was one of the first things he learned how to do in this world.

Once he was sure it was perfect, it has to be perfect, him gave himself a nod and looked up at the ceiling,” Thank you very much for your help this morning, Home..”

He felt something pat his head, but he couldn't see it. Even then though, he absolutely knew it was his friend that cared for him so much. He closed his eyes happily,” You're just the most, friend..”

The sentient building responded in kind, and Wally knew the other was just as happy as he was.

After that he headed downstairs, eager to see what today brings. Will Julie have a new game to play? Will Barnaby bring Wally along and the two can visit Howdy? Will Eddie give him another letter? Will Frank take him bug hunting? Will Sally host a new play? Will he help Poppy with knitting or baking? Or will today be a ‘stay inside with Home and paint’ day?

He had no idea, but that's what the most exciting to find out…

([ AO3 link now added ])

[plasma-studios]

blue's being driven insane and it's just chapter one LMAO

[charlietheepicwriter7]

H̵̩͋o̸̹͒l̶̢̑ď̸͕ ̵͔͛T̴̲̄h̶͙͋e̶̤͘m̵͍̋ ̷͓̈D̵̯͛o̶̡̅w̵̖̃n̵͝ͅ

Get in the Water AU: Original Post Ruthlessness

Ghosts were physiologically different from humans.

It was something Tucker and Sam didn't understand. They saw Phantom as "Danny with superpowers," not as a fundamentally different being.

Sometimes, Danny didn't understand either.

But his parents did. Utter disregard for the scientific method aside, the Fentons were the ones who learned how inhuman ghosts were: "Just emotions and electricity imprinted on ectoplasm, Danno, nothing to be scared of!" Snapshots of people at the moments of their deaths. The past and the present, incapable of contemplating the future.

And with his duality, Danny struggled to understand either of his halves.

As a human, Danny could move past his nightmare of a childhood, compartmentalize and think to the future, when he was fully healed and his past couldn't hurt him anymore. So when Dora, first elected Queen of the Infinite Realms - long may she reign - asked him to collect all the resurrected humans for a health check and assessment... when he'd noticed Damian Al Ghul-Wanye on the list... He'd thought up a little prank to pull on his long-lost brother. A cruel one, perhaps, but nothing harmful.

As a ghost, Danny couldn't move on. He could never forget that Sam led him to his death, that his parents negligence allowed for the stage to be set, that the lab they loved so much held both his home and his grave. Just as Danny would always be that fourteen year old, caught in that moments, he was still the 7-year-old Danyal Al Ghul who trusted his brother not to hurt him... and ended up poisoned.

Phantom wanted his murderer to suffer.

And Danny, much to his shame, had allowed it.

For a few weeks, Danny managed to ignore it. He'd gone after Damian first, so there were tons of resurrected on his list. He started with the more extreme cases first, like Constantine, but soon enough the next on his list was Ra's Al Ghul.

He'd asked Queen Dora to send someone else, anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to control himself if he saw his grandfather again. Instead of relieving him, she'd given him a knowing look and told him to follow his core's desire.

She never mentions it, but Queen Dora had been a murder victim too.

There was no showmanship, no dramatic reveal. Just Danyal, his grandfather, and the Pit.

Despite all Ra's Al Ghul's power, he was no match for a spirit hellbent on drowning him.

That's what Danny did to his grandfather. He'd thrown up afterwards, once he was human before. But the ghost in him relished the act; he could still feel Grandfather's throat under his hands, pulse fluttering against his palm as Danyal held him down. He struggled and shook as the Lazarus waters filled his lungs, burning away healthy tissue. Fingernails morphed into claws that sliced through the tender skin, blood leaking into the water, and water leaking into the blood.

It took a long time for Grandfather to die. Deep within Danny, next to his core, he knew it was what was deserved. That the murdered finally had justice. He was content with never speaking of it again, a secret between him and the waters.

And now it was going to happen again as Phantom's impulsive mind overtook Fenton's tactical one.

He'd known Damian was looking into him. Knew another confrontation was inevitable, what with two more of his siblings needing their health checks. But as Danny was stalking their mother, searching for the best way to abduct her (she was still his mother after all, he didn't want her dead... yet), Damian and his family confronted her.

Relief washed over him as only a normal amount of rage bubbled up at the sight of Damian, instead of the overwhelming, all-consuming fury he'd felt. Danny laughed at their arguments, at Constantine thinking he could put a living ghost to rest, at his siblings-unmet and his father-unknown, until...

Damian confessed.

His murderer confessed, yet as he continued to speak, to explain, the fury rose in him again. Because it wasn't a betrayal. He'd always thought Damian betrayed him, but no.

Through his own ruthlessness, Damian gave him the only mercy he could manage. And there was only one thing Danyal wanted now.

""̸̲̈́T̶͘͜ä̵̢li̸a̶̬̓ ̴̬̐A̵̛̪l̸̲̚ G̸̛̫h̶̺̏u̸̢̚l!̴̳̈́ D̷̩̕o̸��ͅ ̶̝̍y̴͙͘o̵̙͐u̵̬̓ ̴̤͂k̸̡̑n̵͓̈́o̷͈͝w̷͖͂ ̷͓͑w̴̧̄h̵̲͌o̴̮̔ ̵̼́Ị̷̂ ̷̣̽a̵̳̓m̷̩̓?̷̝͒"̷̧͠"

It was her fault. She was the reason why he was dead, nothing more than a coward who couldn't go against her father for the sake of her children. She abused them, she struck his brother, it was her fault-

"Danyal," she answered. And Danyal grinned, fanged and sharp.

He approached, the waters of his birthplace lovingly brushing against his legs, consoling him the only way they knew how. They whispered revenge into his ears, madness into his heart, just as they had when he'd confronted Damian, when he murdered Grandfather. "You have much to answer for, daughter of the Demon Head," he said, voice echoing around the room.

Unrestrained greed filled her gaze. "You've returned to me, my son."

Danyal laughed, brutal and rough. "I've returned for you, Mother," he corrected. "Don't think this reunion will end well for you."

"You mean to hurt me, Danyal?" she crooned, all false hurt and fake love.

"I mean to kill you."

Genuine anger flashed across her face. "My son would never-"

"Y̵̺̆o̴̩͂u̸͉̕r̷̰͝ ̴͔͝s̵̡̉o̶̡̎ň̵̞ ̶̗̈i̴̘̍s ̸̦̐d̴̯̚ê̶͚á̶̩d̷̻̈́," he snarled, and Damian flinched. He was too close to Talia. "You wanted me dead... for being weak. For having mercy." He stared up at his mother's shocked form. "I killed Grandfather. Tell me, is that ruthless enough for you, Umi?" Talia flinched with just her eyes. He hadn't been allowed to call her Umi since he was three.

Their father stepped forward, the naked distress on his face contrasting with his battle armor. "Danyal," he plead. "You don't have to do this-"

"Stay out of this, Baba." The man's breathing hitched. "This doesn't involve you."

Constantine tried to talk him down next. "It does, kid. A Siren on your level can't stay around for long. It's time for you to rest."

Danyal threw back his head and laughed. "As if you could stop me, exorcist." No more delays. It's time for action. "I will drown you all before you can."

Danyal lunged. And despite his mother's decades as an assassin, she couldn't kill what was already dead.

He held her down by the throat, the attacks from Damian's family bouncing off him. "This is mercy," he cooed as she desperately clawed at his hands. "For me. For Damian. For everyone you will try to hurt in the future. Ruthlessness is the only mercy I can give you now." Her face turned red as she gaped for air and Danyal-

Was thrown back into the water.

Reorienting himself, he found John Constantine standing over his mother, protecting her from him. "̷̪͂E̷̺͐x̷̝̑ŏ̶̺ȑ̴͉c̷̟͘i̸͔̋s̶̮̀t̶̯͝."

And the Pit's water began to rise.

[slashmagpie]

Break Like an Artist

My fic for @hermitadaymay's Solstice Social Collaborative Fanwork Event! I was paired up with the wonderful @eydilily to create something spooky, dramatic and contemplative featuring Gem and Pearl, and it's been an absolute blast putting this together. Please go check out Eydi's art for this AU, it's absolutely gorgeous. CWs: description of a corpse, dismemberment, loss of awareness, fire/flooding/destruction, and depiction of a panic attack. Wordcount: 5.8k

There is a plague sweeping Pearl's hometown.

One by one, she watches as her friends fall to the infection, the colour and life drained out of them and leaving hollow, apathetic husks behind. Even with the devastating loss of her friends, her village, and her regular life, the worst part of this situation is not the infection.

It's that Pearl knows that Gem is the one spreading it.

[Read on AO3]

It’s a grey day in the fishing village that Pearl calls her home. Not that it’s ever not a grey day, at least not anymore. She stares out of her window at the thick encompassing fog that’s claimed the bay, at the desaturated buildings that dot the shore, and she twirls her paintbrush in her fingers. 

The canvas is blank, of course. She doesn’t remember the last time she sat down to paint and didn’t end up with a blank canvas. It must have been—months ago, at least. Back when the last monster from the depths had attacked, and not a single person had had the heart to fight back. When Tango’s house had been shattered in two, and Tango with it.

(He seems to be dealing well with the loss of his arm, at least. Or, as well as you can deal with anything, when the only things inside of you are all-consuming numbness and apathy. Pearl feels it in her chest, the yawning emptiness, and thinks that if she were to lose her arm right here and now, she also wouldn’t be able to summon the energy to care.)

She’d painted after that, though. She remembers it vividly, waking from a nightmare and running to her studio to capture lashing tentacles and inky waters and splatters of crimson blood. It’s a frenzied piece, a disturbing piece, and the moment she’d finished it she’d been filled with so much dread that she’d turned it around to face the wall and refused to look at it since.

The dread’s gone now. Along with the anxiety, and the uncertainty, and the fear. It’s all gone, and Pearl’s left sitting here, paints drying on the palette as she stares at an empty canvas.

Across the house, she hears her front door swing open and closed. A familiar voice shouts, “Pearl? Pearl, where are you?”

“Studio,” Pearl calls back, her voice flat. She continues to twirl the paintbrush as she waits for Gem to trek her way across the house to find her.

“Studio,” Gem echoes as she pushes open the door. “Oh, Pearl, are you painting again? Oh, I’m so happy for—oh.” The joy in her voice vanishes as she takes in Pearl, sitting on her stool, paintbrush raised and canvas empty. “Oh, Pearl…” 

Sympathy. Pity. Concern. Pearl can pick apart the emotions in Gem’s voice, even if she can’t feel them herself. She stares back blankly, because she can’t find it in herself to care about either aspect of the situation, whether it be her own inability to paint or the way that Gem’s looking at her like she’s a wounded animal.

“Come on,” Gem says softly, crossing the room and gently prying the brush from Pearl’s fingers. Pearl lets her. She’s not really painting, anyway. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we? A nap will do you some good.”

Pearl lets Gem help her up, lets Gem allow Pearl to lean on her for support as they make their way back to Pearl’s bedroom. It’s not like Pearl has any difficulty walking. She’s not sick, she’s not injured, she’s just…

Cold. Empty. Not quite lifeless, not in the way Mumbo had been when she’d last seen him, skin and eyes and hair all the same shade of grey-white-nothingness as he’d stared into the distance, completely unresponsive. Listless, maybe, is the better word. She’s halfway to a fate worse than death and she cannot find it in her to care at all.

She feels colder where Gem touches her. She looks down, and she’s not sure if it’s her eyes playing tricks on her, or if her skin is more desaturated where it brushes against Gem’s. She lets Gem help her into bed, lets Gem fluff the pillows and fuss around her, lets Gem sit next to her as she hands Pearl a bowl of soup (“Your favourite!”) and watches her to make sure she eats.

If Pearl were more herself, she would care about what Gem’s doing to her. Care enough to stop it, maybe. Care enough to—no, not to confront her. Every time she’d tried, the words had gotten stuck in her throat. Because she’s known for a long time who’s been behind all of this, behind the corruption leeching all colour from their village, their home, their friends—

And she’d never said anything. Too worried about Gem’s feelings. Too worried about their friendship.

…Pearl realises, as Gem goes to take the empty bowl and brushes her hands against Pearl’s, that she’s not worried anymore.

She waits quietly as Gem washes the bowl in her kitchen, chattering to fill the silence as she does, updating Pearl on their friends’ conditions. Her tone is bright and optimistic, even as her words are dour. Scar seems to be doing the same. Grian’s getting worse. Joel’s down to communicating only in broken phrases—but he should be fine. It definitely won’t be like Mumbo, or Cub, or…

Gem returns to Pearl’s room, regarding her for a long moment before bending down to give her a hug. “Get better soon, okay?” she says into Pearl’s ear. “It’s not the same doing my rounds without you.”

Pearl knows that she’s not getting better. So does Gem, so Pearl doesn’t bother pointing it out. She just nods, lets Gem withdraw, lets Gem run one last hand through her hair.

“You should rest, Pearl,” Gem says, stepping away from Pearl’s bedside. “I’m going to go check on Impy now—”

Pearl’s moving before she’s even properly registered it, grabbing onto Gem’s wrist with force, holding her in place. Gem freezes. Pearl looks up at her through strands of greasy, greying hair.

“Gem,” she says, and it’s the first thing she’s said in days, and her voice is hoarse and her throat sore from the strain.

“...Pearl?” Gem replies, and she sounds almost scared.

“Gem,” Pearl repeats, getting used to the sound of her own voice in her mouth again. “I know.”

Gem laughs. It’s a nervous, tittering sound, the laugh Pearl remembers from when they’d gotten into trouble together as kids. “Know what?” she asks, voice strained. 

“That it’s you,” Pearl says flatly. 

Gem stares at her.

Pearl stares back.

Gem swallows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “Pearl—”

“I know you’re the one doing this to us,” Pearl says, more specific this time, choosing her words carefully, and Gem—

Gem tries to pull away.

Pearl tightens her grip. 

“Pearl,” Gem whines, eyes wide, tugging. “Let me go—”

“Why?” Pearl croaks, and Gem snaps her mouth shut.

---

Pearl’s in the midst of mixing a particularly tricky shade of green when there’s a loud, frantic knock on her front door. She sighs, setting down her brush to rest, and gets to her feet. “I’m coming, I’m coming, hold on!” she calls as the knocks continue, echoing through the house.

She pulls the door open and Tango’s there, a nervous ball of energy, just about ready to bolt. “Pearl!” he calls. “Pearl, come on, we gotta go—” 

He grabs her by the arm and drags her off. Pearl just barely manages to close her front door behind her.

“Wha—? Where are we going? What’s going on?”

“Something washed up on shore,” Tango explains. “The whole town’s there, c’mon.”

Accepting that she’s not going to get an explanation out of him, and now deeply curious about this something, she lets Tango lead her down to the shore by the lighthouse. Sure enough, the whole town is there, a chattering crowd gathered around a spot on the shore that Pearl can’t quite see. Impulse is standing on the edge of the crowd and catches sight of them, raising his arm in a wave. Tango makes a beeline towards him, ducking under the crowd, and Pearl follows behind, apologising to False and Keralis as she bumps into them.

“Did you decide what to do with it yet?” Tango asks as he comes to a halt and finally lets Pearl go.

Impulse shakes his head. “We’ve decided it’s Gem’s call,” he says. “After all, she’s the—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence as the crowd suddenly goes silent and parts for Gem, her hair wild and eyes wide behind her thick-rimmed glasses. She’s got her lab coat pulled on over her day clothes, clearly not prepared for this in the slightest. She reaches the front of the crowd and stops dead still, staring at the thing that has washed up on the shore.

Pearl follows her friend’s gaze, and sees it for the first time.

It’s a body. Of course it is. A corpse, taken by the sea and ravaged by the waves and washed ashore by the brutal bay currents. The body’s clothes are torn and sodden, the skin beneath so pale that it could practically be paper. Pearl is stricken, for a moment, with the mental image of her taking a brush to this canvas, filling it back in with colour, painting contours back into its skin, breathing life back into the body.

She shakes her head violently, banishing the thought. Where did that come from? This isn’t a canvas, it’s—

It’s a person. A person who was alive, and is now dead, washed up on the beach like a dead whale and just as much of a spectacle. His eyes are open but rolled back, only the whites showing, and his hair is white too, just as pale as his skin. It stands as sharp contrast against the dark fabric of his torn clothes, a mask wrapped around the bottom half of his face.

Pearl swallows hard and averts her gaze back to Gem, who looks just as disturbed by the body as Pearl feels. It takes Gem longer to pull her eyes away, to glance around the crowd. “I’ll—I’ll take it back to my lab,” she says. “Investigate, and—and give him a proper burial.”

The words reassure the crowd, a low chatter beginning up again. 

“Skizz, will you help me carry him?” Gem calls.

Skizz does, stepping forward from the crowd and helping Gem maneuver the bloated corpse. Pearl finds herself looking at it again, noticing dark striations in the skin, caught in glimpses between the tears in the clothing as it’s moved. 

She shakes her head again, forces herself to look away as the body is carried out and the crowd disperses. The image of the body lingers in her mind. Something settles uncomfortably in her stomach, and she wishes that she’d never opened the door.

---

Things go back to normal after that. Or, well, as normal as they get in the village, at least. False monitors the currents and warns of any incoming floods or monster attacks. Impulse and Tango work maintenance on the fishing boats that Grian and Skizz and Keralis take out into the bay. Mumbo runs the fish market. Cub and Scar come and go along the trading routes. Joel maintains security, or at least the illusion of it.

Gem hides away in her lab running experiments she never explains, and Pearl paints.

She tries to return to her usual fare, brightly-coloured landscapes with fantastical features, but something about her paintings rings hollow when she looks at them. She decides she needs a change, to switch things up and just relax, so she pulls out her paints and a blank canvas and begins with no intentions. Her movements are fluid and free and thoughtless and she falls into a flow state that lasts hours, until she blinks her eyes and awakes to find a portrait before her, a colourless face in full saturation.

The corpse’s visage, so alive she can’t believe it’s not breathing, stares back at her from her easel, and Pearl flinches like she’s been burned.

She hides that painting away, face turned towards the wall, and returns to painting landscapes. They come easier now, and for a time Pearl feels normal, as long as she ignores the canvas in the corner.

It’s Impulse who notices that there’s something wrong first. It’s not surprising that he’d be the first to pick up on it, really. Skizz is his best friend, after all. Of course he’d notice when Skizz stopped laughing, stopped joking, stopped drumming out tunes with his fingers on the side of his boat. And when Pearl sees him, she notices changes too—his skin paler, like he’s spent several weeks locked inside a basement instead of out in the summer sun, his eyes no longer their regular bright blue.

“Hey, Skizzly,” she greets brightly, trying to play at normal, throwing him a bone to grab onto.

Skizz just glances at her before responding with a flat, “Oh, hey Pearl.”

Pearl’s smile falters. “How are you feeling? Impulse told me you’re a little under the weather.”

Skizz shrugs. “Fine, I guess. Did you need something?”

Pearl swallows, something cold sinking in her guts. “No, no, just checking in on you.”

“Gem already checked on me,” Skizz says. “She said I’m not sick.”

“Gem’s not that type of doctor,” Pearl reminds him with a weak smile.

Skizz shrugs again. “She’s the only doctor we’ve got.”

Pearl tries her best not to let that unsettle her.

---

It’s not just Skizz.

It starts with him, but it doesn’t end there. Keralis is next, and then Grian. Mumbo gets sickest the quickest, going from his anxious, affable self to a nearly-unresponsive husk within a week. That scares them all, because even Skizz is still responding when spoken to, still moving when instructed to, even after nearly a month of being infected with… whatever it is that’s going around.

False gets sick without anyone noticing, sequestered away in her lighthouse until she comes into town for groceries looking like a photograph that’s been left in the sun for too long, and that’s when people really start to panic.

And that’s when Gem declares, with all the authority that being a doctor of anthropology afforded her in a tiny town with no real doctor, that she’s putting everyone into quarantine until they can determine the source of the illness. 

“I’m not sick,” Pearl tells Gem when her friend knocks on her door, dressed in full lab gear, her hair out of its usual ponytail and falling forward around her face. She’s pretty sure she isn’t, at least, having hyper-analysed the shade of blue in her eyes in the mirror every morning for the past month. 

“I know,” Gem says. “I want to—I need to—can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Pearl says, stepping aside. “Of course.”

Gem enters, heading down the stairs into Pearl’s living space and staring at the paintings on the wall. Pearl watches her for a moment before stepping closer, resting a reassuring hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“What’s eating you?” she asks.

Gem snorts out a laugh at that. “I’m not a real doctor, Pearl,” she says.

“I know that.”

“They all need me to be a real doctor for them. I—” She breaks off, runs an anxious hand through her hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I need help.”

Pearl raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know how I can help,” she says. “I’m even less of a doctor than you are.”

“I know,” Gem says. “But you’re my friend, and I trust you, and I need—please?”

She stares at Pearl, bright green eyes magnified through thick glasses lenses. Pearl has never been able to say no to those eyes.

“Okay,” she agrees, letting out an uncertain breath. “Okay. What do you need me to do, Dr. Tay?”

Gem laughs again, high-pitched and anxious, and Pearl feels hot and cold all at once.

---

They do house calls. Once a day, Gem and Pearl, and sometimes Impulse, will make a round of the village, checking in on everyone. Gem brings some of her lab equipment and a notebook, where she scribbles down all the readings she takes from her instruments and any observations she makes. After the first week or so, Pearl also takes to bringing a sketchbook and a small travel painting kit, attempting to record the desaturation rate in her friends’ colours. 

It doesn’t matter which way they look at it—the situation is bad, and rapidly getting worse. Most of the town is infected now, and Skizz is approaching Mumbo’s level of deterioration. Cub fell ill two weeks ago, and Tango—

Well, he’s not quite grey yet, but he looks washed out where he sits at his table, especially next to Gem, all bright copper and ocean blue and forest green. His voice is flat, all of the emotion in it gone, and while he responds in full sentences to Gem’s questions as Pearl attempts to capture the moulded-straw colour of his hair, none of his words sound like him. 

Gem wraps up her check-in, and Pearl follows her out, paints packed away in her bag and sketchbook held carefully so as not to smudge the paint. Impulse is waiting for them outside, staring out into the bay, where a low-lying fog has been hanging for days. 

He glances over at them, voice shaking as he asks, “How is he?”

Gem hesitates. “About the same?” she offers. 

Pearl shakes her head. “Worse,” she says, offering her sketchbook to Impulse, pointing out the differences in values between the colours she’d sampled from Tango two days ago to the ones she’d taken today. 

Impulse’s hands are trembling as he hands the sketchbook back to her. “What do we do?” he asks. “They just keep getting worse—Gem, what do we do?”

Gem’s eyes are fixed somewhere out at sea. Her expression is so scarily blank that Pearl would worry she was infected if not for how bright and vibrant she looks against the backdrop of the village. (Are the houses getting greyer? Surely not—surely it’s just the fog, and the fact that the sky has been overcast for a fortnight now—surely—)

“We look after them best we can,” Gem says. “I’m trying—every night I’m working on a cure.”

“And do you think it’ll work?” Impulse pushes.

“I have to,” Gem replies. “It has to.” 

Pearl swallows, and does not voice what all three of them are thinking: what if it doesn’t?

---

Impulse turns up one morning a shade dimmer than he had been the day before. Pearl notices immediately, her stomach lurching at the sight of him. He offers her a smile that’s smaller than his usual ones, a greeting that’s a little flatter than it would usually be. Pearl’s not sure if Gem even notices.

But Pearl notices, and her eyes sting, and she throws herself at him in a way that catches all three of them off-guard.

“Uh, Pearl?” Impulse says, stiff and uncomfortable beneath her. “You okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Pearl mumbles against his ear.

“Pearl?” There’s a peak of distress in his voice but it’s not enough. Gem hears it, too.

“Oh no,” she breathes.

“Okay, guys, seriously,” Impulse says, pushing Pearl away. “What’s going on?”

They just stare at him.

Realisation dawns across Impulse’s face. “No.” 

“Maybe…” Gem sucks in a breath. She reaches out to take his hand and squeezes it. “Maybe you should go home, Impy. Get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Impulse protests. “I’m…” His protest crumbles under their gazes. He slumps, and Pearl knows that he would normally never crumble like that. He’d protest and fight back and keep working until he passed out on the docks and had to be carried back to bed.

“C’mon,” she says softly. “I’ll help you home.”

Impulse doesn’t protest that either. He knows, as well as the two of them do, how this ends. He knows that there’s no fighting this.

Pearl, very valiantly, does not cry about it.

---

With everyone except the two of them infected, Pearl manages to convince Gem to split the rounds, with her taking half of the houses, and Gem taking the other half, swapping halves every couple of days. Gem is reluctant, but she has no good argument against Pearl’s that this is more practical, and so she agrees.

And that’s when Pearl notices.

She thinks she’s imagining it at first, but the colour swatches in her sketchbook back up her suspicions, damning evidence she can’t ignore.

When she visits her rounds, she finds that the people she’s visiting appear to have stabilised, at least for a couple days, no greyer today than they were when she saw them the day before. And then she swaps with Gem, and notices that Gem’s half of the rotation are far paler, far less responsive, than they had been the last time Pearl had seen them. They stabilise for a couple days, and then they switch, and Pearl’s original rotation have deteriorated massively in the several days since. 

There’s really only one conclusion she can draw from that, and she doesn’t want to draw it. She doesn’t want to believe that the one responsible for this is—

The fog is a permanent fixture of the village now, blanketing the bay in a thick blanket of quiet. Pearl finds it hard to sleep, even the familiar sound of waves muffled by the mist. Kept awake into the early hours of the morning, she finds herself in the studio, a brush in hand, letting the paint take her where it will.

And where it takes her is familiar: the village, desaturated and coated in fog, dark looming shapes in the mist beyond, rising out of the ocean. And there, in the midst of the painting, a bright spot in all the gloom, is Gem, so vibrant she practically lifts off the page.

Pearl stares at it for a long, long time, and then places it face against the wall and tries her best to forget about it.

---

In all the dread, they’d forgotten something important.

The sea isn’t safe. It never has been. Growing up in the bay you learn how to weather the storms, to predict the tides, to flee from floods. You learn how to build barriers, and you learn how to rebuild once the ocean drags them down. 

Pearl knows that her village can handle the sea: she’s seen them do it time and time again over the years. Together, they move as a well-oiled machine, responding to threats from the depths with weathered ease. That’s why she doesn’t expect it, she thinks. 

There’s never been a monster attack that False didn’t warn them about.

But False isn’t capable of doing much of anything at the moment.

And so when the tentacles rise from the waves, there isn’t a warning.

Just a deafening krk-crash that wakes Pearl from a dead sleep with a bolt of adrenaline that’s nearly nauseating. She scrambles from her blankets, still in her pajamas, and rushes up the stairs to throw on her boots. It’s edging towards winter now, the weather much milder than the summer months, and though it’s not cold by any stretch of the imagination the chill of the air still makes her shiver. She grits her teeth, racing from her front door to the village proper, and there—

There’s a sea monster, dark purple tentacles reaching out to the shore, destroying everything in its wake. The fish market is half gone, and it’s awful, but it’s a relief, in a way, because nobody lives there.

“Gem!” Pearl screams into the night.

“Pearl!” she hears echo back, followed by distant footsteps, growing ever-closer. 

Gem’s face is flushed, her hair wild, her eyes wide. She’s also in her pyjamas, her lab coat that’s been ever-present for months now gone, and Pearl finds her eyes drawn to dark striations in her skin. They look like—

“Pearl,” Gem says again. “We need to get everyone out, away from the shore, up to the research centre—”

Pearl nods. “Got it,” she says. She points towards the docks and says, “I’ll head over there.”

Gem nods. “Be safe,” she says, and then she’s off again, pelting in the direction of the lighthouse.

Pearl doesn’t bother knocking as she throws Impulse’s door open. He’s still lucid enough that he’s been startled awake by the noise, though it hasn’t driven him to do much more than put his shoes on and stare out of the window at the dark shapes rearing up out of the fog.

“Impulse!” Pearl cries.

“Pearl?” Impulse says, glancing at her with dull eyes.

“We need to get people out,” she says.

There’s an extended pause, then, “Okay.”

“Can you get Skizz?” she asks. “Tango, too, maybe? I need to go to the beach, help everyone down there.”

Another extended pause, then a nod. “I can do that,” Impulse says. He moves too slowly, not driven by the same panic flooding Pearl’s veins, but it’s good enough. It has to be. Pearl doesn’t have time to consider the alternative.

She goes racing off for the beach. She throws open Keralis’ door first, relieved that he is, at least, wearing underwear when she drags him from his bed and into the night. She leaves him there while she grabs Grian from his hut, and then takes them both by the wrists, pulling them along behind her while she races for the cliffside.

It feels like hours that she races back and forth, grabbing her friends from their homes and dragging them in various states of comprehension to the safety of the cliff before running back into the danger zone. Grian’s hut is gone, and so is a large portion of the road. The tentacles have taken a chunk out of the farms further up the coast. Gem’s been taking the people she rescues a different route up to the research facility, the path that Pearl’s taking cut off to her by debris.

Once she’s got everyone on her side of town, she collapses panting on the grass, her lungs aching with the strain. There’s a fire somewhere down on the shore, someone’s lantern knocked astray by swinging tentacles. Her eyes burn just from looking at it.

A voice says, “I got him.”

Pearl looks up.

It’s Impulse, manhandling a colourless, greyscale Skizz.

Pearl goes cold.

“Where’s Tango?” she asks.

Impulse blinks. Slowly. Too slowly.

“Oh,” he says. “I’ll go get him.”

Pearl shakes her head, rocketed up to her feet by panic once again. “No, I’ll go,” she gasps. “You stay here.”

And then she’s off running again, beelining for Tango’s house, praying to any higher power that will listen that she’s not too late. Her lungs ache. Her legs burn. She can’t quite catch her breath. She’s shaking.

And then she’s knocking down Tango’s door, grabbing him from his bed against the far wall, dragging him away—

The roof coming down sounds like thunder, like the sky split open and gutted for parts. Pearl goes down hard, stars bursting behind her eyes, her breath coming out empty and then as a whine. She blinks, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark, for her ears to stop ringing, and that’s when she hears it.

It’s—not a scream. More of a whimper, or a wail, stretched out and awful and pained and punctuated by short, desperate gasps. It goes straight to her stomach, straight to making her sick, and she doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to move.

But, god, she has to, doesn’t she?

She wiggles her fingers, her toes, and lets out a deep groan as she pushes herself up onto her hands and knees. The world has narrowed in on itself, the open air of Tango’s house reduced to a crawlspace, and she shuffles down it, rubble and debris tearing her skin open and leaving bloody red marks on desaturated wood. It is a far cry from the blood she finds, practically brown with how much colour has been leeched from it. 

“Oh, my god,” she chokes. “Tango…”

Tango just moans in response. She can’t tell if he’s pale from blood loss or pale from the infection, but either way it has the effect of making him look half dead. He’s half buried beneath the rubble, body jerking with what she can only assume is pain, barely felt beneath the weight of numb apathy.

“I gotta get you out of here.” The words taste acrid against her tongue. Or maybe that’s the smoke. She can’t tell. “I’ve got you.” She grabs Tango by his good arm and grimaces. “It’s gonna be okay.”

It’s not a reassurance for him. Not really. Pearl’s familiar enough with his condition by now to know that he can’t really care about being okay at this point.

It’s more for her as she does her best to get leverage in the small space and pulls. 

When Tango screams, she knows it’s completely involuntary, an animal howl of agony that stops her short. Pearl gasps, tears on her cheeks, head spinning. “Please, no,” she begs, and she doesn’t know if she’s talking to him or the higher power that’s been ignoring her for weeks. “No, no, I gotta—I—”

“Pearl?”

“Gem!” Pearl cries. “Gem, please, I need—it’s Tango—he’s—”

“I’ve got you,” says Gem’s voice, familiar and close as footsteps pound across rubble. There’s a series of grunts and clunks as rubble shifts, and then there’s light pouring into the crawlspace, which is no longer so much of a crawlspace. Gem stares at the two of them, Pearl in tears on her knees and Tango half buried and lying in his own dull blood. 

“Okay,” she gasps out, and she sounds terrified. “Okay,” she repeats, steadier this time. 

Pearl wants to be relieved, but she’s just on the other side of hysterical. Gem’s holding an axe, which she must have used to clear the rubble, and she steps forward with it held between white knuckles.

“Hold him still,” she tells Pearl.

Pearl swallows. “Gem?” she whispers.

“Please.”

Gem glances down at Pearl, and god, she never has been able to say no to that, has she?

She shuffles forward, puts her weight against Tango, holds him still. Squeezes her eyes shut.

It doesn’t make it any better.

It doesn’t stop her from hearing the sick crunch of the axe cutting through bone or the blood-curdling scream Tango lets out.

It doesn’t stop her from feeling the sudden lack of resistance as she pulls Tango’s bleeding body away from the rubble, leaving his arm behind.

---

Pearl manages to hold it together until they’re able to get Tango safe and stable. Once the wound has been cauterised and disinfected and bandaged, and he’s left sitting with a mostly-unresponsive Skizz and an Impulse who’s just aware enough to be awkward about how little he feels for his friend, she walks away from the town’s refugees on the hillside until she can no longer hear them, and they can no longer hear her. She stands for a moment, surveying the damage below, the sun rising over the sea and the flooded streets and destroyed buildings, and she sucks in a breath that knocks her to her knees.

The panic attack comes in quick half-breaths and waterlogged wails, her hands gripping at her hair and pulling it hard enough to hurt. The world blurs around her as she chokes on saltwater and bile, her ears ringing with screams and funeral bells. When the hands settle on her shoulders she barely feels them—only feels them when they rise to her wrists and untangle her fingers from her hair.

“—earl? Pearl. Look at me. Come on, I know you can do it.”

“Ge-em,” Pearl chokes out. “I can’t—I—”

“I’ve got you,” Gem soothes. She takes Pearl’s hands in hers, squeezes them tight, real and grounding. “See, come on, that’s it. Breathe with me.”

Pearl blinks tears from her eyes as she tries to time her breathing to Gem’s. She’s not very good at it, her heart too quick and Gem’s too slow, but it helps, dragging her down from the high of panic. 

“That’s it,” Gem breathes. She lets go of Pearl’s hand, reaching up to push the hair out of Pearl’s face, cupping her cheeks in her palms. “See? Nice and calm. Everything’s fine, see?”

“Yeah,” Pearl agrees, and the words feel hollow. Her panic feels hollow, somewhere above her body, her soul sunken to somewhere below her knees. She sucks in a breath, lets Gem wipe tears from her eyes with her thumbs.

Gem is so bright. A searchlight in a storm, a ray of rising sun through the dark. The world seems to grey around her. 

Pearl reaches out, splaying her hand against Gem’s cheek, a clumsy echo of Gem’s own reassuring, grounding touch. Gem is still so bright, vivid enough that Pearl doesn’t think any paint could capture it. 

And Pearl, held in comparison, is grey and dull. A shade, drained of life.

She swallows. Lets out a shaking breath. Looks up into Gem’s green eyes, sees the fear and regret in them, and can barely summon her own panic or hurt in return.

“Oh,” she says, and the word falls like a stone, plunging into the depths.

---

Pearl lets out a breath. “It was the body, wasn’t it?” she asks, loosening her grip. “The one that washed up. It did something to you.”

Gem swallows. She pulls away, holding onto her own wrist where Pearl had dropped it, clutching it to her chest. “I’m so hungry, Pearl,” she whispers. “I fade so fast now. I need… I need…”

“You’re going to kill us.” Gem flinches at the words. “You know that, don’t you, Gem? You’re going to kill us. You are killing us.”

“I just need your colours,” Gem replies, a whine in her voice. “I just…”

“What happens when we’re gone, Gem? What happens when you’ve taken all the colours? What happens then?”

Gem stares at her. There are tears in her eyes. They don’t quite fall, but Pearl can feel them drip into her hollow heart. There’s an ocean between them now and Pearl doesn’t have the wits to cross it. She doesn’t care enough to cross it, and she doesn’t feel enough to care about that. 

“I have to go and check on Impy,” Gem repeats, her voice thick. “I’ll see you later, Pearl.”

“You won’t,” Pearl calls after her as Gem hurries for the door.

Gem doesn’t reply, just slamming the door shut in response.

Pearl sits in bed for a long time, staring at the wall with hazy vision. Her thoughts are muffled under the thick fog that chokes the village, and so when she finally stands, she’s not entirely sure why. She lets her body carry her back to her studio, picks up a canvas from against the wall, and places it on her easel. She sits down in front of it and stares.

Gem’s face stares back at her, the only alive thing in a dead and colourless world.

[chosok-amo]

DO I EVER GET A CHANCE TO BLOSSOM? : GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

being a mother is a dream for almost every woman. the thought of carrying a child inside them and bringing them into the world is also something you want for a moment, but . . just a second the dream shattered right between your feet.

warning. established relationship au, husbands! gojo geto, angst.

the room feels more like a prison than a place of healing, with its cold white walls, sterile smell, and the incessant, mechanical beeping of machines. everything here is sickeningly clean, stripped of warmth and life, as if joy itself would be too fragile to survive in these surroundings. the sterile, metallic tang of medicine hangs in the air, heavy and unforgiving, mixed with the faint, unsettling clink of instruments being shuffled somewhere beyond the door. each sound, each scent digs into you, weighing down every breath, every thought.

your husbands are by your side, their presence grounding you in the middle of this surreal nightmare. on your right, geto’s hand wraps around yours, firm and steady, his thumb brushing soft, comforting circles against your skin. he hasn’t said a word since the doctor’s visit, but he doesn’t need to; his touch alone speaks volumes. you can feel his silent strength radiating through his hand, an unspoken promise that he’s here, that he’ll be here through all of this.

on your left, gojo’s hand is just as tight around yours, though his grip trembles ever so slightly. for someone who usually seems so invincible, so in control, it’s almost unsettling to feel his fingers shaking against yours. he’s normally the one with a mischievous smirk and an easy confidence, but right now, all of that bravado has fallen away, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable version of him you rarely see. his face is tense, hidden behind his signature sunglasses, but you can sense the turmoil in him, even if he tries to hide it.

you look down at your lap, trying to process everything. you’ve been married for nearly five years now, years that have been filled with laughter, adventure, and a deep, unwavering love. despite their busy lives, constantly being called away on missions and responsibilities, they’ve always made time for you, always come home to you. and together, you’ve built a life filled with happiness, support, and dreams. one of those dreams, the most precious of all, has been to start a family—a child to raise, to love, to share all the joy and strength you have with two people you adore.

for years, you’d imagined what it would be like. late-night talks about what they’d be like as parents, joking about whose traits your child might inherit, wondering if they’d have geto’s calm intelligence or gojo’s playful spirit. you imagined tiny hands reaching for yours, little footsteps running through the halls, shared laughter filling your home. every vision of the future had included this—a family with them by your side, watching as the life you’d nurtured together grew.

but now, sitting in this cold, sterile room, you’re faced with a harsh reality. the doctor’s words replay over and over in your mind, each syllable a weight pressing harder onto your chest.

“your heart condition… the risks are severe. pregnancy could strain your body too much. it could put your life in danger.”

the words echo, and they feel like a physical blow, tearing at the vision you’d held onto for so long. you’d always known you wanted kids, always thought it was something that would happen one day. but now, it feels as if that dream is slipping through your fingers, dissolving into the clinical air of this hospital room.

a deep silence settles between the three of you, thick and heavy with unspoken fears. your hands tighten involuntarily around theirs, desperate to hold onto something, to anchor yourself in this moment. a tear slips down your cheek, and you’re only barely aware of it until you feel geto’s thumb brush against your cheek, wiping it away gently. he leans closer, his face soft yet unreadable, his eyes full of a quiet intensity.

you feel the words catch in your throat, your chest tight with a weight so heavy it’s suffocating. your gaze drops to the cold linoleum floor, but the desperate flicker of hope—however faint—pushes you to look up. swallowing hard, you turn your eyes back to the doctor, your voice barely a whisper, cracked and fragile as you speak.

“there has to be something…” your words come out haltingly, breaking over each syllable. “some treatment, anything that could make it safer… is there any possibility?”

the doctor’s expression softens, but it’s a look of sympathy that does little to ease the ache in your heart. they sigh gently, gathering their words with care, and you feel both of your husbands tense beside you, their grips tightening as they hang on the answer just as much as you do.

“there are options,” the doctor replies, and for a moment, hope flickers—a small, fragile spark in the sea of uncertainty. “but they’re limited, and none of them can entirely eliminate the risks.”

you listen intently, clinging to every word, as if each syllable might hold the key to your dream. the doctor goes on, explaining possible procedures, medications, treatments to strengthen your heart… each one sounds like a glimmer of hope, but as they continue, the reality sinks in. no option guarantees your safety, each one carrying its own set of risks and compromises.

“even with these precautions,” they continue, their tone gentle but firm, “pregnancy would still place significant strain on your body. there’s no way to completely avoid the risk, especially given your specific condition.”

a fresh wave of tears wells up, slipping down your cheeks despite your efforts to hold them back. it feels as though your heart is splintering, piece by piece, each fragment a shard of a dream you’d cherished, now scattering away beyond your reach.

you feel geto’s hand tighten around yours, grounding you, pulling you back from the despair threatening to swallow you whole. you turn slightly, meeting his gaze, his eyes filled with an intensity that’s somehow both gentle and unbreakable. his other hand comes up to cup your face, thumb wiping away the tears that keep slipping out, his touch warm against your skin.

gojo watches your face intently, his gaze following as your eyes drop to your lap. he looks down as well, his focus landing on the interwoven fingers of his, yours, and geto’s, the wedding band glinting softly around your finger.

a single tear slips from your cheek, landing on his skin. the sight alone twists something painfully deep inside him, and he feels a wave of nausea at the harsh reality you’re facing. instinctively, he squeezes your hand, offering silent comfort, before turning his attention back to the doctor as they continue explaining your condition.

the doctor adjusts their glasses and sighs, shifting slightly before beginning to explain the complexities of your condition. there’s a gravity to their tone, an unspoken understanding that the words they’re about to deliver aren’t easy to hear.

“your heart,” they start carefully, “has a condition called cardiomyopathy. it's a disease that affects the heart muscle, making it harder for your heart to pump blood effectively. over time, this can lead to weakness, and during times of physical stress, it puts an increased strain on your heart.”

they pause for a moment, glancing at you and your husbands, gauging your reactions. though both of them remain stoic, you feel their hands tighten around yours, their steady grips trying to brace you. you’re nodding, but the doctor’s words feel like they’re sinking deep into your bones, the full weight of them settling heavily.

“pregnancy,” they continue, their tone clinical yet compassionate, “is one of the most physically demanding experiences the body can undergo. it requires the heart to pump a larger volume of blood to support the baby, often up to fifty percent more than normal. for a healthy heart, this additional workload can be managed… but with cardiomyopathy, this level of strain could be life-threatening.”

you swallow hard, feeling the words settle like lead. the room feels even colder now, and you shiver despite the warmth of your husbands’ hands. “what… what exactly would happen if we tried?” you ask, voice trembling.

the doctor’s expression softens as they consider their words. “there’s a high risk that your heart could struggle to keep up with the demands of pregnancy. symptoms of heart failure—like severe fatigue, shortness of breath, and fluid retention—could appear early. if untreated, these symptoms could escalate, leading to dangerous complications for both you and the baby.”

they hesitate, but continue, knowing it’s important you understand. “in the later stages of pregnancy, the strain on your heart could increase to a point where the risk of heart failure or sudden cardiac events becomes very real.”

the words hang in the air, cold and final. the possibilities—the dreams you’d held close, the life you’d envisioned—feel fragile in the face of these realities.

“are there any options?” gojo asks, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “anything that would make it possible without risking her life?”

the doctor nods slowly. “we could look into treatments to help strengthen the heart muscle, medications to manage symptoms, and closely monitored care. there may also be assisted options like surrogacy, though i understand that may be a different direction than you’d hoped.” the weight of the decision settles between you, a choice that’s neither simple nor fair.

geto’s throat tightens as the doctor outlines the dangers your heart disease posed to a potential pregnancy. he knew this disease was serious, but the stark reality of what it might mean for your future—and your dreams together—hits him like a punch to the gut.

he glances down at your hand, the ring he’d given you gleaming softly on your finger, and a flicker of guilt worms its way into his heart. he should have known, should have seen the signs sooner… should have taken better care of you.

his mind races with thoughts, each one a barb of worry and anxiety. the idea of you undergoing all that risk, all that pain, to bring a child into the world is almost too much to bear. but he’s torn, caught between the love he has for you and the knowledge that this might not be the life you’d wanted.

he squeezes your hand tighter, anchoring himself to you as the doctor mentions assisted options like surrogacy. the suggestion is bitter to his ears, a reminder of what might have been.

the doctor’s words continue, listing potential options and solutions—treatments, medications, the possibility of surrogacy. each one feels both hopeful and disheartening—a life preserver offered to someone drowning, while simultaneously being reminded that nothing can completely erase the danger your condition poses.

gojo’s question is direct and desperate, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his emotions. “how likely is it that the treatments would be enough?”

the doctor sighs, their expression sympathetic. “even with these treatments, there’s no way to guarantee a safe pregnancy. the risk might be reduced, but it’ll still be considerable. and even if you do get through the pregnancy, the risks of delivering a child and recovering afterwards would be enormous.”

the words hang heavily in the air, the reality of what they’re saying slowly sinking in. even with everything they could do, there were no guarantees—only a series of risks and unknowns. the room feels even colder now, the fluorescent lights above bathing everything in a sterile, harsh glow.

geto guides you gently to sit on the cold metal bench outside the doctor’s office, his hand lingering on your shoulder as he kneels down in front of you. he studies your tear-streaked face, watching how your eyes remain unfocused, fixed on a spot on the floor as if it might anchor you to something stable. your expression is empty, yet tears still trace silent paths down your cheeks, leaving faint stains on your skin.

a pang of deep hurt stirs in his chest as he looks at you. he takes a slow, steadying breath, wanting nothing more than to take away your pain, to shoulder it himself if he could. after a moment, he reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently, his voice soft as he murmurs, “just wait here for a moment, okay? we’ll talk to the doctor.”

he doesn’t want you to hear any more—he’ll take whatever they have to say himself if it means sparing you even an ounce of further heartache. in his own quiet, determined way, he’s protecting you, doing what he can to shield you from any more painful words about your condition.

you don’t respond, too lost in the overwhelming weight of it all, the sterile walls and the lingering smell of antiseptic, the doctor’s words still echoing in your mind. everything feels distant, muted, like you’re drifting somewhere far away.

geto’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and gentle as he calls your name. “hey… hey, look at me,” he murmurs, his hand giving yours a gentle squeeze, coaxing you back, pulling you toward him with a quiet patience. “please... just look at me.”

but you’re still trapped in the fog, staring somewhere past him, your thoughts spiraling, unable to reach him. he calls your name again, this time a little firmer, his tone threaded with worry but steady. “come back to me, please,” he says softly, repeating, “look at me, please. i’m right here.”

after a long, silent beat, you finally look up, your tear-filled eyes meeting his. all you can manage is a faint nod, a small, wordless acknowledgment, barely enough to convey all that’s swimming inside you. but for geto, it’s enough. he watches you with a soft, understanding gaze, gently squeezing your hand as if to anchor you, grounding you in the only way he knows how before he slowly raise on his feet and walk back inside the room where gojo is waiting, already talking to the doctor.

gojo is pacing around the office, running a hand through his white hair in agitation, the other curled into a tight fist at his side. his usual carefree demeanor has been replaced by a tense energy, a stark contrast to his usual easygoing self.

the doctor is standing by the window, looking weary and slightly uncomfortable. they’re not used to dealing with such emotional situations, and the distress of both men in the room is clear. geto enters quietly and closes the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room.

gojo spins around as geto enters, his expression tight with worry and frustration. he turns to the doctor, his voice clipped. “what are the risks, really? how high is the risk?” he asked, desperate for the change of the answer. hoping this might be one of your stupid pranks you and the doctor pull.

the doctor sighs, clearly bracing themselves to explain once more. “the risks are significant. even with the treatments we’ve discussed, the risk of complications for both the mother and the child would remain very high. the possibility of heart failure or sudden cardiac events is a serious concern.”

gojo’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. “there has to be something more—something we can do to make it safer, even just a bit.”

the doctor adjusts their glasses, their expression empathetic but firm. “we’ve discussed all the options. we could look into assisted reproduction, but even that poses a risk. there’s no easy way around it… this condition makes pregnancy unusually dangerous.”

outside the doctor’s office, you sit alone, the cool metal bench beneath you somehow grounding and yet painfully cold, like the sterile walls around you. everything feels distant, muted, and your mind is heavy with a sorrow that seems too vast to fully understand. you mourn the vision you’ve held onto for so long—the idea of becoming a mother, of holding a child in your arms, of sharing that love with your husbands. the dreams you’d nurtured so carefully seem to dissolve with every painful echo of the doctor’s words, and no matter how hard you try to grasp them, they slip further away.

tears trace slow, hesitant paths down your cheeks, each one carrying a fragment of that hope you’ve clung to. lost in this aching silence, you feel as though the world around you has faded into a blur, leaving only the heaviness of your thoughts and the quiet sound of your own breathing.

you’re so wrapped up in your grief, so deeply entangled in your own thoughts, that you don’t notice at first when someone settles onto the bench beside you. a faint rustling sound reaches your ears, but you dismiss it, assuming it’s just one of your husbands come to sit quietly by your side, respecting the storm of emotions you’re lost in.

but then you hear it—a soft, unfamiliar coo, followed by a tiny, muffled whimper. you freeze, your heart stuttering as the unexpected sound registers in your mind, cutting through the haze of sorrow. it’s the unmistakable cry of a baby.

your head lifts slowly, almost as if in a trance, and you turn to see a young woman sitting next to you. she’s cradling a small, red-faced infant who’s squirming and fussing in her arms, his tiny fists clenched as he lets out a series of hiccuping cries. the woman looks up and meets your gaze, a sheepish, apologetic smile crossing her lips. her eyes are tired, but kind, and she looks as though she hasn’t had a moment of rest in days.

“oh—i’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, tinged with an embarrassed laugh. “he’s usually calm, but I think he’s a little hungry, and... well, it’s been a long day.”

she adjusts the baby carefully in her arms, trying to soothe him with a soft shushing noise, her hand gently patting his back in an effort to ease his discomfort. but even as she rocks him back and forth, his cries continue, a tiny, plaintive sound that tugs at something deep within you.

for a moment, you’re speechless, just watching them, taking in every detail—the delicate roundness of the baby’s cheeks, the way his little fists flail in the air, the soft, downy hair on his head. there’s a warmth in the mother’s eyes as she looks at her child, a look filled with an overwhelming, unconditional love that seems to radiate from her every movement.

you feel a strange pang in your chest as you watch them, a bittersweet ache that brings fresh tears to your eyes. the woman notices, her smile softening as she gazes at you, her expression filled with gentle understanding, as if she can sense the sorrow you’re carrying.

the woman shifts on the bench, adjusting the baby in her arms as he finally begins to settle, his tiny whimpers fading to soft hiccups. her gaze falls to the ground, her fingers idly tracing small patterns on the blanket wrapped around her child. she lets out a sigh, one that’s heavy with exhaustion and frustration, and then, almost hesitantly, she begins to speak.

“it’s been… a rough time,” she says softly, her words laced with a bitterness she can’t entirely hide. “my husband… he’s so insistent on having more kids, even though we’re already struggling with the two we have. he just… doesn’t seem to understand how much it takes to raise them, not just money, but time, energy, patience… it feels like i’m the only one holding everything together sometimes.”

she lets out a weak, humorless laugh, shaking her head as if to brush away the heaviness of her own words. her fingers tighten around the blanket, and she glances away, as though ashamed to admit her struggles. “and now,” she continues, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, “now i just found out i’m pregnant again… with twins.”

her eyes close for a moment, and you can see the strain etched into her face, the faint lines of worry and fatigue that seem to weigh her down. her shoulders sag under the weight of it all, and her voice trembles slightly as she confesses, “i don’t know how i’m going to manage it. i’m barely making it as it is.”

you sit silently beside her, listening as she pours out her frustrations, her fears, her anger. the bitterness in her tone is unmistakable, each word filled with a quiet resentment, a simmering resentment towards the husband who doesn’t see, doesn’t understand, doesn’t help. she speaks as though she’s been holding these feelings inside for far too long, and now they’re spilling out, raw and unfiltered.

as you listen, a strange feeling settles in your chest—a deep, gnawing sense of unfairness, one that cuts through your own sorrow like a knife. here she is, a woman who already has two children, who’s now expecting two more, and yet… she feels trapped, overwhelmed by the life she’s been dealt. and here you are, with a loving family, a stable life, and yet, the one thing you want most in the world—to have a child of your own—is slipping further and further from reach.

the contrast feels almost cruel, a painful reminder of the injustice woven into life. she has the thing you yearn for, and yet she struggles beneath its weight, feeling burdened rather than blessed. your heart aches with a confusing mix of empathy and envy, a bitter sorrow that deepens with each of her words. the air between you grows heavy, charged with unspoken emotions, as you both sit there, each lost in your own worlds of struggle and longing.

your chest tightens as you listen to the woman next to you, her tales of exhaustion and frustration cutting deep into your already raw emotions. it’s a stark reminder of the very thing you yearn for, yet a cruel twist of fate keeps it from your grasp.

the unfairness of it all weighs heavily on you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. she has the very thing you want so badly, the very thing you feel you’ve been denied, and she’s drowning in it, struggling to keep her head above water.

the woman turns to you, her eyes filled with a desperate, weary sort of hope. “would you mind… holding him for just a moment?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if afraid of imposing. but before you can respond, she carefully places the baby into your arms, murmuring her thanks as she hurries off toward the restroom.

for a moment, you freeze, unsure, feeling the soft weight settle in your lap. the baby blinks up at you, his cries stopping as he takes in your face, his wide, curious eyes locking onto yours as though studying this new, unfamiliar person holding him. a soft coo escapes his lips, and he reaches one tiny hand toward your face, his fingers brushing gently against your cheek. you can feel his warmth, his small body alive and pulsing with the innocent, unburdened spirit of someone just beginning life.

gently, you tighten your hold around him, cradling him close. his skin is soft and delicate, his little body curling instinctively against yours, as if already trusting you completely. the warmth of him spreads through you, soothing some of the ache in your heart. he babbles softly, his small sounds breaking the silence that has weighed so heavily on you.

slowly, you let yourself smile, just a little. it’s a fragile, bittersweet smile as you watch him. your finger brushes over the downy hair on his head, his tiny fingers wrapping around one of yours in an instinctive, trusting grip. the simplicity of it tugs at something deep within you, a feeling of tenderness you can’t quite put into words.

for a fleeting moment, holding him in your arms, it’s easy to imagine what it might be like—to have a child of your own, to hold them just like this, to watch as they grow, to care for them with all the love you have.

as the door to the doctor’s office opens, your husbands step out, their eyes scanning the hallway, but they don’t see you anywhere. a flicker of worry immediately crosses their faces, an unease that tightens with each passing second of not finding you. but before they can start searching, a woman catches their eye, standing nearby, looking distressed and on the verge of tears.

she notices them and hesitantly approaches, wringing her hands, her voice trembling with anxiety. ’excuse me… have you seen a girl?” she asks, describing your features in detail—the features they know all too well. the woman’s words bring a sense of familiarity to them, but her next sentence makes their hearts race.

“she’s… holding my baby,” she adds, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes filling with fear. the words seem to echo between them, and both their expressions shift, alarm flashing across their faces.

gojo’s mouth parts slightly, and he instinctively reaches for geto’s arm, a tight squeeze that mirrors the sudden worry gnawing at them. a thousand thoughts fill their minds at once—where could you have gone, why hadn’t you told them, and how on earth did you end up holding a stranger’s child?

without a moment’s hesitation, both husbands exchange a look of mutual understanding, and, their expressions serious and determined, they begin to search, the woman trailing after them as they walk down the hall, their hearts pounding in fear and urgency to find you safe and sound.

gojo and geto navigate their way through the hallway, their gazes sweeping the area with a growing sense of unease. they had expected to find you sitting quietly in the waiting room, perhaps even in the same exam room, but your absence is concerning and unsettling.

the woman’s description of you holding a baby sparks a moment of recognition, and their worry escalates into genuine fear. the thought of you being alone with a stranger's child and the possibility of something happening to you is suddenly very real.

you look down at the baby in your arms, and a soft smile spreads across your face as he coos again, his tiny voice bubbling up with sounds that melt away the weight of your earlier despair. he looks at you with wide, innocent eyes, filled with curiosity, studying you in his own baby-like way. you can’t help but let out a small laugh, the sound barely a whisper as you brush your knuckles gently over his plump cheek, marveling at how impossibly soft and warm his skin feels against yours.

“my baby,” you murmur, almost unconsciously, as though saying the words makes this moment a little more real, as if he really were yours, even if only for a heartbeat. The simple phrase stirs something deep within you, a fierce, protective warmth that spreads through your chest, and you lean down to press a tender kiss to his forehead. His skin is so warm beneath your lips, carrying a sweetness and purity that makes your heart clench.

you pull him a little closer to your chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing as he settles against you, his tiny head resting comfortably in the crook of your arm. It’s like he fits perfectly, as though he were made to be here, to be held by you. one of his hands reaches out, gripping at your shirt in his tiny, determined fist, and the sight of it—the smallness, the trust—makes your breath hitch.

you run a gentle hand over his soft hair, stroking the fine strands that feel as delicate as silk, and he gazes up at you with those wide eyes, his tiny mouth parting as if he’s trying to form words. “you’re so precious,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion as you continue to hold him close, like he’s the most delicate treasure in the world.

he makes another small sound, an innocent gurgle that draws a smile from you, and you find yourself instinctively swaying, rocking him gently, as though your body knows exactly how to comfort him. you lean your cheek against his head, inhaling the pure, powdery scent of him, that soft, warm fragrance unique to babies. for a moment, you let yourself dream, holding him tightly, letting yourself imagine what it might be like if he were truly yours, if this precious warmth in your arms was something you could come home to every day.

you tighten your embrace around him, as if you could somehow keep him a little longer, savoring every heartbeat, every small sound.

gojo’s hand moves to your head, his touch tender as he gently pats you, his fingers threading through your hair in a comforting gesture. his voice is soft, almost a whisper, as he leans close. “love,” he murmurs, his tone filled with both sorrow and understanding, “this… isn’t your baby.”

the words come slowly, each one heavier than the last, and you can hear the strain in his voice, feel the weight of what he’s saying. it hurts him to say it, to shatter the fragile happiness he saw on your face just moments ago. his fingers linger on your head, gentle and reassuring, as if he’s trying to soften the blow, to hold you together even as he reminds you of the reality.

you look at him, eyes wide, lost, the pang of realization settling in. it feels like a harsh slap, one that pulls you abruptly from the small world you’d slipped into—the one where, for just a moment, you let yourself imagine holding your own child. your gaze shifts back to the baby, held protectively in the your arms, and the ache in your heart swells.

“i know it’s hard,” gojo continues, his voice barely above a whisper, each word wrapped in the tenderness he reserves only for you. “but… taking someone else’s baby… that’s not what you want. we’ll… we’ll figure this out, alright?” he tries to offer you something, anything to cling to in this moment, his thumb brushing lightly against your temple, hoping his presence can ground you.

your lips tremble, a soft, almost inaudible “no...” slipping from your mouth as your whole body shakes. you instinctively tighten your arms around the baby, pulling him closer to your chest as if protecting him from the world, as if he truly belongs to you. the warmth of the baby against you feels like the only thing real in this moment, the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s suddenly come crashing down around you.

you shake your head, eyes wide with panic and desperation, as though refusing to accept the truth. the baby’s tiny, innocent face is a sharp contrast to the turmoil you feel inside, and it’s all too much to comprehend. the joy, the love, the ache in your heart—it all blurs together, overwhelming you. you can feel the weight of his small body, so delicate, so perfect, and for a brief moment, in your arms, you allow yourself to believe that he’s yours.

as you tighten your hold on the child, gojo's heart aches at the sight. your refusal to let go, your desperate attempt to keep the baby as close as possible, speaks volumes more than any words could. he watches you, seeing the pain and confusion, the longing and the pain, all painted across your face, reflected in the tears that shimmer in your eyes. he knows, more than anyone, how deeply you yearn for this, how painful it is to be reminded of what you don’t have.

he leans in closer, his hand still caressing your head, trying to soothe you. “baby..”

he leans in closer, his hand continuing to stroke your hair, trying to soothe you. “baby,” he murmurs, his voice tender but firm. “i know how much you want a baby… believe me, i do. but… this child, he’s not ours. it’s not right to take him like this.”

gojo’s words hang heavy in the air, each one a painful but necessary truth. his eyes gaze at your face, filled with a deep understanding, but also the weight of a reality you both must face.

before you can even react, the baby is suddenly lifted from your arms. startled, you instinctively reach out, panic flashing across your face. turning around, gojo sees geto standing beside the baby’s mother, who’s holding her child tightly to her chest, her expression a mixture of fear and anger. her eyes narrow as she looks at you, her gaze searing, resentment clear as she holds her baby protectively.

you stand up, the panic rising in your chest as you take a step forward, almost pleading, “it’s my baby…” the words escape your lips, raw and broken, a desperate echo of the fragile dream you were just holding in your arms.

the woman’s face hardens, her glare cutting through you. “how dare you,” she snaps, her voice laced with fury. “how could you just take him? you… you had the nerve to call him yours?” her hands clutch her child even tighter, shielding him as if to ward you off.

you feel the words pierce you, shame and sorrow mixing painfully in your chest. your hands tremble as you lower them, your heart racing, still caught between the desperate, fading hope of a future and the cold reality in front of you. gojo steps closer to you, his hand finding your shoulder, his presence grounding you as you struggle to catch your breath, feeling a sharp ache in the hollow space where the baby had just been.

gojo’s touch on your shoulder is a lifeline, anchoring you to the present while your heart is still clinging to a dream. he stands beside you, his presence a shield against the woman’s anger, his grip on your shoulder steady and firm, as if silently telling you that he’s there for you, that he understands.

he watches as the woman holds her baby away from you, protective and fierce, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and fear. the baby’s cry pierces the air, adding to the painful truth of the moment.

gojo’s touch on your shoulder is like a lifeline, grounding you in a moment where everything feels like it's slipping away. his hand rests gently yet firmly, a silent promise that he's there for you, even as everything inside you screams to hold on to what’s slipping through your fingers. you’re trembling under the weight of your own feelings, but his presence is a small comfort, the only thing that makes you feel like you’re not entirely lost.

you glance at the woman, her eyes blazing with anger and protectiveness, clutching her baby away from you. the baby’s cries are sharp, filling the air with an undeniable reminder of the painful truth. it’s hers. not yours. the desperate ache in your chest intensifies, and you can't help but look at the tiny life in her arms, wishing, hoping, that somehow, it could be yours.

geto, standing beside gojo, looks at you with the same heavy expression that mirrors his, his gaze filled with a sorrow that matches the pain you're feeling. his eyes soften as they meet yours, but there's nothing he can say to ease the ache in your heart. he feels it, too—the agony of watching you break, and it pulls at his soul.

you look at the baby now, tears falling freely as you watch the little one’s cries intensify in the mother’s arms. you can’t help but whisper, “he’s crying because he doesn’t want her...” the words come out like a plea, a desperate attempt to make sense of everything, to try and convince yourself that maybe, just maybe, the baby wants you instead. your voice shakes, raw with emotion, but before you can take a step closer, geto’s hand wraps gently around your arm, stopping you.

his grip is firm, but his eyes are soft as he looks down at you, silently asking you to stop. you try to pull away, but he moves to your other side, standing between you and the woman, as though to shield you from the unbearable truth.

your eyes lock with geto’s, and for a moment, your world narrows to just him, the one person who has always been there for you. you silently beg with him, your expression pleading, but his face remains unreadable. you turn your gaze back to the baby, the ache in your chest deepening.

“please...” you whisper, the words a broken cry as you speak to the woman. “give me the baby... you’re struggling with money, and you have two children already... my husbands and I, we could give him a good life. we could provide for him. please.”

your voice cracks as you continue, your heart breaking more with every word. you sound pathetic. desperate. it’s not a side of yourself you’ve ever shown, but the unbearable weight of this moment has shattered everything inside of you. you know, deep down, that you’re asking for something impossible, but the dream of having a child, of raising a family, drowns out everything else.

you feel small in the moment, exposed, vulnerable in a way you’ve never been before. and even though you know you’re not supposed to be doing this—taking another woman’s child—you can’t stop yourself. the desperation is consuming, the longing for what you can’t have swallowing everything else around you.

gojo’s heart shatters as he hears the pain in your voice, the raw plea for something you want so badly, but can’t have. he can feel the weight of your despair, the aching desire for a life that seems just out of reach. he wants nothing more than to take away your pain but there’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do in this moment to make it right.

the woman’s face is set in a hard, unmoving expression, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and hurt, and the baby’s cries only serve to intensify the tension.

the woman’s eyes narrow with fury, her grip tightening around the baby as her emotions boil over. her voice cracks, sharp and furious as she screams at you, her words slicing through the tension in the air. “how dare you?!” she spits, her voice thick with anger, as she glares at you with pure disdain. “how dare you ask a mother to give up her child?! even if i’m struggling, he’s still my son! no one is taking him from me!”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the world feels like it stops spinning. the rage in her voice is palpable, her protective instincts flaring as she stands her ground. your heart aches, but you can’t look away. you feel the sting of her accusation, the weight of her anger pressing down on you, and despite the deep sorrow inside, there’s a small, quiet voice that tells you she’s right.

you can’t take someone’s child, no matter the reason. the reality of what you've done, of what you’re asking for, sinks in, making you feel smaller, more insignificant than ever. her words echo in your mind as you stand there, trembling under the weight of your own mistake. you want to explain, to tell her that you didn’t mean it like that, that you only wanted to help, but the words die in your throat.

the baby in her arms continues to cry, and you instinctively want to comfort him, but you know now that it’s not your place. not your baby. and even though the longing still burns in your chest, the reality is clear now. you can’t force something that wasn’t meant to be.

you stand there, your words tumbling out in a frantic rush, a desperate attempt to salvage some semblance of control over the chaos swirling inside of you. “i’ll give you money,” you say, your voice trembling. “every month. for compensation. i can help you, just—just give me the baby.”

you look at geto, searching his face for something, anything, to support the madness spilling from your lips. “right, suguru?” you ask, your voice pleading as you turn to him, desperate for him to agree, to somehow make it all okay.

but the moment the words leave your mouth, you realize how irrational, how out of touch with reality they sound. your husbands exchange a glance, and the look in their eyes is enough to break your heart all over again.

geto’s face tightens, his jaw clenched as he watches you. the pain in his eyes is overwhelming, like a weight pressing down on him. he doesn’t respond immediately, as if trying to process what you’ve said, what you’re asking. his silence speaks louder than anything he could say.

gojo, standing beside you, looks just as torn. his usual calm demeanor shattered, replaced with a raw, vulnerable expression. his hand grips your shoulder, not in comfort, but in a desperate attempt to bring you back, to snap you out of this madness.

but it’s clear to them both that you’ve lost yourself in this haze of grief and longing. nothing makes sense. the reality of your situation has overwhelmed you so completely that the words you speak are the frantic pleas of someone who feels like they’re losing everything.

both of them are hurting. deeply. watching the woman holding the baby, and seeing the desperate, disoriented look in your eyes, they feel the weight of your pain, but also the crushing responsibility of your actions. they can’t support you in this. not this. they both want to hold you, to make the pain go away, but even they know they can’t fix everything, no matter how much they wish they could.

as you turn to geto, your pleading eyes searching for validation in your words, the heavy weight of your request hanging in the air, he can feel his own heart breaking. the words you’re speaking, the desperate plea, are like a daggerpiercing his chest. he can’t help but wish he could say yes, that he could fix this situation, that he could make you happy. but the truth is crushing, and he can only shake his head, the words trapped in his throat as he tries to find a way to reply.

but it’s gojo who speaks first, his voice soft but firm. gojo's hand tightens on your shoulder, his voice strained as he speaks, “love...” he begins, his tone quiet and heavy. “you... you know we can’t do that.”

each word feels like a blow, and he can see the pain in your eyes as you listen, as his words sink in. “you know we can’t take someone else’s child,” he continues, each word a lance to your heart. “we can’t just... we can’t just ask her to give up her baby, love. that’s not right.”

you look at gojo, your expression lost and pleading, as if none of this makes sense to you. “but… why not?” your voice is barely above a whisper, thick with desperation. you sound so genuinely confused, like your mind is struggling to grasp a reality that feels so wrong, so unfair.

“she’s struggling, satoru,” you say, gesturing weakly toward the woman. “she doesn’t even have money. she can’t give him the life we can, the life he deserves.” your words are raw, your gaze flicking between the baby nestled in her arms and gojo, searching his face for some understanding.

“she’s having twins. twins. what harm could it be to… to just give us one?” your voice breaks, the plea in your tone aching and vulnerable. “we’d be helping her, making things easier for her. why can’t you see that?”

gojo looks at you with an ache that mirrors your own, his eyes red-rimmed, struggling to hold back tears. his grip on your shoulder is firm, grounding, but his silence cuts deeper than anything. he wants to make this okay for you, to take away the hurt.

gojo’s heart breaks at the pleading tones of your voice, the desperation that seems to cloud your judgment. he wants more than anything to fix this, to make the world right for you again, but the truth is unbearable. the reality is that taking another person’s child is wrong on every level and no amount of pleading, no amount of convincing, can change that.

“love,” he whispers, his voice strangled. “it’s not about how much we can give him, or how much she can. this child is hers, and we have no right to take him.”

he can see the anguish in your eyes before meeting geto’s for a second and back to you, the way you’re struggling to make sense of a world that’s suddenly become so unfair. but the fact remains— this isn’t about what’s easier for the woman or what’s better for the child. it’s about doing the right thing, and the right thing is to leave that child with his mother.

gojo’s hand reaches up, his fingers gently tracing your face, wiping a tear from your cheek. the look in his eyes is filled with pain and sorrow, but more importantly, it’s filled with understanding.

“i know...” he says, his voice strained. “i know how much you want a family. i know how badly you want a child. but love, this... taking someone else’s child isn’t the way...”

you ignore gojo’s words entirely, your heart and mind spiraling as you drop to your knees in front of the woman, desperation pouring out of you. your hands tremble as they reach out, clasping her knees, and you look up at her, your face streaked with tears, eyes wide with a raw, unfiltered plea.

“please,” you whisper, voice breaking. “please… if you can’t… if it’s too much for you, give him to me.” your words tumble out, nearly incoherent in their urgency. “or… or sell him to me,” you add, the words slipping past your lips without thought, your desperation clouding everything else.

the woman stares down at you, her expression shifting from shock to anger, but you don’t stop. you press the top of your head against her knees, bending forward as you sob, shoulders shaking with each breath. “i can’t—i can’t get pregnant,” you manage, voice choked. “i’ll never… i’ll never be a mother. please… please, just… please let me have him.”

the room seems to close in around you, all sounds muted except for your own quiet, desperate cries. your husbands stand nearby, their faces etched with pain and helplessness as they watch you, seeing the extent of your suffering laid bare.

gojo’s hand hovers over your shoulder, uncertain, as if afraid to break the fragile shell of your sorrow, while geto’s gaze is fixed on you, his face drawn with grief. they feel every ounce of your pain, yet are bound by the truth they can’t alter—no matter how deeply they wish they could take this agony away.

gojo steps forward, his face tight with remorse as he looks at the woman, who clutches her baby protectively to her chest. “i’m so sorry,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “please… just go. thank you for your patience.”

the woman stares back, her expression a mixture of confusion and hurt, but she nods slightly before turning and hurrying away, the baby’s soft cries fading as she disappears down the hall.

as the door clicks shut, geto moves immediately, sinking down beside you, his arms reaching around your trembling form. he pulls you close, wrapping you in a firm embrace, one hand cradling the back of your head as you press against him. he holds you tightly, his touch a gentle anchor amid the storm inside you, grounding you even as you break down, sobs spilling from your chest in waves.

gojo watches as the woman and the baby disappear down the hallway, his heart aching in his chest. the silence that follows is heavy and oppressive, the atmosphere thick with sorrow and disappointment. he feels a pang of guilt, realizing that his words, despite being true, couldn’t soothe your pain, couldn’t change your reality.

he sees geto pull you against him, the way you cling to him, your body trembling with sobs. gojo stands there, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he struggles with the feeling of helplessness that washes over him.

seeing you like this, so vulnerable and broken. seeing you so shattered, so utterly broken by something he can’t fix, is like a dagger to his heart. he wants to fix it, to make it all better, but he can’t. and that realization, the feeling of being powerless to bring you the happiness he knows you deserve, is eating him alive.

geto’s gaze drifts up to meet gojo’s, and for a moment, they share a look—one filled with a profound helplessness neither of them is used to feeling. gojo’s jaw tightens, his hand resting on your shoulder as he murmurs softly, “let’s get her home. she don’t need to be here anymore.”

geto nods, his expression heavy with sorrow as he carefully slides his arms beneath you, lifting you into his embrace with gentle strength. you curl into his chest, clinging to his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. he cradles you close, his grip secure, yet tender, as though he fears you might shatter any moment.

gojo walks ahead, clearing a quiet path as they make their way through the sterile hospital corridors and out into the fresh air. every step is quiet, purposeful, the weight of the moment hanging between them. they reach the parking lot, the cool breeze offering a slight comfort as they move toward the car. gojo opens the door, waiting as geto settles you gently in the backseat, tucking a blanket they always keep in the car around you as if it might shield you from the ache of reality.

both men share another look—one that speaks of the hurt they’re carrying for you, the unspoken promise that they’ll stay by your side through it all, no matter how heavy it gets.

geto sits beside you in the backseat, his hand gently combing through your hair, his touch a silent reassurance. gojo starts the car, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on you, his heart clenching at the sight of you, bundled in the blanket, your eyes empty and vacant, your body still trembling lightly.

the car ride is silent, the only sound coming from the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from you. gojo keeps his eyes on the road, his fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his thoughts a turmoil of worry and despair.

“she’s asleep..” gojo notices you’ve fallen asleep in the backseat, the exhaustion of everything you’ve been through evident in your closed eyes and the deep breaths coming from your lips. he looks back a few times, his heart constricting each time he sees your weary form.

he glances over at geto beside you, who’s watching silently as well. the two men exchange a look, a thousand wordless thoughts and emotions passing between them in that instant, before gojo diverts his attention back to the road.

geto keeps his gaze on you, his hand still gently stroking your hair, his fingers tracing soft, slow circles against your scalp, as if hoping the rhythmic motion might offer some comfort in your sleep.

the rest of the car ride passes in a silent, heavy tension. neither gojo nor geto speak, the depth of their worry and despair is too great for words. they both feel as though they’ve failed you, even though they know they’ve done everything they can.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, they pull into their driveway. gojo cuts the engine, the sudden quiet only adding to the heavy atmosphere. he looks over his shoulder at you, your face still and peaceful in sleep, the pain and sorrow gone for the moment.

gojo steps out of the car first, moving around to open the door for geto as he carefully lift you from the backseat, working in tenderness to carry you inside, his hands and arms gentle and protective against your body.

once inside, he leads the way down the hall, heading straight for your shared room and gently laying you on the bed. he pulls off your shoes and slides you further up the bed, pulling the sheets over you as you continue to sleep. geto looks down at you, concern etched into his features, his heart aching in his chest. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, watching as your chest rises and falls with each breath.

gojo stands in the doorway, his face drawn and weary, his eyes tracing over your sleeping form with a mixture of pain and heartache. seeing you like this, so vulnerable and broken, is tearing him apart, the knowledge that he’s powerless to ease your suffering gnawing at his heart.

“she’ll be okay…” he whispers, more to himself than to geto, a silent hope that speaking the words might make them true. geto doesn’t respond, his eyes glued to you, his hand resting atop the blankets that cover your form. he’s just as worried as gojo, just as hopeless. he knows better than anyone that time is the only healer in situations like this, and time can be a brutal remedy.

gojo steps outside the room, letting the door open, his movements mechanical, stiff—as if keeping himself together is all he can manage, leans back against the wall, the cool surface grounding him as he shoves his hands into his pockets, fingers curling into fists. he tries to steady his breathing, tries to force himself to be strong for you, for geto. but the weight of everything finally breaks through, and the tears begin to slip silently down his cheeks. he doesn’t wipe them away, just stands there, letting the grief settle in his chest, heavy and unrelenting.

inside, geto still sits on the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on your hand resting atop his lap. he swallows thickly, feeling the tightness in his throat as he lets himself tear up, his vision blurring as he studies your wedding ring—the small, delicate circle that symbolizes the promises they made to you, promises they feel helpless to fulfill. his thumb gently brushes over the ring, and he bites down hard on his lip, the pain a small distraction from the ache in his heart.

for a long moment, geto just sits there, his hand never leaving yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch. he wants to say something, to offer you comfort, but he knows words would fall short. so he simply stays, his silent tears falling as he holds your hand, hoping that maybe, somehow, his presence can bring you even a small measure of solace.

gojo stands just outside the room, his shoulders slumped, the weight of his grief and helplessness evident in every line of his body. he watches as geto’s shoulder trembles slightly, the quiet sobs that geto tries to suppress as he sits beside you on the bed. gojo feels his heart break further each time he sees geto struggling to hold it together, knowing he can’t ease his own or geto’s pain right now.

he wants to step forward, to offer comfort, a hand on a shoulder, a word of reassurance, anything. but he can’t move, a part of him afraid that the moment he steps into the room, the dam holding back his own tears will break for good. instead, he just stands there, the sound of geto’s soft weeping echoing in his ears, a silent testament to a pain that refuses to stay hidden.

it had been days since that painful incident, and each one weighed heavily on you. you’d barely left the bed, consumed by a deep, silent grief that kept you withdrawn, the hurt sinking deeper with every passing hour. you barely ate, barely spoke. you’d turned away from your responsibilities, from jujutsu high, from the life you’d built with such dedication. instead, you lay in bed, letting exhaustion take you each night as tears ran dry against your pillow.

tonight, though, the weight of your sorrow pulled you from bed in the middle of the night. in a daze, you found yourself drifting to the walk-in closet, your only escape from the endless loop of sorrow. sitting on the carpeted floor, you pressed your back and head against the shelf, drawing some comfort from its solidity as you sat there, letting soft murmurs slip from your lips—whispers of thoughts you barely registered yourself.

in the dark bedroom, geto stirred, reaching out instinctively for you, only to find the sheets cool and empty. he blinked, the room settling around him as he sat up, trying to piece together where you could be. beside him, gojo still lay asleep, his face etched with lines of exhaustion and worry, even in sleep.

then geto saw it—the faint glow of light spilling out from the closet, and he heard your soft voice drifting from within, quiet, like a sorrowful melody he couldn’t quite make out. with a sigh, he slipped from bed and moved toward the closet, the sound of his bare feet soft on the floor.

as he reached the doorway, he found you there, sitting alone on the carpet, your figure almost blending into the shadows, shoulders slouched, your head leaning back as you stared blankly ahead. slowly, you turned your head toward him, your expression so exhausted, so worn, yet somehow you mustered a weak, fleeting smile—one that tugged painfully at his heart.

“hey,” he whispered, his voice soft and tender, laced with the worry he felt deep within.

“hey,” you murmured back, your voice barely audible, like the faintest crack of light through a closed window.

geto lowered himself onto the floor beside you, his eyes gentle as they took you in. he reached out, his hand finding yours while the other arm wrap around your shoulder. his thumb tracing delicate circles over your knuckles, grounding you both. for a moment, neither of you spoke. there was nothing to say that hadn’t been said already, no comfort that could ease the ache you both felt. but his presence, solid and steady, brought a small glimmer of warmth to the cold grief wrapped around you.

gojo slowly blinked open his eyes, the absence of your warmth on the sheets drawing him from sleep. confusion clouded his vision when he found the bed empty beside him, and for a moment, he simply lay there, the lingering remnants of sleep still holding onto his mind.

then, the low murmurs of a quiet voice drifted through the silent room, pulling him completely into wakefulness. his eyes focused in the darkness, and in the faint glow spilling from the crack in the walk-in closet doorway.

he sat up in bed, the covers pooling around his waist as he listened to the familiar cadence of your voice, the strain in your tone a harsh contrast to its usual smoothness and strength.

he could pick up snippets of your quiet, almost broken-sounding whispers, but the words were indistinct in his ears, lost in the haze of sleep and worry. the only thing that was clear was the sorrow, the despair that seemed to linger around each syllable.

gojo threw off the covers. the floor was cold beneath his feet, the hardwood offering no comfort against the icy chill that seemed to settle in the absence of your presence in the bed.

the cool night air hit gojo’s bare legs as he threw off the covers, the warmth of sleep vanishing with every step toward the closet. each step on the hardwood felt like a jolt to his heart, the icy chill settling not just in his feet, but in the aching place where you should’ve been beside him.

he found himself pausing at the doorway, his gaze softening as he took in the sight of you and geto on the floor, hunched together in the glow of the closet light. geto’s hand was gently intertwined with yours, his other arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders as if he could somehow shield you from the sorrow that weighed you down.

gojo forced a small smile, leaning casually against the door frame, as if to lighten the mood. “having a party without me, huh? i see how it is,” he joked, trying to inject a little warmth into the quiet room. “the invite must’ve gotten lost in the mail.”

you looked up, and for a moment, that familiar sparkle flickered in your eyes, even if just for a second. your lips lifted in a sad, faint smile as he crossed the small space and sat down beside you, pressing his shoulder against yours with a gentle nudge.

“oh, satoru,” you murmured softly, holding up the tiny, delicate baby clothes in your hands. “i… i bought these without thinking.” your fingers ran over the soft fabric, as if the touch itself was soothing, but your gaze was distant, lost somewhere else, somewhere softer, somewhere that felt far away from this pain. “they were so cute. i couldn’t help myself.”

you managed a laugh, but it was hollow, filled with sorrow. “i… i thought, maybe… one day, you know?” your voice cracked, and gojo’s heart clenched as he saw the tear slipping down your cheek. he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you gently against him, while geto’s hand tightened around yours.

you looked at the tiny clothes again, a fresh wave of grief in your gaze. “i was just about to throw these out,” you whispered, barely meeting their eyes. “they’re just… they’re just a reminder now.”

gojo’s throat tightened, the sight of the baby clothes clutched in your hands, a painful reminder of what might’ve been. his arm tightened around you, pulling you snugly against his side as geto’s grip on you tightened too, the three of you creating a silent bubble of comfort in the dim light of the closet.

“you don’t have to throw them away if you don’t want to,” gojo said quietly, his voice soft as he took in the delicate fabric, the innocent symbolism of a future that was so suddenly snatched away.

your fingers traced over the fabric, trembling as they glided across each tiny fold and seam. the baby clothes were soft, achingly so, and it was like holding a piece of a dream that had slipped through your fingers. your lips quivered, a quiet murmur escaping as you whispered, “it’s... so soft.” the words fell from your mouth, barely more than a breath, but they carried the weight of everything you’d hoped, everything you’d imagined.

your hand lingered, stroking the fabric as if comforting yourself through the gentle touch. tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision, and you couldn’t look up at gojo or geto—couldn’t face the pity, the sorrow that mirrored your own pain. instead, you kept your gaze on the tiny clothes in your hands, clutching them as if they were a lifeline, a piece of the child you’d longed for.

“i thought... i thought one day...” you choked on the words, a tear slipping down your cheek, dampening the fabric. “i thought one day they’d be filled. they’d... they’d be his. or hers.” your voice was a trembling whisper, barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

gojo’s heart ached with each word, each broken confession that echoed in the quiet of the closet. the weight of your sorrow, the quiet pain in your voice, it was all too much. he swallowed past the lump in his throat, his grip on you tightening—a silent, wordless offering of comfort.

“you can keep them.” gojo said, his voice quiet but firm. he leaned closer, his arm around you pulling you a little closer, his fingers tracing small circles on your shoulder, “if... if it helps. you don’t have to let go.”

geto, his fingers still intertwined with yours, listened silently, his eyes on you, watching the mixture of pain and longing that played across your face. he could almost feel the weight of your sorrow, the ache in his heart matching yours.

he gently squeezed your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he spoke, his voice a low, comforting murmur. “you don’t have to do anything right now,” geto said, echoing gojo’s sentiment. “we’re here. we’re right here with you.”

your voice was barely a whisper, the words thick with the weight of everything you’d been carrying for days. you rested your head on gojo’s shoulder, your body trembling with the sobs you tried to suppress but couldn’t hold back any longer. “i’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice shaky and fragile. “i’ve been so... so sad all these days, and... i just... i can’t help it.”

your hands gripped the soft baby clothes tighter, as if holding onto something—anything—that might make the pain just a little more bearable. you could feel their presence around you, the warmth of both of them, and yet the emptiness inside felt overwhelming.

gojo pulled you even closer, his face burying into the top of your hair as he held you tight, his arms strong and comforting around you. “don’t be sorry,” he said fiercely, his tone brooking no argument. “don’t you dare apologize. you’ve been through something unbearable. you don’t have to pretend to be okay. we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

geto moved in closer too, his knee bumping against yours as he shifted, his voice firm and reassuring, “you’ve done nothing wrong. you can feel whatever you need to feel, we’re here for you,” he echoed gojo’s words, his hand holding yours, the warm, tangible contact a lifeline in the sea of grief that surrounded you. he moved slightly, his free hand gently brushing the dampness from your cheeks, his touch tender and soothing. “you don’t have to hold back. not with us. you don’t have to be strong. not right now.”

tears welled up again, threatening to spill over, and you couldn’t stop the overwhelming flood of emotions. “i don’t want to keep hurting you both,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “you’ve been so patient, so kind, and i just feel like i’m breaking apart... and i don’t want to drag you down with me.”

but even as the words left your lips, the warmth of their embrace told you everything you needed to know. gojo’s hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, while geto’s fingers gently brushed through your hair, both of them offering their quiet support, their unspoken understanding.

“you’re not breaking us,” gojo murmured, his chin resting on the top of your head, his breath stirring the fine strands of your hair. “you could never break us,” he said, his voice strong and sure. “we’re here for you. through the good, through the bad. we’re not just going to abandon you because you’re hurting.”

geto’s hand slid to your cheek, his fingers gently tracing along your jawline, his gaze filled with pain and love, “you’re our wife,” he said quietly. “our soul. our everything.”

your head lifted slowly from gojo’s shoulder, your eyes searching his face with a flicker of something new—something more hopeful. for the first time in days, there was a spark of determination, an ember igniting in the midst of your grief. your fingers trembled slightly as they reached up, brushing through gojo’s hair, as you locked eyes with him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“maybe...” you started, your voice shaky but gaining strength as you went on. “maybe we should try. maybe the doctor was wrong.”

you could feel your heart race at the words, a mix of vulnerability and hope swirling inside you. you wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. that maybe, just maybe, things could work out—despite everything that had happened. despite the crushing weight of loss you still carried. maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought.

“what if we give it a shot?” you whispered, eyes darting between your two husbands, your gaze now full of hope. “maybe there’s a chance. maybe... we could try again.”

“no,” geto’s voice is quiet, answering without hesitate, the gentle steadiness in his tone somehow making the words sting even more. “i know how much you’ve dreamed about having a family, raising a child together.”

his words are comforting yet heartbreaking, an acknowledgment of the unspoken fears you both share. you feel a tightness building in your throat as you fight to hold back tears, feeling the weight of his hand grounding you. but it’s gojo’s voice that breaks the silence next, and it’s strained in a way that cuts right through you.

“but… we can’t lose you.” his words come out in a whisper, barely above a breath, and there’s a tremor to it you rarely hear. he looks down, his head hanging low as he grips your hand, his knuckles white with the intensity of his hold. “i don’t… i can’t imagine… if something happened to you.”

gojo’s grip on your hand tightens, the thought of losing you, his lifeline, too much even to speak of. geto's hand on your cheek feels like an anchor, keeping you grounded, even as your heart races in anticipation of gojo’s next words.

“not at the risk of losing you. never.” he continues, his voice firm despite the strain. “i can’t… i’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.” he lifts his gaze from the floor, his eyes meeting yours, a mix of love and fear swimming in the blue depths. “i would give up everything, give up the idea of family, if it meant keeping you safe. losing you would be an emptiness… a pain… that i wouldn’t survive.”

gojo’s gaze shifts up again, from geto before meeting yours, the depths of his love and worry so achingly clear in his eyes. “i can’t lose you,” he repeats, the words catching slightly in his throat. “i can’t risk it. i’m not willing to gamble with your life. you’re too precious to us. too precious to me.”

geto’s hand moves to your chin, gently guiding your gaze towards him. his expression is gentle, filled with care, and yet there is an almost unbearable sadness lurking in the depths of his eyes. “please understand,” he says softly, “we value your life above everything else.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but geto’s soft, steady voice stopped you before you could speak any further. his hand on your chin held you gently, but firmly, as if trying to ground you in the moment, to make sure you understood his words clearly.

“no buts,” he murmured, his gaze unwavering, a quiet plea in his eyes. “this isn’t about what you want, love. it’s about your life. and we’re not willing to risk it. not for anything, not for anyone.”

his words hit like a cold wave, each syllable piercing through the haze of desperation you’d been holding onto. you felt your heart falter, the overwhelming urge to fight back, to keep grasping for that sliver of hope, but deep down you knew the truth in his voice. the painful truth that your husbands loved you far too much to let you endanger yourself again, no matter how much you wanted to try.

“you mean everything to us,” gojo added softly, his voice barely a whisper, as if he too was struggling to keep the weight of it all from breaking him. “we can’t lose you. not like this.”

geto’s thumb gently brushed your cheek, his expression softening, even as sorrow shadowed his gaze. “we would do anything to see you happy, but we can’t let you sacrifice yourself for a dream. your health, your life... that’s what matters most to us. not the baby, not anything else. just you.”

the words wrapped around you like a vise, heavy and final. it felt as though the very thing you clung to—the hope of motherhood, the thought of a family—was slipping through your fingers. the ache in your chest deepened, but as you looked into the eyes of both your husbands, you saw only love, only the raw, painful care they had for you.

you swallowed hard, the tears that had been on the edge of falling finally breaking free. you didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let go of the dream, but you knew—they were right. the risk was too great, and they were asking you to protect yourself, even if it meant letting go of a piece of your heart.

“i understand,” you whispered through the sobs, your voice small, fragile.

gojo’s arm pulled you closer, wrapping tightly around your shoulders, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back and his face burying into your hair. his body trembles slightly, fighting back his own tears as he holds you fiercely.

“we love you,” he whispers hoarsely. “so much. please, understand that this... this isn’t about not wanting a family with you. it’s about keeping you safe.”

geto’s hand moved from your chin, his fingers tracing down your neck, the touch gentle, as he stepped closer, his own eyes glossy with unfallen tears. “we want a future with you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with love, “a long, long... safe and happy future. and we won’t take any risks with that.”

he gently pulls you to his chest, holding you close, his arms wrapping around your frame as he cradles your body. his heart is hammering against yours, the rhythm a quick, nervous staccato that speaks of the fear they’re both feeling.

“please, please understand,” gojo’s voice is a quiet, desperate plea, “it’s not that we don’t want kids with you. it’s that we want you to be safe. we want to keep you safe. we both do.”

geto’s hand is stroking your hair, his lips pressed softly against the top of your head as he holds you closer. the pain in his voice is evident as he adds, “we want you to be healthy, happy… with us… for a long time.”

you nod slowly, pressing your face against geto’s chest as a defeated “okay” slips from your lips, barely more than a whisper. your voice trembles with the weight of the word, laden with acceptance and heartache all at once. the surrender in your tone brings a wave of relief mingled with sorrow to both your husbands, who tighten their embrace around you as if shielding you from the pain of letting go.

geto’s hand gently strokes your hair, his lips brushing your temple in silent reassurance. his hold is steady, strong, grounding you as you lean into him. gojo’s hand finds yours, his fingers intertwining with yours after he wraps his arms from behind, squeezing gently, offering a quiet reminder that he’s here, that they’re both here.

gojo's head rests on yours, his forehead against your hair, his breathing soft and steady against your neck. his body is a warm, solid presence behind you, a shield against the emptiness, a constant that you can rely on.

geto leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “we're here. we'll always be here.”

the room is silent, the quiet interrupted only by the shared, steadying rhythm of your breaths. in the comfort of their embrace, there is a heartbreaking beauty to the moment, a quiet strength in the simple act of being together.

gojo’s hand gently releases yours, his fingers tracing up your arm in a slow, careful path. it comes to rest on your waist, the thumb tracing soothing, repetitive circles against your hip. a silent, gentle touch, an attempt to soothe your aching heart as he continues to lean into you, his body curved around yours.

geto’s hand in your hair is now a gentle, almost massaging motion, his fingers slowly sliding through the strands, his touch both comforting and intimate. they hold you—not as if you’re fragile or broken, but as if you’re precious, valuable, worth every

breath and second of their time. gojo and geto’s silence speaks louder than words—the steadiness of their presence, the tenderness of their touch, the quiet strength in their hold. they love you, they love you so desperately, and you can feel it with every beat of their hearts, every soft exhale as they hold you.

in the quiet of the car, geto’s fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel as he stares at gojo, both of them caught in the tension of their unspoken thoughts. they glance into the backseat, where two small, confused faces peer back at them. the boy with pink hair and brown eyes clutches the sleeve of the other boy with jet black hair and striking blue eyes, looking to him for reassurance, even in their silence.

geto sighs, voice low and uncertain. “i don’t know how she’ll react. bringing two strangers—two kids—into the house... especially when she’s going through so much.”

gojo shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “i know,” he says, his tone hesitant. “but we can’t just… leave them. we found them because they were being hurt—abused by the villagers just because they have jujutsu. we can’t turn our backs on them now.” his words are resolute, but his expression falters. behind his cool, stoic front, there’s a softness, an unwillingness to abandon these two boys who have already been through so much.

geto looks away, taking a moment to weigh their choices. he knows gojo’s right, knows he doesn’t have it in him to just leave these kids to fend for themselves. not after what they’ve seen, and not when they have a home to offer, even if things are complicated. but he also knows you, and he knows how fragile things are right now.

the pink-haired boy shifts, sensing the tension, and tightens his hold on his friend’s arm. the boy with blue eyes stares back at the two men, his gaze unwavering, as if waiting for them to make a decision, as if he’s already used to uncertainty and the discomfort of being unwanted.

geto glances at gojo, reading the determination in his face, the concern for the boys, and sighs. he can feel a sense of responsibility for them too, the same feeling that has him glancing at the boys’ faces in the mirror, their wide eyes silently pleading.

he turns back to gojo, his own expression torn, “you don’t think she’ll… react badly?” he asks softly, his voice filled with worry. “after… everything that’s happened, i don’t want to overwhelm her.”

geto’s words hang in the air, the weight of their implications obvious—the fear of further straining the delicate balance of your current state, the worry of adding to the emotional burden you’re already carrying.

gojo’s gaze flickers to the boys in the backseat again, their innocent faces watching them, waiting. he can feel the tension in his own chest, the conflict of wanting to help these kids and protecting you from further sorrow.

gojo lets out a quiet, resigned sigh, his hand running through his hair one last time before he nods toward geto. “let’s just… see how she reacts. if it’s too much… if it hurts her more, we’ll figure something out.” his voice carries a tone of forced steadiness, but geto can see the conflict still etched in his eyes. he’s trying to reassure himself as much as he’s trying to reassure his friend.

with that, gojo pushes open the car door and steps out, the night air feeling heavier than usual. he circles to the backseat, pausing as he looks at the two boys through the glass, their small faces gazing up at him with a mix of uncertainty and trust. he softens his stance, letting his usual intimidating presence melt away, and carefully opens the door.

kneeling down to their eye level, he offers a gentle smile, his voice as soothing as he can manage. “hey… you’re safe now, alright? no one’s going to hurt you here.” his hand extends, and the pink-haired boy looks at his friend before they both reach out to gojo, taking comfort in his calm demeanor.

“come on out,” he says softly, his hand light on their backs as he guides them out of the car. “we’re going to take you inside. there’s someone very special to us who lives here too, and she’s… she’s going through a tough time, so we’ll need to be gentle with her. but i promise, you’re safe.”

the boys nod quietly, their small frames pressing closer to gojo as he stands, keeping them close as they walk toward the house with geto following behind. his heart aches, knowing they’re stepping into something complicated, but he feels a flicker of hope as they near the front door.

gojo can hear the quiet, anxious breaths of the boys standing next to him, their hands gripping his shirt. their wide eyes are fixed on the door, filled with both fear and anticipation. he glances at geto, their unspoken understanding of the situation heavy between them.

he gently pats the boys’ heads, hoping to soothe their uneasiness. “don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “everything’s going to be alright.” he reaches out, his hand wrapping around the cold, brass doorknob, and with a soft inhale, he pushes the door open.

the soft creak of the hinges seems unusually loud in the quiet night, a prelude to the quiet of the house and the unknown that awaits inside. gojo feels the boys’ grip on his shirt tighten slightly, their small bodies tensing with nerves.

he leads them quietly inside, their footsteps muted against the smooth wooden floor. the house is still, as if holding its breath, the only sound coming from the boys’ soft breathing and the slight creak of the old floorboards beneath their feet.

geto places a steady hand on gojo's shoulder, a silent agreement passing between them as he asks him to stay with the boys in the living room. gojo nods, a gentle understanding in his eyes as he watches geto head outside.

in the backyard, you sit quietly on the bench, your face softly illuminated by the last light of the day. the glow of the sunset dances across your features, casting a gentle warmth over you. at the sound of approaching footsteps, you slowly open your eyes, turning to see geto’s familiar figure walking toward you.

he gives you a soft smile, the kind that holds a thousand unspoken words, and sits beside you, close enough that you can feel his presence in every quiet beat between you.

“hey…” he whispers, his hand reaching out to brush a few strands of hair from your face. he lets his fingers linger for a moment, tracing gentle circles, a small comfort as he gathers his words.

“i need to talk to you about something,” he says, his tone tender, careful. you can see something in his eyes—an unspoken depth, a mixture of love and worry. he holds your gaze, waiting for you to take in the moment, as if he knows how much you’ve been through and wants to ease you into whatever’s coming next.

under geto’s touch, your heart stutters, the familiarity of his gesture settling something deep within your chest. you lean your head into his hand, relishing the small comfort it offers, but you can feel something in the air, a tension that he’s trying to hide behind his soft smile.

you listen as he speaks, your eyes never leaving his. you can tell he’s carefully choosing his words, threading a delicate needle between what he needs to say and your current fragile state.

geto’s voice is soft, almost tentative, as he begins, “love… there’s something i need to tell you.” his hand remains a reassuring presence on your shoulder, grounding you as he carefully chooses his words. “gojo and i… we brought home some kids.”

you blink, a flicker of surprise crossing your face, and he takes a breath before continuing. “during our mission, we found these two boys. they were… kept in a cage, treated like they were less than human, all because of their cursed energy.”

he watches your expression closely, as if bracing himself for your reaction, hoping he’s not overloading you. there’s a slight sadness in his eyes as he speaks, feeling the weight of what he’s just shared.

“we… we couldn’t just leave them,” he adds, voice laced with quiet conviction. “i talked to gojo, and we both agreed—they don’t have anyone else. they were being hurt for something they can’t control, something they were born with. we… we couldn’t just turn away from that.”

he pauses, waiting, his hand gently tracing soothing patterns on your shoulder, his gaze never leaving your face as he lets the gravity of his words settle between you.

before you can even form a response, geto’s words rush out, almost in a tumble, “just for a night or two, love,” he assures quickly, his tone soft but slightly anxious. “we’re… we’re not trying to make this more difficult for you. it’s just temporary, okay? just until we figure something else out.”

he gives you a small, hopeful smile, his hand still on your shoulder, trying to soothe any worries that might be surfacing in you. “we don’t want you to feel overwhelmed. i know things have been… heavy lately. we’ll handle everything, i promise. you don’t even have to see them if you’re not up for it.”

he’s watching you with a gentle, pleading look, his gaze searching your eyes, hoping that his words are enough to ease any anxiety. it’s clear he’s trying to make this as easy as possible, fully aware of all that you’ve been carrying.

his voice is gentle, yet it’s clear that he’s worried about how you’ll react. he gauges your expression as he speaks, watching for any sign of distress or discomfort, all while maintaining a soothing rhythm with his hand on your shoulder.

his words rush out, trying to provide reassurance while also pleading for your understanding. his anxiety is evident, the weight of the situation heavy in his voice. despite all of this, there’s a hint of hope in his eyes, a hope that you will understand, that you will accept the temporary situation for what it is.

“what about their parents?” your quiet question hangs in the air, and geto’s expression falters, a brief flicker of sadness crossing his face. he sighs, his gaze dropping to his hands before looking back up at you. “they… they don’t have any,” he says softly, his voice laced with a quiet grief. “the villagers… they saw them as a curse, something to be feared. they were going to leave them to fend for themselves.”

he pauses, taking a deep breath, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand. “we couldn’t just walk away,” he adds gently. “not after everything we saw… and knowing what could happen to them.”

he glances back toward the house, where gojo is no doubt keeping the boys company. “they’ve been through so much already. we thought… maybe we could give them a little safety, even if just for a short while.”

you nod, your lips forming a soft, understanding smile as you look up at geto. “okay,” you whisper, a gentle acceptance in your voice that makes the tension in his shoulders ease. he lets out a quiet sigh, his hand moving to rest over yours, squeezing it in silent gratitude.

geto’s expression softens as he looks at you. your quiet acceptance seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips. he reaches out, his hand covering yours, giving it a gentle squeeze of gratitude.

he continues to watch you for a moment, the weight of the situation still hanging in the air. but there’s a sense of peace between you now, a quiet understanding that you’ve both come to an agreement, albeit a difficult one.

“thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and gentle. “i know it’s a lot to ask, but…” he trails off, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles over your skin. he looks up at you again, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and concern. “i just want to make sure you’re okay.”

and it’s been two days since the boys came into your home, and your husbands can already see the change in you. they watch from the kitchen as you sit in the living room with the two boys, your laughter echoing softly through the house. after weeks of grieving the news that you couldn’t have children, they see a lightness returning to your face—a spark they’ve missed more than they could say.

geto leans against the counter, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watches you. “she’s really taken to them,” he murmurs, his voice low but warm.

gojo nods, eyes glued to the scene before him. you’re talking to the boys, both of them wearing oversized shirts from your wardrobe—the smallest clothes in the house, yet still comically large on their tiny frames. the boys look up at you, wide-eyed and smiling, completely enraptured by your presence.

“look at her,” gojo says softly, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. “i don’t think i’ve seen her smile like that in… a long time.”

geto’s gaze softens, the sight of you laughing and at ease bringing a sense of peace he didn’t realize he’d been longing for. “maybe,” he begins cautiously, glancing at gojo, “maybe they’re what she needs right now. maybe… this is good for her. for all of us.”

gojo looks over at him, a faint smile forming. “yeah,” he agrees, the hope in his voice barely contained. “maybe it is.”

you step into the kitchen with a soft, purposeful stride, moving toward the fridge without a word. your husbands watch you carefully, their attention fixed on your every movement. it’s become a familiar pattern over the past few days—when you’re about to say something, your movements always slow down, like you’re gathering your thoughts before speaking, even if you haven’t fully decided what to say.

the fridge door clicks open, the cool light inside casting a gentle glow on your face. you reach for the soy sauce bottle without thinking, your fingers brushing over its smooth surface. the motion is casual, almost instinctive, yet your husbands notice the slight pause in your movements as you close the fridge door behind you.

they exchange a brief glance, both noticing something subtle but significant in your expression—the way your lips are pursed just slightly, the furrow between your brows. it’s a look they’ve come to recognize all too well; a mix of hesitation and contemplation. your thoughts are racing, but you haven’t yet found the words to match the emotion brewing inside.

gojo is the first to break the silence, his voice soft but steady, knowing that his wife often speaks in ways more subtle than words. "what is it?" he asks gently, his gaze never leaving your face. his eyes are understanding, attuned to the nuances of your silence.

his question hangs in the air, his tone comforting but expectant, waiting for you to share whatever’s on your mind. gojo can tell that it’s something important, something he knows you want to express but haven’t quite found the courage to. he doesn’t push, but his eyes are full of quiet concern, urging you to open up, to let him in.

geto, standing beside gojo, also watches you closely, his expression softening as he notices the way you clutch the soy sauce bottle a little tighter than necessary, your fingers wrapped around it almost protectively. his gaze meets yours, waiting for a response, his usual calm demeanor barely masking the worry in his eyes.

the kitchen feels suddenly small, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

the silence in the kitchen is almost deafening, the only sound coming from the steady, comforting breaths of your husbands. you can feel their eyes on you, their gazes unwavering as they wait patiently for you to speak.

gojo’s question hangs in the air, his voice soft but firm, his eyes searching yours. geto stands beside him, his body taut with anticipation, his eyes fixed on your face, waiting for you to give them any hint of what’s going through your mind.

you look up at them, your gaze soft, almost tentative, as if afraid of what their reaction might be. you hesitate, your fingers still gripping the bottle of soy sauce, though it feels almost distant now, like you’re holding it just to keep yourself grounded. you take a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper, “have you figured out what you're going to do with the kids yet?”

the question hangs in the air, fragile and uncertain, your words quiet, as if testing the waters, as if you don’t want to bring up something that might undo the small comfort you’ve started to find in the chaos of it all.

your husbands exchange a brief glance before turning their attention back to you, the weight of the question settling between the three of you. the truth is, they haven’t figured it out, not yet. they haven’t really wanted to talk about it, not after seeing how much the boys have seemed to brighten your spirits. since they arrived, you’ve been lighter, more like yourself again—laughing more, talking more, playing with the kids. the last few days have felt like a breath of fresh air, a small but much-needed respite from the heavy grief that had been hanging over you.

but now, standing in the kitchen, the reality of the situation is unavoidable.

geto lets out a long, soft sigh, his eyes flickering to the floor for a moment as he rubs the back of his neck, thinking over his words carefully. he then looks up at you, his expression soft but weary. “no,” he says quietly, his voice almost regretful, “we haven’t figured it out yet.”

the silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable, the words unspoken between you three hanging like a shadow. geto’s gaze never leaves yours, as if he’s trying to read the very depths of your thoughts, hoping to understand what’s going on in your mind.

gojo steps closer, his usual confident demeanor softened as he looks at you with a gentle understanding. he places a hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding but also filled with reassurance. “we didn’t want to bring it up,” he admits, his tone low, “not when we see how happy the boys have made you. not when you’ve seemed… better.”

you can feel the hesitation in their words, the fear of adding more weight to your already heavy heart. they’ve seen how much the boys have meant to you, how much joy they’ve brought back into your life. it’s hard to bring up the reality of the situation when it feels like the kids are part of the healing you’ve started to experience.

the air between the three of you is filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet understanding passing between you.

in that moment, the glimmer of hope in your eyes is unmistakable. you gently place the soy sauce bottle down on the counter, the weight of the decision momentarily forgotten as you step closer to them. your hands tremble slightly as you reach for both of their hands, your fingers curling around theirs with a quiet desperation. your gaze locks onto theirs, and for a moment, it’s like the world narrows down to just the three of you.

“maybe… maybe the kids can stay here,” you say softly, your voice thick with hope, a plea more than a suggestion. “maybe we can make it work. they don’t have anyone else, and I—I don’t want to see them hurt. not when they’ve already been through so much.”

your voice falters, but the sincerity in your words remains. you search their faces, waiting for any sign of understanding, any indication that they might agree with you. the thought of the kids leaving, the idea of them going back into the world where they were mistreated, tears at your heart in ways you can’t quite explain.

the more you think about it, the more the idea of them staying with you feels like the right choice. your heart aches with the thought of giving them a home, a family, the safety they so desperately need.

you squeeze their hands, your voice more pleading now, “i know it’s a lot, but maybe... just maybe, we can make this work. they deserve a chance, don’t they?” your words are soft, but the conviction behind them is undeniable. “please..”

the look of hope in your eyes is like a knife through their hearts, a mix of desperation and longing that neither of them can deny. your words hang in the air, almost pleading, your voice shaky as you ask them to let the kids stay. your grip on their hands is strong, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as you silently urge them to understand. you’re terrified of losing the sense of comfort and fulfillment you’ve found in them, and the thought of sending them back into the world that has hurt them so much is unbearable.

geto can feel his heart breaking as he listens to your words, your pleading, geto’s hands cradle your face with gentle tenderness, his touch so soft, yet firm enough to ground you. his expression is a careful balance of guilt and love, his eyes soft as he searches yours, trying to understand every layer of your emotions. he sees the hope, the hesitation, and the underlying fear that lingers in your gaze—the same fear he carries in his heart.

“okay,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, a soft promise wrapped in the usual warmth and love he always offers. his words are gentle but resolute, as if this one word, this one decision, is all that matters in the world right now. “we’ll make it work. we’ll take care of them.”

the silence between them is thick as they share a lingering stare. geto’s gaze holds steady, a silent challenge in his eyes, but there’s no anger—just resolve. after a long beat, geto turns his attention back to you, his smile softening as he sees the light returning to your face. he reaches out, his hand slipping behind your neck to gently pull you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “okay, baby,” he murmurs, the words filled with tenderness.

and when he pulls back, his eyes meet gojo’s once more, the tension between them palpable, unspoken. his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. you rest your head on his chest, feeling the weight of the moment settle. gojo’s gaze is still full of disapproval, but there’s a deeper understanding in it now, a recognition of the weight of geto’s decision. he doesn’t agree, but in the end, he knows this is something that can’t be undone.

before you can respond, a heavy silence hangs between you, filled only by the weight of what’s about to come. from behind you, gojo’s voice slices through the air, sharp with disapproval. “suguru,” he warns, his eyes narrowed and cold, a storm brewing behind those intense blue orbs. the tension in the room thickens, like a wire pulled taut.

geto doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break his gaze. he’s made up his mind, and there’s no going back now. he knows what he’s risking, knows the weight of his choice, but he also knows this is what you need. “i’m doing this for her,” he says quietly, but his words ring with finality. “if giving them a chance, if keeping them here with us, makes her smile again, if it gives her some peace—then i’ll take the risk.”

there’s no anger in his voice, only the raw honesty of someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to see the woman he loves happy again—even if it means defying the man beside him.

gojo can feel his jaw clenching, the muscles taut with frustration as he watches you lean into geto’s chest, your head resting against his shoulder. a wave of protective anger runs through him, but beneath it, he can feel the beginnings of understanding—the slow but gradual realization that geto is serious, that this isn’t just a fleeting decision made in a moment of rashness. his eyes dart from you to geto, his expression a mixture of anger and regret.

gojo’s jaw clenches tighter, the muscles in his face twitching as a storm of emotions swirls within him—anger, frustration, and the gnawing ache of helplessness. he watches you, nestled in geto's arms, the gentle curve of your body fitting so perfectly against him. his protective instincts flare up, but there's something deeper, more reluctant, stirring within him too: the creeping recognition that geto’s decision is not a momentary whim. this is something serious, something geto believes in with all his heart.

gojo’s gaze flickers from you to geto, his eyes narrowing in conflict. he sees the quiet certainty in geto’s expression, the way he’s holding you, the way you’ve allowed yourself to lean into him, to trust him with your vulnerability. and there’s no denying it—geto’s commitment to this, to you, to this family, is real.

then his eyes move to the two boys, laughing and playing, oblivious to the tension in the room. gojo watches them for a moment, their innocent joy a stark contrast to the complicated emotions running through him. he feels a wave of guilt mixed with frustration—it’s not just about what’s best for you anymore. it’s about the kids too, the responsibility, the choices they’re all going to have to face.

with a defeated sigh, gojo pulls his gaze away from the children and looks at geto once again. his expression softens just slightly, a resigned acceptance beginning to seep in as he meets geto’s knowing smile. there’s no more fight left in him—not now. it’s clear that geto’s made up his mind, and somehow, gojo knows this isn’t a battle he can win.

“alright,” gojo mutters, his voice low but tinged with finality, before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for just a moment. it’s a silent promise, an acknowledgment of your pain, your grief, and the decision he’s now forced to accept. his heart aches as he straightens up, but there’s a flicker of something else there too—maybe it’s love, maybe it’s just the weight of the situation, but gojo knows this is the path they’ve chosen now.

he turns his attention back to geto, his eyes locking onto his husband’s with a mix of weary fondness and reluctant understanding. “don’t make me regret this,” he warns softly, giving the man a kiss on his forehead, his voice carrying an edge despite his acceptance.

geto’s expression softens, his eyes filled with an understanding that can only be gained through years of being together, through the trials and tribulations that they’ve faced together. he knows what gojo is going through, the inner struggle of weighing risks and the weight of responsibility. “i won’t,” he replies quietly, his words carrying a promise and a plea, a reassurance that he has thought this through, that he has considered every angle, every possible outcome.

geto’s eyes flick to you, still resting against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin. he rubs your back gently, his touch firm yet gentle, a comforting gesture filled with love and reassurance. he sighs quietly, his chin resting on the top of your head, watching you both with a mix of love and concern.

gojo can feel the mix of emotions swirling within him, a maelstrom of feelings, each one pulling him in a different direction. there’s anger, frustration, a deep-seated protectiveness, and a lingering sense of helplessness. but as he looks at geto, as he hears his husband’s gentle reassurance, he can also feel a strange sense of acceptance, a reluctant surrender.

sighing, he concedes, “i know you won’t.”

gojo expression softens, the tension draining from his shoulders as he lets out another soft sigh—a sigh of acceptance, a sigh of resignation to this new reality. “just... just make sure we don’t end up with more kids here than we can handle,” he murmurs with a hint of sarcasm as he give you another kiss on your head, a small attempt at humor to ease the tension.

geto chuckles quietly, a dry laugh that holds a hint of agreement. he looks down at you, his hands holding you gently, and smiles. “don't worry,” he replies, his tone a mix of certainty and sarcasm, “the last thing i want is to see you two get even more gray hairs from the stress of looking after a bunch of little brats.”

a soft laugh escapes you, amusement bubbling up as geto’s dry humor cuts through the tension. you lift your head from his chest, meeting his gaze, and there’s something warm and unspoken in his eyes—a mixture of love, understanding, and that hint of playful sarcasm that always lightens the heaviest moments.

with a grin, you rise on your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, feeling the way his expression softens in response. then you turn to gojo, who’s still watching the two of you with a mix of reluctant acceptance and warmth in his gaze. without missing a beat, you place a kiss on his cheek too, feeling his arm instinctively come around you, grounding you between them.

“thank you,” you murmur, your smile sincere, gratitude shining in your eyes as you look between the two of them. they’ve given up a lot for you, bent themselves around your happiness, and this choice feels like a gift—a promise that you won’t have to face the heartache alone.

“so,” you add, glancing back at the two boys in the living room as they continue to play, “should we go shopping?” your tone is light, but there’s a spark of excitement there too, the promise of a new beginning. “y’know, for the kids..” you added, fingertips touching gojo’s collar playfully.

gojo rolls his eyes at your words but his lips curve into a small smile, still wrapped around you. “shopping, huh?” he murmurs, his hands settling on your hips, his fingers tracing absent circles there. “you just like spending my money, don’t you?” he teases, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

geto’s arm wraps around you from the back, his chin resting on your shoulder. “don’t worry,” he adds, his voice tinged with an amused fondness, “i’m sure we’ll find plenty of things the kids need,” he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your skin, “and maybe a few things that we adults can…” his words trail off, the implication clear, his lips brushing your neck softly.

you chuckle, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you look up at gojo, giving him a small, playful pout. “the kids need clothes, hubby,” you say with a soft huff, feigning indignation, being mischievous with the hubby word. “and, y’know, probably everything else, and for us, ‘adult’ too.”

his fingers continue tracing those gentle circles on your hips, and you can feel the warmth of his hands anchoring you. he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused as he watches you try to hold your pout, a teasing gleam in his eyes.

gojo laughs quietly, his hands moving down to give your hips a gentle squeeze, his fingers warm and firm against your skin. “and just what kind of ‘adult’ things do you have in mind?” he asks, his voice a low murmur, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “because if my memory serves me right, we’ve got plenty of those at home already.”

geto laughs too from behind you, his chin still resting on your shoulder, his hands wrapped around your waist, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your neck again.

you hum softly, a knowing smile curving your lips as you let your gaze flick between the two men. but instead of answering, you slip out of their hold, leaving them standing there, anticipation sparking in their eyes. with an easy, confident stride, you head toward the living room, throwing a casual wave over your shoulder.

“yuuji, megumi,” you call, your voice light and inviting as the two little boys perk up, their eyes wide and curious as they look at you. “let’s go spend my husbands’ money.”

their faces light up with excitement, and they quickly scramble to their feet, hurrying toward you with delighted grins. behind you, you hear the surprised chuckles of gojo and geto from the kitchen.

the two men stand there for a moment, their gazes fixated on you and the two boys. gojo looks bewildered, a hint of amusement playing on his face, while geto has a mixture of shock and humor in his expression. “spending our money, huh?” gojo mutters, his eyes narrowing slightly in mock indignation.

geto laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “oh, this is going to cost us a fortune…” he muses, a smile tugging at his lips.

the boys rush over, their little bodies bumping into you, their hands reaching up to grab onto yours. you can feel their excitement as they giggle and chatter with each other, their voices high with anticipation.

“where are we going?” yuuji asks, his eyes wide with curiosity.

megumi, on the other hand, is quieter but just as curious. “shopping?” he asks, his small fingers gripping your hand firmly.

you hum with excitement, giving each boy’s hand a reassuring squeeze as you answer, “that’s right! we’re going to get you two everything you need.” yuuji’s eyes sparkle with glee, and even megumi lets a small smile slip as he squeezes your hand back, his quiet curiosity bringing a warmth to your heart.

turning around, you glance over your shoulder at your husbands, a radiant smile lighting up your face—a look they haven’t seen in too long. your eyes glint with happiness, a genuine joy that makes you look like yourself again, the shadows of recent weeks nowhere to be found.

for a moment, gojo and geto just stand there, captivated by the sight of you, your laughter mingling with the boys’ giggles. neither of them can do anything but follow, exchanging a quiet look that says more than words ever could. they know they’re in for an adventure today, but neither would trade it for anything.

as they fall into step behind you, a sense of peace settles over them. maybe this wasn’t the life they’d planned, and maybe things hadn’t gone as expected. but seeing you happy, seeing you whole again as you lead these two bright-eyed boys out the door—it’s worth every risk.

[illovehaileesteinfeld]

Cowgirl! Abby HC's

sfw and nsfw 💗

Modern au

SFW -

cowgirl! Abby, who loves when you lay on her chest, softly rubbing her fingers through your hair to soothe you.

cowgirl! Abby, who will sit and watch as you cook or bake, loving every little hum you let out, and who will make either lots of conversation or none.

cowgirl! Abby, who can only be comforted by you when she has nightmares, sobbing lightly into your chest as her experiences replay in her head, your soft whispers and lightly rubbing her skin being the only medicine she needs.

cowgirl! Abby, who loves innocent baths with you more than anything, when she takes her time washing your hair, gently massaging your body and holding you against her chest. She sometimes uses her own products on you, going absolutely insane when you smell like her.

cowgirl! Abby, who loves when you wear her hat. When she gets home from the ranch and sees you making dinner, and places it on your head, tilting your chin up as she kisses you and giggling like a little girl at the way you look at her.

cowgirl! Abby, who always has her hands somewhere on you. Physical touch is her favorite, feeling most comfortable with you in her arms

cowgirl! Abby, who loves aftercare almost more than she does anything sexual. She loves the way you look when you are calm, helping wash you off with a warm cloth and rubbing your body to ease your nerves

NSFW -

cowgirl! Abby, who loves when you ride her thigh, whispering soft words in your ear telling you just how good you're doing, her hands on your hips keeping you stable

cowgirl! Abby, who loves talking you through it. Muttering praises as you take her strap, calling you her good girl and absolutely living in every moan and whimper, telling you to let out more so she knows how good shes doing.

cowgirl! Abby, who after an annoying and long day at work might lose herself, diving into your pussy and making you finish over and over

cowgirl! Abby, who when she isn't talking you through it she is simply obsessing over you, watching the way your head tilts back as you wear her hat, the way you moan fueling her to go harder and faster.

cowgirl! Abby, who swears its nothing but as soon as you two are sweating and your muscles clench she cant help but say how much she wants to make you a mama, fill you up and make you hers. She might come home one day begging you to let her breed the shit out of you.

:3

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. will prob get a pt.2. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.” 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[kasagia]

Let me follow

Pairing: Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Fremen!soulmate! reader Summary: You were taught that there were monsters lurking in the darkness. That you should never talk to them—those who are just waiting to get at you in your defenceless state. But how do you avoid something that haunts your dreams every night? And what to do when a nightmare suddenly enters your reality? Warning: violence; blood; Feyd Rautha; death; soulmate au!; Taglist for Feyd: @avidreader73 Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Part II ~•♤♤♤•~

At first you thought it was just a nightmare.

One of those terrifyingly stupid ones that happens when you collapse into bed in exhaustion after a long day of training with your father.

You don't remember exactly how you ended up on Arrakis, but you know for sure that it wasn't your home planet. You may have been too young to remember everything from your past or to have one sure memory about living somewhere else than that one huge dune, but it didn't change that at night you are haunted by images that the human imagination couldn't create on its own.

However, you preferred not to mention it to your father. He kept the story of your little family close to him, not telling anyone from your Sietch any details. For him, the past was supposed to stay in the past. So you didn't push him. The life you had... was, for lack of a better word, enough. You didn't go hungry, you didn't lack water as much as other groups, and you lived a peaceful life far from the Atreides and Harkonnens who tried to take over Arrakis or the cunning plans of the Bene Gesserit. You lived in peace.

Until some time.

It all began with a nightmare…

You shiver as you feel the heat rising from the desert sands surrounding you. A warm wind blows into your eyes, mocking you as it hits grains of sand in your eyes. You curse, rubbing your hand over your eyes as you try to cover them so you can take in as much of your surroundings as the crazy sandstorm will allow you.

In the distance, you see something like a cave carved into a rocky dune. You head there in hopes of finding shelter there. You go slowly, step by step. Sand gets inside your shoes; you feel it everywhere. On the skin, in the hair, on the eyelashes, on the lips. You feel like you're about to choke on it.

The pungent scent of the spice fills your lungs, making you feel stronger and more alert as you wade through the folds of sand.

And suddenly, you hear it. Gentle, dull thumps on the ground. You freeze, realising what they could mean—or rather, what they could attract.

You run ahead even before you notice the sand moving due to the sandworm's arrival. You feel the ground shake as you desperately try to escape the bloodthirsty creature of Arrakis. But, as always, you're too slow. The sandworm emerges, engulfing you completely. Darkness envelopes you as you feel yourself falling.

Only this time you don't wake up with a racing heart or jump out of bed with rapid breathing, grabbing for the sword that rests safely by your bed.

No. This time, you land in a large, empty, black room.

You shudder, wrapping your hands around yourself and rubbing your arms as you feel the coldness of the room hit your skin. You frown as you walk over to the mirror, which seems to be the only thing in the room illuminated by the dim glow of the torchlight on the wall. You're wearing a long black nightgown; your nails are painted black, as are your lips. Your skin is a little paler than usual, but you're relieved to no longer have to deal with the sands of Arrakis. You are fed up with this planet every day, seeing it in your dreams only kills you more…

You don't recognise this place, but something about the darkness surrounding you makes you feel uneasy. Your heart quickens as you look for a way out of the empty, black chamber.

Your bare feet lead you into the darkness, all you can hear is your breathing, your heartbeat, and your quiet footsteps as you take quick steps, trying to have as little contact as possible between your skin and the cold, black marble underneath your feet.

You start to hear whispers. Quiet, feminine. You don't understand most of them; they all merge into a tangle of sounds, from which it is difficult to distinguish single words. You walk forward, only to once again stand in front of the same mirror as at the beginning of your journey.

You examine the black frame, looking for some hidden mechanism they might be hiding, convinced that there is some secret passage hidden behind the mirror. You run your fingertips lightly over the frame of the mirror and flinch when you accidentally prick your finger.

You hiss as a trickle of blood runs down your finger. You put it on your lips, but before you can lick the blood off it, you see in the mirror that someone's large, white hand is firmly gripping your wrist, stopping you from doing so.

You freeze when your eyes meet the icy blue irises of a man emerging from the shadows behind you. Your heart beats faster when you see his white, bald head and eyebrowless face. The sneer on his face allows you to see his pitch-black teeth for a moment, which makes you shiver.

Harkonnen.

You feel him pressing his chest against your back. He wraps his other hand around your waist like a snake, making you feel trapped, like you can't breathe anymore.

Somehow, you can't move your gaze from the mirror. And even when you're in Harkonnen's dangerous grasp, all you can do is look at him, or more precisely, into his eyes. You are hypnotised as if you have never seen one in your life, as you have never killed one. You can't shake the feeling that he's familiar to you. Your stupid heart calms down at his proximity, but your mind screams at you to run away from the enemy. And it's right. As always. But you're too stunned to listen to reason, too enchanted by the developments you're seeing in the mirror in front of you.

As he tightens his grip on your wrist, you break out of whatever strange spell you're under, letting your survival instincts take over. You try to fight him, to break free from his grip, but he doesn't seem to care that you are struggling against him. He directs your hand with your bleeding finger to your neck, leaving a trail of blood from your mouth to your neck, collarbone, and shoulder.

You shiver as he finishes, and, keeping his gaze on you in the mirror, he guides your hand to his mouth. The inside of his mouth is warm, his tongue wraps around your finger, drawing in every drop of blood that still escapes from the wound that is healing. He sucks up the last of your blood, licking his lips as he releases your finger.

"Sweet." His soft purring in your ear gives you goosebumps.

He leans down and places a wet kiss on your shoulder. His tongue caresses your skin as he licks up the blood he placed there earlier. You stare at the mirror, frozen, as his pale, almost white skin touches yours as he follows a trail of blood, leaving small bites and a black streak in his wake. You're not sure if it was his saliva that was black or if it was from the paint they probably used on their teeth and the inside of their mouths (or at least you hoped they weren't naturally black).

You fight against him as he peppers your neck with kisses, leaving a few hickeys there. But he's too strong, and with your movements, you rub against him, not causing him any serious pain, which somehow makes him even more aroused. He is pressing the evidence of his... excitement uncomfortably against your ass.

Suddenly, his hand is wrapped tightly around your neck as he turn you to face him and pins you to the mirror. Looking at him through the mirror was completely different from looking at him straight in the eyes. It all felt… more real, however real a figment of your horrible imagination might feel.

He leans down, making you very aware that he had one spot left where your blood was still. Your lips. You try to move away from him, but the more you press yourself against the mirror, the more his body presses against you.

"Oh, she's a little warrior... that makes all of it even sweeter." He chuckles darkly, playing with a strand of your hair. You shiver, feeling his hard length press against your clothed core.

The whispers around you turn into screams and chants as he leans down to kiss the last drop of blood from your lips. You turn your head, causing his pale lips to land on your cheek. You feel his breath against your skin as he chuckles again. He takes the opportunity to lick a path from your cheekbone to your temple before catching your jaw in a tight grip.

"You won't get far, little mouse. Accept your fate." He says, leaning in again, his nose brushing against yours, you feel the cold radiating from him as he digs his fingers hard into your skin as he lazily and leisurely brings his lips to yours...

Feyd opens his eyes as the metal tray clatters against the black marble floor of his chamber.

He automatically reaches for the dagger hidden under his pillow and throws it at one of his concubines, who accidentally dropped the tray down. The other two freeze, staring at their dead sister. The dead body falls to the floor with a thud. The blood quickly begins to pool around the body of the dead harpy.

Feyd smiles, seeing both fear and hunger in their eyes when they see the opportunity to eat good meat. Pathetic. He had warned them not to wake him up today.

"Clean up and get out." He growls at them, furious. He carefully watches as they carry out the body (presumably to feast on it as the remnants of humanity within them lose to starvation) and clean the floor before obediently leaving his chambers.

Furious, he falls on the bed. He covers his eyes with his hand in a feeble attempt to return to his dream and taste your lips. He wonders if maybe it wasn't for the better... after all, he should have tasted the real thing instead of toying with you in dreamland, where his options were... quite limited.

He sighs, taking from the bedside table an empty vial of magical liquid that an old Bene Gesserit witch had given him. To connect with his soulmate in a dream.

As a little boy, he was prophesied that he would only become emperor if his soulmate stood by his side. Of course, his uncle and brother made it difficult for him to find you, believing it to be the mad ravings of an old witch. They said it wasn't the time, that he should train to be a warrior and not play some pathetic character into a romance history, that Giedi Prime needed him more, and that he shouldn't believe the old witches' prophecies and the stupid initials on his wrist. His uncle believes that he will bring him to the highest throne himself. That he doesn't need any whore whose initials match those on Feyd's wrist. That his soulmate will only weaken him.

Soulmates were rare on his 'home planet'. The baron didn't have his. His brother was too cowardly and inept to even think about looking for his own. People here rarely loved anyone other than themselves. Feyd was perfectly fine with it. Until visions began to haunt him in the night. About his soulmate. The hazy future he might have had began to plague him more and more often as he approached his age of maturity.

Before his father died and Feyd killed his mother, he remembers glimpses of good times. Where he was loved. Where he was the apple of his parents' eyes, who were each other's soulmates and loved each other more than life itself. So much so that after his father's death, his mother stopped living. She just existed, not paying attention to anything or anyone, including her own son. Her own blood… By killing her, Feyd ended her suffering and his own at the same time. Did he regret it? Not at all. Not after the training he received at the hands of the Baron.

He told himself that he only wanted to find you because he has promised a great future with you as his wife. That he has to have you if he wants to get to the top. But the passage of time only intensified his sense of loneliness. Longing for someone who is meant for him and who is supposed to be his and only his. Entirely. Willingly. Always by his side. He runs his fingertip thoughtfully over the initials tattooed on his wrist—a daily reminder of the one thing he wants most and which is out of his reach.

Feyd got used to always getting what he wanted. The ruthlessness and cruelty he learned under his uncle's supervision ensured that his every whim would be fulfilled. Either by himself or as a result of his service to the baron when he received gifts from him. But lately, he hasn't been happy with anything. He passively accepted the baron's praise, new concubines, blades, and other gifts. It no longer mattered to him. His ambitions began to grow. And after they had successfully disposed of House Atreides, Feyd realised the possibilities before him. Imperial throne. The promised golden future with his soulmate was within his reach. He just needed to find you and catch you in his iron grip.

You occupied his days, nights, and thoughts when he was fighting in the arena and at the extremely boring council meetings. And it's not like Feyd fell in love. He was incapable of love. Not after everything he's been through. But there was something irresistibly tempting about the idea of having someone who was completely HIS.

He considered it more of an obsession, a desire for something he had never had, something no one had shown him—care, affection, and devotion. And in his visions... in his visions he saw you giving him all these things. So he decided to make it a reality. And when he gets tired of you... he will always have the title of emperor, which you are destined to provide for him. He didn't know exactly how, and maybe he had previously dismissed the Bene Gesserit's prophecies and plots as a bunch of nonsense, but this one seemed... quite good to fulfil and to believe in.

"You asked for me, my na-baron." The artist he commissioned to draw your portrait stands in his doorway, shaking like jelly. He probably heard about how he killed one of his concubines this morning. Feyd had to start getting rid of them. After all, once he has you, he won't need them anymore.

"What took you so long?" He growls at him irritably as he gets out of bed and puts on a black silk robe. Maybe he would have laughed at the terrified man if his first encounter with you in dreams hadn't been so brutally interrupted. He had to find that old hag to give him more of that liquid...

"I arrived as quickly as I could, my lord na-baron. Please let me show you what I managed to create."

Feyd nods at him impatiently, letting him spread out his sketches on the desk. Feyd snaps his fingers at the maid waiting at the door. She pours him a glass of water, which he takes as he lazily saunters along the desk, assessing the sketches the man was supposed to create based on Feyd's description.

"The nose is too small. The jaw is too sharp. Is it supposed to be a woman? Burn it before I burn you. Breasts and hips are too big. Do you think my soulmate has a bulge? It looks like a caricature made by a child." He grades the drawings one by one, going through the dozens of sketches the artist has made over the past three days.

Just as Feyd is about to pick up the dagger from the chest of drawers nearby to kill an incompetent artist, he notices one particular portrait that almost perfectly captures you and your beauty. He takes it between two fingers and looks at it carefully.

"Hmm..." he hums, drinking water. He hands this drawing to the artist. "My congratulations, you managed to keep your head and prove your usefulness. Fix it. Eyes a little smaller, cheeky twinkle. I want a version of this in different outfits. Nobility, beggar, knight, whatever comes to your mind, except a whore, otherwise you'll end up like one. How long will it take you?"

"I…um…a week, my lord?" He almost rolls his eyes and loses his patience with him. If he had a dagger close at hand, he would definitely have plunged it into the man's throat by now.

"You only need one hand to draw. So don't test your lucky, or I will make sure you only have that one. I want to have portaits which fully reflects the beauty of my na-baroness by the end of the week - before I leave to Arrakis. Understood?" He asks, appreciating that the artist has the decency to at least show real fear.

"Yes, my na-baron."

"So don't waste my air."

The relieved artist quickly leaves the room before he changes his mind. Feyd nods to the maid, who follows the man and closes the door behind her. Feyd looks at the portraits on the desk again.

No higher families had a daughter who looked like you. So he had to expand the scope of his search and give orders to his soldiers to... gently capture you (or women like you) and bring them to him. After seeing you clearly in a dream, and not as the result of some distant vision of the future that wasn't that clear, he knew exactly what face he was looking for. He also had initials.

He was thinking about you as his fingertips traced the two precious letters on his wrist. He will find you. He'll look into any hole to do it. You cannot hide from him for long.

You jump up from your bed, your heart beating rapidly as you breathe heavily after waking up from another nightmare.

This went on for a week. You'd be transported from your usual nightmare about Arrakis and put into a black room with a Harkonnen who... was doing completely different things to you than they normally did.

You blush, wiping your sweaty forehead as you remember all the... almost lewd dreams you've had. You curse your imagination for coming up with such a terrible and embarrassing scenario. You began to fear that you were developing some sick desires towards a nation that brutally persecuted your brothers and sisters, disturbed your peace, and murdered more than one friend you had managed to make here.

You should be dreaming of killing them, not of being… groped and defiled by one of them. Especially on the day when you were supposed to rescue your people imprisoned by the Harkonnens.

"Karamakala." Your friend enters your tent. "Move your ass; they're calling for sandworm."

You roll your eyes when she calls you by your tribal name. Due to your… unique skills, the Naib of your sietch bestowed it on you. The miracle of the desert.

Your father wasn't happy about that. That name attracted attention he never wanted. He preferred it when you stayed in the shadows, away from the people you travelled with in the desert. The fact that he even allowed you to go on a rescue mission with them and others was a miracle. He made his decision only through the persuasion of your Naib, who said that only if you were coming with them would they have a chance to recover the prisoners and safely go back to your camp.

You and your friend left the tent fully prepared for the mission, joining the group while waiting for the sandworm to appear. You closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to feel the monster breaking through the sand. What you felt most strongly was the heartbeat of your companions, but when you focused a little more, you could feel a small heartbeat in the distance, buried several metres beneath the sands of Arrakis. You twist your fingers, controlling the flow of blood from the sandworm's arteries, trying to direct it more towards where you were waiting with your hooks to dig into its body.

"Save your strength for the Harkonnens." Your father's voice booms from behind your shoulder. You sigh and let your hand fall freely, stopping playing with the animal's blood. "I want you close to me; in my sight, no stupid heroic actions, okay? We're in and out as fast as all hell breaks loose, or we get our people back."

"It's just a small base. Even without being outnumbered, we would be able to kill them all."

"Not now. They changed power. Now the baron's youngest nephew gives the orders. A psychopathic, bloodthirsty madman. But he's a good strategist; you have to give him that. He took back control of parts of Arrakis that Muad'Dib had managed to retake, so Harkonnens now again have the lands they once took. And they are not going to stop until the Arrakis is completely theirs. If they go further south we will have to leave this planet." He speaks quietly, carefully observing the people around you. You frown, staring at him in surprise.

"But you said that here was the safest for us to live. Are we supposed to run away like cowards?" You ask indignantly.

He always presented you with a fait accompli, with a decision that he made for you. Which was supposed to be best for you and your safety. But you were tired of constantly running and hiding. You wanted to take your life into your own hands. Contribute to something rather than passively watching the decline of the people you grew up with.

"It is better to be a coward than to be a dead hero. Since you were born, all I have done is protect you. So don't doubt me, daughter. I know what I'm doing." Your father scolds you, readying your hooks as you see sand moving in the distance due to the sandworm's movements.

"It would be much easier if you told me what you are protecting me from, father." You scoff at him, getting even more angry when a sudden gust of wind sends sand flying across your face, stopping in your hair. Your father chuckles, at which you glare madly at him.

"From a fate that is not seeming to be very kind for you."

"Well sometimes we have to accept it." You position yourself next to him, preparing to attach yourself to the body of the sandworm that would take you to the small Harkonnen's military base.

"As long as I'm breathing, I won't let this happen. We create our fate. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." He says that before you both find yourself on the animal's back. You hide your face behind scarves and safety glasses, preparing for the long road.

Your thoughts involuntarily wander to the Harkonnen you have been dreaming about lately. Maybe a sleep potion could help you get rid of those strange, erotic dreams where one of these monsters is trying to seduce you. You had to test it later.

Feyd takes a swing, driving his spiked whip into the body of a Fremen his men recently captured. He rarely deals with prisoners himself, but lately, when he drinks a Bene Gesserit potion every night just to meet you in his dreams, he feels... frustrated. And he knew of no better way than to take it out on his enemies.

He swings his whip. The man's moans come to him as he recalls his last encounter with you, from which he woke up a few hours ago.

He watches you from the darkness of the chamber. You look gorgeous wearing a black silk nightgown that hugs your body to the delight of his eyes. He notices the muscles you had to develop during combat or training. You must have been much more than just a delicate, pretty petal.

Which made him extremely happy. He liked a good fight. He enjoyed winning them even more.

He approaches you silently, as always, and wraps his arms around your waist. He hums contentedly against your ear, fingertips roaming your body as he makes sure you can't break away from his grip and you're pressed tightly against him.

"You should be used to me being close to you by now, my little warrior." He whispers in your ear, stopping you from fighting him in any way. He doesn't like the way you're so tense in his arms, but he's more than ready to coerce you, gently or not, into cooperating with him.

"Get your hands off me, Harkonen dog!" You growl, elbowing him between the ribs. Feyd grabs your wrists and twists them behind your back, making sure you can't move them. You gasp as he pushes you against the wall, pressing his growing length against your ass.

"Relax, I won't hurt you… yet. Keep acting like that, and I'll tie you up so you won't be able to struggle anymore." He whispers in his husky voice into your ear. He nuzzles your temple, trailing it to your neck. You hold your breath as you feel his teeth graze against your tender skin.

You know that in a moment he will sink his teeth into your body, that he will start marking you with tiny bites and hickeys. This time, however, you want to win the fight with him. You are fully ready to use against him everything you learned on Arrakis.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, you reach for the blade at his side and push him away from you. You stick the blade out at him, making sure to make a cut on his shoulder before bringing the steel to his pale throat.

He chuckles darkly, watching you carefully as his fingers reach out to his thick black blood flowing from his wound. He licks the blood from his fingers, making sure your eyes follow the way his pink tongue wraps around his fingers, sucking the black liquid from them.

"Clever little thing… believe me, you don't want to know my wrath. Put it down. It's not a toy... well, not for you." He takes a step towards you. Before he manages to get any closer to you, you press the blade against his skin, causing a small cut along his jawline and at his Adam's apple.

Fascinated by the way the black blood flows gently down his throat, you don't notice as he knocks the dagger from your hand. He throws it behind him, causing it to fall to the floor with a thud as he reaches for you.

You growl, kicking, trying to break free from his grip as he carries you across the room. Your efforts intensify when you feel the smooth, velvety material of the sheets beneath you.

He hovers above you, one of his hands grabbing your wrists and pinning them to the mattress above your head. His hard length rubs against your core through the fabric of your clothes. You sigh, trying to push him away or bite him when he leans down to tease the skin of your neck again.

"You smell so beautiful, so different. My little soulmate. So fierce. So brave. My little warrior. I could teach you so many things… if only you would stop hiding from me." You shiver as his fingers trail under your black nightgown. He cups his hand around your breast and plays with your nipple, pinching and nibbling it, wanting to see the little pebbled mounds that lift the black fabric of your clothes. He rolls up the fabric of your nightgown and rubs himself against your bare core, groaning at the way you soak his pants with your unwanted arousal. He throws his shirt aside and grabs your throat in a tight grip, forcing you to look into his eyes whether you want to or not. "But you know what? No matter how far or fast you run, no matter how deep you hide, I will find you. I will find you in every corner of the world. I will follow you. Follow after every trace of you, whether you let me or not, and I WILL find you. I will catch you in my arms, I will dig my claws into you, and I will not let you go. Enjoy your freedom during the day, little warrior, while you still can. But in the darkness of the night, you are utterly mine."

You growl in anger, making one last attempt to fight him off. You lean towards him and bite down roughly on his neck. He groans, digging his fingers and nails into your hips, making you gasp as you feel him leave crescent-shaped marks on your skin.

You take advantage of his moment of inattention and dig your nails into his chest, dragging them across his collarbones and down to his abdominal muscles. You push him away from you, kicking him out of bed, and just as Feyd's head lands on the floor, he wakes up from his dream.

"Na-Baron. We… The Fremen attacked the south gate." One of his soldiers hesitantly approaches him. Feyd glances at him briefly, selecting his dagger from the body of a prisoner, but still watches the soldier out of the corner of his eye.

"What do you mean they attacked us?"

"These rats want to retrieve the transport of prisoners that arrived last week, my lord." The man replies, horrified by the calmness with which Feyd addresses him.

Everyone knew perfectly well that the young Na-Baron could compliment your fighting skills one moment and then slit your throat like nothing happened. He was dangerous in any state of humour. This was common knowledge and opinion that Feyd had been working on for a long time.

He didn't need a reason to do something.

"So gather two troops. Let's have some fun with them. It's not every day that they come willingly and eagerly to their slaughter." Feyd responds with a sneer, readying his blades. It was exactly what he needed—to take his frustration out on those rats who thought they could outsmart him and his men.

You run through the corridors of the Harkonnen's base from the soldiers with your friend by your side. They held your people for several days without water or food; most of them couldn't move on their own, so as soon as you saw a face you had known since childhood among the prisoners, you threw the man's arm over yours and dragged him to the place where the entire squad was supposed to gather.

You hold your breath and hide in one of the side corridors. You hold him close to you and breathe softly, trying not to attract anyone's attention. You manage to reach your group of men safely, but that's where your luck ends.

Within moments, a group of Harkonnens surrounds you. You must disperse. Each of you is on your own after you manage to attach your unconscious friends to a sandworm's body so they can survive the trip to your sietch.

You manage to avoid most of the Harkonnen soldiers, and you kill those who get in your way without blinking an eye. You're halfway to the second emergency exit you and your men had marked out before raiding the base when you bump into someone as you run to another corridor.

You gasp, trying to regain your balance. You freeze when you recognise the black Harkonnen's armour on the arms, which keeps you from falling to the floor. You look up and freeze, seeing the same blue irises that haunt you in your nightmares.

"Well, well... what do we have here?" You're shaking. His voice in real life is as hoarse, deep, and dark as in your nightmares. He is exactly as you dreamed of him. You hate the way your body somehow recognises him and automatically relaxes in his arms—the way his scent and closeness have become familiar to you.

You struggle in his arms and manage to push him away from you. You run as fast as you can, trying to lose him among the corridors. You hear his raspy laugh behind you before his quick footsteps begin to echo down the empty halls as he follows after you.

You scream as he lunges at you and pins you to the stone floor. You struggle under him, kicking and trying to scratch him, but he grabs your wrists in his strong grip.

"Take it easy, little warrior. We knew from the beginning how it would end. Do not move. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you try to escape." You sigh, closing your eyes. You freeze, focusing on your surroundings, your mind racing as you wonder how to get out of his arms and this place. You shiver when you feel his nose brush against yours. "Exactly like this. Beautifully. That's my pretty girl. Who would have thought you would be one of those rats?"

"Be careful with your words." You growl, enduring the intense gaze of his blue eyes.

He laughs hoarsely and leans in. His full lips brush against yours in a kiss. First, he takes his time checking how far he can go, but when he sees that you are not trying to bite him, push him away, or run away, he deepens the kiss. His hand tangles in your hair, and the other frees your wrists to trace you through your Fremen attire.

For a moment, you allow yourself to lose yourself in the feeling of his lips, the way he caresses your lips so gently and with such passion, and the way he practically wants to devour you just because he actually can—that this is not one of your dreams but reality. A reality that Feyd was yearning for so long—too long—to even admit.

Eventually, however, you manage to break free from his strange charm. You run your hands down his chest to his hips. He moans into your mouth, entwining his tongue with yours. You reach for his dagger and stab him in the back without blinking an eye. You push him off of you, and, ignoring his growl, you get up and continue running away.

Your heart is beating like crazy, and your muscles are starting to ache from exerting yourself for so long, but you continue running until you can no longer hear any footsteps behind you. You sigh in relief as you reach a group of other Fremen. You are getting ready to evacuate; you are about to summon a sandworm when another group of Harkonnens attacks you again.

You look around in panic, searching for your father in the crowd, but you can't find him anywhere. Your heart speeds up, and adrenaline rushes through you, speeding up your reactions to the blows. You fight like crazy, not stopping even for a moment. However, you notice that slowly, the Harkonnens are starting to win. You signal to your companions and retreat into the desert. You release a small bomb whose main purpose is to raise the sand and create a cover for you.

The sands of Arrakis swirl around you. You run forward, trying to get as far away from the base as possible. As far away from HIM as possible.

Your lungs hurt from the sand you inhale. You want to cough and cry from the sand getting into your eyes, but you don't stop running. You gasp as the sand beneath your feet suddenly begins to move strangely. Strangely familiar. You curse under your breath, realising that the sandworm is about to appear in a second.

And suddenly, you feel like being back in your nightmare. You see the mouth of a sandworm again. You stare at his teeth again, a black abyss that is soon going to swallow you completely. You stand there frozen, completely forgetting about all your training, as if you had accepted a long time ago that this is how you were going to die.

And everything happens exactly as in your nightmare. Only this time, as you surrender to the darkness around you, you hear the roar of the ship's engine and the harsh language of the Harkonnens when you pass out.

You feel your head pounding. Huge pain, as if thousands of tiny needles were being stuck into your temples. You open your eyes, squinting as you adjust to the dimness around you. Judging by the immense pain you felt, you definitely weren't dead. Or you did, and you were in hell now; you weren't sure yet. You look around you, noticing a fire in the middle of the small cave you were in. You lean back on your elbows and freeze when you see Harkonnen's bald, pale head.

You get up silently and move to where your gun was, looking carefully at the man kneeling by the radio who was trying to transmit a signal. With a knife in your hand, you begin to examine your surroundings more closely. You notice that the entrance to the cave has been blocked by a ship. If you wanted to escape, you had to get past or kill Harkonnen and guide the ship out of this place.

"If I were you, I wouldn't do that, little warrior." A shiver runs through you as you hear the familiar, raspy voice that has tormented you in your dreams many times. You tighten your grip on the blade's handle and point the tip of it at him, maintaining your fighting stance. "You have a torn ankle ligament, a minor concussion, and you're dehydrated. Even with your knowledge of the desert, you won't survive there when a sandstorm rages. Here." He turns to you for a moment and throws the water bottle at you. You grab it with one hand, still eyeing him warily.

He speaks something in his language; you only manage to recognise a few words, such as Na-Baron, Dune, reinforcements, ship, and your location data. When he finishes, he stands up, turns to you, and furrows his hairless eyebrows, watching you closely.

"Drink. You'll feel better." He says this and sits down by the fire as if nothing had happened. You blink a few times, staring at him in shock as you try to understand why he acts so strangely... calm. You step back and hiss as your foot goes out of alignment, straining the torn muscle. "I told you so."

"Where are we?" You ask, wincing at the sound of your hoarse voice. He stares pointedly at the bottle of water in your hands, but you'd rather die than try anything he gave you.

He sighs, annoyed, and stands up. You raise your knife, pointing it at him as he starts to walk towards you. However, he doesn't stop, only when the tip of the blade pierces gently into his chest. He reaches for the water bottle and unscrews it. He takes a small sip and licks his lips, giving you a glimpse of his black teeth.

"Not far from our base. Your people summoned a sandworm. If I hadn't flown the ship to you and taken you away, it would have swallowed you. A moment later, a sandstorm came, and I had to take us to a safe place. We'll wait it out here, and you'll come back with me to the main stronghold. So be a good girl and listen to me while I feel like going easy on you. I guess you can do this for me for saving you, right, my desert rose?"

"You do one decent thing and expect me to submit to you? I didn't ask you to save me, and besides, I think in the grand scheme of things, one saved life doesn't do anything to make up for the many others that you took." You reply furiously and take the water bottle from him. You take a few sips, appreciating the way it soothes the dryness of your chapped lips and throat.

"Said the woman who killed 10 of my men with a small knife." He replies, amused. His eyes linger on your mouth for a moment as you lick your lips, spreading the holy water across them. Feyd has a strong desire to lean in and kiss you; maybe even let you stick your little knife into him...

"It's not my fault they are so incompetent." You say, pushing past him and walking towards the fire. The night was starting to fall, and it was starting to get colder in the cave. You sit next to the fire, wrapping your arms around yourself and staring into the flames as you try to ignore HIS presence.

"Things I could do to you…" He mumbles to himself as you brush your arm against his. Your scent reaches his nostrils, and Feyd closes his eyes, inhaling it like a drug. He imagines things he wanted to do to you, things that would make him feel more closely that sweet scent coming from you.

Goosebumps appear on your skin as he takes a few steps closer to you and stands behind you. You try to ignore him, but the burning sensation where his initials are carved into your wrist keeps you from forgetting who the Harkonnen you are trapped with is. You tense as he drops to his knees next to you. He places his hand on your ankle, and you almost make a move to kick him when you feel his low growl in your ear.

"Relax. I just want to check your leg. You almost lost it in the mouth of a sandworm." With one hand, he pushes you to lean against his chest. You reluctantly let him, becoming more and more aware of the burning sensation in your leg.

He takes off your shoe and places it in your hands. He takes his time, slowly peeling off the layers of fabric. You are surprised to see that you already have a dressing—a dressing that is soaked in your blood. You shiver, feeling his fingertips on your skin as he unwraps the bandage. You hiss as he tears the fabric away from your slick skin, fully showing you your wound. A few centimetres deeper, and you wouldn't be able to move it.

"I need to disinfect this again. When we get back to base, we'll give you the anti-venom serum." He hums, leaving you for a moment. He walks over to the ship and pulls out a first-aid kit. You wince as you move so you can rest your back against the cave wall.

"I'm not coming back with you anywhere." You growl, still gripping your knife tightly, though in your current state, you realise you're not that much of a threat to him. He snorts at your response, kneeling down next to you. You bite your lip as he disinfects your wound and begins to bandage it.

"Hush, little warrior. You're talking nonsense because of the effects of the venom." His condescending tone makes your blood boil. You tilt your leg to make it harder for him to bandage you, and he just gives you a furious look before returning to his task without a word. You frown, staring at him. To be honest, you would rather expect him to stab you, cut you into pieces, and eat you than voluntarily take care of you and your health.

"Why are you doing this?" He stops what he's doing and looks at you like you're an idiot, like you asked the most absurd question possible.

He reaches for your hand. You tense up, ready to elbow him in the teeth, but you stop when you see him gently roll up the fabric of your linen shirt and wrap his hand around your wrist. You shiver as his thumb strokes the initials on your wrist.

"Can't you guess, a snarky little thing?" You remove your hand from his grip and hug your knees to your chest, curling into a ball and watching him warily.

"You do not know me. You kill people like me without blinking an eye."

"I do." He says, staring at you intensely, as if that fact had no significance and shouldn't affect your opinion of him. "And you kill people like me. I guess we can call it even."

"I do it only because you are invading our land and people! You are desecrating our holy places; you have no respect for our culture; you treat us worse than... don't look at me like that." You whisper the last sentence, moving closer to the wall as he leans into you. You swallow, shifting your gaze from his blue irises to his bloody hands. Large, rough, bloody hands. Bloody hands that could touch you so well in your dreams.

"Like what?" He asks hoarsely, reaching his hand to cup your cheek. You shiver as he spreads your burgundy blood there. You close your eyes and breathe shakily, which is your biggest mistake. He takes advantage of your distraction and leans down to lick the blood from your cheek.

He moves away from you. His eyes are locked on you as he wraps his lips around the finger of his other hand. You lick your lips involuntarily, watching him lick your blood from his fingers. You shake your head and clear your throat, moving away from him as far as you can, feeling one of the rocks dig into your back.

"Like that." You mutter, shifting your gaze to the flames in the fire.

"Why?"

"You know why. We… we are from two completely different worlds."

"Are we?" He asks, moving closer to you. You shiver as his arms wrap around you, and he rests his chin on your shoulder. His warm breath against your ear makes you feel warmer—something you don't want to admit to yourself and something he noticed the moment your shoulders shuddered slightly at the coldness emitting from the cave walls. You still hold the knife stubbornly in your hand, as if it would somehow protect you from Harkonnen.

You sit there in silence. You let him cuddle you, enjoying a little of the warmth he gives you. You sigh, trying to ignore how good you felt in his arms and how his scent enveloped you nicely, making your eyes close on their own. However, you try to remain vigilant, still unable to trust him in any way.

You sigh as he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to his chest. He lies down on the blanket he spread for you earlier and covers you with the other one, making sure that you are comfortable and warm. You don't try to argue with him or get out of his arms. You know there's no point in fighting him. It's starting to get colder, and he's becoming a better source of heat with each minute you are in his arms.

You know that if anyone in your sietch saw you right now, cuddled up to the Harkonnen, sharing your body heat with him, you would be banished, maybe even sentenced to death for associating with the enemy.

You had very conflicted feelings about him. Your mind was screaming at you, telling you to come to your senses and plunge your knife into Harkonnen's heart while you had the chance, but your heart, a strange instinct, was drawing you to him, encouraging you to bury your face in the crook of his neck and listen to his soft breathing.

Your heart speeds up slightly as he reaches out to intertwine his hand with yours, the one that still holds the knife. He pulls you closer to him, his arms trapping you in an iron-tight embrace. His lips brush against your earlobe as he whispers to you, his husky tone of voice giving you goosebumps.

"Are you afraid of me, my little warrior?"

You swallow and close your eyes, grateful that he can't see your face, which is blushing involuntarily. You wonder what's wrong with you to react to him like this and why the mark of your soulmate, or rather, his initials on your wrist, burns you hotter than the sun of Arrakis has ever done.

"Of course I am. You're a Harkonnen. You are our greatest enemy. I hate you just as much as I fear you."

"And as much as you desire me?" A gasp escapes your lips as his other hand is suddenly under your clothes. You can't help but moan as his fingertips tease your bundle of nerves, gradually moving to the spot where your juices ungodly and humiliatingly leak out of you. Your water. "You think I can't smell you? That I don't see the way you tremble every time I touch you? The way warmth radiates from you every time I'm this close? I may not have known you here while awake, but I know you from our dreams. I recognise your every little reaction to me, to my touch, to my kisses. And what's more, my little warrior, you are breaking more than one law of your people. You give me your water in such a sinfully delicious way, and you don't even know my name."

You squirm in his arms, but he holds you tightly with his other hand, so all you do is rub against his hand in your feeble attempt to escape. You tighten your grip on the knife, but that's all you can do as he explores areas of you no one has ever had access to before. You're helpless, too dizzy from the sudden, intense pleasure he also gave you in your dreams. You never thought you could feel such... sensations while awake. Pleasant experiences.

"Maybe I should give you something you can moan and scream, hmm? Tell me, sweetheart, do you want to know whose fingers are touching you? Who do you give your precious water to? Who showed you things in our dreams that you would be ashamed to mention to your people?"

It's embarrassing. The way he made you melt under his touch. All you could do was moan and grind against his hand as he brought you immense pleasure. You move your hand with the knife and press the blade against his neck at the back of his head. You trace patterns on the skin of his bald head with your finger, resting your head on his shoulder as a wave of an unfamiliar feeling washes over you, cutting off all your senses. All you can feel is your core and his fingers as they continue to push into your depths, intensifying your indescribable pleasure.

"Feyd." He whispers into your ear, biting the lobe. You repeat his name stupidly, moaning and screaming it as he teases your over-aroused core, making your water flow out of you uncontrollably a second time, wetting your pants and his hand.

When he finally removes his hand from your pants, you shiver uncontrollably, curled up on his chest. You breathe quickly, staring at the cave's stone ceiling, waiting for your brain to finally reconnect with your body. You gasp as he pushes his fingers through your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself.

"Don't waste your water. Sweet, right, little warrior? When we get home, I'll spend a week between those beautiful legs. You'll wrap them tight around me, won't you? Will you dig your heels and claws into me, pressing my face against this wonderful source of water in this damn desert?" The way he talks to you, so blatant and disgusting, should make you stab a knife into his throat without a moment's hesitation. Instead, you let the blade fall next to his head as you tried to recover from what you just experienced. You're warm. Hot. And you want more. You need more.

He takes your hand and guides it to the bulge in his pants. You sigh, feeling all of his glory. And suddenly you feel extremely empty.

"Mmm… another time. Sleep." He mumbles and presses a kiss on your temple. His arms wrap painfully tight around you as he makes sure there is no space between you. The cocoon of blankets keeps you warm from your... last sensation at his hands. And you feel as embarrassed about it as you feel comfortable lying in the warmth.

You allow yourself to listen to his calm breathing. He don't fall asleep. Neither do you. You both wait to see who will faint from exhaustion first, and as much as you want to surrender to sleep, you know that the moment you close your eyes, you seal your fate forever. You will irreversibly become Harkonnen's prisoner.

Feyd's prisoner. Na-Baron's captive. You don't want this fate.

So close your eyes, relax your muscles, and slow down your breathing. Pretending to fall asleep is all you can fool him with, because yes, he saw you in your dreams in various situations and knew you inside and out, but he didn't know one thing. He didn't know what you looked like when you fell asleep.

You didn't know what he looked like when he was sleeping either, so you took a little risk with your not-so-well-thought-out plan, but you knew it was the only way to somehow escape from Harkonnen's grasp.

You wait a bit for him to relax, too. He puts his chin on your head, hugging you like some cuddly toy. But you know better than to assume that these monsters have some cuddly toys. If anything, teethers with spikes.

You lie there for a good few minutes, maybe even hours, going over your escape plan in your head. You breathe calmly, thinking about what you will do if you fail... you can always stab yourself if things don't go your way.

You quickly reach for the knife and plunge it into his knee. You twist it, damaging his joint, so he can't follow you, and you stand up. His screams and growls make you ignore the pain in your leg and run towards the ship that was blocking the exit. Somehow you manage to open it, your hands shaking as you unlock the door. Somehow he manages to get up and walk towards you, approaching dangerously fast, but you are more agile than him. You lock yourself inside the ship, break the window on the other side, and run forward.

You ignore his screams and threats and run deep into the desert, knowing full well that he won't catch up with you. The sandstorm had long ended, and the sun had risen again over Arrakis. You were in your territory; you were unstoppable.

You feel remorse, but only a little. You know perfectly well that the Harkonnens were incapable of love. You would be his prey and nothing else. You had to run away from him as far as you could.

And if he wanted to chase you? You would let him.

He could follow you wherever he wanted, but here on Arrakis, he could never catch you. And you really hoped you wouldn't have to run away from him to another planet.

[winwintea]

wicked love

PAIRING ↬ non-idol!na jaemin x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ short lived-fluff, romance, TOXICITY, horror, thriller, supernatural, kinda unsettling, SOOO CREEPY, if bad why hot? au, oomfs pointed out this is kinda like wandavision and now i'm realizing it does so maybe wandavision au

WARNINGS ↬ horror, yandere!!! (read at your own risk!)

SUMMARY ↬ his love is perfect. but perfection comes with a price.

WORD COUNT ↬ 5.4k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ guys i think the voices are getting louder (ty to queens @yizhrt @peterm4rker @viasdreams and @polarisjisung for beta reading 🙏)

PLAYLIST ↬ rhinestone eyes - gorillaz; nightmares - the boyz; wicked love - yena; doll - gidle; the perfect girl - mareux

YOU NEEDED A FRESH START.

The train slows to a halt, the perfect little town laid out in front of your eyes. You step onto the platform, the scent of flowers filling the air. 

The town looks like a postcard-perfect town, almost like you’re staring at a travel brochure rather than the real thing. The cobblestone streets appear to be smoothed down over time. A few locals pass by, nodding at you with warm smiles. 

There’s something about this place. It feels timeless, almost, like it came straight out of your dreams. Maybe this will be home. Maybe it’s exactly the fresh start you need from your damaging past.

Your new apartment, right next to the main square, is perfect. Lace curtains sway gently in the breeze, creating a comfy atmosphere. You unpack your bags, starting to convince yourself this was the right move. A quieter life, far from the chaos you left behind.

The next morning, you walk into your new job at the café, a cute little shop with pastel walls and pastries that look too good to eat. Mrs. Kim, the owner, greets you with a smile that feels practiced but kind.

“Welcome, dear,” she says, her tone both warm and firm. “I can tell you’re nervous, but I have confidence you’ll fit in just fine. Everyone does.”

Encouraged by her kind words, you dive into the work, immersing yourself in the comforting rhythm of brewing coffee and arranging pastries. Simplicity is desperately needed.

Then the bell over the door chimes, and you glance up ready to greet your next customer. But what you see makes you freeze in place.

A man walks in with confidence, his dark eyes surveying the room before landing on you. His presence is drawing, his sharp cheekbones and warm smile seem to stand out in this quiet little town. For a moment, it feels like the entire café is holding its breath, waiting for him to order.

“Americano, please,” he says, his voice smooth but casual. His gaze doesn’t cease, even as you fumble slightly while writing his name on his drink. ‘Jaemin’. When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours, sending an unexpected jolt through you.

“You’re new,” he states, not a question but an observation, his head tilted slightly as if he’s trying to read you.

You nod, flustered. “Just moved in yesterday.”

He continues to smile. “I’m happy to run into you then. Welcome.”

Instead of leaving, Jaemin takes a seat by the window, sipping his coffee while his attention drifts back and forth between you and the window. His gaze lingers just long enough to make your cheeks turn red. 

When your shift ends, you’re surprised to see him outside, leaning casually against the lamppost. The setting sun just adds to the beautiful sight right in front of you.

“I thought I’d walk you home,” his eyes steady, with some concern. “It’s getting late.”

The streets are quiet, and there doesn’t seem to be much danger present. Yet, you can’t bring yourself to decline. You nod, and he falls into step beside you.

As the two of you start to walk, he asks questions about you. How was your move, your life before this, what made you pick this town? He listens intently, hanging on to every word as though you’re the most fascinating person in the world. You tell him more than you planned to, and it isn’t until you see the intrigued look on his face that you realize how much you shared.

“What about you?” you ask, shifting the focus on him instead. “Have you been here long?”

“Long enough to know I was waiting for you.”

The line is so smooth it catches you off guard, and your face flushes as he laughs. His laugh is soft and such a pleasing sound that you realize you want to hear it again and again.

The next few weeks with Jaemin feel even more like a fairytale. He seems to appear everywhere. Waiting for you outside the café after your shifts, showing up with your favorite snacks and drinks, surprising you with gifts he claims “just made me think of you.”

One evening, he shows up at your door holding a bouquet of wildflowers. “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see you,” he says, handing them to you with a grin. “Thought you might need these.”

The flowers seem flawless and smell wonderful. You let him in your apartment, your heart fluttering at his thoughtfulness.

Over time, you notice how precise his attention is. He seems to know exactly what you need. When you mention being cold, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders without a word. When you casually mention a book you’ve been wanting to read ever since you saw it in the library, it shows up on your doorstep the next day with a small note attached to it.

One evening, he takes you to a small park outside of town. A picnic is already waiting. Jaemin is sitting there on a blanket waiting for you to arrive.

“How did you pull this off?” you ask, laughing as you sit down. “It’s like you read my mind.” Just a few days ago, you read a chapter in your book in which the two main characters had also gone on a similar date.

Jaemin grins as he pours you a glass of sparkling cider. “I just know you. That’s what love is, isn’t it? Knowing someone better than they know themselves.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, though you force a smile. You’re not sure why they unsettle you. It’s sweet, isn’t it? That he knows you so well?

As you sit together, Jaemin leans back on his elbows, watching you. “You’re perfect,” he says quietly. “I’ve never met anyone like you. It’s like... you’re exactly what I’ve been waiting for.”

The intensity of his gaze makes you look away, your cheeks heating. But something in his tone feels too polished, almost like he’s practiced it. You brush it off, telling yourself you’re overthinking.

It’s when you go out in town together that you start to notice how people act around him.

At the bakery, Mrs. Kim’s hands tremble as she rings up his order. Her smile is forced, and she avoids looking him in the eye.

After you leave, you curiously ask Jaemin about that interaction, “Was that... normal? She seemed kind of scared of you.”

Jaemin shrugs, brushing it off. “She’s just shy. Some people are like that.”

You’re not convinced, Mrs. Kim never seemed shy when the two of you worked together. But his casual tone makes it hard to push, so you let it slide for now.

—

Later, at the market, a man accidentally bumps into Jaemin, knocking over a fruit display. The man’s face seems to pale as he stammers out apologies, frantically trying to fix the mess. Jaemin couldn’t control the scowl that emerged on his face, as the man scurried away.

You lean toward Jaemin, whispering, “It was just an accident. You don’t need to glare at him like that.”

Jaemin turns to you, smiling again. “I wasn’t glaring,” he says calmly. “People here are just... respectful. They know better than to be careless.”

The edge in his voice makes your stomach twist, but you’re unsure how to respond.

—

That evening, when he takes you back to your apartment, you decide to bring it up again. “Jaemin, do you notice how nervous people are around you? It’s like they’re scared of you or something.” 

Jaemin pauses, and for a split second, you swear that his image cracked before snapping back into place. “It’s not fear,” he says, his tone even. “It’s respect. People here understand boundaries. They treat each other the right way. Don’t you feel it? Safer, calmer, happier?”

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, you feel like he’s waiting for you to agree. You nod slowly, though a part of you doesn’t want to. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just... different from what I’m used to.”

Jaemin steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s why you belong here,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “Somewhere where no one will ever hurt you again.”

The way he says it makes your breath hitch. They’re comforting, but there’s a weight to his words that leaves you uneasy.

—

Later that night, lying in bed, you replay the day’s events in your head—Mrs. Kim’s trembling hands, the man at the market, and the way Jaemin’s smiles sometimes feel too sharp, too practiced, too unsettling. You try to tell yourself it’s nothing, that you’re just adjusting to this new place, this new life, and a new relationship. But deep down, you can’t shake the uneasy feeling you have. Something about Jaemin and this town feels off. The cracks are starting to form.

It’s the little things at first.

The mirror above your dresser shatters without warning while you’re brushing your hair, splintering your reflection. You freeze, staring at your fragmented reflection. It almost looks like your face is splintering apart. You reach out, your hand hovering just inches from the broken surface. 

The door suddenly swings open, and Jaemin who was staying the night appears, his expression calm. “What happened?” He reaches out to stop your fingers from touching the broken glass.

“I don’t know.” you stammer. “It just… cracked. I didn’t even touch it” You shook your head, trying to process what you just saw. 

He steps forward, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder as he examines the mirror. “It’s probably old. I’ll get you a new one. Don’t worry about it.” But something about his tone that makes you feel like he’s brushing it off on purpose. 

Later, you catch him staring at the shattered mirror, his reflection fragmented into dozens of pieces.

—

The next time you’re at Jaemin’s house while walking through the hallway, you notice the wallpaper seemingly peeling at the edges. Stepping closer seems to reveal a dark surface beneath. Your fingers trace along the seam absentmindedly, curiosity getting the best of you. When you gently tug the loose edge, a chunk tears free, exposing the wood underneath. It was blackened and warped, as though it’s been rotting for years.

You stare at it, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach. How could a house so immaculate have something like this hidden beneath its surface?

“What are you doing?”

You whirl around, the scrap of wallpaper still in your hand as you turn to face Jaemin in the hallway. He’s standing behind you, quiet and still. “It was already peeling,” you say quickly. “I just wanted to see what was underneath.”

His eyes flicker to the exposed wood, then back to you. For a split second, his face seems to literally crack almost like his face was supposedly ceramic, before mending itself together. “I’ll fix it. You don’t need to worry about things like this.”

He steps closer, gently taking the torn wallpaper from your hands. His touch is light and tender, but the air feels different now.

“You shouldn’t bother with things that aren’t important,” Jaemin says softly, his tone almost pleading. “Just focus on us. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

You nod, but as he turns away, you notice his grip on the torn wallpaper tighten, his knuckles whitening as he walks down the hall.

—

The cracks aren’t just in the walls or the mirrors. They’re in him, too, and maybe you weren’t hallucinating when you saw his skin actually crack.

One night, you’re sitting together in his living room, the fireplace filling the room with warmth. Jaemin’s hand is wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against your skin.

“Sometimes I think I don’t deserve this. You. You’re too perfect for someone like me.”

You laugh softly, brushing off his words. “You’re being dramatic again.”

He looks at you then, his gaze locking onto yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world spins. His eyes are dark, almost bottomless, and there’s something lurking there—something raw and desperate, as though he’s holding on to you with every ounce of his being. Jaemin’s voice trembles slightly. “I mean it. You don’t understand how much you matter to me. I can’t lose you.”

There’s an intensity in his words that makes your heart race, but not in the way it usually does. You try to look away, but his grip on your hand tightens, not painfully, but enough to make you pause.

Then his expression changes. His smile fades, and his face hardens. The cracks start to appear again, this time more obvious than before.

You pull your hand away slightly. “I’m not going anywhere, Jaemin. You don’t have to worry about that.”

His smile returns instantly, the cracks once again vanishing as though they had never been there. “I know. I just get... carried away sometimes.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, but even as his lips brush your skin, the unease still lingers.

—

It gets worse after that. The cracks spread everywhere. Not just to the mirrors and walls, but to everything in the town. One night, the streetlight outside your building starts flickering which casts shadows across the pavement. The ground seems to ripple as if the cobblestones were water rather than stone. 

When you tell Jaemin about it, he dismisses it with that too-smooth tone you’ve come to dread.

“You’ve been working too much. You need to rest. You’re probably just really tired.”

But you know what you saw.

—

The tipping point comes when you’re alone at his house again. You’re standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, the edges of the glass framed by intricate gold. As you stare at your reflection, the surface begins to distort. Slowly, your features start stretching unnaturally, twisting your perception. You blink, and the image snaps back to normal.

But when you look closer, you realize your reflection isn’t blinking anymore. It’s staring at you, unblinking and unmoving, a faint smile curling at the corners of its lips.

“Stop looking so hard.”

You spin around to find Jaemin standing in the doorway, his eyes darker than usual.

He smiles at you faintly, “Some things aren’t meant to be questioned.”

His words echo in your mind long after he leaves the room. You stare at the mirror again, but this time, you don’t dare move closer.

The first argument starts late at night, the room dimly lit, with untouched plates of food between the two of you. Your frustration finally boils over after weeks of feeling watched, cornered, and controlled.

You stand up suddenly. “I need space, Jaemin. I can’t keep doing this.”

His smile vanishes, replaced by something unreadable. He leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, his gaze pierces through you. “Space? From me?”

You nod, your voice shaking. “Yes. From you, from... this. I feel like I can’t breathe anymore. Everything’s too... perfect. It doesn’t feel real.”

For a moment, Jaemin says nothing. His jaw tightens, and his fingers drum against the table. When he finally speaks, his tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it that sends a chill through you. “After everything I’ve done for you, you want to leave?”

“I’m not saying I’m leaving,” you start, trying to explain, “I’m just saying I need–”

He stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His voice rises, cutting you off. “You don’t need anything! I’ve given you everything! This town, this life, me... Isn’t that enough for you?”

You take a step back, started by his outburst. You can literally hear your heart pounding now. His sudden anger feels like a slap in the face, shattering the careful illusion of calm he’s always maintained. “You’re not listening to me, Jaemin. I never asked for this perfect little world you’ve created. I just wanted you.”

That seems to break something in him. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You need this. You need me. Without me, you’d be miserable. Lost.” He moves closer, his face contorting with a mixture of frustration and desperation.

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “No, Jaemin. That’s what you want me to believe.”

His expression darkens further, and for the first time, you see the cracks in his carefully constructed mask—the raw emotion, the fury barely contained beneath his flawless exterior. “Don’t do this. Don’t ruin everything. This is our paradise. Our dream.” His words come out frantic as if he’s trying to convince both you and himself.

“Paradise?” You step further back, your voice still firm. “This isn’t paradise, Jaemin. This is a prison.”

And that’s when Jaemin snaps.

“You don’t get it!” His voice is sharp as it rings through the house. “Paradise is only perfect if you don’t leave!”

The words crash over you, the weight of their meaning sinking into your chest. His voice echoes in your mind, melodic and haunting, like a line from a song you can’t escape.

“I am your paradise. Your dream. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Why can’t you just see that? Why can’t you just stay?” His voice breaks on the last word, and for a moment, you see something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. 

But then his expression hardens again, the desperation twisting into something darker and terrifying.

“I won’t let you ruin this,” he growls, his fists clenched at his sides. “If you won’t stay willingly, I’ll make sure you don’t leave. You’re mine, and nothing will ever change that.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in. “Jaemin... this isn’t love.”

The words seem to shatter him. His face contorts with rage, his hands slowly balling into fists at his sides. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare.”

You take another step back, your eyes darting toward the door, your instincts screaming at you to run. You’ve never felt this kind of fear before.

“You don’t understand. I am love. Everything else is broken, but I’m perfect. For you. For us.” The air between you is heavy, suffocating. Jaemin’s breathing is ragged, his eyes wild.

The words hang in the air, a chilling reminder that the man you thought you knew isn’t the man standing in front of you anymore. 

—

The morning after your argument, you decide to leave. You don’t even know where you’ll go—just that you need to get out of this suffocating place, away from Jaemin and his unnerving obsession.

You pack a small bag with trembling hands, glancing nervously out the window. The streets outside are eerily quiet, the friendliness of the town somehow feels more oppressive than ever.

As you step out of your apartment, your heart sinks. Jaemin is leaning casually against the streetlamp in front of your building, his hands in his pockets and his ever-perfect smile in place.

“Going somewhere, love?”

Your heart pounds in your chest. You force yourself to stay calm, clutching the strap of your bag tighter. “I need some time to myself.”

He tilts his head, studying you intently. “Time to yourself? That doesn’t sound like you. Where would you even go?”

The question catches you off guard. He’s right… you’ve never seen anything beyond this town. …Have you? You don’t even know if there is anything beyond this town. You’ve never ventured out of this town. You’ve lived here all your life. With Jaemin. Just Jaemin.

The thought sends a jolt through you. What is happening?

You shake it off, your voice firmer now. “Anywhere but here, Jaemin. I need to think.”

For a moment, his smile falters. But then it’s back, brighter than ever and more unsettling. “You don’t need to leave to think. Stay here. Let me help you.”

You shake your head, stepping past him, but his hand shoots out, gently grabbing your wrist–not harshly, but enough to stop you in place.

“Don’t do this, Y/N. You’ll regret it.”

You wrench your arm free and start walking, as your heart continues to pound in your chest. His voice follows you, soft and calm yet terrifyingly firm.

“You’ll be back. You always come back. You can never escape.”

—

The next few days are a nightmare. No matter where you go, Jaemin is there. You spot him in the café, sitting in the same seat he first approached you in, watching you with that same perfect smile. He’s waiting outside your apartment when you get home from work, leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there.

You even see him in places he shouldn’t be—on the other side of the street when you’re at the grocery store, standing in the shadows of an alley when you’re walking to clear your mind.

You confront him once, your patience snaps. “Are you following me? What the hell, Jaemin?”

He just smiles, tilting his head like you’ve said something funny. “I’m just making sure you’re safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, you know. To keep you safe.”

It’s infuriating, how calm he is, how he manages to twist every accusation into a declaration of his “love.”

It’s not just Jaemin. The entire town seems to conspire against you. The people smile too widely, their eyes never quite meeting yours. Conversations feel hollow like they’re reciting lines from a script rather than speaking from the heart.

At the market, the woman at the counter refuses to sell you a bus ticket.

“What do you mean, there’s no way out?”

“There’s nowhere to go, sweetheart,” she says, her tone unnervingly kind. “Everything you need is here.”

Her words echo Jaemin’s, and a sickening realization begins to settle in. You leave the market, your chest tight with frustration and fear.

Even your apartment feels wrong. The walls seem to close in on you, the air growing heavier. You swear you hear whispers late at night, but when you check, no one is there.

—

The final straw comes one night when you confront Jaemin in his house. You storm into his pristine living room, the air thick with tension.

“What is going on, Jaemin? Why is everyone acting like this? Why can’t I leave this town?”

He’s seated calmly on the couch, his hands resting on his knees. When he looks up, his perfect smile is in place, but this time, it carries an edge of something darker. “Why would you want to leave? Everything here is perfect. You’re perfect. We’re perfect.”

“Stop saying that!” you shout, your voice trembling. “Nothing about this is perfect. It’s all fake!”

His expression hardens slightly, though the smile remains. “Fake? Is that what you think? You think the life I built for us is fake?”

You freeze, the weight of his words sinking in. “What do you mean... ‘built’?”

He stands slowly, his movements deliberate, as if he’s giving you time to process. “This town, the people, everything you see—it’s all for you. For us. I created it because I knew you needed something better. Something perfect.”

Your stomach drops, your legs threatening to give out beneath you. “No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “That’s... that’s not possible.” 

He steps closer, his gaze locking onto yours. “I’ve given you everything, Y/N. A world where you don’t have to worry, where nothing can hurt you. I’ve even given you pieces of myself—my love, my time, my devotion. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

Your voice shakes as you respond. “This isn’t happiness, Jaemin. This is control.”

His jaw tightens, the cracks in his composure finally showing. “No. No, you’re wrong. This is love. I’ve made it perfect for you. Don’t you see? You don’t have to fight anymore. Just... let go.”

You back away, your mind racing. Everything starts to make sense now—the way people seem hollow, the strange cracks in the world, the way Jaemin always seems to know your every thought.

The truth suddenly dawns on you. “Even me... You’ve been controlling me, haven’t you?”

He hesitates. The silence stretches for a moment too long before he replies, his voice softer, almost pleading. “I didn’t want to control you. I just wanted to protect you. To keep you here, where it’s safe. You’re... you’re slipping away from me, Y/N. And if you go, this world will crumble. I can’t let that happen.”

His words are a plea and a threat all at once, and for the first time, you see him for what he truly is: not just a possessive lover, but the creator of this fragile, crumbling reality.

You spend the next few days searching for an escape, though you’re not entirely sure what “escape” even means in this twisted, fabricated reality. The cracks in the world are growing more pronounced—literal fissures splitting the pavement, flickers of darkness creeping at the edges of your vision, and moments where the townspeople freeze mid-motion, like broken puppets.

And Jaemin? He’s watching you closer than ever, though he never confronts you outright. You can feel his eyes on you wherever you go, a shadow that clings to your every step.

One night, while Jaemin is out, you find it—a journal hidden beneath a loose floorboard in your apartment. The pages are filled with strange symbols, diagrams, and what looks like fragmented memories of Jaemin’s thoughts.

One entry catches your eye:

"The anchor must never break. She is the key to keeping the world whole. Without her, there’s nothing."

Your heart races as you piece it together. You’re not just a prisoner in Jaemin’s world—you’re the foundation of it. If you can sever your connection to this place, the entire illusion might collapse. But how?

—

You decide you have to confront him. But not to beg or plead for your freedom—that won’t work. Jaemin is too possessive, too desperate to let you go willingly. No, you’ll have to trick him into believing that you’ve finally given in.

The next evening, you find him at his house. He’s in the living room, staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace. His expression is distant, almost melancholic.

“Jaemin?”

He turns, and his face lights up when he sees you, the sadness replaced by his usual serene smile. “Y/N. I was wondering when you’d come back to me.”

You force yourself to smile, stepping closer. “You were right. About everything. I’ve been fighting against you, against this... and I don’t know why. It’s perfect here. You’re perfect.”

His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of hope sparking in them. “You mean that?”

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’ve been scared. But I see it now—you love me more than anyone ever could. You’ve built this world for me, and I want to stay.” You reach out to his hand.

His grip tightens on your hand, his smile growing as he pulls you into his arms. “I knew you’d understand. I knew you’d see how much I love you.”

You let him hold you, burying your face against his chest to hide the fear and repulsion you know must be showing on your face.

—

Over the next few days, you pretend to settle into the life Jaemin has crafted for you. You let him dote on you, let the townspeople’s eerie smiles wash over you without flinching. All the while, you gather the pieces you need.

You find an old map in the library, one that shows a strange, unfinished road on the outskirts of town. You overhear snippets of conversation from the townspeople—hushed whispers about “the edge” and “the boundary.”

And then, one night, you’re ready.

You and Jaemin are sitting together in his living room, the fire casting warm light across the walls. You rest your head on his shoulder, your voice is soft and trembling. “There’s just one thing I need to feel... whole.”

“Anything, my love. Just tell me.” He looks down at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Take me to the edge of the town. I want to see where it all ends. I want to understand this world you’ve made for me.”

His expression falters. “The edge isn’t important. Everything you need is right here.”

You sit up, cupping his face in your hands, your eyes pleading. “Please, Jaemin. I want to see it with you. I want to understand your love fully. Don’t you want me to?”

He hesitates, his gaze searching yours. Finally, he nods reluctantly. “If that’s what you want.”

—

He drives you to the edge of town in silence, his grip on the steering wheel tight. The road grows darker the further you go, the world outside the car fading into an inky void.

When he stops, the road ahead simply... ends. Beyond it is nothingness, a swirling expanse of black that seems to pulse and writhe.

“This is as far as it goes. There’s nothing out there. Nothing but chaos.”

You step out of the car, your heart racing. “It’s beautiful.”

Jaemin watches you carefully as you approach the edge.

You turn back to him. “Thank you for showing me this. I... I trust you.”

For a moment, his face softens, and you see his vulnerability once again beneath the perfection. “You mean everything to me. You always have.”

As his attention wavers, you make your move. You sprint toward the edge, your bag clutched tightly in your hands.

Jaemin notices and panics. “Y/N! Stop!”

He now stands in front of you, his usually perfect expression unhinged, desperation seeping through every word. “You can’t leave. You don’t understand what’s out there. It’s chaos. Pain. No one will love you like I do. No one will protect you like I have.”

“This isn’t love, Jaemin. This is a prison. You don’t love me—you love the idea of me, the version you can control. But I’m not yours to keep.”

He steps closer, his once-gentle eyes are now sharp, glinting with anger and fear. “If you leave, you’ll regret it. Out there, you’ll be nothing. A speck. Here, you’re everything. My everything.”

You swallow hard, your chest tightening as the house begins to shudder. The cracks spread faster now, the walls peeling to reveal nothingness beyond. This world is breaking apart, and so is he. “I’d rather be nothing than lose myself to you.”

Jaemin’s expression softens for a brief moment—hurt flashing across his face. He reaches for you, his hand trembling as if he’s trying to hold on to what’s slipping away.

“Please… don’t go. You’ll die out there. This place… it’s all I have.”

But you’ve already made your choice. You step back, closer to the edge of the crumbling reality. The air feels thin, the edges of the world curling in on themselves like burning paper. Behind Jaemin, you see the town collapsing—the people disintegrating into ash, their empty smiles vanishing with them.

With one last look at him, you whisper, “Goodbye, Jaemin.”

And then you leap into the void.

Life had been okay after you escaped. Moving again would’ve been the best option in this case. 

The train slows to a halt, the perfect little town laid out in front of your eyes.

You step onto the platform, the scent of flowers filling the air. The town looks clean, almost like it was plucked straight from a storybook or a carefully curated dream. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, reassuring yourself that this was exactly what you wanted. A fresh start. A clean break from everything you left behind.

You set your bag down and begin unpacking, each item you pull out grounding you a little more in this place. A simpler life. A quieter life. That’s what you need, far from the chaos of before.

The next morning, you step into your new job at the café. It’s a quaint little shop with pastel walls and rows of pastries so perfect they could be in a magazine. The scent of coffee and freshly baked bread wraps around you like a warm hug.

The owner greets you with a wide smile. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and her voice is both kind and commanding. “Welcome, dear,” she says. “I can tell you’re nervous, but you’ll fit in just fine. Everyone does.”

As you settle into the rhythm of the café, you notice how everything is perfectly simple. You glance out the window, and for a split second, you think you see a figure standing at the edge of the square.

Your breath catches, but when you blink, the figure is gone. You shake your head and return to wiping down the counter.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Just nerves. After all, this is the fresh start you wanted.

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip

apologies for the trauma. you are all entitled to no financial compensation. hope you enjoyed your stay!

[jjungxkook]

blackout (halloween drabble) | jjk

⇥ pairing: roommate!jungkook x reader

⇥ genre: est rel, roommate and college au, fluff, crack, smut

⇥ rating: 18+

⇥ warnings: really just the tiniest hint of angst, but otherwise just crack and fluff I think, spooky szn, he's the Joker and she's Harley Quinn, lame college party, the gang is there, forest stuff, reader is a bit sad and disappointed in jk but he redeems himself!, kissing, sexy times, unprotected sex, choking, spanking, jerking off, fingering, sex in a janitor's closet haha, ass love, and yeah!!

⇥ wc: 5.4k!

⇥ author’s notes: happy early halloween! I will be busy next week, so I thought I could post this one already. also, since it's been one! damn!! year!!! since I dropped anything at all (sry!!). I promise Encore is on its way, so enjoy this in the meantime. very unedited and I started it just yesterday, so pls no hate haha okay that's it!! love you!!!

⇥ summary: Jungkook and you seek a carefree and calm Halloween this year, until it turns into this… nightmare.

–

Jungkook’s make up is smudged beyond repair… And you strongly guess you aren’t faring any better.

Your costumes are basic to their core. In the past hour alone, you’ve seen half a dozen of you. Jungkook rubs at the eyeshadow above the apple of his cheek, smearing the black some more.

He looks like the Joker at the end of his mental capacity. A worse mess than DC’s character already is. Only, Jungkook is still rocking the look – one damn kink of yours if you had a specific one. It’s the loosened tie… the purple coat–

You feel at home in your own role. Sporting the peroxide blonde hair, tied in two tails, one ending in a faded blue, and the other in a dim pink. You purchased colored hair sprays just for today, but can’t wait to wash the chemicals out of your hair.

Jungkook ruined one of the pigtails approximately an hour ago, and it hasn’t recovered since then, no matter how hard you tried to fix it. In truth, you didn’t mind the tugging at that moment anyway.

How could you? Not with the endorphins pumping through you at lightspeed, enhanced by the darkness around you at that stupid college party.

The student representatives organized this year’s big fete, though they must have forgotten to add the fun factor to it. Because the party was lame: the bar was filled with students from various departments, but most of them remained either sober or wound up broke.

Because the drinks were painfully expensive. The numbers on your bills spooked through your mind when you looked at the price, further frustrated when you realized that they weren’t selling much more than dry, small pizza and flavorless toast.

Once again, for an outrageous price.

Halfway through, the two of you snuck to a bathroom, relying on each other’s company alone. But the toilet cabinets were either taken or unspeakably disgusting – so in the rush, you settled for the pitch dark janitor’s closet instead.

You could barely see his silhouette in there, half sober, but not quite acting like it. Intoxicated by how he suckled on your neck, more a vampire than the Joker. Or by how he probably bruised your thighs, your shorts and tights down to your knees, much like his green pants.

You remember the whispers in the dark. The quiet “Wanna pound you into the mattress” and the “We should really go home.” Accompanied by the way he rubbed his cock against your stomach, body inches from you as his fingers dug into your pussy.

But you wouldn’t make it home yet, because his movements were too rapid to stop. The tears pricking your eyes too prominent. The hand around your neck wouldn’t stop pressing in, and you were firmly fixated on jerking him off to the end.

There was no way you were going to go home yet.

When he kissed you, you could taste both your lipsticks on your tongues. And then, cheek against the wall, ass out as he slammed his thick cock into your tight space, you tasted all the spice and sweetness he could offer.

God, a fucking man starved.

You still feel how his thighs held yours together, and your ass cheeks still burn from the palm and nails scratching, slapping, squeezing the flesh…

You tried your best to fix your make up afterwards, but you looked like modern art in the worst way, eyeliner and mascara dry on your face. The Joker’s cheek scars reach to his ears now. And as you look at him now, you still shiver.

His sweat-soaked mane hasn’t fully dried yet, a bit longer than weeks ago. Gives him that wet-hair look you usually enjoy after his showers. And behind the collar of his dress shirt, you still catch a glimpse of the lipstick print he wanted before you went out.

“Here,” he’d said, pointing to his thick, bare neck, adorned by a vein, “I’ll even open a button of my shirt just for this.”

And you were absolutely ready to mark your territory – it seemed he was just as enthusiastic about it. That is, before you forgot and then rectified your mistake in that bar bathroom. He can flex it now after all…

Anyway. Where were you again?

Right. The purple coat.

There’s something incredibly insane about how he’s draped it over his shoulder, both hands in the pockets of his pants. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, his arms veiny and strong. A full lower lip is light red now; your make out session made the bright red fade.

And the goddamn black around his eyes… he could throw the mildest statement at you, and you’d probably still be intimidated.

Could almost distract you from why you refused to give that neck kiss in the first place. Or why you were veiling your true mood.

“What are we gonna do now?” Jungkook asks, nudging your elbow.

“What do you mean? You’re not tired?”

But you understand the idiocy of your question the moment it tumbles out – you’re asking the wrong man. This guy, you have well noticed, does not sleep until late in the night. And a healthy sleep schedule becomes even more of a foreign concept on holidays.

So you’re not surprised when he blows a raspberry and almost mockingly responds, “It’s not even midnight.”

“That’s late, Jungkook,” you still try.

“Not on Halloween.” Yeah. Just what you thought. “Besides, we need to wait for the witching hour. Wanna see the ghosts come out and whatnot.”

You laugh, the scolding hidden behind the smile. “Kook…”

“We could play Uno again!” He suggests, but you instantly scrunch up your nose. Most of the time, he wins – it’s probably why he enjoys it so much. But his next idea is worse. “Or Until Dawn.”

“No way,” you shoot. “You know what’s gonna happen, right?”

Judging the conniving smirk, more daunting with the eerie make up on, you guess he knows very well. He must remember last Halloween as well as you do.

Back when you let him convince you into watching Silent Hill with him, you were already at the edge, but – the sudden knocks at your door and impatient ringing of your bell didn’t help.

You jumped in place, accidentally kicking his shin and nearly knocking over the popcorn. You shed an immediate tear, convinced your heart was going to give out. Jungkook, between the cries of ache, was chuckling, and soon holding your head to his heart.

The cursing against his chest is cemented in your mind; you remember that he turned the movie off for you and switched to something tamer on Disney+.

“We’re together now, Pumpkin,” he tries to argue. “I’ll kiss your fears away.”

You’ll admit, you like the tone of it. It hasn’t been very long, so any term concerning your togetherness covers your skin in chills. And considering how it’s Halloween, the nickname gains just a bit more warmth, too.

But you stay resolute, dodging his constant nudging as you repeat, “No way!”

Your words stop Jungkook in his tracks. The laugh disappears and even his eyes change. Maybe you came off too strong, because behind the mask of the Joker, he looks insecure and taken aback.

“Are you… Okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer.

You pull down the crop top under your open jacket, clearing your throat when the movement forces his eyes to your chest, right where the shirt stretches over your tits. Folding your arms in front of your torso, you raise your chin in the confidence that’s barely there.

You lie, “Yes. Why?”

“You’re acting like you were before we left. Then you were okay at the party.” He points into a random direction, presumably the one you came from. You don’t know how many turns you took since then, but you’re near the woods now. “Now you’re not anymore again.”

“I’m fine!”

Oops. Too strong again. Maybe the built up frustration and disappointment aren’t gone after all. You thought the evening might change something – apparently not.

Once again, he asks, “Are you sure?”

You stay silent. Look away, haphazardly across the street. The street lamps illuminate the dark path, covered in leaves, surrounded by trees. Has a real Halloween feel to it.

You watch ghosts stroll past you. Some of the students on campus still carry a young, tender spirit, cutting holes in thin blankets to drape them over their bodies. It makes you smile.

But then you look back at Jungkook and immediately wish you had a cloth hiding your true emotions, too. Because when his eyes pierce those dejected holes into your body, you finally cave in.

“You… you know that I was top of my class, right?” You avert your stare, but then decide to focus on his chin instead. “Mr Kim liked my paper so much that he even offered that I join his research? And he’s like, very cherished in the Sociology community?”

Aside from the wind, nature and the world go quiet for a second, just when you do, but then you say, “So it’s a huge opportuni–”

“I know… You told me.”

Oh. So he remembers.

“So I told you,” your voice is quieter now, “and you just… didn’t seem to care? You haven’t spoken about it or asked even once. Not even what the research is on.”

Like a parrot, he repeats, “I know. I… I got busy with my own exams and…”

He stops midway and you wait. Maybe there’s more to come… Or maybe not. He doesn’t budge. You feel your heart drop… You assumed he had forgotten or that you might’ve hallucinated telling him about it. 

But the fact that he remembers, yet doesn’t have it in him to care hurts.

You swallow hard and then sigh, unable to say much more than you already have. He, yet again, purls, “I’m sorry.”

How shitty.

You’ve always helped him with his assignment, each time he needed any aid. He reciprocated it, no doubt, but. Now that you think about it, he distanced himself the moment you got this news and forwarded it to him.

You feel horrible. If you physically could, if you weren’t frozen in place, you’d pour out your heart to him. But all you know is that your mood has dropped to the Earth’s core, your mouth barely open when–

A rough tug pulls you away from Jungkook’s body. You stumble, almost tripping over your own feet, and yelp. There’s no way to still catch your bag mid-air, because whatever culprit snatched it off your shoulder, is already running away.

And into the dense forest. Fuck.

You use all your throat’s might to scream your lungs out, screeching at the perpetrator, “What the fuck!!”

“Hey!” Jungkook yells in kind, following right behind you the moment you start to sprint.

The asphalt is easier to tackle than the forest, though. The ground is soft, still a little damp from the rain of the last days. And the white-black-red Harley Quinn boots with their thick heels do not help.

You chase the figure – he’s tall, a bit too fast for you. Wearing a mask that you’re sure was… green?

You swear and pant when he picks up on pace, and throw more insults into his direction when he takes a sharp, sudden right. Jungkook jogs past you when you look over your shoulder for him, instructing quickly, “I’ll trap him from the left!”

And then, he’s gone. No. What?

“No, I– you can’t leave me alone!” Nothing comes back. Shit, your boyfriend wants you dead. “Fuck.”

With a shake of your head and a deep inhale of a breath, you move. Perhaps you’re too late, because by now, you don’t hear any steps anymore. You don’t know how far behind that thief left you, but as you find yourself lost in the middle of nowhere, you halt.

You can’t see anyone anymore. Not the guy. Not Jungkook.

And it’s so uncannily quiet. Dark. The leaves rustle, but only when the breeze blows through them. You search the spot, but there’s truly nobody and nothing; not even a goddamn squirrel.

You call for Jungkook, but don’t receive an answer back.

Where did he go? Did he catch the jerk? It must’ve been a Shrek mask. Of all fucking things. And why do they always run into a forest anyway?

No matter. At least you’ll be able to describe him to the police.

You suck in a breath, leaning down, hands over your knees. Out of air, you groan as your lungs burn. But then you get up, swallowing and sniffling, scared as you whisper to yourself, “The phone…”

You fish it out of your shorts – Hallelujah to whoever created this costume, because they’re a whole lot better than the pocketless jeans in your closet. If you’d put the device in your bag, you’d be screwed properly.

Activating the flashlight, you turn in a slow circle. In the silence, only broken by grasshoppers and other chirping animals, you hear your heart pounding in your ears. A shaking hand holds your phone as you look around.

And right when you’re already through the 360 turn–

Fingers wrap around the hand clutching the phone, definitely not yours. There’s a call of your name, but you barely take the voice in, flinching and screaming in place. Has your voice ever sounded this high pitched?

Ready to throw your phone at him and roundhouse kick the stranger, you lift a leg, but he immediately grabs your wrist in a familiar gesture. Turns the light to his face, squinting at its intensity, and eventually, you realize that…

“What the fuck are you doing?” You spit.

“I was looking for you!” Jungkook answers, lowering the phone. “I didn’t find him.”

“Yeah, I didn’t either! But fuck, why…” You still can’t breathe properly. A hand moves to your chest. “Why did you scare me so much, I–”

Your limbs are trembling, knees attempting to force you down to the ground. But you hold yourself steady, anger growing bloody red inside you. It bubbles and simmers, and when he doesn’t respond, you almost snarl.

You push at his chest, eyes damp. You want to throw more shit at him, even though he’s not at fault – and once you realize, you calm down just a little. The forest is still around you, and you’re still not out of it by far.

Yet, you feel at ease. Because he’s here. Because he’s standing there, in the middle of the night, at fucking Halloween where you could run into any insane axe murderer.

But when you understand where the comfort is coming from, your heart slows down, still beating in your stomach, but at a more normal pace now.

“Fuck,” you whisper once again, and then stumble forward and into his arms.

He cradles you with the fragility of a glass doll. But the squeezes he provides offer warmth your chilled soul craves on this autumn night. Hushed, you hear him speak, “Baby, I…”

His words drip with hesitation and… guilt even. Wrong timing; you can’t dwell on the uncertainty now. Still sniffling, quivering, you press against his chest again. Softer this time, yet unyielding, you demand, “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

“No–”

“Honestly, I should’ve just… Congratulated you.”

Wrong timing indeed. He’s agonizing over something that you aren’t bothered with. Not right now, at least. But you heard it so clearly in the timbre of his voice – that he didn’t mean the jump scare. You let him continue.

“I worked so hard on my stuff, too, and then got jealous. Which is absolutely not a good boyfriend treat to have.”

“Kook–”

There’s turmoil in his words. Ugh, what’s going on?

“I’m genuinely thrilled for you. And I–”

There’s an entire conversation to have, you’re sure. But the timing. The fucking timing!

He wants to unveil more, but then something happens. A flicker in your peripheral vision alerts you of a movement, and when you turn your head, you see the same mysterious figure lurking in the shadows.

God, he’s insane. Your guts twist.

Was he eavesdropping all along, or was he simply hiding, trying to remain invisible, inexplicably unwilling to flee? Why did he not run before? This is odd. So chillingly odd.

Or maybe he was still nearby and trying not to make a sound…

You don’t know. And time is not a luxury you can’t afford for pondering such enigmas right now.

New adrenaline surges through you, different this time. The fear is clear, but the guy seems pathetic to a certain level – and if he’s so keen on roaming around, you’ll make sure he stays right in your proximity.

So you listen to the hammering of your heart, and without a second thought, you dash towards the stranger who appears equally startled and disoriented. You feel like a charging bull, closing the distance at an astonishing pace.

That’s what they probably mean when they speak about mothers being able to lift cars for their kids, because you feel invincible. Your shoes may not be designed for such a pursuit, and you’re certainly not as hardcore as Harley Quinn, but they lose against your determination.

The trees blur around you as you relentlessly chase the intruder, only clearing in your vision when you finally catch up with him. Jungkook might be behind you, but you choose not to look behind you this time.

Instead, you yell a battle cry, growling through your teeth, “Don’t you fucking–”

But that’s all before you tackle him to the ground. You expect a fight, expect his slim limbs to fling around, but he barely moves. He lets you push him onto the fallen leaves, and the only glimpse of any sound by him that you catch is a weird voice crack.

“Fu–” Is all you notice, but you can’t analyze the voice before Jungkook is helping you up again. 

You protest, but still get to your feet, watching Jungkook pull the man up harshly. He says to you, “You caught him.”

“Guess so.”

You take another breath, jaw clenched when you move to the stumbling thief and attempt to take the mask off. Shrek, as you said. You can’t quite say whether that night is terrifying or absurd. Probably both.

But the guy fights your try, suddenly mute again, but not resisting when Jungkook pulls at his arm and starts leading him somewhere. What? 

“Where are you going?” You ask, confusion sitting in the valley between your eyebrows. “Let’s go back and call the police, Jungkook.”

“There’s gotta be an opening. Keep going, I just need light to see his face.”

“I have a phone. Jungkook, sto–”

Seems like a very risky moment to ignore you, but Jungkook moves forward with determination. But it’s strange how he isn’t looking around. Never searching his surroundings, as if he already has a certain target in mind.

Now, you’ll admit that his sense of direction is unerring on any other day, too, but this is…

“I swear, you’re gonna kill us both,” you hiss, reflexively lowering your voice in the darkness. The masked mugger is grunting too much to hear you anyway, but you guess that affects Jungkook’s senses, too.

He just won’t stop. At least, until you reach a tiny clearing.

You don’t know how deep in the forest you are, because you can’t see the moon from here. The stars are the mere source of light here, albeit barely enough to illuminate the other bodies standing on the opposite side of the dimly lit space.

Wait. More people? Here?

What the hell.

Their faces, obscured by shadows, are unmoving. You ready yourself for an apology – maybe you interrupted some weird get-together. A shady ritual executed by some secret college club.

But as you strain to discern their features, a gradual realization dawns upon you. One of them steps forward, his features partially hidden, and one or two other familiar friends from your classes occupy the periphery.

It’s Jin. Also Jimin – a guy you and Jungkook met during one of your study sessions. Taehyung introduced him to your group. And the pursuit takes on an even more bewildering turn when you look at Jungkook and see that he’s no longer clutching the robber.

The man is standing there in silence, massaging the back of his head. Seemingly unperturbed. Perplexed and still out of breath, you utter, “What in the world?”

You shake your head, eyes deeply furrowed. You close the distance between you and the confusing figure, snatch your bag from him and finally shed the mask that conceals his identity.

And then, you see it. The unexpected face behind the bizarre charade.

“Taehyung?” You exclaim.

Jungkook, having caught his breath faster than you, mimics your incredulous tone, “Taehyung, what the hell?”

Oh. So he’s just as confused. The man in question glances over to his friend, his expression one of sheer frustration as he grumbles another very puzzling statement.

“Jeon, I will kill you.”

“Sorry,” Jungkook mutters back.

Or… not? Huh?

You’re speechless. Out of movements and words, you keep your feet planted on your spot, blinking as you wait for someone to explain. But they’re not even looking at you, so you seek clear clarification.

“What’s going on here?” You ask.

Jungkook’s half-smile agitates you more than it should. Why the heck is he smiling?! But you breathe in through the nose, hoping for the forest’s scent to calm your nerves.

“Well,” he admits, “I guess I owe him one. ‘Cuz you were not supposed to tackle him.”

“Right!” Taehyung concurs.

“And you were not supposed to disappear!” Jungkook chimes in, pointing an accusatory finger at his friend. His voice is tinged with reproach. “You…”

“Guys,” you interject. What the fuck.

Jungkook sighs, full attention on you. You try your hardest to not look at the creepy crowd to your left, friends and acquaintances standing there as if they’re about to sacrifice you to a demon.

“He was supposed to lead you here, but somehow we didn’t manage to pull it through,” Jungkook says.

His words leave you pondering. You have not the darndest clue about what’s going on. So you ask, “We?”

“Your…” The assembled group draws near, a few of your friends holding various items. “Your paper.”

Huh…

They’re carrying indiscernible things. And a pie, and…

“Of course I remembered your paper, baby,” Jungkook declares.

Oh, wait. Is that what you think it is? Because if it is, then your instincts were entirely wrong today. Or the entire time since you received the news. Maybe you were just so out of your mind because of the general Halloween atmosphere?

What were you expecting… An axe murderer for real? Dammit…

No. It was much more obvious, yet impossible to figure out. This man. This man!

A wave of relief washes over you as you process his words. You think that now, you even understand what they’re all holding. Or what it’s for…

“So you weren’t…” You start.

You drift off, watching Jungkook shake his head. His response is heartfelt, his love and pride evident. He looks at you with infinite sweetness; but a lot of guilt, too.

“Jealous?” He finishes. “I’d be crazy to be. You’re part of me.”

His blinking is soft and the tongue licking his red lips shiny in the extremely faint starlight. You know he isn’t done yet, so you wait… Focus on the tingle on your skin.

“You are part of me,” he says again, “so I’ll celebrate any achievement of yours like it’s mine. And this was… is a huge fucking thing to happen for you.”

You feel your head tilt and the muscles in your face relax. Your lips move to a smile, parted to give way to the longest sigh known to humankind. But if you indulged in the cheesy interaction now, your friends would remind you of it every game night.

Which is why you get yourself together, postponing the screeching and second tackling to later when you’re alone again. You shake off some of the weakness he causes every day, and give into the urge to nudge teasingly.

“You’re such a jerk for scaring me like that.”

A playful grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, as typical as can be. “I needed to make it Halloween-themed, Pumpkin. I’m sorry, but you know I had to.”

Your initial scolding turns into a loving retort, “I hate you.”

But the banter is short-lived as you lose against the surge of emotions, your hand moving to push him lightly once again before immediately lifting to his collar. You capture it, pulling him close to you until his wide eyes close and your lips collide.

In the background, you hear an instant chorus of “Aww”s, but grunts, too. Among the cooing, you hear a mumbled speech about how you need to get a room, but you only react with a smile against his mouth. You kiss him deeper, tongues gently intermingling.

And just when the hand holding the back of your head slips to your lower back, pressing you into him, the shiver becomes unbearable. Emotions shoot through your body and down between your legs – so you stop.

For a couple seconds longer, you look at whatever you can see from his eyes in the dark, flashing a smile. He rounds his lips and releases air through them, a temptingly silent way to let you know that you affected him.

You ignore it for your mentality’s sake, moving away from him to look at your friends. You cough and gesture to the objects in their hands, asking, “What’s all this about?”

If you could see them, you’d probably see a mischievous twinkle in their eyes. Jin at least sounds like it as he beckons you closer with a nod, ready to reveal whatever they’ve orchestrated for you.

You already expected the answer to your question, but the wrapping confirms your assumption. Gifts. Quite a few of them, bigger and smaller. As you move from one to the other, they announce the objects before you’re able to rip the paper off.

A friend gifts you a Swarovski Crystalline pen for your “Super fancy notes as you do your super fancy research.” Reflects their support for your scholarly pursuits, you guess.

Jimin surprises you with an exclusive album by your favourite group. Then, a little plushie to destress whenever you need, along with a college survival guide and “Sociology for Dummies” – all by Jin. Of course.

And lastly, a Lord of the Rings Lego set that you’ve desired for super long, a group effort. It’s a labor of love, for sure. A collective endeavor by friends who united to make your dreams come true – but honestly, who scared you to death, too.

You don’t know how you make it out of the forest again, still reprimanding Taehyung and Jungkook on your way out. Granted, you did get lost as a group once, and then found your beloved streetlamps again ten minutes later.

The treasures secured in a bag, Jungkook places them on your couch with a long and deep sigh once you arrive home, calming down from today’s hours. The night seemed endless. Wouldn’t finish – and you’re exhausted beyond measure.

But even through your falling eyelids, you manage one more expressive glance, pure disbelief hiding in your gaze as you say, “I absolutely didn’t expect any of this.”

Jungkook is a true mirror to you. Equally worn out, he lets his head fall a little, one hand still in the pocket of his pants. He looks ridiculously attractive, fatigue or not. Curls of his longer hair hang in his eyes as he rubs them, the smile gentle despite the sinister make up.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, voice low and quiet. “To be honest, I kinda felt bad halfway through.”

Ah. Explains the guilty eyes and voice. The way he attempted to apologize and grew all shy and quiet before you threw Taehyung to the ground.

“Don’t. The plan almost worked, and my heartbeat is still intact.” You laugh, punching his arm lightly. “But… Don’t do shit like that again next year.”

“I can’t promise it. You know that.”

You roll your eyes, watching him try to walk away – and you might not have held him back and grasped the dress shirt at the elbow if…

Is that the window creaking?

You gasp, still more on the edge than you expected, and throw a peek over your shoulder. You moved a couple weeks ago – there’s no way your place is already making these sounds. Or maybe that’s the reason after all… You should get to renovating.

“Was that you, too?” You ask, leaning into him with a cocked eyebrow.

“It was not. How would I do that?” He promises. His words are accompanied by movements; he’s walking around the living room now, as if he’s looking for something. “I’m not a ghost. Just the Joker.”

“A sly one, though…”

You look to the window again as he crams around in the box under your table, and appropriate to the holiday, you detect a harmless raven, perched on the windowsill. The sight elicits a small chuckle – but you don’t hear a sound from Jungkook.

When you turn back to him, you understand why. He’s distracted, still crouching. Then he gets up with… An object in his hand. No, two. Not any you carried home just now, but much smaller, thinner. Paper?

Idly, he walks back to you, fingers adorned in tattooed letters holding two cards toward you. You look into his eyes, confused and seeking answers silently, but he only holds the objects closer to you, urging you to take them.

“What’s that?” You ask.

“Read, and you’ll know.”

And when you oblige, you understand. Maybe the little celebration on the clearing didn’t quite end there. Because the inscription on the cards reveals that he put more thought into this than you knew.

The tiny party and group effort Lego set weren’t his only tokens of affection. The weekend getaway, resting in your hands and awaiting you next week, must be tonight’s finale. A prelude to the impending wave of tedious work. 

“As an escape. Even for just a moment,” Jungkook explains, reaching forward. His hand settles on your cheek and pulls your face up, meeting your eyes. “Just you and me.”

To bask in serenity and rejuvenation, is that it? Just you and him…

“Really?” You wonder, eyes knitted together, lips pouting. You’re drowning in fondness.

“I wanna give you all the relaxation you need, in any way. Big things ahead after that.”

“I’m… You didn’t ha–”

You only get this far, because his lips steal your breath and halt your speech midway. His hand cradles your face, the other arm slinging around your body. The grip holds you tight against him, the heels of your feet almost lifting off the floor.

The kiss won’t stop. Continues deeper. You’re careful to not crumple and crease the cards he gave you, but still wrap your arms around his neck, pushing harder into him. And the tongue… Fuck, this tongue…

When he moves back reluctantly to catch air, he’s panting; and your breath falls against his cheeks just as hot. Your lips are damp, craving more, and you draw closer, trying to feel all of him. The muscles, the embrace, the growing pleasure behind his pants and…

But he lets go, leaves you standing and dizzy. With a wink, he lightly pinches your cheek, thumb brushing against it and suggests, “I’ll head off to freshen up.”

But. No.

You’re not ready to let the moment slip away, no matter how tired you are. So you pull him back again, a playful twinkle in your eyes as you quietly utter a request.

“Don’t take it off just yet.” You say, seeing the way his eyes light up. He understands right away. “Clean up together?”

He smiles. Waits with his answer, busy gripping your wrist as gently as he can before he locks his fingers with yours. He starts pulling you into the direction of the bathroom at snail's pace, reaching to hold both your hands, walking backwards, and causes one last hour-long shiver for the night.

“I really do love every time we save up on water, you know?”

–

Let me know what you think!! Have a good Halloween, love you all and smooching you!!😘

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 6: Best Friends Forever

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary:  When you decided to work with Butcher and his merry band of supe hunters to take down Homelander, you never expected to be saddled with a sullen, grumpy, jerk like Soldier Boy when the job was done. The more you're around him the more you hate him, but you can't help but wonder, is he really as big a jerk as you think? Reader is a supe with plant powers. This takes place in an AU about a month after the end of The Boys Season 3, in which Butcher has let Soldier Boy continue to work with him on his team.  (I'm real bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers (Not in this chapter), Slow Burn, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Soft Ben/ Soldier Boy.

Word Count: 9.9K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), derogatory comments, sexism, swearing, mentions of sex, sexual innuendo, sexual tension, little bit of homophobia (It's Soldier Boy). Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: I know I said I was gonna be more angsty with this chapter, but I got distracted, the sun was in my eyes, and my hand slipped…

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Spotify Playlist 🪴

The next morning Mike’s screeching begins all over again, but today he starts with "My Girl" by the Temptations.

He's getting warmer.

You think with a smile, singing along to the song under your breath as you prop yourself up on your pillows with a content sigh. The smell of gardenia wafted over your bed in a gentle wave as your curtains opened, allowing the sunlight to drift over your bed. The beautiful white flowers bloomed from the plant sitting on your bedside table, each petal frosted with mist from the mister hanging on the wall behind it.

Gardenias reminded you of home. They were your grandmother's favorite. There were several large bushes gracing the front yard of her home that rose almost as high as the second story. Whenever you were back home you would make sure that they burst into bloom so she could fill her home with the sweet smelling flowers. It helped you relax and sleep at night, though sometimes it didn't do much to keep the nightmares away.

You hadn't had a good night sleep in a while, but after Ben and you had been up late putting together the bookshelf that stood proudly in the left corner of your bedroom, you were exhausted. Now it was filled with your worn brightly colored paperbacks and covered with a healthy amount of pothos vines as was everything else in your home, but you loved it.

When the delivery men had arrived late yesterday evening and they had been more than willing to carry the couch up the three flights of stairs, but Ben had told them to leave and said "I'm not some kind of pussy that waits for her fucking husband to come home because she needs him to change a lightbulb."

And so they left, leaving Ben and you with the box your unassembled bookshelf came in and a giant three piece couch.

Mike's mother had set up a folding chair with her best friend Mary Ann outside on the sidewalk, drinking glasses of wine and giggling like schoolgirls each time Ben and you came back down to haul another piece of the couch back up into the apartment. He tried to make you sit upstairs and wait for him to bring it in, but you had cussed him out and held up the only finger that mattered.

Putting together the bookshelf hadn't been that much better. Ben had almost broken two of the tiny wooden pegs that secured the back panel all the while cursing under his breath when you tried to show him the instructions.

And being in the presence of the instructions seemed to trigger Ben. It immediately turned the two of you into the couple in the car that bicker over a map before they get murdered in a horror movie.

The shouting got so loud that Mike raced over hopeful that Ben had broken your heart and that he would there to pick up the pieces, while Mike's mother followed in quick pursuit hoping to console Ben.

But when Ben had answered the door sweaty and shirtless- because you'd ripped his shirt on accident when he tried to walk away from you muttering something about "women and their fucking instructions" and you'd grabbed him while shouting "say it to my face you geriatric asshat!"- Mike thought that he had interrupted something else and retreated back to his apartment in shame while his mother stood in the hallway waving a hand in front of her face to calm down.

As annoying as Ben was, you loved the bookshelf. It was perfect for your bedroom and looked a little whimsical, which was how most of your apartment looked with the mismatched vintage furniture, all the plants, and the crocheted blankets. What you couldn't figure out was why he bought it for you.

You had relented on his purchase of the couch, because it did make sense, he was spending the most time on it, but his purchase of the bookshelf confused you. He'd been in your bedroom all of five minutes a few days ago and had only looked at the pile of vine covered books once.

So why did it bother him so much that I had a pile of books on the floor of my bedroom? Why did he have to buy it for me? Why did he care enough to?

No one had ever done that before for you. Your high school boyfriend, Newton, had seen the same pile of books in your bedroom back home every time he came over and never did anything about it, but Ben had only seen it for a moment and remembered.

I don’t understand why he’s acting so nice. You stretch your hands up over your head and begin to get out of bed. Probably because he thinks if he’s nice I’ll sleep with him.

The thought was becoming familiar, but you weren't sure what other reason it could be for. The two of you had nothing in common. He was always angry, sexually forward, annoying, not to mention he was from another century and he didn't understand anything about the present time.

I mean sometimes it's kinda cute how clueless he is about stuff like that. He always gets that adorable frown and- Nope, nope, nope not thinking about that right now.

Bean purrs in agreement with your thought at the end of your bed, stretching his front legs and arching his back. His charcoal fur looks almost silver in the light from the sun that streams through the open window leaving behind the imprint of the brilliant square on your comforter.

Bean had enjoyed watching the two of you put together the bookshelves, well, he enjoyed playing in the box that the bookshelf came in. He ran in and out, back and forth through the openings on both sides of the  box, using it like a tunnel all the while Ben complained over the small screws and even smaller pegs that never seemed to fit where they needed to.

Personally you just think Ben was jealous that you knew how to read the instructions and he didn't.

And last night you understood just how bad Ben was at receiving directions. He had ignored you when you tried to help him, which had lead to the yelling match that Mike walked in on.  

But you still didn’t understand why he cared so much about the pile of books in your bedroom. They'd been sitting there since you moved in, because you hadn't found a proper place for them, not to mention the pile just kept growing.

At least he didn't look too closely at the titles. The last thing I want Ben to know is how many romance novels I read.

You grab a bundle of your clothes and open your bedroom door, while Mike continues to sing "My Girl." You creep down the hallway, intent on taking a shower, but your curiosity gets the better of you, so instead of going to the bathroom, you peek into the living room.

Ben is sitting on the new charcoal couch that you crammed into the room, reading a newspaper and you have no idea where he got it.

Maybe he already left sometime this morning?  Guess he can be quiet when he wants to be.

Bean prances down the hallway behind you and jumps onto the back of the couch, kneading his paws in the soft pillows, before dropping down next to Ben. Ben smiles at the cat and folds the newspaper closed so he can scratch him under the chin.

"Hey buddy." You hear him mutter. "Y/n up yet?"

Bean only purrs and rubs himself further into Ben's hand.

"Don't know how anyone can sleep with that jack-off next door." Ben rolls his eyes, but doesn't raise them from the cat that has begun to crawl into his lap. "Why does she hate me so much?" He whispers to Bean with a sigh.

His question made you freeze where you were standing in the hallway. It was so open, so honest, so completely unlike Ben. It was the last thing you were expecting him to ask your cat, well, honestly you didn't think that he would talk to the cat at all. You suddenly wondered what other things he said about you when you weren't around.

And why does he care so much if I hate him? I mean I don't, he just gets on my nerves constantly, and knows how to press all my buttons.

You liked to think that you were an easy-going person, but Ben drove you crazy. You'd never met anyone who could do that to you before, never allowed yourself to get angry, not even when Poppy Mansfield who put chocolate pudding on your seat at lunchtime when you were in fourth grade and made everyone think you'd pooped your pants. You'd only shrugged and walked to the bathroom, it was Annie who lost it. Annie had grabbed a handful of pudding and smeared it on Poppy's face and earned her the nickname "Poopy Poppy" until she transferred to another school at the end of the year.

But not with Ben, he crawled under your skin and stayed there whenever he teased you . Usually you let insults and teases roll off your back like water off a duck, but not with Ben. He knew what to say to make you lose your temper. You didn't know how he did that.

Not all the time though.

The trip to IKEA had been kind of fun, well, fun until Ben had insulted your boss and when the two of you watched a movie together it was fun.

In fact, the more time you spent with him, the more you were starting to like him. You wish you didn't. It just made everything harder. You remember what he said at the plant shop, tried to burn it into your heart, that he didn't care about feelings or emotions and you did. You wanted to be with someone who cared about that, someone who understood everything about you, and loved you. You wanted love so bad your heart ached sometimes, and yes maybe you read way too many romance novels, but you wanted something like that to happen to you. You wanted to be so wrapped up in someone else that the world faded away, someone kind and sweet, who remembered little things like how much you liked gardenias or how much you loved pineapple iced tea from the place just around the corner and someone who would be okay with sitting on the couch or in bed, with you laying back in their arms while you read your newest book or tried to crochet.

Ben didn't care about any of that, probably what he would call "pussy shit." He just wanted sex, plain and simple, nothing more, nothing less.

And you didn't want just sex.

You didn't want to start something with Ben, develop strong feelings for him, and then only have him push you away as soon as he got what he wanted. You couldn't handle having your heart broken again. Newton had been enough and after him you told yourself you were going to try harder, were going to find someone who saw your self-worth. Of course that had been a few years ago and each year kinda felt like another nail in the coffin when you went on countless dates with people who never seemed to want the same things you did.

Plus, you were sure that Ben was only interested in you because you kept saying no and that made you "exciting" or whatever. So that just meant you were going to have to keep trying to find someone else.

You take a step back into the hallway, creeping further away as silent as possible. You didn't want him to catch you spying on him and you didn't want him to know that you had heard him ask Bean that. You force your door closed, before putting your clothes in the bathroom and shuffling down the hallway, purposely being as loud as you can so Ben can hear you over Mike's inhuman screech.

“Good morning.” You say as you enter the living room, as if it’s the first time.

“Morning Petals.” Ben looks over the back of the couch. He smirks as his eyes trace over your body. “Don’t you look delicious this morning.”

Your shorts were a little shorter than what you usually wore, hitting the middle of your thigh, and the oversized shirt you wore hung over them giving the illusion that you weren't wearing anything underneath it.

He is so confusing sometimes. Maybe he really just doesn't know how to talk to a woman in this century. Did that really work for him before? Does that work with all his dates?

“Thanks.” You say dryly.

Ben’s smirk twitches and something passes through his eyes that looks a little bit like regret, but it’s gone as soon as you see it.

You turn towards the kitchen. You didn’t know what you were looking for, truthfully you were just making conversation because you felt bad about what Ben asked Bean. You didn't know why that hurt you so much for him to think that you hated him, maybe it had something to do with everything that he'd been through. You wave a hand, perking up the plants in the box over the sink and the raspberry and blackberry vines covering the refrigerator to distract yourself.

“Um-“ You begin, but Ben interrupts you.

“There’s coffee in the microwave!” Ben suddenly blurts.

“What?”

Why is it in the microwave? Shouldn't it be in the coffee maker?

You sniff the air for the tell-tale smell of coffee, but smell nothing. A glance in the direction of the coffee maker reveals that the pot is still sparkling clean from when you washed it out last night.

Is he really lying about coffee? It's like he wants me to hate him.

“Um I mean-“ Ben clears his throat. “I got you coffee.”

“You got me coffee?” You parrot, surprised. “When?” You turn to look at him. He's watching you from over the back of the couch and he almost looks a little awkward, like he's not sure where to go from here as if he's not sure what to do when he does something nice for someone.

“I went to get a newspaper and I walked past a coffee shop.” He shrugs as if suddenly uninterested turning back around to face the jasmine covered wall, picking his newspaper up and opening it.

But you have a suspicion that he wasn't actually reading it, that he was just using it as a prop so he didn't have to look at you anymore.

“Oh. Thanks." You open up the microwave and withdrawal the still warm coffee mug taking a sip.

How in the fuck did he know how I like my coffee? You think to yourself, about to do a spit take you were so shocked, because the coffee was perfect. "How did you know-"

"I read the label on the one plant boy bought you the other day." Ben doesn't look up from his newspaper. "Is it… okay?" He asks it tentatively and a little awkward.

"Yeah. It's perfect actually. Thank you." You say it almost robotically. You couldn't believe that he remembered something like that about you. That he actually thought about you when he went to get a newspaper this morning.

He grunts a "You're welcome."

You take another sip and place it back in the microwave. Preparing to go back to take a shower.

"Do you…" Ben clears his throat again. "Do you work today?" He says it hesitantly.

"No. I usually have Friday's off because Annie and I make plans, but this week she cancelled because Hughie got tickets to some concert a few hours away and they're making it a day trip or whatever." You tried not to sound disappointed, but Friday's were usually you and Annie's day. You would plan random trips to shops in NYC, go to brunch, find ridiculous tourist attractions, try new restaurants, or you would go spend the day in Central Park reading. But Friday nights were wine, greasy pizza, sushi, Chinese food, snacks, and movie nights, had been since your parents died. It had been a family tradition before, Friday night films, but when they died Annie took it upon herself to continue it with you because your brother hadn't been willing to. Of course, when you were kids there wasn't wine, there also weren't movies with Glen Powell or Pedro Pascal, but as you grew so did the films and the conversations and the men, but your friendship blossomed with it.

"Oh." Ben leans his head back over the back of the couch, the smirk back in full force. "Well I've got a few ideas for what we could do today. Sounds like you're a little disappointed there Petals. I'm sure I could cheer you up."

You roll your eyes. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Great, I need one too." Ben jumps to his feet, leaving the newspaper on the couch as he turns to follow you.

"Ben." You sigh his name in frustration.

This is exactly what I'm talking about, he does something really nice and then he follows it up immediately by trying to sleep with me. Is that what this is to him? Do something chivalrous to make me like him and then finally let him fuck me?

It made you angry that he believed it would work.

"What? It'll save water and I just want to make you feel better Petals." Ben wiggles his eyebrows. "You sounded so sad when you said that Annie ditched you-"

"She didn't ditch me!" You snap. "She just had plans with Hughie that's all. And I can't believe you!"

"What the hell did I do?"

"You think that doing something like buying me coffee will get me to sleep with you."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about! You're trying to act all chivalrous and nice just so that you can get me to finally sleep with you. But I'm not going to fall for it Gramps! I am not going to sleep with you just because you do one nice thing for me or try to pretend to care about me." You turn and stomp down the hallway, leaving Ben absolutely speechless in the living room.

When you get in the bathroom you blast your ABBA Gold Album from your Bluetooth speaker to drown out Mike's singing and to drown out your insane internal monologue. And when the music doesn't work, you start to sing the lyrics to the familiar songs letting the melodies soothe you.

You’d liked ABBA since you were a kid. Your mom would listen to it when she was cooking in the large kitchen in your childhood home and when your father got home from work at the end of the day he’d creep up behind her and pull her away from the stove for an impromptu dance.

Your childhood was filled with so much love from two people that were absolutely head over heels. And it made you want that too. It’s why you wouldn’t give in to Ben, because the memories of your parents and the love they shared still warmed your heart years after you’d last seen them.

You dry your hair with a towel, continuing to sing as you dress in your jeans and t-shirt, hoping that you could just escape the apartment by going to Central Park and read on your favorite bench to avoid seeing Ben. You were maybe a little embarrassed that you had yelled at him again. You never intended to.

Maybe I can just creep past him.

You think to yourself as you open the door of the bathroom, but as you step into the hallway you trip over something big on the ground and begin to pitch forward with a started screech. The thing you tripped on catches you so that you fall directly into Ben's lap, your legs on either side of his thighs. You realize that it was Ben you tripped on, who had decided to lounge with his back against one of the walls of the hallway, his legs bent at the knee, directly outside of the small bathroom.

As you fall into his lap, your hands land on his shoulders grabbing tightly in fear and surprise, while his hands catch your hips, pushing up the shirt you had just changed into enough that his hands are resting on a sliver of skin that peeks between your shirt and your favorite pair of jeans.

You weren't expecting it to feel so damn good for his skin to touch yours, to feel the roughness of his hands against the soft skin of your hips. Your hands are still gripping his shoulders tightly, heart thrumming in your veins as you lock eyes with him, adrenaline from the fall still rushing through your veins. He looks as surprised as you do. His face is so close that you can feel his breath on your lips, his body warm and hard beneath yours, and it's making you have flashbacks of the other night when he kissed you in front of Mike, when Ben crushed you against him and kissed you with so much passion that you couldn't equate it to anything else you'd ever felt in your entire life.

You weren't about to admit that aloud, that the kiss you shared with Ben was the best one you'd ever had. And you weren't going to admit that if he kissed that good, you were betting that he would be the best you ever had at other things too. Newton hadn't exactly been a Casanova, and you'd hoped that Newton would have gotten at least a little better at some things the more you two were intimate, he hadn't. You'd also hoped that Newton would have been more concerned about you the closer the two of you were, but each time you were a little disappointed and he was, well, happy.

No. Not thinking about sex right now, not when I'm sitting on top of Ben for fucks sake.

That was a little detail that you were trying very hard to ignore, but it was difficult, not when you could feel everything that made Ben-ahem- Ben, beginning to get interested in your position on top of him.

Ben's eyes are dark, focused on your face, an emotion swimming behind them that makes something snag under your ribs and try to yank you forward, to close the distance between the two of you. His eyes flick from your eyes to your mouth for just a millisecond, moving his face an inch forward, just enough that you can feel the warmth of his lips, but they still do not touch.

"Ben what are you doing on the ground?" You say leaning back to lengthen the distance between your faces, but you can't force your voice into more than a hoarse whisper.

"Dropped my keys." He lies.

"Ben?"

Ben hesitates for a moment. "You've got a pretty voice, wanted to hear better." He admits under his breath, looking as if you caught him with a baseball bat outside your broken kitchen window.

What?

You could feel yourself flushing to the roots of your hair. You'd forgotten that he could hear you in the shower and forgotten that his hearing was so good that he’d be able to pick up what was Mike and what was you. “I’m sorry if it was too loud-“

“No. It was nice.” The end of his mouth twitches in half smile, eyes twinkling impishly. “I’d never tell a woman she was being too loud. I like that doll."

You roll your eyes at him, but his comment doesn’t annoy you this time. You wondered if that was because you were getting used to him and the way he was.

You wanted to kiss him so badly that your lips were aching. He always looked so good and right now was not an exception. Some of his dark hair had fallen forward over his forehead and your fingers itched to push it back, to drag your fingertips over his skin and feel the dips and grooves of his handsome face. The smell of his shampoo was everywhere, spicy and familiar in the best way.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.” You whisper. Your hands hands have fallen from his shoulders to rest against the front of his shirt. You don’t really remember when you did that, just that now you can feel the warmth of his chest and the subtle beating of his heart in the palms of your hands. “I think I am kind of upset that Annie cancelled on me today.”

“It’s okay, I'm used to it." Ben's hands are still on you waist, firmly keeping you on top of him. “You always seem to yell at me.”

"Shut up I do not yell at you that much." You laugh, pushing back on his chest playfully.

Ben smiles, but then you watch it drop.

“Look I didn’t get you coffee because I thought it would make you let me fuck you. I got it because you always say you need it to deal with me.” The way he says it breaks something, because he sounds almost sad and you’d never heard him sound that way before. “And I figured that I would see you today and that you’d need it.” He drops his gaze to where your hands are placed on his chest. He’s watching them curiously, like he can’t quite understand it.

Honestly you couldn’t understand what was going on either. Ben was holding you gently, almost reverently on his lap. It was odd. You’d never seen him be this way with anyone.

“Ben-“ You sigh. “I need coffee to deal with everyone, not just you. You’re not special.” You joke to get him to smile again, but he doesn’t instead he continues to look at your hands.

“Hey.” You whisper and this time your hand drifts softly to Ben’s cheek holding his gaze on you. His eyes widen slightly with your bold touch. “Ben I don’t hate you. I just-“

 There’s a loud frantic knocking at the front door that startles you off of Ben and on to the ground beside him.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Ben asks as he stands up and holds out his hand to help you.

“Um- no actually.” You reply taking it.

The frantic knocking starts again.

“Do you think it’s Mike checking to see if we broke up again?” Ben snorts.

“I think it might be his mom hoping you answer the door shirtless. Almost gave that poor woman a heart attack.” You start to walk through the living room.

“I remember you having a similar reaction a few days ago Petals.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Though I will say if you ever decided to walk around the apartment shirtless I’d be perfectly okay with that.”

“I did not. And I’m sure you would.” You roll your eyes. “But I doubt you’d be okay with letting me answer the door like that since you seem to be so jealous. Are all the men from your generation so possessive of women they can’t have? Or is it just you?”  You tease, remembering how he reacted yesterday afternoon at IKEA in front of Jake.

You doubted that he was jealous. Ben didn’t have anything to be jealous about. He seemed to be plenty happy with the women he found on tinder and you thought it was ridiculous that he needed to have you too.

You glance back over your shoulder to look at Ben seeing if he’s preparing another insult. He’s gone stick straight, his jaw clenched tightly, eyes dark, frown deepening.

Shit I was just kidding but-

You turn back to look at the door but can’t fight the tight feeling that rose in your chest when he looked at you like that.

Get a grip.

You interrupt the next bout of frantic knocking by opening the door.

A man in a rumpled navy suit stands out side the door, a bright blue quilted baby bag covered in elephants hangs from his left shoulder, a little girl holds on to his left hand, while a little boy screams shrilly and hangs from his right arm.

“Mr. Wilson- hi-“ You stutter, surprised. “Are you alright? Here-“ You reach to take his almost one year old son, Josh, from his arms. Josh continues to wail loudly, shaking his head back and forth.

“Can you please watch the kids?!” He says eyes frantically looking around the apartment behind you and focusing on Ben.

Mr. Wilson was another one of your neighbors, but he and his wife lived on the fifth floor. You’d met the Wilson’s by accident when Martha, the five year old holding on to his left hand wearing a bright pink tutu, decided to ride the elevator down to the lobby all by herself and met you while you were moving all your stuff into your apartment. She’d declared you her best friend as soon as she saw the colorful assortment of flowering plants you were lugging through the lobby of your apartment building in a cardboard box. You’d babysit for the Wilson’s sometimes when they needed a few quiet moments alone and on date nights. Not to mention they had a ton of money and paid almost five times per hour the amount you made in an hour working at “Please Don’t Die.”

Josh wails, his face turning bright red, so loud that Ben flinches behind you. You remember what he said about the supe that blew out his eardrums and can't help but feel a little sorry for him. Your own hearing was only a little better than other people's, but not enough to be as bothered as Ben.

“Hey little guy, its okay.” You coo gently bouncing Josh on your hip to make him stop crying. He sniffles and wraps his arms around your neck, gurgling quietly as he catches his breath.

“Y/n!” Martha shouts putting your right leg in a choke hold.

“Hi Marty.” You smile down at her, adjusting your weight so you don’t drop Josh. You look up at her father. “Mr. Wilson, I'm just not sure that now is the right time."

You think about Ben standing behind you and how horrified he looked when the children descended upon you, as if they were ticking time bombs. You weren't sure if you wanted Ben around kids, or if he had ever been around children before. He wasn't the best influence, not to mention you didn't think that he would be able to filter what he said or what he did around the,

“My wife she just-“ He swallows brown eyes wide. “She just went into labor."

"Oh. OH. Well-"

They had been expecting their third child for a while now, something that had resulted from you taking care of Josh and Martha more and more, and Mr. Wilson's promotion at work. You had learned before Mr. Wilson by accident when you reached down to pick up Josh's binky that was on the ground and your ear brushed against Mrs. Wilson's almost completely flat stomach and you heard the heartbeat.

“Please! I’ll pay you triple the hourly rate and her mother will be here tonight to take over for you.” The man looks close to getting on his knees and begging you. "You won't have them for long-"

Have a heart she’s going in to labor. What else is this poor man going to do? Drag the kids there with him? A part of you whispers. But then they'd be stuck here with Ben all day long. Well, maybe he will leave.

“Okay.” You relent with a sigh.

“Thank you!” Mr. Wilson exclaims shoving the bag into your free arm and then disappears from the doorway without saying goodbye to his children, but you were going to cut him some slack. You understood that when a woman went into labor most men didn't understand what to do with that information.

Shit. You grit your teeth to avoid saying it aloud when taking the bag throws you off balance. With one kid still hanging from your leg and the other one hanging from your neck, it was difficult to maneuver with the bag too.

Ben’s hand appears in your line of vision and he takes the bag, practically with one pinky.

“Show off.” You mutter, but turn your attention to the little girl hanging from your leg.

“I want a flower crown!” Martha crows.

“Okay sweetie just give me one second.” You take another step with her holding on to your leg.

“Now!”

“Martha.” Your voice turns stern as you look down at her and she pouts. "Please let me get Josh situated first."

“Fine.” She pouts and lets go of your leg.

The relief you feel is quickly overshadowed by Ben standing there, holding the diaper bag out from his body like it’ll bite him. Honestly you wished you had your phone ready to take a photo of Ben holding the bag, and then use it as blackmail.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ben asks looking down at the two children confused.

“Shh language!” You snap, eyes widening as you look down at Martha and Josh. Josh has begun to pull your hair from the ponytail at the back of your neck.

"What language?"

You give Ben a death stare wincing when Josh yanks the hair tie out. Martha has let go of your leg and is looking up at Ben with the same fascination that you'd seen her look at Prince Charming from Cinderella.

Guess it works on girls of all ages.

You think about telling her that Ben might be charming from a distance, but he isn't anything like a prince. Honestly, you were more worried that Ben was going to act like a total dick and crush this little girl's heart.

"Hi." She waves her hand at him. "I'm Marty."

Ben stares down at her, as if he's deciding whether or not to say his name aloud. "Ben." His eyes flick back to yours. "What are you doing?"

"We have had the money conversation many times, but I guess you must be getting forgetful in your old age, so we can have it again." You smirk. "Some of us weren’t born with a silver spoon in our mouths or have a trust fund. I don’t have money, therefore, I babysit to get some extra cash sometimes. Hence the children.” You wave your free hand commanding the vines to open up the pantry and grab Josh's high chair out to set up for you. "I told you that I work several jobs."

"What do you mean several? You said that you worked for Butcher and plant guy." Ben huffs, still holding the bag.

"You know his name is Jake. And we live in America if you can't remember. You know? America home of the free, home of the brave single woman trying to make ends meet and pay for her crappy apartment by working fifty million jobs?" You begin to buckle Josh in to the high-chair. "But thanks for showing me how to fix the plumbing under the sink. Definitely going to add that to my job application.

"How many jobs do you have?"

"I mean it’s really what I do when I’m not working for Butcher. I works at the plant shop, I babysit, sometimes I’m a dog walker, oh and there’s this senior living facility a few blocks over that I run errands for when the people living there need me."

"You run errands for senior citizens? What kind of fucking person does that?"

"LANGUAGE! And this freaking person does that thank you. It's not all that bad. Plus I thought you were going to act like them when I first met you, but you are more h-a-n-d-s-y." You spell it out because you don't want the kids to say it. "Oh and I'm also a gardener."

"A gardener?"

"Sometimes." You shrug. "But now that you've met the kids, it's time for you to go."

“What?”

"I don't want him to go." Martha stomps her little foot enclosed in a bright pink sparkly flat.

You ignore her and reach for the table part of the high chair, strapping Josh in. He's wearing an adorable pair of overalls and a teddy bear t-shirt underneath. Despite his early hissy fit in his father's arms, Josh is smiling happily at you, his wild curly black hair sticking up in different directions. “I’m not going to let you be around a kid. You're barely on your best behavior around me."

“What do you think I’m gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Smoke a doobie, roll a doobie, make horrible life choices, drink, curse-“ You cross your arms over your chest and turn to face him, raising an eyebrow.

“You really don’t see me in a positive light.” He smirks at you. It's hard for him to pull off when he's still holding the bright blue bag covered in elephants. It was quilted, probably a knock off Vera Bradley, which only made you wish for your phone even more.

“No I do not.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Fine, just go watch TV in my room. But if you start going through my underwear drawer I swear I will cut off your D-I-C-K.” You spell the word and narrow your eyes, letting them flash bright green to emphasize your point.

Martha is still staring up at Ben, upset at the idea that he's going to go anywhere. "Wait y/n! Please let him stay, he can help me braid Betty's hair!" Betty was Martha's favorite doll, one that you were sure was in the sparkly backpack that hung across her back. Another photo opportunity you did not want to miss.

“I don’t want to go in there.” Ben states.

“Well that’s the first time you’ve ever said that. Usually you’re all for going in my room.” You huff, before turning to look down at Martha. "Alright, you want jasmine like last time? Or do you want some Lavender too?"

"Strawberries!" Martha exclaims.

"Strawberries!" Josh echoes, mashing his meaty fist on the tray not quite comprehending.

"Alright, but you remember. Our little secret right?"

Martha and Josh's parents didn't know you were a supe, they figured that you really liked plants and that Martha's occasional flower crowns came from you manually making them, not from you waving your hand and watching the stems weave together. You weren't sure how the Wilson's would react to finding out that you were a supe. They were more straight laced than you.

Probably also wouldn't like Ben hanging around if they knew who he really was. Actually I'm surprised that Mr. Wilson didn't ask more questions about Ben when he saw him.

Martha nods eagerly.

"Secret?" Ben asks.

"The Wilson's don't know I'm a supe." You murmur so only Ben can hear plucking a strawberry from the plant on your kitchen table. Secretly it was your favorite plant and it was much older than all the others in your apartment, encased in a hand-painted pot.

It was the first plant that you ever grew, sprouted from the chopped strawberries on your high chair tray when you were nine months old. Your parents had potted it inside the house and since then it had never wilted, and it never would. It meant everything to you, weird as that may be, strawberries were like a good luck charm and the plant that sat on your threadbare circular kitchen table was the symbol of your origin story.

"What do they think all the plants are?"

"They just think I like plants." Your eyes are glowing bright green allowing the strawberry in your hands begin to grow a stem and leaves, the stems weaving together to form a circle, sprouting small white flowers that ripen into red fruit, delicately intertwining to create the crown that Martha wants.

She squeals happily when you put it on her head and dances past Ben into the living room on tip-toe.

"You want one too Gramps?" You smirk at Ben.

"Tempting, but no."

"Alright." You look back at Josh, who has begun to chew on his chubby fist. "Are you hungry? I think you're hungry." You turn to look at Ben who is watching Martha do a mock impression of a ballerina with a horrified expression. "Ben can I see the bag?"

His head snaps in your direction. “Why?”

“Because it’s a magical bag with baby food in it.”

He holds it out and you snatch  it away.

“Geez. Calm down Petals.” Ben leans against the counter behind you watching you  methodically take out the jars. “Now what?”

“Well Sherlock, I’m going to feed the baby.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I know! I know!” Martha screams jumping up with her hand in the air. “Oh please!”

You bite back the urge to laugh. “Yes Marty?” You act as if you're calling on her in class.

“He can help me make friendship bracelets!”

Ben scoffs and rolls his eyes while crossing his arms over his chest. “Like hell I’m gonna-“

*Twenty Minutes Later*

“Please tie another knot for me.”

“No.” Ben grunts

"You're funny." Martha laughs and hands Ben the elastic string so she can start another friendship bracelet.

She was wearing the one that she had spent the last twenty minutes on, a string of bright pink, light pink,  hot pink beads, and white pearly stars broken up by the name Marty. Ben had sat there the whole time next to her, pouting while occasionally throwing angry looks at you like it was your fault.

It's not.

You couldn’t understand why he stayed. You figured that he would leave to go on a date or try to escape as soon as Martha mentioned the words "friendship bracelet," but he hadn’t. He sat there at the kitchen table with Martha, whose little legs hung over the front of her chair, her face tight with concentration as she made friendship bracelets.

You’d taken two photos and you were very excited. But you’d been more focused on feeding Josh. He was still eating bits of strawberry and watermelon, but you would give him the occasional bite of teether.

Ben had looked like he was going to throw up when you broke off a piece for yourself.

It wasn't that bad. Kinda like eating a piece of flavored cardboard.

"You really like the watermelon huh?" You ask Josh taking another piece from the plastic container and cutting it up so it's small enough for him to eat.

"Waa waa." Josh mumbles picking up another piece. The red sticky juice was running down his little arms and each time you tried to wipe him off he would scream "No!"

You figured that he had learned that from Martha.

You hold out the circular Tupper-ware of watermelon out to Ben, who takes a piece, still frowning at you the whole time.

He's got to lighten up.

“Benny pick a color for me!” Martha says shuffling her fingers through the organized little boxes of her friendship bracelet kit, the beads rustling loudly against the plastic sides.

"It's Ben."

"Benny!" She whines. "Pick a color."

Ben sighs heavily as if she’d asked him to stab himself. He was probably considering that to get out of this hell. “Green.”

“Light green or dark green?”

“I don’t give a-“

“Ben.” You growl under your breath staring at him.

He sighs again sinking lower in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. “Dark green.”

When Martha finishes the bracelet it has light green, dark green, and black beads with brilliant pearly white stars and the name Ben spelled out on the strand. She hands it to him. “This is for you. Now we’re best friends forever.” Her face turns serious. “Guard it with your life.”

Ben holds the bracelet between his thumb and index finger, frowning down at it. For a second you hope that he’s not going to throw it away in front of Martha. You noticed that she was trying to impress him the best she could and even you had to admit that her bracelet making skills were unmatched. You were also a little jealous. She didn’t make one for you.

But then Ben does something you didn’t think you’d ever see him do, but puts it on. “Thanks.” He grunts and Martha’s smile is so wide you’re sure it would blind anyone in a ten mile radius.

You’re surprised, so surprised that you drop the watermelon you had been holding on the ground.

What in the actual fuck is happening? He’s being so nice to her.

“Y/n, pick a color!” Martha shouts handing Ben another piece of elastic to tie a knot in.

“Um- light green.” You say, but you can't look away from Ben.

Am I hallucinating?

You were so shocked at his behavior. Yes he was still being a little bit of a dick, but he hadn't done anything that bad in the time that the children had been here, just occasionally curse.

The bracelet that Martha makes you looks a bit like Ben’s, except you have light green, dark green, purple, and black beads with white pearly stars broken up by your name.

"Thank you Marty." You smile at her and roll it on your wrist.

"Y/n?"

"Yes sweetie?"

"I have to go to the bathroom." She stands from the chair and hops from foot to foot. "I don't want to go by myself, the hallway is scary!"

"Oh okay." As soon as you get up Josh begins to wail, face turning bright red as he does, pounding his little fists against the tray of the high chair, sending pieces of strawberry and watermelon flying everywhere.

Oh shit.

"Hey it's okay Joshie." You unclip him from the high chair and pull him into your arms, bouncing him to make him stop crying.

"Y/nnnnnnnnnn!" Martha whines, continuing to hop from foot to foot. "I really have to go."

"Well I- um." Your eyes dart to where Ben is still sitting at the kitchen table, cringing slightly when Josh gives another particularly loud wail.

Am I really about to do this?

"Ben can you take him for just a second."

"What?" Ben's eyes widen.

"Please? I have to take Marty to the bathroom."

"She can't go by herself? Suck it up or whatever?"

"It's dark Benny!" Martha cries, peering around him down the hallway. "I don't want to go by myself."

"But-" Ben begins to say.

"Please Ben." You plead.

He curses under his breath. "Fine." He stands up and takes Josh from your arms, holding him away from his body in the air with both hands like Josh is a live grenade, which only makes him scream louder.

Martha grabs your hand and begins to drag you down the hallway, while Ben grimaces at the wriggling child in his arms. "Try holding him against your chest." You say to him as Martha continues to pull you towards your small bathroom.

I am definetly getting a night light for this hallway. Then again, she doesn't even like it when the lights are on. She said that the yellow glow looked "creepy." But I don't think I should leave Josh alone with Ben. What if he drops him or kills him or- shit why did I do this.

As soon as Martha is finished and has washed her hands you return to the kitchen prepared for the worst, but then you see Ben. His back is to you, but he's gently bouncing Josh in his arms who giggles happily over Ben's shoulder at you.

"See you just need to man up." You hear Ben say. "The ladies don't like a man who cries kid, take it from me."

You smile to yourself. And if you thought that Ben was gorgeous before, Ben standing with a baby making a baby smile, makes something primal at the back of your mind begin to stir and unfortunately makes every plant in your general vicinity burst into bloom. The smell of gardenia, hibiscus, honeysuckle, and lavender hitting you in a strong wave as they do. You weren't sure what instinct it was, all you knew was that the image of Ben and the baby would be very  difficult to wipe from your mind.

"Did you miss me Benny?" Martha shouts coming up behind him, her strawberry crown still perched over her dark braids.

"Um." Ben turns around to look at where you're standing at the edge of the kitchen. He looks a little sheepish, like he didn't want you to catch him with a kid.

That's understandable. Hughie told me how he reacted to seeing a diaper commercial. The guy just doesn't seem to be the most gentle or really loving. And yet look at how he is with Josh.

"Of course he did Marty." You smile rubbing her back. "Right?"

"Sure." Ben sighs, but then he lifts his gaze back up to you. "You shouldn't call her that." Ben grunts.

"Why not?"

"You keep calling her a man's name and everyone is gonna think she's a boy."

You kick Ben hard in the shin.

"Ow. What the fu-" Ben snaps, eyes blazing.

"Marty, why don’t you pick out a movie you want to watch, anything you want." You smile sweetly at her, ignoring Ben's angry glare.

"Anything I want?" She exclaims, eyes bright.

"Anything you want."

She squeals happily and runs to the couch, disrupting Bean who had been watching with contempt from the cushions that line the back. He didn't like the kids as much as Ben did. Bean leaps off the couch and vanishes down the hallway before Martha can catch him.

"I call her that because she asked  me to Ben. Don’t say things like that to a five-year old. In fact don't stuff like that at all. It's 2024 not 1920."

"What does that mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean." You frown at him.

"Fine." Ben huffs and rolls his eyes.

"Why are you still here? I thought that you were going to go on a date or whatever it is you do when you're not being forced to work for Butcher?" You say taking Josh from Ben, who fights you as you rub a wipe against his sticky cheeks.

"I didn't want you to be outnumbered Petals." Ben smirks.

"Uh-huh. Sure. Admit it, you really wanted a friendship bracelet."

Ben leans closer to whisper in your ear. "As soon as she leaves, this is going in the trash."

But for some reason you don’t believe him, but at the same time you didn't care, because you had photo evidence on your phone of Soldier Boy  making friendship bracelets.

The opening song of Frozen begins to play from the tv behind you and you smile mischievously at Ben.

Now he's in for it.

"You're gonna wish you left Gramps." You snort.

"What do you mean-" Ben starts to say.

And then Martha begins to sing.

After a stunning  and masterful performance of the Frozen movie done by Martha that included singing, dancing, and screaming the dialogue back at the tv, followed by Frozen 2, both Josh and Martha have fallen asleep just as the Aristocats began to play, leaving you and Ben to sit in the blessed silence of your apartment with the movie playing quietly in the background.

You were all sitting on the couch, Josh was sleeping on top of you, his little head buried in your left shoulder, while Martha curled up beside you, covered in one of your crochet blankets. Ben was sitting on the other side of Martha, leaning back and avoiding any contact with her feet that occasionally twitched while she slept, scrolling on his phone.

As much as Ben had hated the performance, you think that he might have actually liked Frozen. He'd noted that Elsa was hot, which Martha didn't quite understand and stated "No silly she's cold."

But then Ben followed up the observation by saying "You know, I knew this supe that looked exactly like her, who did this thing with her tong-" and you'd clamped your hand over his mouth and hissed "the kids are too young for that. Frankly I am too." Ben had only smirked at you and for the first time since you'd seen him do that, you smiled.

You didn't think that Ben had been paying attention, given that he had been scrolling on his phone through the entire movie, but he was. Because when Hans betrayed Anna Ben muttered "what a dick" under his breath.

Butcher had called during Frozen 2 and Ben had taken it in the hallway, filling you in quietly when he got back. Tomorrow Butcher wanted the two of you to infiltrate the party and see if the supe showed up to steal any of the cars.

It sounded like a solid plan, but it also meant that you were going to be on a mission alone with Ben, wearing God knows what. The last time Frenchie had stolen a dress for you wear on a mission, you'd practically had a heart attack when you first put it on and then made Annie go instead. You hoped that this time Frenchie got you something a little more, you. But you doubted it.

Plus the whole idea is to not be you genius.

“You’re really good with them.” Ben murmurs from his seat on the other side of the couch interrupting your chain of thought.

“You sound surprised.” You whisper back gently rubbing Josh's back with your hand. “And here I thought you were going to make a misogynistic comment about me having to be good with kids because I’m a woman.”

“I thought about it.” He shrugs shooting you an easy grin that makes you roll your eyes.

“Wouldn’t have expected anything less Gramps.”

You'd be lying if you said you weren't enjoying Ben try to act normal around the children. You liked watching him be all uncomfortable and awkward, especially because he prided himself on being a "big strong man." It was the same look he got in his eyes whenever Mike's mother cornered him.

“So have you been around kids before?” He asks.

“No. I never had any younger siblings, just my older brother. Were you ever around kids?”

You barely knew anything about Ben or his life before becoming Soldier Boy, just all the propaganda that Vought fabricated about his early life. He had called you guarded but he definitely seemed to keep everything closer to his chest. Sometimes you found yourself wishing that he would tell you more. You wanted to know more about him, but another part of you told you that it was a bad idea. You were getting too close to Ben, developing feelings for him, and you knew that it wouldn’t end well.

“Not people I knew. Vought used to send me on tours around America, talking to assemblies at schools.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Do you-“ Ben pauses considering. “Like kids?”

“I mean I like that I get paid to watch them but-“ You look down at the children quietly sleeping between the two of you. “I like these two. I think it kinda depends on the kid.”

He nods and turns his head back towards the tv. Thomas O'Malley has started his song, sauntering along to the tune.

Is it wrong that I think Ben has Thomas O'Malley vibes? Or Kovu from Lion King 2 vibes?

You thought about texting Annie that exact question, but you didn't want to tell her how you spent your day babysitting with Ben. You knew that it would only bring on another onslaught of photoshopped baby pictures and potential baby names.

“Do you want kids?”

“Huh?” You glance over at Ben who is watching you curiously. He was doing that thing again where he acted completely different than how he acted around the team, had been doing it all day long.

“Um-“ You contemplate. “I’m not sure. I’m kinda young or well in my head I am. I think I’d want to wait a little bit.”

“But you do?” He presses.

Why does he want to know that so badly?

“I kinda see myself as a mom.”

Ben’s eyes are studying you. “I think you’d be a good mom.”

The compliment makes you inhale in surprise. Ben had been acting weird all day long, being nice to Martha, wearing the bracelet she made him, sitting with her to watch a movie and listening to her recount the lore behind it. He was being uncharacteristically patient and kind. For another moment you see the possibility of Ben being more than just an angry, horny, jerk, and you try hard not to give in.

“Do you want kids?” You whisper back.

Ben’s expression darkens and he turns back towards the tv, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t say anything for a good two minutes, the silence awkwardly growing between the two of you. “I did.”

“With Countess right?”

He looks at you surprised.

“Hughie told me.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m sorry Ben.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You’re not the bi-“ He stops and looks down at the kids who are still sleeping silently. “You’re not her, Petals. You don’t have to be.”

“I know that, but still. What she did was shitty.” You whisper the curse word. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

It was the first time you’d said that to Ben. The first time the two of you would have a conversation about his life before you met him, the life that he seemed to want to forget. You couldn't blame him for that. In fact, the two of you had barely talked before these past few days other than the occasional tease or Ben’s attempt to get you into bed with him. And it was actually kind of nice, learning more about him.

Josh gurgles quietly and you adjust him in your arms, gently rocking him for a moment. Martha stirs but then leans further against your right arm cuddling up against it.

Ben watches you for a minute with the same expression he has when he seems to be unable to understand you and then the mask slips for just a moment, enough for you to see something genuine in his eyes. "Thank you." He murmurs.

"You’re welcome." You reply with a small smile as you turn back to watch the movie, aware of Ben's gaze on you.  "Then again I should be thanking you. I couldn't have made it through today without that coffee."

Ben chuckles and leans back against the couch cushions. "You're welcome Petals."

Mr. Wilson's mother in-law shows up to take the kids just as the movie finishes. Ben and you stand there for a moment in the aftermath taking a breath and when you smile at him, Ben actually smiles back.

But before you can ask Ben if he wants to order a pizza or something, he states that he has a date and not to wait up for him as he shrugs into his leather jacket.

And when he goes you try not to notice how quiet the apartment is and how empty it seems without him in it.

A/N: Alright the angst will begin to come NEXT chapter, probably, I promise... I just couldn't get this silly little idea out of my head and I thought why not?

As always thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist or if I missed you on the taglist please let me know :)

Taglist:

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@faephoria @possiblyafangirl @jqtaro @quietlybitchy @tinydancer40

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@acciosherlockholmes @minas-fantasies @fireskyy

[lisired]

supermodel

pairing: photographer!haechan x (f) model!reader

genre/warnings: smut, angst, hollywood!au, photographer!haechan, model!reader, descriptions of vomiting, fluff, unsolicited comments, mentions of alcohol use (not while expectant)

summary: Five years ago, you left your hometown and ex to recreate your identity in California. Now, you're a staple of the fashion industry and on the front cover of magazines everywhere. Your hard work has paid off, but when you realize that you might be pregnant, you have to decide whether you want to be a full-time model or a full-time mother.

word count: 23k

a/n: at last, here she is! thank you for your patience, i know it was a long wait. this is a sequel to love jones. as always, feedback is appreciated!

Smiling from ear to ear, the giddy butterflies in the pit of your stomach just wouldn’t leave. Given that they’d been there for five years, it was safe to assume they never would. 

Five years of romance. To celebrate, you and your boyfriend decided on cooking your own dinner at home. Your boyfriend was not an attentive cook (a couple of distracted incidents and he was strictly prohibited and sidelined from food preparation duties) which made the night both fun and a nightmare. 

When Haechan asked you for dinner suggestions, you were very adamant that you wanted lobster. Which surprised him, given that you’d been to a handful of seafood restaurants and you never expressed a taste for lobster, though he reckoned you wanted to be fancy for your five-year anniversary. 

“Baby,” you whined. “Is it just me, or is it really hot in here?”

“It’s hot because you’re here,” Haechan flirted in a heartbeat. Some things never changed. 

You rolled your eyes, whining, “Seriously. Aren’t you about to burn up? I feel like I’m going to die.”

“Only thing I feel like I might die of is hypothermia. If anything, it’s kinda cold to me, baby.”

You frowned, finding that questionably odd. You had already taken off his insulating leather jacket, left in nothing but a tank top, and you didn’t want to remove any other layers in fear of getting lobster juice all over yourself. Maybe it was a metabolism thing. 

Haechan pointed to your wine glass with his own. “Aren’t you going to drink that? You always want wine.”

Glancing down, you noticed your filled wine glass that you had hardly touched. Even when you were out celebrating with your agent and a couple of other staff, you declined the offer for wine. Your agent was shocked. She knew you loved to get wine drunk. “Not really in the mood.”

If your boyfriend thought that something was out of the ordinary, he didn’t say anything. 

After a while, you started to forget about your suspicious behavior. Time quickly lost its meaning as you chatted with Haechan, running your mouths like the two people who never shut up that you were. To this day you still perfectly matched each other’s energy. Five years down, a lifetime left to go. 

You were twenty-six now, Haechan twenty-eight. Though your grandmother liked to joke that you were catching up to her, sometimes you didn’t feel like you were pushing thirty. Notably when you were with Haechan. His ability to make you feel like a teenager in love needed to be studied.  

In those five years, not only had you developed your relationship with the love of your life, but you also made your name known within the industry. Of course, your success wasn’t without a couple of setbacks and near career-ending allegations, but you somehow came out on top in the end. 

Haechan also had a lucrative career. From being hired to take pictures of lowkey performers on tour to becoming a chief photographer with his own studio that worked with wealthy media moguls, he had obviously come extremely far. And he was only getting more popular amongst affluent patrons. 

All in the span of five years. You never would have guessed. Five years ago, you lived in a condo downtown. Now, you lived in a comfortable house with Haechan and you couldn’t be happier. 

Out of nowhere, you started to feel as if you were going to be sick. You stood from the table, muttering “bathroom” when your boyfriend tossed you a baffled look. 

Haechan let you be. He figured you just had to pee. You were doing that more often for whatever reason. 

Though you tried to be indifferent about the sudden involuntary motions in your stomach, you were quick to make a beeline for the bathroom in fear of vomiting all over the floor. 

You headed straight for the toilet and kneeled on the floor, bracing your hands on the seat while you retched and dry-heaved into the bowl. Your mouth felt almost painfully dry afterwards and all you could taste was the scorching feeling of bile. 

This was absolutely ridiculous and you didn’t understand what was happening to you. Though you weren’t particularly a fan of lobster, you could usually handle seafood. Maybe having Haechan help you cook wasn’t the smartest idea. 

Speak of the devil, he called from the other side of the door, “Baby, you good in there?”

“Uh, no,” you muttered just loud enough for his ears. 

Haechan’s voice sounded alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Wincing at the sight of greenish-yellow vomit, you flushed the toilet and stood to vigorously wash your hands. “I kinda threw up.”

“What? Was it something you ate? Baby, I love your cooking, but I’ve been trying to tell you that all that butter is not good for your stomach.”

“I really don’t think that’s the problem,” you droned irritably. 

Haechan joked, “What - are you pregnant or something?”

Something about those words made you freeze right in the middle of drying your hands with paper towels. Pregnant, you realized. It was all coming back to you. Haechan fucked you raw not too long ago. And you couldn’t remember the last time you had a period. 

Silence was never a good thing for either of you and the worry was evident in Haechan’s voice. “Baby, you’re not actually pregnant. Right?”

Your eyes were wide as you exclaimed, “I don’t know!”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you said shakily. 

The door opened, Haechan revealing himself. He was quick to notice the panic on your face and grabbed your hand in his, crooning, “Baby, talk to me. What’s going on?”

You inhaled a deep breath through your nose, exhaling one large puff of air. “Okay, remember I had my IUD removed?”

Haechan’s brows furrowed. “Uh huh.”

“And then I went off the pill because they were giving me migraines,” you added frantically. 

“Yeah, so we started using condoms.”

“Right,” you said, nodding your head. “But that one time we ran out…”

Haechan continued, “And you begged me to fuck you anyway?”

“That’s not the point,” you hissed. “The point is we had sex without a condom, I don’t remember having a period, and now I’m puking everywhere.”

“Well, if two plus two equals four…,” Haechan trailed. 

You snapped, “Can you be serious for once?”

Haechan grabbed your wrist, kissing the back of your hand tenderly to console you. “I am being serious. I think we should buy a pregnancy test or ten. Just to be certain.”

You reminded, “It’s late. All the pharmacies are closed.”

“Then, we go first thing tomorrow,” was Haechan’s solution. 

His touches were enough to ease your mind for a little. You nodded in acceptance, taking a deep breath and closing your eyes. This was a frightening moment and you were glad that you weren’t alone. 

As soon as the following day, you and Haechan were on your way to a local pharmacy on his motorbike. His red motorbike, might you add. Though the sleek black one was directly involved in a number of good memories, one too many stunts had maimed her. You surprised him with another one for his birthday last year and he fell in love without a second thought. 

The pharmacy was busy at this hour. Though Haechan’s suggestion of getting ten pregnancy tests was somewhat dramatic, you did make sure to grab a couple packs of two. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all. 

You rushed to the bathroom the second you were back home, telling Haechan you would be back after a moment to tell him the results. You were clear that he waited outside the door. Your brain amassed hectic thought after hectic thought and it was driving you crazy. 

Over the next couple of minutes, you sat antsily on the toilet lid and waited. According to the instructions on the box, your fate would be decided in as little as a few minutes. If you waited too long, your results could display inaccuracies. 

You were just so scared. If you were pregnant, that could change everything. Your nerves were worked and you could feel the stress in your shoulders as much as you tried to feign a semblance of order. 

When the three minutes were up, you braced yourself with one big breath and found the courage to check the lines. 

You sucked in a breath. Not a single one was negative. 

“Oh my god,” you gasped. 

“What’s wrong?” Haechan asked frantically, leaning against the door. This was just as nerve-racking for him as it was for you. 

“They’re positive,” you exclaimed. “All four of them!”

That was Haechan’s cue to open the door, immediately grabbing a hold of you. You looked like your weight would drop to the floor any second now. “Okay, babe. Breathe,” he whispered. 

You braced your hands on the counter. “I can’t. This is too much.”

“Sit,” Haechan said, holding you steadily in his arms. Like hell he would let you go in a time like this. 

You sat on the fluffy toilet lid again, your head spinning. Nothing could describe how light your limbs felt in that moment. Or your head. 

“There’s a one percent chance they’re wrong,” Haechan told you in reminder. 

You shook your head. “Really? You think all four of them are wrong?”

Haechan took your tone in stride. “That’s not what I said. What I meant is I think you should contact your doctor. We can’t be too sure.”

Well, you couldn’t argue with that logic. It was the obvious thing to do. The second you calmed down enough to speak without shaky breath you called your health care provider and scheduled an appointment with your physician. 

In a couple of days, you met with your primary physician, Haechan insisting that he wanted to be there. You made no argument. This baby was his just as much as it was yours and he made it a point to remind you that he wanted to be a part of every second. 

For half an hour, the nurse's kind words in between constant beeps as she asked you for medical information was all you heard while your thoughts waged war. Even the faint chatter from the small TV mounted in the corner of the room didn’t register. 

Footsteps jolted you out of your thoughts for a moment and you were a little more at ease when your doctor finally entered the patient room. There was a fleeting, kind greeting and she recounted your concerns as you’d briefed them over the phone just to be sure she was correct. 

It was the most tense moment of your life. Had you not been holding Haechan’s fingers with one hand and bracing the chair with the other, you would have been chewing your nails. 

After a couple of non-invasive tests, a suspenseful few minutes, and a transvaginal prenatal ultrasound, it was concluded that you were seven weeks pregnant. The whole room was reeling. Your doctor told you that she would have to run a few scans to ensure that you weren’t exposed to a high-risk pregnancy, but you could decide within two weeks if you wanted to terminate through medication. 

Not only were you seven weeks pregnant, but seven weeks pregnant with dizygotic twins. Non-identical, your doctor explained. If you preferred, you could come back in three weeks to determine the sex. 

“Twins,” you rasped. “Two babies. Wow.”

Sitting in your car, you gripped the seatbelt with your life. Haechan insisted that you take your car instead of his bike considering that you were more than likely pregnant, and since he didn’t know the risks associated with pregnant mothers on a motorbike, he decided it was better to play it safe. 

Though your doctor revealed that minimum travel within the first few months of your pregnancy was generally not a threat unless you were going a lengthy distance. Much to your boyfriend’s happiness.  

It was quiet while you two sat in the parking lot, save for the Mark Lee song playing faintly on the radio. He was grammy-nominated now. 

There was a long pause before you could speak. Haechan was the same, looking paler than usual. You almost couldn’t breathe. Your head was still stuck in that neutral-toned hospital room and the scent of antiseptics still wafted through your nostrils. 

The whole parking lot was upside down as you fretted, “I’m pregnant. Oh my god. Wow. I’m pregnant!”

“Hey,” Haechan started, reaching over the center console and grabbing your hands in his. There was another pause before he continued speaking. “We’re pregnant.”

Your eyes flickered. Then, you burst into laughter. That was the last thing you expected him to say. 

Haechan was grinning, glad that he could make you laugh even if it was just for a moment. Your doctor was clear that stress was very harmful for the kids. “I’m serious!”

“Okay,” you replied. Though you were still giggling. “We’re pregnant.”

“You better know.”

You sighed, leaning against the door window. The ultrasound displayed not one, but two tiny embryos currently sharing your uterus. And they were only growing. 

Handing the ultrasound to Haechan, you let it all sink in, starting, “When I was twenty-one, pregnancy was the last thing on my agenda. Jae wanted to slow down, but I didn’t want to stop. I was just getting started. I mean, I still am, it’s only been five years.”

Haechan flinched at the mention of your ex. It was rare that you brought him up in conversation. For good reason. “And you’ve still accomplished so much.”

“Yeah, but I wanna accomplish more. If I have a baby, I have to take a break from the grind to be a mother. And god forbid I let somebody else raise my kids,” you grumbled. 

Haechan quickly saw what the problem was. “Okay, baby, stop. This isn’t the end. You’re pregnant, but that doesn’t mean you become my housewife and die. I wouldn’t ever try to put the brakes on you.”

“I know, but…”

“Listen,” he said. “We can always make more babies another time. Your life isn’t over.”

You huffed, “I have, like, four years before that ship sails and it’s in god’s hands.”

“Anything could happen in four years.”

You heaved another breath. “True,” you replied. Even two years from now you could decide that you wanted to settle down. 

It just felt like there was so much at stake. You were a model, for fuck’s sake. Very much a celebrity. Not only did you love your job and having two babies mean you would have less time to devote to yourself, but everyone would be watching them the same way they watched you. 

When you went out, there was guaranteed to be a camera not far behind. You couldn’t even get lunch with a friend without being borderline stalked wherever you went. Masks and disguises barely helped.

Anybody that was a friend of yours was a friend of the media. Your whole life was on the internet and there was always a magnifying glass being held close to your face. Every second of your life you were being examined and judged by people who didn’t even know you. Expectations were a constant weight on your shoulders. 

“If I have these kids, I don’t want them to grow up in the eyes of the media,” you started sternly. “I subject myself to judgment and scrutiny every day I step out of my house. Babies don’t deserve that.”

Haechan bobbed his head in agreement. “Then, I watch them. And if I’m busy, then we get a babysitter.”

You huffed, “And trust a stranger with our child?”

The look of horror on Haechan’s face immediately declined that offer. “I’ve got family here. We can pay my cousin or something. Look, baby, we’ll figure this out. Together.”

You squeezed his hand, stifling tears. There was so much weight on your heart. It was almost suffocating until you remembered that you weren’t alone.

For the next couple of weeks, you mulled the decision over. You didn’t tell anyone that you were pregnant - not even your grandmother or Haechan’s parents, who referred to themselves as your in-laws, even though you and Haechan weren’t married. 

That thought tickled something in your brain. Marriage, you hypothesized. And a family. Deep down inside, it was something you always wanted, but you never knew when. You always figured the day would come where you would just know. 

That day had come. 

It isn’t the end of the world, you consoled, having had time to be reasonable with yourself. You were far enough in your career where it wouldn’t weaken your income if you took some time to be lowkey. Haechan, the brainiac that he was, even suggested you endorse baby products. 

Everything felt so earth-shattering to you that you’d been confused into thinking weighing your options meant you only had one choice. Your mind was quick to wander, wondering if that was a symptom of carrying a developing baby. 

You breathed easier when it finally hit you that you didn’t have to choose between the career you loved and starting a family with the man you loved. Because you wanted both and you would have both. Even if it was in moderate amounts. 

At ten weeks, you were back in the doctor’s office to determine the sex of your babies. Haechan was hoping for boys while you were hoping for girls. Imagine your shock when Doctor Stakes congratulated you on carrying a boy and girl. 

By the end of the first trimester, you decided that you would be keeping the babies and your career. Haechan was both over the moon and a little anxious knowing that he would be a first-time father. Neither of you knew what you were doing and that made it as scary as it was exciting. 

Still, nobody knew. Outside of your symptoms, it wasn’t too obvious. Your baby bump wasn’t very big yet. 

“No smoking, no drinking, no hot tubs or saunas, moderate caffeine intake, no raw seafood,” you grumbled, recalling Doctor Stakes’ very detailed explanations of what was and was not healthy during your pregnancy. 

“Well,” Haechan started, plopping down on your shared mattress. “She did say we could still have lots of sex.”

You immediately rolled your eyes. “I believe her exact words were sex will not hurt our babies as long as my pregnancy is without health complications and I don’t start to experience bleeding, high blood pressure, and premature contractions.”

Haechan gently grabbed your waist and pulled you onto his lap, retorting, “You look fine to me. How do you feel?”

“Good,” you sighed, getting comfortable on his thighs. “Different, but not bad different. Good.”

Haechan leaned into your ear and purred, “Which translates into good for lots of sex.”

You playfully hit him, pretending to be irritated. You knew he was only kidding. Kind of. 

Doctor Stakes was straightforward but thorough in her explanations, walking you through the route of pregnancy with more than a couple of recommendations prioritizing the best potential health of you and your unborn babies. She said that sex was perfectly fine during the first five through six months. Something about your babies being cushioned by your abdomen and amniotic sac fluid.

Whatever the hell that is, you remembered thinking. She also suggested you enroll in a parenting class just so that you knew what to expect. It was not rare for first-time parents to take them and they were apparently super helpful. 

It seemed strict, but you knew it was best for your children’s development, especially in the early stages. Though you would miss the freedom of your old life. “I kind of miss alcohol just because I can’t have it.”

“I’m not giving you any,” Haechan said, voice stern. 

You snorted. “I wasn’t asking. I’m not an idiot. It’s just… this is my life now. It’s gonna be hard.”

Kissing your cheek tenderly, Haechan replied, “Well, if you can’t drink, I won’t drink either.”

That surprised you and you wanted to know if he was joking or not. “Seriously?”

“Duh,” Haechan said. “Like I said, we’re pregnant. Anything you can’t have, shit, I can’t have it either. I guess we’re both abstaining.”

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, though you liked the idea of him doing it anyway. It made your heart flutter. 

Haechan shrugged. “Yeah, but I would feel like a dickhead for enjoying things that I know you can’t have right in your face. Besides, my liver is probably screaming ‘thank god.’”

You snickered, bringing your lips to his. That turned you on. You couldn’t even explain it. There was just something so hot and attractive about the words leaving his mouth and you decided you wanted him. 

Letting your eyes flutter closed, you quickly tangled yourself in thoughts of him and him only; like a stimulant that only got more lethal with every hit. Sometimes it did feel that way. Like pleasure of this magnitude was too mind-numbing to be free. 

Innocent touches became gestures of desperation. Haechan kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, hands zipping to your tender breasts while you looped your arms around his neck. He somehow only got better at kissing. You didn’t even know how that could happen. 

Almost like you brought out the best in each other. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, eyes snapping open. 

Haechan instantly noticed and was quick to halt his actions in case he was causing you discomfort. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head. “No, it’s just my boobs… They’re a little sore.”

Haechan chirped, “Nothing I can’t take care of.”

You giggled when he carefully lowered your weight onto the bed, lifting your shirt above your head and quickly getting rid of your bra. A moan left you when he caught a nipple in his mouth, gently kneading the other one in his hand. 

There was something so addictive about the feeling of your boyfriend’s warm mouth on your body. You couldn’t help but exhale and moan, just comforted by the fact that he was supplying you warmth. His hands wandered, too, always soft and tender. Whatever moisturizer he was using was doing god’s work. 

“Babe,” you sighed out. Both your mind and body were relaxed and that was exactly what you needed, all things considered. 

His tongue passed over your erect nipples, feeling them harden at his touch. Your boyfriend’s goal was to make you feel completely worshiped and he was doing a great job, for lack of a better word. Given that you were the one responsible for carrying and birthing two babies, he concluded that god could only be a woman. 

But you were getting way too worked up and it was driving you to the edge. “Baby,” you called. “I want more.”

There was an erotic wet sound when Haechan pulled away from your boobs. “Are you sure? I was just kidding about the whole sex thing earlier.”

“No you weren’t.”

“No I wasn’t.”

You snorted. Classic Haechan. 

Haechan quickly sobered again, whispering, “But I still wanna make sure this is what you want.”

You appreciated his concern, but the longer you waited, the quicker the heat pulsed between your legs and you couldn’t shake it anymore. “Haechan, I literally could not be more sure when I say I need your cock inside me.”

King of playing it cool that he was, Haechan pretended that those words weren’t like throwing gasoline on a field of already blazing thoughts. At least until he got inside you. Then, he had no thoughts. Brain empty. And he couldn’t help but bare his soul to you. 

Pussy made him talk. There was absolutely nothing that he could hide when he was balls deep inside you. 

Haechan shifted between your thighs, thanking god that you decided to wear a skirt today. His patience was wearing thin by the second and knowing how much you wanted him only strengthened his need. 

You could only feel your heart thumping and his body heat wafting over you. Other things seemed so much smaller and irrelevant than they were. 

Your panties came off with a yank and your glistening folds had Haechan’s undivided attention. “Shit, you’re so wet. I didn’t even do anything,” he said marvelously. 

“Shut up,” you huffed, though it wasn’t sincere. Little things about him being committed to being a father turned you on. He didn’t understand how scary it was to be alone. 

Haechan chuckled. “As you wish.”

You knew it wouldn’t be too long before he opened his mouth again and you weren’t complaining. 

Overcome with want and the need to do something, you lifted yourself up and crawled towards Haechan to help him undress his pants down his legs. Haechan let you do as much, but the second his bare cock was out, he was gently pushing you back down.

You pouted, lips tucking out. “I wanna do something.”

When you were comfortably on your back, Haechan started to rub his cock. “No,” he said, borderline teasing. “You can lay here and let me take care of you.”

His cock had your attention, your eyes fixed to how hard he was. “Okay.”

Haechan parted your legs again, gentler than typical. “On the plus side,” he started, holding his dick between your thighs. “I can’t get you pregnant if you’re already pregnant.”

You quipped, “That’s actually not impossible. Something called superfetation. I heard about it a couple of months ago after searching on Google for too long. It’s super rare, though. Don’t worry.”

“I am about to superfetate this pussy,” Haechan groaned, obnoxious.

“You’re turning me off.”

Haechan laughed. 

After a moment of coating himself in your wetness and hearing your soft moans, Haechan decided he couldn’t take it anymore and slowly penetrated you. His jaw unhitched, more than a couple of sounds escaping him. 

You weren’t any better. He just made you feel so full. You liked when he made it seem like it was only the two of you and you existed for each other. 

Haechan was painfully hard inside you and desperate to move, though not before he said without room for argument, “Tell me if you want me to stop or if it hurts.”

You simply just nodded. There was nothing you wouldn’t do if it got him to fuck your brains out. 

Then, Haechan started to move. His hands were on your hips, serving as an anchor so that he wouldn’t lose himself completely as he drowned in your wet pussy. In a similar manner, you braced your hands on his shoulders, holding onto him for dear life. 

You were gazing at Haechan with one fatal combination of love and lust. They couldn’t be separated. Not after all the things that had been done and all the words that had been said. All you knew was that you had bared your body to him in the same way you’d bared your heart. 

“Baby, don’t stop,” you sighed, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t stop.” There was a pressure building inside the walls wedged between your legs and it only came out when he was steadily rocking his hips into you. 

The whole room suddenly seemed a thousand degrees hotter and Haechan couldn’t breathe, exhaling loudly with labored breath. He couldn’t take that your pussy was so warm and tight, grumbling, “Fuck,” in between moans, smacking his hips into yours uncontrollably. 

For a half second, you made eye contact with Haechan, just before he was sucking at the pulse on your collarbone and you couldn’t help but cry out his name, his chest creating friction against yours just enough to not be uncomfortable. 

Haechan willed himself not to tighten his grip at the arc of your hips for the sheer reason that he didn’t want to hurt you. Not only did he not want to hurt you any more than you asked for, but the reminder that his children were growing inside your belly made him treat you like you were fragile. 

He wanted to ask you to marry him, but he was terrified that it was way too soon. This pregnancy wasn’t even planned. You would probably have a heart attack if he asked for your hand in marriage. He was no stranger to being chided for moving too quickly, though it was just his nature. 

Little did he know, you loved that about him. He could come off too strong sometimes, but beneath his fast jumps to get started was a zealous boy with big hopes for the future. 

“I love you,” Haechan whispered, lips brushing against your skin. 

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his again. “I love you. You’re my everything.”

“You’re my everything and then some,” Haechan flirted. 

“You’re my everything and everything in between.”

Haechan started, “You’re my everything and…”

All it took was a kiss to the lips to effectively shut him up, grabbing his head and steering him closer to you. Like you weren’t already skin to skin. You sucked his tongue in your mouth, moaning at how his cock hit your sweet spot. 

You were just so consumed by him - entirely. Though you knew that there was no closer the two of you could be, you’d be damned if you didn’t try. 

Haechan’s hands wandered up to grab a handful of your breasts, gently squeezing the soft skin in his palms. He couldn’t get enough of the way you panted and sighed at his touch. There was no need for oxygen when he had you and he kissed you breathlessly until he thought he was going to die. 

Haechan exhaled with his mouth hanging open, “You cheated.” His lips were perfectly swollen, the sight winning a smile out of you. 

You giggled. 

With how your walls were kneading and gushing around his cock, Haechan knew that he wouldn’t last. His mouth watered at the thought of coming inside you since it had been so long ago. That one time just short of two months ago excluded, obviously. Though he hadn’t meant for it to happen. 

But first and foremost Haechan wanted to get you off and he steered a hand between your legs, thumbing your clit. You squirmed instantly, sensitive. 

Little moans of his name kept escaping from your lips. “Haechan, I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” you warned, though rocked your hips into his to match his pace. The pleasure was different from before and the intimacy was even more intense. 

Haechan chuckled breathlessly, staving off his orgasm for as long as he could. “That’s the point, baby.” 

There was a resoundingly wet squelch as Haechan continued to bulldoze his cock into your cunt, breezing through the air. Your hands flew to your face as you covered yourself, embarrassed, but he pulled them away just as quick. “Don’t hide.”

“Don’t you hear that? I’m embarrassed,” you blurted. 

Haechan shook his head, peering down at you with misty eyes, and growled, “Sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You were breathless. Haechan silenced you by capturing your lips in one incapacitating kiss and you swore your heart stopped beating for a second.

He made it too easy to forget. Forget the all-consuming worries of eventual childbirth. The threat of kissing everything you’d ever known and wanted goodbye. And the fear of raising a child that might end up making the same mistakes as you. 

No words left your mouth as you parted your lips in a silent scream, trembling with the pressure of orgasm. You were a total disaster - you couldn’t stop moving, shaking and grinding yourself onto him even as your orgasm aggressively passed. 

Your orgasm ripped the soul out of you without leaving anything behind in a merciless act of overkill and you only slacked onto the mattress when it felt completely over. You heaved for breath, almost like you would never breathe again. You had never felt anything so vigorously. Every thought vacated your brain. 

Haechan was obviously not far behind - if the frequent pitched moans you were milking out of him were any indication - and you were borderline begging him to fill you again. This was a different strain of desperation than the kind that got you pregnant. This was more lethal. 

Your walls were pulsing around him and Haechan couldn’t take it, hissing your name when he came with a sharp cry. His hips didn’t still until he rode out his high, both of you moaning in a delighted sync when his cum dripped. 

“Fuck,” Haechan sighed, finally noticing how fast his heart was pounding against his chest. 

You started, “That was…”

“Intense,” Haechan finished. 

You nodded in agreement. Though it was enjoyable nonetheless.��

The two of you just sat there and wallowed in the afterhighs of sex for a bit. You were too exhausted to move and Haechan didn’t want to leave you alone. He spooned you in his arms for a total of fifteen minutes while the two of you chatted incessantly until you decided you finally had mustered enough strength. 

Time was a blur when Haechan helped you to your feet - not that you needed it yet - and led you to the bathroom where he proceeded to run the shower for both of you. After playfully washing each other’s backs, you went back to the bedroom clad in nothing but towels. 

For once, it was comfortably silent when you slipped back into bed. Then, to your surprise, Haechan started to cry. You gasped, “You’re crying!”

Hot tears stung Haechan’s eyes. Few things brought him to literal tears. He was just so over-thrilled to be the father of your babies. “Yeah.”

You cradled his face in your hands, kissing his lips. “We’re making two babies. We’re going to be parents. For the next eighteen years, they’re going to be our most paramount priority.”

Haechan knew that. You weren’t the only one that was going to be taking a step back from the grind, at least until you both grew a little more familiar with the parenting life. His decreased hours were non-negotiable and it helped that he was one of the co-owners. 

Not only was he going to be a father, but he needed to take time to be an even more devoted partner to you. Both of you were responsible for these children and the very last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were carrying the weight by yourself.

Wiping the tears out of his blurry eyes, Haechan said, “I can’t believe you let a guy like me get you pregnant.”

You furrowed your brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I’m not exactly the type of dude people look at and go ‘he’s going to make an incredible father.’”

You liked that Haechan was being vulnerable with you. He started doing it more often ever since he realized that his indifference could drive you away. His feelings were deeper than he tended to lead on. When it came to you, he was an open book. 

“You’re going to make an incredible father. There. I said it,” you whispered. 

Haechan smiled, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. That was all he needed to hear. 

At sixteen weeks, your baby bump still wasn’t protruding even though you were definitely carrying twins. Doctor Stakes reassured you that everybody’s journey was different and your pregnant belly very well might not pop up until the end of the second trimester. 

And since you hadn’t announced that you were pregnant (you were conflicted), you working was still fully expected. Nobody asked questions. You considered yourself pretty damn slick. 

That was, until your agent knocked on your trailer while the crew were breaking. She was a down-to-earth, middle-aged woman named Patricia. 

“Hey,” you greeted, letting her inside. “Something wrong?”

Shutting the trailer door with a thud (this particular company tended to have faulty trailer doors), Mrs. Patricia shook her head gently. “Not particularly. I was curious about something and I wanted to speak with you woman to woman.”

That had your undivided attention. You set down the water bottle you’d been gulping back and prompted, “Yes?”

Mrs. Patricia started, “Excuse me if I’m overstepping, but… are you expecting?”

You blinked. “Is it obvious?”

“It’s in your nose.”

Your hand went up to your nose and you exclaimed, “What’s wrong with my nose?”

She gave you a look that sternly told you to lower your voice and replied levelly, “There is nothing wrong with your nose, but it is swollen.”

You had no idea what she was talking about and it was evident on your face. 

Mrs. Patricia explained, “Fluid retention. I had a swollen nose and hands during my pregnancy with my twenty-year-old, but it went away after my postpartum period.”

“Oh,” you replied quietly. 

“Congratulations, by the way. I think you would benefit from following up on the symptoms of pregnancy, just so that you know what to expect,” she suggested. “Again, I don’t mean to overstep.”

Though your mind was at a billion different places, you forced a smile and said, “No, it’s okay - thank you!”

But the second you came home, you were a different person. 

“Babe,” you called out, setting your keys in the tray near the door. Haechan told you that he would be home by now and you saw his motorbike parked in the garage. “Babe!”

Given the distance, his voice was faint, but you heard a faraway, “I’m coming!”

You stood there and patiently removed your shoes while you waited. There were now a handful of other things weighing on your mind and you didn’t know how to handle it by yourself. 

Haechan zipped downstairs, pleased to see you at the end of a long day. His hair was a beautiful mess at the top of his head and you could only guess he had been playing video games with Jaemin and Mark. 

Not that you were concerned about any of that right now. 

“Hey, baby. How was your day?” Haechan asked, coming up to you to trap you in a bear hug. Like he did everyday. 

But you weren’t at all in the mood for any of it, ignoring his question completely. “Is my nose swollen?”

That obviously wasn’t what Haechan thought you were going to say. “Huh?”

“You heard me.”

Haechan drew back, realizing you were in one of your moods again. Doctor Stakes mentioned that you were prone to mood swings and he would just have to deal with it in the gentlest way he could. “I mean, I didn’t wanna say anything, but it’s a little...”

“Oh my fucking god,” you exclaimed, stepping around him and bolting for the kitchen. 

Haechan was hot on your heels. “Babe, wait up!”

You threw open the snack pantry door, scanning them for your favorite chips, before remembering that you finished the bag last night. “Fuck, I forgot to order from the store!”

The words were right on his tongue, though Haechan knew better than to tell you to calm down. He was no stranger to your temper. His voice was level, calm. “We can always order more.”

Fresh tears dampened your face, burning while they blurred your vision. Reality was a mean little bitch with a hard punch. “Damn the chips! I can’t believe this.”

Haechan assumed it was a model thing. They were strict about your appearance and you always had to look a certain way. It was part of the reason why he never saw your career as an option for himself, though he wasn’t going to snitch about your junk food indulgence. 

Tentatively reaching out for you, Haechan kissed your face and cooed, “Hey, baby, listen to my voice. Your body is going to change. The doc said that’s completely normal. It’s nothing to lose your shit over.”

“It’s everything to lose my shit over!” you wailed. “I’m not mad about my fucking nose - I’m mad because I know nothing about bringing a baby into this world and I’m going to be a shit mother!”

“Don’t you dare say that,” Haechan told you, stern but still tranquil. You wholeheartedly envied it. 

“It’s true,” you huffed, sinking against the refrigerator. “My nose is swollen. I literally didn’t even know that was a thing! If I don’t know minor fucking details, how am I going to know how to parent?”

While you knew your agent had no foul intentions by commenting about your nose and there wasn’t a single mean bone in her body, you wished she would have kept it to herself. You couldn’t stop thinking about how you didn’t have this under control. This baby-making shit was not your strong suit. 

Other than the sex itself, although that was the last thing on your mind right now. 

It was completely unexpected for Haechan’s voice to drop the way it did. You had never seen him so serious. “We can take classes. Doctor Stakes recommended them, you know.”

You grumbled, “Why didn’t Doctor Stakes tell me that I was going to get a new nose?”

“She did, actually. Something about…”

“Fluid retention, I know. My agent told me,” you replied snappily. You were finally calming down, though hardly. Pregnancy came with its fair share of frustrations. Though it was also accompanied by the lack of energy to express them all. 

Haechan helped you off the ground, clearing your face of any tears with his thumb. “Is she the one that commented on your nose?”

You shrugged your shoulders but answered, “Yeah.”

“I think your agent should mind her bitter, decrepit business,” Haechan spat, though his tone was completely noncommittal. 

You snorted. “She’s not bad, Haechan.”

“I don’t care. It’s bad manners.”

You couldn’t argue with that. But it was nothing worth getting a new manager over and if anything you would just talk to her about boundaries. The only reason she was even on set was because you wanted her there. 

“The point is,” Haechan started, grabbing your hands and locking your fingers in his. “Every problem has a fix. I don’t know shit about this, either. You think I’ve been a father before? Must I remind you that you’re the only girl I’ve ever came inside of?”

You folded your arms. “And the only one you ever will.”

Haechan snickered, bobbing his head. You were lightening up and he could breathe a little easier. “Yes. And the only one I ever will.”

You let out a shaky breath. Though you still felt like ripping your hair out, you no longer felt the need to scream. Your lungs had had enough for one night. “Fine.”

“We’ll take classes together. I already managed my hours, so I’ve got time. You should tell the people you work for that you’re pregnant,” Haechan suggested.

You nodded. His constant touches killed your doubts again. Ultimately, they were no match against the love of your life. “How are you so nonchalant about this?”

Haechan shrugged like he had absolutely zero clue. “Old habits die hard, I guess?” He was internally panicking, but excellent at hiding it. Always had been. 

You hummed. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing ever. 

“And by the way, you’re beautiful. Swollen nose or not,” Haechan said. “I think it’s cute.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Cute?”

“Yeah. Fits your face.” 

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to put up with a hysterical pregnant lady,” you droned. 

Haechan didn’t try to deny it. Instead, he decided to lighten the mood, chirping, “Well, that’s what I get for being silly and not wrapping my willy.”

You forced your lips into a line, fighting a laugh. “That’s so stupid.”

“No glove, no love,” Haechan persisted, eager to get a laugh out of you. He wanted to see your shoulders shake and your nose do that cute thing it always did when you laughed at his jokes.

You playfully exclaimed, “Quit it!”

“You can’t go wrong if you shield your dong.”

That was the last blow your self-restraint could take and you finally burst out laughing like he wanted you to. 

Haechan was sporting a triumphant smile. He was always glad to put a smile on your face. Even (especially) for the most idioticly absurd of reasons. 

Your outburst eventually fizzled out and you thought back on something he said a couple of minutes ago, musing aloud, “Speaking of telling people that I’m pregnant, we haven’t told the clique.”

Haechan nodded. “I haven’t even told my parents. They’re gonna be so mad we waited almost twenty weeks. My mom’s been nagging me about when she can expect grandkids.”

“We should have a party. Get the gang in town and host a gathering at your parents’ house or something,” you proposed. 

Haechan’s brows furrowed. “Like a gender reveal party?”

You winced. “Goodness, no. Just, like, I don’t know. A pregnancy reveal party. But they can guess if they want.”

That wasn’t the best idea. Mark and Ryujin would probably have opposite guesses and flip the table over. Grabbing your wrist to press a kiss to the back of your hand, Haechan said, “Well, you know Mark’s been in Canada for the past two months and Winter is everywhere, but I’ll see what we can do.”

You didn’t want to get your hopes up - nowadays it was rare for all of you to be in town at the same time - but that had you excited. You couldn’t wait to share the good news. “I had another idea, too,” you whispered softly. 

Haechan led you to the living room so that you could sit down and asked, “What’s that?” 

Once you were off your feet, you played coy and confessed, “We should have a photoshoot at your studio when my bump gets big. Just me, you, and the two babies in my belly. A grand reveal to the entire world that I’m officially a mother.”

“Sold,” Haechan hummed in approval.

You couldn’t stop smiling. A part of you couldn’t wait for it to happen. Doctor Stakes mentioned that it could feel like your stomach grew out of nowhere. 

Within the next couple of days, you communicated with your consultants and the management at your agency and notified them of your pregnancy. You divulged that you were sixteen weeks along and fully intended to be a mother to your children. 

And in no uncertain terms. Given the flexibility of your schedules and hectic hours, they agreed that it was only fair you took off as much as you took on. You were offered six months, which you accepted thankfully, and were told to inform them when you would be starting two weeks in advance. 

When you delivered the news to Haechan, he couldn’t contain his excitement. Everyday the ongoing reminder of your looming childbirth settled in. His kids were developing inside your womb. He was going to be a father. You were going to raise two kids together in your shared home and every time he realized, he fell more and more in love with the thought. 

Only a few weeks later you were at his parents’ house watching Haechan and his father set up from the kitchen. Though you wanted to at least help with the baking, his mother was unshakeable in her ways and rigidly told you to sit and not move. 

She wanted her grandkids delivered in the best possible health. His parents were enthusiastic to discover that you were pregnant, though not without slight scolding. But they weren’t against a celebration. 

“I knew it. You know, a mother always knows,” his mother had told you while her son and his father were in the living room. 

You heard a knock at the front door a couple of hours later and separated from Haechan who was making out with you while his parents weren’t looking to greet your friends. The first person you heard was Mark. 

“What up,” Mark exclaimed when he strolled inside like he owned the place. 

Ryujin wasn’t far behind, obviously, but behind her was her boyfriend, Sunwoo. Every now and then, you were reminded that the guy actually existed, although he had come home from Chicago years ago. 

You gave them each kind hugs. “Hi, guys. Long time, no see.”

Ryujin spat, “Mark gets a Grammy nom that he didn’t even win and acts like he’s too cool for us now.”

“God forbid a man gets busy and goes to his home country,” Mark droned in stride. “Besides, I’ll get it next year.”

You nodded in approval. That was the spirit. 

“It’s good to see you, man,” Haechan said, pulling Mark in for a brief hug after doing the same with Sunwoo and Ryujin. 

Mark patted him on the back. “Same, dude. It’s good to have all of us together again.”

Sunwoo picked up some candies that were collecting dust in a bowl on the coffee table. “Are these peanut butter?”

“Yup,” you retorted. 

He quickly sat it back down.

Ryujin explained dryly, “He’s allergic.”

Pinching Haechan’s arm, you gave him a stern look, knowing he was on the verge of a snicker. 

You remembered something and mentioned to Mark, “Oh, by the way, I’ve been hearing your new single on the radio. It’s really good.”

There was a faint blush across Mark’s cheeks. “Thanks,” he chirped. 

“I did the cover art,” Ryujin added. 

Mark whined, “Why can’t you ever let me have my moment?”

You chuckled. It was good to have them all back. Other than Sunwoo, you were pretty updated on what they all had going on and though it drove them out of the city sometimes, you were endlessly happy for them. Mark was obviously the next big thing and was busy making global hits, touring the seven seas. 

On the other hand, Ryujin worked from home more often than not, typically only leaving California to go on vacation. She did art commissions notably for wealthy patrons and pitched in with Mark’s creative team whenever needed. 

Chaewon was also frequently home, owning a hair and nail salon here and all. You and Winter definitely took pictures and credited her in your Instagrams stories. Speaking of Winter, she was everywhere, much like you. More than once, you collaborated in a photoshoot or went to Paris Fashion Week together. 

Which left Jaemin. He was much more lowkey. After giving his master's degree last year, he finally started to work as a mechanical engineer. You couldn’t believe how smart he was, having skipped a grade and all. 

The others showed up a little later. Your stomach was turning with a mixture of nerves and excitement. You couldn’t wait to get the news off of your chest. You smiled when Haechan looped an arm around your waist, almost like he could sense your whirlwind of feelings. 

Some dancing and singing at the top of your lungs later and your worries were promptly forgotten. Chaewon, Winter, and Ryujin danced with you while the boys were laughing in their own circle. The whole room was entirely too chaotic and Haechan’s parents escorted themselves out minutes ago. 

Now it was time for the kids to really party. 

Mark, under the impression that this party was just a small get-together for friends who didn’t get to see each other often, glanced at you and asked, “Okay, rum, tequila, or vodka?”

You winced. “Oh, no. I can’t.”

Mark gaped. “What? I’m on tour for a few months and now you don’t drink?”

“Yeah, um, about that,” you said, gesturing for Haechan to cut down the music. “I have something to tell you guys.”

“You’re taking care of your acne? You’re breaking out more than usual,” Mark blurted without malice. 

Haechan cocked him a glare, deadpanning, “You know, Mark, it amazes me how you can always be so close yet so far away.”

Everyone was gazing at you with baffled looks. Then, you set your hand on your stomach, and it clicked. Mark gasped, “Don’t tell me…”

“I’m pregnant,” you announced, giggling when Haechan curled his arms around your waist as he hugged you from behind. 

He was quick to correct, “We’re pregnant.”

“Yes,” you said with a chuckle. “We’re pregnant.”

The nerves were back with a vengeance. You knew they were all going to have distinct reactions and the anticipation was killing you. You thought they might have chided you for being stupid. 

As it turned out, there was a chorus of excited noises and “congratulations” that you could hardly make out. Everybody was trying to speak over each other and you had to add, “Okay, one at a time. Please.”

Chaewon wasn’t shocked, almost like she expected it to happen, but had her hands on her hips in her typical fashion. “I’m your best friend and you didn’t tell me you were pregnant?”

You winced. “Sorry.” Expected backlash, you thought. 

“It’s okay,” she said, shoving Haechan out of the way to pull you in for a hug. Much to his annoyance. “I’m so happy for you.”

You chuckled at the sound of Haechan huffing from beside you. “Thanks.”

Mark was next. There were literal twinkles in his eyes. “I’m going to be an uncle?”

“Absolutely. Your niece and nephew are going to love you,” you retorted happily. 

Winter gasped, “You’re having twins?”

You bobbed your head. “Yes. One girl, one boy. We both wanted different things so I guess that was the universe’s way of being a diplomat.”

Winter snorted in amusement. She could already guess what your preferences were. “Oh, wow. Congratulations. Jaemin and I definitely aren’t having kids, so I’m cool with being the rich auntie.”

“Mm, three rich aunties. They’re going to be so lucky,” you dragged. 

Haechan droned, “And extremely spoiled.”

You giggled.

Sunwoo and Ryujin walked up to you. Ryujin was staring at you in adoration. “Have you painted the nursery? If not, can I please help?”

That was an absolute no-brainer. “We haven’t done a lot of things. We need as much help as we can get.”

Sunwoo glanced between you and Haechan and said, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, man,” Haechan said, holding out his hand. 

Sunwoo firmly shook your boyfriend’s hand. Then, he looked to Ryujin, parting his lips to speak, and she snapped with a shake of her head, “Nope. Never.”

Sunwoo frowned. 

You giggled. It didn’t take a genius to understand he was about to ask her about having kids someday. 

Jaemin looked like he couldn’t believe his ears. Though, he had to admit it made sense. You and Haechan just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. “You’re pregnant?”

“Very.” 

“Wow,” he replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “And I thought we had enough Haechan walking around.”

“Dude, I’ll kick your ass,” Haechan hissed. 

Jaemin threw up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Kick my ass after the party’s over.”

Winter wandered over again, a drink in her hand, and quipped, “You know, this whole time I thought you were going to get Haechan pregnant.”

That got a giggle out of you. “No worries. I’m gonna peg him tonight.”

Haechan was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. 

While you went to go find Chaewon and whisper something in her that made a smile crawl its way onto her lips, Haechan and Jaemin excused themselves from the room for a minute. 

The garage was hot and stuffy, a stark contrast from the ventilated and free energy of the party, but it was the perfect place to have a private conversation ideally without any unwanted listeners. 

Haechan mounted one of his dad’s old bikes (his father was still an avid bike fan no matter how long it had been since he rode one). He wasn’t going anywhere, but he needed a distraction. 

Holding a beer, Jaemin nudged his best friend and asked, “You don’t want a drink?”

“No, I can’t,” Haechan replied, voice distant.

Suit yourself, Jaemin thought. Then, thinking back to something you said, he teased, “Guess she was serious about that pegging shit, huh?”

Haechan snapped, “Do I ask you how you’re fucking Winter?”

Jaemin made a face before downing what was left of his beer. “Good point, my friend.”

Haechan was obviously in his head, which meant nothing good. As always. He wasn’t unhappy - the opposite, rather - but this was one of those days where everything felt unreal. 

If there was anything he knew, it was that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. His little voice in his head snapped, Damn eighteen fucking years. You were his until he died. 

The silence was getting off-putting, thus Jaemin started, “So, a baby.”

“Yeah,” Haechan answered blankly. It was almost like he wasn’t ever there. His surroundings be damned. 

Jaemin was officially miffed. “You wanted to come out here to talk to me about something, man. Open up, brother. What’s on your mind?”

Haechan shook his head. He was in desperate need of direction. He huffed, “I don’t know, bro. I’ve never felt shit like this before.”

That piqued Jaemin’s attention. All he could think of was how badly his brother in everything but blood needed a drink or a cigarette, though he correctly assumed he was abstaining for your sake. “Like what?”

“That’s the thing. I can’t explain it. I mean, I put a baby in her,” Haechan started, conflicted. “Two babies. You know that we wavered a long time before she decided that she wanted to keep them?”

“Well, I do now.”

Haechan’s features were tensed in his typical pensive gaze. “I support her regardless of what her decision would have been, and I made sure she knew that, but I was secretly hoping that she wanted to keep it. Because I realized what I wanted.”

Jaemin prompted, “What do you want?”

“Everything. I wanna do the whole nine. I wanna start a family with her. I wanna pick up the kids after school. Make the three of them breakfast in the morning. I wanna spend every second of my life next to her. When I die, I want to be buried next to her grave.”

Jaemin tilted his head with suspicion. “Haechan, do you wanna marry her?”

“Yeah. I wanna marry her,” Haechan answered. He was finally confirming it - aloud. “Is it too soon?”

“That’s not for me to decide,” Jaemin said kindly. 

Haechan sighed. 

Jaemin gave him a pat to the shoulder and added, “Hey, bro. The worst she can say is ‘no.’”

There was a war-waging storm inside of Haechan. He was prepared to kiss the ground that you walked on. “She’s the mother of my babies…,” he trailed. 

Though Haechan tried to blink his tears away, his emotions and love for his family was too goddamn strong. His heart beated for the three of you. This paternal responsibility added a brand new meaning to his life. A different purpose. 

Jaemin noticed his best friend’s tears and immediately opened his arms. “Dude, come here.”

Haechan marched over and let Jaemin sweep him into a borderline aggressive hug. There was thunder in his heart and he could feel it shaking everything he’d ever known. This kind of euphoria was foreign to him, but he never wanted it to stop. 

When he pulled back, Haechan wiped his face and muttered, “Don’t tell them I cried.”

Jaemin snickered, patting his friend on the back. “Don’t worry, man. I got you for life. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Haechan blew out a shaky breath. “By the way, my girlfriend and I talked, and we decided that we want you to be the godfather.”

Jaemin pointed to himself with his finger. “Me? Why not Mark? What do I know about god?”

Haechan snickered. “Think of it as being the highest ranking uncle.”

“I like that. Uncle Jaemin. It’s got a nice ring to it,” Jaemin replied, nodding with approval. 

“What about Dad?”

Jaemin grimaced. “That’s not funny. I have nightmares about that.”

Haechan laughed. 

As soon as that was over, Haechan and Jaemin slipped back into the party so naturally it was almost as if nothing ever happened. He found you sipping on an iced tea in an attempt to quench your thirst. 

You cocked a brow at him. “Everything okay?”

Haechan bobbed his head. Then, he stole your glass out of your hands and took a sip, much to your annoyance. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just asking,” you replied, snatching your drink back. 

Tempted to giggle, Haechan held it back when a thought crossed his mind. “I’m not having second thoughts.”

“I know.” You also knew his secret, familiarized with the little gleam in his stare, though you decided against mentioning it. 

Haechan grinned, taking your available hand in his, and asked, “Wanna dance?”

“I was wondering when you would ask,” you retorted, setting down your glass and leading him to the center of the floor. 

Heat fluttered in your chest when you felt Haechan get closer to you. With his hands at your hips and yours at his shoulders the two of you started to sway around the floor, earning a number of exhilarated noises from your friends in the room. 

But it still felt like it was just you two, like it did all those years ago when you realized for the first time that there was something so different about him. For lack of a better word, he was just so mesmerizing. You remembered wanting to know everything there was about him. 

Bliss made you close your eyes and make a wish to the stars, hoping for an eternity with the man you loved and the life you made together as partners. 

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Sunwoo excuse himself from this fascinatingly beautiful moment to accept a phone call. Not that you minded. You were entranced in that moment and everything else had little consequence. Your heart was dancing inside your chest and on the floor. 

Haechan pressed a kiss to your brow, looking at you with total undeniable affection. His eyes were sparkling again though not with tears - with adoration. This man would steal the moon for you and then proceed to wish on every star for a thousand more moons to gift you. 

Only if he knew that there was an impending danger he should’ve wished away. 

Sunwoo entered the room again and walked towards the two of you, which made you both stop and curiously gaze at him before he said, “It’s for you.”

You were baffled. “Who is it?”

“Jeno.”

Haechan’s face paled. 

Without thinking, you took the phone and pressed it to your ear, then said less than amicably, “Hello?”

Jeno’s voice was quick to fill your ears, an air of surprise to his tone when he spoke your name. “Hey. Don’t hang up, please.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” you hissed. 

The room was silent while you talked. The music was cut again and everybody’s eyes were fixed to you, watching this phone call unfold with interest. Nobody dared to say a word, but the disdainful feelings were pretty much obvious. The anger in Haechan’s eyes almost matched the ire in yours. 

“Because I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” you repeated. “That’s all you have to say?”

Jeno sighed from wherever the hell he was. “Listen, I want to talk, but I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. I was thinking maybe we could meet up somewhere.”

“Just a second,” you replied, handing Sunwoo back his phone while you dragged Haechan over to a corner. 

Judging from the mere force of your actions, you were clearly upset and it didn’t take a genius to point that out. Haechan was ready to pummel this guy to the ground for your sake. “What happened? What did he say?”

“He wants to meet up. I guess he wants to apologize,” you whispered.

Haechan exclaimed, “What?”

You put your finger to his lip. “He said that he was sorry.”

Frustration made Haechan cross his arms with a mean-looking scowl on his lips as he huffed, “And you want to entertain this fool?”

You shrugged. You were obviously angry and feigning indifference, covered head to toe in unadulterated rage, but there was something in you that wanted to give Jeno the benefit of the doubt. “Call it curiosity. But I’m not going out pregnant. I’m not ready for the world to know yet.”

“Okay, so I go.”

You had already thought of that, pondering all your options in a five-minute time span, but quickly responded, “Yeah, but I kind of wanna be there when shit goes down. How about we invite him over?”

Haechan was seething. “You want to invite him over to the house where we’re going to raise our son and daughter?”

“We need a bigger house anyways,” you answered flatly, exhaling a breath. 

“Bigger than ours?”

“Bigger than ours.”

Haechan frowned for a moment, though after a moment or two of contemplation, he relented. “Fine. But I want to do all the negotiating.”

You bobbed your head. “Fair.”

Haechan politely asked Sunwoo for his phone again, then switched on a dime when he spoke sharply, “Hello?”

Neither of you could see the way Jeno’s eyes flickered with shock. “Haechan.”

Haechan snapped, “Don’t give me that shit, man. Did you change your number?”

Jeno faltered with confusion. “No?”

“Good. I’m going to text you our address. You’re going to be at our front door step tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock sharp or else you’ll be turned away at the door. And you better tell me something I want to hear or I’m kicking your ass.”

There was a lull of silence as Jeno processed those words. 

Haechan immediately added, “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Goodbye,” Haechan said, promptly hanging up the phone and returning it to its owner. 

Mark was not shockingly the first to speak. “That was… intense.”

You shrugged. “I thought it was hot.”

“Of course, you did,” Mark teased. 

Haechan shook his head. It felt like the more the days passed, the more there was on his mind. 

Regardless of unfortunate events, you refused to allow them to ruin the celebration. Assertively, you demanded that somebody put the music back on and encouraged your boyfriend to bust a move. Socializing and having fun was the quickest way to make him forget the unforgettable. 

Even though you were less expressive in your contempt, it obviously put you at unease as well and you were also in fine need of an effective distraction. A drink would have been nice for knocking back inhibition, but you’d resigned yourself to the fact that you had months before that was a viable solution. 

Plus something that you learned as you bordered closer onto your thirties was the significance of letting loose without the need for recreational use. There was something more special about bonding sober. 

Priorities shifted. Like how you were steadily beginning to value your personal life over your career and image. When you were in your early twenties, everything felt more life-and-death than it was. Now, the most pivotal moment of your life would be successfully giving birth. 

Later that night, those were the thoughts battling in your mind until noon that day. It seemed like every day you were making changes in your day-to-day routines to accommodate your new life. Changes that you were so certain at one point would feel like the end. 

You knew now it wasn’t anywhere close to the end. If anything, it was a new beginning and a transition to a new stage of your life. You were standing at the threshold of parenthood. 

That wasn’t to say you were going to remain indoors for the rest of your life until you wilted and succumbed to eventual fate. Or become a housewife and die, as Haechan had humorously put it. Granted, you realized how vital it was to be a little more laid-back and would undoubtedly shelter your children, but you were already fantasizing about sending the kids to the grandparents for a fun night out. 

You wondered if Jeno had changed. All things considered. He was older, too, and closer to Haechan’s age than he was yours. Though five years didn’t seem like too long ago, you had seen a quantity of things occur in that time. 

And you weren’t just talking career-wise, though that technically helped your case. You were in no way a stranger to the upward spiral of Jeno’s career. Like you, he had a successful career in the fashion industry, walking down runways and posing for big shot photographers. 

On more than one occasion, you’d been invited to events at the same time, though you had considered yourself lucky to not have any face-to-face encounters with him and simultaneously practiced your professional skills if it inevitably were to happen. 

Maybe it was for the better. A way to prepare you for the hell that was today. Still, you couldn’t deny being anxious as you lounged on your couch. 

Checking your watch and noting that it was a minute before two, you exhaled, “What if he just doesn’t show up?”

Not a moment later, the doorbell rang. Oh, you thought to yourself. He’s always been punctual. 

“You have your answer,” Haechan droned. 

You took three stabilizing breaths when you watched Haechan leave the room to answer the front door. Maybe you should have let him take care of this. No, chided the voice in your head. This is both of your history. He shouldn’t go through this alone. 

Especially not when he was evidently opposed to it and only agreed because it was what you wanted. 

There was a disturbance in your brain when you saw Haechan round the corner and return with Jeno. This guy had essentially been off of your radar for so long that it was jarring to be confronted with the fact that he wasn’t a figment of your imagination. 

Jeno spoke your name. “Hi.”

You waved. As of this second, you didn’t have anything to say to him. 

“You can sit,” Haechan said when he sat next to you on the loveseat. He sounded bored. 

Jeno perched on the chair across from you, fumbling with his hands. You didn’t know Jeno for as long as Haechan had, but you still had never seen him anxious. 

You scanned your memory for any recollection of him being anything other than cocky and confident and ultimately turned up empty. His raging ego and dilated pride was his vice and had cost him more than you’d ever known.

Impatiently, Haechan prompted, “Well, are you here to twiddle your thumbs or…”

Normally, you would pinch his thigh for rude comments, but today he had a free pass. 

Jeno lifted his head to meet both of your eyes when he finally started, “I’ve spent six months trying to practice what I would say if I ever got the chance to apologize.”

Both you and Haechan had your arms folded, stubborn. Save for the unignorable vexation, your faces were borderline inscrutable. He picked the wrong duo to fuck over. The two of you were unrelenting. 

Jeno let out a little sigh and promptly continued, “I say six months, because it took me four years and a half to understand just how badly I fucked up. At first, it didn’t bother me that I lost seven friends on the same day. I was arrogant. I thought I didn’t need friends.”

You almost laughed. Almost. That much was obvious. 

“And I had that mindset for a long, long time. There’s just something about when you’re super young and you feel like you have the whole world at your feet. Obviously, the popularity didn’t help. When I started to become famous, people wanted to hang out with me.”

“Yeah, that tends to happen,” you quipped smartly. “They see you’re the next big thing and they hold onto you because that’s what you’re there for. To be their one-way ticket to stardom. Then, when they get what they wanted, you’ve exhausted your purpose.”

“Yeah.” Jeno bobbed his head in agreement. 

Haechan was not here to have a conversation about the brutal reality of being a superstar in the industry and his jaw clenched. “What made you realize that you fucked up?”

“What she said,” Jeno replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is a shallow job. Nobody was really my friend. I was either just their ride to fame or an accessory to make them look good. I realized how much I missed not only you two, but the whole gang, because you were the only people who cared about me beyond the surface.”

Haechan sighed. 

Jeno’s voice got quieter. Not emotional, but dangerously close. “In our clique, it didn’t matter if you were on track to being a celebrity or just some guy. You know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

You frowned. 

Haechan added, “So, you get lonely and decide you need us?”

“I know how that sounds, but…,” Jeno trailed. “But I’m sorry. I’m sorry for taking you for granted. I’m sorry for competing with you instead of being your friend.”

Haechan’s lips were in a hard line. 

Jeno flitted his gaze towards you. “I’m sorry for using you. It was beyond fucked up.”

“To be fair, I was using you, too.”

Jeno bounced his leg against the ground, attempting to thwart his nerves. At the back of his mind, there were many unspoken thoughts. “Yeah, but you didn’t leave a woman in the street by herself. I still haven’t forgiven myself for that. If something happened to you, it would have been all my fault.”

Just the thought triggered something spiteful inside you. “I’m glad you realize that.”

Knowing you better than anybody, Haechan could sense the fire smoldering inside of you, slipping his fingers through yours and squeezing. “This has been… whatever, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re stressing my baby mother out.”

Jeno spluttered, “Baby?”

“Yeah. A baby.”

Jeno’s eyes flickered in shock. “Wow, um. That’s amazing. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you replied, tone completely noncommittal. “We’ll think about it.”

You watched Jeno bob his head and reply with a quiet “thank you” as your boyfriend stood to see him out. With how your brain was practically like a wildfire, it felt like the epitome of madness. 

Haechan came back only a couple of moments later sporting a sour glower. 

You relaxed when he sat next to you. You didn’t realize that you’d been so stiff. “Well, what do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Haechan lied without realizing, because his skepticism wouldn’t allow him to admit his true feelings. 

Well, you knew exactly what you were thinking. “He seems genuine. I don’t think he has an ulterior motive. I mean, he’s doing great, he doesn’t need us.”

Haechan prompted, “But?”

You heaved a breath. Sometimes you hated that Haechan knew you so well. Better yet, he understood you perfectly. 

“But I don’t forget as easily as I forgive,” you said quietly, drifting endlessly in your thoughts like spacetime. 

Haechan huffed, “Me, neither.”

Without many uncomfortable amounts of stressful thoughts, your life went on. The world kept spinning no matter what you were going through and it did you no good to subject yourself to strain while you were carrying twins. Your doctor was clear that the risks associated with pregnancy grew with more than one child. 

Your body was undergoing so much change that you didn’t even step outside because you didn’t want the world to know that you were pregnant until you announced it yourself. Given that it was your first pregnancy, you wanted it to be unforgettable. 

The baby bump felt like it happened overnight. You couldn’t stop gawking at yourself in the mirror, in disbelief that there was something coming to life inside of you. They were starting to move around, too. You cried when you noticed the fluttering in your belly, almost like butterflies. 

Every day you were counting down the seconds until the photoshoot until in a blink, the day had finally come. Haechan, the gentleman that you had fallen in love with, had everything set up at his studio and was rigid with the staff, though nonetheless polite. You were beaming. Not many opportunities arose for you to see him work behind the scenes and it was heartwarming to see him be so attuned to your needs. 

It was one of the most fun and rewarding shoots you’d ever done in your life. And it would be the most noteworthy. The vibe was nothing less than ethereal and it was full of kisses and laughter. Haechan’s hands and lips on your belly. Holding your hand while you looked into each other’s eyes with the utmost adoration. 

Holding the physical pictures between your own fingers, you sobbed. You were very emotional these days and half expected Haechan to poke fun at you, but he never did. He was the same way, passionate about the undying love he had for you and your unborn children. 

There were a couple of pictures that you didn’t release to the public. Those were just for you and your loved ones. They were more vulnerable, sentimental pictures where you and Haechan couldn’t but stare at each other with a tearful gaze. 

The moment of truth, came the little voice in the back of your head while your finger wavered over the share button. Half of you wanted to hand your phone over to your PR team, but it was important to you that you were the one to disclose. 

You took a shaky breath just before pressing the button and tossed your phone to the side. What was said online wasn’t any of your concern. You didn’t want to know. 

Outlets rushed to cough up the news. Your social media accounts were bursting with likes from people all over the globe. People you were friends with in the industry didn’t hesitate to call and congratulate you on the pleasant surprise. This wasn’t a secret anymore. Now that it was out there, it was everybody’s business. 

When the deed was done, you chose to focus on yourself and the life surrounding you in every capacity rather than what was out of your hands, and made peace with the fact that public opinion was inevitable. What you could control, on the other hand, was how exposed you were to stranger’s thoughts. 

The next few weeks were filled with yoga and child development textbooks. Haechan was taking pictures weekly to document your belly growth. He had already decided that he was going to start a photo album specifically for your children while they grew older. 

You told him that you couldn’t think of a more beautiful idea. 

One Friday came and brought a handful of errands along with itself. You were undoubtedly pregnant now, but not so much that you couldn’t complete tasks by yourself, though Haechan thought that that was debatable. He thought it was ridiculous that anyone expected you to do anything and upheld that you deserved princess treatment. 

But you had a medical opinion that said staying active during pregnancy was beneficial for you and the babies, and Haechan resigned himself to defeat. 

Apparently, the universe wasn’t in your favor, because your car started to have complications. First, the sunroof vehemently refused to open. Then, like a total drama queen, your car decided that she didn’t want to start. 

The most exasperated breath escaped your mouth. You didn’t know the first thing about getting a stubborn vehicle to start and you knew Haechan didn’t either. Besides, not only did you not want to disturb him while he was working, but you were equally stubborn and wanted to prove that you were capable of handling yourself. 

Out of options, you had a really, really bad idea. 

Something unfamiliar stirred in your gut when you pressed your phone to ear, hearing it ring. Anxiety. Or maybe it was something else. Something unidentifiable. 

Jeno sounded a little startled when he spoke, as if he thought you called him by accident. “Hello?”

“Hi, Jeno,” you said less than enthusiastically, rubbing your forearm. “I’ve got a serious favor to ask.”

Though you couldn’t see, Jeno perked up at those words. He was completely desperate. “Yeah, sure. Anything. What’s up?”

Providing a little humor, you replied, “Assuming that you actually know how to work on cars and that wasn’t a lie to impress me, my car kind of won’t start and trying to guilt trip her into functioning doesn’t seem to be effective.”

Jeno snorted. “Did you check the battery?”

You almost started to panic. “No. Was I supposed to?”

“Uh, how about this. If you want, I can come check it out,” Jeno suggested, then immediately regretted the decision. He didn’t want to try and insert himself into your lives too quickly. “But only if you want me to.”

That wasn’t the best idea, considering your boyfriend was intent to hate Jeno’s guts and would not approve of him standing in his garage alone with his baby mother, but your options were already few, so you replied, “That’s fine. You know where I am.”

“I’m on the way,” Jeno said. You could hear him shuffling around in the background. 

“Okay. See you soon.”

You hung up without giving him a chance to respond and released an uncertain breath. Don’t make me regret this. 

Waiting with bated breath and folded arms, your gaze upturned some thirty minutes later when you heard a blue Mercedes Benz turning into your driveway. 

And then Jeno started to walk over to you. 

“Hey, sorry I couldn’t make it sooner. Traffic is crazy today,” Jeno said when he stopped just shy of your toes.

You waved him off. “You’re good. Thirty minutes isn’t bad for California traffic. Thanks for coming over.”

“No problem,” Jeno replied. He didn’t waste much time on small talk, getting straight to what you called him over for. “Let’s see what’s wrong with this bad boy.”

“Her name is Mariposa,” you corrected, but your tone wasn’t malicious. 

Jeno threw his hands up. “Where’s my manners? I should’ve asked. Sorry if I offended you, Mariposa.”

You snickered. “Don’t apologize to her. She’s caused enough trouble today.”

Jeno chuckled. 

While you kept yourself occupied in the corner, not wanting to disturb Jeno as he tried to figure out why your car was acting like a bitch, his brain was totally divided. Half was focused on thoroughly examining your car, while the other was hooked on the fact you remembered something he told you five years ago at dinner. 

Jeno was pondering, hoping. Maybe you just had a good memory, especially when it was convenient, but he hoped that someday, there would be room for him again in your lives. 

Even if he had to spend years proving that he was worthy. 

Jeno separated himself from the lifted hood of your car, dusting his hands off. Your eyes were stuck on him with gut-eating anticipation. “Looks like your alternator is weakening. Smells like burned wires and the serpentine belt smells like smoke. Your engine’s probably leaking.”

“English, please.”

“Your alternator’s not alternating and your shit’s fucked,” Jeno replied, blunt. 

“Oh.” That certainly wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

“Don’t worry. The good news is that it’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” Jeno reassured, pushing the lid back down. “The bad news is that I don’t have the tools to work on it for you.”

You ran a hand through your hair. “Guess I should call a mechanic.”

Jeno bobbed his head. “That would be a good start.”

You were anxious to ask, but did it anyway, “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind hanging around? One look at my neighborhood and the obvious fact that I don’t know a damn thing about cars, and anyone would try to scam me out of more money than I need to spend.”

“Yeah, of course,” Jeno replied, dipping his hands in his pockets. “But, uh… won’t Haechan mind?”

You snorted. That was an understatement. “Oh, definitely, but his vehicle knowledge starts with one wheel and rides with two. I don’t think he has a say in this.”

Jeno snickered. 

The mechanic came half an hour later and you let Jeno handle the bulk of the talking, only chiming in when the guy asked specific questions like how long you’d been experiencing complications with your car.  

Between the mechanic peeking under the hood and Jeno pointing out to him your car’s tenaciousness, you understood enough of their exchange to know that fixing her would take a solid two hours. Unfortunately, this guy was stretched thin, meaning he would have to tow it back to his shop and have you pick it up tomorrow. 

“This day cannot get any worse,” you grumbled underneath your breath. 

Jeno was frustrated for you and it wasn’t even his car acting a damn fool. After he seemed to hesitate a little, he asked, “Will Haechan be back soon?”

“Nope. He had most of his hours cut, but apparently there was a really huge crisis at his job. It’s going to be another hour or two.”

“Dammit,” Jeno groaned. “Well, if you want me to, I wouldn’t mind driving. You seem really stressed and that’s not healthy for the babies. I mean, obviously you know that, but...”

His nervousness was not lost on you and you resisted a chuckle, interjecting, “Jeno, I would really appreciate the help.”

“Okay, cool,” Jeno said, whipping his keys out of his pockets and tossing them in the air. “Where to?”

Gently helping you get into his car, Jeno made sure that you were safe and comfortable before he took the driver’s seat and braced his hands on the wheel. He was certain that your lover would have his head on a stick for driving you around without his knowledge, but he had a moral obligation not to leave pregnant ladies under tension. 

Besides, he had to prove his loyalty somehow. It didn’t matter how much Jeno insisted that he’d changed. Neither you or Haechan would be convinced until there were no doubts.

Your head was against the door, temporarily appreciating the air conditioning until you just couldn’t take the silence, asking, “So, how’s life? Last time we spoke, you were talking about people being shallow.”

Jeno nodded his head quietly. “I’ve been scared of meeting new people. I have a few friends. Other than that, I have my family and girlfriend.”

Your brows furrowed. That was new. “Girlfriend? Congratulations. I didn’t know.”

“Thank you,” Jeno replied, heat rapidly flushing his cheeks. “She’s the one that encouraged me to apologize. Even if you guys still hated me in the end, she said it would be good to get it off my chest.”

That was interesting. Nobody saw the day coming where Jeno of all people would choose commitment. “Is she in the industry?”

“No, she’s actually a banker,” Jeno replied, chuckling. 

“Really? How did your paths cross?” 

“It’s a long story,” Jeno said, but you could see his eyes sparkling with happiness. He must’ve really liked her. 

Pointing to the road in front of you, staring at the red light glaring back at you both, you shrugged your shoulders. “We’ve got a long day.” 

For the duration of the total ride, in between stops, you chatted with Jeno to pass the time. It wasn’t the easiest thing to relax around each other, each for your own reasons, but you managed. And truth be told, it wasn’t all too bad. 

Your chronic cynicism was the only thing standing in the way of your forgiveness. But Jeno had no apparent reason to drive you around and assist you with errands if it wasn’t simply out of the kindness of his heart. There was nothing that you could give him that he didn’t already have. Except maybe loyal companionship, but he’d already made it clear that he wasn’t lonely. 

Only hours later did Jeno finally pull back into your driveway. Most of your errands just required having to speak with people, but noting that you were probably out of your favorite snacks again, you opted to head to a couple of stores. You also figured you would need some chocolate when it was time to placate Haechan after he realized you’d been with his worst enemy all day. 

When you were home, Jeno refused to let you carry a single item. With your bags in his hand, he opened your front door and dropped your bags off in the kitchen. 

The sound of his front door opening was all too familiar and it was no surprise that Haechan rushed downstairs, having returned only maybe half an hour before you, and chirped, “Baby, you’re home!”

You wrapped your arms around him. Haechan gently hugged you back, careful not to harm you. His warmth was appreciated, but remembering you had a little surprise, you pulled back. “Don’t get mad.”

Haechan gave you a look. “Why would I get mad?”

Surprisingly on cue, Jeno returned from the kitchen, trailing, “I put the food in the...” 

Jeno and Haechan locked glances as it was like a deer crossing paths with a mountain lion. Though you could feel Haechan tense, rather than his hold slackening, it tightened. You could see the anger flickering onto his face within a blink. “What is he doing in our house?”

“I just said don’t get mad,” you groaned, winding a hand through your hair. You cocked your head towards Jeno and said to him, “Jeno, thank you for helping me out today. I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. I’m endlessly indebted to you,” Jeno quipped, sticking his hands in his pockets. 

“Damn right,” Haechan murmured under his breath. 

Nudging him in the side, you ignored Haechan’s whine of pain. “Well, get home safe. Thank you again.”

“No problem. Have a good night,” Jeno said, seeing himself out. 

“Get home safe?” Haechan repeated when Jeno disappeared. 

You heaved a little breath and asked, “Do you want him to die or something?”

“Well…”

“Stop,” you hissed, breaking out of his arms and moving to a chair. “He really helped me out today. My car broke down and he came to check it out. Then, when the mechanic took my car, he volunteered to help me with my errands.”

Haechan followed behind you, confused. “What? Why is this my first time hearing about this?”

“Because you had a work emergency and it wasn’t worth interrupting you over. I can handle stuff by myself, you know.”

“I know you can, but…,”

“But you’d rather me call you than the guy that fucked you over, yeah, I know,” you huffed. 

“You just finished my sentence.”

Your brows furrowed, wondering how that was in any way significant. “So?”

“So, this is going in the completely wrong direction,” Haechan said, cooling off for your sake. The last thing you needed was stress or a petulant baby daddy. “Let’s calm down and go upstairs.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything to oppose him, but closed them when you realized you’d fallen short of things to say. “Fine.”

Haechan helped you to the bedroom. The stairs were definitely a problem lately, courtesy of the additional pressure on your uterus. You had to be extra careful coming up them now. 

When you were sitting on your bed, Haechan quietly came beside you. You released a tiny breath, not pleased or disgruntled, but of the will to leave whatever just happened downstairs. It was to be expected. 

After a minute of silence, Haechan finally said, “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “Don’t be.”

“No, I should be. You know I never want to make you feel like I think that you can’t do anything yourself. But I need you to know that I’m still there for you to lean on when you need me.”

Thankful that he was lying down, you lowered yourself to rest your head on his chest. Your lips were tugged into a faint smile. “Do you remember our first date?”

Haechan cocked brow. “The real one, or the unofficial first date?”

I still think the unofficial date was the real one, but whatever. Obviously, you would never say that aloud, because then it would spark the debate over what your actual first date was. You ignored his question and continued, “You said that you would never try to control me, because you’re a grown man and I’m a grown woman.”

“Have I?”

You answered bluntly, “No, you haven’t. That was five years ago, you know. I’m pregnant with our baby and even if I hate this next part, I have to depend on you a little more now.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I should make a sign-in sheet for everybody that enters your life,” Haechan said.

“Two things can be true at once.” 

Haechan said nothing, because there was nothing that needed to be said. You were so similar. That was why your relationship worked. Both of you needed time to yourselves, but the fact you were having a baby together forced you to readjust. 

It wasn’t just about what you or Haechan needed anymore. Your two babies would be entering the world any day now and they took precedence in your lives now. There would be difficult choices and there would be compromises. For both of you. 

You found his fingers, blindly lacing your fingers through them. “I don’t forgive him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh.”

You continued, “I think I probably will, eventually, but not yet. Not right now.”

“You said that I would rather you call me than the guy that fucked me over,” Haechan rewinded, squeezing your hand. 

You made a face. “Yeah, I did, but I was irritated and I cut you off. It’s a bad habit that I still haven’t let go of. And it will probably happen again.”

Haechan snorted. “You weren’t wrong, but at the same time, I think I might forgive him too. Not right now, obviously, but eventually. Like you said.”

“Why?” You were confused. You saw how Haechan’s demeanor switched on a dime when he noticed Jeno was in his house. 

“Because he helped you. And anyone that treats you respectfully without an ulterior motive is alright in my book.”

There was movement in your belly and it wasn’t the babies for once. It was the butterflies. 

Haechan draped his other arm over you, smiling gently as his hand touched your belly. “By the way, is this a good time to mention that I have something to tell you?”

Your face tensed with curiosity. “You’ve already put it out there. Might as well cough it up.”

“Okay, well…,” Haechan started. His confidence seemed to be dissipating. “I was thinking that we should go on a babymoon before the kids get here.”

A single brow lifted from your face. “What?”

“Like a honeymoon, but it’s not a honeymoon. It’s a babymoon,” Haechan explained vaguely, sitting up in a way that meant he was serious. 

“Okay, but wouldn’t we go on a babymoon after we had the baby?”

Haechan gave you a look. “Baby, do you really think that we're going to have that kind of time after the babies are born?”

When he put it like that, the concept made a little more sense. “Fair point. Where would we go though?”

Haechan shrugged. “I was thinking Florida, but of course I’m open to suggestions. This is an us thing.”

“Florida’s good with me,” you said without complaint. 

“Then, Florida it is.”

Only two days later, you were on a plane to Florida with ample snacks and water. Haechan didn’t like to waste any time and you didn’t understand the point in waiting either. The clock was ticking and you were already in the third trimester. 

Sure, it was a last-minute vacation, but you checked in with your doctors and after a few evaluations, they had little problem with you traveling through air for a couple of weeks. 

Florida, specifically Miami, was ripe with obnoxiously hot weather in spite of the faded summer. December was similar in California, cheerful and sunny with occasional rain showers. Given that you were raised in the north, it was an exciting change of pace. 

Which was why you were glaring at Haechan in disappointment when you watched him pull three sets of familiar black leather from his suitcase. Your arms were crossed. “Did you really need to pack three different leather jackets?”

“Yes, absolutely,” he said without hesitating. “Come on, babe, you love seeing me in black leather. It’s what made you fall for me.”

You mercilessly quipped, “Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s what made me turn you away.”

“Whatever,” Haechan retorted, pulling another leather jacket from his suitcase. 

All you could do was shake your head. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear the same leather jacket twice.”

Haechan chuckled. “Now that’s an exaggeration. Besides, I need to have plenty to pass down to our kids. They’re gonna have to look extra cool when we go biking together. I can’t be seen with anything less.”

Your heart draped over your racing heart. “Haechan, you cannot take our kids on a motorcycle.”

“Of course not. Not with you knowing about it.”

Your heart was skipping. You were absolutely going to need to have a conversation with his mother. He’s definitely his father’s son. 

“I was kidding. It was a joke,” Haechan said playfully, but the mischievousness in his countenance was obvious. 

You rolled your eyes. “Sure it was.”

Whether it was or wasn’t, Haechan would never tell you. You would just have to cling to hope that he wouldn’t do something like that without your knowledge. Though you trusted him endlessly, the little snicker coming from his parted lips made you a little unsure. 

Then, the vacation started, and you tried to keep your mind from drifting towards the aftermath of pregnancy. Well, as much as you could with the added pressure weighing down your every footstep. Haechan didn’t want to leave you out of his sight for the next two weeks lest something happened to you.

Though you weren’t due for another five weeks, he wasn’t taking any chances. He waited close by when he surprised you with a prenatal massage and always kept your phones charged in case of emergencies. 

He’s going to be a wonderful father, spoke the smitten voice in your head in rhythm with your soaring heartbeat. He was vigilant, careful. You knew with total confidence that your children would be in the greatest of hands. 

Still, in spite of your mutual worries, neither of you would allow them to stand in the way of your fun. He wandered around the beach with you, sticking your toes in hot sand and taking a dip in the water.

Sporting a two piece swimsuit, you felt somewhat self-conscious meandering just shy of the shore in front of so many people. Though you’d convinced yourself that you were doing a good job at hiding the truth, Haechan grabbed your hand and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” It was an obvious lie, because you replied way too quickly. 

Haechan’s steps slowed, cocking his head to look at you. “That’s a lie. You answered too fast. And you didn’t ask me why I asked.”

Your shoulders slumped in defeat. “It’s just… that I feel a little exposed.”

Even though that was vague as hell, Haechan knew exactly what you meant and he wouldn’t stand for it for even just a second. “Babe, you’re beautiful. That’ll never change, even if your body wil,” he said, stopping dead in his tracks. 

Your eyes stung with tears. You’d been outside lately, but never this exposed. Never this far into your pregnancy. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t feel like this.”

Haechan shook his head. “Don’t you dare apologize to me. You can feel however the fuck you want. Just remember that I love you regardless of what you look like. And your body’s only changing to cater to the life we’re about to bring into the world.”

That reminder was all you needed. As long as you had Haechan’s love and enough of your own to supply your children, everything else ceased to matter. 

For half a second, you thought about how tired he must’ve been of having to provide you reassurance, but you shooed the thought away. Everything Haechan did for you was because he cared. There were more than a handful of times where Haechan would randomly confess how gorgeous he thought you were and how much he loved you. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. 

Haechan set his arm at your backside. “You have nothing to thank me for. It’s the truth.”

“I know, but I don’t know how I would do any of this without you. You make everything easier. I feel like I can breathe as long as you’re with me.”

Haechan’s heart was unstill. He couldn’t imagine his life any other way. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he confessed, the sound of his voice featherlight. 

You wanted to test that theory. Mischievous, you squeezed his hand and leaned onto his shoulder, asking, “Would you rather go back to the room?”

What that meant was obvious to Haechan, but it still surprised him. Your sex drive wasn’t as active lately. And not only that, but he was too busy becoming a father to focus on his libido. “Would you be there?”

“I would do a lot more than that,” you retorted. 

Haechan pressed, “But would you want to?”

“Babe, if I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have asked.”

Haechan nodded. It’s not like you were ever afraid to tell him what you wanted. Or what you didn’t want, for that matter. Plus it had been a lifetime since the two of you had sex, and he couldn’t blame you for wanting to get it in before exhaustion became the only thing that drew you to bed. “Say less.”

The walk back to those canopy chairs was eager. Haechan wanted to return to the room as quickly as he could, but patiently remained at your side. 

After collecting your beach towels and rinsing off loose sand (as much as you could in public), you and Haechan walked side-to-side back to the hotel. The sight of your suite coming into view five minutes later made you release a shaky breath of relief.

You and Haechan locked lips almost the second you stood behind the door. Haechan couldn’t wait any longer; he was bursting. Ever since you introduced the idea some twenty minutes ago, all he could think about was putting his hands on you. 

His hands were quick, loosening the string behind your back. Some weeks had passed since he touched you like this. Maybe a month. Now he was remembering what it was like to be caught in your path. 

You separated yourself from him, exhaling, “Bed.”

Haechan grabbed you by the waist and guided you to the bed. When you were there, you climbed your own way up the mattress, with him following closely after. A hand crept into your bare chest and the other behind you, gently craning you onto your back.

Your lips connected again. Fire ascended over you, starting in your heart and stretching elsewhere. His lips were so pretty and kissable. Throwing your mouth against his and sucking on his tongue was something you simply never got bored of. You just couldn’t explain it. 

Haechan pulled back again a couple of moments later, staring at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “Better?” he asked, eyes sparkling with wonder.  

“Mm-hm,” you sighed contentedly, lacing your fingers through his beautiful head of hair.  

Haechan extended an arm down your calf, teasing the skin before cycling your legs into the air and ripping your panties almost right from underneath you. He so badly wanted to touch you everywhere, gnawing at his lip with an insatiable hunger. “I’ll never get tired of this,” Haechan said wantonly. “Tired of you.”

That was without question. You could feel his half-hard cock growing at the edge of your swollen thigh. Arousal shot through him like a firework and it would take little to nothing to get him excited.

Your heart throbbed in sync with your pussy and your leg, still in Haechan’s itching palms, tensed insatiably. There was nothing that turned you on like being wanted. 

Wishing he would take off those stupid swim trunks, a dangerous thought wrecked through your brain and you asked, “Can I do something this time?”

“Not a chance.”

You snapped, “And why not?”

“Because it’s my responsibility to take care of you. And right now, I just wanna make sure you get wet enough to take my dick,” Haechan replied. 

Your next best option was begging. “Please? I’ll get wet just from seeing your pretty face scrunch. Killing two birds with one stone.”

Haechan’s lips parted to turn you down, but he started to mull over your suggestion. Hope nipped at your heart, twinkling in your eyes. Blowjobs shouldn't've hurt the babies. And he knew you wouldn’t be able to lie on your back for very long anyway. “Fine. How do you wanna do this?”

You were beaming. With Haechan’s help, you kneeled on the mattress before crawling over to the edge of the bed. “I read something online. Let’s try you standing here while I lay on my side.”

Per your request, Haechan shifted to the edge of the bed, stepping out of his swim trunks where his dick was desperately poking around for attention. 

You leaned onto your left side, excitement making your heart beat quicker. And your pussy throb, but you were happily focused on someone else right now. “Feel free to use my mouth.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Haechan said, though he would try not to. 

Pressing your lips against his inner thighs, you brushed them over his skin, feeling his legs tense at your touch. So, so sensitive. You could only imagine what would happen when you sucked his cock into your mouth. 

You reached out to grab a fistful of his cock, just after spitting into the palm of your hand, and started to pump him slowly. More often than not, you started off tentatively; you liked to tease him. There was no point in getting him off if you couldn’t see the irritability and desperation on his handsome face. 

Haechan’s breath hitched. His cock was twitching. You seemed to always know what to do with your hands, in spite of the fact that you never let his cum too quickly. But you knew exactly how to wreck him. 

“You don’t have to tease, you know,” he said, voice a little distant like he wasn’t even there.

“I know,” you replied offhandedly. “But I want to.” And I know you pretend not to like it. 

Haechan huffed, but he was only half upset. Part of him liked when you had total, unmitigated control of his pleasure. 

You didn’t release your grip on his stiffened cock when you’d had your fill of teasing him until you sucked the tip into your warm mouth. There was a breath on Haechan’s end, light and shaky, and you couldn’t wait to replicate it. 

Your cheeks were hollowed. You were eager to take most of him down your throat, but were cautious about your pacing, given that it had been a minute since you sucked the soul out of Haechan. Even you were reluctant to give him head during the first trimester because of the morning sickness. 

“Fuck,” Haechan whined shakily. He was remembering what you said about using your mouth even though he hated that the idea appealed to him.

Haechan’s fingers gripped the sheets, opting not to touch you in case he went too far. His face was tense with pleasure and those featherlight moans were like music to your ears. You took more of him, hopeful to throat every inch, and looked into his hazy eyes to watch as it broke him just the way you knew it would. 

The heat was getting to be too much. His thoughts were racing by quicker than he could articulate them, all coming from his mouth being gentle sounds. But his head was saying, She’s going to be the death of me. And I’m okay with that. 

Then, he couldn’t hold back any longer, and started to thrust into your mouth. Though there wasn’t any warning and you only half expected it, you somehow willed yourself to relax. It was so goddamn hot. Pretending that it was your cunt his stiff cock was fucking got you even wetter. 

Even you were moaning and the vibrations shooting through his cock made the room whirl a little. And as if it couldn’t get any better, you pinched the skin of his thigh between your nails, plucking a lethal whine out of him. “That’s making me crazy, baby,” he exhaled, another groan escaping him when he met your stare.

You pressed your tongue flat against his shaft and Haechan swore he saw Michael Jackson looking down at him for a second. Please, was at the back of his throat, but he didn’t want to cum. Not right now. He wanted to cum when he was deep inside of you. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Stop,” he panted, blinking as if to clear the haze from his eyes. 

You grinded to a halt when you heard those words and noticed him no longer fucking your mouth, wiping saliva from your lips with the back of your hand. Your cheeks hurt, but it was worth it. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t wanna cum,” Haechan said, gravel. “Not unless I’m inside you. And even then, I might nut too quick.”

You waved off his concern and replied, “It’s okay if you do. I might tap out soon.”

“Duly noted. What’s the plan?”

You beckoned Haechan forward with your hand, watching him creep closer. When he bent down to your level, you whispered something in his ear. 

A few moments later, Haechan was behind you in the bed, your naked back flush against his bare chest. Your breaths were thick and rough while you became entrapped in his body’s warmth. Bending your knees, you counted down the seconds until he would be inside, holding your breath when he entered from behind you. 

And you released it when Haechan grunted at the squeeze of your vice-like cunt upon the first couple of thrusts. You were soaked, just like you said. Getting him off must’ve really done a number.  

His voice was so close to your ear, closer than you thought. “You know the drill, baby. Tell me if you can’t take it.”

You nodded. It was all you could do not to splinter then and there. 

Haechan was tentatively prodding, slow. He was careful not to do you any harm, because if he did, he’d never forgive himself. Luckily enough, what you were feeling was far from painful. With every inch he reluctantly pushed into you, your head was deeper into the clouds. 

There was nothing like being skin to skin with your lover, heart to heart. That was the better half of the appeal when it came to sex nowadays. Pleasure was seeked by the togetherness of intimacy, less than the emphasis of orgasm. 

But he certainly still knew how to get you there. 

“You always feel so good,” you moaned, stretching your hand to reach his forearm. This whole trip had been nothing short of romantic thus far. 

Something about your praise made all of the blood flow to Haechan’s dick, heavy and quick. “You ready for me?”

“Mm-hm. Move, baby,” you whispered, knowing he was testing the waters. “Just relax. You’re not going to break me, I promise.”

Haechan acknowledged your consent with the quietest of sounds, starting to pace himself in and out. His rhythm was steady, but none too rough. It was loving. 

It tickled when his lips grazed the back of your throat in a litter of kisses, breathless giggles escaping you. Wheeling your head, you turned to give him a peck on the mouth, watching the smile coax its way onto Haechan’s face. He has the prettiest smile ever. And I’ll do anything to protect it. 

Anything and everything. It was no secret that Haechan doubted himself sometimes. He rarely spoke to you about it, not wanting to lump his feelings on top of yours because he thought yours were more significant, given that you were the one bringing these children to life. But you wish he knew how incredible he was to you. 

Though you never failed to remind him. Even now, just looking into his eyes with total adoration, Haechan couldn’t understand. He wanted to see himself the way that you saw him. Thanks to your relentlessness, he was getting a little closer. 

Reaching out to touch his cheek, you whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone as much as I want you.”

“Fuck,” Haechan groaned, like those words alone would be the death of him. Which wasn’t too far from the truth. 

You playfully teased, “You always say the most romantic things.”

Haechan’s face flushed, but those explicatives were at the tip of his tongue. When he was deep inside you like this, his hands cupping your hips, it couldn’t be helped. “That’s funny. I was about to say the same thing,” he lied, losing himself with every sweet thrust.

Your lips parted in a laugh, but it was cut off by a moan. Between the sight and sound, Haechan couldn’t tell which was better. Watching you burst with rapture turned him on. Listening to you burst with rapture turned him on. You turned him on.

All you could feel was ecstasy. It had been said, but the whole world stopped when you were alone with Haechan and it didn’t affect you. When he was fucking all the stress out of your body, in spite of the heat scorching down your skin, you could somehow breathe. 

You faced away from him again, eyes fluttered closed. You were imagining him, even though he was right behind you. There was no space between your bodies and sometimes it was as if you were one person. Like you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. 

Which was ironic. Your first encounter wasn’t so long ago, even if it felt like a lifetime had passed since then. You still vividly recalled wanting nothing to do with him. 

Yet here you were. Carrying his baby, his offspring. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Haechan extended his hand over your lower stomach, reaching out to touch your clit. Your reaction was instant. You gasped, elevating to highs you never knew were in reach. Sex hit different knowing the extremes you were capable of when Haechan was giving himself to you completely. 

“I’m so close, baby,” Haechan warned. He could feel it approaching, but it didn’t matter to him if he didn’t cum either. 

That excited you. Your core throbbed and you purred, “Give it to me, baby boy. Cum inside of me.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Haechan told you, coming up on the edge. He rocked into you harder, wincing his eyes closed. 

You didn’t skip a beat. “Why? Too afraid you’re gonna bust a nut?”

When Haechan said nothing, you grinned to yourself. Then, his other hand came to your boobs, gently touching your nipples. You sighed out, breathless.

Now it was you unraveling. Like clockwork, your back started to arch away from him, your body too stimulated from his hands on your nipple and clit. It just felt so good - the whole room started to spin. 

Moving your hair out of the way, Haechan leaned even closer to you. If possible. You were obsessed with his mouth nipping at the shell of your ear. Voice at the back of your neck. “You’re gonna be a great mother. I can feel that you are,” he said, breath tickling your neck. 

You whimpered, listening to his gentle tone factored with the hot sound of sex thumping throughout the room. 

“Our kids are going to love you from the moment that they lie on your chest and get to see you. They’ll grow up lucky that they get to call you their mother, because even before they were born, you’ve done nothing but your best to care for and nurture them.”

“Haechan…,” you trailed. Your eyes watered. 

Haechan added, “And I’ll be there, proud as ever. Because if there’s any woman that’s fit to raise a baby, it’s you.”

Only seconds ago you didn’t think you would be able to go any longer, sensing yourself on the brink of tapping out, but that spiral ripped it out of you. You shuddered with climax, shifting away from his touch. The sweetest cry escaped you and you found his hand to anchor yourself through your orgasm.

That did it for Haechan in the end. He came just at a glimpse of you finishing on his cock, moaning your name darkly. Stifling his sounds into your shoulder. You milked his load out of him and Haechan swore it was mind-numbing to its core.

A moment passed before you each stilled. Sticky sweat connected your gleaming skin as you released open-mouthed exhales in an attempt to stabilize your breath. For a second, eyes fluttering, your brain was peacefully empty. 

Minutes later, you cocked your head and squeaked, “I’m going to the bathroom. Just rest. You don’t need to follow me.”

Haechan nodded, finally pulling out of you. Something about times like this made his heart swell and his skin swelter. Those moments of silence after. 

Wobbling inside the bathroom attached to your suite, you shut the door behind yourself, in spite of knowing Haechan would probably come in a minute or two. There was a gigantic smile on your face. Finding somebody that cared about you so much was a blessing. 

You meandered over to the toilet so that you could pee. Then, when you finished, you came to the sink to wash your hands of germs. The mirror in front of you was wide and tall. You stared at your reflection, letting out a contented little breath, and set your palms on your tummy. 

As to be expected, Haechan’s voice sounded from behind the door when you didn’t return a couple of moments after he heard you flush. “Baby, are you good? Can I come in?”

You quipped, “Haven’t you come inside of enough things?”

Haechan snickered, twisting the knob. Very funny. He was pleasantly surprised to see you slowly rubbing a hand over your pregnant belly, softly smiling even if you didn’t realize that you were.

Haechan came up to you. Your heart quickened when you sensed his warmth behind you, kissing your shoulder. “Was I too much?”

You shook your head. “It was amazing. I didn’t think I would make it that far.”

“What can I say? I’ve never not blown a woman’s mind,” Haechan joked, lips brushing the back of your neck. A litter of love bruises were there. 

You rolled your eyes. Then, you giggled. 

It was silent for a little while. Both of you were too in awe to speak. With your focus drawn entirely to your children, it was all too easy to become paralyzed with adoration. And they weren’t even born yet.

Haechan’s hand came around your hip, dropping below your ribs. You could feel him hesitating - his body tensed against your skin - but he ultimately said, “Not to be that guy, but I’m kind of glad you’re taking a step back.”

“Really?” You knew that. His happiness was never not clear to you. 

“Yeah, baby, I mean…,” he trailed, thinking. Longing. “Spending more time with you, bonding as a family has really changed me for the better, I think.”

I know what you mean, came your thoughts, but you just hummed. Haechan knew that you were listening. And you knew that he wanted to talk. Your fingers crept up his arm, reassuring. 

Haechan’s mind was racing. Blaring. “Becoming a father hasn’t just changed my life. It’s changed the way I look at life. Life is short, baby. The most beautiful moments of life are short, but they’re meaningful, because I have you. And I’ve got to make that count.”

You shook your head. “We’ve got to make that count.”

Haechan nodded, chuckling. “Yes, you’re exactly right. This is a group effort.”

Your eyes lifted to look at him in the mirror, and you finally realized your lips were curled. “You’re gonna be a good father, you know,” you said levelly. 

Haechan let his hands wander over your belly, running them gently over the flesh. There was a twinkle in his gaze and a beaming smile at his lips. “I can believe that now. And I owe all of the credit to you. I know what I want and who I am. You’ve made me see things from a different point of view.”

“Ironically, I feel the same way,” you said, finding some amusement in this moment of clarity. “It seems like only yesterday I was terrified of having a baby. I didn’t want things to change. The future was so scary.”

“And it’s not anymore?” Haechan asked.

“A little,” you confessed. “But knowing that I have you makes it easier. And knowing that our kids have someone like you, I can relax.”

“You know what they say. The best matches are people who bring out the best in each other.”

You bobbed your head. “Sometimes, I can’t tell if I grew because of you, or if I grew with you. But I think it’s both now. And now we get to do that for a lifetime.”

Yeah, I get that, Haechan thought. You don’t have a single clue, do you? Just how badly I wanna seal the deal, tie the knot. But I’ll take it one step at a time, because I know how you are. You’re slow and steady, baby. And I’m reckless and quick, but we make it work, because you know what you want. And so do I. 

“Yes,” Haechan sighed happily. “Yes, we do.”

A quick tear escaped your eye, but you wiped it away. You were overwhelmed in the best way. 

Haechan kissed your cheek, knowing all of your pleasures and your pains. And he kept them inside his heart in a vault. “I hope they have your eyes.”

Your brows furrowed in wonder. “I think our genes might be evenly distributed.”

“That is not how it works, baby.”

I know, but I want to have hope. It’s wishful thinking,” you replied, sighing. 

Haechan chuckled. “Either way, they’ll be beautiful. And they have a handsome father and breathtaking mother to thank.”

“That’s so vain,” you retorted. But you didn’t disagree. 

Haechan kneeled to the floor, sitting just shy of your stomach. His hands were still lovingly touching you. “Hi, son and daughter. It’s Daddy. I’m sure you’re sick of my voice by now, but that’s too bad. You have to deal with it for eighteen years.”

You shook your head, a stupid smile on your face. Your cheeks hurt. Somehow, you just couldn’t get enough of this boy. 

“Mommy says that Daddy is vain. Can you believe that? Me, of all people, vain. I mean, if you look as good as me one day, you will be, too,” Haechan said exaggeratedly.

“Babe, be careful what you tell our kids,” you chastised. 

“She’s scolding me now. Mommy can get scary when she’s angry, you know. You better not wind up on the receiving end of her wrath.”

You snorted. 

“Anyways, all I really wanted to say is that Mommy and Daddy love you very much. We can’t wait to see you,” Haechan whispered. Your heart burst when he pressed his lips to your belly.

You just knew that he was the one for you. 

The rest of the vacation - or babymoon as your babies’ daddy enthusiastically dubbed it - was a breeze. Before you knew it, you were on a flight back home. Beach air and rushing water was over. And California had never been more foreign. 

Back in your own home, you spent your hours reminiscing in between yoga sessions. You were grateful that Jaehyun suggested the babymoon. It was a much needed period of relaxation to distract you from the looming disaster of childbirth. 

And you were sitting just at its door. Because your pregnancy was considered high-risk and you were not inclined to have a c-section delivery, your doctor recommended labor induction. When you didn’t go into labor after twenty four hours, you started to feel unnerved. 

You had nightmares about what would happen if things went wrong sometimes. Your doctor and childbirth educator made sure that the risks were outlined and clear. One wrong move and you could lose your kids, not to mention that anything could happen to you. 

That was why Doctor Stakes wasn’t willing to risk natural birth. Having twins alone constituted a high-risk pregnancy and they were actively monitoring your babies positions to make sure they weren’t breech.

Haechan was restless, but he tried to keep it together for your sake. He called your name, hand in yours. “Baby, I can feel you tensing. Breathe,” he told you calmly. 

Your voice trembled, “I’m scared.”

“I know. I am, too, but I’m right here with you. We can overcome anything as long as we’re together.”

You bobbed your head and sucked in a breath. Had he not been there with you, it would’ve been a hell of a lot scarier. 

An eternity and a half seemed to pass before you finally went into labor. The contractions started at a distance and you likened them to the preparation trials you endured during the second trimester. Then, they were shorter apart, and the pain intensified so much it felt as if there was no air. 

At the first nick of pain, you immediately pressed for an epidural. Your childbirth already wasn’t natural. And if they thought you would be able to do this without medication, they completely overestimated you.

It took fifteen minutes for a nurse to administer the epidural and another fifteen for the effects to settle in. Haechan never let go of your hand unless he absolutely needed to and he was staring at you with a newfound respect. And his respect for you was already in the heavens. 

“This is crazy,” you wheezed, pulse quickened. 

“It is,” Haechan agreed. “But you can do this. You’re stronger than I ever have been.”

You tugged your lips into a smile. “I’ve been thinking about us. Instead of the risks and stuff.”

That was a pretty good idea. Haechan said, “Talk to me. Tell me about it.”

“We got a new house, like I said. The kids are roughly five years old. They’re helping you make omelets because you know that I like them. There’s a cat. We let them name it. And I’m completely oblivious to what’s going on.”

Haechan snickered. That sounded like his offspring and he hadn’t even met them yet. 

You added, “I thought about something else. There’s a private photoshoot. You’re the photographer, of course. The kids are in your leather jackets, but they’re oversized on them. The whole thing is so cute.”

Haechan kissed your cheek. His heart was thumping in his chest like a hammer and there was a sudden gush of warmth shooting through him. “I bet it is. I can see it playing out in my head right now. We should have a shoot like that one day. With all of us in black leather.”

You chuckled. It was tempting. 

There was so much action in the room. People were moving from place to place to ensure that your babies were delivered safely. Your midwife assured you that the process was moving smoothly. 

With that out in the open, you could breathe a little easier. Though you and Haechan still had no intention of separating from each other. The nurses would have to forcibly pry him away from you.

“It’s time to push,” came your midwife’s level voice. 

The nurses were helping you realize when you needed to push. The movements felt like a distant pressure in your lower back, courtesy of the epidural. None of what was happening to you seemed real and all left to ground you in reality was the knowledge that it was really happening. 

“This is happening,” you said shakily. “Oh my god. This is actually happening.”

Haechan uttered the dreaded words, “Babe, relax.”

“No! I’m never doing this again!” you snapped dramatically, overwhelmed with all the motion. “You need to get a vasectomy!”

Haechan took your outburst in stride. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Fuck,” you exhaled, an invisible cool shiver running down your spine. 

The first push alone was exhausting. You started to feel lightheaded and as if you would faint from the pressure. There was a lull of relief when the nurse permitted you to take a break to regain strength. 

Tears stung your eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” Haechan told you in a heartbeat. 

Your confidence in yourself started to dissipate, but with your faithful partner and a dedicated team of medical staff reassuring you through the process, you forced the negativity out of your head and focused on your children. 

“Another push,” your midwife urged. 

You took one big, stabilizing breath before it was ripped out of your lungs again. Your legs had gone completely numb. There was still a slight degree of discomfort in your back that heightened a little with every push, but you winced your eyes closed and rid the thoughts. 

“Breathe with me, baby,” Haechan said during the next break. 

With what little strength you had, you nodded your head and followed his breathing patterns. Your heart seemed more tired than the rest of you as you physically shook. The blood was rushing through you to a painful degree.  

You squeezed Haechan’s hand, which was what you had already been doing. His metacarpals were brave soldiers. “Tell me something.”

In typical Haechan fashion, he was cool as a cucumber. You would never guess that he was terrified for your life, but he pulled himself together. “Anything?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“When I was eleven, I wanted a leather jacket exactly like the black and red one Michael Jackson wore in Thriller,” he confessed. “Then, my mom got me one. And I hated it.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why?” 

“It was black and orange.”

You snickered. Now you were thinking about an angry little Haechan being a sulky and petulant mess. 

When it was time for the final shoves, you had just enough energy to will yourself to keep pushing. Your body was being put through the most gruesome test ever. But you kept the negativity to a minimum and thought only of your family for your own sanity. 

And then it was done. There were loud whimpers. Your baby girl was given to you first, followed by your son. You couldn’t remember a time when you were more occupied with emotion. 

Haechan gawked in awe. For a moment he couldn’t even believe that this wasn’t just a dream and fought off tears the best he could. You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop the tears blurring your vision. Your kids were here at last and they were the light of your life. 

The first hour was spent making plenty of skin-to-skin contact and bonding with your babies. Haechan was smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. He was already obsessed with the tiny little humans he’d helped make and all of your mutual sacrifice seemed so worth it. 

There were many things that had to happen before you could leave the hospital, but two days later, you were at home resting. Sleep was all you wanted (even though your vocal children had other plans). Which, after the exhausting process you endured only days before, was well-deserved. 

One week passed since you were discarded from the hospital. After a period spent catching up on rest to the best of your ability, you started to accept visitors. Chaewon and Jaemin, the wonderful godparents that they were, assisted with fielding phone calls and text messages from curious loved ones. 

The mood in your home was different the day you and Haechan allowed visitors. Your bedroom was like a club and Haechan was serving as a bouncer, letting them in one-by-one in case you got overwhelmed. 

Chaewon had seen the babies a little earlier than the others. She was your best friend, after all. “They’re so cute,” she’d gushed. 

The babies in question were nested comfortably on your chest. They were also resting. There was a smile tugging at your lips, irresistible. Your heart was at peace. 

Ironically, Mark was the first to show up. Again. “Yo, yo, yo. Where’s my niece and nephew?”

“Shh. They’re sleeping,” Haechan scolded from the door. 

Mark’s eyes were wide, lips parted. “They must be sleepy, huh?”

You quipped, “Yeah. Apparently, wailing all night long is exhausting.”

“I was thinking they’d be tired of Haechan’s shit, but yeah, that checks out too,” Mark retorted. 

Haechan cursed under his breath. Then, he said aloud, “If I wasn’t a better man, I would pummel you to the ground.”

“A better man, my ass,” Mark taunted. His words were promptly followed by a gasp and he put his hands over his mouth. “I meant… my butt.”

You giggled. 

Mark switched on a dime. Concern washed over his face, tenderness in his eyes. “Dude, are you okay, though? Like, pregnancy is huge. It had to be eventful.”

“It was a lot of things,” you murmured, briefly bringing yourself back to that moment. You weren’t going to miss it too much, but it was beautiful. “I went through so many emotions. But I’m happy we’re all here.”

Mark bobbed his head. “Yeah, I am, too.”

When he exited the room, Winter promptly entered. And she gasped at the first sight of your babies, eyes dampening. “Oh my god!”

Her reaction made you snicker. “Yes, I know. They’re adorable.”

“Understatement of the year,” she drawled. “These are by far the cutest kids I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You grinned. “Thanks.”

Jaemin poked around the corner. Much like Chaewon, he had already seen your babies and spoken to them, cooing and babbling. “Somebody’s sleepy,” he retorted. 

You bobbed your head. “They should be.”

Jaemin didn’t miss a beat, “Guess they got sick of putting up with this guy.”

Haechan’s eyes narrowed and he hissed, “You’re late. Mark already made that joke.”

Winter giggled. You stifled one on your boyfriend’s behalf. 

There was a gap in between the next visits large enough for you to take a nap and you didn’t rouse until shortly before your fifth visitor.

As if it wasn’t obvious, you ignored Jeno’s nervousness. He looked a little surprised, lips parted when he caught a glimpse of your kids from the door. After he made small talk with Haechan, he entered and said, “Wow.”

Your babies were awake now. And surprisingly calm. For now. “I know.”

Jeno cleared his throat. “They’re beautiful. Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, staring adoringly at your kids. 

Jeno searched tirelessly for things to say. He didn’t want the wrong words to come out of his mouth, but you personally inviting him over shocked him. He asked, “How was labor?”

“Laborious,” you replied dryly. 

Jeno snorted. 

Haechan wasn’t shy to brag, “She was a champ. I’ve never been more proud.”

Your face was warm. And so was your heart. 

“I’m sure she was,” Jeno said, gleaming. 

You tilted your head. “Would you like to hold one of them?”

Jeno gawked. “Can I?”

You nodded. 

“Okay. Yeah, sure,” Jeno stammered out. 

Glancing down at your son, you cooed, “You wanna go to Uncle Jeno? Yeah?”

Shock flickered over Jeno’s face, as if he couldn’t believe the words leaving your mouth. With maternal cautiousness, you handed him your closest child, which happened to be your son. Jeno watched for his head without having to be instructed, holding your baby as if he would shatter. 

These babies were a part of you and Haechan, and Jeno swore that if there was anything you ever needed him to do for them, he wouldn’t hesitate to come running. 

“Hi,” Jeno greeted, smiling at your son. “You’re really lucky, you know. You have the best mom and dad on the whole planet.”

You smiled softly.

“Am I…,” Ryujin trailed, strolling down the hallway. Imagine her shock when she noticed Jeno standing there. “Late?”

Jeno cleared his throat. “Ryujin.”

Ryujin’s arms folded. “Jeno.”

“You look good,” Jeno said, mouth suddenly dry. 

Ryujin was eyeing him, skeptical, as if she still didn’t trust him. But you could see the sadness in her stare. “You, too,” she replied quietly. 

Jeno gently placed your son back in your arms, making sure he was secure before he released his grip. 

“We forgive him, Ryujin,” Haechan said, even if it took months. 

Ryujin’s eyes flickered. Jeno stepped in front of her and glanced at the floor. If there was something he wanted to tell her, he lacked the courage. 

“Look me in the eyes.”

Jeno did it. He would do anything to make his mistakes up to the people he owed to. 

Ryujin wrapped her arms around him. Jeno stiffened for a second, not expecting that of all reactions, but gently hugged her back. While they were reconciling, you and Haechan glanced at each other. There was a telepathic exchange of thought between the two of you. 

Then, Ryujin pulled back, and whined, “Ugh, I just realized something. We’re uneven again.”

Haechan snorted in disbelief. Of course that was what she was worried about. 

“Not if you include the kids plus Haechan and I’s future cat,” you quipped smartly. 

Ryujin beamed in amusement. “I think I can work with that.”

Glancing down at your two lovely kids, the cutest of hats on their tiny little heads, you grinned and said, “Yeah, so do I.”

[glassrowboat]

Daydream in a Nightmare

Authors note: I read a soulmate au where with dream sharing. Everytime you fall asleep you and your SM would meet in a world that would reflect your consciousness and who you were. So down below are the boys and what I think the places their dreams would depict.

Mondstadt

Diluc: The cathedral. His mom, back when she was alive, used to play during service and afterwards Diluc ran over greeting her with the biggest smile, asking her to play him one more song. She never failed to. Maybe that's why there's always a gentle melody playing whenever you see him as he rests his fingers over the same white tiles, simply trying to remember how to play.

Kaeya: The Dawn Winery. Or at least parts of it. Behind closed doors there's the scent of grass, of dirt, and the faintest smell of ash. He says it's simply the vineyard that in the real world would be right outside, but he knows well as he pulls your hand from the doorknob that it's ruins of a fallen nation haunting him right on the other side.

Albedo: Glass walls. A maze of mirrors and reflections. If you ever have stopped to bother to count between Albedo’s musings as he shares with you the secrets of the world, you'd notice that for some reason he always has more reflections in the walls around you than of your own figure. Like there's more of him than there is of you.

Venti: Old Mondstadt. Back before the revolution, back when there were people in the streets wishing their God weren't so unjust, but in his dreams that wall of spiraling wind is never there. A warped perception of a life he wished to have lived as he sits in your lap not as Venti the bard, but a wind sprite trying to bury into your clothes for warmth. Just don't call him pipsqueek or he'll try and bite your fingers. Playfully. You think.

Liyue

Zhongli: A place that no longer exists, one torn away by this world during the archon war. It's unlike him not to comment on a place, a trinket, an item, as you pick something up and fiddle with it, but this place he never goes into full detail on. However, he will tell you all about the artisanship of the table you two are sharing tea over.

Baizhu: His home back in Chenyu Vale, back before the illness hit his village, back before his parents passed away. Just a modest home that shows signs of being truly well lived in and loved. Mindlessly while you two talk he'll be cleaning the place, just the way he always does at the pharmacy. Though it does help give him something to fill the silence. It turns out he's a lot more used to Changsheng chiming in with comments than he thought. He just hopes you two get along when the time to meet in person finally comes about.

Ga ming: A festival. There's water kicking up at everyone's feet, up to everyones ankles as people with their face covered in all manner of masks walk you both by. Ga ming would pull you along from booth to booth, trying his best to win prizes despite the fact you both know they'll be gone by the time you wake.

Xiao: A Chinese pavilion in the sky. You walk among the clouds as you follow the path of the street, looking over the accents that seem somehow both rich in color and dull, muddied all at the same time. Something you've noticed from his dreams compared to yours, his always have a lingering black fog creeping in at the corner of your eyes. It makes you feel like someone else is in this world with you, like there's eyes waiting to do more than just watch.

Inazuma

Kazooha: A meadow. The wind passes you both by, stirring up pages of books you two sit reading in silence. You can't help but wonder if these are all books he's read before, especially the ones that wax poetry or something else. His thoughts, perhaps? Maybe Kazuha's very own writings? But that matters little as his head is resting on your shoulder as you try to catch words between the fluttering sheets of paper.

Itto: A kabuki play. It always ends up in you two hiding away in the back room where the performers would get ready before getting back out on stage for the next act. You would see the brightest of colors, richest of fabrics, and practiced movements so fine tuned that you can't understand why Itto is so focused on taking the makeup on the vanity in the back simply so he can paint your face with red marks just like his. To each their own you suppose, and who are you to complain when it means drawing hearts on his arm when Itto isn't paying attention?

Gorou: A tea house. It's a small place, simple, but certainly not lacking charm as Gorou pours you a cup. At first the fact you could actually taste the rich herbs on your tongue in this dreamscape threw you off, but now it's just another part of this odd reality. But saying that, the first time you spat out the drink he offered as soon as the bitter taste hit you. Apparently he never expected you to not already be used to green tea. The poor fella was apologizing for the rest of the night, ears laid flat on his head and tail tucked between his legs. It's okay though, you made it even by trying to give him dog treats. It was you having to beg for forgiveness then.

Thoma: It was different this time. No glowing blue flowers and a forest that you two would stroll through mindlessly while chatting for hours. No, this time Thoma was sitting on a wooden platform below a giant stone statue. Intriguing, yes, but mattered little compared to the rope burns around his wrist. He tried to tell you not to worry about it. That it was an accident. But that mattered little as your lips pressed to the red, irritated skin and he gave you a strained smile. You knew better than to ask about it more from there.

Ayato: It's ever changing. It's like he is constantly thinking of something whenever He falls asleep and it reflects in his dreams. Once it was a Japanese styled room the next it was some room in Fontaine's architecture. But it's always a bedroom. A place of relaxation as Ayato buries his head in your lap like it was a pillow. He'll whine about being overworked until you're tempted to pull on his hair just to make the man shut up for once, but last time you did that it led to the bed being used for a lot more than just rest. For now just pat his head and let him vent, the man needs it.

Sumeru

Kaveh: A sketch brought to life from his mothers blueprints. One he saw his mother sketching back when Kaveh was a boy and she would let him sit on her lap, let him comment on the drawings. She would always find some way to incorporate his addictions into the sketch. Nowadays he knows the building that was actually constructed in the end to be simpler, duller than the one his mother wanted, but in his dreams with you it stands tall and proud.

Al Haitham: An attic. It's dusty and it clearly had a hole in the roof that was covered over by some wooden planks and nails. A patch work job that needs to be fixed but if you ever take the time to bother with it while Al Haitham sits in an old rocking chair covered by a quilt reading the night away it will only be there the next dream cycle. It pisses you off. He pisses you off. All nonchalance and an apathetic look even as you plop yourself in his lap and take that book away. And what pisses you off even more? How he dares to call you needy as he holds you close. It's best to ignore the fact he started reading over your shoulder.

Tighnari: Pardis Dhyai. He'll sit on the walkway watching you kick the water of the ponds around, paying no mind to when you splash at him. Not anymore at least. He's learned quickly if he makes a snarky comment you'll give one back and it'll go on and on until somehow it ends in him getting dragged into the pond with you. Both dripping algae filled water as he wondered what gods made this numbskull his mate.

Cyno: Lambad's Tavern. Everytime he would come back from treks in the desert he would go there, get a drink, and play a round of cards with whoever was willing. It was a pattern. Work, work, rest, and more work. But now he didn't have to constantly be on work mode as he sat with you in the old booth shuffling cards as he tried to explain to you how TCG works. So far everytime you lose you've thrown those elemental dice and him, and with a smile he lets them hit him in the head despite being fully able to dodge them. His soulmate is such a sore loser.

Wanderer: Shakkei Pavilion. He hates it. Hates that this is the place his unconscious has chosen to sink onto so stubbornly. His wooden fingers would slide over the paintings depicting Scaramouche’s past that has now been severed from him in everyone's eyes but Nahida and the Traveler. If you knew, would you still hold his hand? Would you still trace the details of his joints and comment that you find his pretty face such a stark contrast to his sharp words? He's afraid to find out, the idea that you might be his fourth betrayal always lingering in the back of his mind.

Fontaine

Neuvillette: Under the water where the currents would carry stray bits of seaweed and fish swimming past. The first time you shared a dream with him here he had to calm you down as instinctively you held your breath, taking your hands in his and assuring you if he can talk like this, you can suck in air just as well. It took some time getting used to, but now he watches as you grab starfish off the ocean floor and bring them over to him like a prize to be presented. This is what humans must be like Neuvillette tells himself as you braid them into his hair.

Worcestershire sauce: A home. A nice one at that. Big, had decent furnishings, pictures of kids hung up on the wall. If you listened closely enough you could even hear children playing outside from the cracked open windows that showed the brightest sky outside. Wriothesly would walk behind you as you would watch the grass blowing in the wind, not saying a word as he rested his chin on top of your head. He never thought he'd be back here again. The very place made him feel sick to his stomach, but with you? It was bearable. Even as you tried to grab his handcuffs from him.

Snezhnaya

Childe: His childhood home. Back before the renovations he bought for the place with his money as a harbinger, back before the redecorating of rooms to fit more children, and back to what the house was like when he was just a boy yet to fall into the abyss. Back when everything was simpler. He would pick up toys that have gone missing, never to be seen again and stare in wonder how it all is exactly how he remembers it. It makes it so much easier to be Ajax with you, rather than Tartaglia.

Dottore: The hospital he was working in when trying to help Eleazar patients. For the life of him does he hate it, being back in the desert always having to tip his shoes out of sand that never seems to fully clear off. It doesn't help you try and pour sand down his shirt, but in a way he supposes it's better you two stay out here under that blistering sun than you going inside to be met with the smell of death. No, you don't need to know about that side of him just yet.

Pantalone: His office. It always makes it hard to tell at first if he's awake, not when the same scene greets him either way. You always joke about him being married to his work and you're the mistress in this relationship. At this point he counts on the comment as soon as his eyes flutter open and he's greeted with the sight of you sitting on the desk he's been using as a pillow. Still, he can never help the genuine smile at seeing you once again.

Captain: A flower field. The snowdrops peek out from under the fluffy blanket of white powder, crunching under every step he takes. Even in his dreams the cold of Snezhnaya is ever present, ever biting. It only makes sense you are shivering behind him even as he lets you steal his cloak that is more of a blanket on you than anything. This field, he knows it well, knows that what waters these flowers is more blood than anything else, but that matters little as he wraps his arms around you. Maybe he can find a way to dream you a proper jacket.

Pierro: A grand hall. It reminds you of the way ballrooms are described in romance stories as the couple depicted would dance the night away. Columns so high you have to tilt your head back just to see where they meet the ceiling covered in paintings you've never seen before. That is until Pierro steps into your view. He always offered his hand to you before you could ask, and as your fingers interlocked he would tell you about them. Always ready to answer your questions. It meant someone was curious about a part of his long lost nation. So, of course, he was always happy to share.

Scaramouche: A never ending fire. It's a small shack, engulfed by flames that never seem to dwindle or burn out the wood it feeds on. Like this place was stuck in time in his mind. He doesn't talk to you, not any more than a sharp shut up. The only time that glare he showed you disappeared is when you pulled your hand back from the curious fire with a hiss, not expecting it to actually hurt in this fake reality. For a moment you could have sworn he took a step towards you, but he never came any closer than that as he hissed at you to be careful. Dumb mortals should at least know not to burn themselves.

[elikajinnie]

Hiii I love your fanfics!!😭🩷

Can u write something on sunoo like horror au or thriller au?

Fallen Angel - K.S

THANK YOUUUU!!<333 Omg i have so many horror au drafts right now. It`s really giving me motivation.

P: Devil!Sunoo X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Blood/Injury, Rituals & Cult-like Activity, Obsessive Love, Body Worship, Murder, Corruption, Falling In Love, Stalking?

Synopsis: A seemingly innocent walk through the forest turns into a chilling nightmare, and your soul becomes the ultimate prize for the devil himself. With a captivating presence and an insatiable desire for you, he reveals that your fate is now intertwined with his. And he will keep you by his side.

a/n: I am a sucker for paranormal movies :p the start is inspired by Jennifer`s body :) HAPPY HELL WEEK!! (iykyk)

"The Devil is real and he's not some little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful because he's a fallen angel and he used to be God's favourite."

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You come downstairs after slipping into more comfortable clothes, ready for a walk. The house is quiet, your steps light on the wooden floor as you head toward the door. Living on the outskirts of town has its perks, and your favorite one is the forest. It's a place of solace, a space where you can let your thoughts wander freely as you walk beneath the trees.

You pull on your shoes, grab your jacket from the hook by the door, and fish your phone out of your pocket. A playlist hums to life in your ears, setting the mood. With your keys in hand, you lock the door behind you, the soft click signaling the start of your escape into the wild.

The gravel crunches beneath your feet, the small stones and twigs snapping with every step. There’s something rhythmic in the way the sound mixes with the music, creating its own sort of tune. You follow the familiar path, the forest looming ahead, inviting you in. As the trees grow taller around you, the ground changes, becoming softer, more forgiving underfoot. The scent of pine and earth fills the air, fresh and damp. Sunlight filters through in thin beams, casting long, golden shadows on the forest floor.

Your breathing syncs with the rhythm of your steps, steady and calm. The music playing in your ears becomes a backdrop to the symphony of nature—birds chirping somewhere above, the distant rustle of small animals moving through the underbrush. You can feel the world quieting around you, like the forest itself is protecting you from the noise and chaos of everyday life.

The deeper you go, the more peaceful it becomes. The path you walk is familiar, worn by countless footsteps over the years, but every time it feels new, like the forest shifts and breathes with the seasons. You pause for a moment, standing still, letting the quiet wash over you. There’s a comfort in this silence, a stillness that fills you.

But as you take a breath, something in the air changes. It’s subtle at first—like the shift in a breeze before a storm. The trees, once inviting, now seem to lean in closer. The shadows deepen, stretching out in unfamiliar shapes. The music in your ears feels distant now, as if it’s being drowned out by the weight of the silence.

Your steps slow, and the crackle of a twig behind you makes you stop altogether. You turn, scanning the trees, expecting to see nothing but the familiar outline of trunks and branches. But for a moment, just a brief flicker, you think you see movement—something or someone slipping between the trees, too fast to catch.

The forest, once a place of peace, now feels different.

Your heart quickens, instinctively telling you something is wrong. The peaceful stillness of the forest now feels like a trap. Slowly, you turn around, careful not to make any sudden movements, your instincts screaming at you to leave. The music in your ears lowers into the background, drowned out by the rushing pulse of your own heartbeat. You try to stay calm, taking slow steps back in the direction of home, eyes scanning the forest around you.

But the feeling doesn’t go away. Every shadow seems to shift, every tree leaning just a little too close. The forest, once familiar, now feels foreign, hostile even. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and your steps quicken. You need to get out of here.

Just as you pick up the pace, something moves at the corner of your vision. You freeze. Slowly, you glance around, and that’s when you see them—figures, barely visible at first, blending into the dark shadows of the trees. Cloaked in black, their faces hidden, they move with eerie silence. One, then two, then more of them, appearing from the forest as if they’ve always been there, watching.

Panic surges through you. You turn fully now, ready to run, but it’s too late. The forest around you is no longer empty. They’ve surrounded you, their dark forms closing in like a tightening net. Your breath catches in your throat as you search for a way out, but there’s none.

Before you can even react, something hard strikes the side of your head. Pain explodes in your skull, and the world around you spins wildly. The ground seems to rush up to meet you as your vision blurs, darkening around the edges. The last thing you feel is the cold, unforgiving earth beneath you as consciousness slips away, pulling you into a deep, heavy darkness.

When you finally come to, your head throbs with pain. Your eyelids flutter open, and the first thing you notice is that you’re propped up against a large, moss-covered stone, the dampness of it seeping through your clothes.

Panic sets in as you realize you’re bound—your wrists and ankles tied tightly with coarse rope, the roughness biting into your skin. There’s a gag in your mouth, muffling your shallow breaths. Your heart races as you struggle to move, but the ropes hold firm.

Looking around, your eyes adjust to the flickering light of candles surrounding you, casting eerie shadows on the trees. There are seven figures, cloaked in black, standing silently around you. They are still, their faces hidden under the hoods.

You hear it then—the low, rhythmic sound of chanting. The voice is monotone, steady, like it’s reciting something ancient and powerful. You don’t understand the words, but you guess it’s Latin. You begin to struggle, trying to loosen the ropes, heart pounding as your fingers strain against the bindings. But the more you move, the tighter they seem to become. Panic rises in your chest.

Suddenly, one of the figures steps forward, and in their hand, you see a dagger glint in the candlelight. Your stomach twists in fear. You freeze, eyes wide, unable to tear your gaze away as they approach you. The chanting continues, unwavering.

Without warning, the figure kneels beside you. The dagger’s cold blade presses against your cheek, and then—pain. You flinch as the sharp steel slices into your skin, a thin line of blood trickling down your face. A muffled whimper escapes your throat. The figure collects the blood, careful and deliberate, smearing it onto an ancient, crumbling scroll that looks like it’s been carried through time itself.

Terror takes over as you watch, helpless, as the figure lights the scroll with a simple flick of a lighter. The flames catch quickly, consuming the scroll in moments. As the last of it turns to ash, the chanting stops.

A deafening silence follows.

No birds. No wind. The entire forest seems to be holding its breath, as if the world itself is waiting for something terrible to happen.

Then, all at once, the candles surrounding you flicker out, plunging you into darkness. But just as quickly, they flare back to life—only this time, the flames are blood red, casting an ominous, fiery glow over the ritual circle. The figures stand unmoving, their faces still hidden, but you can feel the shift in the air. Something has changed.

Something is coming.

The air around you feels thick, oppressive, as if the very forest is suffocating under some unseen weight. Then, suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence. It’s sultry yet booming, rich with mockery and power. It doesn’t come from any one direction—it comes from everywhere at once, as though the trees themselves are speaking.

“Well, well, well,” the voice purrs, dripping with amusement. “How desperate you all must be, fumbling with your little rituals and chants. Meddling with powers far beyond your reach.” It chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating through the forest, making the ground beneath you tremble. “Did you really think you could summon me so easily? That I would come at the beck and call of your pathetic incantations?”

The cloaked figures stiffen at the voice’s words, shifting nervously in their places. They remain silent, but you can feel their fear in the way they hesitate, as if they didn’t anticipate this response. The voice continues, teasing and condescending. “You should’ve known better. But here you are, scrambling in the darkness, begging for something you cannot possibly understand.”

Just then, one of the figures dares to speak. Their voice is trembling, but steady enough to say, “But we brought you a sacrifice.”

The forest falls deathly still. The voice, which had been mocking moments before, quiets suddenly. The shift in its tone is palpable, as though whoever or whatever it is has just taken a keen interest in something—or rather, in someone. You feel a chill creep up your spine.

There’s a long pause, and then the voice speaks again, but this time it’s softer, quieter, as though it's enthralled. “A sacrifice…?” The amusement fades, replaced by something else—curiosity. Desire. “And what a beautiful offering you’ve brought me…”

Your blood runs cold as the voice seems to focus entirely on you now, its words lingering in the air. You can feel its attention like a weight pressing down on you, though there is no form, no figure to see—just the voice, enveloping you in the darkness.

“I must say, you’ve outdone yourselves,” it murmurs, almost appreciatively. “Such beauty… such fragility. A rare find indeed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you can’t tell if this attention is a blessing or a curse. Every muscle in your body screams to run, but the ropes still hold you tight, and the darkness closes in.

The figures, emboldened by the voice’s attention, begin to speak. One by one, they make their demands, their voices eager and trembling with greed.

“We ask for money,” one says, stepping forward.

“Power,” another adds, almost hungrily.

“We offer our loyalty in return for wealth, for control. We will serve you without question,” one of them declares, their voice dripping with desperation.

For a moment, there is silence. Then, the voice returns, and this time it’s filled with cold, biting laughter. “Money? Power?” it repeats, the words laced with disdain. “How pitiful. Is that what you’ve gathered here for? How small your desires are. You dare summon me, meddle in forces far beyond your comprehension, and for what? Gold? Influence?”

The voice’s laughter grows, mocking them all, cutting through the air like a knife. “You offer loyalty as if it means something to me, as if you’re anything more than fleeting, mortal specks. You want power? You want riches? You have no idea what true power is, nor the price it demands.”

The figures hesitate, doubt creeping into their postures as the voice continues to belittle their wishes. And then, just as your heart beats faster with terror, you feel a breath against your ear—soft, like a gentle wind. A whisper, barely audible, brushes against your skin.

“Close your eyes.”

You freeze. Slowly, you turn your head, expecting to see someone beside you, but there’s no one. Just the oppressive darkness and the flickering red flames of the candles. Your pulse quickens, but something deep inside you urges you to trust the voice. Against the rising panic in your chest, you clench your eyes shut tightly, your body trembling as the atmosphere around you shifts.

Suddenly, the stillness of the forest is shattered by the sound of screams. Blood-curdling, desperate cries fill the air, piercing through the night as the figures around you shout and wail in terror. You hear the snap of branches, the thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the crackling of something far more sinister. But you don’t dare open your eyes. You’re frozen in place, paralyzed with fear, every muscle locked in place as chaos erupts around you.

The screams continue, a cacophony of horror, but you keep your eyes shut, holding onto the whisper’s command. Your breath is ragged, your chest heaving as you try to control the overwhelming panic that’s rising inside you. Time stretches, seconds feeling like hours.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the forest goes quiet. The screams fade into nothing, leaving only an eerie silence. Your heart races in the deafening stillness, and though you can no longer hear the carnage, you can feel its lingering presence.

You breathe in and out, fast and shallow, terrified to open your eyes, terrified of what you might see. The forest is so quiet now, as if it’s holding its breath once more. You start to wonder if it’s truly over, if the nightmare has passed.

Then, the whisper returns, soft and chilling, right by your ear. “Sleep…”

Before you can even react, your mind becomes heavy, your body limp. It feels like a spell, something irresistible pulling you into darkness. Your eyes, still shut, flutter briefly before you fall into an all-consuming sleep, leaving the horrors of the forest behind.

You drift through the most peaceful sleep you’ve ever had, your body weightless, like it’s floating down a calm, serene river. The usual tension in your muscles is gone, replaced by a deep, soothing calm. It’s as if you’re cradled by warmth, gently rocked by invisible hands. There’s no sense of time, only pure restfulness, the kind that reaches into your soul and makes you feel whole.

In the distance, you hear a voice—soft, affectionate, and full of admiration. It whispers sweetly, its tone rich and tender, complimenting everything about you. It praises the softness of your hair, the elegance of your face, the beauty of your body, and even your very presence, as though every part of you is perfect. The words wash over you like a lullaby, pulling you deeper into that blissful rest.

When you finally wake up, you’re in your bed. The familiar comfort of your own room surrounds you, but something doesn’t feel right. You blink groggily, sitting up, trying to shake off the lingering haze of sleep. Confused, you glance around, and your heart races as you remember the events —the forest, the figures, the voice. Instinctively, your hand goes to your cheek, expecting to feel the sting of the cut, but there’s nothing. Your skin is smooth, untouched. There’s no sign of what happened.

You throw off the covers and hurry to the mirror, your pulse quickening. You search your reflection, half-expecting to see some trace of the terror from the forest, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Your hair is the same, your face unmarked. It’s like nothing happened at all, and yet… you know it wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been. The memory is too vivid, too real. The voice, the blood, the chanting—all of it remains sharp in your mind.

You turn away from the mirror, trying to make sense of it, when something catches your eye. Your breath hitches in your throat. On your bedside table, there’s a candle—lit and burning softly. Next to it, a single rose, its petals dark and velvety, resting elegantly beside the flame.

You freeze, your heart pounding as you approach it. Slowly, you pick up the rose, your fingers brushing against its delicate petals. The candle flickers slightly, casting a warm glow across the room. You stare at it, the confusion settling deep in your chest.

“Oh…” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. The soft voice from your dream, the one that praised you, seems to echo in your ear again, gentle and intimate. Startled, you whip around, expecting to see someone behind you, but there’s no one. Just the empty room.

“Weird…” you mutter under your breath, glancing around once more. Still, there’s no explanation, no figure emerging from the shadows. You place the rose back down on the table and blow out the candle, watching the smoke spiral up into the air before it disappears. The room feels normal again, but the unease remains.

You climb back into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin. Despite everything, the warmth of sleep begins to pull at you again, as if beckoning you back into its embrace. And though the forest may be far behind, you can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—is still watching.

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In the days that follow, you can’t shake the unsettling feeling of being watched. It’s always there, just out of sight—a presence hovering behind you, lingering at the edge of your senses. Every time you glance over your shoulder, expecting to see someone or something, there’s nothing. Just empty air. But the feeling never fades. It clings to you like a shadow, haunting your every move.

You become more cautious, always looking around, watching for signs of movement, but there’s no panic, no alarm. It’s almost as if your body has accepted the presence, even as your mind refuses to make sense of it. You should feel fear, but instead, there’s a strange calm, an eerie quiet that lingers no matter how close the feeling gets.

The day after the incident, you return to the forest, hoping for some kind of clue, some proof that it wasn’t a dream. But the forest is peaceful, untouched. There’s no sign of the ritual, no remnants of the candles, no trace of the figures. It’s as though the whole thing never happened, swallowed up by the woods themselves. The silence feels wrong, and as you walk the same path, the memory of that night burns vividly in your mind, but there’s nothing here to confirm it.

You try to move on, but even your friends start noticing the change in you. Rei, Jeongin, and Yujin glance at you with worried eyes, asking if everything’s okay. You brush them off, telling them it’s just stress, maybe some restless nights. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. There’s no rest anymore, only the constant feeling that you’re being watched, even when no one is around.

And then there’s the candle and rose. Every night, without fail, when you go to bed, they’re there. The candle always lit, casting a soft glow across your room. The rose—perfect, fresh, never wilting—sits beside it. It weirds you out, gnawing at your sanity, especially when you know you lock the windows and draw the curtains every night. There’s no way someone could be getting in. After the third night, you even called the police, desperate for answers. But they found nothing—no signs of forced entry, no signs of any entry at all. The officer told you everything seemed normal, but nothing about this felt normal to you.

The hopelessness sinks in. There’s no explanation, no rational way to understand what’s happening. And it doesn’t help that at night, when the world is quiet, you can hear it again—that soft voice. It’s always there, whispering just at the edge of your consciousness. Close, yet distant. Its words are impossible to grasp, like a lullaby just out of reach, tugging at your mind as you drift into sleep, feeling the weight of something you can’t explain pressing down on you.

You want to scream, to fight it, but there’s no fear. Only that strange, unsettling calm, like a storm waiting to break. And you can’t tell if you’re more terrified of what’s happening—or of how much you’ve come to expect it.

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One day, in the midst of your growing paranoia and frustration, you find yourself mindlessly scrolling on your computer when a strange ad catches your attention: a website for a fortune teller. The colorful banner flickers, promising answers to those who seek them, and normally you’d scoff at something like this. But with everything going on, you find yourself clicking the link. Desperation tugs at your thoughts. Maybe she could explain what’s happening, or at least help make sense of the strange calm that now follows you like a shadow.

The next day, you go. The fortune teller’s shop is tucked away in a quiet part of town, the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it. Inside, the scent of incense hangs thick in the air, and the room is dimly lit by candles that flicker with every movement. She sits across from you, an older woman with knowing eyes that seem to see right through you.

As you settle into the chair, she doesn’t need much prompting. After a brief introduction, she tells you that she feels something around you, something that clings to you. “There’s a presence,” she says, her voice low and thoughtful. “Usually, a presence like this would be malevolent, something dark and dangerous… but right now, it’s calm. It feels content, almost protective.”

Her words send a chill down your spine. You’ve never bought into this kind of thing before, but something inside you tells you to listen. You can’t deny the truth in her words. That presence, the one you’ve felt trailing you day and night—it’s always there, but never threatening.

She pulls out her tarot deck, shuffling the cards with practiced ease, her fingers nimble as she lays them out on the table. One card catches your eye immediately—the Devil. When she spots it, her breath catches. “The Devil,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “It represents temptation, control, and obsession. But it’s also a card of power, of something… primal. Something that binds itself to you, and once it has, it rarely lets go.”

You sit there, frozen, as she explains the meaning of the card. It’s about being tethered to something you can’t escape from, something that might seduce you with its calm but still holds an underlying danger. You barely hear her as she continues, your thoughts racing.

When you finally leave the fortune teller’s shop, you step out into the street, dazed and conflicted. The cold air bites at your skin, but your mind feels numb. You stand there for a long time, thinking over everything she said, the Devil card burned into your thoughts. The idea that this presence, this voice, is somehow tied to you—content now, but still something to be wary of—it sends your head spinning.

Eventually, you walk to the bus stop, lost in your thoughts. When the bus arrives, you get on, finding an empty seat by the window. As you sit, staring out into the city, you can’t shake the strange feeling again—that presence lingering close, too close. You glance out the window, and for a moment, you swear you see something sitting beside you in the reflection. A shadow, just out of the corner of your eye.

Your heart skips a beat, and you turn to look—but there’s nothing. No one. Just the empty seat beside you, like always. You squint, trying to shake the feeling, and look back at the window. The reflection shows nothing.

You huff in frustration, shaking off the moment, and pull out your phone, trying to distract yourself. But as the bus rolls forward, you can’t help but feel that presence still, hovering just beyond your senses, patient and ever-present.

You step off the bus at the stop you wanted, your mind still racing from the strange encounter on the ride. The air is cool as you walk, your footsteps almost mindless, leading you down familiar streets until you reach the church. Its tall steeple rises against the sky, and you pause for a moment, staring at it. A sigh escapes your lips as you shrug, figuring there’s no harm in trying. Maybe this place, of all places, could offer you some sort of clarity—or peace.

Pushing open the heavy doors, you step into the threshold. The moment you cross over, something shifts. The constant feeling of being watched, that heavy, unshakeable presence, vanishes. It should bring you relief, but instead, a hollow emptiness fills the space where that presence once lingered. You stop in your tracks, feeling strangely vulnerable, exposed in a way you hadn’t expected.

Every cell in your body screams at you to turn back, to leave the church and return to where you felt… safer. But you swallow the feeling, pushing it down as you make your way past the countless rows of benches, your eyes fixed on the altar.

“Hello,” you call out, your voice echoing through the empty space, bouncing off the high ceilings.

“Hello, my child,” a voice responds. You turn to see a priest walking towards you, his face kind, his eyes full of concern. “How may I help you?”

You hesitate for a moment, wondering how to even begin explaining what you’ve been feeling, but something about the priest’s calm demeanor makes it easier. You tell him everything—about the ritual and the feeling of being watched that never left you. He listens carefully, nodding as you speak, never interrupting. When you finish, he places a hand on your shoulder, his expression grave but understanding.

“I think you may benefit from a cleansing,” he suggests gently. “It could help you find peace.”

You’re not sure what peace would even feel like anymore, but you nod anyway, agreeing to the cleansing. He leads you to a small side chapel, where he begins to recite verses, his voice steady and reassuring as he works through the ritual. You stand still, feeling the weight of his words settle around you, like a protective barrier forming between you and whatever it is that’s been haunting you.

When he finishes, you feel lighter—but not in the way you expected. You thank him quietly, offering a small smile before heading back toward the exit. But as you reach the door, you stop, standing just before the threshold. There’s an odd feeling gnawing at you, something that makes you hesitate before stepping outside. You take a deep breath, as if bracing yourself for whatever might come next.

Finally, you step out. You wait for the familiar sensation to return—the feeling of being watched, the strange calm that’s followed you for days. But nothing happens. The air is still. The presence is gone.

You exhale slowly, the tension in your chest loosening, and for the first time in a while, you feel a flicker of relief. Maybe this is what peace feels like. Maybe you’ve finally managed to shake whatever it was that had been clinging to you. You walk down the church steps and start making your way home, your steps lighter, as if the weight of the last few days has lifted.

But as the quiet of the evening settles around you, you can’t help but glance over your shoulder, just to be sure.

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That night, when you finally make your way to bed, something feels off the moment you step into your room. It’s quiet, almost too quiet, and when you glance at your bedside table, the absence hits you immediately. There’s no candle softly flickering, no rose resting beside it. For days, those strange, inexplicable objects had become part of your nighttime routine, and now, without them, your room feels… empty.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the bare space, unsure how to feel. Part of you should be relieved, right? The presence is gone, the priest’s cleansing worked, and now, everything is back to normal. But as you sit on the edge of the bed, you can’t shake the odd sense of unease gnawing at you. That eerie calm you’d come to expect—no matter how unsettling—had become familiar. And now that it’s gone, it feels like something important has been ripped away.

You lie down, pulling the covers up, trying to convince yourself that this is what you wanted. Peace. Quiet. But as the night wears on, you toss and turn, the silence pressing in on you from all sides. Sleep doesn’t come easily. Every time you close your eyes, you expect to hear that soft, whispering voice, or to catch the faint scent of roses in the air. But there’s nothing. Just the cold, stark quiet.

Hours pass, and despite the exhaustion, you can’t seem to find any comfort. The night drags on, restless and heavy, and when you do manage to drift off, it’s into a light, uneasy slumber. The dreams that come are disjointed, dark, and full of shadows that shift and twist just beyond your reach.

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As the days turn into a blur of mundane routines, you find yourself increasingly aware of an emptiness that settles in your chest. It starts subtly, creeping in like the morning fog, but soon it becomes a heavy weight you can’t ignore. You catch yourself glancing around your room, searching for something, but you can’t quite put your finger on what’s missing.

You dismiss it at first. Tell yourself it’s just a phase, a product of the unsettling experience you had in the forest and the church. But deep down, you know what it is.

Each night, when you lay in bed, the absence gnaws at you, louder than your rational thoughts. You try to convince yourself that you don’t need any strange tokens, that their disappearance signifies freedom. But the truth is, you miss the ritual, the soothing presence they offered, even if it was unsettling. They were reminders that you weren’t entirely alone, even if the presence felt like a shadow lurking in the corners of your mind.

You begin to notice it more and more during the day. At work, when the sunlight streams through the window, illuminating everything around you, your thoughts drift to that flickering candlelight. You find yourself distracted, unable to concentrate, imagining the scent of roses filling your room, their petals vibrant and alive. In moments of quiet, when you should feel at peace, your mind wanders back to the eerie calm that came with those objects.

You even catch yourself thinking about the fortune teller’s words, the way she spoke of the Devil card and its implications. Was it truly gone? Or was it simply biding its time, waiting for you to acknowledge its presence again? The uncertainty hangs over you like a storm cloud, dark and oppressive.

Every night, as you prepare for bed, you look at that empty space on your bedside table, and a familiar ache settles in. You want to deny it, want to convince yourself that you’re better off without the strange gifts. But as you drift into an uneasy sleep, the truth lingers just beneath the surface—you miss what once was, even if it was chaotic and frightening.

And the more you deny it, the stronger that longing becomes, until it feels like a part of you is reaching out, desperate to reclaim the connection you once had.

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One night, as the hours dragged on, you found yourself tossing and turning, your mind racing with thoughts that wouldn’t settle. Eventually, you groaned in frustration and opened your eyes, confronting the reality that sleep was eluding you. With a resigned sigh, you sat up, pulling the covers off your body. You felt restless, as if your own skin was too tight.

Navigating through the dark, you made your way to the kitchen, each step a little more deliberate than the last. The house was silent, the only sound the soft padding of your feet on the cool floor. You reached the fridge and pulled out a water bottle, opening it with a quick twist before taking a few long gulps. The cool water felt refreshing, but as you set the bottle down, a familiar shiver raced up your spine.

You froze, instinctively turning slowly around, scanning the dimly lit kitchen. “Hello?” you called out, your voice a soft echo in the stillness. But there was no response, only the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of the wind outside.

Turning back around, you tried to shake off the chill that lingered, but then something shifted in the air. It wasn’t stifling, but it felt heavy, pressing down on you like a weight. A sudden awareness prickled at the back of your neck, and you froze again, feeling a breath whisper past your ear.

It was warm and sweet, mixed with an intoxicating scent of roses and something burning, like incense.

“Hello, little angel,” a sultry voice whispered, sending chills through your body. “Miss me?”

You turned your head slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and there it was—a black shadow, dark and formless, hovering just inches from your face. Two crimson eyes glinted in the darkness, locking onto yours with an intensity that paralyzed you. You wanted to scream, to run, but your tongue felt heavy and your limbs refused to move. All you could do was stare in terror, heart pounding in your chest as the shadow loomed closer.

In that moment, you understood with horrifying clarity: you weren’t alone anymore.

You could only watch as the shadow moved to stand directly in front of you, your gaze locked onto its form, mouth slightly open in disbelief. The presence was back, and you felt a strange mix of fear and longing bubbling within you. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that voice, that intimate whisper, until it echoed in the stillness of your kitchen once more.

“Excuse my sudden disappearance,” the shadow spoke, its tone smooth and rich, wrapping around you like silk. “The cleansing you underwent caused me to step back. I could only return to you when your soul desired me again.”

Your heart raced as his words registered, the surreal nature of the moment crashing down around you. You found your voice again after the shock wore off, forcing the question out of your throat. “What… are you?”

The shadow paused, then gave a graceful nod as if remembering something important. “Excuse my manners,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with dark elegance. And then, right before your eyes, the inky figure began to shift. The darkness gave way to a striking form, his transformation almost too breathtaking to believe.

He stood there now, a tall, beautiful man, whose very presence stole the breath from your lungs. His skin with pale, flawless that seemed to glow in the dim light. His black attire was tailored perfectly, hugging his body and adding to the aura of power he exuded. But it was his eyes that drew you in —those deep, red orbs that gleamed with a playful yet dangerous light, and his blond hair fell effortlessly around his soft features. But it was more than just his face that left you spellbound—two long, black horns curved proudly from his head, and behind him, a sleek, horned tail swished lazily through the air. In his hand, he casually twirled a pitchfork, as if it were an extension of himself.

“I am the Devil,” he said with a charming smile, his gaze locked onto yours, “but you may call me Sunoo.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. You stared at him, a whirlwind of emotions crashing through you—fear, intrigue, and an unsettling familiarity. The realization of what he was settled deep within you, mingling with the longing you had tried so hard to suppress. Despite the warnings that echoed in your mind, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, to the chaos and the darkness he represented.

The kitchen felt smaller now, the shadows thicker as he took a step closer. “And I have come back for you,” he said, his voice low and enticing, making your heart race faster. His red eyes locked onto yours, and with each word he spoke, the weight of his gaze felt as though it was peeling back your very soul.

“I watched you,” he began, his voice a low rumble, rich with emotion. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I craved you. You ignited a hunger within me that I had thought long extinguished. A mortal like you,” he said, his tone reverent, “looked like an angel in my eyes. Your innocence, your strength, your beauty—each facet drew me closer, wrapping around my heart like a vine.”

As he reached out, his fingers brushed against your cheek, a caress that sent a shiver of warmth through your body. His touch was electric, igniting a spark deep inside you that resonated with every heartbeat. “But then,” he continued, the softness of his voice darkening, “I saw you on that forest floor, hurt and scared for your life. It filled me with fury, a rage that pulsed through my veins. How dare they threaten you?”

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin as he continued, “I sought you out. I stood by you, watching over you as you went about your days, waiting for the moment when you would long for me as I longed for you. I protected you from the darkness that surrounded you, even as I stood in the shadows. I knew this night would come—the time when you would feel my presence and accept me as your own.”

Your heart raced, his words weaving a web of desire and belonging that tightened around your chest. “Your soul now belongs to me,” he whispered, and as the words left his lips, you felt his hand press against your chest, right over your heart. The moment his palm made contact, your heartbeat quickened, a rapid rhythm drumming beneath his touch, as if responding to him alone.

You were so close to him now, his presence overwhelming, the warmth of his body radiating against your own. His gaze never wavered, locking onto you with a hunger that made your skin flush. Without warning, he moved swiftly, twisting you in a fluid motion until your back was pressed firmly against the counter. The cool surface was a stark contrast to the heat that coursed through your body.

Before you could react, his strong hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he hoisted you up and set you on the counter. The sensation of his touch lingered, your body humming with warmth as his gaze roamed over you, a possessive fire burning in his eyes.

He took a moment to admire you, his gaze roaming from your head to your toes, as if memorizing every detail. “You complete me,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I have waited countless millennia for my Queen. And here you are, the one I have searched for. When you were sacrificed to me, I knew your soul would be mine forever.”

As he spoke, you felt a rush of warmth flood through you, like molten gold coursing through your veins. His presence enveloped you, making you feel alive in a way you hadn’t thought possible.

“You are perfect,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Every inch of you is a work of art, crafted for my eyes alone.” Then, without warning, he leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that ignited every nerve ending in your body. It was passionate, a collision of heat and longing that left you breathless.

Suddenly, you felt whole, as if the missing pieces of your soul had been returned to you. A wave of warmth washed over you, burning deliciously from the inside out. You melted into him, feeling safe and cherished as he held you close. His kiss deepened, a dance of desire that left you wanting more, while his hands roamed your body, caressing your curves with a tenderness that contrasted with the intensity of his longing.

You lost yourself in him, wrapped in the intoxicating blend of warmth and desire. Every kiss, every gentle caress, felt like a promise—an assurance that you were meant to be together, that you had finally found the place where you belonged. In his embrace, you felt invincible, as if nothing in the world could ever harm you again.

When you pulled back, breathless and dazed, he dove back in, capturing your lips with a fervor that left you reeling. “My angel,” he murmured between kisses, his voice thick with longing, “you don’t understand how much I need you. You are everything to me.” Each word tumbled from his lips like a sacred incantation, wrapping around you and pulling you deeper into his world.

You gasped as he kissed you again, his mouth moving against yours with a hungry urgency that sent shivers down your spine. The warmth of his body pressed against you, and you felt as though you were melting into him, losing all sense of time and space. He was insatiable, a force of nature, and you struggled to keep up with the intensity of his desire.

“I will keep you for myself,” he vowed, his voice so soft that it sent a thrill of excitement through you. “No one will take you from me. I will protect you for all eternity.”

With every kiss, he expressed a need that felt primal, as if he were staking his claim on your soul. You gasped again, trying to keep pace with the whirlwind of emotion that engulfed you both. He pressed against you, the world outside fading into a blur as his presence consumed you. You could feel his heart racing, a rhythm that matched your own, each thump a testament to the bond that was forming between you.

“Please,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his red gaze filled with a fierce intensity. “Let me show you what it means to be loved by the Devil. Let me drown you in my devotion.”

As he pulled back slightly, his red eyes shimmering with intensity, he asked, “Will you come with me? Will you rule beside me as my Queen?” The weight of his question hung in the air, and you felt your heart race at the thought of a life intertwined with his—a life where you would stand by his side, embracing the darkness and light together.

Looking into those mesmerizing, molten eyes, a wave of certainty washed over you. You found yourself nodding, breathless as the words tumbled from your lips. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

A wide grin spread across his face, a radiant joy that illuminated his features. The sight sent a rush of warmth through you, igniting a fire that burned hotter than ever before. He leaned in, capturing your lips once more in a passionate kiss that left you dizzy. The heat between you surged, enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth that made you feel like you were burning from the inside out.

In the blink of an eye, the world around you shifted. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself in a magnificent room bathed in rich, lavish reds. The walls pulsed with a warm glow, and golden accents shimmered in the ambient light, highlighting the opulence that surrounded you. You were nestled on a grand bed, the silken sheets beneath you soft and cool, cradling you like clouds.

Turning your head, you saw him standing a few feet away, his red eyes locked onto you, radiating affection and adoration. His presence was comforting, that it made your chest swell with joy. You belonged here—with him.

As if reading your thoughts, he climbed into bed beside you, pulling you close. His arms wrapped around you, strong yet gentle, holding you with a protective warmth that made you feel safe. A wide grin spread across his face, and you noticed how his eyes almost disappeared when he smiled, his soft cheeks lifting in a way that made him look so much more human, so endearing.

It almost made you want to reach out and squish his cheeks—this unexpected softness he showed you. His red eyes glimmered with love, as if you were the center of his universe. “My Queen,” he said, his voice filled with pride and affection.

You smiled back at him, feeling the weight of the bond that now intertwined your souls. “My King,” you whispered in return.

His grin widened as he hugged you even closer, his hold warm and reassuring. The titles felt right, as if they’d always been meant for the two of you.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Checkmate

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.5k

Warnings: angst, murder, fearful for your life, psycho ex

Summary: You work as a maid for the richest and most eligible bachelor. You go to his mansion twice a week and clean his house, and you make pretty good money doing it. The only issue? Your psycho ex, but Dean shows you that he might be just a tad worse than Isaac.

Square Filled: maid au (2023) for @spnaubingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Another day, another eight hours spent in this mansion. This is a place you can never see yourself living in only because you can’t ever think to make as much money as your boss does. From what you know, he’s the CEO of two companies, has investments in other places, and is just really smart about managing his money. You don’t see him often since he spends most of his time in his office or not at the house at all, but he did hire you to clean his mansion. He pays you generously, more than you have ever made in your life, twice even.

He’s very generous but you hear he’s a cold-hearted bitch. He’s the most respected and most eligible bachelor this state has ever seen, but he can be as cold as ice. You’ve walked past his office before and have overheard him yelling at people more than once. You do not want to be on the receiving end of that cold stare, so it’s best if you keep your head down and clean as best as you can without getting in his way.

You walk into the kitchen carrying five bouquets of bright and colorful flowers. Dean doesn’t like to keep color in his mansion--only black, gray, and white--so the flowers stand out beautifully. He doesn’t seem to mind since they don’t move once you put them up. Before you get started cleaning, you replace the old flowers with the new ones and toss the old ones into the trash.

Normally, you connect your speaker to your phone and use music to pass the time, but you promised to call your best friend once you got here because of what happened last night. You grab the cleaning cart from the closet and start with the kitchen, and you call your best friend on FaceTime. It’s better than keeping the phone to your ear or putting in uncomfortable headphones in your ear.

“Bitch, you will never guess who just sent me a DM,” Gen says when she answers.

“Who?”

“Isaac.”

“What did he say?”

“What do you think? You rejected him last night and he thinks coming to me is the next best thing.”

Isaac used to be your boyfriend. You were blind to the red flags in the beginning of the relationship because you thought you were in love with him. He said all the right things, did all the right things, and made you feel special. He complimented you all the time, showed you off to all of his friends, and never laid a merciful hand on you.

That is, until about a year into the relationship. The red flags became so apparent that you couldn’t ignore them any longer. He became possessive, jealous, controlling, and more violent. He has never hit or slapped you, but he has grabbed you hard enough to leave bruises on your arms. You broke it off a month ago but the bitch won’t stay away from you.

He keeps showing up at your house telling you to come home and that you’re being overdramatic. He’s there when you go get coffee in the morning. He’s there when you visit your sister (he’s friends with her husband). He’s there even in your nightmares. You’re shocked he hasn’t shown up at your work. You’re not sure how Dean would take to having someone like Isaac in, on, or around his property.

“The best thing to do is ignore him. He’ll go away,” you sigh.

“I don’t think so. He was pretty adamant about getting in touch with you. My husband would have kicked his ass if he came over.”

You wipe down the counters with a sigh.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

“I think you should call the police.”

You roll the cart into the living room and get started dusting the surfaces.

“He hasn’t trespassed onto your property, though. What will they do?”

“He’s harassing you, Y/N. He keeps coming to your house uninvited. That’s trespassing. He was bad enough as your boyfriend, but now he’s crossing the line into psycho territory. He hurt you, Y/N. The bruises may be gone but those emotional scars are still there.”

You replace the duster and stand in the living room in thought. She does have a point but the bruises are long gone. That’s physical evidence you don’t have to use against him. He hasn’t laid a hand on you since the breakup. What will the police do?

“Yeah, I know but they won’t do anything if he hasn’t done anything. If he does, I’ll make sure to call you.”

“Yeah, I’ll fuck him up.”

You giggle at her eagerness. “I gotta go. Got lots to clean.”

“Yeah, for the hot bachelor.”

“Him being hot has nothing to do with him being a bachelor.”

“Still, you’re lucky to see that all day.”

“I rarely see him. He stays in his office all day which I’m not allowed in, by the way. If he’s not in there, he’s at his office building in town.”

“You’re single and he’s single. I’d tap that if I were you.”

“Imagine if Isaac found out. He’d kill Dean.” You roll the cart into the bathroom. “I gotta go, though.”

“Call me later.”

“Will do.”

Like you told Gen, you don’t see Dean the entire day. If it weren't for the initial interview you had with him and the short passings you’ve shared with him, you wouldn’t think he’s real. There is one thing that Gen got right. The man is hot. Gorgeous, even. If you two saw each other at a bar, you’d definitely be trying to take him home. Bright green eyes, tank skin, freckles, bow legs, and muscles for days. The man is the whole package.

After doing your eight hours, the sun is already going down. You leave the invoice for Dean on the kitchen counter as he requests before returning the cleaning cart and packing up your things. You walk across Dean’s lawn to get to your car but pause when you see someone standing in your way.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss at your ex. “How did you know where I work? How did you get past the fence?”

“I know everything about you, baby. I’m here to see if you’re done being dramatic.”

“Being dramatic? You’re a psycho!”

“I call that determination.”

“Okay, Isaac, I need you to leave. We broke up and this is highly inappropriate. Plus, Dean isn’t going to be happy when he finds you loitering on his property.”

“Who the fuck is Dean?”

“Isaac, please leave. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you in my life anymore. Show up uninvited again, and I will call the police.”

You try to walk past him but Isaac isn’t taking no for an answer. He grabs your arm so tightly you think there will be bruises there tomorrow. 

“If I were you, I’d get your hand off her.”

You and Isaac turn to see Dean standing about twenty feet away.

“Who the fuck are you?” Isaac snaps.

“The fuck person who owns this property. Get your hands off her.”

Isaac listens and you move your arm to get the blood flowing again.

“Come on, Y/N, let’s go home.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere with you. Just leave me alone.”

“Are you deaf? No means no.”

“No offense, dude, but she’s mine, okay?”

“Not on my property, she isn’t.” Dean narrows his eyes.

“Your property?”

“Yes, touch her again and I’ll decorate your remains across it.”

“Whatever,” Isaac scoffs. “Call me when you’re done being dramatic.”

Isaac turns and leaves until you can’t see him anymore.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine.” Dean doesn't believe you but he’ll let it go for now. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. It’s not your fault, but you’re not going home. Come on, you’ll stay here for the night.”

Dean turns and starts walking back toward his house. You don’t know what to do but you feel yourself following him. It’s like your legs have a mind of their own.

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’m not a man who takes no for an answer, Y/N.”

Damn, that’s hot. You’re definitely thinking with your vagina and not your head. You should get in your car and go home but something compels you to stay here with Dean.

“Would you really have scattered his remains across your lawn?” you ask when you catch up to him.

“Which answer would make you feel better?”

“Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

Dean chuckles and leads you up the stairs. “Do you have a friend you can stay with?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You can stay with her tomorrow. Isaac won’t be a problem much longer.”

You’re too scared and too turned on to ask follow-up questions. He takes you to a spare bedroom and opens the door for you.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. I’m right down the hall if you need me.”

He leaves you alone, but you’re not sure what to do now. In less than twenty-four hours, you’ve gone from working for Dean to sleeping in the bedroom next to his. He’s now on Isaac’s radar but you have a feeling Dean can take him out before he even knows what’s happening.

x

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[eroselless]

────────────── sommer house // 1

series summary: After starting a new job at a prestigious museum in London, you form a close friendship with Helaena Targaryen. You're surprised when she invites you to stay at her family's estate for the summer holidays. [1.7k]

[aegon targaryen x reader, modern!HOTD AU ]

masterlist

warnings: talk and description of bugs. if there's any I missed, let me know!

note: hello friends! I’m sure some of you might be a little confused seeing this coming up again. after much contemplating and many many re-reads, I decided I would rewrite what I had of moth to a flame now that I had more inspiration and motivation. for this first chapter, it’s not much different from my first draft but I removed and added a few things that I thought made the story begin flowing a lot better. thank you for the support and happy reading <3

Dashing through the rain, your coat pulled tightly around you, you navigate the bustling streets of London. The sky opened up as you were leaving the train station, drenching you instantly. You’re breathless when you reach the entrance of the museum, soaked to the bone with hair sticking to your forehead. Pausing briefly under the awning, you try to catch your breath, shaking off as much rain as you could before hurrying inside, the patter of rainfall fading behind you. 

The familiar warmth and silence of the museum envelop you, offering a stark contrast to the chaotic weather outside. The lights are dim and if you listen closely, you could swear you can hear soft music permeating the air. 

You make your way to the back of the museum, passing through employee doors and to the entomology department, where you knew Helaena would be waiting. Rounding a corner, you see you. She stands at the entrance of your shared office, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She leans against the doorframe, her free hand fiddling with the key card that hangs around her neck. It’s 5 past 9, you're not that late and her casual demeanour only makes for a comforting sight.

“Rough morning?” she asks, a grin on her lips as she entends the cup of coffee towards you. 

“Don’t even get me started,” you reply, taking the cup and making your way past her into the room. “The tube was a nightmare. Some sort of signal failure. I’m surprised I made it at all.”

Helaena laughs, “You wouldn’t have to deal with the tube if you drove,” she teases, raising her eyebrows. Following you to your desk, she stands in front as you set your things down. You roll your eyes at her, making a face, to which she responds with a half-smirk.

You met Helaena three months ago when you first started working at the museum. After a seemingly endless job search, you happened upon one that just happened to be in a country halfway across the world. Seeing as how you fit all of the requirements, you pushed fear aside, taking a leap. You packed up what you could and made your way to London. The idea of working in another country had always captivated you, but the reality of moving hadn’t fully sunk in until you stepped off the plane. Everything felt surreal—the accents, the bustling streets, the historical buildings whispering stories of the past.

Working in the entomology department with Helaena, you spent countless hours cataloging and preserving the museum’s vast insect collection. The late nights became routine, often the two of you working late into the night, at times at each other's homes. Her companionship made the hours more bearable. Helaena quickly became more than just a colleague; she became a friend, someone you could rely on and share with. 

Clapping her hands, a wide smile now on her face, Helaena turns to you from a large cluster of boxes: "Well, you're here now, and just in time; we've got a ton to do today."

Settling into your desks, surrounded by cabinets filled with specimens and shelves lined with books and equipment, the morning passes quickly.

You take turns pulling out cases from the large boxes, a new shipment from South America, examining and cataloging each specimen. Each one is carefully inspected, labeled and documented. The vibrant colors and intricate patterns never cease to amaze you, each telling a different tale. 

As the afternoon rolls around, you find yourself leading a group of young school children through an interactive exhibit, one you spent the last week preparing with Helaena, explaining the life cycles of different insects and answering their curious questions. Their eyes widen as you show them the cases of insects, pointing out each of their intricate and unique features. Together, you carefully examine drawers of pinned needles, getting lost in the details of their iridescent shells.

The children nod as you explain different insects, jotting down notes in their small notebooks to bring back to school. Their laughter and curiosity makes the rest of the day pass quickly, their enthusiasm making even the most mundane tasks feel rewarding. 

The day winds down from there, the absence of the children making you realize how tired you’d gotten. You put the exhibits back into their boxes, making sure everything is in its place for the groups coming in tomorrow and the day after that. From the corner of your eye you can see Helaena making her way to you, rolling a cart identical to yours. There’s a thoughtful expression on her face. 

"So, any plans for the summer holidays? They're not gonna need us at all during these renovations they're doing," she inquired, pursing her lips at you.

You shake your head as you continue placing boxes onto your cart. “I would but I can’t afford to go home right now. I’ll probably just stay in London and explore the city or something.”

Helaena’s face lights up. “Why don’t you come with me to my family’s country estate? We’re having a big party for my dad’s retirement. It’ll be a nice change of pace and you can officially meet my family. They’ll adore you.”

Your lips part as you stare at her wordlessly. “Are you sure?” you asked, searching her eyes, 

Helaena waves you off, “Of course!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “"It'll be fun. Besides, it would be nice to have another girl there so I don’t have to deal with my brothers all on my own. Say you’ll come," she pleads.

The thought of spending the holidays with Helaena, surrounded by the English countryside and her family’s hospitality, race through your mind. It sent a shiver of nerves through you. You knew very little about her family, only hearing of her brothers in passing. You’d seen them in pictures she had littered around her apartment and on her facebook. You met her mother, if you can call speaking to her briefly over the phone, one night that you spent the night at Helaena’s. Her older sister and her father were a complete mystery to you, both of them a subject she didn’t ever really talk about. 

She bats her eyes at you, gently wrapping her arms around yours. You let out a sigh, breaking out in a smile. “Alright, I’ll come.” you laugh, and she throws her arms around your shoulders. 

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It's a few days later you find yourself tossing clothes at Helaena. The afternoon sunlight streams through the window behind her. Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. It looks as if it were glowing. She sits on your bed, gingerly folding different shirts and pants into your bag. Rejected piles of clothes are strewn across your bed, shoes littering the floor and small packing cubes full of toiletries and makeup sit next to your gradually filling case. 

“What about this?” you ask. Swaying slightly, you hold a dress up to your chest. It’s red and covered in polka dots with a large white bow cinching the middle. Her face stays in a slight grimace, shaking her head and laughing.

"We need to get you some new dresses; these look like they belong in a history museum," she says with a playful smile. You laugh, shoving her shoulder as you tuck the dress back into the wardrobe. She pulls a knitted sweater from the edge of your bed and tucks it tightly into your bag.

Once your outfits are sufficiently coordinated and your essentials pulled into packing cubes, Helaena helps you pack them into your suitcase, ensuring you have enough of everything you need for your stay. She speaks up when you struggle with the zipper. 

“So, I know you’ve sort of met Mum and you’ll be meeting everyone else while we're there.  My sister is even coming with her children. A fair warning, though having everyone there can be a bit … intense but they’re good people.”

You note her hesitation. “Intense how?”

Helana shrugs, trying to downplay her words. “It can get a little overwhelming, is all. But you’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

You nod an ok at her, climbing on and bouncing on your suitcase to press it shut with your knees. She joins you, twisting with you as you begin to pull on the zipper. 

"The place’s been in my family for generations. There’s lots of history there, places you could get lost in. You’ll really love it.”

You struggle for a little bit, pulling the zip a little more to fully close the case before sitting on it, breathless. 

"What was it like, growing up in a place like that?" you ask, looking up at her as she takes her spot back on the edge of your bed. 

Helaena smiles, a distant look in her eyes. It's a smile that has a drop of sadness behind it. "It was magical. There are all these secret passages and hidden rooms. We used to play hide and seek for hours.” 

She traces a pattern on your quilt as she continues speaking. “We each got puppies at some point and when we’d pretend we were princes and princesses, my brothers would pretend they were dragons.” 

There's a bittersweet expression on her face as she recounts the memory. It's not an expression you're used to seeing on her face but it’s one she seems to fall back to every time she speaks of home. You can’t help but to be curious about it but you always stop before prying or saying anything. You smile, reaching out a hand and placing it on her knee. It pulls her out of her momentary daze and she flashes a smile at you. A mixture of nerves and anticipation fill you again. "I can’t wait," you say with a soft sigh.

Helaena looks at you, her eyes sparkling. "You're going to love it. It’s like stepping back in time. Just be prepared for a bit of drama; there’s always something happening when we're all together."

"Drama?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you know, family stuff. Arguments, misunderstandings, that sort of thing. But it’s all part of the charm," she says with a wink.

You laugh, feeling a bit more at ease. "Well, I’m ready for anything."

With the suitcase finally zipped, you both collapse onto the bed, giggling. Helaena turns to you, her expression softening. "I’m really glad you’re coming. It’s going to be a summer to remember."

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