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jiminiesfavouritecolourisblue · 7 months ago

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Our Little Love part eight - OT7 Mafia/Yandere au

Mr Kim has a chapter all to himself of 6.8K words, please enjoy and PLEASE let me know what you think. Trigger warnings: manipulation, coercion, corruption, interrogation, mentions of murder and other crimes, swearing, jealousy, possessive yandere behaviour, fingering, orgasm denial, mirror sex, light choking. I am awful with warnings, please forgive me.

Namjoon wasn’t all that impressed with seeing the Chief of police visiting his cell, the syndicate boss was dressed too well to belong there, it was almost an eyesore. A glance to the camera, the normal red blinking light absent tells him all he needs to know. There were no eyes or ears to this conversation.

“I thought I paid you to keep your men in line,” Namjoon says in lieu of greeting. “Was a bullet to the knee not warning enough for your dear Captain?”

“He wasn’t an issue when I spoke to him, the man was on leave!” the chief replied. “Your girl was the problem he-”

“Be very careful how you finish that sentence,” he advised with a deep angry rumble from his chest. “I am well aware who is at fault here, and regardless of what our little love does, she is never to blame.”

Chief Lee Soo-man only nods once, biting back his complaints.

“I asked you to sort out Kim Suho, I told you to keep him in check,” Namjoon growls. “Keeping your pockets full isn’t an act of charity Lee, it’s a purchase. I own you.”

“Yes sir,” he mumbles in response. “I assure you this arrest is just a formality, the case won’t stand once it’s revealed Detective L/n-”

The glare the man in the blazerless three piece suit gave him was enough to stop him in his tracks. Right, he couldn’t involve you in this, that was going to make things harder than they needed to be.

“What do you recommend then sir?” he asks when he finds his voice and wavering courage.

Namjoon sighs harshly, and the Chief swears he can almost see smoke.

“I want to be alone with my little love,” it’s not a request, the chief didn’t let the soft lilt of his fool him.

“I don’t know how that would be poss-”

“I want-” Namjoon cuts in, unable to bear another second of this blithering idiot, “her to be the one to interrogate me. And I can trust you understand the rest.”

“Y-yessssir,” he stutters, not completely hearing the words between the lines, and that was clear enough on his face.

“I want her alone, Sooman,” Namjoon repeats himself, if this were one of his men he would never have needed to. “I don’t want a single soul witness to what I’m going to do to her.”

—

Suho tugs you along by the arm, stumbling in his urgent pace, pulling you out of ear shot.

“We have a problem.”

“What problem?”

“I’m technically on health leave, brass says I can’t interrogate him,” he stares a hole into you as if his eyes were telling you the rest but you couldn’t understand.

“Okay so who’s replacing you?”

He huffs out a breath of air from his nose, knowing you weren’t going to like the command from way over his head.

Your heart beats hard in anticipation, why was he looking at you like that?

“As far as Brass are aware you were deep undercover,” Suho informs you slowly, deliberately, looking like he was about to tear your world to trash. He sighs, unable to get the words out.

“Suho what?”

“They want you to interrogate him,” he breathes, you think you’ve misheard him, but you know you haven’t.

Your world spins, you’re already shaking your head.

“I can’t,” you whisper, he knows full well that you can’t. “I resigned, I’m not a detective anymore.”

He sighs again, hesitation in his eyes.

“I never processed it,” he confesses.

“Y-you di-”

“I couldn’t, I knew you would see reason, I knew you would come back,” he doesn’t let you process the shock, explaining himself quickly.

“Suho I can’t I can’t,” you beg, the conviction you had to punish them now suddenly taking a back seat as fear overtakes you, “right now they believe I was deep undercover but he’s not going to let that-“

“Listen to me,” he interrupts you before you can fully submerge into a panic attack, taking your hand in his. “I’m going to be in the next room, as soon as he says anything that compromises you, I’ll turn off the cameras, okay?”

“But-“

You’re interrupted again when the door opens, both of you whipping your heads to see him being transferred by four officers to the interrogation room. His eyes find you, staring stoic holes into you before his gaze finds Suho’s hands comforting yours. The snarl of displeasure is brief but you definitely see it, and you can’t breathe.

Suho draws your attention back to him, tugging your hand softly.

“Do you trust me Y/n?” he implores you, eyes searching yours in a way that made Namjoon want to strangle him with the chains on his handcuffs. You look up at your Captain with such light in your eyes, a way you should never look at another man, and then you have the audacity to nod.

—

You’ve done this a hundred times, if not more. So why were you hesitating at the door? Your hand on the handle, all you had to do was turn it and face the music but you couldn’t even manage finding your breath.

Interrogation was a science, it was like riding a bike, you knew what you had to do, you had to command the room. It almost sounded like a joke, the worst one you’d ever heard. Command a room when Kim Namjoon was in it?

The thought makes you hyperventilate. No, it wasn’t going to be easy but you could control what you could. You borrowed clothes from an old colleague, a skirt and blouse, simple but professional. Suho’s old blazer too, as if layers would protect you. You had splashed water on your face in the bathroom, using makeup from evidence to make yourself look presentable, composed. Your impromptu freshening up had meant you left the syndicate leader waiting for a long time, and it absolutely 100% was not because you were trying to kill time, it was to make him stew in the room, a technique you had used multiple times prev- who were you trying to convince?

You needed to get this over with.

Your face is impassive when you finally open the door, his gaze is on you immediately and you can feel a certain type of guilt and shame try to seep its way into you, but you push it down far enough that you can pretend it’s not there.

“Mr Kim Namjoon,” you greet him stoically.

“Detective L/n,” he returns, playing along with a small smile, as if seeing an old acquaintance after a long time. The way he addressed you shouldn’t cut you, logically it made no sense not when you’re the one that got him in the box, but it did.

You approach the table he’s chained to, looking at the wood instead of his eyes as if he didn’t matter, or at least that’s how you wanted it perceived. Avoiding eye contact with the most dangerous man the whole country had ever come to know, meant you missed the way his stare moved to your clothes, particularly your blazer, recognising it was a man’s, and he could confidently guess exactly who it belonged to. Any friendliness on his face disappeared, he wanted to play games and now he just wanted to torture you a little, punish you for you actions. Patience, he tells himself, that would come later.

The file in your hands slaps the table as you throw it down, taking a seat opposite your boyfriend, a man you now convinced yourself you wanted behind bars.

What do they say about a woman scorned? Namjoon thinks to himself, admiring the fire he could see burning underneath your skin, and though he knew he would feel the burn, he would welcome it. It was no secret that he had a fantasy about you interrogating him, he introduced the role play to the bedroom soon after your return to them but it lacked the flames of heat he could feel today.

“Allow me to formally introduce myself,” you reply. “My name is detective Y/n L/n, I’ve been undercover at your… establishment for the past year and a half.”

“Is that right?” he barely suppressed his amusement but it didn’t phase you. Your professional head was on, this was just another criminal you had to put away, that was it.

You open the file, sliding out photos of him that you had sent in as intel in your early days undercover as well as surveillance photos that Suho had taken since you were MIA.

“Do you know who this man is Mr Kim,” you say, sliding the first of the photos to him.

“Can’t say I do detective,” he shrugs nonchalantly, not even glancing away from you.

“Do you want to try looking at his face first before you answer,” you insisted unimpressed.

He smiles, still staring at you.

“I don’t recognise him,” he repeats himself slowly.

“So this isn’t you in the photo?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” his grin only grows.

“This man, Jackson Wang, is dead, and the last person who saw him alive seems to have been you Mr Kim, at least based on the time stamp on this photo and the time of death from the post mortem.”

“Is that right,” he says again, sounding like a broken record. His eyes swim with admiration for you, you can see it though you can’t understand it at all with the current scene. Why wasn’t he fuming, why wasn’t he demanding an answer or explanation?

“Okay let's cut the crap since I know you’re far too clever for that Mr Kim,” you scoff with a roll of your eyes. “I have gathered evidence of your crimes from the last 18 months, and I will stand in court as a witness against you.”

“Are you allowed to do that little love?” he asks, the name has a pang of panic hit you, but you tell yourself you can explain it away to brass.

“The charges you're facing so far are murder, battery, and grand larceny to name a few,” you state ignoring him, flicking through the photos, throwing each one in front of him. “There are many more to follow.”

“I didn’t know partners could testify against each other,” he mused, smirk still strong on his face.

“I’m not your partner,” you object. “I was undercover.”

“No,” he contends, shaking his head like this was just a game to him. “You can’t fake a love like ours, heaven.”

You almost snort as if his point was ridiculous.

“I don’t think I could ever love someone like you Mr Kim,” your stare was ice cold, that finally wipes the smile off his face.

“You’re angry,” he states as if it was new information for you. “I get that little love, but this is a bit too much, don’t you think?”

“I think justice needs to be served, don't you?” you sneered. “People got hurt, some people died, someone needs to pay.”

“You and I both know they deserved it,” he declares as if there wasn’t a camera recording his confession. “You’re just angry because I stepped on a bug.”

Utter rage brewed like a storm in your chest, and you wanted the downpour to drown him.

“You sound like you’re ready to sign the confession Mr Kim,” you don’t break your stare. “That’s great, saves us a lot of time, thank you.”

You close the file, pushing the chair back to stand.

“I’m not done with you,” he growled.

“But I’m done with you.”

“Y/n sit,” he commands calmly, composing himself. “Throwing a fit isn’t going to fix things.”

“Throwing a fit?” The audacity of this man, you stand there in shock.

“Let’s talk it through,” he says to you as if you were being hysterical.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

“Talk to me Y/n,” he scolded you like you were a child. “Without this bullshit.”

“Fine! You wanna talk about it Namjoon,” you snapped, taking the seat again, throwing the file haphazardly on the desk. “Let’s talk about it.”

The glare you present him with doesn’t make him flinch, it doesn’t phase him. You hope Suho had enough sense to turn the cameras off by now, this would go nowhere.

“You manipulated me, you lied to me, you made me play the fool.”

He didn’t react, not a single muscle on his face moved and it fanned whatever flame explode inside of you like a bomb. This was his true colours underneath the mask of love and adoration he created for you.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore Namjoon I can see right through you,” you state. “And you are never touching me again.”

That made him look at you, really look at you, something shifted in his gaze, a slight smirk as if he was mocking you.

You could cry kick and scream about the injustice he put you through in the name of this fucked up love and he wouldn’t flinch. He would sit there and watch and then the fucker would have the audacity to laugh afterwards. He must’ve laughed at how stupid you were in trusting him when he lied.

“At least if you go to prison, I’ll finally be free,” you whisper like it’s a life line.

He’s still unmoved, sitting there as if you were invisible and it irked the fuck out of you. He was the one who wanted to talk, why the fuck was he silent now?

You wanted him to hurt you wanted him to feel an ounce of what you did in the light of his betrayal. He tore your heart out and you weren’t going to forgive him.

“I must’ve looked so pathetic,” you say in a self deprecating tone, looking at the ceiling as if someone could answer you. “Suho was right.”

That comment makes his blood boil hard enough to show on his face. There it was, the reaction you were waiting for and you took the bait without thinking about what you were trying to catch or what you were trapped with.

“I should’ve trusted him, he’s always had my back and my best interest at heart.”

His jaw clenches, a fist squeezing nothing but air although he probably wished it was the captain's neck.

“Kai and Suho are all I have left,” you goad him, unsure of what exactly it was that you wanted to prove. “And finally I’m back where I belong.”

“If you don’t want a bullet in each of their heads, you need to stop talking love,” he grunts through gritted teeth.

Something inside of you felt vindicated and you realise then what you wanted from him, proof he fucking cared, that you weren’t some pawn or prize in this game of crime. You wanted him to soothe the very cuts he caused, or rip your heart out hard enough that you could bleed him out of your system forever.

“Oh please Namjoon, just admit why you kept me around for so long,” you scoff. “I can only imagine how it felt to have the lead detective on your case in the palm of your hands, like a trophy, a big fuck you to the justice system.”

You laugh sounding a little maniacal.

“You had me, and I fell for all of it.”

“You’re forgetting I didn’t know your true origins at first little love,” his low voice is a warning, he looks at you like he needed to remind you who you belonged to.

“And you’re forgetting I know you,” you bite back. “Any hint of betrayal and you pull the trigger first and ask questions later.”

He stares at you, grimacing.

“And yet here I am, alive.”

“Because I love you,” he says it so casually it throws you off, like it was a fundamental part of his being, like breathing.

“Because you saw an opportunity,” you rationalise.

“Because I could never lose you,” he confesses. “You could rip out my heart, little love and I would still want you, why else would I be here?”

You frown, what did he mean? He was here because you paid an eye for an eye, you betrayed him.

“What’s done is done,” you say as if you were unconcerned. “I will testify against you.”

He leans closer across the table, words for your ears only.

“Do you think you’ll be able to handle seeing Jungkook in prison, love?” Namjoon whispers. “Knowing you put him there? It would kill you.”

The pain his words brought forth only proved them to be true. You did have a soft spot for the youngest, always had. You break eye contact first, looking down at the file and turning back and forth a page as if in contemplation but really to cool your nerves.

Were you really doing this? Sending Yoongi, Jin, Hoseok, Jimin, Tae and Kookie to jail because of an angry outburst? Now your emotions had time to settle after the bomb that exploded when you saw Suho; you weren’t so sure.

“I never thought you could betray us like this,” he says solemnly, continuing to manipulate your guilt, but he forgot about your fire. He could almost see the coals ignite in your eyes, a misstep on his part, one he realised when a snarl forms on your lips.

“You. Lied.” You state ferociously. “I asked you if you hurt him and you lied to me.”

“So you decided to have us all arrested,” he continues, “for a man you stated you didn’t care about like that.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you seethe, unable to sit with him any longer, pacing the room before you raised a finger to his face. “You played me like a fool Namjoon, and I refuse to play the part anymore.”

“I wanted him dead, little love,” he states in a low voice through gritted teeth. “Do you understand what a mercy-”

“I asked you not to hurt him!”

“Then you underestimated our wrath!” he retorted. “I couldn’t let him go in one piece, and you didn’t need to know.”

“No. You underestimated MY wrath Kim Namjoon!” You burst, slamming the desk with your hand, the sting burning, your face heating more and more with rage as it concealed your heartache. “I am not some docile doll for you to play with, and manipulate and LIE TO! You took my love for granted when it was a damn fucking privilege.”

Your chest heaves with each breath, he stayed composed while you looked like a wild animal finally let out of her cage.

“You think this obsession is love,” your voice broke at the last word, the floods of heartbreak dampening the fires. “And I did too, but it’s fucked up everything.”

His silence was eating you alive, his face giving nothing of his heart away while yours laid bare out between you.

“You know what I’m done,” you breathe, “have fun rotting in jail Namjoon.”

Tears drop out of the corner of your eyes as you walk away, his piercing gaze doing nothing to deter you. He might’ve had power over you once but that was before he betrayed you. You reach for the door handle, tugging, ready to leave him behind until his trial, but the door doesn’t budge. You still, mind blank for a second before panic overwhelms you. You try again with all your might, pulling as hard as you can over and over before releasing your grip with a harsh breath. You take a gulp, calming yourself, he planned this.

You’re not surprised when you hear the sound of the handcuffs undo or the chains hit the floor. Fucking bastard. An alarm started blaring in the building, loud and overwhelming, but it came too late. Red lights flash, the room glowing as if warning you about the oncoming danger.

“Are we done with your outburst little love,” he says coldly, like your grievances were nothing more than a tantrum.

You turn to face him slowly, more tears dropping without a sound, shaking your head at the way his words cut you down to nothing.

When he stands from the seat your heart gallops with fear and panic. Although it’s helpless you turn back to the door, trying with all your might to open it and escape him. The fire alarm blaring does nothing to ease you, you hang onto the door as you feel him approach, tears falling out of your eyes without control.

Fuck, you were stuck here with the man you sent to jail, you were left to his mercy. His presence looms over you, you can feel him a hair's width behind you, not touching you, not really, but he’s so close it’s overwhelming.

It’s when you feel his breath you freeze, your body shutting down with dread. He presses his cheek to your hair, inhaling you softly. The action makes you jolt away, turning to the side but he grabs your wrist tightly. You don’t look at him, you stare into the two way mirror, your cheeks pathetically wet. You were supposed to hold the power in this room, but you could feel it dwindle away to nothing but smoke.

You’re slammed against the door hard, a whimper escaping your lips as your eyes scrunched in pain. You miss the flash of guilt in his eyes, realising he pushed you too hard. An apology on his lips but the glare when your eyes open stops him. He’s seen anger in your eyes before, hate even, for he knew love didn’t come without it. But fear? Never of him, not even in the days when you were undercover and your life was one unveiled secret away from ending.

“Get away from me,” you seethe, meaning every word, even when you saw the hurt in his eyes.

Regret, Kim Namjoon never knew the feeling before, but he knew he never wanted you to look at him the way you were. He needed to keep his calm, one wrong push and you would tear him out of your own heart.

Your eyes fly all over the room, trying to piece together a way to gain some distance. Suho… maybe he was still behind the glass. You tug your wrist as hard as you can, taking steps away from him but his hold is relentless. The blare of the alarm stops ringing but the flashing red lights remain, staining the walls like blood pumping.

“Little lo-“ he starts to say with a sigh, he was being patient but there was only so much time left.

“Suho?” You call desperately trying to look through the glass. You know you’ve made a mistake before you even said his name but fear drives people to do stupid things without thinking.

The most notorious criminal in all of Seoul pulls you back against his chest hard. An arm wraps around your waist, the unforgiving grip on your wrist turning lethal. He rests his chin on your shoulder, staring at you through the mirror. The hairs on your skin stood on end at the frightening change in his eyes, danger rolled off of him and you had no choice but to take every wave.

“Do you think he’s there, love?” The corner of his lip lifts in a smirk that makes you think of a snake, the saccharine tone of his voice hypnotising. “Do you think he’s watching us?”

The palm on your hip moves down to your thigh, he squeezes the flesh. You could feel your heart jumping in your throat.

“Should we give him something to watch?” He murmurs seductively, turning his head to bring his lips so close to your neck. The bruising clutch on your wrist is gone only to find its way to your hair, yanking it back to give himself better access.

Your eyes in the mirror are begging but the inner turmoil from his touch is making you question what exactly you’re asking for. Reason tells you it’s for Suho to save you, to grant you escape, but the way you feel a familiar heat swim to your core has you doubting yourself.

“If he was in there,” he whispers, his lips now on your ear, “don’t you think he’d come in here and try to take you from me, love?”

He chuckles to himself, a joke only he can understand.

“Fuck I’d love to see him try.”

His groan has you aching, your body relapsing to what it knows, anticipating the pleasure and pain only they could provide.

“I’m not mad at you for having us arrested, heaven,” he whispers in your ear, gaze softening for a second in the mirror lulling you into a sense of security you couldn’t tell if it was a trap. “In fact I’m a little in awe, a little proud.”

The smirk he gives you seems genuine.

“We deserved it I know,” reassurance fills his voice, he wants you to hear his sincerity. “What I’m mad about, little love…”

The softness is gone, eyes turn piercing, the proverbial snake about to strike.

“Is the fact you let another man touch what’s mine.”

The guttural rumble of his possessive claim sent waves of need down to your cunt, you could feel it pulsing.

“I’m mine,” you return meekly, trying to find your resolve, but it sounded like a whine.

“Make no mistake Y/n, you’re always going to be mine.”

You didn’t have it in you to argue, not when he sent your eyes rolling back and a shiver down your spine. Fuck he hadn’t even touched you yet, maybe it was true, maybe a part of you would always belong to them, but that didn’t mean all if you did.

“Look at me,” he commands, his breath hitting your neck.

Your blown out eyes meet him in the mirror, that predatory but protective gaze piercing through you. He hums in approval the deep vibration fucking with your senses, making you hazy.

You both hold eye contact even when you can see the fingers on your thigh stroke soothing circles up your skin. Your lips part with a harsh breath when they rub your mound through the fabric of your panties, the touch light and testing and not nearly enough.

“You’re fucking soaking wet baby,” he calls you out with a grin.

You grab his wrist when his fingers cup your heat, his thumb soothing circles on your clit. You press against him, the warmth of his chest enveloping your back. You both fit so well together, you were forgetting why exactly you were so angry at him, but simmers of it still remained even through his touch.

“You know,” he says, opening your leg with his knee to give him more access, “a lot of couples fuck through their problems, should we try?”

He hides his grin, burying his head in you but you can feel it against your skin, the arrogant asshole.

“You can go and fuck yourself,” you sassed back, lying to yourself that you could be fine if he stopped now, that it wouldn’t leave you a needy mess.

“But I’d rather fuck you,” he chuckles, breathing you in, savouring the moment while his fingers slide the fabric aside.

You choke back a moan at the contact of his skin right where you wanted him, the way he spread your wetness until every inch of you was covered in it.

“You can pretend to regret our relationship all you want, but this,” he emphasises his point by slapping your cunt hard, making you gasp, “still wants me.”

“It wants to get fucked,” you spitefully remark through gritted teeth, “doesn’t have to be you.”

That makes him pause, and you have to bite back the words of displeasure.

“You’ll pay for that next time love,” he murmurs dangerously.

“There won’t be a next time,” you try to ridicule him through a laugh but his fingers circle your entrance.

“You’re lying,” he hums, “next time, I think we should tie you down, make you watch other women touch us in ways only you’re allowed to.”

You bury the fury that ruptures at the image, clenching your jaw to keep from swearing at him and proving the point he was trying to make.

“Maybe then you’d have a semblance of understanding of what you did- the torture you put us through.”

“I wouldn’t care,” you breathe, squirming against his fingers, he needed to shut up and move.

“Liar,” he chuckles knowingly, seeing right through you. Before you, there were many females in his organisation, until his little love demanded he get rid of them all. The memory stretches his grin wider.

“Why the fuck was it me?” You whisper, your eyes starting to water at the vulnerability of your tone, remembering the same moment he was. “When I went undercover there were so many beautiful women-“

“They’re not you, little love, don’t for a second compare yourself to them,” he kisses your temple softly in reassurance. His face is in your hair, his hand on your throat as you preen to his touch. “You were sweet and addicting with a fire you were trying so desperately to contain.”

He thrusts two fingers in gently, watching your face contort in want in the mirror, smiling at the way your eyes rolled back. You whimper when he squeezes his grip on your neck.

“To think that passion we saw in your eyes was hatred at first,” he smiles as if amused, watching every little reaction you gave him, every proof of love.

“I did,” you confess, pressing your ass against his hard length and making him groan, “I hated you.”

“You were sent to destroy us, love, but instead you reached into our souls and thought there was something worth saving,” he chuckled, nuzzling into you softly as if he wasn’t knuckle deep inside of you, feeling every part he knew so well. “And save us you did, it was so dark before you our little light, how could we ever let you leave?”

“You’re fucking with my head,” you whimper, head falling back to his chest, it rumbles when he laughs.

“Hmmm? I’m definitely fucking your brains out today Y/n,” he promises with a chuckle, kissing your temple again, but emphasising his point when he scissors his fingers reading you for his cock. “If that’s what you mean.”

This was your fault, you knew what you were getting into when you fell for them. You especially knew Namjoon was the worst of them all. You let his soft side brush away his true nature, and while you never forgot his ruthless persona, you put it to the back of your mind. You foolishly thought you had tamed his cunning cold cruel-

“Oh fuck,” whatever train of thought you had died, the palm of his hand rubbing your clit, stimulating your already aching cunt to the edge. Your parted lips open wider to release a silent scream, his fingers stroking so deep.

You were so close, you could taste it, unable to control the delirious sounds escaping you. So when he stops and slips his fingers away from you, you have to stop yourself screaming in protest.

“Up against the mirror Y/n,” he commands gruffly, but you don’t move, you were so fucking close. Fuck him, fucking asshole, you were so fucking close.

He picks you up with ease, pushing you against the wall so your breath fogs the surface. You hear the zip pull down, your forehead falls forward, your core pulsing in anticipation. He grabs your leg, opening you for him, the head of his cock sliding across your folds until you're whining.

“Stop squirming love,” he warns, but you don’t listen, of course you don’t, so he makes you listen.

The sound you release when he slaps your clit with his hard dick over and over has him questioning his restraint, fuck he wants to just pound into you but you needed to be taught a fucking lesson.

“Joonie sensitive,” you whine, but he’s relentless, making you cry out over and over. Fuck you could actually maybe cum like this.

His self control wavers, his jaw clenched with such a force he thinks it’ll shatter. He couldn’t take it anymore, the swell of his head finds your entrance. Inch by inch, he relishes the feeling of your walls hugging him so fucking tight, the pulse of them pulling him in. He leans over you, trying to regain composure but you feel so good he doesn’t want to move, he wants to stay like this forever, inside of you where he belongs.

You try to push back into him, but he grabs your waist with one hand to keep you still, grinding his hips against you and he knows it’s not enough.

“Look at you arching your back little love,” he smirks, “Your body knows where you belong, it’s a shame you tried to take it away from me.”

Your hands ball into fists on the mirror, you can’t even look at yourself right now, you can’t stop writhing on the surface, trying so hard to get him to move. You squeeze him hard, making his head fall against you with a grunt.

“Behave little love,” he warns, “or I’ll show your colleagues just how well you can take me.”

“Make me,” you dare him even though it comes out as a mumble.

You were dizzy and disorientated and all you wanted was for him to fucking move. He pushes you against the wall hard, every inch of him covering you so you couldn’t budge. You whine, the cold of the hard surface making you seek his warm body, you slot against him like a damn puzzle piece. He was hell bent on torturing you today, as if you hadn’t suffered enough.

“Joonie move,” you almost sound like a brat, trying to order him around.

“I’ll move when I’m ready,” he growls animalistically, barely holding himself back, but he needed to savour this.

You do everything you can to break his control, writhing against him like a bitch in heat. He swallows hard when you clench again. He spanks your ass hard in return, the air gets thicker, you find it harder to breathe. You keep still, the sting of your ass satisfying your craving for a moment, but not for long.

He picks up your skirt, watching himself inside you, watching the beautiful mess you were making. So wet, so perfect, how did you ever think for a second he would ever let this go? The sight is too much, he releases a restrained groan, done with holding himself back.

His hand grips your cheeks, turning your mouth to his, forcing his tongue down your throat as he finally pulls out only to push back in impossibly deeper. You took every punishing thrust, his presence surrounding you everywhere, even in front of you where his reflection painted the surface. He smothered you with his existence, the heat of him scolding, but you liked it, you craved it.

“Do you think your ‘friend’ understands who you fucking belong to now detective L/n?” He chuckles deeply watching your fucked out face in the mirror.

He uses his grip under your knee to turn you towards the camera in the corner of the room.

“Think they can all see little love?” He pants. “How well you fucking take it? How good you are for me?”

You shake your head in protest but it feels too good. Your head falls back on him without the mirror to lean against. His fingers find your clit, his sole purpose to make you lose yourself to him.

“Fuck look at you shaking baby,” he groans, feeling you pulse around him, drawing closer to the edge. “Your poor pussy just needs to come huh?”

You can hear the smirk in his tone, fucking self satisfied prick.

“Not as badly as you need it,” you taunt back, feeling your defiance flare despite how your body was begging you to behave..

“Fuck you might be right,” he groans, going harder, faster. “I’m always going to need it.”

His confession takes you over, the words pushing you so hard you come apart violently, thrashing against him as you unravel, but he holds you tight. He doesn’t let you fall. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think, all you could feel was him and the burst of pleasure that carried on wave after wave, and you never wanted it to stop.

“This is mine,” he grunts as he comes undone inside of you, fucking his cum deeper until it got through to your soul.

He was a part of you, and you could try to deny it now with his mistakes on the table, but he was so embedded in the fabric of you he couldn’t see where he began and where you ended. His entire existence was for you, it was only fair your cunt, body and soul belonged to him. Maybe the others too, as an afterthought, but you were his first.

He feels the mess slide out of you as he leaves your warmth, turning you softly so you could lean against him as you catch your breath. He holds you tight, arn arm around your middle like the steel of a bar. He has every intention of letting you recover but the way you look up at him with those glossy eyes confirms the fact he will never be satiated, he will always want more of you even if there was nothing left to give.

“Our little love,” he breathes in your face, stealing a hard kiss, “our little downfall.”

His mouth held you prisoner again and again, humming pleasantly as you let him devour you in so many ways. His kiss was bruising, hungry, overindulging.

Your eyes search his as he parts reluctantly, your mind still hazy, the bliss of sex still circulating your body.

“Why did you lie to me?” You whisper breathlessly against his lips as you come down, and he can hear the vulnerability in your tone, it makes a guilt spread across his chest that feels almost alien. The way you could make him ache like no one else, he should cast you aside for introducing a weakness in him but he wouldn’t even dream of it.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he confesses sincerely. “I didn’t want you to hate me.”

“I asked you not to hurt him,” your eyes tear up again, and he curses himself and the existence of Kim Suho.

“I know.”

“But you did it anyway,” you continue, “and then you had the gall to lie to my face.��

You wipe away the tears that fall harshly, your mind clearing. You push him away and fix yourself up, knowing from the glances in the mirror you were a mess.

“You always own up to your actions, right or wrong, you never hide them,” you laugh and you think you must sound psychotic. “The Kim Namjoon… I remember the days you would drop dead bodies in front of me without remorse, without ever feeling the need to explain yourself.”

“I was testing you then,” he grunts, remembering those days well. “I needed to know you had the stomach to be with us.”

“I hated you so much,” you confess, swallowing down a sob. “And for the first time since I fell in love with you Joonie, I can feel that hate grow again.”

His jaw clenches, his fist too. He could feel a threat on the tip of his lips, one where the Captain's head would end up on a plate in front of you for dinner but he holds himself back.

“You don’t mean that,” he says between gritted teeth.

“I had you fucking arrested Namjoon,” you argue back fiercely. “Don't tell me what I mean or don’t mean.”

“You also fucked me after the fact,” he states and the harsh words slap you hard. You did. You let him defile you here only moments ago.

“Old habits die hard.”

“Not with me love,” he dismisses the thought. “Not as long as I’m alive.”

“We’ll see,” you challenge, feeling that earlier conviction rise.

“Understand something Y/n,” he says seriously, his face solemn and hard in a way you had witnessed rarely. This was Kim Namjoon with something to lose. “You can run, you can fight, you can hate me if you need to, but there isn’t a life worth living for us without you in it.”

He takes his seat back in the interrogation chair, putting his handcuffs back on with ease, all while keeping his eye contact with you.

“You want me here, you want to punish me,” he continues, “fine, this where I’ll stay until you’re appeased, until you forgive me.”

“I won’t,” you deny, shaking your head.

“You will.”

#bts au #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts angst #bts smut #bts mafia imagine #bts mafia!au #bts mafia series #bts yandere!au #yandere bts #bts yandere #bts ot7 au #bts ot7 x reader #namjoon mafia au #namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon angst

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sixosix · 1 year ago

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can you do an aether x reader lil one shot please!!! my baby gets no love ;( I'm fine with any story or plot but maybe one where they've been travel buddies for a while and his feelings have just been bottled up over time and he just explodes in to a confession and then some cute fluff from there!!!!!!

a/n wc 1.6k there are tears in my eyes as i write this i love aether sonmuch. also sorry if this is all over the place i was trying so hard not to turn it into another 10k word fic…. ft. lyney

aether doesn’t vividly recall the moment his feelings blossomed. there was no pinpointed moment, only all of it growing restless inside him.

he likes to keep his team to four people maximum, oftentimes none at all—just him and paimon to worry about as they move from region to region, friends made yet no proper strings attached. it’s for everyone’s sake, as aether doesn’t plan on staying too long in one place. that’s how it should’ve been.

you appeared one day, demanding to take you in his team. just for liyue and then you can separate ways, you said.

“i’m visiting my awfully quiet lover to break his silence. i need to figure out why i’ve stopped receiving letters,” you explained, blinding him with your bigger-than-life personality.

and because aether is a weak, weak man to people who don’t know how to back down, he agreed, albeit hesitantly. “alright,” he said in defeat. “just liyue?”

“just liyue,” you affirmed, beaming as he’s accepted you probably easier than you expected.

just liyue is a lie, and he should’ve known it the moment he had to confirm it. he didn’t bother with formal introductions and keeping conversations, knowing he wouldn’t see you again anyway. it didn’t help that paimon adores you, expressing her loud disappointment when you have to part ways with them.

paimon floated lower than usual. aether sighed. “should’ve known you’d grow to love someone who spoils you with sweet madame more than me.”

“hmph! y/n’s nicer to paimon than you!”

but he does see you again some time later, facing a large tree, kicking it out of frustration. it’s pouring heavily; your clothes are soaked.

“am i scary?” you asked when aether and paimon approached you, staring ahead, fists trembling.

“what’s wrong?! did something bad happen?” paimon fluttered around you nervously, unsure if she could touch you.

“he’s not dead, at least,” you said bitterly. “just too cowardly to tell me that he doesn’t love me anymore. i suppose it was better breaking up face-to-face than through letters.” you sighed bitterly, shoulders hiked up to your ears as a fresh wave of quiet tears washed over you, muted by the rain. “this is embarrassing, getting dumped because i was too much.”

“it’s not. you came all the way from mondstadt just to see him. didn’t he at least care about that?” aether asked, which might’ve just been his longest sentence yet. why were you out here soaking? if it were him, he wouldn’t have been so rude to leave you astray during a thunderstorm.

“i can’t force him, if he doesn’t want to see me. i’ll be alright, i promise.” you rest your forehead against the bark of the tree, water sliding off your cheeks—aether isn’t sure if it’s the rain or your tears.

he understands, possibly more than anyone.

and aether—still a weak, weak man when it came to people breaking down in front of him, knowing what it’s like to lose someone so dear to you—gently says, “xiangling told us there’s an event holding place here later. you’re coming with us.”

just liyue was already a warning in itself that it would never be just as that.

you weave yourself in his life as if you were always there, fitting in like you haven’t met him and paimon just a few days ago. he tries to convince himself that he’s doing this to cheer you up, but you’ve been making him smile more than they do to you.

he would turn to his side and see you feeding him a chicken-mushroom skewer after a short battle, insisting even when aether says he’s not as injured as you may think. he would turn to his side and see you and paimon laughing over something he missed and find himself grinning as well.

he would turn to his side when you tug on his sleeve, shyly asking if he’s willing to take you to inazuma as well because you didn’t want to stay in liyue if they weren’t here anymore.

“sure,” aether would say. he’s a weak man, and you were holding on to his cape, looking so adorable that aether wanted to melt on the spot. but that’s a normal reaction to cute things, probably.

taking you to inazuma turns into bringing you along to sumeru, then eventually fontaine, until everyone is convinced you’re a staple in aether’s adventures: aether, paimon, and y/n.

this is what it’s like to have a good team, aether persuades himself. a good team, a useful asset, aether reminds himself sternly as you slice a ruin cruiser off of existence with fierce anger in your eyes and a stick of tricolor dango in your mouth. you wave at him after, beaming, and his heart does something weird.

and now, when some of his friends suggest that he lays you off even just for a day so he can have three other people who work together seamlessly with him, he dismisses it quickly—without thinking. he already works best with you by his side. if they want to come along with him, they have to accept they’re coming along with you just as well.

“thanks for letting me join you,” you whisper one night, lying on the grass and watching the stars with him. you turn your head and meet his eyes, smiling softly.

“of course,” aether says. of course, because now he can’t imagine what it’s like to not have you with him. “i’m the only one who can handle how scary you are.”

you scoff, gently punching his arm as he laughs. “shut up, idiot. you know what i mean.”

i know, aether wants to say. but would that be too much? aether doesn’t want you to think he’s trying to replace someone important in your life this quickly.

you are scary. you’re terrifying him with all these unwanted feelings he doesn’t know what to do with. but aether wasn’t lying, either—he can handle fear just as well.

and now, as aether watches lyney grin and kiss the back of your palm, aether’s chest burns with something unpleasant, sitting in his stomach and urging him to take action. a rock under his shoe. he does not like it, not one bit.

“uhh,” paimon shifts nervously mid-air. “paimon thinks you should stop glaring daggers into lyney before he notices.”

“glaring daggers? i’m not glaring daggers,” aether hisses. his fingers are starting to ache with how painfully he’s clutching his sword. “no daggers here…” he curses as he watches you grow increasingly flustered.

the sight startles him. not your expression, not lyney’s clear provocation, but aether’s stance towards it.

“i thought we’re friends with lyney again?” paimon asks, terribly confused.

“the best of friends,” aether says, marching over to the scene. paimon makes a disbelieving noise.

lyney smirks knowingly as aether gently tugs on your arm. “oh,” lyney says, all sly, more of a fox than a cat, “i didn’t know you were already spoken for. i do apologize for the misunderstanding.”

you glance between an amused lyney and an irked aether, dazed. “i’m not…?”

“your jealous boyfriend says otherwise,” lyney snorts as aether bristles.

aether glares heatedly at lyney, even as the latter backs away with a smug grin. “y/n, let’s go. there’s nothing else to do here.” he’s being rude. he doesn’t care. his mind is blank—or maybe it’s running miles per minute, and he struggles to keep up.

and because you always listen to aether, you let him drag you off, nearly failing to wave goodbye to a chuckling lyney. lyney calls for paimon, distracting her as aether continues walking away from the scene.

you turn to aether, barely able to keep up with his hurried steps. “whoa, whoa, hey, aether—aether, are you okay? your face is so red.” you touch his cheek, and he crumbles. “aether.”

he halts, frowning at the ground. frustrated.

“aether, is there something wrong?”

that’s the thing. aether doesn’t know what’s wrong. he was content with watching you from afar—content with your stars slowly aligning with his as he stands back and watches it happen. he was content with not doing anything about it. but not doing anything about it would mean everyone else thinks you haven’t got aether wrapped around your finger.

“sorry,” aether says. to the painful beating of his heart, restless with unexplained fury. “i didn’t—”

“…idiot.” you always tell him that. you’re the only one who calls him that, but he knows that were they to try, he wouldn’t let it slide so easily. “it’s okay to admit you’re jealous. it’s cute.”

it is not lyney’s flirtations that tip aether over; it’s the sweet smile you give him, the gentleness of your gaze, and your face so close to aether’s that you and him share the same breath. what tips him over is all of it crashing down on him, as daunting as a fight, as abrupt as the beat of his heart:

oh. oh. is that it?

aether doesn’t vividly recall the moment you wormed your way in. maybe it was the moment you jumped down from a tree branch and scared the wits out of paimon, only to demand nervously he take you. maybe it was the moment he softens when your shoulders shake and rain pours relentlessly overhead. maybe it was the stab of jealousy seeing someone else try to steal you away from him when you so obviously belong to him as he belongs to you.

it doesn’t matter.

“i want you,” aether says, then blinks when you do a startled take. “no—no. i mean. i… like you. and i want you to stay. here. not with them. not anyone else.”

“stay right in front of you?”

“in front, beside—doesn’t matter.” aether grows weak, limp as he presses his forehead against yours. “i just want you.”

“okay,” you smile, tipping your chin to kiss his cheek. his heart soars. “that’s all i needed to hear.”

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #aether x reader #aether x you #aether x y/n

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bkgml · 2 years ago

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meanie katsuki makes the reader jealous on purpose then she cries bc he thinks he doesnt love them anymore ☹️

katsuki messing up!

katsuki has never seen you get jealous. to him, anyone who looks your way is a threat. he wants you all to himself, it’s selfish he knows, but he just needs you so badly.

you never ever showing him you’re jealous annoys him to no end. do you even want him that bad? maybe you care less about him than he cares about you.

he takes his problem to kirishima. he’s the only one he trusts to talk about this.

“so? what do i do?” he asks.

“i don’t understand, you want her to be jealous?” kirishima questions.

“i guess. i just want her to show that she wants me.” katsuki frowns. he sounds so damn vulnerable right now.

“try and make her jealous then. see if she cares enough about you.”

“huh. how the fuck do i do that?” katsuki asks.

“anytime a girl comes up to you, flirting with you and stuff, flirt back a little. don’t tell them to fuck off like you normally do.”

“flirt back…”

“hey there, sexy.” a woman calls to katsuki in the street.

he’s used to this shit. people are always coming up to him in the street flirting with him. can’t they see you’re right there holding his hand?

‘flirt back’ he thinks.

“hey.” he smiles.

‘what the fuck? did he just flirt with her?’ you think to yourself. you’re used to seeing katsuki be flirted with, but to see him flirt back? how dare he?

you frown for a moment but quickly neutralize your face so he doesn’t see your jealousy, he’s never been disloyal you have no reason to nag him with jealousy.

things go on like this for weeks. someone will flirt with katsuki and he’ll blatantly flirt back. you’re growing upset. why is he doing this right in front of you?

eventually, you’re at your wits end.

you went to visit katsuki for lunch at his agency and he told his secretary to tell him you arrived while being discreet. he had a coworker in his office that’s always been flirty with him, touchy and blunt with suggestive remarks.

he decided to indulge her this time so you could walk in and see him flirting with her.

“hi, handsome. you wanted to see me?” she asked.

you arrived at his office and opened the door.

“uh huh. wanted to know why you were walking around with those tight ass pencil skirts.”

you stiffen.

“katsuki…?” you say, voice cracking.

“shit. why are you crying, pretty?” he stands and orders the woman out of his office.

he shuts the door and turns to you.

you look so small and fragile like this.

he cups your face but you back away shaking your head.

“are you cheating on me?” you say, tears finally falling.

“what? no. never.”

you look down, hands clenching into fists.

“then why have you been flirting with everyone? every single person who’s flirted with you in the past couple weeks you’ve flirted back. you’ve acted like i don’t even exist when someone else is there. i tried to let it go but now you’ve pushed me over the fucking edge katsuki!” you scream.

katsuki winces. he went way to far.

“it was a stupid fucking idea, baby. im so sorry, i pushed you too hard on this.” he defends.

you look up at him and glare.

“what idea?”

“i was talking to kirishima about how i’ve never seen you jealous and i was fucking insecure. i didn’t know if you wanted me because you always brush it off when other bitches flirt with me! he told me i should try to make you jealous!”

“you think it’s easy to brush it off? i was trying to not make you think i was clingy because i am so obviously out of your league! i thought you’d fucking leave me if i clung to you like this!” you’re pissed. he made you feel worthless because of some stupid idea?

“i wasn’t thinking. you’re out of my league, sweets. i messed up so fucking bad because i was insecure. can you forgive me? please? i don’t deserve it but i only have eyes for you and i always will.” he steps closer to you.

you think for a minute before sighing.

“i forgive you but i’m still fucking pissed. you’re going to be making this up to me for years.”

“promise. i’ll spend forever making this shit up to you.” he steps closer again.

“can i hold you now?” he pleads.

you laugh lightly and he smiles.

you raise your arms and katsuki rushes forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you.

he places kisses all over your face and neck before burying his face in your chest.

“i messed up.”

“yeah.” you smile.

he walks to his desk chair and sits with you in his lap.

he places a kiss to your lips.

“i’m an idiot.”

“yeah.”

he wipes your old tears off your face and kisses your temple.

“kirishimas an idiot too for giving me that advice.”

“yeah.”

you wrap your arms around his neck.

you kiss his nose.

“you’re perfect and no one else compares.”

“yeah.”

katsuki laughs and holds you tight to him. rubbing your back and weaving his fingers through your hair, breathing in your sweet perfume.

“wanna have lunch now?”

“yeah!”

#bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou x yn #bakugou x you #bakugou katuski x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader

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wordsofelie · 23 days ago

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🏠one goodbye, a million hellos

A Phoenix and Ashes & Don’t you dare run away short story (can be read as a standalone)

Suna x f!reader

Summary: Suna is invited to the wedding of his ex. he goes there with a broken heart and leaves with a loving one.

Content warnings: alcohol consumption, non-explicit bed scene, swearings, timeskip, manga spoilers

Words count: 3.5k

Suna knew from the moment he woke up that morning, that today was going to be shitty day. First, his alarm didn’t go off—luckily, his lazy cat decided to scratch at the door, waking him up. Bleary-eyed, he noted that the noise outside was way too loud for it to be 6 a.m. That’s when he checked the time. It was 8 a.m.

He launched out of bed and stumbled as his ankle twisted slightly. He barely registered the discomfort because he simply had no time to waste. Then he checked the weather on his phone: a sunny day ahead, or so he thought. However, all he had to do was cross the threshold to realise that he’d checked the forecast for Hiroshima, not Tokyo, and that it was pouring rain in the bigger city.

The way to the gym didn’t help ease his mood. He had to wait for two overcrowded trains to pass before he could squeeze onto the third, only to watch in horror as his wallet tumbled out of his bag and skidded across the station floor. Two teenagers shot him a pitying look and smirked.

His coach made him run ten extra laps of the court as a punishment.

Anyway, it was shaping up to be the shittiest day.

Only two things can possibly redeem it now, Suna hopes: the company of his chubby, grey cat and the arrival of his long-awaited new volleyball shoes.

When he finally reaches his apartment building, he rushes to the mailbox.

Fuck, the shoes aren’t there.

He sighs heavily and sorts through the stack of mostly junk mail. There’s an ad for the new yakiniku restaurant that opened in his neighbourhood, a fan’s letter (how did they find his address?) and then, at the bottom of the mailbox, a delicate, white envelope with his name inked in familiar handwriting. Suddenly, his chest tightens. Suna feels his lungs closing, as if they can no longer inhale the breath from outside. Because, even if he wishes he could unrecall the way his ex-girlfriend used to write his name, he can’t; and the letter is from her. He doesn’t need to open the letter to know what it is. She wouldn’t use such elegant paper for him—not anymore. So, he knows, even before reading a single word, that it is an invitation to her wedding.

Her wedding to Miya Osamu.

But just in case his hunch was wrong, in case she dumped his former teammate and wants Suna back in her life, he decides to unfold the paper, carefully.

Honda Airi & Miya Osamu are pleased to invite you...

That’s enough for today.

He shoves the letter into his bag, in a harsh move. Yet somehow, he can’t bring himself to crumple or shred it to pieces for it is certainly very precious to Airi.

When he enters his apartment, he mumbles a shy “tadaima”, it’s unusual for him. He never much cared for the ritual of announcing his return, but his mother used to insist on it, so he only does it with her and his younger sister when he visits them. And Airi once complained when he didn’t. He never knew why it mattered so much to her.

“It’s just… I love having someone to say ‘okaeri’ to,” she said.

Only now does Suna understand the warmth of having someone to greet when coming home, or rather, Suna understands the coldness of having no one to go home to. Not even Peko-chan, his cat, bothers to look up at him, it doesn’t seem like that ungrateful bastard is going to come and ask for cuddles anytime soon.

He finds a single lollipop on the kitchen counter and unwraps it, it’s sweet but somehow tonight, it tastes bitter.

The letter stays in his bag for weeks. Airi tries to call him a few times, leaving messages of “hey, I was wondering if you had received a letter?”, and “tell me when you have received the invitation… I’d like to talk with you about it.” Which turned into “everyone received theirs so I don’t know if you moved out or if you’re ignoring me… anyway, please call me back.”

She sounds so worried; it makes him feel bad and so, he calls her back.

Airi seems to be thrilled when she talks about the wedding plans. There’s this spark in her voice that reminds him of everything he once loved about her. For a brief moment, he almost forgets it is supposed to hurt.

She begs him to come because “you’ve always meant a lot to me, and… I still think of you as a close friend. And Osamu’s entire team from high school is coming. It wouldn’t feel right without you there. But I understand if it makes you feel uncomfortable-”

“I’ll come.” He simply replies. Suna has always been a man of few words. He believes he hears a sigh of relief in her voice.

She thanks him one, twice, thrice, Suna pretends it is a pleasure. Which it is (because he made her happy) but also isn’t (because all the regrets he pushed aside for years suddenly resurface).

That evening, he reads the whole invitation. It is so quintessentially her—simple and graceful, the venue will be in the mountains, of course she loves the mountains. The wedding will be held in summer, near her birthday. Every detail seems to fit her perfectly, even the name next to hers, and despite the hurt and regrets, Suna Rintarou has to admit that Miya Osamu is a way better choice than himself for her; he had always been.

The day comes and Suna feels his stomach hurt when he arrives at the venue. It’s a small gathering, which only makes him more visible when he parks. He glances at the people that are already there, and takes a deep inspiration—yet, even in the calm, he can feel his pulse race. A few seconds after, he hears Atsumu tapping on his window.

“Sunarin, my man!” Atsumu’s grin is wide as ever, and Suna’s response is his usual faint smile.

Atsumu explains everything to him from what’s planned for dinner to where the restrooms are but soon after that, excuses himself to go see his brother who’s almost done getting ready.

To stay close to people who are calm and won’t ask too many questions, Suna makes his way to his senpai, Aran and Kita, and nods through conversations, pretending to be his normal self, quiet and unbothered.

Suna doesn’t remember a lot about what happened after, maybe because he was to focus on trying to make the pain in his chest go away.

But when Airi arrives, he finds her beautiful, but he also admits to himself that his heart doesn’t beat the way it used to. The man realises that it is not her that haunts him, but the regrets and the “what could have been?”. It’s the longing to have someone by his side to cherish. It’s the fact that the only true love story he had experienced ended in tears—because of him—and when he tried to fix the broken glasses, it was too late.

This goodbye will forever hurt.

By the reception, Suna attempts to control his drinking—partly because he is a professional athlete, but mostly because he fears he might say something stupid to Airi, “Could it have been us?”, he nearly asks when he bumps into her at the buffet. But instead, “I’m happy for you,” comes out.

“Thank you, Rin. It means a lot coming from you.” the hurt eases even slightly.

Still the alcohol starts blurring his mind a little bit and he turns, only to find himself spilling his drink on someone.

“Shit,” that someone says.

“Oh-sorry!” he mutters, reaching for a napkin to help.

She says nothing back, and doesn’t even look at him at first, not out of annoyance, Suna concludes, but because her attention is glued to her camera, which took the brunt of the spill (and that thing seems the hell expensive).

After a minute or so, she sighs heavily and mumbles a “thanks gods, it’s still working.” As she raises the camera, she snaps one picture of Suna.

The man raises an eyebrow, genuinely taken aback.

“I need to remember the man who almost made me lose my job.”

She grins. And Suna can finally see her whole face. She’s more radiant than a thousand suns.

“Your job?”

“Yep. Honda-san, I mean, Miya-san now, hired me to be the photograph for tonight. My shop is close to her workplace.” She says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she extends her hand to introduce herself.

“Mmh, nice to meet you. I’m Suna.”

He’s cold. Suna knows he is, but it’s not like he can do anything about it, that’s just who he has always been. Somehow, she doesn’t seem impressed or upset by it. She simply scratches her chin and frowns.

“Are you here for the bride or the groom… Wait, let me guess. You’re pretty tall and handsome. Volleyball player, right? So, the groom’s side, I’d say.”

Suna doesn’t know how to respond to that because after all, he’s here for both.

“Actually…” He hesitates. “I was in high school with them.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were the mysterious type and cool guy all the girls had a crush on?”

Suna laughs, a short huff through his nose. “I don’t know. Were you the stalking girl who took pictures of her crush?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Did you take many pictures of me tonight?” He wheedles and crosses his arms.

“Who said I had a crush on you?”

That girl is probably smarter than he would ever be, Suna concludes and just when he’s thinking about what he can argue back, she chimes in.

“But, if you want to know, you’ll have to stop by my shop sometime.”

He’s surprised when his heart skips a beat and finds himself wanting to know more about her. They chat naturally for the next half an hour, like old friends or something close to it. She mentions Momo, her cat, a clingy, high-maintenance furball that couldn’t be more different from his laid-back pet. He shows her a photo of said pet, and she laughs about how nonchalant he looks (“like his owner” she adds). She still thinks the felines would look good together. Suna wonders if they would.

“Well, I just forgot I’m supposed to be working and I saw that dude who looks like an owl doing a backflip on the dancefloor. I think Miya-san wouldn’t want me to miss this.” She leans just an inch so that Suna is close enough now to inhale a fragment of her scent. “Guess I’ll see you around… Mister Cool Guy.”

Before he can say anything, she slips back into the crowd. Suna thinks he catches a slight blush on her ears, he smiles, and it makes his cheeks hurt.

Two weeks after, Airi calls him.

“Rin, I hate to ask, but I’m in Osaka right now, and the wedding photos are ready. Could you pick them up?”

Suna wonders if she has some sixth sense or if fate is intervening, but either way, he decides to take the chance.

When he arrives at the shop, she’s there, and the man swears he caught her smile widen when she saw him. She’s helping a young girl with some identity photos, telling her jokes, and making funny faces to get a smile from the child. The way she acts with her makes him think that she has that ability of making everyone feel at ease.

“Here for the photos?” she asks and hands him the envelope.

He takes it, but something holds him back from leaving just yet. He’s here to do his ex a favour, but as he heads toward the door, he finds himself turning around.

“What are you doing after this?”

“Nothing,” she answers, almost too quickly.

The middle blocker holds back a teethfull smile, “There’s a new yakiniku place nearby. I’ve been wanting to try it.”

“I close in twenty minutes.” She informs.

“I’ll wait,” he replies, and finally lets a rare smile break through.

The dinner’s great, they talk about everything and nothing at all. He grills the meat, she eats it while telling him about her degrees and her previous experiences working in a rigid company, why she hated it and how her boss was a butthead. Suna notes that her eyes shine when she explains how she finally followed her dreams and became a professional photographer. She asks him about his dream, impressed when she searches for his name on the internet and sees the number of followers on his public profile.

By the time they’re walking back, neither is in a rush to leave the other. Their feet drag slightly, as if it would help delay the moment they part ways.

“Next time, I’ll try the karubi,” she exclaims, nudging him.

“Next time?”

“What? Aren’t you going to take me on another date, Suna Rintarou?” She smirks, bright and clear.

Everything inside him moves and his heart aches. But this time, the feeling soothes him.

And so, he agrees to go out with her again. The dates become regular and slowly, as the days pass, fingers intertwine, soft kisses land at the corner of lips, and “i like you” are whispered under the moon.

With her, it’s never awkward, never forced. And Suna thinks that maybe he isn’t cursed to be loveless after all.

A few months later, when her apartment lease ends, they move in together. Suna, with his ever-pragmatic mind, decides they know each other well enough to make it work. She’s clumsy, messy, and can sleep till noon—he often returns from his morning run to find her still in bed, though now she tries to get up and wait for him with two steaming cups of tea. She has a tendency to comment on absurd reality shows about people fighting in a villa, and while he doesn’t admit it aloud, Suna finds an odd comfort in her quirks.

At first, her cooking is questionable, bad even, but he finds her watching YouTube tutorials on “How To Meal Prep for Athletes.” Soon, her omurice (that was a bit too burnt in the beginning), packed with olive oil for good fats, protein-rich chicken and eggs, rice for carbs, and fiber-loaded courgettes and red peppers, becomes something he actually looks forward to. Her repertoire of healthy recipes grows, and they fall into a rhythm that makes Suna feels nothing less than at home: he handles the cleaning, and she deftly manages bills and taxes.

On the weekends, they play video games and go on hikes—though never too long ones, because she stops constantly to capture everything. “You already took a picture of that flower,” he points out, and with her innocent smile, she replies, “But the light’s different now.”

She respects his boundaries, never pressures him to do things he dislikes, and doesn’t complain when his responses are short and of few words. She doesn’t make him feel bad when his training runs late. No matter what hour he comes home, she’s waiting—half asleep on the couch, two cats curled in her lap, an almost-empty packet of low-salt and 0% fat crisps by her side. He kneels before her, murmuring “tadaima,” and her eyes squint and then shine as she responds, “okaeri, my love.”

She never misses his games, always making sure to snap the best shots of him. Sometimes, she even sneaks alongside the official photographers, scolding them for not taking enough pictures of Suna.

“What a bunch of idiots…Can’t you see he’s the ace of the game?” (it got her to be kick out of the gym once).

She learns all the rules from volleyball even though she still gets confused with the rotations. One day, from where he stands on the court, Suna hears her protest when the referee whistles for a foul he made (even though it was obvious he touched the net with his chest).

In return, Suna never fails to attend her exhibitions. He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks when she cries because “no one came” and “I’m a failure.”

He lists every reason why she’s mistaken and how she’s the most talented person in this entire universe. It makes her cry even more, but with happy tears this time. He keeps on believing that her art will be celebrated worldwide someday, but that he’ll remain the first to stand in line when queues of fans will show up to see her masterpieces.

After a hard day, he runs her a bath, (always putting a little bath bomb that smells like roses, her favourite). When he’s away for matches, he brings back mugs from every country. The shelves are now overflowing, and they had to buy a new cabinet, but she still asks him for more.

He discovers what makes her feel good, the spots on her skin that sends shivers down her spine (her upper thigh, the back of her shoulders). He learns what words make her lose her mind, what pace she enjoys most.

When he messes up, she’s never afraid to call him out. “You’re a piece of shit,” she shouts sometimes when she’s pissed at him, and they burst into laughter because they can never be mad at each other for more than fifteen minutes.

During the Paris Olympics, they explore the city for what she calls their “honeymoon” (they’re not married, not even engaged, though Suna wouldn’t mind giving her his last name, or taking hers). She photographs every single croissant they try, and even makes him pose like he’s holding up the Eiffel Tower, much to his dismay. The man grunts but does it anyway (it’s a total fail).

She jumps in his arms when Japan wins against Argentina. He almost stumbles, but happiness overwhelms him at the same time.

He meets Airi’s gaze, who came with Osamu and his parents to cheer for Atsumu. She beams at him, and he smiles back.

(After all, going to that wedding wasn’t quite a bad idea.)

And just like that, a year transforms into two and into three. His career is stable while hers flourishes.

When he turns 30, she shows him a video montage that leaves him flustered. He laughs at her for getting teary-eyed even though she’s the one who made it.

“Where did you get all these pictures of me as a kid?” he grumbles, embarrassed.

“From your mum, of course! She was happy to help.”

“To help humiliate me?” he asks, and she tries to shut him up with a quick, “I love you.” He rolls his eyes but smiles anyway.

For her birthday, he gifts her the camera she’s been dreaming of her entire life. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Please, keep taking pictures. I love them... and I love you,” he tells. She answers she could die happy.

Her first picture with the new device is, shamelessly, Suna’s “beautiful and too-hot-for-public-decency back muscles.”

“Are you taking nudes of me, darling?” He raises an eyebrow when he catches her in the act.

“But this is my favourite scenery.” She tries to explain with a pout. He lets her snap more pictures.

She heads to New York for a major exhibition where she wins an award for best nature photography. From their shared apartment in Tokyo, Suna congratulates her over the phone.

But the week drags on and her absence is painful. He craves her omurice and the low-salt crisps (which taste suspiciously like cardboard), and even finds himself calling out “tadaima” to no one at all. And it seems like, he’s not the only who feels depressed since both cats have decided to start a hunger strike because apparently what Suna feeds them doesn’t meet their standards (even Peko-chan refused the tuna he gave him.)

He looks at the photo album she made of their travels before bed. Suna is convinced that one day, their shelves will be overflowing not only with mugs but with albums (because they have many years ahead of them, many more moments to share).

He forgets what his life looked like before her, not that it matters anymore, Suna wouldn’t mind erasing every memory from his head to keep exclusively the ones with her.

She finally returns home with the award, and he picks her up from the airport (driving a little too fast and barely stopping at red lights, don’t tell her). When they step in the doorway, Suna grabs her waist and pulls her against him tightly, his face nestles in her neck.

“Rintarou…” she chuckles and grabs his hair—he loves when she does that—“I stink because of the flight, let me take a shower.”

Her cat meows to get her attention.

But Suna wants her all to himself.

“Say tadaima,” he orders, sounding like a child.

She blinks in confusion, then takes his face in her hands, planting a soft kiss on his lips. “Tadaima, my love.”

Suna wants to breathe the words, make it his oxygen. His lungs open, his whole blood is filled with an air he never felt before.

Gosh, she’s everything, he tells himself.

“Okaeri.” He responds.

They take a shower together (until the water runs cold), they order take away (burgers with an extra slice of fries), they watch her stupid reality show (Suna starts to be invested in the drama), he falls asleep on her lap, the cats join him.

That night, Suna dreams that it lasts forever.

(It will.)

author notes: if you read Phoenix and Ashes and Don’t you dare run away you know that i haven’t depicted suna as the most loving and kind human being, but what i enjoy so much about writing is that we can develop complex characters who evolve, fail, get better or worse, and make them experience life-changing events. so i really loved describing this new version of suna and make him fall in love again.

anyway a lot of talking haha when i just wanted to give sunarin a happy ending <3

i hope you enjoyed reading this and I’m gonna go working on the kageyama fic now 👀

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komoboko · 1 year ago

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𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐤𝐨 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

ft: tanjiro kamado, zenitsu agatsuma, inosuke hashibira, kanao tsuyuri, genya shinazugawa

no nezuko as I can only see her platonically, sorry !! :(

# tanjiro ! ☆

Somehow, TANJIRO becomes even more of a sweetheart then he already is. He’s considerate and he’s such a thoughtful person that it would be hard not to fall for his accidental charm

Tanjiro tends to linger close to you when he starts to fall for you. It takes him some time to understand why but he knows he treasures you as a person and likes your company dearly. His hands tend to gravitate towards yours but he’s always quick to retract them, it’s then when he realizes that he truly has a crush.

Zenitsu and Inosuke pester him about this heavily. Zenitsu always complains about Tanjiro being so secretive about the person he’s fallen for, as inosuke gives him horrible advice. As his first response was “I SAY CHALLENGE THEM TO A FIGHT TO THE DEATH!!” As for the best, tanjiro believes his own methods will work best.

He enjoys doing tasks for you or just helping you out in general. Whether it’s holding heavy baskets, or taking over a job you were assigned to do for the corps. Compared to others, his hugs or even small touches linger longer than others. His actions have more meaning behind them and his intentions are pure and genuine

# zenitsu ! ☆

ZENITSU is the most outgoing when he had the crush, he doesn’t try to hide his feeling either. Everybody knows he had a major crush on you, and I’m not surprised if you know as well.

He’s overly dramatic about anything and everything when he’s around you, and use even the smallest thing to cling onto you. He’ll whine if he hasn’t seen you and he’ll cling onto your arms and hold you close once he does have his sights on you. Only for him to get either scolded by Tanjiro or smacked in the back of his head by inosuke.

Not to say he isn’t over dramatic in private, but his tone is much calmer and his words are more genuine. Normally he would cling onto you with his hands, but now prefers to do it with his words. When he proclaims his love for you in public many pass it off as a joke, but in private it’s more indirect with actions and you begin to believe it’s no longer a simple joke anymore.

Zenitsu who also is the quickest to figure out his feelings for you, as it’s comes along almost immediately after he meets you for the first time. Similar to Genya is first embarrassed about how he feels, but brushes it off quickly not wanting to waste any chance that arises.

# inosuke ! ☆

Everybody knows INOSUKE had a crush on you, while they can’t point it out without him yelling at them their point still stands. It’s not like he’s trying to show the world he has a crush, he truly just doesn’t know he even has one in the first place.

It easy to point out how different he is around you compared to anybody else he surrounds himself with. He actually takes time to properly know your name, or how he’ll let you eat the food you get and then take even the smallest leftovers you have left. Most surprisingly he’ll try to somewhat improve his hygiene habits if you took the time to bug him about it enough.

In Inosuke’s mind he believes what he’s doing is normal, or at-least what he’s feeling is normal at first. In his mind your just more superior than others around you, so you’ll gain that respect from him as well. It isn’t until he finishes talking to you one day and butterflies swim in his stomach is when he thinks much differently.

He immediately visits Shinobu believing he’s sick and she’ll have to explain to him what he’s feeling. While he partially understands what she’s saying, he begins to believe it’s similar to have boars try and impress a future mate. Inosuke may even attempt to impress you with his skills as a hunter believing that will lead you into letting him out a ring on your finger, or in his mind just “keeping you by his side”.

# kanao! ☆

Nobody could really tell that KANAO truly had a crush on you. Out of anybody here, she’s able to keep to herself more compared to the others. She’s more secretive about this and her more romantic advances are much more discreet.

She’s very calm about the situation and the only small hints about her feelings come from her words and actions. Around others she is silent, she prefers to keep to herself and only truly speaks if spoken to. Around you she’s more open to emotionally express herself, she starts the conversations and her emotions are more visible as you speak.

Compared to others, Kanao is just find with spending time together. Whether you doing something together in a close proximity, or if your both doing separate things in the presence of each other she’s perfectly content.

She only really expresses her feelings to aoi, she one of the most self aware with how she feels but is unsure of how to take care of it. Only after getting help from aoi will she even attempt to pursue you, but she’ll hesitate away from even the first step and aoi will have to bug her about it constantly until she’s able to do it herself.

# genya ! ☆

GENYA is embarrassed to have a crush on you. Not that you embarrass him, but he’s embarrassed of himself for getting such heated reaction. He distanced himself from you by instinct as being somewhat near you can cause his face to go red in the beginning.

He starts off as some sort of secret admirer. He learns about you from a distance such as asking kocho for her help or opinions. With him being in the butterfly mansion often, she’s the first one to even know he has a crush and the main influence to his actions. It takes a while for him to even build up the courage to gift you something. A simple white gardenia flower placed delicately on a shelf in your room. It wasn’t anything revolutionary, but it was the thought that counts!

Through Shinobu’s encouragement, he manages to work his way up to talking with you face to face, properly. Your first conversations are shorter than he liked, as his response are quick and short, with either very few words exchanged or just him shaking his head. Overtime he’s able to open his shell, being able to grasp full length conversations, he’s able to share his thoughts and whatever on his mind he’s able to express more compared to his usual grunt of annoyance.

It doesn’t take much time for others to catch onto this either. They noticed how his tone is softer and he talks at a normal voice instead of his usual irritated yelling. His eyes are really what gives it away, how there much softer contradicting his brother, you can see the emotion he’s feeling through them. A small detail but it holds much more meaning to it. Even through his subtle ways, Genya just wants to show you how much he really cares for you.

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randombush3 · 1 year ago

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audentes fortuna iuvat

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two

words: 9541

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks III

content warnings: there’s some (a lot of) cheating + postpartum depression. it’s more frustrating than sad though x

notes: this covers 2019-22(ish). It was SUPPOSED to be the last part. It’s not anymore. I’m gonna do a fourth to deal w the mess I have created in a more self-indulgent amount of words than the 3k i had planned. That will probably have smut in it 😛

“Y/n left me.”

The limousine you are in is completely black, save for the white lines being measured out right next to you.

“What?” says Jenni.

“She left me,” Alexia says once more. The hotel room is a non-committal beige. They lie in the same bed, the older of the two welcoming her lost teammate wordlessly and without judgement. Tomorrow, they will return to Barcelona, losers yet another time. “She moved back to london. She took Nico.”

“She can’t just take Nico, can she?”

“Y/n, how’s Nico?” Your stomach turns, but whether that is provoked by the thought of the baby boy you left crying in your father’s arms or by the white powder outlining the rim of the woman’s nostrils, you don’t know.

Your son’s creasing eyes, red face, and grabbing hands appear in front of you. He screams as you walk away. He doesn’t understand why he has not smelt Alexia in weeks, and he misses the comfort of home.

Everyone waits for your answer. No one comments on the bags under your eyes. “He's fine,” you say with a smile. “He loves it here.”

“I think she is depressed,” Alexia tells Jenni, comforted by the arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close and tightly and reminding her that she is not as alone as you have made her feel. “She told me that she couldn’t be in Barcelona anymore, but she said that without giving me a chance to come with her. Her bags were packed before the conversation started — she might as well have called me from the plane.”

“Are you angry at her?”

“Yes.”

Alexia thinks about it.

“No.”

“No,” you say when they point at your very own line. The drug holds a place of both familiarity and hatred in your heart. The fine, white powder reminds you of greatness – of being the most successful girl group in the UK – but, also, of hospital visits. It’s not a past addiction, but it could have been. You light a cigarette instead, though it will make the vehicle reek. “I can't. I have a son.”

“You’re not a saint.” They boo. “You’re allowed to have fun. I saw you the other day, and you had no qualms with any drugs then.”

“No, I'm not a saint,” you reply. You regret that night — however little you remember. “But I am a mother.”

“Is it that thing? Postpartum?” Jenni asks. “The baby blues are really shitty, I've heard, but they’re not supposed to cripple you. Maybe the relationship has other issues.”

“I'm not angry at her, Jenni,” Alexia repeats. “I miss Nico. He looks like her. He has started to look a lot more like her now.”

“He would definitely suit those sparkly bralettes.” Jenni giggles at the thought.

With an understandable lack of good humour, Alexia ponders something more realistic. “He would suit a Barcelona kit.”

“He would be made for it. You are his mother.”

“I'm not angry at her,” Alexia says for the third time, just to make herself believe it. Just to carve those words into her bones and tell herself that it isn’t anger, what she’s feeling. “I don't want to be angry at her. I think I'm going to see if I can move to arsenal.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Well, I'm not angry at her.”

“Alexia.” Jenni cups her cheek tenderly. “Ale.” She knows she shouldn’t. She’s not angry at you, and so there is no punishment needed. Not that… Not that kissing Jenni would ever be utilised as a weapon to get back at you. Or that she’d actually kiss her.

“Daddy, I can't get him tonight. No, I don't want to stay over. Daddy, I…” You hate the baby. You hate yourself. You hate that Spain hasn’t done well, and that your fiancée is disappointed that nothing is how it was supposed to be. Alexia is probably lying awake in bed, missing her son, and missing you. You expect one of her teammates to call you soon, and tell her that she needs you. You’re her person. “I'm going to get some sleep and I'll pick him up tomorrow. Probably around lunchtime, okay?”

“Alexia, bésame.”

…

You had passively bought your house. It’s how property sale works when you’re a celebrity. People are always willing to do things for you if you know the price, and it never hurts to use your name to add a new flashy level to whatever stupid business they are running. It’s a mutual exploitation, to some extent.

Highgate is beautiful. The house is beautiful.

The reception room, with its high, decorated ceilings, is your favourite place to numbly take in the twisted jigsaw of your life when Nico has cried himself to sleep. The nursery is on the first floor. He is near enough for safety, but at a distance that allows you to regret all the mistakes you have made.

You watch him roll over onto his stomach, eyes trained on the baby monitor though your fingers graze the ivory keys of your new piano, attempting to compose something worthwhile. At this rate, your solo career is going to fail just like your relationship seems to be doing.

Yesterday, while Alexia seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth, you came out. It was an off-hand comment during the Graham Norton Show. A quick ‘my fiancée named him. She’s from Barcelona’ was all it took. You hope Alexia, wherever she may be, has heard about it. Jenni would have told her. You trust Jenni to be somewhat on your side because she always has been.

The doorbell rings just as you sniffle, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “Don’t be pathetic,” you mutter to yourself. “You didn’t pay five million pounds to sit here and cry. You chose to come back home.”

Being in England – colder, drearier, lonelier England – has made you realise that your decision was not the right one. Or maybe it was. It has proven that you are as terrible a mother as you convinced yourself you were back in Barcelona, and it has also shoved the cavity Alexia leaves in your life when you refuse her entry right down your throat in the form of a constant lump and a dull stabbing in your chest whenever you think about anything past whether Nico has had anything to eat. You can’t even feed him properly, despite it being supposedly in your nature. You buy formula from the nearest Waitrose.

The doorbell rings again.

The insistence is not uncommon seeing as you are, at the minute, the English press’s number one target. You open the CCTV app on your phone so that you can decide whether or not to ignore the potential stalker, and your heart rate spikes when you see the hooded figure standing on the porch. Back to the door, it is not possible to determine the threat. A well-buried maternal instinct kicks in for once, and you ensure that Nico is still peacefully out cold before getting up to answer the door with the poker from the Victorian fireplace firmly in your grip. Just in case.

You are a mother, in whatever capacity you have decided that role looks like, and so you undo the three latches on the door with brave, protective fingers. The baby monitor’s volume has increased, and the fuzz of white noise is audible if Nico were to make a sound. The vague repulsion at the idea of it all is only an aftertaste in your silent prayer for the hooded figure to not want to kill you. Some sick part of your brain imagines Nico dead, as well. It tortures you.

The poker in your other hand, for the most fleeting of moments, is almost plunged into your chest. The imaginary, self-inflicted wound makes you think of the blood and how the baby upstairs would wail until someone found him. The grimace of annoyance on your lips is nothing new, but you have no more time to torment yourself because the doorbell is pressed again, rather impatiently.

You open the door and the hooded figure is right in front of you. “He’s asleep,” you say, the Spanish foreign on your tongue.

Alexia shrugs, and her hood falls down, revealing the brunette tendrils that hang from her slowly sinking bun. “I came for you,” she replies, so earnestly that it is as if nothing ever happened: past pain forgotten and replaced by sprouting memories of soft kisses and mornings where leaving was too hard to do. Some of them, you think, are not real. They don’t seem to be. Your blank stare is unsettling. You almost don’t believe her. “Can we talk?” she tries, and you notice the team-issued duffle on the tiled floor she is standing on. Then, from the pocket of her hoodie, she extracts a pastry box. The plastic window is filled with circles of different colours, and she holds out the macaroons to you as if to bribe her way into a home in which she is unsure she belongs to.

Stepping aside, leaning the poker against the wall by the door, you scratch at the bare skin of your neck. Alexia, while sweeping an arm down to collect her bag, fixes her gaze onto the ring you are wearing, and the diamond glistens with hope that this can all be fixed. “Would you like to come inside?”

She swallows the whine of anguish that tears her heart open at the idea that this might never be her house to live in, too, and she follows you dutifully as you lead her through hallways far more luxurious than the flat in Barcelona could ever be. This is what you left her for – the person you are, no longer in worn clothing with messy hair, is quite the opposite of the woman with her back to her moments before she had to focus on football. The necklace draped on your sharpened collarbones is new, and she does not dare believe what she has been hearing is true. Yes, there are pictures, but she trusts you. She will always trust you.

“Have a seat,” you say, gesturing to the wooden dining table. It is clean enough for her to determine that it is unused. Alexia places the macaroons in front of her, and aches at how you sit at the opposite end.

“I…”

“I thought you were going to give me all the time that I needed.” It is a statement of distance, as if your location is not enough.

Alexia, eyes widening at how unwelcome she suddenly feels, needs only to remind herself of the impending date of the wedding. It is beginning to loom uncomfortably, with the excitement of getting married drained out like a low tide on a deserted beach. “We have two weeks. If it isn’t going to happen, then you should tell me now. We have to give everyone notice so that they can cancel their flights.” Your silence spurs her on. “You will need to contact the wedding planner, because you refused to let me have a hand in any of it so I don’t even have their number. I’m sorry that you won’t be able to wear your dress. Vivienne Westwood is a big thing for you, I know. I’m sorry that it’s inconvenient.”

“But Alexia,” you whisper, “I don’t not want to get married.”

Her eyebrows furrow, head tilted slightly to the left. “I know. That is why I am saying this.”

Your voice grows louder. “No, no. Sorry, that wasn’t the easiest thing to understand.” Across the dining table, your love that has faltered, that has hesitated and been reconsidered and been stamped down over the past month, extends towards her: its final destination, always and forever. Alexia feels it grab her by the throat, wrenching the words from her before she can even formulate a thought in response, and her body is so drawn to you, in such a powerful fashion, that she pushes her chair out from the table with a grating scrape and is stepping towards you with a finality that makes her wonder if she’ll ever leave your side.

As she approaches, the idea that she is here becomes a little too real. You have played with the fantasy of it, of course, but the tenderness in her usually fierce eyes does not match the anger you had expected, and, in the most feeble fashion, you have never felt more apologetic in your life.

“I’m so sorry,” you begin to say. Tears stream down your face with freed anguish, and the words are so simple yet they bear the weight of your entire soul. “I’m so sorry, darling. I made a mistake, and I have been met with the most crushing of realisations: I can’t do this without you, Alexia.” I still want to marry you, Alexia.

The room seems to close in on your despair, attempting to bottle it, almost, and keep you trapped underneath a haze of emotions you don’t quite know how to sort through. “I… I’m beginning to hate him.” The confession hangs heavy over Alexia’s bowed head as she stands frozen in place, stuck in her journey towards you but unable to arrive. “I’m acutely aware of how cruel it is,” you continue, this next admission being what agonises you the most. It floods the room with guilt, and your voice trembles with self-condemnation that reigns harsher than any other voice in your head.

“It’s ridiculous. I’m evil and I’m wrong, and I just feel like it is inherently in my nature to be like this, as though some fault has been built into me with warning signs we evidently ignored.” You struggle to breathe. “I wish I could take back the day we decided to have him,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, lips doused in tears, skin searing with shame when Alexia cups your cheek with a strong, calloused hand. “He should not have to be stuck with me as a mother.”

Your chest heaves, and you are finished. You have never verbalised it before now, and it is impossible to decide whether it has helped remove the lead lining of your heart where it has been bolstered against your will. Her other hand steadily rises to your face, but then, with only a second of hesitation, she is pulling you upwards and enveloping you in her embrace. You feel a little bit closer to her. “Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, tone cracked with sorrow and regret. “Lo siento mucho. Desearía haber sabido, desearía haber estado allí para ti.”

Gently, she tilts your face upwards to meet her gaze. “You are not evil and no estás equivocada. Estoy aquí ahora, y no te dejaré enfrentar esto sola nunca más.” You collapse into her. “I’m here, cariño, and I am not going anywhere.”

The sentiment is wonderful, and Alexia makes good on her word.

When Nico begins to cry, the sound piercing through your choked sobs, Alexia realises she has missed all of her life with you. Being separated and being apart due to work, she now knows, are two excruciatingly different things. The whiny wails from upstairs visibly jar you, though you pull away from Alexia to attend to him. “I will do it,” she declares, though her firmness is not mean. “Sit down. Eat the macaroons – they’re… ‘to die for’?” You nod with instinctive encouragement. “Sí. They’re to die for. Try. Jenni says that the pink ones are the best.”

“Jenni picked them out?” you ask with a briefly regained humour, eyebrows raising. “Had to get your friend to choose your apology gift?” In truth, neither of you know what Alexia would be apologising for, but Nico’s crying grows more incessant and Alexia is climbing the carpeted staircase before the topic can be discussed.

Alexia reaches her son with tears brimming in her eyes. The failure of Spain at the World Cup is amplified by the idea that she has disappointed him, though he does not yet possess the tools to pledge his allegiance to her country. In fact, Nico has been sleeping in Manchester United attire (your father has been his primary carer of late, and he does not charge you money, so the price is obviously Alexia’s sanity). She is more than glad to smell his nappy, and delighted about the opportunity to change him into something less hideous.

“Mama loves you so much,” she tells him as she manoeuvres his chubby legs into a plain, inoffensive onesie. “I promise, petit. I am going to help her, okay? And we are going to get through this together.” Alexia forgets about the taste of Jenni’s lips and the heat between them. “Mama just doesn’t see the direction she is going in. It is like her eyes are covered, and she is telling herself that she is walking down the wrong path, but this is not true. You are the most special thing in the world to us. You are the sunrise, the sunset, and the hours of the day.”

She pauses to stand him up on his tiny feet, hands hoisted underneath his armpits. He is heavier than when she last held him, but she is stronger than before, too. Women’s football is growing, along with her muscles. Nico babbles out a vague reply, but Alexia hears what he is trying to say. “I agree. We’ll be alright.” And, with all her heart, it rings true.

…

The following day, she calls the doctor for you, script written out on a piece of paper in front of her, translated perfectly so that her concern does not waver the information she needs to tell the receptionist. The clinic is famous and discreet, and they are quick to prescribe you antidepressants before the week draws to a close. You won’t be able to drink at your wedding, and everyone might think you are pregnant again, but Alexia reassures you that it will be worth it.

Wrapped up in your own bubble, the three of you enjoy London in a way that isn’t possible in Barcelona.

Here, Alexia has no commitment to football. There are no training sessions she must rush off to, there are no teammates to pry, and no one else to interfere with your private little routine. You quite like it, and she does too. It is only temporary, before you fly out to Menorca and hand Nico off to Eli in order to enjoy your respective bachelorette parties and then, in exactly seven days, your wedding itself.

“You’re still smoking,” Alexia says disapprovingly, the sleep in her voice enough to make you feel a pang of guilt. It’s late at night when Nico has finally been soothed from his aching gums, and she has been able to climb back into bed expecting to find you asleep already. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m still smoking,” you tell her. She sighs at the way you parrot her words, but presses an affectionate kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulders despite the lingering smell of cigarettes. “If I can’t drink, I’m going to smoke. This is Hollywood.”

“This is Highgate.” Her accent curls around the name with something a little too foreign for her to ever consider this place home. “Why are you awake?” she repeats.

You look down at the open notebook in your lap, the pages either blank or full of crossed-out lyrics. “He was so loud, but I can’t seem to write anything either so, really, it has been quite redundant.”

“I had to get a glass full of ice and hold it to my fingers so that I could help him. I could have lost some very important assets, but it seemed to do the trick.” He’s teething. You’re telling yourself that the antidepressants are little pills of miracle, and have kicked in already. “Feel.” She presses two freezing fingers to your cheek, and you gasp, flinching away from her.

“There’s a teething ring downstairs, you know,” you tell her. She shrugs. Maybe it isn’t clean. “Don’t give yourself frostbite. I happen to quite like your fingers.”

Alexia’s smirk is beyond suggestive, and her lips hit your neck once more with an entirely different heat to them. “Yeah?” You push her head away. “I bet it would feel good. Nice and cold.”

“You’re delirious.”

She continues to kiss you. “I don’t know what that means,” she mumbles into your neck, until her lips reach your face and she is near climbing into your lap – notebook long pushed onto the floor. “Dímelo en español.”

“No lo sé.”

“Ah. Una palabra inteligente.”

“Claro.”

She laughs into the kiss she presses against your lips. She never has never felt like this with anyone else. Never this relaxed, or loved, or safe. “Me vas a matar con tu inteligencia y voy a sentirme estúpida para siempre.”

“I love you,” you state softly. “I love every part of you.” Alexia, in that moment, decides to never do what she did with Jenni again, and to never break your heart by informing you of her betrayal.

…

You’re married.

You’re married to Alexia, a woman who bears the beauty of a goddess and the strength and will of someone who could capture the sun and tame the fire that rages on its surface.

You admire her as she sleeps so peacefully beside you, tanned skin warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows of the hotel room. Later, you will get on the ferry, go back to Barcelona, and then fly to Capri for three days alone before Alexia’s preseason starts. Aside from a few meetings with Dave, you theoretically aren’t swamped with anything. You’ll be joining her in her city with Nico with a bit more permanence than last time.

Alexia buries her face in the covers, crawling into your open arms the minute the sunlight rouses her. “Everything is sore,” she groans, her bare skin slightly sticking to yours, the sweat from last night not yet gone.

“What happened to ‘mi vida, one more time won’t hurt’?” you tease, impersonating her heavy accent over your English with enough drama to get her to elicit another grumble. This time, it’s something about being bullied. “Darling, we have to get up. We’re having breakfast with our parents, and apparently Nico has been upset that we got a night to ourselves.”

“Pobrecito,” she replies with a newfound level of English sarcasm. She spent the wedding reception avoiding the dance floor, engaged in a long conversation with your father. The topics spanned over most areas of life, and briefly touched upon how you are doing now. Alexia, with much pleasure, confirmed the improvement, however miniscule it has been. She is very proud of you, and he is too. “I only want one thing for breakfast.”

Her hands begin to roam, the band of her wedding ring hitting your pubic bone. “Mi vida, one more time won’t hurt,” she mocks you from before but in her sexier, Spanish husk, sucking at your collarbone, straddling your waist.

You replace your near moan with a thoughtful hum. “I really want pancakes. Do you think they’ll make me some?”

Downstairs, where it is brighter and impossible to conceal the hickeys on both of your necks, you greet your parents, brother, Anya, and Gio. Alexia’s mother, her sister, and Jenni are sitting at the table, too. Your baby is pretending he isn’t teething, and grinning like an angel.

“How’s married life?” Anya asks as you take a seat opposite her, Alexia to your right. The table has a gradient of bilingualism, but Gio discovered that she picks up Spanish quite easily considering she can already speak one romance language. “We’ve already found, like, four articles talking about it.”

“How?” you ask, but you are not offended.

Gio shrugs. “Drones, I guess. Nothing bad, though. Some speculation about the other bride – if the article does mention that. Most talk is on the dress.” It was a bloody good dress. “And I suspect that there’ll be a juicy little question about who was your Maid of Honour.”

“Don’t be salty,” you tell her. The MOH issue was sorted out years ago – perhaps 2015 – when you binged Friends together despite having watched it thousands of times before. Anya has been yours, Gio will be hers, and you will be Gio’s. And they say trios never work.

“I left Mia with her dad for this.”

“You shouldn’t have had a baby with a man-slag,” Anya says with a snort, enjoying her second mimosa and Gio’s grimace at the idea of her daughter having to put up with her father’s revolving door of one-night-stands. “You’re one to make terrible decisions. At least our girl over here’s married someone who looks at her like she’s hung the moon.”

Alexia turns to you with a smile, as if on cue, with Nico in her lap. You glance at his rounded cheeks and shining eyes, looking back up at your friends as though to check they are still there. Alexia leans forwards so that she can whisper in your ear. “Te amo. Nico, también. Mi familia es perfecta.”

…

Returning to Barcelona comes with one negotiated condition on your part. You buy a bigger apartment, where there is space for an office and extra bedrooms. Alexia says her teammates will be taking the piss out of her grand new place the minute she sees it, but she is more than content to contribute to the finances with her new-and-improved salary for this season. “It’s weird to think that I’m from Mollet,” murmurs Alexia, standing in the middle of the large lounge area, surrounded by boxes. Most are from your old flat, but a few have been flown in from London. Alexia wanted you to have your Grammy with you. “This place is so fancy.”

“It’s half of what the men’s team get,” you remind her, holding Nico with care as he gnaws away on a frozen carrot. His saliva drips onto you, but the antidepressants are working, and the therapy has been effective enough for you to start taking childcare in turns. (You had tried to previously, but Alexia wanted you to focus on yourself, knowing that things will change for all of you once the season started.) “Hey.” You place your hand on her shoulder. She tickles Nico’s chin. “We deserve this. You deserve this. Why don’t you host one of your team’s dinners? I’ll take Nico round to your mum’s – God knows she’d love to shove some food down my throat, too.”

She shakes her head, strands of brown unstraightened due to the stress of the move and falling out of her bun with a determination to defy her hair bobble. “They would kill me if I did it without you. They’re all far too grateful that you invited Taylor Swift to our wedding.”

“She’s a friend.” If you hadn’t been distracted by various other happenings that night, you’d have clocked that Alexia’s side of the guests were completely up to their ears in celebrities they’d never expected to meet. “Okay, so do you want me to stay here?”

“I always want you to stay here,” she answers.

“Not what I meant.”

“I won’t take it back.”

Nico babbles an incoherent yet cutely Spanish-y noise, though his words are getting closer to being said at the old age of eight months. Then, suddenly, something in him clicks. “Mama,” he squeals, his little fist scrunching up the fabric of your t-shirt. “Mamama.”

“Nicolau!” Alexia replies with just as much enthusiasm, cupping his cheeks. She kisses his nose, and then his forehead, and then his chubby knees and socked feet. “Nicolau, sí, la mama et té a las mans! Bon noi, el meu bon i intel·ligent noi.”

“Does that count?”

“Mama,” Nico repeats, tugging your earlobe. “Mama. Mama.” It is easy to forget about the (lessening) resentment you harbour when he speaks. Alexia gets him to say it as many times as she can before he goes back to his carrot, but, even then, the two of you stay in that spot, marvelling at your creation.

Slowly, she turns around in a circle, absorbing the plain walls and towers of boxes. “This is going to be good. Life is going to be good,” you declare with such a firmness that it has to be true. “Darling, let’s get to unpacking and then we can think about a date for this dinner party.”

“We are going to plan the party?” She raises her eyebrows at you. “Is this party going to start at five o’clock?”

“Not all of us shit yellow and red.” (In a national sense – you’d have haemorrhoids for United any day of the week.)

Alexia takes Nico off you, in a show of cultural dominance. You’re actually outnumbered, considering he isn’t a British Citizen, and though he shares no DNA with your wife, he has inherited the same ability to narrow his eyes just enough to serve absolute cunt whenever he so pleases. If you weren’t feeling so ganged up on, you’d be a little impressed. “Nico y yo vamos a hacer croquetas de jamón. Adiós.”

“Darling, the kitchen isn’t–” But you cut yourself off, deciding that she can discover that on her own, along with the criminally empty fridge. You don’t hide your smugness at all when she finds you in your almost-finished bedroom, wearing a look of utter disappointment and mumbling out a heartbroken request for a food delivery as soon as possible.

…

November marks three years of being together and, also, four weeks of having Alexia’s ‘DNA’ – a pomeranian called Nala, whose Instagram account is run by her favourite parent after you called it silly and told your wife you’d much rather attend to your own seventeen million followers.

Towards the end of the month, after a well-spent morning and then a family outing to Barcelona Zoo, Alexia meets Jenni Hermoso in a restaurant in what Jenni calls ‘your new rich-people neighbourhood’ in her text to Alexia.

Alexia, really and truly, is happy to have her best friend back in Barcelona. She missed her last year, when Jenni had returned to Atleti, and that separation maybe made what happened the night Spain was knocked out of the World Cup just that bit more understandable. “You’re a Culer, no matter how hard you try to fight it,” Alexia had said when she had climbed back into her own bed, not wanting to fall asleep in Jenni’s arms. “It was terrible to not have Y/n or you.”

You and Jenni: Alexia’s people.

“How’s your wife?” Jenni asks with a grin, two glasses of wine into a pleasant evening at an expensive restaurant. “You’ve left her with Nico, so something must be working.”

In truth, you have been determined to get better. There were articles released not long after the photos of your wedding were circulated, and those speculated a lot about how you are finding motherhood. The baby pictured, captured by long-range lenses and invasive drones, was the world’s first glimpse at what Nico Putellas L/n looks like, and reminded many of them that you had a child to care for when in London, yet were frequently spotted at nightclubs and parties. You rise to most challenges, however, and find it a lot easier to adapt to weekly therapy sessions and pills every morning when you have a wrongful image to disprove.

“It’s as if it never happened,” Alexia says, both with pride and surprise. “She now seeks to spend time with him. She takes him with her to the recording studio – the album’s coming along well.” It’s your first on your own. Nico plays with one mixing desk, while Dave (flown in from London with the promise that the Barcelona sun will do wonders for his wife’s misery) plays with another. “And… Jenni, we’ve been talking. The clinic that we used for Nico asked us if we wanted to reserve sperm when we first had him, and now they have called asking if now is a good time. I think… I think that she is really considering it. She told me yesterday that her therapist wants me to sit in on the next session, so we can go over how we can make this time different.”

Jenni frowns, which is not what the woman opposite her had expected at all. “Why are you two having more children? You’re only twenty-five, Ale. Isn’t this going to affect your career?”

“The men do it all the time.” She’s done a spot of research. They are younger than her when their girlfriends start getting pregnant, and they continue to play with the added admiration that they are fathers as well.

“Yes, but they have the benefit of getting paid millions. They don’t have to fight with their federation for pitches or pay, and they can focus on football without their career sparking controversy for even existing.”

“Then my children will grow up with a mother who fights for change.”

“Or they grow up with a pop star who only wants things she cannot have and a footballer who can’t spend any time with them because she is too busy speaking at various conventions so that the next league match isn’t cancelled.”

“Jenni, do you think your opinion would be different if Y/n was a man?”

This elicits laughter from the other woman, who rolls her eyes in a way that can only be described as condescending. “Alexia, you’re forgetting that I’m a lesbian too, which is a magnificent feat.” Jenni references the kiss they shared, and what happened after that. “But, no. I don’t. I want you to be the greatest footballer in the world, and you want that too. What are you going to do when Y/n tells you she wants to move back to England? Are you going to give up your future here for her?”

The waiter interrupts briefly, collecting their empty plates and carting them off with a mission to retrieve the bill after a sharply declined offer for the dessert menu. “You don’t even know if that will happen,” Alexia scoffs, though she is a little sad that her exciting news hasn’t been well-received. “I was going to say that I’d think about the name Jennifer if it ends up being a girl, but now I’m leaning more towards María…”

She is kicked under the table, and she has to hold in her cry of pain because this restaurant is one of your favourite places to eat. “Mapi cannot have this victory over me. She’d be insufferable. Ale, you simply aren’t allowed to do that.” There’s another kick, but it is more playful this time.

Alexia laughs, smiling and thankful that the tension has diffused. “I’m only joking. Y/n has a list scribbled in the back of her lyric book. She’ll probably be called Elena.” That is much more acceptable to Jenni’s ears, and she files that information away for next year, when she’ll tell Mapi that Alexia doesn’t like her name.

…

It works. Alexia and you are lucky. The doctor tells Alexia that, if she were a man, the two of you would have to be extremely careful. Your wife marvels at your ability to destroy your body and stay fertile, but she supposes that you are not the kind of woman to be a lesbian. Sometimes, she wakes up in a cold sweat, believing that you have changed your mind and left her.

The New Year is a fresh start. Alexia decides to fix the (not so) hidden cracks in your relationship. She confides in her newly-acquired therapist. She may have made a mistake once; the secret is sandwiched between her worries about your susceptibility to depression and how Nico is a decided food critic.

Though the therapist, a lovely bilingual woman named Sofía, raises her eyebrows, she does not pry. She slides a paper calling card over to Alexia. The paper squeaks along the coffee table between the two comfortable armchairs of the office. “I specialise in couples. Seeing as your wife is already a client of mine, I think you should consider a joint session.” Alexia is new to the idea of mental health. Before, she had been too focused on football to care about it. Even when her father died, any professional she spoke to was only hearing how her mind worked because she knew it was what was best for her performance. “And, Alexia.” She looks up at the therapist with a small, nervous smile. “Congratulations on the pregnancy. I am sure Nico will make a wonderful older brother.”

Morning sickness drags you out of your shared bed most days.

Alexia asks you about couples’ therapy when you have finished your dry-heaving one morning.

“I mean,” you begin before pausing, gulping down the sour taste in your mouth and hoping nothing else is trying to hit the toilet water until tomorrow. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” She is dressed in her training kit, but she slings her jumper over your shoulders as soon as you shiver. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“It would do no harm.” As long as Sofía does not bring up Alexia’s confession, your statement will ring true. “You book the appointment. It’ll be easier to work around your schedule that way.”

“When are you flying back to London?” Her question is not filled with hatred for the city, but with resignation to the fact that your job involves you being stretched between here and there.

“Not until next month. I thought that I could take Nico to an away game with my dad if I got a flight for Saturday. The rest of the week would be interviews and photoshoots.”

“How’s the album doing?”

So far, your songs are only written when Alexia has paid you enough attention to swirl your thoughts and blur your vision. It is in these moments that the lingering, sinking weight inside of you dissipates. “Dave remains hopeful. It won’t fail, but I need it to be better than what we currently have.”

Shamelessly, Alexia is aware of her effect on your songs. She smirks; “Alba has been begging to babysit, you know.” With no care for your current state, Alexia’s eyes rake up and down your body. You grow embarrassed by how you are slumped over the toilet, and how she is standing above you as though she runs your world. “You look beautiful, mi amor,” she murmurs as you bashfully duck your head between your bent arms.

“You’re a flirt.” It feels too late for her to still be in the flat. “And you’re going to miss training if you don’t get a move on. There are eggs in the fridge, and Nico definitely liked the omelette you made him a few days ago. He’ll be waking up soon.”

A small sigh escapes the midfielder’s lips, but the prospect of the things she loves most in the world appearing in her life consecutively is enough to convince her to pad her way out the bathroom, swanning into the corridor with a little grin on her face as she sings out ‘bon dia’ to an impressively multilingual toddler and heads into the kitchen with the domestic intention of getting breakfast started. She leaves an omelette out for you, which you attack shortly after Alexia and Nico disappear into their daily routine. She drops him off at preschool, and you pick him up a few hours later, taking him first for lunch with Alba, and then to the studio.

You come home to a showered Alexia who is memorising her most recent match. She lets Nico slide into her lap without hesitation, but she stays focused on the football even when he tugs on the strands of hair falling out of ponytail. You marvel at the idea of having enough room in your heart for so much love. You decide that you are not like Alexia, though it is not necessarily a terrible thing. A further observation from watching your wife settle her son with a calm, muttered Catalan telling-off, coaxing him into loving football as though he does not already, is that you are so very content with your life at the moment.

But 2020 kind of sucks.

For the entire world.

You’re cut off from your home in any other manner than a digital one, and being stuck in a luxurious penthouse in Barcelona isn’t the worst fate, but it really isn’t ideal.

Elena, however, has the benefit of coming into the world with ever (physically) present parents, who could recite the java script for Zoom given that they spend hours on therapy calls. Elena, bright and smiley and the picture of her mother, spends the first few months of her life in a happy, happy family, protected by an entire football team and a fierce older brother. (And a yappy Pomerianian called Nala.)

“Y/n doesn’t like the name María,” Jenni tells Mapi when Alexia sends the first picture of your new addition to the Barcelona group chat.

“The next baby is going to be a Jennifer,” Mapi says, to both the forward and the unimpressed midfielder walking a few paces in front of such a silly conversation. “For that, I can only feel sorry for her.”

…

The routine changes the following year.

It starts with an abrupt but expected conversation. One that Alexia has been dreading.

Your album – the first one that is just you – was released two months ago, and it has done too well. Selfishly, Alexia had hoped it would fail. You have enough money, and she is earning more and more each season. Success, unfortunately, means that this little life can no longer exist. Or can it?

“I have to do it,” you whisper to her, tears in your eyes though the smell of sex still lingers. The quietness of a child-free apartment allows for you to hear her gulp. “It’ll be different this time, darling, but I can’t be here anymore. I can’t fly out to London every few days. I can’t leave you with a five-month-old and a toddler when you are training every day and playing matches every weekend. It’s not fair on anyone.”

Alexia kisses your bare shoulder, hands slipping round your waist as she pulls your sweaty body into her. Her chest presses against your back, but she is only behind you in this bed. She does not agree with you. She does not support it. But, like she always does, she bites her tongue. “If that’s what you want,” she replies, and part of you dies with the thought that she does not really care. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. For us.” And she tells Jenni all about it when she goes to see her a week later – the flimsy excuse of meeting a childhood friend for dinner enough to wrap a cloth around your eyes and leave you at home with a screaming toddler and a baby whose only flaw is that she grows distraught the moment she is put down.

In the dimly lit living room, the tension hangs thick in the air. You lock eyes. “Why can't you just move with us? Everyone will want you, darling, and life would be easier,” you plead, a month down the line. The house in Highgate has been readied for your more permanent return.

Alexia takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. “Why can't you get it into your head that I'm not leaving Spain or Barcelona? This is my home.”

“What about the children? School? Life? My career? Does it mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes soften. Your heart breaks, and the piece of you that has already died somehow dies again. “I'm thinking of the children. All the time, I think of them. About the reputation of my name – their name. Putellas, the greatest in the world, or Putellas, the one with potential wasted at West Ham?”

“You're being selfish, Lex,” you snap. “This is an opportunity for all of us, not just me. Think about their future!”

“Their future is here, in the culture they know, the languages they speak. I won't strip them of their identity for the sake of a 'better' life. And my career? I've worked too hard to build what I have here. I won't throw it away.” I don’t want to throw it away. Underscored by Don’t leave me again.

The room echoes with the weight of her voice. “Their identity comes from both of us.” It’s too final for either of your liking. Elena begins to cry in her cot. “I want to try it. I want you to be open to trying it.”

She gestures to the suitcases by the door. “Trying it and doing it are two different things. You’re taking them from me!”

“You’re probably going to love life without them anyway!” you shout. You feel like the crying baby, except the tears rolling down your cheeks carry much more suffering than hers. “You’ll – what? You’ll go out with your friends, and you’ll be able to go to the gym whenever you want. No arguing, no crying, no toddler to entertain, no nappies to change. You never wanted children. I forced it upon you. I regret it, and I’m sorry. We’ll go.”

“Don’t go.”

I don’t want you to go.

“I have to.”

You turn your back to her as you fly through the corridor, prepared to console Elena in a taxi. Alexia slips her ring off her finger, and clutches it in her palm instead. Desperately, she searches for a solution. There is nothing within her reach, not even you.

…

She is an island amongst a sea of happy people. She is going to be the greatest footballer in the world. It kills her to realise that she can now focus on football.

Nico starts nursery, attending the same school you once did. He adjusts to life in London seamlessly, and Elena does not seem to care either way. He learns more English every day, and his other mother calls him nightly to read to him.

With childcare more than sorted, you are free to be interviewed, pictured, and invited to events. You rake in the publicity, especially after laying so slow over the course of the lockdown in Spain.

“Alexia.” Jenni’s hands knead her tight shoulders, partly teasing her. Alexia wears a frown, eyebrows knitting together with an emotion she’s not sure she can name. “Ale, it’s the same game as always. Nothing has changed.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I don’t understand why I feel like this.” She has continued to speak to Sofía, though your joint sessions have now come to a halt while you spend your time doubling as a singer and model. The therapist, try as she might, cannot evaluate the situation effectively enough. Eli and Alba have both tried to help, hoping that weekly dinners and the constant reminder about the invention of aeroplanes would ease the turmoil of Alexia’s mind. It does not. “I am so alone, Jenni.”

Nala is too small to fill the emptiness of the flat. Screens don’t allow for her to kiss you, or play with Nico. She is scared she will miss Elena’s first words.

“You don’t have to be.”

It only takes a month for Alexia to break, and it sort of works.

In Jenni’s bed, it works. Hips keening, soft pants falling from her mouth.

Quiet moans that stay locked in Jenni’s apartment.

Each time Alexia leaves, though Jenni repeatedly requests that she stays, she walks out as half a woman. She blinks back her tears and she checks her phone. When she calls you – not a video call – you are never any the wiser to the scratches down her back.

Alexia remains an island, but the sand beaches are tainted with the arrival of someone else.

In this way, she is functional.

She can do sex. She can deal with borderline romance. She can fill the space that you are tearing open with every passing minute spent in that god-awful country you insist on calling home. She can fix it a little bit with Jenni.

She tells herself that it does not mean anything more than a bandage means to a wound. Who wears the bandage once the gash has healed?

Where does she put the used bandage?

Why is she focused on bandages?! She’s having an affair. It’s not an affair! (It is.) Alexia doesn’t… quite… wanttoadmititjustyet.

…

The buzz of your phone is the final push that gets you to conclude the current interview you are trapped in. Before checking what the notification is, you glance at the time. You have half an hour before you need to pick up Nico, and your parents said they would drop Elena home once they returned from London Zoo.

Alexia: Jenni has had a really good idea

It’s an intriguing text amongst the more practical ones that oil the mechanics of managing the distance. Tonight, Barcelona play their last match of the season. After this, she’ll be flying out to London. You have missed her. The last time you saw her in person was after Barcelona embarrassed Chelsea in Gothenburg. Elated and filled with pride, it was incredibly nice to have the biggest room in the hotel to yourselves. Her medal was almost as beautiful as her.

You: Go on…

Alexia: Just draw a heart on Nico’s hand from me porfa. You’ll see.

You slide into the driver’s seat of your newest self-indulgent car; a Porsche. Momentarily distracted by a camera flash, your turn onto the main road is a little risky, but you manage to make it to the school in time to collect your son.

“Was he good?” you ask his teacher as she hands you Nico’s book bag. You take in the sight of him: hair messy, school uniform stained though they require the little ones to wear aprons for most of the day. “It’s a little different here. I’m hoping that he’s enjoying himself.”

“Our new assistant is from Spain,” says the teacher with a small, tired smile, batting her long eyelashes at you. “We had to pry him off her.”

You let out a laugh. “He misses his mum.”

“He’s extremely intelligent. He knew to speak Spanish to her and English to us.” Though your grasp of Spanish is near-fluent after such reluctance from your wife to try English, you know that the two-year-old has a talent for juggling the three languages he is growing up around. You’re proud of him. “You shouldn’t worry about him. And, speaking of, we have a parents’ coffee morning just around the corner. It’s always great for the parents to get along – it helps the school feel even more like a family. Will it just be you attending?” Nico’s teacher is around your age, and you can smell her rose perfume that mingles with the soft hint of ready-mixed paint. She has deep, brown eyes, and she is definitely flirting with you.

“Next week, right? I’ll have to check with my wife.”

It’s then that a toddler-sized hand grips your fingers and tugs. “Mama, me voy,” he groans; something akin to Alexia’s impatience. It reminds you of when you used to go shopping and she’d herd you out with the threat of getting in the car and driving away. “Venga.”

“One sec, sweetheart.” There are countless ways in which you miss Alexia. “My wife and I would love to come.”

Her smile does not falter on her lips, but there is a greyish disappointment that dulls the warmth of her irises. You smile as you turn your back and lead Nico to the car. You are so excited for Alexia to complete the broken puzzle.

You melt when she kisses the heart drawn onto her hand when celebrating her goal. Nico copies her, lips pursing and sloppily mimicking the action on a similar heart. “For you, sweetheart,” you tell him as he settles back into your side, careful not to jostle Elena who has fallen asleep on your chest (the therapist did wonders for you).

“It was for you,” Jenni tells Alexia after the match. Her goal is now serving as the move Alexia feared she’d make. They have changed and been massaged and done the media the are required to do (women’s football is growing): they are free to roam Barcelona if they so wish.

Her flight is tomorrow evening – “I have a flight tomorrow evening.”

“Come over tonight.” It isn’t a question, yet it is not quite a command. Mapi passes the two of them, eyes narrowing at the way Jenni has wrapped her hand around Alexia’s wrist. The defender is aware that something is going on, though it breaks her heart to imagine Alexia ever doing that to you. Not knowing they are being watched, Alexia steps in; cups Jenni’s face, brushes her cheekbone with a stroke of her thumb Mapi knows is meant for her wife. Mapi’s stomach lurches. She feels sick.

“I need to…” It’s not a ‘no’. “Jenni.” She hates that it is not a ‘no’.

“Ale.” There’s a beat. Mapi blinks twice, shakes her head, and backs away. “I’ll miss you, you know?”

…

Jenni doesn’t seem to mind when, the next day, blurry pictures of you on a family outing make rounds through the tabloids she usually doesn’t read. The fact that, up until now, no one has known that your wife is Alexia Putellas has no effect on her. She was stupid for thinking the last six months meant something. Winning together, losing together. Sleeping together.

In this deal, Alexia has fucked over both women who love her. Except, you don’t know. She hasn’t told you, though Jenni had hoped for it secretly – hoped Alexia chose her – and it is obvious. Obvious to Jenni, who is well acquainted with the blonde hair in the wings of your concert at the O2. Obvious to Jenni, who refuses to think of herself as the other woman.

She consults Mapi.

Mapi, who she has come to shamefully realise already knows.

“I can’t believe the two of you.” The defender is clear in her distaste and disappointment and, honestly, her disgust. “But I am not going to be the one to break that poor girl’s heart.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

What is she asking? What does she want from this utterly useless conversation?

“Mapi.” Jenni closes her eyes, but she sees two faces instead of darkness. Nico. Elena. She’s Elena’s godmother. You decided that – convinced Alexia to choose her best friend over her younger sister, told your wife that there’d be another for Alba to corrupt. “Mapi, I love her. I don’t know what to do.”

“She loves her wife.” The next sentence proceeds to brutally remind Jenni who that isn’t. “Tell her you’re done. Find someone else. Anyone but her.”

That is Jenni’s resolve, because she knows that Mapi is right.

…

June, July, and August pass with bliss.

Everyone says that you are a beautiful couple with beautiful children. Alexia beams with pride as she flaunts her practised English, and gladly claims ownership of Nico when he wins a prize on speech day. Every child in Reception is awarded something but that doesn’t stop her from boasting.

She explores the country with the children while you shack up in the recording studio, and brings hugs and kisses (and Red Bull) every evening after dinner. The visits are what reminds you of the sun Alexia brings, especially as the warmth follows her from Barcelona and London is blessed with golden days. Dog days.

“This isn’t permanent.” Alexia looks up from her phone, comfortable in your bed. The house in Highgate has flecks of Spain woven into the decor now, and you like it that way.

You climb into the bed beside her, and her arm lifts so that you can snuggle into her chiselled stomach (wow, she has been working hard this season). “What’s Jenni saying?” you ask, following your statement and hoping you’ll get her attention. She presses her phone screen into the duvet before you can translate the message – it is too long of a paragraph for you to handle. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that this isn’t permanent.”

Alexia, over the past few months, has been the most affectionate, loving, amazing person with the same smile and giggle you married. You thought she had disappeared and was replaced with stern, career-focused Alexia Putellas, jugadora del fútbol. You were wrong.

“I’m thinking January is when we’ll come back. Nico’s English will survive.” Your parents are going travelling. They’ve never been on the Orient Express before. “I want to be with you.”

It is a good thing Jenni has just broken up with her.

“I love you,” you continue. “So much.”

Alexia hums. Her heart breaks, and she does not know for whom. “¿En serio?” She is happy, she thinks. Certainly, she is glad that the four of you will be reunited.

You are.

January 2022 ruins things for Jenni Hermoso. She calls Pachuca back.

#barca femeni #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso #fc barcelona #woso imagines #mapi leon #jenni hermoso #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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porraaharkness · 25 days ago

Text

Rio, Nicholas and Agatha through time

There’s something that I noticed about Rio and Nicholas, that I really can’t understand why, maybe someone can see some foreshadowing or meaning on it, I don’t know.

They gave Rio a birthmark, and I noticed this birthmark just shows up in the scene before Nicholas birth. Aubrey Plaza don’t have it, so they really put it on her for the scene and for this scene only.

After it, when she comes to get Nicky’s soul and in the present moment, she doesn’t have it anymore. I thought that they would put some birthmark on Nicholas in a way to show he is Rio’s son too, but that’s none birthmark in the baby. And even with Nicholas as a 6 years old, he has three birthmarks on his face, but in different spots, it seems more is just because the actor already had it, not about Rio. It really made me curious why they would put this birthmark in her, and just in that moment.

Second, and just to keep moving the “Rio is Nichola’s mom too” train. I think she really would meet him at night, or maybe in some moments he was alone, like when Agatha was killing the witches with The road scam.

I think in the moment of the two goodbye kisses, not just was something Rio already talked to him, so he knew what he needed to do, but the kisses were giving by his soul.

The way that Rio was there and he just goes in her direction, like is something he already did others nights.

Rio interrupts him going to her and points back to Agatha, and she does it in a affectionate way, like a mother remembering her son something she has already told before.

He looks at Agatha and then stops, like he was think in something, like Rio has already prepared him for this moment, and he knew exactly what he needed to do. As if Rio has told him that in one specifically day, when she would visit him, he would say goodbye to his mama before he would go with his mother. And we can see that there is no hesitation, fear or doubt, he just stops, like he is remebering something he was told, and then goes to do what he already knew he would had to.

And then the two kisses scene, it really looks like he is giving two goodbye kisses, one for him and the other for Rio. And it seems like Nicky’s mouth is barely touching Agatha’s cheeks, I think in this moment we maybe are seeing his soul, ready to go.

Just a curious thing, even with Rio and Agatha not being together, Rio still is more in her Green Witch energy, like she knows that even giving Agatha more time, in the end, Nicky will come with her, because his time there was a borrowed time. I think she thought Agatha would understand that, with some time, what she made, and she said it in 1x08.

But we know that didn’t happened, a mother will always want to be with her son, and is a cruel irony that Agatha lost him for Rio, the person who took him away, and because of Rio, as he is most likely Death’s son too, almost like he was born to die.

I believe everytime they would meet again, when Agatha was killing other witches after Nicky’s death, they would fight, Agatha would throw all her sorrow and pain in Rio, Rio would fight for her, and they would make out, or at least reconnect for a moment, like in 1x04.

But then Agatha would leave, almost like she was torturing Rio, denying to Rio the person she loves, the same way Rio denied to Agatha, to be with their son.

I feel this happened again an again through decades, giving an even more dark and complex energy to their relationship, and for them as individuals. The Rio we met in present time is way darker than the one we see in the flashbacks. Then Agatha got the darkhold and hid from her, until Weastview.

That would explain Agatha’s reaction to Rio acepting the deal with her, in 1x08, she wasn’t expecting Rio would say ok, she probably was used to throw all her tantrums to Rio and Rio trying to make amends with it. But not this time, Rio had enough, so Agatha has her surprise face, and the pain, like she feels, for the first time, Rio is giving up on her.

But at the same time she masks it quickly, and we can see she is almost loosing the control over her emotions. Later, with Billy and Jen, she is on full villain mode because Rio let her there, and she still can get out of the road. Rio is the constant in her life, since Salem, no matter what happens, how much they fight, love or hate eachother. They always find themselves in each other’s path.

And we know how this ends.

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #rio vidal #agathario #agatha x rio #vidarkness #nicholas scratch #Agatha is mama and Rio is mother/mom

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darkbluekies · 1 year ago

Note

How would the yans react if their darling is already dating someone else

Warnings: killing, kidnapping

Silas:

He hates to see you laugh and smile with someone who isn’t him. He knows he shouldn’t approach you. You’re so … pure, so normal … and he’s a beast lurking in the darkness. He knows that the second he approaches you, you’ll be sucked into his world and there won’t be a way out. But he cannot bare himself to watch you cling onto someone that isn’t him. Silas sighs. He could actually keep you safe if he really tried. If he doesn’t take you to be his, he will regret it for all eternity. He turns to his second in command.

“See that person over there? The one leaning onto the one in gray? I want them. And I want the one in gray gone. Why? Personal reasons. Make sure that cute, little thing is in my basement by the end of the night, got it? Thank you.”

Dr Kry:

His heart breaks when someone else tries to visit you at the hospital. It’s always the same person. He doesn’t dare to ask you about who it is, scared to hear the truth. Of course, he knows that it’s your significant other, but he doesn’t want to have it confirmed. A small part of him still hopes that it’s just a family member. Nonetheless, he has to get rid of them before you start to ask about them. Dr Kry pulls the threat into a supply closed, pressing a drenched cloth against the persons face.

“Don’t take it personal, this is just for selfish reasons. It actually doesn’t have anything to do with you, just who you’re with. Y/N isn’t yours anymore and I’ve given you more than second chances to make you realize that … but here we are. Just go to sleep, breathe in. It’ll all be over soon.”

King Edmund:

He isn’t worried. He’s the king! Who can’t decline a king a favor? He doesn’t have to be worried about whoever has stolen your heart. Worst case scenario, he’ll rip you open and give you a new heart that only belongs to him. It can’t be so difficult, there are hundreds — if not thousands — of women who want him. If only you got to have one of their hearts …

“My good sir, I want to make a deal with you. You stay away from Y/N and I send you a portion of money every month to make sure you and your family can live comfortably. I know how hard you have it on your farm. All you need to do is to give me Y/N. Not hard, right? You’re winning. I’m taking her off your hands. You could never provide for her. If you refuse? How funny that you asked that … if you refuse, your entire bloodline will die.”

Jerry:

Jerry hates being jealous, hates that someone can make her that insane. She hates the power you have over her, especially when you’re not doing anything. The person who leans on your shoulder makes her sick. She can’t watch any longer. She has to have you. Now. She storms over with her men behind her. They grab your partner, pulling them away and Jerry traps you in a corner. You trembling in front of her sends tingles down her body. She reaches out her hand, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Don’t tremble, my love. You’re mine now. You’re with the wrong person. You might not understand it now, but I can assure you that you’re meant to be with me — be my little accessory. Don’t cry, I’m not going to hurt you for this. You had no idea. My pretty, little pet, you have no idea what kind of trouble you're pretty face has got you in …”

Hedwig:

She has been the best friend you could ever have. She has been by your side from the day you transferred … why didn’t you choose her to be your girlfriend? Hasn’t she been everything to you? Hedwig can feel a gaping hole in her heart when she sees you eating with someone else at lunch. She has to stay home. She can’t watch you be with someone else. All she does is cry in her bed. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t move, doesn’t bathe. A living zombie is what she’s become. One day, you come over to check up on her and she knows she has to take the chance.

“Y/N, you can’t do this to me! You have to break up with that … that bitch! P-Please! You have to be mine! I have to have you! I’m so lost without you! I can’t function without you! If … if you’re not going to leave them … I have to keep you here with me. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc x you #yandere mafia #yandere doctor #female yandere #yandere rich girl #yandere reactions #yandere asks #yandere ocs x reader #yandere ocs #yandere oc x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #male yandere #king yandere

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madi-writes-things · 7 months ago

Text

Partners In Crime

Summary:

Matt leads a dangerous life, and his wife is keeping one hell of a secret. What happens when she almost loses her chance to tell him?

Word Count: 738

TW: Angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, near death experience, guns, mafia, hidden pregnancy

A/N: This fic is a submission for the Bratzfornick141 writing contest!!! Hosted by @bratzforchris & @nicksbestie (Angst, Mafia X Goody, Taking Care Of Each Other, Hiding a Big Secret)

-Madi <3

“”“”“”“”“”

I stare down at two pink lines on the bathroom counter, as I realize that I don’t know what to do. I love Matt so much, and I know he wants a family together… but it’s not safe with the work that he does. He does his best to protect me from it, but I know I’m always in danger. I know that he would leave it all behind to start a family with me, but I can’t ask him to leave behind the life he built with his brothers.

I’ll just wait until the time is right, and then I’ll tell him. Whatever he decides is going to be okay.

“”“”“”“”“”

Three Weeks Later

I quickly walk through the warehouse, towards my husband’s office. He hates it when I visit him at work, but this is too important to wait. I understand his hesitation with letting me into this part of his life… he just doesn’t want to risk me getting hurt, but there’s no way I let him out of my sight for too long. I’m constantly worried that something will happen to him, but there’s no way that he would leave the empire that he built from the ground up.

“what are you doing here?” He’s already annoyed. I had no choice but come to him, since he refused to come home early. “You know I hate it when you come here, I can’t let anything happen to you baby.”

“I have to tell you something…” All of the sudden it’s like the words refuse to leave my mouth. I didn’t mean to hide it from him for so long, but we’ve seen each other for a total of one hour over the last two weeks… I can’t keep a secret like this anymore. “Matt… I’m p-” all of the sudden I’m getting pushed to the ground by my husband.

I hear it, before I see the reason. It’s all so sudden. The guards tackle a man with a gun in his hand. Then it clicks.

“MATT!” He’s toppling to the floor, and I barely stop his head from hitting the ground.

no.

nononononononono.

this isn’t happening… this can’t be real… wake up!

my husband lays with his head in my lap, gasping for air and wincing in pain. The black button up that he wear is slowly turning a dark shade of maroon.

I place my hand directly under his left rib and push down hard. “MNPHH… Did he hit you?!?!” Matt reaches up to my shoulder trying to decipher whether I was hurt or not.

“No, I’m okay…” suddenly there are guards pulling Matt away from me, and escorting us to a blacked out car. Once we’re in the backseat, I tear open Matt’s shirt…

there’s so much blood…

Shit.

all of the sudden everything starts spinning, as I feel the bile rising in my throat. I quickly reach for my purse and dump it out, before emptying the contents of my stomach into it. I quickly zip it up and turn back to Matt, taking his shirt off completely and using it to apply pressure to the wound. He’s squirming away from my touch, but I can’t stop applying pressure… I can’t lose him.

“I know baby… I know it hurts, but you’re going to be okay… you have to be okay.” I’ve never seen Matt so pale.

why won’t the blood stop?

”it’s o… okay, I love you so much ma, a…and I know that you will be oka- okay, no matter what happens.” He gasps for air. This can’t be real.

“NO!” He looks at me, this time less scared of death, and more scared of me. “You aren’t allowed to die…” he tries to argue again, but I cut him off. “NO, You aren’t allowed to make me a single mother!” I choke on my tears as I say it, and it feels like something in Matt’s eyes changes.

“okay… I won’t leave you alone.” He says softly.

we finally arrive at the safe house after what feels like hours, and they sweep Matt away to get him to emergency surgery. Nick and Chris arrive shortly after.

“WHAT HAPPENED?!?!” Nick screams as he runs up to me. I flinch back at his volume. Chris gently grabs my arm, in an attempt to comfort me.

“it’s all my fault… he pushed me out of the way, and I couldn’t stop him… I think it was someone who works for y’all, the guard tackled him… it was supposed to be me.” I devolved into sobs and apologies, as Chris and Nick hold me. We sit like that for what feels like an eternity.

“”“”“”“”“”

when they finally allow visitors, Chris and Nick tell me to go first. I nearly burst into tears when I see Matt, fragile and tangled in wires.

“Hey, ma… or should I say Mama?” With that I run to his side sobbing. He manages to adjust himself so that I can lay with him. I fall asleep peacefully with him next to me, knowing that our little family will be okay.

“”“”“”“”“”

@unbruisable @bernardsbendystraws @sturniolo-fann @jnkvivi

#bratzfornick’s 141 writing challenge #madi writes things #matthew bernard sturniolo #major character injury #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo fanfiction #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo imagine #matt x reader #matthew sturniolo x reader #mattsturniolo

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aliceintheworld · 2 months ago

Text

PURE ATTRACTION | JJK | TATTOO ARTIST

Pairing: TattooArtistJungkook X NaiveReader

Summary: "I shoudn't be watching a man undressing, specially not from the house next door."

Warning: Very cute Jungkook 🥰, tipsy behaviour, homosexual relationship, deep conversations, the Reader starts to lose their shyness 🥹, kisses, fluff, and a lot of fluff 😻

A/N: Hi, I'm back. This week has been very hard, and I thought coming here would be a way to distance myself from reality 😭 In the last chapter, we saw that Jungkook had a romantic relationship with Namjoon. I received some comments saying they won't read my story anymore and that I ruined it, because of that. I am a very insecure person. This is the first time I'm posting something I've written, and honestly, I don’t know what to think. The boys are very important to me, and I don’t want to offend any of them (or anyone else). If necessary, I will remove everything I’ve written and just move on. Please leave your opinion in the comments. Other than that, thank you very much for the positive messages. I’m very happy to know that a good part of those who are here with me are enjoying it. Thank you so much.

Previous chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter 6

My week passed slowly and calmer than I imagined. I worked and studied as always, and fortunately, I passed my semester exams. My mind was always in another dimension, but I held back and did my best not to let Jungkook affect me. Or the thoughts of him, which were insistent and continuous. I didn’t see him anymore, at his mother’s house or anywhere I went. As soon as I got to my room that morning, I received a message from an unknown number, which I knew was him, asking if I was okay and if I was safe. I replied yes and then I didn’t send any more messages, even when he asked what I would do on Wednesday and if I wanted to meet him somewhere.

Unlike last week, feeling embarrassed, I didn’t visit Mrs. Jeon as much as I would have liked, afraid to see Jungkook and be confronted. At times, I wanted to tell her what happened, to vent to someone and express how confused I am, even though she is his mother, but I held back and didn’t say anything, knowing that the torment in my head doesn’t go away because I want him back, with me, and I know that venting in this case doesn’t help at all.

I have always been submissive to my mother and thought of her before anything else. Before myself, it comes her. It has always been this way, as if it were engraved in my brain or I were programmed that way. Jungkook may not understand, but that’s the truth. That’s why I can’t relax around him. I find myself in conflict with what I desire and what I know she would want. I have never disobeyed Eunji, let alone considered that idea. I know she wouldn’t approve of Jungkook, for a million reasons, so I am aware that if I were honest with her and admitted my feelings, there would be a conflict between us that I know I am not prepared to start.

My mother has been stricter with me as the days have passed, and I know it’s because the date of my father’s death is approaching. I try to please her in every way I can, as a way of compensation. I went to church more times than normal, worked at the bazaar, and even cooked so she wouldn’t have to. I don’t like hiding anything from her and I feel guilty in a way for lying that day. Our mother-daughter relationship has been like this my whole life, somewhat cold and strange; since I was a child, I took on her pains and tried to put her needs ahead of mine.

Today was very busy. I helped a classmate with her college exams, since unfortunately, she didn’t do well in the final tests, and I worked twice as hard because those who don’t study, always get desperate in the university library, trying to learn what they didn’t study the entire semester. I had to organize the same books thousands of times and barely had time to eat or go to the bathroom.

I got home dead tired but fulfilled. The college assignments are ready and the tests are done. At least the worries I felt about college are no longer a problem; one less thing to stress about. I grab a romance book to read, and flip through the pages with pleasure, curious to see if the main character will finally confess her feelings. I’m halfway through the chapter, engrossed in continuing, when my phone vibrates. I look at the screen without much attention, accepting the call without knowing who it is.

“Y/N?” I hear a hoarse voice on the other end of the line, and my body instantly tingles. I take the phone from my ear and sit up in bed, flustered. It’s Jungkook

I remain silent, not knowing what to say.

“Y/N? Are you there?” he asks. I consider the possibility of saying nothing, and just letting him think I answered the phone by accident, but I can’t. I want to talk to him; I want to know how he is. I miss him.

“Jungkook, I’m here.” I say; my voice trembling without much strength. I swallow hard, nervous. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” He murmurs. There’s another moment of silence; only his heavy breathing filling the sound of the call.

“That’s good.” I force a smile, even though he can’t see me. I shake my head, grabbing a strand of my hair.

“I wanted... I wanted to see you.” He says softly, in a whisper, and my already agitated heart beats even faster. Butterflies fill my stomach, the way I can’t help it.

“Jungkook, I can’t.”

“You can, and I know you want to.” He asserts, with so much confidence, it’s as if he knows all my thoughts. “I want to be with you. We don’t need to do anything. We can just talk, watch something together. I need to be with someone.”

“Did something happen?” I ask, worried. I bite my lower lip, waiting for his answer.

“Yes... a person. One that I’m trying to get rid of, has been trying to get close. I don’t want that.” He replies. I don’t understand anything he says. Is it a friend? Did he have a falling out with someone?

“We can talk on the phone.” I suggest. For some reason, I feel safer when there’s a big space between us. I think the fact that he’s far from me, gives me the false sense that I’m in control of the situation.

“Are you that afraid of me?” He chuckles. I smile in response, shrugging.

“You said you wanted to talk. We’re talking.”

“How difficult you are.” He sighs, teasing me. “Don’t you miss me at all?”

“Jungkook!” I scold him. I’m breathless just from the question.

“It’s serious. I told you that you needed time to think, but I didn’t imagine you wanted to stay away from me, while you decided.”

“It’s just that everything is very complicated.”

“I feel used.” He jokes again, making me grin. “You used my body and now you don’t even want to look at my face.”

“You’re making me embarrassed.” I grunt, laughing awkwardly. My cheeks turns red with the memories of us in his bed. Him sucking me, fingering me, making me come. My God, it feels like that happened years ago, not just a few days.

“Sorry. I know, I shouldn’t say those things. But I really wanted to see you. Can’t you come here?” he asks, his voice dragging. I furrow my brows, suspicious.

“Did you—Jungkook, have you been drinking?”

“Just a little.” He chuckles on the call. Now everything makes sense. He wouldn’t call me if he were sober. If he were completely sane, he would seek out one of his friends to vent. I sigh, throwing myself onto the bed.

“I’m going to hang up, okay?”

“Wait! Don’t hang up! Why are you doing this? Did I do something?”

“Because you’re drunk.” I finally say, a little upset. Would he want to call me if it weren’t for the alcohol? The doubt makes me uncomfortable.

“I’m not drunk Y/N, I swear. I just drank a little. I’m 100% aware of the things I’m telling you.” Jungkook argues desperately, as if he’s afraid I’ll hang up at any moment. I sigh again, closing my eyes.

“Where are you?” I ask, and almost immediately, regret it. Whether he’s drunk or not, it’s not my problem. Jungkook is an adult and knows very well what he’s doing. He’s not your father, a voice in my head says.

“I’m at my apartment. You know the address. I just didn’t pick you up because I drank; otherwise, I’d already be at your door.”

“Please, don’t do that!” I widen my eyes, just imagining the scene. My father died in a car accident because he was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing. Besides being dangerous, my mother isn’t stupid, and if she realizes I have any involvement with him because he came to pick me up, I’m screwed.

“Then come over. I even bought Mexican food.” He says softly, almost pleading. I roll my eyes and grunt, irritated with myself and with him. Why can’t I resist him? For fuck sake!

“Okay, I’ll try. But we’re just going to talk, watch something, and then I’ll go back. We’re not going to do anything else besides that!” I assure, more to myself, afraid that the same thing will happen as last Sunday.

“Okay. I swear I’ll try to control myself.” He mocks again. I smirk, covering my mouth. I like the normal Jungkook, but him being drunk... it’s like he’s himself, but lighter and funnier.

“Alright, I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”

“Send me your location on your phone.” He asks. I mumble in agreement, and then he hangs up. I stare at my ceiling for a good few seconds, not believing it. Why am I doing this? Why am I going to his apartment? Where is this going to lead me?

When I was a little girl, I liked to imagine myself with kids, a husband, and a part-time job. I have always been very romantic; I never wanted to be with someone unless it was forever. At the same time, every time I think of Jungkook, none of that matters. He doesn’t want something serious, from what it seemed when he talked to his friends, and yet I can’t get him out of my head. I do things I would never do, and recklessly, I don’t measure the consequences of my actions. I quickly get out of bed and pace back and forth in my room. My mom is home, maybe in the living room. It’s already nine o’clock on a Friday night, and there’s nothing I can say to her that would convince her to let me go out.

At the same time, I told her an hour ago that I wasn’t going to have dinner and that I would sleep after a shower. She hasn’t been to my room since then. Maybe if I sneak out the window and call a taxi, she won’t even notice I left the house. I bite my lip, nervous. I decide to lock my bedroom door just for safety and simultaneously, put some pillows underneath my blanket, forming the silhouette of what was supposed to be my body. I grin nervously, not knowing what to do. I’ve never run away from home, and the only experience I have consists of teen movies and series. I have no idea if this is really going to work.

I change my clothes for a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt when I realize it’s colder outside, and I open my window. I sneak out with little skill along the balcony, and the bars that accompany the wall, until I reach the grass in my backyard. I tiptoe, trying not to make noise with my sneakers. I walk down my street somewhat breathlessly, pondering the idea of turning back and forgetting that Jungkook even called me. At the same time, I want to see him again. Without thinking too much, I call the taxi, which arrives quickly at my address.

The whole journey takes about ten minutes and simultaneously passes in the blink of an eye. My hands get sweaty as I recognize some places and establishments still open. I sigh, looking at my phone. There are no messages from my mother, only one from Jungkook, saying he’s tracking me via GPS. I smile, feeling a bit more secure. A wave of anxiety, heat, and uncertainty washes over me tough, when I arrive in front of the building of the man who, since I met him, has been haunting my head.

I open the car door and take a moment to look at the facade of the place, something I didn’t have much time to do last time. It’s beautiful, full of flowers and a spectacular garden. I walk along the sidewalk, still not knowing what to do, when I finally see him. Jungkook must have gone down to the lobby without me noticing, and he watches me with a smile on his face, so innocent and anxious that, amidst all this chaos, I’m glad I came. He walks up to me with disheveled and wet hair, perhaps from a recent shower he must have taken, wearing a black and white striped pajama; one of those you only wear in the comfort of your home.

I smile, unable to help it, vulnerable, energized and anxious. “I was worried about you, so I came down.” He comments, getting closer to me.

A scent of perfume, soap, and shaving foam envelops me deeply. My stomach churns again. If I thought hearing his voice made me unstable, seeing him in person completely breaks me. I don’t say a word, still mesmerized by his presence.

“You didn’t pay for the taxi, did you? I came down like a madman when I saw you had arrived.” He tells me. I shake my head in denial. He smiles again and walks over to the driver’s window. He takes the money from his wallet and returns to me as if this were routine and I visited him every day. He smiles one more time, taking steps towards me. “I told you I wasn’t drunk. Tipsy? Yes. Drunk, no.”

“Okay. You’re not. Sorry.” I grin awkwardly, looking down.

“You don’t need to apologize. Come with me; it’s too cold here, and I don’t want you to catch a cold.” He concludes, putting one of his arms around my shoulder, in an intimate touch that brings back memories of the night we were together. I follow him without much questioning, until we reach the elevator.

Inside the metal box, the tension rises. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to stay calm. I don’t need to be nervous. We’re going to talk, whatever it is he wants to say, and then I’ll go back home the same way I left, through my bedroom window. I lean my head against the wall, staring at the mirror that surrounds the elevator walls. The energy of his gaze burns me. He looks at me in a way that leaves me breathless. I swallow hard, not having the courage to reciprocate. It’s as if time has stopped and only we two exist. When I decide to say something, the elevator stops.

He guides me to enter his apartment, and a mountain of memories takes over me immediately. I chuckle in disbelief, covering my face with my hand. If my mother finds out I’m here, I don’t like to think about what could happen. I sit quietly on the couch, observing the place. It all seems the same as last time, except for Jungkook’s friends who filled the environment. Now it’s like there’s too much space, just the two of us here. I lick my dry lips, organizing my hair back, behind my shoulders.

“Are your friends okay?” I ask, trying to talk about things that aren’t about him and me. That for a few minutes, we can pretend that night never happened.

“They are.” He smiles at me, shrugging. “They’re planning a party to celebrate my studio when it’s ready. You’re definitely invited.” He says, sitting next to me. He touches the piercing on his eyebrow with his fingertips, and tosses his dark, soft hair back.

“When’s the celebration party going to be?” I ask, placing my hands on my lap, afraid to touch him. He’s so close that I can fully see the moles around his neck. The Adam’s apple moving every time he talks and swallows.

“I don’t know. There’s still so much to do, but I can’t stay in Busan because I left everything in Seoul to come here. At the same time, I can’t neglect my mom. It’s like I need several versions of myself to handle everything. Just one Jungkook isn’t enough, I think.” He chuckles, but gazing into his big eyes, I find no humor at all. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him to have his mother in this situation and live so far from her. He must be exhausted and worn out.

“When do you plan to go back to Seoul?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

“In about a month and a half, maybe.” He shrugs, biting his lower lip.

“Wow!” I say, surprised. I didn’t expect it to be so soon. He returns my gaze, confused. “I mean, it’s not long until you go back.” I smile, feigning an excitement I don’t feel, awkward.

“Yes, that’s true. I wish I could stop time right now. That would be the best superpower of all.” Jungkook laughs, forming a dimple in his cheek that I had never noticed he had. He rolls his eyes at himself, grunting. “Sorry, every time I drink something, I say these stupid things.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” I chuckle, a little more relaxed. He has this power over me, making me tense and calm at the same time.

“You know, I wanted to ask you something.” He comments, putting his feet on the couch.

“You can ask.”

“Promise you won’t get embarrassed?” He asks, grinning. I shake my head, rolling my eyes.

“I can’t promise that because I don’t know what the question is.”

“Oh, come on!? You always make that face when I talk to you.” He chuckles, teasing me. I shake my head, not understanding.

“What face? What are you talking about?”

“That face. You puff your cheeks because you’re blushing and look away all the time.” He clarifies. My cheeks turn red instantly, making him grin again. I cover my face, embarrassed.

“I can’t control that. Just ask your question, please.” I plead, somewhat awkwardly. He stops grinning and clears his throat, leaving me even more curious.

“I just wanted to know why... why didn’t you answer me that day? Why have you been avoiding me? Why didn’t you go to my mom’s house these days?”

“How do you know I didn’t visit your mom?” I retort, feeling a tingling in my hands, nervous.

“I know because I asked her.” He murmurs, and this time, he’s the one who turns red, as if he didn’t expect my question and feels uncomfortable answering. “After that night, I thought I’d see you again, that we could talk, but you never showed up again.”

“You didn’t show up either.” I defend myself, but I know my stupid argument makes no sense. Jungkook rolls his eyes, looking at me in such a deep way that I find myself breathless, for a good few seconds.

“Seriously Y/N. Did I do something? Did I hurt you in some way?”

“Do you think you did something to me? Is that what you’ve been thinking?”

“I understood it that way, and I’m afraid that it might be true. I don’t want to hurt you, not at all. You’ve helped my mom and have been so good to me. I don’t want to make you feel bad.” He assures again, without stopping. I close my eyes, angry with myself. Is that what I led him to believe when I didn’t respond to his message? When I was cold, did I upset him?

“Jungkook, you didn’t hurt me. Not at all, not in any way. You need to know that.” I affirm in the best way I can, breathless. “I’m like this. That’s why I don’t have friends; that’s why I don’t have people I can count on, because I push everyone away. This is a problem with me, not with you.”

“And why do you do that?” He questions, relaxing his body on the couch. He looks me in the eyes, and even though I try to look away, I can’t. He stare at me in such an intense way that it’s as if he can see my soul. I play with my fingers, not knowing what to do, disconcerted.

“I don’t want to get hurt. Because human relationships are difficult and unstable. Because when you let someone get close, you give them the power to hurt you, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“I know. I understand, and I don’t judge you.” He shakes his head. “So many things have happened in the last few months. I wanted to talk to someone during these days, and incredibly, the only person that came to my mind was you.”

I widen my eyes in surprise. I turn my attention to his face, but he’s distant, staring at something beyond the ceiling of his apartment. It’s as if he’s far away in thoughts and not in this moment, with me. I bite the inside of my cheek, touched. Him thinking of me, even if it’s just to vent, moves me. I like Jungkook. I truly like him, since the first time I saw him. Not just his body or his appearance, but the way he talks to me, as if I were someone worth listening to.

“You, Y/N, did something to me. Since that night, I can’t think of anything else, and I don’t know why.” He confesses, finally returning his face to me. My breathing becomes erratic, my heart races, and my hands get sweaty. “I also, that night, was confused. Just like you.”

“How so?” I ask, speechless.

“I don’t want you to be upset. I want to be honest with you.” He says. He puts one of his big, soft hands close to my face and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. I feel that wherever his touch passes, my skin burns. “Before coming to Busan, I had a serious relationship. Very serious.”

“You were with someone?” I ask, afraid to find out he still has something with that person.

“Yes.” He says softly. His breath close enough of me to feel it. “It was so serious that I swore he would be the person I would marry. I had never dated anyone besides him. I had never fallen in love, not that way.” He speaks, confessing to me, and my throat tightens. Does Jungkook like men? He had a relationship with someone of the same sex? For some reason, I never imagined the inked guy could be attracted to the male gender. Still, what really bothers me is when I hear him say he loved him. Does he still love him? Does he still think about him, when he’s alone?

“And then it ended, and everything I believed was shattered.” He shakes his head, and then chuckles without any humor. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I really don't. It’s just that when I’m with you, I feel light. I love my friends, I truly do, but when I’m with you, I feel comfortable, as if you wouldn’t judge me.”

“I wouldn’t judge you for anything, Jungkook.” I say softly and somehow, he can hear me. He smiles too, a little embarrassed.

“You know, after I ended my relationship and then that happened with my mom, I thought I was in a nightmare. All the people I could count on would simply disappear, and I couldn’t do anything, as if my hands were tied.”

“I know what you mean.” I comment, remembering my father. Not his last moments, drunk and a stranger. Those moments, from before, when he was the man I was proud to call my father. The man I knew I could count on, because he was always by my side.

“Tell me a little about you, Y/N. I feel like I’m just talking about myself. I really want to know you more. Listen to you.” He suggests. I raise my eyebrow, surprised.

“I don’t have anything to say.” I chuckle awkwardly.

“Of course you do. Everyone has something to say.” He argues, shaking his head. “Tell me about your life. Have you always lived in Busan?”

“Yes, I’m from Busan.” I reply, smiling slightly. “When I was younger, I went to the beach every weekend because I lived closer to the coast.”

“Really? I’ve never been to the beach.” He says, shrugging. I open my mouth, astonished.

“It’s so strange to hear that. I always went when I was a kid. For some reason, after I moved, I never did again.” I sigh, nostalgic. The things I used to enjoy a few years ago simply lost meaning, when my father died and my mother became the woman she is now.

“Why don’t you go back to the beach once in a while? It’s not that far from here.”

“I don’t know why; I just don’t go. I forgot that I missed it until I started talking to you.” I smile genuinely this time. He returns the smile, nibbling on his rosy lips that I like so much.

“Maybe we could go to the beach together. I to get to know it, and you to reconnect.” He suggests with a light and sincere smile, and my stomach, a little calmer, fills with butterflies again.

“Maybe.” I agree, not knowing if that would actually be possible. Who knows, in the future, or at some other moment. I don’t want to dismiss that possibility when it seems so sweet and inviting. I sigh, looking at the screen of my phone. It’s almost eleven o’clock. I know I have to go home. Jungkook seems to realize my doubt and makes a pout with his lips, almost like a spoiled child who didn’t get what he wanted. "I think I must go."

“We should eat first. I ordered tacos and burritos, and if everything gets cold, the food loses fifty percent of its flavor.” He says, already getting up, not giving me much opportunity to contest. I get up too, rolling my eyes.

“That’s another one of your theories? Like that one of having four meals a day?” I ask, finding it funny. I follow him into his kitchen, watching him take the Mexican food out of some containers. It looks so appetizing and seasoned that my mouth waters.

“My mom was really cruel when I was younger.” Jungkook laughs. He frowns, with that same expression he always makes when he sees something delicious, then looks at me, bringing a taco closer to my mouth. “The first bite has to be yours.”

“You can eat it. You seem hungrier than I am.” I reply, teasing. He pretends to look angry and shakes his head, as if I just said the most nonsensical thing in the world.

“I’m a gentleman. I insist.” He brings the taco closer to my mouth again, and with no alternative, I bite the food he offers me with such insistence. The spicy flavor brings such a rich explosion to my tongue that I can’t help but like it. I must have done something funny tough, because Jungkook smile, in a delightful chuckle that I had never heard coming from him.

“The corner of your mouth is dirty.” He explains in a whisper, pointing to my lower lip. I try to clean it by myself, but I seem to be unsuccessful, as he himself wipes the sauce off my skin with his thumb. I take a few seconds to realize how close he is to me, naturally intoxicating me. I can smell his perfume. His energy that brings electricity to my body. How much my skin longs for him. I want to kiss him again. To feel his lips, just like I did in this same kitchen that morning.

Jungkook seems to understand exactly what I’m thinking because he smiles that loose and careless smirk, as if he knows what I want and is waiting for me to make the first move.

“If you want to kiss me, I give you all my permission. I’m serious.” He jokes, but doesn’t laugh. His dark, big doe-eyes go toward my mouth and I see desire; feelings I had never seen directed at me. I swallow hard, nervous.

“I can’t, Jungkook. My mom, she...” I whisper, trying to organize my thoughts. He smiles, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“Forget about your mom, Y/N. Do you want this?” He questions softly. I nod my head. He knows I want to, I want it so badly that it’s as if I’m going to die. “If that’s what you want, do it! Screw what your mom thinks. Just do it.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t do anything when I came here.” I tell him, chuckling nervously.

“It seems you can’t stay away from me. After that night, I don’t want to stay away from you either.” He denies, closing his eyes. “This week was hell... I don’t want to feel alone. Do you feel the same as I do?”

“I do.” I agree, and without thinking much, I kiss him.

His warm lips touch mine, and if I could save this moment in my head and make copies, I would. Unlike the first night I was here, Jungkook is calmer, less desperate. It’s as if he has time to be with me and wants to enjoy every second. I feel his hands on my waist, pulling me towards him until I’m completely fused to his body. I grunt when his tongue requests entry inside my mouth, and I can’t stop him, nor do I want to. I pull at his hair, feeling its softness, in a pleasant caress at the nape of his neck. He smiles during the kiss, moaning. He slowly separates from me, holds my cheeks with both hands, and seals our lips once again, in short pecks that spread across my entire face. I chuckle when one of them touches my jawline, tickling me.

“Stop, please!” I burst out laughing when he continues, kissing my forehead, nose, and finally, my lips again.

“I'm only stopping because I need to breathe.” He laughs with me, finally ceasing.

“Ok, clingy boy, I really need to go now.” I mock disheartened, trying to disentangle myself from him. He stops me, kissing me again.

“Please, don’t go.”

“I have to go. Seriously.”

“It’s too early.” He argues, caressing my face with his thumb.

“What happened to you, Jungkook? Why are you being so dramatic?” I question, curious. He’s different. A good different, but I can’t understand him. Does he want something serious with me? He doesn’t love the person he was in a serious relationship with, anymore? There are so many questions in my head that I feel lost.

“I'm not being dramatic. I like you, Y/N.” He assures me as if it were the most obvious thing, with those dark, big eyes, so pure... I simply can’t explain why, I just believe him.

“You do?” I ask, smiling. No one ever said that to me. A good feeling fills me; my cheeks turn red as he nods his head.

“I like. I thought you knew.” He says simply. And then peck me again. “Come on, before you go, you’re going to eat with me.”

“Okay, but I need to be quick. It’s getting really late.” I say, worried about my mom; the fact that she might find out I left the house.

“I’ll accompany you in the taxi. I’m not letting you go alone. Then I can come back here.”

“Really?” I ask. He chuckles, pulling my hand until I sit in the chair. “Then okay. Let's eat. And Jungkook?"

"What?"

"I like you too." I say, seeing his small and cute smile

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