#take care and you always have my blessing

[cheftsunoda]

heal your heart—cl16

part three (very wordy AGAIN)

smau + real life

carlos sainz x !sister singer reader

charles leclerc x sainz reader

catalina sainz has it all— she is a successful grammy award winning artist, her brother is a well known formula 1 driver, she has an amazing family and wonderful friends. she was also blessed with a fiance and a beautiful baby boy.. she had everything.. until she didn't. her fiance disappears and takes her son with him. catalina watches as her world crumbles...who will be there to help pick up the pieces?

fc : kali uchis

⚠️ATTENTION : TRIGGER WARNING! mentions of depression, abuse, kidnapping. ⚠️

part one here

part two here

part four here

—

catluvsyou

liked by charles_leclerc, lando, iamrebeccad & 4,485,493 others.

catluvsyou : healing is hard- especially when part of you still feels torn open. i will not answer any questions at this time but i really appreciate all the support and love i have been shown. i also need to say the biggest thank you to my friends and family who have loved me through some of the worst parts.

username00 : no bc the image of her crying BROKE ME but then i saw charles on the piano and my heart said okay maybe there’s hope

usernameee : this is grief. this is survival. this is poetry. this is also charles leclerc and i am not okay about it

username20 : the mirror selfies are all taken in charles' house

lilymhe : the prettiest and strongest angel. we got you.

liked by author

username7 : slide one made me cry, slide four made me scream, slide six made me sob. give this woman a hug and a publishing deal.

username10 : her crying photo??? that wasn’t a post. that was a plea. and i hear her. i see her. i’m crying at work.

iamrebeccad : love you to the moon and back- strongest person i know.

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username0 : this is less “photo dump” and more “emotionally raw scrapbook entry with a dash of piano boy” and i’m HERE for it

username5 : she gave us heartbreak, healing, piano romance, AND mountain girl rebirth??? a saga. a life story. a manifesto.

charles_leclerc : tu possèdes une force incroyable. je prendrai toujours soin de toi.

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username000 : quick some french person tell me what he said PLS

username20 : you possess an incredible strength. i will always care for you

username000: ardfkjalmffsfajskhd

username15 : OMG

lewishamilton : Sending love and strength. Healing isn’t linear—be kind to yourself.

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lando : Love you always, bug. You are so so strong.

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pierregasly : Kika and I will be over sometime today with gifts:)

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kikagomes : and CAKE!!

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carmenmmundt : True strength looks like this. You’re incredible. Please take care of yourself.

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oscarpiastri : Quiet strength is the loudest kind. Rooting for you always.

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alexalbon : The strongest ever. I have your back. Always.

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—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Catalina Sainz has broken her silence...sort of. The popstar and sister to Williams driver Carlos Sainz posted a deeply personal “healing dump” to Instagram this morning, featuring tearful selfies, peaceful scenery, and what fans are 99% sure is CHARLES LECLERC at a piano in slide four.

Catalina wrote, "healing is hard- especially when part of you still feels torn open. i will not answer any questions at this time but i really appreciate all the support and love i have been shown. i also need to say the biggest thank you to my friends and family who have loved me through some of the worst parts."

Many WAGS and members of the F1 grid were in the comments including none other than Charles Leclerc himself, writing, "you possess an incredible strength. i will always care for you" in French.

Let us know your thoughts!

username00 : honestly catalina is out here surviving a trauma and all some of y’all can do is zoom in on wrists and watches… (but also it’s definitely charles)

username10 : why does it feel like she just posted the first chapter of a novel i’m already deeply invested in

username5 : healing is hard, yes, but healing with leclerc at your piano and sainz threatening international violence on your behalf??? couldn’t be me but i deeply admire

username7 : this entire season is just trauma, pianos, and deeply repressed European emotions. 10/10 would watch again.

usernameee : just say the word, catalina. we will ruin him on the timeline in 12 minutes flat.

username000 : no interaction from carlos at ALL that man is busy destroying someone

—

It had been a few days since the race. Charles and I were back at his in Monaco. He had been an absolute saint. He held me when I needed it, gave me space when needed, wrote and produced songs with me to get everything out, sat there and ate every meal with me so he knew I ate. I don't know if I could have made it these last few days without him. I have been so anxious to hear from Carlos and hopeful to see my son soon. I knew Carlos would not leave without him. He was - to say the least- determined. Charles insisted on getting me out of the house and into some nature today. Kika and Pierre were coming over tonight and while I am excited to see them- I do not know if I am in the best spot for guests right now. My PR team had forced me to post — at least making it known that I was alive…even though I didn’t feel like it. I sighed heavily staring at the spot in bed where Charles had just been. He left to get us some breakfast and said he 'got something special for me.' I throw myself out of the bed and head towards the bathroom. I turn on the shower and strip off Charles' T-Shirt and throw my hair up in a ponytail. Once I am out I do my bare minimum skin care and throw on one of his hoodies and some leggings. I go out and sit in the living room glancing out at the Marina. I hear a jingle of keys in the door and it opens and closes. Charles stood with a smile with two coffees in his hands.

"There's that beautiful face." He said with a mischievous grin on his face.

I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

“Charles.”

He walks toward me, setting the coffee down on the table. “Okay, but in my defense—he was very persuasive.”

Before I can ask who, he unzips the front pocket of his jacket… and out pops the tiniest dachshund I have ever seen.

A literal puppy. A wriggling, sleepy-eyed, cinnamon roll of a dachshund. His ears are floppy. His paws are too big. His tail does a lazy little wag, like he’s still deciding how he feels about this whole waking up thing.

I stare at them both.

“You brought home… a dog. In your coat.”

Charles shrugs. “Technically he brought me home. Found him outside the café. No collar. No chip. The barista said he’d been sleeping under a chair for hours. And I—” he pauses, eyes flicking to mine—“I didn’t want you to wake up to silence again.”

My chest caves a little.

The puppy whines, wiggling his way down from Charles’ arms onto the couch beside me like he’s always belonged here. He sniffs my leg, yawns dramatically, then curls up right against my thigh. I run a shaking hand over his tiny head.

“I don’t even know how to take care of myself right now,” I whisper.

“I know,” Charles says quietly. “But I am here to take care of both of you."

I swallow the lump in my throat. The puppy lets out a tiny snore. Charles hands me my coffee like it’s the most normal morning in the world. And somehow—despite everything—I smile.

—

Kika is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, stealing olives straight from the dish while Pierre argues with Charles (in french) about the “correct” way to make garlic prawns. There’s music playing — something soft and jazzy — and for the first time in what feels like centuries, I’m laughing without guilt. It’s warm here. The air smells like garlic and lemon and something sweet baking in the oven. Kika’s telling me a ridiculous story about an afterparty in Monaco and miming Lando’s drunk dance moves when Charles comes up behind me and rests his hand at the small of my back. Just a small gesture. But it grounds me. Leo — now inseparable from me — is snuggled in a pile of blankets at my feet, snoring softly. I don’t realize my phone is ringing until Kika gently nudges my arm.

“It’s buzzing, babe.”

I glance at the screen, expecting another message from Rebecca or maybe Arthur sending a meme he shouldn’t. But it’s not.

It’s Carlos. My heart stumbles. I freeze. Everything else — the wine, the laughter, the lightness — evaporates in a second.

Charles notices immediately. He steps closer. “Do you want me to—?”

I shake my head and answer, walking quietly toward the balcony and sliding the door closed behind me.

“Carlos?” My voice cracks just on his name.

His breath is shaky through the line.

“Cat,” he says, and his voice is trembling, a little breathless. “You need to get on a flight. Now. Come to Madrid. Come to the house.”

“What—?”

He cuts me off.

“It’s him,” Carlos says, and I can hear the tears in his voice. “They found Mateo. He’s safe. He’s safe, Catalina. He’s coming home.”

The world tilts. My knees go out from under me and I grab the balcony railing to keep from falling.

“He’s—?”

“Alive. Okay. Scared. But okay.”

I’m already moving. Back through the door. Charles is on his feet before I even say a word, his eyes locked on mine.

“I have to go,” I breathe, my chest barely able to contain the sound. “Carlos—Mateo—he’s been found. I need to get to Madrid. Now.”

Charles doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll get a jet. Come on.”

Kika gasps behind me, tears already spilling. Pierre quietly steps in to grab my coat and my purse. I gently pick up Leo and put him in my purse, his little face sticking out the top. Kika and Pierre both hug me and press kisses to my cheeks.

"Go get your boy." She said with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

Everything is a blur. But underneath the shaking, the panic, the fear, there’s something I haven’t felt in so long I barely recognize it. Hope.

—

The plane is humming softly beneath us. Everything outside the window is dark ink black, velvet sky. The stars feel too far away tonight. Charles is sitting beside me, his hand covering mine. He hasn’t let go since the car ride to the airport. His thumb moves in small, slow circles over my knuckles. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. I’ve barely spoken since the call. My body is still moving, but my heart is somewhere else—somewhere back in Madrid, reaching for my son with every breath. He’s alive. I keep repeating it in my head like a prayer. He’s alive. He’s alive. Mateo is alive. I don’t realize I’m crying again until Charles reaches up and wipes my cheek gently with the sleeve of his hoodie. His eyes are soft when they meet mine, and there’s no pity there—just presence. Just him.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers.

“I feel like I’m going to fall apart.”

“If you do,” he says, “I’ll be here to help put the pieces back together.”

I look at him then, really look. His hair is messy from the wind. He didn’t pack anything — just came with me, like it was never even a question. Like his place was beside me, without asking for anything in return. My chest tightens.

“Charles?”

He turns toward me, brow furrowing gently. “Yes?”

I hesitate. The words scrape on the way out.

“Will you stay?” I whisper. “Not just for the flight. I mean… once we’re there. After I see Mateo. After the storm. Will you still be there?”

His hand moves to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing just under my eye.

“There’s nowhere else I want to be,” he says softly. “As long as you’ll have me, I’ll stay.”

And something in me — something hard and scared and bracing for impact — unclenches. I lean into his hand. And for the first time since everything shattered, I believe I might be able to feel whole again. Not today. Not tomorrow. But maybe someday. And maybe with him.

—

The sky is bleeding pale pink and gold as the car rolls to a stop in front of my parents’ house. I haven’t slept. I don’t think I’ve even blinked since the call. My hands won’t stop shaking. Charles hasn’t let go of me once. Not in the car. Not at the airport. Not even now, as Carlos steps out from the front porch and rushes toward us. His face is worn, sleepless. But there’s something else in his eyes. Something like awe. He pulls open the car door and helps me to my feet before pulling me into a hug.

“They’re inside,” he says, and I barely register the they until he adds: “Mamá, Papá… and Mateo. He’s awake. He’s been looking around for you.”

The world tilts beneath my feet.

Charles tightens his grip on my hand. “Do you want me to come with you?”

I nod. I can’t say the word. My chest is too full. My throat too raw. The front door opens, and we step into the hallway I haven’t walked through in over a year. Everything smells like coffee and lemon soap. Like comfort. Like a memory I didn’t trust myself to hope for again. Then I hear it. A soft babble. A whimper. The shuffle of tiny feet on hardwood. And I run. Through the hallway, around the corner — and there, standing on unsure little legs, clinging to the coffee table, is my son. Mateo. His curls are longer, wilder. His cheeks round and flushed. He’s holding the stuffed fox he never used to sleep without. There’s a little bruise on his knee. A scratch above his eyebrow. But he’s standing. Breathing. Alive. He looks up, blinking at me with those deep, dark eyes that are unmistakably mine. And then—

“Mama?”

The tiniest, hoarsest whisper.

I collapse to my knees as the sob shreds out of me. “Hi, baby,” I gasp. “Hi, my sweet boy. Mama’s here. I’m here.”

He stumbles toward me and throws his little arms around my neck. I cradle him to my chest, my hand splayed over his back, my lips pressed to every inch of his skin I can reach — his hair, his forehead, his cheek, his tiny shoulder. His weight in my arms feels like resurrection. Charles kneels quietly beside us. I feel his hand at my back — not trying to share the moment, not intruding. Just grounding me. Holding me in case I fall apart. Mateo lifts his head and looks at Charles, blinking curiously. Then, without hesitation, he reaches one pudgy hand out and gently touches Charles’ cheek. My breath hitches.

Charles smiles, soft. “Bonjour, petit,” he whispers.

Mateo giggles. Just once. A perfect, bright little sound. And in that moment — with my son safe in my arms and Charles beside me — I finally let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we’re going to be okay.

—

The house is still now. The kind of still that only comes after a storm has passed. That breathless hush where no one dares move too quickly in case it all disappears again. Mateo is tucked into my chest, warm and heavy with sleep, his breath soft against my neck. I’m sitting in the old rocking chair in my childhood bedroom, the same one Mamá used to rock Carlos and me in when we were sick or scared. Charles is stretched out on the floor nearby, one arm tucked under his head, watching us. The lamp beside me casts a golden halo over him. His curls are slightly tousled, his eyes soft and endlessly patient.

“He used to fall asleep like this every night,” I whisper. “After a bottle, I’d hold him just like this until his little fingers relaxed.”

Charles doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches me with that quiet reverence I’ve come to rely on more than I care to admit.

“You’re amazing, you know,” he finally says.

I scoff under my breath, brushing Mateo’s hair back. “I don’t feel amazing. I feel broken. Guilty. Like I should’ve known something was wrong. Like I should’ve stopped it before—”

“Catalina.” His voice is firm but gentle. “You did the best you could with what you knew. And now you’re doing even more. You’re here. He’s safe. Because of you.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know how to fix all the damage.”

“Start small,” he says. “Start with tonight. With holding him. With letting yourself be held too, when you need it.”

I meet his eyes. “Is that an offer?”

He smiles, slow and sure. “Always.”

—

The hallway creaks under my bare feet as I make my way to the kitchen. The house is dark except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft clink of a spoon against a mug. Mamá is sitting at the table. Papá stands behind her, one hand on her shoulder. They both look up when I step in. My mother’s eyes shine, and before I can say anything, she’s on her feet, wrapping me in the kind of hug only a mother can give. One that forgives and aches and tries to make up for lost time all at once.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For keeping so much from you.”

She pulls back and holds my face between her hands. “No, mi amor. I’m sorry. That you felt like you had to.”

Papá steps forward and places a hand on my back. “Why didn’t you tell us, Cat?"

“I didn’t know how,” I admit. “I didn’t want you to see how bad it had gotten. I didn’t want Carlos to explode. I didn’t want you to worry… or to feel like I’d failed.”

My mother’s lip trembles. “You could never be a failure to us.”

We sit down together. They don’t press. They don’t ask for details. They just listen as I start to speak — slowly, haltingly — about the fear, the control, the way it all snuck up on me until I barely recognized myself.

“I lost myself in that house,” I say, voice hoarse. “I didn’t even realize how much until he was gone. Until Mateo was gone.”

“You didn’t lose yourself,” Papá says. “You were surviving. And now you’re reclaiming your life.”

“And you’re not alone anymore,” Mamá adds softly.

—

The kitchen is bathed in gold light. My mother is at the stove, humming. Carlos is seated at the table, hair a mess, cradling a mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. And there, in the middle of it all, is Charles — barefoot, wearing one of Carlos’ old sweatshirts, balancing Mateo’s sippy cup in one hand and slicing a banana with the other.

“What,” I murmur, completely frozen in the doorway, “is happening?”

Charles grins. “He woke up. I offered to make him breakfast. He accepted. On the condition I provide ‘nana’ and 'toons'.”

Carlos snorts. “They’re best friends now. Sorry, Cat. You’ve been replaced.”

Charles leans down and wipes a bit of mashed banana from Mateo’s cheek. “He takes after you, I think. Big eyes. Stubborn. Curious about literally everything. Tried to eat my shoelace earlier.”

I walk over slowly, cautiously, like I don’t want to scare the moment away. But Mateo turns the second he senses me, arms up, babbling something in his own tiny language.

“Hey, baby,” I whisper, scooping him into my arms. “Did you make a new friend?”

He twists in my arms and reaches for Charles again — one chubby hand landing on Charles’ cheek. Charles leans into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My chest cracks open in the best possible way.

Mamá places a plate of eggs and toast in front of me. “Eat, mija. You look like a ghost.”

“I feel like one,” I admit. “But… less haunted than yesterday.”

Mateo babbles something and points to Charles. “Sha!”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Was that his name?”

Charles beams. “I’ll take it.”

I watch them — my brother, my mother, my son, and this man who somehow walked into the rubble of my life and just... started building with me. Mateo wiggles down from my lap and toddles unsteadily back toward Charles, arms up again. And Charles — without hesitation — lifts him with a soft “bonjour, mon petit,” and settles him on his hip. Mateo giggles. Charles grins. I press my hand to my chest and try to hold in everything I feel. Love. Gratitude. Maybe even the tiniest thread of peace.

“I think he likes you,” I say, voice uneven.

Charles looks up, eyes warm. “Yeah? I like him too.”

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, breakfast tastes like more than just survival. It tastes like coming home.

—

catluvsyou

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 & 8,475,202 others.

catluvsyou : after weeks of pain and uncertainty, my heart is finally whole again. mateo is back where he belongs — safe, loved, and surrounded by family. thank you to everyone who stood by us through this fight. healing is still a journey, but today, we begin a new chapter together. my new single called 'ilysmih' is out now- for my whole heart- mateo. mommy loves you always.

—

username00 : charles and MATEO omg omg

usernameee : so happy for you, catalina. you deserve all the happiness and more.

liked by author

username10 : the song is literally so raw and emotional- i am sobbing on the subway rn

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username20 : 'my baby's really here' has me sobbing like a bitch.

username15 : charles wins stepdad of the century

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username00 : omg she liked

arthur_leclerc : So happy for you, Cat. I'd say I'm in the running for best uncle.

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lando : you bribed him

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georgerussell63 : Your strength, Catalina, is a reminder to us all that no matter the obstacles, love and resilience always prevail. Mateo’s safe with you, and that’s what truly matters. Proud of you and the beautiful song...it’s from the heart.

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kikagomes : so happy for you beautiful mama. give mateo a kiss from aunt keeks

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lando : So happy for you, Bug. Your strength is absolutely incredible. Mateo was blessed with the best mum on the planet.

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charles_leclerc : Watching you be a mother and regain all your light has been one of the best experiences of my life. I have all the love in the world for you and Mateo. The song is beyond beautiful and I am so honored to have been involved in the process.

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username15 : omg charles helped make ilysmih

sebastianvettel : True courage is being vulnerable in the face of hardship. Catalina, your story reminds us all to keep fighting for what matters most. Mateo has a warrior mom, and I’m proud to see your strength.

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carlossainz55 : You were born to be a mother and I am so glad to see you so happy again. Love you always.

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—

Today was the day. I had to face him again. To fight for our son. I was nervous but I had Charles and Carlos...and the whole grid there to support me. The hallway outside the courtroom smells sterile, like polished tile and nerves. My heels echo on the floor as I walk, heart pounding. Every step forward feels like it's being taken in someone else’s shoes — someone stronger, someone unshakeable. But they’re mine. So is the suit I’m wearing. So is the fire in my chest. So is the little boy at the center of it all — asleep in my mother’s arms two rooms away, blissfully unaware of the war being waged in his name. Charles walks beside me, hand warm at my lower back, his quiet presence grounding me in ways I still don’t know how to put into words. He hasn’t left my side in months. Not when the lawyers called. Not during the mediation sessions. Not after the nightmares that woke me up sobbing at 3AM. And not today.

The press is outside — of course they are. The whispers of “star studded custody battle” had turned this into a media frenzy. But they can’t get in. The judge issued a strict order. No cameras. No recording. Just us. Just the truth. As we approach the courtroom doors, I hear voices ahead — and then I see them. Carlos. Standing tall, jaw tight, eyes locked ahead like he’s walking onto the grid. Rebecca beside him, holding his hand. Lando leans against the wall across from them, wearing a suit and looking completely out of place but determined nonetheless. And behind them — I almost laugh — George, Alex, Pierre, Kika, Lewis and even Arthur. Half the grid is here. For me. The moment I appear, they all straighten up like a switch was flipped.

Carlos walks over and pulls me into a hug — quick, fierce, protective. “You’ve got this, Cat.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Don’t let that asshole rattle you,” Lando mutters. “We’ll all be right there. He’s not gonna touch you.”

I glance at Charles, who meets my gaze with steady, unwavering loyalty. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

The bailiff calls us in.

—

It’s colder in here. The wood-panelled walls are imposing. The judge — a stern woman with grey hair and glasses that seem to see through souls — gives no greeting. Only a nod. I sit at the petitioner’s table. My lawyer, a calm but steely woman named Lucia, opens her folder. Across from us, he sits in a dark suit, flanked by his attorney. He doesn’t look at me. Good. I don’t want him to. The first hour is procedural. Papers submitted. Timelines reviewed. The judge flips through documents as if they don’t hold the pieces of my life. And then it begins.

Lucia rises. “Your honor, we will demonstrate that the respondent’s actions — namely, removing the child without the petitioner’s consent and crossing international borders — constitute not only a violation of custody but a potential endangerment. We will also present evidence of emotional and physical abuse and coercive control throughout the relationship.”

I grip the edge of the table. Charles’s hand drops to my knee beneath the table. A silent promise—I’m here. The other side protests. Paints me as unstable. Mentions “emotional distress” and “a demanding career.” They try to twist my own trauma into a weapon against me. But then Lucia brings up the messages. The controlling texts. The surveillance. The bank accounts I was locked out of. The judge’s brow furrows. And then I take the stand. I took a deep breath, feeling the cold weight of the courtroom walls around me. As I stood before the judge, my heart pounded in my chest like a race engine — fast, erratic, out of control. But I had to steady myself. For Mateo. For truth.

“I want to speak honestly,” I said, voice trembling but clear. “Because for too long, the truth has been buried.”

"The first time he raised his voice — just a sharp word over something small. I remember the shock, the way my breath caught in my throat, the sudden coldness creeping up my spine. I wanted to believe it was a one-time thing. But it wasn’t."

The judge nodded silently, and I pushed on.

“At first, he was loving. Protective. The kind of partner I thought would always keep me safe.” My throat tightened. “But then the control began. Phone calls monitored. Friends disappearing from my life. Little freedoms taken away, bit by bit. He had started to get more physical with me. Wouldn't take no for an answer."

"I recall sitting alone in a dim hotel room after a long day in LA, my phone buzzing silently with messages I couldn’t answer. The loneliness was suffocating. I felt like I could not even do the one thing I loved anymore, I was losing myself. A part of me was dying."

In the courtroom, I caught Carlos’s eye — his jaw clenched, fists tightened around the bench. Charles sat beside him, quietly supportive but with a fierce protectiveness radiating from his posture.

“I was afraid to sing,” I said, voice cracking. “Music was my breath, but it became my cage. Every lyric I wrote was scrutinized. I felt trapped in my own story.”

"A night in our home, Mateo asleep in his crib, and me crying in the dark. The weight of silence was unbearable. I wanted to scream but had no voice."

The room murmured softly, some eyes glistening with tears. Lando shifted in his seat, visibly tense. I felt their silent strength.

“The worst day was when I came home from a trip and found him gone. Mateo was gone.” I swallowed hard, tears threatening to spill. “A note on the kitchen counter: ‘I don't want this anymore. I don't want you' No explanation. No warning.”

I looked at the judge, the weight of those words hanging heavy in the air.

“That moment shattered me. I was lost in fear for Mateo’s safety — for my own.”

The judge leaned forward, eyes intent.

“I am here to fight. Not just for custody, but for healing. For our future. Mateo deserves that.”

My voice cracks on the last sentence. I looked over at Charles — his eyes glimmered with unshed tears and fierce determination. There’s a silence so heavy I can barely breathe.

Lucia finishes with, “Catalina Sainz is not only a devoted mother, she is a survivor. And she is asking this court to protect the only person that matters now: her son.”

—

The judge calls a short recess before ruling. I step outside the courtroom and lean against the wall, heart racing. Charles follows, wraps his arms around me from behind, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.

“You were unbelievable,” he whispers. “So brave.”

“I don’t feel brave.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to keep going. You’re almost there.”

Carlos joins us, standing in front of me, arms crossed. “No matter what happens, we fight. We keep fighting until Mateo is safe with you permanently.”

I nod. The tears finally come, slow and quiet. Inside, the judge returns. We go back in. She rules in my favor. Full custody. I hear it. I feel it. But it doesn’t truly sink in until I walk back out and see Charles standing there, and I say — “We won.” And he doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me into his arms and holds me like the world has finally stopped spinning.

—

The three of my main protectors stood outside waiting for (ex name) to show. Carlos’s jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might snap. Charles stood a step behind him, his usually calm demeanor taut, eyes sharp as daggers. Lando hovered nearby, fists clenched, ready to step in if things escalated.

He approached them with a smug grin. He didn’t look intimidated, which only stoked the fire burning in Carlos’s chest.

Carlos’s voice was low but cutting. “You think you can just take him? Take Mateo without a word and expect no consequences?”

He shrugged, a cold smile twitching at his lips. “I did what I had to do. She was not around enough. Maybe I’m the better parent.”

Charles stepped forward, voice calm but laced with warning. “You’re wrong. This isn’t about competition — it’s about what’s best for Mateo. And that means respecting Catalina.”

"Oh suddenly you know her? Just because you fuck her?" He said with a smirk taunting Charles. Charles balled his fists. Carlos rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Hit me, pretty boy. See what happens." He irked on.

Lando’s tone was sharper, unmistakably protective. “You're fucking with the wrong family, asshole. Don't push me."

His smile faded, replaced by something colder — calculating. “Families fall apart. Especially when secrets come out.”

Carlos’s eyes darkened. “Watch your mouth.”

He sneered. “I’m just telling the truth.”

Charles’s fist clenched at his side, but he held his ground. “Well, we saw what the court said. She is clearly the more fit parent, considering she didn't kidnap him. Hell, maybe if you didn't you'd still be allowed to see him."

For a moment, no one moved. The tension hung thick, like a storm ready to break.

Then he turned on his heel, voice cold. “This isn’t over.”

Charles placed a steadying hand on Carlos’s shoulder. Lando stayed close, eyes never leaving my ex’s retreating back.

—

The house was filled with laughter, the kind of warmth that felt like a fragile promise of better days. Charles was pouring champagne, Carlos was cracking jokes, and Lando was making Mateo giggle with silly faces. I sat there, surrounded by people who felt like family — a rare moment of peace after everything. My new single played softly in the background, a bittersweet soundtrack to the night. For a moment, I let myself breathe. Then my phone buzzed on the table. I glanced down — incoming call.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly, standing up and stepping outside onto the cool night air. The sounds inside faded behind me.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

The voice was low, urgent. “Catalina… we need to talk.”

I hesitated. “I’m with people. Can it wait?”

“No. It can’t,” the voice insisted. My chest tightened.

Before I could pull away, a rough hand grabbed my arm, yanking me back into the shadows.

“Let me go!” I gasped, struggling.

“Quiet,” he hissed in my ear. “We’re not done.”

Panic surged through me, freezing me for a split second before fear turned into fight. But I was caught — trapped by the man whose presence I never wanted again. I gripped my phone and tried to dial Charles. He threw my phone to the ground and I heard it crunch. Inside the house, I could only imagine the sudden silence, the questions, the worry growing like wildfire. I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear. Instead, I was dragged back into a nightmare I thought I’d escaped. And suddenly, everything was at risk again.

—

p3 complete:)))))

yall thought id just give you an easy happy ending???

my bad

p4 is done so it will be published soon:)

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[diodellet]

chicken soup for the transmigrated soul

ft. ruggie bucchi, trey clover, rook hunt, jade leech, ortho shroud, lilia vanrouge, jamil viper

summary: So you worked yourself into a slight fever, no biggie. Take a painkiller for the headache, drink some extra water, do not make any sudden movements to keep from triggering the dizziness, and of course, whenever you could, catch a few z's in between work. You've done this before, you had a system. Even at your friends' protests—bless their concern, you'd always be grateful for that—it was only Tuesday. You could handle this until Friday and cash in a "long weekend" to rest. (Spoiler: You couldn't even make it to the end of classes.) content warnings: -gn!reader is yuu/ramshackle prefect (++tendency to overthink, gets lonely easily) -references to vomiting (due to emetic in Jade's part, as in his food deliberately makes you puke), food aversion (in Trey's and Ruggie's parts), and nonsexual partial nudity (in Lilia's part). nothing too graphic -swearing and general banter/ribbing as you would expect in a setting like NRC -all of these are platonic, but can be read (except for Ortho's) as romantic (i guess that makes it idia x reader if you squint??) ++mild hurt/comfort, there's shenanigans alongside the fluff in the midst of a twisted wonderland cold hitting like a truck word count: 4.8k words (~680 words per part)

Ortho Shroud is the first to notice your symptoms.

Scratch that, he's pre-empting the onset of your fever symptoms. And what baffles him most is that even with scientifically-backed data, you are still intent on continuing your work!

"You can't keep going to classes until Friday!"

It doesn't help that Idia('s tablet) will chime in and commend you on your commitment to the hustle grindset. Peas in a pod, the two of you😤

While Ortho doesn't need to worry about the same physiological needs that a regular human does, at least he takes care of himself! But all right, fine. There's the 0.000001 percent chance that you're not sick. You know yourself best.

(He's absolutely reminding you that he told you so every time he visits you in Ramshackle.)

On the bright side, there's zero worry about catching whatever you've got when he flits back and forth between your place and Ignihyde. He's found another good use of his built-in UV disinfection lamp! (Aside from curing Idia's resin projects and character-inspired acrylic art.)

When you're confined to bedrest, he brings over games, manga, movies—anything laid-back to keep you occupied.

Sometimes Idia joins in, remotely, of course. Can't risk catching what you have, he says. To which you retort by saying you'll sneeze on his tablet.

"Don't threaten my big brother, his immune system isn't as strong as yours!"

(His calculated objectivity really made you forget that he was a little brother at heart, that is to say, an Absolute Menace to you and Idia.)

It comes as a surprise when he asks if he can use your kitchen. You're about to pull yourself out of bed and follow him when he suddenly backtracks. "Wait! You need to keep resting! Any further elevation in your heart rate could…" Was that a buffering sound? "—could lead to a 67% chance of a mild onset of orthostatic hypotension!"

Was he was going to test some experimental drug on you—well, that was more of Pomefiore's area of expertise, but you couldn't rule that out. He and Idia weren't quite that discreet when talking about how inconvenient your symptoms were.

("Wow, breathe louder through the protagonist's monologue, why don't you, prefect?" and "If you get so much as a droplet of moisture on that first edition manga, I'm never talking to you again."

Oh, if only Ortho wasn't watching you…If only that high-powered technomantic beam wasn't a threat…)

Your thinking is interrupted by a coughing fit that almost leaves you light-headed. Fine, the persistence of a little sibling wins out this time. "Grim, go and help." Though the direbeast complains, he trots after Ortho.

While waiting, you doze off. It's not a very peaceful rest, what with snot dripping down the back of your throat and the ache in your temple.

But it's better than sleeping at night. Oh, your midnight thoughts were not very kind.

Ortho wakes you up, and he's handing you a warm bowl of soup. Well, it seemed to be more vegetables than actual broth. Great if you liked vegetables, not so great if you were tentative of surprise textures in your soup.

At your questioning look, he explains, "it's lentil soup. It's a staple back home, and my brother's go-to when he's sick. Try some!"

You can barely smell the dish with your clogged sinuses, but with the generous amount of toppings, it's more filling than your previous meals of plain broth and noodles. And Ortho makes for good company, the same way Idia is. It's a hearty meal that leaves you feeling cared for, in spite of the Shroud siblings' penchant for mischief.

(Really, being their friend meant being on the receiving end of So Much Sass. You were barely given any mercy even when your immune system was compromised 😤)

"I have to get back to Ignihyde, please get well soon! You promised my brother that you would run a co-op dungeon with him!"

Jamil Viper is a worrywart through and through.

As much as he channels disappointment through his words and expression.

"You can't attend afternoon classes in that state."

"It's just History and a free study period, I can handle that much!"

Sure, you didn't look very convincing with a snot-filled handkerchief held to your nose. But at least you were standing upright on your two feet, a feat that most sick people wouldn't be able to manage!

Before you can breeze past him, Jamil grabs the back of your blazer, spins you around to press a hand against your forehead. He tsks. "You're burning up. I thought so."

Go ahead, dig your heels in and make a scene, it won't stop him from dragging you to the infirmary. Jamil's making sure that you're getting sent back to rest at your dorm. ("You won't get penalized for your absences if you let them give you the damn doctor's note!")

But while your friends were on their way, he supposes he has no choice but to keep you company (and make sure you don't sneak back to class. Seriously, what kind of school did you come from that made you think it was okay to ignore the fact that you were sick?)

So here you are, resting in one of the infirmary's free beds with Jamil watching you like a hawk.

Awkward is an understatement. He looks like he's seething. He looks like he's cursing you for adding your sickness onto his juggling act of obligations.

"I was telling you I could walk—"

"Sure, and then you'd push yourself into an even worse fever. I'm not moving." Psh, it's not even a full-blown one yet. Look at the exciting back-and-forth you were sharing. Wait, now that he mentions it, your throat was feeling weirdly dry.

"…Not even if I need a glass of water?"

Jamil watches you down half the glass. "Your lack of self-care is appalling."

(Why does it feel that part of that remark is directed at himself? Maybe you could squeeze out some embarrassing anecdotes from Kalim once you've recovered.)

When the conversation lulls, that you can't do anything else but give in to your fatigue. Even though you feel extra sweaty and gross in your uniform, you doze off mid-sentence. You feel the press of his palm against your forehead a second time, could almost hear Jamil muttering to himself, something about your fever rising.

For a moment, he's gone. And then nice, cool relief atop your forehead. "…did I fall asleep? What was I talking about—"

"Calm down, I won't leave you alone." His fingers brush the stray strands of hair from your face. "Keep resting. I'll wake you up when your friends get here."

(Kinda mortifying that he could sense that you really didn't want be alone in such a state. Or, maybe it was comforting that he immediately understood that sentiment?)

"Could you talk about something—anything? At least until I fall asleep again?"

Jamil gives you a look, it's not quite admonishing, but whatever iota of fondness you see disappears as he sighs, "all right."

He barely makes it through his first anecdote—something about his roommate accidentally enchanting the school's plants, which then attempted to migrate from the botanical gardens—when you slip back into a comfy nap.

Your fever lowers to a slightly more manageable temperature when Grim and co. arrive at the infirmary. By then, your group parts ways.

With his own whirlwind of a daily schedule, Jamil doesn't visit you that much at Ramshackle. (And that's probably for the best, so he won't catch what you have.)

But you do receive a container of chicken soup and a pack of over-the-counter meds to help manage your symptoms. (And it's not much of a note, but he does send you a text about not overexerting yourself. That hypocrite.)

Maybe it's the mix of spices warming you up with each spoonful, or you could dare to hope that it was made with love a certain vice housewarden's wishes for your speedy recovery.

Trey Clover is the most experienced at playing caretaker.

But did you really want to rope in the busiest person at Heartslabyul?

Just kidding, he's the vice housewarden. He can easily get an extra set of hands to take the burden off. (See: The rest of Heartslabyul)

Ace and Deuce get the brunt of the extra work, of course, being your classmates. Your missed homework, copies of lecture notes, and a smidge of the current classroom drama. (Guess what Ace contributed 👀)

If you think for even a second that Trey is here to provide a brief heavenly respite amidst your sickness, you would be sorely mistaken.

When you felt you've had enough of the same bland sickfood, you once asked Cater to smuggle your favorite sugary drink from the school vending machine during their next care package delivery.

Instead you get a passive aggressive sermon about not impeding your body's healing, and of course, salt in the wound (read: Trey asking if you really wanted to endanger your dental health too.)

Whatever happened to Cater, you didn't know. You could only hope that whatever consequences* he received, that they were fair to the poor guy.

*He'll be fine, especially since he's got Split Card.

Trey is ruthless. Nothing will get him to bend the rules of your recovery regimen. (And maybe the fact that he's diligent about wearing a mask makes him look more intimidating than usual.)

He's had to take care of his little siblings when they were sick. He's basically immune to any and all complaints and tactics (especially puppy eyes).

You're partway through a bowl of savory porridge (not the best texture when you're dealing with post-nasal drip, but the toppings were yummy) when you set the spoon down. It clinks defeatedly against the rim of the ceramic, drawing Trey's attention.

"What's wrong? You've only got half of the serving left."

"…'m not hungry anymore." It's tiring, being confined to your bed and bathroom for the past few days. And when you think that you're well enough to return to work, your symptoms return with a vengeance.

"Don't—Don't get out of bed, what do you need?"

"I need to catch up on homework or do something instead of wasting time—"

"You and Riddle are surprisingly similar." He probably wanted to use a different word. Trey sighs, equal parts fond and exasperated. "Let me try something first."

He casts Doodle Suit and you look at him questioningly. "Just try a spoonful," he says.

"But what if it doesn't work?" For a moment, you wonder if you can really make it to complete recovery.

"Then we'll figure something out. But you need to eat something alongside taking the medicine."

Wow, very comforting bedside manner 🙄 Without the support of his baked confections, Trey is so matter-of-fact that it's like talking to a brick wall.

Begrudgingly, you taste a scoop of the prestidigitated porridge and—

"It tastes weird. What did you change it into?" A laugh bubbles up from you.

"What? I could've sworn I made it taste like…" Of course he'd try to change it into your current sweet craving.

You try another spoonful, which is challenging not because of your lack of appetite, but rather in trying not to spit it out from laughter.

"It's so weird." Still, you manage to finish the entire bowl. "Man, I can't wait to go back to sampling your Unbirthday tarts."

At your change in demeanor, Trey barely slumps with relief. "Well, focus on getting better first."

He isn't the best with comforting words, but the next time he visits, you're treated to some tea with a generous amount of honey. With the caveat that you can only have one (1) cup per day.

And of course, he's persistent in reminding you to brush your teeth afterwards.

Ruggie Bucchi, opportunist that he is, becomes a frequent visitor.

"Y'didn't give Grim enough for your meds."

"Oh shit, how much do I owe you?"

"Just by five thaumarks, buuut I can let it slide if—"

Of course you knew that any extra help wouldn't come for free.

Whatever comfort meal he can throw together, he's leaving Ramshackle with two Tupperwares for himself.

He'll inflate expenses by a thaumark or two, just to pocket for himself.

Speaking of Grim, you've become very familiar with his complaints about following Ruggie around.

"My paws are numb from zipping back and forth around campus…"

"Henchman, he's doing all this extra work for pocket change. Pocket change!"

"He refuses to even waste gas for the stove! I can't be confined to the kitchen forever, henchman! You gotta get better!"

And you were trying! But this was the sort of sickness that could only get better with rest. Which is to say, something that couldn't be rushed.

Not that Ruggie's trying to hurry you along your healing. He seems perfectly happy with this current setup.

"Hm? Worried about me catching what you have? I'm tougher than some common cold, Prefect." It's either he wears a mask or you're getting the ghosts to throw him out.

Sure, he punctuates every similar remark with his trademark hissing laugh, but it was impossible to catch a light nap with how often he came into your room.

(It was as if he was making absolutely sure that your sickness wouldn't take a turn for the worse.)

You've taken to shrugging off your blanket every few minutes just to savor the feeling of getting tucked back in. A fitting exchange, since he freely toted Grim around campus.

"Prefe~ct, are you ever gonna use this pack of egg drop soup?" Ruggie shakes the packet, as if that would further entice your lack of an appetite.

The thought of being spoonfed crosses your mind briefly. "Why not? Better it gets used up instead of waiting until its expiration date."

"See, I told you that you've gotta stop hoarding your food." He grins. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Ten minutes later, Ruggie's got half of the pot's contents stashed away in a Tupperware cooling on your dining room table, while your own bowl was going cold atop your bedside nightstand.

"Don't you have Spelldrive training? Or some…part-time shift?"

"Nope, not really." Well, he deflected that really quickly. "I'm not that much of a workaholic."

Negotiating with Crowley was basically pulling teeth. "Must be nice, being able to shirk your work."

"Even I know not to push myself past my limits," Ruggie tsks at you. "And stop stalling, you're wasting your soup."

He even added some vegetables alongside the broth, making it more filling than if you were to cook it by yourself.

"Did you have to look after the neighborhood kids when they got sick?"

"Sometimes, yeah. 'Sides, it earns me free food and extra favors." The smile on his face is more devious than of genuine fondness.

"What a role model you are, teaching the children some quid pro quo."

"Well, you can't be picky with your opportunities." Ruggie shrugs. "Speaking of which, you should stop picking at your food. That's only two scoops."

"Two? I bet you could unhinge your jaw and finish the entire pot in two gulps."

His expression turns serious for a second. "I might just do it if you let your soup freeze over."

What was supposed to be an amused huff turned into you scrambling for a tissue to wipe away the glob of mucus that escaped your nose.

That gets Ruggie to break character, dissolving into wheezing laughter.

(You're not sure if Ruggie saw in you some resemblance to the kids back in his hometown, but you don't mind the ribbing. If it meant not having to see him get all worried pensive over you.)

Rook Hunt is more enamored than dependable. He's capable, but at the cost of…well…

You'd have to forgive him for being so enthralled with the progression of your recovery.

Now that you're well enough to catch up on some light chores and studying. Boy, are you glad to be out of bed.

"Bonjour, mon Trickster!"

"GAH!"

He scales the outer wall of your dorm once, and he decides to use that route for each subsequent visit. Of course.

"Rook, can you please use the front door next time?"

"Désolés, I was in a hurry," he says, with a smile too bright to be considered apologetic. "You are looking healthier today."

"You say that every time you visit."

Thankfully, he seems too busy shaking out the extra foliage and dirt from his hat out your window to notice your frown.

"This is from us at Pomefiore, Vil and Epel wanted you to have something hearty." And he somehow produces a steaming container from…his sleeve?

Did the Pomefiore dorm uniform have pockets? Or was he using some kind of spatial magic?

"Oh, sure, we can have breakfast before I get to work."

What you don't expect is him pressing the back of his ungloved hand against your forehead, then the side of your neck.

"Your hardworking spirit is very admirable, Trickster, but you should take care to not exert yourself too much."

"My work is piling up. If you're so worried about me getting sick again, then help me out for a bit."

At least he's willing to help with the chores. Admittedly, your strength wasn't completely back to a 100% but having Rook's assistance made the busywork go by more smoothly.

(Of course, you have to treat him to some cheap coffee after cleaning half of the Ramshackle lounge.)

The next morning, you're feeling…off—not quite unwell to be considered sick, more of a general sense of discomfort. The kind that precedes a full blown fever.

"Are you still intent on working today? Perhaps it would be better for you to rest today," Rook suggests after checking your temperature again.

And go back to twiddling your thumbs idly? Stuck with staring at the peeling wallpaper of your bedroom? Hell no.

"I need the lounge to be clean or I'll go mad if I spend the day in bed again."

This time you get winded even more quickly, that you have to entrust the last of the heavy work to Rook.

"Thanks for that, I'll get started on dinner."

"Just a moment, Trickster. You are shaking like a newborn fawn." His palm rests on your shoulder. "You can hold onto my arm."

"Thanks, but no thanks." You brush off his hand. Big mistake, the moment you cross the lounge, your vision goes sideways.

Once your head clears up, you realize you're leaning heavily against Rook's side. "Huh."

His expression is creased with frustration as he surveys your condition. Whatever he mutters under his breath is too quiet to hear, but you're sure he's blaming himself.

(You're also feeling a twinge of regret.)

"…could you at least help me to bed? And heat up some of that leftover stew you brought?"

Come the next day, one of the Ramshackle ghosts brings in a basket. You easily surmise this was from Pomefiore.

Reading the note—it reads more like a novella than a 'get well soon' card, especially with contrite flourishes that were obviously in Rook's handwriting—it turns out that the vice housewarden was banned from visiting you in Ramshackle, as consequence for inadvertently sending you back into a fever.

There's another container of that stew, some fruit (probably from Epel), and a different brand of fever medication, probably the better ones that would've eaten a hole through your meager savings.

(You set the note, the backs of your hands and the cardstock slightly dampened in several places. And you pop one pill of the gifted medicine.)

For all of his suspicious motives, Jade Leech is suprisingly capable.

Was this a good thing during the worst of your relapse? Who knows.

He's omnipresent, but he isn't overbearing. He keeps things nicely professional and doesn't seem to be rummaging through your things. (Good, because you gave Grim the go-ahead to blast singe him if he did.)

Is it eerie how well he can preempt when you need water or a new box of tissues? Maybe. But on the bright side, you won't have to worry about burning through your clean laundry.

(Surely Octavinelle would collect their debt after you've made a full recovery, right? Right?? NO—)

It's another day of feeling miserable in bed. Food sounds the furthest appealing thing at the moment, you want to sleep the day away but your miserable hour of sleep is making you buzz with stale energy.

Enter Jade Leech with an unassuming food container. But, it looks appetizing enough that you can tolerate one more meal in bed.

"Is this chicken noodle soup?"

"Pastina is similar, though food from the Coral Sea doesn't tend to be served piping hot. Please, eat to your heart's content."

Your suspicion melts away at that first spoonful. "It's actually pretty good…!"

"You wound me with your doubt, prefect." So he says with a wide smile hidden behind his facemask.

In between bites of your food, Jade is more than happy to tell you about his recent hikes for the Mountain Lovers Club. (<-This was a moment of weakness, obviously. You're so cooped up you'll take his anecdotes to inspire imagining being out and about.)

Until halfway through finishing the soup, your stomach gurgles. Very uncomfortably.

"…Is something wrong?" His eyes are still crinkled into crescents.

Before you can speak, you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep your meal from spilling onto your bed.

That spurs the vice housewarden to help you to the bathroom.

So Jade basically gave you an emetic. You're cussing him out in between retches, and the bastard has the audacity to chuckle demurely while holding your hair back.

"What the fuck did you give me?" Not a question, a threat. "What is it really?"

"It is a simple home remedy made with local ingredients. I promise you that I did not make any adjustments to the recipe." Another wave of that "soup" splatters into the toilet bowl, and you're glaring at him through the burn of tears in your eyes. "Though I suppose you might be intolerant to one of the components, as you are someone who lives on land," he muses.

(If you listened closely, there might've been a note of something akin to sadistic scientific thrill.)

Strangely enough, it seems to have flushed out the worst of the bug in your system. You can stomach real food now.

(This is where Jade reveals his actual gift from Octavinelle, your usual order at the Mostro Lounge. You're glad to be able to have something that wasn't some stew or soup.)

"Hm, the color has returned to your features," he notes, his face a smidge too close for comfort. "Hopefully with another night of rest, your sickness will clear up for good."

"It better or I'm marching over to Octavinelle and turning you into sashimi." The splatter of vomit on the side of your cheek makes you look more pitiful than threatening. "And you better not include that takeout on my tab."

"Oh dear." At least Jade indulges you with his best approximation of a fearful response. (Which was more akin to an ingenuine smile inviting you to do your worst.)

But he does keep the teasing to a minimum when he helps you back to bed, though. Not that you're willing to forgive him that quickly.

The next time Jade visits, he's under heavy surveillance by Grim and the Ramshackle ghosts.

I lied, Lilia Vanrouge is actually the most experienced caretaker among the vice housewardens.

Unlike Rook who camps outside your dorm, Lilia freely teleports in and out of Ramshackle. All you have as a warning are the little green sparks of light—not that dissimilar to Malleus' own teleportation magic—and the pop! that accompanies Lilia's appearing in your room.

"Good evening, prefect. I hope I'm not disturbing your rest."

"Eh, this sickness has been disturbing me for about a week now." You punctuate that by blowing your nose into a well-loved hanky.

(Well-loved, in that it hasn't left your hand since the past week.)

You're especially not used to being alone and idle. With each day you remain sick means burdening your friends again.

Lilia tsks to himself. "First things first, let's get you changed out of those clothes." Your cabinet opens and a newly-laundered set floats over to your bed. He starts pulling your sweaty shirt off.

"Wait, just let me go to the bathroom—"

Despite his appearance, Lilia's stronger than he appears. You're only able to resist his grip since he was being careful of accidentally tearing the fabric.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, prefect. I've changed Malleus' and Silver's clothes. Oh and Sebek's, as well." As if he was merely talking about the weather.

"At least let me turn around…!"

Lilia swats at your shoulder. "Enough of that now." The gesture was more surprising than painful, eventually you give in to your fate.

He wipes your back dry before helping you slip on a new sweater atop your new clothes.

"And why don't we air out your room? The night isn't too cold." As he says that, you hear the windows of the second floor all swing open.

A cool breeze flows through your bedroom, and combined with the fresh change of clothes, your general feeling of shittiness dissipates.

Thanks to Sebek and Silver's intervention, you're spared from Lilia's rendition of ginseng chicken soup. Not that you can smell or taste much of it, but free food is free food. And Lilia's company is…sorely welcome alright.

"—and then, right as we were about to have that picnic, what do you know? It's suddenly raining! Malleus wasn't too pleased with that, and some spring rain turned into a little thunderstorm. Of course, Sebek and Silver—loyal friends that they are—insisted on pushing through. You can guess what happened the next day."

"…they got sick?"

"All three of them!" Lilia hoots with laughter. "Snot dripping onto the floor, fevers hot enough to hardboil an egg, oh, and you shouldn't underestimate the young heir's magic even he's ill. You couldn't tell if he would spew fire or ice until—"

(It's enviable that he has so many stories. Was he getting tired of talking to fill the silence?)

You readjust your resting position. From this angle against the glow of your lamp, he looks wearier than cherubic.

"Another cup of tea?" he asks.

"I'm fine. Shouldn't you be back at Diasomnia by now? It's past curfew."

"The dorm is in capable hands, even with my absence. Though I noticed that your other student is nowhere in the vicinity."

Of course you asked your friends if Grim could sleep over somewhere else instead. You didn't want him to become sick like you.

Flick! Lilia's fingers connect with the side of your ear. "Haven't I told you, enough of that?"

You rub at the sting. "It's practical…!"

"…really, you young'uns like to make things more difficult for yourselves." He shakes his head.

He reaches over to cover you more properly with your blanket. "There is no shame in wanting company as you recover. Nor is it a debt for us to visit and assist you."

"Okay." You blame your tears and sniffles on the soup and your sickness.

(The next day Grim comes back, accompanied with the rest of Diasomnia. Your lonely feverish thoughts were no longer your sole company.)

a/n: this was for ME the sick binch (like after not getting sick during the pandemic, these past times i've gotten sick were the Absolute Worst) and being sick when i'm supposed to be productive? goodbye🗿 this was also written for me as someone who's allergic to being doted on. hopefully this'll rewire my brain or smth who knows (kinda ironic that the people doing the doting are the more overworked peeps in the twst cast). not super confident about how i characterized everyone aside from jamil, this being my first time writing them but it's whatever! this is preparation for in case i wanna take a break from writing jamimi flex my writing muscles🤧 big thanks to @jessamine-rose for sharing ur fresh eyes and keeping my impostor syndrome at bay💕

the jamil writing taglist: @viperwhispered @bibi-cha @scint1llat3 @sillystr1ngs @pzlqpibz

@warriorpacifist @chloemari-e @mama-m1na

(lmk if you wanna join the taglist for jamil writing in the replies!)

[thatgentlewife]

Hi there! I can sense your passion and care for women, and I agree with you on one beautiful point: mothers truly are the backbone of society. Being a mom is one of the most important, sacred, and demanding roles anyone can take on — and it absolutely deserves honor and support.

That said, I’d like to gently share another perspective, one rooted in both historical truth and my Christian worldview:

You’re right that in ancient times, families were more communal, and that’s actually very in line with God’s design — for families and the Church to help bear each other’s burdens. But that doesn’t mean a woman working in the fields was the same as modern career-driven feminism. In most cases, men and women contributed in different ways, with men doing dangerous or physically demanding labor, and women managing the home, the children, and often the land. These roles were complementary, not oppressive.

I don’t believe being a stay-at-home mom is “easier.” It’s just a different kind of hard — one I personally believe is deeply meaningful. Choosing to give your full attention to raising and nurturing the next generation isn’t giving up everything… it’s giving everything to something that matters deeply.

When you say women have always been dependent on men, I’d say: we were always meant to depend on each other. God made us male and female — different by design, but equal in value. We need each other. And when a husband lovingly provides and protects his wife and children, and a wife lovingly nurtures and builds the home — that’s not oppression. That’s unity. That’s the picture of Christ and His Bride.

As for the financial struggles our generation faces — I agree, cost of living has exploded. But I would gently say it’s not entirely fair to blame those challenges on traditional family values or dismiss homemaking as a “facade.” Many of us feel called by God to raise our children at home, even if it means sacrifice. And in doing so, we find deep joy, purpose, and peace, not regret.

I truly hope we can support each other as women — whether we work, stay home, or do both — and show each other the respect and love Jesus shows us.

Blessings to you 💛

[fancyperfectionsweets]

🪾 Astrology Observations 6

🦂 People who have scorpio (Pisces rising) or Chiron in the 9th house have a difficult time with education. They usually encounter problems not made by them in the area and thus, are forced to earn earlier than their peers. (Problems could be things like parents refusing/unable to pay for their higher education, disabilities popping up that hamper them)

🌚 I have noticed that weirdly gemini moons also start working earlier than their peers but that is usually not because of limitations or financial problems but ambitions. They want stimulation and experience. Jobs help them stay calm. (If they are not pursuing their personal endeavours)

🕷️ I have a theory of the 6th house being a malefic. In ancient astrology, "jobs" were looked down upon. This was because being an agricultural civilization, vedic/ancient astrologers used to think jobs=labour=exploitation. While not a lot has changed in modern day (lol) but we still have better living conditions as compared to toiling in the fields and doing minimum wage jobs. Since the 6th house is considered the house of jobs, having planets here means that you'd be more likely to work a job. This is why planets in the 6th house were considered to be bad. This, and the fact that it's also the house of enemies.

However, when it comes to modern day, my personal observation is that people who have malefics in this house Mars, Pluto, Saturn, constantly struggle with jobs and end up working in places that have a toxic work environment. Martian influence especially is common among people who are fired out of nowhere. The flip side is also true. If you have benefics such as venus or Jupiter, it's actually not a bad placement for your work life. You'd be able to gain recognition more easily and your work will be rewarded.

🎠 ketu + Saturn in the first house feels like a cursed placement throughout life. These people have to learn to escape their fundamental self to achieve what they want. It's one of those placements where you need to let the universe take the reins after working hard. If you ignore that and give into your desires, it'll fail you. A very painful transformative placement that feels like a life long lesson.

👹 let's talk about the guru chandal yog. One of the most hated placements. If jupiter sits with Rahu (North Node), it'll create this yog. This is a "blessing stopper" placement. You can be an expert in an area and this yoga can make you lose horribly in that field. It can take away opportunities in hand. If Jupiter is in a rahuvian nakshatra, this yog can be seen forming. This can only be countered if Jupiter sits in the 4th house or is exalted. Double whammy if the moon is well placed.

🌟 jupiter in the 1st house is THE optimist placement. You tend to ovestimate yourself and while a lot of times god himself saves your ass, you'd benefit from being a realist than an optimist. And check your zodiac for this?? I've always overestimated how much school work I can do. I have my jupiter in Capricorn. Lol. I met someone with a jupiter in cancer and she's an absolute optimist when it comes to her being a "caring person". Like she'll commit to everyone: she'll commit to hang out with you while simultaneously promising to do your homework and also cook for you and then everything falls apart because how are you going to do all of this together, girl. 😭

🫀 this is not my observation but someone else's but it kinda fit true in my case so I'm just checking if y'all see this happened with any of y'all. You tend to meet your spouse early in life if you have a jupiter + venus conjunction (especially in the 3rd, 5th, 9th or 11th house), your 7th lord or darkaraka planet in 3rd, 5th, 9th or 11th house. You may also meet your spouse as kids and then get together with them later in life.

🌙 where your moon is, you'd look for validation there. It's in the 11th house, you'd want to have validating friendships, 2nd house? Yep. You value yourself in your ability to make money, have savings. Moon nakshatra's can also have an effect here.

🌌 Mercury in Scorpio here. I'm not trying to hurt y'all with my words. I'm just blunt 😭

If I do want to hurt with words though, you'll know. We don't hold back and we make it obvious.

🕸️ I think people don't understand why astrologers love exalted planets so let me put in a thought as to why exaltation is awesome. Let's say your sun is exalted (in Aries) but Saturn sits there too (Saturn debilitates in Aries). But, Saturn won't be able to give bad effects because the Sun will "handle" it. If you have an exalted planet and another planet who is weak or debilitated is sitting with it, it'll not create a problem. I can also see this in parivartan yog. Although I feel the effects somewhat are different? Like exalted planets are self assured and confident by themselves but let's say, you have a parivartan yog with Sun-Saturn. So, if you're not feeling confident, some planet that is strong in your chart will come out and help you up. How do I know? Personal experience. My Saturn and Mercury are in parivartan yog. With Mercury, sits my sun. I also have a parivartan yog between Jupiter and Saturn. So yeah, I had stage fright (weakened Sun characteristic), wasn't sure of my public speaking skills. Guess who always encouraged me? My uncle (mercury), grandma (Saturn) and then I finally met a teacher who pushed me to face those fears and actually get rid of my public speaking and stage fright (Jupiter). Isn't that interesting?

💱 Taurus moons and their motivation for money need to be respected. They are so focused and strict when it comes to money. Love it!

❤️‍🔥 Everytime I see the 7th house lord in 8th, I just know this person is going to make huge sacrifices for their relationship/marriage to work. This is because 7th house lord, indicator of marital life, comes into the house of transformation: 8th house. I've seen people move places, quit their jobs, sacrifice their careers for love if they have this placement.

📛 Funnily enough, after my "mars darkaraka men are toxic" observation, I met some women whose darkarakas were mars and one of them straight up admitted she likes "the bad boys" 😭 😭 and is very aware so she started dating a guy that she'd not label as a bad boy and it's her happiest relationship ever

💘 This may or may not be true but people with strong darkarakas (Moon, Venus, Saturn, Jupiter darkaraka, exalted darkaraka, darkara sitting with exalted planets) tend to meet their partners later in life. I think this happens because the darkaraka being the special someone, wants to make you worthy of your partner. You need to learn your lessons before you meet them so it works.

🐈‍⬛ Weirdly, strong mercurial energy in the 6th house (House zodiac is virgo or gemini), Rahuvian or ketuvian influence and especially, Jupiter influence makes the native a pet lover. All the people who love to keep pets in their house and even take care of strays like their own have such strong mercury/Jupiter energy or have their 6th house lord make connection with their chart mercury/, Jupiter. Also, I know someone who has Jupiter there and she'll just randomly adopt any pet she can. 😭 😙❤️ She's the type you see on tiktok making reels like "I brought this dog/cat randomly without telling my spouse" I love y'all sm. Another fun thing I've seen is that mercury and jupiter influence makes you ohk with any animal as a pet (especially if you have Uranus there) but rahuvian influence makes a lot of people to have cats and ketu's influence tells me you're very likely to have a dog as a pet. (I kinda googled this after writing it and came to know vedic astrology says that ketu=dogs and rahu=cat. Makes sense. Lol.)

[mashtatosworld]

eyes on me (5)

summary: a break away from reality is healing - for all of you. but when you return to Seoul, the storm waiting for you is far from over.

You were tired of feeling hunted.

Every person who walked up to the counter at work, every too-long stare, every offhand comment - it left a coil of anxiety in your chest.

But when your coworker popped her head around the corner and sung with a smirk, “Lover boy’s here,” your body finally exhaled.

Daesung was standing by the door of the café, hands in the pockets of his jacket, smile soft. Even just his presence steadied you.

You took your break early.

Outside, under the cool air of the afternoon, he slid a small box across the table. AirPods.

“You said you were anxious on the phone the other day,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing. “And music always helps me.”

You stared at them, touched. “Dae...”

“I also made you a playlist,” he added, almost sheepish. “You might hate it. It’s a mix of stuff I like... there's one in there that made me think of you, actually.”

You laughed softly. “You’re too nice to me.”

“I’m not. You deserve nice.”

You hadn't told him about the case. Not yet.

Not about the file you’d been shown. How your safety was now a question mark, how the little life you’d been building was beginning to feel like a tower of cards in the wind.

But in this moment - with his leg resting against yours under the table, the rhythmic bounce of his foot keeping your spiralling thoughts tethered - was peace.

Fragile peace you didn't dare taint.

“So,” he said, stirring his drink, “I’m going to Japan for a few days.”

Your heart dipped, just a little. “Oh.”

“You should come,” he said quickly. “With me.”

You paused. “What?”

“Yeah. You’ve been working nonstop. You need a break. We can eat everything, shop, walk around all day. I’ll take care of the planning.”

“I don't know if I can get the time off yet,” you said, hesitating. “And... would it be a group thing?”

You were familiar with them. You'd been on your fare share over the years, with the boys always travelling for shows. And you presumed this was no exception.

Daesung winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Kind of. But Jiyong’s not coming if that's what you're worried about,” he added quickly. “He’s staying here. Said he has to sort some stuff out.”

That gave you pause.

It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet it did.

You looked down at your lap, contemplating before you felt a small smile tug at your lips. It would be nice to have a break. With him. “I’ll ask my manager.”

He grinned in relief. “That’s all I ask.”

You checked the time and sighed. “My break ended ten minutes ago.”

“Well don’t work too hard,” Daesung said, standing up and leaning over you, delicately dropping his lips to your head. "I'll speak to you later, yeah?"

You smiled up at him, watching as his figure slowly walk off. He waited at the end of the street, waving to you, then soon disappearing around the corner.

You stayed put, letting the street noise fill in the silence.

For a moment, it was just the sound of car engines, the murmur of conversation, a child crying somewhere in the distance.

You stared out at the busy street.

Someone was standing across the road, looking down at their phone.

You couldn’t make out their face. They could’ve been anyone. They could’ve been no one.

And yet.

The chill in your spine returned.

The peace was gone again

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You were drying mugs when your colleague came up behind you, voice low but annoyed on your behalf.

“I still can’t believe she said no,” she muttered. “If she knew who BigBang were, she’d realise what a crime she’s committing.”

You laughed a little under your breath.

It helped - her dramatic outrage.

She’d fawned over Daesung every single time he’d dropped by the café to visit.

Of course, she didn’t know the truth.

She thought he was just a flirty friend you were blessed enough to stumble across. You hadn’t told her you had dated one of Daesung’s bandmates - one of the biggest names in K-pop.

And you never would.

It had been private. Carefully curated. With only your old media name tied to him.

Jiyong had of course posted photos of you together over the years - just glimpses, but it wasn't enough to draw connections. Besides, he was frequently linked to someone new, a model or some actress. It was easy to conceal your identity.

You’d always asked him to keep you out of the spotlight, and now you were grateful.

Your colleague moved away to serve someone whilst you stayed beside her, focusing on the porcelain in your hands.

Until the customer didn’t leave.

She hovered at the counter, staring.

You glanced up, uncomfortable. She was young. Pretty. Dressed like she’d stepped off a fashion blog.

And her eyes were locked on you.

“…Can I help you?” you asked cautiously.

Her voice was sharp. “You’re her, aren’t you?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“You’re the one who leaked the footage of GDragon. You’re that shitty ex.”

The words hit like a slap. You froze. Your colleague did a double take, glancing between you and the girl.

“What the hell?” she said, trying to intervene. “She’s Daesung’s girlfriend actually - ”

Even though you weren't.

The girl didn’t care. She was seething now, hand tightening around her plastic cup.

“I'd recognise you anywhere. I've seen that tattoo before."

Oh god. So she was an obsessed fan, one of the many trying to witch hunt you.

"You tried to ruin him,” she spat. “You fucking snake.”

You barely had time to move.

The iced coffee hit your chest, shattering against your apron, soaking through your shirt. You gasped at the cold. Ice cubes skittered across the floor. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

But you did respond.

Physically.

Your hand grabbed the nearest thing - a fistful of sugar sachets - and launched them at her face. Hard.

She yelped, stumbling back.

Your manager shot up from her seat near the window, abandoning her laptop. “Out. Now.”

You turned and walked to the back room, heart thundering, coffee dripping down your front. You didn’t cry. Not yet. You just wiped your face and tried to breathe.

The door opened.

Your manager stood there, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. "Now I know the customer started it. But - "

“I get it,” you said flatly. “I’m fired.”

She didn’t argue.

You ripped off your apron, tossed it aside, and left without another word.

Outside, you shoved in your AirPods. Music roared in your ears.

You were halfway down the block when you collided with someone. You stumbled back, muttering a distracted “sorry.”

They kept walking.

You didn’t even look up.

Back at your apartment, you slammed the door shut, threw your keys blindly toward the counter - and knocked over the vase of tulips you had bought days ago. Water spilled across the table and ran off the edge. The flowers drooped against the marble.

You didn’t bother to fix them.

You just moved to stare out the window.

The street below was empty.

But your mind continued to tell you that something was there, even if you couldn't seem anything.

Coffee was soaking into the rug beneath your shoes, and you didn’t even care.

Your fingers found your phone.

And you called him.

“Is your offer still available?” you asked, voice hollow.

Daesung sounded surprised. “Wait - I thought you didn’t get the time off?”

“My manager changed her mind.”

There was a pause. “Well,” he said brightly, trying to lift the mood, “good thing I didn’t cancel anything yet. You’re gonna love Japan - the neon lights, the markets, the food - ”

You barely listened.

You stood there, phone to your ear, as his voice babbled on.

And continued to stare down at the desolate street below. It felt like you were waiting for a shadow to appear. The same one that was casting a dark spell over your sanity.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The airport was brimming with life - even at the ungodly hour. Families reuniting, wheels clacking against the polished floor, announcements echoing overhead.

You and Daesung were moving through it all, heads down, casual but efficient.

He was practically glowing beside you, clutching your luggage with one hand and swinging his other arm as he walked. There was a bounce in his step.

“I booked a spa place for us - one with warm stone rooms,” Daesung beamed. “And there’s this tiny local spot that does handmade soba. I thought we could go there tomorrow night.”

You nodded, warmed by his thoughtfulness, until you both slowed at the sight of the chaos ahead. A wall of fans and cameras gathered by one of the VIP exits.

Security blocked the crowd, holding firm lines.

You nudged Daesung with your elbow. “I almost forgot about this part.”

He craned his neck. “Well... at least we're prepared.”

A sigh escaped you as you pulled your hood up and tugged your face mask into place. Daesung did the same, and together, you slipped around the edge of the chaos and into the quieter corridor leading to the VIP lounge.

But then you heard it. The shift in crowd noise. The camera shutters picking up speed.

You turned your head over your shoulder.

A trolley stacked with Rimowa suitcases was heading straight towards you.

And they were still covered in those ridiculous stickers. The ones you’d plastered all over them. Memories from each city you had visited together.

Jiyong was here.

He was striding forward with his security parting the crowd. A pair of black-framed glasses perched on his nose, cap low, but unmistakably him.

You grabbed Daesung’s arm, voice low. “I thought you said he wasn’t coming.”

Daesung blinked at you, surprised. “He said he wasn’t.”

You didn’t have time to process it. Jiyong spotted you through the glass of the lounge and made a beeline for the door.

He entered with a sigh, tugging his hat off, raking his fingers through his hair like he’d been running the whole way.

“You’re early,” he said with a soft smile, stopping a few feet away. “I thought you’d be.”

You glared at him, eyes narrowed to bitter resentment.

Daesung broke the silence, trying to keep things light. “What happened to taking care of things in Seoul?”

Jiyong didn’t take his eyes off you. “My responsibilities are here now.”

You rolled your eyes and Daesung felt it. He gave a half-laugh, feeling awkward. “Right. I’m, uh, gonna grab some food.” He glanced at you. “Coming?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, stepping to follow.

“What are we eating?” Jiyong asked, stepping after you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You turned sharply, hand up. “No.” The word was firm. A single finger raised in warning. “No.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but you didn’t give him the chance. You pulled your carry-on from Daesung and shoved it into Jiyong’s chest, causing him to stumble slightly as he caught it.

“I need you to stay here and look after this for me.”

He blinked, expression flickering. “I want to come with you.”

“No,” you said again, turning on your heel. “You’ll be fine. Stay.”

You walked away with Daesung, not looking back. You almost felt bad speaking to him that way, until you remembered why you were mad at him.

Daesung kept pace beside you, frowning.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. "I swear, he said - "

You shook your head before he could say anymore. “It’s fine."

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled. “I can’t avoid him forever. And maybe it’s good for him to see me. Like this. Moving on.”

Daesung hesitated. But he didn’t argue.

He simply placed a steady hand on your back and guided you toward one of the food stalls.

Far behind you now, Jiyong stood in the lounge, your carry-on in hand, staring after you with something unreadable in his eyes.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You had thought things would be awkward at first, since Hyo Rin and Youngbae sided with Jiyong during the fallout.

But they surprised you.

They apologised, and it was sincere.

They even shared their snacks with you on the flight like nothing had happened. And Seunghyun wasn't in attendance - he was off preparing for enlistment.

It was surprisingly easy to slip back into the rhythm of the group.

And when the private car finally pulled up to the hotel, you all went your separate ways.

Same floor, different rooms.

Your room was cozy, exactly what you needed after the long flight. You started unpacking, trying to shake off the tension still clinging to you, but when you went to grab your AirPods, you noticed one was missing.

You sighed.

You had a bad habit of losing things, but this one?

This one was especially annoying.

You plopped down on the bed and glanced around the room, half-expecting the missing AirPod to magically appear before you.

It didn’t.

Your mind drifted, as it often did, back to a memory with Jiyong.

It was your first anniversary, and you were standing in front of the mirror, fidgeting with the diamond earrings Jiyong had gotten you.

He was standing behind you, his arms casually slung around your waist, watching you with that soft, affectionate smile that only he could pull off.

“You almost ready?” he asked, his voice low and warm.

You nodded, glancing at the clock. “Just about. I’ll be done in a second.”

He didn’t respond, just stood there, swaying slightly, his hands brushing over your dress - not to help, but to distract. He tugged at the little zipper.

“Jiyong,” you laughed, “come on, I’m trying to get ready here. You know I like to be early.”

"You look so beautiful.”

His hands traced the line of your dress, pushing the strap off your shoulder just enough so he could kiss the exposed skin.

“You’re making this hard,” you muttered, but it was difficult to stay serious when he was being like this.

His lips brushed your neck, then your earlobe, before he playfully bit down. "You're making me hard,"

“Oh my god,” You breathed out, a laugh escaping as he pulled you backwards, towards the bed.

You never made it to the dinner.

But that hadn't been what the evening was supposed to be about anyway.

It was about you and him.

A day remembering the beginning of your relationship, which had bloomed from something so unexpected.

And as long as you were with him, you didn't care how you celebrated it.

Although, breathlessly tangled in bedsheets with Jiyong was a rather faultless way of honouring your love.

Your eyes felt heavy as you lay there, lying against his bare chest and staring at the TV on the wall - playing a show neither of you were really watching.

Meanwhile, Jiyong was tugging at your earlobe absentmindedly, his hair slightly damp and askew after you had spent hours tugging on it.

“You know, I think you lost one of your earrings,” he said, his voice thick with amusement.

You tensed, your hand flying up to check your ear. “What?” You felt around the bed, panic rising as you realised it was true. “No, no, I can’t find it!”

“Don’t worry,” he teased, his voice low, amused. “It’s probably just fallen somewhere. I can't believe you’ve lost it already, Jagi.”

You scrambled to search the floor, uncaring for your naked state, desperately looking for the missing earring. “What do you mean I’ve lost it?!”

He chuckled, stretching across the bed as you yanked the covers from his bare body, tossing them across the room to double-check the mattress. Jiyong lay there, smiling, thumb pulling at his lip as he watched you.

“I’ll buy you another pair,” he said, sounding too relaxed about it. “Maybe a few more, so I can keep biting your ears and make sure you keep losing them.”

You glared at him, even though it had no malice behind it. “You're right. This is your fault.”

He laughed, his hand reaching out to tug you closer until you were standing against the edge of the bed.

He stared up at you, eyes warm and full of admiration. “I won’t stop,” he promised, his hands brushing against the curve of your backside. “When it comes to you, I have no control.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too, even as you rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, though you loved him for it.

And when he went to bite the curve of your thigh, you shrieked with laughter, the sound filling the room, the moment a perfect bubble of happiness.

He tugged you hard, your body collapsing onto his - onto the bed, the world outside slipping away.

The knock at your hotel door pulled you sharply back to the present. Your heart raced as you stared at the door for a moment, your hand still clutching the missing AirPod.

The memory of Jiyong, of how things used to be, clung to you like a scent that couldn't be washed away.

You let out a shaky breath and wiped your hands on your pants. The knock came again, louder this time.

With one last glance at the missing AirPod, you forced yourself to stand. You walked toward the door and reached for the handle.

Daesung was standing there, grinning with that familiar warmth.

“You ready for an adventure?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

Before you could even respond, he grabbed your hand, pulling you out of the room and into the elevator.

Next thing you knew, you were being whisked away to the Mario Kart go-kart experience in the streets of Tokyo.

It was absolutely ridiculous, and that was what made it so perfect.

You both suited up in bright, oversized outfits, giggling at each other from your respective go-karts, racing through the bustling streets of the city.

The rush of speed, the adrenaline coursing through you as you zipped past buildings and tourists, was invigorating.

You found yourself laughing uncontrollably as Daesung swerved a pothole and nearly crashed into a traffic cone. He stayed just slightly behind you, letting you take the glory, and preventing the people from behind from overtaking you.

It was liberating. To forget.

You didn’t even think about the mess you’d left behind.

The whispers. The stalker. Your job. Jiyong.

But eventually, the karts came to a stop, and you were back in the quiet of the Tokyo streets, the air cool against your skin.

You both strolled around, taking in the sights together. He was leading you towards a restaurant, talking animatedly about the noodles you just had try.

You hadn't even noticed you were holding hands until he tugged you back from stepping onto the crossing as a cyclist whizzed past. You smiled at him in gratitude.

Your adrenaline was still pumping from the racing. Your head rushed. It was addicting.

And then, of course, Daesung had to ruin it by bringing up Jiyong.

“So… I’ve been meaning to ask,” Daesung began, his voice casual but tinged with something softer. “How are you really doing with everything? With him.”

You sighed, removing your linked hands to rake it through your hair.

Of course, it had to come up. It always did.

It felt like no matter where you went, or what you tried to do to move forward, the past kept following you like an inevitable shadow.

“I don’t know, Dae,” you admitted, “I just… I don’t want to keep thinking about it. I don’t want to keep going back to that. I just want to move forward, you know? We’re in Tokyo. I want to enjoy the trip. I want to enjoy this.”

Daesung didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, his expression serious. After a beat, he sighed.

“You can’t move forward until you make peace with the past, though,” he said quietly, his words hitting harder than you expected.

You stopped walking, the weight of his words sinking in.

“I’m not clueless, Y/n,” he continued, his tone a little more pointed. “I know why Jiyong’s here. He’s here because you’re here. And he’s probably wondering where you are right now. Why you’re with me.”

You felt your chest tighten. His words landed like a punch, but there was no anger in them, only truth.

You looked away, avoiding his gaze as the words he spoke lingered in the air.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” you muttered, but your voice sounded small, even to you.

Daesung’s voice softened. “Sorry, I just feel...”

You nodded slowly, your fingers brushing the cool surface of a nearby shop window as you gathered your thoughts. You knew what he was going to say.

Guilty.

You hadn't felt that way at first. Maybe only a fleeting pinch. But leaving things unresolved with Jiyong meant your time with Daesung felt... borrowed.

Like you weren't allowed to progress until you had closed that chapter for good.

“I know,” you whispered. “I’ve been avoiding him. But I can't stomach the thought of a conversation with him. He really hurt me."

Your words didn't even begin to cover the damage Jiyong had inflicted. Even if it had been from misplaced anger and judgement.

Daesung nodded, his hand falling gently on your shoulder, a reassuring weight. “I understand. I'd never push you into something you're not ready for."

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and he smiled, a soft, understanding smile.

It almost felt like his words had another meaning to them - like you weren't just ready for a conversation with Jiyong, but ready to move on.

Sometimes you wondered that if you sealed things off from Jiyong, then maybe your path with Daesung would suddenly appear.

Right now, it felt blurred and unsure.

It also felt exciting and hopeful.

You sighed deeply, feeling the weight of his words.

“Fine I promise that I'll be better,” you said softly, “I'll... try to keep the peace. But - he has to respect my boundaries too. I'm tired of people pushing me to my limits."

"I'll speak to him." He assured you with a nod. Then Daesung smiled again, his face lighting up. “I want you to have a good time. And we’ll be here, together. No more worries.”

You both stood there for a moment, the city moving around you, the night air cool against your skin. You stared up at him and then reached on your tip-toes, holding his broad shoulders for support as you pressed a delicate kiss to his cheek.

Daesung squeezed your waist as your feet flattened again, then he took your hand - fingers interlocked, continuing your journey through the city together.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The spa was meant to be a reprieve. A calming pause before the boy's performance later that night.

You and Daesung were wrapped in white robes, wandering through the corridors of still water and soft music. It was almost easy to pretend everything was simple again.

Almost.

Your eyes burned into the ink scrawled across his back.

Jiyong walked a few paces ahead, shuffling towards the indoor pool.

He had invited himself along, and Daesung had only offered an apologetic shrug when you looked at him with thinly veiled irritation.

You hadn’t said anything. There was no point.

You paused your steps, letting Jiyong go his own way. You just needed to keep your distance, stay in control.

But control slipped a little the moment Daesung loosened the tie on his robe.

He shrugged it off with the ease of someone used to being shirtless around others, and your gaze, unprepared, was caught.

The cut of his muscles. The curve of his biceps. The way his shorts hung low on his hips.

His body was all hard lines and effortless strength, and you knew he worked out, but you hadn’t seen it like this. Not so close. Not so bare.

You blinked and turned your head quickly, heart fluttering in your chest. The thought of sitting beside him in the sauna - watching sweat trace down the thick column of his neck, pooling in the crevice of his chest - was suddenly too much.

“I think I’ll go for the steam room,” you said lightly, masking the heat rising in your cheeks.

He looked over at you and smiled, towel in hand. “Alright. Let’s do that instead.”

The steam curled thick around you both as you stepped into the room. It was quiet, private, the hiss of heat enveloping your skin in seconds.

You sat side by side on the tiled bench, your knees almost brushing.

The air was hot and wet, making the silence between words stretch longer than it should have - but Daesung, ever gentle, filled it with low laughter and small stories. Something about the last time they were in Japan. A fan encounter. A near-disastrous ramen challenge.

You laughed softly, grateful for the lightness.

But after a while, he leaned back against the wall, blinking slowly.

"I might have to step out for a bit,” he murmured. “I'm getting a little lightheaded in here.”

You shifted upright. “I’ll come with - ”

“No, no. Stay,” he said quickly, hand brushing yours to stop you. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll come back for you.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you alone in the thick fog. You exhaled and let your head fall back, trying to melt into the heat.

That’s when the door opened again.

You didn’t look. “That was quick - ”

“Y/n.”

You sat up fast.

Jiyong stood there, steam already beginning to curl around his body, his dark hair damp from the humidity. He wore nothing but tight black trunks, clinging to his thighs.

You stiffend, instantly on guard.

“No,” you snapped. “Get out.”

He stepped in anyway, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“No,” he said evenly. “I’m going to stay here and talk to you. Even if I have to beg.”

You stared at him, unmoving.

He took a step forward. “Is that what you want? For me to beg?”

You stayed silent.

Tension hung between you, thick as the steam in the air. Old feelings clawing their way back to the surface. You hated how he could still pull them from you so easily.

He looked at you for a beat, eyes unwavering. “Well?” he prompted. “Do you?”

You crossed your arms, leaning back against the wall. “Go on then. Beg.”

You didn’t expect him to actually do it.

But then - he dropped. Right onto the steaming tile floor, knees hitting hard, ignoring the sharp heat searing against his skin. His hands came together in front of him, eyes locked on yours.

“Please,” he said, words low and sincere. “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry. I was stupid. I hurt you. I’ve spent every day since trying to be better. Trying to prove it. And I’ll keep doing it, Y/n. I’ll keep proving it. Just… please.”

The steam blurred the edges of him, but the emotion in his voice cut through like glass.

“One more chance,” he said, voice thick now. Raw.

He didn’t look away. And despite everything, it was hard to keep your heart guarded when he looked at you like that.

You exhaled slowly, heart tight in your chest.

“I'm tired, Jiyong,” you said finally. “I don’t want to fight anymore. It’s not fair to the others. I want this trip to be good. For all of us.”

His head dropped for a moment, as if something in him had finally unclenched.

You let out a breath. “You can get up now. Before someone thinks we’re doing something else in here.”

That familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slowly rose. “Wouldn’t be the first time we did, huh?”

You rolled your eyes.

He sat beside you, trunks sitting low on his waist, traces of his thigh tattoos peaking out. You stared ahead, trying not to glance at him, at the water glistening on his chest, the way his hair curled slightly with the heat.

The air was thick now, not just with steam but something unspoken.

History. Hunger. Longing.

Even just his presence beside you made your skin feel too tight. He wasn’t touching you, but you could feel him, the weight of what you used to be, of what you almost still were.

“Are you coming to the show later?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded, eyes still fixed ahead.

He smiled, small and genuine. “Good.”

And in that small pocket of heat and silence, the ache between you stirred again - unresolved, undeniable.

But for now, you leaned back, closed your eyes, and tried to let the steam carry it all away.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You and Hyorin had screamed yourselves hoarse from the barricade, limbs tangled in the wild energy of the fans.

It was impossible not to get swept up in it. Even if you hadn’t planned to cheer. Even if you told yourself you’d stay cool. Composed.

That hadn't been possible when Youngbae had stripped his shirt off and thrown it at the crowd - Hyorin fighting with a screaming girl to claim it. Or when Daesung poured his bottled water over his body, flicking the rest in your direction with a wink.

And especially not when Jiyong had collapsed to his knees in the middle of his performance of 'If You'. His eyes never leaving yours.

Unrelenting. Pleading.

Now, long after the final encore, the energy hadn’t quite faded.

You were all crammed into a hole-in-the-wall takeout spot, the kind of place that smelled like grease and burning. Noodles and soju littered the table, laughter spilling from every corner.

Youngbae had long since surrendered holding his head up, resting it flat on the tabletop, dead to the world.

Hyorin giggled uncontrollably as she slowly, dramatically piled noodles on top of his bleached hair, strand by strand.

“You’re going to give him a noodle crown,” you wheezed, covering your mouth with your hand.

She shushed you with mock seriousness. “Don’t wake him up!”

Even Jiyong had his head tipped back in laughter, cheeks pink from soju and residual adrenaline.

It felt like before. Before the fights. Before the silence. Before everything cracked.

Eventually, the energy began to fade, and someone mumbled something about sleep. Everyone agreed in a chorus of groans.

You stood, wincing immediately as the ache in your feet made itself known.

“God, I shouldn't have worn these shoes,” you muttered.

“Come on,” Daesung said, crouching down before you. “Hop on.”

“What? No, you just danced for like three hours, you must be - ”

He turned his head and gave you a look. “I said, hop on.”

You hesitated, then gave in with a laugh, throwing your arms around his shoulders and jumping onto his back. He hoisted you easily, gripping your thighs with a tight squeeze.

“Dae!” you squealed when he immediately took off into a sprint, making your stomach lurch with each bounce.

“You said your feet hurt!” he called back, breathless and grinning.

Behind you, you could hear Hyorin’s laughter, and Jiyong’s complaining as they were left to drag Youngbae’s half-sleeping form toward the hotel.

By the time you got back to the room, your whole body ached with exhaustion. You fell onto the bed face first with a groan.

“Dead,” you mumbled into the pillow.

Daesung leaned down, gently slipping your shoes off. “Still very beautiful though,”

“Mm,” you grunted, eyes fluttering closed as you rolled onto your side.

He tucked the blanket around you carefully, and you felt the dip of the mattress as he leaned in. Your breath caught. For a second, you thought - maybe -

But his lips just brushed the corner of your mouth. A near-kiss. Warm and fleeting.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

And then he was gone.

You were drifting when your phone vibrated on the nightstand. You groaned and reached for it blindly.

“What,” you muttered, not even checking the screen.

“Hi.”

You frowned. That voice. Low and hesitant.

Jiyong.

“What do you want now?” you asked, more tired than annoyed.

“Did you get back okay?” His voice was quiet. Softer than usual.

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “Daesung walked me to my room.”

You didn’t tell him about the blanket. Or the almost kiss.

“Good,” Jiyong said. “I feel better knowing you’re safe.”

You said nothing, eyes closing again.

“You two have gotten close.”

“Mhm.”

There was a pause. “I’m glad Daesung was there when I wasn’t. He’s a good friend. For looking after you… for me.”

You didn’t respond.

He sighed, but continued despite your silence. “I’m glad I can talk to you again,” he said. “We used to call after my shows, remember? When you couldn’t come, I’d call you the second I got offstage. Couldn’t sleep without hearing your voice.”

You nodded, but your mind was too foggy with sleep to respond.

“I haven’t really slept since we ended,” he added. “Not properly.”

You breathed out, slow and heavy. Already gone from the moment.

“I love you.”

But you didn’t hear him.

The phone slipped from your hand as you fell into sleep, the line still open.

When your alarm blared early the next morning, you jolted upright, groggy and sore. You reached for your phone to silence it - and that’s when you saw it.

The call was still ongoing.

You hesitantly brought the phone to your ear and waited. You could hear soft breathing. The gentle rhythm of Jiyong’s sleep, steady and low.

He hadn’t hung up.

You stared at the call log.

He’d stayed on the phone all night.

Your finger hovered above the red button. Just for a second.

Then you sighed and ended the call.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Even though the trip had ended on a high, normality was calling you to return.

But that didn't mean Japan hadn't left its mark.

You'd have to find a new job once you returned. And the break from Seoul had sown a seed of hope.

Maybe you could return to your passion of producing again. Maybe it was time to move forward, instead of letting the world moving around you.

You stepped into your apartment, the door clicking shut softly behind you. The familiar scent of your linen spray still lingered faintly in the air, a gentle, deceptive kind of welcome.

Home.

But something felt off.

And then you saw them.

The tulips.

They sat back in their vase on the counter. The very same vase you’d left knocked over. The flowers had begun to wilt, petals sagging from their stems. You had left them lying on the marble.

You knew you had.

The bag in your hands fell to the floor, your grip weak.

A wave of dread slammed into you. It was too much. After everything - your job, your breakup, the long, slow crawl of putting yourself back together - this, this, was the thing that made the cracks split open.

You cried.

Loud, ugly sobs that ripped through your chest.

Someone had been here.

Someone had invaded your only safe space.

The police came quickly. Professional, composed, too calm for the way your voice shook as you explained everything.

They swept the apartment, asked questions, took photos.

They didn’t find anyone.

But they did find what you feared most.

Your bedroom window - shattered from the outside.

Glass on the floor.

And clear signs that someone had entered.

One of the officers pulled his notebook out and gave you a grave look. “It’s clear someone broke in through the window. We’re escalating the case from a report of harassment to a formal investigation for unlawful entry. You did the right thing calling it in.”

You were shaking.

Your fingers trembled, clenched around the sleeves of your hoodie like you were trying to ground yourself. Willing your body to stay standing. And you wouldn't have been able to -

Had it not been for Jiyong’s arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders. Pressing you against his familiar embrace.

The officer glanced between the two of you. “Do you have somewhere safe you can stay?”

Jiyong didn’t hesitate. “With me.” he held you closer. "She's coming home with me."

You didn’t fight him. You couldn’t. You leaned into him, letting the warmth of his body soak into your bones.

Home wasn’t a place anymore.

But maybe it could be a person.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

dae: i'll speak to him about boundaries

cut to jiyong the next day on his knees, in a steam room, begging you for attention

this damn drama queen

a/n: my big bang girls gave me keywords for this fic: sauna, begging, pathetic man, and dog collar - i hope i lived up to most of them

sorry if this wasn't my best work - i'm still grinding at uni butttt only 2 assignments left 🥳🥳🥳🥳 yipeeee

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon , @imminsugasgf , @steponupbabe

[thecoochiefairy]

grillz. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 8.0K word count. wifeblackfem!reader, husband! onyankapon, football! onyankopon, grumpy!onyankapon, sweet!onyankapon, dominant!onyankapon, black woman, vaginal penetration, rough, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, squirting, pussy eating, choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk/aggressive dirty talk, condomless sex, creaming, slapping ass/face, kissing, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

𝓐ᥫ᭡

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ y’all already know what it is, it’s yo’ favorite couple. i just hope you like this one. ony is very grillz by nelly + paul wall coded, idk. anyways. lemme hush. for reference, my girl’s hair is in that curly/braids jayda-wayda hairstyle if it seemed confusing ! aight, love y’all. bye. teehee.

visual. visual. visual. visual.

𝓐ᥫ᭡:: your husband is invited to a basketball game.

YOU MIGHT’VE BEEN MORE NEUROTIC THAN YOUR MOTHER IN LAW. You came to that conclusion as you sprinted through the house, the scent of vanilla and jasmine wafting through the air each time you found something else to fixate on. 

You were supposed to be ready an hour ago. Your husband had been invited to a Lakers VS Pelicans game—and if being honest, this might’ve been your first outing since you had your third baby. 

Saint, you’d named him. A little too on the nose, but Onyankopon wanted to keep the tradition of your children’s names going. This pregnancy had been entirely different than Salem or Sage—pains, sickness, barely able to walk, accidents on yourself—you 

endured all the worst parts within your trimesters, but you were so blessed to have a healthy five month old boy. 

Now having three children, life was a lot different than you prepared for it to be. You were a full time stay at home wife. But it came with a price—being without Onyankopon for weeks at a time as he traveled, the overwhelming amount of time that you spent taking care of your children alone—not to mention the lack of dates, and sex. Hard to believe that you hadn’t hunched on your husband in six months. But having children all close in age required an extensive amount of attention, and although you’d die for them, a small part of you just missed being alone with your husband. And now, you had the opportunity—you were just a little too anxious. 

“Papa? Do you wanna pack your football?” 

Your eldest was now three, Salem being the sweetest baby boy you could ask for—he was always helpful with his one year old sister, being the big brother he was always excited to be. You were currently trying to pack up all three of your children for their grandma's house, while you were supposed to be getting ready. Onyankopon was too busy with a conference call to notice your hysteria.

“Yes, mommy. Can I pack my Legos?” 

“Of course, Papa—“ your eyes flick around the bed, noticing that something was missing. You scratch at the bonnet atop of your head, a sigh passing your lips as you question, “You wanna be a big boy and go find Sage’s binky for me? Did she drop it in the toy box?” 

He’s already running out. You turned around to look at the packed suitcases, eyes narrowing as you tried to think if you were missing anything. 

“Say-Say?—did we pack your baby brother’s socks and diaper bag? I know I put down Sage’s—“

Speaking of Sage, your one year old sits on the bed, previously focused on a fruit pouch that’s now drained—Her miniature fingers wave up for your attention. 

“Mommmma—Abu.”

You exhale, “You want your apple slices, pretty girl?” 

She nods, hands clapping together, 

“Yes, yes.” 

She looks around the room, seemingly waiting for the magical fruit that she wants to appear out of thin air—and at this point, you might’ve needed to be a magician.

“Okay,” you huff softly, “Just—okay.”

You place her on your hip as you throw on your house slippers, quickly padding your feet down the sleek stairs of your condo. The open kitchen nearly takes up the downstairs area, your hand reaching for the miniature fridge where you keep Sage’s snacks refrigerated. 

That’s when you stop. Your eyes flick over to your husband as he stands on the porch—you’re able to hear the baritone of his voice as he has the door cracked, pouring food into the bowls of your two Dobermans. You weren’t trying to run into him before you weren’t ready, but it was unfortunate that you lived together—and that Sage wanted those damn Apple slices.

You sat her on the counter as you pulled open the container of freshly cut fruit, putting one in her hand as your voice softly replied, “You’re welcome,” to her babble of “Thanyou.” 

Seeing Onyankopon reminded you of all the reasons you’d married him. The sable shirt he wears hugs the sculpt of his muscular frame, covered by an oversized varsity jacket that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. His cargo pants and forest green Nike dunks pull the entire outfit together, chain heavy on his neck as it shows his jersey number on the pendant. You’d redone his cornrows for tonight, neatly braided as he cleaned up his hairline, crawling all the way down to his facial hair around his lips and jawline. But the current star of the show was the glitter in his mouth, nearly ten bands of fully diamond encrusted grills he’d bought for the both of you—you just hadn’t worn yours yet. He was erotically intimidating at times, your eyes falling to the band on his ring finger. He was yours. 

“Baby,” his deep voice catches your attention, now realizing he was walking back into the house, “I know a nigga ain’t losin’ his mind—why you ain’t dressed?” 

The moment you go to answer, Salem comes flying downstairs. 

“Mommy! I can’t find Sage’s binky!”

Your eyes flicker back to your husband, pulling Sage onto your hip as you confirm, “That’s why.” 

“Why you ain’t come tell me, huh? I would’ve helped you. I was just talkin’ to coach about our last game.”

He looks good up close—smells good too, the scent of his cologne pulls you closer as you breathe in the aroma. 

You shake your head, “You know how I get before they go off to your mom’s house. I wanna make sure Salem has all of his favorite toys, Sage has her snacks and—“

You stop yourself, “Do you remember if I pumped milk for Saint? I fed him before I put him down for a nap, I just—“

And in that exact moment, the baby monitor goes off. Saint weeps through the microphone, wanting the attention of his momma. 

You dig your nails into the top of your bonnet, scratching away your anxieties as you sigh, “Maybe you should just go, Ony. The Pelicans gave you front row seats, I don’t want you to miss that.” 

You weren’t the only one stressed. Onyankopon had been having a hard time balancing football and family life, but he’d been there every second since the season was close to being over. He knew you needed time with him—you’d been cooped up for months.

He raises an eyebrow, “And leave you here? I thought you was tryna’ have a night out with yo’ nigga— I’m tryna’ show you off to the whole world tonight, I ain’t goin’ nowhere until you ready—C’mon, Imma’ help you find lil’ mama’s binky.” 

“Ony—“

“Mama, c’mon now. I wanna make this easier on the both of us.”

He takes Sage into his arms, the one year old babbling giggles as he blows his lips onto her cheek, “You act like you the only girl inna’ house that need attention, huh? Let yo’ momma breathe.” 

You sigh, “I’m not even close to being ready, baby. Don’t we still gotta’ drop them off to your mom’s—“

“My momma gon’ come finish packing them up. You tryna’ find another reason to skip out on this date?”

Okay, maybe you felt a little bad. He was already dressed, up and ready to get out the house without the tribulation of three little ones. This would be an adult night. 

You lean your head into his shoulder as you murmur, “I’m actin’ like my damn momma.” 

A soft chuckle passes Onyankopon’s lips, a hand reaching down to cradle the back of your neck, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. 

 “Sum’ like that.”

“Don’t be funny, nigga. I ain’t asking for commentary.”

“Aight, Aight. Forreal’—Imma’ make sure they all packed up and go change Saint. I know he givin’ that diaper the business while he sleep.”

He nudges you softly—your arms crossed, eyes looking down to the floor. He knew that you were overwhelmed, and a date didn’t even seem practical at this point. A hand rubs your chin as he tilts your face towards him, a finger curling under your jaw, “You gon’ give up on me now?”

You hated how sweet he could be at times. You pout a bit, “I’m sorry. I’m going, okay? You love me?” 

Onyankopon’s hand cups your cheek, pulling you into a kiss, his lips a bit harsh as he whispers against them. 

“You just askin’ to hear me say it. You already know what it is.”

A smile finds a way to your lips, hands wrapping around his neck while standing on your tippy toes, pressing pecks into his jawline, ”I love you too.”

“Hurry up. Gon’ make that ass clean so I can put my tongue in it—“

“Onyankopon!”

“See? You already gettin’ me started. Should’ve been ready, I wouldn’t have said allat’.”

Here was something else new that came with your third child. Your body. You’d always been curvier in your hips and thighs, but after Saint, that seemed to tenfold. 

The black mini skirt you wore was now was smaller than mini, the poke of your ass nearly peeking from the bottom of your girlishly pink thong. Your matching black baby tee clung around the full weight of your breast, going from a C to a Double D in the span of six months. 

You’d braided the front of your hair and perfected the swoop of your edges, the rest of your tresses bouncing in wand curls above your shoulders. Your lashes darkened your slender eyes, honey freckles bouncing off the complexion of your caramel skin, heart shaped lips coated in brown liner. You weren’t used to heavy jewelry, as Onyankopon had bought you a real anklet—it was weighted, cold around your skin, matching the silver sparkles in the pink platform sandals you wore. 

Your lips parted a sigh as you turned to the side—you weren’t insecure, but seeing the full figure that motherhood had given you in tight material was a bit nerve wracking, especially after months of only oversized clothing. 

 “I don’t look—different, do I?” 

Onyankopon’s eyes narrow at you, chin hovering over your body as he wraps his arm around your neck, gently putting you within a headlock. You smelled good, a bit sweeter. 

”Different,” he repeats, licking his lips, “You look like a muhfuckin’ meal, baby. A nigga might have to keep you inside.” 

You hum a soft laugh, trailing your French tips against the arm that wraps around your neck, “I told you about puttin’ me in these headlocks like I’m one of your teammates,” you roll your eyes. 

He presses a kiss to your cheek, watching you through the mirror, “What’chu’ mean? Thought you liked this shit, it be makin’ you blush like a lil’ school girl.”

He lets go of the pressure, but not the arm around you, “You look gorgeous, Mama. You gon’ stop all that overthinkin’ now?”

“Maybe.” 

You pull his arm down as you turn, running your fingers over the shown tattoos on his neck and face. You hum, “You look good,” sticking your tongue out as you await for his mouth to follow. His grills shine within your vision.

He grunts into a chuckle, leaning down to press his lips against yours. His tongue is cold from the ice he chews, lips always softer than they appeared. His mouth pops from yours as mutters, “You tryna’ distract me.”

You give him a smile, showing off the pure shine of the matching ones he’d bought you. The heart shape of your lips made them look perfect, sultry even. 

“You like em’?”

“You know I like em’,” he rasps. 

His hands are harsh, grabbing onto the sides of your small face as he pulls you back in for another kiss. His lips suck on the plush of yours, “Matchin’ a nigga fly.” 

“You better like them for ten bands, nigga. You be gettin’ real besides yourself cause you got money.” 

“You talkin’, but that money takes care of this family, and be buyin’ yo’ ass allem’ bags, perfumes, and shoes. Daddy be takin’ care of you, huh?” 

His eyes narrow into a snarl, smacking one hand against the plump of your ass, watching it bounce through the skirt it’s hidden behind, making you giggle as he grunts, “I don’t?” 

“You do,” you kiss at his jaw, “Did Saint wake up when you changed him?”

“Nah, I just put him in my momma car. Sage was good too, you know crybaby quick to start screamin’ if she don’t get that binky—and Salem, he just excited to go to grandmas. You know we’ a team, right? I always got you, girl.” 

You sigh, “I know. You um—got his diaper bag?”

“Nah.” 

He smacks your ass again, “Goddamn, girl—Ion’ even know what you just asked me.“ 

You giggle, “The diaper bag, dork.” 

“Can’t hear you. Yo’ ass covering all the sound in the room.” 

“Onyankopon.” 

“Aight, lawd. You ain’t no fun.” 

In this moment, you almost felt similar to a baby—like you’d just gotten thrown into the world without any preparation. You forgot how much you hated the spotlight that was required being married to your husband—this was a Pelicans basketball game, and he somehow got more attention just being there as the New Orleans Saints’ quarterback. Your nerves got the best of you as you pulled up to the front of the stadium, seeing the valet workers prepare to open your passenger door. It was—chaos.

“You’ straight?” 

You give him a nod, knowing you weren’t entirely.

The paparazzi was always a nuisance, and even more so with the news of your newly born baby—Onyankopon could tell that he was being watched as you step out of the car, the flash of  light going off as his hand holds on to your hand firmly, pressing your body into his, as if he was shielding you. You lower your head as you hear him politely answering questions, cameras flashing in every direction—you hated this part every time.

“I’m excited to be able to come to a Pelicans game close to our off season, they been on a roll lately—and Zion, that nigga crazy onna’ court. We gon’ make it a close game tonight—hopefully.” 

The questions were quick to come up, “You have any bets on who’s winning tonight?” 

“Bets? Nah, ion’ do that shit,” he turns to you, “My wife my lil’ good luck charm—she gon’ be the reason they win tonight.”

You lean your head into his shoulder, a shy smile finding its way to your lips as you squeeze his hand a little tighter. He pulls you into a small kiss, the cameras flashing from the showmance between the two of you. 

It was quieter on the inside, the amount of people, security, and other familiar faces crowding the arena as you’re guided to the front row of the court. It was a couple minutes before the game started, and you already knew the drill—you crossed your leg over the other as you fixed your hair, re-touched your lip liner, sprayed yourself of perfume—all the awkward ways you could distract yourself as Onyankopon socialized with others sitting in the row next to you. Unlike you, he was extremely friendly. You would give a soft smile each time he introduced you to someone, but that was about it. You were more comfortable talking to your three year old than most adults.

He’d kissed your cheek multiple times, trying to coax you out of your shell as your eyes stayed transfixed onto the players practicing on the court. He could sense that you were trying your hardest to fit in, but he didn’t want that. He just wanted you to be yourself. 

“You want anything to drink, baby?” He leans down, lips close to your ear as he holds your thigh, “They got food too—it’s gon’ take a minute to get to you, might as well see what you want now.”

You shake your head, eyes flickering up to him, “I’m okay.”

“Don’t be lyin’. I know them’ lil’ apple slices you be stealin’ off our daughter ain’t that good—“

Onyankopon cuts himself off when he sees you smile. He’d always been good at making you laugh, and it wasn’t any different now. 

Your voice is soft as you ask, “They got Sangria? And loaded fries?”

“Oh aight, you tryna’ turn up tonight? You’ scandalous,” which makes you giggle as he continues, “Heard you. I’ll be back.” 

The moment he began walking away, the stadium camera seemed to find him— your husband appeared directly onto the Jumbotron—it showed a quick reel of him on the field, the crowd creating an echo as they cheered. His grills shine under the camera as he smiles, throwing up his fingers as he greets the cheers—It makes you blush. 

The game officially starts. Right on time, a hand rubs at the back of your neck, Onyankopon sitting next to you as he presses a cold drink into your hands, “You need me to turn on yo’ seat fan?”

You lean closer to him as you steal the fries out of his hands, “Nope. Just want you to enjoy the game, baby. I don’t wanna see you cry when the Lakers put belt to ass on the Pelicans,” you giggle.

“I ain’t even gon’ put that Lakers blasphemy into the universe. You actin’ bad.” 

“And you’ delusional.”

“Call it what you want!” 

The game is a brawl. Cheers take over the stadium as the Pelicans manage to get a few points over the Lakers, who are just barely in the lead. You hold back your laugh as you watch Onyankopon lean into the court, eyes narrowing as his voice carries, “What you doin’, nigga? You’ gon’ let him take the ball from you? Ref—you gon’ call that foul? Nigga tripped his feet clear as day!”

You sigh as you take a sip of the sweet alcohol flowing between your lips—this was your husband. 

It was now half time, and you couldn’t lie—you were feeling the effects of your Sangria. You might’ve become a little mouthy as you watched fouls or unfair calls of the ball, nearly as into it as your husband was. When they were back to showing familiar faces against the Jumbotron, your eyes flickered up as you heard the crowd go back to roaring, seeing yourself and Onyankopon in your seats as you watched the game. You gave a shy wave into the screen, giggling as your husband childishly pecked your cheek repeatedly along the Jumbotron. 

“You prettier on the big screen—shy ass,” he nudges your shoulder, “You still good?”

You nod, “I might order another Sangria—or a Margarita, or—one of those. What’s in Sangria, baby?” You tug at his letterman, humming through your question as you lean into his lap. 

A chuckle leaves his lips, “What I’m gon’ do with you, girl? You’ tipsy already.”

And although you were a little tipsy, this was the most laid back you’d ever been in a while. He missed your playful attitude, and even more so when you were comfortable. 

His hand rubs at your shoulder, pecking your cheek as he says, “Ion’ know. How bout’ we order both and mix ‘em into one cup?”

“You’re so smart,” you sigh, “My sexy, smart man.” 

Yup. That was it—you were now drunk.

Well, blame the Sangria-rita you’d just made. You were always able to hold yourself together in an environment where you couldn’t show just how intoxicated you were. But being around your husband without your kids, it might’ve had you a little more relaxed. And horny. When the game ended—and the Pelicans won, of course—instead of going home, Onyankopon had gotten a call from one of his teammates, mentioning that they would all be out at the club for another teammate's birthday, their wives joining in at the section as well. And of course, Onyankopon's friendly ass just couldn’t say no.

He could see the nerves in your face as you arrived at the club. Your eyes scan around, seeing familiar teammates with their wives and girlfriends. You’d never met half of these girls, and the ones you had met already seemed to be having fun together. 

Onyankopon leaned down, lips near your ear as he gently said, “We can go home, Mama. I can go pick up the kids on the way back—“

Were you giving off that you weren’t enjoying yourself? Hell. The Sangria might’ve worn off and made you a little sleepy, but you really weren’t ready to go home. You pull him down by his jaw as you interrupt,“I’m fine, baby. Promise—just need to hear a lil’ music. I want you to have fun.” 

His nose nuzzles against your hair, a soft chuckle leaving his lips as he pulls you into his side, “I’m always gon’ have fun if I’m with you, girl. Come on.”

A hand comes down to the lower part of your back, leading you right into a VIP section. Onyankopon was greeting his teammates, a soft wave pulling at your fingers as you greeted the wives and girlfriends. You could be friendly—they just weren’t your type of crowd. 

But of course, you loved your husband enough to try something once. You took a couple of shots with them, Hennessy their choice of drink. When you mentioned that you didn’t enjoy the taste of more common brown liquors, one of them gave you an eye roll, and that was your cue to head back over to your husband. Maybe it was the liquor in your system, but you might’ve been a little irritated from that interaction. 

You wrapped your arms around Onyankopon’s neck as you sat on his lap, trying to hide the annoyance in your face—Too bad you weren’t good with that.

“I see that face you makin’. What happened?” 

You try to shake it off, “I be tryna’ be cool with them hoes. They’ weird,” your murmur to him, going into your purse as you search for your phone.

“You gettin’ mad for no reason,” he holds your phone out for you, “They just be tryna’ fit in with the crowd.” 

“You don’t need to give me explanations for bitches you don’t even know,” you flick your eyes back up to him, “Ain’t nobody mad. If I was, I would’ve said that.”

He raises an eyebrow. Onyankopon leans down into your ear, a hand pulling you in by the cradle of your neck as he questions, “What ‘you gettin’ an attitude with me for?”

“What I look like startin’ an argument with you in front of everybody? I’m just sayin’, I don’t like them girls.” 

“You don’t like nobody. Yo’ ass mean.”  

You narrow your eyes at that. You then wrap your arms further around his neck as you smile, “I like you, Daddy.”

Your eyes. He could see it all in your eyes. 

He raises an eyebrow, pressing a kiss to your lips before pulling you into another one, a bit more harsh as you feel his hand caress across the bottom of your thigh, a thumb stroking against your skin. 

“Keep behavin’, girl. You gon’ let a nigga dance wit’ you, or you gon’ have an attitude about that too?”

“You gon’ throw some ones on me if I dance?” 

You move your hips along his lap, giggling through the shots you were beginning to feel in your system.

“I’m throwin’ hundreds out this bitch if it’s you.” 

Onyankopon’s hand smacks at the side of your thigh, “You talkin’ too much. C’mon.”

You stand in front of him, your eyes a bit blurry from the lowlights of the club, which somehow makes your tipsiness worse—This was a side of you that hadn’t shown in months, the arch of your silhouette drowning in his sight as you hold the edge of your skirt, ass shaking within his face. You dip your head down to watch him from behind, teeth sinking into the plush of your lip.

“That’s how you feelin’?”

Swat, his hand palms your ass hard. The sting rushes into a pleasure you hadn’t expected, making the skin flush.

The mixture of a giggle and whimper passes your lips, barely audible as you hear the music thumping around you. You’re really horny now.

Your brain is foggy—so foggy that you tug your panties to the side for a millisecond, letting him see the glisten of your pussy. You feel his palm latch along your throat from behind, tugging you back onto his lap. 

He grunts, “You tryna’ have me kill a nigga in here.”

“I think that Hennessy’ talking,” you giggle to him.

His hand smacks your ass harder, the sound piercing the atmosphere. The music wasn’t going hard enough to mask it. 

“Yo’ ass gon’ be the reason we leave. Keep fuckin’ playin’.”

“Okay—down, boy. You got a teammate to celebrate his birthday with. Go, imma’ babysit another drink.”

“You gon’ behave?”  he tilts your chin up, finding your eyes in his.

“I always do. Kiss?”

Onyankopon’s lips are on yours in seconds. He knocks your head up as he taps your chin, grills shining a blue tint under the lights of the club before he leaves you alone. 

The thing is, you didn’t exactly do what you’d told him you would.

You’d ordered a lemon drop martini, doing the opposite of babysitting your drink as you consumed it in minutes. A small smile spread across your lips as your mother-in-law sent pictures of your babies enjoying their time at grandmas, and although you missed your kids—the sight of your husband across the club had your attention. 

You could admit it now—you were fully drunk. The club was closing, and you were entirely too far away from home for Onyankopon to drive back. So you’d both decided on a hotel for the night—and with your intoxicated minds, you might’ve chosen the nicest one in New Orleans, booking the rooftop of the tallest building. 

You giggle as he carries you bridal style, using his foot to open the door to the room—and it’s a sight to see.

The floor is marbled, an expensive crystal chandelier casting warm shades of orange and gold across the room. The walls were high, mirrors reflecting the lights from the chandelier. The bed is huge, with a golden, lacy canopy.

You gasp, “Baby—there’s a pool!” 

An infinity pool to be specific—it was beautiful, lit up against the night skyline, the sounds of jazz music faint in the background from the echoes of downtown. 

“Baby. Be care—“  

You almost fall, saved by Onyankopon as he lifts you up by the back of your thighs, holding you in front of him as your legs wrapped around his waist, throat giggling as you hold onto him, “Oops.”

“You drunk as hell, Mama.” 

He tosses you onto the bed before you can answer—And you squeal, drunk laughter passing your lips as you bounce up once, eyes still on the man in front of you—and God, he was your everything. You didn’t know if it was the alcohol you’d been drinking all night, but you missed him—and now, you wanted him all over you.

You watch him undress himself—that jacket hits the floor, tattoos on his arms and biceps beginning to outline underneath the lights.

You groan, “I’m hot, baby. I wanna go swimming.” 

“Ion’ know,” he’s slow with his words, easing out of his pants, “I could just rub up on you, baby. Let you fall asleep in my arms.”

“That’s boring,” your eyes wander his body as you bite your bottom lip. Your legs spread a bit on the bed, “Can I go look at it?”

You were a drunken mess, your words slurred, your sentences a bit incoherent as he shakes his head, chuckling at the sight. 

“You can’t even think straight, girl. Just lay yo’ ass down.”

You roll your eyes, huffing, “Whatever. I gotta go pee.” 

You didn’t give him time to answer. 

Your body was stumbling off of the bed—but instead of the bathroom, you made your way directly towards the pool. You’re tugging off the material of your clothes, stepping out of the skirt you wear, pulling the baby tee over your head effortlessly—you’re bare up top, nipples shining a pretty brown under the lights, your thong molding along your hips at the bottom.

“You’ hard headed.”

His voice is a chuckle, but his eyes glare at you. He watches your body dive into the pool. 

“I thought you was usin’ the bathroom,” His voice is low, eyes at your figure that flows beneath the water as his feet begin to follow you outside. 

And then you come up—Your eyes are the only thing above water, slender as you swim to the edge. 

“It feels good, baby. You wanna feel?” 

You come up more the moment your fingers fall around the flesh of your breasts, squeezing at your hardened  nipples as you whimper, “C’mon, Ony…”

His voice gets lower, “Goddamn. Aight.”  

Your eyes flick down to his dick that slaps his abdomen the moment he pulls it from his boxers, a sultry smile on your face as you swim to the side of the pool where he’s fully undressed, his body towering above you as he steps in.

The minute he steps in, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down within the water as you lift yourself against him. Your eyes glow, your tongue dragging against his lips as you giggle, “I missed you, Daddy.”

Onyankopon chuckles, lips brushing against yours, “What you miss about me?”

“Being alone with you. Touchin’ on you—“

You’re softly whining, your tongue swirling along his throat, meeting him in a filthy kiss as you come up. And of course, he’s kissing you back even worse—tongue invading your lips, drowning you under his mouth. You allow your body to sway its way towards the edge of the water, turning as you lean yourself against the glass of it, back now facing him. Your little show from the club returns, and under perfect lighting? Your pussy was even prettier. It’s pink as you spread it in his face, glistening to coax him even further.

You whimper, “—The way you fuck me. Come take me, Ony.”

Onyankopon grunts at the sight.

Being drunk brought out a whole different side of you—but your husband was no better. It was the way he ate your pussy when intoxicated—his tongue wagged up against the soft flesh of your folds, the soppy arousal drenching his facial hair each time his full lips sucked your clit up into his mouth. He can’t help it—he’s dipping his tongue in between your opening and hole up top, your fingers tightening along his braids as you whimper in return. But you’re worse—you’re twisting your hips from side to side, riding his face to meet his tongue that sucks your clit from behind. Your ass is all in his face, but he loves it, spanking you with rumbles vibrating against your flesh. 

You always got what you were asking for, but you were needy regardless. You didn’t expect your back to arch any further than it was, your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his fingers tightened within your curls, fucking you in a way you’d missed in months. Your ass bounces onto his creamy dick by the pull of his strength—your lips releasing giggles, squealing in between your moans as he takes you from behind. 

“This’ how you missed me, huh? Boucin’ back on my dick like a muhfuckin’ slut? Look at you.” 

You were so drowned in him, you were hardly paying attention to where you were. The marble was cold on the edge of the pool, and with the tiniest bit of sense you had, you whined, “It’ssogood, baby.” 

A low groan leaves his lips, the sound vibrating against your neck. 

“You loud. Finna’ wake up the whole neighborhood.” 

You’re too drunk to listen, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you place your arm behind your back, waiting for him to grab ahold of it. Your moans are long, whiney as you’re somehow still giggling, so elated from how good every stroke feels. His tip is becoming lost in your pussy, your intoxication making you wetter by the second. 

His hand wraps against your arm, your leg going further over the edge, your back in the perfect arch as you mewl. Your eyes roll as he snakes his other hand to the front of you, clutching your jaw to snap your face behind to look into his—That’s when you sling your hips back, fucking yourself on his dick, a hazy smile on your face, screwed with a mixture of pleasure. 

“Ony…” 

You’re squealing to him.

“You still miss a nigga, huh? My shit deep enough for you to remember?”

Onyankopon’s hand tightens along your neck, his fingers gripping the bottom of your chin to bring your face closer to his. You squirm at the change in angle.

One of your hands slides against the side of his head, fingers running across the length of his cornrows. Your lashes are heavy, fluttering as you plead, “It’s deep,” your voice hardly audible over the sounds of your skip clapping together. 

“Feel so full when you’re in me,” you whimper along his mouth.

Your voice was music to his ears. 

The wet flesh sends echoes against the marble, your moans loud in his ear. But everything you were giving him was worth the wait of you being pregnant. He’d taken care of you, babied you. And now, he fucked you like you were his again. 

He could be sweet, sensual—but he could also be a demon. You’re out of the pool now, close to the bed—but you couldn’t make it there on time. Your fingers clutched

along his shoulder as he carries you with no effort, legs held by his arms as he’s lifting you up, tip slapping the sensitivity of your puffy folds, dropping you down in seconds. A squelch comes in return from the curve of his dick reaching inside. 

“Ion’ wanna hear nothin’,” he grunts to you, “Just listen to us.” 

You knock your forehead against his, eyes watering as you tremble whimpers, cradling the nape of his neck in your fingers. Your mind is hazy.

His gaze pierces yours, your lips barely hovering above his as he grunts, “You hear that? That’s the sound of you leakin’ all on my shit. Just droolin’.” 

Your face screws into a pout as you whimper, “Ohmygod, baby. You’re so strong. Oh my goddd. Ughn. F—fuck,” your nails sink into his skin. 

“The fuck did I say, huh?”  

A swat comes to your face, and your eyes flutter, sinking your fingers between your lips as you hush the noises from your mouth. There’s tears in your eyes, thighs trembling as he continues to hold you in the air. Plop, plop, schluck. 

“That’s my good lil’ bitch. Open.” 

He spits in your mouth, gripping your neck tighter as he speaks.

“Tongue.” 

When you do, he spits again. 

“Goodbaby.”  

Your whimper is a high-pitched sound, your teeth nibbling against his bottom—but that’s when he releases you onto your feet—your legs instantly trembling, and he can tell you won’t be able to keep this up. 

“On that bed,” his voice is low. 

“Knees first.”

The moment you crawl onto the bed, you drop your face onto the sheets, back still arched, spreading your reddened pussy as you gently rotate your hips for him. 

“C’mon, Daddy.” 

The arrogance pours from his body as he slaps his tip against your folds, your hips jolting at the feeling. His dick is sliding in, sinking every gifted inch he has for you—It’s even deeper this time, a pinch coursing through your lower stomach the moment the back of your thighs clap with his abdomen, tearing away like Velcro each time. 

You’re mewling, “Damn, baby. I love you so much—why you fuckin’ me like this…”  

You’re babbling, asking nonsensical questions. You knew that.

He finds a grip in your curls, tugging you onto him. His eyes are low as he grunts, “I’m fuckin’ you like this ‘cause you want me to. Look at that pussy. Look at that shit. Pretty lil’ bitch I got.” 

Your eyes are watering heavily. You’re nearly silent for a while, just feeling everything he has to give you. Your body shakes, and you let out the deepest gasp, your exhale a low sob. 

“Keep goin’.” 

It came out a grunt, his voice cracking through the thickness of his Southern drawl. His words are nearly harsh—he craved you—but he meant it, “That’s so muhfuckin’ pretty, Mama. That cream you givin’ me. Yo’ cum is so pretty.” 

And he’s right—you’re cumming, the creamy release of your pussy painting his balls in your affection. Onyankopon’s fingers are tucked along the back of your neck, tattooed frame large above your smaller figure. 

You don’t mean for your mouth to unlatch a loud, “Ughn—Ooshit, baby…”

But it does. 

His body slaps against your round ass, “You been goin’ through it—You coulda’ just came and sat on this dick, Mama. Know you’ been thinkin’ about it. Know you been needin’ it.” 

Your fingers slip in between your lips, sucking lightly to muffle your sounds. You whimper, “Sorry, baby,” as you go back to dropping your hips down to meet his body. You imagine how that looks from behind—how your walls just suck him in, a whiney mess that you are, becoming needier by the second. 

“Uh-huh,” He groans, “Yeah—you been missing your nigga, huh?”

“Mhmm.”

That’s all you can manage to get out—your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, but you try your best to keep them open.

“Missed you so—muc—ugh—much, daddy.”

Seeing you this way was always rewarding. It was like all the senses in your brain went fuzzy, and you’re swirling your hips in a circle, throwing your ass back to meet his body. Fingers still tucked in between your mouth, you’re groaning. 

“See’—there you fuckin’ go. That’s my girl—“

His equal groan is deep and husky—loud, almost guttural.  It makes you shake, “You my good girl, ain’t you? You gon’ start acting right, huh?”

You had no thoughts within your mind.

“I’m your good girl,” you whimper, “See, baby—just wanted you,” your siren eyes peer behind your shoulder to watch your ass bounce. One of your arms reaches back—but Onyankopon’s already there again, snatching your wrist behind your back. 

“That’s all it was? You just wanted me?”

He leans his body down, pushing himself deeper into you. With your arms held, he’s got you locked—helpless.

Your face was red, eyes cloudy. You nod in answer, not trusting your own voice. 

Onyankopon’s hand releases the one held behind your back, his fingers wrapping around your throat from behind instead. His hips are going, heavy body throwing you onto his dick. 

His groan is a low hum, “Daddy’s here now, Mama. That’s all you needed.”

You can’t help the sound that comes from your lips—the whine that’s loud, a shaky breath being sucked into the air. His words, his affirmations to you—your eyes water again, and you give him a continuous nod as you watch your ass go up and down. Your feminine tone cries softly, body quivering as his words echo in your brain. 

He wants to mean every word he says. The way he grips your throat is a sign, the way he’s dropping you down, holding you in place.

Your sobs come out in low gasps,“Ohhh my god—“ 

You’re getting lightheaded.

“O—Oh—Oh, baby…” your brain’s getting foggy—no wonder you see dots.

You moan, “Oh, God. I love you so…much.”

“Yeah?” He grunts, “You mean that?” 

His body makes it hard for you to answer—and his words,  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you, baby. You forgivin’ me, huh?” 

“Uh-huh,” You nod, “I forgive you. I’m so sorry,” you whine, “S’much, baby.”

You were being honest. Although, you weren’t sure what you were apologizing for. 

You can barely even see, mouth parting as you’re going to speak again, eyes rolling back. It’s silent. But that’s when your voice gets louder—even though it doesn’t seem possible, “Please forgive me, baby. Just needed you, Ony.” 

You give him a shaky nod, trying to focus on your breathing. He grips your throat harder, just the way you like, “I hear you, Mama. You hear me?” 

You gasp,  “Yes—Oohgod, baby.” 

“We ain’t finna’ have these problems no more?” 

“No—I love you—love you so much,” you sob again, body beginning to give. You’re shaking harder, you know you’re crying, but it only makes him go faster, a loud groan coming from his lips.

“That’s how you feelin’?”

“Uh-huhhhh,” you moan, lips quivering, “I forgive you—I always forgive you, Ony.”

Your nails dig at his skin, the sounds you’re making being loud enough to wake the dead. You moan, “I’d never—ooh—doubt you, I was jus—just—“ 

Your brain gives up—you can’t make sentences.

Maybe you shouldn’t have been so sorry. You now have to prove your own words, curls hanging above your face as you’re exhausted from now being on top—Onyankopon’s large hands unfortunately have you trapped, your whimpers seeping through the walls as he’s constantly bouncing you down against his lap. This is the sight you’d been looking for—that glare, that growl from his lips, your smaller frame being swallowed by his—even if you were above him. Your thighs burned, your hips ached. 

His hand lifts your body by your throat.

“You know how I feel?”

His hips thrust upward, “I gotta be here for you a lil’ more,” His deep groan makes your legs jolt, “That’s on me, aight? Imma’ make up fo’ that, I promise.” 

His tone goes dark. 

"I love you, Mama," He grunts, "And my kids—I haven’t been a good husband, have I?”

You shake your head, finding your own rhythm within your hips as you rotate above him, “It’s okay, baby—“ you breath hitches, “Such a good h—husband, Ony…” 

His hand around your neck loosens—his thumb rubs against the pulse beneath your jaw, “You promise?” 

His lips suck on your bottom lip, his hips moving against yours now—slowing.

You nod. Onyankopon’s other hand cups beneath your thigh, guiding your body—up and down, your head lolls to the side, curls draping along your hand as your eyes roll, “Baby, I c—can’t…” 

“Yeah?” He grunts, “You can’t—lemme’ hold you then. C’mere.” 

His kiss is soft—he’s tasting you, groaning through a snarl of his lip, “Uh—uh-huh—“ His hips aren’t slowing, “I feel you, mama.”

You’re crying softly as you hold onto him,

“O—Ony…”

“I’m a good husband, ain’t I? Talk to me.” 

He’s begging, his voice deep, “Please don’t be mad at me, baby. I’m already mad at myself because I’m not there for you no’ more.”

This bastard was evil. 

The tears in your eyes aren’t helping your case, your arms wrapping around his neck as you shakily sob out in return, cumming again, holding onto him for dear life as you cry, “Not m—mad at you, Daddy…” 

His tongue slides down to your neck, sucking on the skin, leaving bruises. 

With the sudden touch of cold metal against your thigh, your body shivers, mind entirely fuzzy at this point. 

“That’s yo’ niggas ring,” He hushes you with a light grunt, his hips going—”You feel it, mama? You feel it on me?”

“I feel all of you,” you moan, hands scratching his back, “And I love you so much, baby—feel you so deep—oh god—don’t—stop, baby.”

His tongue swirls on your throat, and it makes your head fuzzy, “I’m sorry, baby.”

“I hear you, baby,” you whimper in his own words he spoke earlier, “It don’t matt—oh, matter, anymore, baby. I’m yours, Ony.” 

Your back arches—but he’s still holding your throat. Onyankopon grins at the sight, his head leaned into your neck—grunting and groaning while his large hands help you move. Faster.

“I’ll always be there fo’ my kids—But, you my baby—I’ll never leave you when you need me. And you gon’ need Daddy, huh? Just like now.” 

You press your forehead against his, digging your teeth within your lip as your eyes roll—your mouth parts as you shudderingly moan, “Yeah, Daddy. Okay.”

You’re gasping, eyes watering, hips burning. Your entire body trembles as oceans of pleasure crash in violent waves, the mixture of a groan and scream dropping from your lips, panting as you try to control your sounds. You’re squirting. 

His eyes are glaring, tone deep, “Who you gon’ get on the phone and cry to, huh? Who gon’ treat you the way I do? Fuck yo’ ass the way I do? Who gon’ catch all these tears like me?” 

You’re fully sobbing, “Fuuuck, Ony.”

He grunts at your sounds, “Just like that—“ His hand presses on your waist, “Go ‘head baby. You know I’m right behind you.” 

Your body gives for a third time. Onyankopon’s tongue rushes against yours, the warmth of his cum filling you as his large palm cradles you into his body. You don’t know when your eyes closed, or when you stopped breathing. Your vision is a blur when you’re able to see again. 

“Mama—you aight?” 

You give the smallest nod. Your face is flushed, your mind a bit fuzzy as you whimper, “Got too drunk, baby. My head hurts.”

Onyankopon chuckles, the sound low as he’s leaning against the pillows, your smaller figure sinking into his chest.

“Lemme’ get you a warm towel—“

“Nuh-uh,” you mumble, “I’m fine. You stay here.”  

His hand is slow as his palm smoothes along the small of your back, his lips pressing against your cheek, “I told you I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

A comforting silence fills the room for a couple of minutes, your body nearly passed out against his. That’s when you feel your husband shift a bit beneath you as he murmurs, “Baby…I wanted to give you sum’ before the end of the night.”

You hum softly, eyes still closed. 

“Can I guess what it is?”

His laugh is low, his hand gently stroking the skin of your lower back. 

”You get one guess,” He murmurs, his other hand finding a grip in your hair.

“A Unicorn,” you softly gasp, eyes still closed as you hum, “Yup. It’s my very own unicorn.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Onyankopon chuckles as he says, “You was’ close, but nah— I know you’ been talkin’ bout how you wanna renew our vows.”

Your head peeks up. 

“And?”

“And—I figured, yo’ nigga can’t re-marry yo’ ass without some new rings.”

He leans over the bed, pulling two small boxes from his pants. It’s brighter than the jewelry within his mouth—a heart shaped diamond crystals within your eyes, the ring larger than the rock you already carried on your finger. 

You gasp, “Ony—are you serious?” 

“Dead serious. I got that lil’ venue you wanted in Rome, too. I’m ready for another lifetime with you,” His fingers find your chin, “You ready for another lifetime with me?”

“You did this all for me?” 

“I’d do anythin’ for you, girl. You my best friend,” He grins, “Can you promise me one thing, though?”

A sigh escapes his lips—you leap into his embrace, hugging him tightly, “That I’ll give you like a million more babies?” 

Onyankopon chuckles at your reaction, his large arm hugging around your frame as he answers, “Nah. Promise you ain’t never gon’ doubt me again. A nigga love you forreal’.” 

Your heart is warm. Your hands graze along his facial hair, looking over the face of the man that truly loved you like no one else would. 

You sigh, “I love you too, Ony. You got a hair tie?”

“Yeah,” he raises an eyebrow, “Whatchu’ need one for?” 

He’s shifting across the bed, digging into an open drawer of the bedside dresser.

“Cause I’m finna’ suck the skin off that di—“

“Girl,” he chuckles, “Lawd. You ain’t tired?

“I’ll never be tired of you. Say you feel the same—and that you love me!”

He chuckles, “I do. Quit playin’.”

And you knew that, because he did.

[chellz22-blog]

Have you ever heard of MOGAD before? No? Neither had I. According to Google, 1-3 people of 1,000,000 are diagnosed with MOGAD each year, with no known statistics for seronegative MOGAD.

I have been suffering for years. Silently struggling with symptoms that sounded ridiculous and with no answers that led me feeling ashamed and depressed because when you are constantly 'sick' and going to hospital and from doctor to doctor, only to be told your suffering mirgrains, well no one is going to take you seriously. My headaches were severely disabling. I was popping nuerofen like malteasers, feeling sick, loosing my vision, my balance and what felt like my mind. I couldn't keep a job because I was so unreliable due to my symptoms. I was always tired and angry which of coarse affected those around me. Especially my kids. Things got seriously bad in December of 2024. I needed to hold onto my kids to cross a road, or do a food shop. I was falling over, I was loosing feeling in my left arm and leg. By Feb 2024, I was rushed to boxhill hospital under a stroke code. I wasn't having a stroke. I was diagnosed 3 days later after finally receiving a MRI with Multiple sclerosis.

I spent weeks at a time in and out of hospital due to my symptoms flaring back up constantly. I was the diagnosed with MOGAD, then further seronegative MOGAD.

MOGAD (myelin oligodendrocyte glycoprotein antibody associated disease) is an autoimmune condition where your immune system attacks proteins in the protective cover around your nerves (myelin). It causes symptoms that affect your eyes, brain and spinal cord, like vision loss, confusion and muscle weakness.

I myself suffer from seronegative MOGAD which means despite having clinical and radiological features consistent with MOGAD, I test negative for MOG antibodies.

If your not confused by all of this, I take my hat off to you, because I'm still extremely confused as to what it all means. I just know that this is slowly but surely taking my life from me.

My name is Michelle (Chell) and I'm from a small country town in rural Victoria. I'm the youngest of 4 children with 3 older brothers.

I'm 36years old with 3 beautiful children, my oldest is 14, and I have 2 sons who are 8 and 9. I'm honestly blessed as my children are hands down beautiful, kind and well behaved kids. Every day I live for them. In October of 2024, I was lucky enough to meet the love of my life and despite my health issues and being a single mum of 3 kids, he took us all in with open arms. He drives me to and from every medical appointment and hospital visit. He cares for me and my kids better than I've ever known.

I have always loved writing and decided I would try write a blog about my condition and struggles. If I can encourage just 1 person who has any symptoms similar to mine to push your doctor to get you into that MRI machine, then in my eyes that's a success.

I encourage questions and will write again explaining my symptoms in a little more depth soon.

Please feel free to leave a comment or even email me.. mxchel22@hotmail.com

For more info check out MS Australia's website https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&opi=89978449&url=https://www.msaustralia.org.au/&ved=2ahUKEwi1vd-9uMOMAxXbdvUHHc7PEl8QFnoECAwQAQ&usg=AOvVaw1KfxYaUSM5M1G-9V2eLdlS

Much love, Chell xx

[crimeronan]

musing on horror fiction and disability.

i've seen a lot of interesting discussion recently on whether or not disability horror is Okay (TM). the most common conclusion (from people who, like, care about ableism) is that disabled protags should Exist, but their disability shouldn't be the source of the horror, and should perhaps even help them survive. and there's been a lot of good horror fiction written around this specific concept!

it's a pretty sensible starting point because, like. disability Actually Exists. you don't want to write a story where the point is to gawk at an actual subsection of your readers n go "wow, GOD, that would suck!! how scary!! so glad it's not me!! okay byeeee"

On The Other Hand, though. when i write horror, i DEFINITELY plot using chronic illness and other disability-related stuff as a key source. so i'm musing on that.

people who already Know my horror work are gonna say "yeah, because you're writing from experience!! so you do it Right!!"

and if we're gonna set Rules (TM) on what narratives are or aren't done "right," then... yeah, i agree. i know what i'm doing and i will not stop doing it anytime soon, regardless of where the Discourse (TM) falls. but i'm trying to figure out what, specifically, makes it Right. you know??

so.

i think some of it is about knowing Why the thing is scary. the Why is what makes horror effective in the first place, anyway! if you know the Why, then you can lean into & manipulate your audience's feelings!

and sometimes the Why is just. shitty.

like, psycho is scary because crazy men in dresses with DID might kill you in the shower. split is scary for similar reasons. i'm trying to remember bad horror about physical disabilities but my mind is protecting me. let's just say, like, the whole subgenre about haunted hospitals with scary disabled patients. the PATIENTS are going to hurt you??? the PATIENTS??!!?!

but the Why re: disability isn't Always othering or cruel or inaccurate, imo.

sometimes being sick Is Scary. not gonna get too deep into it here, but like. it just is. it just fuckin' is. it's scary both internally and externally. the loss of control is scary. the loss of ability itself is scary; the consequences for that loss of ability are also scary. the loss of autonomy is scary. it's scary when doctors don't know what's wrong, and it's scary when they do. it's scary to undergo treatment, and it's scary not to have access to treatment. it's scary not to know what the future holds. it's all fucking scary!!

so like. the "why" in "why is it scary," for me at least, often boils down to "because it is Real."

disability is coming for everyone who's blessed with old age. disability is coming for a wide swath of much younger people, too. it is happening. that's a scary thing for people to reckon with on a personal level, and so it just seems sensible to me for this to crop up in horror.

what is scary about being sick?? take your pick. but for the love of god, ground it in truth.

then the Other thing is: i think you Have to know your audience. and i think you Have to assume a good portion of your audience Will share the disability in question.

i write my horror FOR chronically ill people. i don't really care about anyone else or anybody else's opinions.

and that's part of why stuff like psycho sucks -- the othering. the takeaway is "people like you are frightening and dangerous." another example that's not actually horror, but which Does hurt my feelings, is a little life by hanya yanagihara -- that book is engineered to tell all the disabled rape victims in the audience that the only sensible course for their lives is suicide.

but then, like. the episodes of the magnus archives dealing with hospitals and psychosis and addiction are Fucking Brilliant. because they're taking the Very Real Horror of those Very Real Experiences and telling the audience, "no, you're not crazy. that was fucked up. it was fucked up that it happened and it's fucked up that it still happens and you are right to feel violated. that's the horror here"

and like. that is!! SUCH an enormous comfort!! at least for some of us!!

so. i write about how being sick is fucked up. and i do it for the people who want someone to tell them, yeah, it sucks, it hurts, and it's fucked up.

not everybody wants this! many disabled people want The Exact Opposite of this in their horror stories. which is why the "disabled horror protag beats the slasher villain to death with their prosthetic leg" stuff rocks.

but different people want different things from their fiction.

for example, on a purely personal level, i can't Stand fluffy escapist fiction about no-ableism worlds where the disabled protags are all perfectly cared for n happy. it just makes me unhappy and upset about the world i'm currently living in.

but that specific genre is a lifeline for other people!!

so. anyway.

i don't know if any of this makes sense.

i will conclude by saying that i'm remembering something hank green said about how he only takes cancer advice from fellow cancer patients. his example was that if someone tells them weed helped with their chemo pain, he's like, thank you, that's great to know!! but if someone tells him to do weed for cancer bc they're.... just a stoner.... then he's like, "uh.... i do not care."

in that vein, i always always Always find it really valuable to hear from other people with the same kind of autoimmune diseases and degenerative illnesses i have/write -- those perspectives on horror/representation/visibility are Wonderful. (even when disagreeing with me!)

but if people's feedback amounts to "well, being sick Doesn't suck for me, so you should be more careful about writing sickness that sucks"

.....i'm like. well. i.... don't think this conversation is about you. i don't think i was talking to you.

maybe sometimes what's scary is being told you're hurting your own community by having. the Wrong Feelings.

[larkwinged]

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒 𝐅. 、𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

PROFILE. a self-righteous knight who is too willing to throw their life away, and too eager to charge into battle. underneath their stubborn exterior, they are riddled with the pressure of upholding a family title that has long been lost to time.

FULL NAME. artemis elise fröhlich

PRONOUNS. they / them

GENDER. fem-presenting non-binary

AGE. early twenties

HEIGHT. 5”1

BIRTHDAY. november 12th

OCCUPATION. knight

AFFILIATION. knights of favonius

ELEMENT. pyro

CONSTELLATION. columba bellicosi

WEAPON TYPE. sword — “herald of the dawn”

Now stripped of its original purpose as a vessel to store all the memories of an ancient god king, this sword has been passed down in the Fröhlich family since the dawn of time.

Once wielded by the god of memories herself, this sword was blessed by the winds and presented as a gift to her youngest child upon the morn of their knighting ceremony.

“You, who represent the grace and bravery of humanity,” said the Queen, “take this and go. Become a pillar of hope to those wallowing in the darkness, and guide the lost onto a chivalrous path. You, the Dovewing Knight.”

And so, the first Dovewing Knight set out, protecting the people of Cairnfelle and standing tall as a beacon of hope, just as they were requested.

At the edge of the world, when the brilliance of Cairnfelle collapsed and the mountains crumbled, the sword found its way tumbling back into the hands of its previous owner to defend her honor, and upkeep her legacy until the final trumpet sang … announcing her defeat.

With no definite home, the sword lay in the ruins of its kin, preserved well by the Anemo Archon and his will — until the day it found its way into the waiting hands of the inheritor of an ancient title.

• demo music concepts. one two three

• ENG voice claim : keath òsk as cole seymour from yaelokre’s “meadowlark” project

• JP voice claim : marina inoue as armin arlert from attack on titan

CHARACTER STORY 1: eastward of eden

It is true that Artemis has long held resentment towards their older sister and past caretaker, Lilith. As a child, Artemis was refused of many things — including choosing their own clothes, partaking in certain activities, and having their own privacy. There wasn’t much they were allowed to do, and even the hobbies they enjoyed ended up ruined by Lilith’s excitement and pushy nature.

To this day, Lilith is unaware of the mental anguish she caused her siblings over the course of their entire childhood. However, in her own eyes, she has done no such thing, and has succeeded at being a “mother.”

Many citizens have told her, “My, you exercise much control over them,” and yet, she has failed to see the error in her ways. It is not entirely her fault, as she was forced into the role of a mother when she wasn’t ready for such a task. Even though she failed in many aspects of her parenting skills, there was one thing she has always truly succeeded at: caring deeply for her family.

However, no amount of love could undo the years of fighting and hurtful words thrown around between the siblings.

CHARACTER STORY 2: legacy

Long ago, in the days of yore, the archaic land of Mondstadt had been ruled by a monarch older than Decarabian. Her rule was rumored to last longer than his, and her birth is now nothing but scattered fragments along the wind.

When the Queen of the North Wind descended and claimed Mondstadt as her home, a mighty kingdom formed under her feet. Small huts grew to larger, firmer homes, and gargantuan cathedrals made of marble were erected in her honor. Trumpets blew, the wind howled, snow fell, and mountains as high as the heavens towered above humanity.

In later years, the prospering kingdom of Cairnfelle was officially born. Serving as a haven for travelers and poets alike, the kingdom sang with energy as it thrived under Queen Catalina’s guiding hand. The god of memories was exceptionally gentle, with a kind and compassionate heart that moved even the most stoic-faced men to tears. Her words were wise, her complexion glowing, and her promises true.

Cairnfelle, as much as it prospered, gained an enemy from a distant land. With no choice but to face the beast she prodded, the Queen set out to befriend the raging phoenix that had enough of her games. Ever the charming soul, the Queen did not have to do much to make the phoenix bow to her every whim, and before the citizens of Cairnfelle had the chance to acclimate to the visitor, the two were to be wed.

There is not much to say for the years in between the joining of two god kings and the fall of Cairnfelle, but this: Four inexplicably brave and virtuous souls were born from the two gods — four demigod knights who carved the way for the future of Mondstadt: The Four Archangels.

The Blair Family — the origin of the Fröhlichs, is no longer the raging flame of life it had once been, but a snuffed out ember of its former glory.

Only in passing on the titles of the Four Archangel Knights can the present day Fröhlich family hold tight to what was once a name feared and adored by all.

CHARACTER STORY 3: composition

Many questions have arisen over the years; all pertaining to a certain facet of Artemis’ composition.

“Is it a curse?” They’ve inquired, only to wind up receiving a simple, “I’m not even sure myself!”

However, that it is a small white lie they’ve grown to tell. In fact, Artemis is very much aware of the reason why they consistently find themselves on the brink of death and luckily make it out alive. It is because of the unique composition their ancestor, Lowen, was made of: pure and unbridled wrath.

The story goes as such: In the days of yore, when gods and monsters still yet walked the earth, a beast born of flame and rage took flight. They seared their enemies and allies alike, and roused the hearts of warriors all across Natlan. They utterly refused to lay their past life to rest. In doing so, they made a promise to their newfound family. The wrath that lived inside them was nothing but a blessing, and deserved to be passed on through their children, and future generations. And so, the endless wrath that boiled in their veins was passed on — consuming the lives of their children, and overtaking the brilliant flames that became their descendants.

To be a god’s descendant has always been an honor in the Fröhlich family line… Yet, Artemis — like the direct children of the god of wrath — see it as naught but a curse; For what blessing could bring about destruction and the devastation of any living being in one’s wake.

VISION STORY:

The blistering pyro vision attached to Artemis’ belt was said to be a gift from the gods, and maybe even a gift from the long gone god of wrath themselves.

What else are visions besides gifts from the gods? A tool to wield, and yet another curse Artemis must deal with.

At the young age of eleven, Artemis was sent out on their first escorting mission. It was their first mission given to them by Grand Master Varka, who was elated to test their strength and endurance. Not many were willing to accept an escort from a child — as was the case with the Fontainian aristocrat Artemis was talking their ear off to. However, the man said nothing, as the child’s directional skills were second to none. It was only when they hit a bump in the road that the man questioned Artemis’ capabilities as a knight.

“I should’ve known better than to trust a child!” He yelled, waving his fist in the air as he pushed them aside and ran off ahead by himself in the rain, leaving the young Artemis to fend for themselves amidst a hoard of abyssal monsters.

Although panic was steadily rising throughout their body, they forced themself forward — slashing at every monster with a shaky grip on their sword. The rain poured, sagging their clothes, and dragging their arms down to the dirt. The grip on their sword slipped, as did their footing, and they tumbled to the hard ground with a rough clash.

Their shoulder-piece scratched the bridge of their nose on the way down, and a thick line of blood began to spill from the open wound. A rifthound drew closer, baring its teeth and snapping its jaw as its claws outstretched, striking Artemis across the head. A clap of thunder sounded, and amidst the ringing in their ears, Artemis felt the weight of ten large wooden planks collapse on their back.

Even so, they shakily grabbed their sword, their nails digging into the wet earth, and began to stand. Their blood boiled as a wrath they were only warned about once crept up to the surface, prickling along their skin until it caved inwards, tugging at their ribcage and burning against their racing heart.

In a flash of white and gold, the hoard of rifthounds lay motionless on the grass, their bodies turning to dust as Artemis panted heavily. The wrath inside their veins bubbled, and their vision turned red. It was all consuming. It was destructive, and it was total annihilation. They struck down every monster seeping from an abyssal pylon until finally, they tore the pylon in half with nothing but their blade and their bare hands.

The rain continued to fall as they dropped their sword and collapsed to the ground in a heap of sore limbs and bloodied grass. Their eyes fell close for a moment — at least, what felt like a moment — and when they opened, a shining vision sat amongst the pool of blood left behind by their foes.

Indeed. The god of wrath, whose curse ran rampant in their veins, rewarded them with yet another “gift.”

𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀

• hobbies: When they are home in Dornman Port enjoying their days off, they like to wind down by practicing the art of crochet. Not only is it soothing to sit by a windowsill while the afternoon breeze filters into their bedroom, it is also a hobby their late mother held dear. By partaking in this hobby, they feel closer to their mother, and can preserve her memory longer. Another hobby is sports. Artemis can often be found playing with the kids in the port during vacations.

• beliefs: The Fröhlich family have always dedicated their lives to the protection of Mondstadt, and hold a firm worship to a god king who has long been dead. Although they have accepted Barbatos as their new savior, they still hold their original god close to their hearts. Artemis has naturally followed this belief and considers their worship of the god of memories their religion. During rough times, they find solace in a temple far north and meditate there for as long as they deem necessary. Once a month, they offer up a few of their most important memories— a ritual that has been passed down in the Fröhlich family for over 3000 years.

(This act of offering up memories is akin to the way some worshippers will offer animal sacrifices to the god they serve.)

• about — fate: Artemis is a firm believer that fate will guide the worthy and ultimately lead everyone onto the path they are destined to walk. However, they do not include the meddling of gods and higher beings into this equation. They believe that fate is its own entity and not dictated by the Archons nor Celestia. It acts of its own accord, and the gods are mere victims of fate, as well. Not even Celestia will be spared.

• about — death: Artemis believes that death is a stepping stone to a greater afterlife. Akin to their many family members, they believe that life is temporary, and death is eternal. When one dies, they are not truly dead; for they are shedding their mortal shell and accepting their true form, which is the soul. The soul will live on forever in the afterlife, while the physical body is nothing more than a temporary shell to house said soul. With this belief, the Fröhlich family does not fear death, but welcomes it with open arms— greeting it like an old friend.

[btsstraykidsateez]

Carnal Connection.-Yoongi.(NSFW.)

Dirty talk, pussy eating, blowjobs, missionary, doggy style, unsafe sex, creampie.

You kept your eyes closed, nails digging into the sheets as your boyfriend pressed his face further against your soaking core. His mouth working you as if he got paid for it. Though he always told you that eating you out was something he'd always do for free because his payment was the sounds you make and the way you tasted.

"Yoongi." You moan, breathing heavily, "Oh god."

He groaned against you. His nails dug into the soft flesh of your ass as he held you against his mouth. He didn't want you to be able to pull away. He didn't care if you squirmed, moaned and flopped about as long as your pussy stayed attached to his mouth.

You moaned his name again as you grabbed at your own breasts, squeezing them and pinching your nipples. You were so turned on and wanted his cock so deep inside ofy ou that you couldn't breathe, but you'd never rush him to stop eating you out. His tongue on you and inside you was one of your favorite things in the world. If you couldn't choose his dick fucking in and out of you as your favorite, you'd absolutely choose his mouth on your pussy. The man was blessed with a magical tongue and you felt even more blessed to be the one who got to have it whenever you wanted.

"You taste so good, baby." He groaned, "I could stay between your legs forever."

He sucked your clit into your mouth causing you to let out a string of embarrassing noises that only spurred him on.

"I want to make you feel good too, baby." You groan, "Please."

He pulls back and licks his lips before kissing his way back up your body placing a soft kiss on your lips, "What do you want, baby? Use your words."

"Cock." You whimpered, "Want your cock in my mouth."

A low groan escapes his throat, and he rolls off you, positioning himself beside you. "Open that pretty little mouth of yours," he commands, his voice husky with desire. You comply, parting your lips as he brings the head of his cock to your mouth. You can already taste the slight saltiness of his pre-cum, and it only serves to turn you on more.

He feeds his cock into your mouth slowly, inch by inch, letting you adjust to his size. You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently as you take him deeper. His hands tangle in your hair, guiding your movements as you begin to bob your head, taking him in and out of your mouth.

"That's it, baby," he groans. "You look so fucking beautiful with my cock in your mouth."

You moan in response, the vibration causing his hips to jerk. He lets out a string of curses, his grip on your hair tightening slightly. "Just like that," he praises. "You're such a good little cocksucker."

You can feel his thighs tensing, his body coiling as you take him deeper, relaxing your throat to take more of him. Your hands reach up to play with his balls, rolling them gently in your palm, which earns you a deep, guttural moan.

"Fuck, your mouth feels incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I could stay here all day, fucking your pretty little mouth."

You pull off him briefly, looking up at him with lust-filled eyes. "I want you to fuck my mouth, Yoongi," you say, your voice breathy and desperate. "I want you to use me."

A feral growl escapes his lips, and he takes control, his hips moving to meet your mouth. He fucks your mouth in earnest, his grip on your hair firm as he sets the pace. You relax, letting him take over, your hands gripping his thighs for support.

"Look at you, taking my cock like a champion," he praises, his voice thick with lust. "You're so fucking dirty for me, baby. My perfect little slut."

Tears stream down your face as you take him deeper, your gag reflex kicking in but you power through, wanting to please him. Your hands move to his ass, pulling him deeper, encouraging him to go further.

"Fuck, I'm close," he warns, his body tensing. "Do you want my cum, baby? Do you want me to paint your pretty little throat?"

You moan in response, your eyes watering as you take him as deep as you can. With a final thrust, he comes undone, his cock pulsing as he empties himself into your mouth. You swallow every last drop, milking him for more, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head.

He pulls out of your mouth slowly, a satisfied smile on his face. "You're incredible, you know that?" he says, his voice soft as he strokes your cheek. You smile up at him, your lips swollen and your chin wet with saliva and his cum. You feel utterly used and completely satisfied.

He leans down and kisses you again swallowing every sigh and moan that escapes your beautiful mouth. He gently runs his hand down your body before running two fingers through the arousal between your legs, "Pretty baby."

You moan, "Yoongi."

He chuckles, "Want me to fuck you, baby?"

You nod, "Please."

You spread your legs further and he cusses. He wastes no time crawling back between your legs so he can look down on you as he grinds his cock against your pussy. You groan at the sensation and wrap your legs around his waist.

"You're such a filthy thing." He speaks, voice low, "Always want to be filled don't you?"

You arch into him, "Only by you."

Your words came out broken and almost pained but they had his balls aching.

"Fuck. My good girl." He sighs, placing soft kisses on your neck, "Mine."

He teases your entrance, sliding the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your wetness. You buck your hips, trying to impale yourself on him, but he holds back, a wicked smile on his face.

"Patience, baby," he taunts, his voice a low rumble. "I want to hear you beg for it. I want to hear you say how much you need my cock inside you."

"You know I want it," You whimper, your voice hoarse with need. "Please, Yoongi, fuck me. I need you inside me. I need to feel you stretch me, fill me up completely."

He groans, the sound primal and raw. "Since you asked so nicely," He says, and with one powerful, deliberate thrust, he sheathes himself fully inside you.

You cry out, your back arching off the bed as he fills you completely. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, his eyes locked on yours, drinking in your reactions. "You feel so fucking good, baby," he murmurs. "So warm and wet for me. Like you were made for me."

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss as he begins to move. His hips roll in a steady, relentless rhythm, each thrust driving him deeper into you. You can feel every inch of him, the way his cock hits all the right spots inside you, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"Harder," You gasp against his lips. "Fuck me harder, Yoongi. I can take it. I want to feel you tomorrow."

He obliges, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming more urgent and desperate. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of effort. You can feel your orgasm building, your body tensing as you climb higher and higher.

"That's it, baby," He pants. "Cum for me. Let me feel that beautiful pussy milk my cock. I want to feel you lose control."

His words push you over the edge, and you cry out his name as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching and releasing around him, drawing out his own release. But he doesn't stop, riding out your orgasm with relentless thrusts, drawing out every last shudder and moan from your body.

"Again," he commands, his voice hoarse. "I want to feel you cum again."

You nod your head even though your body was already spent. He smirks and flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so you're on your knees. He enters you from behind, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he starts to move again.

"Yoongi," You moan, your voice muffled by the pillow. "Oh god."

"Shh, baby," He soothes, leaning over to kiss your shoulder. "Let me take care of you."

He starts to move slower, drawing out each thrust, giving you time to adjust to the new angle. You can feel him even deeper this way, his cock hitting spots that have you seeing stars. He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles.

"Yoongi," You moan, your body already tensing again. "I'm close. I'm so close."

"That's my good girl," he praises, his voice low and husky. "Cum for me again, baby. Let me feel that pussy choke my cock."

His words, his touch, his cock—it's all too much. You come undone, your body shaking and convulsing as another orgasm rips through you. He groans, his body tensing as he finds his own release, filling you up completely.

He collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath ragged. You can feel his heart pounding against your back, matching the frantic beat of your own. He pulls out slowly, a shiver running through both of you at the sensation.

"Fuck, that was incredible," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You're incredible."

You smile, your body still tingling with aftershocks. "It always is with you," You reply, your voice soft and content.

He pulls you down so you're lying on your side, spooning him, his cock still semi-hard and nestled between your thighs. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his hands roaming your body gently, soothingly.

"Stay with me," You whisper, your eyes already fluttering closed.

"Always, baby," he replies, his voice a soft caress. "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

As you drift off to sleep, wrapped in each other's arms, you know that this connection is something that will last a lifetime. And as you lie there, content and sated, you know that you are exactly where you belong.

[duahauuoplanh]

From the first day we met, my world has always been full of you.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

well that one comic panel with baby erik activated the sleeper agent in my brain that goes feral for de-aging angst... if you had the choice between erik protecting a suddenly de-aged charles or vice versa, which would it be and how how many years are they losing?

are you trying to killme. this amya very well kil me

[feastingonchrist]

thinking about how when i was saying goodbye to my fav coworker on thursday and i was about to walk away she put her arms around mine and hugged me tightly.... yeah i almost died that was so precious. that made my day. God has surrounded me with the kindest of people i have been very overwhelmed it's so healing.

[incarnelia]

i get two kinds of responses to how obscenely long my hair is lmao (i just think its really pretty and i'm obsessed with caring for it). either i get "Why don't you cut it?!?" which is barely even worth answering. and then i get all the random people walking up to me when im outside and overcoming the ever-present random stranger anxiety of being in public (which is commendable) to compliment some random girl for her hair. the latter people are much more frequent... but the former people are more blood-related...

[snixx]

*starts drafting a rant on tumblr dot com* *writes a few hundred words* *is overcome by lethargy and omg doesn't sleeping sound so much more fun than this because im never going to get everything i want to express down and it's gonna feel forever incomplete* *lets it rot in my drafts forever and ever*

[causenessus]

where do i even start. two people in love, but that are hurting. two people who meet each other and are in need of love and happiness, (“do you think you weren’t loved enough?” “somewhere between ‘not enough’ and ‘not at all’. i was always hungry for love. just once, i wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it… just once. but they never gave that to me. never, not once.”). they’re in need of love; the kind of love that reassures them that they are a person. they are a living, breathing human worthy of love. that nothing of their past defines them, there is always the chance to grow. the kind of love that reassures them they are not hated by the world, but that they are loved. and they find that in each other (“i want to hold this moment. i want to believe it. i want his love to have enough salt in it to float me. i don’t want to be swimming for my life.” -frankissstein) they are two people who have been drowning in silence for so long, but then they find each other. and they keep each other afloat. with promises to keep on living and promises that they will always be there for the other. that they will never leave. that they are there to stay. and sometimes one person is all that you need. iwa and y/n have the type of relationship where they cover the other’s ears when it gets too loud, the kind of relationship where they run into the others arms every moment they get. they know each other like the back of their hands, they know what sets the other off and they always know what the other needs. and when they finally retire to bed after a long night of living, and they let down their walls and they finally say it, “i’m so tired.” the other is there to hold them, saying “i know, love. but it’s going to be okay.” and it will be, because they have each other.

ways to live: h. iwaizumi

he’s depressed. she’s depressed. it’s all they ever talk about. she’s willing to try anything to feel better. he’s less optimistic

pairings: iwaizumi x f!reader

status: completed, uploading all the chapters today & then disappearing again

tags/warnings: online friends to lovers, blended smau (every chapter has written parts), university au, mini-series, happy ending, hurt/comfort, lots and lots of frank discussions on mental health, depression tweets, casual discussions of suicidal ideation (no death or sh), disordered behaviors, recovery

taglist: i’m not doing one please do not ask to be added

prologue: the list

chapter one: exercise

chapter two: nurture yourself with good nutrition

chapter three: connect with a support system

chapter four: help yourself by helping others

chapter five: demonstrate gratitude