#in a way i always enjoy it when a story really affects me but i dont wanna go into a 5 day depression again 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[averagebookgirlie]

DONT COME FOR ME PLZ

I don’t really like Avery. Or, well, I do, I just like way more other characters more. Like, I actually like Lyra WAY more than her

. Idk why I just feel like Avery’s so……ugh, perfect? Like sure she’s a girl boss and everything but I just feel like she’s always depicted as like ‘a saint’ and she’s aways like ‘I’m no saint.’ But like she knows she is? Idk I just don’t really understand why I don’t rlly like her I just don’t.

And I like Lyra more bc I feel like she has a lot of character layers. I found myself relating to her a lot, and I just feel like JLB wrote her rlly well. Like, her PTSD was rlly well written and the way she portrayed how it felt to deal with it was really well done. And I KNOW that everyone says ‘Avery has trauma too! She was almost shot! The plane bomb!’ I understand that and I think that had TONS of potential. I just think JLB didn’t use Avery’s trauma the way she did with Lyra. Like maybe a few more nightmare or panic attack scenes would’ve worked.

 Lyra’s rlly complex and she has layers to her. There’s the before Lyra, and the after Lyra. And I HATE that ppl call her a Pick me for that because STFU like imagine the memories of watching your father kill himself come back to you and you have to relive them every time you sleep so much so that it affects your life and you mentally can’t do stuff you enjoyed anymore because it feels like your life is slips in half. That’s how Lyra felt. And I just feel like she was really well thought out because especially her relationship with Grayson. Like he broke through all her barriers and she acts like the girl she used to be sometimes when she’s around him and it’s honestly one of the most beautiful love stories I’ve ever read. That being said, I DONT hate Avery and Jameson AT ALL, they’re rlly good for each other too I think I just found Lyra (and Grayson ig) more relatable and realistic. But I may or may not continue this yap later when I feel like it but yup 

Ba byeeeee

[marielle555]

"Please, someone, name me at least one scene in the rest of the Astarion's romance, where the player would be directly deprived of the opportunity for any roleplaying" Challenge seen and accepted!  And yes, as you can tell from my extremely distinctive use of a double space after a full stop, it’s me! DarkAnachronisms, speak of the devil he will appear and all that jazz.  Anyways.  Act one.  You gotta fuck him.  

If you want to lock in to the Astarion Romance at all.  You have to have sex.  This might not seem like an extreme choice that deprives the player of agency to someone who wants to fuck Astarion.  But I’ve seen plenty of people who want a more platonic Act  One scene, because they’re playing a character who wouldn’t rush into things.  Or because they’re not interested in sex IRL, or who on replay feel kinda scuzzy and uncomfortable having sex after doing his route all the way through.  You get into that, but also dismiss that this is a really big hard make a choice here moment that could very easily alienate players and make them feel deprived of agency.  I personally don’t think this deprives the player of agency.  If they don’t want to have sex with Astarion then the romance simply isn’t happening.  That’s what it’s going to take for him to start his simple plan.  Moving on to Act 2 This is actually a bigger gripe for me.

You can’t be mad at him for manipulating you.  Expressing any hurt feelings or dismay or even shock leads to a break up.  The player is forced to accept the potentially really hurtful truth that Astarion started this out using you as a tool for his protection and can never meaningfully engage him on this subject if they want to continue the romance.  

This feels extremely similar in tone to reading his mind, hearing the “He sees you as degrading yourself.” bit.  And simply having to go along with it.  You find out a potentially really hurtful thing and are forced to immediately make your peace or end the relationship.  But again.  There are options there.  Ending the relationship is an option.  You can’t say you have none.  

You can add that to your complaints about Welch if you want.  They wrote the act 2 scene. So, literally out of all four potential big romance scenes with Astarion Three have a make or break decision that doesn’t allow for any nuanced player reactivity.  Probably because the romance system in this game sucks and frankly I don’t think you can have a nuanced reaction to anything the character dislikes.  Not enjoying the romance.  Guess you gotta dump them.  And that can be part of the roleplay.  A break up can be part of the narrative for your character.  The thing is you always complain in very certain and objective terms.  “There are no good options.”  When what you mean is.  “There are no options I like.”  All of your critiques of how this game is written come off as extremely self centered because it doesn’t provide options you like.  Instead of talking about the writing outside of how it affects your specific playstyle.  Even when you talk about act 2 you ignore an example of the exact thing you have a problem with because it doesn’t bother you specifically.  It’s fine not to like Welch’s Narrative, or writing, but that is the plot.  That is the narrative, that is the story being told.  No is imposing it upon you, you’re playing their game.  Stories have themes and motifs. As to the rest of it.  Yeah you were kinda hostile.  You went on a paragraph long ramble about me calling the transformation scene sexy, assuming I have a lack of sex in my life and see it everywhere because of it.  Hang on, let me get the quote.  “  For starters, what the hell is a “sexy vampire transformation ceremony”? Where did you get such a “ceremony” in the game? Anon, if what personal issues make you see sex everywhere, I'll tell you a secret - there are adult stores, adult videos, adult websites. You can satisfy yourself and not suffer so much from a lack of sex. If an event was preceded by an intimate scene and a character is shown with bare breasts because of it, it doesn't replace the main point. It doesn't turn the whole thing into all sex. “ To be clear I’m aro/ace.  I don’t have sex.  I don’t want sex. I don’t find anything in Bg3 personally arousing.  But I can see things with my eyes.  And when I see a romance exclusive scene featuring two people in various states of undress, engaging in light BDSM moments. I think it is fair to call that sexy.  It’s a scene that was scripted, animated, and acted with the intent to be sexually appealing.  That’s just a thing.  It’s not a negative.  I don’t think I said anything about it being bad to find Astarion sexy.  I didn’t call you a gooner.  You used that word.  I don’t know what you’re into.  I don’t even think people choose to ascend Astarion for sex reasons.  You assumed all of that.   But the narrative framing is sexy, it’s a vampire transformation scene, and it’s framed as sexy, I’m calling a spade a spade here.  It’s a sexy transformation scene.

And as for what “We Know.”   “can only add that the expression “we know” when it is not about something we actually KNOW (something that is actually present in the game, or, if we don't know, we can find out and confirm it),”

I was talking about the post AA break up scene, you get it three nights after you refuse to let him turn you into a vampire spawn.  He says he would have used your love until you were nothing, and he likens a relationship to slavery, he says everything is about power. 

These are things he says.  With his mouth.  We know that.  Because he says those words. I admit I am loosely paraphrasing. More over  I did include the caveat if we are to take his words at face value.  I’m inclined too, I don't think he has a motivation to lie to Tav at that point.  You can think he’s lying if you want.  

Act 1: I'm not dismissing that having to have sex with Astarion to start a romance for other people can be a difficult moment of choice, can alienate or make one feel uncomfortable. I can only add that this kind of beginning of a game romance is not that uncommon. In BG3 the same thing happens with Lae'zel's romance, she doesn't have a trauma, but she has a rather unpleasant answer for the player who wants a serious relationship with her, later she will change her mind or not. I don't know how Lae'zel's fans feel about it, but I would be very uncomfortable if I had a similar dialog with LI in a game after a night with them. And I'm also reminded of the romance with Zevran in DAO - with him it's the same beginning of the romance, straight from intimacy and you spend the night with him very early on, at the “Interest” level of the relationship. And when I talked to him about love after that night, he didn't like it, there was disapproval. And the hooligan behavior in terms of flirting with everyone - he had that too, it was kind of a test of my patience. He is also a seducer, he has an easy attitude towards sex and a sexual past (luckily no trauma, everything is ok, he likes everything, he is a assassin and a seducer). And I might add that of course I would like to talk about a relationship before or after a night with Astarion without even knowing about his trauma, and in real life I've never been interested in “one-night sex” and I'd like to honestly admit to Astarion that, yes, I'm crushing on him, and I really want to say yes right now, but I'm dreaming of that we start or at least try to start a serious relationship, and if he's solely looking for ��just sex” and then is going to act like Lae'zel (conditionally), or worse, start dating someone else, then I'm going to feel really lousy with a broken heart, and that could be bad for the whole mission, so in that case we'd better not even start anything. But a game is not real life, and in a game it's clear that this is such an option to start a relationship that is bound to develop later on. I don't think it takes away the player's agency either, and besides, in game romance in general, intimate scenes are often prescribed and required by the script (if you agree to the romance itself). We can talk about the approach to romance in games in general in relation to this, and about being more mindful of players who aren't interested in sex but want a platonic romance, about how opportunities for avoiding intimacy can be made with keeping/starting a romance, but this isn't exclusive to or a problem specifically with Astarion's romance in BG3.

But the case, when the author tries to impose the breakup of a relationship - that is something definitely causing emotional damage to the player, this is the first time I've seen such a thing in a game. I haven't seen that in any RPG I've ever seen, not anywhere at all. And “agree to degradation” or your relationship will be destroyed - it looks like blackmail, like the player is being forced to agree (the relationship has already lasted for quite a long time, the player may have already fallen deeply in love with Astarion and become attached to him, it's not the same as choosing “start/not start a relationship”, when there may be a strong interest, but serious attachment has not been formed yet). “Give me your money or I'll shoot you in the head” - a robber with a gun in a dark alley can say, and nominally the victim has a choice, you may not give the money and feel the consequences of the shot. “Choice” comes in many forms, and you can take the approach that there is always a choice unless the character is bound and immobilized. And even then, ninjas in the past could bite their tongue off and make a different choice.

Act 2. Yes, I've read before about this point of view as well, yes, it doesn't bother me. I was even surprised that one could want to be mad at him after that hard and really painful truth about Astarion's past. On one side of the scale are 200 years of suffering, and on the other what? A few intimate nights where Astarion could think the wrong things, not what the Tav wanted him to think about them?

It seems to me that in Astarion's romance there are already plenty of options for Tav's selfish and rather insensitive attitude towards him, and not many options for love and support. I don't personally see it as hurtful to Tav, even if you remove the factor of Astarion's trauma and his past, Astarion didn't do anything wrong to Tav, he wasn't going to leave them, cheat on them, he needed protection and the world is really cruel to him and Astarion understandably didn't trust anyone, he couldn't have known that my Tav would have protected him and without any seduction. Astarion had used what survival tools he possessed, which he found effective for survival. And now he had opened up, now he was more than serious. At the moment of frank confession, a lie ceases to be a lie.

Astarion:

“Of course I am - look at you!

You're a vision. And you're so much more than that.”

“Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan - seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you'd never turn on me.

It was easy - instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it.

And all I had to do was not fall for you... Which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.

You -... you're incredible. You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

What was real to me and not real to him becomes real to him in that moment. Astarion might not have admitted it at all. Then it would be a beautiful romantic story for Tav, and the transition from lie to truth would only exist for Astarion. Astarion is literally confessing so that there will be no more lies between him and Tav, he's taking a risk for that. Tav after all could really turn out to be very petty, get mad at him and break off this relationship.

I think it's a beautiful confession. If some players are mad at Astarion afterwards, want to express resentment or frustration, and they don't have their own roleplay, well, fine, they can criticize it and write about it. Other players are under no obligation to consider them and keep their displeasure in mind while voicing their own criticisms. I'm not any kind of official critic, this is just my blog, where I express my personal opinions, and I find it a bit strange to make a claim to some outsider that they aren't bothered by something in the game that bothers you (I don't mean you personally, it's in general). I know Welch wrote a scene in Act 2, and I really like that scene. I can point out what I think the author did beautifully and what the author did horribly (lines for Tav in the act 3 scene), one doesn't interfere with the other. And I absolutely do not consider the possibility of getting mad at Astarion afterward:

“It would have been so easy to bite her. To just go along with what I was being told to do.

A moment of disgust to force myself through. And then I could have carried on, just like before.

The entire reason for my existence was to seduce anything with a pulse.

And every instinct I have tells me that nothing's changed. That I'm still just a means to an end.

You made me see I never stopped thinking like I was still his slave, even in freedom.

But I'm more than that. More than a thing to be used.”

A necessary reaction needed for roleplay. But there are many people, people have many different opinions, I personally don't see the point in wanting the kind of roleplay you suggested, but I don't see anything wrong with someone criticizing the lack of this particular possibility while ignoring the problems with the game that exasperated me. And I'm a little surprised why you're so affected by my criticism of the writing of Act 3 scenes. People care about what they care about, and it's not selfish, it's normal. "Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live. It is asking others to live as one wishes to live." © Oscar Wilde. But you can always talk about what bothers you personally and get a response from others, who have the same opinion on it, and other people will express what bothers them and find like-minded people, difference of opinion on any issues is common.

In the author's defense regarding the act 2 scene, I can say that the scene as a whole has a lot of different options for roleplay, a wide variety of lines for Tav. There is even a very heavy extra scene as having an option for Tav to force Astarion to have sex with them, I myself would never be able to choose such a thing, but I can watch it on youtube and find this scene important (I was only criticizing the way Welch belittles the intelligence of the players by claiming, that players can mindlessly click on lines with a hint of sex, and they presented this scene as some kind of “lesson” instead of just giving a chance to watch the story for those who want to test the game in all variants, this attitude to the audience is not very nice, but the scene itself is strong). This scene has its own animation, effectively another extra “hidden” scene. That is, the Act 2 scene was given a lot of attention in terms of script development and quite a lot of resources.

In general, I can think of many options for more nuanced or more “character” roleplay in romance scenes that might carry the same weight as the option to express resentment to Astarion in the Act 2 scene, and these would also be personal preferences, really selfish preferences, the absence of which says nothing about the quality of the writing of the romance.

In the Act 1 scene, among other things, there could have been an opportunity to react more emotionally and sympathetically to Astarion's scars seen by Tav. Hug him from the back, cry, kiss his scars. Promise a brutal and painful death to Cazador, describe in colors how we will slowly peel his face off when he is in our hands (we don't know anything about the ritual yet and describing the revenge and any colorful torture Tav wants to subject Cazador to in order to avenge Astarion would be perfect for a “villain in love” roleplay for the “evil couple”). Asking Astarion in response to his line, "But we should probably get back before we're missed. People might talk.", what's wrong with that, why rush, let them talk. To find out if he wants to keep our intimacy a secret and why, if so. To try to take his hand and entwine our fingers as we walk back and see his reaction. I truly respect his autonomy, and if he wanted to hold off on starting a serious relationship and think about it, I would agree to hide the relationship, but it's a pity you can't even get his opinion on it. And it's strange to me that I can't answer other companions directly, when they try to seduce me, that I love Astarion, even though he didn't ask me to hide it.

In act 2, it could have been an opportunity to apologize to him, if he felt bad around me even though I didn't know, to add to the fact that we can be together without sex that I don't need anyone else but him, and if he doesn't need sex, I don't either, that we can have a platonic romance forever and a “white marriage” in the future. So that he's not worried by noticing Halsin's feelings (yes, the dialog with Halsin is a separate issue). It's quite a nuanced response. One could respond to his line, "What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered. You could have asked me to do the same - to throw myself at her, what I wanted to be damned. But you didn't. And I'm grateful." That not only would Tav never ask him to do that, but that they'd unleash the guts of anyone who tried (“evil roleplay” in romance isn't enough). And to tell him that we can come back tomorrow and kill Oblodra, or make her crawl at his feet and kiss his shoes, begging for forgiveness.

These are options that I personally selfishly like, the game doesn't provide them, but I don't criticize the game for not fulfilling some personal desires (as well as wanting to get mad at Astarion in the act 2 scene). The lack of roleplay for a loving partner in act 3 is an objectively strong flaw. Romance is always primarily written for those players, who love the character and want to be with them - that's the romance arc. Options for breakups, fights, and the like can happen, but they're side options that would never be considered primary. The complete lack of good lines/positive interactions in the romance scene is something that hasn't happened in any game I've played. I don't have very inflated requirements, if other games have always been generally satisfactory, and having one good line, or at least an acceptable line to choose from, in a romance scene is enough for me. Everywhere else they take it into account, here they don't. That would be enough. For special, “your own” roleplay, there are chatbots, but there shouldn't be a complete violation of agency in the game. There shouldn't be:

"I would argue that Welch didn't actually write a romantic arc for AA. A classic romance is about two individuals meeting, developing feelings for each other and becoming a happy and fulfilled couple. With the restricted choice of responses given to Tav, and Tav's patch 6 kiss expressions, the initial romance felt like Welch wanted to subvert the narrative into a story about a toxic relationship, where Tav finds they have misplaced their trust in Astarion. Many UA fans insist this is the correct interpretation. That helping Astarion to Ascend is the wrong decision and Tav rightly suffers because they made a bad choice. Welch themselves said that it was the 'BAD' ending. If you accept that interpretation, then you cannot say that the AA narrative is a romance because it no longer meets the criterea for that genre." (c) @this-o-n-e-bites

And this:

A player pays money for AAA-class RPGs to have fun, immerse in a fictional world and enjoy escapism, not for “deconstruction of the concept of parasocial sexualization of fictional characters”. In author's games (with characters and concepts created by the author themselves) - please. Or it should be openly stated in the game description, so that the player knows what they are buying, without deceiving the consumer and their expectations of a game that is stated as a fantasy RPG.

I disagree that the lack of a specific opportunity for negative interaction in the Act 2 romance scene is similar in tone to having to accept “degradation” or break off the relationship. And I found this check at first not as a potentially hurtful thing for me personally, but as an inability to support Astarion, to help him with his self-esteem issues (Act 2 has wonderful opportunities to open the mind, hug him, etc., so the tone is different here). I was really deeply affected by the first part of the narrator's line: “He sees you degrading yourself by staying with him…”, the second part passed as a less significant addendum, which can also be read as a hint about the dynamics of D/s (after the spoiler of Astarion's fate without Ascension, I didn't care what the dynamics were, what I liked/disliked there, there are more meaningful things for me than favoring this or that dynamic). But when I heard it live - what kind of inner pain must it be, how Astarion must feel about himself to think that Tav is degrading themselves because of staying with him? I cared more about what Astarion thought of HIMSELF, that was important. And there's no way to react to that - it makes the kneeling seem like agreement with that line. Acceptance that I'm staying with him because “I like to degrade myself”. And I didn't understand why the game script treats Astarion so horribly without giving me the opportunity to try to change his mind about it, only to agree. Well, novelization and rails, of course (a scene with only one possible and then insufficient plot choice). Breaking up a relationship cannot be a primary plot choice, and trying to impose this sideline as a “choice” can only be done if the player at that point has the choice to return the money for such a game (although in the case of Astarion - breaking up such a romance with such a beloved character, no amount of money will pay for it). It was only after this “Valentine's Day gift” that I saw this “you like to degrade yourself” as already a clear and direct insult to the player on the part of the author when it all came together. Now with Tav's faces fitting the D/s dynamic it looks a lot like a way to emphasize the dynamic. But player agency isn't there either way.

"Not enjoying the romance. Guess you gotta dump them." If I didn't enjoy the romance at all, yes, I would do that, give the game the lowest rating possible, write one or two maximally critical reviews and dump that game and go play another one. I even counted on the possibility that I wouldn't like it the first time I decided to just bring Astarion to a normal ending and finish the game. But I really liked it all from the line, "You have given me everything. Thank you." and beyond. I adore Astarion and the romance with him, and with the mods now it's a high. I don't like my Tav being replaced with someone else's in places, but I can't dump that Tav and find myself a better tool to interact with the game world. And I can criticize specific places in the game's story and enjoy everything else.

"And that can be part of the roleplay. A break up can be part of the narrative for your character." - Part of one's roleplay, absolutely. That's why break up lines are usually always included in romance in RPGs. But “part of the narrative for your character” in what way? How can that be imposed on my character by some narrative in an RPG? That is the stripping of agency and forcibly replacing my character with a character invented by the author for their narrative. That's what's called novelization of an RPG. In a novella, with pre-created characters created by the authors, where the characters have their own personality, appearance, name, etc. pre-spelled out, such a thing is perfectly acceptable and can be implemented, it would fit the genre of the game. It may not be liked by the player, but in the case of a novella the assessment is: "That is the narrative, that is the story being told. No is imposing it upon you, you're playing their game." Would be completely correct. The player in this case also has every right to give a low rating, if they didn't like the story at all, but you can't berate a novella for lack of roleplay and player agency, the novella genre doesn't provide for that. If BG3 wanted to tell one specific story, with no choices, only how it “should be told”, then Larian should not have given the player the ability to create their own character and positioned the game as a classic RPG. There should be a ready-made character with their own personality and character waiting for the player in the game menu, who will react in different scenes the way they react, and the choice of options could be much poorer than in an RPG, and options in the series of “pick this, see what the story will be here”, “pick that, see what the story will be there”, would be logical and appropriate.

That said, there is no such imposition in other romances. In Gale's romance, you can look into his mind, feel guilt and confess it, and discuss it with him:

“For example the whole orb situation allows you to be torn between being scared by orb and your affection, you can also snoop through his mind to uncover his secret but then instantly feel bad about it and confess the transgression, leading to a very satisfying conversation.” (c) a fan of Gale about his romance.

How is this different from reading Astarion's thoughts in Act 3? Why can't it be admitted to him and discussed? Why does player agency count in one place in the game and not in another?

About “sex.” Okay, I was wrong in your attitude. But I can't know the identity of the anonymous, nor their attitudes towards sexuality, nor their identity. Another user tried to identify your writing style, but for me your question was in the “common stream” and I took it as “what the haters usually write”. I've had other questions from anti-AA, and still have some in the yet unanswered (yes, and the “we know” regarding purely headcanon without any plot basis I have there is lying in “standby status,” when there are a lot of questions, there's no way to answer them all at once). And I used to argue regularly with these sex-crazed anti's, it's constant, and I was called a gooner, it's not uncommon. Unfortunately, in a common stream there is no possibility of any individualized approach to the opponent in a debate, especially if they are anonymous.

I like romance in games and erotica in games, when it's presented beautifully. Games are not reality, and virtual worlds are beautiful, because you can fulfill any fantasy in them. The only thing that annoys me is the hypocrisy and stupidity when it comes to this topic. The fact that they managed to cram a zoophilia scene into one game (I wouldn't condemn it per se, after all, no animal in the story suffers, Halsin is a druid and is fine with it, and the fact that Tav is a zoophile, well… games aren't reality, who cares what someone likes) and some nonsense preaching about the “sexualization of vampires” in the same game, which can't happen on Faerûn, this system really sucks. In general, condemning any kind of “sexualization” in a game where you can take the underwear off all your companions and run around naked, with some naturalistic details, is pretty weird. You can choose not to do that, and play normally, with realism and immersion, but… “Wake-up call for players lusting over RPG characters” only applies to a story quest that has nothing to do with “sexual motivation”, it's hypocritical. It's kind of worth it to either put the underpants on or not engage in sanctimony, and such a weird sanctimony at that.

About the breakup scene after three nights - now I see, without a reference to the plot place it can be unclear and sounds like some kind of opinion. I know Astarion's plot, but by heart so that I can take any hint, I only know his main romance line that I play, I've tested the breakup scene once and can find the lines, if there is an indication of that scene. You're unlikely to test something you find hard and unpleasant to see more times than is required for general knowledge and, an infrequently played scene, I think it's more convenient to specify more precisely so there's no misunderstanding. I don't think he's outright “lying” at this point. Astarion doesn't know love. And he never knows it in this version. He is intensely disappointed in it. He has a strong internal motivation to devalue, to belittle this feeling, this love that has made him suffer. And he lies to himself. He again belittles himself, he believes that he is “bad”, perhaps even continuing to idealize the Tav who abandoned him. People in times of mental anguish sometimes don't “lie” on purpose, for any purpose of influencing the person they are talking to, but they may themselves be looking at things wrong and seeing things differently than they really are. I believe that these feelings of his and this attitude towards love only specifically apply to that “version of events,” where he failed to know love, where Tav rejects his love. It does not apply to the version in which Astarion is happy alongside the consort who loves him, the version in which he has known love. What happens to Astarion in the story affects his feelings and his attitude towards himself and Tav, affects his thoughts and his experiences. Therefore, his words should not be taken in isolation from the context of the situation in which they were said. Astarion is deeply hurt in this scene. And it is more than apparent:

Comments below the video:

"You regret leaving me"

He looks like he already regret it. More than anything in his life. His voice, pain in eyes...” © Yaguarundi

 “4:20 I think this moment shows how low his opinion of himself was (and still is) and how he associated worth with power. He's surprised anyone could prefer the spawn Astarion. He went through so much to achieve what he thought would make him worthy of... well, anything. And Tav tells him she liked the old version more. It's like a slap in the face at this point - all his effort ignored, devalued (even worse: being the reason for the breakup). No wonder he refuses to talk to her for three days.” © odsasadolasa1

“5:50 when seeing how loving he is towards Tav & how he talks to Tav when you accept the consort offer, it makes it undoubtedly clear that what he’s saying here is lies & he’s absolutely saying it because he’s so hurt & so he wants to cause that same hurt back.

Ugh this is so heartbreaking 💔” © TheHellyHeartHotelly

“Recognize that line "Everything lies ahead" exactly same as in romance when you ask "what next for you". But here he looks like he gonna cry.

So in pain, he dont even can play  well.” © elenapanova8297

“4:15 He gives practically the same reaction as when you break up with him. "Did I do something wrong? Why? What changed?" Only.... He realizes the answer to the questions he might've asked, immediately 😢 © plutototoh

And this:

"I was trying with you, you know. In the only way I can try".

It is very important to understand how a person feels when listening to what they say. And not only Astarion, in reality people sometimes speak very bitterly and negatively about love after failed and broken relationships. And quite differently they will talk about this feeling while in a happy and loving relationship. Which of these should be taken at face value? Maybe a person with the logic and coolness of an artificial intelligence is able to give everything and everyone an extremely accurate and truthful characterization regardless of what happens to them, but this is not the case with living people.

[grotius]

oooo i love when you read/watch/play something and wake up sick with emotion the next morning

[owlbelly]

so. i understand where the sentiment "listening to an audiobook is the same thing as reading the book" is coming from - i mean, yes, the bottom line is you are taking in the same words in what is possibly a more accessible (or maybe just more enjoyable) format for you! and i'm 100% in agreement that "book snobs" who say "no you didn't really read it" if you listened to the audiobook are full of shit. ofc you should engage with stories in whatever way works for you, there is no moral or intellectual superiority to reading words off a page vs. listening to them

but it also is different? an audiobook is a performance. choices a narrator makes about line readings can drastically influence the meaning of the lines. even just different voices, accents, etc. - there are creative choices being made by the person delivering the words to you, and that affects your experience of the story in a different way than if you were making those choices in your own head. it might even change the way you visualize what's going on!

this isn't a bad thing it's just An Actual Thing & i think it's worth talking about. it rubs me the wrong way when people act like accommodations (and for many people audiobooks are an accommodation) always result in a completely identical experience, or even that they should, & if you suggest that people accessing media in different ways are having different experiences it's somehow ableist

anyway on rare occasions i really enjoy audiobooks but mostly they are much less accessible to me than words on a page (i need to be able to reread, flip back and forth, go at my own pace) & i also just really strongly prefer to encounter a text on my own before hearing someone else's performance of it, if possible! again i don't think it's "better" to read a physical book i just think it is a Distinct form of experiencing a story & acting like the two things are entirely the same is sort of doing a disservice to both

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

“vanilla drips”

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index | wc: 11.2k

↪︎author's note : Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been. Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well. But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs? Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?) That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things. And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection. The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story. Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"���you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

next | index

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[astralis-ortus]

when it's less-than-ideal

✱ boyfriend!bc x gn!reader

— you can't judge a relationship only based on its good days.

w.count → 0.9k genre → comfort, a dash of comedy at the end warning → chan referred to as chris, babe, my love; reader referred to as baby and babe; kind of sad but it ends well♡ a.n → basically i'm projecting what kind of relationship-slash-communication style i want in a relationship, so... yeah. think i'll be on my own for quite a while, lol. anyways! i also have an announcement here about requests, commissions, and fanart shop, do check it out♡ ⋆ if you're enjoying my stories, do send me a ko-fi ⋆ see masterlist

chris has been acting weird lately, and you don't know why.

you're usually not one to mind—given the way his schedules these days barely even spare the time for him to rest, you understand that your boyfriend is bound to be less like his usual self. you've sat down with chris to talk about it early in your relationship—the expectations, the ideal and less-than-ideal situations, the how-tos, and 4 years in, everything has all worked out just fine.

lately, however,

chris has been acting really strange.

"babe, i'm home," chris' voice softly echoed through the apartment, followed by the rustling of what you could assume is the layer of jacket and hoodie you got him to wear to battle the dropping temperatures of november seoul. "where are you?"

"kitchen!" you chirped, swiftly rinsing off the pots and pans you've been battling against for the past 10 minutes, "i'm still washing the dishes. are you hungry? i made some curry for dinner, it's in the—babe? are you okay?"

the cheeriness in your voice immediately turned into worry when you felt chris' arms around your waist, holding you tight as he allows himself to melt onto you, face buried in the crook of your neck.

after all the years of being at the receiving end of chris' special mix of physical affection, you've naturally learned to differentiate the meaning in your boyfriend's touches—is he just being affectionate? or is he trying to tease you? is he jealous of the interaction you had? or did he sense something and is trying to keep you safe? you have always been able to read chris just from the way his skin grazes upon yours, and so far you've barely ever been wrong,

but god, you sincerely hope you're hitting far from the mark this time.

"hey," you softly called out upon the absence of chris' response, quickly disregarding the dishes to rinse your soapy hands before turning to face chris' tired features, "is everything alright, my love?"

instead of an answer, chris simply leaned onto your touch as soon as your hands came to cradle his cheeks—ones freezing from the cold weather he just escaped moments ago, and only then, you realized just how long it has been since you've properly seen your boyfriend.

how come you haven't noticed the dark, looming shadow in his eyes? or the way his skin had lost its usual glow and instead grew dry with the season? how come you didn't see the way the corner of his lips had grown heavier, or the way his curls you oh-so adored had adopted its long forgotten frizz?

how come it took you so long to properly see chris?

"i'm sorry, baby," running the pads of your thumbs across chris' cheeks, you forced yourself to swallow the lump of guilt lodged in your throat, "i just realized i've been too inattentive to you, and i'm sorry. have you been wanting to talk it out with me?"

and only then, you saw the faint glimmer you fell in love with, peeking between the grey clouds in chris' eyes.

"yeah," despite the hoarseness in his voice, you could hear the warmth returning in the words chris uttered as he nodded, "but i just… i didn't know how to bring it up since i knew you've been dealing with your own stuff as well."

chris quietly exhaled, soft breath grazing your lips when he leaned his forehead onto yours and let his eyes fluttered close, allowing his walls of self-protection to finally crumble as he speaks, "i'm sorry, baby. it was never my intention to let this fester for this long or to make you feel bad in any way. i just didn't know how. i promise."

you know you're not perfect, and neither is chris—but you also know chris has always made it his life mission to make sure you're the happiest you've ever been when you're with him. one honest mistake will never erase the efforts and sacrifice chris has ever made for you, and you'll never let that happen.

"i know, baby," you hummed, lightly dragging the tips of your nails against his scalp when your fingers found the dark locks of his hair, "i don't blame you. i shouldn't have assumed about your condition and let it slip too. i won't let it happen again, i promise."

and you can feel the way chris' shoulder relax at the words you utter,

because just like him, he knows you'll do everything in your power to keep every single one of your promises.

"thank you, baby," chris pulled you into his embrace, completely engulfing you in his warmth while he pressed his lips on your forehead. "i promise i'll try to be better at this too, and thank you for being patient with me. i love you."

it didn't matter how many times have you heard chris whisper those three words in your ears, or how many times have he held you like you're everything that ever mattered to him,

chris will always make your soul feel the most alive it has ever been.

"i love you too, baby," you finally allowed yourself to smile as your arms found their way around your boyfriend's waist, holding him close as you listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat—

"…babe?"

"…yeah," chris sheepishly nodded while rubbing his stomach, "i haven't had lunch too, actually…"

a protest involuntarily slip past your lips along with the forming lines of frown between your eyebrows, perfectly portraying your disapproval of chris' course of action.

"go sit down, i'll fix your plate for you," shaking your head, you turned towards the pot of warm curry on the stovetop in faux disappointment before you continued,

"and we'll talk about whatever's been stressing my christopher out, okay?"

oh, you can definitely confirm,

the sound of chris' soft chuckle will never fail to bring a smile to your face.

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[its-rapturous]

Hey!! How are you?

I wanted to ask, how would the hashiras react if their s/o was pregnant, but I didn't say anything, they find out by chance (like seeing her with shinobu, or someone congratulates them on the baby, and they say "baby?")Thanks!

i'm good! sorry this took me a couple of days <3 my boyfriend works four on, four off and on his weekends we are always busy lol. thank you for the submission!

Hashira + Finding Out Their S/O is Pregnant

characters; giyuu tomioka, obanai iguro, gyomei himejima, kyojuro rengoku, tengen uzui, sanemi shinazugawa

Giyuu Tomioka

Giyuu was absolutely exhausted, but was more than happy to sit through dinner with you and a few of your newly named friends. It had taken the water Hashira years to finally give the title to some of his peers and even longer to make space in his life for them like this. So these nights, where you all sat around a table eating, he tried to make time for. Even if he had just been gone for a week and all he wanted was to crawl into bed with his wife.

You were missing two people; Tanjiro and Nezuko were running late, something about preparing before they came? The excuse had been lost to him when Tanjiro's crow explained it but he relayed that it was fine and they were welcome whenever.

Your hand was wrapped around his, grounding him in that way only you can do. He tried his best to listen to the flow of conversation but he only thing he really enjoyed listening to was your laugh at something Tengen joked at.

"Oh, welcome you two! We saved you seats." That gets Giyuu's attention and he notices the two Kamado siblings entering, both boasting wide smiles.

You stand to greet them and he follows suit but rather than take the clearly open seats, each of the children wrap their arms around one of you. Tanjiro glued to Giyuu's waist and Nezuko burying her head in your chest.

You returned the hug happily, Nezuko's affection was nothing new to you; but the pair to your left was a different story.

Tanjiro was... crying? Giyuu was frozen, arms held up at his sides while the younger boy says something blearily through his tears.

"Tanjiro, is everything okay?" He chokes out. "Did someone die?"

Tanjiro sniffles and pulls away, that smile still weirdly in place. "I SAID I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE GONNA BE A DAD."

"Mommy." Nezuko echoes, her head resting on your shoulder - but you stopped listening seconds ago.

No way in hell did he just say that.

The whole room stilled. Preternaturally quiet, everyone present being able to control their breathing down to the marrow had all but stopped. Giyuu was staring at Tanjiro, who was still bouncing on the balls of his feet in front of him, oblivious to the silence of the room.

"I am so excited. You are going to be SUCH a great dad - and I know Y/N is a perfect mother. Do you have names yet? Have you considered Tanjiro?"

Giyuu blinks and says nothing, frozen in that same positon.

"Tanjiro." You snap, not wanting to dim his excitement but not wanting your husband to pass out. This was not how he was supposed to find out. You shoot Misturi a glare and she has the good sense to look sheepish. She must have let it slip.

The younger boy stops and instantly notices the awkwardness in the room, stepping away from Giyuu and running a hand over the back of his neck. "Please tell me that I didn't just announce your pregnancy."

Your husband finally looks at you then, and there was only curiosity where you had expected panic. "Well?" He asks. "Did he?"

You untangle yourself from Nezuko and nod. "This wasn't how I was going to tell you."

He's on you in an instant, arms wrapped around your waist, spinning you in a quick circle. "You're pregnant!?"

You laugh, half shocked and all elated. "Yes, and you just might be the father."

He lowers you and presses a kiss to your mouth, the sounds of your friends cheering in the background falling on dead ears. The fear he thought he would feel when this moment came is a figment of his imagination. He is over the moon. An excitement he didn't know he had in him at the thought of a very real family with you.

"Damn right I am."

Obanai Iguro

Obanai can hear you in the butterfly mansion. He had just returned from a mission, a gash on his side that could due with some tending leading him to seek out Shinobu before returning home to you - no matter how much he just wanted to see you. He knew full well that you would march him right over here if you noticed an injury. Might as well get it over with.

So imagine his surprise when he arrives and can hear your voice from his spot in the hallway, Shinobu's own accompanying it. It must be perfect timing. He can feel the tension in his shoulders ebb as he gets closer to where he knows you are. He can't stand these nights away from you. Ever since you got engaged he had been more and more hesitant to leave you - but his duty always won out. You wouldn't be safe unless there were no demons in the world; so that was exactly what Obanai was going to see to.

"You're just about two months, I would estimate. You may start to show soon." Shinobu's voice filters through the open door of the exam room and Obanai's body stops completely. His breathing and his footsteps halting a few feet away from the door. Had she just said what he thought she did? No. Of course not. You must be here with one of your friends, supporting them through their appointment. That was the most obvious answer.

"So I need to tell him soon." You sound scared and he hates that, but he's currently in the middle of short circuiting.

"I would suggest so, yes. Do you have concerns?"

"I do, but I shouldn't. I'm just scared. But Obanai's amazing - I have no doubt he'll support me. I'm just not sure if this is what he wants." You pause for a moment and the man outside the door still hasn't been able to catch his breath. "Sorry. I shouldn't be complaining."

"You're my friend, Y/N, it's fine. And it's completely understandable to be afraid - but I don't think you have any reason to be."

"You're right-" Your words die in your throat before you can finish because your fiance has appeared in the doorway. His back rigid and eyes wide, locked on your own.

"Your pregnant?"

"I'll give you a moment." Shinobu says, ghosting through the crack in the door and leaving you to your still rigid man.

"Yes." You respond to his question, hands clasping together in front of you, fingers fidgeting nervously. "I was suspicious these last few days, so I came to make sure."

He didn't say anything for a moment and you could feel the anxiety eating a hole in your chest. Maybe you were both wrong and he was most definitely going to freak out. Would he leave you? Being a Hashira keeps him so busy he might not think he has time to be a father. Would you blame him, for not being ready?

"I understand if you're not ready..."

"What?" Is his reply, like he's struggling to catch up. He is. Because along with the fear that he felt trickling down his spine, there was the image of a little girl who looked just like you tumbling around in his head. She was beautiful. And all at once, he was certain.

"I understand if this is too much for you.."

He approaches quickly, arms extended with the wish that you don't finish that thought and never deign to think of it again. Obanai's arms wrap around you tightly and yours go to his waist, hesitant tears springing from your eyes onto his shirt.

"I love you so much. I couldn't be happier." His voice is gruff but it holds nothing but truth and you can feel the insecurity wash out of you. You don't reply, tightening your hold instead and he responds in kind.

This was going to be extraordinary.

Gyomei Himejima

Though he couldn't know for sure, he had the most sneaking suspicion. It came from the forced observance he had with the world. While he was blind, his other senses increased a hundred fold to make up it. His smell was keen, so even if you had thrown up before he had arrived home, he knew. He could physically feel it when you were uncomfortable, which you had been a lot lately. He was almost ready to take you to Shinobu to see if you were falling ill.

But then, Mitsuri happened.

She and Shinobu were the only people in your life that knew you were pregnant. You were planning on telling Gyomei soon. You had no worry that he would be over the moon, you were just still trying to wrap your head around it yourself. You couldn't wait to have a little bundle of joy - a perfect mix of yourself and the man you love. But it was just so jarring; your life changing so rapidly so quickly.

That's why you had agreed to come to this get together. A small party hosted in honor of Shinazugawa's birthday, even though he would proclaim day and night that he didn't believe in birthdays - the group did something every year. You thought it might be good to get out of your head for a bit, and maybe you would work up the courage to pull your husband aside and tell him the happy news.

But Tengen would not back off.

"Why are you being such a killjoy, Y/N? We play this game every birthday party we have. I poured this shot with love, now take it."

"I said no, Tengen. My stomachs upset and I'm not about to tempt fate." You could feel Mitsuri squirming next to you, the urge to say something nearly eating her alive but you prayed that she could keep it together.

The music Hashira leans down closer to the two of you, his brow raising. "I've never known you to back down from a challenge. Take the shot."

"No."

"C'mon, it's just-"

"SHE CAN'T DRINK BECAUSE SHE'S PREGNANT, YOU HEATHEN." Mitsuri explodes and you honestly should have expected it but the record scratching silence in the room is still enough to make you want to bury yourself.

"Oh." Is all Tengen says, straightening and looking properly chastised. "I wouldn't have pushed, had I known. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." You wave him off, searching the faces in the room for your husband before realizing that he had already been quickly approaching.

"You're with child?" Gyomei asks when he reaches you, his hands reaching out to encase yours, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Truly?"

You squeeze his hands, everyone else in the room having mostly gone back to business as usual. "Yes. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I just couldn't find the right time-"

"Oh, what a miracle!" His below interrupts you, his large frame enveloping yours in a tight hug. "This is amazing news."

You melt into him instantly, head resting contentedly on his chest, his heart hammering out to you. "You think so?"

"Thank you so much for this, Y/N. I cannot wait to go on this journey with you."

If you had any doubts before; you knew for sure now that everything was going to be just perfect.

Kyojuro Rengoku

Kyo finds you muttering to yourself in the kitchen. Your husband wasn't supposed to return home until the next evening but he had finished his duties early and was incredibly excited to get home and surprise you. When you weren't in the living room when he entered, he decided that maybe he could sneak up on you in whatever room you were in and surprise you even more. So he set off to find you, clutching the dinner he had bought on his way home in his hands and being careful to move silently so he didn't tip you off to his arrival.

"I cannot believe this."

He could hear your voice in the kitchen but didn't hear the sound of pots or the smell of cooking, thank goodness. He had your favorite takeout and he wanted to make sure that you enjoyed it to it's fullest.

"How can I be pregnant? We were so careful."

The fire Hashira stops in his approach. His shadow is darkening the entrance of the kitchen and he can see you inside, reading over some sort of letter. You were muttering some more things to yourself, brows furrowed. Did he just hear what he think he did?

"A baby. We're going to have a baby."

He did. It took him all of five seconds to start moving again.

"WE'RE EXPECTING!?" It was a shout and you nearly jumped out of your skin when he launched himself across the kitchen, sweeping you into his arms and dancing around the small space. "YOU'RE WITH CHILD!?"

Your arms wrap around his neck while he spins you around, a confused laugh escaping your lips. "When did you get home?"

He stops moving for just a moment, those bright eyes trapping yours. "Tell me it's true, my flame. Are we going to have a baby?"

You're floored at his excitement, the pure joy radiating from him. "We are."

His smile grows bigger, if possible, and he's back to spinning you around the room. "What joy! What beauty! My wife is growing me a child!"

"Kyo, I will puke if you keep spinning me."

"Right!'

Tengen Uzui

Tengen didn't mean to snoop, but he was also fully aware that you didn't keep secrets from him. You were an open book, sharing every feeling and opinion and he was the exact same. So he didn't even really feel like he was snooping when he thumbed through the documents you left on the kitchen counter. Just mildly curious while he cleaned the area and he figured he would see if there was anything important.

Turns out there was.

It was a stack of five papers but they were out of order. He didn't really understand what he was looking at until he thumbed to the third one. The first two had detailed some weird symptoms, nausea and cramping. Maybe you had the flu? Or this could be for some sort of training you were doing with Shinobu. You'd made your interest in medicine clear and he was glad that you were perusing it.

But that third page. This one had a heading, where the rest didn't.

Y/N - Diagnosis; Pregnancy, 11 weeks.

He sucks in a breath and realizes instantly that he's made a grave mistake. You're pregnant. He's ecstatic, but also certain that you had some sort of plan for telling him. It wasn't necessarily a surprise, you had both agreed that if you fell pregnant then that was perfect. Whenever it happened for the two of you, it would be celebrated. But he had no doubt that you had some flashy reveal planned, or at the very least a heartfelt conversation.

And he had ruined it by snooping. Shit. Maybe he could just put the papers back and pretend he hadn't seen? No, he wouldn't be able to continue on normally. He was too excited.

"Tengen?"

Double shit.

He looked up at you standing in the door, the small frown on your face tugging at his heart.

"It's not what it looks like. I didn't read all of them so I have no clue that-"

"I'm pregnant?" You ask, hands on your hips. That small frown morphing into an equally sized smile at his stuttering.

"Yes?" He sets the papers down, eyes searching yours for something.

"Well, I am. So you didn't read them very well."

He lets out a bellow and dashes his way towards you, hands cupping your face while he peppers it with kisses.

"We're having a baby!"

"We're having a baby."

"They are going to be the star of the show, just you wait."

"And upstage you? That'll be the day."

"Excuse me. My progeny is capable of anything."

Sanemi Shinazugawa

Sanemi knew that something was wrong and it was driving him insane. You had been acting strangely for the last week; zoning off at the weirdest times, acting closed off around him, brushing off any attempts conversation he tried to start about what might be wrong.

You were going to leave him, he was sure of it, and it was breaking his heart a little more every day. Had he done something? Of course he had, but what was it? What had happened that pushed you over that edge? Was there nothing he could do to fix it? Your distance told him that there wasn't, and he was at a genuine loss at what his next move should be.

That's what he was stewing over when he was heading home. His first mission out of town since you had turned on him like the arctic, and he was terrified that he was going to come home to your stuff cleared out. He tried to convince himself that you wouldn't do that, wouldn't throw away everything you'd built without a word - but his insecurities painted a different picture.

He was finishing up at the compound, gathering his things to finally go home when a voice interrupted him.

"I hear congratulations are in order." It was Obanai, standing in the door fame with his arms crossed across his chest. "I can't believe we spent that whole mission together and you didn't say a thing. Didn't peg you as the silent type."

"What the hell are you on about?" Sanemi questions in frustration, throwing his pack over his shoulder. "Are you speaking in riddles?"

"Y/N's pregnant and you haven't said a word about it. Strange of you."

Sanemi's world stops turning abruptly and his pack falls from his shoulder, turning to face his friend.

"Say that again?"

Obanai's eyes widen and he realizes his mistake. "I didn't mean to be the one to tell you... I assumed you already knew and were just keeping it under wraps."

"Say it again, Iguro." The wind Hashira's voice is tight, his heart jack hammering in his chest. Pregnant. You were pregnant. Is that what this ridiculous distance was about?

"Y/N's pregnant." Obanai says, knowing it's best to just obey when his friend gets like this. He goes to apologize again but Sanemi is already gone, a whisper of wind where he was just standing.

He made it home in no time. Thoughts swirling in a million different directions but the one, concrete thing was that he needed to see you. Needed to hear it from you. Needed to touch you.

"Y/N!" He calls when he enters the home and he tracks your response to the bedroom, a pile of folded clothes sitting on the bed before you when he storms in.

"Is everything okay, Nem?"

He pauses for just a moment before he dives in. "You're pregnant." It's a statement, not a question, and you let the shirt clenched in your hands drop to the bed.

"Yes." No point in beating around the bush. You had planned to tell him. Last week, in fact, but you had been so scared. Have maintained that terror the entire week, forcing you to close yourself off from him while you control your emotions. You were so excited at the prospect of starting a family but what if he wasn't? It wasn't something you had discussed yet, though it definitely should have been. The topic had just never been one you broached.

"Is that why you've been so distant?" He asks, and you notice the distance that he's still maintaining from you. The expanse of your bedroom separating you.

"Yes." You step toward him, worrying your lower lip between your teeth. "I was going to tell you, I was just so scared-"

"Scared?" He stops you, head tilting to the side. "Of giving birth?"

Your brow furrows and you shake your head. "No, I just... I wasn't sure how you would feel. How you'd react. I was too afraid to find out."

Silences rings through the room for a moment, something flashing over Sanemi's face. You're about to start apologizing but he starts moving, his arms reaching out for you.

You step forward gladly, that firm hold the only thing that can keep you held together.

"I'm sorry that you thought you had anything to fear. I'm here, with you, no matter what."

"I just don't want to trap you into something you don't want."

"Trap me? You're my fiancee. You are everything I could want, and everything that comes with being a pair."

"So, you're not upset?"

"I will only be upset if that baby doesn't look just like you."

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submissions are open

[spideyjimin]

Bloodlines entwined: V | jjk

⤷ having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child. 

—  pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  words: 9,619

—  warnings: sex dream, strong language, mention of sex, a lot of nervousness, mention of death, mention of murder, crying, mention of grief, heartbreak, mention of abortion, swearing, nipple play, nipple sucking, kind of fingering (not sure if it’s the correct word), and some very big tension

—  author’s note: soo this was supposed to be posted tomorrow, but in the end, I have to post it today 🤗 This chapter is honestly quite intense in a lot of levels, but it unveils a lot about oc’s past, and we will finally understand a lot more about what happened to her parents 🫠 hope you’ll enjoy this chapter 💞

Chapter V: unveiling the past

SERIES MASTERLIST | previous | next

You and Jungkook are abruptly pulled out of your sleep, both affected by the very intense and heated dream you inexplicably shared. The dream involved a lot of kissing, his mouth on your nipples, his tongue lapping at your juices, your tongue swirling along his hard shaft, and his manhood inside your wetted core. It was an intense dream that you both enjoyed way too much.

After the full moon, three days ago, you haven’t really seen or talked to each other. There have been some messages here and there, mostly messages where he checks up on you. Things aren’t awkward between you, you’d actually say the opposite. However, you’re actually convinced that next time you’ll see him you won’t be able to resist him.

“Soooo,” Lexi says once you’re in the kitchen.

This night, you’ve slept at Felix’s house with Lexi to spend a little bit of time together. This whole pregnancy and werewolf journey has pushed you a bit far from them, and you don’t want that. They are a big part of you, they’ve been by your side since the beginning. So Lexi literally decided the other day that instead of having dinner all together, it’d be better if you and she slept here. Like old good times.

“You have to tell me how the little monster’s father is,” she almost demands.

“I don’t have any picture,” you instantly answer while putting coffee in a mug.

“I’m not asking for a picture,” she says. “I want you to describe the man for me.”

You roll your eyes, she’s unbelievable. She’s always so nosy, and since she has learned about the ‘I keep the baby and the father comes along’ story, she’s been dead serious to know everything about Jungkook. However, you don’t really know how to explain to her that 1) you’re a werewolf, and 2) he’s a werewolf king.

“He’s just a man,” you answer.

“You’re boring, yn,” she says before taking a sip of coffee.

“Hi girls,” Felix enters the room with the brightest smile on his face.

He leaves a kiss on top of Lexi’s head before pressing one on your cheek. When his lips meet your cheek, you close your eyes to savor this sweet moment with your father. Being on your own is all good and funny, but you always miss his sweet good morning kisses.

“Hi dad,” Lexi says. “Can you tell yn to provide us with more description than ‘man’ for her baby daddy?”

“Well, at least we know he’s a man,” he teasingly says to his daughter.

“Dad,” she moans. “You’re not helping.”

As she’s complaining to her father, you grab a plate that you place on the table with your coffee before sitting down in front of her. You take a toast, put butter on, and eat it. This is delicious. Simple but delicious.

“Okay,” you surrender. “I’ll tell you.”

“Finally!” she exclaims. “It was about damn time!”

You roll your eyes once more. This lady has an incredible personality, but you adore her. She’s literally your sunshine, you couldn’t live without her.

“It’s a tall Korean man with black short hair,” you start saying. “He has dark brown eyes and has a very athletic body.”

“So you’ve gotten to see his body closely,” she plays with her eyebrows while insinuating something sexy.

“No, I didn’t,” you instantly lie.

She furrows her brows, she knows you’re lying. It’s written all over your face.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she snaps back. “Did you already have sex with him?”

Felix chokes on his coffee, Lexi and yourself now looking at him.

“Don’t talk about that around me,” he defends himself.

“Come one, Dad,” she says. “We’re not ten anymore, we’re thirty, and your daughter is pregnant. We know babies don’t fall from the sky.”

Lexi is the type of girl to be straightforward, especially with you and Felix. In this case, she’s not wrong, but it still feels weird to be talking about sex around him. He’s like a father to you, and it’s just awkward. 

“Yeah, but still, I don’t want to know about what you do with guys,” he says.

“In this case,” you say. “We didn’t do anything like that,” you try to find an excuse without mentioning the wolf transformation. “He just spilled wine on his shirt and removed it in front of me.”

Lexi doesn’t buy it, but she pretends she does. She’s very much convinced you had sex with him, but you’re too ashamed to admit it.

“Mmm,” she says. “Is he hot at least?” she asks. “We need to know if yn junior is going to have good genetics from both parents.”

There’s a sudden heat growing under your cheeks. You don’t want to say that he’s obviously so fucking hot and that you’ve been desiring to do wild things with him. But you’re not going to say that.

“He’s not bad,” you answer. “But my kid doesn’t need him to be good-looking, they just need me.”

Now, she’s the one rolling her eyes. It’s hard to not live with her anymore because you love your little bickerings. She’ll forever be the sister the universe gave you, and despite the tragedy of losing your parents, having her and Felix is the biggest blessing of your life.

“With you as their mother, I’m mostly concerned about their ego, not their beauty.”

“You’re just jealous,” you say before taking another bite of your toast.

Before any of you can add something, your phone rings, your eyes looking down at the screen. It’s a message from Jungkook. A smile appears on your face.      

 “It’s your baby daddy, I guess,” her words make you look up at her.

“Maybe,” you say.

You take your phone to see what he wants.

From Jungkook: Hi yn, how are you today? 😊

His message warms your heart. He’s been asking you every morning how you feel, and you can’t help but find this sweet. You know it’s because you’re carrying his child, but it’s still nice of him to do it.

To Jungkook: Hey Jungkook, all good here, and you? 😊  

His answer comes quite rapidly, Lexi looking at you very intrigued.

From Jungkook: I’m good too 😊 are you still up to meet the shadow’s alpha?

Now your heart starts hammering fast in your chest, and you take a deep breath. Meeting people who can help you unveil your parents’ past is exciting yet stressful. You wish nothing more than to meet this alpha, but you’re also scared of what you’ll find out.

“Are you okay?” Felix asks.

Your eyes look up to meet his. Although you absolutely adore him, you don’t want to tell him about this yet. You don’t even know how to tell him that you’re a werewolf. One thing you’re sure of, you want to know a bit more about your parents’ story before telling him anything. You’ll tell him one day, but not just yet.

“Yeah,” you say.   

To Jungkook: yep still good

Then, you agree with him to meet tomorrow at 4 pm. As you don’t want to stress too much over it, you join Lexi and Felix’s conversation.  

Your heart is beating extremely fast, your foot taping nervously on the floor, and your eyes gazing at the city passing before you. People are walking on the busy streets, many cars are moving around you while Jungkook is driving to the house of Mister Song Sungmin.

None of you speaks, his eyes glancing at you from time to time. He’s not sure if he should say something; he’s scared to say something he shouldn’t or that will hurt you. This is such an important moment for you. You’re about to meet someone that might have known your parents, and their true past.

“You okay?” he simply asks after a while.

“Yes,” your eyes leave the city to look at the man driving.

He’s back to wearing a suit which makes him look powerful, as always. You guess that he’s wearing a suit to reinforce his stature as king, projecting authority for the meeting you’re about to have with an Alpha.

This time around, it’s a grey suit with a black shirt underneath it. He’s extremely hot. But your mind doesn’t really dwell on it for long. All you truly think about is this meeting. It’s what truly matters right now.

A couple of minutes later, you arrive in front of a very pretty house. It seems to be the cozy type.

“Before going inside, there are a few things to know,” Jungkook explains. “Song Sungmin is one of the most powerful Alphas of your pack. He’s moved here after meeting his wife, Song Eunji who happens to be the daughter of a Blood. He’s also the uncle of my best friend, Taehyung.”

You nod before taking Jungkook’s hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

He offers you a small smile, a cute little dimple appearing on his face. Every time he smiles at you, you want to touch it.  

“I’d do anything to help you.”

And you’re grateful for everything he has done so far. No matter how things evolve between you, you’ll carry him closely in your heart. For sure, your baby is lucky to have him as their father.

“Let me know when you feel ready,” his thumb soothes your hand.

“We can go,” you tell him. “No need to make this last longer.”

In no time, you’re standing on Mister Song’s porch, waiting for him to open the door. Your heart is strongly hammering in your chest. This is more than scary, but you feel like you’re slowly getting closer to unveiling the truth about your parents. Strangely, it also makes you feel closer to them.

When he opens the door, your entire world freezes. Even your heart stops beating. You know this man. You met him twenty years ago, on the night your parents were killed. He’s the man that protected you from the butchery.

Twenty years ago, you were watching TV with your parents, but around 8 pm, somebody knocked at the door. It was your mother that opened it, and she was discussing with a man before she came to take you.

“Mommy and Daddy need to do something,” she told you in her honey-like voice. “This man is a good friend of mine, and he will take care of you while we’re gone.”

You were only ten so you didn’t question it. You didn’t think much about the fact they had something to do at 8 pm, something definitely unusual. You didn’t question the fact that you had never seen this man before. You didn’t even notice how scared she looked. You didn’t question anything, something you’ve deeply regretted your entire life.

This man took you to an ice cream store, offered you all the ice cream you wanted, and talked to you. Back then, you felt like the luckiest girl in the world. It wasn’t every day that an old friend of your parents would come and give you all the ice cream you wanted. Over time, you forgot about the man’s name because, on that tragic night, you lost your parents. This man didn’t matter anymore.  

Jungkook’s glance goes from you to Sungmin, and he doesn’t need to be a genius to understand you both know each other. It’s definitely surprising, but not completely. You’re living in the same city, and you’re part of the same pack.

“You’ve already met, I suppose,” Jungkook breaks the long silence between you.

You and Sungmin nod, your eyes never leaving his.

“Please come inside,” he invites you in.

Before closing the door, he looks around to make sure nobody else is there.

“Would you like something to drink or eat?” he proposes with a smile on his face.

As you look at him, you notice that he hasn’t changed at all, except for the grey hair. He still has a warm and comforting smile on his face. A smile you never forgot.

“No, thank you,” you answer.

Jungkook answers the same, and the older man guides you toward the terrace. His house is pretty modest and filled with pictures everywhere. It might be his children and grandchildren. There are also pictures of him younger and he definitely hasn’t changed in a while. It seems like he always had this compelling posture as if he has always meant to be an Alpha.   

“Please take a seat,” he shows the chairs arranged around the table.

The three of you sit down, your eyes wandering around. This terrace is very beautiful, you hope that one day you’ll have a similar one. But you’ll need to earn a lot more money.

“So this is yn,” Jungkook introduces you. “The woman I talked to you about on the phone.”

“I know who she is,” the older man says, his eyes moving to you. “You’ve grown a lot in twenty years,” he smiles at you. “And you’ve become a wonderful woman.”

“Thanks,” you smile back at him. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Sungmin looks away for a minute as he wants to hide the tears forming in his eyes. You are his biggest secret. Nobody ever knew that, twenty years ago, he offered you as much ice cream as you desired. When he looks back at you and Jungkook, you only feel compassion for this man.

“I knew one day we’d meet again and I’ve been waiting every day, for the past twenty years,” he begins. “I was expecting you to come earlier, but I’m glad you finally came.”

“What happened?” Jungkook asks with curiosity.

Sungmin takes a deep breath, a lump forming in his throat as he remembers the events.

“Twenty years ago, your father the king found her parents. The ones that were running away from the pack for ten years.”

He doesn’t need to say much more. Jungkook knows. On your side, you frown, not sure to understand what he means, but you carefully listen to him.

“When I was informed of it, I ran to their house. I needed to see for myself if their child was still alive. If they really had a child ten years prior. Before I even knocked at the door, I heard that little giggle only a kid can do. It broke my heart,” a tear runs down his face. “And I took the terrible decision to take that child away from the house. I took that child as far away as possible because I was scared they could hear the screams of their parents. I didn’t want that child to grow up with that trauma.”

Then, you start to understand what is going on. You’re not a werewolf, or at least not completely. You’re a hybrid, and your parents were killed because of that. That explains why they never talked about it to you. They didn’t know if one day you’ll manifest any wolf signs. That’s why they also ran away from their hometown, and why your grandparents never approved their love. One of them was a human.

“I lied to everybody, I made them believe I had killed the child. Since nobody saw her face, it was easy to lie,” he looks down at the table. “I knew what I did was wrong, but killing a ten-year-old for a sin she never committed was inhuman. Putting an end to a pregnancy is one thing, but cutting short a child’s life is totally another,” his eyes look back up at you. “I don’t regret what I did, and I will never regret it.”

Shivers run down your spine. So your wolf abilities weren’t really dormant, they were there all along, but they were mixed with human blood. The pregnancy simply awoke that side of you, especially since you’re carrying a wolf’s child. Your baby is the reason why you’re now able to turn, and why your powers have increased. Your baby is the reason why you’re finally digging into your past.

“Since you’re a hybrid, I never knew what to expect. All I expected was for you to find me one day, and you did.”

“So Jung… Mister Jeon’s father is the reason why my parents were killed?” you ask.

Jungkook finds it weird that you call him Mister Jeon, but he can understand it. You’ve always been very respectful and even though you’re pretty close now, you still respect his king stature.

“No,” he shakes his head. “We are.”

Tears start appearing in your eyes, and both men only feel sorry for you.

“Your mother was a werewolf and had fallen in love with a human. She was the rebellious type, she never really followed the rules. Her parents and the pack were repeating that this love story would only end badly, but she didn’t care. Then, she got pregnant and ran away with your father,” Sungmin explains. “Hybrids are forbidden as you might know so we tracked her. For nine years we looked for them, but it was in vain. We then asked for the king’s help because he had better resources than us. In a year, he found you and we did what we had to.”

Now, the tears run down your face as you realize the extent of the situation. Your entire existence is forbidden. You shouldn’t exist, but here you are. And on top of that, you’re pregnant with the king’s child. Another forbidden life.

“How did my mother react when she saw you?” you ask.

“She wasn’t surprised at all, she even thought I was going to kill her, but I told them I wanted to protect the three of you,” he answers. “She told me that the only person she wanted me to protect was you. She was ready to face the consequences of her actions, but she didn’t want you to die for her sins.”

Thinking about her selfless move breaks your heart. You’re trying as hard as possible to not burst into tears in front of this man. Your mother always put you first, she was always making sure you were happy.

“She knew that the pack would kill you first, right in front of her eyes. She didn’t want her last souvenir to be that so I respected her last will—to protect you.”

Jungkook’s hand finds yours to hold it as tight as possible. This mustn’t be easy to hear. It mustn’t be easy to learn that you’re a hybrid. The only living hybrid.

“Who murdered them?” you ask. “My grandparents?”

The older man shakes his head. “They weren’t even present; how could they be? No matter what, she was their daughter. A daughter they deeply loved. It was another Alpha who did it,” he seems obviously very shaken up by this event. “Our pack has never been the same since then. Your grandparents retreated completely, grieving forever a daughter and granddaughter they lost. Each year, we gather together at your grandparents’ place to pay tribute to your mother and you.”

It devastates beyond comprehension to picture it. People have been grieving someone alive all along. People have been thinking about you when they hadn’t even met you.

“Even if you’re a hybrid, you’re part of our pack, and your grandparents always made sure to include you in those heartbreaking moments.”

“So you never revealed to them I was alive?” you ask.

Sungmin shakes his head. “I tried many times, but the words never left my lips.”

Right now, you only want to disappear. You don’t want anybody to see you while this devastating pain eats you alive. Mister Song and your parents protected you from death. They allowed you to live when you shouldn’t have.

Your wish to disappear is granted when you do so due to all the intense emotions you’re feeling right now. Jungkook is then unable to see you, but he can still feel you as his hand remains on yours. His fingers never stop caressing you in an attempt to calm the storm growing inside you.

Sungmin follows you and disappears as well but you’re still able to see him. You still see him like he didn’t blur into his surroundings. It’s so weird.

“I’m so sorry, yn,” his hand reaches out to yours, a hand that you hold.

“It’s not your fault,” you try to reassure him. “You did what my mother wanted; you protected me from a certain death.”

“But I could have insisted, I could have protected them,” he answers.

“You know better than I do that the pack would have never stopped looking for them. The issue would have been the same no matter what.”   

Your parents' end was destined to be tragic, but they chose to love each other. They chose each other despite the bans. They chose to have a child together and protect you as long as they could.

They knew from the beginning that you’d end up growing up without them. And right now, you hate them as much as you love them. They did all this for you, but you still hate them for knowing you’d be alone and without them.

Then Sungmin reappears, his gaze serious and looking at Jungkook, his king. He knows now what will happen to him. He’s a traitor. He helped a forbidden couple, protected a child that shouldn’t exist, and lied to the entire werewolf community.  

“Mister Jeon,” his voice tone is deep. “I’m ready to face the consequences of my acts.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, your eyes now looking at Jungkook. Slowly, you reappear as well. Jungkook has never faced such a situation, and he can’t make a decision in the heat of the moment. He needs to think, and most probably, he’ll have to report this incident to the council. Not only did Sungmin break the rules, but there’s a hybrid walking amongst them. The council will show no mercy to you and Sungmin.

But he can’t lose you, not after all of this.

He has a very strong and deep connection with you, and you’re carrying his child. This isn’t simple anymore.    

“Mister Song,” he says with a very strong tone. “I appreciate your honesty; it has enlightened us about Miss y/l/n’s past. But I can’t decide right now what to do.”

The older man nods, understanding that Jungkook is now deeply involved. He can hear that faint heartbeat in your belly, and above anything else, he can smell that baby’s scent. It’s a unique one. They’re carrying the strong scent that only the child of a king has. He can also see how deeply the king cares about you.

His decision doesn’t just implicate the Alpha. It implicates you, the baby, and him. Whatever he decides, the three of you will be impacted. It isn’t a light decision to make.

“I will be thinking about it and come back to you once I’ve decided.”

The Alpha bows to his king as a sign of respect. It’s really impressive the power Jungkook holds, and how even such an old Alpha submits to his king. This is incredible.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” he says while bowing.

The drive back to your place is done in complete silence. In some way, the car feels heavier, as if the weight of the truth you’ve just learned is pressing down on you. This time, your eyes are red and swollen, and your face is ravaged by the tear you couldn’t hold back anymore. Learning about your past terribly scared you, but knowing it breaks your heart. Now, you know what happened on that tragic night in July. You now understand why your parents were so cruelly murdered—or should you say executed—, and why you were spared.

Jungkook keeps his eyes focused on the road, but you can sense the tension in him. His grip on the wheel is tight, his knuckles turning white, and he constantly glances in your direction. He wants to say something, to comfort you, but nothing seems to come out of his mouth. He isn’t even sure his words will ever be able to comfort you.

Once in front of the apartment complex, he slows the car to a stop. His eyes shift to you fully for the first time. There’s something in his expression that stops your heart. There isn’t only worry, there’s pain as well, as if he’s carrying this burden with you. You’ve never seen that in his gaze; he’s never looked at you this way before, so unguarded, so raw.

The moment your eyes lock with his, the world around you seems to disappear. There’s no sound, no city around you, no heartbeats echoing in your ears. There’s just the two of you. His presence is comforting, it’s like he’s healing your sorrows in a way you can’t explain. How can someone make you feel this way, so understood, so seen?

“Can you stay with me, please?” you finally ask as you try to control your voice. “I don’t want to stay alone today.”

His response is immediate, and his voice is reassuring, “Sure,” he nods. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

The gratitude in your chest is overwhelming, and you manage to offer him a small smile.

“Thanks,” you murmur.  

Jungkook pulls into the nearest parking space before cutting the engine. You sit there for a moment, neither of you speaking. The air is heavy with unspoken emotions. Finally, he steps out of the car and moves around to your side, opening the door and offering you his hand. His touch is warm, and grounding, and you take it without hesitation.

Without removing your hand from his, you both walk to your apartment. Jungkook is very much tempted to intertwine his fingers with yours; to offer you some unspoken reassurance but he doesn’t do anything, too scared of crossing an invisible line. Even inside the elevator, your hands remain locked. Neither of you speaks, but the warmth of his palm against yours feels reassuring. You only separate your hands to open the door.  

When you get inside, you both strip off your coats and shoes. You look at him, and he is lingering near the door, unsure whether he should move further.

“Do you want to drink or eat something?” you ask out of politeness.

“No, thanks,” he shakes his head. His voice is calm, but there’s something in his eyes. There’s concern, guilt, and ache that he doesn’t try to hide.

You nod and move to the living room to sit on the couch. Jungkook hesitates for a moment before joining you, sitting close but not too close. However, you close the distance as you throw yourself in his arms. You don’t hold back any tears, now crying in his arms. You’ve only known him for two months, but nobody has ever made you feel like this. You can undoubtedly trust him.

You rest your head against his chest, tears spilling over. He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping an arm around you, his hand gently rubbing your back. The warmth of his embrace melts some tension inside you, and for the first time today, you feel like you can breathe again.

None of you speaks, Jungkook just rubs your back while you cry in his arms. You deeply miss your parents and discovering what truly happened to them devastates you beyond comprehension. Will you ever be able to overcome this? Will you now be able to finally accept your parents’ death?

You’re not sure, but only time will tell.

However, now the biggest question is what will happen to you? You’re a hybrid. You’re not supposed to exist, let alone the life growing inside you. Will you have to terminate the pregnancy? Will you be executed like your parents were twenty years ago? Jungkook is the only one who can answer you. He’s the one who’ll have to make that decision.

And, then there are your grandparents. They believe that you’re dead, and you’d like to meet them. You’d like to tell them that you’re very much alive, that Mister Song protected you all this time, that he saved your life. You’d like to tell them that they don’t have to honor your memory anymore.  

But you aren’t even sure you can do that. You aren’t even sure that they’ll accept to meet you.

And there’s also your paternal grandparents. You’d also like to meet them. They are human, and their opinion of you might be pretty much different. Unless they know their son married a werewolf. Now that you know the truth, you desperately desire to meet your grandparents. The four of them.

You’d also like to know if you have uncles, aunts, and cousins. There is so much you want to know about your family, but let’s not rush anything. First, you need to digest what Sungmin revealed. There was a lot of information.

Slowly, but surely, your tears stop falling down, and the pain inside your heart seems to be a bit more bearable. But you still hold onto his embrace for a little more. You don’t want to let go of him just yet.

“Thanks a lot for your support,” you say while you put an end to the embrace and clean your face. “You’ve helped me so much.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he smiles. “You were embarked in this by my fault. The least I can do is help you.”

“This was never your fault in the first place,” you shake your head.

Maybe the clinic’s mistake wouldn’t have changed anything. Maybe, no matter who the father was, the pregnancy would have awakened your wolf blood. But, no matter what you have wolf blood in you, and sooner or later, something would have triggered it. The good part is that with the clinic’s mistake, you have Jungkook by your side.   

“But now we’ve discovered I’m a hybrid,” you continue.

Jungkook nods, his hand running through his hair. It’s the first time that he doesn’t know what to do. He’s completely lost because he’s starting to have feelings for you, and because it involves his child too. The rules are clear: hybrids can’t exist. But he never pictured himself falling for one, and having a child with one too. Your baby carries human blood; they aren’t of pure blood. How can such an heir exist? Nobody will ever accept to be ruled by the child of a hybrid.  

On top of that, this child is also the first one who isn’t fully a Blood. They have the blood of the Shadows running down their veins. Jungkook strongly believes that his blood will predominate, but there’s still a chance that they choose to be a Shadow. It will destabilize everything.

The thing with mixed-blood kids is that nature will choose to which pack they’ll belong. Nobody can belong to two packs. For sure, they’ll carry the heritage of both since their parents will be from two different packs. But we can’t know beforehand which pack they’ll be part of. It’ll only be found out at birth because once out of the womb, they’ll have the pack’s eye color for a couple of days.

There are so many unknowns now with this child.  

And he still has to reveal to his family he’s about to become a father. He was waiting to discover a bit more about your past before telling them about this wonderful news. But now, things are again complicated. His mother will tell him to put an end to both yours and the baby’s life. He’s not sure how his siblings might react to this, but he’s not expecting something positive.  

“What will happen to me?” you ask with a shaky voice.

His eyes meet yours, and they are glowing with something that gives you some hope.

“I’ll protect you,” he responds without hesitation. “Nobody is ever going to hurt you. I won’t let anyone touch you,” his tone is firm and assertive.  

Your heart now beats rapidly in your chest. It reassures you that he’ll protect you, and it means a lot since he’s a king. He’s supposed to be the one who leads by example, yet, he’ll be the first one breaking the rules. He’s going to protect a hybrid, a person that shouldn’t exist.

Jungkook gets closer, his hand delicately placing a strand of hair behind your ear. This simple gesture sends shivers down your spine. Your eyes get lost in his, and the world seems to disappear around you as his thumb lightly brushes against your cheek, leaving a warmth that spreads through your entire body.   

Time seems to pause, the air between you charged with unspoken desire. His face moves dangerously closer to yours until you feel his hot breath on your skin. Your heart hammers faster and faster in your chest, and for a brief moment, nothing else matters. There is no doubt that he’s about to kiss you, and truthfully, there’s nothing else you want more right now.

You know you wanted your first kiss to be deliberate, free from the chaos of emotions you’ve been swept into. But none of that matters now. The yearning you’ve buried rises to the surface, consuming you. All you care about is to taste his lips against yours. You want to know how they feel on yours. Those wild sex dreams have ignited something inside you, and you terribly desire to bring those dreams to life.  

His nose brushes against yours, the bare touch making you shiver. His proximity is intoxicating, and your lips are a breath away from meeting. When his eyes search yours, you know he’s silently asking for permission. And this time, you don’t pull away. Instead, your lips part slightly, and he sees the answer in your expression.

Then, he finally closes the distance. His lips press against yours with hesitation at first. The kiss is soft, and it feels like you’re discovering a part of yourself you never knew existed. His hand finds its way to the back of your neck, holding you while he deepens the kiss.

The world entirely disappears as his lips move against yours, guiding you, consuming you. Your body leans into his instinctively, your hands finding his chest, the fabric of his shirt bunching beneath your fingers. When his tongue brushes your lower lip, your stomach flips, and you let him in.

The sensation is overwhelming and beautiful, a perfect blend of desire and intimacy as your tongues meet in a slow, sensual dance. He tastes like everything you’ve ever craved but never let yourself hope for. The kiss is tender as if he’s pouring all his emotions into this single moment.

When you break the kiss, you’re both breathless, foreheads resting against each other as your eyes meet once again. Jungkook’s fingers softly caress your face, his touch is so soft it almost makes you shiver. You close your eyes to savor this moment. 

It’s a victory—not his, not yours, but yours together. You’ve been fighting this connection, but there’s no denying it anymore. This kiss has unraveled something inside you, and now there’s no going back. Now that you’ve had a taste of him, you know one thing for sure: he’s become impossible to resist.

His lips meet yours once more, but this time, he’s kissing you with a fervent passion. While kissing you, his strong body pushes you, allowing you to lay on the couch, his body hovering over yours. Then, his lips slowly descend to your jaw, your neck, cleavage, and they stop right above your shirt.

His eyes look up to meet yours as if he’s asking permission to keep going down. You nod, giving him free will to do whatever he wants. Without wasting any more time, his hand pushes down your shirt with your bra, exposing your breasts to his hungry eyes. The coldness of the air sends shivers through your body, your nipples hardening instantly. His breathing gets heavier as his eyes are glued to your chest.  

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

Then, without any warning, his warm mouth meets your right nipple to torture it with his tongue and teeth. Instant moans fall out your lips, and your hands find their way to his hair, playing with some strands while he vigorously sucks on your nipple. It feels blissful. You never imagined a simple kiss could lead to this.  

His left hand assaults your other breast, louder moans escape your lips, loving the way he’s giving you pleasure with his mouth and fingers. Your hands slightly pull at his hair while your mind is completely lost in lust. You’re completely unable to think correctly. The man on top of you shows no mercy, torturing you in the most exquisite way possible.

Jungkook definitely knows how to use his fingers and mouth, and damn, it’s even better than any wild dreams you had involving him. You don’t even want to start thinking about how it must feel to have his dick inside you.

“Jungkook…” you whisper as you picture him naked again.

That sweet sound makes his shaft grow harder, the space slowly growing smaller inside his pants. The way you turn him on is unique, nobody holds such a powerful grip on him. His mouth moves then to your left nipple to treat it exactly like your other nipple. The wetness inside your underwear only grows bigger, you can feel it. The amount of pleasure he’s giving you right now is out of mind, and you know you’ll come quickly.   

His right hand snails down on your body, stopping when it reaches the hem of your trousers. Very carefully, he unbuttons and unzips them. The second his fingers brush your core through your panties, a deep guttural sound leaves your lips, and your hand pulls harder into his hair. That action causes him to moan against your nipple.

This is such a blissful torture, but if he keeps touching you like that and moaning against your body, you’ll come undone rapidly.

His fingers slowly rub your pussy through your underwear, making you slowly turn into a moaning mess. Your body is contorting with pleasure under his, and you can feel his half-hard dick brushing against your thighs. The feeling is marvelous as you get to sense how’s feeling about this too.

Then, without further notice, he slips his fingers under your panties. His hand cups your pussy whole, and you both moan at the sensation. Jungkook is instantly welcomed with your wetness on his hot palm. Another moan slips through his mouth which makes you whimper. There’s no way you’ll survive this.  

“You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs.

Jungkook drags his fingers down your slit, purposely avoiding your clit. You close your eyes in order to feel this all even more profoundly, a deep breath escaping your lips. The coldness of his fingers against your core is electrifying. You’re getting addicted to this man as he gives you more and more pleasure. How have you been living this whole time without his touch?

You lick your lips as he slowly rubs you up and down, spreading your own wetness over your sensitive skin. This feels so good, and it pushes away all the terrible emotions you went through today. His eyes look up at you as he desires to picture your face while being consumed by pleasure.

Your hips twitch against the couch when the tip of his finger brushes on your clit. As he does so, you feel a pleasurable electricity rushing through your body. Jungkook’s mouth stops abusing your nipple, his eyes completely hypnotized on your sweet face. His hand runs up and down your core and he makes sure that his fingertip touches your clit.

“How does it feel?” he finally breaks the silence.

“So…” you try to speak while he never stops his ministrations. “So good,” you whimper.

His fingertip now draws circles into your hardened clit, your back arching off of the couch, and your hips meeting his hand. The friction of his hand against your pussy is beyond delightful, his fingers bringing you straight to heaven.

“Jungkook,” you moan his name on repeat.

Your orgasm is slowly growing inside you, you know you won’t last any longer. It’s just a matter of seconds now. The man above you senses it the second your legs start shaking more and more. His fingers work harder, helping you chase your own pleasure.  

Then, you let go and the wave of pleasure violently washes over you. Jungkook stops his movements when he feels your juices leaking all over his hand. A smirk grows on his face, proud of himself for giving you an orgasm.

Jungkook removes his hand from your panties and buckles back your pants. Your heavy breathing slowly gets back to normal and after a while, you open back your eyes. The man who just gave you an orgasm offers you the brightest smile on earth.

“Hope you like it,” he says.

“It was wooow,” you tell him as you sit back on the couch.

The man presses a soft kiss on your cheek before arranging your messy hair. He can’t help but find you extremely adorable.

“Next time,” he whispers in your ear. “My fingers won’t be the only thing giving you an orgasm,” his deep voice sends shivers down your spine. His tongue licks your ear, a deep moan leaving your mouth.

The two of you know that this is just the beginning of what is going on between you. This connection is only growing stronger, and sooner or later, he’ll be standing between your legs, thrusting deeply inside of you.

And honestly, you can’t wait for that day to happen.

Tonight, Jungkook has arranged a family dinner.

It’s about time he reveals yours and the child’s existence to his family members. He’s pretty much nervous about this, but he has to tell them. A new life will join this family very soon. The next heir is on the way, and he can’t hide this from them any longer.

His mother is the first one to arrive, and she takes him in her arms. Then, a couple of minutes later, his younger brothers Hyunjin and Mingi make their appearances. And finally, Dohee appears with her husband, Namjoon.

It’s been a while since the entire family has been reunited under this roof. Dohee left the house eight years ago when she married Namjoon. His mother, Hyunjin, and Mingi left after the passing of his father. Back then, Yuna was slowly moving in and they wanted to give them the space they needed. After the breakup, they didn’t come back; they felt like it wasn’t their home anymore.

Hyunjin is six years younger than Jungkook, and he’s been in a very serious relationship with Nari for five years. Jungkook is surprised he hasn’t proposed to her yet; she’s his soulmate after all. Then, there’s Mingi, the youngest Jeon. He’s ten years younger and he was the surprise baby; their parents weren’t trying to have a baby at that time. Out of the four of them, Mingi was the most spoiled.

Even though Jungkook is closer to Dohee, the four Jeon’s siblings have a strong bond. The oldest always made sure they’d get along because family is so damn important. Their father’s death brought them even closer, and they’ve always been by their mother’s side to ensure she doesn’t grieve alone.

“So,” Jungkook begins, his eyes looking at the five people around the table. “Thanks for coming,” he smiles at them.

Dohee smiles back at her brother, her hand rubbing her belly. She should soon give birth to her fourth and, most probably, last child.

“There is a new Jeon on the way,” Jungkook’s smile grows bigger as he breaks the news.  

Jisoo, Jungkook’s mother stands up to hold her oldest child in her arms. Jungkook embraces her with the same strength, a tear forming in his eyes as her reaction deeply moves him.

“I’m so happy, Kook,” she says, her cheek pressed against his chest.

While he hugs his mother, he sees his sister’s face. Although she’s smiling and seems happy, something in her expression unsettles him. He knows she’s thinking about the fact that the baby is a hybrid; she was the only one aware of it back then. But, so much has happened since he talked to her, events that she will know now.

His mother sits back in her chair while her hands clean the tears on her face. Another one of her children is about to make her a grandmother again. Dohee is the only one who has been giving her grandchildren, and she’s happy Jungkook is also going to give her another one. She can’t wait to have her house filled with grandchildren.

His siblings and Namjoon congratulate him on the fantastic news. Although their reactions make him happy, he knows this light mood will not last long. They most probably will hate him when he’ll tell them what you truly are.

“Have you already met the surrogate?” his mother asks out of curiosity.

“A surrogate?” Hyunjin asks.

“I sought the help of a fertility clinic to have a child,” Jungkook explains to his brother. “It was getting harder to be waiting to become a father.”

His eyes move back to his mother to answer her question.

“But there’s no surrogate, mom,” he tells her.

Everybody’s reaction is the same. They all widen their eyes, except his sister. She’s known this for a month already, but she’s now worried about why he’s revealing this to the family. He should know nobody will be happy about him being a father to a hybrid, especially their mother.

“Are you with somebody?” she asks. “Or is it Yuna?”

“It’s absolutely not Yuna,” he instantly answers. “And I’m not with anyone, at least, not yet,” he rants.

Jisoo seems to be happy about all of this, but she still wants to understand how on earth he’s about to be a father if there’s no girlfriend and no surrogate. She starts wondering if he slept with someone only to have a child.

“The fertility clinic made a big mistake,” he explains. “A woman was mistakenly impregnated with my material, and at first, I thought she was a human. Obviously, this wasn’t possible since the baby would then be a hybrid,” they all shake their heads.

Jungkook purposely omits that he didn’t convince you to abort; his mother would kill him if she ever found out. Dohee takes a deep breath and shifts on her chair to try to find a comfortable position.

“But then, I found out that she wasn’t human,” he proceeds. “And it changed everything, she could keep the baby.”

Dohee’s expression now fully changes. She wasn’t expecting that, so she’s now very happy for her brother to have a pure-blood kid. Jungkook notices her sincere smile, and it already hurts him to even think about what he’s about to say next.

“However, she didn’t know that she was a werewolf.”

Now, they all frown, confused by this sentence. It clearly doesn’t make any sense.  

“How’s that possible?” Mingi asks.

Jungkook’s heart stammers in his chest. How does he explain now who you truly are? He’s not even sure he wants to do it, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. His family needs to learn from him that you’re a hybrid. Not from someone else.

“Her parents left their hometown, cut ties with their families, never told her about her wolf side, and died when she was still a kid,” he summarizes. “She was then raised by a human and never found out the truth until she got pregnant.”

He hardly swallows before he continues to reveal what has been going on for the past nine weeks. Honestly, those past weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster.

“I’ve been trying to help her discover what happened because as you can imagine, it’s a lot to take in.”

His heart is going crazy in his chest, and he’s barely able to look at his family as he proceeds with the story.

“She’s part of the Shadows, and I reached out to Mister Song to help us unveil her past.”   

They remain in silence, letting Jungkook speak. The man takes then an unreadable expression on his face to protect himself from what is about to come. He hates that he has to do it with his family, but he has to.

“Mister Song told us that thirty years ago, a Shadow woman ran away with a human,” his heart beats faster. His eyes move to his mother, hoping that she recalls that incident.

“Oh yeah, I remember that,” she says. “The Shadows couldn’t find them so they reached out to your father. After ten years, they managed to find them and their child.”

Jungkook bites his lower lip and he’s not sure how to continue with the story. Does he say now that you’re a hybrid? Does he maintain the mystery any longer?

“Well, we found out that the child was never killed,” he explains while avoiding saying that Sungmin spared your life. “And that child is the mother of mine.”

For a moment, the room is filled with a sharping silence. Jungkook doesn’t look away, trying to understand their expressions. They are all speechless, but he can see anger forming in his mother’s eyes. He was expecting it; she has never messed with the rules. He admires her for following the rules, not everybody does it, but this time around, it will be hard for her. He’s not going to abandon you because of your true nature. 

Mingi and Hyunjin are surprised but seem intrigued by all of this. Jungkook can see that curious flicker in their eyes. Dohee seems utterly shocked, but her expression softens when her eyes meet her brother’s. Namjoon seems mind-blown. And Jisoo, the matriarch, looks angry.  

“What?” Namjoon is the first one to break the silence. “A hybrid has been living for thirty years and nobody ever found out.”

Jungkook nods. “Yep.”

“A hybrid?” Mingi says. “That’s cool,” he continues.

“Mingi,” the mother’s harsh voice echoes in the room. “Hybrids are forbidden, there’s absolutely nothing cool about them,” her eyes now move to Jungkook. “And you, my son,” she’s very angry. “You know what you have to do.”

As he hears her words, a strong feeling of protection grows in him. Even if she’s his mother, she can’t tell him what to do, especially when it includes you.  

“No,” his tone is firm. “There won’t be any killing.”

“Neither the baby nor her can exist, son,” she responds.

“Like I said, there won’t be any killing,” his voice is calm, but still very firm.

Dohee, Mingi, Hyunjin, and Namjoon watch in disbelief the scene displaying in front of their eyes. It’s the first time Jungkook is using that tone on their mother, and it’s also the very first time he’s not agreeing with her. It seems like an unrealistic moment.

“She’s a hybrid, for fuck’s sake,” she swears, catching everybody off guard. “She can’t exist! It’s already a miracle she managed to live up until now, but you have to end her life right now before anybody else ever finds out about her.”

“Do you hear yourself, mom?” he says. “You’re talking about killing someone like it’s the same as making a cake. We’re talking about a life. In this case, even about two lives.”

The king runs his fingers through his hair, a sign that he’s extremely nervous. He knew his mother wouldn’t accept any of this, but it’s harder than he imagined. He hates to be standing against her. She has always been by his side, supporting him whenever he needed it.   

“I’m not saying it like that, but the rules are the rules,” she says.

“Then, fuck the rules!” he swears.

Now, everybody is surprised by his words. This isn’t the Jungkook they used to know; he’s been always composed and now, it seems to be losing it.

“Jungkook,” Dohee tries to intervene.

“Don’t Jungkook me,” he says to his sister.

He’s trying to stay calm, but it’s getting harder. Nobody seems to understand what he’s feeling.

“It’s easy for everybody to follow the rules when it doesn’t involve your child,” his voice tone gets higher. “I got attached to that baby even if they’re not born yet. I constantly hear their heartbeat every time I’m around her, and I can’t put an end to their life. It’s a big no,” he’s very firm. “It’s my child we’re talking about.”  

Tears start forming in his eyes, and his mother’s heart breaks as she hears his words. It makes her realize the complexity of the situation. For a moment, she puts herself in his shoes, trying to understand him.

When she found out that she was pregnant with Jungkook, it was the most beautiful day of her life. She desired her entire life to become a mother, and after her marriage, that desire only grew bigger. Hearing her son’s faint heartbeat was such an appeasing sound, and it was the prettiest sound she ever heard.

So, imagining that she needed to terminate the pregnancy because that child is a hybrid breaks her heart. It’s a decision she’s not sure she’ll be able to make. But the rules are the rules. Even if her grandchild will have more wolf blood than human blood, that doesn’t change the fact that the mother is a hybrid. She shouldn’t even exist in the first place.

“And she’s my soulmate,” his voice breaks.

Jungkook has been pushing aside the nature of his feelings for you, but after yesterday’s events, he finally realized it. You’re his soulmate. You’re the person that destiny chose for him. You’re the person with whom he’s supposed to mate. It’s a powerful bond that nobody will ever be able to break.

“I will protect her at all costs,” he adds.

His mother closes her eyes in disbelief.

“There’s nothing we can say, then,” Dohee concludes. “Except for Mingi, we all know how it feels to be around your soulmate, how powerful the love is, how deep the connection is, and what we’ll do to save our soulmates. For sure, she’s not supposed to exist, but destiny bonded her to you, our king. You have all powers, and we all know you’ll put her safety first,” she quickly looks at her husband. “I can’t blame you, Kookie. In your shoes, I would do the same. I’d save and protect Namjoon even if he was a hybrid.”

Jungkook looks at his mother, expecting now a reaction from her. Like Dohee said, she should know how he feels. For sure, his situation is messy as hell, but there’s not much he can do. If he kills you, he’ll forever be dead on the inside. A soulmate is a one-time thing; he doesn’t get to have two soulmates. 

“This is like a movie, but better,” Mingi says with a playful smile on his face. “Our brother, known as the werewolf king, falls in love with a hybrid, a forbidden species in our world, and he got her pregnant.”

“Stop being silly, Ming,” Hyunjin strikes his elbow against Mongi’s. “This is serious.”

“Rooh,” Mingi says. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. I know it’s serious, but as Dohee said, there’s nothing we can do. The hybrid is Jk’s soulmate so we better accept the situation and help him. That’s it.”

Mingi makes everything sound so easy, as he always does. His chill, laid-back, and easygoing nature makes him the most relaxed of all the siblings, and in moments like this, it’s exactly what’s needed.

“The hybrid’s name is yn,” Jungkook says once he realizes he didn’t even say your name.

“Son,” Jisoo says as she opens her eyes. “In between us, we can accept it because we know what she represents for you. But how will the others react when they realize that yn, their possible future queen, is a hybrid, and that the next heir is not of pure blood?”

Hearing his mother say that you’ll probably be the next queen makes him feel weird, but in a good way. The words catch him off guard at first, a mix of surprise and uncertainty flickering through him. But the thought of having you by his side, not just as a partner but as his equal, makes his chest swell with a warmth he didn’t expect. Maybe, just maybe, the idea of you as queen is a future he wouldn’t mind embracing. 

“We all know how they will react,” she pauses for a moment. “They will try to kill her. Soulmate or not.”

“I don’t care,” he honestly replies. “I will protect her from everything and anything.”

No matter what people say, he’ll do whatever he can to keep you safe. He’s a king so he has the resources to protect you, and he also hopes that his authority as king might protect you as well.

“Okay,” the matriarch answers. “Then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to meet her.”

A smile appears on her face. It’s not easy, but she’s ready to make an effort for her son. She’ll try to accept this all because you’re his soulmate. However, she needs to meet you first so she can see what kind of person you are.

“Okay,” he smiles. “I’ll arrange that.”

The tension slowly fades away and the family continues the dinner while talking of other things. Jungkook is aware of the fight waiting for him, and he knows it won’t be easy, but you’re worth it.

[ellewritesx]

final clause

(final part of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: Rules are made to be broken.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, fingering, protected sex (we cheer), praise kink if you squint, lots of feels

A/N: brb i'm gonna go cry about the series ending. somebody send me requests for bonus parts/check-ins asap!!! i can't believe it's finally here, wow :,) i'm really happy with where the story went though, and i'm so honored so many of you have stuck around this long. enjoy lovelies, let me know what you think x

Word Count: 7,154 (you're welcome)

...

The words hang between you like smoke lingering after a wildfire. I'm in love with you. You blink. It's the only thing your body remembers how to do. Everything else, breathing, thinking, speaking, collapses under the weight of those five words. I'm in love with you.

Harry stares at you, eyes glassy under the rooftop lights, jaw tight, fists trembling at his sides like he wants to reach out to you but fights the urge. Like he's afraid you'll shatter if he dares to move.

For once, there's no trace of confidence or arrogance. No trace of the man who always had the upper hand. He looks... terrified. And gut-wrenchingly sincere.

''I don't expect you to say anything,'' he says quietly, the tremor in his voice so vulnerable and defeated that it nearly knocks you over. ''I just needed you to know.''

For a long, suffocating moment, you don't say anything. You can't. Not because you don't have anything to say, but because you don't know where to start. Your heart is screaming too loud for you to so much as hear yourself think.

You're flooded with disbelief, distrust, with all the reasons you should walk away right now. But you're anchored in the ground.

''You hurt me,'' you say, gaze hardening as you stare at him, your voice low but steady. ''So many times.''

He looks injured, like you've ripped out his heart and set fire to the shredded parts. But you don't take it back. You can't. Because this is what he always does, he takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and you're the one left behind to pick up the pieces.

But he just nods. No defense. No excuses. Just pain behind his eyes.

''I know,'' he murmurs, swallowing hard. ''I thought if I kept you at a distance… I could control it. But I couldn't. I never could. You were under my skin before I even realized I'd let you in.''

You look down for a second, jaw clenched, trying to fight the sting in your chest. ''You were cruel, Harry.''

''I know.''

''You used your money like a leash.''

''I know.''

''You made me feel like I wasn't good enough unless I followed your rules. You treated me like an object, like a toy you could play with and throw away when it was convenient for you.''

His voice cracks. ''I know. And I hate myself for it.''

''You kicked me out like I meant nothing. And now, what, you say... that, and I'm supposed to jump into your arms?''

''I know, Y/N,'' he repeats, louder now, voice laced with desperation. ''I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I swear to God, if I could take it back, if I could undo what I said that night, I would. A thousand times over.''

You want to look away. It's easier, when you can't see the way he's looking at you. Like you're some kind of lifeline.

But you don't. You hold his gaze. Because he needs to see that you're not tolerating the way he's been treating you, not anymore.

There's a silence that follows, heavy with unspoken thoughts, unnamed feelings. He runs a hand through his hair like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

''I wanted safety,'' he blurts, eyes locking with yours. ''Because I never got that. Not growing up. Not ever. Love was always transactional to me. If I was good, I'd get affection. If I failed, it'd be taken away. So I learned to control everything. To be the person with the power to take things away, so it couldn't be done to me.''

You stare at him, heart clenching.

''But you…'' he continues, ''you got past all of that. And I didn't know how to handle it. So I pushed you away before you could do it first.''

He takes a careful step forward, testing the waters. You don't stop him, but you don't move toward him either.

''I miss you,'' he says. ''I miss your voice. Your laugh. The stain of your lipstick on my coffee mugs. The way you always steal the pizza crusts off my plate. The way you look at art like it's telling you a story. I miss you. Everywhere, all the time. I miss us, whatever we were.''

You close your eyes. It hurts. So much.

''I've been a coward,'' he admits, voice breaking. ''But I'm not scared anymore. So if you want me to beg, I will. I'll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. Want me to get on my knees? I'll get on my fuckin' knees, Y/N. Want me to apologize every day for the rest of my life, spend the rest of my time proving to you that I'll never hurt you again? I'll do it. I'll do anything. You name it and it's yours.''

You don't answer. You just stare at him, taking him in. His voice trembles with every plea, with the effort of lowering his walls, of revealing everything he's hidden behind them, bare and awaiting your judgment. He's bleeding honesty, messy, raw, real.

The rooftop feels too quiet, too still, like the city's holding its breath, too, bowing down to the weight of the moment.

He takes one last step, barely a breath away from you. ''Please,'' he begs softly, barely audible.

You finally whisper, ''Why now?''

''Because... I lost you. And it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.''

That does it.

Something breaks, relents, and you crash your lips to his before you can think it through. He lets out a choked gasp against your mouth like he was suffocating and you're a breath of fresh air.

Months of miscommunication, longing, heartbreak, it all crashes to the surface like a tidal wave. You press against him, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt. It's desperate, urgent, but the way his hands come up to delicately brush a strand of hair behind your ear and cradle your face is the exact opposite.

It's gentle. Testing. A question mark. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his shoulders are still slightly slumped, a heavy, deep-rooted guilt that seems to be pulling him down.

You wind your fingers through his hair, and he pulls you close like he doesn't care if the world ends right here, right now, as long as you're in his arms. There's a soft frown on his face, a deep crease between his eyebrows you used to press kisses to until he smiled, even if it was forced, even if it was just for a second, just for you.

You know what it means. He's worried. He's worried you're kissing him for one last time, for closure, a silent goodbye. He's worried the moment will end before he's committed it to memory.

He's terrified of being relieved, of being happy, because it's fragile. It never lasts. Because you can take it away, and he couldn't stop you if you did. He's powerless in this situation.

Your heart aches, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him impossibly closer, wanting him to feel your presence, your affection, your love. A wordless ''I'm not going anywhere''.

But just as your hands brush down his arms, as your pulse starts to race with something deeper, something needier, he stops.

His hands come to your waist, pushing you back and holding you there, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. ''Wait.''

You freeze, tilting your head in confusion, squeezing his biceps in an attempt at getting him to look at you. ''What's wrong?''

''I can't,'' he whispers. ''Not here. Not yet.''

''What?'' You blink once, twice. He's never denied any of your sexual advances before. Your stomach drops, but he seems to know exactly what you're thinking, because he's quick to reassure you.

''Hey, I want you. Christ, I want you so bad it physically hurts.'' He presses his palm flat against your cheek, breathing hard. ''But not like... like this. I want to do it right.''

He looks at you like he's trying to memorize you. Like he still believes that you're going to turn around at any given moment and this will be the last time he ever sees you. ''I don't want the next time I have you to be like this. Not rushed. Not because it's a habit,'' he continues, fingers affectionately brushing against your jaw.

Your brows pull together, heart pounding. ''Harry…''

''I want to take you on a date,'' he says with conviction, voice steady. ''A real one. Just us. No strings, no games. I want to hold your hand and show you off and not worry if someone sees. I want to walk you home and kiss you on your porch. And when we… if we make love, I want it to be something we both remember. I want to give you the love story you deserve. I want to be the man you deserve, Y/N.''

You stare at him for a long moment.

''You've never turned me down before,'' you huff out a quiet laugh in disbelief.

A small, almost pained smile tugs at his lips. ''I've never been in love with you before, either.''

Something cracks open inside you, not in pain this time, but in awe. This isn't the man who bought your time and your body and called it business. This is someone else entirely.

Someone who wants you to choose him because you want to, not because it's expected of you. Not because you're getting paid.

Someone who's in love, maybe for the first time ever, and doesn't shut you out or run scared. Someone who stays.

So you nod. ''Okay. Take me out, Styles.''

He laughs, breathless and stunned and almost disbelieving. His mouth opens and closes, like he'd had this all planned out up until your inevitable rejection, and now you've flipped the script and given him a second chance he never thought he'd get, and he's speechless, his heart taking a moment to catch up.

You smirk, already walking back toward the elevator. He follows you, his fingers brushing yours like he can't help it.

You don't pull away.

...

You've never been on a date with him before. Not really.

Sure, you've spent evenings wrapped around him in the velvet shadows of his penthouse, tasted expensive wine from the edge of his lips, worn dresses he bought you to glittering galas just because he liked the color against your skin, but never like this.

Never with the intention to impress you, to please you.

It's a museum, of all places. Quiet and sunlit. Not a flashy one either. There's no red carpet grand opening, no boring CEO's or politicians cutting ribbons, no pretentious auction.

Just a local gallery hidden in a narrow street in your neighborhood, with squeaky floors and handwritten placards. It smells faintly of old paper and lemon wood polish. Harry meets you outside the entrance, hands in his pockets, wearing soft brown trousers and a button-up that gives a glimpse of his tattoos, making your stomach flutter.

He doesn't touch you at first. Just greets you with a crooked little smile, like he can't believe you actually showed.

You walk through the first exhibit in comfortable silence. He stays close, not crowding, but present. Your shoulder brushes his once or twice, and the air shifts each time.

You watch the art. He watches you.

It takes you longer than it should to realize he hasn't looked at a single painting.

''Harry,'' you say sternly, tilting your head as you eye him suspiciously, ''do you actually like museums?''

His mouth twitches. ''I like this one.''

You arch a brow.

He shrugs. ''I like how your nose scrunches when you read something interesting. And how you get this little crease between your brows when you're trying to understand something abstract. You're the most interesting thing in this building.''

You roll your eyes, but your bashful smile gives away the butterflies in your stomach. ''So you invited me here just to stare at me?''

He looks at you, and for once, there's no teasing in his tone. ''Yeah. Kinda.''

You forget how to breathe. He's trying.

There's a moment, later, when you're standing in front of a moody oil painting of a forest, observing the black shadows and eerie stillness, that he suddenly says, voice hushed in the quiet museum, ''I used to be scared of the woods when I was little.''

You blink up at him. ''Really?''

''Yeah. My dad used to take me camping. Said it would toughen me up. I hated it. The sounds, the dark... It made me uneasy. Still does.''

You nod softly, but say nothing, just let him share. He keeps going, in small pieces, as if testing how much you'll let him unravel before you realize he's more than you can handle.

He tells you he used to draw, when he was a kid. He stopped because he feels like he lost the imagination to do anything creative, like he lost the privilege to pick up a pencil because he knows it won't be good. You encourage him to try again, without the pressure.

He shyly reveals that he loved watching 2000s romcoms and once cried during 13 Going on 30. His dad had scolded him for it. ''Boys don't cry'', he'd said, and that Harry should ''grow a pair and toughen up''. He never watched it again. You suggest a movie night for your next date, and he smiles in relief when you look away.

Next date.

He tells you that he can't listen to Springsteen without thinking of his mum humming along to the radio in the car. He misses her. You frown and ask him if she's gone. He shakes his head. She's not, but he doesn't elaborate, and you don't push.

He tells you that he has a small scar on his left hip from falling off a bike at thirteen and never telling anyone because he didn't want to look weak. You mention you noticed it once, in bed together.

All of it seems ordinary. But to you, it's everything. Because he's never talked like this before. Talked at all, really.

Afterwards, you wander into a tiny market tucked between cobblestone alleys, all pastel awnings and mismatched booths packed with scattered trinkets. It smells like roasted almonds and sun-dried fruit and lavenders. There are hand-painted postcards, rows of cheap rings in velvet trays, someone selling resin earrings shaped like various fruits, someone else selling pocket-sized poetry books with uneven bindings and ribbon bookmarks.

It's chaotic and colorful and bizarre, and you love every second of it.

Harry lets you lead. Watches you point out porcelain dishes with intricate flower details and antique mosaic lamps and glass candle holders he wouldn't even have noticed if it wasn't for you. He smiles fondly at your taste. You're the polar opposite of him. Where he only sees flaws, you see beauty. Just like you do with him.

''You should redecorate the apartment when you move in,'' he says thoughtfully, his eyes widening when his brain finally catches up with his mouth, blood rushing to his cheeks in record speed.

''When I move in?'' Your eyebrows raise, a smile tugging at your lips.

He's an idiot. You've given him a second chance he didn't deserve to begin with, and now he's already gone and screwed it up. He didn't mean to say it, he didn't even mean to think it. But you were walking around the market in that sundress, a skip in your step, and his mind just wandered to a future where this could be his regular Tuesday, where he could wake up next to you and press soft kisses to your skin and suggest going on a spontaneous date just to see you smile.

It's the first date. He shouldn't be thinking of this yet. He's in love, and he's doing it all wrong. God, he sucks at this. He's terrible at it.

His stomach tightens like he's bracing himself for your disgust, for the moment you realize he's new to this and he has absolutely no idea what he's doing, and running the other way.

He wouldn't blame you if you did.

He frowns, eyes flitting over your face, memorizing every feature while he still can. This is it.

''Harry,'' you say pointedly, snapping him out of his spiral. ''I'd like that. Decorating the apartment, I mean,'' you say soothingly, brushing your fingers against his and intertwining them slowly, tentatively.

''Yeah?'' he sighs in relief, releasing a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding, studying your face to make sure you're not just lying in a futile attempt to let him down easy.

''Yeah. C'mon, let's keep walking,'' you smile reassuringly, hoping to get his mind off his slip-up.

He nods, letting you tug him to another booth. The tension dissipates quickly when you spot a stuffed animal, discarded on the table in a way that tugs at your heartstrings painfully.

Carelessly tossed into a corner is a turtle plushie, colors slightly faded, a comically grumpy frown on its face.

''Holy shit, I'm in love with him,'' you pout, picking up the stuffed animal and holding him out with both arms to show Harry, who's leaning against a pole and watching you with a dopey smile.

''That thing?'' he scoffs in disbelief when his gaze drops to the scruffy turtle. It's wearing a pink tutu, yellow rainboots, and holding a purple umbrella, clearly moping over the imaginary rain.

''Hey, he might hear you!'' you defend him passionately, covering the space where his ears would be.

''Of course you would get attached to something like that.''

''What's that supposed to mean?'' You squint at him when he takes a step closer, almost daring him to say something that'll offend you.

''You take pity on the ugly ones, baby.''

''Probably why I agreed to this date.''

He snorts at that, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment, before tugging his wallet out of his pocket and lifting up the turtle's foot to read the scribbled price tag on the underside of its boot.

He hands the vendor five pounds and tells him to keep the change. When he turns back to you, you're grinning from ear to ear, overjoyed you get to keep this worn piece of fabric you call a plushie.

''Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm going to name him Greg and keep him forever,'' you press a firm kiss to Harry's cheek.

He blushes. ''It was only two pounds, love. No big deal.''

''It's a big deal to me. Thank you, Harry,'' you smile gratefully, clutching Greg to your chest and grabbing his hand again.

He grins, and God, it's so easy right now. He's not the man who took his frustrations out on you and slammed the door in your face. Who dragged you out of bars by your arm in fits of jealousy, who treated you like nothing more than territory to mark.

He's just Harry, the guy who smiles nervously when you hold his hand a little tighter in public, who smells like cedar and orange peel and whose face is full of reluctant hope.

You stop for drinks at a stand in the shadows beneath a weeping willow. Lemon soda for you, black iced coffee for him. He insists on paying, and for once, it's not a power play. Just a gesture. Small. Thoughtful. He doesn't offer to buy you anything else, no bags of gifts, no diamonds, no showy purchases to stake a claim.

It's weirdly perfect.

You sit beneath the tree for a while, just talking. About anything and everything that comes to mind. Books, music, life. Sometimes about nothing at all, just quietly enjoying eachother's company.

It's when you're both getting up to leave, brushing off your hands and grabbing your empty cups, that he turns to you with a soft voice.

''I used to hate silence.''

You glance at him.

He looks at the ground. ''Grew up in a house where silence meant someone was mad. Or something bad was about to happen. So I learned to fill it. With noise. Music. Sex. Anything.''

You stay still. Let him keep going.

''But with you…'' He looks up, vulnerable. ''It never feels scary. It just feels... normal. Safe.''

You don't know what to say to that, so you just wordlessly slip your hand back into his.

He walks you home as the sun sinks low. The streets are bathed in that glowy haze of the golden hour, and your fingers are still loosely laced together, even through the bustling crowds. Everyone can see that you're together now, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

Women usually ogle Harry. You don't blame them, but your stomach still dropped every time. Your arrangement had been exclusive, but that didn't stop him from smirking when women practically fell at his feet. He'd politely decline them if they actually made any advances, which you respected. But it killed you nonetheless.

Now, women eye him and smile giddily at you, almost like saying ''you go, girl'', before looking away respectfully. You squeeze his hand softly, and he squeezes back, a little shaky.

When you reach your building, he stops at the steps leading to your door. Doesn't assume. Doesn't push.

''I had a really nice time,'' he says, smiling, his eyes soft and content. ''Thank you for coming.''

You smile back. ''Of course.''

There's an awkward silence.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, like he's gathering his courage, and clears his throat. ''Would it be okay if I kissed you?''

The question is so gentle, so hopeful, it nearly breaks you.

You nod once, and he leans in like he's afraid you'll vanish if he moves too fast. The kiss is slow, sweet. He kisses you like you're the most precious thing he's ever been trusted with.

When you part, you lean your forehead against his and whisper, ''Do you want to come up?''

His breath catches, eyes searching yours. ''Are you sure?''

You step back and smile, swallowing nervously. ''Yeah.''

And that's how he follows you through your front door, his fingers brushing yours, both of you silent but pulsing with something warm and electric. You're not thinking about rules anymore. Not about contracts or fine print or keeping your heart in a box.

You're thinking about him.

And he can't think of anything besides you.

...

You lead him through the narrow hallway of your apartment, past your shoes kicked off by the door and the coat rack that leans slightly to one side. It's dim inside, because one of your ceiling lights has been out for weeks and you haven't cared enough to replace it.

You watch him take it all in, how small it is, how cluttered. There's a pile of laundry you forgot to fold in a basket on the table, a blanket your friend knitted as a Christmas gift strewn across the couch, a mug from this morning's tea still sitting on the coffee table.

The walls are littered with mismatched frames: photos, postcards, dried flowers flattened behind glass. It smells like your favorite candle, half-burnt and sweet, and maybe something faintly citrusy from the cleaner you used earlier.

It's not curated like his place. It's not neat or sleek or polished.

It's not just a space someone has lived in, it's a space someone has loved.

And he looks like he might cry.

His fingers brush the edge of a bookshelf that bows under the weight of your books and various knick-knacks. Lingers on a chipped pot with a small plant on your windowsill. Runs across a Polaroid tacked to the wall, one where you're posing with a group of people, big smiles on your faces, blurry but joyful.

He follows you into your bedroom with a reverent slowness. It's chaotic, full of color and soft textures. Your bed isn't made, and there's a pile of clothes on the chair in the corner. One of your posters is curling at the edges where the tape has loosened.

But his eyes don't scan the chaos with judgment. He absorbs it like he's learning about you for the first time all over again.

It's the opposite of his pristine penthouse, the opposite of the control and dominance that seems to be etched into the walls there. Maybe that's why he doesn't quite know what to do with himself now, more intrigued by your room than the museum you were in earlier.

Then he turns to you.

''It's cozy,'' he points out.

''Messy, you mean,'' you tease, kicking off your shoes by the bed and tossing your jacket over your desk chair. You carefully place Greg onto the crumpled blankets on your bed.

''Like you,'' he grins playfully, taking in the space with a curious glint in his eyes. ''Do you live alone?''

You nod. ''For a couple of years now.''

He hums, still looking around. ''Your place is so...''

You smile. ''The complete opposite of yours?''

''Yeah,'' he says, almost sheepish. ''Mine never felt like a home. Except for when you were there.''

That settles deep inside you. But you don't say anything, just step closer and put your hands on his chest, making him look down at you. And when he does, it feels like the whole world fades away, and it's just the two of you in your tiny apartment.

Instead of pouncing like he usually would, he waits. You nod, breathing out ''Come here,'' soft as a breeze.

When he presses his lips to yours, it's tentative at first, a hesitance lingering between you, a fear of ruining the second chance you've given him. He holds your face with both hands, delicately cradling your skin like he's afraid you'll break otherwise. His thumbs stroke the apples of your cheeks, slow and reverent.

You lean into him, pressing your palms to his chest a little firmer and sliding them up around his neck. He groans, low and pained, like he's coming undone just from being so close to you. He doesn't hesitate then, kissing you like the tension of everything that's ever passed between you is finally, finally, melting away.

He's warm. Solid beneath your hands. He smells like bergamot and linen and something darker, something that's so him, it nearly makes you want to burst into tears.

You kiss him harder.

And he lets you. He matches you.

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. His mouth opens under yours, sighing against your lips, and everything deepens, slows. It's no longer hesitant. It's want. It's need.

Your hands fumble with the buttons of his jacket, both of you huffing out a laugh between the kisses when you struggle to tug it off, until it finally slips off his shoulders like silk.

He blindly walks you backwards toward your bed, bumping his knee into your desk chair, letting out a low, startled ''Fuck,'' and you giggle into his mouth, grabbing onto his biceps to steady him.

''Sorry,'' you breathe against his lips.

''Should've worn shin guards,'' he mutters, lips brushing your neck.

Then you're undoing the buttons of his pants slowly, carefully, like it's an ancient ritual. His fingers ghost over your waist, the curve of your hips. You move back toward the bed, tripping over your own bag in the process, and he catches you with a quiet ''Gotcha,'' pulling you closer with both hands splayed against your lower back.

''Jesus. Is this a hazard zone?'' he chuckles against your skin. You simply kiss him again to shut him up.

Your bedroom is barely big enough for the two of you. The bed is small and the sheets are rumpled and your bedside table is cluttered with lip balm and receipts and a cheap alarm clock that never works.

When you finally collapse onto your bed together, it lets out a loud, groaning creak that makes both of you freeze.

''Oh my God,'' you whisper, mortified.

Harry stares at you, deadpan, but his lips are twitching. ''That the sound it always makes?''

''It has… character.''

He snorts, and the sound turns into a surprised belly laugh when your mismatched bedsheets get tangled around his ankle, causing him to frantically try to kick them off, but to no avail.

''Jesus, this bed is a fuckin' death trap,'' he curses.

''Want me to call a cab?'' you tease, breathless and grinning.

He presses his forehead to yours. ''No. I want this. Want you.''

Then you're kissing again, slower this time, your fingers sliding up under the fabric of his shirt. He lifts it off with a practiced ease, baring all the skin you've missed so terribly, the smooth planes of his chest, the ink etched over his ribs. His cross necklace brushes your collarbone as he leans in, and when his lips drag down your throat, you sigh and let your head fall back. You've missed him.

It's not smooth, not like it always was at his place. He's taller than your bed is long, and one of your pillows gets knocked to the floor when you move. He tries to shift his weight without sinking the whole mattress, and the frame creaks dramatically again under the weight of him, tall and broad and out of place in your little world.

You throw your head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he laughs along with you. But he just kisses you again, deep and passionate, like he's chasing a high he can only get from your lips.

He's gentle when he undresses you. Reaches under your shirt like it's a science. His fingers skim your ribs, your hips, your spine. He kisses every inch he uncovers, worshipping you, and murmurs things you can barely make out. ''You're so soft…'' ''I missed this, missed you. You have no idea, baby.'' ''Never letting you go again.''

When your shirt falls away, he pauses.

You hold your breath.

He brushes a hand over your bare chest, thumb hesitantly tracing a smooth line across your sternum. His gaze is adoring. No jealousy. No possessiveness. Just awe.

He watches your face the whole time, taking you in with the softest expression, other hand brushing up to cup you, thumb grazing the swell of your breast. He leans down to kiss your skin.

''You okay, love?'' he whispers against your jaw, pressing kisses to every stretch of your skin like he's making amends, voice low.

''More than okay,'' you reassure him quickly.

''Tell me if I do anything wrong, anything you don't like. I mean it.''

You look at him, heart nearly bursting out from behind your ribs. His curls are falling onto his face, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast. And yet, in his eyes, there's patience. A gentleness and intimacy you've never quite seen from him before.

''I will,'' you say, and mean it.

''Can I?'' he asks, vaguely gesturing to your body.

You nod. ''Please.''

He dives in and kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest, your stomach, careful and slow. Every touch feels like a confession. Every sigh is a promise.

''You're so beautiful,'' he whispers, voice wrecked.

You drag him down to kiss you again, moaning into his mouth as he presses you into the squeaking mattress. His hand slides lower, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of your pants.

''Off,'' you request softly. ''Want them off.''

He gets the message. He helps you, pulling and kicking and shifting until your clothes are in a pile on the floor, your body bare beneath him. He sits back on his knees, mouth slightly parted as his eyes trace over every inch of you, like he still can't believe this is real.

Then he stands, toeing off his boots and undoing his belt. Your heart stutters as he drags his trousers and boxers down, thick cock already hard and flushed, resting against his stomach. You bite your lip, thighs rubbing together involuntarily at the sight.

He notices.

''You want me?'' he asks, low and hoarse, but it isn't a demand for an answer. He's asking, secretly insecure, needing the confirmation.

You nod, determined. ''I do. I want you.''

He leans over you again, bracing on his forearms as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. You gasp when his hand finds its way between your thighs, fingers parting your folds, collecting slick.

''So fuckin' wet for me already,'' he whispers. ''You're so perfect.''

You whimper as he rubs slow circles over your clit, back arching. ''Harry, please.''

''I've got you. Gonna make it good, baby. Gonna take my time.''

He slides a finger into you, and you keen, hips lifting. Then a second. His mouth finds your nipple, sucking gently as he works you open, curling his fingers just right. He knows your body better than you do. It trembles under him, hips rocking, thighs beginning to shake.

''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' you gasp, head thrown back onto the pillows, your hair sticking to your skin.

He pulls his fingers out, smirking when you whimper. ''Not yet, love,'' he says soothingly. ''Wanna feel you around me.''

When he crawls back onto you, you take your time. Run your hands over the familiar lines of his body, the softness of his stomach, the freckles you love so much, the little scar on his left hip he told you about earlier today. You kiss him hungrily. He sighs deeply.

You reach for the nightstand, fumbling for the top drawer to grab a condom, but he catches your wrist and brings it up to his lips to press soft kisses to the sensitive skin there.

''Let me.''

You blink up at him. ''Okay.''

He rolls it on, slow and careful. Then he looks down at you, hovering above, his arms caging you in but not pinning you down.

''Are you sure?'' he asks.

''Yes,'' you breathe. ''Are you?''

He leans in, face softening, and kisses your nose. ''More than I've ever been.''

When he sinks into you, it's not like before. There's no rush, no game. Just intimacy. His hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers, and presses it to the mattress as he puts his weight on his arm.

You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you slowly, gently. Inch by inch. It's overwhelming, the feel of him, thick and hot. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your neck.

Your legs curl around him like you never want to let go. He curses softly under his breath, rests his forehead against yours, and stays there. Doesn't move. Just feels. Lets you adjust.

Your free hand finds his back, his shoulders, the curls behind his ears, breath stuttering as he bottoms out with a shudder. And he breathes, deep, like he's letting himself exhale for the first time in months.

It's not frantic. Not greedy. It's not about release or dominance or performance. It's about love, about two individuals coming together and sharing something intimate.

''You feel so good,'' he rasps. ''So fuckin' good, love. Don't ever leave me again, fuck.''

His words make your chest twist, your hand tightening in his hair. ''Then don't push me away again.''

He stills for a moment, temple pressed against your cheek, as if the weight of your words just crashed into him. Then he kisses you again, deep and remorseful, but grateful. A silent promise.

He starts to move slowly, carefully, like he's worried that you'll break. Or that he'll break. But it'd be worth it. He'd die a happy man.

The bed creaks loudly beneath you both, springs groaning under the weight. You both freeze for a second, then burst into quiet laughter. It makes something twist in his chest. You're laughing in his arms. Naked. Wrapped around him. You're his. And he's yours.

He moves again, languid, deep thrusts that make your toes curl, make your walls flutter around him. His hips roll against yours, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.

Every drag of him inside you is like poetry, like punctuation to every word he never knew how to say to you before now.

''You feel so good,'' you whisper, kissing his shoulder, his jaw, his lips. ''So fucking good, Harry. You're so good to me. So perfect''

He moans when you praise him, heart bursting at the seams, picking up the pace slightly, still controlled, still taking his time. He kisses you like he means it, like he's pouring all his feelings for you into it.

He whispers things into your neck between thrusts, soft and shaky. ''I'm not going anywhere.'' ''I'm so in love with you.'' ''You changed my life.'' ''You're my whole world.''

You almost cry at his words, so heartbreakingly genuine, falling from his lips without a second thought, walls tore down.

For once, he's not calculating his every move, not carefully picking out his words. He's not focused on you surrendering control to him. Instead, he's devoting himself to you, whispering ''I'm yours,'' into your skin over and over again like a broken confession.

Your bed squeaks with every movement, the mattress dipping and shifting beneath his weight. It's too small for both of you, but you make it fit anyway by puling your bodies closer to eachother. Neither of you are complaining, legs tangled, hearts pressed close.

His pace stutters when you moan his name, soft and breathless. He grips your hips tighter. His eyes close.

''I love you,'' he chokes out. ''I love you, Y/N. I love you so much.''

You crash your lips to his, love flowing between the two of you, whispering a soft ''I love you, Harry'' into his mouth.

His hand slips between your bodies again, fingers circling your clit while he fucks you, murmuring praise into your skin.

''You're doing so good for me,'' he pants. ''So pretty. So perfect. Can't believe you're mine. I'm the luckiest man alive.''

You cling to him, nails digging into his back as the pressure builds, your body spiraling. He's so deep. So thick. You're so full. His body clinging to yours. His breaths of pleasure in your ear. The way he looks at you like you're everything to him.

It's too much.

''Harry, I'm gonna—''

''I know, love. I got you,'' he whispers. ''Come for me. Let me feel you.''

And you do.

You unravel with a content sigh, clenching around him as your orgasm crashes through you, thighs trembling. There's no theatrics. No screaming. Just a slow, building pressure that crests in your chest and spills out with a soft cry against his mouth. He groans, fucking you through it, thrusts growing erratic.

''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' he growls.

''Come for me, Harry,'' you whisper, dazed and desperate. ''You're so beautiful. God, I love you so much.''

That's all it takes.

He spills into the condom with a broken sound, gently biting your shoulder to muffle his moans, body shaking. You feel every pulse of him, warm and thick, your bodies joined and your hearts racing. His broad frame collapses on top of you, a grunted 'oomph' leaving you, his arms shaking from the exertion.

He doesn't move. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck. The room is quiet. Still. For a moment, you just breathe. Wrapped up in each other. Quiet. Content.

You're the one who whispers, a breathless chuckle escaping your lips, ''This bed's gonna collapse if you roll over.''

He laughs heartily, twisting his neck to press a quick kiss to your temple. ''Then I won't.''

You go quiet at that. Bury your face in his hair.

And when your heartbeat starts to settle and the warmth lulls you into a sleepy daze, he shifts slightly with a contorted face, groaning as he reaches for something under his hip.

''Ow, what the hell—''

You blink as he pulls something out from under him, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling.

Greg.

The shabby secondhand stuffed animal he got you at the market this afternoon.

Harry holds him up by one leg, squinting at him. ''No fuckin' way.''

''Greg,'' you say solemnly. ''The horrors you've witnessed. I'm so sorry. I'm a terrible mother.''

Harry snorts softly, which quickly turns into full-blown laughter that shakes his shoulders and makes him drop his face into the crook of your neck. He kisses your bare shoulder. ''This is ridiculous.''

''Better get used to it.''

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you, eyes soft, kissing you again. You've never kissed in a way that wasn't followed by him ripping off your clothes. You've never kissed, not out of lust, but just to kiss. It was a nicety, a thing people do before they have sex.

But now, he does it just to make sure his affection for you sinks deep into your bones and settles there.

You pull the blankets further over both of you from where it pooled around his hips. He pulls you close, his head resting on your chest, and lets out a long, quiet breath.

There's no satin sheets, no floor-to-ceiling windows. Just you. Your way too tiny bed, your colorful sheets, your mismatched pillows, and a turtle named Greg. He's certain it's the best night of his life.

Besides, of course, your wedding day, sometime in the near future. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the thought. Don't get ahead of yourself, Harry. God, he's smitten.

He never would've guessed that meeting you would've flipped his life upside down. He's not sure if he would recognize the man he was before he met you. And he's not sure if that guy would recognize the person he is now, because of you.

He strokes your hip gently. ''I meant it, you know.''

You pull back a little to look down at his face.

''All of it,'' he says. ''The date. The sex. This. You... Loving you. I don't want to control you or own you, not anymore. I just want to know you. Be with you. However you'll have me.''

You press a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his favorite shampoo clinging to his curls. ''Okay.''

His sighs in relief.

And in the dim glow of your room, on a bed that creaks every time you shift, with love soaked into the sheets, you finally believe him.

It's just you and him now. Raw and real and brand new.

And for the first time in his life, he thinks that maybe love doesn't have to be a transaction. That it can be unconditional.

And messy, and complicated, and absolutely terrifying.

And perfect.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet @caynonmoondreams @matildasatellite @ilovezaynmalik08 @looney-goose-19f @call1800coochie @nostalgiainmybones @billweasleyswife @hailiex @lichi-dunkera @tchlamqtsgf @kiszkas-canvas @trixilove257

general tag list @2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk

...

[izzih22]

Fic for another protective P plssssss. I mean she did that to Nai, how much more with Azzi. 😭

Not a Story

Note: I didn’t really know what to do here so I’m sorry it’s short but I hope y’all like it. Also I might just start clearing out my drafts and crap. So sorry this isn’t really complete but enjoy!!

The final buzzer echoed, and the crowd’s roar started to fade into background noise. Players began moving, some celebrating, others lingering in quiet frustration.

Azzi didn’t head to the handshake line right away. She saw her before anyone else did the forward from the opposing team, the one who’d been guarding her hard all game. There’d been some words exchanged mid-fourth quarter, a little extra contact. Nothing dirty. Just emotional. Tense. Competitive.

And Azzi wasn’t the type to let things linger if they didn’t have to.

So she walked toward her.

The other girl was already turning, like maybe she’d been hoping for the same conversation. They met near the logo, still in full view of the arena, but in their own little bubble.

“It got chippy,” the player started, her tone calm but sincere. “That one play, I wasn’t trying to go at your knees—”

“I know,” Azzi said quickly, shaking her head. “It felt bad in the moment. But I know. We’re good.”

They nodded at each other, a shared look of mutual respect passing between them. Athletes clearing the air. That was it.

But not to ESPN.

The boom mic was suddenly overhead. A sideline camera drifted in fast from the left, focusing in on their faces like it was waiting for a push or a shove or some soundbite to spin into narrative gold.

Azzi noticed it out of the corner of her eye.

Her posture shifted not guilty, just… uncomfortable. She took half a step back, trying to finish the conversation before it became a headline.

Paige noticed it from across the court.

The way Azzi’s shoulders tightened. The way her eyes darted up to the camera and then back to the player, trying not to seem bothered.

Paige moved instantly. No hesitation.

She cut across the hardwood like it was instinct. She’d spent years learning Azzi’s tells how she stood when she was trying to be polite, how her jaw twitched when something felt off.

And right now? Azzi didn’t want that camera in her face.

The moment Paige reached them, she slid into the space between Azzi and the lens.

Didn’t say a word at first. Just positioned herself so the shot was blocked completely. The ESPN cameraman adjusted so did Paige.

Subtle. Firm. Completely unbothered.

The camera moved again.

Paige followed.

Finally, the operator muttered something about “just trying to get a feel for the scene,” but Paige was already stepping forward.

“You’re not gonna find one,” she said, voice low and steady. “They’re just talking. That’s all.”

The operator tried again. “There was some heat earlier viewers wanna know if it carried over.”

“It didn’t,” Paige said flatly. “So you can stop trying to make it something it’s not.”

The player looked caught between amused and grateful. Azzi just let out a quiet sigh, touching Paige’s arm like a thank you she didn’t need to say aloud.

The camera finally pulled back.

Once they had their space again, Paige turned to Azzi.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. I just didn’t want that to turn into something for Twitter.”

“I know.” Paige reached up, brushed her knuckles down Azzi’s arm for just a second. A soft, grounding gesture. “That’s why I’m here.”

Azzi smiled, not wide but real. Full of affection that didn’t need to be dramatic or loud.

The opposing player gave them both a quick nod and walked away.

And Azzi leaned a little closer to Paige as they turned toward the tunnel, her voice soft.

“Thanks for having me.”

“Always,” Paige said, not missing a beat.

Because this wasn’t the first time someone tried to turn Azzi into a headline and as long as Paige was around, it wouldn’t be easy.

Not when she was the one standing in the way.

[strangelysamantha]

since you're asking..can u do a touch starved!damon salvatore pls,,,

hunger ✧

damon salvatore x fem!reader.

warnings: swearing, blood (obvi), smut, MDNI. 18+. biting, kissing, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, use of nickname baby.

summary: damon was locked in the salvatore cellar for months, and when you finally bargain with stefan to let him out, he is touch starved, and all he wants is your attention.

a/n: i’m so excited to write for tvd. i’m rewatching the series and ITS SO GOOD. damon is such a hottie. like and comment if you enjoy, and my other stories/masterlist is pinned on my account. 🩷

—————————————-————————

damon had been locked away for six months. stefan was trying to prove a point, and it made you nauseous seeing damon in such terrible condition. you couldn’t stomach it after a while, you really tried in the beginning. every morning and night you’d be outside his cell waiting for him, however as he was starved, he became more aggressive. attempting to push you away so he had no reason to look forward for the future. you didn’t allow that. you were always there, even after the comments, and hostility. his words started to affect you though. being around his presence was something you couldn’t walk away from, but you knew interacting with him when he was locked away was hard on him. you stopped staying good morning, only sitting outside his cell in silence.

you relentlessly begged stefan, wanting damon to be freed. “he’s been in there for months, with me by his side he’ll be contained. i promise.” stefan shook his head, his eyes low. shocked he even heard you suggest that again. “he can’t control himself, and the second we let him out he will go on a rampage.” you sigh, but stefan continues. “i’m not willing to get that blood on my hands, and you shouldn’t be either.” tears well up in your eyes, frustration clouding you. “stefan, i’m letting him out. he’ll do good; for me. if i'm wrong, we can throw him right back in that cell.” stefan could see how much this matter meant to you, and damon was his brother, it meant a lot to him too. “you have asked me multiple times now to free him.” you look behind him, to the hallway to the basement. “i can’t keep seeing him like this…” you voice trails off, flustered by how you were feeling. “it hurts.” stefan lowers his head, his eyes trained on the floor. “fine. but the second he can’t control his urges, i’m hunting him down.” you pull him into a hug; relief washing over you. “thank you. thank you so much.”

you run down the hall, grabbing a few blood bags on the way. you approach the cellar door. “damon?” you question. you hear him let out a devastating groan. he weakly speaks up, "hey." your heart stings at his tone, "im here to rescue you." you let out an airy laugh, you glance inside the cell, noticing a small smile on damons lips. "is that right?" you toss the blood bags into his cell, and he's quick to his feet. he immediately reaches for them, devouring the drink. "im here for you damon." after the blood bags, he had the energy to stand face to face in front of the door. his hand reached through the crack, and you join your hand in his.

"you have to promise me something before i can let you out, okay?" your words made him nervous, but he was desperate to be let out of this penitentiary. "anything, i promise." you smile, your eyes locking with his. how badly you wanted to just let him out and crash your lips against his. that was the hardest part of him being locked up, no kisses, hugs, hand holding, nothing. "you can't go on a bender again." he's silent now, the memories rushing to his head again. similarly, like they had so many times in the silence and dark of night. "i wont, you motivate me to be better." his words comforted you, you glance over at stefan and he gives a nod of approval. you undo the lock, cracking the cellar door open.

with no hesitation, damon is engulfing you. his hands roaming every inch of your body, his mouth desperately on yours. in between kisses he mutters out, "i've missed you so much." you have tears now, the reunion you've been craving for months suddenly becoming reality. you both pull away to breath, his hands holding your face, your hands around his neck. "ive been waiting, so long." you let out a hushed whimper, and damons heart softens at the sound. he was being honest, he genuinely loved you, and he wanted to do everything he could to ensure you would be his.

"thank you so much for believing in me." you pull him into another kiss, desperate to make up for lost time. "i love you damon." he pulls you into a tight hug, "i love you so much." you pull away, and link your arm with his. you lead him upstairs to join stefan. "now that you are out, any slip ups, and i will make it my life mission to lock you away, for good." you knew stefan was serious, it left a weird tension in the air. "i know brother, i'll be on my best behavior." he flashed a cheesy grin. stefan scoffs, "i'll believe it when i see it." with that, stefan leaves the room, giving you and damon some space.

"please be good for me. i can't go that long without touching you again." he grabs your chin, forcing you to make eye contact with him, "i promise i won't do anything to ruin this." you nod, "maybe you should shower." he shy's away at this, now becoming insecure of his scent. "noted." he leads you upstairs to his room. he sets out a change of clothes, heading into the bathroom. you lay on damon's bed, eager for him to finish his shower.

the steam fogged up the mirror, damon washed out his conditioner. he desperately needed the comfort of the warm water. he finishes washing up, meeting you in his room with just a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. you bite your lip, his abs on full display. "you're so handsome, damon." he smirks slightly, "im so thankful for you." you look away, "it was really hard not being able to touch you." he sighs, "i know, and i said some really harsh stuff that i regret." you nod, "i didn't take it personally i know you had a lot going on." he's relieved, and you take note of his wet hair dangling in front of face. you stand up, and he immediately pulls you close to him. "i need you." he mumbles, his hands grabbing at the flesh of your ass. he plants his mouth against yours, hungry for your touch. "i need you so bad." you groan beneath him. he leans into your neck, slowly dipping his teeth in you. he rubs your back as he drains your artery. he pulls his teeth from your neck, licking the blood that spilt down your throat. "you are so sexy, baby." you fold at his touch, and he gently places you on his bed.

you lean back, and he's littering your chest with small kisses. "missed everything about you." you lean forward, pushing the damp hair out of his face. "yeah?" he nods, his hands slipping underneath your shirt. he gently massages your stomach, desperate for the feel of your soft skin. "you know how many times the thought of you, got me through it?" your eyes go soft, "i was there every day. i asked stefan so many times to let you out." you look away, starting to frown. he tsks, grabbing your cheek. "i'm here now baby, and i don't plan on leaving anytime soon." you hold onto him tightly, afraid to lose him. "can i touch you?" without second guessing you eagerly say yes. "please touch me." he's quick to remove your pants, his fingers circling your clit. you lift your body up, melting into his touch. "fuck damon."

he lifts from your pussy, and you whine from the loss of contact. he drops his towel, revealing his hard length. "all those times in that lonely cell i thought about pounding you in a million ways." you smirk, "now we have so much time to reenacts those thoughts." he jerks his cock a few times, "yes we do, don't we?" he grabs your legs pulling you closer to him. "im gonna fuck you so hard." you shiver at his tone, he lifts your legs above you, sliding into your hole. his cock is huge compared to your tight pussy, and he groans at the feeling. "fuck you're tight." he slides deeper inside of you, filling you up. "i missed your cunt." your eyes are locked onto his facial expressions, his face filled with pleasure. he pounds you, moving your position to where your legs were wide, and you were slightly angled up. he swirls your clit with his thumb. you grab his hand while he overwhelms your bundle of nerves. "you feel so so good.." you slam your eyes shut, overwhelmed by damon's cock. his cock filled you to the brim, his fast paced had him hitting a deep spot inside of you. "its been a while im so sorry." he mumbled, his hips stirring "cum with me baby." he continued pounding you, adding pleasure from massaging you clit. he had deep groans falling from his lips, and that sent you over the edge. "please i'm gonna cum." your legs shook as your orgasm washed over you, damon's thick streams of cum cover you walls.

he stayed inside you for a second, letting you guys catch your breath, he holds you close, his lips curved into a relaxed smile. "you are perfect." he whispers. "im so glad you're all mine." you snuggle into him more, and he slowly pulls out from you, he lifts you up and carries you to the bathroom. he cleans you up with a warm rag, he kisses your thighs. "want to go to the mystic grill?" you ask him. he bites his lip, "yeah sure." you change into acceptable clothes, and the two of you head to the bar.

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind - VI

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Word count: 5,5k

Chapter V

Note: This has been an emotional rollercoster, but welcome to the final chapter!! I hope you all enjoyed the story as much as I did!

--

The soft thump of a hammer echoed through the apartment again, followed by the high-pitched whine of an electric drill that had definitely seen better days. Y/N barely reacted—just lazily flipped a page in her fashion magazine, her legs swinging slightly off the side of the couch, toes brushing the worn rug. The model on the page wore something entirely impractical for pregnancy, but Y/N still admired the color.

Her belly shifted under the oversized shirt she’d stolen from Bob weeks ago—though she refused to admit that out loud.

The sound of shuffling tools and an exasperated grunt came from the hallway, and then Bob appeared, wiping sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. His hair was a mess again. Thank God the gel hadn’t made a reappearance in weeks.

He looked tired—but in that satisfied, proud way that came after a long day of fixing what was broken.

“I finally got the damn cabinet to stop swinging open every time someone breathes near it,” he announced, stepping barefoot onto the carpet. “Your shower isn’t leaking anymore either. Window in the kitchen’s fixed. Crib’s done. Everything’s… done.”

Y/N looked up from her magazine. “You say that like you’ve conquered Everest.”

He leaned his weight on the armrest of the couch, giving her a crooked grin. “I basically have. You know how long I’ve been fighting that crooked hinge in the pantry? Longer than I fought Abomination.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And which one smelled worse?”

“Definitely the pantry.” He smirked, but then paused, looking at her with something quieter in his eyes. “You’re comfortable, right? I mean, the place—it’s finally good again?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just flipped another page, then closed the magazine and set it beside her.

“I’m comfortable,” she said, finally. “For now.”

Bob nodded, like he knew that tone well by now. He did. Two months of it.

Two months of brushing past each other in the kitchen. Two months of long conversations that always stopped right before they could be about them. Two months of him staying on the blow-up mattress in the other room, waking at every noise she made, every time she turned in her sleep.

He’d offered her everything: the Watchtower, an apartment in the city, a bigger bed, a quieter life. She hadn’t taken any of it. She’d chosen the walls they once called theirs, now patched up and reimagined as hers again.

Still, he never left.

“I know I’m being stubborn,” she said softly, rubbing her stomach as the baby gave a lazy kick. “I just… I need to know that I’m doing this right. For me.”

“I get it,” Bob said, without hesitation. “I messed up. I was gone. I left you holding everything. You don’t owe me anything.”

There was a pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“And still,” he added, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him—hair falling in his eyes again, knuckles scraped from fixing pipes and building furniture, shirt stained with sweat and dust. His whole being radiated exhaustion and devotion.

“Do you even sleep anymore?” she asked quietly.

He gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah. When you do.”

She felt a pang in her chest, unsure if it was affection or guilt or both. She leaned back into the cushions, hand absently rubbing her stomach.

“You’re doing all this for someone who hasn’t even told you if she wants you here.”

“I know,” Bob said, softer now, sitting down slowly on the floor beside the couch. “But I’m not doing it to earn anything. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve someone who fixes things when they break—even if it’s just a loose screw or a cracked tile. Or me.”

He looked down, like maybe he’d said too much. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say that yet.

Y/N reached for her water bottle on the coffee table, then thought better of it and instead reached out, fingers brushing his.

“You’re better with the hammer than I thought,” she said, half-teasing.

He smiled at that. “You should see my drywall technique. Masterclass.”

The late afternoon sun bled softly through the curtains, painting the apartment in hues of gold and rose. Y/N shifted a bit on the couch, pulling a pillow behind her lower back, groaning as she tried to get comfortable.

“Hey,” she said casually, as Bob reached for his toolbox again. “You feel like going on a noble quest?”

Bob looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Oh boy. What now?”

“I want a sandwich.”

“That’s it?”

“Bacon and egg. Toasted bread. A side of fries. And a Coca-Cola.”

He blinked. “That’s a feast.”

She gave him a small grin, teeth biting her lip just slightly. “It’ll do.”

Bob exhaled like he was being sentenced to war. “Alright. Want me to go milk the cow and bake the bread from scratch too?”

Y/N leaned back into the couch, hand over her belly. “Don’t tempt me. You’ve got strong arms and the energy of a loyal man in love—I might put you to actual labor.”

He gave her a look, wiping sweat from his brow dramatically. “You are having fun slaving me around.”

“I am,” she said without apology, smug. “But you love it.”

Bob just shook his head, grabbing his wallet and keys, heading for the door. “You’re lucky I can’t say no to you.”

“I know,” she called after him sweetly.

Twenty minutes later, the door clicked open again, and Bob stepped in with two paper bags of hot food, a pair of soda cans tucked under his arm. He was already chewing on one fry, like he’d earned the reward. “Mission complete,” he said, dropping the goods on the coffee table like a hero returning from battle.

Y/N practically pounced. “God, bless you.”

They ate in silence for a while, the soft crackle of wrappers and the faint sound of city life outside the window filling the space. Y/N was already licking salt off her fingers before Bob was halfway through his sandwich.

He glanced at her plate and snorted. “You devoured that. I don’t think I even blinked and it was gone.”

She looked smug again. “I’ve got a whole human being inside me. What’s your excuse?”

“Touché,” he chuckled, and then, more gently, he reached out and rested his hand on her belly. “How are you two doing? I mean… you’re already seven months.”

Her smile softened. “We’re good. Tired, mostly. My back hates me. But he’s growing. Doctor says he’s healthy.”

Bob’s thumb traced slow, small circles on the curve of her bump. The expression on his face melted into something reverent, something quiet and heavy with awe.

Silence lingered for a few moments, the kind that feels full instead of empty.

Y/N looked down at his hand, then up at his face. “Bobby?”

He glanced up, still smiling. “Yeah?”

She watched him for a second longer, eyes unreadable, then said, “You should probably start packing up my things, you know clothes and everything.”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

She tilted her head slightly. “I’m moving in with you.”

He froze. “Wait—what?”

“I already put the apartment up for sale,” she said with a small smile, brushing a crumb from her shirt. “Had a couple people interested. Figured I’d wait until all the fixing was done so the value would go up.”

Bob slowly lowered his sandwich, staring at her like she’d just told him the moon had fallen out of the sky.

“And you’re telling me this now?”

She shrugged, grinning. “I wanted to make sure first. And I needed a reason for you to fix everthing, you wouldn't do it if ou knew it wasn't for me. But… yeah. I’m moving in with you. I want to be there. For all of it. The baby. The crazy superhero stuff. Us, whatever we are.”

Bob still looked like he was trying to process oxygen.

“I mean, I heard,” she added with a teasing glint in her eye, “there’s a luxury suite available in the Watchtower. And a great man who sleeps on the other side of the bed. Big arms.”

His eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, beaming now. “Dead serious.”

Bob launched himself forward so fast the remaining fries toppled over. He wrapped his arms around her, careful of her belly, holding her with the full force of his love. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, her forehead, murmuring breathless declarations between kisses:

“I love you—I love you so much—you’re everything, everything to me—God, I’ve missed you—I can’t believe you’re actually—Y/N, I’m gonna cry—”

She laughed through it all, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling like she hadn’t in months.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered into his ear.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy. “And you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

They stayed like that for a long time—wrapped in each other, the smell of fries and warmth in the air, the flickering golden light of a day well-lived wrapping around them like a promise.

--

The elevator doors of the Watchtower slid open with a soft chime, revealing Bob awkwardly juggling two cardboard boxes stacked so high they completely blocked his line of sight.

“Can someone—uh—get the doors?” Bob grunted, bumping into the wall with a thud.

Y/N followed right behind him, visibly amused, a tote bag over her shoulder and a small plant in hand. “He insisted on carrying all the heavy stuff. Said it was his superhero duty.”

Bob peeked around the boxes just in time to see Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and Walker all sitting around the common room, half-eating, half-arguing about the best combat drills. They turned toward the elevator in unison.

Alexei blinked. “What’s this? Is Bob moving out?”

“Please say yes,” Walker muttered with a mouthful of trail mix.

Bob, ignoring them, stepped forward dramatically and proclaimed with a big grin, “She’s moving in!”

Y/N elbowed him gently. “Not into your bed.”

“Yet,” Bob whispered proudly, causing Yelena to cough suspiciously and Ava to hide a grin behind her water bottle.

Alexei nearly jumped up from the couch, arms thrown wide like he was welcoming a national holiday. “YES! I knew it! The baby is coming, the woman is here, life is beautiful!”

Bob beamed, setting the boxes down and slinging an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “She’s selling the old place. Said she wanted to be here for everything. The baby, the team… me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at his cheesiness but didn’t pull away. “More like I didn’t want to miss out on seeing Alexei pretend to be a baby whisperer.”

“Oh please,” Alexei said proudly, thumping his chest. “I already have plans! I will teach him to wrestle before he walks. We’ll bench press together. First words will be Red Guardian.”

Y/N laughed. “Right, because nothing says healthy development like a toddler trying to do kettlebell swings.”

“By age three, he will punch Walker in the knees!” Alexei continued, completely serious.

Walker threw a chip at him. “Try it and I’m throwing him into orbit.”

Ava smirked from the other couch. “We’re taking bets on who he bonds with first. I say me. I’ve got quiet mystery aunt energy.”

“Please,” Yelena said, raising a brow. “He’ll bond with me. I’m the cool one. I’ve already bought him four tiny tactical vests.”

Y/N covered her face, laughing. “You’re all insane. But fine, he’ll need uncles and aunts to balance out whatever chaos Bob contributes.”

Bob looked mock-offended. “Hey! I’m going to be a great dad. I fixed her kitchen window. That’s like… 70% of fatherhood, right?”

“I mean… it’s a good start,” Y/N said, leaning into him slightly. “But let’s see how you do with diapers before you get cocky.”

Walker stood and clapped his hands. “Okay, well if she’s living here now, do we need to create a safe zone? Somewhere baby-proofed where Alexei isn’t allowed?”

Yelena raised her hand. “I second that.”

“Traitors,” Alexei muttered.

As they all bickered and teased each other, Bob took a quiet moment just to look at Y/N. Her smile, her comfort, her laughter blending into the rhythm of this strange, dysfunctional family—they were all here. And soon, the baby would be, too.

“Feels good?” Ava asked softly, sidling up next to him.

Bob nodded, still watching Y/N as she scolded Alexei for something ridiculous. “Feels like home.”

--

Y/N stood in the center of the Watchtower suite, turning slowly as she took it all in. The space was enormous—modern, sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in soft golden light. Bob’s bedroom was bigger than their entire old apartment, and somehow still felt empty, like it had just been waiting for someone to fill it with life.

“So, uh,” Bob said, a little nervous, scratching the back of his head. “This closet’s all yours.” He opened a set of sliding doors to reveal an embarrassingly bare rack with maybe four of his T-shirts hanging. “I mean, technically it’s mine, but… as you can see, I don’t have a whole lot of style to make room for.”

Y/N stepped inside, running her fingers along the open shelves and empty hangers. “You weren’t kidding,” she laughed. “It’s practically begging for my shoes.”

“That was the plan,” he said with a grin, dropping the boxes of her clothes beside the bed. “Take over. Redecorate. Make it yours. Whatever you want.”

She smiled softly, a flutter in her chest she chose not to acknowledge just yet. Still holding on to that healthy distance, she reminded herself.

Her attention turned to the bed and she couldn’t resist—she flopped backward onto it with a dramatic sigh, arms stretched out like a starfish. “God… this mattress… it’s like it molds to my body. I might never get up again.”

Bob chuckled. “You like it?”

“I feel like I’m being hugged by a thousand clouds.”

“Well, good.” He smirked and backed toward the massive bathroom door. “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you the bathroom next, promise.”

“Take your time. I’ll start making sense of this chaos.” She gestured to the open boxes with a wave, still sprawled on the bed.

He disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, and a moment later she heard the water turn on. Curiosity got the better of her and she wandered over, cautiously peeking in through the open door. The bathroom was ridiculous. Marble floors. Double sinks. A tub big enough to fit a family of four. A glass walk-in shower where the water cascaded like rainfall from a ceiling fixture.

Y/N blinked. “What the hell is this place? A five-star hotel?”

She turned back, letting him have his privacy, and started unpacking her clothes, folding them neatly into drawers and rearranging the few things. She was halfway through organizing when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned—only to freeze in place.

Bob walked out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, steam trailing behind him like he was in some slow-motion cologne commercial. Hair wet and dripping onto his broad shoulders, muscles firm and… very different than the last time she saw him shirtless.

Her gaze lingered—just a second too long. Her mouth went dry.

Bob smirked.

“You can stare, you know,” he said, casual, smug.

She snapped her eyes away, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. I work hard, might as well be appreciated.” He winked, grabbing a T-shirt and boxers from a drawer and disappearing briefly behind the closet door to change.

She shook her head, trying to focus on folding a pair of jeans. This is going to be hard, she thought.

A minute later, he reemerged fully dressed, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. “We’re making dinner with the team. Nothing fancy, but I promised Alexei I’d supervise or he’d just fry everything in bacon grease again.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That actually sounds kind of amazing.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well. I’ll bring you a plate. But if you need anything, just call, okay?”

She nodded, offering a small smile. “Okay.”

As he opened the door to leave, she turned back to her clothes. Fold. Stack. Breathe. Then, under her breath, barely above a whisper—

“…Hold back Y/N.”

--

After organizing the last of her clothes and letting herself unwind for a bit, Y/N finally stood up, stretched, and headed toward the bathroom. The warm water felt like a balm on her tired body, and she took her time letting it relax her, scrubbing away the day, the dust, and the residual nerves of the big move. After drying off, she changed into a pair of soft sweatpants, a fitted maternity tank, and one of Bob’s oversized zip-up hoodies she’d quietly stolen from his drawer when he wasn’t looking. It smelled like him—clean, warm, comforting.

She made her way down the sleek Watchtower hallway, following the faint sounds of laughter and clinking silverware until she reached the dining area. The long table was completely set up—plates stacked high, dishes of food steaming, drinks poured. Bob and Yelena were still fussing over the placement of side dishes.

Bob caught sight of her first and grinned, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Hey,” he said gently, walking over. “You came down.”

“I figured it was either this or let Alexei bring me a plate the size of a car tire,” she said, glancing at the food. “This all smells amazing.”

Yelena grinned. “You’d be correct.”

Y/N stood awkwardly at the side, unsure where to go.

“Where should I…?”

Bob gently pressed a hand to her back and nudged her toward the empty chair beside his. “Right here. Always here.”

She didn’t fight it. Just smiled a little and sank into the seat.

Around the table sat Alexei, Ava, Yelena, Bucky, and Walker, all already halfway into their meals. It was surprisingly loud, the team mid-conversation, joking, teasing one another. They made room without question, offering her drinks, napkins, pointing out which food was “safe” from Alexei’s over-seasoning.

She still felt like a guest, but… less like a stranger.

Then, in the middle of a lull between jokes about Johnny’s tragic attempt to use the toaster oven, Ava leaned in across the table with a curious smile.

“So… have you two decided on a name yet?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh—no. Not yet.”

Bob turned to her. “We haven’t really talked about it, actually.”

“I do have an idea,” she said softly, eyeing him. “I just haven’t run it by you yet.”

Bob leaned closer, curiosity written all over his face. “You do?”

“Ohh,” Yelena chimed in, sipping from her water. “Let’s guess.”

“Oh god,” Y/N groaned, already regretting the openness.

Alexei leaned back, cracking his knuckles. “Okay. Hear me out. ‘Red Guardian Junior.’”

“Absolutely not,” said literally everyone at the table, in unison.

“I like Bacon,” Walker said, unironically, pointing at the leftover strips on his plate. “Strong. American. Versatile.”

Y/N gave him a look that could kill. “You're banned from suggesting anything.”

Walker shrugged, trying to be helpful. “How about something normal? Like Matthew. Or Tyler.”

“That’s what you call a labrador, not a baby,” Ava muttered.

“What about Blaze?” Walker added.

Yelena deadpanned. “No.”

“Wait, wait,” Alexei said. “What about—Vladislav?”

Y/N stared at him. “Absolutely not naming my baby after a vampire.”

“I take offense,” Alexei grumbled.

Bob, half-laughing, turned back to Y/N. “Okay, now I have to know. What was your idea?”

She hesitated for a second. Then met his eyes and said, softly, “I was thinking… Georgie. Short for George.”

He paused, genuinely touched by the simplicity of it.

“…Because of Mr.Cooper?,” he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. “I really like that.”

“It's warm,” she said. “I like the name and...I don't know, I feel like I will always have him but... I feel like he would be honorable.”

“It’s perfect,” Bob said, and for a moment the room quieted, letting the soft sincerity settle.

“Wait, wait,” Walker suddenly said, raising a finger. “Middle name suggestion. Blaze. Just think about it.”

Y/N groaned and threw a bread roll at him, laughing.

--

The room was dim, quiet except for the distant hum of the Watchtower's systems and the soft rustle of sheets. Y/N lay back against the cloud-like mattress, belly gently curved under her oversized pajama top, flipping through her phone lazily while the glow of the bedside lamp cast a cozy hue over the space.

Bob was still moving around, digging through drawers and talking.

“So I was thinking we need one of those changing tables,” he said, pulling a shirt over his head. “The kind that doesn’t make me bend like a ninety-year-old every time. Oh—and maybe blackout curtains? You haven’t been sleeping well. Or is that just me snoring?”

Y/N smiled tiredly. “That, and your habit of kicking blankets off me in your sleep. But yes… blackout curtains. Add that to the list.”

“Also…” He paused, tugging off his jeans. “We’ll need a monitor. The fancy kind, not the creepy baby-camera-that-looks-like-it-wants-to-steal-your-soul type.”

Y/N chuckled, but then her voice faltered when she glanced his way—he was standing near the dresser in just his boxers, back to her, his muscles more pronounced than she remembered. Defined shoulders, strong arms, broad back. His transformation since Malaysia hadn’t just been emotional—it had left its mark on his body too.

She quickly looked away, cheeks heating.

He noticed.

He turned slowly, running a towel through his still-damp hair, catching the shift in her expression. His brows knit together as he walked over quietly.

“Did I—?” he asked gently, “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

She blinked, shaking her head quickly. “No, no. It’s not like that. I just… I haven’t seen you like that in a long time. Haven’t been… intimate with anyone since you left, obviously. And we’re not technically together, so I guess I just don’t know the rules. The boundaries.”

He stilled at the side of the bed, looking down at her with his heart practically pounding through his chest.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice deeper now, low with something both urgent and tender.

Then, still in just his boxers, he slowly crawled onto the bed beside her, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of her, his face hovering close but not touching. His eyes searched hers, full of sincerity and longing.

“We have to change that,” he whispered. “Not because I need you to be mine like some claim... but because I am yours. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t even look at anyone else. You’re everything to me—always have been.”

He moved even closer, brushing her hair gently behind her ear.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I know I need to earn back every ounce of trust. But I need you like I need air. It’s not about boundaries. It’s about wanting this to be real again. Us. And I don’t want there to be a single night where you wonder where we stand, or who you are to me.”

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking up at him. Her body flushed warm, half from nerves, half from want. He was being vulnerable—honest in a way that struck deep.

Her hand lifted instinctively, finding his cheek, fingers pressing into the sharp lines of his jaw. She held his face like something precious. Then, with a breathless whisper—

“Come here.”

And she kissed him.

It started soft—slow, like her lips were relearning the shape of his—but quickly deepened. Months of longing, grief, and unspoken love surged up between them. Her other hand tangled into his damp curls, pulling him closer. He let out a shaky breath into her mouth, hand sliding behind her back as he shifted to hold her more securely, reverently.

They kissed as if making up for every lonely night, every missed morning. They weren’t rushing—they were remembering.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Y/N was still flushed and breathless.

Bob exhaled a soft laugh. “You always did know how to shut me up.”

She smiled faintly, fingers still in his hair.

“You said you didn’t want me to wonder where we stand,” she said. “Then prove it. Stay. Don’t go back to the couch or disappear when it gets too much. Let’s take this one night at a time. You, me, and him.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her forehead, then hovered his lips over hers again.

“One night at a time,” he whispered. “Forever, if you let me.”

--

The Watchtower meeting room was unusually tense, mostly because no one wanted to admit they were wildly underqualified for what was coming. A potential cosmic threat—something about "energy fluctuations" and "unidentified space debris"—was heading toward Earth. And their greatest weapon against it?

One guy. Who had godlike powers… but only when he felt mentally stable enough to use them.

"Okay," Bucky started, leaning against the couch, arms crossed, "so we’ve got a new alien enemy possibly crashing through our orbit in less than 48 hours. And our only actual superpowered asset is—no offense—kind of unpredictable."

All eyes turned to Bob, who was slouched on the oversized chair by the window, a book in hand, legs half-draped over one armrest like a gangly teen. He didn’t even look up.

"Sorry, guys," Bob said, flipping a page. "I can’t be the Sentry without the… you know."

He twirled a finger in the air vaguely, then pointed it at his own head.

Walker leaned forward, squinting. "What, you mean the psychotic alter ego part, or the part where you glow like a nuke and throw mountains?"

Bob glanced up and raised a brow. "Bit of column A, bit of column B."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Walker muttered. "Ride Bob into the sky?"

Alexei perked up, nodding. "Yess."

Just then, the elevator dinged. Heads turned.

Y/N stepped in, effortlessly cool in her hoodie and joggers, sunglasses pushed up on her head, a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, and a smirk on her face. On her hip sat one-year-old George—who had his dad’s impossibly blue eyes, a mop of golden curls, and an undeniable fixation on gnawing the zipper of Y/N’s hoodie.

"Ride Bob?" Y/N echoed, raising a brow. "That seat’s taken, sweetheart."

The room broke into laughter—except Bob, who was instantly upright, already holding out his arms like George was the greatest gift on Earth (which, to be fair, he was).

George squealed, "Dada!" as Y/N set him on Bob’s lap. Bob didn’t hesitate, dropping the book and scooping the toddler up, planting loud, exaggerated kisses on his chubby cheeks.

"Hey, little dude," Bob whispered, as George grabbed a fistful of his beard. "You’ve been working on your super-strength again, huh?"

George responded by smacking Bob’s cheek with a soft babble and a pleased shriek.

"I see the Void in him already," Ava said deadpan, sipping her tea.

Alexei stood, hands on his hips. "He’s ready. Let me train him. I’ll make him unstoppable. Like Red Baby Guardian."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "He still poops in a diaper and I'm his source of food, Red Guy. He’s not ready for the Avengers."

"Avengerz... with a Z." Walker corrected.

"Whatever."

Before Alexei could reach for the baby, Y/N scooped George back up with a practiced mom move and took off running, George laughing hysterically as he bounced on her shoulder like a giggling backpack. "No combat training till he stops licking windows!" she called.

Bob stood up, watching them disappear around the hallway with a dazed look in his eyes, a soft, stunned smile pulling at his lips. The light from the window hit something on her left hand.

The ring. That ring.

It caught the sun perfectly.

"Engaged and still blushing when she calls dibs," Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes with a half-smile.

"She can call dibs on me forever," Bob said dreamily, still staring down the hall like he’d just seen a vision. "I’d let her ride me into a warzone if she wanted."

Walker snorted. "Man. That's disgusting—but kinda beautiful."

Alexei crossed his arms. "Fine. But I still want baby to punch something someday."

Ava sighed. "Maybe start with a stress ball."

--

1 Year ago - NYC Hospital

The pale light from the window cast a soft golden hue across the hospital room. The city outside was slowly waking up, but inside, time felt suspended. Y/N was propped up on the bed, a little tired, a little puffy-eyed, but glowing—not in the superhero way, in the I-just-birthed-a-whole-human-and-he’s-perfect way.

Her hospital gown hung loosely around her shoulders as she gently cradled her newborn, baby George, to her chest. He suckled quietly, little fingers twitching, soft breaths mixing with the occasional squeak. The room was silent but for that delicate sound—until a small sniffle came from her right.

Y/N glanced over. Bob was sitting beside her, hands on his knees, just… staring. His eyes were glassy, lips parted slightly, like he was watching the sunrise from the edge of the universe. A few tears tracked down his face.

She chuckled quietly, brushing a thumb over George’s cheek. “Why you crying, Bobby?”

Bob blinked, looking at her like she’d just asked why the sky was blue.

“You’re feeding him. You’re—he’s here. You’re okay. He’s okay. I just—I didn’t think…” His voice cracked as he wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “We made it, Y/N. After all of it. You’re here. He’s here. I can’t believe it.”

She smiled, resting her head back against the pillows, watching him quietly fall apart in the most beautiful way. “You almost didn’t make it. You passed out when they pulled him out. Hit the wall like a cartoon.”

Bob groaned softly. “Don’t remind me. That nurse is never going to look at me the same again.”

Just then—CRASH.

The door swung open with the force of a thunderclap. The team spilled in like they'd been waiting outside the entire time with their ears to the door.

“Where is he?! WHERE IS MY NEPHEW?!” Alexei boomed, holding a bouquet made entirely of red and gold flowers, and also—somehow—a small toy bear in tactical gear.

“You brought a tactical teddy bear?” Ava said, eyeing it. “Of course you did.”

“He must learn early,” Alexei insisted.

Behind them, Bucky, Walker, and Yelena entered with various levels of coordination, each holding a bouquet or balloon, all arguing over who would be the best babysitter. At the very end, nearly trampled by Walker and a rogue "IT’S A BOY!" balloon, came Mr. Cooper—older, kind-eyed, holding a simple, handpicked bouquet of bluebells and baby’s breath.

Y/N carefully detached George, now full and half-dozing, and shifted him to a blanket as Mr. Cooper approached the bed.

“Everything go okay?” he asked softly, eyes flicking from her to Bob.

She smirked. “Smooth sailing. Baby’s perfect. Mom’s tired. And Bob—well…” she looked at him, “…almost caused a second code blue.”

“I thought the monitor flatlined!” Bob interjected from his seat. “There was a beep!”

“It was somebody screaming on the corridor, sweetheart,” Y/N said.

The team had gathered around the bed like it was the Holy Grail, peering over each other’s shoulders trying to see the baby, even though Bob was now holding him again, arms perfectly cradling the tiny human like he was made for it.

“He’s got your curls, Y/N,” Ava noted. “He’s got Bob’s big eyes,” Yelena said. “He’s got my fighting spirit,” Alexei declared proudly. “He’s been alive for four hours,” Walker deadpanned.

Mr. Cooper stepped forward, still looking between Y/N and the baby.

“So…” he asked gently, “what’s his name?”

Y/N looked around at the chaos—the grown adults bickering over who got to hold him next, Bob softly humming to George, who blinked up with those sleepy blue eyes.

She turned back to Mr. Cooper with a small smile.

“George.” She paused, then added, “Well, Georgie, really. That’s what we’ll call him.”

Mr. Cooper stared. The silence fell heavy for a beat, then his eyes began to well up.

Before he could speak, Y/N held up a hand. “Yeah, it’s after you, old man. Don’t start crying.”

But he was already crying. No sobs, no theatrics—just quiet tears sliding down his wrinkled cheeks. He stepped in and wrapped her in a soft hug, careful not to jostle her too much.

“I told you, Y/N,” he whispered, voice tight, “everything was gonna be okay. And you… you’re gonna be a good mom.”

Y/N smiled, eyes stinging now too. “I should’ve doubted you less.”

He pulled away with a nod, then looked around the room—at the laughter, the love, the baby everyone was trying (and failing) not to wake up.

“Well,” Mr. Cooper said, clearing his throat, “this kid’s got the weirdest, most dangerous family I’ve ever seen. But also the luckiest.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was whispering Russian lullabies at the baby, Walker and Yelena were arguing over pacifier brands, and Bucky was quietly tying balloons to Bob’s IV stand for “aesthetic purposes.”

Bob stood, rocking George gently and watching Y/N from across the room—his eyes full of everything: disbelief, pride, relief, love.

[rooniearts]

Pitayaverse Asks............ TWO!

I once again have a good handful of asks regarding Pitayaverse, so here goes another post! :'D This time around there's about 29 asks I'll be answering! Enjoy <3

Silver's fine! His fur is just darkening with age :] Think of it like how a Siamese cat's fur works - he starts out looking almost fully white, but his limbs and face slowly darkens over time.

REAL,,, petition to let Tails hit his brother with hammers

@dahliacloud

Oh yes, he resents him deeply. He had no part in any of this, but still slowly but surely ended up with all of Sonic's responsibilities. But by far the worst part for him is seeing how much it all affects this tiny little baby girl. THAT is what truly infuriates him.

It's come to my attention that this ask is probably about his Archie backstory, which I unfortunately don't know much about and so isn't canon to the AU ;v; I'm going with the vague idea that they don't have parents for whatever reason and had to grow up alone together

But in that case, I still like to think it has a part to play, yeah. Tails knows how hard it is to grow up without a parent, and he knows Sonic does too, so he can't comprehend why he isn't trying harder to give this kid that love and stability.

@lowkeuu

LMAOOO idek how that would work with a fox! Maybe his fur thins? Idk :'D but he absolutely does start growing grey hairs pretty young

Oh, yeah. Having the Kind Patient Sweet one of the group snap and pop the fuck off on someone is scary every time it happens. All of them, Shadow included, would definitely be taken aback at the very least.

If I do end up giving them a kid, then this is absolutely the way I'd go with it. I can't let my boy go through even more turmoil in this AU, he's had more than enough :')

AWW LOL, see I like this take on it. That's very cute and I think he would just actually volunteer to take them in at that point too :D

[Referring to this post]

She does, but calling them that is a habit she picked up from Tails. Sonic and Knuckles just only referred to themselves and eachother as "dad," so when she'd talk to Tails about them he'd ask her to specify whether she meant "Sonic-dad" or "Knuckles-dad." Eventually she just started using those terms every time she spoke to or about them!

As Pitaya grows up, Knuckles graduates from "Knuckles-dad" to just "dad", but she eventually just starts calling Sonic by his name. Sonic doesn't really mind this, except for the few times that Knuckles gets to hold it over his head

HEHEHE loving all this Pitaya hype from y'all!! Thank you and yes, she deserves the world <3

YESSS! It's so important to me that she grows up to be happy. Maybe not well adjusted, but she's got endless determination and is not afraid to speak her mind!

[Referring to this post]

I mean, it's part of why. His actions didn't exactly do much to alleviate her doubts, either.

@your-local-cattus-enjoyer

The master post is right here! There may be a few stray asks that aren't listed, but they should still be under the tag

The basic gist of it is that he was just really neglectful. He was barely there, and when he was, it was often only a matter of time before he and Knuckles started fighting. As an adult, she's also really upset that he let Tails take over all the heavy lifting for him when he was still just a kid too.

Once in a while! Usually whenever both Knuckles and Tails are preoccupied for whatever reason. All their stories of clever sleuthing and high-stakes tussles is what made her want to be a detective one day :]

And yes, actually, she did! Her and Echo, and occasionally Psi and Alloy, end up forming their own New Chaotix Detectives group! They just aren't nearly as active as Vector, Espio and Charmy were :')

LOL, for sure! She loooves her cool uncles Vector, Espio and Charmy. She knows they've always got her back <3

Mighty USED to be in the cool uncle camp, but absolutely not anymore. That went out the window the second he got with Sonic. She does love Knuckles, but she's had her ups and downs with him. Ray she just doesn't really know at all, he just goes in the resentment bin by association :'D

That's so true actually,,,, my obvious Chaotix bias is showing :'D

But hmm, that's a good question. If they were to end up together, I think they probably wouldn't have kids, no. I like to imagine they'd be the type of couple who live seperately and just visit eachother frequently, and not like married with kids.

@inkmaams

Their go-to babysitter list is very short because Silver gets very very paranoid over them :'D It consists of Blaze&Amy and Vector ONLY. And it took Espio AGES to convince Silver to let Vector take care of them in the first place

[Referring to this post]

Yup :') He was probably not gonna tell them about any of that, but alas he and Espio spawned Little Mr. Thought Police so now he has no choice but to explain himself </3

@i-only-created-this-to-read

Maybe not robots, but in theory, I guess he probably could read aliens' minds. I was mostly referring to humans/mobians, but there's no reason he couldn't try on other sentient organic beings. However, I feel like they may end up being incomprehensible noise to him because of how differently an alien's brain would work to his own

As for when he's in meltdown mode and can hear everyone all at once, no, he can't hear everyone in the universe, just those that are within a certain radius. Think of it as like whatever a normal hearing range would be, just not obstructed by walls.

Yes! Espio and Silver are married and besides one or two blow-ups, they happily stay that way. And Sonic and Mighty are at the very least life partners, whether they get married or not (I haven't yet decided lol)

Besides them, Blaze and Amy are also married! And Knuckles and Rouge too eventually :]

LMAO, Sonic WISHES. But nay, Mighty had to go and be a spoilsport and put a rule against backwards names. Rude of him tbh.

bro just can't stop spawning babies, what can I say🥀

@scribble0rat

LOL yeah the poor guy only had a vague idea of what he was signing up for. He had met Pitaya once in a while when she was young, and he knew Sonic had struggled with being there for her and that something happened between him and his friend group, but he didn't realize just how angry not only Pitaya was, but also Tails. He's using all those years of anger management to their fullest to tank this situation, I fear :'D

AND YESSS my boy needs more love <3 Us Mighty girlies have to stick together💪

AWWW that's actually such a cute thought experiment!!!!

It's hard to say, but I think they'd be relatively close. Maybe not joined at the hip, but they'd appreciate one another. They're both very similar in personality, it's just mostly that Echo is an introvert and Silver is a HUGE extrovert. The only conflict I can think of is that Echo is very much a copycat, and I think Silver might get annoyed with that pretty quick.

@marinette-sky

No, Shadow is Echo's only parent via cloning shenanigans. Sonic has nothing to do with her, thank goodness :'D

And thank you!! Much appreciated!!! <3

[bellsbookshop]

i owe you a black eye and two kisses

frank castle x reader

warnings: fluff, a sprinkling of angst, will they won’t they finally becoming something real, a hint of suggestiveness throughout, canon typical injuries

authors note: my first fic on this blog !! i’ve seen a whopping two edits of frank with ethel cain’s crush, and obviously i had to do something about that. enjoy, and any feedback [likes, comments, reblogs] are always appreciated ! reader isn’t explicitly gendered in this

wc: 1023

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

i owe you a black eye and two kisses

tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em

it’s a warm night, the barest of breezes ruffling the curtains from your open apartment windows. frank would huff at that, jaw set in that pissy little way you like as he bitches about you being safe. you’d snort, swatting at him lazily as you remind him you’re on the sixth floor. his grumbled complaints would go ignored, your eyes rolling every time you catch a word here and there through the mumbling. but frank’s not here, hasn’t been around in two weeks, and you’ve left the windows open nearly every night in a silent act of protest.

he never tells you what he does but you’re not an idiot — the split knuckles and blood tinged treads of his boots make it clear enough, and you’re sure that if you ever got the opportunity to peek under his layered shirts and jackets, you’d see an array of scars, begging to tell you a story. the pair of you have been dancing around each other for months now, neighbors in the sense that frank sometimes sleeps in the apartment down the hall from yours. you’re not sure where he rests his head the rest of the time, but a few days a week you can usually find him there, fixing something.

your first meeting was funny in the odd way, trying to lug a heavy furniture box up to your apartment. the elevator hardly ever works, so you’d chosen to tough it out, sweat dotting your brow as you dragged it up the stairs. between one second and the next the weight has all been lifted from your hands, and he was resting it easily on one broad shoulder with only a quiet “gonna break your back like that. which door ?” he wouldn’t hear a word of thanks either, just set it down where you’d told him and disappeared down the hall to his own apartment. it had taken a lot of work — frank was like a half feral stray, all teeth when you tried to befriend him — but over time you could comfortably call him a friend, always willing to help you with whatever issues your run down apartment was having.

i only want him if he says it first to me

i wanna ugh him in the back of his mom’s mercury

the attraction was immediate, a white hot flame curling in your stomach just at the sight of him; strong jaw and stronger arms, features rough in the handsomest way, and the low rasp of his voice was enough to bring you to your knees the first time you heard it. the feelings came later, little pinpricks of affection at the hidden softness that lurked behind every harsh face he made. you’d caught him feeding the strays out in the alley more than once, big hands impossibly gentle when he pet them, and you never really stood a chance, not when he’d fixed the loose lock on the lobby door because you’d admitted it made you feel unsafe.

but you’re careful, wary like you’re treading through a minefield; you can’t tell him everything running through your head, not if you wanted to keep him. he was a runner, obvious in every little thing he did, and you couldn’t scare him off for fear you’d never forgive yourself. you let him come to you, set the pace as slow or as fast as he wants — you’d only tell him how bad you wanted him if he wanted you just as badly first.

he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds

it makes me so ugh and i can’t get enough of it

you’ve been missing him though, a soft ache in your chest that only grows larger every day he’s gone. you’ve kept your fingers crossed that whatever business he’s tending to hasn’t killed home before you’ve gotten the chance to care for him the way you want to, and that he’ll stain your doorway with his bloody boots soon. it’s a little ridiculous, pining for a man you know next to nothing about, but there’s something in his eyes that tells you he’ll be worth it, even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

as if he could sense your thoughts, there’s an all too familiar knock on your door, and despite the late hour you can’t help the smile that spreads over your face. it feels like every step takes forever, moving in slow motion till you’ve unlocked the door and there he is, a fresh black eye and a cut above his brow. he still manages to look unfairly handsome, especially when he pins you with that half smirk, lips curled around your name.

“doorframe still stickin’ ? i gotta take a look at that in the morning,” he says in lieu of a greeting, eyeing the rusting hinges with the sort of intensity he does everything else. it’s almost endearing, and you raise your brows at him with a quiet laugh. “is that what you came over for ? i don’t see you for two weeks and it’s the door that draws you in ?”

his resounding laugh is quiet but genuine, leaning against the doorframe to take you in. “nah sweetheart, not the door. was wondering … i could fix that for you. and that window frame that keeps rattling. install some better blinds, for privacy.”

you cross your arms, mimicking the way he’s leaning against the doorframe; like this you can really admire him, one hand coming up to gently trace the scrape above his brow. “kind of sounds like you’re staying this time,” you hum, and the smile you get out of him shines brighter than anything you’ve ever seen.

“was considering it. you offering to keep me ?” he asks, a cheeky streak to his tone, and all you can do is laugh, tugging him down by the collar of his jacket.

blood and scrapes and split knuckles be damned, you were keeping him. for as long as he’d let you, frank castle was all yours. ⋆˚࿔

[peasack]

Hi!! maybe I could request one where y/n is a kid? not like a toddler, but 7/8 years old? ( srry for bad english) thank youuu!!

Your English is totally fine don’t even worry! And YES you absolutely can request that!!

Thunderbolts x Gn!Child!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts With a Child Reader Headcanons ✦

* ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ *

✦ John Walker

You are now his entire mission.

He makes you a custom kid-sized cap/shield combo (it’s foam, but he acts like it’s real).

The most overprotective dad-uncle energy. You trip? He’s already halfway to the ER.

Brags about you constantly:

“This one? Yeah, they beat me in Mario Kart. Twice. No shame.”

Puts parental controls on the TV way too strictly. You’re not allowed to watch Scooby-Doo because “there’s ghosts.”

Will carry you on his shoulders everywhere even when you don’t ask.

✦ Bob Reynolds

Absolute gentle giant around you.

Sits cross-legged on the floor to draw with you, never complains once.

You ask questions like “Why is the sky blue?” and he actually explains it with big hand gestures.

Always asks if you want a hug first.

If you have nightmares? He’s sitting by your bed until you fall asleep again, telling you stories about the stars and the ocean.

You give him a drawing of the two of you? He frames it. It’s on his wall forever.

✦ Alexei Shostakov

LOUD. FUN. UNHINGED.

Encourages your most chaotic ideas:

“Yes, yes, we build potato cannon. For science.”

Calls you “Little Comrade” and teaches you how to flex your biceps in the mirror.

Accidentally swears in front of you a lot but then covers your ears like,

“No! You heard nothing! You are sweet innocent child!”

Buys you weird but cool toys like a remote-controlled bear or a mini wrestling ring.

Takes you sledding even if there’s barely any snow.

✦ Yelena Belova

Pretends she’s too cool to gaf but absolutely spoils you.

Lets you “help” her paint her nails even though you get polish everywhere.

Calls you “little bug” or “troublemaker” with affection.

Does your hair if you ask, and it actually looks really good???

“Trains” you in spy skills... which mostly means hide and seek around the base.

Gets you matching sunglasses and you two make cool pictures in the mirror together (which she will definitely put as her phone background.)

Deffo calls you her “partner in crime.”

✦ Ava Starr

Very patient and soft-spoken around you.

Carries extra snacks and juice boxes just for you.

Teaches you cool science tricks like invisible ink or bouncing eggs, she used to do those with her dad and absolutely loved it.

If someone hurts your feelings? She is already gone from the room and you just hear a door slam.

Carries you like a little koala when you're tired.

Always lets you hang out in her room even if she’s recharging or needs quiet, she trusts you.

✦ Bucky Barnes

Quiet protector type. Not super expressive, but always has an eye on you.

Carries you one-armed like a dad with a toddler who knows what he’s doing.

Let’s you paint his metal arm once and regrets it when you use glitter.

Reads you bedtime stories with zero emotion in his voice, but you find it hilarious.

“Why does the prince sound angry?” “Because this whole book is stupid.”

You fall asleep on his chest once and he doesn’t move for three hours because he didn’t want to wake you.

* ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ *

I hope that I've written it well enough since I'm so used to Teen!Reader lolz, hope yall enjoyed!<33

[milfjuulpod]

Miniskirt

Despite your impeccable fashion sense and popularity among others, Melissa pays seemingly no attention to the flattering clothes you adorn yourself in.

warnings: mentions of alcohol, karaoke episode but does not follow the plot at all, angst with happy ending

A/N: hi friends, hope you enjoy this oneshot, i had a lot of fun writing it since it's inspired by one of my favorite songs, miniskirt by AOA. highly recommend btw. enjoy!

taglist: @schemmentisimpasours (lmk if you want to be added)

Fashion was something that always came easily to you, finding the perfect pieces for every occasion. Never over dressed, never under, always on point.

Working as an elementary school teacher put that to the test a few times, after all, it's not the cleanest of jobs out there. With the crafting, food, and children always running around, accidents are bound to happen.

Nonetheless, you found a way to balance functional and cute work attire, something that quickly caught the attention of those you worked with.

Abbott Elementary was…functional. What the school lacked in glamour, the teachers and students made up for in love and care.

As soon as you started working there and joined the misfit crew of teachers, the principal seemed to take a liking to you. Always commenting about your outfits, saying things like she finally had met her match.

You weren't sure whether that was flirtatious or competitive, something told you it was a bit of both. After a few weeks of this, you got used to it, and a few other teachers always complimented you as well. Although, more appropriately than Ava did.

After about a month or so of working at Abbott, you found yourself in good company with a handful of the teachers there, those who dubbed themselves as “the after school crew,” but you're pretty sure it was just Jacob who used the terminology.

They were good people, and even the more closed off teachers, like Melissa and Barbara, were opening themselves up to you. Barbara once described you as a “much needed change for Abbott,” and that stayed with you each and every day.

All of your new friends had something to say about your outfits, Janine was always intrigued about where you got certain items, Jacob had countless things to say about your sweaters, and even Barbara had complimented you quite a few times.

It wasn't necessary, but it was nice. Getting these compliments, or lack thereof, never phased you. Even on days when only one person would say something nice, it never was upsetting. It's not like you dressed to get compliments, so getting them or not never affected you.

Except for now.

Now, there was only one teacher, one person, who never once had something to say about the way you dress. And it really bothered you.

Melissa was always silent when others would compliment you, despite her eyes trailing up and down your entire body, as if she were studying you.

The two of you had a very casual friendship, going to each other for help with work and occasionally gossiping or sharing personal stories during breaks.

Melissa was hard to read more often than not, but with time she softened up around you. Always listening to your words with all of her attention, remembering things you've told her.

She would often compliment your work ethic, or if you said something funny she made sure it was clear she enjoyed it. For whatever reason, though, Melissa never said anything about how you looked. It was strange, considering your friendly banter and her being open to giving other compliments, and that irked you.

Especially after being there for a few months. It became somewhat of a game or a ritual in the break room at work, you'd walk in dressed well as usual, and someone would compliment you as creatively as they could. Currently the favorite was when Janine said, “You look like me if I had more money.”

And still, Melissa was quiet. Just watching you with a focused expression as you conversed with others, until you made your way over to her table. You usually bounced back and forth between tables and socializing with friends, but lately Melissa has been acting a bit upset whenever you didn't choose her table.

You always wondered why she was like this, and could never figure it out. There were ideas, sure, but nothing definite. You had a feeling if Melissa wanted to express whatever feelings those were, she would, so leaving it alone seemed best.

Trying to figure out the Melissa Schemmenti was seemingly pointless. You spent so much time thinking about ways to get her attention, it eventually became clear that you wanted something more than the current standing friendship. Something…more intimate.

It started small, getting your nails done at a different salon and spending a bit more money on them than usual.

“Let me see the new set!” Ava exclaimed as soon as you entered the break room on a Wednesday morning. You had asked her for salon recommendations, so she was excited to see how it went.

Smiling, you practically skipped over and showed Ava your nails, putting your hands in hers and wiggling your fingers. “Cute, right?”

Ava looked at them in detail, appreciating the color and style you chose. A few of your other friends passed by and gave their praises as well.

Melissa, on the other hand, sat where she always does and didn't say anything. You didn't have to look to know she was watching, you could feel her green eyes on you.

And she was looking. Melissa’s eyes followed every movement of your fingers, nearly forgetting the reason they were being showed off in the first place. She kept her thoughts to herself though, like she always did.

After Ava was done admiring the new nails, you went to the coffee pot to jumpstart the day.

“Hey you,” Melissa’s voice was heard from beside you, the top half of her body turning to face you. She was smiling so softly, you almost missed it.

“Good morning, Melissa,” You smiled at her, making the coffee quickly so you could sit with her before the news started.

“And how are you doing this Wednesday?” She asked, her small smile growing as you joined her at the table.

You filled Melissa in on what you did yesterday, mentioned the nail salon, and your plans for the school day. She leaned back in her chair and listened intently before answering your same question.

The redhead beside you told you all about the dinner she made last night and the ridiculousness that ensued with Jacob trying to help, she mentioned what her kids were doing for the rest of the week, even asked about where the salon you went to was.

But she didn't say a thing about how your nails looked. At this point, you would even take an insult from her. It was so strange that the one thing she doesn't want to talk about or mention, is how you look.

It was becoming maddening, for once in your life making you question the things you were wearing and doing to yourself. Was it not good enough for Melissa? The thought terrified you, and you found yourself thinking about it more and more with each passing day.

The nails weren't enough, your clothes weren't doing it for her either, it was time to try something different. The thought of changing up your hair had crossed your mind quite a few times, and it was ready for something new anyways.

You made an appointment at the salon you've been visiting for a while now, and went on Saturday. Spending the whole day treating yourself, you felt relaxed and rejuvenated for the week to come.

The hair appointment went incredibly well, and you were more than happy with the results. Come Monday morning, everyone else seemed happy with the results too.

Before you could even make it to the break room, you were getting compliments left and right from familiar faces. That only increased when you saw your friends, of course. You opted to not mention getting your hair done, hoping it'll draw more of a reaction out of Melissa.

It doesn't. Once again, Melissa has nothing to share on the matter, just a simple statement. “You got your hair done,” She said before you could properly greet her.

“I did,” You replied, walking to the fridge and deciding to sit on the couch today. You missed how Melissa bore holes into your head when you walked away from her, but she missed how your eye practically twitched out of irritation.

This was driving you crazy, even more so because this has never happened before. You liked making yourself look good for you, not for the compliments from others. But now, you would give anything to hear something from Melissa.

It went from thinking about why she didn't say anything, to the things she did say, and before long, you found yourself constantly thinking of the woman. It felt like insanity, and something needed to change.

Sitting on your couch trying to think of anything except for Melissa, you mindlessly scrolled on your phone until it vibrated with a text from Janine.

Trying to get everyone to go to karaoke this weekend, you should totally come!

Smiling, you read her text a few times over while formulating an answer. If she was inviting everyone…would Melissa be there?

You ‘loved’ Janine’s message and replied telling her you'll be there, after spending way too much time overthinking it.

The weekend couldn't come soon enough, but it did eventually. Ever since Janine invited you, you were thinking about it. Once everyone started talking about it at work, it was easy to figure out who was going and who wasn't. Still, Melissa asked.

“You gonna be there tomorrow night?” She quietly asked, leaning into your space as the two of you sat on the small couch in the break room.

“Mhm, are you?” You asked, even though you already knew the answer. Then again, so did she.

“Yeah, I'll see you there then,” She smirked before sitting normally again, leaning back into the cushions but still very close to you.

Melissa’s eyes shifted to the tv playing, but yours stayed on her for a moment longer, lost in thought. It was impossible to figure out how the redhead felt about you, thought about you. Everything she said and did just left you more confused.

Eventually you started watching the tv as well, but every few moments your eyes would flick over to the woman beside you, as she ever so slightly leaned against your arm.

Janine, somehow incredibly happy this early in the morning, made her way to the front of the room to talk about the weekend plans.

You missed pretty much everything she said though, because Melissa shifted to look at Janine and was practically laying on you now, her shoulder and back pressed against your arm and side.

“I'm not surprised Erika is gonna be there, I wonder if Simon will be too,” Melissa muttered under her breath to you without looking over. That must've been what Janine was talking about.

“I hope not,” You smirk, leaning a bit closer to Melissa so she can hear. She chuckles, and suddenly relaxed a lot more against your side, her body completely at ease.

It was so hard to focus on the things and people around you. Melissa has never acted this way before, so casual and borderline affectionate. She wasn't entirely closed off to you either, but this was different.

Thankfully, it was time for everyone to go to their classrooms and you were relieved from your position beside underneath the redhead. Sitting on the couch for a second, you took a moment alone to clear your head before starting the rest of the day.

Luckily, the work/school day went off without a hitch, everyone eager to start the weekend. While trying to wrap up some loose ends in the classroom, your mind was clouded with thoughts of tomorrow night and of course, Melissa.

It wasn't entirely clear what was going between the two of you, but you knew something was up. As if she could feel your thoughts about her, Melissa appeared at your doorway.

“Hey hon, you getting out of here soon?” She called to you, her voice immediately catching your attention. It was clear she was leaving, her bag hastily thrown over her shoulder and her sunglasses already on top of that beautiful head of hair.

“Mm, sometime soon, yeah. Having a hard time focusing so maybe I'll just call it,” You tell Melissa honestly, turning your chair to face her.

“Yeah? Maybe you do need a break. Go home and rest up, gonna be a long night tomorrow,” She smiled and threw you a wink before making her exit.

Shaking your head and smiling with amusement, you let out a sigh. Incredible how quickly Melissa could make you feel this way.

The Italian made you feel a lot of things lately, she was always on your mind, and as much as it was a good thing, it was also frustrating to try and figure out what exactly Melissa is feeling.

She was right, though. Karaoke was definitely going to be a long night, and tucking in early seemed like the best idea.

All day on Saturday you were going back and forth—between different outfits, accessories, whether or not you were going to participate in karaoke, it was exhausting.

Before 5 pm you had already had three cups of coffee, before switching to water eventually. Sighing, you set the last cup down on the dresser as you looked around at the many different clothing items that were now scattered.

Never, ever have you spent so long overthinking what to wear. Just before giving up and taking another break, something caught your eye.

A black miniskirt, one that you haven't worn in a while. Immediately, you started grabbing other pieces to throw together what you hope will finally get Melissa talking.

Walking into the karaoke lounge, you felt on top of the world in the miniskirt and stockings, and the eyes on you everywhere only fueled that fire.

Janine and Jacob immediately hyped you up with excitement, talking after each other so quickly it sounded like one long sentence.

“I'm so glad you came!” The shorter teacher exclaimed, happy to have all her friends around.

“Me too, thanks for inviting me,” You told her with a smile. As Janine and Jacob got caught up talking about the songs for tonight, your eyes moved across the room until they landed on exactly who you were looking for.

Melissa sat at a table, beer in hand, already looking at you from across the room. She smirked as soon as your eyes met, and she waved you over.

The redhead didn't even try to hide how she looked you up and down multiple times, her eyes staying longer in places that shouldn't be.

You couldn't help the smile that grew the closer you got to Melissa. If you looked good, she looked perfect.

“Hi,” you sweetly said, returning her wave from earlier.

“Hey…” Her voice was low as she once again took in every aspect of you. “You, uh, you singing tonight?” She cleared her throat before taking a rather large sip from her drink.

Just when you thought she was finally going to say something, she didn't. Despite her hungry eyes and clear adoration, she didn't say a word about how you looked.

The frustration and confusion showed on your face for a second before you corrected it. With a deep breath, you answered her question.

“No, don't think so. Where's the bar?” Your tone was sharper than you intended, which surprised the both of you.

Melissa pointed in the direction of the bar you were asking about, and couldn't get rid of her furrowed brows even after you walked away.

It was just annoying at this point, it felt like Melissa was going out of her way not to compliment you. How is it that so many people want your attention, but the one person you want won't give it?

Getting more and more irritated by the second, you quickly ordered a drink, muttering to make it strong to the bartender. You needed a distraction now.

Luckily for you, a woman at the bar nearby noticed your mood and slowly came over, introducing herself and sitting beside you.

She was pretty, very pretty, actually, and you didn't miss how she kept her knee pushed against yours after settling on the barstool.

The both of you were no doubt flirting, and so wrapped up in her and your drink, you didn't see how Melissa was watching the whole thing with so much anger in her eyes, it's a surprise you didn't feel it.

After ordering a second drink, you decided to go back to your friends, but not before the other bar guest could slip you her number.

“Got a new friend?” Jacob teased, smiling like a teenager.

“Maybe,” You answered slyly, sipping on your drink as you turned to watch Mr. Johnson perform his heart out while Janine had the time of her life in the front row.

You couldn't help but laugh at the scene in front of you and instinctively turned to look at Melissa to see if she was too. Except she was anything but amused.

Her arms were crossed, her leg was shaking. You knew that body language, and it certainly wasn't good.

Carefully, to not draw attention away from your friends on stage, you made your way over to Melissa.

Green eyes glared at you once Melissa noticed you in her bubble and she shifted her gaze away, ignoring your presence.

“Hey, you good?” You asked gently, unaware that you were the issue.

“Why do you care? Don't you have somebody else to worry about?” Melissa spat out, gesturing her head towards the bar.

“Outside.” You told her firmly before swiftly walking out of the room and exiting the lounge.

Melissa rolled her eyes, but waited a few seconds and followed you to the back of the building.

“What?” She asked once she made it out there, her voice full of attitude.

“Don't ‘what’ me, what the hell was that?” Answering her question with a question, you took a step closer to her.

Melissa didn't respond, instead she sighed and rubbed her temples. You were so confused and getting angry, not understanding why she was acting this way.

“You're mad because I was flirting with someone at the bar? She liked my outfit and complimented me, something you have yet to do the entire time I've known you.”

Again, Melissa just stood there. You threw your arms in disbelief and scoffed.

“I don't get it, Melissa. How are you going to get that upset but not even say you like my damn skirt? Why won't you-”

“Because-” Melissa’s voice finally was heard, her exasperated tone interrupting you.

You stopped, and waited for her to continue. Her eyes ran up and down your figure once again.

“Because the things I have to say about how you look are not very appropriate,” Melissa said lowly, taking a step closer to you now before meeting your gaze.

Her hands gripped your hips tightly, possessively. She wasn't letting you go anywhere now. “I can't compliment you in front of everyone because I don't think they need to hear about you look delicious,” She continued, groaning the last word in your ear.

Stunned and flustered, you had nothing to say. Just stuttering a jumble of words trying to put together a sentence.

Melissa smiled at your reaction and spoke once more.

“You wanna hear me say you're pretty, huh? That I think you look irresistible every time I see you…How badly I want to put my hands all over you…”

Warmth erupted in your stomach hearing the older woman go on and on about what she thought of you. You let out a shaky breath and leaned back onto the fence behind you, although it didn't put much space between the two of you.

“Yeah, I do,” You responded confidently, looking deep into her eyes as you did so, before they fell to her lips for a split second.

Melissa noticed, and she couldn't stop the smug expression before leaning in and kissing you. Her lips were soft but she was so needy, one of her hands going to your jaw while the other pulled you against her.

“You look so good tonight, baby…Did you wear this skirt for me? Hm?” She said between kisses, making her way down the skin of your neck.

“Yes-” You breathed out before you could stop yourself.

She chuckled against your skin and kissed her way back up to your lips, crashing into you with so much passion you couldn't help but whine against her.

“Let me take you home and show you how beautiful I think you are,” Her voice was strained, unable to hold back for much longer.

“Please,” You told her, kissing her one more time. She smiled against your lips, happy to finally have you how she's wanted this whole time.

As she walked back inside, you let the cool air calm you down a bit, head and heart racing from how hungry the redhead was. No wonder Melissa never said a word.