#or it messing with stuff of the old stuff

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

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[awrkive]

NEIGHBOR BLUNDER, pt. 6 — JJK (m.)

in hindsight, you should have seen it coming. had always known your luck – or lack of it, thereof – and the universe's meticulous plan of your downfall made it easy for you to get tangled up in a series of unfortunate events, which presents itself as the neighbor that lives across from you, jeon jungkook.

PAIRING jungkook x (fem) reader

GENRE r18+ (fluff, angst, smut) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

CHAPTER WORD COUNT 14.6k

CHAPTER WARNINGS/MISC neighbor!jk, bsf!jimin, accountant!oc, software engineer!jk, jk and jimin are chaebols lol, minjoon boyfriends <<<<3, as usual, super dreamy jk 😞 arguments,, lowkey,, emotional constipation like always, kinda angsty if u squint. Also jungkook kinda abuses the fuck out of 23278648 pet names available in the world even eye laughed... SPOILER AHEAD DONT READ IF U DONT WANNA KNOW [ explicit sexual content: mature language, very indulgent bl*wjob scene lmfao, a teeny tiny bit of c*mplay, fing*ring, c*nniling*s, penetr*tive s*x (p in v), c*wgirl s*x, protected s*x, multiple org*sms, jungkook has a filthy mouth 🫤😑😑 ]

NOTES i dont have anything to say except enjoyyy!! let me know your thoughts in my inbox gimme ur theories gimme ur keeb smashes gimme ur 2746th "i want nb jk so bad" 🤓☝🏼💓💓

[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] // [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

You like to think of yourself as a reasonable person. You make okay decisions, even though it takes you a few weeks and a thousand debriefs. You can’t buy something off the rack without going through 10-year-old posts on Reddit, and you certainly are very keen with people you let into your life – given your two to three friends. 

The point is, while you may be a bit of a klutz, you take your adult life kind of seriously, and especially your relationships.

You were so sure that what happened back at the motel with Jungkook when you were stranded was going to be this whole… one-time-thing. That you both were just horny, stuck in a weird situation, just heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment, and afterwards he would tell you to forget about it. And if he did, you’d accept it. It might crush you a little bit inside, but you know you’ll be fine to keep going on with your life even though that might have been the best orgasm you’ve had since forever and you’d like to experience it again.

What surprised you the most wasn’t that it happened. It was how you felt the next morning. 

There was no regret. 

When you opened your eyes – bleary and barely awake because of the little hours you got in – Jungkook wasn’t in bed. He was coming back through the door with a bag of pastries and coffee from what you assumed was the local bakery. He told you everything was handled, his car and your stuff, and you could take your time getting ready. You’d head back once you were set.

You fell asleep again on the ride home. Jungkook walked you to your apartment and bid you a kind smile when you said goodbye. 

And nothing happened after. No awkward texts. No slow fade. And you were just so ready for the worst thing to happen. Like him suddenly going MIA on you or something… 

But now it’s the day after, and you’re together again in his car after he texted you to ride with him on the way home after work – cramped up in the driver’s seat with you on his lap.

Frantically making out. 

“Oh,” you let out a soft moan, carding your fingers through Jungkook’s hair, not even caring about how you’re messing up his hairdo.

A needy, impatient sort of heat builds between you two. His mouth is on yours, hands exploring like he couldn’t decide where to start. Another moan slips out from you he cups the swell of your ass through your trousers, and a rush of frustration bubbles up in your chest.  

God, why didn’t you wear a skirt?

“You smell good,” Jungkook murmurs into your neck, kissing a slow trail up to your jaw before groaning as you rock against him, grinding against the growing bulge pressing up through his slacks. 

“Y-yeah?” you mumble, tugging at his tie and popping open the first three buttons of his shirt. Your fingers graze his chest, warm and solid and stupidly inviting. 

“This is the scent you wore back at the party.” He untucks your blouse from your waistband, his warm hands sending shivers down your spine when they travel across the span of your back.

Yeah. And also the scent you exclusively use for special, big occasions. Because in the true broke girl tradition, there’s always that unreasonably priced perfume you keep in your vanity while you spritz the hell out of the cheap one. You’ve only used it a total of ten times ever since you bought it a month ago, the eleventh time being now… which is just a regular day in the office.

But being in Jungkook’s lap and making out with him in his car is not regular day in the office. So maybe you lucked out on spraying that expensive perfume – totally because it was just there on your vanity, by the way – and not because you were expecting something to happen today.

Totally.

“Uh, yeah,” you shift on his lap. “It was on sale.” 

Which is probably information he did not need and a total bald-faced lie. 

He hums, kisses dropping down to your sternum, hands getting heavier under your clothes. You take his face in your hands again to press your mouth on him, your moan getting swallowed by his eager reciprocity, both in the movement of his tongue inside your mouth and his erection that’s making you wet your panties as you rock your hips against him. 

Jungkook’s fingers trace the cups of your bra. “Can I?” He asks, mouth agape. You don’t even know what he meant, you just nod. A second later and he’s squeezing your breasts in his palms.

“S-so you wanted to drive me home for this?” you arch your brow at him playfully, grinding against his lap and relishing in the warmth of his hands on your chest. God, you wish he’d do something about your bra soon. 

Jungkook chuckles, nipping your jaw. “No. I wanted to ask you to come over to my place to have dinner.”

As if that triggered your intestines, your stomach suddenly growls – quite loudly in the confined space of his car and around the quiet parking lot of the building. 

Jungkook freezes, staring at you. 

You shut your eyes close in embarrassment, groaning. “Ugh, sorry. I haven’t eaten at all today and you mentioning dinner is making me remember that.” 

“Oh…”

Jungkook reluctantly watches you as you carefully leave his lap, completely halting your previous activity. He grips your hand as he helps you transfer to the passenger’s seat, looking at you as you put your hair up and tuck your shirt.

He adjusts uncomfortably in his seat, clearing his throat. You can’t help but eye the very obvious outline of his dick in his pants, and it’s very huge, alright, making you grin. 

“I hope that’s not gonna be a problem.” 

Jungkook takes in the mischief in your eyes and scoffs playfully, shaking his head as he starts the ignition to drive. 

You spend about thirty minutes in the shower – which is definitely not at all your usual routine – but it did the job. You smell like raspberries now, and the outfit you pulled on afterwards looks casual enough for Jungkook not to suspect what’s going on underneath. Just an oversized shirt and pajama pants. Innocent. Normal. 

But you have on a lacy pair of white thong… just in case something does happen tonight. At least you’re the least bit prepared… 

When you look at your phone, it’s already 10:15pm, and Jungkook told you to be over at his place at 10:20. You check yourself in the mirror one last time and head straight to the kitchen where you grab the plastic container of a batch of choco-chip cookies you baked the second he dropped you off earlier.

You’ve perfected the recipe now, you’re sure of it. 

But just as you make a beeline for your door, a sudden warmth gushes between your thighs.

An all too familiar feeling by now. 

Oh no.

You dash to the bathroom, tug your pajama pants down, slide off your panties and – yep. There it is. A bright red stain against the flimsy white fabric that went right through the pants.

“Goddamn it,” you mutter, frowning. Of all the nights to get your period, of course it had to be this one.

You had showered. Prepped. Put on the g-string. And you were this close to maybe – possibly – having sex with Jungkook. You hadn’t said anything about it, not outright, but come on. That impulsive make-out session in the car earlier? The way he kept adjusting himself? The tension practically humming between you?

Yeah, something was definitely going to happen.

Well, probably not anymore.

Grumbling, you toss your pants into the laundry and rummage through your cabinet for a pad. You move like you’re trudging through emotional mud, begrudgingly pulling on a clean pair of a less sexier granny panties and fresh bottoms.

So much for that.

It’s not like you had any of this figured out anyway. No “so, what happened” talk, no conversations about the night at the motel or whatever is… happening now. And now your uterus has decided to sabotage you. Amazing. 

Still, cookies in hand and spirits only mildly deflated, you head out of your apartment and make your way to Jungkook’s porch. 

He opens the door on the second buzz, greeting you with a grin that makes your stomach flip. Even more so when you realize he’s wearing sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. Ugh. This man.

“Hi.” 

“Hey, come in,” Jungkook says, eyeing the plastic in your hand. “What’s that?” 

“Cookies.” you bring it up to your chest. “I made them real quick so it’s not a lot. But I can assure you it’s better now and you definitely won’t get food poison.” 

He chuckles, leading the way to his living area. “You say that as if I got food poisoning the first time.” 

“Maybe you did and you just didn’t tell me.” 

He shakes his head, still smiling. “You know you didn’t have to bring something, right?” 

“Uh-huh.,” you mutter, following him in, “but since you’re making dinner, I thought I could take care of dessert.” 

The moment the words leave your mouth, your face scrunch up. 

Jungkook pauses just long enough to glance back at you, amused, before shaking his head again with another soft laugh. 

What? What did he think you meant by that? Geez… 

Comfortable silence settles between you, the soft clinking of wine glasses and the distant narration of some random BBC documentary filling the space. You teased Jungkook again about his massive TV – said the faces look so big that it’s just kind of funny – but really, it’s kind of cute the way his ears flush red when he gets shy talking about his stuff. 

You talk. About work, mostly. Jungkook’s been pulling longer shifts, taking on more than usual. You tell him about your days have been the same lately, just mindless repetition. He compliments the cookies you brought, and after a bit of coaxing, admits the first batch you made for him weeks ago were kind of bad. You laugh and pretend to be offended.

It was nice. 

Somehow, you talk about everything and nothing. Not once either of you mentioned the motel. Not the kiss in the parking lot. Not even a vague nod to the tension that’s been following you around like a ghost. 

And maybe that’s the problem.

It feels like Jungkook’s waiting for you to jump the gun first. But how the hell are you supposed to do that? How do you casually bring up the fact that he kissed you like he meant it? How exactly are you going to talk about the night you shared a kiss with the man you think you’ve liked for so many weeks now? How are you going to talk about how he made you orgasm to sleep because it was the best you've ever had since and it was so much better than the scenarios you’ve made up in your head? And god, those scenarios didn’t even live up to the very real thing. 

You want to bring it up. God, you need to. Not because you’re hopeful that this night would lead to something – but because you just need to know if he would want to do that again sometime.

But something in you is scared that Jungkook will suddenly speak up and tell you the night was a mistake and you both should get over it.

But you also know that kiss in the parking lot must’ve meant something. The way you just jumped at each other like you weren't in a public space and Jungkook not minding one bit must’ve meant that he wanted it too.

That maybe, just like you, he can’t help but notice the thick tension up in the air as you sit on the couch so close to each other, his familiar scent overwhelming your senses, and the way he looks so cozy in his white shirt and… grey sweatpants. Ugh. You swear you weren’t going to pay any attention to it as soon as he opened that door, but how could you not when he just looks way too effortlessly good and you know exactly what it's hiding–

“You want some more?” 

Your thoughts are cut short when Jungkook suddenly speaks, looking at your wine glass. 

“Uh…” you glance at the clock. “No, I should probably get going. It’s almost 11. I have work tomorrow– we have work tomorrow,” you chuckle awkwardly, glancing at the wall clock across the room. 

Just like that, you go back to your shell again, overwhelmed by your anxiety and fear of rejection. 

But for a brief second, Jungkook looks disappointed by your response, although he’s quick to wipe that off with a smile. 

“Okay. I’ll walk you out.”

Okay. Well maybe you didn’t really want him to say that at all. 

Hiding your disappointment this time, you stand up from the seat and let Jungkook talk you into leaving the wine glasses on the coffee table as opposed to bringing it to the kitchen yourself, as Jungkook insisted he’ll take care of it once you leave. 

Jungkook’s hand lingers on your lower back as you stand by his door, ready to say goodbye. 

“Thanks for the dinner.” you say quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Jungkook smiles. “We can do this again sometime.” 

“Sure. Why not?” 

“Alright. See you tomorrow, then?” 

You halt your steps, lips curling into a half-smile. “That flatters me.” 

Jungkook leans on the doorframe, crossing his arms across his chest. “I was hoping so.” 

You bite back a grin, nod, turning to leave. But…

“__—”

“Jungkook—”

Your head snaps quickly to his direction, and you both stare at each other in surprise. Jungkook’s gaze melts into a soft look.

“You first.” 

“No, you first.” 

“___,” he says with a chuckle, coaxing. 

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself. 

Just take the chance, something in your head tells you. 

And you took the bait. 

“This is going to sound incredibly stupid,” you start, voice low and hesitant. “but what happened back at the motel — I’m not sure if we’re allowed to talk about that again — but we kind of kissed this afternoon and I… I don’t know what that meant. I guess what I’m trying to say is… I wanna do it again sometime. If you’re willing,” you voice wavers, trying to look into his eyes but the weight of your words crawl deep in your skin it makes you scared to even make eye contact. “But if you’re not, then that’s totally fine. We can forget it happened.” 

Silence stretched for a beat too long. Panic starts to rise in your chest – until Jungkook steps forward.

“If I’m willing?” He echoes, blinking like he’s not sure he heard you right. 

You nod, wary. “Y-yeah…?” 

He steps closer, and your breath catches. 

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about you since then?” He takes a tentative touch to your hips, and when you don’t say a thing or make a move to pry him off, Jungkook takes a hold of you to pull you closer, making you gasp quietly. “Everytime I close my eyes, all I can think about is how I’ve held these hips as I licked you, kissed you, and touched you. I’ve never been one to give in to my wants as easy as the way you made me when we walked back to my car this afternoon because all I wanted to do was to have a taste of you again, even though I would’ve liked for us to talk first. That means I can’t have enough,” Jungkook studies your face as he leans down, gaze so full of want, but there’s a certain control under his hold. It makes your breath hitch.

“And you want to know if I’m willing?” Jungkook tacks on, lifting his hand to caress your cheek, gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. You anticipate his next words, but when he presses you closer – that’s when you feel it. The hard-on he’s sporting under the grey sweatpants you’ve been fantasizing about ever since you walked in on his apartment.  

“Oh…” you gasp, reaching for his shoulder as you feel your knees slightly buckling. 

Then, Jungkook chuckles, amused. But it’s dark and rich, and his boner is still very much pressing to your stomach. 

In the heat of the moment, you stand on your tippy toes and kiss Jungkook. 

He seems to be surprised at it first, but his arms slowly make their way around you to hold you as you tighten yours around his neck, letting out a soft moan when his tongue prods in. 

You stumble inside, Jungkook walking you back inside his apartment all the while not breaking the kiss, and the next thing you know, he’s kicking off the door shut, hands travelling down to your legs to carry you across his apartment. 

You yelp at the sudden way your feet get lifted off the ground, but Jungkook carries you with a certain grace as if you’re nothing but paperweight – hot tongue swirling around your mouth like kissing you was a lifeline. 

He lays you down gently on the couch, trailing kisses along your jaw. When you grab at the hem of his shirt, he sits back to quickly rid himself off the material. 

You bite on your bottom lip as soon as you see what’s on display. Wide chest, narrow waist, toned abdomen, and sculpted arms with ink. You would’ve liked to admire it more but Jungkook quickly goes back to kissing you after taking off his shirt, hands roaming all over your body as if he can’t quite decide where to put it at all. Then, he kneels in between your spread legs, slowly settling himself down on the floorboards. You watch with half-lidded eyes as his lips leave trail kisses down your neck to your sternum, until his hands slide your top off your stomach, kissing the exposed skin. 

Your hands settle on his soft locks, where you admire the way he moves down your body, huge hands splayed on your skin, making you ache in between your legs.

Your eyes blow out as you remember exactly what’s in between your legs. 

Fuck. 

Before Jungkook can kiss you there, you grab at his shoulders. “Jungkook,” 

He looks up quickly, fringe going in different directions, biceps unconsciously flexing at your touch. “Hm?” 

Even though it pains you, you tell him, “We can’t tonight…” 

“Ah, that’s alright,” He looks up at you in genuine concern. “You’re not feeling okay tonight?” 

You shake your head. “No… that’s not it,” You make a face, feeling annoyed all over again. God. Hot sex was on the table. And your period just ruined it. “I got my period. My cycle usually starts at the end of the month.” 

Jungkook nods in realization, squeezing your hips in understanding.

“Sorry, then. Should I get you something? I think I may have ice cream in the fridge.” He raises a brow, eyes drifting off to his kitchen. 

You take his cheek, grabbing his jaw gently to make him look at you. 

“Actually… I was thinking we don’t have to stop.” 

His eyes may have lightened up, and Jungkook takes your wrist to press a kiss to the side of your hand. 

“Yeah, I don’t really mind as long as you’re comfortable with it. We’ll put on a towel— okay, I can see on your face that’s not what you meant.” 

“No…? I was thinking I’ll give you a blowjob instead.” 

“Ah…” Jungkook nods again. “Are you sure? Don’t you have cramps?” 

You chuckle. “Not yet. It’ll kick in on the second day,” You nudge him with your foot. “Come on up here.” 

“You’re sure? We don’t need to do anything, baby,” 

Baby. God. That nickname had always been so generic but there’s something about the way it rolls off Jungkook's tongue. 

“I’m sure.” 

Jungkook gives you one of his million dollar smiles and kisses his way back up until your lips meet again. 

“Can I?” You nod when Jungkook tugs at your shirt. With your permission, he slides your top off, hissing at the sight of your bra-cladded chest. 

He goes down to lick your nipple through the material, and you grab his hair when you feel him give you a slightly harsh nip. He licks it again, as if offering some sort of silent apology. 

When he pulls the cups down, that’s when you push him to the side making him fall to the couch, and you take that time to kneel down this time in between his spread legs. 

“Put this on your knees first.” Jungkook hands you the throw pillow on the couch. You take them and fluff them under your knees, and when you finish doing that, you attend to Jungkook’s very taunting grey sweatpants, tugging it off him. He helps you slide the pants off together with his boxers – and you have to fight the urge to take it slow when his hard cock springs free. 

You’ve seen it before, have held it – but those moments felt so brief that they almost didn’t feel real. So when you see it up-close, so girthy and standing tall against his abdomen with the angry red tip slightly leaking, your breath gets caught up in your throat. 

“Fuck,” Jungkook lets out a low groan when you begin teasing kisses to his thighs.

His gorgeous, thick thighs.

God… you wonder how it would tense up with your feet resting on them as you bounce up and down on his huge cock. 

But you watch the way they clench when your lips get nearer to where he aches; watch as they tense under your touch when you place your hands there. And you watch Jungkook – most especially – as he looks down at you with hooded eyes, dark with want, his chest heaving under the tension. 

“Is this what you want?” You ask, blinking at him meekly. His mouth opens to speak, but you don’t let him say another word as you let a glob of saliva fall down to the crown of his cock. You adjust your position in between his thighs, getting more comfortable but also pushing your ass out as you wrap your hand around the base. 

Jungkook hisses when you twist your hand, gingerly spreading the wetness of your saliva around him. He lets his back fall to the back of the couch with a light thud, and you smirk when you see his abs clench. 

“You’re killing me here, __. Don’t tease.” 

You give him a non-committal hum. You meant to tease, but touching him like this feels like all your thoughts have suddenly gone to mush, and you’re left with only want – the want to pleasure him, to get him to let out those little huffs and grunts like when you two kissed…

You languidly move your hand around his shaft, humming at the way his tip oozes out more wetness which makes it easier for you to stroke him. You can’t help but watch in fascination as he seems to continue to grow around you. So hard and veiny… almost needy, the way he breathes heavily above you.

“Baby, fuck… you’re so pretty, god—” Jungkook’s words get cut off when you lean down to close your lips around the head, sucking at the softer tip before you take more of his length. “F-fuck…” Jungkook rasps, fingers gathering your hair in a makeshift ponytail when you start bobbing your head up and down.

He feels big. Warm. But you smile to yourself when Jungkook shifts on the couch at the sensation. It felt good to have him squirming like that beneath your touch, to have him keening like this. 

Gripping the base, you twist your fingers around the remaining length you couldn’t put in your mouth, jacking him off. From there, you start picking up your pace until Jungkook’s a panting mess. You’ve never pegged him as the type to be so… vocal. But it felt good, and at this point, you just want to see him let go of himself, even as he grips your hair tighter by every second that passes. It didn’t hurt enough to be uncomfortable, the force was just right – and it felt like he’s holding on to every muscle of his to not use too much force on your head by the way you can feel his other hand hovering over your hair. 

“Ah, __… baby, shit. Yeah, you’re taking my cock so well– shit…”

You pump him faster, and every now and then, you would suck at the tip gingerly, kiss the veins around his rock hard dick, roam with your tongue, and test the waters and massage his balls. Soft groans escape past his lips, hips arching off the couch.

“Shit— baby, fuck,” 

You hum, pleased with that. Your tongue teases the underside of his cock with every downstroke, just to hear him swear. You lick off the glistening juice off the head, lick around the ridge, and tighten your grip around the base, sinking your mouth up and down faster.

“God, your mouth is–aghh– Jesus fuck baby I’m gonna–” 

You slurp noisily around his cock as you try to take him deeper – and at one point you actually feel him hitting the back of your throat but you were careful enough to adjust your angle and continue to suck him up and down. Jungkook’s gasps increase in speed and pitch, and you can feel him trying to get you off him when he tries to pull your face away from his lap. 

“Baby, you gotta–” 

But you don’t even let him finish that thought when you grip his thigh with your other hand, sucking his head that gets him keening again.

“Shit, shit, shit __ I’m going to– f-fuuuck,”

Jungkook shoots his hot cum in your mouth, and you didn’t really expect it to be so… much. The first wave felt heavy, but as his thighs spasm, his dick continues to squirt some more, and you open your mouth to catch them all. 

“Fuck.” 

You pull back with a wet pop, opening your eyes to meet Jungkook’s stare. Your fingers are still around his length when you lick around your lips, noting the way his eyes darken at the sight of you in front of him like this – kneeling in between his legs and licking his cum. 

His chest heaves up and down, and he looks like he was about to say something when you suddenly slack your jaw to present your mouth to him – your mouth that’s now painted white with his cum. He watches you carefully as you close your eyes and swallow.

“Jesus.” 

“Didn’t know you were religious like that.” you say as soon as everything’s gone in your mouth, giving him a cheeky smile. It’s a bit salty, not terrible, though you kind of expected that.

When you look at Jungkook, his mouth opens and closes like fish in water. You beat him to it when you rise, crawling up on his chest to press your lips to his. 

You realize he might be one of those guys who didn't like it very much when their partners kissed them on the mouth right after giving them a blowjob – but Jungkook only slides his arm around your waist, deepening the kiss, dipping his tongue in your mouth until you’re settled on his lap again. 

“You’re a fucking dream.” Jungkook says before kissing you again. 

You giggle in his mouth, pushing him away slightly. His eyebrows knit in confusion, but he doesn't really look like he’s processing anything. 

“You know I realized something about you,” you plant a sweet kiss on the side of his lips. “You don’t cuss at all, but you do it a lot during sex.” 

Jungkook’s expression contorts into a frown, as if that was news to him. “Do I?” 

You chuckle. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know that–” then as if cutting off his own thoughts, he dives in for a kiss again. He pulls away for a second, caressing your cheek and thumbing your jaw before staring at you. “God, you’re gorgeous. Pretty girl.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I think my brain’s broken right now. I don’t have coherent thoughts.” 

That makes you laugh. You pat his chest and notice the way Jungkook reluctantly lets you get off his lap, watching with hooded eyes as you rise to your feet. 

“Well, I’ll have to get going. It’s—” you glance at the wall clock. “almost 12.”

Jungkook takes your wrist, and you have to be very brave to not look at his lap because he still hasn’t pulled up his pants yet and his dick is still very much on display. And you weren’t really kidding about having to go because you do have an early day tomorrow. 

“Do you really have to go?” 

You pout. “I have to.” 

He sighs as if that disappointed him. “Okay… let me walk you out.” 

Jungkook – finally – pulls his pants up, brushing his fingers through his hair as he rises to his feet. He doesn’t bother putting on his shirt, though, and you don’t comment on it, figuring he’d stay inside anyway.

But when you see him slipping into his slides to follow you out, you press a hand lightly to his bare abdomen and laugh. “Hey, it’s literally, like five steps away. Go back inside.”

He pauses, brows furrowing in slight confusion before glancing down at himself. “Let me just grab my shirt, then—”

That makes you giggle. “Brain still broken?” 

“I think so…” he trails off then looks at you. “Hey, come here,” he doesn’t wait for you to do so though, just reaches for you to pull you by the waist, pressing you close to him. He leans down and gives you a slow kiss. You could actually feel air being taken away from you when he pulls away, his smile as gentle as the hand that rubs your back. “Thank you, and good night. See you tomorrow?” 

You nod, feeling your cheeks flush. 

“Okay. Night. And see you tomorrow.” 

With a small wave, you turn toward your apartment, not daring to glance back as you head to the door. But you can feel his gaze on you, watching as you slip inside. 

It felt like Jungkook wanted you to stay longer…

But the ache in between your thighs was starting to get uncomfortable, and honestly, you really needed to change your pad. 

Because the wetness there? Yeah, it definitely wasn’t just your period.

“So… is my laptop dying or…?” 

“For the third time; no, your laptop is not dying,” Jungkook gives you a playful shake of his head. “It’s just laggy because you watch a lot of porn on it and you turned off your antivirus for some reason.” 

You gasp. A dramatic one. 

You give Jungkook a scandalous look before sitting down on the couch with him, peeking over what he’s doing on your device. Frankly, you don’t like it when people touch your things – especially your gadgets – because you had a lot of private stuff in them. But thirty minutes ago, your laptop randomly shut down while you had been doing some excel spreadsheets. In a weird coincidence, Jungkook called you the same time it happened. So you told him about it, and he offered to swing by and take a look. He was a tech guy, after all… and anyway, getting it fixed at some shop would have been expensive. 

“I don’t watch porn!” you protest, glaring at him. 

Jungkook just blinks at you, looking unconvinced. Then he shrugs. “Okay.” 

“And what do you mean antivirus? I don’t even know I have one,” you mumble, placing the bowl of freshly cut watermelon on the coffee table. You fold your legs underneath you and inch closer to see what he’s actually doing. He’s been at it for a few minutes now, but all you see are lines of text and windows you can’t even pretend to understand.

“Yes, you do. And you did turn it off,” he says, gesturing at the screen. It’s full of stuff that might as well be in a foreign language. “These are malware. See this? Classic spyware script. You probably clicked on one of those fake play buttons with a hot singles ad or something.”

You give him a baleful look. He snorts.

“You’re not funny. And I watch porn on twitter like a normal person– okay sometimes maybe I do watch on shady websites but why do you even know that? And why are you interested in my porn.” 

“You watch porn on twitter?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

“Hm. Interesting,” he nods and turns to the screen again. “Well, I wanna know what you like.” 

You almost fall off the sofa. “Like you want me to give you a list of porn accounts?” 

Jungkook actually laughs at that. “What? No. I mean, I'm interested in the porn you like.” 

Oh.

“Uhm, I don’t particularly like anything,” you say, although maybe you immediately think of those videos where the woman is on the guy’s lap and he fingers her hard in front of the camera – but other than that, not really. You aren’t some freakazoid about porn. Most of the time, you were fine getting off with pure imagination. “I don’t like BDSM though, I think.” 

Jungkook nods, but his eyes are not really on you and instead focused on your laptop as he does things. “Hmm.” 

Your head snaps in his direction. “What do you mean, hmm?” 

Jungkook meets your stare. “What?” 

You study his face, narrowing your eyes. But he just looks at you in confusion, although there’s a little smile tugging at his lips. You drop it anyway, reaching for the watermelon cuts on the coffee table and start eating them as you watch whatever magic Jungkook is doing on your device.

“Anyway, I pirate a lot of movies so there’s that.” You thought that would be helpful to share. Those sites do have a lot of those pop-up ads, and you’d really rather endure that than have some big fuckass streaming corporation steal from you every month. 

“I know, I’m just teasing about the porn websites,” Jungkook chuckles when you glare at him. “I could share my streaming accounts with you. I think I have everything.” 

Your eyes light up almost instantly, but then you manage to catch yourself. 

“Uh, no, you don’t really need to do that…” 

He hums, goes back to your laptop. You don’t think about it too much when you pick up a watermelon and hover it over his mouth. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to eat it off your finger, and you don’t  expect the way he sucks the juices off, tongue swirling around your digit while looking into your eyes. It feels like the whole moment took a minute, but in reality it was really only a few seconds, and Jungkook’s back to doing his thing on your laptop.��

Oh. 

Oh… okay. Well. 

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks as you drop your hand to your side, absentmindedly eating your watermelon bites.

Ugh. When will your period end?! Given, it’s only really day two, and you probably have two or three more days to go but ugh… 

Your thoughts are interrupted when Jungkook suddenly speaks, rising to his feet. 

“All done. I installed a better antivirus, and I logged in my streaming accounts so you don’t get malware again. Also turned off some useless background programs because you had too many running– and I recovered your excel file,” he says, and you give him a grateful smile as you take your laptop and bring it to your chest like it’s your baby. Jungkook chuckles at the sight. “I have to go to the toilet, though. Want to order in and watch something when I’m back?”

“Yeah, sure! Toilet’s over there,” you point to the far right direction of the apartment and watch Jungkook disappear into view to enter the bathroom. 

You’re hacking away on your laptop when a phone starts buzzing on the coffee table. 

Jungkook’s phone. 

You hesitate. You don’t want to knock on the bathroom door just to hand it to him, but you don’t feel right ignoring it either. 

The buzzing stops, and you feel relieved for all of one second when it suddenly starts again. 

You lean slightly over – not really reaching, just peeking – to see who it is. What if it’s work? What if it’s important? You could tell him about it when he comes back… 

The screen lights up with a name: Dad.

You gasp. Just a little.

The bathroom door creaks open behind you and you straighten up like you weren’t doing anything. Jungkook walks out, toweling his hands on his jeans.

“Oh, hey, someone's calling you.” 

He gives you a curious look before he crosses the room. You try not to watch too closely as he picks up his phone, but you see it; the way his brows knit together, the way his stance and tone shift when he looks back at you. 

“I need to take this real quick” He gestures to the phone. You nod.

He walks far enough that you can’t really make out the conversation, but when you take a peek to look at him, he looks so serious. You’ve only ever seen serious Jungkook when he was at work. 

A few seconds later, he returns – apologetic eyes, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey, I got called into work just now. I’m sorry we can’t have dinner tonight.” 

Oh, so you were right! It was a work thing. Still… you wonder why his dad was the one calling.

“No, it’s fine! It must be super important,” you say quickly. “Maybe we can have dinner tomorrow instead?” You say, smiling up at him brightly. 

Jungkook breaks into a smile. Then, out of nowhere, he steps closer and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. 

You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Kissing, that is. Just this morning, he drove you to work and you made out before he even started the engine. Then later. After parking, his hands wandered a little too much before you swatted him off, gently reminding him that your breasts were feeling tender from your period.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Then just like that, Jungkook makes his way out of the apartment, and you don’t even know that you’ve been smiling like crazy until the black screen of your laptop catches your silly expression. 

You miss Jungkook. 

Okay— well. It’s just been two days, really. Well, more like today is day two. So it’s actually just been a full day. But there were no texts yesterday, and there were certainly no calls either. You haven’t seen him come out of his apartment, and you hate that you’re starting to worry. 

You were debating whether to send him a message or not when suddenly, your doorbell rings. You weren’t expecting any visitors, especially not today when it was still so early in the morning and you have to go to work soon! But maybe it was your landlord, complaining about something again…

You groan at that, snatching your bag from the counter, planning to head straight to work after dealing with whoever it is. You slide your shoes on, ready for that condescending landlord tone only to freeze when you open the door.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, acting like you’ve just seen a ghost. And he seems to think so as well, cocking his head to the side at the unusual greeting. “You’re here.” you blurt out. 

“Yeah, I went back to my place last night but only for awhile. We launched a system yesterday and something broke in production. QA didn’t catch it, so now we had to roll it—” as if he thought he was sparing you with some boring talk, he cuts himself off and smiles at you instead. “I had to work overtime. I’m sorry I missed dinner last night.”

“Eh, don’t worry. It’s not that serious. I know you're extra busy these days. Anyway, are you on the way to work?” Jungkook nods. “We should go together, then.” 

“I was just going to say that.” 

You step out of your apartment, and Jungkook waits for you to lock up before you both walk side by side down the stairs. You don’t know why but somehow, having seen him today and walking with him to his car where you’re gonna be riding in together to go to work was giving you a sense of contentment that you missed yesterday. Okay, so maybe this was a thing that was starting to grow on you. And maybe being with Jungkook genuinely makes you feel happy – giddy, for the most part. But it felt silly to have missed him when it was only really a day…

But you didn’t really want to dwell on that. It wasn’t Jungkook’s obligation to drive you to work everyday, and you certainly aren’t entitled to his undivided attention when you know exactly just how hectic his work schedule is. You couldn’t ask him to make time for you, even though you would like that.

“Oh!” Jungkook startles beside you when you suddenly halt. You look at him, wide-eyed. “Jungkook, it’s September first today!” 

Jungkook checks his phone, brows furrowed. “Yes…?” 

You eye him incredulously. “It’s your birthday!” 

At first, the words didn’t seem to register, but Jungkook slowly nods. “Ah yeah, it’s my birthday today.”

“Why do you sound so unexcited?” You pout. 

He chuckles, stepping closer to brush away a stray of hair you hadn’t even noticed had fallen across your face.

“Baby, it’s just another day.” 

You feeze at the word. It’s the first time he called you that outside of you two… fooling around. It slips naturally from his mouth in that situation, but hearing it in this very non-sexual context was kind of throwing you off-balance – because this moment wasn’t supposed to feel intimate. Not like that, anyway.

Looking away, you say, “Still. You should do something to celebrate. Oh! I think… oh…” your eyes widen at the thought of throwing him a mini-party tonight. Obviously, Jungkook doesn't make a big deal of his birthdays, based on his response. But you thought about baking him a cake. And cookies! He liked the cookies you made last time! And you were practicing cakes these days so maybe it’d be nice to make him a small one. You turn to him with hopeful eyes. “Are you free tonight?” 

Jungkook hesitates, but he smiles down at you. “Yeah, I’m free tonight. Why?” 

You grin. “You’ll have to come to my place to find out! Oh, it’s gonna be fun. Ugh, I wish we can invite Jimin…”   

You’re honestly proud of yourself for not breaking down when the piping tip you bought turns out to be the wrong one. The blue icing on your apron now looks like abstract art, and there’s enough sugar on your kitchen floor to summon an army of rants.

You just wanted the cake to be perfect. The cookies already were – but the cake, maybe not so much. And it was fine! It tasted fine! But the decorating sucked and at this point you just kind of wish Jungkook would look past the awkward lettering and appreciate the effort behind all these. 

You didn’t have much time. He texted you after work that he couldn’t drive you home. He had to stay late, which actually worked out because it gave you the extra time you needed to prepare. 

Although for the record, this wasn’t even a real surprise. You just made baked goods. And you cooked some food. And by cook you scratched off the chicken shop’s label and put it in the microwave to heat it up by the time you finished cleaning up your place since Jungkook was gonna be here by 11pm. 

Which is why, at 10:40, you rush to the shower.

When you’re done, you step in front of the mirror to check yourself out. You’ve rummaged through your closet and found an old lingerie you don’t remember ever putting on. You remember it as one of those “feel-good” purchases awhile ago. 

It’s nothing special, really. Just your usual black lace two-piece. The bra’s light and sheer, made of floral lace with thin straps that sat neatly on your shoulders. There are little pink bows too on them, which kind of made it cute. It didn’t offer much coverage, what with your nipples poking through the fabric – but that seemed to be the point. Meanwhile the panties are just as bold; crotchless, cut daringly open in the center, but softened by the same delicate lace. The set originally had garter straps and thigh-high stockings, but you thought that would be an overkill so you opted out of it. 

You cover it up with a casual white dress, spritzing on the La Belle perfume Jungkook always seems to like a little too much. 

There, everything’s done. Your period’s gone too, obviously, (day four, thank god) almost as if it knew not to ruin this night for you. 

When you head out of your bedroom, you pick your phone up from the kitchen counter to dial Jungkook’s phone. 

He usually answers on the first or second ring, but this time, he doesn’t. Wasn’t unusual or anything, given how busy he is… but you do frown when the ringing ends and there’s nothing that comes next but his voicemail.

Your frown deepens. You shift from one foot to the other, glancing at the clock. It’s past eleven now. Fifteen minutes past, to be exact. 

Jungkook’s not usually late to things.

You sigh, trudging to one of the chairs in the dining area where you prepared the food and cake for him. You also bought wine and lit up a candle.

You stare at your phone for a solid minute before you pick it up again, deciding to send Jungkook a text. 

You [11:16pm]: hey!! are you running late :> 

You chose to add the emoticon in the end so the text doesn’t feel too mysterious or broody or serious. Really, you aren’t mad, maybe a little upset now – but maybe Jungkook’s just in the middle of something… what was that again? Someone breaking in production, whatever that meant…

But the clock turns 11:25, and there is still no sign of Jungkook on your phone – and even more so on your door. 

You [11:25pm]: are you busy? sorry if im bothering you! 

Then on second thought, you added:

You [11:26pm]: oh no pls dont tell me you forgot.. 🙁

Maybe he did forget. You hadn’t reminded him of it when you talked earlier. Did you have to? He said he was free tonight, so you kind of assumed… 

You sigh again. 

The chicken was turning cold and so was the other food on the table. 

You pick up a cookie to nibble on it, thinking of why Jungkook would forget. Or why he wouldn’t text you back or return your call. 

At eleven thirty, you stand up from your seat, suddenly feeling so… so silly. Silly about the food. Silly about the cake. Silly about your dress. And most especially, you feel silly about the lingerie that’s hidden underneath. 

How silly. To plan all these in expectation of what… Jungkook’s company? 

But it was his birthday. And you wanted to throw him a party, thought it would mean something to him, even though it’s not that much. But you did go through a lot of trouble to put this all out… but he also didn’t ask you either. So really, you have no right to feel upset over him not making good on his promise. 

Wait, did he promise anything though? No, he didn’t. Not really. He just said he was free tonight. No promises. Maybe his schedule changed again and he needed to work overtime. 

You start putting away the food in the fridge, not even having the energy to eat something for dinner. You go back to your room, stripping yourself off and changing into some comfortable pajamas before throwing yourself on the bed. 

Still no texts.

It’s 11:42pm when it comes. 

You hate how fast your body reaches for your phone to see who it was, lighting up when you see Jungkook (Unit 446) on the caller ID, even more so when you answer it. 

“Hey, I got your texts. I’m so sorry, __—”

“It’s fine!” you nibble on your bottom lip as you try to contain your excitement. “Are you coming soon?” 

“I– no, ba—” you flinch involuntarily when you hear him cut himself off. You were so sure he was going to call you baby, but he corrected himself quickly. “You remember the thing I mentioned this morning? The rollback didn’t go as planned. I’m working overtime tonight again so I can’t really go…” 

“Oh…” 

“Did you plan something? It’s just my birthday, __. Maybe we can go somewhere tomorrow?” Jungkook chuckles on the other end of the line, and for the first time it didn’t make you feel giddy or whatever. 

You pick on the bed sheet before answering. “Uh, no. It’s not anything big, actually. I just made you some cookies. And ordered some food. But anyway I just ate dinner first because you took so long,” the lie rolls off your tongue easier than you expected. His laugh made you feel shitty. You know he didn’t mean anything by it – but it just made you feel so… so unimportant.

And suddenly, you want to downplay the whole thing. Because clearly, he thinks it’s no big deal.

“Hey, are you upset?” His tone shifts — gentler now.

“Ah, no. Sorry. I’m so tired and sleepy,” you fake a yawn and snuggle on the bed. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow when you’re here?” 

Tomorrow is now your least favorite word. You’ve heard it too many times from him lately. 

Jungkook doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

Then you hear him sigh. 

“I’m sorry again, I swear I’ll make it up to you.” 

“No need to!” you tell him, making sure to say that as cheerfully as possible. Jungkook doesn’t need to. It’s not like you were dating or something for you to be upset over him bailing on you. “Really, it’s fine. Hey, I’m really, really sleepy now. Good night?” 

“Okay, sorry. Sleep well, __. Tomorrow, okay?” 

You hum, not sure if you believe that. Maybe tomorrow he’s going to have to do overtime again. Maybe tomorrow he won’t be here again.

Whatever. 

It wasn’t a big deal. 

You end the call, but before you can drop your phone onto the nightstand, you type out one last message.

You [11:45pm]: happy birthday! 

You didn’t get much sleep last night. Not like your body clock has ever been particularly reliable, 

This morning, you didn’t really think that much about it when you put the cake in a container and dropped it off at Jungkook’s door on your way down the stairs. You figured you could’ve eaten it, but you made it for him and anyway… it was his birthday and you still think he deserves a cake. He didn’t exactly seem like he was celebrating last night.

You took the bus to work. Nothing unusual, nothing exciting. Just another day dragging your limbs through the same monotonous rhythm. Your brain feels like it’s moving on autopilot by the time you tap your company ID at the building entrance and wait in line for the elevator. 

Slipping inside, you wedge yourself into a spare corner, arms crossed as the lift fills and empties floor by floor. Eventually, it’s just you and one other woman left. She steps out when the elevator dings, cradling her phone against her shoulder as she barks something stressed into the line.

Instinctively, you lean forward and press the hold button, stepping onto the side when you take notice of someone going in, only to realize it was Jungkook. 

It’s funny, really. Somehow, he only ever seems to appear when he’s the last person you’re ready to see. 

“Oh– good morning, Mr. Jeon,” you say, dipping your head in a polite little nod. The words sound awkward even to your own ears, stiff. You’ve never had to think about how to interact with him in the workplace.

Judging by the slight flicker on Jungkook’s face, he thinks it sounds weird too. But he recovers quickly, offering a faint smile as he steps in. 

You return his smile, just as polite, and inch a little further to the side – so far that your back nearly presses to the elevator wall, creating an unnecessary gap between you.

The silence is noticeable. Tense, but it’s civil at least. You glance at the floor numbers blinking overhead, half-hoping this ride doesn’t last long.

Then Jungkook shifts in your periphery. 

“Hey, about last night—”

The elevator dings. 

It’s your floor.

You step out quickly, almost too quickly, heart tapping a little faster than it should.

You don’t look back.

You didn’t expect to get a text from Jungkook that night. 

Jungkook (Unit 446) [9:37pm]: Do you wanna drive home together? 

You made a mental note to give him a reply but it’s thirty minutes later that you remembered about it.

You [10:11pm]: hey sorry I just got home

Jungkook (Unit 446) [10:14pm]: Okay Jungkook (Unit 446) [10:14pm]: Please come over tonight? I’m cooking 

You [10:16pm]: i'm not sure if I can You [10:17pm]: i’ll try to. I brought home some work :/

He doesn’t give a reply after that.

And maybe that – weirdly – made you irritated. He’d texted first, and he’d asked you over. You gave a soft no, not even a hard one, and he didn’t even try again? Just left it like that?

You sigh and close the lid of your laptop. For once, you hadn’t lied about being busy with work. It was just a few reports you figured you could finish now to make tomorrow lighter and easier. It was nothing really urgent. 

But you do feel sort of guilty about it.

Your door buzzes, and you have second thoughts whether or not you ordered dinner. 

When you open the door, it felt like deja vu.

“Jungkook.” you say, blinking.

“Are you still working?” He’s in his work clothes, though the sleeves of his button-up are slightly rolled now. It looks like he just got home not long ago.

You glance at the laptop on the coffee table. “No, I just finished…” 

“Okay, then I have a question,” Jungkook steps inside, and you unconsciously take a step back at that, looking at him curiously. He watches you carefully. “Are we okay?”

Caught off guard, you stammer when you say, “I– yeah! Sure, why wouldn’t we be?” 

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, then, “You seemed a little off this morning. I thought maybe it was about last night.” 

You try to wave it off, suddenly nervous about Jungkook being so straight-forward. Usually, men were so emotionally stunted as you are and never faced their problems head-on.

“No, I mean, it’s fine. You were probably so busy. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

“But it did kind of matter.” 

You exhale, shifting uncomfortably. “Okay, maybe I was a little upset. But it’s not like I’m mad mad.” 

“I figured,” Jungkook says, voice soft. “And I get it if you don’t want to hang out tonight, but I still wanted to try. I know I’ve flaked twice now, but I meant what I said, about making it up to you.” 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. “With food?”

He smiles faintly. “With food. Amongst other things.” 

That earns a chuckle from you. You’re not over it – unfortunately – but something about the way he’s standing there, almost cautious, makes it hard to keep your walls all the way up. 

“So,” he asks gently. “Will you come?”

Taking a deep breath, you unintentionally look down at your socks. 

“Only if there’s wine…” you say softly. 

Jungkook’s smile spreads. “There’s wine.” 

You sigh and start toeing your slippers off. “If it’s terrible, I’m leaving in five minutes.” 

“I can live with that.” 

Inside Jungkook’s place, the lights are unusually dim, the apartment warm with the scent of garlic and something buttery. A jazz record plays at the far corner, and you only noticed then that Jungkook owned a vinyl player – which you kind of didn’t expect – you sort of pegged him as the type to not have time to listen to music. 

Meanwhile, he goes straight to the kitchen counter, where you watch him by the stove, plating food like a professional. You realized he had been cooking, and that’s why his tie was a little loose and his hair kind of a muss. 

You don’t really know what to say, so you try to break the silence with, “Uhm, wow.” 

Jungkook glances at you, mouth lifting at the corner. “I try sometimes.” 

The obvious faux humility makes you laugh. You know exactly that he knows you’re impressed by the whole thing. 

And you haven’t even eaten his food yet.

Walking in slowly to the dining area, your eyes skim over the table where there are real wine glasses, cloth napkins, and a lit candle.

“So what’s the occasion?” You ask, sitting on the chair, watching Jungkook as he heads towards your direction, bringing in the food he was preparing. You smile up at him. “Guilt?” 

He chuckles under his breath, and you’re almost glad that the joke lands.

“Maybe. Also I figured you deserve a proper dinner, made by me. Since someone went out of their way to make me one.”

You hum. “Can’t believe you stood me up on your own birthday.” 

He brings the plates over and sits across from you. “I cooked,” he says. “Try it before you decide if I’m forgiven.” 

You eye the food, a little surprise at how he mustered up a risotto with seared scallops, and of course perfectly plated. Like he’s just so good at everything he does… wait, did Jungkook go to culinary school? You’re starting to think that.

“You know how to make risotto?” 

“I know how to do a lot of things,” he meets her gaze.

Yeah, you know that was a hundred percent true…

You take a bite, careful not to let any expression slip while Jungkook watches closely, not really digging in on his own plate.

And as expected, the risotto’s annoyingly good. You didn’t doubt it from Jungkook, though. Being good at cooking was just one of the many qualities that made him so… so whatever. 

“Okay, fine. I’m mildly impressed,” you comment, sipping on the wine to hide the small smile tugging at your mouth. Your very expression contradicts your words, and you know Jungkook can see through you.

He leans back in his chair, obviously satisfied. “Mildly?”

“You still missed your birthday dinner. That knocks off some points.”

He gives you a small smile. “I really didn’t expect it to be a birthday dinner, baby.” 

You shrug off the nickname by having more bites of the risotto. You wonder if Jungkook was being deliberate when he said that, or if it was just going to be a thing between you now. 

“You didn’t ask… and well, I was going to surprise you.” Now you pout at the memories of last night again. “There was chicken.” 

Jungkook looks at you in surprise. “You cooked?”

You eye him. “Yeah, I scratched the tapes off the takeout boxes and put it in the microwave.” Jungkook laughs, the crinkles on the sides of his eyes showing. It makes you smile to see him like that. “Well,” you say eventually, “you’ve redeemed yourself a little.” 

Jungkook leans in again, riding along, “Only a little?” 

“We’ll see if there’s dessert.” 

Jungkook smirks, and you both continue to eat. 

After awhile, he glances at you. “You’re not mad,” he says, as if treading softly. “But… you were disappointed, right?” 

You shake your head. “No. I just—” You see Jungkook raising a brow. “I just thought it’d be nice. I don’t want to make a big deal about it, it was your birthday! Now I feel bad ‘cause it’s like I’m making this all about me.” you chuckle at the realization.

You look at Jungkook when you realize he’s not really laughing with you. 

You flinch a little when his hand reaches out to yours. His thumb caresses your knuckles as he tells you softly, “Hey, I know it would’ve been nice. I’m really sorry I missed it.” 

“It’s fine…” it’s a good thing Jungkook lets go immediately.

But you find yourself wanting to share with him that you baked him a cake too. About the lingerie… but that felt stupid now. Wait, did he even get the cake you left at his porch this morning? 

As if he read your mind, Jungkook suddenly rises up from his chair.

“Wait a second,” he walks past you, disappearing into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and comes back into view with a single slice of cake.

Your cake. The one you made for him. 

You stare. “Is that—?”

“You left it outside my door this morning,” he says, placing it on the table. You blink up at him, mouth slightly open. “I thought I’d save it, you know? In case you ever stopped pretending you didn’t care.” 

It felt a little pointed, but with the smile on his face you’re not really sure. 

“You really don’t play fair.” 

“Not trying to.” he says simply with a small smile before sitting again. 

“So. Is this your apology routine? Fancy dinner, smooth jazz, and then hoping I forget you bailed?” 

He smiles into his own glass of wine. “If I wanted you to forget, I wouldn’t have brought out the cake.”

You raise a brow. “You brought that out to make a point.” 

“I did.”

“You’re kind of smug about it.”

“I’m good at making points,” he says, “Especially when someone keeps insisting nothing’s wrong.” 

You frown, somehow not really liking the confirmation that he does think you’re making a big deal about this. 

“I said I was fine.” 

“You keep saying that,” his voice is quieter now, but a little edged. “But you’ve been smiling like it’s your job since you got here. And I know it’s not real.” 

You recoil at that, not expecting to be called out. The sudden shift of the atmosphere is palpable as you lean back on the couch. 

“What do you want me to say?” you let out a humorless chuckle. “That I was upset? You hurt my feelings?” 

Jungkook’s expression changes, but his voice doesn’t falter. “I wanna know how you feel.” 

You look away. “Do you want me to admit that maybe I cared more than I should?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“But you mean it.”

He leans forward, "I mean,” he starts, “that it wasn’t nothing. You made me dinner. You planned something for me. That’s not small. And I want you to know that I want to apologize when I make these mistakes.” 

You don’t really think it through when you say, “It’s not like we’re together, Jungkook.” 

That makes him pause. You can’t find it in you to take it back, because… it was true, right? The whole thing felt like… like you were a couple in a fight. And you aren’t.

“Still not an excuse.” he says after awhile. 

You let out a breath, almost a laugh, frustrated. You wish Jungkook hadn’t brought it up, and you wish you aren’t reacting the way you are right now.

“You know, you didn’t seem bothered about it when we talked on the phone.” 

“Because I thought you were okay.”

“Well, surprise,” you flash him a tight smile. “Turns out I’m not as chill as I thought.” 

His voice lowers. “I never thought you were chill.” You can’t help but glance at him sharply. “I thought you were trying really hard to seem like you didn’t care, because maybe you thought I might not care back.”

That lands harder than it should, and you feel your throat tighten.

“I should go,” you stand up, not wanting to have any more of this conversation. You wish Jungkook would just drop it. You told him, you were upset – but he’s making a big deal about it. 

Jungkook stands up too, stepping closer to you. His height looms over you, but his presence feels calm and collected. 

“You could,” he says in that deep voice. “But you won’t.” 

You take in a sharp breath when he presses until you can feel the heat of his body. You’re confused about the sudden turn of events, but there’s something about Jungkook right now, his voice dropping low, his gaze… almost as if…

“Oh?” you decide to challenge him, not wanting to waver.

“You stayed. And now you’re standing this close,” he says, gaze dropping to your mouth. “Looking like you want me to make you forget why you were upset in the first place.” 

You swallow, suddenly feeling heated in that other way. 

“A-and if I do?” 

One hand brushes past your hip, and you stand there grounded, unconsciously holding your breath. 

“Then you let me.” 

You kiss him first – not really sure why and how it happened – but you do, on instinct. Wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips to his. It’s fast, and there’s frustration from you bubbling under, heat blooming behind your ribs like a fuse finally lit. 

Jungkook kisses you back harder though, catching you on time – always catching you on time – walking you backwards into the living room where he lays you down on the couch, hovering over you.

His voice is rough against your skin when he breaks away to whisper, “Are you still upset?” 

Your hands grip his shirt. “I would be if you don’t continue kissing me.” 

That makes him smile, murmuring, “You’re a brat.” 

“Do you like it?” 

He inhales a sharp breath against your jaw, nipping. “I really do.” 

In an instant, his hands were around your waist, your back pressed against the back of the sofa. Your breath hitches when his mouth drops to your ear, making your knees weaken slightly.

“Do you– do you kiss everyone you disappoint like this?” you mutter, hands sliding under his shirt where you feel his abs clench.

“No,” he says, lips peppering kisses down your neck, voice low. It sends shivers down your spine and makes your thighs clench together. “Just the ones who microwave chicken for me.”

It earns a chuckle from you – sharp, breathless – and tug the collar of his shirt, starting to undo his buttons until sculpted chest is revealed. You’re about to pull the material off him when Jungkook catches your wrist.

“Still upset?” he asks.

You click your tongue. “Maybe.” 

He grins. “Good.” 

He kisses you again. Slow this time, like he knows you’d let him now. And you do. Your fingers dig into his shoulder as he deepens it, tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your head fog over. He tastes like wine and smugness… but you find you like it. Jungkook moves in such a way that screams he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

His shirt is off in a second, leaving him in his slacks and belt, mouth moving lower over your throat, your collarbone, until they reach your cleavage made easily accessible with the neckline of your camisole. You arch into the touch without much thinking, and when Jungkook whispers against the peak of your nipple if he could take your shirt off, you nod. 

“Sorry, this isn’t my proudest bra ever,” you tell him, fingers slipping through his hair. 

Jungkook chuckles. “I’m gonna take it off, anyway.” 

He lifts you up effortlessly, squeezing your ass as you yelp but helping you wrap your legs around his waist. Before you can say anything, he shuts up with a searing hot kiss, and you let him carry you to the bedroom with ginger steps, like he’d done it a hundred times before in his head. God, you hope he did just like you do. 

You don’t know how exactly it happened but your bra is off the moment he lowers you down on the bed, tugging the cups off your chest and letting his hand take reign on one boob while he licks the other one with his hot tongue, swirling it around your nipple that makes you gasp and shift on the bed. 

“Oh, Jungkook…”

Crawling over you, you meet his heavy gaze as he asks, “Are you sure about this?” 

If the heat in between your thighs is any more indication of how sure you are, he can check. But you tug him down by the waistband of his slacks to tell him, “I’ve been sure.” 

“Just checking, because once we start…” he murmurs, gaze dropping on your lips. As if he can’t help it, he closes his mouth around yours. Then his hand slides down, feathery touch causing goosebumps all over your skin. It stops on your inner thigh where you take a sharp breath because he was so close to where you wanted him to be. 

“I want you now,” you say, a bit irritated. 

He chuckles, dark. Low. He retracts his hand and smirks when you give him a glare. 

“I wanna take my time with you, sweetheart. Don’t rush me.” 

To prove his point, he kisses you again – hot and passionate, but also aguishly slow like he’s savoring every brush of your tongue and he has all the time in the world for it. 

You’re flushed beneath him, breathless as his hands wander all over your body. He nips the skin of your neck, obviously teasing, leaving goosebumps on his trail. When his hand cups the heat in between your legs, your hips unconsciously buck, your grip on his shoulders tightening at the contact. 

“I should’ve come to dinner,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

“Y-yeah,” you manage, “you should’ve.” 

“I can’t believe I missed this yesterday.”

You gasp when his thumb presses on your mound, feeling like you’ve been electrocuted by the touch. Jungkook seems to take note of your oversensitivity, as he watches you with your mouth hanging slightly open.  

“Don’t worry, baby. I plan to make it up to you real good,” he leans back for a second to tug the waistband of your pants, and you don’t hesitate to lift yourself up a little to help him slide it off your legs together with your panties. You bite your bottom lip as you observe him watching the way the material clings to your pussy at the slickness. A smirk tugs at his lips. “I guess I’ve made you wait too long, didn’t I?” 

Your reply dissolves into a sharp inhale as he puts two of his fingers in his mouth and wedges them in between your folds, leaning down to plant a kiss on your parted mouth. His fingers move inside you, curling in slow rhythm, his thumb teasing just enough to keep your hips lifting off the bed.

“You’re so soaked, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he slowly slides them out, smirking when you whimper at the loss of contact. He inserts them again, this time taking on a steady pace. His fingers make you feel so full, just like they did back at the motel – and you wouldn’t dare lie to yourself and say you haven’t been looking forward to this again. By the way you can’t keep the soft moans escaping past your lips, Jungkook must’ve known too. 

Slick sounds bounce off the wall, and you try to keep it to a minimum by minimizing your moans and pressing the back of your hand to your mouth but Jungkook catches your wrist quickly, as if he knew what you were about to do.

“No, baby, let me hear you,” he says, pinning your hand up against the headboard. “I want to know how much you want this, how much you like my fingers fitting right in your pussy,” he looks down, then unexpectedly, he brings his soaked digits up to your face. Your cheeks flush in embarrassment when you see how wet they are with your juices, whimpering when he inserts them in his mouth with no second thoughts, licking them obscenely. You whimper when he shuts his eyes close, looking intoxicated. 

“Shit,” he hisses, “Tastes just as good as I remember it.” 

“J-jungkook,” you whine, wanting him to do something already. 

“I know,” he smirks, a little smug. “Should I go faster? Is that what you like?” 

“Please…” you cry out, holding on to his wrist.

He chuckles darkly and just as when you were about to say something else again, he curls the same fingers in you, but this time he plunges them in and out at a faster pace. At that, you don’t hold back the moans you’ve been keeping trapped in your throat. 

Legs tensing, Jungkook continues to fuck you with his fingers, moving like an expert; determined to make you fall apart – and you’re nothing but soft cries, heated, fingers tightening around his wrist as your orgasm creeps up your toes to your spine. 

“F-fuck…” you sigh when Jungkook dives in your chest again, nipping and sucking at the flesh you were sure he was going to leave marks. “Feels so good, Koo…” 

He hums against your skin, curling his fingers and digging in deep that your thighs shake uncontrollably. But Jungkook’s hold on your hip is firm, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you from thrashing underneath him at the overwhelming pleasure. 

“Yeah? You’re making such a mess on my hand, baby,” he husks out.

“S-sorry.”

He chuckles. “You’re beautiful,” He breaks away from your tits to stare at you. Moving away some of the hair that has gotten on your face, he says, “Are you close?” 

“Yes, god, yes. Please, I’m so close…” 

You can feel yourself about to reach your climax, so you move your hand to seek relief to your clit. But Jungkook catches you off-guard when he moves further down your body. You let out a lewd moan when he licks along your slit, sucking in your folds – your juices making a wet, spongy sound as he slurps. When he closes his mouth around your clit, you cry out and grab his hair quite harshly. 

But Jungkook only hums against your pussy, the vibration only making you drip more. He ravishes your nub with his tongue, quick and steady, and so are his fingers in and out of your pussy. 

“Oh my god,” you moan, body convulsing at your impending orgasm, shutting your eyes close and focusing on the way his tongue tugs at your clit. “Kook, I’m coming, fuck, I’m gonna cum—” 

He pulls off with a smack only to tell you “in my mouth” before going back to business again. You listen to his small grunts, his hums, and until then, you feel your body spasming when the coil at your stomach breaks.  

Jungkook puts his hand on your lower stomach, pressing you down as you wriggle underneath him, thighs shaking at your orgasm. He licks until you’re pulling his head out of your mound. He takes his fingers out of your spongy walls, spreading your wetness instead around your folds, as if calming you down from your high.

“Good, baby, good…” he murmurs, gripping your thighs to steady you. Then he leans down and presses kisses over them.

You let your back relax on the mattress, shutting your eyes close and catching your breath.

You hear a drawer pull open, and when you finally open your eyes, you see Jungkook with a condom pinched in between his fingers.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Jungkook skates his fingers through his hair, and you suddenly got the urge to jump him right then and there when you saw the sheer wetness on his jaw, his sculpted chest and the abdominal muscles that sit perfectly on his stomach, his tattoo sleeve – he looked like an absolute dream then, but you knew you were in for a ride when your eyes cast a look at the erection inside his slacks. Jungkook makes quick work of unbuckling his leather belt, and the way the metal clink with each other scratches a part of your brain that screams want, want, want and maybe Jungkook caught on, because he follows your gaze to the belt, clicking his tongue when he throws the leather away somewhere on the floor.

“Next time, sweet girl,” he says, sounding like he meant it. You can feel your cheeks heating under his gaze and the implication of his words, chest pounding as he unbuttons and unzips his pants together with his boxers. 

“I…” You watch in quiet fascination when his rock hard dick slaps against his lower abdomen, biting your lip at the sight. It was just as long and girthy as you remember it.

He hums. “You want to play next time, we’ll do that. But eyes up here first,” Jungkook instructs, and you do look at him when he says so, feeling your legs clamping together at his slightly commanding tone. He tugs your legs to pull you closer to the edge of the bed, and so you lift off the mattress slightly and rest your elbows against the soft sheets. Jungkook smiles at you as he kneels between your spread legs, “You look beautiful like this, baby. Do you know how much I’ve been wanting to do this?” he asks as he rips open the condom, pinching the tip and putting it over his cock in quick succession. 

“I’ve been waiting for you…” you say, not really sure what you mean, touching his chest because you can. He’s so warm and so big, and your pussy aches at the thought of him finally entering you.

It felt greedy, to want to cum again when you just did not even a full minute ago.

“I know,” he strokes his cock for good measure, and you let out a soft gasp when he hikes your leg over his hip, nudging your other leg to the side. He inserts a finger in your pussy, hissing at your wetness. “Fuck, you are soaked, baby…” 

“Put it in,” You whine, chest heaving up and down as you watch Jungkook with half-lidded eyes. His hand wraps around his dick, strokes it for a moment before gripping near the tip and bringing it closer to your aching heat. 

You moan when the first inch of his cock goes in, mouth gaping at the intrusion. Jungkook’s eyebrows knit as he adjusts your leg higher on his hip, pushing deeper. 

“Look at me,” he instructs, “You can take it, right, baby? You’re so wet, so pretty…” 

“I– yes, yes– shit,” you let out a shaky breath, “you’re s-so big, fuck,”

“You’re taking it so well,” he murmurs, voice low and dripping with honey. He gives a gentle, almost subtle thrust that almost knocks you out of the bed.

“Yes, yes, fuck… give it to me, Kook, I want you so bad…”

“Yeah? I’m gonna move in a sec, angel, play with your tits for me.”

You nod your head and do as told, letting your hands wander all over your body before fondling your breasts, moaning instantly at the pleasure. 

“Tell me if it hurts,” is what he says before he slips an arm beneath your waist, holding you up, a shudder escaping past his lips when he slowly pushes more past your tight walls. You choke out a moan, a broken sob coming out of it when he finally bottoms out inside of you.

“Ah…” 

He hisses, fingers digging at your waist as he withdraws from your heat and only the tip of his cock is in you, the scene with it sitting on your soaked pussy enough to send him into an overdrive. 

“You’re so fucking tight holy fuck,” he seethes, forcefully snapping his hips back into you and finally picking up a pace that makes you whimper and cry out pathetic little moans, mind becoming fuzzy at the thrusts of his cock in your entrance. 

Your walls clench at the glide of his cock against you, feeling him falter at the little stunt. But you can’t help it. Your body is on fire as Jungkook lets out a guttural groan, pulling you flush against his cock until the thin hairs around the base of his dick are tickling your skin. Your elbow shake as it loses balance, but Jungkook is quick to catch you just on time, leaning down to hover over your body, but it only makes the angle of his fuck deeper, and maybe he meant to do that too. 

Your hands are quick to wrap around his shoulders as you feel the tip of his cock prodding against your cervix like he’s going all out, your hips jumping as he rams back inside. 

He repeats the movement like a graceful dancer, thrusts deep and purposeful, pulling out wailing sounds from you you begin to worry if the neighbors could hear. He tucks his head against your neck and presses a kiss on the junction between your neck and shoulder, rocking his hips into you, pistoning into your squelching heat. His body is so close, so warm, sweaty skin gliding against yours.

“Fuck, fucking hell, baby – fuck, you feel so good,” Jungkook growls, finding your mouth and kissing you again. His hips snaps back into you once again, and you both swallow each other’s moans at the contact, letting your bodies rock to the sound of your fucking. His hand is on your chest immediately, squeezing everywhere until it settles on pinching your nipple between his fingers. 

“Jungkook– ah, baby— fuckkkkk,” You shudder, feeling your pussy quiver at every snap and every withdrawal, and when he brings his hand to your clit and rubs it in quick circles, you screw your eyes shut, feeling that familiar wave again for the second time that night. 

“Jungkook–” 

“You’re gonna be a good girl and come for me, sweet girl?” Jungkook rasps out, sweaty forehead coming into view as he jackhammers into your pussy with ease, welcomed by your never-ending slick. You never thought you’d see Jungkook like that, fucking like a crazed caveman, looking like he can’t get enough but also straining himself a bit to not hurt you – because of course he wouldn’t. 

“Fuck me harder, Kook, I need it– need you to… need you to—”

“Yeah?” he rocks harder, faster just like you said, and you can honestly start to feel the slight pain on your chest as they bounce at the speed, your hand flying to grab at your chest. 

“I’m so close,” you cry out, unconsciously reaching for him and feeling like you’re on edge. Jungkook takes your hand and encloses it around his, thrusting into you once again before whispering against your skin to let go. 

As if that was a magic phrase, you feel something inside you snap. 

“Good girl, I knew you’d come for me, you always do,” Jungkook slurs. You could feel your cum dribbling out of your pussy, creaming his cock, but Jungkook continues ramming himself past your clenched lips and into your spasming hole, grunting against your skin, mouth leaving random, open-mouthed kisses. 

He drills on, and his cock still feels so achingly hard, seemingly not anywhere near completion yet. You’re nearly mush beneath him from your current release, but you push through it as you press your hands to his chest, forceful enough to send him tumbling a little. He’s caught off-guard by that, and you take that to your advantage as you maneuver yourself to push him completely on his back, his cock sliding out of you. 

He bounces off the mattress a little, looking at you curiously as you straddle his waist. Your sensitive pussy shudders at the cold of the AC in his room, and you feel like your bones have been liquefied, but you don’t let that deter you from taking ahold of his still, indeed, hard cock and sitting on it. 

Jungkook inhales a sharp breath as he watches you bounce on his cock, the head disappearing and appearing in your entrance, like a show he would want to replay over and over again. And you’re determined, stretching your body and leaning back to rest your palms on his thighs for support as you take his dick, switching to a back and forth motion.

“Oh, Jungkook, god – oh my god,” and although it was supposed to be for him – for him to cum – you can honestly feel yourself about to snap again, especially when Jungkook reaches forward to rub your tit, caressing your tattoo underneath with that hungry look in his eyes, and settling on your hips like he’s enjoying the little show you’re putting up for him. 

“That’s it baby, bounce on my cock – you’re doing so we…ll,” he encourages, but there’s a slight break to his tone at the end. “Shit, keep going – fuck. I’m so fucking close– you look so good,” 

You swallow the saliva trapped in your throat to pick up your pace, feeling lightheaded at the overwhelming feeling of his cock prodding against your cervix everytime you go forth. His dick brushes past your clit everytime you move, and you throw your head back when you feel him starting to thrust upward. 

“Are you close again, baby?” Jungkook asks, gripping your hips tight as he meets your ministration. You bite your lip at the question, only whimpering when Jungkook bucks his hips harshly. “Cum for me a third time, pretty girl. Cum with me.” 

“Jungkook, I can’t, I’m so sensitive. I–”

“You can, angel. And you will.”

You mewl when Jungkook reaches for your pussy with his other hand, quickly finding your clit to rub against it again, and that pushes you to the edge quickly – orgasm snapping on an instant just like that. 

Jungkook’s hips stutter, breath caught in between a curse and your name, like the sound of you undid him completely. It was a sound that you heard three days ago when he came in your mouth.

“Fucking hell,” he hisses, hips faltering at his orgasm. “Shit…” 

You drop your body unceremoniously onto him, the exhaustion hitting you all at once.

Wrapping his hands around your body very gently, you feel Jungkook kissing the side of your head, making you shut your eyes close. 

“Jesus.” you blurt out, whole body spent.

“Didn’t know you were religious like that…” He says with a chuckle, caressing your hair mindlessly.

You snap your head quickly to look at him at the familiar words, narrowing your eyes. Jungkook only presses a kiss to your shoulder as if that was some sort of apology, and you let it go with a playful shake of your head.

“Do you still feel bad about missing dinner?” You ask with a smile on your face. 

He let out a low laugh, and the vibration through his chest feels warm against your skin. 

“I’m working on making it up to you.” 

“Does it really involve making me cum three times in a single night?” you arch your brow. “I think you’re overcompensating.” 

Jungkoo gives you a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe.”

And before you can say anything, he flips you over and kisses you again, which makes you giggle into his mouth.  

all right reserved © awrkive, 2025. no reposts, modification, translations, and copying allowed. if you enjoy my work/s and have the extra means, please consider supporting me on ko-fi <3

[arcanetrivia]

The thing about Discord is that just finding a server that has the conversations you're interested in can be difficult. Privately hosted email lists had this kind of problem too, that you sometimes could only even find out they existed by word of mouth, never mind join them. Sometimes you have to know a guy who knows a guy to get a hold of an invite code that hasn't expired by the time you come across it. (I get why they made the change that you couldn't make permanent ones if you weren't a Community server, but it can be frustrating sometimes.) Official servers for $THING may be listed publicly on $THING's website, but that's not the same as a by-fans-for-fans space that will probably have a much different culture and tone. There's Disboard, but not everything is on it. The central directory of a place like Yahoo Groups (whatever their other faults), being able to find communities and people that list certain interests on LiveJournal, the generally public or at least semi-public nature of a forum that can be found by a search engine... all of these supported discoverability. (And in my current primary fandom, besides the figurative "private group chat" that a Discord server is, I know there's some significant activity in literal private group chat. So unless you can somehow get admitted to a pre-existing group of friends, welp.)

IRC as a synchronous chat platform/protocol was there for a long time alongside (and is still in some cases, even with the ascendancy of Discord), and a lot of that ephemeral stuff has been lost unless people kept logs. But we're in a situation now where pretty much all there is, is the ephemeral, be it Discord, Twitter/Bluesky/Mastodon, Facebook (seems to actively work against finding and keeping up on what you want), Instagram (somehow even worse; my beloathed). DeviantArt worked decently well for a while, but every time they messed up site changes and policies in a way that angered artists, there was an exodus (similar to the waves of exodus from LiveJournal until now it's a ghost town unless you're Russian). Pillowfort... exists... but I am skeptical it's ever going to gain critical mass, even if Tumblr does completely go under one of these days.

And Tumblr itself... is better than nothing, but of course we all know how hard it can be to find things on because a lot of the older stuff isn't even indexed; and its structure really doesn't support coherent threaded conversation; and it's a bit too-little-too-late on their introduction of LJ/DW-style communities, which people here now don't seem to want.

(Semi-aside, not to be a Fandom Old, but re: reblogging/reposting, I see how such a thing can be a boon for those who really don't want to participate even on the level of an occasional comment here and there, but fandom was doing fine without such a feature on email lists, forums, LiveJournal. People actually were pretty annoyed when LJ tried to introduce a reposting-style feature, which was pretty clunky. The site hadn't been conceived with that sort of ecosystem in mind and it was rather grafted on. Think how people keep rejecting Tumblr's attempts at a short-form video feature: "Stop trying to be X other site and just be what you are! We're here because we want what is unique about this place!")

....sorry, I think I went on a bit of a pointless ramble there 😅

imo a discord server should be like a breakout room for fandom. like the place to run your wips by your besties or discuss your otp in more detail with a few people who were insane about it on your post or organise events with a handful of trusted mutuals etc etc. if it’s where ALL the fandom activity is going to happen it will inevitably foster a cliquey environment where the fandom is divided into “those in the server” and “those who aren’t”, lurking is disincentivised if not made outright impossible, people who feel uncomfortable joining in conversations and would rather interact with fandom through reblogging etc are largely excluded because there’s no repost mechanism, and the fandom itself becomes an enclosed space so new fans are limited in how much content and meta they can access without having to make the plunge into Joining The In Group, there’s limited scope for interaction between different communities within the same fandom, god it’s just an altogether dogshit stupid idea. what if we moved all fandom activity to really massive private groupchats. STUPID

[revelboo]

Hi, I'm the one that sent the 'attempting to calm myself down' ask, please ignore it. I've actually calmed down enough to feel really embarrassed by it haha!

Nah, you’re fine- I tend to like routines and things in a certain place. When they get moved, it makes me feel off balance or I’ll forget to do something. I know sometimes when stuff isn’t where I expect it to be, it’s like a misstep and I’m more likely to repeat things. Locking the door, then checking it again, maybe even unlocking it and going back in to make sure the lights are out, because I know something’s off but can’t figure out what. But I understand being frustrated and needing an outlet for it

Stress Relief

Prowl x Reader

• Staring at the crap he’s spread out on his berth, you’re not sure if he’s raided a Goodwill donation drop off or some elderly person’s yard sale. Ugly, floral lamps and vases, mismatched plates and cups, a boxy old TV set. Maybe he’d decided you’d like some human stuff? “I know you. Know you’re a lot like me and I thought, maybe, you’d like this,” he says, gesturing at the stuff as you raise your brows at him in question. And he hands you an aluminum bat.

• Watches you blink slowly, hands sliding on the bat as you find your grip and swing it like you’re testing the weight. “You want me to smash this crap? That’s the deal?” You ask, sounding suspicious like you think it’s a trick. But you are a lot like him. And sometimes he’s so frustrated, so angry he wants to destroy something and he has to bottle it up. Pretend nothing bothers him and hide the anger. Because he’s not allowed yo show his true face, to let his anger show.

• “That’s right,” he says, door wings lifting and falling in a shrug. And you swing the bat, the crack of it connecting with that ugly lamp a shock, the thing coming apart with the first blow. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid, but it feels strangely good to lose control and just destroy things, pour your frustration out. The green vase is next. A glass. Aware of him watching you and that you’re grinning like a psycho as you bend to grab a plate and throw it.

• Huffing through his vents as you bare your teeth in a slightly frightening little smile as you smash everything until you’re breathing hard. Until you’re laughing. Angry and frustrated like he is, but unlike him, you’re allowed to lash out, to scream and get angry, so he’s living vicariously through you. Letting you do what he can’t because of his position.

• Embarrassed after it’s over, you feel good. Lighter somehow. All you’ve done is make a mess, broken ceramic and glass everywhere and you’re out of breath, hair slicked with sweat to your face and neck. “Thanks,” you mutter, hands aching from gripping the bat too hard. Fingers almost numb where you missed a few times and hit the berth instead. And he’s leaning to cup the back of your head and press a kiss against your temple. ‘Any time.’

[ravenlynclemens]

i see a lot of shmorky influence in your artwork, im curious to see what your thoughts on them are?

like the little blob klurfsy lookin motherfuckers, the purple pussy reference and a general aura of "i hate this person and what they did but their work left a mark on me" except you took all the good parts and left the fakewoke queerky pedophilia behind yeah?

yeah i grew up on shmorky's stuff. i was first introduced to them via tumblr but later went on to watch all of their old something awful cartoons. their tumblr comics were probably my first exposure to the concept of being nonbinary! i still enjoy a lot of their old cartoons and webcomics and i even went out of my way to archive a bunch of their tumblr comics before their blog disappeared. I think 2009-2012 when they were transitioning from their extremely mean spirited early art and their later excessively cute art is my favourite shmorky artistic era. as a person they seemed to be very messed up and they did some nasty shit but i honestly still hope they're alive

[stonedtaemin]

you stupid girl

❕brat taming, ass slapping, mutual masturbation, lots of name calling (esp. whore, bitch, slut), cum eating | ao3 | wc 3.1k

mc is a brat and caleb decides he has to teach her a lesson *requested ♡

it first started as little joke, a prank, if you will. caleb was just so easy to rile up, so what was the point in not having a wee bit of fun?

fancy dinner with the fleet? her foot was rubbing sensually onto his leg across the table, slipped out of it's heel and toes pressing hard onto his crotch. on a phone call with one of the higher ups? she started mouthing at his cock through his pants.

even when he was cooking, god dammit, she would come up behind him and massage his ass. manhandling him and then snickering off, a knowing smirk playing onto her lips. each time he swore under his breath, shaking his head.

today was no different. caleb had had it up to here with her shannanigans, hands fiddling with the hem of his sweatpants, trying to focus on putting together a new plane model.

"would you stop that? you're gonna make me mess up, pips." he choked out, a tent already trying to form in his pants.

she was laying onto the floor next to him, chin resting on her hand in boredom. she let out a long, disgruntled sigh. her fingers did not move an inch. she wouldn't listen to his pleas.

"but it's so much fun and this is so... not fun."

he snorted, sitting up and stretching his back out. this was his third model of the day, he started as soon as they woke up and now the sun was setting. today had been a lazy sunday, one that was full of nothing but lofi and coffee. his stomach grumbled just at the thought of food.

"for you, maybe. i thought you liked helping me with this stuff..." his eyebrow cocked, eyes focusing back onto the important project at hand.

"i mean, yeah. but you look so handsome when you're focused. and i really wanna sit on your cock."

he choked on his own spit.

"horny fuck." he laughed at her, heart beating fast.

"yeah. what're gonna do about it?" she taunted, eyes squinted at him. he looked at her from the corner of his eyes.

"maybe if you're good and let me finish, i'll reward you." he hummed, eyes sliding back to the model.

she grunted, head falling downwards onto the carpet. she wiggled her legs into the air as if to throw a mini tantrum. she would never get his attention.

"whatever." she got up, knees cracking.

he smirked, not even throwing a glance her way. suits her right, putting him through all of this hell lately.

she padded away from him, closing their bedroom door behind her.

if she wasn't going to get his attention that way, then she had another thing coming for him. she searched far and wide through several drawers, hands looking for purchase.

bingo, she smirked to herself.

not even 5 minutes later she walked out into the living room again, watching as caleb has repositioned himself onto the couch. he's leaning back, considering what step to do next. he still didn’t even bother looking up at her.

she bit her inner cheek, groaning in annoyance. she pressed further, standing right in front of him, clearing her throat. finally, caleb's eyes fell onto her. he immediately regretted it because what he saw was so insane. here she was, dressed in nothing but a tiny red thong and a cropped old t-shirt of his from high school, nipples of her breasts poking out from the distressed seam. she was fucking glorious and he was but a mere man. god. damn.

"so now are you gonna fuck me?"'

"jesus christ." is all he could manage to blurt out. his fingers went up to rub his forehead, eyebrows furrowed.

she pushed his work further away from him, then turning back to straddle down onto his lap. heat rushed and pooled into his cock, growing harder with each time she circled her hips onto him.

"c'mon and fuck me." she whined, bouncing up and down in frustration.

he growled with annoyance. evol wrapping around her whole body. she was frozen in place, eyes widened with slight panic.

"god, you're such a needy slut. like you're in heat, just begging to be fucked all the time. you know that?" his voice wasn't like his normal voice... this was like when he was in his colonel suit. like she was a soldier that had overstepped her duties.

"i—"

his hand snapped up and grabbed her by the chin, yanking her face hard. she immediately shut up.

"been such an impatient little shit lately. i've been real nice about it too. right, baby?" he cooed menacingly, a devious smile spreading onto his lips.

she nodded slowly, a soft moan escaping her lips with anticipation. if she was horny then she was super horny now.

"tell me."

"y-yes..." she whined, struggling against his evol. she so badly wanted to rub against the growing bulge that sat perfectly against her folds. she was sopping wet, his pants getting ruined.

"i don't think you do..." he whispered, pulling her face closer to his. his lips hovered dangerously above hers, breath fanning across her.

she closed her eyes, trying to initiate a kiss. he pulled away.

"i do, i swear. i just wanna make you feel good, caleb." her words were almost convincing.

his fingers roamed down her chin to her neck, pushing her hair aside to expose her neck. he leaned forward, biting hard onto her. she whimpered at the pain, back arching. he pulled and sucked, skin already bruising from the abuse of his mouth. his hands made their way down her torso, cupping her exposed breasts.

he massaged them slowly, grabbing hard and pinching her nipples.

"don't believe you for a second. you're just an impatient whore that needs to be filled with my cock." he spat out, teeth nipping at her sensitive skin.

“yes, need you to fuck me caleb. i’m a whore. your whore. p-please!” she thought she would burst into tears if he didn’t put something inside of her. she ached for his touch. need to feel him against her walls. she was dripping down her thighs and onto the couch.

he stared at her like she was a prize that he needed to take. his tongue rode up the valley between her breasts then lifted up. his hands cupped her sex but didn’t do anything. he just grabbed her, panting at how soaked she was. he was deciding what to do with her.

she cried out, not knowing how much more she could take of the pulsating heat that knocked at her cunt.

"caleb, please... oh god."

he mouthed over the peak of her tits with hunger, hot puffs of breath sweeping over her skin. his hands kept fondling her and pulling and tugging. he couldn't get enough of her against the palm of his hands. couldn't decide which breast he wanted to suck on the most. he wished he had two heads and two mouths.

she threw her head back in ecstasy, feeling caleb's mouth devouring her chest. her fingers hooked through his hair, nails clawing at his scalp.

"gonna fuck you real nice and good so that you can finally shut up.” he groaned, eyes darkening as they locked onto hers.

“ye-yes please…” she sighed, thighs burning from the grinding she was finally able to resume.

his hips rocked up to meet hers, a moan tearing through his lips and spilling onto her bare torso.

his fingers finally found their way down to her folds, again, this time letting his fingers swipe into her slick. her breathe hitched when his touch finally graced her, immediately riding onto his hand as he pumped one, then two fingers in and out of her. the squelches of his fingers stroking her pussy filled the thick air around them. it was sinful. his cock grew bigger by the second just by the delicious noises. a groan resounded from deep within his chest.

“fuck, you drive me crazy. listen to yourself.”

she cried out, caleb biting the shit out of her shoulder as he finger fucked her.

“yes, yes, yes— love your f-fingers, caleb, ah— shit!”

her cries echoed throughout the house.

his lips kissed gently onto her chin, tongue tracing her jaw.

“bad little bitch— take that shit.”

she nodded fast as his thumb circled onto her clit, her moans falling out in a jumble. just as she was about to claim an orgasm his hands stopped, pulling out abruptly and rudely, if you asked her.

she whined with agony, about to say something but his fingers shoved into her mouth, her slick coating her tongue deliciously. he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“be a good girl for once and don’t say anything, ‘kay? gonna give you what you need, baby.” he whispered.

he fingered her mouth just as he had to her pussy, going in and out of her wet mouth. she gladly took it, eyes locked onto him and glistening with lust. her cheeks were blossoming with heat, eyebrows bowed in arousal. she looked absolutely divine and caleb couldn’t stand it. he hummed in approval as her tongue swirled around his meaty fingers.

his fingers retracted with a pop, a trail of saliva falling after.

“get on your hands and knees, on the couch. face the window.” his words were short and straight to the point.

she stood up from his lap, slightly dizzy with how hot she was. he watched her as she backed away. he moved to the opposite side of the couch so she could get into position. she did as she was told, crawling onto the couch and ass perched up. she gripped the arm of the couch to ground herself.

she looked behind her to watch as caleb pulled his pants off, underwear wet with her slick and his own arousal. he threw his shirt to the side, sweat falling down his carved chest. she licked her lips with hunger, eyes never leaving his fit body. he smirked as she did, arms flexing for show. she wiggled in anticipation, letting out a deep groan.

“caleb. please hurry.”

his underwear was finally off, cock swelled up against the front of his abdomen. he was huge as always, veiny and thick. she needed him now.

he got on his knees behind her, hands grabbing onto her hips harshly. nothing would have prepared her for the loud crack and harsh feeling of his hand coming down onto her ass cheek. she bowed forward, a scream emitting from her mouth. her forehead rested onto the arm of the couch, eyes screwed shut.

“i told you to shut up.” his words were heavy. he massaged her cheek afterwards, thumb kneading against the reddened skin.

“mmph— yes sir.” she cried out.

another slap landed onto her, harder than the last. she swore she could cum just from the feeling. he was so rough.

“the more you whine the more it’ll hurt.” he said, fingers trailing and brushing against her slit. it was a ghost of a touch. she stopped herself from grinding them into her.

“yes sir.” she repeated again.

he chuckled deeply, his hand going to his dick to stroke slowly.

“touch yourself.” he commanded.

her fingers went down and between her thighs, pushing her thong aside. she took two fingers and rubbed her clit slowly, parting her legs some more for him to get a good view. she watched behind her as he stroked himself to her masturbation. his lips caught under his front teeth, a hiss slowly coming out as he shook his cock a few times. he couldn’t stand watching her anymore, he had to be inside of her, right now.

she wiggled her ass a little, moaning softly. she was making herself feel so nice and warm. she couldn’t help but circle to her motions, fingers dipping in and out of herself in the process.

“please baby, need you here. so fucking horny for you.” she whined, two fingers taking her lips and opening them wide for him, her ring clenching in desperation.

he didn’t even feel like smacking her again for being impatient, he himself was getting impatient.

“think you can take me in one go, sweetheart?”

she nodded frantically, arching her back even further. she looked like a feline stretching, ready for him to dive in.

he lined his cock up with her pussy, making her bite her lip hard in anticipation. his tip dove down quickly into her folds, cock being sucked in past the threshold of her entrance. she cried out as he thrusted deep into her, tip already grazing her cervix. he was so big and deep, she could feel her insides being absolutely wrecked. she loved it.

“oh— fuck!” she screamed, hands gripping onto the couch fabric for dear life.

she tried moving against him but his evol forced her in place, a whimper escaping her mouth. she rolled her eyes back in annoyance, huffing.

“just sit still and take it like a good slut.” he purred, hand splaying over her back, the other gripping onto the handle of her hip.

and with that, he slammed in and out of her slowly and so fucking good.

her moans sounded every time his cock sank all the way inside of her, skin smacking against hers. her breasts swung back and forth with each time he pounded into her, legs shaking. the small crop top was even beginning to feel hot. she pulled on the collar of it, feeling sweat trickle down her neck and onto her tits.

“fuck yes, feels so good. god caleb— right there, yes!” she squealed.

he huffed out heavy breathes, each time his cock bottomed out a wave of pleasure washed over him. he knew he couldn’t last long.

“you look so beautiful taking me like this, baby. pretty little flower blooming just for me.” his voice came out in a whinier tone than he wanted, but god dammit he was feeling so good.

she took her hands to spread her cheeks more, pink asshole puckering as he fucked her pussy like it was the last thing he would ever do. he moaned at the sight, a slight wail bubbling from his chest. he was definitely going to fill her up if he kept going like this.

“so— fucking— good! need to cum, please caleb, please let me cum. i— i can’t…” her pleas bled together, eyes squinting and welling up with tears as she looked back at him.

his purple iris’ swirled with desire as they bore into hers, hands massaging her hips with a gentle reminder that he loved her so much. she was such a beautiful creature, in his shirt and sexy underwear. being a good little fuck toy for him. he couldn’t get enough.

“yes, baby. cum. let me feel you.” he gave in.

immediately she fell apart, cries spilling out of her. her hands went back behind her, caleb’s hands pinning them together as he rode her orgasm out. he wanted to cum so bad, but he had other plans. she circled her hips slowly onto him as he kept thrusting, soft whines dying out. she was breathing hard, body slumped onto the couch, face buried.

“oh, f-fuck. baby…” she whispered, voice muffled.

caleb chuckled, tapping her ass softly with his palm as he let go of her wrists.

“sit up onto your knees, baby.” his voice came out gentle but she knew to obey.

he pulled out reluctantly, wishing he could keep pumping in and out of her delicious hole.

she hummed, sitting up slowly onto her knees. caleb got up, feet planting onto the ground and standing over her like a skyscraper. his cock was covered in her juices, slick and hot. it stood proud and hard as hell, hovering over her face.

“make me cum, sweet girl.”

her hands went to wrap around his length, twisting languidly and achingly well. she knew the perfect way to do it, an expert in calebology. he threw his head back, eyes staring at the ceiling. she watched as he swallowed thickly, adam’s apple bobbing. she hummed at the sight, thinking about just how gorgeous he was like this. she was in awe. her man.

“you’re so fucking big caleb. love how big you are.” she moaned, breath fanning over his cock.

he smirked, biceps flexing slightly. his hands cupped her cheeks, grazing over her skin softly.

“yeah? look so good next to my dick. pretty girl. mine.” he was so close.

she fluttered her eyelashes, mouth opening and tongue sticking out.

“wanna eat your cum, please, please, please. give it to me, caleb, i need it.” she begged, eyebrows pinning in plea. she begged like it was her own personal prayer.

he cried out in pure bliss, not handling the situation as composed as he wanted to. she was going to be the death of him and he was going to be totally okay with that.

“fuck yeah, you want that? wanna swallow my cum like a greedy little bitch, hm?”

“yes!” she cried out.

“f-fuck!” his fingers gripped onto the back of her head, tugging hard at her hair.

she dragged the tip of his dick onto the center of her tongue, smacking it as thick ropes came out of him.

“fuck yes, you fucking whore.” he seethed, teeth gritting as he watched her lap up his seed. his dick twitched violently into her hand, as if he could see each rope push itself out and into her mouth.

she took his cock deep into her throat, sucking up and down his length. he thrusted into her, gagging the shit out of her. her guttural sounds as she choked onto his cock made his orgasm hit harsher with each time he hit the back of her throat.

“pip-squeak…” he moaned softly, fingers loosening as his orgasm finished.

she slowly pulled off of his length, lips glistening with spit and cum. his slumped with finality as it popped out of her mouth. she licked the bottom of her lip, smiling lazily. his fingers hooked onto her chin, pulling her face up.

“did you swallow like a good girl?”

she opened her mouth, proving that she had consumed every last drop. he leaned down, lips smashing onto hers, tongue licking against her own. he kissed her nice and slow, thumb grazing her cheek softly in praise.

she pulled him down hard, straddling him once more. he huffed out a laugh, lips trailing down to her chin, then her neck.

“was i good for you?” she pondered, voice soft.

he pulled away, planting a kiss to her temple.

“yes, baby. you were so good.” he smiled.

“does this mean you’re not annoyed with me anymore?” she taunted, her head falling onto his shoulder. she poked his neck with her fingers, rubbing her hand onto his hard chest. he was covered in sweat.

“mhmm. for now.” he jabbed her side.

she was sure to be a brat again. how could she not be, when her boyfriend looked like adonis and fucked like a god?

[yamchaisawesome]

Okay fine I’ll update the post. I see you newcomers with your love for the old codger and to that I say welcome in kids!

So this guy somehow got better. Like, the only light in the otherwise bleak as fuck chapter 4. I was going with the theories that bro was going to show up somehow but this? I couldn’t have predicted just how peak it was. This is quite a bit longer than the original analysis but I feel like it will be worth it. I’m also going to assume you’ve gone through chapter 4 already.

Gerson in deltarune, unlike his more seam-esque undertale counterpart, takes the role of a badass old man shounen mentor figure. He starts off unassuming, more like a gag than a character with actual story significance. However, anyone who’s got enough context can already tell this is going to be big. He’s been foreshadowed both by the goner maker and Alvin at this point, and the fact this fairly minor character from undertale is getting this much attention implies yeah this guy has some stuff going on.

What we have going in is that:

A: He’s a dead man walking, literally and figuratively. Literally raised from the dead and likely not going to last that long due to his existence being reliant on a very sealable fountain.

B: If you know anything about Gerson, he knows way more than he lets on.

It is to be pointed out that literally all of this is optional. Someone who just sorta played undertale casually and didn’t interact with much in Hometown wouldn’t know anything going on. As such, Toby makes this guy’s deal clear throughout the story of chapter 4 while still taking advantage of the dramatic irony held by players in the know.

We get our first hint that the Old Man is more than a gag upon him literally breaking the prophecy in order to pave a new way forward. The imagery is pretty clear here as he helps the young’ins defy fate in order for them to get through the hell it has put them in. This behaviour continues as he keeps leading the fun gang “the wrong way” in order to help em solve puzzles and intentionally walks way slower than he can to mess with the gang, Susie in particular. This introduction to The Old Man is tail ended by him breaking another piece of the prophecy. Upon questioning him on this, he hits you with this old sagely wisdom. He believes that “A fairytale is a pretty little thing” but that the best way to navigate those stories is to “go between the lines”.

This idea of Gerson believing the prophecy is a story like anything else, and that it can be read and adapted a countless number of ways is his approach to freedom and feeds into both his wisdom and experience as an author. Let the story serve you and not the other way around, basically. This feeds very well into Susie, whose whole arc has been about shirking narratives about herself. Not just those of the prophecy but more relatable things. Those narratives that she’s not worthy of love, or just not good enough generally are a constant throughout her character arc.

The one she’s dealing with in chapter 4 is about her never being as good at healing as Ralsei. This sort of learned helplessness is likely predicated on her other recent failings, those being her not being able to save Undyne or get the code at the Holiday mansion, and her needing to rely on Ralsei to help one of her few friends in their time of need was just the final straw.

Before we get into the details of Susie and Gerson’s relationship, I’d just like to call attention to the fact that Gerson’s study is the only location that isn’t the signature “bright and blue” colouration seen in the rest of the dark sanctuary.

I’d really like to stretch this and say it symbolizes the literal break from the otherwise bleak narrative that Gerson provides in this chapter but that might be too far.

Anyway, Jackenstein.

I love how this demonstrates Gerson’s background as a teacher and father so goddamn well. He understands the youth very well and instantly clocks the kind of kid that Susie is. His strategy of calling her a “coward” and basically rage baiting her into conquering her inhibitions and beating that narrative in her brain shows a pretty clear grasp on who Susie is in particular. He doesn’t try a fancy speech or whatever like he does with Kris earlier, he just fucking throws her attitude right back at her. Considering they met a total of 20 minutes ago, it goes to show just how good he is at reading people. We’ll get more of this with Kris later but that’s its own section.

He also encourages Susie to push past her narratives of what she can’t do with his letter, but that doesn’t tell us much more about his relationship with Susie. Instead, the letter demonstrates the flaws and regrets the Old Man has- particularly in his relationship with his son Alvin.

In the light world, both in the epilogue of chapter 2 and the prologue for chapter 4, it’s pretty clear that Alvin has a narrative of inadequacy all his own. This is the idea that his writing will never outgrow his father’s, or even be any good at all. Apparently, it’s to the point where he doesn’t even write any of his own sermons, just reusing the work of his father. This could be part of the reason Gerson feels so strongly about breaking that narrative in Susie, in order to atone for what he has done. Given the themes of religion in chapter 4, both his tutelage of Susie and letter to Alvin both could easily be read as Gerson using this miracle in order to redeem himself in his own eyes and cleanse himself of “sin” even in a religion that lacks it. The delivery of the letter is also important. Susie, with her own inexperience, was able to deliver the letter in a way that got the point across better than Gerson ever could. With its unintentional grammar and spelling errors, it demonstrates to Alvin how “Long as you got the point, the words don’t matter” in a way that Gerson’s usual prose simply can’t achieve. Iron sharpens iron, student sharpens student.

Anyway, I know what you fuckers are here for. You don’t want unsubtle literary analysis of a dead old man and his kids! You want hype moments and aura, you want the hammer!

Well too bad, we gotta get through the tea party scene first!

First thing we need to talk about is how in sync Susie and Gerson are here. Like, they’re bouncing off each other and absolutely loving life! Susie might not be a talented writer but, as Alvin would say, she has “a flair for entertainment” and the Old Man loves a good story!

Next thing is Kris. If you let them refuse tea, Gerson offers the poor human an apple, which is known to be a big thing of theirs. There’s also his weird route dialogue, in which he gets that something’s wrong in spite of a general lack of words exchanged and tries to encourage and console Kris. This once again shows his knack for reading and guiding people, and frankly it’s really sweet that he’s trying to help them through our rampage.

But enough of that. You know what time it is!

The Hammer of Justice is ringing!

This is my favorite fight in the game, and honestly the shadow crystal fight that I think is most integral to the story. It’s as easy to learn about as Spamton’s if not easier and makes his turtle ex machina against the titan make a lot more sense.

The more I fought this guy, the more I came to appreciate the lesson he’s teaching. If I have one word to describe this fight, it’s forgiving. Gerson lowering his damage to match Susie’s current HP and banning items in order to get her to heal more and get some practice in just reminds you that this isn’t a fight against some insurmountable threat like the Knight or a crazed omen of what could be with Spamton, but an ally that’s here to help you learn a thing or two.

As an aside, the fight is so goddamn hype. The lore drops and inspiration we get from Gerson’s dialogue, the fact you can skip some attacks if you impress the Hammer enough with your spells, the goddamn rude buster ping pong you play with him, the music, THE MUSIC!!??? Absolute peak fiction, no notes. The fight brings an atmosphere like no other.

It also answers a question that hardcore Gerson fans like myself wondered: how badass was Gerson at the height of his career? The answer: VERY. Bro doesn’t even use the shadow crystal and is still strong enough to be up there with the other secret bosses. A very satisfying moment for all us Hammer lovers.

I legitimately cried when I beat him for the first time, especially after the final dialogue that summarises Gerson Boom as a character: a lover of stories and one that knows just how mutable they are.

Utter Chad right here.

Now to move onto his impact…

The reveal that he is in fact a dead man walking isn’t a surprise for the attentive but is still a shock to the system after becoming so attached to the crusty bastard, especially for Susie. Her clear horror and mourning for a man she technically never knew in life is gut wrenching, and the fact that she basically goes around chasing the guy’s ghost for the entirety of the second sanctuary is reflective of her general fear of abandonment by those she cares about.

This makes his triumphant return at the end all the sweeter. I cheered when I saw him for the first time as I watched him and Susie absolutely wreck the Titan.

I have no idea how Alvin will react to the letter in Chapter 5 onwards, or if Susie will incorporate the Old Man’s motif into her own music at some point, but I hope so. Gerson deserves the legacy, Gerson deserves it all.

Anyway, thanks for reading all this! I saw how much you all liked this old post and wanted to do a follow up that does the new stuff justice!

I feel like Gerson is under appreciated. Like, he’s surprisingly well developed for how little time we get with him.

In undertale, he’s effectively the monster equivalent of an old man doing a massive yard sale, getting rid of shit he doesn’t need. However, due to his old man status “studying history sure is easy” and so he’s the only guy who tells you about the prophecy of the angel and the delta rune, as well as about Boss Monsters.

He also casually mentions he was a war hero back in the day, the Hammer of Justice. Now, two of the items in his shop are the torn notebook and cloudy glasses. These are both items belonging to the human soul of perseverance. Now, he could’ve just picked them up from trash zone, buuut it seems just as likely that he killed that human himself.

This is possibly why he is not in the least bit scared of you on the genocide route. Like, at all. He spits such raw lines as “I wouldn’t buy your chitzy garbage at knifepoint”. He also seems oddly self aware, like more than sans, saying he knows the player cannot kill him while in his shop when threatened. This absolute mad lad will charge you full price for his wares and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it, and he fucking knows it.

Utter Chad right here.

[jarlskona-evilyoyo]

One of my personal headcanons is that it takes Rumi a VERY long time to fully realize how much she’s been messed up by her childhood.

Like immediately post canon she’s got the ‘hiding myself like this wasn’t ever healthy’ thing down, even if she still has some shame for awhile, but then things like how so many people (including but not limited to Celine) have been seeing her mother in her place, how Celine has either consciously or unconsciously put the blame of Rumi’s mother death onto her, that she’s been training her whole life to kill people that aren’t that different than her, oh and how she’s incapable of relaxing because she’s been made into a warrior/performer from a young age; all that stuff just keeps popping up.

But Rumi, who I can’t imagine ever had close friends growing up, has no idea what is normal childhood wise. I don’t doubt she kept a lot of stuff private but what she trackes as ‘things that happened to me because I’m half-demon’ are actually ‘Things that happened to me because my guardian can’t overcome her own fears and grief’

For a while it’s just Rumi casually says stuff like

Rumi; yeah I never learned how to swim cause I couldn’t wear a bathing suit

Zoey; Celine couldn’t take you to a private pool?

Rumi; too dangerous. I wasn’t super upset about it at the time because she told me that it was selfish of me since all the other kids would be really scared of me.

Zoey;….. how old were you when she told you that?

Rumi; oh, uhhhhh, seven? I think.

Mira;…. Rumi, I might kill Celine.

[arabella-syntax]

Update: Part 3

Paso a paso

They don’t move fast.

They move toward each other.

Paso a paso.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: A footballer still learning how to breathe after glory. A ballerina who knows her time is running out. A one-night stand in Ibiza that was never meant to last — and yet somehow, it keeps finding them both. Alexia Putellas meets a woman who moves like silence and secrets. But Y/N carries a truth she hasn’t spoken.

Word count: > 40k, one shot

Tone: 💔 queer love 💃 ballet x football 🧠 terminal illness 🕯️ no promises, just presence ⏳ slow-burn · soft angst · quiet intimacy

Rating: Some intimate scenes

A/N: Here’s the last part of the story. Read the first part and second part prior to this.

Whilst I’m a trilingual, unfortunately, Spanish is not one of the languages I’m fluent in. So do allow some margin of error with the translation.

————————————————————————

Alexia

The Madrid listings blurred together after a while.

So many white-walled, sterile spaces pretending to be lived-in.

Alexia scrolled through her fifth tab, muttering, “Por favor, no more grey sofas.”

She’d been helping Y/N from afar — sending links, vetting floor plans. Y/N had a few final performances left in London, and Alexia was determined that when the curtain fell, a future would rise.

Something sturdy. Something with sunlight.

“¿Qué haces?” Alba asked, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a yoghurt drink.

“Buscando piso para Y/N,” Alexia said without looking up. (Looking for an apartment for Y/N.)

Alba peeked over her shoulder. “That one looks like a dentist’s office.”

“Gracias.”

Alba tapped the table. “Isn’t Olga in Madrid?”

Alexia paused.

“Sí.”

Alba squinted. “You’re not gonna ask her for help?”

Alexia gave her a look. “¿Crees que debería?” (Do you think I should?)

“A menos que tengas miedo.” (Unless you’re afraid.)

But that night, she went through her contacts anyway.

Found the familiar name and number.

She messaged.

Hola, Olga. Need help. It’s not drama. I promise.

A few minutes later:

This is already drama.

Alexia replied:

No. Piso stuff. For someone. She moves to Madrid soon.

¿Estás saliendo con alguien otra vez?

(Are you dating someone again?)

Came Olga’s response after a while.

Alexia hesitated.

ALEXIA:

Sí.

OLGA:

Serious?

ALEXIA:

Yes. She’s… different.

OLGA:

Different how?

ALEXIA:

Prima ballerina. She deserves good place. Light. Safe. Not depressing.

OLGA:

So not like your old flat.

ALEXIA:

Exactly.

OLGA:

I’ll make some calls.

Alexia smiled despite herself.

Because that was Olga. Always the right balance of salt and heart.

They’d met after her ACL tear in 2021.

When her body broke, and she didn’t know how to put herself back together.

Olga had seen the cracks — and loved her anyway.

Three years. No public mess. Just a private world that slowly ran its course.

At one point, Alexia thought she might marry her.

But things shifted.

Lives moved.

Love didn’t end — it just changed shape.

Now, they were… not friends, not strangers. Something in between.

The kind of ex you could call for help without bitterness.

By morning, Olga had sent five listings.

One stood out — a pre-war flat near El Retiro. Arched windows. Balcony. Tall ceilings. Warm light.

Alexia stared at it for a long time.

It felt… soft. Still. Like breath.

It felt like Y/N.

This one, she typed. She’ll like the way the floor creaks. And sent another message swiftly after.

Olga replied:

You’re still romantic. It’s disgusting. I’m proud of you.

Alexia sent the listing to Y/N without fuss:

Maybe this one makes you feel safe. I like the windows.

The response came a day later:

I love the windows. I love you.

Alexia sat there for a while, hand over her mouth.

A laugh caught in her throat. Or a sob.

Sometimes they felt the same.

She whispered to herself, “Joder…”

Alba walked by. “Are you okay?”

“Necesito vino” (I need wine.)

“You always need wine.”

“Now I need to marry her.”

Alba froze. Then said, “Todos lo vimos venir. Excepto tú.” (We all saw it coming. Except you.)

Y/N

She hadn’t expected Olga to be so… stylish.

Not in a glossy, curated way. But effortless. Styled hair, black blazer, coffee in hand, attitude like a quiet blade. It made sense, somehow. Alexia didn’t do half-hearted people.

“Y/N, right?” Olga said as they met outside the building in Madrid. “You look like a ballerina.”

“Because I am?”

“That’ll do it.”

They shook hands.

To Y/N’s surprise, the awkwardness didn’t last more than five seconds. Olga was brisk, direct, but not unkind. There was a familiarity in the way she spoke — like someone who didn’t waste energy unless she meant to.

“The flat’s on the third floor. Walk-up, but the stairs won’t kill you.”

“I do pliés for a living.”

“Good. They squeak.”

They climbed in silence, save for the sound of Y/N’s suitcase wheel bumping the steps. At the landing, Olga turned to her, key in hand.

“I was going to say something dramatic here. Like, ‘Welcome to the rest of your life.’ But I’ll spare you.”

Y/N smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a weird stain near the kitchen sink I haven’t identified.”

The flat was… beautiful.

In that quiet, aching kind of way.

Golden floors. Curved windows. A bedroom that looked like it would echo in winter and hum in summer. It was empty now, but not hollow. It felt like somewhere people remembered things.

Y/N stepped toward the window, touched the glass with her fingertips.

“I could dance here,” she whispered.

Olga leaned against the doorway. “She said you’d say that.”

Y/N turned. “Alexia?”

Olga nodded. “She said you’d like the light. The floor. The way it sounds when you walk.”

There was something in her tone. No bitterness. Just a passing breeze of memory.

Y/N folded her arms. “You were with her a long time.”

“Three years. I met her just before she was angry at her knee and herself.”

Y/N looked down. “That version of her still shows up sometimes.”

“She’s softer now,” Olga said. “Not weaker. Just… lighter.”

“She loves hard.”

“She always did.”

Y/N paused. “Are you okay with this? With me?”

Olga gave her a look. “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve moved on. She has too. And from the way she talks about you… she’s not confused.”

That caught Y/N off guard.

“Talks about me?”

“You’d be surprised how many metaphors you can cram into a message about hardwood floors.”

Y/N laughed, almost shy. “She told me once I’m her favourite accident.”

Olga smirked. “That’s disturbingly romantic.”

“I know.”

They signed the papers together.

Y/N handed over the deposit, keys exchanged with the crisp slide of paper.

As Olga got up to leave, she paused at the door.

“She’s awkward as hell, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“But she means everything she says. Even when she says it sideways.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said again, more softly this time.

Olga smiled — genuinely this time.

“Good luck, ballerina.”

And then she was gone.

Later that night, Y/N stood in the centre of the flat, barefoot, her bags still unpacked.

She texted Alexia:

It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.

Alexia replied instantly:

It’s yours. Madrid’s lucky.

You okay?

Only thinking how to get to Madrid faster.

I left you a coffee mug. The one with the dog. It’s in the top shelf.

Y/N laughed.

She looked around.

Her future looked like curved windows and creaky floors and light she hadn’t even earned yet.

But she would.

She was trying.

Alexia

She stood outside the door for longer than she’d admit.

The keys felt foreign in her palm. Madrid air pressed warm and close. She could hear the low hum of street noise behind her. And beneath that, her heart, making a fool of her.

“Cállate,” she muttered under her breath, unlocking the door.

It swung open with a click.

She stepped inside.

Bare walls. Bare floor. Bare everything.

But somehow, it still felt like her.

Or rather — like them.

The mug with the cat sat proudly on the shelf, just like Y/N had said.

Alexia grinned and whispered, “Hola, gato.”

She placed her overnight bag on the floor. Kicked off her shoes. Walked the rooms slowly.

Bedroom. Bathroom. Living space.

Each room smelled like a future.

And then the front door opened again.

“Hey,” Y/N called. “Did you—”

Alexia turned. And forgot how to breathe.

Y/N stood in the entryway, cheeks pink from the evening breeze, hair tousled from her scarf. She dropped her keys with a metallic clatter and smiled like she knew exactly what she was walking into.

“Hola, mi bailarina,” Alexia said, her voice low.

Y/N dropped her bag.

No more words.

They met in the middle of the hallway.

Mouths, hands, hips. No ceremony. Just hunger.

Days of distance collapsed in seconds.

Alexia kissed her like she was remembering how.

Y/N moaned softly into her mouth, fingers tangled in the back of Alexia’s hair. The bob cut brushed just beneath her cheek, and Alexia exhaled sharply — she loved this haircut far more than she wanted to admit.

“Too dressed,” Y/N murmured against her neck.

“Take it,” Alexia whispered.

So Y/N did — slowly, reverently — lifting Alexia’s shirt over her head, pressing kisses down her chest, fingers lingering along the lines of muscle and softness alike. She peeled her out of her jeans like she was undoing something sacred.

Then Alexia turned the tables.

She pushed Y/N gently against the wall — not hard, just enough. Kissed along her collarbone, then lower. Her hands mapped familiar terrain with new reverence.

“You smell like Madrid already,” Alexia said, nipping the skin at Y/N’s waist.

“I smell like nerves.”

“Same.”

They both laughed, breathless — and then neither of them laughed again for quite a while.

The floor was hard.

The sex was not.

It was the kind that bruised knees and made thighs shake.

That left both of them panting and laughing, forehead to forehead, eyes too wide for casualness.

Alexia kissed Y/N’s fingers one by one.

Y/N cupped her cheek like she’d just been handed a small galaxy.

“You always do this,” Y/N whispered.

“What?”

“Make me forget my name.”

Alexia kissed her again. “I remember it. That’s enough.”

Later, they lay in a heap of limbs and discarded clothing on the living room floor. No mattress. No bed. Just skin, sweat, breath.

“You broke in,” Y/N teased.

“I have a key.”

“You should still be arrested.”

“Only if you do the handcuffs.”

Y/N laughed so hard she snorted.

Alexia made a note in her mind:

She wanted to hear that sound in this apartment forever.

Third Person

Madrid mornings had a different weight to them.

Softer than London. Warmer than Barcelona. They lingered like something left unsaid.

Alexia stirred first, eyes adjusting to the strange ceiling of Y/N’s nearly-empty apartment. Her arm was thrown across warm skin, cheek pressed to a shoulder that had become both anchor and ache.

Y/N sighed in her sleep.

Alexia smiled.

They didn’t say much over breakfast.

It wasn’t the kind of morning that needed words.

A neighbourhood café — all chipped tiles and perfect cortados — played quiet jazz through old speakers. They sat pressed thigh-to-thigh on a bench too small for one person, let alone two.

“So,” Y/N finally said, wiping crumbs off her lip. “We’re still doing this?”

“This?” Alexia asked, sipping from her cup.

“You. Me. Train rides. Airports. Neck cramps from FaceTiming on the sofa.”

Alexia looked at her then, properly.

Dark bob. That sleepy smirk. A softness in the eyes that hadn’t always been there.

“I want to,” she said simply.

Y/N nodded. “Me too.”

Later that afternoon, after the train back to Barcelona, Alexia ducked into a small jewellery store tucked away near Gràcia. No cameras. No fanfare. Just a velvet-lined case and a woman behind the counter who looked like she knew when to stay silent.

Alexia didn’t know what she was looking for.

Something quiet. Something sure.

Something like Y/N.

She paused at a ring that wasn’t showy — a delicate gold band, simple setting, but the stone caught the light like a secret.

“This one,” she whispered.

She paid in full.

And then, walking out into the sun-drenched Barcelona street, she pulled out her phone.

Mami.

It rang twice.

“¿Alexia?”

“Mami…”

She didn’t start with the ring. She started with everything else. The train rides. The smile. The way Y/N once wept into her shoulder after watching a Pixar film. The fear. The fierce grace. The way Madrid had started to feel like a strange new limb.

Then, softly:

“Estoy pensando en pedirle matrimonio.”

(I'm thinking about asking her to marry me.)

There was a pause on the other end.

“¿Estás segura, mi vida?” (Are you sure, my love?”

“Sí. No sé cuándo. Pero sí.” (Yes. I don't know when. But yes.)

“Entonces ya sabes la respuesta. Lo sabías antes de llamarme.” (So you already know the answer. You knew it before you called me.)

Alexia swallowed. “I just… wanted to hear it.”

Eli laughed. “You’re your father’s daughter. Always needing the permission you already have.”

Alexia looked down at the ring box in her palm.

“Gracias, mami.”

“No me des las gracias. Just make sure she never doubts.”

“I won’t.”

She didn’t tell Y/N about the ring.

Not yet.

It would wait.

Not because she feared the answer — but because she wanted to ask it right.

In the light.

In Madrid.

Maybe on a day when the wind was warm and the world didn’t feel borrowed.

But for now, it stayed tucked away in a drawer.

Between training schedules and charity gala invitations.

Waiting.

Like she was.

Like they both were.

Y/N

The screen froze just as her father raised a piece of black bread to his mouth.

“Papa, you’ve turned into a still life.”

“I’m eating. Must I perform for the Apple gods?”

Y/N laughed, balancing her phone against a stack of sheet music she hadn’t touched in months. Her father — still based in Moscow, still annoyingly sharp in the morning — appeared again in motion. Mismatched glasses, thick sweater, and the soft grumble of a man who lived too long around mirrors and dancers.

“You look tired,” he said, squinting. “Madrid not feeding you?”

“I just moved in two days ago.”

“Excuse. You always give excuses. Like your mother. She once blamed being late on the ‘existential dread of Tuesdays.’”

Y/N smiled. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Her father’s eyes softened for a moment. That particular brand of love and mourning that never really left.

“You’ve unpacked?”

“Mostly. Found a mug Alexia left. It’s got a dog on it.”

“She wants to marry you.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“She does. You can always tell. Her face looks like she swallowed a light bulb.”

“Papa.”

“You don’t believe me?” He pointed a half-eaten crust at the screen. “I saw that look once before. Your mother. When she said yes to moving to Moscow for me.”

Y/N fell silent. Let it wash over her like a small tide. Then shifted.

“I start teaching today.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Already breaking tiny ballerina spirits?”

“It’s orientation. Not trauma.”

“Don’t be too kind,” he warned. “They sniff weakness.”

She shook her head, laughing. “Any other advice?”

“Cut your hair again.”

“It’s already in a bob.”

“Then dye it. Go blonde.”

“I’m not going blonde.”

“You’d look terrifying. I support it.”

She smiled. He watched her carefully for a beat.

“You’re afraid.”

“A little.”

“Good. It means you’re trying something new.”

She nodded. “I don’t know who I am without the stage.”

“You’re still on stage. You’ve just moved backstage. The view is different, but the magic? Still there.”

The ballet academy was tucked behind a stone courtyard in Salamanca. Grand, tasteful, too many mirrors. Her shoes echoed down the hall like they were announcing someone far more important than her.

“Miss Y/N?”

She turned. A girl — no older than sixteen — peered up at her with wide, nervous eyes.

“I’m here for your class.”

And just like that, it began.

The studio was bright. The mirrors were less cruel than she remembered. The music felt different — like something she was shaping from the outside now, rather than dancing through.

She led warmups. Corrected posture. Reminded them where breath lived in the body. The girls listened. Some with fear. Some with hunger.

Y/N saw versions of herself in every plié, every glance at the glass.

When the final bell rang, she sat alone for a moment, hands still resting on the barre.

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Just still.

She texted Alexia.

First day done. Nobody cried. Except maybe me. Internally.

The reply came fast:

Estoy orgullosa de ti, mi bailarina.

She read it twice.

Outside, the Madrid sun painted gold across the pavement.

Maybe this was the right city after all.

Third Person

Alexia stood in the back of the studio with her arms crossed, doing her very best not to get in the way. She wasn’t dressed for attention — just a hoodie, joggers, hair pulled back — but it didn’t matter. One of the girls had clearly recognised her. There had been a gasp, a whispered “es ella”, and the rest had stolen glances ever since.

Y/N carried on like nothing had happened.

It made Alexia grin.

She stood at the barre correcting someone’s elbow, then crouched by another girl to adjust her posture. Her voice was soft but certain. She moved with the memory of discipline, but her smile never felt like a threat.

Alexia’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

She was proud. She didn’t know it could feel like this — watching someone be excellent without needing to shine herself. There was no scoreboard here. No press conference. Just one room. One woman. Thirty feet away. And all of Alexia’s focus.

When the class ended, Y/N gave her a crooked smile and motioned for her to wait.

Alexia waved from the corner, muttering to herself:

“Calma. No te pongas tonta.” (Calm down. Don't act silly.)

Later, they sat side by side on Y/N’s small balcony, sharing a bottle of cheap white wine and a pack of olives she insisted were from the better supermarket. The Madrid dusk leaned in like a secret.

“You stayed the whole time,” Y/N said, toying with her wine glass.

Alexia shrugged. “You didn’t kick me out.”

“You didn’t laugh when I fell over during the port de bras demonstration.”

“I did. Internally.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re sexy when you’re strict.”

“Oh, God.”

They both laughed. The kind that spilled into their knees.

Silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Wide.

Y/N reached out, took Alexia’s hand. “Why did you really come?”

Alexia hesitated. Then said, “Because I missed you. Because you belong here now. And maybe I want to belong to here too.”

Y/N turned to her. “To Madrid?”

“To you.”

They made love that night not with fire, but with gentleness — like unwrapping something you’re afraid to damage.

Alexia kissed the scar on Y/N’s inner thigh like a prayer.

Y/N pulled her closer, murmuring in Russian, something Alexia didn’t understand but felt in her ribs.

Later, tangled in bedsheets, bare legs against bare legs, Y/N whispered, “What are you thinking?”

Alexia paused.

About the ring.

About how it was still hidden in her drawer back in Barcelona, burning a quiet hole in her life.

She didn’t say it.

Instead: “That I want to wake up here more.”

Y/N smiled. “Then do it.”

Alexia

The ring was still where she left it.

Tucked in the back of her sock drawer, in a box that didn’t match anything else in her wardrobe. Gold. Simple. Honest.

Alexia stared at it like it might grow teeth.

Then she closed the drawer and went straight to her mother’s.

Eli Segura was in the kitchen making bacalao al horno and humming something suspiciously close to a Coldplay song. She raised an eyebrow when Alexia walked in.

“Hola, mi amor. You only visit unannounced when you’ve done something. Or are about to.”

Alexia held up her phone. “I need your opinion.”

“That dangerous?”

Alexia opened the photo — the ring, gleaming in soft light. She passed it to her mother.

Eli was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Simple. Beautiful.”

“Like her.”

Eli handed it back. “So… you’re doing it?”

“I want to.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

Alexia opened her mouth. Closed it. Then rubbed the back of her neck.

“I’m scared.”

“Of her saying no?”

“No. Of her saying yes. And it being real.”

Eli softened. “That’s the good kind of fear, cariño. That’s the kind that grows you.”

Alba arrived an hour later, wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a takeaway croissant like it was a newborn.

“You look constipated,” she told Alexia.

“I’m proposing.”

“Oh. That explains the face.”

Jana arrived not long after — freshly tanned from training, hair pulled back in a ponytail, phone buzzing every five minutes with texts (likely from Aggie, who apparently enjoyed sending her Instagram reels of sheep wearing sunglasses).

“You’re proposing?” she gasped. “Por fin.” (At last.)

“Why does everyone act like this is overdue?” Alexia muttered.

“Because you’ve looked like a kicked puppy since March every time you leave London.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Alba and Jana said in unison.

Alexia buried her face in her hands.

They moved to the kitchen table. Eli brought out lemon tea and almonds. Alba brought chaos.

“You should do it on a boat,” she said. “In Menorca. Naked.”

“I’m not proposing naked, Alba.”

“Coward.”

Jana sipped her tea. “Do it in a café. The kind she likes. With too much tile and sour bread.”

“She’s allergic to sourdough,” Alexia muttered.

“Oh right. Then not that.”

Eli watched her daughters with bemused affection.

“You know,” she said, “it doesn’t have to be a performance. It can be quiet. It can be yours.”

Alexia looked down at her tea. “That’s what I want.”

Jana nudged her. “Then do it like you play football. Calm. Intentional. No drama.”

“You clearly never saw me play in a clásico.”

“Point stands.”

That night, Alexia lay in bed at her apartment in Barcelona, staring at the ceiling.

Ring on the dresser. Phone buzzing with a new message from Y/N:

Today was exhausting. Come back soon?

She typed, deleted, retyped.

I will. And when I do… I want to ask you something.

Then she sent it.

And finally — finally — she let herself imagine a yes.

Third Person

The café was barely the size of a decent storage closet.

Cracked tile floors. Mismatched tables. A waitress who looked like she hadn’t smiled since 1992. And the best napolitanas de chocolate in all of Madrid, according to Y/N.

Alexia had learned not to argue about food with her.

She sat at a corner table, ring box heavy in the pocket of her coat. The coat was too warm for May, but she didn’t trust herself to carry the ring any other way. It felt alive. It felt loud.

She drummed her fingers against her cup of café con leche.

Then Y/N walked in.

Hair still damp from her morning class, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She wore an oversized beige jumper tucked half-heartedly into black trousers, and when she spotted Alexia, she lit up like the whole sky.

“Hola,” she said, dropping a kiss to her temple as she slid into the seat.

Alexia smiled. “Napolitana?”

“Obviously.”

The waitress appeared, grunted, took their order.

Alexia was not nervous.

She was not nervous.

She was actively lying to herself.

“So,” Y/N said, halfway through her pastry. “What’s the serious face for?”

Alexia blinked. “This is my normal face.”

“No, your normal face is broody and brooding. This one has too much intent.”

Alexia huffed, and Y/N chuckled.

“Okay,” Alexia said, sliding her cup aside. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Y/N froze slightly. Not out of fear — but out of instinct. The same way dancers pause right before a turn, sensing shift.

Alexia reached into her coat and pulled out the ring box.

She didn’t open it. Not yet.

Y/N blinked, slowly. “Are you—”

Alexia nodded once. “Yes.”

Y/N let out a breath. “Now?”

“Now.”

“Here?”

“I mean, unless you want a mariachi band and hot air balloon…”

“No,” Y/N said quickly. “No. This is… this is better.”

Alexia opened the box.

The ring sat nestled in black velvet, simple and unapologetic. Like them.

“I want a life with you,” she said. “Whatever we get. However long we get. I want it. You. All of it.”

Y/N was quiet. Her eyes were glassy. She blinked once, twice.

Then: “You are the stupidest person in the world.”

Alexia blinked. “I—”

Y/N smiled, trembling. “And yes. Of course yes.”

Alexia let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh and relief in its purest form.

She slipped the ring on Y/N’s finger, hands trembling.

Y/N stared at it for a long moment, then leaned across the table and kissed her. Not like a dramatic declaration. Not a show for the café.

Just a kiss. Soft. Sure. Home.

Behind them, the waitress grunted, unimpressed.

Alexia grinned against Y/N’s lips.

Later, as they walked back to Y/N’s apartment, hand in hand, Y/N said, “You know my father is going to grill you.”

Alexia smirked. “Lo sé.” (I know)

“And Jana is going to scream.”

“Por supuesto.”

“And Eli will cry.”

Alexia paused. “Already did.”

They both laughed.

Madrid shimmered around them. The city was loud and sun-warmed and indifferent to their little moment.

But they didn’t care.

They were two women in love.

One with a ring on her finger.

The other with everything she’d ever dared to hope for.

Y/N

She considered texting.

She considered letting the ring do the talking the next time she and her father were in the same room, perhaps letting it glitter subtly over a shared breakfast and letting him draw the conclusion himself.

Instead, she FaceTimed him at 9:00 p.m. Madrid time, knowing full well it was past midnight in Moscow.

He answered on the third ring, squinting at the camera like it had offended him.

“You better be dying,” he rasped.

“Nice to see you too, Papa.”

He sniffed, bare-chested under a threadbare robe, cigarette already between his fingers.

“You are wearing makeup.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are glowing. This is unnatural. It must be hormonal or emotional. Which is worse.”

Y/N exhaled, held up her left hand.

There was a pause.

Then: “Is that a weapon or are you engaged?”

She wiggled her fingers. “I said yes.”

“To who? Did I miss a suitor?”

“Alexia proposed.”

He dragged from the cigarette, expression unreadable. “About time. I was beginning to worry she’d die of nerves before doing it.”

Y/N blinked. “You knew?”

“You think I’m blind? The girl’s face melts when you enter a room. Like butter in microwave.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

He tilted his head. “You’re happy?”

She hesitated. “Yes. Terrified. But happy.”

He nodded. “Then I’m happy too.”

She smiled. “You’ll come, right?”

He made a face. “To Spain? Pretend I enjoy paella?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. But only if there’s vodka.”

“There will be. I’ll sneak it in if I must.”

He waved a hand. “Then marry your Catalan and let’s get this over with before I get too old to dance at the reception.”

“For someone in ballet, you dislike dancing.”

“I do. But I love embarrassing you more.”

She laughed. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making this weird.”

“Oh, it is weird. You marrying a footballer? Very weird. But she makes you laugh. That is rare.”

She nodded.

Then he said, softer: “Your mother would have adored her.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I hope so.”

“She would. And she would say… what was her British thing?” He squinted. “‘Good on you, pet.’”

Y/N laughed through the sudden tears.

Later that night, she told Alexia, “He’s in.”

Alexia kissed her cheek. “¿Fue muy dramático?” (Was it very dramatic?)

“He asked for vodka and threatened to dance.”

“So… sí.”

The chaos began the next day.

Jana sent a string of voice notes:

“Wait, WAIT. Am I a bridesmaid? Can Aggie come? Will there be pastel de nata?”

Leila sent a voice memo too, heavy on Mancunian slang from her Manchester days:

“Oi, I know people who know people who plan these things, yeah? Spanish weddings are wild — we need a spreadsheet.”

Alba simply wrote:

I’m wearing red. Nobody stop me.

Alexia’s response? A smile that could light an entire coast.

Y/N didn’t know what their wedding would look like.

But it was going to be loud. And full of food. And friends. And the strangest little family she could’ve asked for.

—————————————————————

A month later

Third Person

Marianne arrived at Alexia’s apartment in Barcelona carrying a whiteboard, a laptop, and the expression of someone prepared to launch a full-blown campaign.

“No quiero meterme…” (I don't want to get involved…) she said, kicking off her boots, “pero no puedo ver cómo estás haciendo esto sin sufrir un ataque de nervios.” (but I can't see how you're doing this without having a nervous breakdown.)

Alexia looked up from the sofa, where she balanced her laptop on one thigh and a mostly empty bag of patatas fritas on the other.

“You’re already in,” she mumbled in English. “Sit down.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “You sound tired. Is this wedding or a World Cup final?”

“Worse,” Alexia muttered. “At least finals have rules.”

Y/N’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “For the record, I welcome the chaos.”

Marianne smirked and headed straight for the dining table. “Perfect. Because Jana already sent me a Google Doc. Title: ‘Vibes and florals.’ Subtitle: ‘Aggie’s eyebrows as inspiration.’”

Alexia groaned. “She is… annoying.”

An hour later, they had two venue folders open, three overlapping Pinterest boards, and one bottle of cava breathing on the counter.

Y/N, now in Alexia’s hoodie, legs folded beneath her on the floor, tapped through PDF images with a red pen like she was grading a very mediocre ballet performance.

“This one has fairy lights in the courtyard,” she noted. “And the curfew is 2 a.m.”

Alexia perked up. “Late curfew is good. Tu padre quiere… how do you say, el show.”

“He wants vodka and drama.”

Marianne lifted her head. “I like him already.”

Then came the messages.

Marta, somehow already informed via some mysterious Barça ex-players channel, sent a voice note:

“Tías, tenéis que mirar ese viñedo cerca de Girona. Muy vibes.” (Ladies, you have to check out that vineyard near Girona. Very vibes.)

Caroline, naturally on brand, replied two minutes later:

“Absolutely not that place. Bathrooms were tragic and Marta nearly died of an allergy. Try the gallery in Montjuïc — the light’s incredible.”

Alexia dropped her forehead to the table. “Dios mío. I don’t even know who invited them to opinar.”

Y/N reached for the cava. “We kind of did. Unofficially.”

Marianne picked up her whiteboard and clicked a fresh marker.

WEDDING RULES

No venues with haunted bathrooms.

Y/N picks flowers. No debate.

No dancing before speeches.

Leila and Patri are not allowed near DJ equipment.

Eli Segura has final catering approval.

Alexia squinted at the last point. “Mami does not like spicy food. This is big problem.”

Y/N smiled. “We’ll make her a whole side table of bland, comforting things.”

“She likes you,” Alexia said softly, switching to Spanish. “Más que a mí, tal vez.” (More than me, maybe)

Marianne smirked. “She told me you’ve grown up since dating ‘the ballerina.’”

Alexia blushed and threw a chip at her.

By 11 p.m., they had three venues shortlisted. All with decent bathrooms. One with swans. The swans were up for debate.

Y/N leaned into Alexia’s side. “Do you think we’ll actually survive this?”

Alexia kissed her hairline. “I won Champions League. I think this… is harder.”

Marianne raised her cava. “To lesbian wedding logistics.”

Y/N raised hers in return. “And fairy lights.”

Alexia didn’t say anything. She just smiled — content, quiet, sure.

Sometime within the week

The drive took just under an hour. A winding road, peppered with olive groves and stone fences, led them higher into the hills until the city was a glittering suggestion behind them.

Y/N had fallen asleep with her head against the window, her bob fluttering slightly every time the wind cut through a narrow bend. Alexia kept her eyes on the road, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other fiddling nervously with the hem of her shirt.

“Joder,” she muttered under her breath. “No es tan difícil. Solo mirar lugar. Tranquila.”

(It's not that difficult. Just look for a spot. Don't worry.)

She wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself.

But as they turned into the gravel path of the old estate and the white stone building came into view, she swallowed hard.

Because it felt real now.

The venue manager — a tall woman named Blanca who spoke five languages and radiated competence — met them in the courtyard.

“It’s very rustic,” Y/N said, glancing around.

“Sí,” Alexia agreed. “And quiet. I like the quiet.”

Blanca smiled. “The ceremony would happen here,” she gestured toward a courtyard shaded with olive trees and fairy lights strung lazily overhead, “and we can set up dinner in the back terrace. There’s room for dancing inside or outside.”

Y/N wandered toward the view. The valley below rolled into green softness. Behind it, the faint glint of sea.

Alexia stayed behind.

And imagined it.

Chairs filled with faces. Some familiar, others blurry with time and distance. Her mother in the front row. Alba beside her, probably weeping despite all her tough talk. Jana in a cute cocktail dress and sneakers, probably holding Aggie’s hand under the table.

And Y/N. Walking toward her.

Hair back. That calm intensity she always carried — the one she wore onstage and off.

Alexia imagined her knees shaking.

She imagined the small hitch in her breath just before she would say: Sí, quiero.

“¿Estás llorando?” (Are you crying?) Y/N asked, appearing beside her again.

“No.” Alexia wiped her cheek, immediately defensive. “Es polvo del campo.” (It is dust from the field.)

Y/N smiled. “Right. Very emotional dust.”

They walked the rest of the venue in silence.

Alexia kept glancing at her. At the way Y/N’s fingers trailed along the old stone walls. The way she squinted up at the light as if measuring its texture.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

Y/N paused. “It feels… safe. Not perfect. But right.”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. I like… the right feeling.”

They sat for a while at the edge of the terrace. Blanca brought them water and a list of available dates.

Y/N asked, “Are you scared?”

Alexia was quiet for a long time.

“Sí,” she finally said. “But only because… I never thought I could have this.”

Y/N reached across the table, laced their fingers. “You do now.”

And for once, Alexia didn’t try to answer with humour, or sarcasm, or deflection.

She just smiled and whispered, “Gracias.”

A month after, the wedding week

Alexia

“Dios mío, esto no es normal,” (Oh my God, this is not normal) Alexia muttered under her breath as she stepped into the private room of the bar.

There were balloons.

There were pink streamers.

And there was Leila Ouahabi in a sparkling cowboy hat, screaming, “¡La reina de la noche ha llegado!” (The queen of the night has arrived!) while holding a porrón full of sangria.

Jana and Alba were clapping wildly.

Y/N turned to Alexia with her eyebrows arched. “You knew about this?”

Alexia blinked. “Yo pensé… cena tranquila. Quiet dinner, sí. Not… this.”

Y/N laughed, kissed her cheek, and walked in like she was born for chaos. Which, apparently, she was.

Irene had declined the bachelorette invitation — politely, with voice notes and the promise of a brunch later. Caroline and Marta sent a video message from Norway with a dog (Caro’s brother) barking in the background, saying, “Good luck surviving that circus. And yes, I’m referring to Leila.” Irene, Marta and Caro promised to be there for the wedding.

The room was warm, lit with too many fairy lights and filled with far too much noise. But it smelled like pan con tomate and someone had brought in three types of vermut, so Alexia allowed herself to breathe.

Even if Leila had now started DJ-ing from her phone.

“Por favor, no más reggaetón,” she begged.

“Too late,” Jana shouted, already halfway through dancing with Aggie, who’d arrived from London with a smug smile and a suitcase full of duty-free gin.

Alba leaned against the bar, sipping a beer. “You’re blushing.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “I’m drinking.”

“Nope. That’s emotion. Admit it.”

Alexia glanced at Y/N — across the room, laughing so hard her bob shifted messily over her cheekbones.

“Estoy jodida.” (I'm screwed)

“Por fin.”

They toasted.

To love.

To heartbreak survived.

To knees held together by tape.

To ballet and boots.

To unlikely joy.

Marianne arrived an hour late and immediately took over logistics of the shots tray.

“I’m here to ensure we don’t get banned from this venue,” she said. “Again.”

Alexia hugged her.

“You’re drunk,” Marianne replied, amused.

“I’m engaged.”

“Same thing.”

Later, they sang.

Badly.

Jana and Leila’s rendition of “Shakira – Ciega, Sordomuda” nearly started a fire in Alexia’s ears.

Y/N, dragged onto the stage by Alba, sang Cabaret in a smoky whisper. Everyone fell silent. Even Leila stopped filming.

Alexia sat at the back, chin in hand, staring.

She mouthed, I love you.

Y/N smiled and didn’t stop singing.

The night ended on the floor, both of them barefoot, heels abandoned, Alexia’s voice hoarse from laughter.

“¿Fue demasiado?” (Was is too much) she asked softly.

Y/N leaned her head on her shoulder. “No. It was just enough.”

Alexia turned to her. “I’m not good with… the centre stage. Not like this. But I liked seeing you in it.”

“You’re not so bad at it yourself, Putellas.”

Alexia wrinkled her nose. “Mentira.”

Y/N giggled. “Okay, maybe a little. But tonight, you were all heart.”

And that, Alexia realised, was what this was.

Not a show. Not a spectacle.

Just… heart.

Loud, messy, ridiculous heart.

Day after

Y/N

The flat smelled like espresso, dry shampoo, and leftover tortilla.

The living room was a battlefield — feather boas clinging to the back of a chair, Leila’s glitter hat still perched proudly on a wine bottle, and Jana’s suit jacket folded neatly on the armrest with the precision only a footballer with mild OCD would possess.

Y/N padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair a mess, oversized Barça hoodie swallowing her frame. Alexia sat at the table, hunched over a mug of coffee like it had personally wronged her.

“¿Estás viva?” (You’re alive) Y/N asked in a raspy voice, flicking the espresso machine to life.

Alexia lifted her head. “Casi. Media vida.” She pointed to the fridge. “We have one yoghurt. It is mine.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “So generous. Truly wife material.”

Alexia made a face and sipped her coffee. “Estoy trabajando en ello.” (I’m working on it)

They sat in companionable silence for a while, broken only by the hiss of the milk frother and Y/N’s quiet hum of something vaguely classical under her breath.

“You know,” Y/N finally said, settling opposite her fiancée, “we never actually wrote our vows.”

Alexia blinked. “Mierda. We forgot?”

Y/N laughed. “No, we… postponed. Like emotionally repressed adults.”

Alexia pulled out a small notebook — one of those branded ELEVEN ones — and handed it over.

Inside were two sentences, scrawled in her familiar handwriting:

Te elijo hoy, mañana, y todos los días que nos quedan. Even when you are annoying. Especially then.

(I choose you today, tomorrow, and every day we have left. Even when you're annoying. Especially then.)

Y/N’s chest tightened.

“I like the second one best,” she whispered.

Alexia shrugged. “Es verdad.” (It’s true)

Y/N picked up a pen and started to write.

She wrote in English at first:

You held my hand in silence when I didn’t know how to ask for it. You made room for the weight I carry. You love the part of me that knows how this ends — and still, you stayed.

Alexia tilted her head. “¿Eso es todo?” (That’s all?)

Y/N smiled. “No, I’m saving the last line.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to say it to you, not write it.”

Alexia looked at her, eyes soft. “Me vas a matar, bailarina.” (You're going to kill me…)

“I already did. With the Cabaret solo last night.”

Alexia groaned, dropped her head dramatically on the table.

“I still hear Leila’s screams in my skull,” she mumbled into the wood.

Y/N leaned over and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re very brave.”

They stayed there, hunched over coffee and vowels and vowels-that-would-become-vows, until the late morning sun stretched its fingers across the floor.

No audience.

No rehearsal.

Just two women who’d once walked into a nightclub not knowing they’d end up here.

Day before the wedding

Alexia

“Tía, estás temblando,” (…you’re shaking) Alba said, peering at her over a cup of mint tea. “You nervous or just cold?”

Alexia shook her head, curled deeper into her oversized hoodie. “No lo sé. I think… stomach is dancing. Maybe with cleats.”

Alba smirked. “Your stomach is doing rondas.”

“Funny.”

They were sitting on the back terrace of the country house they’d rented for the wedding weekend. Everyone else — guests, friends, Marienne with her obsessive spreadsheet, Jana and Aggie trying to teach Leila a TikTok dance, even Eli — had gone to bed or wandered off. Only Alba stayed behind, barefoot, humming softly under her breath.

“You slept the night before the Euros?” she asked.

Alexia sipped her tea. “Poquito. Maybe three hours. I dreamed I forgot my boots and Jana and Vicky played in my jersey.”

Alba cackled. “You had dreams about them even then. Madre mía.”

Alexia smiled. “This feels bigger.”

“Because it is,” Alba said gently. “And because you finally chose something for you. Not for Spain. Not for Barça. For you.”

That shut her up.

For a moment, the world was quiet. Even the cicadas seemed to take a breath.

Then: “Y la bailarina? Is she sleeping?”

Alexia glanced toward the house. “She said no peeking. Superstition.”

Alba nodded. “Buena suerte con eso. You’ll sneak in anyway.” (Good luck with that…)

Alexia didn’t reply.

Because she was absolutely planning to.

She waited until Alba went inside. Until the lights in the kitchen dimmed and the breeze grew cooler.

Then she padded quietly down the hallway, socks muffling her steps, until she found the door slightly ajar.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, face bathed in the glow of a bedside lamp, reading a novel with a dog-eared page and a cracked spine. She looked up, and without missing a beat said, “Rule-breaker.”

Alexia smiled sheepishly. “No puedo dormir.” (I can’t sleep)

“You came here to steal a kiss, didn’t you?”

“Maybe two.”

Y/N put down the book and held out her arms. “Come here.”

Alexia climbed onto the bed like a teenager, crawling into Y/N’s lap, hiding her face against her neck.

“You smell like mint tea,” Y/N whispered.

“And fear.”

“Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of… feeling too much.”

Y/N ran her fingers through Alexia’s hair. “That’s the point. Feel it.”

Alexia pulled back, studied her fiancée’s face — so composed, yet so heartbreakingly open.

“You’re not nervous?”

“I’m thirty-six, marrying a retired footballer with terrible posture. What is there to fear?”

Alexia gasped. “Mi postura es perfecta.”

“Your back is a corkscrew.”

Alexia grinned. “You still want to marry me.”

“I’d marry you with a walker.”

They kissed once. Soft. Then again. Slower.

Alexia sighed. “Mañana, sí?”

Y/N nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Then,” Alexia whispered, sliding off the bed reluctantly, “hasta mañana, mi amor.”

She turned at the door. “You remember your lines?”

Y/N raised a brow. “I was born for the stage, remember?”

Alexia laughed.

And walked out into the hallway with her heart floating six inches off the floor.

Y/N

The gravel crunched under tires.

She knew that sound. It was the Audi she’d booked two weeks ago. Her father insisted on arriving in style — not for appearances, but because he hated taxis, and he’d read a one-star review about a car service in this part of Catalunya and decided never to trust them again.

Y/N opened the front door just in time to see her father climb out, looking like some misplaced opera villain.

Black linen. No tie. Silver-rimmed sunglasses. And a small suitcase she had no doubt contained five identical shirts and exactly one pair of shoes.

He squinted at her. “You look tired.”

“Hello to you too.”

He walked forward and took her face in his hands. Then kissed her forehead. “Still beautiful. Tired. But beautiful.”

She smiled against his chest. “Long night.”

He pulled back. “If this is wedding hangover, I applaud your restraint. Your mother once drank an entire bottle of champagne before breakfast the morning we married. And she still danced better than me that day.”

Y/N grinned. “You’ve told me that story a hundred times.”

“And it only gets more true.”

She led him into the house — rustic, sun-warmed, filled with voices echoing in multiple languages.

Alexia appeared first. Soft-eyed and somehow even more nervous than the night before.

She stopped short when she saw him.

He stared.

Then said, “You are smaller in person.”

Alexia blinked. “Gracias… creo?”

Y/N elbowed her lightly.

“This is Sergey. My father.”

Sergey offered a firm handshake. “You are the footballer.”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. I am… her fiancée.”

“You look like you would cry during penalty shootout.”

Alexia looked genuinely offended. “Solo un poco.”

Sergey chuckled. “Good. Men cry too little. Women should cry more than them, to make them feel shame.”

Alexia gave Y/N a helpless look.

She smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

Later that morning, Sergey found himself seated beside Eli at the outdoor table, drinking café solo and discussing how best to raise strong daughters.

Alba wandered over, glanced between them, then leaned down to Y/N.

“Tu suegro da miedo, hermana.” (Your father-in-law is scary, sister)

Y/N whispered back, “He used to scare Mikhail Baryshnikov.”

Alba blinked. “No jodas.”

“Swear on it.”

Jana, passing by with a tray of croissants, added casually, “He told Leila her hair looked like a horse’s tail. Leila said thank you.”

By noon, everyone had found a strange rhythm. Sergey sat outside polishing his glasses. Eli fussed in the kitchen. Marianne was running point on the logistics with military efficiency. Alexia had vanished into the guest room to write “one last line” for her vows, which Y/N knew meant she was probably panicking and erasing half of it.

Y/N stood in front of the full-length mirror, her dress still hanging behind her. No makeup yet. Just skin and shadow and something unfamiliar brewing in her chest.

She looked at herself.

Thirty-six. Still breathing. Still dancing.

Still here.

Sergey’s reflection appeared behind her.

“You are ready?” he asked, gently.

“I think so.”

He handed her something small — a silver ring on a thin chain.

“It was your mother’s,” he said. “She wore it under her tights every time she danced Giselle.”

Y/N blinked fast. “You kept it all this time?”

Sergey shrugged. “I am sentimental bastard.”

Y/N put it around her neck and looked at herself again. She still didn’t look like a bride.

She just looked like… her.

That was enough.

Wedding day

Third person

The house was full of hushed anticipation. The kind that settles between whispers and perfume and half-zipped dresses. The kind that slows time and makes mirrors feel too honest.

In one room, Alexia sat on a wooden stool, holding her breath as Marianne carefully adjusted the collar of her tailored white suit.

“Stop fidgeting,” Marianne said. “You’re wrinkling the whole thing.”

“I can’t breathe,” Alexia muttered. “And this shirt is choking me. Me quiere matar.”

“It’s a collar, not a noose.”

Alexia gave her a narrow-eyed glare through the mirror. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“Not as much as Leila, who’s been sneaking photos of you changing.”

From the hallway, Leila’s voice rang out: “Solo para el archivo histórico, hermana!” (Just for the historical record, sister)

“Vas a ver,” (You’ll see) Alexia threatened under her breath. But her heart wasn’t in it. It was somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Waiting.

She pulled out the small note folded in her blazer pocket. Her vows. Written on the back of an ELEVEN Foundation flyer.

She didn’t need to reread them.

She just held them.

Across the house, in the sunlit bedroom facing the olive grove, Y/N stood barefoot in her robe. Her hair curled gently around her bob, soft waves pinned back just enough. Her makeup was minimal — just enough to survive tears, not enough to pretend.

Alba entered with a garment bag. “Ready?”

Y/N nodded.

Together, they unzipped the dress. A silk slip of a thing. Minimal. Dramatic in its lack of drama. The kind of dress that didn’t wear her — the kind that let her breathe.

“You look like a poem,” Alba whispered as she zipped it up.

Y/N gave her a look. “Did Jana write that line?”

Alba smirked. “Yes. She says hi, by the way. She’s crying already.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We haven’t even walked out yet.”

“Sí, bueno. She’s very soft now. Aggie’s fault.”

Y/N laughed. “They’re good together.”

Alba nodded. “So are you.”

Outside, the chairs were filling up. The late afternoon light turned everything amber. The breeze off the hills made the white linens flutter like breath.

Caroline, Marta and Irene were seated on the second row behind Eli, who had a handkerchief in her lap and a tissue already stuffed in her sleeve. Jana, in a simple blue cocktail dress, was fussing over the music playlist with Patri and Bruna. Mapi Leon, who together with her plus one - fiancé Ingrid- traveled from Lyon just for the wedding - arrived, clearly ready to party as soon as possible. Ona brought Lucy as her plus one, looking amused seeing the antics of her friends.

Leila wore oversized sunglasses and declared herself the unofficial emotional bouncer — no one allowed to cry unless they cried fabulously.

Their former teammates from Barca Femeni and Spain’s national team came for the wedding.

Lola, Virginia, Misa, Marionna, the two Laias.

Even Alexia’s ex-girlfriend Jenni came. Whilst it took them a while to get over their breakup after nearly seven years together, Alexia and Jenni amicably patched up their friendship.

Back inside, Alexia was ready.

Her mother kissed both her cheeks.

“Estás preciosa, mi niña.” (You look beautiful, my girl)

“Gracias, mami.”

Marianne handed her a small bracelet. “This is your something borrowed.”

“From who?”

“Jana. She said it brought her luck during the Champions League final.”

Alexia blinked. “She scored that day.”

Marianne shrugged. “Then wear it.”

She clasped it on.

Y/N stood at the back of the hallway, hand resting lightly on Sergey’s arm.

“You walk me down?” she asked, voice softer than she meant.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he adjusted her neckline, brushed a curl behind her ear.

“I walk you halfway,” he said. “The rest… you can do alone.”

Y/N nodded.

They stepped out into the soft applause of sunset.

Alexia turned.

And saw her.

Not a bride. Not a ballerina. Just Y/N.

The woman who ruined her carefully controlled heart. The woman who whispered both sarcasm and softness into her chest until it cracked open.

She smiled.

Alexia smiled back.

Her hands stopped shaking.

The chairs creaked under shifting weight. The wind made the white ribbons tied to the pergola flutter like breath.

Sergey sat in the first row, legs crossed, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Eli sat in the front row, already sniffling. Alba had subtly swapped her glass of cava for water, sensing the tears were only just beginning.

Patri whispered something to Leila — who promptly giggled, then immediately swore when a tear escaped her eyeliner. Ingrid handed her a tissue without looking away from the aisle. Jana sat between Bruna and Aggie, gripping both their hands like she might float away.

Then the music began.

Not the usual classical strings. Something quieter. Contemporary. A piano melody that felt like a letter.

Alexia stood beneath the arch, fingers twitching slightly. She wore the suit like it was stitched into her skin. But her expression was that of someone stripped bare.

Y/N walked down the aisle slowly. No veil. No bouquet. Just her father’s hand, then none — as he stepped aside halfway and nodded, proud and quiet.

Alexia’s eyes never left hers.

When she reached her, they didn’t speak.

Just hands, clasped.

A deep breath.

And then Marianne stepped forward, smiling gently.

“Welcome,” she said. “You know why we’re here.”

A few chuckles from the crowd.

“We’re not going to talk about fate, or timing, or the miracle of two people finding each other in a nightclub and somehow surviving the chaos that followed.”

Laughter again, especially from Leila and Mapi.

“We’re here because, somehow, they made it. Not by accident. But by choosing, over and over, to stay.”

She turned to Alexia first.

“Alexia?”

Alexia unfolded the flyer from ELEVEN, now creased from being held so tightly.

She took a deep breath, glanced at Y/N, and began:

“I don’t write poetry. But I know how it feels to score in extra time — And you feel better than that. You make the quiet loud. You see the version of me I thought I buried with my ACL.

You held space for me — even when you were the one afraid. I choose you, every day. Even when you talk during movies. Even when you steal my hoodies and say they smell like victory. I choose you. That’s all.”

Silence.

Not because people didn’t want to react, but because no one trusted their voice.

Y/N blinked fast. She adjusted her posture and began her speech. No paper, she had hers memorized.

She spoke clearly, with that half-smile that always made Alexia ache.

“I never planned for this. I planned for seasons. For injuries. For decline. For endings. But you’re not an ending. You’re the chapter I didn’t know I could write. You never asked me to be perfect. You just asked me to be real. So here’s the real part, I am messy, scared, irreverent. And I love you. In the mornings when you burn toast. In the evenings when your Spanish gets too fast and I just nod. I love you. Not forever — because I don’t believe in that word. I love you now. And I’ll keep loving you in the next now. And the one after that.”

Alexia looked like she was about to cry.

Or run.

Or kiss her senseless.

She did the latter.

After Marianne coughed politely.

“Do you, Alexia Putellas Segura,” she said, barely holding in her own tears, “take this woman — this wildly sarcastic, devastatingly honest, stunning creature — to be your wife?”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. Con todo mi corazón.”

“And do you, Y/N — take this awkward, painfully competitive, far-too-gifted-for-her-own-good woman to be your wife?”

Y/N smirked. “Obviously.”

“Then I now pronounce you… in so much trouble.”

Laughter, cheers.

And then — the kiss.

Soft. Fierce. Final.

Not as in the end.

But as in — finally.

Dinner was served beneath a canopy of fairy lights strung between olive trees. The air still carried a trace of sunlight, but the sky had already begun its slide into dusk. Cicadas buzzed softly in the background, harmonising with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter.

The long wooden table overflowed with food — pan con tomate, grilled vegetables, paella, roasted lamb, and a suspiciously large number of croquetas. Eli had insisted.

“Hay que comer bien después de llorar tanto,” she said, passing a basket of bread to Sergey.

Sergey took one, sniffed it, and muttered, “Better than Moscow wedding. They served borscht. In August.”

Eli nodded in solemn agreement, as if that explained a war.

The speeches began as the sky turned violet.

First came Marianne — precise, tearful, but somehow still composed.

Then Leila, who promptly ignored her note cards and instead told a chaotic story about the time she and Alexia got locked in a storage room with a goat during a preseason tour in Mallorca.

“Y la cabra tenía mejor sentido de la orientación que tú,” (And the goat had a better sense of direction than you) she said, pointing at Alexia.

“I was concussed,” Alexia replied.

“Y aún así jugaste mejor que media plantilla.” (And yet you played better than half the squad)

Laughter.

Not to be outdone, Jana’s speech has awws, oohs and laughter. She recalled the times Alexia has been there for her despite going through some challenges, and that her wish for Alexia finally came true - finding happiness with Y/N.

Caroline stood next with Marta beside her — an unlikely duo of deadpan and dry Norwegian wit.

“We knew it was serious,” Marta said, “when Alexia stopped editing Y/N out of photos before posting in our group chat.

“She never edited you out of photos,” Caroline added. “Just cropped.”

Y/N sipped her wine, amused. “Ruthless.”

Alexia flushed, muttering, “Es mentira.” (It’s a lie)

Even Sergey stood — slow, regal, and entirely himself.

“I do not make speeches,” he began. “But… today, I make exception. Because my daughter, she marries a woman who plays football like war and loves like fool. I like her.”

A beat.

“Also, she finally eats properly now. Thank you, Putellas.”

Alexia saluted him with her wine glass, deadpan.

“De nada, suegro.”

The first dance began without announcement. Just the soft drop of a song — one they’d chosen a month ago, over text, too embarrassed to discuss it in person.

It was quiet. Not romantic in the cheesy sense. Just… real.

They danced slow.

Clumsy at first — Alexia trying not to lead, Y/N trying not to trip over her own nerves.

“You’re stiff,” Y/N whispered.

“Tú también.”

They both laughed.

And loosened.

Their hands fit. They always had.

Around them, their loved ones swayed, clapped, held each other.

Aggie pulled Jana into a spin.

Patri dragged Bruna into an impromptu bachata.

Leila and Mapi competed for who could dip Ingrid better — Ingrid rolled her eyes but let them try.

Even Eli swayed with Sergey, who looked vaguely horrified but stayed.

Later, beneath the stars, after cake and speeches and more cava than anyone needed, Alexia and Y/N slipped away.

To the edge of the olive grove.

Just them.

They sat on a blanket, shoes discarded, heads close.

“I’m still not used to saying ‘wife,’” Y/N said, staring up at the constellations.

Alexia smiled. “Practice, cariño.”

“Wife.”

“Again.”

“Wife.”

Alexia kissed her.

The stars spun slowly.

————————————————————————

Continue the last part.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Nightlife 23

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, touching, coercion, manipulation, violence. Proceed with caution.

Note: I know what you’re thinking, why the fuck are you doing this? Well, you wanted bouncer Lee and I did too. Also, short!reader, not sorry.

Part of The Club AU

Hickory’s little mewls fill the car. You’re restless as you reach back between the seats and try to comfort him. You have him in a carrier, secured with the seat belt to keep him safe. Lee’s unbothered as he steers down the old country roads. 

“Is it very far?” You ask. You’ve been in the car for two hours already. An hour to get the dress, then another hour to get all the way out here. 

“Should get there ‘round evenin’,” he answers. “You know, it’s a far way up. Mama don’t like the city and such.” 

“Oh. Okay,” you accept. 

“Why don’t ya sit straight? You’re gon’ get hurt fussing over the cat. He’ll tire himself out,” he tuts. 

“Sorry, sir—honey, it’s only... he’s scared.” 

“He’s a baby, I know, but he fed and he safe,” he argues as he turns along a curving road. “What about you? You scared?” 

“Scared?” 

“Sure. You’re gon’ meet the family. It’s a big deal,” he drawls. “Mm, honey, you wanna get me a snack. My stomach’s growlin’.” 

You nod and reach down to the insulated bag you packed. All the time you did, he hovered and praised you. Said you’re so smart thinking of the things he doesn’t. 

“Sure,” you pull out some apple slices. He shoves his fingers into the container and gnoshes into one. “Nervous, maybe.” 

“Oh, but ma will like a girl like you. Sweet, demure.” He gulps thickly. “You know, my brothers’ wives. They’re like a pack of hissing cats. Not like Hick, ya know? They just can’t help but yawl.” 

You hum. You don’t know what to say to that. Best to say nothing at all. That’s what your dad would tell you. 

“We can go out and explore. You’ll like them trees and stuff. There’s a whole mess of flowers down across the ravine. Wild ones with bright colours.” He explains. “We’ll go and get some privacy when we can.” 

You flick your thumbs against the container. He reaches for another slice. He hovers it just before his lips. 

“You wanna open that thermos. I need some coffee in me,” he growls. “Since I can’t get in you.” 

He chortles and bits down on the apple. You balance the container on your lap and reach for the metal thermos. You hope he doesn’t talk like that in front of everyone else. They’ll already be judging you. An outsider. 

💮

Your head lolls against the seat as the tires mulch over the dirt. The car jostles with the uneven ridges in the road, tire tracks grown over with crushed grass and littered in twigs. You hide a yawn and squint into the dim, the canopy above dampens the last light of day. 

Lee frightens you as he reaches over to slap your knee. He squeezes until your jerk. You squeak and put your hand on his. 

“Just about here, blossom,” he purrs. “I’m excited. How ‘bout you?” 

“Oh, yes,” you lie. You’re terrified. 

He slows as he turns the wheels, hooking around a patch of sentinels. The shadow of other vehicles crowd outside the two-storey house at the back of the clearing. The windows are lit from within as a few figures mill around the long porch. Your insides flip. 

“Must be waitin’ on us,” Lee says. 

Hickory meows loudly from the back. You peek back but can’t see him. The car rolls to a stop and Lee cranks it loudly into park. He seat belt snaps back as he sits forward. 

“I’ll get ‘im, you just worry ‘bout yourself,” he girds. 

You nod and undo your belt. You open the door, the creak cutting through the buzz of mosquitoes and crickets. You stand as Lee hauls himself out, lurching the car with him, and swings open the back door. He grunts as he bends through the door to untangle the carrier. 

He shuts the door and whistles at you, “come on.” 

You drag your feet through the dirt and he grabs your hand. He squeezes hard. You swallow a whimper as he marches you to the porch. 

“’Bout time, Leslie,” A male voice scrapes through the din, a puff of smoke wafting from beside a flickering lantern. 

“Pa,” Lee sniffs. “Bit of a drive.” 

“Cause you up there in the city,” the man, his father, rasps. “You brought the unlucky lady.” 

Lee clucks. “My wife, yeah.” 

“Wife. Sweetness, lemme tell ya now, run,” the man chortles into a shaking rasp. He spits onto the wood. “Carlton, go let your ma know.” 

“Yes, pa,” the man leaning on the railing stands straight, “nice to meet ya, miss.” 

“My brother, Carlton,” Lee supplies as he puts the carrier down. Hickory’s mews are lost in the thrum of the night. “My pa, Eustace.” He introduces you in turn as his brother disappears inside. 

“Call me U, fits me fine,” his father taps his burning pipe on the ash tray. “Better go in and meet the rest. God speed.” 

“Nice to meet you, sir,” you eke out. 

“Mm, nice right now,” he scoffs. 

Lee tugs you toward the door. “We’ll bring Hick in later,” he whispers. “Be crowded inside.” 

You nod and let him take you inside. You stop and lift your foot, reaching for the strap of your shoe. He tuts. 

“No matter, up here, shoes on,” he says. “No use dragging it out.” 

He moves you ahead of him, nudging you down the hall towards a door glowing with light as voices drone within. You stop in the wide archway of the large dining room, the table near full. 

The people sat in the wooden chairs don’t seem to notice you. Lee clears his throat. Not once, twice, but three times. He steps up and crosses his arms. 

“Hello,” he barks. 

Two of the women look at him and cackle as one of the men glances over. He stands and knocks on the table. “Y’all, baby brother is here.” 

The rest quiet and peer over. You’re breathless as you stare back. The man who spoke smirks. 

“Hey, hon, you don’t gotta be scared of us. What’s my brother been tellin’ ya now?” 

You blink. Lee rubs your shoulder. 

“Don’t let Reg scare ya,” he girds. “Brother, she’s just a bit shy.” 

“Well, then, she ought to get to know everyone, huh? Bout time you brought her ‘round.” Reg puts his hand on the back of the woman’s chair nearest him. “This is Lorna, my wife. And there’s second oldest, Donny and his wife Suzy’s down the other end of the table.” He points between the most slender man and a woman doing her best to ignore everything and everyone for her glass. 

“Then there’s the third one Carlton, he came rushin’ in and must be in with ma,” he shrugs. “His wife, or second one, Eulla, she’s just her on my other side. Then there’s Jessa, closer to your age than any of us.” He snorts and looks Lee up and down, “she with Harold, the fourth one, sat there with his belly to his knees.” 

“Eh,” the rotund man sneers. “Speak for yourself.” 

There’s a chuckle around the table. “Course you know Leslie, ain’t ya?” 

“Lee,” the man beside you growls. “Well, you met ‘em. Can’t keep ma waitin’.” 

“Oh, baby boy loves his mama,” Donny snickers. 

Lee grumbles and grabs your wrist. He drags you further down to the next doorway. You hear a pan on a burner and smell pork. 

“Ma,” Lee pushes you in before him. “Sorry it took us so long.” 

“Sorry? Shoulda left earlier,” she hohums, keeping her back to you. “Your brother said you was here.” 

“Ma, really--” 

“You told me last week you was comin’ with a lady. I been patient, now I’m not,” she turns to scowl at him. Her eyes are just as blue as his though her hair has faded to an orangey brown with shocks of white. “You just can’t seem to get far enough from us, huh?” 

“Ma, you know that’s not it.” 

“How do I know?” She pouts and her eyes glisten. “You know I miss you so much, Les.” 

He sighs. “Ma, I miss ya too.” He puts his arm around you. “But I really wanted to wait til she was ready ya know.” 

“Ready?” She looks at you. “Oh, she’s a youngin. Look at that.” She steps up to you. “Wow, and she’s perty. Look at them cheeks.” She pinches your cheeks as she praises them. “Les.” 

“Lee, ma. You know I like Lee.” 

“Sure, boy,” she tuts and pets your hair. “She’s one of them city folk. I can see it the way she puts her hair and such. Well, girlie, we gon’ give you a proper country wedding. You’re marryin’ a gentleman, you better be a lady then.” 

“Um, nice to meet you, ma’am.” 

“Mary Joy,” she corrects you. “No ma’am or madames here.” 

“Sorry, uh, Mary Joy.” 

“Mm, she so polite,” she smiles at Lee. “But this...” she touches your collar. “Let’s get ya a nice dress then. You got the figure for it.” 

You nod, helpless to her will. Just as with her son. You’re too deep in now. You can only hope not to drown in the flood. 

[tabaciberez]

LN guy here! You've got a lot of good points, but let me throw in some stuff to back you up.

First things first, Maomao provides a lot of services, direct to the emperor. She teaches the concubines, she takes care of his daughter, she saves his most successful concubine from poison, saves his second favorite from lead poisoning, gets him his porn for while the lead concubines are pregnant, saved a certain family member's life, gets his "little brother's" literacy program off the ground, and most importantly to the Big E, balances Ka Zuigetsu out when the shit hits the fan and Jinshi has to take on the role formally. Out of all the servants in the palace, she's probably the one he has the most direct contact with; and he likes that!

It's important to remember that Big E didn't want to become Emperor when he did. The guy took the throne young because Previous Emps was a mite bit shit and the Regent knew it was better to fade away here to protect her son, and he's resented the mess that landed in his lap because of it. Last Admin was maximizing court stability and profit to keep everything in the black; but now the bills are due on all that deferred work. He's not happy with his father's work, and the goal to build back right means demolishing the old wrongs thoroughly. It's why we see Jinshi with so many laws, the Clans with so much power, and the Bureaus and Offices able to affect such change: they're off the leash and just need to build up steam.

But why does this mean Emps likes Maomao? Because she's the one that gives everyone around her the push they need to go. Jinshi, Ka Zuigetsu, Lakan, the U clan, the Ma clan, the Shin... everyone is driven by Maomao as she deals with them. This results in-

-Minor LN spoilers start here-

- the decision to let court ladies be medical assistants to the medical offices. It's a blatant reward, it fixes old problems, and most importantly it keeps Maomao in position to do what she does best. Sometimes, that's medicine. Sometimes that's a lesbian secretary for Jinshi. Sometimes that's rolling hot with the Imperial B Team. It's a simple solution that solves many problems.

And hey, she's got a good sense of humor too. Perfect to help get Jinshi out of his shell, and everyone loves the joke about Admonisher of Thieves!

People love to joke about Maomao getting special treatment from the emperor (because as a woman she's not allowed to practice medicine) but I think that the truth is, he just doesn't care.

It's not that Maomao is special in his eyes and that's why he doesn't mind (although she is, he trusts her judgement and she saved members of his family many many times).

The emperor has been in love with the most independent "masculine" woman in the whole story his whole life, he dgaf if a woman practices medicine, dresses like a man, travels or does anything that's "unladylike". Changing the law is just probably a major pain in the ass.

We can see it in the light novels, with Jinshi. Passing the simplest laws requires so much bureaucracy and is almost impossible. Every decision is questioned every step of the way and he is working himself to exhaustion.

I think if the emperor could easily change the law, he'd do it long ago. He's not dumb, he knows it complicates his life. They stopped making eunichs, forbade non eunichs to enter the rear palace and women practicing medicine? Then who is gonna take care of the concubines?

Maomao is like a gift from god to him and I think any other woman who was good at practicing medicine and reliable would get the same treatment.

[vylosinbound]

Hello

I have a request, can you do mc that indian with brothers + extras because I always want to imagine what would happen, and all the amazing moments .

Hope I am not troubling you with this request.

Thank you

Hello dear! Thanks so much for your request , I’m absolutely thrilled to write about an Indian MC with the brothers. I’d like to clarify that Indian culture is incredibly rich and diverse, with many different languages, customs, and traditions depending on the region. Since I’m not a native speaker of any Indian language, I sincerely apologize in advance if there are any inaccuracies in phrasing or representation. I’ve done my best to approach this with care and respect. 💛

Between sarees and sigils

Life with an Indian MC

Part one

Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub and Belphegor.

Genre: Cultural appreciation / Fluff & slice-of-life

MC from an Indian background influences the brother, through clothing, food, language and traditions

LUCIFER

• At first, he’s curious in a quiet, respectful way. He asks direct but thoughtful questions about MC’s traditions and faith, he wants to understand.

• The first time he sees MC in traditional attire (sari or sherwani), he actually goes speechless. Like, pauses mid-sentence. That kind of stunned.

• Secretly loves how the vibrant colors of Indian fashion contrast with his mostly dark palette, he even lets MC convince him to wear something festive once (begrudgingly… but he liked it).

• Is fascinated by classical Indian music. The instruments, the depth, especially if MC sings or dances to it. He’ll silently watch with intense admiration.

• He insists on researching MC’s native language(s), he wants to understand terms of endearment when MC uses them. Bonus if MC flusters him in Hindi/Tamil/Telugu/any language.

• Likes listening to MC recite old mythological stories. He often draws comparisons between Indian epics and Devildom lore.

• MC teaches him about Indian etiquette, and he starts subtly incorporating it in formal events, a quiet bow, a respectful gesture.

• Diwali? He plans a candlelit dinner in the House of Lamentation. Lucifer with soft lighting is deadly.

• He sometimes scolds Mammon for “mocking” cultural stuff but is secretly keeping his cool because he doesn’t want to mess it up either.

MAMMON

• “Y’mean you guys got, like, whole festivals where you just throw color around?! I WANNA GO!!”

• Absolutely obsessed with MC’s traditional outfits. Will physically pout if MC wears one and doesn’t let him take a selfie together.

• Tries Indian snacks and cries. “WHY IS THIS SO SPICY?! Wait, actually, give me another one.”

• Calls them “his Bollywood star” dramatic as hell.

• LOVES when MC dances. He’ll try to mimic them but ends up flailing around, insists he’s doing the “Mammon-style Bollywood.”

• MC catches him watching Indian romantic movies in secret. “W-What?! The music’s good!!”

• Finds MC’s cultural jewelry super pretty, especially bangles. He buys them more, pretending he’s “just investing in bling.”

• Learns pet names in their language just to fluster them. “Jaanu~ That mean somethin’ spicy, right?!”

• Tries Indian wedding sweets and wants to marry them immediately. “You got laddoo? I got a ring.”

LEVIATHAN

• He immediately brings up Indian animes/doramas. “Did you ever watch Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama?!” (He owns the DVD.)

• Has a whole folder of cosplays he wants to do with MC, includes Indian-inspired fantasy looks.

• Watches Bollywood movies and gets hyper about the editing and song transitions. “IT’S SO OVERDRAMATIC I LOVE IT.”

• Overwhelmed but enchanted when MC wears bright, sparkly Indian clothes. "I-It’s like you just stepped out of a legendary RPG cutscene…!"

• Tries Indian food and cries. “I have been slain by biryani… MC, avenge me…”

• Makes an Indian-styled opening for his Devildom livestreams once. MC helped.

• Has a soft spot for old Indian mythologies and visual epics. He lowkey wants to write fanfiction about them.

• Asks MC to do a dance trend with him. Fails, but records it anyway.

• Gets shy when MC teaches him words of affirmation in their language. He replays the recordings in secret.

SATAN

• Satan is immediately fascinated by MC’s knowledge of Indian mythology, especially the darker, more philosophical aspects, they end up having deep late-night discussions about karma, dharma, and reincarnation.

• When MC reads books in Hindi or another Indian language, he’ll sit beside them, quietly asking for translations just to hear them speak.

• He's absolutely obsessed with Indian classical music, when he hears MC humming a raga, he asks them to teach him more.

• The sight of MC in traditional clothing, especially something rich in gold embroidery or silks, makes him go entirely silent. He commits every detail to memory.

• He surprises MC by ordering ancient Indian texts for the House of Lamentation library, he insists on reading them together.

• One of their earliest bonding moments was during a heated debate about Indian vs. Devildom philosophy, and MC actually won.

• He keeps asking to watch Indian films and dramas with them, eventually developing a taste for emotional, complex storylines.

• When MC teaches him a few words in their language, he makes a secret notebook where he writes down every phrase and pronunciation note.

• Satan is unexpectedly protective when MC faces any stereotyping or ignorance in the Devildom, he won’t hesitate to correct others, sharply.

ASMODEUS

• Asmo immediately becomes obsessed with MC’s skincare rituals, natural oils, and traditional beauty routines, they end up swapping tips constantly.

• He’s in awe of traditional Indian clothing, especially lehengas, sarees, or sherwanis. He insists on helping MC accessorize perfectly.

• Asmo is the one who insists MC wear a fresh jasmine garland in their hair, he says the scent suits them.

• He’s constantly trying to incorporate Indian beauty products into his routine, and brags to everyone that MC is his personal beauty guru.

• The first time he sees MC in full traditional dress, he literally gasps and spins them around like he’s on a runway.

• He’s super playful about trying on MC’s bangles, bindis, or scarves, sometimes even borrowing their dupattas to drape over his shoulder dramatically.

• He gets really into Indian dance with MC, and insists they choreograph a full performance together.

• MC once did his makeup in a classic Indian bridal style just for fun, he loved it so much he wore it to dinner.

• He can be unexpectedly soft when MC talks about missing home, he listens carefully and promises to bring that warmth to the Devildom.

BEELZEBUB

• First encounter: MC offers biryani. Beel eats two plates, declares them soulmates.

• MC hands him jalebi, Beel sniffs, “Sweet. Crunchy. Perfect.”

• He bows to help MC carry groceries during festival prep, endearingly chivalrous.

• Watches MC’s braids swing gently while they laugh, Beel feels warm pride.

• MC shows him traditional jewelry like bangles; he carefully tries one on, spinning it.

• He loves being invited to join Indian prayers or smudging rituals, respects everything.

• Beel asks for MC’s cooking secrets, practices every day for them.

• After MC’s storytelling, he holds their hand, smiling from a place of contentment.

• MC laughs at Beel trying to master Hindi count “ek, do, teen… I can teach you.”

BELPHEGOR

• Loves the relaxed beauty of MC wearing an Indian kurta while lounging.

• MC speaks softly a prayer, Belphie’s respect shows as he kneels beside them.

• He nibbles ladoo into bed, “Tastes like your voice sounds.”

• Joins MC for a midnight chai in their pajamas, cozy and dreamy.

• Belphie steals MC’s favorite dupatta to wrap around himself like a blanket.

• He listens, half-asleep, to their folk tunes playing softly.

• MC teasingly complains “You’re using my blanket!” Belphie mumbles, “But you’re inside it…”

• When MC wakes him in the night for chai, he hands them a flower he picked, moonlit romance.

• He calls MC "meri neend" (my sleep), loves the poetic sound.

[venbetta]

I've been really getting into SOTM since it's come out, and I have to say, it's better produced than SW's other fnaf games. I'm not saying it's 100% perfect, I'm not gonna gas it up to be game of the year, but it feels cohesive compared to their previous games. It's the fact that when it was originally announced up until its release, I wasn't 100% on board; I didn't know what to expect. I've come out of it surprised by how potent some of the narrative beats are.

I've heard some people say that the story wasn't cohesive or that it didn't make sense, which i get, it took watching a few other playthroughs to catch things I missed during the first watch. And I know the mimic's origins are in the TFTP books, which usually doesn't help either, but the game does a good job at establishing the mimic's creation enough to latch onto. Plus, the Murray family feels real to me, Edwin's neglect, Fiona's caring natural. If they weren't in the game, i think it would've been a dull experience. There were slow moments when I was watching Fusion's playthrough, and I thought, "Gimme more Murray family lore." And when it did show up, I was engaged. Learning and finding out more felt rewarding (I don't have the game myself :( ... but watching other people play has helped).

I know I missed things, I probably still am, but I've grasped enough of it to understand a good majority of the story. The endings were nice, I can actually tell which one is definitely the canon one. The secret one was so sweet and heartbreaking. I loved Arnold, even if we don't hear him speak that often. Dispatch is a prick in the best way. The VAs did amazing.

My only complaint is that the minigames (the crane one) were kinda boring. I did almost fall asleep during that part. I don't have many grievances with SOTM, it surprised me.

I know people keep comparing it to Poppy Playtime, and all that other stuff, but I don't think there's anything wrong with it taking inspiration from it. They literally took inspiration from Alien Isolation and Outlast from what I've heard, and that shouldn't be seen as an insult to compare any of these games with one another.

And as someone who's been with fnaf since the beginning, I get why people are a bit discontent about this game's presence. I miss the old games, but I don't see anything wrong with mixing something up in this new Era. I loved Security Breach, even with its flaws. It's a beautiful mess with... a not very cohesive story, but it's fun. Saw someone try to compare SB with SOTM to criticize the latter when they are two distinct narratives with varying visuals. Of course SOTM doesn't have life to it, it's an abandoned, defunct factory with ROTTING bodies. It's a horror game. There's nothing wrong with SB switching up the environment either, it's still a horror game... even if it was catered to be child-friendly which there's nothing wrong with that either...

Comparing apples to oranges.

I digress.

I wish it was easy for people to admit and accept that SOTM isn't going to feel like FNAF, instead of chalking it up to being a bad game or spitefully comparing it to other games for the sake of criticizing when it's easier to just say "This isn't for me anymore." And also not blame any party responsible for making it that way (Steel Wool). Markiplier admitted it in his recent playthrough, it felt nice hearing that from him. To have that self awareness and acknowledge that it's not the same, but it's okay that he doesn't like it and it's no one else's fault!!!! GRGHRGH

I love FNAF, and it's complicated lore, and it's sometimes buggy games. Unless some other game comes along that completely alters my opinions on it, I'm willing to see where this franchise goes, honestly.

So now excuse me while I go make Freddy and Monty kiss each other like lil toy dolls

[ariaxco]

why you're not glowing up (it's not what you think) ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 🎀

you're doing all the "right" things. skincare routine, gym membership, new wardrobe, pinterest-worthy morning routine. you bought the supplements, followed the influencers, saved every "that girl" post.

so why do you still feel exactly the same?

because you're trying to glow up from the outside in. completely backwards.

the girls who actually transform — the ones who look different six months later, who carry themselves like they know something you don't — they didn't start with the aesthetic. they started with the invisible stuff first.

you're still operating from your old identity

here's the thing nobody tells you: you can't dress like her, work out like her, eat like her, and still think like the old you. your brain will sabotage every external change until your internal world catches up.

you'll buy the expensive skincare and still pick at your face. you'll meal prep on sunday and binge by wednesday. you'll set the 6am alarm and hit snooze until 9.

why? because deep down, you still believe you're the girl who doesn't follow through. you still see yourself as the one who starts strong and gives up. you're trying to change your actions while keeping your old story about yourself.

the real work is rewriting that story. deciding you're someone who keeps promises to herself. someone who deserves the life she's building. someone who doesn't quit when it gets boring.

you're avoiding the real work

face masks are easier than facing your patterns. new clothes are easier than new boundaries. gym selfies are easier than sitting with why you actually hate yourself.

the real glow up work is boring:

going to therapy and actually doing the homework

journaling without making it aesthetic

saying no to people who drain you (even when they guilt trip you)

setting standards and sticking to them when someone tests them

sitting with discomfort instead of shopping it away

looking at why you seek validation from people who don't even like themselves

you want the transformation without the mess. but healing is messy. growth is uncomfortable. real change means grieving who you used to be.

you're performing transformation, not living it

posting about your 5am routine doesn't make you a morning person. talking about self-love doesn't mean you practice it. buying the books doesn't mean you read them.

you're performing the aesthetic of change without doing the actual work.

real transformation is invisible at first:

choosing yourself even when no one's watching

doing the work when it's not exciting anymore

building habits so quietly no one notices until the results are undeniable

healing your relationship with yourself before you try to fix anything else

stop documenting your journey and start living it.

you're waiting for motivation to maintain you

motivation got you started. that burst of "new year, new me" energy that had you buying workout clothes and downloading meditation apps.

but motivation is a liar. it shows up when you don't need it and disappears when you do.

discipline keeps you going. discipline is showing up on tuesday at 6am when the excitement has worn off. discipline is choosing the salad when you want the fries. discipline is doing your skincare routine when you're exhausted.

the girls who actually transform? they show up on the days they don't want to. every single time. they built systems that work even when they don't feel like it.

you're trying to skip the basics

you want the advanced routine before you've mastered drinking enough water. you want the perfect morning routine before you can wake up on time. you want self-love before you've learned basic self-respect.

glow ups aren't built on complicated routines and expensive products. they're built on basics done consistently:

sleeping 7-8 hours

drinking water

moving your body

eating food that nourishes you

protecting your peace

keeping promises to yourself

master the boring stuff first. the magic happens in the mundane.

you think time will fix what discipline won't

"i'll start monday." "after the holidays." "when life calms down."

life is never going to calm down. there will always be stress, chaos, reasons to wait. the girls who glow up don't wait for perfect conditions — they create them.

stop waiting for the right time. there is no right time. there's only right now.

the real glow up formula

change your identity first. decide who you want to be, then start acting like her today.

do the boring work. therapy, boundaries, healing, discipline. the stuff that doesn't photograph well.

build systems, not motivation. create routines that work even when you don't feel like it.

master the basics. sleep, water, movement, nourishment, peace.

stay consistent longer than you stayed inconsistent. this is where most people quit.

stop trying to look transformed. start being transformed.

stop performing your glow up for the internet. start living it for yourself.

stop waiting for motivation to save you. start building discipline to sustain you.

your glow up isn't about becoming someone new — it's about becoming who you've always been underneath all the fear, doubt, and other people's opinions.

she was always there. you just forgot how to be her.

[charity-angel]

I currently live just outside that area (still on the screenshot, just... That big road at the far east, towards the top, that has an absolutely massive kink in it, just outside the red circle? That's pretty much where I live.

We've got some absolutely gorgeous countryside, pretty much all round. It rains a lot, so it's REALLY green.

Our fabulously rainy, and thus damp climate is really awesome for spinning cotton - keeps the dust down, and the fibres supple enough they won't snap. The industrial revolution was really A Thing round here. Mills everywhere.

They're mostly closed down now, converted into flats, or shops, offices. But we do enjoy some of the last bastions of the British fabric industry being around here. I highly recommend a trip to Immanuel's Fabric in Burnley, if you're a sewist. Never the same stuff twice, and they have a massive room that's £1/metre. (Cash or PayPal only, no card payments. And it's not particularly wheelchair friendly - there's steps in, and some very narrow bits in the £1 room. But the staff are always amazing - help me in, grab whatever I need, walk me and my haul back to the car...)

God, there has to be something more than fabric... And the chemical factories made to support the cotton factories...

That said, if the Industrial Revolution is your thing, there's still a working museum/mill south of Manchester. Quarry Bank Mill - I very much enjoyed it, both times I've been.

Pendle Witches? That's a particularly *fun* part of our history. Probably a lot less sci-fi than Doctor Who made it out to be.

Accrington bricks? Those bright red fuckers that are hard as iron and WILL wreck your drill bits if you're unlucky enough to find one in your wall? Well, that's because there is literally iron in them. And they're made within that red circle. (They're also called Nori bricks, because the whoever made the first stamp for them sort of forgot it has to be done in mirror, so it would be the right way round when the bricks are stamped. They were supposed to say "iron". Now they're stamped with Nori on purpose, because why mess with what works?

Totally doesn't make us look like illiterate idiots at all...

Ooh, speaking of ancient typos, there is a place south of Manchester called Altrincham. The engraver who made ye olde "welcome to" sign managed to put a C instead of a G. It's pronounced "alt-ring-um". The OG pronunciation stuck around, but the typo also stuck.

Wheeling back to Accrington and its bricks, one of Accy's other claims to fame is probably the best-known of the "pals" divisions from WWI - definitely the best reason it shouldn't have happened:

If you don't know, when the army was recruiting for the Great War, in a moment of genius they decreed that men from the same town would fight together. That way they already had the camaraderie to help them stick together and have each other's backs.

It worked. Right up until the entirety of Accrington's men were lost at the Somme.

Weirdly, they stopped doing Pals battalions after that.

(there's another example, but it's from way outside the circle, so... not covering it here)

Anyway, the reason I circled back to the bricks is that there is a specific memorial to the Accrington Pals in the Somme. You might have guessed by now, but it's made of Nori bricks.

I didn't manage to find it, despite having a decent map (pre sat nav), but I'm assured it does in fact exist.

Accy is also bloody ancient - it's listed in the Domesday Book. Not quite as big as it is now, but it's there.

Um... There must be more.

(but yeah, the football thing pretty much came about because of the mills - gave people something to do other than work and drink. That's why it's so prevalent up here.)

HEY

HEY YOU!

DO YOU LIVE IN THIS AREA???

Tell me about it! BRAG IT! DRAG IT! ANYTHING (that isnt football)! I'm begging ( T∀T)°°

[zeondraws]

Always gotta keep a stash of references for a character-

My Heatwave one is way too chaotic tho

After friends introduced me to pureref, I could not draw something without having enough ref pics for it. One picture is never enough for me, I want to understand it-

Also it is always fun to see how I improve drawing something specific. Seeing first sketch vs a very recent sketch. Enjoy some of my ugly works.

Look this is how I drew RBA Blades for the first time (My urge to turn anything into a bird is always very big)

I keep the first sketches away from eyes because I find it so cringe, but I gotta document my progress. In comparison to this drawing below one can immediately see the difference. (Inbetween these two sketches I did a ton of sketchbook drawings of RBA Blades in different poses to memorise him clearly)

Also have some more sketches I find "too ugly"

This one even features the first sketch of Calamitas, I found it ugly so I just left it there and started a new drawing. It worked out tho.

Now I have another one I find ugly, because of the colour combo

This was more like me messing around and trying to understand colour a tad bit more. Like how mixing works.

I forgot if I ever shared this

There was another sketch on this page, but I didn't like the pose. I want to draw weird horror/fantasy stuff most of the time. But this dragon version didn't click with me. Like, how do I make him creepy

I think I am stuck with dragon Blades, but I think I need to look at more dragons or interesting animals. Maybe some insects or fishes. Or some rare mammal

Diva.

I was angry that day, he's holding Heatwave's head

I. Love. This. Stupid. Bird. LOOK AT HIM!!!!! MY SON

This one is also experimental. Whenever I have "WIPs" I don't think to myself "I have way too many" I simply discard or keep one or two wips to work on later. If a wip becomes too old, it's usually better to redraw the idea (if I wanna tinker with it some more)

Another test dragon

What was the idea here??? Why is Blades on his knees???

Enjoy my lovely cringe, I shall stay cringe because I find my cringe coooool. I will probably look back at this in half a year and feel so bewildered. We'll see how my art develops.