#why did the colours go so grey...

[cheriate]

The sillie(s)(???) Doodles below + full art no colours

[hinamie]

oversaturate

[ramblingsofafanatic]

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Crave // Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: You're confident, loud, and always in control—until Eddie Munson’s praise turns you into something soft and aching.

Requested by: @peppers-hideout (they/them) -- thank you so so much for this request honestly I had so much fun writing it! Much love <3

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, pleasure dom!eddie, (eventual) sub!Reader, reader is described as extroverted to begin with, praise kink (!!), subspace, domestic fluff, teasing, dirty talk, one line of degrading, aftercare, oral (m receiving), rough sex, mentions of period

Words: 6.8k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

You were always the loud one.

The kind of girl who could walk into any room, whether it be a grimy bar off Main Street or the makeshift garage stage where Corroded Coffin practices, and just own it. Not because you were trying to. You just could. Talk with your hands. Magnetic and unapologetic. You were all coloured in the grayscale of Hawkins.

And somehow, you were his.

Eddie Munson, chaos incarnate. All black denim, tattoos and silver rings, always smelling faintly of smoke and cheap cologne, with a voice that could go from gravel to silk in the space of a sentence. He worked at the guitar store now – PickPlex - still played gigs, ran Hellfire, and cussed out anyone who disrespected one of his friends. But when he looked at you, it was like the rest of the world stopped existing.

He knew he was lucky to have found the other part of his soul. When the two of you were together, it just was. Soulmates in every sense of the word. If he was in the mood to burn down the patriarchy, you were right there with him with a lighter in hand.

You were his biggest supporter, his biggest cheerleader. There was no breaking the infamous ‘Freaks of Hawkins’, a name that had stuck with you both since high school.

You knew every little detail about Eddie, from his insecurities to his favourite pair of socks- the Led Zeppelin ones with the holes. Eddie similarly knew everything about you, which is why the shift caught him so off guard.

It started on a grey Wednesday. It was one of those Indiana days when the sky looked like wet concrete and everything felt ten degrees colder than it was.

It was your day off college, thank fuck, and you’d shown up at his trailer in sweats, hoodie pulled tight, socks mismatched and tucked over your swears. Your usual bursts of chaotic energy were nowhere to be found. No witty one-liners, no dramatic entrance, just a quiet groan as you threw yourself onto his bed, curled up like a cat, and clutched a microwave's heat pack to your stomach.

Eddie, who had followed quietly behind you, kicked the door shut, leaning casually against it, “Period week?”

You nod beneath your hood, burying your face into his pillow until he's sure you’ll smother yourself. “Feel like hell.”

He didn’t say much. Just kicked off his boots and climbed in behind you, pressing his chest to your back and draping an arm over your waist like he always did, only softer this time, his hand holding onto the heat pack for you.

Making sure you’re still breathing, he eases back your hood, happy to see your face squished on the side. This gives him the chance to kiss your cheek and nuzzle into your neck, breathing you in for a minute.

You hum contentedly, pushing your body back into his.

The calm only lasted for a moment before another wave of nausea and stabbing pain in your uterus caused a deep groan from you.

“You’re such a tough girl, baby,” Eddie encourages, voice low as he momentarily removes the heat pack, but only so he can massage the area that was aching. “So good for me.”

You went still, just for a moment.

Eddie was worried that he’d hurt you, but then he felt the shift as your body melted into his hold. The tiniest whimper slipped out, not quite intentional, like your brain hadn’t caught up with how your heart reacted.

He blinked, massaging your stomach, not daring to move anywhere else.

Just waited until your pain passed.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease him or laugh it off like usual when he was trying to be comforting. You always said his praises sounded like you were a dog he was trying to pet, but there was nothing this time. You just let him hold you. Curled up as small as you can and quiet in his arms.

One arm eventually reaches out, linking your fingers through his, resting on your stomach.

And that was it. No grand revelation. No instant fireworks or declarations of love. Just a moment. But something had shifted, even if it wasn’t verbalised. Because Eddie? Eddie knew everything about you, and the way you had melted into his hold was something new.

He didn’t push it. Not yet. But he filed it away like a secret.

It was a Friday.

You’d stopped by PickPlex after your last class of the day, the sleeves of your oversized sweatshirt pulled over your hands. Your backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. You were talking about your professor’s obsession with overly dramatic grading curves while flipping idly through the racks of guitar strings like they were with your attention, but Eddie could tell something was up.

You were hovering. Lingering.

He was behind the counter, working on restringing a battered Strat for a high school kid who swore he didn’t know how the neck cracked. Eddie had one knee up on the stool, tongue between his teeth in focus, his hair falling into his face.

“Got this back today as well,” you say casually, stepping up to the counter and sliding a paper across towards him.

He barely glanced up at first, “Yeah?”

Then he saw the red circle—a crisp, bold A-.

Eddie set the guitar down and leaned forward, pulling the paper towards him, recognising the title from the essay you’d written for the last 3 weeks. “Holy shit, that’s amazing!”

You tried to keep your face neutral, but your lip was caught between your teeth, eyes flicking away, unable to hold his excited eye contact. It was small, barely-there, but he knew you. Knew that it wasn't nerves when you bit your lip like that. It was hope. Hope that someone would notice. That we would see.

Eddie’s eyes flicked from the paper back up to you. Then he beamed, a dimple forming in his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you, Sweetheart,” he’s stepping around the counter now. “My smart girl.”

You froze. Just for a single beat. Then your eyes dropped to the floor, cheeks warming as your fingers tugged at the fraying cuff of your sleeve.

There was no holding back the smile now, even if it was smaller than your usual grin.

It was the kind of smile that Eddie just knew you kept for him. Felt it like a spark down his spine.

He wraps you in a joyful hug, swaying on the spot as you sigh into his hold, his lips pressing comfortingly against your forehead.

Eddie held you with no rush to let go – it wasn’t like the shop was rushed with customers – and thought about how you looked when he gave you that praise again. The way you softened was like something that finally settled in his mind. Oh.

Eddie Munson did not rush it. Did not shove you into a new rhythm or make a big deal out of it.

Instead, he started weaving it in, casually, like it had always been there. To be truthful, it always had been. Eddie was always an affectionate and complimentary boyfriend, but never before had it had this sort of effect, like your entire personality would shift.

So he wanted to see how to develop this discovery subtly.

It started with the laundry.

You were helping to fold his seemingly endless collection of band tees in his trailer, legs crossed on the beige couch, in nothing but a bra and leggings. He watched you smooth his shirts into near little squares, brow scrunched in focus, like it wasn’t even a chore, just something you did because you were here and you loved him.

“You’re such a good girl,” he said offhandedly, reaching for another shirt.

You faltered—not enough to seem obvious, but enough for him to see. There was just a little pause in your hands, a flicker in your breath, and you didn’t look up at him.

Eddie noticed.

And when you did glance up at him moments later, your lashes were lower than usual. Your smile was gentler as you began discussing what to have for dinner, brushing past your feelings completely.

Hellfire club. Chaos, as always.

Jeff was arguing about spell slots, and Gareth was making some insane suggestion that only fired up Jeff more. And you, usually loud, chiming in with jokes or snatching the dice out of people’s hands, were seated beside Eddie’s throne, legs slung across his lap.

He reached beneath the table, finding your hand in your lap and laced his fingers through yours.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

No reason. No context. Just because he wanted to.

The muscles in your legs seemed to relax further on his thighs, like your tension melted into the floor. Your body shifted closer so that your head could rest on his shoulder, and you did not say another word.

This wasn’t you. You were usually sitting at the other end of the table, mixing in with your friends, not at his side, clutching his hand like it's your lifeline or rubbing your body against his like a cat.

It was cute. So fucking endearing. But it was out of character, and Eddie was loving it.

A few days later, you were sitting at the diner counter after dropping off some library donations with Robin, still dressed in that little corduroy skirt that always made his hands twitch and talking animatedly about an old lady who tried to tip you with a bag of sweets.

“And then she told me I had a good soul, can you believe it? Me?” Your head tips back in a laugh, reaching across the table to steal one of his fries.

Eddie’s hand catches yours, the coolness of his rings stark on your skin. He didn’t kiss it. Didn’t joke, just held it there as his thumb runs slow circles across your palm.

“You’ve got such a big heart, babe. I love that about you. That old lady was right.”

There it was.

The lowering of your gaze, your shoulders slumping, and your breath hitching. It was like your body short-circuited.

The way your lips parted, but no words came out.

You weren’t just reacting. You were responding. Physically.

Not just to the words but to Eddie. To the way he spoke. To what they meant when they came from him. You looked down at your lap, suddenly too focused on peeling the corner off your napkin.

Eddie couldn’t help it. He smiled, slowly. Grinning like a wolf ready to pounce on his prey. But not yet, he’d wait. He wanted to see just how much he could play into this discovery.

You didn’t even realise you were doing it at first.

Stopping by his work a little more than usual. Bringing him coffee, you didn’t even like the smell. Sliding into the creaky stool by the counter like you belonged there, pulling your textbooks out like the music store was just another extension of your world. Casual.

But it wasn’t about the coffee. Or the studying. Or even Eddie.

Well, not exactly.

It was about the moment you can say, “I passed my midterm.” Or, “Professor Carmichael used my essay as an example.”

And it wasn’t even the grade that made you smile.

It was the smoothness of Eddie’s voice. The way it would lower, rich like honey.

“You’re such a smart girl. Knew you’d kill it.”

“Fuck, I’m proud of you, Sweetheart.”

“My brilliant girl. Look at you.”

Every single time, your heart would beat just that bit stronger. No matter how cold, your body would ignite with heat.

Even if you tried to hide your reaction, you couldn’t. Your automatic response was to look down, trying to hide the twitch in your smile, the way your breath slowed, and the way your body softened. But Eddie always noticed. Because he always watched you.

The way you leaned closer to the praise. The posture changes like you’re settling into something warmer, safer. Like you’re trying to become smaller and compact.

His confident, social, take no shit girlfriend, going soft at the sound of a few words.

So, of course, he started offering it more.

You were trying to hide a yawn behind your hand as you leaned against the counter, brows furrowed as you read through a textbook for college. The shop was quiet as it came close to closing, so the boss didn’t mind when you used it as a place to study, keeping Eddie company.

He stood on the other side of the counter, watching you closely.

Leaning closer, his lips brushed your temple. “God, you’re so focused when you’re learning. That’s so hot.”

It would have sounded like he was teasing you if he had used any other tone. But that same low, silky voice had you instantly biting your lip hard.

And later, when he walked out from the back room and found you curled in the battered armchair near the window, knees tucked under you and your sweater sleeves covering your hands, nose buried in a battered paperback - he didn’t say a word.

Because there it was again. That softness. The unspoken request. The way you glanced up at him, slowly with eyes heavy-lidded like you’d been drifting off and just waited.

The twinkle in your glazed-over eyes, he just knew you wanted him to say something.

“You’re my favourite thing to look at, you know that? So pretty.”

And you whimpered. A quiet, breathy sound like your body didn’t know what to do with how much it wanted that kind of attention.

Eddie smirked, flexing his ringed fingers at his side before offering you one. He was ready to close up the shop, take you home in his van, and wrap his arms around you.

It hit you out of nowhere.

One minute, you were tucked into Eddie's passenger seat, your leg bouncing, and fingers fiddling together in your lap. Humming along to his latest mixtape.

The next minute, the need hit you like a train as his words from the shop replayed in your mind.

It crawled under your skin, burned low in your stomach, and made you shift in your seat, like your body didn’t fit right anymore.

You glanced over at him. One hand on the wheel, his fingers tapping to the beat, eyes focused. Casual and effortlessly hot.

You swallowed, leaning over to turn down the song's volume, “pull over.”

Eddie’s brown eyes flick to yours, “What? What's wrong?”

Reaching across the arm rests, you rest your hand over the bulge in his jeans, squeezing his soft cock. Bold and direct like you usually were. The way he always liked. But instead of the usual firm touch that had him thrusting into your palm, it’s soft, barely even a ghost of pressure for Eddie, like you needed to ask permission even though you just knew you didn’t need to because Eddie made you damn aware that you could touch him any second of any day.

Swearing under his breath, the grip on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white. “Jesus H Christ, Sweetheart-”

“Please, Eds. I just wanna take care of you. I don’t want to wait.”

His heads whipping towards you, eyes alarmingly wide and that alone made your thighs press together to try and ease the throbbing pressure in your clit.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Yeah, fuck yeah. Okay.”

Without wasting another second, he swerves the steering wheel, causing the van to drive off the road dramatically, gravel crunching beneath. Managing to park just beyond the treeline, Eddie shuts off the engine, dousing you both in silence.

You both climbed into the back of the van, an area perfectly filled with plush blankets, cushions, and a couple of band posters pinned above the side panels like his bedroom. It was his little getaway, whether to practice his guitar whilst watching the sunset or to smoke a joint with a couple of friends. Over time, though, it had become your haven, a spontaneous and comfortable place for an orgasm or two.

Eddie lies back in the middle, his hands on your waist with the intention of helping you to straddle his waist, but that was not your intention as you drop to your knees between his legs.

No teasing. No commentary. Just that head burning low in your belly, fueling your movements, needing to soothe the emotions in your body. If he could praise you then you were damn sure making him feel good.

Eddie watched, trying to figure out where this energy was coming from, then his mind drifted back to the response you’d give him in the store.

“Easy Angel, I’ve got it. You okay?” Eddie asks as he watches you struggle to undo his belt buckle because your hands shake so much. Another sign that had him questioning which side of you he would be getting.

You nod, avoiding eye contact, fingers gripping his jeans just because you had to hold onto something as he pushes his jeans down to mid-thigh. “Just want you in my mouth. Want you to tell me I’m good.”

The outline of his now hard cock twitches in his underwear as he hisses through his teeth. Licking his lips, he wraps his fingers around your wrists, pulling your body up so that you’re now hovering over him, his mouth so close to yours. “You’re always good for me. My girl. Always so sweet even when you want to suck my cock.”

He sees it. The way the tremble stops, and eyes glaze over, breath fanning across his face. His cock twitches again.

Eddie sits up, his mouth pressing against yours with an urgency that has him moaning first. Your lips are always so soft against his, like pillows, and they taste so sweet from the lip balm you obsessively use.

With his fingers still loosely around your wrists, your hands press into his lower stomach, just to hold onto him. Leaning into his kiss more, you mewl as his tongue brushes against yours.

With a hand now cupping your jaw, tilting your face away from him, Eddie has the perfect angle to kiss along your neck, tickling that ideal spot to have you like putty in his hands.

“Yeah,” he whispered between kisses. “That’s it, you just wannabe my good girl, don’t you?”

The answer came in a head-to-toe shiver as you pull out of his hold, shuffling further down his body once more and hovering over his crotch.

Licking your lips, you reach beneath the waistband, easing out his cock, noting how it hardened at your touch. You open without question, taking him slow, inch by inch, with that look in your eyes like this wasn’t about you at all. It was for him.

“Fuck”, Eddie grunted, hips jerking slightly. “You’re doing so fucking good for me, Angel. Look at you.”

You moan around him, taking him deeper, tasting the saltiness and something that was just so uniquely Eddie. 

He could feel the way his praises melted you From your mouth getting wetter, to your thighs squeezing together, your hands shaking as one holds the base of his cock and the other slips beneath his shirt to feel the soft layer of hair beneath his belly button.

“You’re so goddamn pretty like this. On your knees for me, just needing to hear how perfect you are.”

Your responding whimper nearly has Eddie orgasming already. Biting onto his knuckle to try and hold back, he just watches. Not thrusting, not taking. Just letting you take control and do what you like—pleasing him and getting drunk off his voice.

As much as sex was always a give and take motion, Eddie was very much a pleasure dom when it came to intimate moments. He got off on seeing you get off. Even before this revelation that his words were doing more to you than you first realised, Eddie loved nothing more than lying you back, a pillow beneath your hips and his face firmly between your thighs until you’re numb from the amount of orgasms.

Of course, with the years of dating him, you’d pleasured him, but it was never like this, never because you needed it. Not even wanted to pleasure, but needed to get him off, to hear his words, his moans, feel the hand on the back of your head with reassuring strokes of his fingers.

It was like a dormant part of your mind had finally woken up.

Your fingers graze over his balls, playing with them, and Eddie’s back arches, just about ready to blow.

“Wait- I want to finish inside you,” he gasps, trying to pull his cock out of your mouth but you’re determined and keep him in your mouth. “Fuck-! Yes, baby fuck yes!”

You both groan, Eddie deepper than you, as you swallow the hot cum down coating your tongue, lapping at the underside of his cock, his most sensitive of spots, until he slumps back in a satisfied heap.

Eddie gave himself one breath to get his composure before reaching for your body, fully intending to switch positions and repay the favour. However, you were already tugging his boxers back up, crawling into his lap like a sleepy kitten.

“I don’t wanna keep going,” you say quietly, settling your head against his chest, listening to the comfort of his racing heartbeat. Thump thump thump. “I just wanted to make you feel good.”

Eddie blinked, hands automatically holding your body closely, “You don’t want me to?”

You shake your head.

“I just needed to be close. Needed you. You always make me feel so good, so I wanted to do the same for you.”

He was quiet for a beat, trying to comprehend your words. “Angel.”

For a moment, Eddie’s worried that you’ve taken this whole praise thing the wrong way. He wasn’t saying these things to expect anything in return, and a heaviness settled in his stomach. But then he looked down at you in his lap, from the grateful smile and the loving look in your eyes and released a sigh, lips brushing against your hairline. “Of course. Yeah, sweetheart. Whatever you want, always.”

He held you for a couple of minutes, just breathing in your perfume, trying to find some composure after his intense orgasm as the van gently rocked from the breeze outside before finding any sort of motivation to drive home.

It crept into everything now. The way you’d gravitate toward Eddie like you needed to be touching him just to breathe right. The way your loud, teasing commentary during Hellfire sessions had quieted into soft chuckles.

You didn’t even notice how much softer you were around him, but everyone else did.

Dustin was the first to speak up.

“Is she sick or something?” he whispered to Gareth after one particularly mellow campaign night. You hadn’t interrupted once. Just smiled, laughed quietly, and curled into Eddie’s side like you were made to fit there.

Jeff snorted, overhearing, “Dude, she used to roast all of us for our dice rolls. Now she just smiles.”

“She’s still her and she can very much hear you assholes,” Eddie interrupts from the head of the table, his arm wrapped casually around you, his thumb rubbing slow circles into you hip as you gave the boys at the end of the table the middle finger. “Se’s just tired lately, so stop judging, yeah?”

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t just tiredness.

It was that look you gave him every time he called you good, every time he praised your kindness or told you how proud he was. That softness had settled deep in your bones, a kind of hush that bloomed just for him.

Still, he needed to check in later, when it’s just the two of you back in his trailer, the TV playing some old horror flick as your legs rest in his lap, his hand under your shirt resting on your bare stomach.

“You okay, Sweetheart?” he asks, trying to keep his eyes on the screen but spending more time glancing at your face, trying to see any signs that something was wrong.

You nod, idly running your hands over his forearms. “Mhm.”

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Eddie pushes, not satisfied with the response.

You blink up at him, eyes big, warm and open. “Just like being near you, Eds. That’s all.

“Yeah?”

You answer with a sweet kiss to the centre of his throat, directly over his adam's apple. “You make me feel safe, Munson.”

Fuck. That was it. That was the shift he’d been feeling. Not just a change in mood, but a change in trust. You weren’t just his loud, fearless girl anymore. You were letting him carry you a little and letting him be your softness and safe place.

The house party at Steve’s place was loud, chaotic, and everything you loved about hanging out with your friends. 

Music blasted from the stereo, and people laughed in the kitchen over spilt beer and half-eaten pizza. Eddie was by your side, sitting on the couch, nursing a beer in his hand, his head tipped back with a laugh with Robin and Steve. You were laughing, too, throwing playful jabs at Harrington’s over-the-top party-hosting skills.

But there was something different tonight. Eddie noticed it almost immediately. You were quieter than usual, a little softer. Not in a bad way, just not as loud or bubbly. Your words were fewer, your movements more delicate as you leaned into Eddie’s warmth. Your usual mischievous grin had softened, and your laugh was quieter, most distant.

It wasn’t that you were sad; in fact, it was very much the opposite. You were still in the moment, enjoying yourself, but Eddie’s gaze kept flicking to you, watching the subtle changes. The way you stared into your red cup a little too long. The way your fingers tapped idly against your knee. The way your smile was smaller and your breath softer.

The way you had been acting wasn’t even necessarily a daily occurrence, either. This softness. There were still days when your loudness would return, the jesting with friends. In fact, yesterday, the two of you had sung karaoke off-key in the local bar just because you wanted to prove that you could hold a note longer than him. He watched, mesmerised, as you stood on a chair and belted out a song with all of your heart. His girl. His beautiful soulmate. Loud and proud.

But today, there was that change once more.

“Hey, Angel. You okay?” 

Blinking slowly, like it was an effort to achieve, you give him an almost sheepish smile, resting your chin against his shoulder and breathing him in. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he kisses the tip of your nose. He’d seen you go quiet like this after he complimented you on a particular burn against Harrington in this current war of words.

“Do you want to come with me for a second?”

You nod without hesitation, letting him guide you by the hand as he leads you away through the crowd. By passing the kitchen, he heads up the stairs, pausing at a door near the back of his house, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no other person was following.

The spare bedroom was empty. It was a quiet sanctuary away from the party noise, but the steady bass could still be heard thumping through the floor.

Shutting the door with a soft click, he turns to you, finding you flicking on the small lamp on the bedside table. Eddie licks his lips, watching you closely, from the way you awkwardly shuffle your feet, eyelids lowered like you’re embarrassed to meet his eyes, hands behind your back giving you an innocent demeanour.

Yeah. You were definitely in that praiseful headspace right now.

Eddie was quick to close the distance, needing to feel, touch, and protect you if that's what you wanted. Your lips parted, and his mouth is on yours, stealing all of your breath, hands firmly on your waist so you’re being pulled tightly against his chest.

Your hands circle their way into his hair, clutching it tightly and playing with the curls.

Eddie eases back, but only because he is dizzy from the lack of oxygen, resting his forehead against yours as he tries to compose himself. “You’re so quiet, baby.” Each kiss he placed against your cheek was slow, like he wanted to savour the taste of every inch of skin he reached, making his journey down your neck until you’re melting into his hands. “I know what you need.”

You felt a soft shiver run through you at his words. He was so close now. His hands lowring to cup your arse beneath your skirt, the firmness poking into your abdomen from his cock aching in his jeans. 

“Eddie, I-”

He kisses you again, cutting off whatever you were about to say, deepening the movements until your tongues are dancing together, fighting for dominance in a way that you’re now ready to drop to your knees because the word Eddie, Eddie Eddie, was all you could think about. It was addictive.

“Let me take care of you. You’ve been so fucking good, so sweet for me tongiht. I can see it, baby. I can see you slipping into that space. Let me make you feel good. I know that’s what you need.”

You felt your body respond to him. The overwhelming urge just to rub yourself all over him, to feel him on you. You needed to please him, the way he always did for you.

“Please, Eddie,” you say breathlessly, chest chevy to suck in air until you’re dizzy and swaying in his arms. Your fingers release the firm hold on his hair, lowering them over his chest. “I want to make you feel good, too.”

His eyes flashed with something darker. The corner of his lips tipped up as he began to push you back against the bed, your body bouncing on the mattress, his body now hovering over yours, trapping you underneath him.

“You wanna make me feel good, huh? God, how did I get so lucky to get you, Angel?”

Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, his curls framing his face in darkness, the smell of his shampoo filling your senses. “Yes, Eddie. I just want to make you feel good. I need to.”

“Good girl,” he praises sweetly, running his hands down your body. His fingers trace the curve of your waist before slipping under your shirt, admiring the softness of your stomach skin. He pauses for a moment, just to watch your reaction.

Your hips roll, pushing his hands firmer against your body, thighs separating to give Eddie room to rest a thigh just there.

His eyes lowered, watching the way your panty covered pussy now rubbed against his jean covered thigh. He could feel the warmth of your arousal even through the denim, feel the dampness seeping through.

“I love it when you do that. I know you want to make me feel good and you will, because nothing turns me on more than seeing you cum, Sweetheart. Let’s see if you can take me, baby.”

Eddie’s gifted fingers lower to the edge of your crumpled skirt, lifting the flimsy material until your lace panties are uncovered. He sucks in a breath, even though he saw you dress in them earlier, seeing them pressed firmly against his leg had his abdomen tightening with the need to cum. With a breath that helps to soothe that fighting urge down, his fingers slid under the damp material.

His eyes close, groaning deeply as he plays with your wetness, spreading it over your pussy, soaking your clit before lifting his thumb to his mouth, sucking and tasting your juices.

“Taste so fucking good. What do you want, Angel? My fingers, mouth or cock?”

“Cock, Eddie please fuck me.”

Jeans and boxers shoved down, panties off and thrown across the room, Eddie has one hand around your jaw, possessive and dominant as he guides his cock to your pussy with the other hand.

With each inch that enters you, your walls squeeze, the thickness causing your eyes to roll back. Your fingers dig into his forearms, leaving crescent-shaped marks from your nails.

“Goddamn, baby. Always so tight for me. You love this, don’t you? Love being my good girl?”

You nod frantically, feeling his fingers squeeze just that bit tighter around your throat, not in a discomfort way but just to keep you right there.

Eddie fucked you slowly at first, deliberate and deep. He wanted to see how loud your sweet moans could be, almost wishing your friends downstairs could hear so they knew who you belonged to.

The noises coming from your cunt were just as obscene, the sloppy slick and slap as he moved in and out. You were burning from the inside out; everything started and ended with the man inside you.

“You’re takin’ me so well. So fucking good for me!”

You whined, clinging to his shoulders now as he lowered his chest to brush against yours, the clothes catching together and wrinkling as his hips chase that helpless desperation.

Then something shifted. A spark. A pulse of heat and need in your belly, tightening, growing with each thrust.

Your legs hooked around his waist tightly, grabbing the back of his hair, your voice coming out harsher than it had all evening. “Harder, Eddie. Fuck-harder, please!”

Eddie froze. Then grinned.

“There she is,” he breathed, cock twitching inside of you. “There’s my strong, fiery girl; I’ve been looking for you.”

Your pussy clenched hard around him as your continue to hold onto him.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he groans, snapping his hips forward with enough force that he has to hold your hips down onto the bed. “Hmmm, let me just try something first.”

You’re so deep within your arousal that you don’t respond at first, eyes closed and body trembling with restraint.

“Good girl”, he praises gently, kissing your cheek.

Your inner walls tighten in a quick burst, squeezing his cock, earning a deep groan from your boyfriend.

“Mm, fuck yes, you’re my little slut aren’t you.”

Nothing. Not even a whine, squeeze of your legs, or flutter from your pussy. Eddie chuckles, sitting up on his forearms as he stares at your face. You aren’t upset, but you aren’t reacting; you’re just blank like you weren’t there anymore.

His hands cup your cheek instantly, “Hey, hey. You with me?”

You nod slowly, eyes finally having some depth and life. “I’m okay. I just-”.

Eddie leans down, kissing your nose, lips, chin and cheeks. “I know, that wasn’t for you. It’s okay. I just wanted to see if you would be interested in anything else. But, you’re my good girl, and my perfect angel just wants to be praised, doesn’t she? For taking my cock so fucing well.”

There was. That deep clench that suffocated around his cock, the one that took his breath awy and confirmed his thoughts. “Oh yeah, there she is. Tell me Angel, tell me you’re mine and i’ll make you cum.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, tears welling in your eyes at just how overwhelmingly perfect this was. 

Eddie's hips began moving more intensely than ever before, driving your body right to that perfect place.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Eddie- all yours, always-”

He kisses you so hard you forget how to breathe.

You came with him buried deep inside, clenching like a vice, sobbing through it. Eddie didn’t stop kissing you; he rocked you through it until a new warmth began to spill into you, dripping out with more obscene wet noises and causing more stains on the sheets.

His touches softened, lips encouraged with their touches over your face, bringing your hands to his mouth, kissing each finger.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he whispers, wiping the tears and sweat from your face with the corner of his shirt.

You nod with a tremble, “I'm ok, Eds.”

“You were incredible, so fucking incredible. All of you, my strong, perfect girl. I love you so much,” he buries his face into your neck, arms scooping beneath your back to wrap you in a hug.

You’re exhausted, physically and mentally. You wish you could return those praiseful words right back to him, but you couldn’t because you needed sleep—even if your last thought was the words, “I love you too.” 

The party was still thumping downstairs, but in the quiet, dimly lit spare bedroom, the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

You were in and out of sleep. Body feeling like warm jelly, boneless and dazed, wrapped in Eddie’s embrace on the tangled bed. The room smelled like sex, sweat and Eddie’s cologne. Grounding.

Your cheek was resting against his chest, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers stroked playfully over the nape of your neck.

You weren’t crying. You weren’t sad. You were just… spent.

Eddie felt it. Every tiny tremble in your body, how you clung to him like he was the last steady thing in the world. You hadn’t spoken since you came so hard you’d forgotten your name – not because something was wrong, but because your brain had gone quiet. Floating.

Eddie had been researching different BDSM terminologies, especially since finding out that he liked to be referred to as a pleasure dom. As you began reacting so well to the praises, he wanted to see what else he could learn to help benefit you.

Which is why he now knew you did not like degrading, having had no physical or verbal response during sex.

He also knew that what you were experiencing right now was something called Subspace. You were deep in it, still floating in that blissed-out, fragile place that made you extra soft and sleepy.

“Hey, baby,” Eddie gently spoke, his voice cracking as he did so. “You still with me?”

You nod, somewhat awake, cheek still smushed against his shirt. “Mmhm.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, smiling against your damp forehead. “You did so well for me tonight. So, so fucking good. I’m gonna clean you up now, though, ok? I don’t want you to wake up later feeling gross. Need to get you nice and comfortable.”

After another barely there nod, Eddie carefully slips out of your hold, readjusting his boxers and jeans, rebuckling the belt and straightening himself. He could shower later when you were wrapped up safely in his bed.

With careful coaxing, Eddie helped you walk to the bathroom across the hall and sit on the counter. With warm water on the corner of a towel, he wiped away the sins between your legs, being careful as he moved.

You whimpered, shoulders hunching over, and legs trying to sht at the overstimulation. Eddie, ever the caring boyfriend, took his time, talking you through the touch. “I know, baby. I’m being as gentle as I can, but I need to take care of you.”

You’re practically asleep again by the time he’s stuffing your panties into his back pocket and straightening your clothes. With his leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, he helps you down the stairs. “Let’s get you home, sweetheart.”

You barely remember the taxi ride home. You were just aware of moving around and leaning heavily against him, and of the moment when the world began to strongly smell like him and home. 

Finally, you were being helped out of your clothes and into one of his old shirts. Then, you were tucked into his bed, and he lay beside you in just a pair of boxers.

Only once you were warm and safe in the dark did he speak again, not even sure you were awake.

“Hey, how are you feeling? Do you feel alright now?”

He’s surprised when you react with a subtle tilt of your head against his chest, curling further into his hold, “Yeah, Eddie. I’m just- I don’t know. I felt so close to you earlier. I think I just dropped, is that the right word for it?”

Eddie nods, striking his fingers against your cheek, picturing your face in the dark. “You don't have to explain it, sweetheart. I get it. I felt it too”

“I just wanted to make you feel good. You always take care of me. You're always saying how I'm your best girl, and I just wanted to give that back, even if it was a lot.”

“It was a lot,” Eddie agreed. But I loved every second of it. And you were perfect. You don't need to do anything for me. You could slap me in the face, and I'd thank you for it.”

You laugh tiredly against his chest, “I'm not going to slap you, Eddie.”

“You know what I mean,” he chuckles, tightening his hold. I’ll always take care of you because you’re my best girl, and you’re going to mine forever and always, right?”

“Forever and always, Eddie.”

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

FAVOURITISM. [PART ONE]

tangerine x fem!reader

wc. 1956 summary. tangerine was put out of work following the events of an accident. as a result, he created his own business, applying all of his knowledge. you work as a secretary cross technical assistant for him and working very closely to the big bad boss catches the eyes of your peers. one day he notices a change in your workwear — proving to you, he’s been paying a lot more attention than you originally thought. boss x secretary. disclaimer. the images at the bottom are just a reference of what I picture the reader wearing. they are not a reflection of how I write or see yn (colour and body type) it’s merely a way to show you what I envisioned

MY 2 YEAR ANNIVERSARY! it’s only right that I write for tan seeing as it all started with him xx also a big big loving thank you to @pretty-little-mind33 for the idea and brainstorming with me. literally would not have done this without her <33

SERIES MASTERLIST

⎯ ☆ ⎯

It wasn’t often that you’d find yourself not looking forward to work — feeling anxious to get in. Your love for what you do always seeming to overshadow any discomfort.

For the last several months, you’ve been working as a technical assistant cross secretary for your boss, Tangerine. No one knew of his real name, and you were starting to think that’s the way it’ll always be. 

Last night after your shift, you were brought to HR for an unexpected meeting, being called up on a dress code violation. Multiple complaints made around the office about your bright tights and flowy shirts, being told that it was ‘unfit for work’ and a ‘distraction.’ You knew you weren’t exactly well liked around the office — the sneers and scowls made your way making that evident. But never did you think they would go so far out of their way to complain about you. 

Their dislike for you felt territorial — judgy eyes always seeming to follow you as you attend to the needs and wants of your boss. The attention you gain from the broody, grumpy man in charge, simply asks and tasks you agreed to in your job description. The repetitive calls for your name only ever consisting of tea requests or computer help. It left you feeling confused and isolated, constantly wondering why they hated you so much. You were only ever doing your job. Doing what was asked of you. 

So, as you sit in your car before the start of the workday, you use your spare few moments to collect yourself, preparing for those same judgemental stares. You look down at your legs briefly, noticing the lack of colour — your usual patterned tights now being replaced with grey, drab trousers. All of your vibrancy and exuberancy —personality— stolen when told to make this change. 

You exhale, giving yourself one last second of sanity before you’re getting out of the car, juggling your bags and cups of coffee in hand. Stepping into the building and into the elevator with a small crowd, you become invisible, blending in with everyone — becoming what you’ve always dreaded: a lifeless office zombie, sharing the same apathetic, dull expression with all those around you. 

You reach your floor and exit with the few remaining others in the lift. You deviate from your colleagues and head for your bosses office at the back, giving his door a couple of knocks. 

“Yeah?” he calls out, and you slowly push the door open.

His usual rigged, intimidating gaze softens as his eyes fall on you through the gap, his attention landing on you over the top of his computer.

“You’re late,” he says, the words a reprimand for most, but for you they were more of an observation — a casual, flyaway statement. 

“I know, I’m sorry. Traffic was a nightmare,” you apologise as you step into his office, avoiding his eyes like you were ashamed. 

You look down to the coffees in hand and pass him the one without the lipstick mark, extending an arm as you move to stand beside his desk.

“Don’t worry about it. It happens,” he reassures. And as he takes the cup from your hold, he glances down, noticing the lack of your familiar flamboyance. “What’re you wearing?”

You look down confused, brows pulling together as if to show you didn’t understand his question.

“The trousers,” he looks up at you, gaze almost harsh. “Why're you wearing them?” 

He has never seen you wear trousers.

“Thought I’d shake things up,” you shrug with your lie, not wanting him to know the real reason.

You didn’t want to give your peers more reason to hate you by tattling to the boss — complaining about them being mean to you, so you decided against it, keeping him from the truth. Though it’s far harder than you anticipated, his eyes ever so demanding as he remains fixed on you above. 

“So no smiley face is also part of you shaking things up?” he questions, showing you the blank cup — your usual sharpie smileys nowhere to be seen. 

You wince slightly, embarrassed by the whole ordeal. You weren’t sure if the embarrassment was from the fact he noticed or that you forgot. But humiliation was felt either way.

“It’ll save us the ballache if you tell me why,” he takes a sip of his drink and places it aside, giving you his full attention. “I can call a staff meeting, but I reckon they’ll get suspicious after seeing us talk,” he playfully blackmails, offering you a faint smile to show you his bribe holds no such malice.

You turn and look out through the window of his office, picking up on dozens of sets of eyes glued to you through the gap of his blinds. All of which briskly turn away upon the glance of Tangerine, his eyeline following yours — scaring your peers back into work.

“What’d they do?” he asks, redirecting your focus back to him.

“I just got a complaint, that’s all,” you shrug, trying to minimise it as much as possible.

“Why?” he asks bluntly, neck craning to keep your eyes on him.

“They don’t like the way I dress apparently,” you laugh faintly, the noise sounding far more hurt than you intended. “I mean I get it,” you deflect, trying not to slip into a habit of seeking him for assurance when people in the office turn against you. “I get what they mean.”

He’s quiet as he looks over you, head shaking disapprovingly as he mumbles something incoherent. He inhales deeply and then coughs to clear his throat, sounding like he was preparing for something. 

“I gotta meet with some people, but I’ll see what I can do,” he says as he stands, reaching for his briefcase. “Don’t let these miserable lot get to you,” he smiles weakly as he collects his coffee cup, heading towards the door until he stops, and turns around to face you. “They hate that I don’t hate you, that’s all.” 

Your eyes follow after him as he leaves his office, leaving you standing there alone to process his words. You’ve never really picked up on the hinted favouritism like your colleagues have — never seeming to notice the allowances and kindness your peers aren’t granted with. But you were only ever doing as told, why would that warrant any special treatment? 

And with that thought in mind, you head towards your desk just outside of his office, setting your things on your neatly, organised table. Placing your hot drink in his designated spot besides your computer, you log on — attending to emails and to things on your extensive to do list.

A few hours pass you by.

You’re interrupted from all work when you feel the presence of someone standing behind you, your boss now back from his meeting with a pile of papers in hand.

“Need you to sort these out for me,” he says as places the stack beside your hand. “Please,” he adds, trying to keep up with the habit he’s trying to enforce by showing his appreciation. But only to you.

You look down to the pile, noticing a gap in between the blank, plain papers. You look up at him briefly, like you were asking permission and then your eyes fall back onto the stack. And as you go to lift the upper chunk of papers, Tangerine is moving from you and into his office, a new bag —a shopping bag— held within the hand of his briefcase. You take little to no notice and turn your attention back to the pile, a square paper bag hiding within the fake forms. The perfect cloak of disguise. 

You didn’t need to look inside to know what it was, the warm circle giving it away immediately. It was a cookie. You swivel in your chair to look into his office, his eyes already on you through the gap in his blinds. The gap you’re now starting to believe holds another purpose. You smile at him sweetly, mouthing thanks before resuming with your work — wanting to get it all done before the end of the day.

And as five pm soon rolls around and as everyone begins logging off and packing up for home, you turn to look back at Tangerine, a pained expression on his face as he rolls his shoulder. His old injury you know very little about seeming to give him grief.  

The floor begins to clear and you collect your things, walking those few steps until you’re in front of your boss's door. You give it a light tap and enter when welcomed.

“You off?” he asks, turning his attention to you in his doorframe. 

“Yep,” you smile, lingering for a moment. “Thank you for the cookie, by the way.”

“It’s alright,” he gently smiles, head bowing almost bashfully. “Hang on and I’ll walk you out. Don’t want you out in the dark by yourself.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you deflect, not wanting to be a bother. “Really it’s okay, my car is only outside.”

He shakes his head at you as he gives his desk a quick tidy, packing things up for the night. Tangerine stands and collects his belongings, picking up his coat from the rack and small bag from the side before he’s heading to you, guiding you along. 

You each walk towards the open elevators and head in, standing side by side —close— within the confined space. 

He twists inwards to face you. “I uh,” he starts, extending the shopping bag from earlier to you. “I picked something up for you.”

Your brows tug in the middle, looking up at him like you were questioning the reasoning why. You take it from his hand and look inside. 

“No,” you whisper, sheer disbelief in your voice as you pull out the gift. “These are beautiful! Where did you even find them?” you question, looking over the tights, marvelling at the pattern. 

He keeps his head cast downwards, looking between his feet as he smiles, appreciating your appreciation. “It’s a secret.”

The elevator dings, cutting your time short and you both look at each other, the glance brief. He holds his arm out, gesturing for you to step off first,  and you do. You linger, waiting for him to join so you could walk besides one another. 

The walk towards your car is slow, as if both of you are trying to savour the short journey, hang on to it. Small chuckles and shy, stolen glances being the only form of communication during your minute long walk.

You reach into your bag and pull out your keys to unlock your car, the dozen chains and charms jingling and clattering with the movement of your hand. 

Tangerine reaches for your door, pulling the handle to open it for you — nodding you inside. You smile at him sweetly as you get in, placing your bags on the passenger seat. 

“You get home safe, alright?” he says, grinning softly.

“I will,” you look down coyly, smile faint.

He nods once. “Good.”

“See you monday?” 

“Mhm-hm,” he hums, expression gentle as he goes to close your door. “Have a good weekend,” he says before shutting you inside.

You exhale shakily within the quiet sanctuary of your car, the lack of noise allowing your mind to run rampant with repeats from the last few minutes. You glance down to your gift, trying to process it all until your eyes land on the tag — his name, his real name squiggled on the note.

The favouritism you’ve struggled to notice becomes as clear as day. Every interaction from the past now being thought of differently as you look back on it all. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

in my mind she’s very penelope garcia/ louisa clark/ jessica day/ phoebe buffay coded (more so in dress sense) she’s cute and i love her

[ PART TWO ]

[wren-kitchens]

once more, with feeling

876 words

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

100% inspired by this incredible post by @thirdtimed! it had me by a chokehold i had to do something about it

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

the first time, it was unprecedented. 

blood on his hands, tears in his eyes, we expected it to be over—a failed experiment, one that only he would ever remember to save the others the pain. too much grief wracked his body for him to even choke out the words for a long while, but we waited. it isn't an unusual thing for us to do, to wait.

smearing sand on his sunburned face, he wiped away his tears and said,

"give me another chance."

the second time, we were curious.

shaken and silent, he stared into our face for a long while, as if trying to decipher what in void we were. the crown of crystals were still and a kind of grey that isn’t truly grey, but every colour at once, and his breathing was shallow. the bloodlust drained from his eyes, leaving them as grey as the crown.

we asked, because he would not have thought to answer otherwise. he flinched, and hesitated. 

"i.. can i see them again?"

the third time, it was almost expected.

still smoking from the explosion, she sunk to her knees, sobbing and clutching herself as if she feared literally falling apart. it took a long while for her screams of grief subsided, and longer still for the weeping to fade into sniffing and hiccups. she hadn't looked at us once, as if she didn't know we were there, but we did not wish to interrupt—she was entitled to her unraveling in private.

wiping her eyes, she didn’t bother to compose herself much more. she lifted her face, littered with gashes and scars, and with agony in her voice-

"i want my friends."

the fourth time.. well, it was a little surprising.

a victor had not yet arrived so high on adrenaline and confidence, and the blood that stained even his mouth seemed to be a trophy. the sword had not left his hand, and still dripped with what remained of the last two, the drops vanishing into the abyss below. he was grinning, and this was the most surprising part.

not needing any persuasion or suggestion, he looked us right in the eye—as none had done before, crowing,

"come on, give us another go!"

the fifth time, it wasn't the request that was new.

alone in a field of sunflowers is where we eventually found him, after waiting fruitlessly for his arrival. he startled a little as he realised we were there, but soon calmed at the understanding of what we meant for him. after all, it had been almost a year since he became stranded—and stranded was the word for it. the shawl was still the red and purple of the flowers he had once given to his partner, and we suppose one could say they started this whole chain of events.

setting aside his gardening tools, he smiled almost sadly. perhaps he would miss what had become his prison, despite everything it signified. he sighed,

"i think i’d like a better try at companionship."

the sixth time.. it almost didn’t count.

surprised to have even been considered for a crown, they laughed in delight when the paper version settled on her head, clearly pleased with our creative flair. we were pleased as well—it isn’t often creative flair ends up being a positive part of our abilities.  they looked around, as if deciding whether or not the place was real, and seemingly settled on an answer. we didn’t ask what the answer was. 

adjusting the paper crown, she laughed, clearly finding the whole situation amusing. when we asked, they seemed to be even more surprised.

"i get to choose? well- let's do it again!"

the seventh time, it became amusing. they did know they could choose something else, did they not?

whooping and throwing his arms around in celebration, came the second victor to be genuinely pleased by his victory and subsequent death. he spent a considerable amount of time pretending he was at an awards show, thanking his family, his wife, his best friend and so on. it was refreshing, after all that misery we witnessed at the beginning of the games, to see the tides changing. especially with him; rage used to be his fuel. now it seemed to be love.

grinning up at us, he waited for something. perhaps one of the others had mentioned it, but he did not seem surprised when we asked.

"what do i want? of course i want more!"

the eighth time, we don’t have to even introduce ourselves.

considerably more pleased than he had been the first time, he seems to think that taking his own life was the ultimate show of power against us. of course, we have changed our ways since his game, but he is not to know that. like his predecessor, he too seems amused by the paper crown. 

cracking his knuckles, and stretching his neck, we already know what he’s going to say, but we let him ask it.

"one more time."

[gpcwsl]

leah x single mom?

Leah Williamson x Reader

Unicorn Castle

WC: 1366

Leah Williamson MasterList

MasterList

Warnings: none? Unless you count Leah being a child as a warning.

-

It was a quiet kind of morning—the sort that made time stretch long and lazy. Leah Williamson had finally given herself a day off. No alarms, no training, no press. Just silence, warmth, and the not-so-hot chocolate she was now nursing, lukewarm and barely tolerable. She didn’t even know why she’d made it. She didn’t like hot chocolate. Hated coffee. Tea was…meh. But the mug was warm when she first held it, and that had been enough.

Wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big, she stood at her window, letting the outside world move without her. That’s when she saw you.

A moving van sat half-parked across the drive of the house next door. You were there, pulling a box from the back with effort you didn’t bother to hide. Your hair was a little windswept, your hoodie riding up slightly as you hoisted the box against your hip. Leah didn’t recognise you. She was good with faces—mostly. Still, she figured you were just moving in.

Then she noticed the chalk.

A toddler sat on the concrete, giggling, her hands and knees dusted in colours as she scribbled large swirls on the driveway. Blues, pinks, oranges. She paused only to clap at her own artwork. Leah smiled without meaning to. It was soft. Familiar, even though it wasn’t.

Her half-drunk hot chocolate was abandoned on the windowsill.

She moved on instinct, running a hand through her mess of blonde hair, trying to act casual as she slipped outside. The air had that in-between chill of a British spring—brisk enough to sting, but sunny enough to excuse staying outside too long. She walked across her lawn and toward you, casually clearing her throat like this wasn’t weird.

“Hey, uh—need a hand?” she asked, jerking her chin toward the van. “Boxes look a bit brutal.”

You blinked at her, surprised. “Oh! No, I’m okay, thank you though. Just the last few left.”

Leah opened her mouth to argue, to insist even though you’d already said no—but she didn’t get the chance.

“Can you draw wif me?”

The tiny voice was unexpected, and Leah looked down to see the toddler gazing up at her with wide, hopeful eyes. She held out a piece of purple chalk like it was a gift from a king’s treasury.

Leah hesitated. She glanced at you. You smiled—tired but amused—and gave her a small shrug, like, go on then.

So Leah sat down.

Right there on the concrete in her grey joggers, next to a chalk rainbow that led to nowhere, she let the little girl press a stub of pink into her hand. “I’m making a unicorn castle,” the toddler announced seriously.

“Obviously,” Leah said, nodding like it was the most important task in the world.

And for the next little while, it was.

-

“More pink!” the toddler insisted, crawling across the chalk-covered drive like a miniature art director. Her curls bounced with every movement, and her eyes sparkled with delight.

“Yes, boss,” Leah grinned, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she carefully outlined the base of what was apparently the castle moat. Her hands were now more chalk than skin, her joggers stained in swirls of green and blue. She didn’t care. Honestly? She was having a ridiculous amount of fun.

“You never told me your name,” Leah said, glancing sideways at the tiny human now sprawled on her stomach, drawing stars in the sky.

“Luna,” the girl replied without looking up, like it was obvious.

“Luna,” Leah repeated, smiling. “Coolest name ever. You picked it?”

“No,” Luna said, finally looking at her, like she was the ridiculous one now. “My mummy did.”

Leah’s heart tripped over itself for a moment. Right. Mummy. She glanced toward the van—just in time to see you struggling with what looked like the last, and biggest, box.

Without hesitation, she stood up, brushing chalk dust from her knees and smearing it across her hoodie. “Hold the castle, Luna,” she said with mock seriousness. “Don’t let it fall.”

Luna saluted.

Leah jogged over just as you shifted the weight of the box in your arms, clearly trying not to let it win. “Whoa—okay, give me that,” she said, reaching for it without waiting for your permission.

“I’ve got it,” you tried, already breathless.

“You had it. Now I’ve got it.”

She winked. Cheeky. Confident. Slightly out of breath from sprinting five whole metres.

You let go, surrendering with a soft laugh and a muttered “thanks,” brushing a strand of hair from your face as she easily hauled the box inside.

Inside, your house smelled like new paint and cardboard. You held the door open as Leah stepped through, setting the box down in the hallway with a small grunt.

“Alright,” she said, standing straight and dusting off her hands, “you’re officially moved in.”

“Didn’t realise I’d hired help,” you teased.

“I come with the neighbourhood,” she shot back, eyes glinting. “Very low rates. Payment in chalk or juice boxes.”

You laughed again, and it lit something warm in Leah’s chest. She liked the sound of it. Too much, probably.

And that’s when it hit her. This…feeling. This strange, giddy pulse under her skin. She’d barely met you, had only known your name for maybe two minutes, but there was something there. An ease. A pull.

But then the second thought came just as fast. What if she doesn’t like women? And even if she did… what if she’s not single?

Luna’s words echoed in her head: My mummy did.

Leah’s heart did that awkward thing again. She looked back at you. You were watching her. Smiling. Grateful. Beautiful.

And she had no idea what to do with any of it.

-

Leah leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, her thumb brushing absentmindedly over a smudge of chalk still clinging to her palm. You’d taken a seat on the bottom stair, finally looking less weighed down now that the last box was off your back.

“So,” she said, folding her arms, “do I get to know your name, or am I just going to keep calling you Luna’s mum forever?”

You smirked. “Y/N,” you said easily, offering your hand. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

She took it, warm and soft in hers, the shake gentle and lingering for a second longer than necessary. “Leah,” she replied, like you didn’t already know—like her name wasn’t all over the telly and on jerseys across London.

“I figured,” you said with a knowing look. “Luna recognised you before I did. Thought you were someone from Paw Patrol at first.”

Leah let out a bark of laughter. “You’re joking.”

“She gets excited over the bin truck, don’t flatter yourself.”

Another laugh, lower this time, and Leah couldn’t stop smiling. You had this calmness about you that made her feel… grounded. Like the chaos of her world couldn’t quite reach this doorstep. “So,” you said, stretching your legs out, “you having a good time with my daughter out there?”

“Good time?” Leah echoed, glancing toward the driveway through the open door. “Y/N, I’ve been promoted to Royal Architect of the Unicorn Kingdom. I’m considering retiring from football.”

You grinned, but before you could respond—

“LEEAAAHHHHHH!”

Both of you jumped slightly as Luna’s voice rang out, loud and full of authority.

“Where are you?! The dragon’s coming and you’ve got the SWORD!”

Leah’s eyes widened in mock panic. “Oh no—the sword.”

You barely had time to blink before she was off, spinning on her heel and half-jogging back down the path.

“Hold on, Luna! I’m coming! Don’t let the dragon eat my horse!”

You stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching her skid back into the chalk battlefield like she’d been born for it.

And maybe she had. Because watching her crouch back down, eyes wide, pretending to hand over an invisible sword to your equally dramatic daughter—it made something flutter quietly in your chest.

It was hard not to wonder if this moment was a one-off.

Or if she’d be back tomorrow.

Just in time for another dragon.

[teamred]

gtfih (get the fuck in here)

✩‌ wade wilson/deadpool x reader | fluff | 1.3k

SUMMARY | every morning, you see a man and his dog walk past your bakery and all he does is stick his head through the door, inhales deeply, make a comment, then walks out. what gives?

WARNINGS | flirty banter with sexual jokes, none really!

RATING | teen+

“Oh, that smells like unicorn farts wrapped in rainbows!” 

At the bakery's front counter, you glance up at the chiming bell above the door. Your first customer of the day... with a really strange comment.

A tall, mottled man stands before you in a grey hoodie holding an equally odd looking dog with a lolling tongue. Definitely not a sight you see every day. 

He takes a deep, exaggerated sniff of the air.

“Morning!” you greet with a smile. “Come on in and—”

And just like that, he bolts out the door and back onto the street. His dog licks his face—actually, his open mouth—as they disappear from view.

What the fuck?

The next morning, it happens again. 

“Mother of holy Mary and Marvel Jesus, that smells like a threesome between me, a donut, and fuck-me chocolate syrup!” 

The man, again in the same coloured hoodie, pauses dramatically, closing his eyes and taking another long whiff as he half-leans into the bakery.

“Would you like to try—?” 

But before you can finish, he’s gone again, leaving you standing there in disbelief.

The third morning is not much different. 

Same man, same dog, same routine. However, this time, he doesn’t even say a word—just inhales, sighs in contentment, then spins around and exits as quickly as he entered. 

It keeps on happening until the end of the week. By then, you've had enough. 

Leaning on the counter, arms crossed, you watch from the counter as he comes into view by your window. 

His dark maroon hoodie is drawn tight, and in tow as usual is his dog drooling slightly against his shoulder. You brace yourself, eyes narrowing.

The door swings open.

“Wow—” 

“You, Mr. Dog Man!” You cut him off and point at him sternly. 

He raises an eyebrow, pointing a finger to himself as if saying, “Me?” 

“Yes, you,” you confirm, then you jab your finger towards your glass counter. “Kindly get the fuck in here.”

He chuckles, amused. “Did you just tell me to ‘get the fuck in here’?”

“Kindly,” you say, tilting your head with exaggerated politeness, “but yes.”

The man shrugs, complying with a casual stroll to the counter. 

“Alright, I'm in. What’s the dealio?” he asks, leaning on the counter with a smile. 

“What’s your name, sir?” 

“It’s Wade,” the stranger supplies, his smile widening. “Wade Wilson. Is yours ‘The Bitchy Baker Who Didn’t Have a Good Dicking This Morning’?” His words drip with sarcasm, but there’s a playful twinkle in his eyes. 

“Ha-ha. So funny,” you reply dryly. “You know, you can't just keep sticking your head in my bakery, make a comment, and then leave.”

“Why not? It's a free country,” he says, feigning innocence. 

You roll your eyes. “If you like the smell of my baked goods that much, why don’t you actually buy one? I can assure you that they taste better than they smell.” 

Wade smirks. “That’s what many of my ex-girlfriends said, but I could never trust them.” 

You ruffle your eyebrows at his offhand comment, but he moves on quickly. “Look, I never carry my wallet on my morning walks. Mary Puppins here would guilt-trip me into buying way more stuff than I need.” 

Your gaze drops to his dog, who’s happily panting in his arms and looking up with big eyes. “Her name is Mary Puppins?”

“Yup. Her previous owner—may he rest his soul—named her. Her new baby daddy—that’s me—just kept the tradition going.”  

“And she guilt-trips you into buying stuff?” you ask slowly in equal parts disbelief and intrigue. 

“Look at this face!” Wade exclaims, holding his dog out closer to you. “Wouldn't you buy her anything she wanted?” 

For a few beats, you inspect the dog and its outfit. A little red and black costume that looks awfully similar to something you’ve seen before, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. But yes, her owner was right; she did have something oddly endearing about her. 

“Is it okay if I pet her?” 

“Oh yeah,” Wade nods enthusiastically, “go right ahead.”  

Based on her lack of facial expressions, Mary Puppins seems indifferent to your pats and scritches, but her tail is wagging, so she must be enjoying it slightly. Wade watches you in approval.  

You retract your hands, wash them quickly, then grab a tray of goods out from one of the shelves in the counter. 

“Well, since you don't have your wallet, have one of these on the house,” you say, placing the tray in front of him. 

Wade gasps theatrically, eyes twinkling in delight at all the choices he can possibly have. He takes his time, hovering his free hand over the array of pastries, until he finally decides on a chocolate croissant. 

One bite, and his reaction is nothing short of dramatic, but that seems to be this guy’s style.

His eyes flutter to a close, and he lets out a moan that echoes in the quiet bakery. You smile proudly and mentally pat yourself on the back. 

“Oh my God, they always talk about having a foodgasm, but my mouth is literally coming with each bite. Oh my fucking God!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay, bring your wallet tomorrow and you can have plenty more foodgasms.” 

“What—my handsome features don't get me free baked goods?” Wade leans the rest of his croissant towards Mary Puppins, who’s trying her best to nibble at it, but is mostly just licking it.

“You're cute, but you’re not that cute," you tease. Looking beyond his skin condition, he was a teensy bit handsome, you had to admit.

“I used to wear a wig. I’ll put it on again if it means I get free shit. Would that help?”

It’s hard not to smile in front of him. “No, I don't think so.” 

“People say I look like Ryan Reynold’s hotter cousin when I’ve got a full load of hair on me.”  

You huff and shake your head in disagreement. 

“How about a date?” Wade asks with a wink. “There’s financial compensation in that—that’s gotta count for something.” 

A date would count for something, but you didn't want him to be out of the waters yet.

“Come back tomorrow with your wallet and a date could maybe be in your future,” you reply flirtatiously. 

Wade nods with a grin and begins to walk backwards towards the door. 

“If I’m late though, it’s ‘cause I’m too busy jerking it while fantasizing about having those beauties in my mouth again.” 

You sputter a laugh. Feeling brave, you decide to channel his humor and reflect it back at him. “Wow, maybe you’ll be only one minute late, if you can even last that long.” 

He gasps in mock horror and jogs back to the counter again to take another baked good. 

“This is compensation for that comment…” he says with squinted eyes, stuffing the pastry into his mouth. 

“Don’t come too hard tonight, handsome,” you say with a wink. 

“I’m legitimately so hard right now,” he says with a full mouth, pointing the half pastry braid towards his crotch. “As the kids say these days, you match my freak, lady. Say bye-bye, Mary Puppins!” 

Wade awkwardly adjusts himself to make his dog give a little paw wave, while she simply wags her tail. You laugh and shake your head, amused by his antics. 

As he finally exits, you hear him call out, “And if anyone asks, I’m just here for the sweet, sweet baked goods. Totally not because of the hot baker!” 

You bite your lip, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, as you watch him and his dog disappear down the street. As you return to work, you replay your interactions with Wade over and over, and realize he’s just as endearing as his quirky dog. 

You’re buzzing in anticipation to see Wade and Mary Puppins again tomorrow morning. 

[suguru-getos]

"Please- please-" you raggedly breathe, knees scraping against the hard floor as Satoru dragged you by your wrist, a soft whimper escaping your lips. You had no idea why he had gotten so angry. You have been nothing but good. You're forced to stand up next, hard grip on your hair sure to give you migraines. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I don't understand-"

This is the first time Satoru has been so silent, it terrifies you, the very marrow of your bones. He is big, tall, looming and so unwavering when he wants to be. Your hurt and panic breaks into a sniffle, lips parted to utter what he'd call a pathetic excuse of an apology. "What did I say, when I said I would be okay with you going out?" He raised a brow, and your pupils wavered in the bone-chilling coldness of his tone. Harsh blue eyes and pursed lips ready to attack his little prey. "Yo- You- you-" Fuck, you're stuttering. Just like you always do when you're scared and panicked. "Yo- You- you-… what. Did. I. Say?" Satoru hums, after mocking your tone.

You sniffled, "s-said to me to not go out apart from the estate premises."

"Do I need to make sure you listen to me in a different way?" For Satoru, it's simple. You have tried to run so many times that his patience has worn out, the constant fear of you going away is making him the monster he is now. The outside world is filled with curses, and bad things. You, are a non-sorcerer and you should know better. Besides, after today's incident. He is ready to do anything.

"Why the hell were you outside then?" He yelled, Satoru… doesn't really yell. The problem is, a special grade spirit was sighted near the store you decided to go see for yourself. While that's something rare, it's increasing his anxiousness a tenfold. What if you had been there, you had been a bag of fucking bones! "I just- wan' wan' wan'ed you know- I just-"

"Speak to me properly or I will break you in ways you can't take. Wouldn't let you walk for days." That causes you to cry out, why is he overreacting so much! Christ! He already has you here, rotting, against your will. You sobbed, heart racing and breaths shallowing.

Satoru was… tolerable… you wouldn't call yourself the unluckiest person in the world until today. He had abducted you, but he was never… this.

"Can’t talk to her or she will have a FUCKING panic attack." His jaw grits, holding you by the neck and pinning you against the wall. Your hands instinctively hold his wrist, but they're meek, sweaty with fear, and powerless. "If I see you step out again, I will kill everyone you hold near since you love watching me helplessly try to make you compliant, without hurting you, no?" Without hurting you… yeah right.

You nodded, "W- Won't step out." It's getting harder for you to speak with every second, eyes losing focus and fight or flight kicking in. Satoru's harsh expressions are blurring out, you were passing out.

And you do, fall limp against him. His feet impatiently tapping the floor once he sees you collapse. Another reminder of how you could die in an instant and leave him like Suguru did. A soft sigh escapes him once the throbbing headache kicks in. The high adrenaline calming down and kicking in with brutal headache. He lets you fall on the floor, ignoring the slight bruise in your head at the impact. You should know better. At least this is keeping you from not fucking dying.

He walks away to get the medication for his head, looking at himself in the mirror. He doesn't… look like himself. He leans in, watching the colour of his eyes greying. Something's wrong. That's when it kicks in.

Yandere Satoru was influenced by the same special grade curse he had killed. Why else were his thoughts so messy? You had escaped so many times but he always thought you'd just… understand one day.

A cold blood rushes through his spine once his cloudy thoughts clear up, and the idea of you passed out on the cold flooring floods him. Satoru has never been more quick to pick you up, cradling you close. Some part of him is happy, you wouldn't run away anymore. Another part of him is unsure if it's him truly thinking it, or if it's the curse's energy tampering with his own. A small part of him wants to die for putting you through this. Satoru Gojo needed to figure this out.

And then… he needed to build his relationship with you from scratch once he finds out what you did go out to buy. There were ingredients of his favourite Kikufuku. You were trying to make him… Kikufuku.

The small part of him that wanted to die isn't so small anymore. Months, if not weeks, it will take months to get you to love him like this again…

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z Writes Episode 7: The Rowing Team

Find the Contents page Here

CWs: noncon; intox; alcohol intox; substance intox; group sex; impregnation; foreshadowing; fem!reader having a very bad time

Author's note: The poll in the last episode has about a half hour left on it as I start this, and so far all votes are for "No limits, make it uncomfortable" So we're doing a noncon scenario today. You filthy, filthy animals, I love you all 🤍

########################################

You might have pregamed a little hard. By the time you got to the party you could already feel yourself swaying a little. You shook yourself and went inside. What was freshers week for but drinking irresponsible amounts of alcohol and going to flat parties, after all? You're still not used to this though, you only turned 18 in the last week of August, and still haven't had chance to build up the tolerance to alcohol some of your peers were sporting as they swigged from bottles of cheap vodka, gin, and rum.

You made your way through the throng of people and into the lounge, the larger of the 2 common rooms in the flat. That's when you saw him, wearing a jacket sporting the rowing team logo. He was a catfolk, tall and limber, he didn't seem to be bulky enough to be a rower, maybe he was the Cox?

He saw you, and locked eyes across the room. His gaze dazzled you, a deer in his headlamps, transfixed. He strode over, prowling through the crowd that parted before him

"Hey, I'm Miles" He thrust a cup into your hand "What can I call you?"

You told him your name, and took a sip. It was a kind of beer, slightly bitter and fizzy on your tongue.

"Cute name!" You could see his sharp teeth as he laughed.

He was magnetic. Tall, slim, not to mention charming. It felt like you'd only just finished your drink before he grabbed you another, some sort of cocktail this time.

He pulled out a baggie containing several brightly coloured lozenges "Something to take the edge off, you want one?"

You shook your head, noticeably swaying as more of the beer reached your head.

Miles shrugged and put one in his mouth, washing it down with the dregs of his drink and got up, grabbing your hand as he did "Come on, let me introduce you to the team"

You felt light and heavy, all at once. Your head swam as you got up and you hung on to Miles' arm as he led you upstairs to another flat, out of the pounding music and commotion of the party.

Every step you took, you could feel yourself getting heavier, your limbs getting clumsier. You were stumbling, but he kept a hand on your back as he led you. In the half-light up here you could only make out his eyes against his brownish tabby fur, narrowed slits of reflected light

He opened his flat door and pushed you inside ahead of him, then brought you through to the lounge. A group of four over large, predatory males lounged around on the threadbare sofas. They turned to look at the fresh meat their friend had brought them.

"Miles, you came through!" A big grey wolf barked out

"She even legal?" Another wolf, this one mottled brown

Miles threw your drivers license at them in response, did you give him that?

A tiger catfolk caught it, inspecting it in the fluorescent light and laughed "Ha! Barely! But when have you cared about legal, Lance?"

The mottled wolf laughed "She sure looks like you worked your magic on her, cap"

Miles pushed you. You stumbled a step before your legs gave out and you fell bodily onto a table in front of you "Bitch didn't think to question why she was getting so many free drinks from the nice pussycat" he spat "Now we get to clear her tab"

The one that hadn't spoken yet, a powerfully built lizardman looked into your eyes "What you dose her with?"

"The usual" you could hear Miles doing something behind you, you tried to look but you couldn't turn your head "A little of this, a little of that"

Laughs all round. You tried to speak, to ask what's happening. You yelled. You screamed. All that came out were soft moans.

"Looks ready to me" the lizard's long forked tongue darted out, and he stood up. He started to undress. You realised what Miles and the others were doing.

The lizard pulled off his sweatpants and revealed his genital slit. You could feel the rest of them manhandling you, pulling off your jeans and underwear, tearing open your shirt and opening your bra before on Miles' count you were flipped over on the table.

Paralysed.

Exposed.

You could feel your limbs lying uselessly off the table as you saw it in front of you, the lizard's hemipene rising from the slot between his loins, long and thick, clubbed at the end.

A scaled hand squeezed your jaw, forcing your mouth open as the others watched. The lizard pushed the obscene shape past your lips, then teeth, until it was resting in your mouth.

He straightened up your head, lining you up. "Let the game..." He thrust, pushing straight past the back of your throat. "Begin!"

All at once five sets of hands were on you, accompanied by mouths and animalistic cocks. Rubbing at every part of you. Licking your pussy. Groping your tits. Toying with your asshole. Spurting hot jets of precum onto your naked skin.

The lizard kept fucking your throat pulling out occasionally so you could take a gasp of air. You could feel your pussy getting hotter and wetter despite you, preparing itself.

The lizard pulled out. The grey wolf took his place. The lizard started working on you as the rest had, and everyone moved over a step, except Miles.

Miles was busy with your pussy, licking his rough feline tongue over the whole of it, taking special care around the clit and keeping you just on the edge of orgasm.

Then he pulled away. You felt soft fur between your thighs, but no whiskers now.

Then a pressure. "Seems like she's ready boys, I'll take first go, seeing as she's my catch"

Miles pushed himself inside you. You couldn't scream. With the huge canine cock in your mouth you could barely breathe around the thick shaft and the precum oozing out from your lips and down your throat.

You could feel why some people liked felines, and why most didn't. His entire shaft was patterned with sharp points that scraped inside you as he fucked in and out. Every point hurt. Every one drove you closer and closer to the edge.

Then it happened. You could feel yourself start to pulse against his shaft. Squeezing it. Clenching around it. Miles' thrusts got faster. More desperate. He pushed in. You could feel his balls tighten against your asscheecks. His tip was nudging your cervix, pumping rope after rope into your womb.

A chill went down your spine. You're not sure why

Then they changed position.

Miles and Lance lifted you upright and held you over the table as the lizard and the wolf that was in your mouth got below you. They lined their cocks up against your asshole and your cunt as you were lowered onto them. You could feel the bulbous lizard-dick stretching your ass as the blunt wolf cock invaded your pussy.

The lizard grabbed you around your waist and pulled you on top of him "Erik's gonna fuck you silly, and I've got dibs on your sweet ass" he hissed into your ear.

You could barely hear him. Your head lolled madly and your arms flailed with the power of the wolf's thrusts. The tiger grabbed each side of your head and started using your mouth as Miles and Lance suckled on each of your tits.

The wolf cock was smoother, but bigger. Stretching rather than scratching. Milo's cum was mixing with Erik's pre and filling the room with a slapping sound as it lubricated you. The feeling of two cocks in you was too much. You could feel them rubbing against one another, frotting inside you like you were nothing more than a toy.

Because that's what you were. A toy.

Erik grunted as you crested your second orgasm and pushed in harder. His thick knot slapped against your hole again and again until it jammed in. His cock was held against the neck of your womb, filling you more and more.

What are you forgetting?

Erik worked his knot free. You would've cried out but you still couldn't make a sound other than lewd moaning, and the slap, slap, slapping of the tiger's balls against your chin.

The tiger's turn next, and Miles' cock entered your mouth, still sticky with both of your cum.

The tiger's cock went in easily, Erik's knot had left you gaping when he pulled it unceremoniously out, but it was the worst of both. It felt as thick as your arm, and the barbs were bigger on it. You moaned on each pull, as the thorns caught your labia and he quickly rubbed your clit with a thumb. He looked up at Milo and nodded, before they both pushed into you. You felt the sharp spines of Miles' cock at the back of your throat and tasted blood and cum as he pumped a load down your abused gullet. The tiger grunted and groaned as he too filled you up.

Something scared you more than the predators using your body

You could feel a mixture of cum running down your ass, lubricating the lizard who somehow still hadn't finished in you.

Then it was Lance's turn. He pushed his cock into your face first. Making sure you could smell the musk from his sheath and his balls. You could feel the heat of it as it painted your face in precum. Then he went for it. He didn't pause like the others. He just pumped into you. Faster and faster. You could feel yourself trying to twitch and shake but it never did. Your mouth now full of Erik again, fucking down into your coated throat and filling your belly with precum.

Lance didn't last long. The lubricant from his friends. The pulsing and clenching of your pussy. He pushed his knot in. It felt even bigger than Erik's.

He was filling you up again. You could feel the lizard finally doing the same to your behind. This time the wolf wasn't in any hurry to pull out.

You've forgotten something important

Lance kept his knot in you for at least the next half hour. Every time it felt like it was going down one of his friends would cum down your throat, on your face, on your tits, and he'd harden back up.

Eventually they got worn out, or bored of their new toy. Lance slipped out and a great gout of thick cum went with him. They dressed you in some pyjamas and took you down into the dead of the cold autumn night.

That was six weeks ago.

You're doing well at your studies. Keeping up well with the class, though first year's always the easiest they say. You're waiting in the pharmacy, you're not the most regular person in the world, and you're in a 2-month dry spell, but it never hurts.

You leave with a small box

Later that afternoon, you're sat on the toilet in your room, watching the slip of plastic you just peed on. The other one discarded at your feet. It must have been a false positive, they happen, right?

Right?

[captain-bubble-wrap]

I WANT MORE SICK QUINN PLEASE

Okay, babes! More sick Quinn it is!

"Oh baby, you look awful."

"Good morning, to you, too," Quinn answered, his eyes half open. His voice sounded like he was talking with his nose pinched closed. You knew when he went to bed last night he was getting sick; you had heard it through the phone. So, when you got the message this morning that he needed you to come over, you made a stop at the pharmacy before his apartment. And it was a good thing, too. 

He was on the sofa, legs pulled up to his chest with a blanket draped over his head and wrapped around him like a sick Halloween ghost. His colour was off; washed out and grey-like, and he was breathing out of his mouth with a rattle in his chest. 

"I'm sorry," you replied softly, removing your shoes and coat at the door. The lights were off when you had got in, but you didn't question it. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I look: awful, apparently." 

Hurting his feelings wasn't what you had wanted to do, but it was too late for that now. "I shouldn't have said what I did. I didn't mean for it to--"

"It's fine." Quinn's tone was sharp and flat and he wasn't looking at you. Those two little words had stung, causing you to remain at the door longer than you should have, hesitant to go any further. After a moment, realizing that your words meant nothing and that he wasn't going to apologize either, you grabbed the two bags you had brought with you and walked into the kitchen. 

From across the island, you could see him sitting on the sofa, his head never moving to look over his shoulder at what you were doing. It was like you weren't even there. He was sensitive, you knew that, but this was the first time he had been so irritable. 

With the lights off and all of the floor-length curtains drawn, it was near impossible to do what you needed to by the light of the television in the other room. 

"May I turn the lights on?" You asked, hoping he wouldn't find a reason to get moody over a simple question. 

"Sure," he said, still just a flatly as before. Quinn pulled the blanket further over his head before slumping over onto his side, like he was trying to hide from the impending light. 

His apartment's lights were all on dimmers, so you made sure the kitchen one was on the lowest setting possible before flipping the switch. Light sensitivity: migraine, and the possible reason for his shitty mood. Hurrying, you unpacked everything that you had bought before shutting the light off. You remembered the range hood had a light and one that wouldn't affect him anymore than the tv he was in front of, but at least you would be able to see what you were doing. You looked back towards the sofa where Quinn was still wrapped up tight. Knowing you had to talk to him, you buried your pride, and went back to the living room. 

"Migraine?" You asked him, your free hand touching his shoulder through the blanket, rubbing his back gently. 

"Yeah." 

"Will you look at me, please?"

After what felt like the longest moment, Quinn revealed his face from his private blanket fort. "Why don't you sit up and take these? It will help with the headache. And I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn't mean for it to come off like it did."

He didn't say anything at first as he forced himself back up. He would take the two pills and water from you and you would leave him alone. Back in the kitchen, you kept your back to him, your arms crossed. You had wanted to make things easy on him today, but now you wondered when he would tell you just to go. Things felt like they were spiraling faster than you could set them right. All just because of one poorly placed comment; one that you didn't mean to come off as serious. 

You were so deep in your own thoughts, you hadn't heard Quinn shuffle from the living room to where you were in the kitchen. His reaching out to touch your arm had startled you and he withdrew his fingers immediately. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, still draped with the blanket. 

You glanced at him for only a moment, "You're fine."

"I don't feel good," Quinn sighed, stepping forward a couple steps to stand right in front of you. He leaned forward to lay his head against your shoulder. He felt hot with fever, and you couldn't help but wrap your arms around him. 

"I know you don't, baby."

'I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"It's okay." 

Quinn leaned his entire body weight against you, like he was trying to find comfort in any way that he could. Your fingers would trail up and down his back until he decided to move. 

"Everything hurts," he confessed, his eyes pleading for an answer as to why he felt so bad. 

"Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

"Uh, the migraine. I can't breathe. My throat is sore. I'm coughing up green stuff. My body hurts so bad I could seriously cry. I'm cold yet I'm sweaty. I don't know what's going on with me."

His voice had never sounded so pathetic the whole time you had known him, and it hurt you to hear him struggling with so much. 

"Have you taken a Covid test yet?"

"No."

"It wouldn't hurt to take one."

"Okay," he whined, pulling himself from your body as you allowed your arms to fall away from his. "I don't know if I have any left."

"I grabbed some this morning," you remembered, looking through things to find the box. "Here."

Quinn tore open the kit. He fumbled with the contents before finally swabbing his nose and applying it to the test kit. Despite having been so close to you just moments ago, realizing that he could have Covid had made him stand a ways away from you. It didn't take long for the test to read positive, making his fears worse. 

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his eyes falling closed with a sigh.

"Honey, it's fine. These things happen."

Quinn looked over at you, eyes heavy with guilt. "I probably just got you sick."

"I'm not worried about that," you reassured, your hand touching his cheek after closing the gap between you both. "I could use a few days off from work anyways."

"I didn't want you to get sick. I shouldn't have messaged you to come over."

"Shh, baby, baby, baby," you soothed. "I'll be okay."

He paused, "I've got to tell the team."

"Why don't you go get into bed, message Rick, and I'll deal with all of this stuff, okay?"

Quinn only nodded and slowly took off towards his bedroom. From the open door, you could hear Quinn on the phone, relaying the news of his positive test and that he would miss the next game slotted for tomorrow evening. The call didn't seem to last very long, and you'd enter the room after you were positive he was off the phone, so as not to interfere. 

"You didn't have to wait out there," Quinn spoke, once you joined him. "It wasn't anything that important."

"I know, but it wasn't my business," you smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," he remarked, "Just have to do what I did before. He wants me to re-test in four days and go from there."

Reaching forward, you smoothed his wild curls and felt his forehead again making sure you hadn't imagined the fever. However, he was still quite warm to the touch. Quinn searched your face for reassurance before asking you anything.

"Is it bad?"

"Your fever? No, I don't think so. Hopefully it breaks soon, which should make you feel a lot better. Let me go get you some more water, okay?"

"Okay," he sighed, pulling the duvet up around himself with a bit of a struggle. 

You weren't gone but a minute, but when you came back, he was looking at you like you had forgotten him for hours.

"What's wrong, Quinn?" You asked him, putting a few bottles down on his nightstand. 

"I just feel like shit," he said with a sigh, his congestion somehow sounding worse just before he had a sneezing fit. 

"Oh, bless you, sweetheart."

"Ugh, I'm so over this." Quinn blew his nose before falling back into his pillows. 

You frowned, running your hand through his hair, standing beside his side of the bed. "I'm sure you are. I'm sorry."

"Would you lay down with me, babe? Since I've already probably given it to you..." He dropped off, feeling bad about asking you to come over.

Smiling, you leaned down to kiss his forehead one more time. "Of course. Do you need anything else before, though?"

"No," he said, pushing back the blankets to make it easier on you to find him beneath the layers. "Just you."

[taegularities]

candles & flames: downpour | jjk (m)

bonus chapter II: downpour

Summary: One knock at your door — that’s all it takes for the clouds to burst. Because when it rains, it pours.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: established relationship, royal!au; angst!!, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: ok ok – rain metaphors, mention of a traumatic past, daddy issues?, illegitimate child plot, backstories, mention of mentally abusive relationship, cheating (not between jk and oc), jk kinda a homewrecker, lies, tears, breakdowns, panic, fears, abandonment issues, craving/pining sigh, arguments and fighting, very sweet kids, dad!jk <3; explicit sexual content: oral (m. receiving, super brief f.), fingering, teasing, kissing/making out, manhandling, biting, big dick jk, soft dom jk, soft/hard sex, unprotected sex (shhh, they're married), he spills on her ass, cmnf for a bit, some aftercare; hm… the ending. ➳ wc: 31.8k ➳ a/n: alright. i courageously fought through the pain; not sure how this will go for you. we've waited quite a while for this, and all your support for this series really pushed me to no end <3 i hope this is all you guys expected it to be. take it easy with this one; love y'all sm and as always, let me know what you think 🤍 ➳ a/n2: this is a bonus chapter for my mini-series candles & flames. reading the rest of the story helps!! find the mpost below <3 and the collaborative playlist here!

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

It’s fall.

Orange-red, beloved, drizzling fall.

And everything falls with its emergence. The leaves, the temperature, the warmth.

You’re bummed, experiencing the prior season coming to an end again; the colours are fading and the flowers disappearing. The trees are empty; pretty but a little eerie, too.

Hana insisted on a stroll since the sun still graced you this noon; by now, it’s gone again, hidden behind grey, monochrome clouds. It looks much later than it already is; great call to march outside since you were still able to pick leftover flowers in the garden with her.

In the middle of the drawing room, Hana leafs through the basket. Jungkook is largely free today, but he’s still busying himself with papers of some guest he’s expecting tomorrow. The man wishes to open a bar in the village and asked for an appointment with the town’s royal to discuss the profitability of the idea.

Jungkook is lost in thoughts, thick eyebrows furrowed, but your eyes are scurrying across the room, settling on your daughter. She’s carefully inspecting each flower, remaining on her favourites a little longer; kneeling with pursed lips.

She resembles her father down to each smileless dimple. She’s staring down, the same shape and arch of her lips, eyes big. Whenever she finds a particularly good flower, she jumps to her little feet, walking up to Jungkook to present her choices for him to admire.

Once she reaches her last favourite, she holds it up to him with a tongue sticking out, proud and childishly joyous as she says, “This is for you.”

“For me?” he drops the papers to the table, mouth open; cautiously takes the daisy between his fingers. “Gorgeous. I thought I was not allowed to have one?”

“You can have this,” she mumbles, lisping here and now, “I have many.”

“Right. Let’s see.” He lays it onto the documents he inspected, stretching out his palms for her. Obliging, she lets him pick her up and place her on his lap, immediately pumped when he asks, “Where did you find it? Want to tell me about it?”

And she does, with sheer enthusiasm so, explaining the spot and the colours vaguely. You know Jungkook still isn’t any smarter, probably not quite remembering where the daisies grow. He prefers the field in the distance over the garden.

Concluding her story, she soon tells him, “Can you keep this? Until I am big like you?”

“Oh…” You tilt your head. Your cheeks are hot like the summer that passed, watching him blush, melting with her in his arms. “Of course! Do you want to tell me why I am getting this one?”

“It’s pretty.”

“Ah. Like you then. You’re pretty.”

And Hana, aware and oh-so-humble, responds with her eyes on her fingers, nodding, “Yes.”

They do this sometimes. Exchange pretty things. She enjoys sharing her food or her collections with him, stuff she loves. She’s learned to show affection like this; makes him and you a part of herself this way. It’s a slightly different dynamic with the others in the room, though.

Because the moment her tremendous eyes look up, they darken a shade, displeased with the little body crawling to her basket, close to reaching in. Hana wriggles and jumps off Jungkook’s lap, her voice high-pitched when she starts whining, “Nooo! Not you!”

Right. There’s that, too.

The miniscule hand almost knocking over the basket, the same eyes as his sister’s, but the expressions a lot closer to yours. The surprise in his gaze is similar to the one you see right behind him, belonging to the partner in crime.

You rush to lift the near-accomplice before Hana can reprimand them both. And he looks just like you when he stares at you in shock, not minding the warmth, hands close to his body before they settle right on your clavicles.

He averts his gaze, following the drama on the ground. And the other twin, the one he’d been hurrying to, looks like your occasionally whining self, too, when Hana reaches him.

Jungkook might have enjoyed a copy of himself in her for years now, but you got two boys with your features instead. They clutch at you at all times, much as Hana sticks to her father.

Jaehoon, clever and thoughtful, secure in your arms, and then Jaehyuk, usually radiant, on the floor. Only right now, he isn’t as cheerful anymore.

Rather devastated, startled as Hana opens the small fist crushing a flower. He ogles around with wide eyes, already breathing towards crying, and then, finally — juts out his lower lip. Seeks your attention; and when he catches your tilted, worried look, he starts weeping.

As if your presence permitted his breakdown. You sigh.

His fist is closed tight, but when Hana sharply orders again, “Let go!”, he does, scrabbling away from her. She collects her possessions with a grunt; you inch closer to her the same moment Jungkook rises from his seat on the diwan.

Lifting the crying Jaehyuk in his arms, he plants a soft kiss onto the child’s temple, shushing him with a gentle, “It is alright. Look, nothing happened.”

But Jaehyuk still buries his face in Jungkook’s chest, crying harder, actual tears this time around. Jungkook squats down to Hana with a scolding look in his eyes, one eyebrow cocked as he explains, “Suhana, it is good to share.”

She doesn’t quite look at him; throws the remainders of the demolished flower into the basket, grazing the petals. Sulking, she defends, “But he destroyed them.”

“He is little. You did this as well when you were small.”

Hana shakes her head, convinced, “I do not think that I did.”

“Ah… really?”

“I don’t destroy pretty things!”

Jungkook mimics your sigh, kneeling down, and you shift your eyes for just a moment to check on the baby in your arms. He’s the calmest in the room, observing the rest of his family with curiosity. You smile a little; he’s beautiful, so innocent, so clueless.

So empathetic.

Worried when he sees his brother still crying, not imitating his sobs, but pointing to his other half before he looks at you as if you understood. Awaiting your answer.

You did understand, actually; you often do. So you nod, telling him, “I know. Jaehyuk is a little sad.”

Jaehoon points again, and then suddenly leans forwards. You hold him tight, walking closer to the rest, and he relaxes. Happy you obliged, a finger in his mouth. You set him on the ground when Jungkook does the same with Jaehyuk, listening in as your husband tries again—

“Look. You gave me a nice flower, so give him one, too. He’s your brother, right?”

Hana hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

“Don’t you love him, too?” You hum at his words, enforcing the message. “You should give nice things to people you love.”

“Yes. But he is annoying…”

She grants her siblings a look, a little calmer when Jaehyuk sniffles. Jaehoon shifts closer to his disheartened brother, touching his hand, knees close. They can finally sit on their own now, and they use the ability to keep themselves glued to the other.

A second passes before Hana adds, “Alright, he should have one. He is too small to get his own.”

You agree, “That’s right.”

Holding two different flowers towards the now far calmer Jaehyuk — Jaehoon’s presence seems to help — she inquires, “Good, which one do you like better?”

Her voice is authoritative, the classic older sister. It affects the twins for just a moment as they blink at her; but then, Jaehyuk regards the choices presented to him — though his eyes settle on the marigold quickly.

Opting to grab it, he hits the void when Hana pulls back, shaking her head. You’re about to nag again, seated on the ground next to Jungkook, much like royals should as your sister would jest, but then hold back when Hana speaks again.

“No. Grab it from here, yes?” She hands him the stem, and he listens, takes it as carefully as a baby can. “Yes, like this.”

And then he’s raising it to his cheek, fascinated by it, touching the petals after all. Jaehoon watches quietly before his beseeching eyes drift to his sister. His plea is soundless, but she understands; says, “You can have this, Jaehoonie.”

The daisy he receives is from the same spot she plucked Jungkook’s from. Pretty things for her pretty brother. He’s not sure what to do with it, though, but he imitates the way Jaehyuk plays with it so tenderly, more than happy to accept.

You catch the smile spreading on Hana’s countenance, balanced out by her sassy little, “But you have to work for more. These are mine.”

You laugh, content, “This is good enough.” You reach out to her cheek, caressing for a moment. “Be nice to each other. They love you a lot.”

She only nods, yet baffled when Jaehoon suddenly opts for her, climbing half onto her lap. She gives in, though she can barely properly hold them yet; so she reshifts him as well as she can, placing him in front of her, between her legs.

Like this, they look through the basket; he’s kind and soft, so he doesn’t do much anyway. Just stares while Jaehyuk busies himself with the flower until he gets bored and targets the toy he abandoned minutes ago.

They’re cooing and conversing, Hana speaking, Jaehoon incoherently babbling. You’ve heard this is good, talking to your kids; apparently, they’re vocal much more later on.

But the room is filled with noises and a stack of papers, so you turn to Jungkook and suggest, “I can take them somewhere else. You’re working, so I reckoned…”

“It’s alright,” he, however, assures, “I am already done. This is rewarding, actually.”

“Isn’t it tiring?” You regard the scattered children, full of love for them, but brimming with fatigue, too. “I am so… exhausted.”

“I know. I understand that you are,” he says, grasping your hand, knuckles to his lips, “which is probably why I should stay, too.”

He gets it. You know he truly does, never just says it.

Ever since the birth of your twins, stress, anxiety and restless nights came together to an undesired mix. Barely sleeping makes you prone to headaches and mood swings; one child was already difficult to manage, but three…

You haven’t rested in years. Your skin and your eyes have changed. More tired, more sensitive, your heart a little more feeble.

And the birth wasn’t easy, either. You lost a ton of blood again, another source of Jungkook’s resurfaced panic; but this time because there were two kids at once. You feel grateful, you do — but the days and weeks after they were born were hell on Earth.

You didn’t quite feel like yourself for so long.

But their warmth and Jungkook helped. Honestly, you can’t anyhow fabricate a world without him and his support even just in theory. And beware, such love isn’t given; you’ve seen friends and relatives wade through terrible experiences.

Jungkook is a man they don’t place in every corner of the world, so you’re thankful beyond imagination.

Because you survived due to him. You live because of the humble personalities in this brightly lit room, dimmed only by the grey afternoon sky. It’s a cruel world at times; some pasts are an accumulation of everything bad. Jungkook’s more than anyone’s you know.

Looking at him now, you can hardly believe he was once the sad boy stranded in the rain.

That crying, sobbing mess, freezing, seeking peace when he was inundated by misery. But…

Things came together well, right? The world is less terrifying like this.

You guess the warmth might fall outside all the time, but it never does in these rooms.

“And?”

The answer echoes less than it did a moment ago. The peeking head is retracting just slowly, still frozen between the open door and its frame. You don’t think his eyes are spying much of concern, and he confirms it when he shakes his head, responds—

“Nothing.”

“This should be good enough then.”

“Hm, yes. I don’t know. It took hours last time, as well.”

Without a piece of context, it’s a hilarious picture. Somehow, it even is with context; so you can’t help the quiet chuckle, silencing quickly to avoid waking up the tiny bundle slumbering in your arms.

You reprimand your husband, “But you can’t keep standing there for hours.”

The sigh you receive is deep and long. You understand his worries.

It hasn’t been long anyway — the night transpired just a while ago. Still in the back of your mind since Hana waddled to your room, knocking with the might that her fist could possibly conjure; you barely heard it, but you did.

You have been a light sleeper since she was born, so you were shaken awake rather fast. You welcomed her in with softness, veiling the horror in your voice. You were devastated when you saw her feet bare, standing in the dark hallway.

Luckily, the moment turned out not quite frightening — she couldn’t sleep. That was it. So you pulled her into your arms and off the ground, stroking her back and her head, planting kisses in her hair.

It took a while to lull her to sleep; to be certain, you kept her right next to you for the remainder of the nightly hours, even though her room was next door. She’d mumbled something about a poor bird, and you’d understand only minutes after her silence that she had seen a dead pigeon in the garden that day.

The nightmare this scene called forth prevented her from sleeping comfortably in her chamber for some days to come.

Jungkook had come to bed late that time, so he was long knocked out when Hana came. The regret doubled the next morning when you told him about the occurrence, and Jungkook blamed himself for the coming hours — only, the guilt extended. Still prominent.

Because he’s still glancing out, fearing she’ll come and knock again; fearing it might go unnoticed once more.

“I would hear it,” you reassure, “I always will.”

“What if you don’t?”

“I will,” you try again; you keep your voice low, soft, understanding his string of thoughts. But you miss him next to you, and you want the door to close. You insist, “I will, love. Don’t blame yourself for not hearing it, yes? You were tired.”

Jaehoon moves in your arms, a small fist loosening. He’s fast asleep, but you still wait before you speak again, assuring that he won’t wake up again. Jungkook must be thinking the same, because only once you sigh a breath of relief, he says, “You are tired, too. Don’t undermine your importance here—”

“Just come to bed, darling.”

Interrupted, his lips morph into a pout, round eyes regarding you for a moment. But it seems you render him at least a little delicate, aware of your effect on him, tilting your head by a few degrees. Your smile must be jarring; because the second you flash it, he gives in.

The door shuts behind him, and he offers an upward twitch of his mouth in response before he asks, “Would you reckon she’s too young to have her own room?”

“Perhaps… I don’t always feel very comfortable with her absence at night either. We have gotten too used to her, haven’t we?” You shake your head as he steps towards your side of the bed. “But she wanted this so bad.”

“Hmm… good thing she spends half of all her nights here anyway.”

“True. She got too used to us, as well,” you say before sitting up, eliciting a brief groan as you prepare yourself to put Jaehoon back in his crib. You can barely stand up; your body is exhausted, begs to stay in the resting state for now. “Alright then…”

But by then Jungkook’s helping hands are already reaching out, his back arching, bowing forwards. Carefully, sweetly, he mutters a little, “No, let me—” before he’s sheltering his son in his hold, slow and gentle as he tackles the task for you.

For a minute, he remains there, standing over the crib, gazing at the babies so peacefully dreaming away. He does this sometimes — lose himself in the sight. This is a fairytale for him. When he read all those books on parenting years ago, he didn’t think it’d come this easily to him.

Not that parenting has ever been particularly easy. Tears and arguments were frequent at points in time, but so were sacrifices and compromises. You knew what such a change did to a vulnerable heart and mind, so you fought through the difficulties with courage.

And it was worth it every single time. All in all, you don’t regret a thing; you’d repeat it all if you could. Jungkook is your dream; this life is your dream.

Never ceased to be.

Even now, as he returns to the bed and jumps under the blanket, you register an odd, sparkly feeling in your tummy. It always existed underneath, never diminished or decreased. Ever-so-present, you still cherish its intensity, even after all these years. Or perhaps because of the time that has passed.

Such passion isn’t a matter of fact. You know it isn’t.

Triggered by the funny, pleasant feeling in your body, your smile grows a little. Softer and more loving when he kisses your shoulder as if to greet you. Proceeds to place his head on your chest as his arms snake around your body, settling in his very own safe space.

“Are you feeling well?” his drowsy voice questions, just a little muffled as the lips graze your gown’s cotton.

“I am. You?”

“Just cold. I need a bit more of this,” he cuddles in, kissing underneath your breasts, right above your ribs. “It has been raining so much.”

“It has been indeed.”

“But,” he shifts, closer to you, “I’ve learned to appreciate it now.”

You chuckle. Time steadily passes, but some memories stay right at their assigned spots, like an immovable anchor. You’re proud, having replaced his terrifying images of nature’s showers with fond ones. And ever since, the rain has felt closer to you, too.

“That is something, then,” you say, “I’m just sad for the kids… they can’t stay out too long without feeling under the weather. If I could, I’d show them the sky all the time, too.”

“And how we’re connected to it?”

You laugh again; you wonder if he’s feeling warmer now. You’re inundated with the heat, at least. “Yes, this.”

His grip tightens just a little, a fragile attempt to draw you deeper into him. This is all the laws of physics allow — no gap left for him to close. Yet, he tries. His kiss wanders up as he raises his head, lips missing your clavicles by a bit; thumb stroking the side of your mounds.

“Love,” he calls quietly; when your eyes move to his, you see a change in them. They’re fog-shrouded and somehow questioning. “Do you feel tired?”

You’re surprised; you expected something else. The question doesn’t match his expression.

For a moment, you assume that your answer might serve a bigger purpose, so you weigh it back and forth before you decide on a straightforward, “Less than usual. It’s been so long since we fell asleep together.”

Maybe that’s what’s keeping you awake. Maybe that’s what he wants to hear.

Because he nods fervently against your breasts, cheek pressing against them, and agrees, “It has been. Yet, do you know it has been only three days in reality?”

Oh. Dang. You guess there is no true limit to your mutual obsession. You shrug, “Feels much longer.”

“Well, in that sense…” Warm digits touch your arm, circling your elbow and then travelling up your skin. “There is one good thing about Hana sleeping in the other room, yes? We’re alone for once.”

“Unless she once again catches us in the middle of—”

“Don’t remind me.”

You giggle, but the sound dies when he pushes his palm under your short gown sleeve, caressing your shoulder and then the lower part of your neck. Angling your head, you close your eyes, somehow spitting, “Are you planning something, Sir?”

His leg moves further over your own; there’s a growing firmness between them that you can’t ignore. He teases, “Sir? Now, that is new.”

“Mmh, do you like it?”

“Admittedly, it is somewhat odd, but… it’s still something.”

“Then, what is going on now?”

“Well, it’s… very boring to talk about it. Lemme just—”

The palm covering your tits is sudden, but the mouth exploring them isn’t. You felt the touch from miles away, satisfied and alight when his teeth graze over your perked nipple. His hand, restless, works on pushing down your nightgown to bare one side, and he’s…

Impatient, as you’ve known.

His tongue is hot and soft, the tip of it merely teasingly brushing over the freed nipple as his hand pushes your tit up, further into his face and towards his mouth. You sigh. He sets fire to your nerves; you feel each of the licks affecting your body.

Then, amidst the comfortable, sweet journey, he suddenly bites.

You gasp, followed by a tiny exclaim of an, “Ouch,” and work on playfully escaping his advances — to no avail. He laughs against your bud, his hands stronger than your dishonest attempt as they pin your arms to the mattress.

His eyes are evil, an eyebrow cocked, lips parted as he breathes, “What?”

“You’re about to lose it again. I can see it!”

“Ah… do you— do you not want me to?” He’s still in a daze, his words mumbled. He moves back just a little, wondering if you’re not quite where he is tonight. But you shake your head the moment he suggests, “I’ll hold myself back if I need t—”

“Oh, can you?”

You’re smiling, so he’s quickly encouraged to offer a grin of his own; honestly admits, “No… but I will for you.”

“You will for me?” The everlasting beam on your face is inevitable; how could you keep your cool, pretend you’re not thoroughly warmed when he says things like these? “While I appreciate how thoughtful you are… I’m not a fool.”

Not a fool. I won’t decline.

“Then… May I kiss you?”

“You’re asking so politely, how could I—”

There’s no time to reject, even if you wanted to. His kiss is abrupt and hard, though his lips still refrain from any aggression just yet. He lifts his hands from next to your head to above it, dragging your captive arms with them.

As his head tilts, deeper in the kiss, his tongue mingles with yours with a tempting hum so unique to his voice — as if he’s tasting a delicatesse. Your mouths are in main action, but both your bodies are reacting in their entirety, too.

In constant motion, winding, closing in.

His upper body urges you down until you’re flat on your back; the nightgown settles back over your tits again as you move, but he grabs your flesh above the clothing, kneading. Clumsily, with his eyes still shut, he attempts to unlace the front of your gown.

You wait for his intention to manifest into reality, readily letting his palm brush over your hot skin, your neck, your jaw. But once he opts to undress you fully, your patience dwindles, and you let him know, “I don’t want to wait this time.”

“Ah, alright, alright… This is how we’re doing things tonight?”

Your poor dress will be wrinkled up by the morning; you know by the way he’s hiking it up your leg this time, stopping at your waist, force of habit. There’s a satisfying, delighted smile on his face, mixing with a pleased sound when he discovers you’re bare underneath the gown—

And it seems it motivates him more rapidly to tug at his own trousers. You nod as if to encourage him further, hands seeking out the hem of his pyjamas. But you’re as useless from this angle as can be.

So he sits upright, slipping out of it, pushing it down his thighs until it’s wrapped around his knees. He’s no better, really; just as naked, just as uncovered underneath the trousers, as if the two of you planned this, or hoped for this.

Kneeling, he pushes your legs apart, spreading until your flexibility stops. He settles between them properly, leaning down, and uses the position to kick off the rest of his disruptive trousers. The length of his cock, as unbelievable as ever and quickly hardening, presses against your damp cunt — bliss for the moment, but torture for the next.

The way his cock dips between your folds and rubs along your pussy’s growing dampness feels almost deliberate. As if he’s tormenting you, demonstrating his power over you, stiff past your hole and up your tiny clit without ever diving in.

But you won’t lie — you could probably come from this alone. It’s embarrassing, being so weak in his presence. And the filthy sounds, wet and inappropriate, don’t help a bit.

So you’re not sure whether you’re relieved or agitated when the touch finally vanishes but his mischievous smile doesn’t. It’s somewhat weak, hindered by the lust clouding his brain, but it’s insane and misbehaved either way.

He’ll kill you one day; or you might kill him. You don’t know who might end up asserting the more hazardous dominance.

For now, it’s you who’s surrendering. How could you not, considering he’s conjuring his own battle plan right above you, hand reaching between his and your legs and underneath the blanket to—

Damn the tip of the digits against your clenching cunt. He’s not even inside, but you react immediately. Know to bite your lower lip when he circles your clit a little, the position and the spread legs keeping you from shutting your thighs.

Your head falls to the side; Jungkook considers it an opportunity. He plays around your nub further, testing the waters, and when you moan out, he closes the gap between the two of you, latching onto your neck to suck and kiss and bite.

“Fuck,” you curse, incessantly hoping the kids are deeply asleep and won’t have to witness their mother’s foul language this early on. “Fuck, start already—”

He knows you aren’t talking about his fingers; they’re already in action, tapping your clit, drawing over it. Then moving down, slipping along your wetness, already drenched when he decides to ram a finger in.

Yet, he understands you’re still referring to the member standing tall, anticipating and urging for you but holding back either way. No, instead he chooses to drive you crazy first, using a free hand to grab your chin and turn your head back to him, going for another messy kiss.

And you can’t do more than give yourself to him so willingly, wincing and whimpering as he finger-fucks you as well as the position allows. It’s not ideal like this, and to your chagrin, he can’t use his skills fully, but the fact that he can turn your thoughts this incoherent speaks volumes already.

You can’t wait… can’t wait for him to bury himself in you.

Half hovering over you, he soon loses the strength to keep himself afloat, dipping and retracting his fingers to lead his cock there instead; still, once again, without fucking you dumb yet. You’re drifting, but still too sane for your liking.

Your wetness helps him toy with you some more; he keeps pumping with his hand as he humps you once, twice, and you mutter his name and a couple mumbled pleas — but he remains as wicked as ever.

But when the dam breaks and your mind explodes, you exclaim his name again in pure desperation, half your brain gone when he pushes just his tip inside you and continues jerking off to make himself as hard as he can.

Eventually, you demand, “Put it in!”

The shake of his head is vile. Your eyebrows furrow at the man, and you try to grind up into him — he doesn’t let you. Only the head remains inside you, and he keeps doing his thing, not leading it in or out, just drenching himself.

You reprimand, “You’re being impossible tonight.”

“Aren’t I?” he responds, like a naughty child who’s caught and proud of its sins. He presses another peck to your lips, his words breathy when he reveals his true thoughts, “No, sweetheart, it is just that— you aren’t ready. That’s it.”

You aren’t ready? You feel like you’re overflowing. But you understand; there’s no room for impatience after all. It’s happened before — him pushing in, only to realise it was too early, that it pained you instead of pleasuring you.

“Well…” you start, dumbfounded. He noticed and you didn’t — the ultimate proof that he knows you inside out. “You could’ve said this earlier. Put it in my mouth then.”

“Huh?”

“Right now. This will help, too.”

“Oh… yes? I— I won’t reject the offer.”

Of course he won’t. In fact, he climbs up the bed quickly, lifting, caging your body between his knees. The sight is incredible; thighs as wide as your face, muscular. You hold onto them, bask in the sight of the dangling package, harder by the moment.

With effort, he says, “Just for a second.” The tip taps against your mouth, hot as he pushes it inside. Thick and heavy on your tongue, his cock twitches, affected by the swirl of the wet muscle and the hollowing of your cheeks. “Yes… not long, no—”

He must be talking to himself. Keeping himself from thrusting and fucking your mouth all the way to the end. And when you bop your head up and down, lightly touching his balls and the parts of the length you can’t swallow, he restates, “I really do not want to wait.”

You let go for a moment with a slurping sound, agreeing, “Fine by me,” before you come back to go in harder. Giving him all you can, crossing your legs, seeking reprieve.

And you think you’d quickly overflow, by virtue of his enticing reactions, if the moment wasn’t so short lived.

Because it seems he reaches a limit when your drool starts flowing down the side of your face, nasty and warm, your throat still working full time on not gagging. On staying quiet. It’s become a task by now.

And for the first time tonight, Jungkook doesn’t serve the devil, but pulls back.

While it’s a pity — why didn’t he finish in your mouth? — you won’t deny your selfish part. The one that craves and awaits, glad when his body disappears beneath the sheets again, his head with it.

What—

Won’t he start? You didn’t expect him to fall out of your sight entirely. And there’s not much guessing needed until you understand that he’s aiming for his favourite spot, his tongue lapping up your juices a moment later.

He kisses your cunt just once, slides a stripe between your folds, and you’re certain his goal is much more profound. Normally, you’d be fully down for this, but you’ve reached a limit you can’t bear anymore.

So you whisper, “You don’t need to.”

He doesn’t register it right away, spitting and feasting further; more kisses, more tongue, untamed until you grip his hair and raise his head off of you. He obliges surprisingly easily when you pull him back to your lips, reiterating, “I don’t want to fucking wait. Just…”

“I know,” he says, peck after peck, in between each word, “I know. I have had enough, too, I have—”

His arm steals your breath when he twines it around your body like a vine, arching your back, lifting you by mere inches. Both his hands are busy; caressing your sides or your face; he’s confident about the touch, about the eagerness the two of you harbour for each other.

Which is why he doesn’t even guide his length towards your pleading heat anymore, gliding up and down; hard enough to stand tall against it, poking as if knocking. The thought makes you laugh for only a moment before your lungs suddenly empty—

Part of his cock slips in effortlessly; there’s no resistance, no struggle, no need to glance down and complicate matters. You welcome him easily; match his smirk, proud and unsurprised about your keen craze when he says, “Wasn’t supposed to happen already. I wanted another moment to—”

You vigorously shake your head. “Too late. Too damn late—”

The last word comes out strained as your body comes in motion, moving against him. And he matches your pace and fervour, shoving himself in harder. Unable to resist anymore, all the teasing vanishes along with his patience.

Instead, he bottoms out at once, and you yelp, an unintentional volume that he immediately shuts with a hand over your mouth and a chuckle. Jungkook enjoys playing the beast when he’s with you like this, but he can’t suppress his amusement when he shushes you.

“Are y-you trying to wake the mansion, huh?”

But his words are nothing but a breath, airy and quiet. Such a whistling whisper that it, much as your noise, might just be enough to wake everybody, too. The irony is comical.

You shake your head and his hand with it, relying on your nose to breathe the oxygen still left in the room. Your neck feels hot, your face and body burning up. Not quite sure whether it’s the way he’s handling you or whether your leg is actually trembling like this.

His strokes, slowly starting, shake up your body at least. The friction drives you insane; his length, reaching a mind-boggling depth, renders you so stupid each time. Thick against your walls, leaving no gap, no spot untouched. 

You’re boiling under his hand, somehow glad about the muffled sound. Because if he didn’t silence you like this, you’d be wreaking havoc right here, an unbridled mess wrapped in your husband’s body.

They say love and passion fade sometimes; that affection lessens when you get used to it, bored of it. But the two of you haven’t reached that stage yet — you doubt you ever will.

Because the flames that have surrounded you ever since you fell into these depths for the other… they don’t ever seem to dim. Who would’ve thought that a candle could turn into an inferno?

No, your body signals more than enough; this isn’t boredom. This isn’t a reduction in adoration. You feel the devouring and the worship in each thrust and touch and kiss and gaze.

In each curse and movement, how he shifts you and you wind. Dancing in the sheets and shivering under the goosebumps as he hears your stifled moans drowned out by his palm. If he could, he’d listen all day; if the circumstances allowed…

He rams into you hard but slowly and only raises the pace gradually; once he’s gotten used to the effect, however, and seeks to possess you more, he sends your body up the sheets. Each time, over and over again, restraint thrown overboard.

You mewl with a raised head and tightly shut eyes; his hand drops just a little, and you, in your misty moment, dig your teeth into the finger still covering your lower lip. The sound he lets out suggests pain here, but then again… lust there.

His voice is feathery, mellow; as if he’s softly charmed, seduced rather than achingly bitten.

Lips apart and eyes hooded, he relocates his hand just a little, twisting it until the thumb grazes your chin, hand laying on your cheek as the forefinger dips into your mouth. It’s difficult to focus; what does he look at?

The way his digit is gently trapped between your teeth, the tip of it teased by your tongue? The arch of your mouth and how his finger presses against the lower lip? Or the heat that grows under his palm, the rise of your chin, the eyes rolling back before shutting?

A feral urge expands in him, growing like a well-watered seed; he doesn’t know how you do it, but you encapsulate all his beginnings and ends in a moment, now and always.

Your hair is a mess by the time he removes his other hand from it, not quite sure when he grabbed a patch at all. He pins one of your legs to the side, angling it, and you breathe unsteadily, mumbling a tiny, “Oh— Kook—”

“Yes.”

It’s not quite a dialogue, but neither of you cares for it. There isn’t much to say at all. And neither any calls of his or your name, nor his quiet, “I love you so much,” do the emotion bubbling in his stomach justice.

In all honesty, he could explode just looking at you. You’re a wonder of nature, aren’t you? You pump relief and craze and comfort and insanity into him, one after another and all at once.

“Baby,” you call out the moment his teeth drag your damn gown down your tits again, kissing them, nibbling at your nipple. “I think I might already— soon…”

You don’t know whether it’s because it’s been so long, or because Jungkook knows just well how to fuck you right, but you’re nearly bursting. Or is it the mental picture of the movements he’s granting you?

Elegant yet beastly thrusts, hips and ass and upper body swaying up and down steadily; slow, then fast, then soft, then hard… rhythmic and then stuttering—

He wipes the hair off your forehead, and then whispers warm and close to your ear, “Hey, do you… know how obsessed I am with you?” A peck to your earlobe, and you wind, ticklish and pleased. He shifts to your lips, the kiss an inch away. “You—you’re all I’ll ever need.”

You can’t serve as much of a smooth and rational answer as him, but you still tell him all lost, “Then— be with me… me, always, yes?”

He chuckles; you’re not sure why. Perhaps this is such a matter-of-fact for him that he doesn’t need it spelled out. “Yes… yes. What else? Where else would I go?”

Away from you — even for a moment, even just a bit. Right now, you can’t bear the thought of a hint of a distance between the two of you. You want him close, closer, part of your heart, thawing with you in cool falls and cold winters.

“You’re pretty,” he then proceeds, tugging at your lip, “don’t know where to touch you. So pretty.”

“Everywhere. Just don’t stop— touching me,” you begin, every now and then interrupted by an exhausted kiss, “at all.”

“Right.” And still, he backs away out of the blue, all touch gone except the gentle rub along your hip, and you stare up at him with big eyes, body so empty before he orders, “Turn around.” He’s acting tough, but you see the madness in his eyes the moment he says it. “Quickly.”

Quickly.

You know what he’s thinking without him vocalising any of it. Know what he’ll do before he does it.

With quivering limbs, you oblige, helped by his hands as he hauls the gown easily over your body, crumpling it up and placing it next to the pillow. Within a moment, you’re bare, head to toe.

He keeps you on your knees, reluctant to wait a second before he enters you again. His hand lands on your ass, pulling apart to see better, and once all in, he starts moving again.

You don’t need to glance back to know that the muscles of his back and his ass are flexing, tanned and golden. The veins of his arms are probably protruding, his abs and chest damp, latter heaving. You know he probably resembles some textbook God, and maybe that’s what topples you over the edge.

That and… the hand on your clit.

Softly circling, the nub immensely sensitive, limbs buckling and weak. You require all your might to not fall and close your legs and sob.

But the tears are inescapable; one or two tip over your waterline when you finally come to an end. His prior teasing and the anticipation already drove you too close to the peak, and it seems that now you’re surrendering eventually.

You shake, your arms more so than the rest of your body. Wobbly, you try to keep yourself upright, but as the blur covers your vision and the waves crash over your pelvis and stomach, you let your cheek fall to the pillow. Hands clutch the sheets.

The tremor is out of control.

And you’re still riding out that high, aided by his continuing shoves and hammering. He’s generous when he pushes you all the way down, a hand on the small of your back as he says, “Take your time— I’m almost there, fu—”

Take your time with what? You don’t know; the chances are high he doesn’t either. Or is he talking to himself again?

To no avail, though, because he’s manic, uncurbed. Your cheek digs into the pillow, the bed moving more than it has during these moments lately. He’s chasing ecstasy, calling your name and little words, such as, “Love, sweetheart, darling,” over and over again like it’s his sole vocabulary.

His lips move over your shoulder and to your back, featherlight as opposed to how he’s fucking you. The care with which he kisses your skin leaves you gasping, affects you whole, and you feel the shiver down your spine, along your arms.

You want to stay awake all night. Want this to keep going.

Funny, how this very thought is followed by a question you neither expect nor grasp, “Have I… kissed you too much already? Are you sick of it?”

You think your eyebrows furrow, or perhaps you imagine it, because there is no way your facial muscles still have that much energy left. But he must be out of his mind, daring such questions. Is there such a thing as getting sick of him?

“Why—”

This man never lets you finish. There is an art to interrupting without irritating, and he’s mastered it — because you can barely complain when his hand wraps around your neck, cautiously lifting and turning your head to make out with you again.

The tongue sneaks into your mouth right away; the kiss is barely a kiss, too filthy and chaotic to be called such. Rather, you’re eating each other up, mixing your moans, crazed by his drilling until his breaths turn laboured and his sounds hoarse.

They come straight out of his throat, sweet in your ears. And before you know it, he’s getting to his knees and rapidly pulling out; you feel vulnerable and tender, thoroughly worn out. The heat is blistering and your mind gone — but you still notice the ropes landing on your ass.

Sticky and hot and plenty. Scattered over your flesh; you contribute some, too, moving your ass left and right just a little, and it seems he’s enjoying it. Groans as he pumps on; when you look back at him, eyes halfway closed, you give him the rest.

And a couple seconds later, tongue poking the corner of his lips, he’s done.

Panting, whispering something you can’t understand, weak… but done. Close to falling onto you until he realises he probably shouldn’t.

Instead, he lays down next to you. Your eyes are closed, but you immediately feel a loving brush over your cheek, ridding it of the strands sticking to your face.

You shake your head — or at least, you think you do. It’s probably more of an attempt, just a slight movement before you playfully scold, “Great… what do we do about this now?”

Jungkook swallows, calming down as he responds, “Over there— there’s a jug of water on the table still.”

“…And?”

“I will go and find a cloth?”

The careful question in his tone is so sweet. You’re not sure if he intended to stain your skin like this before the lust took over him. What a fool for you. Enough to barely ever think of the consequences, be they big or small.

In this sense, you could say that falling for you happened without a single thought for him, too, didn’t it?

He was chasing a different plan. Didn’t fathom that he was losing himself in you. And when he did, he didn’t consider the aftereffects and the risks of what his uncle had come up with; Jungkook didn’t care much about anything at all but being with you.

He’s told you many times.

Back when you hid in that room, or touched in the carriage — in those fleeting moments, the future didn’t consist of what his relatives needed, but of what he could give to you. Who he could be to you.

In hindsight, he was so in love with you. Looking at your relationship, you can’t compare the affection you started out with for each other with the overload of passion now, but… goddamn, he was so in love with you. You know.

And the truth is that no matter what obstacles life may place on your road ahead, neither of you will love the other less than the minute before.

You laugh when you meet his big, brown eyes, asking, “Is there any cloth in this room?”

“I… I think I brought one before. Should be on the table…”

“Might be good enough.”

“Or I can get one from the kitchen.”

You scoff. “You want to sneak around the mansion now? Really?” You lift your upper body, balancing it on your arms, catching him as he licks his lips at the sight of your bouncing tits. You nod towards the table. “That will do. Go and free me from your stuff.”

“Tsk. Good.”

You were right; his idea sufficed. And the kids are still asleep — a double win for you. In theory, you’re ready to crash for the night, succumbing to fatigue. But the truth is that only your body feels spent; your brain doesn’t just yet.

So as Jungkook wipes over the flesh of your ass, you confess, “I’m still not tired enough.”

“Mmmh, me neither.”

“…So what now?”

He falls back to his side with another grunt, throwing the dirty cloth to the floor. You reach out, grazing his chest, playing with the cotton he’s still sporting. He probably knows what you’re hinting at, despite being already battered, but he ignores your advances just to—

“Mh-mh,” he rejects, “I want to talk. I just… I need to hear your voice for a bit.” He stops the finger on his chest, raising your hand to his lips, and kisses each knuckle. Dramatically, he adds, “What would I do without your voice?”

You ponder. Then jest, “Still hear it in your mind somewhere.”

“Yes, very true. I still always do in the office.”

You laugh, so gripped by the emotions stuck to your heart. “So, what would you like me to say?” He shrugs, an indicator for, “Anything.” So you ask, “Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“Yes… story. Yes, tell me one.”

��I can think of one right away. Sort of a lullaby.”

“So it’s got to be a good one,” he says as he covers you with the thick blanket. An arm over you pulls you closer to him. “Right?”

Your eyes drift to the window. You’re lucky, sleeping in a bedroom with a view. Jungkook’s office has one, too, but Hana’s room, while next door, doesn’t. You’re at the far end of the corridor and this mansion’s wing, risking much, so exposed.

Perhaps you’ll move your room to a safer place in the mansion soon. But for now, you’re grateful for the sky, the stars, the moon. The pouring cloudburst.

Jungkook might have caught your distraction; because he wraps one of your hair strands around his finger, inquiring, “May I guess?… Is it a story about the fall and the rain?”

Your lips twitch upward to a smile. Flooded by past pictures, you refuse to end the night, preparing for a concluding tale as you say—

“How did you know?”

When it knocks at your chamber door the next sunrise, you could swear you haven’t slept more than a handful of hours. The exhaustion weighs on your eyes and muscles, body limp as you stir awake. Your voice is still hoarse.

So you’re startled.

Not just because it’s early or because of the interrupted, peaceful slumber; and not just because there’s a knock at the grand, adorned door, either. In reality, it occurs regularly — for Jungkook and his work, or to remind you of your children’s riding and violin lessons, or to inform you of the arrival of guests.

This time it’s the latter. Yet, you’re alarmed, not even because of the guest, but because it’s Sunday, and you don’t usually expect a visitor on Sundays — unless, perhaps, something is transpiring down in the village that needs your urgent assistance.

But — these things are rare. People here regard it as their rest day, too. It’s why you wake up drowsy and confused, ready to sleep the fatigue off and hoping it’s nothing too grave. Squinting an eye shut, you glance at the longcase clock in the corner of your room.

Seven in the morning.

You register a mumble of a voice next to you, low and gravelly, welcoming the staff inside who, a second later, informs, “Visitor for you, Lord Jeon.”

Jungkook sighs. A hand emerges from under the heavy, floral blanket, rubbing his tired, puffy eyes. He hums in gratitude, telling the informant he’d be downstairs in a minute; and when the young man has stepped away, Jungkook half turns to you.

His voice is still husky and half asleep when he gently wipes a strand behind your ear and says, “Go back to sleep. Might be Byun for the boxing ring. I should be back in a little.”

You only nod, moving his cradling hand with it. You can barely speak, fighting the urge to yawn. Frankly, you wouldn’t know what you’d be uttering anyway, though your mind is still present enough to understand that he’s kissing your knuckles and then leaving his side empty.

Falling back into the mattress, you once again hope for a speedy get-together on the floor down below; but when you awake again, the clock indicates the passing of over a full hour. The bed is still half vacant.

You wonder what’s going on, gradually cracking your eyes open to the ceiling until your brain fathoms well enough that a meeting this early shouldn’t take so long, and that anyway, there’s no reason for a business visitor to come by this soon into the day.

So you clear your throat, sitting up at the edge of the bed. You wrap yourself in your gown and your silk coat, arms folded as if to protect yourself. It’s just cold; a chill autumn day.

And as you walk down the staircase, you hear faint chattering from the main hall, like a tiny whisper from here. There’s only some staff in the welcoming hallway, but they’re guarding the parlour. That’s where the voices are coming from.

Nobody hinders you from entering the room when you do. Of course not; there’s no reason to.

But the atmosphere is still oddly charged when you step in, meeting Jungkook’s pale face from afar. You blame it on the sleepless night, just as much as the somewhat dark circles under his eyes.

Still, it gets weirder as you near; because he’s looking at somebody who has their back turned to you. A woman with long black hair, gazing down; and when Jungkook detects you, he looks terrified.

Uprighting himself, blinking, drawing a breath too deep to not worry.

You automatically assume the worst; bad news from the city? Some issues in the village? Or a girl trying her charm on your husband? Wouldn’t be the first time.

You round the chair she made herself comfortable on; and your surprise increases, skyrocketing when you notice that she didn’t come alone. There’s a child next to her. Proper and sweet, certainly older than Hana.

His hands are neatly folded in his lap, hair combed back. He’s just listening, it seems, to whatever they spoke about. And his face… his face looks familiar somehow; as does the girl’s, yet in an entirely different way.

“Good morning,” you greet the woman and she responds with a nod. “Is everything alright?” you finally ask, turning to Jungkook, a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t come back.”

But Jungkook doesn’t answer. Your heart grows a little more wary. Because, why is he so speechless? Why does he look scared, eyes wide, chest risen, as if he’s holding his breath? Blinking faster.

The woman is back to staring at her legs, shifting her hand to grip the little one next to her; and the boy looks like he doesn’t want to be here at all. At the same time, however, he starts to admire the fancy interior of your mansion.

The lustre, the floor, the table, the chairs. Everything you’ve grown used to.

“What is wrong?” you try again. Panic watered by Jungkook’s lack of response, you gulp, but still steady yourself and remain polite. “May I ask… who are you?”

You’re looking at the woman again. She glances up to you. She’s gorgeous — full and curved lips, light brown eyes, pitch black hair. Looks young; about your age. She doesn’t answer, but Jungkook’s quivering voice does.

“This is Jihyo, darling.”

Well, alright. Doesn’t tell you much. You’ve seen her, maybe even heard the name, you think. Is she from your town? But you can’t assign her any significance…

“What does this mean?” you inquire.

“She… She wanted to talk to me,” he explains, “she came all the way from a village close to our hometown.”

“Ah. To say what, exactly?”

You don’t want to sound agitated; but the suspense is growing unnecessarily, and you want whatever truth out. And honestly—

The tension forms a little something in your head. Not enough time has passed for him to properly answer, but you still repeat, “To say what?!”

You feel like you have a hunch… you’re starting to come up with theories. And the worst of them dizzy you, make you want to yell and throw up, tempting you to smash a nearby vase.

Did he… could he do this to you…

No. 

“Jihyo and I knew each other… way before you and I got married. Way before.”

He echoes the last two words as if to reassure you; like the verbal equivalent of a soft hand on your back, rubbing you in comfort. But… the tactic doesn’t quite bear fruits. Your chest tightens more; the fatigue of the morning eventually fades.

“And?” you prompt, regarding her. “Why aren’t you saying anything then?”

“I have… to him. I—I do not quite know if it is my place to—”

“No, it is not,” you interrupt, “maybe you’re right. My husband should explain, no?”

But he’s stuttering as much as her. You don’t lose your patience often with him, or with people for that matter. You’re a cheerful person, fuelled by the miracles of the world. But…

This is pulling out your worst self.

“I—” he starts.

Terrified. What the hell is going on? You wait — wait more as he swallows. And then, when he drops the explanation, your heart falls with it. Bursts, plummeting from such a height.

“Jihyo and I met for a while and… she just came and told me that this… he’s—”

You understand.

You understand immediately because your guts warned you the moment you saw his expression. You look back and forth between him, her and the child, realising the similarities once and for all, well aware from experience why similarities are a thing in a family and…

You can barely hear yourself emit the words once they tumble out; like your voice isn’t your voice, and your thoughts aren’t your thoughts, “This… is your son?”

Like you’re living somebody else’s day who’s about to trudge through a life-changing, agonising event. Because this can’t be happening to you. Actually, it’s not sinking in at all; you’re fantasising, and you refuse to believe reality. 

“Jihyo says he is my son,” he paraphrases, as if he doesn’t really believe her, either, “he’s uhm. He’s six years old.”

Your mind begins to calculate immediately. Sudden dread fills you — because wait. Weren’t you together at that time? Did Jungkook hide from you, lingering in the dark, and yet another past is catching up to the two of you?

No. Hold on once more.

You got married to him five years ago. Were engaged and together for a year before. That makes six. You curl in the fingers in your mind, keeping up your math.

It’s been wrong all along, so you need to be correct this time.

Okay, so, if her — no, his, their son was born six years ago, it’d mean that Jungkook had been with her not too long before you. That’s not way before you got married, is it?

Your breath hitches. You blink the way he did before — not sure what to do or say. Your eyes move over to the rosy cheeks of the child again. He looks so innocent, still clueless, even though he perfectly understands what Jungkook just said.

Who the man is to him.

Of course. Same doe eyes, button nose, shape of face; like a damn copy. Not that the truth hurts enough, no — it had to be accompanied by another of his faces. Not in your own sons, somewhat in your daughter, but in him.

But you guess everybody is confused.

Even Jungkook. Most of all Jungkook, right?

Jihyo says he is my son.

Why? Does he not realise it?

That must mean he didn’t know, did he? And the child didn’t know either.

Jeon Jungkook, your husband of half a decade, has a son he never knew of. Older than Hana. Predating all of your history with him, alive and a toddler already back when you so profoundly believed that you were the first to share this very bond with this man.

To be the first for him at least once. But…

You’re not.

“Say something,” you hear him plead.

His voice is a little farther away. Your eyes drift back to him; he looks miserable, a hand reaching out. His fingers graze the tip of yours, but you retract in time. He sighs in absolute sorrow, face falling, as if his chest is surrendering.

You barely whisper when you answer, “What do you want me to say?”

It’s him and you; the woman is quiet, and you’re shattering. She can’t do anything anyway. Only contorts her face in pure guilt when Jungkook, defeated to the core, begs, “Anything.”

“As you wish.” Another glance at her. She’s looking at you, too. “Why are you here now?”

Her eyebrows raise; she’s caught off guard, but she still has an answer ready. Of course; Jungkook heard all of it minutes before you are, so it must be easy.

“I… I haven’t been doing well. The man I was supposed to marry left when he found out I carried somebody else’s child… even��� even before that, actually.” Jungkook breathes air through his lips as she explains; you can’t tell why. “And I need help. Any help.”

“I see… And you couldn’t come years earlier, I assume? When I didn’t have three children of my own?” You lift the corresponding number; your cheeks are fiery hot. “When there was nobody I’d have to explain this to? How…”

You shake your head, disgusted with your attitude, but more devastated by the situation. So you spit, “How selfish are you?”

Her mesmerising eyes are so big; with her and Jungkook’s lives combined, their son could only end up with these grossly sweet eyes, pupils fracturing your heart. She’s looking at you as if you’re about to eat her.

Then she apologises, “I’m sorry… I tried to get by for as long as I could.”

“Didn’t you know we have a family?!”

“I knew! I— Of course I knew.”

Jungkook is royalty; people in your city know the two of you. Know your story. You wonder what this will do to you both.

“And,” you continue, “you still thought it’d be a good idea to bring chaos to our home.”

“I did not wish for this at all,” she defends, “I felt terrible all the while, and… I was so desperate, please try to understand. I need something, anything and… If his father can provide any of it in any way…” 

His father… his father…

You might spiral. The same thoughts circle your head at a pace that might make you faint.

This woman. This child. And his father.

You can’t breathe.

So you don’t respond to the sheer idiocy she just uttered, still in disbelief; the denial will be over in a minute. But for now, it hurts and you’re confused and absolutely out of touch with reality, and… fuck, your stomach—

You put a palm to your chest; the rise and fall is heavy. And just as he calls your name, you bolt away.

Just a second before you once again feel his fleeting digits miss your wrist, a lingering ghost touch as you run.

The first instinct your feet follow leads you to Jungkook’s office.

Somewhere in a corner of the mansion, you have your own chamber, dedicated to your time and your moments; but somehow, you still land in a room drenched in the scent you’re fleeing from.

And it’s counterproductive, the way you’re moving. Fast enough to dim his calls, but slow enough for him to catch up, too. Like you want him to follow. You know he’d find you even if he wasn’t hot on your trail, because you like to hide there.

But on other days, it’s you finding solace in him, not away from him.

You’re dizzy, deeply breathing when you shut the door behind you, both palms on the heavy door. You keep them there as if they could guard you from the disaster outside. But they don’t. None of it might.

Because he’s still right there, busting your glass heart when you hear steps outside, nearing; closer, too close, the corresponding voice hesitating for not a moment—

“Open… open, please.”

And suddenly, you’re crying.

There is no warning, no quiet tear falling, no steady progress. The stream of shock and grief is immediate, and it leaves your eyes, passes your cheeks, collects at your chin so fast that you barely notice the door blurring.

You’re sobbing; your forehead collides with the cold of the door, the carvings unpleasant against your skin. Where are your kids? They must still be asleep. Or maybe somebody is already — hopefully — taking care of them.

Jaehyuk gets all moody when Jungkook or you stay away for too long. You don’t think he should be this attached to you, to not learn to trust others. But trust is fragile and the child seems to know and… and… you know as well. You wish you could be as oblivious as him, though.

The world doesn’t work that way. No, it’s cruel and painful and everything good spoils someday, becomes rotten.

Doesn’t it?

Why does the voice on the other side cut you in pieces?

God. You want to return to your children. You want back to what you had last night; you crave their warmth, and his warmth. Of your children, his children.

But wouldn’t it remind you again? That the number isn’t uneven as you thought. That there’s more out there; he has more pieces out there that you’re not part of and… fuck. Fuck.

“I d-do not want to,” you finally reply, stuttering, words cut.

He silences. Maybe because he can hear you weeping. But he tries again, “Please… open.”

You shake your head against the door, but you know such a choice won’t lead anywhere. He’ll stay right there and you’ll keep telling him to leave, and despite his guest downstairs, he’ll persist.

So your hands sneak to the handle, weakened by the shaking. Jungkook doesn’t barge in until the door cracks open a slit; and when he steps into the room, you tumble back, out of his reach.

You don’t want his embrace. You don’t need his arms.

No, that’s a lie.

You do, but you can’t brave them right now. Body weightless, you rely on your voice, stating, “You never told me.”

His face is fallen, cheeks rounder when he looks to his feet. They’re flushed; the hue is so different from what you’re used to seeing. It’s always accompanied by a smile and crinkles around his eyes, sometimes shy, sometimes delighted.

This time it’s something else. Embarrassment and guilt and pain.

There’s a crease between his eyebrows, smoother due to your quiet tone; but it’s still there, distressed. Pained when he admits, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know a thing.”

“Who is she?”

He knows that, at least. You need to move away from pointless questions and throw those that you’re certain he possesses knowledge about.

He says, “She’s somebody I knew… so long ago.”

A thought after another creeps into your head, like a parasite, feeding on your sanity. You feel crazy and sick when a horrifying idea makes its way through, but you can’t resist the question regardless of the answer.

“Was she… was she one of the people you tried things with? To escape town…”

“No… she wasn’t part of any of this.”

And you cannot say if this is better or worse than what you expected. He wasn’t as terrible as to try with this many women. But if she wasn’t part of that stupid plot, and you were, does this place her higher in worth than you?

You weren’t good enough to be approached without a deal. To be fallen in love with unintentionally. But she was something else. It seems there was something, right?

But he’s with you. He chose you. You’re his wife, the woman he spends his days with, the only thought in his head. He’s loved you throughout the years; he’s devoted to you like the moon to the stars, not to her.

And he’s standing here, his eyes begging, his fingers quivering. You’re the subject of his desire and the name in his heart; he never even mentioned her. Fuck, he breathes for you… but you can’t seem to breathe.

You’re the mother of his children, yes. But so is she.

“Did you… did you get with my sister or me to forget about her?”

Fuck, you’re breathless. Why are you breaking like this? Why does the moment feel like this? When is it going to be over? Will you wake up easier?

“No…” he says, shaking his head immediately, “no. You know how it started. It had nothing to do with her, just with him…”

“So what?!” you spit, unable to contain yourself, somehow not affected enough by the big, sad eyes, pleading and fearing. “Who was she?”

It hurts. It hurts not only because of the obvious circumstances but — your love was born out of a facade, out of a lie. Even if he loves you genuinely now, even if you’d die for him without hesitation — the two of you happened as part of a different purpose.

But she never did.

She was real. Whatever he had with her or felt for her, it stemmed out of something authentic.

Your face heats up when you inquire, “…Did you love her?”

“I…” He hesitates. Fucking hesitates. But then says, “I didn’t.”

“You’re lying.”

You don’t know if he is. You can usually tell; this seems a little more complicated. One, you’re clouded by your own judgement. Second, the situation isn’t easy; Jihyo so obviously belongs to parts of his history.

Jungkook insists again, “I didn’t love her.”

“But you felt something.”

“I don’t know,” comes back, and something inside you falls, even if it shouldn’t, even if you had nothing to do with whatever was before you came along. You hate it, but you can’t stop yourself from plummeting face-forward into pain when he says, “But she was nowhere close to where you are now. Or where you were even back then.”

Can you believe this? The but pierces through you, repeating in your mind, as if saying, “No, she was less than you, but still something.” How do you know none of it will return with a child present in his life?

“But she was enough for a child,” you retort, “and… I don’t know how careful you were with others, too…”

“I was. I was careful.”

“But not with her!”

He doesn’t respond. This isn’t you; you don’t make others feel bad. You endorse empathy and joy. No, this isn’t you and it frightens you. If you had it in you right now, you’d take him into your arms. He’d deserve it, considering that he’s as surprised as you, falling as much as you.

Suffering like you.

But your thoughts are going haywire, and they keep falling out, “I thought I was the first one. I wanted our children to be our first—”

“I thought so, too,” he defends, “it’s what I would have preferred, baby, I… If I could just…” He gulps; it’s as if you can hear it from afar, in this quiet, empty room. There’s a pause between his words before he steps closer, whispering, “Please, I love you—”

“No, I…” You back away again. Shield yourself. You can’t take a single touch right now.

“Can we mend this?” Jungkook asks; the question splits you in half.

Because what could you do, really? This very real fact looms over you, might do so forever.

“Mend what?” you echo. “That you have a child with another woman? What is there to mend? This is reality and you cannot undo it.”

When you look closely enough, his eyes shimmer with tears, too. The sparse sunlight seeping through the windows for the first time in hours upon hours highlights the glimmer, but there’s nothing soft about it. You recognise dread in it.

Jungkook has been abandoned before, and ever since he married you, he’s been just as afraid, too. It took months and years for the two of you to find a remedy, to decrease the terror. To make him trust your presence entirely. To help him understand that you’re here.

Now, by the looks of it, it seems he isn’t sure anymore.

He tries again, desperate, out of his mind, “Just somehow. Somehow, we can fix this, right?”

“Fix what, Jungkook…?”

“Please.”

You’re moving in circles. He keeps imploring you to reconsider, and you remain clueless about what exactly he’s begging for. You just want to know where this is going. Who she is. Who she was. 

“Please what…” you whisper, eyes drifting to the ground. “What are we going to do about it, Jungkook? It’s important to think about, right…? Who was she to you?”

Who she was?

Jungkook’s memory is fragmented.

Pieces of what she really used to be to him evaporated long ago, just when he turned to look at her properly for the very last time on that warm early summer night. Back then, her smile was fake, apologetic, as if she’d committed an unforgivable crime.

As if sorry for wasting his time, for hurting him, for watching him leave when she wished for him to stay a little longer.

A similarly sad smile, yet so different in nature, appeared when she greeted him so gently in the hallway today. He was frozen in the staircase, stuck on that damn smile that haunted him for weeks and months back then, trying to understand whether she was actually here.

Wondered how he could make her disappear again. It wouldn’t fare well with how he lives his life with you now, he already knew. She was interfering.

And… the familiar smile told him she wasn’t here to deliver any good news. And even though he doesn’t remember it all anymore, he hated how the expression brought back the flood of past images.

The first fuzzy image was of a smile, too, albeit incredibly faded. More optimistic, tender. Enthusiastic, craving the solace and joy of the night as much as Jungkook had.

She stood on the far opposite side of the spacious hall back then; even through the dancing couples, he could see her gleaming, absorbed in a conversation with her dearest friends.

Jungkook had seen her before; perhaps once or twice, but he could barely remember her face. It was as if he was actually looking at her for the first time that night. He didn’t think she generally attended too many parties; and when they’d crossed paths before, they’d probably been a little younger.

He just…

He couldn’t remember her being this striking.

He couldn’t recall the dimples or the vibrant smile or the sparkle in her large eyes. Far away in the room, Jungkook lightly bit his lip as he observed, cocking an eyebrow when she gasped to something her friend had said.

As if he was standing next to her and hearing it, too. Mimicking her reaction, caught in a bubble.

And it took her a little to notice him, too. But when she did, her friends’ eyes followed, an immediate elbow teasing her sides as much as their words. Jungkook could only imagine what they were saying.

What are you looking at?

Is it your turn already? With him, yes?

Oh, and the season has barely begun!

He could read parts of it off their lips. Lifted his ego a little. But he averted his eyes nevertheless, despite the resistance in his movements, only to shift back every now and then.

To his chagrin, the night didn’t offer too many opportunities to near where she stood, but as the event snuck to its end, at least a sliver of hope twinkled, even for just a minute. Approaching the carriages at the same time, he found her waiting not too far from him.

Her family was missing just like his; but he was comfortable here, staring at the sky, breathing in the late spring breeze. But her gown, while heavy, wasn’t accompanied by a shawl, her arms bare.

He used the chance to ask, “Aren’t you cold?”

She stared up in surprise, not quite expecting a conversation. Yet, smoothly, and either bold or courageous or sweet, she answered with a confidence so enticing, “Hmmm, no. I guess I felt warmed enough throughout the night.”

Interesting. So very interesting.

Jungkook’s lips twitched upwards, an enthralled smile; his voice sounded somewhat different when he asked, “Is that so?”

“Mhm. I’ll thank you another day, though.”

Behind her, her folks neared, and he looked ahead and then down, smile still plastered to his face. Even when she’d left, the sparkle remained in his eyes.

That was it for now.

Jungkook’s and Jihyo’s paths crossed again merely a week later. He understood in that time apart that the tiny interaction had caught him somehow; he was relieved when he saw her again at the next party.

Brave, he joined her where she stood, scanning the finger food before settling on some tartelettes. He’d been hopeful throughout these days, yes, but Jihyo didn’t show her face too often; so he didn’t lie when he confessed, “I didn’t expect you here.”

“Well…” she answered, “I hoped to see you. I told you I’d want to thank you.”

“Mhhh, I’m still not sure what for, though.”

She shrugged her shoulders, smile so vibrant. “It was a pleasant night. I felt warm throughout.”

She’d said the same thing last time, waiting at the carriage, moonlit and breathtaking. He smirked a little, satisfied by the flow of the dialogue; then argued, “But it is the summer season. Heat is all that is ahead.”

“…Isn’t it?”

Something stirred in Jungkook. He wouldn’t analyse her words on other days, but her expression was telling. Made him fearless, whirling his mind as he asked, “Have you explored this place yet?”

“No. I never get to do so much. But,” she said enthusiastically, licking cream off her snack. Jungkook couldn’t look away. “I wouldn’t mind walking around. It is hotter inside anyway.”

And matching her fierce response from before, Jungkook added, “…I doubt it.”

He was right. She’d prove it quick minutes later. In the backyard, stopping in the middle of their walk, he felt the warmth, the heat when she pushed him into an empty corner, lips crashing against his.

Jungkook’s blood scorched indeed; the outside wasn’t cooler. In fact, it burned. He burned. And she burned, too. Her skin, her shoulder, the mounds of her breasts underneath the dress that he pulled down.

There wasn’t any room or chance to proceed too far, but somehow, Jungkook was content with this.

It made him crave harder; and he enjoyed the feeling. The temptation. The yearning for all he hadn’t yet seen, yet felt. He hungered for her; she was the opposite of what the world held, brought him excitement.

Today, he doesn’t know if it was this very exhilaration or the need for distraction or something else that dragged him back to her over and over again. He recalls his heart nervously jumping, but he can’t recall it blooming. Never the way it did with you. Never.

But she still evoked something different. Reprieve from his days, his sorrows, the grief in his big, old home.

He never told her any of this, but he assumes she saw. Sometimes, she’d raise his chin when they met in private, mouth breathing close to his, asking if something was wrong. He’d deny. He’d dive into her eyes and lips instead, forget about it all, enjoy her empathy.

She’d somehow worry, he thought, and then kiss him, tell him it was alright, no matter what it was. That she was there. And he’d appreciate it. Would like the warmth, the care.

And still, he’d go home to tears, suffer all over again. But when he fell asleep, he’d think of her, forbidding the last thought of the night to be anything dreadful, anything but the same pretty smile.

She offered madness. She offered humour, sweetness, and most of all, relief.

Jihyo always refused to walk around town. She never hesitated to decline his offers.

Jungkook was alright with this; didn’t question her rejection at first; he didn’t know what the two of them were, anyway. There were fuzzy feelings somewhere, something twinkling in his mind and his guts and his chest.

He didn’t think love felt this way, however.

He regarded love as a much stronger sentiment than what they had. What was it that they indulged in anyway? Ablaze days and nights, baring themselves behind locked doors, lips on her skin, her sides, her waist, her flesh. Hands on, under, between her legs.

The digits would dig into her hips and remain; his tongue tasted her up, up and down, in and out. Taking in her scent, lapping her up, showing her new things. Body against body. Buried in her, glued to her — could that be love? No.

It was just that, wasn’t it? Yes, he’d stopped meeting other women. Yes, he’d be distracted at events.

He would spend his time with his boys, but let his mind and eyes travel far from them; even the presences hiding in those halls that he’d usually mock or annoy or disregard, projecting his own insecurities onto them, dulled.

Jihyo was beautiful. Jihyo captured focus. And he called Jihyo’s name until he even muttered it when alone; she breathed it until he could only hear his own name in her voice.

But.

It wasn’t love. Even today, he knows it never was.

Yet, even then, he could imagine this for a while. If he couldn’t love her now, he thought, maybe he could love her some day. He couldn’t tell, but he could imagine it. Who knew? 

Then again, it seemed he would never find out, anyway.

Some days, some time later, Jungkook eventually started thinking how odd it was that Jihyo never wanted to go out. To tell somebody about them; would it be so bad?

He presumed it was because she didn’t want others to know. He understood, truly; at an age where people would pressure one into obligations just when they saw others together, he didn’t want them to rumour yet.

Then again, Jihyo and he were connected somehow; sometimes he thought that was enough, too. Deep under the sheets so often, sharing stories sometimes, and perhaps they weren’t for the public to hear.

And there was something mysterious about them that nobody would understand, anyway. He couldn’t wrap his finger around the mystical nature of the two of them, but he started to understand she had him good.

Yet…

Yet. Something was wrong with her. So entirely wrong when she’d keep him hidden in rented rooms or in the dead dark of the night.

When she’d refuse his offer to promenade through the park, be fully against his invitations on some days without a proper reason at all. Or, when she’d skip events that she promised to attend, and then told him she hadn’t been sick — just not in the mood.

And one day, he decided to ask.

A very futile intention; the urge to ask was quickly overshadowed by kisses too intense. He already wanted to see her again even before the evening was over, no matter what she’d answer. He was already dreaming of her body, despite towering over it right now.

Would these dreams ever stop?

His nights were sleepless anyway, just like this approaching one. Hands on his own skin, today replaced by her, pumping and fondling. All over him when he climbed onto her and pushed in again.

He couldn’t free himself of the itch she caused just yet; kept scratching. Then again, he was so clueless about who she was at this very moment. Fond of her, but confused, too.

Aware of how much he thought of her, but having no issues retorting things snarkily, like when she mumbled underneath him, “You can’t live without me,” and he effortlessly rose from her neck, swollen lips answering, “Oh, I can.”

And he could. They were confusing in nature, but he knew that he could.

Because she was veiling something that he thought might distance her from him, so he started keeping himself mentally distanced either way. Even though it proved harder these days.

But the two of them were still something. They got along; there was humour in this, attraction and fire. And he felt heavenly inside her every damn time.

In the midst of it, he told her, “We could try harder.”

Perhaps she misunderstood; perhaps she couldn’t read his eyes and his tone yet, because she pulled him closer, deeper. He let her. Wouldn’t voice these thoughts properly again until he dropped next to her and said, “I like spending time with you. And I want to try more.”

He didn’t notice right away — her hesitation, her silence.

It took a second to even look at her; and when he did, he recognised the sudden guilt in her eyes instantly. Remorse, pain. Like he’d just broken something with his idea that she’d kept whole. Only now, she couldn’t save it anymore.

He didn’t know what it was, so he wondered, “What is it?”

“I…”

Then again, it wasn’t hard to figure out anyway. He deduced, “…You don’t want it.”

“It’s… not that I don’t want it.”

“I mean. It’s alright, you see? We aren’t this far, so if you want to reject this, I do understand. I will live.”

“I might have to reject it… you, Jungkook,” she confessed, and he had to admit that he wasn’t overly enjoying what he was hearing, “not because I want to, but it’s…”

And the universe had cruel ways of interrupting. Always.

Because her words halted somewhere between him and her and then vanished into thin air. Cut by strong, arhythmic knocks at the door. The sudden interjection startled them, dropped the quiet hearts into the pit of their stomachs.

As the door worked on being unlocked, she whispered a tiny, anxious, “Please… you might get hurt.”

And Jungkook understood; jumped off the bed, slipping into his trousers within seconds before dashing to the back. The wardrobe was empty, ideal to hide; it’s what he knew she wanted, for him to stay anonymous.

Jihyo, still bare, sat up on the bed, and Jungkook, in the dark with only a gap to observe the outside happenings, waited. Waited until the door opened. Until a man, more or less a stranger to him, only minimally familiar, stormed in with furious eyes.

He didn’t stall a second before his anger ambushed her. Jungkook’s fingers tingled to crash the door of the wardrobe open; even from here, it was abundantly clear that the man struggled to not hurt her.

But right now, he relied on the fury in his tone; Jungkook assumed it was a brother or friend raging about her indecent behaviour. But it soon became all too obvious that he wasn’t. Somebody of such a relationship doesn’t snap like this.

No, Jungkook understood. Knew what the issue was when the man asked, “So you’ve started getting naked for others? Is that it now? That’s what you whore have been doing?”

For others…

She tried, “Listen, I—”

But he cut her off, “No! I promised you everything. Why do you despise me so much? You couldn’t wait for us to be wed, but needed to satisfy your needs elsewhere? Why do you despise me, huh?”

Jihyo didn’t hear much of what he said, zeroing in on specific statements, and whispered, “You do not give me everything. Not even close.”

Fuck.

If it wasn’t clear already… Jungkook’s mind spun.

Jihyo was promised to somebody else and was using Jungkook with a purpose and intention, as a means of fulfilling whatever she needed to fulfil. And he— he was the homewrecker, the third wheel, not her focus the way she was his focus.

Despite the mistakes he’d ever made, despite his damn flaws, he never wanted this.

What was he? A placeholder? Thrown aside the moment she’d marry him? Why was it that Jungkook’s existence was regarded as something so low, stomped beneath people’s feet, like he was nothing at all?

Who knew? There wasn’t even a second to think about it, to ask about it.

Priorities shifted, inquiries shoved away; when the man reached low, snatching a patch of her hair to pull her off the bed, sirens chimed in Jungkook’s head. It still mattered to him, not seeing her hurt; but his instincts were deep-rooted.

Nobody, including Jihyo, should have to experience this.

So Jungkook pushed the door open, met with a gasp, surprise and wrath. The man didn’t need to ask who he was or what he was doing here; he knew immediately, more than cognisant of the wretched situation.

Jungkook was ready to throw some insult onto him, words already on his lips, arms reaching out to defend her. But he didn’t need to; the guy had already let her go, taking a swing within a second before his fist landed on Jungkook’s jaw.

It could’ve been worse; he could’ve broken it. Jungkook knew right away that the damage wasn’t as terrible as it had the potential to be.

But his tongue still felt warm, tasted metallic. He took a deep breath through his nose, dizzy for a moment, still sane enough to hear the stranger say, “You can have the slut.”

There was another blob of disgust landing on Jungkook’s face; no doubt that the man bid him farewell with one last literal spit on Jungkook’s cheek. Then, the door fell into its lock, and it got quiet again.

Or… not quite.

Jungkook lacked words; there was nothing to say anyway. He was the culprit after all.

Worried hands settled on his body; he didn’t notice how much he’d sunk to the ground, one knee hitting the floor. But when the exploring fingers touched his waist, up to his armpits and his elbows, he stood tall again.

She was trying to lift him. To check for wounds, despite the clear drops of scarlet red he was leaving on this rented room’s floor. Eyes shutting for a second, he slapped the concerned palm off his arm, dodging it when she came back with a quiet, “Jungkook…”

“Shut up.”

“Please listen—”

“Listen to fucking what? You’re…”

There was no ending to the sentence. He didn’t know what she was. A fraud, maybe. But he didn’t have it in him to insult her somehow; perhaps because she, too, was already in enough pain as it was.

When his eyes opened, they glared. To his feet, to the side, into her wet gaze. She was nearly hiccuping, but he couldn’t get himself to give into the empathy entirely; the anger simmered in the pit of his stomach, threatened to come to a full boil.

Yet, he registered when she said, “He doesn’t treat me well, he— he’s controlling. And emotionally abusive, he— please,” she grabbed his hand, but he pulled out of her grip, “I can’t marry him, not if— not if I’m scared he might raise his hand at me.”

“Then don’t fucking marry him. You have this choice,” Jungkook said, spitting into the corner; the colour was disgusting. “Controlling and abusive, however? You sound perfect for him.”

“I don’t… I can’t. I can’t stay with him, but I— I could stay with you. I would.”

Jungkook scoffed. She had to be joking. Undoubtedly; there was nothing in him capable of believing she meant this. Not when she’d refused just this idea mere minutes ago.

He shook his head; he wouldn’t have any of this. Even if she left this man… even then…

He couldn’t do this because she made him do something so easily that he abhorred. He’d seen the love between his father and his mother before, and then witnessed the hatred between her and his uncle.

After all these years of affliction, he knew the difference between love and despise.

Knew where affection could grow, where it would wilt. Where it’d be replaced with hostility.

She wasn’t made for him; he wasn’t in the mindset for her. And he was wrong after all; he didn’t love her and he never could have.

“Please, don’t go,” she begged as he picked up his clothes, wiping his mouth on the bed sheet, ready to leave. “Please, I—”

She followed him all the way to the door; Jungkook resisted each push and pull, charging towards the exit with resolution. And when she blocked the door for too long, sobbing onto her body, he fletched his teeth, sharpened his jaw, clasped her wrist before he turned her around.

Arm pinned to her back, cheek pressing into the door, she kept crying, and then, finally, sighed. She gulped; then lowered her face, forehead to the cold of the wood, and too courageously as always pleaded, “Be with me one last time. Just… just once.”

And her tone… her voice… her curling fingers…

They tempted him. Something about this, something about her tugged him in again, like an invisible force. And for the tiniest moment, he hated himself for thinking this way. But deep inside he knew the truth.

That he still craved her. Still wanted to feel her once more. Still hungered to bury himself in deep, leaving scars and marks as if to punish her just once. But…

But he remembered. She’d turned him into somebody he wasn’t. So he couldn’t. He’d carry the regret to his grave.

So he let her go, using the moment of weakness, shoving her away slightly — she let him. She understood to give up. And he, with a coat over his shoulder, left.

A hand over the bleeding wound, and the other over his injured mouth.

If he wakes up now, you won’t be able to take it.

It was already difficult, breathing through every second of the rest of the day. Overthinking, but never quite processing the information you received. From the very moment you woke up to the story Jungkook narrated and everything that followed, the seconds have been hell.

Everything… everything—

The remaining conversations. With her, with the village bartender he expected. You don’t know how he survived any of it, functioned at all; using his brain at full capacity, reading through papers when you were sure the letters were blurring in front of his very eyes.

And how he looked at you after he was done and returned to you, reaching for your limp hand…

The hurt was prominent, your heart still reluctant, but you let him; what good would it have done to send him away? He kept coming back. Sat there for an hour until you told him to tend to his guest, to discuss whatever he needed to.

Truth was, you didn’t want him to go… but you didn’t want him near, either.

Your mind kept circling around a hundred and thousands of things. The woman sitting downstairs, fiddling and nervous, the child still next to her. Possibly bored. She’s aware of her past as much as you are, of the role she played. Of the hurt she caused.

The more you think about it, the more it pains. The more it seems like a tragedy, like an anti-fairytale. Fabricated.

So unreal.

It’s as though thinking it senseless could make it less real. You’re married to him now, but you still feel small, shrinking, insecure and hurt and unable to make any of this coherent.

You needed silence today. You wanted your mind to divert, conjure different, more pleasant thoughts, memories of better times. But this proved worse; so somehow, you ended up overthinking the situation to death.

You don’t want the children to wake up again. Hana is fast asleep, Jaehyuk dozing. It was Jaehoon’s subtle whimpering that finally shifted your attention twenty minutes ago; your arms were too weightless to carry him, but you did, swayed him, blended out your brain with his sounds.

By now, he’s already drooling over you again. You hope he stays just like this; hope Jaehyuk doesn’t notice the empty side of their crib. 

There’s something about this, the twin intuition. You had heard about it before, but it is truly fascinating, the way they communicate. You’re still baffled that Jaehyuk stayed as unmoving as he did when you pulled his brother towards you, comforting yourself with his warmth.

But you have to admit…

You’re exhausted. More so mentally than physically. Your body yearns to drop. The up and down pacing only drains you further.

You should set him into his crib again. He’s fast asleep anyway; everybody is. Just you aren’t. And your husband isn’t.

In fact, he’s not even in this room with you. Heart palpitating and chest paining, you’ve been waiting. He slipped in and out of the rooms you were in for hours, and you kept sending him away, sickened by the apologies, not even certain what exactly he was apogising for.

For having a child? For once tending to secret meetings with a woman you don’t know, ambiguous about what he felt for her? You don’t know.

And…

Honestly — your heart isn’t splintering because he made a mistake, really, did he? You and him were nothing back then. No. You’re fractured because of your own damn expectations. And because you wanted life to lead somewhere else.

You didn’t want somebody to become such a part of your love and marriage like this.

You sigh to breathe out the ache, deep from your stomach, hoping it’ll lighten the load. But it doesn’t really. Not even Jaehoon’s little hand over your chest does, his head on your shoulder, the scent of his baby hair.

And once the door to the bedchamber creaks open, you don’t feel relieved, either. Your heart stirs more, if anything. Scared your son might hear or notice, you hurry to put him down again, draping a blanket over his little body before you shut your silken robe.

Jungkook appears as if he’s lived a dozen lives in a day. His pupils have shrunk, shoulders low, hair as uncombed as in the morning. He didn’t bother; as little as you. He halts when he sees you standing in the middle of the room, surprised about the random spot you chose.

Endless affection flashes across his face, transparent yearning, as though he hasn’t seen you in days. Within a moment, the expression calms a little, and he pulls himself together enough to ask, “You are still awake, darling?”

You hold yourself tight, as if binding your body together. Clearing your throat, you say, “It’s… I don’t know if I will be able to sleep tonight.”

“…Me neither.”

“What happened?”

You gesture to the ground, referring to the parlour. She’s probably not even there anymore. She was all day; and she journeyed. She must be tired.

Jungkook explains, as if reading your mind, “Jihyo… she’s in one of the guest rooms.” You nod. He cards through his hair, continuing, “She said the guy she was supposed to marry never told anyone what had happened that night… I— I don’t know why. He never came back at all, but I figured that bit. She didn’t want him to, and I told her he shouldn’t have either way.”

He sighs; so do you. Feelings or not, you guess Jungkook has never been a bad person. It still feels odd. He then says, “And then she was abandoned by her family when they learned of her pregnancy and she wouldn’t tell anybody who the father was…”

Of course not. Somewhere, she must have cared.

“They sent her to some faraway aunt who was apparently a tyrant… and she ran away when her boy was a year old.”

Your dropped chin lifts, an immediate response forming in your mind. Your boy. Your boy, too. But you don’t spill it. In truth, you don’t even need to. As if written all over your face in big, bold letters, Jungkook sees right through you.

He halts, gives himself a moment to be sure it’s what you’re stuck on, and then tells you, “…I know but… I have no connection to him. She does. I have none at all.”

“She does, and now she’s here… actually here…”

“She’s here because it was nearly impossible to survive for her,” he insists, the tone of defence sharp and clear, “but somehow she still did. It’s gotten more difficult now, however, and—” He’s struggling more now; while some words pour out, others are whispered. Like, “As the father of her child… she says it is both our responsibility to ensure he is well. But…”

As the father of her child, as the parents of their child.

He’s not wrong; and you guess that if it wasn’t happening in your own household, you’d be much more lenient about this. You’d be nodding along, agreeing that a father should be present, that a child deserves it.

You’ve been part of an orphanage filled with lonely kids for too long to think otherwise.

But it surely is different in moments like these. You feel like a hypocrite.

“But?” you prod.

“She understands if I say no, too. I have my own family now.”

Yeah…

Did she need to tell him that? Did he know by himself; are these her or his words? You wonder…

“You say she always struggled,” you draw back to again, “why did she never reach out when she knew she was with child already?”

He rubs his eyes. Tired, his body somewhat more worn out than ever. Barely looks active; the shoulders are in an entirely new position. Or no… not new. You’ve seen it before — it’s just been years now.

“She thought I wouldn’t bother,” he says, “she thought… I’d abandoned her once and for all. Which I reckon I did.”

“And…” You’re scared to ask. You swallow. “Would you have aided her? If you’d known.”

He quietens. You’re not too fond of the hesitation loudening the silence. You know he’s thinking, eyes unfocused, imagining the scenario you narrated without probably really wanting to. You brought this to yourself, so you’ll need to be patient.

And you are, until he finally concludes, “I would have… I— I would have felt like I owed this to my child. I can’t— sweetheart, it’s not my nature, please understand. I wouldn’t leave a woman alone with this if I was anyhow part of it and—”

“And… If you’d known… we wouldn’t even have happened, right?”

Jungkook shakes his head again, the movements even lazier now. You’re afraid he might drop and faint. But he breathes in, then out, uprights himself, “It doesn’t matter what would have or could have happened. I did approach you and I did fall in love with you and we did happen. Isn’t… isn’t that enough?”

You blink; then blink more. A shaky breath escapes your lips to keep your voice as steady as doable. “Yes… I assume…”

Another pause. More stalling until the thoughts previously forming in your head become less of a tangled, messy garn and get clearer. You just do not know how to voice them; to keep the man who brought stars down to the ground to you whole.

You don’t want to hurt him. But you don’t understand how to handle the next few days any other way.

But you don’t say it yet. You wait. Listen as he begs, “Please tell me… tell me what you’re thinking. I don’t know what to do.”

You lie, “I don’t know, either, Jungkook.”

His strong hands get ahold of tufts of his hair again, butchering his mane more. The gesture isn’t aggressive, but he still looks so out of his goddamn mind. Desperately, he steps closer, breathing, “You know that I love you, yes?”

…You’ve seen needles at your seamstress’ place before. They always strike you as effective, professional. Sharp. The sting you feel reminds you of when her needle digs into fabric. Perhaps worse.

Perhaps it’ll turn into a sword in a moment.

“Only you,” he adds, but then halts, a shake of his head correcting himself before he tries again, “no. Only you and them.” His eyes briefly dart to the crib, a reminder to lower his voice, even though the shudder makes it hard. “I haven’t thought about her in yea—”

No…

“You haven’t thought about her once?” you interrupt. It’s one of the things your derailing mind tried to convince you of today. That she never really disappeared. “The woman you were involved with like this… you never ever thought of her or regarded her important enough to tell me about her? To think about her?”

And now he’s confused. Why do you keep asking questions? You’re your own worst enemy, really. Then again, how does one stop this toxic curiosity from overflowing in a moment like this?

“I don’t know,” he admits. Not a needle anymore… “She might have crossed my mind as somebody who once existed in my life. Not in a romantic manner. Nor in a yearning manner. I did not miss her, you see?”

He moves closer, hands lifting. You only now see how pale he is, his skin so close, eyes nearly lifeless, but not quite. They’re still filled with so much emotion and pain as he continues, “And I certainly did not care enough to prioritise her over you anyhow.”

Palms cradle your face. Usually so warm and comforting, they’re icy today, as if his blood has frozen in his veins. And he sounds so utterly dehydrated when he says, “She was never important enough, no…”

“I— I see.”

He waits. His breath falls on your face before he runs his tongue between his lips nervously. His waterline is damp, but holding back. You wonder when he last ate, when he last drank.

You guess he’s not as concerned about himself when he requests, “Tell me what you are thinking.”

A lot. Too much to condense into one single thought. But you still pick out one of the million swirling around and throw it out, “I am wondering… about what you will do now. I will assume you will help.”

You see how much he hates to admit it; you nearly take it back before he, however, tells you again, “I may have to.”

“And… if you do. What will it look like? Will you— I do not know. Will you meet her regularly, send her money, see the child? Build a bond? Have… have two families on either side?”

“I d-don’t think it will be like this, I—”

“How will it be then?”

His hands drop. He shuts his eyes, but opens them again a minute later. “I will provide… I might get to know him. But I do not plan on making them an integral, main part of my life. I don’t want this to come between us or have the children think wrong of me, and… you’re my priority.”

You know…

As the wife of somebody like Jungkook, you have seen the hardships that come with a traumatised mind. One that so deeply fears he will step into his family’s shoes, mimicking the misery he once experienced.

He’s been afraid of passing on generational trauma for years, and he battled the fear… you know he doesn’t want to start at zero. You don’t want it either. And you genuinely do not perceive him as a bad father; quite the opposite.

Jeon Jungkook gives his all. He loves with his all. He worships with his all.

But you still think this needs time and patience.

So you confess, “I believe you… I do. I just. I think this will change things. I cannot stop thinking about you moving back and forth, nurturing two families, and yes, I am selfish, but… I always assumed I was the only one.”

Not before. Not long ago. But now.

You would’ve been content with somebody like her being out there and never finding out about it. For the very first time in your life, you’re selfish, and it hurts, it burns, and you loathe that you cannot turn it off.

“I did, as well…” he confirms. “But you’re the only one that matters.”

“What about your son? Do you have it in you to not care?”

“He’s a child I never spoke to!” he argues, voice rising by an octave. “I just… fuck, I do not know. Baby, I… I don’t want to be a pendulum. I’m not swinging between two spaces… I will never perceive anyone as more important than you.”

“I see.”

Pause. Then, “…Please look at me.”

You feel another clump rise to your throat. It’s more dense this time, inevitable, and it affects your speech. Accompanied by something lifting to your head and making it heavier. You tell him, “I can't.”

“…Why?”

“I just can’t.”

“You ca—” He shifts, eager to bring you back to him; you’re already miles away and he knows. “Baby… Do you still love me?”

You could scoff. But you don’t; instead, you feel the liquid starting to pour. Like the rain these days, less comforting now, it drops out of your eyes. You somehow very well expected it, but the amount of the drops still surprises you.

Like a grey sky indicating a gloomy day, yet not a reliable preparation for a downpour.

Your inhale is sharp, cuts the air, and your eyebrows painfully furrow when the tears collect. You answer, “Of course I love you, I— Fuck, of course I do. It’s why this hurts so much!”

“I… I know.”

His gaze is similarly wet, suddenly an ocean, but he blinks the despair away before he crushes you in a hug. Jungkook is never afraid to cry, but restraining himself is something he’s practised for the kids… and even for you, it seems.

Shit, but— you’ve told him so many times. So many times to not hold back for you. You don’t either. You don’t either, right?

“I know,” he repeats, “I— I don’t know why these things happen, I’m—”

You shake your head against his chest, sogging his clothes as you mumble, “I can’t blame you, can I? It was your past, yes, but I wasn’t part of it, and… it’s still so much.”

“For me, too… for me as well, darling—”

“I just— I think I need distance, Jungkook.”

Wait… 

Wha—

That’s when the world stops spinning, frozen like his blood. The heart he has so gently guarded so far detaches from the rest of what lies beneath his ribs, and jumps into his throat, pounds in his ears.

The profound hope that he misheard you is needless, he already knows. He’s been hyper aware of your every movement and word today; he knows what you said and he knows he’ll have to let you. But…

“…What?”

The decision still leaves him stranded on an island. Away from this house and you and his children. Desolated, he as its lone habitant. And the image is surreal.

“I need to go away,” you elaborate again, digging deeper into the wound. Can he rewind the morning? No. You add, “Just until you have this sorted out with her and it’s done, and—”

“I have,” he carefully voices, convinced, so, so convinced, “there is nothing more to say.”

But you’re not with him just yet; you argue, “But she should stay for a little, shouldn’t she? I… I am not too fond of the scenario, but from an empathetic perspective, you should know about your son. Be in the loop…”

Yes, you do hate the idea. Yes, it contradicts your distaste for the image of him walking to and fro between families, providing and keeping her in his life. But, after all is said and done, his son will still be his son.

And you are only heartbroken, not heartless.

“I just…” you continue, gulping. “I can’t be here while she is. And I don’t want you to send her away already, either. Her journey seems to have been long and… she’s just trying to live.”

“Where… where do you want to go?”

“Home.”

The resolute tone you decide on hurts. Not because he’s against your family or your place back in the city, but because you seem to have thought it out already. That you want to leave. That you want to be away from him.

The woman that latches onto him the moment he crawls into bed after work; from the man who clutches your body throughout the night, wakes up delirious from your scent.

It stings. It burns.

“Just for a little,” you say, as if to cure the injury. “I… I need to be away.”

Jungkook’s throat is knotted up and dry. He almost doesn’t dare to ask, but he knows he’ll keep wondering when you’re gone. So he spits, “And then?”

“And then… I will see.”

Doesn’t matter anyway. He guesses that the wondering part won’t change, no matter what he inquires, no matter what you respond.

“…Why does this sound like a possible goodbye?”

He might faint. He doesn’t know how long he’ll have to be awake without you. Doesn’t know what’ll follow this disaster. Doesn’t know anything. Most of his life, he’s been haunted by this uncertainty, and he hates the return of it.

And you’re not saying anything; the moment gets worse as you close your eyes for a bit, staring down, unable to answer because you probably don’t know, either.

But…

“Please say something,” he urges, abandoning questions and pleas, diving straight into statements as if this could make them definitely true, “you… you will come back. You won’t leave after this.”

There’s agitation in your voice, merged with desperation when you speak again, “Jungkook, I can only think so far right now—”

“No, please…”

“What do you mean, pl—”

“I can’t lose you, no matter what.”

“But right now, I can’t take this either, Jungkook!” you snap. Perhaps it’s his big eyes throwing you off guard or the unknown future or the fresh hurt. Something in you breaks as your voice starts to vibrate, eyes watery. “I don’t want to be— another. And I can’t fully make you abandon them either, and… I still don’t know how to live with such a change and—”

And. And. And.

The list goes on. That’s the problem. It’s an overwhelming mess, a never ending string of thoughts. 

As the light in your eyes dims, usually so blindingly bright on other days, Jungkook’s eyes overflow. First a single drop of a tear, then half a dozen. He blinks them away, but suddenly there’s a river across his cheek, collecting to a sea at the chin.

And you look similar.

Shattered like glass. Your broken pieces are tiny; they resemble dust. God, albeit without a single intention, Jungkook has hurt the wrong person.

Desperation at the front of his tongue, he doesn’t know what to say. Nothing more to do but to revert back to pathetic begging—

“Please… don’t go.” His voice quivers, the sigh even shakier; his soft hands, the ones that held you just last night, rub his face in anger towards himself. “It’s who I used to be… I didn’t know.”

“Yes, it’s what used to happen, b–but it doesn’t hurt any less, fuck, and…”  Breathing is as hard as speaking. Your tears run again when you add, “And what if there are more? What if more of them come knocking at our door and we don’t know yet?”

His chest is rising high, falling low. Lower lip never still. You know panic is growing beneath his chest, and you want to wrap your arms around him, keep his pure heart from breaking. But what can you do?

Yours is splitting, too.

Worse when all he whispers again is, “Please don’t go.”

It’s a hopeless attempt. You know; you hear it. He’s still trying but he’s not truly expecting you to change what you decided on. Yet, you ask, “Please understand.”

He’s still not moving; but you think he understands indeed. Because he nods. Doesn’t look at you anymore. The sniffles are familiar, painful as he questions, “What about the children?”

You feared this question. The delivery of it proves harder than you thought; your tongue nearly gets tied, “I… I will leave the twins here. Travelling might be difficult with both of them when I am alone.” You look to the wall; to the little beds on the other side of the room. “Can I take Hana with me?”

You know it’s killing him as much as it is messing with you. You know what it means when he breathes in, but doesn’t argue with you as he nods again. Jeon Jungkook loves you; he loves you to every end of the universe.

And you’ll love Jeon Jungkook for the rest of your life, too, despite it all.

But this is needed.

He asks, “How long will you be away?”

“I don’t know…” you admit. “Hopefully not long.”

“I see.”

“I am sorry.”

All grand arguments end in silence or insults or apologies. There are no more words to utter. Jungkook is at a loss for hope, at the far end of a tunnel. If he could still convince you, he would; but your decision sits.

So all he manages is—

“I am, too.”

There’s a nod. Your tired eyes. You looking to the side, then to the bed, approaching it a moment later with a body falling so weightlessly. When he joins minutes later, you’re turned to the side, and he watches the back of your head, the mane falling, urging to touch it just a little.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns away, too. 

Until you fall asleep and for the rest of the night, you don’t feel a touch on you as you do on other days; but relying on your remaining senses, you do hear the sniffle. Do register the movements next to you.

One more time for a little, approaching while.

The place is empty when Jungkook wakes up. He’s woken up three days in a row now, and he’s never wanted to — every damn time, the place would be empty.

And he can’t breathe.

Ever since she stepped over the threshold and re-entered his life and you chose the sheer opposite, he hasn’t drawn a proper breath. This isn’t how things should be. They’re switched up, plainly wrong.

The room is empty; it has been this vacant before, but the void is yawning now, tormenting. Feels like it might never end.

A couple sunrises ago, you left with a lasting, gnawing touch. Before you stepped down the porch, your palm lay in his for a minute; despite the hurt, you still seemed to want to leave remnants of what he means to you.

Your hand was warm in his; and your eyes, albeit filled with some sort of cold distance, still carried some of the warmth, too, your gaze glassy. You were pulling yourself together so well. For him, yourself, the confused child clinging to you.

Hana thought you were visiting the grandparents out of nostalgic longing. She thought she’d be away from him for a fleeting moment. She’s too young to understand the passing of time, after all.

So she didn’t complain, but she looked dissatisfied. Unwilling to embark on this little vacation. Pouted at her father, but listened to her mother.

For her, he was keeping himself whole, too — but when your fingers slipped away from his, the heat still lingered. Like a red scald, as if he’d held his palm into a flame. Perhaps that’s what set him off.

Perhaps just as much as when the hole between your bodies widened bit by bit, and you disappeared in the distance after the carriage had engulfed you. The impulse to run after you grew consistently and rapidly, but his feet were cemented to the spot, legs stiff.

When the carriage turned, however, and only then, they carried him down. There was a faint sound in the background, like the whispering breeze of autumn, and Jungkook barely understood what it was until he realised his lips were moving.

It was him, not the wind.

Him, in a quick downward spiral, bedazzled by the lunacy and the tears obscuring the world; repeating something he knew you were already too far away to hear. You wouldn’t register any of it anymore; he hoped you’d feel it somehow.

“Please, don’t leave,” it was, wasn’t it? A desperate, “Why would you leave?”

The echoes in the mansion were suddenly much more prominent. Not just of his steps; his own voice in his head had an echo, too, but it was a lot louder, pure torture. Pressed against his ears, as if he was falling from the clouds and into burning hell.

The sounds were blocked by nothing but the wind.

This has been feeling neverending ever since. So infinite.

And maybe it’s this very horrendous fear that disables his lungs; that he might end up like this, without your touch, without your smile, without the future he drew in his mind every single day. It always, always contained you.

He loves you; he’s told you so many times, but it’s never been this apparent. And it’s drying him out, the goddamn loneliness. Blocking his throat. Shit, this place he settled on for you and his family, to give you the best life possible — its vast size is backfiring.

Because—

Fuck. Fuck. What is a spacious room good for if he can’t fucking breathe?

There isn’t anybody in here to hear him panting, surviving; he forbid it. But the loneliness dawns on him again, and he chants with tears dropping on the ground, not making any particular sense, over and over again, “Don’t leave. Please. Please don’t leave—”

As if his brain got stuck here the moment you left, playing the pleas on loop to drive him insane. His own brain is driving him insane. The betrayal is beyond belief.

He’s losing his mind; he’s well aware of this. Pondering, thinking whether the empty rooms in this mansion compete with the vacancy in his mind. Maybe not.

Because the mental rooms are plenty; his hand trembles to push down any handle on his way. There’s this long corridor, leading to these rooms, and whenever he does find the courage to open one, he finds himself in a void.

And he opens them every day, all the time. When he’s asleep. When he’s eating. When he’s wandering around, downing yet another bottle. Always hoping there are scenarios where you’re still with him, in his arms, leaving the pain behind to steer towards the same eternal love you’d been targeting before you left.

But he comes out hopeless each time. And it’s cruel, how vast the corridor is. As if his mind is deceiving him, making him believe there’s a future somewhere that you’re in… but your absence says differently.

He understands; the rooms in the mansion are empty because you’re physically gone, but the ones in his mind inhabit only him because the joyful hopes faded the moment you stepped into the carriage.

Now they’re filled with darkness and fear. What if you don’t come back? What if you do, only to deliver words he doesn’t want to hear, and then to depart again?

He hears nothing but his own voice in those rooms, and it keeps convincing him of his own barely-there worth, and that he always fucks up and that people leave and that they stay away. Convincing him that this is it.

This is how his life was supposed to go. To lift him up, but then to throw him into purgatory again  because somehow, this is what he deserves. Karmic payback.

The times he ever stops hearing these accusations and destructive statements is when other sounds interrupt them. Which has been rare, since he’s avoided conversations and social touch, except for when it was necessary and the village demanded it.

Luckily, this hasn’t been the case, and he’s been able to wither in peace.

There are still exceptions. He still has his children. He remembers; he tries. But his body is frail. Attempts its best to keep him a good father, like now.

Now, when it reacts to the incoherent call. It’s a quiet cry, a sign of waking up; Jungkook can’t remember arriving in his bedroom, but he knows exactly he’s here when he hears the sound.

Ah… right. He told the maid to get them to sleep and then bring them to their crib only ten minutes ago. He did, right? There’s been plenty his imagination has been conjuring, but the conversation feels real.

Even in a state like this, he doesn’t think he’d ever leave his children alone in this room, if he could prevent it. Sometimes, staff is around. Sometimes, he is. Sometimes, you are.

Were.

Right. Right. You might not return. But then again, you will, won’t you?

You love your children as much as he does; you’ve given all of you to the boys as much as you did to him and Hana. They have captured possibly bigger pieces of your heart than he has. You will return, even if just for them.

And then…

What if you take them with you? Or, what if you leave them here? What if, either way, he has to live a life without you?

These little pieces of him would remind him of you, too. They’re part of you, they’re half of you — but he’d see the entirety of you in them. He does even now as he walks over, watching Jaehyuk stir and Jaehoon weeping.

He hasn’t woken up his brother, but he surely has shot an intense ache into Jungkook’s chest.

Looks like you when you cry. Is this odd? Is it even possible, comparing such round, young features to your more defined ones? He doesn’t know, but he can’t unsee it either way.

And his hands burn and pain, his eyes on fire when he lifts him up, whispering Jaehoon’s name with a shush. There’s a change in behaviour immediately, but it’s not enough. The sobbing turns into quieter cries when he sees his father, but…

There’s something else Jungkook interprets.

Your scent is still everywhere. And for those few days, their way of feeding has been slightly different, too. They’re probably noticing the sudden shift. And yes, Jungkook offers comfort, but your absence lingers, and they understand it as well as he does.

“I’m here…” Jungkook whispers, standing in the middle of the room. For a second, Jaehoon grips the strings of his father’s white cotton shirt, but then his lips arch downwards again. “I know. But I am here, you see?”

As Jaehoon’s sorrow doesn’t lessen, Jungkook sniffles, too, lifting his head for a moment to prevent the tears from falling onto his boy. He takes a couple steps back until he plops back on the bed. Offers a hand to Jaehoon who wraps his tiny fingers around one of Jungkook’s.

Jungkook shakes his head, his sigh tired, and then opts for a nod instead as he repeats, “I know. I don’t think it’s enough either, me being here.” He gulps. “And her being away.”

His throat clogs up. He clears it, the tremble coming back to his lower lip as he asks in his son’s direction, “You miss Mama, don’t you?”

And as if aware, Jaehoon cries harder again, winding in Jungkook’s arms. He doesn’t know what to do to calm the tantrum, doesn’t know how you do what you do that he’s not able to do. He doesn’t think he’s failed as a father. He doesn’t think of himself as incompetent.

But he’s helpless without you. The two of you operated as a unit so far, as one big part of this universe. With half of it gone, he feels like he’s lacking half a brain, not quite functioning.

So he adds, “I do, too. Believe me, I miss her so much, too…” Ongoing crying. “I know.” Ongoing crying from both sides. The adult and the child, hurting the same. “I am sorry, sweetheart.”

And he’s not sure who he’s saying it to. To Jaehoon; to Jaehyuk. To Hana. To you.

To the hurting child he used to be, and the longing young adult that craved for too much. He’s apologising to everyone and over all the mistakes he’s made, all the regrets he carries with him.

And as he does, he’s not certain when his cries overshadow the ones of his son, or when the latter’s finally stop, only Jungkook’s misery still sounding. He doesn’t know how to stop this from hurting and how to nurse two children in a room without you, because you’re a piece of this—

You’re a piece of the picture. With you ripped out of it… isn’t it too lonely?

It is. God. God, the void swallows him whole.

And he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know where to go and how to bring you back; if he ran to your city now, where the two of you grew and loved, would you appreciate it or hate him more?

Wait…

Do you…

Hate him?

He doesn’t know. How could he, sitting here, breaking down, mind all empty yet filled. Cruel. This is cruel.

So cruel how he forwards his mood to his children the way he learned never to do. How he can’t breathe, can’t think. How his words lose their meaning after a while, yet stay a mantra, still true  but so out of your reach.

I’m sorry.

I messed up.

I’m sorry.

Please come back.

Your seamstress is as clueless as you'd like to be.

It's probably part of her occupation, the cheerful, sweet, chatty nature, or perhaps, she's in that line because of that very characteristic of her. She's always been like this, so you shouldn't have expected anything different today.

It isn't as though the world joins you in your grief just because you're feeling it. Earth keeps moving.

Coming back home alone was hard. Hana was asleep most of the time, but the moment she woke, she sought his presence profusely.

You wonder if she noticed why he kissed her goodbye so often and told her he loved her a dozen times and gulped down the first hints of yearning with a clogged throat and damp eyes.

She probably doesn't know. His adoration was quieter than hers — because she wailed when he didn't come home, hated the surroundings she'd already seen before but forgotten.

Her father isn't around and she's angry about it.

Maybe you should've left her there. She isn’t as connected to you as she is to him, and while the twins might notice your absence, they won't quite make sense of it yet.

And you, you're stuck in this absolute consciousness that comes with adulthood, aware of everything.

Aware of where you are, who you're with, who is missing. Aware of how you won't be able to weep in your sister's arms forever; so aware that having beautiful dresses sewn won't bring you permanent satisfaction.

But everytime you think back to the last days, you break. The picture of him home alone, theories about what he might be doing, how he might be coping. Whether he's crying like you, fallen like you, feeling incomplete because he's in those rooms with only half of him.

That's how you've been feeling. You're a fraction of yourself.

After three days of solitude, Hana has learned to settle on pouting. It’s odd, the contrast between her and the town, always the same. The latter is as alive as you knew it. And Seung, the seamstress you used to frequent, is still the same amazing woman, too.

Grown, a little older, but the sheer opposite of a quiet Suhana, of a dejected you.

Your sister is holding Hana’s hand, the other tiny fingers busy with the fabric of the dark yellow dress. You’re in a cursory surface conversation with Seung, trying to be polite despite everything, asking how she’s doing, how her husband has been.

She got married years before you did, and she was always incredibly vocal about her relationship with her spouse. They’ve been a key and a lock; she’s spread hope for love amongst many other girls before.

You were one of them. And the hope bloomed, even when you were met with hurdles and thought you’d end in misery.

In all honesty, you truly thought you were an exception to the many rocky marriages. Sure, you never assumed yours would end up a constant fairytale; Jungkook and you have your days, too.

You just… held onto hope, more so when you fell for him, and you never ever thought you’d experience such a low.

Seung still tires of babbling about her husband soon; she enjoys detailing her fabulous life, but she never makes the entire talk about solely herself. So you expect it when you soon hear a question back, “Lord Jeon has also always been such a gentleman, too, though. I enjoy his company thoroughly. Is he not with you today?”

You barely manage the lazy shake of your head, but you smile to cloak the hurt covering your heart, flooding your insides. The agony is always searing; you feel it everywhere, as though a torch lit you on fire. Every damn mention of his name makes your body sink.

In this town, the people have gathered that he’s a fragment of you, that he’s right wherever you are. But not today. Today, he’s with somebody else entirely; it enrages you, and yet also reminds you of how much you miss him every sickening moment of the endless day.

But you still act as though the praise towards the wonderful man you know doesn’t drag another knife across your heart. You suppress your tears and nod, agree with her.

Of course you do. You enjoy his company, too. You’re not oblivious to your husband’s charm; he’s the heart of every conversation. The poetry in every novel after all.

“He did not join me this time,” you answer, smiling away the seconds to hide the difficulties in your home. Hana sighs, as though she’s understood that something went awry; as if she doesn’t believe it when you say, “But perhaps next time!”

Perhaps. Hopefully. 

Your sister brushes the topic off with a wave, focusing on the task on hand. You welcome the diverging topic, just in time for the finishing touches on the dresses you ordered. Seung asks you to slip into them for a final inspection.

The first one is a light purple gown; you do not have a clue where you might wear it, but you enjoy the feel of it. Your sister nods in approval, compliments, “This colour suits you well. You haven’t worn it in so long.”

“I have. I wear it a lot back at home,” you say, remembering a similar shade in your mansion, unaware of where your thoughts are heading until you say, “Jungkook got me a gown in this colour once.”

She pauses for a moment. Seung fumbles at the hem of the dress, busy making it and you pretty; but your sister notices, sighs for a second before she responds, “He has a good eye, then.”

“Yes… he does.”

He likes you in almost every colour, though. He’s baptised you with the name of the rainbow many times before. Thinks every hue brings out something different in you; and that you lend it some additional meaning. Your aura and your energy mix the colours in a palette.

“To something new; to something special.”

You nearly whimper when his voice returns in your head. Despite the circumstances, all you ever remember it in is in joy. When his words are followed by a chuckle and dimples. When the bangs, not cut recently, fall into his eyes, like curtains.

You don’t think of the shaky goodbye days ago… rather, you recall the moments before the world fell apart, drenched in sweetness and grace and warmth.

It becomes difficult to stand here, to let Seung fondle with the fabric. To listen to your sister’s praises and watch Hana’s feet dangle off her seat, hitting the leg of the chair with puffy cheeks and a jutting lower lip.

The view is already too much, and you close your eyes, blending it out. Which proves hard when your husband is mentioned over and over again; of course he is. Two halves of a soul… of course he is.

It’s been like this at each visit, so nobody would expect things to change this time.

And every damn time his name falls, Hana looks up. Big eyes, akin to a doe, personifying hope and love and yearning. If… if there was a way to contact him and let her talk to him for only a minute, you wouldn’t hesitate.

In fact, leaving her there with him could’ve been an option. But you need some comfort, too, don’t you? And he might not be in the proper state to take care of anyone right now. You intensely hope he is looking after himself.

But she keeps sulking. Despising the distance as much as you fear it, asking over and over again, and your dam only breaks and overflows when you step down the podium, asking, “Do you like this?”

And she, uncaring, shrugs, asking, “Can we go back to Daddy?”

You take a deep breath. Your skin tingles, a wave of discomfort filling you head to toe. Head heavy, you yet again register the change in your throat and voice, holding back as you try to pacify her, “Soon, darling. We’re just visiting aunty and the grandparents for a little, remember?”

She does, but it doesn’t help. Somehow, it makes her pout harder. Yesterday, she was crying; now, she’s handling the bad mood differently. Maybe this is worse. You thought children forget, that they distract themselves easily, but Hana’s affection is infinite. Integral to her.

How could she forget? You know who you’re talking about. How could anybody forget about him, ever?

You tuck in one of her black locks, inquiring, “Which dress do you reckon I should get?”

Another shrug. Seung tries, “Would you like to take a look for yourself, as well?”

“Be nice, Hana,” you say, “do you want to? You can say no, too, though.”

It takes a moment until she looks up. Her eyes change when she sees the variety presented to her; as if she didn’t regard any of it since you stepped into the shop. But eventually, she says, “Alright. I will.”

She hops off the chair, small hand in Seung’s palm, walks around to take a look at her choices. Her forefinger is hooked in her mouth as she focuses, only coming out, slightly damp, when she points at something she likes.

Your seamstress approves of most of what Suhana prefers before moving to the colour, “Which one shall we pick for you?”

“I like them all,” Hana says. It’s tough to choose until it isn’t. Once she’s settled on one, staring at it with intensity, you understand she’s decided, calling for you, “Mama.”

“Yes?”

“This is Daddy’s favourite colour.”

A tender shade of sea green. She’s right, it’s his favourite. Or at least a preferred one. You guess you can’t escape him, no matter how much you try, no matter how many miles you leave between him and you.

You ask, “Do you want to take it?”

But she seems unsure all of a sudden again. The finger has dropped with her expression, and she digs the heel of her shoe into the floor, yet nodding, “Yes… I want to surprise Daddy.”

“He will love it, baby,” you say, blinking rapidly. You point to the colour she chose. “This dress then, please?”

“Certainly. Measurements?” Seung says, material already draped over her shoulder; she walks over to the measuring tape, readying herself but…

Hana has long lost her motivation again. You see the light dim with each second, and you prepare yourself to convince her to bask in the excitement a little longer. But she won’t. Instead, she declares, “I don’t want to.”

“What?” Seung voices. “It only takes a moment—”

“I don’t want to,” Hana repeats, “I want to go home.”

“The dress?”

“No.” She inhales, arms dangling at her sides, the childish whining painful when she pleads for the millionth, aching time, “I want to go back to Daddy now.”

Fucking hell, Suhana, how?

How do I take you back already?

If you could, you’d step out and curse into the world. He’s too far away. You’re too far away.

You left with a purpose, bid him goodbye to find peace within yourself. Peace with the fact that a woman is probably still sitting where you have welcomed guests so happily before. The woman that presented him yet another child, his blood and soul.

How do you explain to your daughter that returning might hurt worse than being here, and that his expression will shatter you? That he’ll fall to his knees again, remind you that nobody has ever loved a girl before like he loves you.

That nobody will ever find this much adoration again. But that then, a second later, you’ll remember that until you die, you won’t be the only one anymore?

How do you cope with this? How do you bring your child back into this home, in a mood like yours, without a solution just yet?

In that house where he’s grieving like you, you’ll hear the echoes from everywhere, and the pain will intensify. His touch might linger on you, and the walls will scream and the bed will scream and the rooms will scream.

Yell the memories you made there.

The dinners you shared. The food he fed you with his spoon. The times he’d spill soup on you in the process and laugh it off, crack a dirty joke when the tissue drew over your cleavage.

And the times he kissed you at his office door, promising he’d be in the bedroom soon; the times you still knocked an hour later because he isn’t just a good husband and father, but a good leader for his people, too.

And… and…

The bare skin on the mattress next to you. Warm, sweet, hugging you in, lips on your shoulder, your back, your ear, your body. Engulfing you. Under you, above you, with you. The whispered words and the promises.

Vows that he fulfils during the days and the nights. Raising his children with deep-sitting sentiments, turning his own pain into power and using it to bring happiness to them and to you all the damn time.

Sleepless nights, giggly days, dances in empty rooms and conversations in laughter and tears and hurdles and successes.

Every wall and bed and room will scream out the question whether you remember.

Do you remember it all? Everything you’ve become with him in all those years. Do you remember? Do you? Will you ever forget?

Everything falls. The leaves, the temperature, the warmth. Your damn heart.

And it’s then that you can’t take it anymore. Maybe because you see him in your own daughter’s eyes; maybe because she keeps trying to manifest him, as if he’s right here.

So you break. Quietly but aggressively, grabbing her hand as you say, “Enough. No dresses for you. We’re leaving.”

And you do. Suhana doesn’t like the way you pull yourself and her out of the shop. It’s not painful and you’re not violent or rushed; but maybe she hears your altered voice and sees the torment in your face, because she keeps calling for you until you’re home.

Your sister attempts her best to distract you, promising she’ll grab Hana’s gown before you leave and whatnot — but you’re lost in thoughts, still overwhelmed by a flood of memories. You don’t snap at Hana, even though she taps your wrist, asking why you’re mad and where Daddy is, and once you enter the hall in your previous house, you finally snap—

“Get yourself together!” You’re glaring. You never usually do. “I cannot fly to him. Practise patience for a while, alright?”

It shuts her up, but it does something to her expression, too. She’s tearing up, sniffling all of a sudden. Close to breaking, too, when your mother comes out to greet you, and you ask, “Could you just… could you play with her for a bit? Distract her? I just…”

“Yes,” she immediately says, offering Hana her hand, who takes it reluctantly. She’ll be a little angry at you for a few hours. Won’t want you near her. So she obliges. “Take your time, love.”

So you do. Instantly so. Your sister helps, dragging you up to your old room by your elbow, just in time before you finally break down.

She wraps her arms around you as your tears cascade, your chin on her shoulder, shaking, hands unsteady as you lower the sound of your sobs. This isn’t your first time crying here; but it’s the first time the tears blind you entirely.

Your sister lets you mourn for a while, rubbing your back, sitting at the edge of the bed as she mumbles something you can’t make sense of. She’s always been good at comforting you, but this time, she doesn’t know much about the issue itself. Unable to say much.

Instead, she asks, “This isn’t just a casual fight, is it? You had a very bad one.”

“I’m just…” you try, but she shushes you again, tells you it is alright to take your time. You gulp, then start again, “I don’t know what to do.”

“It is this serious? What happened?” She’s concerned, but curious, too. “You still don’t want to tell me?”

You shake your head against her shoulder, and she sighs. You say, “I need to figure this out with him first. Unbiased…”

“I understand. I am here, though. You can stay here or with me… Seokjin knows, so he won’t mind.”

“But… I just—”

“These things happen, love. You know it. Marriage is all compromise and patience.”

You know. Of course you know. Didn’t you have these same exact thoughts all day? You’re aware of the basic foundation of marriage, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

“Does it… always work out?” you ask.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have a strong feeling that he and you will.”

“…Why? How?

Maybe she’s saying it because she’s trying to lift you up. Maybe it’s part of comfort, to say things people want to hear. But your sister isn’t this type of person; you’ve appreciated her straightforward nature since the beginning of time, and if she didn’t believe in what she said, you’d consider her switched with somebody else.

Which is why you trust her words when she speaks, partly because the sincerity seeps through them from beginning to end, or because you’re well aware of this universal truth, “It’s rare… seeing somebody love like this even after years. Of course there’s always affection, but… sometimes love fades. His doesn’t. He really does feel strongly about you.”

“…He does.”

“See, you’re not doubting it. Maybe that’s enough for now.”

You would never leave such a statement open to debate. Even if a dozen women stood at your doorstep, reminding you of his lustful past and little mistakes, you’d send them away with a nonchalant wave.

Yes, the situation now differs from such a fantasy to its core, but even then, you know to trust in his heart. It’s just the future you’re scared of. The back and forth, the facts presented to you; in the form of a memory and in the form of a child.

Breath heavy and chest aching, you tell her, “I just don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know either,” she admits, voice quieter now. “But— my first instinct would be… to tell you to go home. I think you need it. Your actual home.”

“And then what…?”

“Whatever your guts tell you to do. What are they telling you now?”

You puff out an exhale; you’re sick of crying. Your head hurts, as if devoid of oxygen. “That I am scared.”

She nods, well aware, digs further, “What else? If you think about the situation, do you see a solution at all?”

Thinking about it… thinking about it…

Properly pondering, you guess you’re not quite at the end of the road. There’s a wall in front of you, but it’s shrinking; if you give it an actual thought and look up, you might be able to climb over it. It’d just need… inhumane strength.

“Maybe… in theory,” you say. “Perhaps.”

Short pause, silence cutting the air. It’s still light outside, but the sky is grey again. No birds chirping, streets and alleys quieter. You think you hear a couple voices, a carriage passing under your window…

You miss the noise. You miss his voice.

You miss the way he sighs in the evenings, staring into a book you might have annoyed him into reading before looking up, noticing your gaze. Smiling at you, overwhelmed by love, leaning in as the novel closes and his lips open…

So your answer shoots out of you when your sister asks, “What else are you thinking?” Clear and ardent and brimming with certainty as you say—

“That I love him.”

The smile she flashes is tiny but telling. Something blooms in her eyes, as if filled with hope, and the little, unconscious gesture, manifesting in her expression, returns the longing to your heart.

A thumb wipes your tears before her hand covers yours, and with a voice so soft and gentle, she concludes, “You really do. Go back, yes?”

And you don’t have it in you to consider her wrong anymore. No matter the hurt, you don’t think you should stay any longer at all. You won’t deny that you needed the escape for a bit; but maybe this suffices.

And in hindsight, maybe you knew how this would end all along.

THE CHAPTER ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

tumblr doesn't allow making very long posts due to the 1k block limit, so you can find the rest of the chapter and its 7k portion in this reblog! <3

[dalishious]

This is an excerpt from my work-in-progress large meta examination on thet qunari from DAO through to DATV. But since that is taking a long time, I thought it might be worth it to post this piece alone now, since it works on its own as well.

-----

The Qunari Design

In Dragon Age: Origins (DAO) the qunari all had the same brown metallic skin. This is because the developers only bothered to make one skin tint for the use of Sten, the qunari companion. They gave this skin tint to every other qunari NPC as well. This is also why there is only the one hairstyle that Sten uses for qunari, with the few NPCs either being bald or using his same hair. Essentially, Sten was the blueprint for all qunari, originally.

No qunari have horns in DAO like they do in the rest of the franchise. According to developer David Gaider, the qunari were always meant to have horns, but did not in DAO because it would have meant Sten couldn’t wear a helmet. This led to the lore decision that some qunari are born hornless as a rare genetic quirk, to account for the later change in design.

Dragon Age II (DA2) saw a drastic change in how the qunari look. Unlike the elves, humans, and dwarves in DA2, the qunari do not use head morphs allowing for individual designs; they have standardized creature models. (The only exception in the base game is the Arishok, who has his own special model.) The qunari moved from having Sten’s brown skin to grey metallic skin, their eye sclera was changed to black, and they were given the horns the developers originally wanted.

It is a well-known fact that DA2 was under immense development restrictions that led to all kinds of cut corners. However, it is worth pointing out the negative impact of choosing an entire race’s design functionality as one of those cut corners. The qunari in DA2 are, for the most part, treated like nothing but unthinking monsters for Hawke to squish, no different than giant spiders or darkspawn. Making them all look the same adds to this effect; they are stripped of any sense of personable traits.

A medium between DAO and DA2 was reached in Dragon Age: Inquisition (DAI), through introducing the player’s ability to make a qunari protagonist. DAI allows the player to choose between few brownish and a few greyish skin colours for their qunari character. The black sclera was changed to white again, as the qunari use the same eye texture and colouring functionality as all the other races. The character creation works just the same for qunari as it does for any other race, allowing for individual appearances left to the player’s imagination. However, as far as NPCs go, there are no qunari in the base game of DAI, making Iron Bull as a companion the only qunari presence until the Trespasser DLC. This does not leave much room to judge the appearance of other qunari characters.

DATV is just like DAI in its character creation capabilities, with the one expansion being the player can make their character have black sclera like in DA2 if they so choose. For all DATV’s faults with the qunari, at least we can say that the character creation is great. Taash and their mother Shathann also have lovely, unique designs. Where things become uncomfortable with the qunari designs… is in the Reavers.

It is established lore from the previous franchise installments that Reavers gain their special powers through drinking draconic blood, though these Antaam Reavers have been altered by Ghilan’nain. My personal assumption is that blighted dragon blood was used. Regardless of how these Reavers came to be, they are unprecedented, horrific monsters, and it is only ever qunari that we see subjected to this kind of disfigurement. This really doubles down on turning them into standardised monsters like in DA2.

Going through all these qunari design changes can make a player’s head spin. But I believe it is an important, visual example of an overarching theme with the qunari: the developers have never really cemented what they want them to be. The writing throughout the years suggests the same.

-----

Stay tuned for the full piece sometime in the future, where I will get into the writing!

[s-i-ll-y-w-i-ll-y]

Stalking

Hannigram x teen!reader

Summary: On their walk home, Y/N decides to help a cute couple with directions to a nearby hotel. However, this act of kindness is proof that what goes around does not come back around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bus screeched to a halt on an empty back road less than a mile away from your house. Your shift was finally done and you could relax until the cycle repeated tomorrow. A meek ‘thank you’ slipped from your mouth as you walked off the bus, a small smile on your lips as you turned your music up.

Gently bopping your head to the tune, you made your way across the road, lifting a hand to silently thank the car that had stopped to let you cross. The clouds slowly drifted across the navy sky, small specks of light tucked themselves behind the clouds then peeked back out as the obstructions moved along. The moon shone down and illuminated the wide road and dusty trail you stood on, the outlines of trees cast onto the ground below you.

God, it was beautiful.

Despite how eerie it was, it was beautiful.

The road seemed calm tonight, usually it was busy because it was a way to get to the city you just came from. Not tonight.

Thank god.

As you continued to walk down the path, cars whizzing past you at a million miles per hour, you couldn’t help but feel a small creeping sensation that something was wrong.

Something was going to be wrong.

But, for some strange reason, you ignored it. Why you ignored, you had no idea why you did, but you did.

You kicked up dirt as you walked, loving the way it looked on the ground, dancing in the gentle breeze. That gut feeling plagued you, growing more and more until-

“Hi, excuse me?”

A soft voice made you peel off your headphones, letting them fall to your neck, and look over to the road. You planted your feet and settled your eyes on the man who was still rolling down his car window.

You stepped slightly closer and put your hands in your pockets. “Can I help you, sir?”

The man was thin and pale, his features hardly in the poor light of the car. The man wore a flannel shirt and dark jeans, a brown belt holding them up. He had brown, curly hair that draped over his forehead, he had a button nose and slightly stubble. The man cleared his throat and gave a small smile, “Me and my husband were wondering if you could give us directions to hotel…hotel…Hannibal, what was the hotels name again?” The man turned to the man sat beside him.

“Cecilia. Hotel Cecilia.” The man’s husband, Hannibal, gave a thin lipped smile as he spoke to his partner. His husband looked older than him, not by a lot but enough to see the difference. He had mostly grey hair with spots of brown sprinkled about, his eyes were a hazel colour, his nose arched up in the middle but it suited him. He wore a clearly rich and tailored suit; red with a black pattern stitched into it, a black shirt and a red tie.

You listened as the man thanked his husband and turned back to you. Thinking as fast as you could, you tried to remember the way there. Then it clicked. A gentle grin slipped onto your lips as you spoke, watching the man in the drivers seat take a mental note of everything you had said. As you stopped, you looked back at the road, the headlights were the only thing stopping the inky blackness from enveloping the car and you. It was going to be such a trek and your parents wanted you home by ten.

“Thank you so so much.” The man said, “We would’ve used our phones but they’ve both gone and died, thanks to our luck.”

You chuckled along with the man’s slight attempt at a joke. “It’s no problem, I’m happy to help.”

A few thoughts ran through the man’s mind before he stopped thinking and said the first thing we could think of:

“Do you want a ride?”

That feeling crept up your spine, making you feel queasy. As nice as it was for him to ask it was still odd. You didn’t know them, they didn’t know you. “It’s fine, my house isn’t too far-“

“We insist. We would be lost without you.” The husband chimed in. “And, it is getting late, your parents would want you home, wouldn’t they?”

That feeling in your stomach reached the back of your throat, urging you to turn and run. For once, you decided to trust your gut feeling-

“Thank you but I’m alright.” Politely, you stepped away from the car and turned to keep walking. The men shared a look then looked back at you as you began to walk away.

You heard the engine stall before starting, then they took off down the road and that was the last you saw of them.

~~~

Around twenty minutes later, your trail lead you in front of a gas station. The neon lights from each sign shone onto the bleak road, painting it in hues of orange, green and white. The pale light reflected off of car windows and side view mirrors, hitting your eyes sharply.

You hadn’t drank anything in a while, plus you would have to wait an extra ten minutes to heat up your dinner when you got back home so what’s the big deal with a quick snack stop?Glancing away, you tried to check for oncoming cars and, luckily, there was nothing. Then you crossed the gravel, eventually reaching entrance to the gas station.

A satisfying ding announced your arrival to the pimply clerk behind the counter who gave you a less than enthusiastic look. Ignoring him, you browsed the aisles, trying to find anything that would be easy to eat and drink on the go. You swore to yourself; no sandwiches, no fiddly wrappers or bottle caps, just easy to open things.

Needing to keep yourself awake, you bought yourself an energy drink then you made your way over to the snack aisle which stood in front of the main entrance. As you scanned over your options, the bright, white headlights outside blinded you. Although it was a minor inconvenience, you scowled at the car, still unable to see who was driving, and internally swore at them for their accidental action.

After finally deciding on a snack, you walked over to the counter and placed your things down. You slipped your headphones down and around your neck, music paused, casting an odd silence which was subtly interrupted by the radio station which echoed from the broken speakers.

The cashier huffed and scanned the items slowly, as if even the thought of doing his job was strenuous. Your eyes wandered back out the window, tuning out the cashier slightly as your eyes scanned over the few cars that were refuelling, one was the car those two men had driven earlier.

That’s odd.

Didn’t they go flying up the road? How were they here at the same time as you if they did?

The clicking of the cashier’s fingers snapped you back to reality. “Sorry.” You mumbled halfheartedly, scrambling to grab the money from your pocket. In the midst of the scramble, you tried to pick up your drink, only for it to fall and burst on the floor. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry, d’you want me to-“

The cashier sighed loudly, “No, it’s fine. I’ll get it.” Then he walked to the back, returning with a wet floor sign in hand. You listened subtly as an array of swears left his lips as he slammed the sign onto the floor and trudged over to the drink aisle, grabbing another of the same drink for you.

As this happened, and while your mind was distant from your body, the same satisfying ding rung out again. When your mind finally snapped back, you registered that someone had walked in and you glanced over your shoulder.

Then you saw them.

The two men were tall, taller than you thought and taller than you by a mile.

When you realised you were staring, your head whipped back around to the counter, fingers rhythmically tapped against the cool, grey countertop.

As the cashier you had walked back over, another from the back room walked out to help the two men. The moved to the counter beside you, only paying for a bottle of water and their gas. The cashier helping you handed the new drink to you, a forced smile plastered on their face. A small thank you left your lips as you turned and left, avoiding the men at the counter.

The cold night air enveloped you, an unwelcome sensation slivering up your spine. You glanced over your shoulder and watched as the two men walked out the gas station, their silhouettes ominously still, the light from the gas station surrounding them entirely, making them appear ethereal.

That sinking feeling slipped down your throat once again, making you start walking faster. The headlights from the car slowly trailed behind you before catching up and going just fast enough to keep you in the rear view mirror.

Maybe you were just paranoid? Who knows. At this point you were not willing to see if your gut feeling was true.

~

Your feet carried you for another fifteen minutes, leaving you with only fifteen more until you reached the safe warmth of your home and the welcoming embrace of your parents.

The turn for your road came eventually, just a small dirt path off the side of the road with pine trees boxing in each side of the road. Quickly, you made the turn, gazing over your shoulder to see if the car had kept driving.

It did.

Despite the relief you felt, that underlying tone of worry had settled in the pit of your stomach. This refused to let you calm, keeping you in a horrible fight or flight state.

As you walked down the road wearily. Your headphones stayed on, helping you tune out some fear you had. Although this worked for a while, the feeling of being watched slipped into the back of your mind. You pushed that thought down, reminding yourself you had ten minutes left until you were home, until you were safe. As hard as you tried, nothing could keep this feeling down.

Suddenly, as if out of your control, you whipped your head around. Your face dropped.

There, following you from behind, was that car, it’s headlights turned off. You hadn’t heard the engine over your music. Then the car stopped, your heart sank. Their doors opened and the men stepped out, slowly making their way over to you cautiously, as if trying to keep an animal calm. Every step the men took was calculated, deciding what would keep you from freaking out and doing something drastic.

Nothing could at this point.

You took off down the road, leaping over potholes and racing through puddles. Your clothes were ruined and you were freezing.

With trembling hands, you reached for your phone, your legs moving as fast as they could. The sound of the men’s footsteps grew louder amongst the sounds of the forest which, despite being a few feet away, sounded so distant over the sound of your heart. Your eyes moved down to your phone screen, hands racing to dial your parents or 911.

In a blur, your phone flew from your hand as your shoe caught on a rock in the road, sending you flying onto your front. You lay there for a minute, your head spinning as you thought about everything. In an instant, you snapped back, getting to your feet, ignoring the stinging pain from your knee.

From then on, you staggered down the road, your injured knee making it neatly impossible to run. That would be your demise.

The heavy weight of a blunt object, you assumed to be a crowbar, smacked against the side of your head, knocking you to the floor and leaving you partially unconscious. The immense feeling of dread spilled up and went out your eyes. Tears flowed down your flushed cheeks as the man got up and flung you into his arms, holding you against his chest, his firm hands cracking your head as if it were fine china.

“Will,” the man spoke, his voice smooth due to his prominent accent, “do you believe they will suffice?”

The other man, Will, paused and walked over, tracing a gentle hand over your face, his palm lingering on your chin as he began to brush away stray tears. “Certainly more flighty than the last one but we can deal with that later, wouldn’t want our child escaping us first thing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finished Saturday October 5th 2024, 03:14.

5/10/24

[midnightsdarkangel]

Im back again with another theory lads, one I have wanted to share for a LONG time.

THE LACY THEORY, I hope you all enjoy following me down the rabbit hole. Im going over all the information I collected on the DDVAU server, All information comes from the public chat, the offical playlist and the double hearted comic. That being said Lets begin this:

So lets start off with the big question: What is Lacy? Most likely you wont know of it outside of the discord server, I wanted to wait till I had a bit more evidence and information to present before I showed it out but I think I have enough complied. So!

Lacy is the unoffical name of a ship that will appear in Double Hearted. It was first mentioned in regards to the DDVAU Playlist which has been said that each song will give insight either to the plot, or a character development. The characters involed are: Grian, Scar, Martyn, Jimmy, Tango, Pearl (and Gem now added)

Its described in the songs as a messy situationship. So far Marru has confirmed it has its own playlist with songs in order of a timeline. These songs are:

-Lacy by Olivia Rodrigo

-Footnote by Conan Grey

-The Ballad of Lucy Grey by Rachel Zegler

-It took me by surprise by Maria Mena

-Obsessed by Olivia Rodrigo

With this as well we have this Image (it is noted that Maruu edited this photo to make sure not to give away who the characters are. I was given permission to show as its in the server)

So. Who are these two?

I heavily believe its Grian and Martyn. But why do I jump to that so quickly? Lets start with the drawing first. A while back in one of the earlier livestreams, we got this image:

This takes place in college, and as you can see. Grian has much longer hair there. I was able to take the drawing and line up that the hair strands matched Grian's.

Also, @rebelrenee36 was the one to discover there was actually another image of this drawing from the top half. I wont be posting that one here but we did see enough to conclude that Grian was one of the people in the picture.

But then why did I think it was Martyn in the second image?

Major shout out to @coatree who brought the idea up to me which resulted in me being insane about figuring it out.

I want to take you all to a song called Unravelling- the crane wives. It was one of the rare few songs that got confirmed to a character and we were told it was a Grian song.

In unravelling, the verses talks about different people in Grian's life who had shown him compassion and love. But then theres this:

At the time I needed to make a process of elimiation on who this was, but chapter 20 has given me the answer:

Martyn was the one who left Grian.

Its still a bit farfetched right? Lets take a look at the playlist songs. We know that Oh No by Marina, is a canonical song to Martyn, and I was able to assess that Martyn has a very sort of ride or die risk mentality, and when you compare this to The ballad of Lucy Grey?

Danced for my dinner?

and the gamble line fits along the lines of the Martyn songs the server has managed to find connections to.

When I started this connection, I started to notice some things:

Martyn is STARING at Grian and Big B and I had always wondered why but now I start to wonder...was he jelous?

Then if we take the art from the phones you see in Grians lock screen he has this image:

Martyns hand is on Grian's shoulder.

(also its funny to me that Big B and Martyn share the colour scheme outfit but reversed)

Then we finally got chapter 14, Martyns introduction and what is he like?

He is genuinely concerned for Grian and I think the only time we see urgancy from this man because the second Grian is ok he is chill the entire time, and we KNOW that Martyn hasnt shown back in the captial for such a long time now

Its no surprise Grian was taken back seeing him return:

I want to note two things as well in this chapter that really helped me form this theory, first of all: Martyn's blushing

(mf isnt subtle IM LOOKING AT YOU SIR)

The second comes from this

THIS MF ABSOLTUELY HAS HISTORY WITH GRIAN.

Its the fact that he knew what Grian wanted without Grian ever having to say a word. These two defintiely have a strong bond, plus the fact when Gem asks if Grian is comfortable with everyone being in the room when Grian discusses his abilities he says yes. Yes to mumbo who is his best friend, yes to Jimmy his cousin and someone he cherishes a lot and Martyn.

He is comfortable not only showing his wings off but also discussing his powers, something that he has kept wraps from EVERYONE.

and then chapter 20....oh my god I wasnt prepared for this.

mf thinks about Grian before Grian even reaches out

2. i love how protective he is for Grian

3. Sparrows father, someone VERY protective of Grian, glares a lot at martyn, which funny enough remember who else gave Martyn a dirty look for being near Grian?

HIS BEST FRIEND MUMBO.

4.

GRIAN BLUSHES WHEN MARTYN COMPLIEMENTS (unintentionally) CUTEGUY. LORDD

There is defintiely more to this theory, we dont know why they broke up, why Martyn left but Its clear these two have history. I have so many questions that I cant wait to see with upcomming chapters.

And that is my insanity, thank you and goodnight.

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

Geum Song Je X Reader | MDNI 18 +

Dark Themes, Red flag (obviously, its Seong Je), violence, sex, rough, manipulation.

The final part of the Possession series. Seong Je whisks you away from your demise and you find new reason to live. It's time to tame the wolf.

Part 1 is here | Part 2 is here

The driver of the taxi looked at you with a mild worry that was quickly lost when Seong Je shoved a wad of cash in his face and barked out an address; the only concern he had now was for himself and getting out of whatever situation this was, as quickly as possible. You lay slumped over in the backseat – Seong Je beside you – tears streaming down your face with no sign of stopping. 

Seong Je said nothing. 

You were aware of his eyes on you. They raked over your broken form, taking in the details, only stopping at your sullen face. If you had looked at him, you’d have noticed his smirk. Dark, and desirous, his eyes gave off the look of a crazed man while his mind raced. 

You, you punched Eunjang’s great White Mamba. The tiny thing he’d been keeping in his control for so many days did that. Nothing was more interesting. He felt completely vindicated in his decision to keep you by him now. 

The ride wasn’t long. The streets blurred past as you reached your destination where Seong Je carried you out in his arms, resting your head on his chest.  The scene took you back to  the day of Baek Jin’s funeral. The way he held you – just as he did now, close to his chest in this warm captivity. His reserved touch that you could tell held back the hunger for more. Carrying you away from the man you loved. 

That day, he’d laid you down as if you were made of glass, and then promised to wait for you no matter how long it took… 

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

You didn’t know where you were. A grey apartment building stood tall in front of you. The only flash of colour came from a bunch of half peeling notices and posters stuck haphazardly on the outside of the door. 

The lift took the two of you all the way up to the 7th floor where Seong Je stepped out and carried you out to a unit which he punched in the code for with a practised ease. 

He hadn’t spoken yet. Part of him was angry that you gave his boys the slip – a logical reaction to your disobedience, but he couldn’t help being ecstatic about the events that unfolded after. 

The thrill he’d feel when he’d face an opponent thrummed just under the surface, only this time there had been no fight. Rather, he’d come to your rescue, pulling you away from an altercation.

Seong Je pushed the door open. The house was dark and mostly bare. There was a small sofa to the right, upon entry. This was flanked by two plush couches on the sides and a dark TV screen reflected the little diffused light coming from outside. In the centre was a coffee table covered in old magazines and papers. An ash-tray that was long overdue a cleaning spilled its sooty contents onto the glass tabletop in the centre. Seong Je let you down on the sofa and sat beside you, reaching over you to turn on a lamp on your side. The dim yellowish glow washed his face in warm light. 

He finally spoke, “If you wanted to go to see Si-eun so badly, all you had to do was ask, jagiya. I’d have taken you.” 

The tips of your ears burned and Seong Je sounded like he was underwater. You glared at him. “Why didn’t you let me fuck him up?” 

He ignored the question, continuing in the same careful tone one uses with a hurt child. “You aren’t the only one who misses him, jagiya. His ledgers, his accounts, it's fucking tough doing all that shit. He was the nerd. I'm not into that shit. It’s like he wrote a different language…”

He moved closer to you, pulling out a file full of papers from the coffee table in front. Sheet after sheet of paper displayed before you with writing you would recognise anywhere. Baek Jin had poured over these with you day after day. You knew them inside out. 

An exasperated cry came from the man beside you. “Nothing he ever did was easy, was it? Haha…” you could see in the corner of your eye he was clutching his hair. The mirthless laugh sent a chill down your spine.

You inhaled deeply trying to calm your nerves. These were simple calculations, bothersome at best buy with a little effort and a calculator... Your eyes scanned the pages, running over each line, each list, each note Baek Jin had made. Comprehension dawned on you. Your eyes widened. 

Na Baek Jin had assured you a job. 

His job. 

His position. 

A silent storm raged in your head. Just how much of this had he predicted? His untimely death? His inability to continue leading the union? Seong Je pouncing on what was his, the moment he saw an opening, and keeping you close so eventually when he needed help he would show you exactly this and give you the opportunity to claim the power Na Baek Jin always intended to pass onto you? 

You forced yourself to regulate your breaths. Getting ahead of yourself like this wouldn’t be of any use. You would have to play this carefully. 

“I need to use your toilet.” 

Seong Je waved in the direction of a small door – still half smirking, head in his hands as he looked over the numerous sheets.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Washing your face, you calculated what you should do now. Baek Jin was incredibly strong and incredibly smart. 

He had known that Seong Je would be that rabid wolf who salivated all over the prospect of gaining his power. However at the same time, the pup wouldn’t have the brains to hold and manage such a large institution. 

The realisation came slow; setting in like the sunset you had wanted so much to see. You made up your mind, you wouldn’t lose Baek Jin again. 

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

You shut the door behind you, wiping away the smudged mascara from your eyes, mind firm, but it didn’t hide the nervous tremble in your shoulders. Seong Je was still on the couch. His blazer lay crumpled on the coffee table in front and thin tendrils of smoke wafted from the lit cigarette between his lips. 

He tapped the spot beside him twice and took a long drag of the cigarette. Without dropping your gaze you made your way to him, undoing the buttons of your grey school jacket and shrugging it off. 

Your skirt hitched up as you ignored the spot he’d tapped and instead placed yourself astride his lap.  Seong Je’s eyes widened, however you gave him no opportunity to say anything, choosing instead to dip your head so your lips reached his ear and whispered, “It seems like you need help. All these ledgers, these accounts – Baek Jin’s plans… Let me help you. I understand Baek Jin. Everything he’s written, he’s taught me.” 

Seong Je raised an eyebrow. But you didn’t let him voice the obvious concern that’d popped in his head. A small hiss left his lips, when he felt your teeth gently graze against his helix, surprise only mounting as he felt you gently run your tongue along the rim of his ear where your teeth had grazed.

“Why? Did you think spreading my legs was all I did when we were together?”  

Seong Je probably couldn’t physically blush, but that was the closest he’d ever been to doing so. His hand found rest on your waist, running up your thigh, while the other put out his cigarette after another long drag. He pursed his lips and blew the smoke in your face, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. . 

“What are you proposing, jagiya?” 

You resisted the urge to cough, breathing in the acrid smoke clouding around your head. You hated it but held in any open display of distaste and said,  “A partnership.”

Seong Je laughed, “A part– partnership! You want to be my partner?” 

You nodded. 

“So, you’re finally reciprocating? You’re finally mine?” 

You didn’t hesitate before leaving a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. 

Seong Je pulled back sharply, blinking twice before the sparkle grew in his eye. “Ah. Jagiya... How unexpectedly bold you have suddenly become. Are you courting death?” 

You shook your head. 

“Really? I thought otherwise, seeing you swing that right hook at Yoon Si Eun without a care.” His arms wrapped around you as he pulled you closer and you could feel an obvious bulge press against your thigh. 

“Jagiya, don’t fucking take your eyes off me.” With that, he attacked your mouth. 

It was a clash of lips and teeth. Rough. Unruly. Just like him – nothing like Baek Jin. The ferocity in his movements burned. His movements were crude. Desperation in every touch. 

He pushed his hips up against your clothed crotch. Fingers tangled in your hair bringing you closer. His hand ran down your front touching the space between your breasts as he kissed his way down to the buttons of your blouse. 

He fumbled with the buttons in his haste to remove the offending cloth, stopping only when you came to help him. The first two buttons open, your collar fell apart to reveal just a glimpse of the soft mounds of your breasts. 

His lips dropped. Face buried in your voluptuous cleavage he inhaled deeply. The scent of your perfume, coupled with the sweat of the day drove him insane. Seong Je moaned against your neck – a shameless, dirty,  wanton sound. But it only got you wetter. 

His hands found yours, and placed them around his neck while he grabbed hold of your ass, lifting you off the couch and carrying you to the bedroom. You were pushed against the wall. Your head met the brick painfully. Teeth grinding he spat out an order that you would be a fool to disobey. 

“Kiss.”

Your hands carded through his hair fisting the dark locks as lips met. You rested your elbows on his shoulders, pulling him closer. The taste of his cigarette smoke invaded your senses again, spreading onto your tongue. He pushed your panties aside, swiping his fingers against your cunt. Two fingers circled your clit as he kissed your neck following a steady rhythm below. 

“Look at you.” he spoke within stuttered kisses. 

“So ready, so wet for me.” 

Kiss. 

“So pretty…” 

Kiss. 

“I’ve wanted you..”

Kiss. 

“...for so long.”

A swift movement pulled you onto the bed. You pawed at the hardness in his trousers, but Seong Je held your hands and pulled them to his hair once again. 

 He pinned you to the bed as he loosened your tie. The fabric swished under your collar and submitted to his pull. He tossed it aside. Seong Je turned you over halfway and used the tie to tie your hands behind your back. 

Panic flushed through you. “Seong Je, what– what are you doing?”

“Shhh.”He coaxed. “Don’t worry. I will never hurt you. I just like my pretty things on a leash.” He moved to your shirt.  

“Your parents could—”

“They won’t. Now shut up. Don’t make me have to gag you too." The coaxing tone gone, his threat was dark – loaded. You withdrew, not wanting to risk it. His lips hovered at the shell of your ear. 

You could hear the smile in his voice as he whispered. “I don't want to, I’d much rather hear the pretty noises you’ll make for me… I told you. I’ll take care of you. Won’t you trust me?” 

The shadows lengthened as Geum Je trailed his fingers down your shirt and unbuttoned the rest of your  blouse. The cold air hit your skin, only to be warmed gently by the radiating heat of Seong Je’s body. He dipped his head, leaving kisses with each button he undid. 

You pulled at your skirt – impatient, and he chuckled. Ducking his head between your thighs he pulled down the zipper holding it in place down and you shimmied it off. His lips pressed into your thigh. The kiss he left felt almost reverent. He pushed your panties aside and shoved his fingers in your cunt, curling them slowly. The gasp you let out was met with a lick of his lips and Seong Je buried his head between your breasts inhaling deeply. 

“Worth it…” The words were said so softly you barely caught it. 

Seong Je stuck out his tongue and licked a stripe from your belly button to your bra. The simple fabric held no interest for him and he took it in his teeth as he pulled down at it, simultaneously lifting you with his free hand and undoing the clasp. The veins in his arm popped as his left hand encircled your throat and he pulled down your bra, revealing your pretty breasts. You fell back with a bounce onto the mattress. Bra dangling like a half ripped gift wrap. 

“Worth it…” 

Your breath rose, shuddering, stuttering, “Seong Je…” You kept pulling against the ties on your wrists. 

Seong Je scoffed. His fingers were still inside you, repeating the motions like a metronome. “Look at you. Drenched, aren’t you? Where's all the confidence from earlier?” 

There was a sharp thwack against your cheek. You heard it before you felt it. The pain radiated across your face. You had heard of his strength. You had seen it too. But the first time feeling it was a horse of a different colour. 

Seong Je followed it with a devouring kiss. The room was so dark now you couldn’t see a thing. You could barely make out where Seong Je was as he headed further down. To your throat, then your breasts where his fingers found your nipples and he pinched them – hard while alternating between nipping and kissing your heated skin. The cries of pain from you only egged him on more and the feral wolf tugged at your panties tearing them off you with a loud rip. 

“Seong Je…” you moaned, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. 

He got off you and stepped back to get a good look. “Worth it.” 

“What are you talking about?” you asked softly, your eyes strained to see him properly. 

“Waiting for you, for all this time. It was worth it.” You heard him laugh. “Spread your legs. Don't make me have to do it.”

You had no choice but to follow. Seong Je laughed. He began undressing himself as he spoke to you. “So, partnership means a division of assets right?” 

You took in a sharp breath. Some tiny light coming from outside reflected off his well defined abs, highlighting every muscle. You couldn’t help stare. 

“Oi, legs apart. And answer me.” 

You snapped out of your daze, looking to where you believed his face would be. He wasn’t wearing his glasses anymore. You weren’t sure when he’d taken them off. 

“Fifty percent of profits. That’s what I want. I’ll handle the books. You handle the boys.” 

Seong Je laughed again. “You’ve really thought this through haven’t you? Okay. Cool. I’m agreeable with that.”

You felt the bed dip as his body moved closer to you again. Naked now. His cock stood – rock hard at attention, a bead of precum fell onto your stomach. 

Seong Je bent down again to your ear.

“And me. You can add me in what you get. And I’ll have you, ja-gi-ya. One hundred percent.”

His cock pushed into you with no warning. “Thank you for regaining your confidence. You’re unbelievably hot when you take charge like that, you know.. 

His hands encircled your throat, pressing down on the two hollow spots under your jaw. You quickly felt yourself get light headed. 

“Hundred percent you,” Seong Je punctuated with a thrust. “And hundred percent me. Sounds fair right?” 

You gasped feeling the air in your lungs run out, but ever so slowly tried to nod your head. Seong Je pressed down on you with his full weight. 

Panic ran through you and you thrashed against the sheets but he was much stronger, limiting your movement. 

“Hundred percent you, remember?” Your eyes had adjusted to the dark and you were able to make out the mad sadistic glint in his eye.  You felt your consciousness fading. 

“Seong Je…” you desperately mouthed. 

His lips met yours, hands releasing your throat. You gasped for fresh air, filling your lungs in-between his searing kisses. He slipped his hands under you, deftly undoing the tie around them. Finding your freedom you raked your fingers through his hair pulling and tugging the locks. Your hips lifted of their own volition meeting his frenzied thrusts. 

“You’re mine…” he gnashed out against your mouth. You could feel his smile and your climax hit you, similar to the way Seong je’s hits land on his opponents. A blinding, overwhelming pleasure finding  its way through your body to every extremity. 

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The moon had risen high enough in the sky to wash the room in an unearthly silver glow. Outside, the lights of the city had died down Orgasm after orgasm had left you both exhausted and lying in a mess of blankets and pillows. You smoked the remainder of the last cigarette you had been sharing with Seong Je. 

Smoke filled the room. You could smell it alongside the scent of fading perfume, your sweat, and sex. Seong Je lay with his head on your chest. His face was almost innocent looking in this position. 

You stroked his hair. He really was just a little pup. Easy to manipulate. Easy to fool. If all it took was you undressing and letting him put his cock in you… You felt his head move and looked down. He was looking back up at you. “You’re beautiful, jagiya…” The ever-present amusement in his voice.

You took a long drag. You had him. Naturally, now he was yours…

The End

𓂃🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙𓂃

Thank you for reading, If you liked this please let me know I might do more.  Comments and reblogs are always appreciated.  Part 1 is here | Part 2 is here