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melanchoire · 6 months ago

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THE MIDNIGHT DETOUR ──── yu jimin

── ( 🌸 ) the constant jabs and petty games with your nemesis karina reach a boiling point at a party, culminating in a bathroom encounter where heated arguments give way to an even hotter, forbidden connection you never saw coming.

pairing. dom!popular girl!karina x sub!riival!fem reader

warning(s). bitting, degradation, fingering, hate sex???, making out, thigh riding.

word count. 4,8k

the fluorescent lights of the school hallway hummed, a monotonous soundtrack to the daily drama unfolding around you. you gripped your textbooks tighter, the worn covers offering a small comfort as you navigated the crowded space. ot wasn't just the sheer volume of bodies that made it feel like a minefield; it was them. the “ae-girls” as the student body had so aptly nicknamed karina's group. they moved through the corridors like royalty, their beauty a blinding force field that seemed to repel anyone who dared to stray too close.

you'd seen it happen with other groups before, the casual cruelty of popularity. but with karina and her crew, it felt different. more personal, more... calculated. you were no stranger to loud, boisterous friend groups. your own friends were certainly a handful, their humor sometimes landing with a thud outside your inner circle. but karina's group was something else entirely. it was a finely tuned symphony of subtle jabs, barely concealed snickers, and outright antagonism.

the “ae-girls” were a constant, irritating hum in your otherwise relatively quiet existence. you knew, rationally, that cliques and social dynamics were the lifeblood of high school, but you couldn't shake the feeling that they were deliberately, maliciously, targeting you.

ever since the day you'd first bumped into karina —literally, colliding mid-hallway, sending textbooks scattering across the floor— there had been a palpable tension, a current of electricity charged with something you couldn't quite name. it wasn’t just the typical high school drama. it felt as though they were actively trying to burrow under your skin, to find that one loose thread that would unravel you entirely.

the whispers were the first thing you noticed. walking past the ae-girls, you’d catch snippets of conversation, their eyes darting in your direction, their lips twitching with suppressed laughter. it was a performance of complicity, a silent communication that excluded you, that made you feel like the butt of some private joke you could never understand.

then there was winter. her method was more physical, a jarring disruption to your daily routine. you remember the chill of that particular day; the fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed as you walked, heading to math class, minding your own business, reviewing quadratic formulas in your head. she walked with a deliberate swagger, her blonde hair swinging around her face like a halo of mischief and suddenly, a sharp, unexpected impact sent you staggering. winter, all sleek lines and effortless cool, had deliberately slammed her shoulder into yours, a calculated, almost predatory move. you flinched, the force of the blow rattling your teeth.

“watch it.” you’d muttered, more surprised than angered.

winter just smirked, a tiny, almost petulant curve of her lips. “maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings.” her voice was a low, velvety purr, that made you shiver and not in a good way. she barely glanced back as she continued walking, her laughter mingling with giselle and ningning who were on her side.

and then there were giselle and ningning, the twin guardians of silent judgment, their gazes like a brand. you’d learned to recognize their looks, the heavy scrutiny that followed you down the hallway, the air thick with unspoken criticism. it felt like being dissected under a microscope, every movement, every imperfection magnified and analyzed.

you always see them in the mornings when students enter school, clustered near the lockers, bathed in the cold light.

giselle and ningning, their dark eyes flitting over the crowd, scanning for… what? targets? you swallowed, feeling the familiar pinprick of unease as their gazes landed on you, lingered, and then, with a barely perceptible smirk, moved on. it was always like this. they never said anything, but their looks spoke volumes, dissecting you, judging you with a silent, almost telepathic precision that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

you remember one time, you were heading to the library. your footsteps echoed on the polished floor; the heavy silence was interrupted as you noticed them, they were in the corner talking with their heads down. when you passed by they raised their heads at the same time and stared, giving you a look that would curdle milk.

“what are you staring at?” you’d asked, your voice a little sharper than you’d intended. you stopped right in front of them.

giselle and ningning exchanged a look, a silent conversation that seemed to happen before your very eyes. they said nothing, their expression unchanging, a mask of detached disapproval. then, without another word, they simply turned and walked away, leaving you feeling exposed and foolish.

but karina... she was the epicenter of it all. you saw her, leaning against the lockers, her expression unreadable. she was breathtakingly beautiful, her features sharp and elegant, framed by the dark curtain of her hair. it was an unfair level of beauty, the kind that stopped you in your tracks, that made you forget everything else for a fleeting, agonizing moment. her beauty was a weapon, you thought, sharper and more dangerous than any of the subtle jabs her friends threw your way.

and it wasn't just her looks. it was the way she carried herself, the confidence that radiated from her like a heat wave. it was her voice, low and melodic, with a subtle rasp that sent a shiver down your spine despite yourself. you hated that voice. you hated the way it could draw you in, even as it was dripping with sarcasm and disdain. you hated the way it made you feel.

she was the one who always escalated, who threw herself into the fray, whether it was a confrontation with winter’s casual cruelty or an argument about giselle and ningning's incessant staring. she wasn't just a bystander; she was an active participant, a conductor of the symphony of your discomfort. you had plenty of fights with her, both verbal and physical, though they never quite got violent.

you remembered the first time you had spoken to her. it had been over a misplaced library book, a clumsy misunderstanding that had felt utterly catastrophic at the time. you had tried, stammering and flustered, to explain the situation, but karina had interrupted, her voice cool and laced with barely concealed amusement. “you always make such a mess.” she had said, looking at you with those piercing, dark eyes. “it's almost impressive.” you had been mortified, your cheeks burning with shame and anger. it wasn't just the words, but the way she said them, with a hint of something… else. something that you couldn’t quite place but that made your stomach churn in a way that felt both awful and exhilarating.

or the time when winter bumped into you, you'd been about to yell at winter but karina was there, stepping in front of winter. but instead of offering you a kind look of concern, she followed it with a sharp glance at you, a small, almost imperceptible curve to her lips that made you wonder if she was secretly mocking you even as she appeared to defend you. “you need to watch where you're going, clumsy.” she’d said, her voice laced with a kind of mocking amusement. her gaze was intense, and you found yourself inexplicably drawn to the rich depths of her dark eyes.

“i wasn't the one who bumped into someone!” you retorted, your hands balling into fists.

karina leaned closer, her breath fanning against your cheek. “maybe if you weren't so busy daydreaming, you would have seen her coming.” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. the way she talked to you was so infuriating, but her voice... it was like a melody, a song that somehow wrapped around you and made it difficult for you to think. you could have listened to her speak for hours.

when giselle and ningning’s silent stares became unbearable, and you dared to call them out, it was karina again, her voice cutting through the tension. “leave her alone, girls. don’t waste your time on her.” and again, that look, that strange mix of disdain and something… unreadable.

it was infuriating. it was mesmerizing. and it was, you had to admit, utterly confusing. you hated the way karina's presence could disrupt your carefully constructed world, the way she could make your heart pound in your chest with a mix of anger and... something else you didn't quite understand. it wasn't just that she was beautiful, it was the way she seemed to see you, to pierce through your carefully constructed facade and to see something hidden beneath the surface.

today, as you walked past her, you kept your gaze fixed ahead, trying to pretend she wasn't there, yet you could feel her eyes on you, heavy and intense. you could feel the faint warmth rising to your cheeks, and you hated it. you hated the way she could make you feel like a teenager again, all awkward and flustered. and yet, deep down, nestled within the layers of frustration and anger, there was a different feeling stirring, a confusing flutter that felt dangerously close to... not hate.

you wanted to scream at her, to demand an explanation, to ask her why she treated you this way. but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the strange ache that pulsated beneath your skin. you wanted to hate her. you wanted to erase her from your mind. but you knew, with a certainty that both terrified and excited you, that was impossible. because, beneath the layers of annoyance and antagonism, a strange and unnerving tension had begun to simmer, a tension that felt like a tightrope walk between loathing and something else entirely - something that felt incredibly dangerous. and incredibly, impossibly, alluring.

you wanted to hate her. but you were starting to wonder if you were already too far gone. the way those dark eyes held yours just a little too long, the way her voice wrapped around your name with a subtle rasp… it was starting to feel personal. and that, more than anything else, was terrifying.

the bass thrummed through the floor, vibrating up your legs and into your chest. it was the kind of party where the music was loud enough to drown out thought, where the air hung thick with sweat and the scent of cheap beer. around you, your friends were a cacophony of boisterous laughter and half-finished stories, their words washing over you like meaningless static. you nodded along, offered the occasional ‘yeah’ or ‘no way’ but your attention was elsewhere, a magnetic pull you couldn't quite ignore.

karina.

there she was, across the crowded living room, tucked away in a shadowed corner like a stray star. alone. it was a sight so incongruous with the image you had built of her – surrounded by her ‘ae-girls,’ her loyal pack – that it almost made you stop breathing. she was leaning against the wall, her gaze fixed on something beyond the party, a melancholic air clinging to her like the smoke from a forgotten cigarette.

a smirk played on your lips. this was it. an opportunity, maybe even an invitation, to finally cut through the layers of manufactured arrogance she wore like expensive perfume. you hadn't come here tonight expecting anything more than the usual awkward small talk and forced laughter, but the universe, in its twisted sense of humor, had presented you with this.

you excused yourself from your group, their chatter fading into the background as you navigated the sea of bodies. each step you took felt deliberate, a purposeful march towards a confrontation that you knew, deep down, you craved. when you finally reached her, the space between you felt charged, the air crackling with the unspoken history you shared.

“the queen bee without her hive. playing bad all by yourself, are you?” the words were out of your mouth before you could bite them back, a challenge laced with the bitterness you’d come to associate with her. you stood a few feet away, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected by the way her eyes snapped up and locked with yours. those eyes, you were sure, could freeze hell itself.

karina turned her head slowly, her eyes, sharp and obsidian, locking onto yours. a flicker of something – was it a surprise? – crossed her face before her usual mask of indifference slid back into place. “and you…” she drawled, her voice a low, velvety purr that sent a shiver down your spine despite your best efforts to remain stoic.

a slow, predatory smile bloomed on her face, the kind that promised trouble and the thrill of a dangerous game. “and you’re here, i see. did you forget everyone else, or were you always this obsessed with me?” her voice, the honeyed velvet you secretly adored, sent shivers down your spine, a sensation you would vehemently deny if asked.

"obsessed? please. i just thought you looked a little lonely without your little band of tormentors around to back you up.” you retorted, leaning closer, the scent of her perfume, a heady mix of sandalwood and something dangerously floral, filling your senses. “i just didn’t expect to find you all alone, stripped of your little lapdogs. It’s almost…disarming.” it was a weak jab, you knew it, but it was enough to elicit a low, throaty laugh from her.

her lips curled into a smirk, a flash of white teeth that made your stomach clench. “disarming? honey, you have no idea what kind of power i hold, with or without those girls behind me.” she took a step closer, narrowing the distance between you, the heat rolling off her body like a tangible thing.

“and sweetheart,” she purred, taking a step closer, the gap between you closing, the air crackling between you, “we’re just having a little fun here. you, on the other hand, seem a little… preoccupied.”

the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the stifling air. your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. “preoccupied? i’m… i'm just stating facts.”

“are you?” she whispered, moving closer, her breath ghosting over your ear, “or are you just looking for a little attention from someone who can actually handle you?”

a strange, dizzying sensation twisted in your stomach. it wasn't a question, it was a declaration, a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet. “handle me? you think you can handle me? you're all bark and no bite. without giselle's death stares, winter's shoulder bumps, and ningning's silent judgments, you're nothing.”

she didn't answer. instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm, a touch that sent a surge of electricity through your veins. “come with me.” she murmured, her voice a low command that you found yourself strangely compelled to obey.

and just like that, you were following her, weaving through the crowd, away from the music and the noise, towards the back of the house, a place you knew was usually empty, and a strange sense of dread and anticipation began to bubble inside of you.

you found yourselves in a small, dimly lit bathroom. the music was muffled here, the air thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. you leaned against the cold tile wall, the back of your head thudding softly as you tried to catch your breath, and karina stepped inside; she turned and locked the door.

she didn't speak, didn’t even look at you directly for a moment. she just stood there, a few feet away, her eyes watching you like a predator sizing up its prey. you tried to hold her gaze, but the intensity was too much, and your eyes drifted to her lips, the curve of them, the hint of a smirk playing on the corners.

“so…” she drawled, her voice low and husky, “what exactly did you want from me?”

your mind was a blank slate, your carefully constructed arguments dissolving into nothingness. “i— i don't know…” you stammered, hating the way you suddenly felt, small and unsure, completely at her mercy.

karina laughed, a short, sharp sound that was more taunt than amusement. “that’s what i thought.” she moved without warning, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. her hand shot out to grab your chin, tilting your head up so that you were forced to meet her gaze. “ypu're not so tough when it comes to me, are you?”

before you could form a coherent thought, her lips were on yours, a bruising, demanding kiss that stole your breath away. it was everything you had wanted, everything you had never dared to dream of, all wrapped up in one intoxicating moment. you instinctively kissed back, your body responding to hers with a desperate need that shocked you.

her hands roamed, tracing the curve of your jaw, delving into your hair, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. you could feel every inch of her, the heat of her skin pressing against yours, the hard muscle beneath her soft curves.

“you like this, don't you?" she murmured against your lips, her voice laced with a smugness that both infuriated and aroused you. “you like that i’m the one in control. you like that i decide when to kiss you, what to do with you.” she punctuated her words with sharp little bites on your bottom lip, sending shivers of pleasure through you.

her hands began to roam, tracing the curves of your body, sending sparks of desire through your veins. she explored your waist, the curve of your hip, and the small of your back with a boldness that made you breathless. her fingers brushed the edges of your clothes, teasing and taunting you with their delicate touch.

her hands pushed at your shirt, sliding beneath the hem, her cool fingers sending jolts of electricity through you. you whimpered, a mix of protest and surrender. she chuckled, a low rumble against your ear.

her hand slid down lower, finding the waistband of your pants, her fingers teasing you, sending sparks of sensation through your core. “tell me,” she breathed into your ear. “tell me you want this.”

you wanted to deny it, to pull away, to reassert some semblance of control. but the words caught in your throat, replaced by a soft moan as her fingers found their mark, slick heat blooming between your legs. “karina please—”

“you're so easy,” she murmured against your lips, her breath hot and intoxicating. “i could do anything to you right now and you wouldn't stop me.” the words were degrading, a calculated humiliation, but instead of anger, you felt a strange thrill course through you, a sense of surrender that was both terrifying and irresistible.

you pulled back slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “you’re so mean.” you whispered, your voice trembling, the truth of her words hitting home with full force.

she laughed, a low, throaty sound that reverberated through your body. “and you love it.” she said, her eyes sparkling with a dangerous glint, pulling you closer once more, the dance of dominance and submission continuing. the kiss was deeper, more passionate, her tongue exploring your mouth with a confident, practiced ease. you were lost in her, drowning in the force of her touch and the intoxicating pull of her personality, the feeling of a strange mix of fear and a longing that you never knew you possessed.

you, completely overtaken with sensation, didn't even realize how long you were in there, or how much her words both insulted and intoxicated you, but as the kiss deepened, and her hands roamed more, the reality that your friends were probably looking for you, and just the whole situation in general, slowly began to cloud the haze of lust.

she takes you out of your thoughts when her deft fingers made quick work of the button on your jeans. karina smirked as she slowly slid her hand into your unzipped jeans, teasingly tracing the lace of your panties. she rubbed your clothed slit with the heel of her palm, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm.

karina's voice was a low, urgent growl in your ear. "fuck, you're so wet already… is all this because of those stupid kisses i just gave you a few moments ago? or have you been this wet all night since you got here because your little head has been thinking about me touching you? dirty slut… getting this turned on in public. i bet you want my fingers buried inside your tight little cunt, don't you?”

karina's nimble fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing along your clothed slit. she rubbed slow, maddening circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl in your shoes. “that's why you always give attitude, isn't it? is giving dirty looks and a bitchy attitude your way of saying you want me to fuck you silly?” her other hand slid under your shirt, caressing the smooth skin of your tummy before cupping your breast, kneading the supple flesh.

“poor little thing... you must be really desperate, aren't you? karina purred, feeling the dampness seeping through the fabric. she slipped a finger under the waistband and pulled your panties aside, exposing your bare, glistening folds.

karina dragged a single fingertip along your slit, barely grazing your sensitive flesh, from your entrance up to your clit. she circled the throbbing bud with maddening slowness, not quite touching it directly.

“please—”

karina chuckled darkly at your needy plea, relishing the power she held over you. she continued her torturous teasing, now running two fingers slowly up and down your dripping slit, spreading your wetness throughout all your folds and then slipping her finger just barely inside your tight entrance, only to pull it out and circle your clit again.

“please what, baby? say it.” karina demanded, her hot breath washing over your neck. she nipped at your earlobe, tugging it between her teeth. “beg for my fingers like a good little slut.”

“please no, this is embarrassing, i—”

"but you're so wet… i can feel it dripping down your thighs. you want my fingers so badly, don't you slut?” she circled your clit once more, drawing a needy whimper from your lips before finally, mercifully, pressing down on the sensitive nub. “c’mon, baby. tell me how badly you need my fingers buried deep in this hungry cunt. i want to hear you say it.” she rasped, her voice thick with lust and dominance.

karina smirked as she felt your body tremble against hers, your breathing growing ragged. she loved reducing you to this desperate, aching mess. her finger traced maddening circles around your entrance, dipping just the tiniest bit inside before retreating, over and over.

“please, karina... please fuck me.” you gasped out, too far gone to hold back your plea. “i need your fingers so badly. i'm so fucking wet and empty... please fill me up.”

karina let out a low, wicked laugh. “mmmh, good girl. i love when you beg for it.” she purred approvingly. without warning, she plunged two fingers deep into your soaked, clenching heat, pumping them in and out at a brutal pace.

“that's it, take my fingers like the greedy little slut you are.” karina growled, her thumb grinding against your clit. her other hand shoved your bra up and out of the way, allowing her to roughly palm and squeeze your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak.

the bathroom filled with the obscene sound of your wetness, the slap of karina's palm against your pussy, and your desperate, wanton moans.

karina's fingers curled inside you, stroking your g-spot with ruthless precision as she finger-fucked you mercilessly. her thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit, the stimulation overwhelming your senses.

“fuck, baby, your cunt is gripping my fingers so tightly. i can feel you getting close.” karina rasped, her voice heavy with lust. she leaned in, biting and sucking at your neck, determined to leave her mark on your skin.

suddenly, she pulled her fingers out, leaving you empty and aching. before you could protest, she slammed you against the bathroom wall. her lips crashed against yours in a bruising, demanding kiss, her tongue invading your mouth.

karina grabbed your wrists, pinning your hands above your head as she kissed you deeply, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her knee pressed between your thighs, rubbing against your dripping, throbbing clit. she broke the kiss, both of you panting heavily.

she smirked wickedly as she felt you grinding your hips against her thigh, desperate for any friction. karina grabbed your ass, squeezing the firm cheeks as she encouraged your movements.

“that's it, ride my thigh like the needy little slut you are.” karina purred, her voice dripping with dark amusement. she could feel your wetness soaking through her jeans, staining the denim. the bathroom echoed with the obscene sound of your pussy rubbing against her thigh, your panting breaths, and karina's approving moans.

keeping your wrists pinned above you, karina leaned in to attack your neck, biting and sucking at the tender skin. she wanted to mark you, to leave you with bruises and hickies that would remind you of this moment every time you looked in the mirror.

karina roughly palmed your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak between her fingers. she tugged and plucked at your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

karina could feel your movements growing erratic, your desperation reaching a fever pitch as you rutted against her thigh. she could tell you were teetering on the edge, your body tensing and shaking.

“c’mon baby, cum for me.” karina purred, her voice a sinful whisper against your ear. “i want to feel you gush all over my thigh. go ahead, let go and cum like the dirty girl you are.”

to push you over the precipice, karina pinched your nipple hard, twisting it as she bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, breaking the skin. at the same time, she pressed her thigh harder against your clit, grinding against it with ruthless intensity.

the combination of intense sensations overwhelmed you, and you shattered, coming undone against her. your vision went white as your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing and shaking uncontrollably. karina held you tight, not letting you fall as your pussy clenched and spasmed, gushing your release onto her thigh as a scream of ecstasy ripped from your throat.

ehe continued to grind her thigh against your spasming sex, drawing out your climax and making you ride out the waves of pleasure.

when your orgasm finally began to subside, karina captured your lips in a searing, dominating kiss. she plundered your mouth, her tongue stroking and caressing every inch of you, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her hands roamed your body, squeezing and groping your curves possessively.

finally, she pulled back, leaving you gasping and boneless against the wall, your chest heaving. “mmmh, look at the mess you made, you naughty girl…” karina teased, trailing her fingers through the damp patch before bringing them to her mouth. she made a show of licking your juices off, her eyes never leaving yours. “delicious. i knew you'd taste as good as you look.”

her hand slid around your hip, squeezing the curve of your ass as she pressed closer, pinning you neatly between her body and the wall. karina's lips found your neck once more, her mouth hot and open against your skin.

karina pulled back slightly, her dark eyes glinting with mischief and unquenched desire. she glanced at her phone, a smirk playing on her lips. "shit, look at the time. i gotta jet…”

karina cursed under her breath but quickly composed herself, stepping back from you. she smirked as she glanced down at your disheveled appearance; your jeans still unbuttoned, your shirt rumpled, and your hair mussed. the satisfied flush on your cheeks was unmistakable.

“we'll definitely do this again.” she said casually, as if finger-fucking you senseless in a bathroom was an everyday occurrence for her. “but don't think this is over. i'm not done with you yet, not by a long shot."

karina leaned in close, her lips brushing yours teasingly as she whispered. “i'll find you later. maybe tonight, i'll sneak into your dorm room and finish what we started here. wear something easy to take off.” she purred, before stealing a quick, hard kiss and pulling away.

with a final wink, karina turned and sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving you dazed, aroused, and eagerly anticipating her promised nighttime visit. you knew this was only the beginning of your adventures with the infamous queen bee, karina.

#yu jimin #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #yu jimin smut #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x fem reader #yoo jimin x reader #yoo jimin smut #karina #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut

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gav-san · 3 days ago

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Cosmic Joke: Portgas D. Ace

Cosmic Bond Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

Oneshot: Ace x Reader Length: 14 K+ Rating: 16+

Having Ace as a soulmate is like dating a clingy campfire with feelings. He’s loud, loyal, and fully prepared to self-immolate if you so much as shiver, mentally or physically. He’s been obsessed since puberty—and yes, he still thinks spontaneous combustion is a valid love language. “If my soulmate’s cold, I’ll just set myself on fire. Easy fix.” Now you are scared and cold.

Character Suggestion by @dead-cipher

-Bond Awakening-

It started innocently enough.

You are normal. At least, you try to be. You pay your taxes (when applicable), respect your elders (unless they’re creeps), and only scream into your pillow when absolutely necessary. You grew up in a modest village where nothing exciting ever happened—except, of course, for the fact that you’ve had a pirate in your head since age six.

You’re aggressively normal. You like toast. You do your taxes early. You read books in quiet corners and have strong opinions about brand-name toothpaste. You are average with a capital A.

At first, the bond felt innocent enough. There were brief flickers of emotion, bits of curiosity, and the occasional overwhelming urge to punch something and then apologize to it.

Then the voice started speaking in full sentences; chaotic, unfiltered, and alarmingly sincere.

“I hope he knows I love him even if I punched him. In the face.”

“If I die, I want to die doing something cool. Like falling into lava to save a kitten.”

“Do whales get lonely?”

“If I set this on fire and run away fast enough, technically it’s not my fault.”

A loud voice. With zero filter. And no self-preservation instinct.

It wasn’t just thoughts. You had vivid dreams of eating everything within a fifty-mile radius. You’d wake up laughing at jokes you never told. Or screaming, because some distant, invisible dumbass decided to fight a Sea King at age ten.

You knew what it meant. The telepathic thread had been there since childhood. Most people got soft hums of emotion, the occasional comforting whisper.

“Oi, how many push-ups does it take to break a tree?” “I should punch that guy. No reason. Just vibes.” “If I die young, bury me in meat.”

His name, as you eventually piece together through years of one-sided nonsense, is Ace.

Full name?

Portgas D. Ace

You’re just a normal, average person with a skincare routine and a deathly fear of taxes. Which is exactly why the universe, in its infinite humor, decided to tether your soul to Ace. He’s a human wildfire with the emotional processing skills of a stray golden retriever and the attention span of a sunburned raccoon.

His hobbies include: eating until death seems imminent, throwing hands with gods and warlords, spontaneous arson, and emotionally repressing every feeling that isn’t hunger or homicidal loyalty.

You’ve never met him. But you’ve heard him. He doesn’t know you exist. But you know him.

You know he doesn’t believe in soulmates. You know he eats like a vacuum. You know he cries alone at night and pretends he doesn’t. You know he got his first tattoo on a dare. And unfortunately… You also know that he once set a spider on fire to impress someone. (He regrets it. The spider haunted him in a dream. He whispered an apology three years later.)

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut

Age 7: "Do you think seagulls ever get depressed?" You were in math class. Trying to learn multiplication tables. Your soulmate, somewhere out there, was staring into the ocean like a tiny, unmedicated philosopher with a flair for existential bird-based melancholy.

You blinked. Raised your hand. Asked to use the bathroom. Sat on the toilet and whispered, “What?”

Age 8: "If I became a pirate, do you think they’d let me keep my blanket?" It was a sincere question. It made your heart ache. Not because it was sweet, but because you realized your soulmate was already planning his outlaw era.

Age 10: “If I get eaten by a sea king, tell Luffy I died hot.”

You were sitting in the back of the library, hunched over a weathered copy of Advanced Multiplication, when the voice echoed across your skull with all the solemnity of a soldier’s final words.

You blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

The voice—his voice—sounded older now. Still boyish, still rough around the edges, but with the kind of melodramatic resignation only a twelve-year-old could muster with such commitment. He sounded like someone who’d stared death in the face and decided to make it weird.

You turned the page. Pretended not to hear.

Other children had imaginary friends. You had this.

A borderline-delinquent who philosophized about death, grilled fish, and sea birds like they were moral arbiters of heaven and hell. A boy with a voice like fire and laughter, who once gave you a blow-by-blow breakdown of how to win a fistfight with a wild boar. He narrated everything. Bad decisions. Petty theft. Emotional spirals. The occasional hallucination.

You never answered. Not once. You were practiced. Well-trained. Unshakable.

But fate, as it often does, waited patiently to make you suffer.

-The Cold War-

Age 13:

It began with a whisper. Then a crackle. Then—suddenly, violently—“BOOBS.”

You choked mid-sip of your tea. Nearly stabbed yourself with your own pencil. The word reverberated in your head like a cannon blast, unfiltered and aggressively enthusiastic. There was silence. A stunned, terrible silence.

And then his voice, slightly breathless and awestruck: “I just… wow. That bartender was built like a miracle. Do you think she noticed me? Should I have said something? Was ‘You have nice elbows’ too weird?”

You sat motionless at the kitchen table, pencil still mid-stroke in a math equation you would never, ever finish. You could feel your soul physically detaching from your body.

Almost seven years. Seven. Seven years of absurdity. Of hunger rants. Of emotional crises about clouds that looked like parental neglect. Of vivid psychic broadcasts of every single dumb fight, scar, and mood swing.

But this? This crossed a line.

You stood. Slowly. Like a woman wronged. Marched outside. And screamed into the dirt like an ancient priestess channeling divine rage.

Somewhere, far away, a bird fell out of a tree from secondhand embarrassment.

“NO!” you yelled into the sky, fists clenched. “YOU DO NOT GET TO BE HORNY AND STUPID. PICK ONE!”

And somewhere, across sea and wind and sky— He heard you.

A pause. A stunned intake of breath.

“…Wait,” his voice said, softer now. “That was you. You talked. You’re real. Oh my god, who are you? Tell me your name. Tell me your location. I’ll find you. I swear—I’ll find you.”

You didn’t scream again. You didn’t cry. You didn’t faint. You simply answered, tone flat and final:

“No. I’m retracting my existence. Goodbye.”

And then you slammed the door—metaphysically, psychically, spiritually—and mentally filed a full restraining order against fate.

He did not take it well.

“Was it the boob thing? I swear I respect women. I mean—I don’t not notice them, but I’m not, like, a pervert. Just observational. Please respond. I haven’t eaten in four hours. I don’t know why that matters, but emotionally it feels important.”

You do not.

“If I die of heartbreak and/or starvation, tell Luffy I—wait. You already know. I died hot.”

By day four, he’d reached the melodramatic stage of soulmate grief.

“I’ve named the seagull that keeps following me. His name is Betrayal.”

You ignored him. You hardened your mind like iron. Practiced psychic silence like a religion.

But some nights, when the world was quiet and your guard slipped, you still felt the flicker of him at the edge of your thoughts: warm, restless, and ridiculous.

And once—just once—you heard him whisper through the bond, low and serious, voice heavy with something new.

“Please just let me know you’re okay. I’ll wait–”

You didn’t reply. Not then. But after the quiet way he whispered I’ll wait like a vow instead of a threat—you found yourself staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Overthinking. Trying very hard not to care.

And failing.

Just a little.

Eventually, grudgingly, with the emotional grace of someone returning to a party they swore they left forever…you let him back in. Not fully. Not warmly. Not with words so much as intention. But with conditions.

He wasn’t allowed to interrupt test days. No horny thoughts before noon. Absolutely no narrating your dreams back to you with commentary like, “Whoa, that one had symbolism.” And if he wanted to share his feelings, he had to at least pretend to have emotional self-awareness.

Naturally, he ignored all of this.

You became a master of selective tuning. His chaotic thoughts drifted through your mind like white noise: background nonsense you could mute with a blink. You mastered the sacred art of psychic eye-rolls.

He, in turn, began calling you “Mystery Babe” when you humored him and “Invisible Gremlin” when you roasted him into the dirt. You answered once in a blue moon. Just enough to ruin his day.

Like, “You fell off that cliff because you tried to flirt mid-backflip. Not because the ground betrayed you.”

Or, “Your idea of stealth is shouting ‘this way, boys’ at full volume.”

Or, worst of all: “I don’t dream about you. You sound like you smell like firewood and have impulse control issues.”

And Ace? He lost his entire damn mind. Delightfully. Publicly. Apocalyptically.

He became obsessed. Utterly, wildly, romantically feral.

Because now he knew you were out there. Real. Sharp. Hidden. The girl who outsmarted fate, ghosted destiny, and occasionally replied just to hand him his own ego on a silver platter.

You weren’t sweet. You weren’t eager. You weren’t simping.

You were just mean enough to be hot.

Like a mirage that tells you to hydrate and die.

And it was ruining him.

His crewmates noticed immediately.

“Is Ace talking to himself again?” “No, he’s arguing with his soulmate.” “…Does she answer?” “Only to mock him.”

They started calling you The Phantom. Deuce took bets on whether you were real. Skull tried to flirt with the empty air once and got psychically blasted with, “Not you, oil-slick.”

By week three of your emotionally distant reappearance, Ace had declared—loudly, mid-fight, while on fire, “I don’t need to find the One Piece. I need to find my soulmate, so I can formally apologize for my horny teenage brain and then ask them to punch me in the face.”

There was silence.

Then the enemy captain nodded solemnly. “That’s valid,” he said, before Ace knocked him out. And honestly? Probably the most emotionally mature thing Ace had ever said.

And you almost responded. Almost. But instead… You smiled. And went back to ignoring him.

Age 15:

“I’m gonna fight this volcano. I’ve got it. No regrets.”

It came in loud and proud, mid-afternoon. You were standing in line at the pharmacy, waiting for cold medicine, when your soulmate decided to challenge a natural disaster to a duel.

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. He kept going.

“If it kills me, bury me with snacks. And a sword. Even if I didn’t have one. Just for the drama.” You pressed your fingers to your temples like you could pinch the psychic connection out of existence.

He was persistent. And worse, he was charming.

In the most idiotic, reckless, infuriatingly loyal golden retriever way imaginable.

He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t smooth. He was a walking campfire with sass and a dangerously low number of self-preservation instincts.

You were not speaking, but still, he talked to you.

“If I ever meet you, I hope you hate me at first,” he said once, quieter than usual. “That way, I can earn it. I wanna earn it.”

“I’d probably ruin your life,” he admitted another time. “But like… nicely?”

“Maybe you don’t exist. Maybe I got the broken kind of bond.”

And then, worst of all, the one that landed like a stone in your chest: “If you’re real, I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

You hate that he sounds sincere.

Age 16:

You are entirely convinced this man should be institutionalized.

You learn to live around him. You train your face not to react when he narrates his internal monologues mid-battle. You do not try to talk back. You’ve heard what happens when soulmates do that. It's called “dumbass feedback loop.” Two people yelling in each other’s heads until someone faints.

Instead, you simply exist. Quietly. Carefully. You’re old enough to drop out of school and change locations, which you do, and often. Use fake names. Pick villages with low foot traffic. Avoid taverns where Wanted Posters hang.

Ace, for his part, is infuriated by this.

He doesn’t know who you are. Doesn’t know where you are. Can’t even figure out your gender for the first ten years. He only knows you exist because he keeps trying to scream into the void, and you never scream back.

Which, of course, drives him completely insane.

He grows up.

You do too. You get better at tuning him out.

Until one day.

“I think I’m being followed. That guy has weird teeth. I might punch him. If I die, sorry, soulmate. I wish I had kissed someone.”

You freeze. Because it’s the first time he’s said anything that sounded like a goodbye. You don’t respond, and you find the words can’t break the door you’ve built open. But you stay up all night anyway. Eyes on the ceiling. Fingernails biting your palms.

The next day?

He’s fine.

“That guy was weird, but I gave him my sandwich. He cried. I cried. We’re friends now.”

You sob into your pillow.

Ace, Age 17:

“Okay, look. If you’re real. If you’re out there. Just… tap something. Whisper. Blink twice mentally.”

You: (mentally blinking once, for spite)

You become excellent at mental firewalling. He starts testing you.

“Do you like meat? Just tell me that. I won’t track you down. Probably. If you don’t respond in 3 seconds, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and go commit arson in your honor.”

Eventually, he starts talking to you the way people talk to their diaries; with sarcasm and later, sincerity.

That’s when things get complicated.

Because, behind all the reckless noise and weird thoughts about trying to headbutt a sea emperor, there’s this ache. This softness you weren’t expecting. He starts wondering out loud if he deserves a soulmate. Starts apologizing when he’s angry. Tells you about Luffy, about Sabo, and his untimely death (you sob for hours). About the fire in his chest that never quite goes out.

He doesn't even know you're listening.

And you wish you weren’t.

Because now it hurts. Now you want to answer.

But you don’t. You can’t. You know what kind of people hunt soulmates, especially ones with D. in their name. If the Navy finds you, they’ll use you. If pirates find you, they’ll sell you. And if Ace finds you?

...You don’t know what he’d do. But it’d probably involve grinning, dramatic declarations, and upsetting explosions.

So, instead, you run. You hide. You exist in the margins. You watch from the edges of the news whenever you hear about Whitebeard’s crew. You silently cheer when you read about them protecting islands and sinking slaver ships.

You almost cry the first time Ace calls you “my tether.” And then he follows it with “which sounds weird and kinda kinky, but spiritually accurate.”

You throw a spoon across the room.

You talk to him for the first time—really talk to him—when you’re seventeen.

It’s been eleven years of chaotic background noise. Of pirate shenanigans, shirtless bragging, impromptu wrestling matches, and unsolicited thoughts about meat, knives, ghosts, fire, and, occasionally, emotional devastation disguised as jokes.

You’ve learned to compartmentalize him. A psychic raccoon rummaging around your mental trash cans. Sometimes loud, sometimes weirdly insightful. Always there.

But that year?

That’s the year you hear him cry.

You don’t even know what triggers it. You’re just heading home, a basket of bread in one hand, the sun warm on your shoulders, when suddenly the world goes sideways.

“Why does it keep happening?”

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s broken. Quiet. He’s not performing. Not cracking jokes. Just sitting somewhere, talking to no one. Maybe himself.

Maybe you.

“I keep losing everyone.” A breath. “First Sabo. Now the Spade Pirates.” He swallows hard. You feel it in your ribs. “I try to be good. But…”

Silence.

Then the whisper that shatters something soft in your chest:

“...Maybe I don’t deserve anyone.”

You stop walking.

Right there. In the middle of the road. The wind is gentle. Your throat is not.

You hesitate. For too long. Long enough to almost let it pass.

“You do.”

The word is small. Just one. But it slams into him like a cannonball.

“WH—NO WAY.” His voice skyrockets into disbelief. “You talked again! You—you heard all of that?! Forget it! UNHEAR IT. I sounded like a tragic romance novel. I need a redo.”

You roll your eyes.

“You sounded like a dumbass in pain. Which is slightly better than your usual dumbass setting.”

“Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

He doesn’t.

“Wait—WAIT—this is real. You’re real. You’re not dead or a voice invented by head trauma or—wait, you’re not a tree, right? I once emotionally confessed to a tree. It didn’t answer.”

You sigh. Pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I am not a tree. You absolute himbo.”

He makes a sound like he’s been physically electrocuted with joy. And just like that, Ace starts beaming across your bond. Not literally, but it feels like light. Like heat. Like a bonfire on a cold night that you didn’t realize you’d needed.

“This is the best day of my life. Please marry me. Or at least tell me your name. Or insult me again. I’d take any of those.”

You don’t give him your name. Not yet.

But you do say, “I’m not ready for you to find me.”

He pauses. Then softens.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ve got time. Just don’t disappear again, alright?”

-Emotional Fallout-

Age 18:

Ace joins something called ‘The Whitebeard Pirates’.

You quietly wonder if it’s a strip club or a cult.

But now, you’re curious, committed, and listening at metaphoric windows in his mind palace. The crack in your own mental door widens. Just enough that you know unconsciously are transmitting some spare thoughts.

Enough that you may accidentally transmit more details than you intend.

It’s not a scream. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even a thought meant for him. It’s a snort. Of all things. A quiet, private, mental snort of disbelief.

You’ve spent your whole life avoiding him.

And honestly? You’ve been excellent at it.

Fake names. Remote towns. A personal blacklist of any island that’s ever whispered “Whitebeard.” You were disciplined. Focused. Determined not to let your soulmate ruin your peace.

Because you knew too much.

You’d heard his thoughts since childhood—unfiltered, uninvited, and deeply, profoundly stupid. You’d heard him fart. Cry. Argue with seagulls. Wonder aloud if crabs feel jealousy. You’d built up a mental image of a human raccoon with fire powers and the emotional depth of a wet sock.

And for years, that was fine.

Until today.

When you see it, you’re at a sleepy little port, casually browsing a message board for work. A wanted poster with a familiar name.

You glance. Just a peek.

And freeze.

Name: Portgas D. Ace.

Bounty: Irrelevant.

Expression: A curl at this lips lifting up like sin.

The creature is hot.

And a pirate.

But more important— He’s unethically hot. Shirt-open, jaw-sharp, lean-muscle, freckles-like-a-gift-from-God hot.

You envisioned a gremlin with muscles and zero self-preservation. You expected a 6-foot-tall disaster man held together by ego, duct tape, and barbecue sauce.

But this?

And he is divine punishment in man form. Shirt half-buttoned (barely). Freckles like stardust. Muscles that have never known a shirt that fits. A smile that should be federally regulated.

And dimples. Dimples.

He looks like he rolled out of a bonfire, forgot what a brush is, and still makes grown adults walk into walls. He looks like someone who would text “You up?” at 2 AM, and mean it platonically, then absolutely ruin your life in bed.

You sit on a bench. You stare at the poster. The wind rustles. Somewhere, someone sneezes.

You mutter, “Oh no. He’s hot. I am so screwed.”

Because now there’s a problem.

You’ve spent over a decade building immunity to his personality.

But no one prepared you for the smoulder.

And the worst part?

He feels it.

Ace is halfway through fighting a sea king when it hits. He literally pauses mid-punch.

“Holy crap,” he whispers. “They noticed me.”

Marco looks up. “Who?”

“My soulmate thinks I’m hot.”

He beams like the sun just kissed him. He fights a sea king out of pure euphoria. He gives a romantic speech to a palm tree.

And when he laughs—low and rough, like warm honey with a death wish—your brain short-circuits.

And he lets you have it.

“Hey!” Even his mentally transmitted voice is a problem. Sleep-rough and smug, “Miss me, baby? Bet you were thinking about me again. Don’t lie—I felt it. You feel really pretty in your head. Want me to walk you through it again?”

You tried everything.

Cold showers. Meditation. Punching someone for fun.

Nothing works.

Because Ace is a wildfire in human skin and bad decisions.

And worst of all?

He knows.

“I’ll let you touch the V-line if you say please.”

You’ve considered hurling yourself overboard more than once. But unfortunately, Ace can swim in your head. And he’s always shirtless when he gets there. You’ve moved ten times. Changed names. Changed continents.

Ace? Unbothered. Thriving. Intensifying. He starts taking notes. (They’re mostly unreadable. But it’s the effort.) He’s narrowed it down. He knows you’re alive and that you move often. That you’ve been dodging fate with Olympic-level skill.

He’s not mad.

He’s impressed.

“You’ve been dodging destiny like a pro. Damn. Marry me.” Now he daydreams about meeting you mid-brawl. Or during a cursed artifact heist.

Or stealing the same apple off a rooftop and locking eyes like, “So… this is awkward.”

He doesn’t want a perfect moment. He wants you. Your weird live-stock obsessed brain and all.

And you? You still think he’s reckless, loud, and infuriating. But… maybe…Just maybe…He’s exactly your kind of problem.

Wait. WAIT.

You reel back.

He gets slapped into a rock. He barely notices. He is too busy grinning like a moron.

That’s it.

That’s the moment he decides: He is going to find you.

Before, it was passive curiosity. Now? It’s an obsession. Amusement. Intrigue. Hope.

Someone sarcastic. Someone real. Someone who thinks he’s an idiot (correct). Someone who sounds more like a human person than a divine blessing.

He’s doomed.

He starts doing things he never used to do. Asking questions. Collecting rumors. Not of his soulmate, because no one knows what he’s after, but about soulmates, connections, and how the hell does anyone find each other if they don’t want to?

You dyed your hair the moment his emotional compass started pinging your hometown. You moved when he began fantasizing about coastal bars.

You became an urban legend. The myth. The whisper. That one girl who’s just not answering back.

Somewhere out there, your soulmate has a reputation. He’s one of those with A Silent Bond’. Pirates dare him to try to find you. He drinks too much sometimes and mutters, “She’s real. I know she is.” Someone once asked if maybe you died.

He said, “She didn’t. She’s just better at this than me.”

And you are.

But lately, the voice has been quiet. Too quiet.

Which is why, one night, halfway through brushing your teeth, a warm, raspy thought slips into your skull like a dagger wrapped in velvet, "I think I found your hometown, but you’re already gone...You win… this time. But if I see you, I’m still keeping you."

And you choke on your toothbrush.

The next mistake in your proverbial abode being invaded comes quickly.

He first catches a glimpse of you by accident. And it ruins him for days.

The bond has always been mostly one-sided. Him shouting into the abyss, you offering the occasional snarky whisper like some irritated brain ghost with boundary issues. You’ve never slipped. You’ve never let anything real through.

Until that day.

You were distracted. Tired. In the middle of patching a leak in your roof, your arms are covered in sap, and your soul is covered in rage because the only thing worse than your soulmate yelling about meat in your head is leaky ceilings during monsoon season.

And then, just for a flicker, you thought something too loudly.

You didn’t mean to. You were yelling internally about your ladder being possessed and made of evil wood spirits. You were furious with gravity. You were sweaty, sore, and covered in twigs.

And then, like a crack in a door.

He sees you.

Not fully. Just a snapshot, like the first page of a dream:

Sunlight streaking through wet leaves. Your face in half-shadow, eyes squinting up at a broken shingle. A smear of dirt across your cheek. Mouth pressed flat in focus. Your hand raised to swipe your brow, wrist wrapped in a red ribbon that was probably nothing but made his whole chest ache.

And worst of all: You are beautiful.

Not like the kind of “hot” he was always joking about. Not bartender-curvy or saloon-pretty or the fantasy women his crewmates dreamt up. You looked real.

Solid.

Warm.

Like someone he could come home to.

It knocked the breath out of him.

“...Whoa.”

The whisper was involuntary. Barely a word. More like a reverent exhale.

On your side, you froze.

Because you felt it.

You felt the moment he saw. The way the tether between your minds trembled, like it had finally aligned. Like it was no longer just a voice.

It had eyes. And they saw you.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, a little broken. “You’re real. You’re—”

You smacked the bond shut.

So hard, it echoed.

You didn’t talk to him again for two weeks.

And Ace?

Ace spent those two weeks walking around like a man hit by divine lightning.

He tried drawing your face from memory. Failed. Got angry. Started sketching again. Asked Thatch if he’d ever had a religious experience involving a hammer-wielding forest nymph and a red ribbon.

Everyone thought he was concussed.

Marco eventually sat him down and asked if he'd been cursed by a wood sprite. Ace just stared at the table and whispered, “She’s incredible.” And because he’s somehow managed to wedge a figurative foot in the door jam, he gets more glimpses.

It happens at night.

You’re alone, exhausted, curled up in a too-small bed on a too-small island that doesn’t even have proper plumbing. There’s a storm outside, thunder heavy and close, and you’ve been pretending all day that you aren’t upset.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You lie there, trembling. Not with fear. Just with the quiet, suffocating ache of trying to stay strong all the time. And that’s when your thoughts falter.

You let your guard drop.

Across the sea, Ace jolts upright.

Because suddenly, you’re there.

Not a thought. Not a quip. Another glance.

Like a flash through water. You. In the dark. Hunched over your own arms. Quietly crying into a pillow.

Not sobbing. Not loud.

Just… cracking.

Soft and honest and completely unguarded. The window next to your bed is cracked open. The candle is burning low. Your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to the world.

You don’t even think of his name. But you feel him. And that’s worse.

And he feels everything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

For once, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches in that stolen second, completely still, as his chest fills with something heavy, protective, and utterly unhinged.

He sees you. The real you.

Not just the sharp voice. Not the teasing distance. But the person beneath it all. Fragile. Furious. Lonely.

“You don’t feel safe,” he realizes. “You don’t feel safe anywhere.”

You snap the bond shut again the second you feel him. It slams so hard he physically stumbles back on the deck of the Moby Dick.

“Hey—! No, wait—!”

Silence.

He doesn’t chase the bond. Not right away. He just sits there, staring into the storm, heart pounding like a drum.

And then, very softly, he whispers to no one.

“You don’t ever have to be alone again, you know. Not with me.”

You huff in annoyance, trying to pull the mental shutters down like you're closing a damn window, but no matter how much you lock them, he's still there, pressing against the edges of your thoughts like he's trying to squeeze through a crack. And damn it, it’s working. His mental presence fills the spaces you’ve tried so hard to keep him out of, and now you can’t stop yourself from giving him all these little snippets of your mind, no matter how much you want to.

And goddamn it, when he decides to stay on your stoop, refusing to budge, there's only so much you can do—the nerve of him. There’s something oddly endearing about how he doesn’t back off, even when your mental voice tells him to just leave. He likes hearing your rambling nonsense, which makes you even more annoyed.

But it’s not just that. It’s the gems he’s pulling from you now. The stupid thoughts you can’t quite hide. Like that one, for example. You thought, just for a second, that the man who joined the Whitebeard's crew was somehow more interested in your bond, for the social aspect of it all. Like maybe he'd just stumbled into your mental space for the friendship and sweet, sweet no-escape bonding time, right?

It’s not completely irrational, right? Maybe a little delusional, but not out there. A guy that big with all that muscle? You really didn’t expect him to fit the “faithful romantic hero” trope—especially with “pirate” as his job title. He’s probably out there throwing hands and other things in every port he visits.

And every time something even remotely flirtatious crosses his mind, you bolt like your brain’s on fire, diving into farm animal facts just to avoid that embarrassing knowledge about what his hormones are up to behind closed doors.

He’s just not interested in you, carnally at least. Why would he be? You’re... you. He’s a famous pirate, a literal fire-bending golden retriever with abs and a fleet. He’s probably got a sexy fishwoman in every port. Hell, you'd fold for a sexy fishwoman, so why shouldn’t he?

But of course, he chooses the worst possible time to clarify. While you’re shopping. In public.

A thought slams into your brain like a meteor dipped in honey and sin.

“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

You physically jolt, and the egg vendor takes a step back. “You good?”

You nod, staring into the void. Because that voice—the one you haven’t heard in weeks—is suddenly awake. Smug. Dangerous.

“Not interested?...Not interested?”

A beat of silence.

“You’ve been dodging me for years like a criminal with a crush. You flinched when you saw my poster. You think I didn’t feel that spark? I felt your thirst, babe. It came through like a punch to the solar plexus.”

You grip the egg basket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You think I’m not interested? I’ve been tracking your emotional wreckage like a lovesick bloodhound with ADHD and a lighter.”

And then, of course, he gets descriptive.

Vivid. Uncomfortably so.

Your knees buckle a little.

“The things I could do if you’d just sit still for five damn minutes,” He practically screams, “And stop thinking about goats. Or cows. Or whatever weird barnyard tangent you go off on when you panic.”

You mentally scream, LIVESTOCK IS A COMFORTING TOPIC, and he laughs out loud in your brain.

It’s a warm, rough laugh that slides down your spine like a sin you weren’t ready to commit.

You drop your eggs.

And he keeps going.

“You think I’m not interested? Baby, I’ve imagined every version of you. Sarcastic. Half-dressed. Mud-covered. Covered in nothing but one of my shirts and bad intentions.”

Your ears go red.

“I’ve had to apologize to my crew for zoning out during a sea battle because you accidentally had a fantasy about kissing someone else. I almost torched an island.”

You drop your entire egg basket this time. Gone, like your dignity.

You storm home.

Slamming the door behind you, you flop onto your bed and shout into a pillow,

“STOP DOING THAT!”

You hear him reply, far too smug,

“Only if you stop pretending you don’t want me to.”

You assumed he was a eunuch. Fair. No normal man could be that energetic, that unhinged, that relentless without sacrificing something vital. There was no way a person who routinely set himself on fire for fun had enough blood left in his body to maintain… well, anything.

You’d once muttered aloud—after a particularly violent surge of his soul-linked thoughts.

“If this lunatic isn’t a eunuch, I’ll eat my shoe.”

To which the voice responded, chipper as ever, “Well, hope it’s chocolate-flavored, sweetheart, because I’m very much not a eunuch.” You rolled your eyes. Typical. He’d flirt with a cactus. It didn’t mean anything. But then, just after you bathed, exhausted and trying to sleep, he struck again.

The vivid mental image. Unsolicited. Graphic. Uncomfortably detailed. And so clear, it might as well have been seared directly onto the backs of your eyelids.

He wasn’t just not a eunuch. He was… a menace.

“Still think I’m not working, baby? Want me to describe how I’d use my very functional anatomy, or do you want a slideshow? Actually, hang on—let me tilt the angle. You’re not appreciating the scale.”

You tried to block him. You really did. But Ace had never once been deterred by logic, shame, or psychic boundaries. If anything, he doubled down.

“Hey, you’re the one who said I was built like a vending machine. Just thought I’d show you the snacks.”

You hated him. You hated how hot he sounded.

Hated that he was now giving himself full permission to know just how feral he was.

“Five minutes, sweetheart.

He could do things if you just sat still for five minutes.

He says it like a threat. Like a promise. Like he’s been waiting.

And you know he means it. Because every time you try to ignore him—every time you stubbornly pretend he’s not whispering sinful nonsense in your brain—he doubles down.

“Five minutes, sweetheart. That’s all I need. No interruptions, no running, no sassing. Just you, breathless and mine.”

You scoffed at first. Called him delusional. Told him to go flirt with a rock.

But Ace?

Ace just purred.

“See, look at how you're so pent up, baby. I told you. Five minutes, baby. Sit still, and I’ll show you what it feels like when someone actually knows you.”

His words crawl through your mind like fire, igniting every nerve. You try to push them away, but it's useless. Ace has never been one to leave you alone, not when he’s this determined.

He’s not just talking. He’s implying, and it’s maddening. You could feel it in the way he speaks, like every word is a thread pulling you closer to something you know you’re not ready for.

But god, part of you wonders if you’re wrong. What would it feel like to finally just give in? To stop pretending you aren’t as affected as he’s been telling you?

You’re teetering on the edge. One more push, and you’ll fall.

The worst part? You’re already halfway there.

“I’ve been dreaming about you for years. I’ve had practice.”

It’s maddening. Every time he gets quiet, you miss him. Every time he returns, you want to strangle him.

And now you’re terrified. Because someday, inevitably, you’re going to sit still. Just for five minutes.

And if there’s one thing you are when you’re mad and emotionally cornered, it’s petty as hell. You ghosted this man for the sin of saying boobies. Now, for trying to mentally fondle yours? You’re going nuclear.

So, you go on dates. Ace live-commentates them in your head like a sports announcer with ADHD.

“Bro. His hands are sweaty. You gonna kiss that? Ask him who his favorite pirate is. If it’s not me, stab him. What is this guy’s deal with anchovies? Are you safe??”

-Branching Out?-

You tried. Honestly, you really tried.

But you’re done. Emotionally. Mentally. Hormonally.

You’ve spent your entire adolescence haunted by the gremlin thoughts of a pirate you’ve never met. You’ve heard his opinions on soup, his guilty cries over cartoons, and more than one deeply concerning mental image involving rope.

So, you decide—quietly, pettily, desperately—that you’re going to break the bond by seducing a perfectly nice, boring man with great shoulders and zero mess.

Everything is set.

You’re wearing something cute but functional. You’ve got dinner plans. The guy is sweet. Polite. Zero war crimes. You even lit a candle, for atmosphere.

You’re about to lean in and kiss him when—

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

Ace’s voice slams into your skull like a full-volume spiritual airhorn.

You blink.

The nice man asks if you’re okay, looking at you like you might suddenly sprout a second head.

You smile. Politely. Internally, you are SCREAMING.

“NOPE. UNACCEPTABLE. THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE HE APOLOGIZES BEFORE HE CUMS. IS THIS BECAUSE I MENTIONED THE CRAB DREAM? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS MIDDLE NAME—DOES HE EVEN HAVE ONE? WHAT IF IT’S TERRY?”

You try to push him out. Focus. The man touches your hand gently.

“I WILL SET HIM ON FIRE. I HAVE FIRE HANDS.”

You exhale slowly and say aloud, “Please don’t set him on fire.”

The man blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It is not nothing. It is a Sun God with no boundaries, loudly critiquing your sexual choices.

“I swear to GOD if he touches your waistband I’m going to hex his bloodline into extinction.”

You try again. Focus.

The man leans forward. He kisses your neck. It’s fine. It’s… nice.

And in your head?

“I HOPE HE FALLS OFF A DOCK TOMORROW AND GETS STUNG BY A SPITEFUL SHRIMP. YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIS HAIR. YOU’RE JUST DOING THIS OUT OF SPITE. YOU MONSTER. PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON BEFORE I WRITE A POEM ABOUT YOU OUT LOUD AND GET TATTOOED IN YOUR HONOR.”

The worst part?

You’re laughing. On your own bed. At the same time, a very confused man is gently trying to undo your shirt.

He stops, blinking. “Uh... are you... Okay?”

You wave him off. “It’s not you. I’m—ha—just mentally haunted.”

He leaves.

Kindly.

With a respectful bow (And possibly some trauma).

Two minutes later, Ace is smug and insufferable.

“So. Virginity status: Intact. Thanks to me. You're welcome. I’m a public service, honestly. Now that we’ve established that, can you PLEASE just let me take care of this properly and not with whatever beige sponge you dragged out of the alleyway?”

You groan.

He whistles.

“That better not have been a moan unless it was for me.”

You lie there glare at the ceiling, rage simmering.

“Don’t be mad,” Ace said, smug and unrepentant. “It’s not my fault you’re mine…And if I have to monologue in your head for six hours straight to keep you from letting some weak-jawed idiot put his hands on you, I will. Seriously, babe. All I’m asking is for you to wait until I can ruin you properly.”

You nearly screamed. Again.

And because you're a petty bitch with no control over things anymore, you decide to become mean. After all, it’s the only weapon left in your emotional arsenal.

You shut him out. Well, you try to. But you know it’s a cold war now. It’s inevitable. And your first strike? Completely accidental. As you stew in your indignation, a thought slips out—just a little too loud in your head.

“You’re like a damn stray dog that can’t stop following me. You’re lucky I don’t just leave you in the middle of the alley behind the Shimotsuki market and let the cats handle you.” You send a strong mental image of the said alley just to rub it in his face.

There’s a long, tense silence.

You feel something, but it’s so fleeting you can’t quantify it until he doesn’t reply.

Radio silence.

You’ve hurt his feelings.

You assumed he was pouting.

Which, to be fair, is on brand. He feels like the kind of man who would sulk about you not liking the exact ratio of buttons on his open shirt.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself this was good. Mental distance was good. Silence was peace. You didn’t need the constant horny peanut gallery in your brain, anyway.

You could finally focus. You could finally think.

You could finally wear skirts without worrying about mental commentary like: “Babe. That hemline? You’re gonna cause weather.”

And because you're a certified bitch, you can’t casually reach out. That’s what you tell yourself, anyhow.

You didn’t know how to reach out. You didn’t even want to. You just kept your mental door cracked open a titch and hoped he was somewhere being dramatic about the situation with a drink in hand.

But of course, that’s not what happened.

-The Slip Up-

He was not pouting.

He was tracking you.

Because here’s the thing. That little “alleyway” verbal slap and mental image of a sad little garbage can? That wasn’t just a mean thought. You hadn’t realized it, but you had just transmitted an image of your direct location straight to him.

It was a soul-bond breadcrumb. A signal flare. A bullseye on your very mortal, very sexy location.

And Ace? Ace is a feral golden retriever with boobs radar and emotional tunnel vision.

The second you let that thought leak? He started sailing.

You don’t know any of this.

You’re still sitting there, pretending you don’t care, when in reality, you’ve unknowingly painted a target on yourself. You don’t know that Ace, with his relentless persistence, is already closing in.

You have no idea that the moment your mental slip happened, he was already at the helm of his ship, grinning like a maniac.

And you’re still sitting there, blissfully unaware, believing that silence is your reluctant victory.

-Home Invasion-

A month later, he finally, finally speaks.

“Hey.”

You don’t answer. Is it because you were relieved and had tears in your eyes? Of course not, and if it were true, you wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course, you’re outside, being a human being and trying to be normal, so you look like a loon.

You glance around the street like someone’s going to see you talking to no one, looking like a total mess. You try to pull yourself together, pretending nothing's happening. Maybe you’re just a little shaken. But that’s fine.

You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Ace?”

“You mad I went quiet?”

You cross your arms in the street, and a grunt escapes. A small child asks her mother if your mad or constipated.

He laughs.

“No worries,, babe, no hard feelings.” And there it is. That smug edge creeping back into his voice.

Your desire to punch him returns in full force.

And you can hear the grin before he says the next words.

“Bet you missed me though.”

You can feel your eye twitching. This asshole. He's already won. Again.

“You’re impossible.”

“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. I missed you too.”

You take a deep breath and hold back the mental floodgates.

You try to ignore the fact that your heartbeat’s a little faster than normal, that you’re fighting the urge to scream because you know what's coming.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And it makes you want to throw your wallet at the wall and hope a racoon doesn’t scurry off with it.

Then his next words drop like a bomb.

“You know," he continues, voice oozing with smugness, "I was just busy, sweetheart. You know, tracking you. No big deal.”

You freeze. Your blood runs cold.

Your brain short-circuits.

Tracking you.

The reality hit you like a freight train, its weight crashing into your chest. You hadn’t just let him know where you were with that stupid, careless mental slip—he’d been actively following your every move for a month. The very thought felt like you’d been exposed in ways you couldn’t possibly come back from.

The worst part? You couldn't even fight it. You knew exactly what he meant. You knew. The heat of his gaze, the way his presence lingered like a shadow over your thoughts. It was all too familiar, too dangerous.

And it felt mortifying.

You’d been trying to escape him, trying to block him out, yet all it took was a single slip-up—an image, a mental breadcrumb—and he was back, right where he wanted to be.

Without even realizing it, you screamed inside your head, “YOU'RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH.”

The laugh that followed reverberated through your mind, deep and smooth, like it had always belonged there.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

And then—you felt it before you saw him.

A heat, a wave that crashed against your skin like a sudden fever. The air seemed to shift. A flicker of danger, like lightning before the storm. It was that hurricane’s grin, that sun-warmed sin, wrapping itself around you like an invisible tether. You didn’t know whether to run or stay, but somehow, your feet were rooted to the ground.

And then—

“Hey.”

You looked up, and the world seemed to pause.

There he was. Portgas D. Ace.

Tall. Sun-kissed skin that looked like it had been burned by more than just the sun. His shirt was partially undone, revealing just enough of his chest to make your heart skip a beat. It looked like a war crime in the making.

And somehow, somehow, he was even hotter in person.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, mouth half-open, like a cat caught peeing on the rug. Was this real? Were you really standing in front of him, the man who had haunted your thoughts for weeks, months? You tried to form a sentence, tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless, “...You... You’re real?”

That smirk. That all-knowing, impossibly smug smirk. He tilts his head.

“You gonna say hi? Or just keep pretending you didn’t hurt your own feelings more when you’re trying to hurt mine?”

Your brain short-circuits.

You attempt something vaguely resembling a sentence, but it comes out more like, “What the hell are you—how did you even—this is illegal.”

He just smiles, all teeth and smugness.

“Soulmates, baby. And that pretty distinctive mental image you flung at me like a broom. Shimotsuki Market. Very unique. Very trackable.”

You’re about to hurl something—anything—at him, so you grab your wallet off your hip and throw it at him. It's a reflex, a desperate attempt to do something other than stand there like a dumbfounded idiot.

He catches it effortlessly. Not even a flinch. Not a hint of struggle. Just that damn smile, like he’s deeply pleased with himself, and unfortunately, his smugness is also hot.

You try to walk past him, determined to regain some semblance of control. But of course, he steps right in front of you, blocking your path without a second thought.

“You ghosted me for years, babe. Years. I didn’t even know if you had a face. Now you do. And it’s a really cute one. So. Hi.”

You freeze. The air between you crackles with tension. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you don’t.

You can’t. Not when he’s standing there, blocking the way out, with that impossible grin plastered on his face like he owns the world—and, apparently, your mind.

You want to hit him. Yell at him. But all you can manage is a shaky exhale, your pulse racing, your chest tight. You turn on your heel, desperate to escape, speedwalking back to some semblance of sanity. You shove past him, making it look like you’re in control.

“Rude,” he mutters, his voice laced with amusement. “But hot.”

You keep walking, determined. You’re going to get out of here. But of course, he follows.

“You’ve got a cute limp when you’re mad. Did you know that? We should talk. Or fight. Or make out. Up to you.”

Your hands ball into fists. But you don’t stop. You duck into the alley behind the shop, hoping the cramped space might give you an edge.

He follows you like a cursed Disney prince with a death wish. You whirl around, practically snarling.

“What do you want?”

He stops. The grin fades, just a little. He shrugs, casual, like he hasn’t just been stalking you for a month. But it’s not casual. It’s like he’s pulling back a little, trying to act nonchalant while wearing a smug look that says everything.

“I want you,” he says, his voice lowering. “I want to know your name. Your voice. What you actually sound like when you’re not yelling at me in your brain.”

For a split second—just one—you forget to be mad.

You forget you ever tried to run.

You’re staring at him now, and for a brief moment, there’s no anger, no desire to escape, just... him.

But then reality crashes back in.

And without thinking, you reach into your bag, grabbing the dried herbs you’ve been carrying for no particular reason, and hurl a handful straight at his face. You don’t even register what you’ve done until they’re in the air, the sharp scent of crushed rosemary and thyme filling the space between you.

You don’t wait to see the result. You sprint. Your legs move faster than your thoughts, driven by a primal instinct to get away.

Behind you, you hear him cough. Then, his laugh—rich and dark, echoing through the alleyway. “You really think you can outrun me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even slow down. You’re not scared; you're simply trying to outpace the impossible situation you've somehow found yourself in. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat louder than the last. But the truth weighs heavily on you: you know you can’t outrun him.

He laughs again. It’s a sound that rumbles through the air, low and confident, like he’s enjoying every second of this chase. “You’re gonna be so much fun.”

The words shoot through you like lightning, but you keep running, pushing your body faster, forcing yourself forward, through the winding streets, away from the port, desperate for a glimpse of safety.

But he’s already there, lurking just out of sight, like a shadow that follows no matter how fast you move.

You dodge down side alleys, weaving through crowds of strangers, your mind running through possible escape routes, trying to think ahead. You board random ships, desperate for anything that might carry you away from him. You even bribe a fruit vendor with a handful of coins, praying it’ll distract him long enough for you to catch your breath.

And still, Ace finds you.

You dart into a nunnery, desperate for sanctuary, the heavy wooden doors slamming behind you like a barricade. You take a moment to collect yourself—twelve minutes, exactly, to hide in the silence. But when you peek outside, the inevitable happens.

He’s standing at the nunnery’s threshold, his grin wide and unrepentant, as if he’s never been bothered by anything in his life. He looks like he’s enjoying this chase a little too much, like the mere fact that he’s found you is some twisted game he’s winning. The game where you run, and he—always—follows.

You round a corner in a port city two islands later and hear it.

“You run real pretty, sweetheart.”

You freeze, your feet stumbling over one another. Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel like a punch to the gut, the sound of them lingering in your bones. You try to move, but your body betrays you. You trip over your own foot, slamming into a nearby barrel to catch yourself.

Then you spin around.

And there he is.

Ace. Leaning against a post, relaxed, shirt half-open like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His sun-kissed skin glows in the warmth of the midday sun, freckles scattered across his chest like stars in a dark sky. The sunlight seems to conspire against you, highlighting every inch of him, making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s effortlessly cool—effortlessly here.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t need to. He just stands there, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, looking at you like he’s already won.

“Tired yet?” he asks, his voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

You throw a rock at him. It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He dodges it with ease, like he’s seen it coming a mile away. His smile only grows wider, smug and victorious. “Not even a little.”

Your pulse is thrumming in your ears, your muscles aching from the running, but you don’t stop. You take off again, sprinting into the bustling marketplace. The vibrant colors of the stalls blur past you as you run faster, heart hammering against your ribs.

But he’s still right there.

He follows you, but it’s different now. He’s not rushing. He’s moving with the casual grace of a predator, strolling through the crowd like he owns it. His eyes never leave you, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a brand, marking you as his.

And then the worst part happens.

The locals start noticing. They cheer, like they’re watching a game, their eyes tracking the two of you with growing excitement.

One woman shouts, “GET HER, PIRATE BOY!”

You wince, a knot tightening in your stomach as the crowd roars in approval. You can’t outrun the attention now. It’s everywhere. The eyes of the city are on you, and in a moment of absurd clarity, you realize they’re rooting for him.

“Great,” you mutter, grinding your teeth together, the sound of your frustration mingling with the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

Ace grins wider, clearly relishing the bedlam he’s created. The man never stops. Never slows.

Then someone starts placing bets. On you.

Great. Just great.

You vault over a fruit stand, your legs pushing you forward in a burst of desperate energy. It’s not graceful, but you’re fast—too fast to think. You hear Ace whistle, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Nice form. You always this athletic or is it just when you’re running from your problems—me—specifically?”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, and duck into a tavern kitchen, praying the staff are too busy to notice your disheveled, panicked entrance. The staff barely blinks as you slip past them, already halfway through the back door when—

He appears again.

Now he’s casually eating an apple, like he wasn’t just doing parkour across balconies and dodging flying fruit. He takes a slow bite, watching you with that maddening, self-satisfied smile, as if nothing had happened.

He doesn’t grab you this time. He doesn’t need to.

He just traps you.

He’s standing too close. That smile—sinful, smug, all-consuming—is never far from his lips.

“You done?” he asks, his voice low, amused.

You glare up at him, your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse quickening with the weight of it all. “No.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that crawls up your spine like heat. "Good."

And then, the moment you’ve been dreading.

He leans in.

It’s slow. Intentional. His breath brushes against your cheek. He whispers, his voice sliding against your ear like a stolen secret.

“Keep running if you want. I don’t mind.”

You feel the weight of his words, pressing in like a warning.

“Chasing you’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

And then the sucker punch:

“But eventually… sweetheart, you’re gonna trip.”

You freeze. For a moment, your knees go weak, and your brain short-circuits, like someone’s cut the power to your mind. You’re standing there, so close to him, your body fighting against every urge to lean in, to finally give in to the pull.

You almost kiss him. Out of spite. Out of sheer frustration. Almost.

Instead, you throw a spoon right into his face. It clangs loudly against his cheek, and you make a break for it, leaping through the window with as much grace as you can muster.

“WORTH IT!” he yells behind you, his voice loud and triumphant as it echoes down the alley.

You run. Because you can’t stop. You won’t stop. Not until you’ve lost him for good.

But in the back of your mind, there’s something else. A tug. A pull. The taste of his words still lingering in your thoughts.

-CAUGHT-

By nightfall, he’s still following you. Somehow. Unbothered by your death glares, your total silence, or the fifteen attempts you made to accidentally lead him into thorn bushes. He compliments the flora. Bleeds cheerfully.

You’re huffing, exhausted and borderline panicked, your legs aching from the constant running. You can feel your nerves fraying, the last vestiges of your patience worn thin. You’ve been at this for hours, your mind screaming at you to find a way to lose him, but no. There he is. Ten steps behind, like some kind of relentless golden retriever on a leash, with that insufferable, charming grin plastered on his face.

Ace looks pristine. The dirt doesn’t seem to cling to him. His hair’s a little tousled, sure, but it’s still perfect. His skin glows in the low light, and you can practically see the smugness radiating off him, his eyes dancing like he’s having the time of his life.

“You’re picturing me naked again, huh?” he says, his voice like molten honey, lazy and confident. “That’s the third time today. Just say the word, babe, and I’ll come up shirtless and apologetic.”

You growl low in your throat, gritting your teeth as you quicken your pace. This is not happening.

“Oh no,” he whispers in your mind, his voice slipping through like silk, dangerously smooth. “Was that... foreplay?”

You did not just…

The rage inside you flares, hot and violent, and you snap, throwing a rock at him. It’s the first thing you can grab, and the action is pure, unrefined anger.

You watch it sail through the air, and you’re almost satisfied with the aim, the sound of it connecting with him. But then you realize something.

He let it hit him.

You stand there, frozen in place, while he groans from the dirt, propping himself up on one elbow, still grinning like a damn idiot. And you, for some unknown reason, feel terrible.

He’s laughing.

“You know,” he says, brushing the dust off his clothes like this is the most fun he’s ever had, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, babe. You’ve got a hell of a right hook. Still hot as fuck though.”

You say nothing. Your brain has blue-screened. You’re physically incapable of processing this absurdity, this entire situation that you’ve been dragged into.

“You’re—wow. You’re stunning. And you’re standing there. And you’re not yelling at me or hating me or vanishing into mist.”

Still nothing. Your dignity is buffering, on its last thread.He blinks, his smile widening even more, if that’s even possible.

“Unless you are mist. I did hit my head pretty hard. Are you mist?”

You force the words out, your throat feeling dry. “No. Just disappointed.”

His grin widens—widens. Like he’s won something.

“Oh, thank god. That sounds like you.”

You try. You really try to stay composed, but he stands up, all sun-kissed skin and scars, the epitome of absolute menace. You feel your soul leave your body with a little ‘whoosh’ noise. And then, like he’s really not going to let you have any peace, he pulls a small, slightly squished bouquet from his pocket.

“I brought flowers,” he says, holding them out to you with an innocent grin that makes you want to scream. “Sat on them a bit during the fall. But they’re yours. Please accept them and also my eternal devotion.”

You take the flowers. Your hands are trembling, and you hate it.

You hate that you’re standing here, accepting flowers from this ridiculous, insufferable man. But, God, you hate even more that he’s standing there looking like a golden retriever with a heart the size of the sun—hot, fire-punching, fate-cursed, sweet as hell.

And worst of all? You hate that you like it.

You hate that you might even like him. Because, unfortunately, he’s a cutie. A dumb, fire-punching, fate-cursed cutie. And you’re just so screwed.

You flee, again.

Not in the dramatic, cloak-flapping, “I shall vanish into the mist” way you always thought you’d flee your soulmate—no, it’s more like a dignified power walk with panicked footnotes. You grab your satchel, muttering something about needing air, and fast-walk directly into the woods, hoping that the isolation of nature might give you a temporary reprieve from the storm of chaotic thoughts in your head.

But you’re not prepared for the soft voice behind you.

“Want me to carry that?”

You stop in your tracks. You turn, and there he is, right there, as if he’d materialized from the very forest around you. His freckles glow in the dying light, shirt offensively open like he’s trying to challenge every ounce of your self-control. The flowers—crumpled and hopeless—are still in your hand. And the other is already reaching for your bag like this is just a casual joint grocery run, not a soul-rupturing disaster.

“No,” you say firmly, pulling the satchel closer to you like it contains the last remnants of your common sense.

“Right,” he nods, unfazed. “Emotional support bag. Got it.”

You start walking again, forcing yourself to keep your pace. Your legs carry you with a tension that suggests both urgency and defeat.

And, of course, he walks beside you. Casually. Like this is just another walk in the park, like he hasn’t just smashed through a tree, declared eternal devotion, and handed you mashed flowers. Like this is his first time seeing your face, even though it feels like the most significant moment of your life.

He hums, lazily surveying the woods around you. “Nice woods. Quiet. Great for internal screaming.”

You grit your teeth, trying to ignore him, but the temptation to throw him off the trail and let your frustration explode is too great.

“You should leave,” you say, half as a request, half as a warning.

“I know,” he responds, too casually. “But I won’t.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “That’s called stalking.”

“That’s called fate,” he replies, totally unbothered. “Also, I’m very polite about it.”

You open your mouth, about to argue, when he cuts you off, adding with a teasing smirk, “I brought snacks.”

You close your mouth, your will to argue draining out of you like sand through your fingers.

The two of you walk in silence, the tension thick but oddly comfortable, until you finally reach your small cabin. You stop, spin around, and give him a dramatic flourish meant to intimidate—one last attempt at asserting some control.

“You are not staying here.”

“I accept your terms,” he says, already ducking through the doorway as though it’s his place now. “Great porch. Would die here.”

He pauses, looks at you, and for a split second, the smug grin fades. His expression softens, just a touch.

“Not that I’m planning to,” he adds, and something about the sincerity behind those words makes your chest ache.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling like you're losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Because no matter how many times you tell him to leave, every inch of him belongs here.

-Emotional Turning Point-

He fits himself into your life like he was always meant to be your super handsome supporting male lead, living on the fringes of your porch and decency.

You’re not sure how he does it; how Ace, with all his chaos and charm, has somehow managed to worm his way into your routine, making himself right at home without even trying. But there he is, lounging in that damn chair by your door, making himself part of your world with a grin that says he’s here to stay. He’s everywhere. Leaning in the doorway, poking his head through the window, eating snacks with that infuriatingly content grin on his face.

It’s not that you invited him in. Not really. But it’s almost like he was always meant to be a part of this life, somehow. You can’t get rid of him, and—goddammit—you don’t want to.

Every time you try to get some peace, there he is, leaning casually against the doorframe with an offhand comment that somehow worms its way under your skin. He feels like your life now, like some permanent addition, wrapped in the scent of summer and smoke, never asking for permission, always managing to make you feel like you’re the one who’s been missing something.

And it drives you crazy. But not the bad kind of crazy. The kind where you’re frustrated because you don’t want to admit you like this new reality.

He's also so kind. So genuinely good in a way that makes you want to rip your own heart out for how much you’re falling for it. He doesn’t just show up with a smug grin and a million dumb comments. Though, hell, he does plenty of that too, but there’s something in the way he’s just… there.

The way he notices the little things. The way he makes sure you’ve eaten, even when you try to hide it. The way he doesn’t just barge in but waits for you to ask, like he knows when to push and when to let you breathe. And the most infuriating part? He does it without expecting anything in return. He’s not keeping score. He’s not holding anything over your head. He just… cares.

Which is how, eventually, you find yourself giving in. You tell yourself it’s because there’s no other place for him to sleep. He can’t keep taking the porch chair, it’s too awkward. You tell yourself it’s because he’s not that bad, right? He’s harmless, right? Maybe having him in the guest room won’t be so terrible.

But you know the truth. You know you’ve softened. You’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re frustrated, the way he listens without interrupting. You’ve caught him quietly fixing the little things you forget; your broken door lock, the pile of laundry you’ve been meaning to fold. And you’ve realized, with a sickening sense of vulnerability, that you’ve let him in.

The guest room? That was just the final step. You’re a pathetic push-over, no denying it.

Because now he’s there. In your home. In your life. Not just as the irritating golden retriever you thought he was, but as the person who somehow made himself indispensable.

You snort, unable to hold back the laughter, the absurdity of it all finally catching up with you.

Ace beams beside you, that ever-present, infectious smile stretching across his face as if he’s just made the greatest revelation of all time. The night settles into a quiet rhythm, the tension from the past moments fading as he settles himself into your life like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Ace?

Ace stays.

He stays in the most inconvenient, inconveniently endearing way possible. His presence weaving itself into the fabric of your day like a persistent, sun-warmed thread that refuses to be untangled. No matter how much you try to brush him off, he’s there, in the most Ace way imaginable: full of warmth, full of disarray, full of ridiculousness.

And then, of course, he decides to hit you with it.

He tells you who his father is exactly one week after deciding not to die for vengeance and two days after setting your entire pantry on fire trying to toast bread with his hands. You’re crouched by the pantry door, diligently trying to patch up the mess he’s made, when he flops down beside you with that same blissful grin, the one that promises you’ll never know a moment’s peace.

“By the way,” he says, his voice smooth and casual, “my dad was the Pirate King.”

You freeze.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you slowly lower the patching materials, every muscle in your body tensing in complete shock.

The pause feels like an eternity.

Then, ever so slowly, you turn your head to face him. He’s still looking at you like he’s dropped a bombshell, waiting for the reaction. You blink once. Twice. And then, to his evident surprise, you simply say, “Okay.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, your voice steady, your expression a carefully controlled mask. “Okay.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something else, but then he hesitates. “Like… you don’t care?”

You take a deep breath, trying to recalibrate your thoughts. “Do you steal children?” you ask, your voice flat, as though that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

“No,” he answers, confused but amused.

“Do you bring Marines to my door?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, feeling the tension in your chest finally begin to loosen. “Then I don’t care if you’re the son of the Pirate King, a dragon, or the sea itself with legs. Just stop bathing in front of me.”

Ace makes a sound, like a duck being struck by lightning, eyes widening with exaggerated innocence. “That was ONE TIME.”

“It was yesterday.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

“You were singing.” You throw a wet cloth at his face without even looking at him, too tired to care about how ridiculous this is. “Also,” you add, as you wipe off the dust from your hands, “you have a birthmark. Not that I meant to see it. But it exists. And it is shaped like a banana.”

“OH MY GOD.”

He screams into the rag, the sound muffled and exaggerated, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

You keep working, the soft smile on your lips betraying the amusement you’re trying so hard to hide. You do care.

You care about the way he burns toast but guards your garden like it’s a castle. The way he talks in his sleep, thinking no one can hear him, and makes enough food for two even when you insist you’re fine on your own. The way he tried to give you his favorite dagger like it was a friendship bracelet—like you were meant to have it.

But you don’t care who his father is.

That man is dead.

Ace is alive.

And in the end, it doesn’t matter who his bloodline is. What matters is the idiot sitting beside you, grinning like he’s won the lottery and setting fire to his shirt trying to impress you by flexing in the sun. The one who, despite all the madness, somehow makes you feel like this chaotic, unexpected life is exactly what you need.

You might be losing the battle, but you’re definitely winning the war.

Ace knew he didn’t have a chance the first time he heard you spoke, and frankly, he’s never been one to deny fate.

Ace is the kind of guy who falls fast, and hard. And over simple things. It’s not a grand speech that changes him. Not a fight, not a dramatic stand in the rain, not a desperate plea to spare himself.

It’s something much worse.

You do absolutely nothing.

You make tea. You sweep the porch. You hang up wet laundry with that same quiet, suspicious side-eye you’ve been giving him since he crash-landed into your life like a shirtless meteor of emotional disorder. You don’t flirt. You don’t cry. You don’t tell him not to go. You just exist.

Like you’ve done for years, on the edge of war and wonder. Quiet. Clever. Alive.

And Ace?

He shatters.

Because now that he’s here, now that he knows your smile in real time and not just as a phantom curl behind his thoughts, now that he knows how you brew tea when you're nervous and fake a snort-laugh when you're amused and sleep with one hand under your pillow like you're still ready to flee.

He realizes something awful.

He doesn’t want to die anymore.

And if he goes after Blackbeard alone, that’s exactly what will happen.

So one night, while you’re bent over your little garden, muttering at a weed like it owes you money, he sits on the porch with his legs dangling over the side. The moon makes him look soft. Barefoot. Real.

He says, casually, like it’s nothing:

“I’m not gonna go.”

You don’t look up. Your hands are busy, pulling the stubborn weed from the soil, but you can feel the weight of his words like a distant thunderclap.

“Go where?”

“After Teach. Not alone.” He scratches at his hair, a rare softness in his voice. “I was gonna. I thought I had to. But then you made soup. And yelled at the laundry. And looked at me like I was a half-cracked egg someone left in the sun too long.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of an immediate response. You just finish pulling the weed from the ground and set it aside, carefully, as if there’s a cosmic balance you don’t want to disturb.

“That was not a look of affection,” you say dryly, still not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he grins, that damn grin that always makes your chest tighten. “But it made me realize I want to come back. I want someone to come back to.”

You stare at him now. Really stare.

And you see it.

Portgas D. Ace, fire-fist terror of the seas, Whitebeard’s reckless son, walking natural disaster.

He’s sitting still. And choosing to just live.

For himself. For his crew. And, impossibly, for you.

“I told Marco,” he says, quieter now, his voice almost unrecognizable with the vulnerability slipping through. “Let someone else bring him in. Or all of us. I’m not rushing into a trap because I want to feel like I deserve punishment. I don’t want to prove anything anymore.”

You blink. His words hit you like a wave, but the truth of it doesn't settle immediately.

“So you’re just... not dying?” You ask, the question slipping out without meaning to.

“Apparently,” he shrugs, still with that casual bravado he carries around like armor. “Real inconvenient. I’d emotionally prepped for a tragic death arc.”

You finally meet his eyes, watching as his smile falters just a little, just enough to let you see the weight he’s been carrying. And you realize, in that moment, you’re no longer looking at the man who sought death to prove something. You’re looking at a man who finally decided that maybe he deserves to live.

For the first time, Ace isn’t running. He isn’t running from his past, from his fate, or from the bedlam inside him.

He’s sitting still.

And that, in its own way, is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The silence between you is more than enough.

And as he sits there, beside you, in the quiet of your little garden and under the soft glow of the moon, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that Ace has made his choice.

He’s not dying for the sake of others anymore. Not for revenge, not for the memory of his father, not for any grand ideal.

He’s living. For himself. And, maybe, just maybe... for you too.

And for the first time, it feels like the weight of it all. His choices, his fate, the chaotic spiral he’s been trapped in has shifted. It’s lighter now, and somehow, so are you.

-The Climax-

The thing about being in love—actually in love—and having a soulmate who shares not just their heart, but their food, their dreams, and their increasingly unhinged commentary on everything from ocean weather to crab mating habits, is that eventually… you just give in.

You commit to the idea.

Not quietly. Not with grace. But with a dramatic, full-body sigh, hands thrown to the heavens like, “Fine, FINE, I guess I’ll be in love with you, you ridiculous golden retriever of a man.”

And that would be fine.

If he wasn’t so good at making you mad.

It starts innocently, as it always does, with Ace just being himself. Fixing broken stuff around your ship cabin without being asked. Replacing your rickety chair with one he definitely stole from somewhere nicer. Quietly fixing your shoes with leftover leather scraps. Roasting fish at sunrise and pretending it’s not for you, even though he offers the best cuts.

Which would be sweet. If he didn’t leer when you thanked him. If he didn’t lean in like, “See? You’d miss me if I died.”

Or worse.

“You like me.”

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

You do like him.

You like the way he absentmindedly hums when the sea is calm. The way he throws himself between danger and his crew without hesitation. The way he frowns when your hands are cold and warms them between his palms without comment. The way he talks about you to others, thinking you’ll never hear.

(You always hear. The bond makes sure of it.)

So when he saunters up, shirt undone, grin weaponized, holding a handmade seashell hairpin like he didn’t just crawl out of the ocean like a romantic cryptid, you lose it. He’s always is taller than you realize, and broader too. All sun-kissed skin, tousled black hair, freckles like spilled sugar, and that damn grin—lazy, lethal, and soaked in the smug knowledge that he’s been living in your head rent-free for years.

You get mad.

Not annoyed. Not flustered.

Mad.

That soul-warming, spine-tingling, irrational kind of fury that only one person in the world can summon from the depths of you just by existing.

Because how dare he.

How dare he worm his way into your life with that lazy grin and those too-soft glances when he thinks you’re not looking. How dare he make your heart thunder like a war drum just by standing there, shirt half-buttoned, freckles glowing like sin under the sun. How dare he know—know—how to soothe your anger and ignite it in the same breath.

And that’s when it happens.

That sharp inhale. That white-hot glare. That moment of eye contact held just a second too long.

He tilts his head. Smirks. You see it in his eyes; the gleam, the silent countdown to disaster. You know that look. That’s the look that means he's about to say something so stupidly hot it could derail your life and you'd still thank him for the wreckage.

You take a step back, instinctively.

He steps forward, all loose limbs and barely restrained heat, the picture of someone who’s already won.

“Run,” he says, voice all honey and heat, “and I’ll catch you.”

You snap.

You lunge. Not for anything romantic—no. For a punch. A real one. Right to that smug, pretty face.

You miss.

He doesn’t.

He catches your wrist like he was waiting for it, like he dreamed of this moment. His fingers curl around yours, warm and unshakable. You meet his gaze, ready to spit fire.

But he beats you to it.

“You’re everything,” he breathes, low and cracked. Like it hurts. Like it’s truth against his ribs. “Oh no. I’m so in love with you. I’m gonna ruin everything.”

You should run.

But your knees betray you, turning soft and stupid like seafoam on a summer shore. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears, drowning out every sensible thought. And then—oh gods—he leans in, close enough for you to smell salt and smoke, and his fingers thread through your hair. He murmurs something too dirty for daylight, and that’s it.

You’re gone.

“Five minutes,” you rasp, voice ragged with want and fury. “That’s all you get. Bring the fire or shut up.”

What follows is not logical. Or polite.

The next thing you know, you’re in his lap, breathless and burning, yelling, “This is your fault!” while your hands twist in his hair like you’re trying to strangle the ocean. And he’s laughing—laughing—like he just robbed the world blind and left the moon as payment.

“This is a mistake,” you growl.

He grins, eyes glittering like treasure. “Then let’s make it twice.” It starts with sass. Sharp words. Quicker hands. Your teeth graze his jaw. His lips find your pulse. Buttons scatter.

But it escalates the second you grab a fistful of his hair and hiss, “I swear to god, if you laugh—”

And then, he moans.

You both freeze.

The silence is electric.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Your hand twitches, about to retreat.

He growls. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

“Oh,” he says, voice wrecked with sudden hunger. “Oh, we’re doing this now.”

He leans in. Breath warm against your ear.

“You like pulling hair? That’s cute.” His grin splits wide.“I like begging. Guess we’re both gonna be real happy tonight.”

What follows is a blur of limbs, heat, curses, and catastrophic choices. The kind of night you survive by setting fire to every good intention and riding the wreckage down together.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a surrender, a choice. And gods help you, he kisses like he thinks you belong to him. Because you do.

Clothes come off. Fast. Probably ruined. You don’t care.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a confession, a final surrender. Like you’ve been holding back the tide of him for years and now—now, finally—you’re letting it pull you under.

And gods help you, he kisses like a man who already knows.

Knows your mouth. Knows your breath. Knows the exact way you melt when someone touches you like a secret instead of a prize.

He tastes like heat and salt and promise. His hands are already on you; hot, greedy, reverent. Calloused palms splaying across your back like he's checking you’re real.

Clothes come off in flashes. Fast. Desperate. Buttons pop. A seam tears. His shirt gets tossed somewhere near the door and yours doesn’t survive the landing. He kisses the swell of your chest with something close to awe and mutters something that makes your toes curl.

You don’t care about the bed. You barely register hitting it. You only notice him, solid and searing and all over you.

Ace doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess. Every touch is sure. Every sigh you give him maps a path he already seems to know by heart.

And then he really starts.

And you forget how to breathe.

His stamina is, frankly, criminal. You lose track of time. Of position. Of your own name. You understand why other pirates don’t attack him without backup.

At one point, you're clutching at the sheets like they might save you. At another, you're biting his shoulder because apparently you’ve lost the capacity for language. Everything is hot and blurred and so good you could cry. You consider it. Then he bites your ear and you do.

You finally gasp, half-laughing, half-accusing: “Okay—okay, what the hell. You’ve done this before.”

He just grins, stupid and perfect and way too pleased with himself. “Nope,” he says, rolling his hips slow and smug, “I’ve just had years of theoretical training.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...What?”

“On you, sweetheart.” He leans down, mouth against your throat. “You think I haven’t been preparing? Please. I’ve studied. I’ve visualized. I had flashcards.”

Your brain misfires. Your body, meanwhile, is betraying you entirely.

“I hate you,” you whisper hoarsely.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth dragging over your shoulder like a satisfied wolf. “Sure you do. Hate me with your thighs again.”

By the time your soul returns from orbit, you’re sprawled across the mattress like a saint mid-apocalypse. Your body feels like it’s been lovingly struck by lightning. Repeatedly. You manage a weak sound. He’s already draping a blanket over you with far too much tenderness for a man who just detonated your nervous system.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

Or black out.

Probably both

You wake up warm. Sated. And very, very naked in his arms.

You stretch, blink blearily, then pause.

Something’s wrong.

You are on a ship. The ship is moving.

You sit up too fast and nearly topple over. Ace hums behind you, still half-asleep. “Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“…Was this five minutes?” you croak.

He yawns, kisses your shoulder. “Nah. Five was just to start.”

You scramble to sit up, fully panicking now, but he tugs you back down with one strong arm and starts kissing your neck like it’s not an international crime that you are being lovingly detained.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You blink. “Am I… kidnapped?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Let’s call it an extended honeymoon. With, like, minor hostage vibes.”

You hiss. He kisses your jaw. You slap his chest. He grins. You try to stay mad. You do.

But when he pulls you into his arms again, presses his forehead to yours and murmurs in your ear.

“We’re gonna make such a good team.”

Cue full body shiver shutdown.

You stop trying.

And somehow?

You don’t even want to escape.

-Honeymoon-

Cosmic Joke Status: Flambéed

You’re now stuck with a flammable himbo who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% commit arson for you just because someone looked at you funny.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like it.

(Especially the part where he growls at people who flirt with you, like a very polite junkyard dog with abs.)

#gav story #one piece #romance #fire fist ace #ace x reader #ace x you #portgas d ace #soulmate #cosmic joke

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sweetvoidstuff · 1 month ago

Text

Just a Normal Night: Missing you

Jungkook x Reader I Modern AU I Chance Encounter I Fluff I Romance

Summary: You and Jungkook had built something steady amidst the chaos of long-distance and fame. Though you couldn’t share your love with the world, Jungkook made sure you always felt seen, valued, and included.You held onto each other in quiet ways, making the most of every message, every stolen day, but there were nights—like this one—when the ache of missing him, of pretending, became sharp and lonely.

Word Count: 9K

Masterlist

Just a Normal Night

Just a Normal Night: Seoul Edition

A/N: I hurt myself with this one... Just a quick note on formatting: Bold text is used for dialogue spoken in Korean. Italic text represents internal thoughts or feelings. Normal text is used for dialogue spoken in English.

I hope this helps make things easier to follow while reading. Thanks so much for giving my story a chance!

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

It had been a few months now. You and Jungkook had found a rhythm—chaotic at times, but surprisingly solid. You’d grown used to airport runs, shared calendars, and time zone math. More than anything, you’d learned how to make every moment together count.

You’d even switched jobs to make it work. Your new role allowed more flexibility—more home office days—which meant more opportunities to catch flights out to him, or better yet, to welcome him into your space. And Jungkook had started planning his travel routes with intention. No matter where he was flying—be it Tokyo, Paris, or New York—he found a way to make a stopover at your place. Even if it was just for a day or two. Sometimes he’d arrive at midnight, exhausted but smiling, and slip into bed beside you like he belonged there. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t perfect. Of course not.

But it was more than you thought you’d get when you first fell for a man with a passport full of stamps and a calendar packed to the edges. What surprised you most, though, was how normal some things started to feel.

Your best friends, Pascal and Floral—your loud, protective, ride-or-dies—had long since exchanged numbers with Jungkook. They'd grilled him mercilessly, but by the end of it, Jungkook was laughing so hard he was crying. Now, they sent memes back and forth like old friends and occasionally FaceTimed him just to "make sure he was still hot." Jungkook played along with good humor, sometimes even sending photos just to mess with them.

You had group chats with some of his people too—Yoongi occasionally sent you dry one-liners about keeping Jungkook in check, while Taehyung’s voice notes were always unhinged in the best way. You didn’t see them often, but when you did, it never felt like a performance. You were part of this now, even if quietly.

Still, it wasn’t always easy. The secrecy was the hardest part.

There were no selfies online. No hand-holding in public. No sharing your favorite photos of him—at least not outside your locked folder. Not even on your photo wall. You watched from a distance as the world speculated about his life, sometimes cruelly, sometimes ridiculously, and always loudly.

And when something trended—some blurry photo, some headline about him being seen with someone else—it could hit you like a punch in the gut if you weren’t expecting it. But you usually were.

Because Jungkook made sure of it. He told you everything.

Before the rumors even started, he’d already filled you in. A potential collab with a female idol? You’d known weeks ahead. A tabloid writing nonsense about him partying? You had the real story before the article even dropped. Some out-of-context video making rounds? You’d already heard the full, boring truth from him or one of the BTS guys that filmed the video.

Jungkook wasn’t about gifts—not really, because you made him promise not to. Though he still insisted on bringing you things that made you groan and swat at him for spending too much (like the ridiculously expensive designer scarf you refused to wear outside because what if you lost it?), that wasn’t how he kept you.

He kept you by being there.

With late-night texts, sleepy voice notes, and photos from hotel rooms that always looked a little too sterile until he brought you into them—even if only over FaceTime. He kept you in the loop, in his orbit, in the spaces between the noise. And you stayed. Not just because you loved him—though you did, deeply—but because he made loving him safe, even in the shadows.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of him looking at you—like you were the only thing grounding him to this world—you didn't care that no one else knew.

You knew. And that was enough.

But you still missed him.

No matter how well you'd both adjusted to this rhythm of time zones, shared calendars, and countdowns until the next flight, there were still nights when it hit you hard. Nights like this one—cool air brushing against your skin, the city buzzing, the distant sound of laughter from people who didn’t have to keep their love life secret.

You knew he missed you just as much. Jungkook wasn’t shy about saying it anymore. Voice notes that started with "I miss you so much…" had become a regular comfort, sometimes accompanied by a half-asleep selfie or a blurry photo of whatever city skyline he was staring at.

But neither of you could put your lives on hold. He had concerts. You had deadlines. He had fans. You had rent.

So tonight, instead of being curled up on the couch, texting or facetiming him, you were out with your friends.

Your group had grown over the past few months. It wasn’t just Pascal and Floral anymore. Tonight, Eumi had joined, along with Carmen—and Dong, who had somehow transformed from the waiter at your favorite Korean BBQ place into a staple of your group chat. He’d been charming from day one, always slipping into your conversations with gossip and impressively savage opinions about Kimchi. Over the months, he’d stayed longer after meals, accepted your invitation to a group hang, and just fit.

The six of you had started the evening at a small Italian restaurant tucked between two bookstores—a cozy spot with handwritten menus and twinkling fairy lights in mason jars. You laughed over shared plates of pasta, swapped stories from the week, and clinked glasses over how mentally cooked you all were from work.

“So,” Carmen said at one point, spearing the last mushroom ravioli and leaning her chin on her hand, “When are you finally going to get a boyfriend?” You nearly choked on your wine. “Yeah,” Dong added with a wicked grin, tilting his head. “It’s getting suspicious. All this skincare and mystery phone calls. I’m starting to think you’ve got a secret man in your walls or something.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Eumi deadpanned. “She’s probably got one locked in the basement.” Pascal, who was sitting beside you, didn’t even blink. “If she did, trust me, she’d let him out just to clean. Maybe do taxes. She’s too busy for anything else.”

You laughed with the group but sidestepped the question as you always did. “I’m just enjoying being mysterious,” you said, taking a sip of your drink with a wink. “It adds to my overall brand.”

“Mysterious and single?” Dong teased.

“Mysteriously unavailable,” Pascal said smoothly, and clinked your glass in a quiet, knowing gesture. They let it go after that. The teasing didn’t stop—but the questions did. After dinner, you all made your way to your and Pascal’s favorite karaoke bar. It wasn’t trendy or flashy. In fact, it was a little run-down—but the mic worked, the drinks were strong, and the regulars didn’t care if you couldn’t carry a tune.

You pushed through the door and were immediately hit with the warm, bassy thump of 2000s pop echoing off the walls. The lights were low and multicolored, the disco ball spinning slowly overhead like it had better days behind it. Floral was already halfway to the songbook, flipping furiously. “Okay, nobody is allowed to leave until we’ve all done at least one cursed duet.”

“Dibs on ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with Carmen,” Pascal said, making Eumi groan.

“Only if we get to do the headbanging part properly,” Carmen said, already rolling up her sleeves.

You slid into the worn red couch, surrounded by the people who had become your safe zone. It wasn’t Jungkook’s arms. It wasn’t the weight of him leaning into you while you worked from your laptop on his hotel bed. But it was something. It was home.

And for now, that was enough.

As Pascal grabbed the mic for his first round and the opening notes of a dramatically off-key rendition of “Toxic” by Britney Spears started to blare through the speaker, you relaxed into the cushions, drink in hand, your laughter rising above the music.

Tonight, you'd sing the stress away.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

Across the world, Jungkook missed you.

He was just stepping off set after finishing his shoot for the new album concept—slicked back hair, sharp eyeliner, and a coat that looked like it belonged in some post-apocalyptic runway show. Yoongi was next up, already halfway through wardrobe, and Namjoon, still in his second look for the single concept, was heading to the makeup noonas to prep for round two.

But Jungkook wasn’t thinking about any of that. Not really. He was thinking about you.

He wished you were here. Sitting in the corner of the set with your laptop, pretending to work but really just watching him with that soft, secret smile. But this was one of those weeks—busy, mismatched schedules, deadlines for both of you—and the reality was, it just wasn’t possible to meet up this time. In a week—maybe two, max—there would be a new window. A precious stretch of four whole days that matched both your calendars, and he was holding onto that like a lifeline.

He couldn't wait.

Just as he stepped into the dressing room and reached for his phone to text you a tired selfie, a new message popped up on screen.

Pascal: Hey thought you might like a treat 🍬 (video file attached)

Jungkook’s lips curled before he even opened it. Your friends Pascal and Flora had grown close to him over the last few months. They messaged him every now and then, mostly teasing him with you, sometimes just sharing random moments from their group outings. It helped him feel connected to your life even when he couldn’t be there physically. Plus, it gave him an excuse to practice his English—although for texting, Google Translate was still his loyal sidekick.

He tapped the video.

The next three minutes of shaky camera footage had Jungkook grinning like an idiot, and within ten seconds, he was done for. His grin stretched wide. Laughter burst from his chest before he could stop it. The stress of the shoot, the fatigue pressing on his shoulders, the whirlwind of deadlines—forgotten. He watched, eyes glued to the video Pascal had sent him.

You were on screen, standing beside a Korean girl Jungkook vaguely recognized from your stories—Eumi, maybe? The two of you were in a dimly lit karaoke bar, a disco ball spinning above your heads and casting colorful speckles of light across your faces.

The two of you were mid-performance, belting out MIC Drop like your lives depended on it.

Badly. Loudly. Hilariously. Adorably.

You and your friend were giving it everything. Your choreography was a chaotic blend of real BTS moves and your own completely unhinged freestyles—wild arm swings, aggressive dabs, mic flips. You pointed dramatically on beat, lost yourself in the lyrics, and nearly dropped the mic from laughing too hard mid-line. The improvisations made Jungkook burst into breathless laughter. He cringed and cooed all at once.

You were mouthing all the lyrics—his parts too—with such exaggerated confidence that it looked like you were headlining a world tour. Eumi tried to do Jungkook’s part but gave up halfway through, handing it over to you—just as the beat dropped into Yoongi’s rap.

And you went full fan mode.

You rapped Yoongi’s lines like you were auditioning to replace him—fierce, theatrical, and way too confident for someone who tripped over the beat twice. But it only made it funnier. Somehow better. Your swagger was ridiculous. Your hand gestures had no coordination. And you didn’t care at all. The sheer joy radiating off you made Jungkook’s chest ache—in the best way.

And despite the shaky cam, he could clearly make out the proud chaos in the background.

In the background, Flora and someone else were waving rolled-up napkins like cheering batons, adding their own hype to the performance. Like they were at a concert, cheering you on like their lives depended on it. At one point, Pascal could be heard laughed so hard he wheezed, his voice barely audible, “They’re gonna break the stage, oh my God.”

Jungkook doubled over, clutching his stomach, nearly dropping his phone. He had to pause the video just to breathe. His eyes were watering from how hard he was laughing, but also… from something softer. Something warm.

“God, she’s killing it,” he mumbled, wiping a tear away and shaking his head. He couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop watching. He hit rewind, needing to see the part again where you did a dramatic spin, lost your balance, then laughed it off and did a little body roll like nothing had happened.

“Jungkookie?”

Jimin passed by in a black tank top and joggers, holding a water bottle. He paused at the sight of Jungkook hunched over, laughing like a maniac. “What are you watching?” he asked, curiously stepping behind Jungkook and leaning in.

Jungkook held the phone out without a word. Jimin leaned in. After just five seconds, he snorted. And immediately, Jimin’s expression cracked. “No way. Is that your girl?”

Jungkook just nodded, lips pressed together to keep from cracking into full-on laughter again.

“She’s destroying Yoongi’s part,” Jimin said, grinning. “Hold on—HYUNG!”

Yoongi, already halfway to the set in his stage outfit, turned slowly. “What now?”

Jimin waved him over, already laughing. “You need to see this. Jungkook’s girlfriend is coming for your position. You better step it up.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but wandered over anyway. Jungkook rewound the clip to that part and, even Yoongi couldn’t help but smirk. “She’s got guts,” he muttered, crossing his arms as he watched your overly intense delivery and dramatic mic flip. “Terrible breath control, though.”

“But better hair,” Jimin added.

“Don’t make me regret showing you this,” Jungkook said, grinning helplessly. Then you did a full-body spin, stumbled, laughed it off, and tried to save it with a half-hearted body roll—before dabbing like it was your encore. “She’s perfect,” Jungkook said without thinking, eyes still locked on the screen. His voice was soft. Full of something raw and real.

Jimin caught the tone and softened too. “She’s adorable,” he said. “Does she know her friend filmed this?”

“Definitely not.”

The three of them watched the rest of the video together, crowded around Jungkook’s phone like teenagers. And when it ended? Jungkook hit play again. Because even through grainy pixels and shaky camera work, you’d lit up the room he was in. Even from a thousand miles away. Even from a crowded dressing room in another time zone.

And it reminded him why this—you—were worth every second of distance. Every lonely flight. Every night he had to fall asleep with a phone screen instead of your voice beside him.

You were wild. You were chaotic. You were you.

And God, did he miss you. He couldn’t wait to text you. He couldn’t wait to tell you how much he loved the video. How he was now going to tease you for exactly how hard you went during his verse, how you absolutely butchered his choreo, and how he loved you even more for it. And how, next time, he wanted to see it in person.

Not through a video. But sitting beside you. Maybe even grabbing the mic himself.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

It was late when you finally got home, still humming snippets of songs you’d absolutely butchered at karaoke. Pascal and Flora had dropped you off with promises to plan the next night out soon, and now the silence of your apartment felt both comforting and oddly loud after the chaos of the bar.

You were a little tipsy—just enough to feel warm and relaxed from the couple of drinks you’d had, but still steady on your feet. As you kicked off your shoes, you glanced at the clock and groaned.

Time zone math. Ugh. What was it where Jungkook was? Morning? Afternoon? Late evening?

You flopped down on your couch, pulling out your phone. You hadn’t heard from him much today, but you knew he should still be busy on set. Just in case, you thumbed out a short message:

You: Still awake?

You were already half-preparing to open one of the goodnight voice messages he’d sent you the night before—a soothing backup plan when he was too busy to answer. But before you could even close your messaging app, your phone lit up.

Not a text. Not a FaceTime. A regular call.

You blinked, surprised. Jungkook’s name lit up your screen, and your heart jumped. You answered quickly, pressing the phone to your ear with a sleepy smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, you,” came his voice, low and warm in your ear. “Didn’t think I’d get to hear from you tonight.”

Your smile deepened. “Didn’t think I’d get to talk to you tonight. I figured you’d be busy until tomorrow.”

“We just wrapped up shooting a bit ago. Got a little break before dinner and a live later with Jimin,” he explained. You could hear the faint background murmur of staff and maybe some crew members talking, but his attention was fully on you. “So, your message came at the perfect time.”

You let out a little laugh. “Lucky me.”

“You sound…” he paused, amused. “Tipsy?”

“Just a little,” you admitted, laughing again. “We went to that karaoke place near Eumi’s neighborhood. I may or may not have screamed my way through half the BTS discography.”

“Oh no.” Jungkook chuckled, the sound deep and fond. “Was it fun?”

“The most fun I’ve had in weeks,” you said, stretching your legs out on the couch. “I think Pascal filmed some of it, actually. I’m terrified to see what he got.”

Jungkook hummed noncommittally. “Yeah? I bet it was cute.”

“Cute? Please. It was chaotic—catastrophic. I almost fell off the little stage. Eumi forgot half the words and tried to give me her part—like I could pull that off. I think Flora even brock a mic. We all nearly cried from laughing.” There was a small beat of silence on the line before Jungkook said, a little too smoothly, “Did you fall off the stage before or after the body roll?”

You froze. Your eyes narrowed. “…Wait. How do you know about the body roll?”

His laughter burst through the speaker. “Pascal might’ve sent me a little something earlier.”

“Oh my God.” You groaned, burying your face in a cushion. “He didn’t!”

“He did.” Jungkook was grinning—you could hear it. “And honestly? Best thing I’ve seen all day. I think you nearly made Yoongi cry.”

“Jungkook!”

“You were amazing,” he teased gently. “Questionable dance choices—but amazing.”

“I'm never speaking to Pascal again.”

“You’re lying.”

“Okay… I might yell at him a little first and then forgive him. But still.” You laughed despite your embarrassment, cheeks warming. “That’s blackmail material.”

“Nope. That’s wallpaper material,” Jungkook said softly. “You have no idea how much I needed that laugh today.” The teasing faded into something softer between you—his voice warm in your ear, his laughter still echoing in your chest. You curled up tighter on the couch, letting the quiet stretch for a moment.

Then, lightly, you said, “Dong’s been on his matchmaking kick again.” Jungkook let out a soft sound of confusion. “Matchmaking?”

“Yeah. After the second round of drinks, he started again asking why I’m still single.” You laughed under your breath, eyes on the ceiling. “He’s been convinced I need a boyfriend for weeks.” There was a pause. Then a low, amused hum. “Dong… he’s the one with the green hair, right?”

“Mhm. Nice guy, kind of like a human golden retriever, but relentless.”

“Hmm,” Jungkook said again, slower this time. “You think he’s into you?”

You snorted. “I don’t think so. I mean—maybe? But it’s more like… he thinks I need someone to take care of me. Like I’m out here tragically pining or something.”

“Well,” Jungkook said, mock-affronted, “I am taking care of you.”

You grinned. “I know. You’re doing a great job, too.” There was a beat of silence, and then Jungkook asked, more seriously, “What did you tell him?”

You hesitated, fingers picking at the edge of a cushion. “That I’m fine. That I’m not looking.”

“Not looking?” he echoed.

“I mean… I can’t tell anyone I already have a boyfriend,” you said quietly. “Except Pascal and Flora?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, his voice softer now.

“Pascal’s a good buffer,” you added. “He steps in whenever Dong starts getting too nosy, changes the subject, or drags me off to get more snacks or something. Flora too, if he catches on. But it’s still weird not being able to say anything.” You could hear the way Jungkook’s breathing shifted, the heaviness of his silence weighing between you like a held breath.

“I hate that I can’t tell anyone you’re mine,” he murmured, his words laced with quiet frustration. “That I can’t tell the guys hitting on you to back off. Can’t post about you, or even hold your hand in public.” He sighed. “But I really appreciate you being honest with me about it all.”

You pressed your cheek against the couch cushion, trying to keep your voice steady. “Of course I am.”

“I miss you more in moments like this,” he said softly. “When I know someone else might be seeing you smile, hearing you laugh, and I can't be there. I want to kiss you even more when it feels like I shouldn’t.”

“I miss you,” you admitted, your voice low. Jungkook’s voice dropped an octave, losing all its teasing lilt—suddenly quieter, more intimate. “How much do you miss me?” The way he said it sent a flicker of heat down your spine. Your breath hitched, and you felt your fingers curl tighter around your phone.

“A lot, Jungkook,” you whispered. There was a pause on his end, followed by a subtle, gravelly hum that made your chest ache. Just then, you heard the faint click of a door in the background on his end—maybe someone entering, or him slipping into a quieter space. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Focused. Steady. All the playful teasing from earlier was gone.

“What do you miss the most?” he asked. You smiled into the quiet, feeling your chest tighten at the sincerity in his voice. You didn’t rush to answer, letting the moment stretch.

“Bam,” you said eventually, with a soft teasing note. There was a beat of silence—then Jungkook groaned dramatically, laughing under his breath. “I’m trying to be sexy here. Work with me.”

You laughed too, your mood lighter already. “I thought you had a live you needed to go to?”

“I do,” he said, sighing again—but this time it was reluctant. “Just later. I want… to take care of you. If you want to stay up with me a little longer?” You closed your eyes, heart soft and full. “Yeah. I do.” You hesitated, chewing on your lip. “I… I’m just not sure how the phone thing works. Like… I don’t want to mess anything up.” You laughed a little, sheepish. “God, that sounds dumb.”

“It doesn’t,” he said instantly, gentle and reassuring. “I went to my room. I’m alone now—door’s locked. I’ve got time. If you want to try, I’ll talk you through it.”

You nodded, a small, automatic movement before you remembered he couldn’t see you. “Okay,” you said quietly, breath catching just a little. “Yeah. I want to.”

There was a pause on his end—then the sound he made was low, husky, full of quiet anticipation. It wasn’t overt, but it was heavy with promise, a kind of intimacy you could feel down your spine. It told you he was ready to be patient. Ready to match your pace.

You heard the soft rustle of sheets as he shifted, the faint creak of his mattress, the muffled thump of something—maybe his hoodie hitting the floor. The normal sounds of him settling in, suddenly layered with something new.

“You’re okay,” he said after a beat, and there was something so grounding in his tone, like he was reminding you this wasn’t a performance. “It’s just me. Just us.” Your breath shook as you inhaled. “I know. I just… haven’t done this.” Jungkook exhaled slowly, the sound barely caught by the mic. “I got you.”

You could tell he meant it. Then, quietly—like a secret slipping between the cracks of the night—he said, “You don’t have to worry about a thing, okay? I’ll take care of you.” The certainty in his voice made your breath catch. There was no hesitation, no doubt—just calm, grounded confidence that wrapped around you like a blanket. “We’ll go slow,” Jungkook continued, his tone gentle but sure. “I’ll lead. You just breathe and stay with me. That’s all you need to do.” A lump formed in your throat, full of quiet vulnerability and something deeper—trust, maybe. Or the need to give it to someone who wouldn’t drop it.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice small and honest. “I trust you.” He breathed your name in return, soft and reverent, a kind of vow that settled over your chest like warm sunlight breaking through a winter windowpane.

“Good,” he said, his voice dipping slightly, more velvet than sound. Then you heard it again—faint shuffling, the sound of him shifting, settling, waiting for you. The night felt still and pulsing all at once, strung tight between your phone and his voice.

“Are you lying down somewhere comfortable?”, his voice soft but edged with quiet intent. You shifted slightly, the cushions beneath you creaking. “I’m still on the couch,” you admitted, glancing down at yourself. “I… I didn’t even change. I messaged you right after I kicked off my shoes at the door.” There was a short beat of silence on the line before he let out a low, affectionate sound—half laugh, half coo. “You needed to hear me that badly, huh?” Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled. “Yeah.”

“I love that,” he said quietly, and something about his voice made your chest tighten. “But that won’t do. I want you comfortable. That means going to your bedroom.” You bit your lip, nodding even though he couldn’t see it. “O-okay,” you murmured, pushing yourself up. “And out of those pants,” he added gently. “I want you to really relax. Can you do that for me?”

Your breath caught for a second. There was nothing crude in the way he said it—just warmth, intention, care. Still, you felt a shy blush bloom across your face. “Okay,” you whispered, voice nearly inaudible as you made your way toward the bedroom.

He didn’t rush you. You could hear him waiting, the faint sound of his breathing and maybe the quiet rustle of fabric on his end. It grounded you. “I’m in my room,” you said softly, kicking the door closed behind you with your heel. You reached for the button of your jeans, fingers fumbling slightly. “I… I took off my pants.”

There was a quiet hum on the other end of the line. Jungkook’s tone dipped lower, warm and full of approval. “Good girl,” he said. “Tell me what you are doing.” You swallowed, heart fluttering in your throat. “I’m in front of my bed. Just… just in my top, bra, and panties now.” A beat passed. His breath hitched softly. “You did good,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “Now lie down. I want you warm and relaxed.”

You climbed onto the bed, tucking yourself against the pillows and drawing the blanket loosely over your hips. The coolness of the sheets against your bare legs made you shiver. Once settled, you exhaled shakily. “This is… weird,” you confessed, cheeks burning.

Jungkook chuckled, low and fond. “That’s okay. You’re doing really well.” Then, softer, he asked, “Do you want to stop?” Your heart stuttered, because he sounded genuine—not disappointed, not frustrated. Just making sure. “No,” you said, the word quick and certain, even if your voice trembled a little. “I want to keep going.” There was a pause. And then his voice again—so full of affection, so gently commanding it made your toes curl.

“Alright,” Jungkook’s voice dipped lower, like warm silk poured over your skin. “Get your shirt of for me,” he said softly. “You need to feel your skin.” Your hand trembled as you obeyed, bunching the fabric of your top until the cool air kissed the warmth of your stomach. You pressed your palm there gently, and the intimacy of the act—doing it for him, guided by only his voice—made your breath catch.

“I’d love to kiss you there,” he murmured. “Right on your tummy… slow. Soft. You’d feel my lips before you’d even see my face. Can you touch where you’d want me to kiss you?” You swallowed thickly, your hand brushing over your stomach again, then up, tracing the curve of your ribs, grazing the side of your breast. You dared a pass over the top of your panties, the soft cotton warm from your skin. You inhaled shakily, your breath hitching loud enough for him to hear.

“Where did you imagine me kissing you?” he asked, his tone quieter now—lower, darker. You hesitated. “There,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “On my stomach… my chest… and…” you paused, heat rushing to your cheeks, fingers curling slightly. “And between my legs.”

The silence on the line was broken by a sharp exhale from him—half groan, half breathless curse. “God,” Jungkook muttered, and your name followed, rough on his tongue. “You’d want that?” Your heart pounded as you nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I think about it.”

He let out another slow breath, almost as if he were trying to steady himself. “I’d love that too,” he said. “I’d kiss you, taste you… take my time. Then sink my fingers into you so slow.” His voice was tight now, careful. “Would you be wet enough for me?”

You shivered at the question, body already thrumming with the heaviness of want. But you made a soft, unsure sound—almost embarrassed at not knowing, at being this turned on just from his voice. “Then check,” Jungkook said gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just… slip your panties to the side. Touch yourself. Feel what I do to you.” With shaking fingers, you did as he asked. And the moment your fingertips grazed over your center, slick and sensitive, you gasped—a quiet, surprised “oh” slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

Jungkook groaned like he’d been punched in the gut. “You’re already that wet?” he asked, his voice breaking around the edges. “Y/N…”

“Jungkook…” you whispered helplessly, his name trembling from your mouth like a prayer, like a need too big to hold in your chest. “Keep touching yourself,” Jungkook said softly—his voice so low it nearly unraveled you. There was a rasp to it now, almost like he was the one aching. “Please, Y/N... don’t stop.”

The word “please” caught you off guard. It was nearly a whisper, and something in the way he said it made your heart twist. It wasn’t just lust—it was longing, it was closeness across thousands of miles. He wasn’t just turned on. He was with you.

You swallowed hard, your hand still resting between your legs as your body pulsed with need. You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, imagining him doing it, and let your fingers move just the tiniest bit—exploring what was already so sensitive.

“Jungkook…” you breathed, voice cracking. “I—I feel too empty.” It came out unfiltered, ungraceful, and filled with frustrated need. You winced at your own words, feeling like you were doing this all wrong, too awkward, too vulnerable. But Jungkook’s voice came right back, steady and tender. “Breathe. Just breathe for me.”

You took a shaky breath in, and the gentle hush of his voice wrapped around you like a blanket.

“I know, jagi. I know,” he said. “I would love nothing more than to be there right now… to fill you, to touch you how you deserve. But right now, I need your help. Can you do that for me?” His voice was like heaven—deep, rich, coaxing every wall you had to melt into warmth.

You nodded automatically, your lips parting with a soft sound of agreement before remembering again that he couldn’t see you. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I… I can.” There was a pause—just the sound of him breathing on the other end—and then he let out a low, ragged groan at your willingness.

“What… what should I do?” you asked quietly. “How should I touch myself How would you...?” He exhaled sharply. You could hear it in his throat, the way your words knocked the air from him. “Ugh,” he whispered. “You’re perfect. You have no idea what you do to me.” Then, after a beat, his voice came back with that same gentle authority that made you want to listen to every word. “Start slow, jagi. Just one finger, okay? Take your time.”

You let your fingers glide over yourself again—more intentionally this time, more aware of how wet you were, how much your body was already responding to his voice alone. “Tell me how it feels,” Jungkook said, quieter now. “I want to hear it all. I want to imagine it like I’m there.”

You bit your lip and whimpered softly, hips tilting into your hand. “Warm… and soft,” you managed, barely forming the words. “Sensitive. I… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Jungkook let out another broken sound on the other end, like he was barely holding it together. You did exactly as Jungkook had asked—slow, careful, drawing little circles over where you were aching, your clint, letting your breath catch and spill into the phone over and over. For a few moments, the world narrowed down to the quiet between you, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and his voice—low, patient, completely wrapped around you like velvet.

But the softness didn’t last long. “Jungkook,” you whimpered, his name escaping like a gasp, a plea already halfway formed on your lips. “I… I… I am—”

You broke off with a breathy groan, unable to hold back the wave of feeling rushing up from inside you. Jungkook let out a quiet laugh, warm and knowing. “Impatient already?” He knew you well now. Well enough to tease without hurting, to press without pushing.

“Not impatient,” you huffed, breath shallow. “Just… wet. I’m so wet, I need more. Please.”

You heard him inhale sharply. “Jagi,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. “You’re going to kill me.” There was the sound of shifting fabric, and then his tone dropped, deep and reverent. “You’ve been so good for me… go ahead. Use a second finger. I want you to feel full.”

You didn’t hesitate. And the moment your body adjusted, you let out a soft, satisfied groan—sweet and aching. It felt better. Not complete, not even close, but better. Jungkook groaned softly in response, the sound wrecked and raw. “That sound—God, I wish I could see you. I should’ve called you on FaceTime.”

You smiled into the phone, flushed and breathing heavy, your voice quiet but daring. “Jungkook… what am I doing to you right now?” There was silence for a moment, just the sound of him shifting, and then he chuckled under his breath—a low, broken sound.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured. “That sound you make—I swear I can taste you on my lips. It’s like my body thinks I’m there with you.” You whimpered again, and his voice dropped even lower. “I’m so hard,” he admitted, breath catching. “I had to… I couldn’t just sit here doing nothing. I needed to touch myself too. Just enough to keep the edge off. Just enough to not lose it.”

Even without seeing him, you could picture him—lips parted, brow furrowed, the way his hair might fall into his eyes as he held himself. Precum slowly dripping down his shaft. The distance between your bodies was sharp, but the connection? That was blinding.

“I wish you were here,” you whispered.

Jungkook hummed, pained and tender. “I’m with you, jagi. Right here.”

“I want to hear you too,” you whisper, voice breathless and edged with a quiet plea. “Jungkook… I need to hear you.”

For a beat, there’s nothing. Then a low groan hums through the line—deep, rough, drawn from somewhere at the very core of him. Your breath catches. It’s not just a sound—it’s him unraveling, just for you.

“Yeah?” he growls, “Nothing compares to the way you make me feel… even miles away.” The words are choked with awe and aching want, reverent and real. “I want to touch you. Push your tiny little hand away and fill you so good. You would feel so good around me too. All wet and tight. Wouldn’t you?” You shudder, clinging to the sound of his voice as if it could hold you. He was so far—but he felt like he was right there, breathing with you, guiding you.

“Touch yourself more,” he says, voice growing firm but still laced with heat. “Faster now. I want you to feel it—I want your body to remember this the next time I see you. Because the moment I get my hands on you again…” he pauses, breath catching. “I’ll make sure you feel so full again. Watch how I would sink myself inside you. Give you exactly what you need. Play with your pretty tits. Fuck you stupid. Till you not even remember your own name.”

The sound that slips from your lips is helpless, wanting. You obey—your fingers moving faster, your thumb finding that perfect spot—and it’s almost too much. Your body tenses, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter.

“I’m close,” you manage to gasp, trembling. “Jungkook—I’m so close—”

“Don’t stop,” he growls, the command wrapped in velvet and fire. “Don’t you dare stop, Jagi. You are mine. Come for me.” That tone—that authority—it sends you over the edge.

Your breath fractures. Your back arches. A cry escapes you, raw and quiet and broken as pleasure crashes through you like a wave. Your legs tremble, heart racing, the high cresting through you in pulsing waves. You can’t even think—you can only feel, and he’s right there on the other end of it.

Then—his voice again. A hoarse groan. A curse, hot and bitten off.

“God, fuck,” he pants, the words all tangled and soft. “You did so well for me. So perfect.”

You try to catch your breath—but something else creeps in with the aftershocks. A quiet ache. Your chest tightens. Your eyes sting. And before you can stop it, the words slip free, fragile and cracked. “I want you here with me, Jungkook,” you whisper. “Right now. I just… I want you here.”

The line is quiet for a heartbeat. Then you hear him exhale, shaky and low. “I know, jagi,” he murmurs, voice suddenly tender again, grounding. “I want that too. So bad. More than you know.” And even though your bodies are worlds apart, his voice is right there with you—soft and real, brushing against the rawest part of your heart. “Just a little longer,” he whispers. “We’ll be together soon. I promise.”

You nod again, even though he can’t see it—biting your lip, trying to will away the tears that threaten to spill. Your body is still trembling, not from the release, but from the ache of distance. Of loving someone who can’t hold you tonight.

A whisper leaves your lips, cracked and quiet. “Okay…”

And it breaks Jungkook’s heart a little. Not just because you sounded so small—but because he knows that ache. He feels it too, right now, in the hollow between his ribs where your warmth should be. And he can’t help you with it, not how you deserve. He clenches his jaw, breathes slowly through his nose.

Tomorrow—he needed to talk to his agent first thing. He didn’t care what meetings or rehearsals got shuffled. He needed to see you sooner, even if only for a day. Just long enough to hold you in his arms and kiss the doubt and ache from your chest.

“I can stay on the phone a little longer,” Jungkook says gently. “If you want. We don’t have to hang up yet.” You hesitate, the ache still raw in your chest. “Don’t you… didn’t you say you might go live with Jimin tonight?”

There’s a pause—brief but telling—and then his voice comes through, warm and certain. “Yeah, I need to. But that can wait. You come first. I always have time for you.” Your throat tightens, eyes stinging again—not from sadness now, but from how easily he says that. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like loving you isn’t an inconvenience, but a priority.

“Can you…” you pause to clear your throat softly, “Can you tell me about your day?”

“Of course,” he says, voice immediately softening even more, like he’s settling in just to be close to you. “You wanna hear about the boring stuff or the good stuff?”

“All of it,” you whisper, letting yourself sink further into your pillow, needing his voice to anchor you. “Even the boring stuff. I just want to hear you.”

And just like that, he starts talking—gentle, rambling little details about his day: training, rehearsal, the new concept, what he had for lunch, a funny thing one of the staff said. And every word he speaks eases the weight pressing down on your chest. He says your name so gently it feels like a kiss. “I miss you too.” His admits. Quiet. Honest. “More than I thought was possible.”

There’s a pause. Neither of you say anything for a moment. You just breathe together—connected by the line, by the silence, by the way your hearts beat in tandem even with oceans between you. “You were beautiful tonight,” he says after a while. “Not just the… y’know.” He chuckles gently. “But, trying this with me. Trusting me. I don’t take that for granted. Not for a second. And… I didn’t want to make you sad tonight.”

You sniff, and this time, it’s a little laugh through your tears. “I am not sad. I’m glad you called.”

“I’d call every night, if it made you feel close,” he says. “If it helped you sleep.”

You feel better now. So much better. After hearing his voice, after the way he touched you with nothing but words—pulling you apart so sweetly and then putting you back together even gentler. Your heart no longer feels like it’s splintering under the weight of missing him. And now that you're settled, soft and safe again, you exhale a little laugh.

“You should clean up,” you murmur into the phone, your voice teasing but still thick with affection. Jungkook chuckles lowly, and the sound feels like velvet slipping down your spine. “Are you kicking me off the phone now?” he asks playfully.

“Well,” you hum, “you said you need to go live with Jimin… You should go. I’m okay now.”

There's a hesitation—just a beat, but you hear it. Feel it.

“Are you sure?” he asks, serious now, no teasing left. “I don’t wanna leave you if you’re still feeling shaky.”

“I’m not,” you say, a little smile curling on your lips. “You already fixed me. Twice, actually. So go already. I’m want to watch you.”

“You’re gonna what?” he teases, his grin practically audible. “I’m gonna watch the live,” you reply, grinning now. “For as long as I can stay awake. That way… I still get to see you today.” Jungkook groans playfully. “That’s so unfair. You get to look at me, and I still don’t get to see your pretty face.”

You laugh, blushing quietly. “Next time.”

His voice softens again. “Last chance. Are you sure you’re good?”

“Yes, Jungkook. I’m good. Go. Or Jimin will roast you for being late.”

He sighs with a dramatic little pout you can imagine so clearly. “Okay, okay. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

And with that, the call ends, the line going quiet—but your chest feels warm instead of empty this time.

After a quick bathroom run and a change of clothes—your pj’s to be precise. You tuck yourself deeper into the blankets, cheeks still flushed and heart beating slow and soft. You blink sleepily at the screen and smile as you connect to Jimin’s live, waiting for Jungkook to appear.

The live is cozy—Jimin is sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking directly to the camera, his tone light and animated as he tells the ARMYs a story about rehearsal mishaps and how he nearly tripped over his own feet during a practice run.

And then—a knock echoes offscreen.

Jimin pauses mid-sentence, blinking at the door. “Oh?” he says, glancing back. “Hold on, everyone. Someone’s at my door.”

You watch the screen tilt slightly as Jimin sets the phone down and walks off-camera. The audio picks up the sound of him unlocking and opening the door—and then a familiar voice laughs low and warm.

“Finally,” Jungkook says.

The camera jostles as Jimin comes back into frame, followed by Jungkook, who’s dressed down in a hoodie and loose joggers, his dark hair slightly messy. He gives a small, sheepish wave at the camera with that signature bunny grin.

“Yah,” Jimin says, sitting again, “took you long enough.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says with an innocent laugh. “I had something important to do.”

Jimin side-eyes him but doesn’t press. Instead, he scoots over to give Jungkook room and nudges him in the ribs. “Well, welcome. Everyone’s been waiting.”

Your heart flutters as Jungkook settles in beside Jimin, his smile soft but tired. He looks down at the screen and waves again, his fingers brushing his bottom lip like they still remember you. “Please forgive me, ARMY.”

And just like that, the ache of missing him melts into something gentler. And as he settles into the live, talking and laughing beside Jimin, you curl into your blanket, watching him glow on your screen.

You watch them—Jimin chatting animatedly, gesturing with his hands as he recounts some hilarious backstage mishap, while Jungkook lounges beside him, relaxed and quiet at first, just listening. His legs are sprawled comfortably in front of him, one arm propped behind his head as he leans slightly toward Jimin, eyes soft with amusement as his friend rambles.

You're curled on your side, the phone warm in your hand, the screen casting a gentle glow against your cheeks. Your eyes blink slower now, sleep brushing over your lashes like a wave, but you keep watching.

Jungkook glances down at his phone for a second, his thumb moving casually as he types something. Then—suddenly—his whole face breaks into a wide, boyish grin. That unmistakable, gummy smile. He tries to bite it back, but fails miserably, and he looks up at the camera with his ears turning faintly pink. Jimin gives him a look, raising an eyebrow. “What?” he asks suspiciously.

Jungkook just shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says with a shrug, barely able to keep a straight face. Jimin squints at him, but then drops it, turning back to the stream. “He’s being weird again,” he tells the viewers. “Just ignore him.”

But your screen lights up with a new notification—and your heart does a slow somersault.

Kookie 🖤: Good night. Don’t stay up too long.

Your breath catches as warmth spreads through your chest, your lips parting in the kind of smile that only he could pull out of you—tired, shy, and so full of affection it aches. On the screen, Jungkook’s still grinning stupidly, his eyes twinkling under the soft room light, like he knows exactly what he's just done to you.

You reply with a quiet tap of your fingers:

You: I won’t. I just wanted to see you a little longer.

Then you let your phone slip down slightly, resting it on the pillow beside you as you watch him one last time tonight. His laugh rumbles low when Jimin teases him again, and you tuck yourself in tighter, safe in the knowledge that you’re still on his mind.

Even when the screen finally goes dark, and your eyes close, you carry that image with you—Jungkook, smiling just for you. The ache hasn’t disappeared completely—but it’s dulled by the quiet certainty that he’s yours. Even when the distance stretches far, his heart is still wrapped around you.

And for now, that’s more than enough.

Masterlist

Tags: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

#jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook bts #bts #jeon jungguk #jeon jungkook #jungkook x you #just a normal night

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Seven: to you, Aelin

tw: minor violence and gore, miscarriage, abortion mention, infidelity

“You see that girl right there? You stay away from her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

It’s the first thing John’s father says about Aelin Gilroy. Using one long, crooked finger, he points her out in the thick crowd of parents and students attending their Year 8 science fair. Projects and standing boards obscure her as they tower overhead on rickety folding tables, but that blinding smile and incandescent teal eyes shine through the crowd like a lighthouse leading a ship safe to shore.

Trouble. He often disagrees with his father, and this instance is no different. He does not think Aelin Gilroy is trouble. She’s never disruptive in class, and he once saw her give another student her cardigan two years ago when she couldn’t stop shivering in class. It isn’t until her father steps into view that he realizes the meaning of this warning—crisp police uniform, hat held in front of his stomach, giving a firm handshake to the science teacher. An officer. An inspector. An adversary to his father in the most wretched of ways.

Police officers always make the family business difficult.

For many years, John heeds his father’s warning—if not for his own sake, then at least for hers—until Year 11. By some terrible twist of fate, his maths teacher sat Aelin Gilroy next to him in that small, two seater desk. She smells like roses freshly woken by morning dew after a spring shower. He learns she likes to doodle in the corner of her notebook during lectures, and she can’t stop tapping her foot against the floor while taking an exam. John finds that he likes the way her pale brows knit together in concentration, scrunching her forehead, and how soft her voice is when whispering answers to the table on her left.

But he doesn’t have time to think about her. Not that he should. John Price is unfortunate enough to come from a long line of brutal patriarchs who often condition equally as cruel heirs. Once he turns sixteen, his father’s petulance only grows as he forces him to join him on escapades in the night after lectures have concluded. Bodies crumble. His fists split on begging faces pleading for the mercy that has long been snuffed out of his father’s chest. Each night his cheek grows tender with the force of his father’s hand, and his eyes droop with the weight of the secret life of a killer—of a true son born into the family business.

“Red color corrector will hide the bruise on your eye.”

It takes John several moments to realise Aelin Gilroy is talking to him, but even then he doesn’t fully believe it until he turns to see her already staring at him. She’s lazily leaning forward on the desk, hand propping her head up beneath her chin as her tongue darts out to wet her rosy lips. John’s pencil ceases its dance across his worksheet.

“Color corrector?” he repeats.

“Yeah, you know. Makeup. Green hides red marks from acne, orange hides dark circles, red for… very dark circles.” Her brows raise as she silently motions to his eye, bringing his own hand to touch the tender spot on his face. “I’ve got some in my bag, if you’d like. Though, you’ll have to find your own shade of foundation. I think you’re a bit too warm toned compared to me.”

Her bluntness and unabashed reference to the shiner on his eye leaves him chuckling, transforming her coy smile into a small smirk. “You sound like an expert.”

“I am,” she quips before grinning. After a quick glance around the room, Aelin carefully pulls the collar of her shirt to the side, exposing the side of her neck. At first, John finds nothing of any importance until she points out a line of covered hickies just above her collar bone, fingers tracing it as if lovingly. They grey beneath the concealer and foundation, blurring them to the point they’ve almost vanished. “A girl’s gotta have her fun.”

John likes her humor. Appreciates it, anyway. Maybe there’s something comforting about knowing a girl like her gets in trouble; albeit, much less violent trouble than himself. A small flicker of hope ignites in his chest at the idea that perhaps there’s something in common between him and Aelin—that he has the possibility of even resembling something that’s normal. Something not drenched in blood.

It’s a short lived fantasy. When the end of term comes around, and they no longer share classes together, they drift. Aelin keeps her smiles polished while John continues to do the only thing his father ever bothered to teach him. By the end, Aelin’s A-Levels are enough to earn her a trip to anywhere in the country. Opportunities are thrown at her feet and offered up on dainty silver platters that glisten bright enough to reflect the future ahead of her. As for him, his father dies when he’s twenty. Murdered, and in a way that’s eerily similar to the way his mother had been. Cold, calculated, ruthless—his father’s existence is snuffed out by a single bullet, leaving behind nothing but a bloodstain coating the pillow that covers his face.

The torch is passed down—the handle is still bloody.

Over the years, he grows rigid and battle-hardened thanks to the business of violence that was bequeathed to him by his late father. He builds upon a decrepit empire until it’s thriving with sharp teeth and hired guns. It’s the only thing his father taught him; how to be dangerous. How to collect teeth and grind them to dust beneath the sole of his shoes. The Price family rises to power. The name forces people to tremble. John Price has nothing to lose but his own life, and even that pathetic amount he can scarcely get himself to care about.

The only thing he holds close to him is the ghosts of his past. They always lurk in uncomfortable places, whispering into the shell of his ear, biting at the nape of his neck. It finds him at all hours of the day—it torments him. Slithers beneath his skin. Even now as he stands in line at the florist’s shop his skin itches, eyes flickering to the exit, fingers twitching for the knife stowed in his pocket.

The only emollient he can find in this place is the voice of the woman in line before him. Demulcent and fleeting, he notes the way his heart slows. How the pathetic muscle quivers in his chest as she sweetly thanks the shopkeeper. When the redolence of roses reaches him, he tells himself he’s hallucinating, but when she turns to leave—small bouquet of flowers in her hand—he realizes who it is.

Aelin Gilroy.

Even after all these years he can still recognize her. The soft slope of her nose, the faint, bouncing curls in her flaxen hair, and her grace. How her chin is held high. How confidence exudes from every pore in her body as she floats toward the exit. Somehow, she’s even more perfect now than she was when they were children. He steps out of line, forcing the shopkeeper to stare at him with narrowed brows as he follows after her on uncertain feet.

“Aelin?”

All the air leaves his lungs when she turns to face him. She’s grown into her features now. Rosy cheeks and full lips, but her eyes are still the same. Crystalline like a low tide, filtering golden sunlight into fractals. Those eyes stare at him blankly, hands uncomfortably adjusting the bouquet as she traces him without a shred of familiarity.

“Yes?” she asks tensely.

Chuckling, he slaps his hand on the nape of his neck, rubbing out the tension there. “It’s John. John Price.”

There’s something about the light igniting in her eyes that has him feeling warmer than he has in a long while. A precious grin breaks out on her lips as she steps closer, now comfortable with his presence. “Oh my god, I didn’t recognize you! It’s been years… staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Getting in just enough to keep things interesting,” John counters.

It’s as if no time has passed at all. She’s still that star pupil. Still that girl that had every boy tripping over their own two feet. Even now he can still hear her feet tapping against the floor as her pencil fills in test answers.

“What’s the occasion?” he then asks, gesturing to her bouquet.

“Oh,” she says. Her voice trips. Fractures. “Well, it’s—erm—the anniversary of my dad’s passing.”

John blinks. He can vaguely recall the news. Rolling clips of the police station and the accident that stole his life away. Somehow he never put two and two together.

“I’m sorry to hear that, I hadn’t heard,” he quickly apologizes.

Despite the terrible awkwardness of the conversation, she still smiles. Always graceful. Always poised. “It’s alright. I’m… making my peace with it.” She pauses, throat clearing with a tense cough. “What about you?”

“Oh, just some flowers for mum.”

His response makes Aelin smile something small and bittersweet. “How lovely. I bet she’ll love them.”

“They’ll make for good decoration.”

Something settles between the two of them—something that had never been there before. Not while they were children, growing up with one another in different corners of the world. It’s unfamiliar. Suffocating. It leaves John floundering, but the warmth it brings is intoxicating.

“Well, I ought to get going,” Aelin excuses politely. “Got a few more errands to run. But really, it was good seeing you again, John.”

This is the part where he should say goodbye. Wish her farewell just for her to vanish into a life of fortune where he’d never see her again. If he was a smart man, John would have done just that, but instead he finds his hand diving into his pocket where he retrieves a pen before quickly stealing one of the shop’s business cards to scribble down his number in the negative space.

“Here,” he says, holding it out for Aelin to take. “I’m certain you get this a lot, but if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be there.”

To his surprise, she takes the card without hesitation, aqua eyes scanning his rushed handwriting while quietly thanking him. As she holds the card in front of her, something catches John’s attention. There’s a glint on her finger, one that reflects the light so brightly it nearly blinds him. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s a large, gaudy ring. Something given in poor taste. Something that attempts to steal the spotlight of Aelin’s beauty rather than compliment it.

“Did you get married?” John asks in what he tells himself is mere curiosity.

“Oh. No, not yet. Just engaged,” she says with an odd tone. Aelin glances at the ring—at the small band and large diamond that looks heavy enough to weigh her down. As if she can’t stand to look at it any longer, she shoves the card into her pocket before smiling at him. “Thank you again, John.”

As Aelin exits the store, she tries not to think about how this interaction with a long lost classmate of hers has her feeling lighter than she has in years. That’s all she feels these days. Heavy. Weighed down by a stony gaze that used to look at her with adoration as the looming nature of her own failure hangs over her head as if each step she takes brings her closer to the gallows.

There is little reprieve to be found in the cemetery where her father lays. Knees digging into the fresh grass, trembling fingers propping the flowers against his headstone, she does not pay attention to the tears streaming down her face. She’s learned to ignore them, if not welcome them. The wind picks up, cooling her feverish face as she traces the engraving of her father’s name letter by letter with her index finger.

“I miss you so much,” she whispers. “Everything’s gone to shit since you left. I dunno what to do without you.”

Her days have been foggy. Each waking moment leaves her stumbling through the dark all while she pretends she’s still the radiant girl she’s always been. It’s difficult to keep up the facade when her bed is cold in the mornings, and her fingers itch for the card John Price gave her. Ghosts follow behind her in the bedroom, her rearview mirror—the toilet.

So then, it should not come as a surprise when she returns home from her mother’s to see the lamp on in the living room. The television drones but no one is listening. A hand on a thigh. Unfamiliar lips pressed against ones she should have memorized but hasn’t felt the touch of in months. The woman looks nothing like Aelin. Inky locks cut into a short bob that her fiance weaves his fingers through as his nose kisses her cheek.

“Adam?”

Aelin’s stomach drops when they jump, heavy eyes now on her as she stands in the entryway. When Adam’s chest heaves with a sigh, she’s suddenly in the bathroom again. Hands clutching her stomach as she waddles out. Eyes full with tears as she sees him sitting on the couch, focused on the football match. It’s the same thing all over again.

She doesn’t wait around long enough to hear his excuses. The front door slams shut behind her but the sound is muffled on her ears as she slips into her car and speeds away.

Night has long since fallen by the time she reaches the park. When she was a child, her parents used to own a home in this neighborhood and she often came here with her dad. The swingset is painted blue now instead of red, but she makes no effort to approach it as she seats herself on an algid, metal bench.

During times like these, Aelin would often go to her dad for comfort. His office smelled like leather and Earl Grey, and he always kept a recliner in the corner of the room for her to curl up in to do homework, or cry about boys at school. He always knew what to say. What to do. Guiding her with a soft hand and sweet heart—she always wished she was more like him.

Now—without the luxury of paternal comfort—she does something stupid.

Fingers haphazardly digging through her bag, clutching the florist’s card, shakily punching in the numbers into her phone; Aelin knows she’s insane. Insane for thinking John Price is the person to call for something like this. Insane for thinking he’d even do anything at this time of night. Still, he answers. His voice bleeds through the speaker next to her ear like lukewarm wine. Intoxicating. Comforting.

The only greeting she can choke out is a sob.

By the time John finds Aelin, all of her tears have run dry, having been replaced with a brutal fury instead. A thick numbra clouds the park as the halogen lights hardly hold a torch bright enough to fight off the darkness. Still, he approaches her, noting how her knees bounce just like they used to all those years ago during exam season. Her bottom lip is bright red—irritated and cracked, abused by her teeth.

For as much effort as he puts into looking calm on the outside, there is nothing in the world that can settle the nerves fraying within him. Hearing her cry, hearing her beg for him to come and get her scared him more than he cares to admit. The tear stains on her cheeks make his fists curl. If only she knew the dangerous power she holds. The power to say bite and for John Price to respond where.

It doesn’t take long for him to coax out the truth. The rage swirling within Aelin nearly erupts as she spews every brutal detail. How Adam had been acting strange the last few months, how he used to show her off but has been keeping her locked away like a dirty secret, or something he’s ashamed of.

“Two fucking years, John,” Aelin seethes, teeth gritting so hard that they nearly crack. “Two years of being with him just for him to do… to do that? He moved me into his home, wanted me to quit my job because he said he wanted to take care of me, to take care of… of…”

Terrified that you’ll disintegrate before him, John reaches a careful hand out and brushes it against her shoulder. The tension melts beneath his touch, and if he wasn’t so concerned, pride would swell in his chest. “Easy, love.”

“I could’ve been great,” she continues, voice cracking as she leans into him. “I was able to go to any school in this country. I got my degree. I could’ve kept at work and been… something. And I didn’t need to. Not really. There was never anything I was trying to prove to anyone. I could’ve had a few kids with that white picket fence and stayed home to care for them, and I would’ve been completely happy living that trophy wife life if it meant I was loved. But I’m not, and it fucking hurts because I know I’m worth so much more than this.”

She crumbles like dust. The kind that’s so thin and fine you can only see it in the air when sunlight hits it. John’s arms wrap around her, pulling her close, palm cradling her head as she shakes in his grasp.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid,” she babbles.

“You’re not stupid,” he attempts to persuade.

“Adam only proposed when we found out I was pregnant,” she says. Her voice shatters. Fractures. Each syllable catches in her throat, slices the tender flesh. “T-Then my dad died and… It was stupid to think he’d want to stay after I lost it.”

John’s blood runs cold. His vision clouds with ichor—vermillion and thick. It’s so close he can nearly taste it. A violent man to a violent end, he craves it now more than ever. Instead, he holds her closer and gathers enough bravery to kiss the top of her head.

“None of that was your fault, love,” he assures. “You’re brilliant. Downright brilliant, and he’s a sorry sod for not seeing it.”

It takes a little convincing to get her to agree to stay at his place for the night. Really, there’s something comforting about being somewhere else. Away from her mother and that house that’s still haunted with her father’s ghost. John gives her an old t-shirt and a pair of joggers he’s been meaning to throw out for some time before ensuring she’s comfortable enough in his guest bedroom.

When he’s certain Aelin’s asleep, John sits in his office, hand over his mouth, teeth grinding as he stares at his phone. It takes only five minutes of deliberation before he’s dialing up the only man he knows he can trust.

“Yeah?” Simon Riley. His blunt greeting cuts over the line over the sound of thrumming club music and a cacophony of chatter.

“Riley, I need a favor. I’m sending you an address and I need you there as soon as possible,” John says, voice rumbling low and dark as he taps his desk with the tips of his fingers.

“What for?”

“A friend,” John excuses. “I need any items that seem like they belong to a girl. Clothes, toiletries, things of that sort.”

There’s a pause, and John can already see the expression on Riley’s face. A raised brow, tight lips, and a small huff. “Somethin’ ya can’t get yourself?”

“If I go myself, I’m breaking the jaw of the bastard who lives there,” he growls.

Inhale. Exhale. “This have somthin’ to do with the girl earlier? The one cryin’ on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

A hum. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Much to John’s surprise, Aelin doesn’t ask too many questions when morning comes. She doesn’t push when he gives a vague answer about how he got her items, and she doesn’t question where her engagement ring vanished to, or why Adam hasn’t bothered to call or text her since she stormed out of the house. He tells her to stay as long as she likes—as long as she needs.

But she doesn’t leave.

Aelin Gilroy lingers in his home—not as a ghost, but as a dream. Something drifting between his fingers, just out of reach, that he wants so desperately to hold. He finds residuals of her in the shower with her golden hair stuck to the wall and the silage of rose toying with his nose. She’s there in the kitchen when he comes home, cooking up a late dinner, asking him to join her for a movie.

There is no effort on her end in leaving, just as there is no effort from him in getting her to leave. He would keep her forever if he could. Hold her in his arms like he did that night in the park, cradling her head against his chest. All she would have to do is ask him.

But as the weeks meander on, John finds himself sitting next to her on the couch. There’s too much wine in their bodies, ichor red and brimming full in his stomach, diffusing the light of the television as it illuminates her skin, her smile, everything. He decides that he likes this. Her. Enjoys the warmth of another human in this too-large house, always a void greeting him when he gets home, a black hole waiting to crush him. He doesn’t know how his father could have ever treated his mother so cold when the touch of a woman seems to make this home flourish.

She feels his gaze. Heavy lidded and murky with alcohol. She stares back, aqua hue bleeding into something darker, like the depths of the ocean instead of the mere tide lapping at the shore—unknowingly profound. He has yet to scratch the surface of Aelin Gilroy.

Yet he gets close to it when she places her glass on the coffee table and swings her leg over his lap. Bum resting on his knees, her hands steady her swaying body as she grips his shoulders, curls cascading down her back like a waterfall of sunlight. John stares up at her with awe blurring his vision. She smiles like she knows the mess she’s making of him.

“Kiss me.” She does not ask. She demands it. Requires it.

He leans back until his skull hits the cushion, then shakes his head. “You don’t want me to do that.”

Her eyebrow quirks. “Why not?”

“I’m not a good man.”

“I know.”

Those words are a baton to his diaphragm, forcefully expelling a chuckle from his throat before he can stop it. She tilts her head and he nearly grabs the nape of her neck to devour her whole. “How do you know?”

“I’ve always known,” Aelin insists. “I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Besides, if you were a good man, you’d be dead by now. The good ones are always quick to go in your line of work, aren’t they?”

John wants to pretend that he’s surprised she knows, but of course she knows. Aelin Gilroy, daughter of Sean Gilroy, Chief Inspector, top of her class, the looks to kill and a brain to go with it. It does not take a genius to sniff out the blood that stains his hands. Dirty hands. Soiled hands. Ones he can’t help but place on her waist.

“If you know that much, then you know that you don’t want me to kiss you,” he insists.

“Why?” Her turn with the questions.

“Becuase I’m not dragging you into a life like this. I’m not letting you get hurt because of me.” His admission comes with plaguing visions that are so noisome they sting his eyes. Rose pink brains soaking into a mattress. Fingers plucked free of the palms they used to call home. His mother, dead and left to rot like a warning. “You don’t want this.”

“No. I just want you,” she hums. Aelin’s hands begin to wander, fingertips brushing against his hairline as she tilts her head, curiously inspecting him, spinning eyes hardly able to focus on one part of him before moving to the next. “You’re not your father, John. You share his name but not his mistakes. You are not a bad man.” Palm to cheek, warmth swelling together against his feverish skin—she presses her thumb to his lips. Drags down over them until they’re parted. “You might not be a good man, but you’re too kind to be a bad man.”

It isn’t until her lips meet his that John Price realizes that he’s been caught in Aelin’s trap for quite some time—she’s just now decided to rein him in. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been. Even as her teeth sink into his flesh, even as her nails rake across his back, even as she drowns him—nothing but a corse floating among stilly water—he knows he cannot starve himself of this one desire.

After so many years, he finally has something to live for besides the circle of life and death. Besides being a slave to his family name simply because paternal law decrees it. Now, he has something to build. Someone to love. A future that holds more than decrepit bones. A ring covers the old scar on Aelin’s finger. His bed is always warm in the night when he returns home and in the morning when he can’t bring himself to wake with the rest of the world.

The room she slept in during her first night with him now holds a crib.

It’s made of wood and engraved with pumpkins and rabbits, a project Aelin took upon herself and has been whittling away at with a small carving tool. Hunched over, stomach swelling quietly but still enough to be noticeable in her sundress. The image has been burned into his mind all night while he’s been away at work, hunched over his desk, listening to pathetic excuse after excuse.

He leaves early tonight, hands buzzing too much to quiet, fingers screaming for his wife. To hold her face and smooth over her stomach. She’s gotten more emotional these days; crying at any kind gesture, or any time she looks at the crib for too long. John hates to see the tears that stream down her cheeks but doesn’t mind the excuse to hold her close, to chuckle into her ear, to toy with the ends of her hair.

When John steps inside, there’s nothing but blood to greet him.

Watery. Bright red. It stains the couch in the very spot Aelin curls up in at the end of the day with a warm cup of tea and something quiet to put on the television. John stares at it. It spreads, ichor floating through the veins of the couch similar to the way it spreads on a mattress, soaking deep—too deep to get out. Deep enough to scar.

He panics. Her name rings through the house as he trips down the hallway, following the sparse trickle of blood like breadcrumbs. There is no answer, but he hears her quiet, muffled sobs. Hand clasped over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut as if that could ever stop the tears; she’s on the toilet. He doesn’t even knock before entering, but she doesn’t have the energy to chastise him for it as she sits curled over herself, sundress bunched around her waist, arms cradling herself as if she can hold the remaining bits of her child within her shattering womb.

“Love,” John breathes. Within an instant he’s on his knees before her, but she won’t look at him. He reaches forward, cups her face in his palms, wipes his thumb at the never-ending flood of tears. She’s feverish to the touch.

“I-I’m sorry,” Aelin sobs. Her arms press further into her stomach as she leans forward, head attempting to bow, but John keeps her head above water—keeps her from drowning. “I really thought it would be different this time, I just… ah… John, it hurts so bad.”

Her sobs come unheeded now, and each rattling reverberation that cuts through her shatters his newly mended heart. John holds her with trembling hands. His own eyes squeeze shut, faint tears wetting his eyelashes as he rests his chin on her head. Even against his neck he can feel how warm her forehead is—how it nearly blisters his skin.

After fifteen minutes of his world ending, he takes her to the hospital. Ultrasound visits turn sour now that there is no baby to look at. The bleeding stops. Their child is gone. When they arrive home, all they do is lay in bed with nothing but the sound of their hearts shattering to break the silence.

It is the first time, but it is not the last.

It happens again.

And again.

Eventually, after the years, they give up. Their hope flickers and wanes, but the desire still lurks in their eyes every time they pass a stroller during date night or they look at that empty nursery-converted-to-guest-room. John puts that love into the men who work for him instead, and Aelin gives it to her adopted sister. But at the end of the night, no matter how long they were out laughing or chuckling, they come home to a warm bed, desperately searching for the grubby hands of what could have been.

But it comes back. It barrels like a bullet into their lives, embedding into deep tissue, nestling too far to rip it out without doing more damage. It arrives as a phone call. A sob. A begging to be free of this torture. John finds it in the bathroom with Aelin, curled forward, ripped boxes strewn across the floor, along with three positive pregnancy tests.

She looks up at him as he enters the bathroom, eyes red and irritated, her usually neat hair now frizzy. “John, I can’t do this again,” she chokes.

Wordlessly, he joins her on the floor with an arm snaking around her back. Aelin collapses into his chest, legs slung over his lap, head resting against his collarbone as he cradles her. For a long time, he is silent. Neither of them speak as the weight of the situation begins to crush them under impending pressure. It squishes the blood clean from their bodies, suffocating their brains of all helpful thought.

The world is ending all over again.

“I’ll support whatever you want to do, love,” John murmurs against the crown of her head.

Brows furrowing, she stiffens. “What do you mean?”

His words get caught in his throat for a long, aching moment before he’s able to choke them out. “If you… want to terminate, then we can do that. Or if you want to keep it then we’ll do that, too.”

Aelin is quiet for a long time. There is nothing but soft sniffles and the occasional pule that slips from her lips, but John doesn’t rush her. Instead, he holds her until her muscles relax, and she’s nothing but a limp mess against him.

“One more time,” she decides, malice slipping into her tone as she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “One more time, and if it doesn’t work, I’m getting a hysterectomy. I can’t keep doing this b-but… I just… want to pretend to hope for a little while.”

Nodding, John places one more kiss on her head. “Okay, love.”

For the first few weeks, Aelin is near unconsolable. Nesting on the couch, blankets obscuring her body, hugging a pillow to her chest as her glassy eyes watch flashing images on the television. She attempts to distract herself with the company of her adopted sister, but the connection feels severed. Smiling and pretending to be happy when she’s harboring a secret that will surely demand blood before she has the chance to sing its praise.

But that secret keeps growing. And growing.

Each passing day that Aelin wakes and there’s no blood to follow her throughout the day, a glimmer of hope roots in her chest. It burrows and whispers. It promises love and fulfillment. It promises something she’s never been fortunate enough to achieve previously. It’s enough to make her skin glow, rosy and golden like the sun kissing the horizon before bed. It’s enough to make her cheeks swell as shiny, opalesque teeth peek between glistening lips. It’s enough for now, and then—

“Oh my god.” Hands on her stomach, smiling through the tears, bottom lip trembling. “John, it’s twenty-four weeks. It’s viability week.”

—and then it’s everything.

Time rolls backwards as the guest room is once more turned into a nursery. Bunnies and pumpkins, soft oranges and fluffy whites, and a perfect hint of peach. A changing table with ribbons along the side. A rocking chair for the long nights when none of them will get rest, and it will be worth it to have a sleepless night due to love rather than turmoil.

But joy is a meal that tastes better when it’s shared.

So, Aelin stands in the kitchen. Film refracts the light above her through the sonogram in her hand, thumb holding the picture so firmly as if she’s afraid it will slip through her fingers. Heavy feet rattle the floor behind her before she feels warm palms smooth over her stomach and a chin on top of her head.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs.

Smiling in agreement, Aelin scans every little feature. The curve of the baby’s nose, how her lips part as if already babbling, hands squished up to her face like she’s trying to chew on her fingers. “Just over halfway there.”

Just as she lowers the sonogram, the baby kicks against John’s palms. His chuckle hits her, warm and dripping with adoration. He squeezes back, pulling Aelin against him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he questions.

“Yeah, I think it would be better this way,” Aelin nods. “I feel… a little bad. Having been sort of ignoring her these last few weeks. I know Simon is taking good care of her but… well, it’ll be nice to have dinner with just the two of us.”

She turns her attention to the card before her. The outside is plain. A simple white background with frilly lettering asking Guess what? On the inside, there’s that same lettering with the triumphant announcement of It’s a girl! followed by enough space to put a sonogram. Then, there’s a mini calendar of August, with a circled due date. She shoves everything inside of a light peach envelope before sealing it shut with the tip of her tongue, but as she stares at it, she feels it doesn’t quite look right.

Inspiration strikes her, and she quickly retrieves a pen from the junk drawer before scrawling Auntie Chip on the envelope. Smiling, she sticks it in her purse.

And with that, she is ready for dinner.

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kyunghwannie · 2 months ago

Text

"Collateral Temptation"

Yoo Jeongyeon x Male! Reader.

➤Tags/Genres: Begging, Submission, Biting, Reverse Cowgirl, Public Sex, Hair Pulling, Creampie, Anal Sex, Overstimulation, Face-Sitting, Dirty Talk, Breast Worship, Sensation Play, Doggy Style, Mutual Masturbation, Choking, Face Fucking, Mirror Sex

➤Teaser: She swore it was just a favor. One night, one weakness, buried in motel sheets and sealed with silence. But temptation wears a suit now, speaks her name like a secret, and every "thank you" tastes more like surrender. Her vows didn’t break—she slowly unstitched them herself, thread by aching thread. ➤Note: This was requested to be a rather hot and passionate smut of corruption of a pure wife Jeongyeon. So i tried to do so. Iam not that good with a more corrupting or ruining type of plot yet so iam still learning but hey If there's Jeongyeon, everything is fire. ➤ Go read my other Jeongyeon fic "Second Chances" Part-1 & Part-2

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The café was quiet, the kind of place where the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clink of porcelain cups filled the silence. Jeongyeon sat across from you, her fingers nervously tracing the rim of her half-finished iced americano. The usual confidence in her posture was gone—replaced by something heavier, something tired.

"I didn’t think I’d be the one asking for help like this," she admitted, her voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. You leaned forward slightly, keeping your tone light but firm. "You’re not asking. I offered."

She exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Still feels shitty." "It’s not." You tapped the folder between you—the one with the loan restructuring plans, the numbers you’d spent nights adjusting just to make sure she wouldn’t drown in interest. "This is what friends do."

Jeongyeon’s fingers stilled. "Friends," she repeated, like she was testing the word. Then she shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You’re too good at this. At… everything."

You shrugged. "Just decent at math and stubborn enough to argue with bankers."

That got a real laugh out of her, short but bright. "God, I missed this." The second the words left her mouth, her expression flickered—like she hadn’t meant to say it.

The air between you shifted. You could’ve played it off. Should’ve, probably. But something in the way she looked at you—like she was seeing you for the first time in years—made the words slip out before you could stop them. "Yeah? What part?"

Jeongyeon blinked. "What?"

"What did you miss?" You kept your voice easy, like it was just banter, but the weight of the question hung there anyway.

She hesitated. Then, slowly, her fingers curled around her glass. "Talking to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m…" She trailed off.

"Like you’re what?"

"Like I’m failing." The admission was quiet, almost ashamed. Your chest tightened. "You’re not." Jeongyeon scoffed. "My husband sure thinks so."

There it was—the bitterness, the frustration. You’d heard it in her voice over the phone, seen it in the way her texts got shorter lately. But hearing it now, raw and unfiltered, was different. You hesitated. Then, carefully, you said it. "Maybe he’s the one failing you."

Her head snapped up. You held her gaze, even as your pulse kicked up. "Just saying. You’re Jeongyeon. You don’t fail. You just… haven’t been given the right support."

For a long moment, she just stared at you. Then, quietly: "That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in months."

The silence stretched. The café noise faded into background static. Then, Jeongyeon leaned back in her chair, studying you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. "You always this smooth when you’re saving people?"

You grinned, deflecting. "Only when they’re pretty." It was a joke. Mostly. But the way her breath hitched—just for a second—wasn’t. Jeongyeon recovered fast, rolling her eyes. "Shut up." But her cheeks were pink.

You laughed, leaning back too. "Make me." he second the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. Because Jeongyeon’s eyes darkened. Just a fraction. Just enough. And just like that—the air between you wasn’t just shifted. It was charged.

Jeongyeon swirled the melting ice in her glass, the condensation dripping onto the table. She didn’t look up when she spoke next. "Why are you doing this?" The question hung between you, heavier than she probably intended.

You tilted your head. "The loan stuff? I told you—"

"No." She cut you off, finally meeting your eyes. "Not just the paperwork. All of it. The calls. The favors. The way you just… show up." Her voice wavered, just slightly. "Why?"

You could’ve given her a dozen easy answers. Because we’re friends. Because it’s nothing. Because I had time. But the way she was looking at you—like she already knew those were lies—made your throat tighten. So you told the truth. "Because I like you."

Jeongyeon froze. You chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck like it was some casual confession. "I mean, come on. You know that. I’ve been obvious since forever."

She stared. "That’s not funny."

"Not trying to be." You held her gaze, even as your pulse hammered. "But it’s whatever. I didn’t say it to make things weird. Just… answering your question."

Jeongyeon’s fingers tightened around her glass. "You never said anything."

"Yeah, well." You shrugged. "You got married." The words landed like a punch. Her breath hitched. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The café noise—the chatter, the clinking cups—felt miles away. Then, quietly, Jeongyeon said: "That’s it?"

You blinked. "What?"

"You just… let it go?" There was something raw in her voice now, something almost accusatory. "You never—" She cut herself off, shaking her head.

You leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Jeongyeon. What was I supposed to do?"

She didn’t answer. So you kept going, softer now. "I wasn’t gonna be that guy. The one who ruins shit because he can’t handle his feelings. You were happy. That mattered more."

Jeongyeon let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Happy." The bitterness in her voice made your chest ache. You hesitated. Then, carefully: "…Are you? Happy?" She looked away. That was answer enough.

You exhaled slowly. "Look. I didn’t tell you this to mess with your head. I just…" You ran a hand through your hair. "I don’t want anything from you, okay? This isn’t some fucking transaction. I helped because I wanted to. That’s it."

Jeongyeon’s jaw clenched. "That’s bullshit." You stiffened. "What?"

"You don’t just do things like this without wanting something back." Her voice was low, almost trembling. "Everyone wants something." The hurt in her words—the certainty—made something in you snap.

"Okay, fine." You leaned in, lowering your voice. "You wanna know what I want? I wanted to see you smile again. I wanted you to stop looking at your phone like it was gonna bite you. I wanted—" You caught yourself, forcing a breath. "Fuck. It doesn’t matter. Point is, I don’t expect anything. Not from you."

Jeongyeon’s lips parted. For a second, she just stared at you, her eyes wide, searching. Then, slowly, something in her expression shifted. "…Liar."

The word wasn’t angry. It was soft. Almost wondering. Jeongyeon held your gaze, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You do want something."

Your mouth went dry. She was right. You wanted her. Not like this—not in some messy, guilty way. But it was too late for that now. The truth was out, hanging between you like a live wire. And the way she was looking at you? Like she knew. Like maybe—just maybe—she wanted it too.

You scoffed, shaking your head before a soft chuckle escaped your lips—light, disarming, the kind of laugh that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. Jeongyeon blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. "God, you’re stubborn," you mused, propping your chin lazily on your palm, fingers drumming against your cheek. "Fine. Since you’re so convinced—what exactly do you think I want, Jeongyeon?"

The question hung between you, playful but edged with something heavier. She stiffened, her fingers tightening around her glass again. For a second, she looked like she might deflect—laugh it off, change the subject, retreat behind that familiar wall of hers. But then her gaze flickered down to your lips, just for a heartbeat, before snapping back up. "I don’t know," she muttered, but the way her voice dipped—lower, rougher—betrayed her.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Then why’d you call me a liar?"

Jeongyeon’s jaw worked. "Because you are."

"Mmm." You hummed, leaning in just slightly, close enough that if either of you shifted, your knees might brush under the table. "Or maybe you’re just hoping I am."

Her breath hitched. You grinned, pulling back before the tension could snap. "Relax. I told you—I don’t expect anything. Not a damn thing." You swirled your drink, ice clinking. "Helping you wasn’t some grand scheme. I just…" You shrugged, voice softening. "I like seeing you okay. That’s all."

Jeongyeon stared at you, her expression unreadable. Then, abruptly, she let out a sharp exhale. "You’re infuriating."

You blinked. "Me?"

"Yes, you." She dragged a hand through her hair, frustration bleeding into her voice. "You can’t just—say shit like that and act like it’s nothing."

You held up your hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I’m not the one reading into it."

"Bullshit." Her eyes flashed. "You know what you’re doing."

You paused. Then, slowly, your smile faded. "Do I?" The quiet sincerity in your voice made her freeze. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick, charged—like the static before a storm.

Then, Jeongyeon did something unexpected. She laughed. It wasn’t her usual bright, snorting laugh. This was quieter. Rougher. Almost disbelieving. "God," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "This is so fucked."

You raised an eyebrow. "What is?"

She met your eyes, her own dark with something you couldn’t name. "You. Me. This." She gestured vaguely between you. "The fact that you’re sitting here, looking at me like—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. You waited. Jeongyeon exhaled sharply. "Like you still see me."

The raw honesty in her voice punched the air from your lungs. You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until finally, Jeongyeon pushed back her chair with a scrape of wood against tile. "I should go."

You didn’t stop her. But as she turned to leave, you called out, voice low: "Jeongyeon." She paused, shoulders tense. You smiled, small and sad. "For the record? I always see you." Her breath audibly caught. Then, without another word, she walked away.

Jeongyeon stopped mid-step. Her back was still turned to you, shoulders rigid under the thin fabric of her blouse. The café door was just a few feet away—freedom, escape, the easy way out—but something rooted her in place.

You watched the tension coil in her frame, the way her fingers flexed at her sides like she was fighting with herself. Then, slowly, she turned around.

Her expression was unreadable as she strode back to the table and dropped into her seat with a quiet thud. She didn’t speak. Just leveled you with a look—not angry, not frustrated, but something far more dangerous. Calculating.

You raised an eyebrow. "Change your mind?"

She ignored the question, leaning forward until the table pressed into her forearms. "What do you really want?"

The demand was sharp, stripped of any pretense. You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Jeongyeon’s glare deepened. "This isn’t funny."

"It’s a little funny," you admitted, grinning as you mirrored her posture, elbows on the table. "You’re acting like I’m holding a gun to your head. Relax. I already told you—"

"And I don’t believe you." Her voice was low, insistent. "No one does something like this without wanting something in return."

You sighed, tilting your head. "Okay, fine. Let’s say you’re right. What do you think I want?"

Her jaw tightened. "I’m not playing this game."

"Not a game," you said lightly. "Just curious what’s going on in that head of yours."

Jeongyeon exhaled through her nose, fingers tapping impatiently against the table. Then, abruptly, she leaned back, crossing her arms. "You’re enjoying this."

You blinked. "What?"

"This." She gestured between you. "Watching me squirm. Knowing I can’t just—walk away from this."

The accusation hung in the air, sharp enough to cut. For the first time since she’d sat back down, your smile faded. "That’s not what this is."

"Then what is it?" The question was a challenge. A dare. You held her gaze, the humor draining from your voice. "You really need an answer that badly?"

Jeongyeon didn’t flinch. "Yes." Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. Then, slowly, you shrugged. "Fine. If you’re insisting so much…" You leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur. "I’ll take whatever you think is fair. Whatever best you can offer."

Her breath hitched. You grinned, leaning back before the tension could snap. "Happy now?" Jeongyeon stared at you, her expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, she let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You’re joking."

"Am I?" She studied you for a long moment—searching for the punchline, the trap, the ulterior motive. But when she found nothing, something in her posture shifted. "…You’re serious."

You shrugged again, feigning nonchalance. "I mean, you’re the one who didn’t want to believe me when I said I didn’t want anything. So." You spread your hands. "There’s your answer." Jeongyeon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. "This is ridiculous."

"Yep." You popped the ‘p,’ grinning. "But hey, at least now you can stop overthinking it." She shot you a look. "I’m not—"

"You are," you interrupted, laughing. "It’s written all over your face."

Jeongyeon opened her mouth—probably to argue—but then stopped. For a second, she just looked at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then, quietly, she said: "You’re really not going to ask for anything."

It wasn’t a question. You met her gaze, all traces of humor gone. "No." The word hung between you, simple and final. Jeongyeon swallowed. And for the first time since she’d walked back to this table—for the first time in years, maybe—she looked lost.

The air between you grew heavier with each passing second of silence. Jeongyeon’s fingers traced idle patterns on the tabletop, her gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder—anywhere but directly at you. You studied the tension in her jaw, the way her throat worked as she swallowed hard. "So," you finally broke the quiet, voice softer now. "What are you gonna do?"

Her eyes flicked back to yours, sharp. "About what?"

You held her stare, unflinching. "About this." A vague gesture between the two of you. "About your husband. About… whatever it is you’re feeling right now."

Jeongyeon let out a slow breath through her nose, her shoulders tightening. "I don’t know." The admission came out strained, almost angry—but not at you. At herself. You hesitated, then went for the question that had been burning in your chest since she sat back down. "…How bad is it, really? With him."

Her laugh was hollow. "What, you want details?"

"I want the truth." You kept your voice steady, even as your pulse thrummed. "Not whatever polished version you think you’re supposed to give."

Jeongyeon’s fingers stilled. For a long moment, she just stared at her half-empty glass, lips pressed into a thin line. Then— "He looks at me like I’m a problem he can’t solve." Her voice was quiet, rough at the edges. "Like every bill, every late payment, every fucking stress in our lives is somehow my fault." She dragged a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. "And the worst part? I let him. Because some stupid, pathetic part of me still thinks—" She cut herself off, shaking her head.

Your chest ached. "Thinks what?" Her eyes met yours, dark and wounded. "That if I just try harder, it’ll fix itself." The raw honesty in her words hit like a punch. You’d known things weren’t perfect—how could they be, with the way she’d been carrying that weight for months?—but hearing it laid bare like this?

You leaned forward without thinking, your voice dropping. "Jeongyeon. Listen to me. None of this is on you." She scoffed. "Easy for you to say."

"No, it’s not." The words came out sharper than you intended. "Because I’m sitting here watching someone I—" You caught yourself, jaw tightening. "Watching someone important tear herself apart over shit she can’t control. And it’s killing me."

Jeongyeon went very, very still. The silence stretched, thick with everything left unsaid. Then, quietly, she asked: "Why does it matter to you so much?"

There it was. The question you’d both been dancing around since she walked back to this table. You could’ve lied. Could’ve brushed it off with a joke or a deflection. But the way she was looking at you—like she already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway—left no room for half-truths.

So you told her. "Because it’s you." Simple. Devastating. "It’s always been you." Jeongyeon’s breath audibly hitched. And just like that—the fragile dam between you cracked.

Jeongyeon's fingers tightened around her glass, knuckles whitening under the pressure. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension as she avoided your gaze, chewing on her lower lip in that nervous habit she'd never quite shaken.

Then, abruptly, she spoke.

"I could fuck you."

Your drink nearly slipped from your hand.

She said it so casually—like she was discussing the weather—but the storm in her eyes betrayed her. This wasn't casual. This wasn't simple. This was calculated.

"What?" Your voice came out strangled.

Jeongyeon leaned forward, the table pressing into her forearms as she held your stare without flinching. "You heard me." A beat. "As thanks. For helping me."

The words hung between you, sharp and dangerous.

You should've laughed it off. Should've made a joke, defused the bomb she'd just dropped between you. But the way she was looking at you—eyes dark and defiant, like she was daring you to call her bluff—made your throat go dry.

So you played along. "That's your solution?" Your lips quirked, though there was no humor in it. "Seriously?"

Jeongyeon shrugged, too casual to be genuine. "You said you'd take whatever I could offer. So." Another shrug, but her fingers trembled against the glass. "There it is."

Liar. You saw right through her. This wasn't about gratitude. This wasn't some transactional exchange. This was Jeongyeon, standing at the edge of a cliff and daring herself to jump. You exhaled slowly, forcing your voice steady. "You don't owe me anything."

"I know that," she snapped, but the fire in her words was undercut by the way her breath hitched. "That's not—" She cut herself off, dragging a hand through her hair in frustration. Silence. Then, quieter: "Just say yes or no."

You studied her—the flush creeping up her neck, the way she couldn't quite meet your eyes now. The want she was trying so desperately to mask as something else. And you made your choice. "No."

Her head jerked up, eyes wide. "What?"

You held her gaze, unwavering. "If you're going to proposition me, Jeongyeon, do it because you want to. Not because you think you owe me." A beat. "Not because you're trying to punish yourself."

Her breath caught. Bullseye. For a long moment, she just stared at you, lips parted slightly—like she couldn't decide whether to argue or bolt. Then, slowly, something in her expression shifted.

"...What if I do want to?"

The whispered admission hung between you, fragile and raw.

You didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Jeongyeon swallowed hard, vulnerability flashing across her face before she steeled herself again. "What if this wasn't about debts or gratitude?" Her voice dropped, rough around the edges. "What if it was just... me?"

The air between you grew thicker, heavier—like the charged stillness before a lightning strike.

And then, before you could respond— Jeongyeon reached across the table.

Her fingers brushed against yours, tentative at first, then firmer as she laced them together. The contact sent a jolt through you, electric and undeniable.

Her gaze never left yours. "Tell me to stop," she murmured.

You didn't. Your fingers remained entwined with hers, the warmth of her skin searing into you like a brand. The rational part of your mind screamed at you—pull away, shut this down, don’t be the one who ruins everything.

But the other part—the selfish, aching, weak part that had loved her for longer than you cared to admit—won.

You didn’t tell her to stop.

Jeongyeon exhaled, shaky and uneven, like she’d been holding her breath. Then, slowly, deliberately, her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, aching sweep.

“…Coward,” she murmured, but there was no bite in it. Just something unbearably soft.

You huffed a quiet laugh, even as your pulse pounded in your throat. “Takes one to know one.”

Her lips twitched. “Maybe.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The world outside this table—the café, the noise, the life waiting beyond this fragile, stolen moment—faded into irrelevance.

Then, Jeongyeon’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Come home with me.”

The words weren’t a question. They weren’t even an invitation.

They were a decision.

Your breath stalled. “Jeongyeon—”

“Not his place,” she clarified, voice low. “Mine. The apartment I got after—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening. “Just mine.”

The implication hung between you, heavy and unmistakable.

She was choosing this.

Choosing you.

The last shred of your resistance crumbled.

You squeezed her hand back, your voice rough. “Yeah. Okay.”

Jeongyeon’s eyes darkened—relief, want, something dangerously close to desperation flickering in their depths.

Neither of you spoke as she stood, pulling you up with her. Her fingers stayed tangled with yours as she led you out of the café, the weight of what you were about to do settling over you both like a storm cloud.

And for the first time in years—

You didn’t look back.

Time Skip – Jeongyeon’s Apartment

The door barely clicked shut behind you before Jeongyeon’s hands were on you—impatient, desperate, her fingers fisting in the front of your shirt as she shoved you back against the wall.

“Fuck,” she breathed against your lips, already chasing your mouth again before you could even catch your breath.

You let her.

God, you let her.

Her kiss was messy, all teeth and clumsy urgency, like she was trying to outrun the thoughts in her head. You groaned into it, hands finding her waist as she pressed against you, her body flush against yours.

“This—” she gasped between kisses, “—is just—once—”

You knew the lie for what it was.

But you played along anyway.

“Yeah,” you murmured against her lips, letting your hands slide down to grip her hips, pulling her closer. “Just once.”

Jeongyeon made a noise—half frustration, half something broken—before surging forward again, her tongue sliding against yours in a wet, sloppy drag. Her fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to sting, and you groaned, your grip on her tightening.

She was everywhere—her thigh slotting between yours, her nails scraping down your back, her breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“You—” she bit at your lower lip, “—better not—fucking—regret this—”

You laughed, rough and breathless, before flipping her around, pinning her against the wall this time.

“You’re the one who should be worried about regrets,” you muttered, ducking your head to nip at her neck.

Jeongyeon gasped, her head thumping back against the wall as your teeth grazed her pulse point.

“Shit—”

Her hands scrambled at your shoulders, your back, like she couldn’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. You didn’t give her the chance to choose—your mouth found hers again, swallowing her moans as your hands slid under her shirt, palms skimming up the warm skin of her stomach.

She arched into your touch with a whine, her body betraying her far more than her words ever could.

“Still just gratitude?” you teased against her lips, thumb brushing over the underside of her breast.

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched.

Then, with a growl, she shoved you back—just far enough to yank her shirt over her head and toss it aside.

“Shut up,” she panted, eyes dark. “And touch me.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched as your hands slid up her bare waist, thumbs brushing the delicate underside of her breasts. Her skin burned under your touch, every inch of her trembling with restraint—like she was fighting the urge to either shove you away or beg for more.

“Fuck,” she gasped when your fingers traced the lace of her bra, her nails digging into your shoulders. “You—ah—you talk too much.”

You smirked against her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there just to feel her shudder. “Me? You’re the one who can’t stop whining.”

She let out a sharp, breathless laugh before catching your lips again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Her tongue slid against yours, hot and demanding, and you groaned, hands tightening on her hips.

“Hnngh—shut up,” she panted between kisses, her voice already wrecked. “Just—fuck—just touch me already.”

You obliged, one hand sliding up to cup her breast through the lace, thumb circling her nipple until it peaked under your touch. Jeongyeon arched into your palm with a broken moan, her head falling back against the wall. “There,” she breathed, hips grinding against yours. “God, yes—just like that—”

You chuckled, leaning in to lick a stripe up her throat. “So fucking needy.”

She whined, high and desperate, her fingers tangling in your hair to yank your mouth back to hers. The kiss was sloppy, all teeth and clashing tongues, but neither of you cared—not when she was melting against you like this, not when every ragged breath she took was yours.

“You’re mine,” you growled against her lips, hands sliding down to grip the waistband of her jeans. “Just for tonight.”

Jeongyeon’s breath stuttered, her eyes fluttering shut for a second before she forced them open again—dark, hungry.

“Yours,” she agreed, voice rough. “Fuck—just—”

You didn’t let her finish.

With a sharp tug, you popped the button of her jeans, fingers sliding beneath the fabric to tease the damp lace of her panties. Jeongyeon jolted, a strangled gasp escaping her as your fingertips brushed over her. “Wet,” you murmured, dragging your fingers along her slit just to hear her whimper. “All for me?”

She nodded frantically, hips canting into your touch. “Y-yes—please—”

The please nearly undid you. Jeongyeon never begged. But here she was, trembling in your arms, her body pliant and yours—even if just for tonight.

You kissed her again, slow and filthy, as your fingers finally slipped beneath the lace, tracing her folds with agonizing slowness.

“Mmmf—!” She broke the kiss with a gasp, her thighs clamping around your hand. “Fuck, don’t—don’t tease—”

You chuckled, nipping at her jaw. “Who’s teasing?” Then you slid a finger inside her. Jeongyeon screamed.

You pulled back suddenly, your fingers slipping out of her with a wet sound that made her whimper. Jeongyeon’s eyes flew open, dazed and confused, her body still arching toward you—chasing the touch you’d just denied her.

“W-what—?” Her voice was wrecked, breathless.

You smirked, stepping back just far enough to lean against the opposite wall, arms crossing over your chest. “Show me.”

Jeongyeon blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Your gaze dropped pointedly to where her jeans were still undone, her panties damp and clinging. “Touch yourself. Put on a show for me.”

Her breath hitched, cheeks flushing darker. For a second, she just stared at you, lips parted—like she couldn’t decide whether to protest or obey.

Then, slowly, her fingers trailed down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. “Fuck,” she breathed as her fingertips brushed her clit, her hips jerking at the contact.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched, your own pulse pounding as Jeongyeon’s fingers began to move in slow, teasing circles. “H-happy?” she gasped, her other hand bracing against the wall for support. You smirked. “Not yet.”

Jeongyeon groaned, but her fingers didn’t stop—if anything, they moved faster, her touch growing more desperate as she teased herself. “Ahh—!” Her head fell back, her thighs trembling. “F-fuck, I—hnngh—”

You stayed where you were, drinking in the sight of her—the way her chest heaved, the way her fingers glistened as they slid lower, dipping inside herself with a broken moan.

“Mmmf—!” Her hips rolled against her own hand, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “Shit, I—I can’t—!”

You finally pushed off the wall, stepping closer—but not touching. Not yet.

“Yes, you can,” you murmured, your voice rough. “Come on, Jeongyeon. Let me see you fall apart.”

Her eyes met yours, dark and pleading—and then she did.

Jeongyeon's fingers worked faster now, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fucked herself with desperate, slick strokes. The wet sounds of her fingers plunging in and out filled the room, mixing with her choked-off moans.

"F-fuck—!" Her head tipped back against the wall, her free hand gripping her own breast roughly, pinching her nipple through the lace of her bra. "Hahh—shit—!"

You stayed where you were, watching her unravel—her thighs trembling, her stomach muscles clenching with every thrust of her fingers. She was close. So fucking close. "That's it," you murmured, your own voice thick with want. "Let me see you come."

Jeongyeon whimpered, her hips jerking erratically as she chased her release. "I—ahh—I can't—!"

"Yes, you can." Your hands flexed at your sides, aching to touch her, but you held back. "Do it. Now."

A broken cry tore from her throat as her back arched off the wall, her body locking up for one suspended second—before she shattered. "NGH—!"

Her thighs clamped around her own hand as she came, her entire body trembling through the waves of pleasure. You watched, transfixed, as her fingers slowed but didn't stop, dragging out every last shuddering aftershock until she was panting, boneless against the wall.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was her ragged breathing. Then, slowly, Jeongyeon lifted her head—her gaze meeting yours, dark and hungry. "Your turn."

The air between you crackled with something electric—charged, dangerous. Jeongyeon’s gaze dropped, her lips parting slightly as she took in the sight of your straining underwear, the fabric stretched taut over the thick outline of your cock. A slow, shaky exhale escaped her.

"Fuck," she breathed, voice rough. You smirked, fingers hooking into the waistband of your boxers. "Problem?"

She didn’t answer. Just watched, transfixed, as you dragged the fabric down inch by torturous inch—until finally, with a sharp snap of elastic, you freed yourself.

Your cock sprang out, thick and heavy, the flushed tip already glistening.

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched. For a moment, neither of you moved. The silence stretched, thick with tension, as her eyes traced every vein, every twitch of your length.

Then, slowly, she reached out—her fingers hovering just above your shaft, trembling slightly. "You’re—" She swallowed hard. "You’re bigger than I thought."

You chuckled darkly, your pulse roaring in your ears. "Gonna be a problem?"

Her gaze flicked up to yours, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. "No," she murmured. "Just means I’ll feel you more."

Her fingers finally made contact—feather-light at first, just a tentative brush of her fingertips along your length.

You hissed through your teeth, your cock jerking in her grip. Jeongyeon smirked, her touch growing bolder as she wrapped her hand around you, giving an experimental stroke. "Fuck," you groaned, your hips bucking into her grip.

She hummed, her thumb swiping over your leaking tip, spreading the precum in slow, teasing circles. "You like that?" she murmured, her voice low and husky.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when her fingers were tightening around you, not when her touch was sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. Jeongyeon leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me how bad you want me."

Jeongyeon's fingers tightened around your cock, her thumb pressing deliberately against the swollen head as she dragged her palm down your length in one slow, filthy stroke. A bead of precum smeared across her skin, glistening under the dim light.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice dripping with something dark and teasing. "So fucking hard just from watching me. Pathetic."You gritted your teeth, your hips jerking into her grip involuntarily. "Shut the fuck up." She laughed—low, breathy—her fingers squeezing just enough to make you groan. "Make me."

Your hands shot out, gripping her waist as you yanked her forward, your cock sliding against her stomach, leaving a wet trail against her skin. "You want me to shut you up?" you growled, your voice rough. "Then stop talking and open that pretty fucking mouth."

Jeongyeon's breath hitched, her lips parting slightly—just enough for you to see the flash of her tongue. "Or what?" she challenged, her fingers still lazily stroking you. "You gonna force me?"

You smirked, your grip tightening on her hips. "Wouldn't have to force you. You've been begging for it since we walked in."

Her eyes darkened, her free hand coming up to grip your wrist—not to push you away, but to anchor herself. "Prove it," she whispered.

You didn't hesitate. One hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back as you shoved your cock past her lips, the tip hitting the back of her throat with a wet choke.

Jeongyeon's eyes watered instantly, her nails digging into your thighs as she gagged around you—but she didn't pull away. "That's it," you groaned, your fingers tightening in her hair. "Take it, slut."

She whimpered, her throat fluttering around you as you pushed deeper, her spit dripping down your shaft.

You pulled back just enough to let her gasp for air before slamming back in, her lips stretched obscenely around your girth. "Fuck—yes," you hissed, your hips jerking forward. "Just like that. Suck it."

Jeongyeon's moan vibrated around you, her tongue pressing against the underside of your cock as she tried to take you deeper. "Good girl," you praised darkly, your fingers tightening in her hair. "Now swallow."

Jeongyeon’s lips were slick and swollen around you, her throat fluttering in ragged, uneven spasms as she fought to take you deeper. Saliva dripped from the corners of her mouth, her mascara smudged in dark streaks beneath her lashes—ruined, just like you wanted her.

She pulled back with a wet gasp, her chest heaving, but you didn’t give her a second to recover. Your fingers twisted tighter in her hair, yanking her head back until her neck arched, her breath hitching in warning.

"Did I say you could stop?" you growled.

Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl, her tongue darting out to lick a slow, deliberate stripe up your shaft. "Make up your fucking mind," she rasped, her voice wrecked. "You want me to suck it or choke on it?"

Cheeky bitch.

You grinned, sharp and predatory, before shoving her back down onto your cock in one brutal thrust.

Jeongyeon gagged, her nails digging into your thighs hard enough to leave marks, but she didn’t fight you. No—her eyes rolled back, her throat convulsing around you as if her body craved the punishment.

"That’s what I want," you muttered, watching the tears well in her lashes as you fucked her mouth in slow, filthy strokes. "You look so fucking pretty like this—lips stretched, throat bulging. Bet you’d let me ruin you for anyone else, huh?"

She moaned around you, the vibration sending a jolt of heat straight to your gut. "Yeah, you would," you continued, your voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Because you’re mine tonight. My cock’s the only thing you’re allowed to think about. The only thing you’re allowed to feel."

Jeongyeon’s fingers clenched tighter, her hips shifting restlessly against the floor—fuck, was she grinding against nothing? You chuckled, pulling her off just enough to let her gasp for air. "Pathetic. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?"

Her chest heaved, her lips glistening with spit and precum. "Fuck you," she wheezed, but the way her thighs squeezed together betrayed her.

"Oh, I will," you promised, dragging your thumb across her bottom lip. "But first? You’re gonna swallow every last drop like the greedy little whore you are."

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched—and then, with a glare that could’ve melted steel, she lunged forward, taking you down her throat in one smooth, brutal motion.

Fuck. You saw stars.

The air between you was thick with the sounds of wet, sloppy gasps and the lewd squelch of Jeongyeon's throat struggling to accommodate you. Her lips were stretched obscenely around your girth, spit dripping down her chin in glistening strands that caught the dim light. You watched, transfixed, as her eyelashes fluttered—not in protest, but in something dangerously close to surrender.

Your fingers remained tangled in her hair, not yanking, not forcing—just guiding, your grip firm enough to remind her who was in control.

Jeongyeon's hands, which had been clawing at your thighs moments ago, now rested limply against them, her fingers twitching occasionally as she fought the instinct to push you away. Her throat convulsed around you in tight, involuntary spasms, each one sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

You exhaled slowly, your free hand coming up to trace the tear tracks on her cheeks with your thumb. "You're doing so well," you murmured, your voice low and steady.

Her eyes flicked up to yours, hazy with lust and something else—something raw and unfiltered. A choked whimper vibrated around your cock as you pushed deeper, her nose brushing against your stomach.

You held her there for a moment, letting her adjust, feeling the way her breath hitched through her nose in shallow, frantic pants. Then, with deliberate slowness, you pulled back until just the tip remained between her lips. Jeongyeon gasped, her chest heaving as she gulped down air, her tongue darting out to swipe weakly at your slit. "Again," you ordered, your tone leaving no room for argument.

She didn't hesitate. Her mouth enveloped you once more, her head bobbing in uneven, desperate strokes as she tried to take you deeper, faster—as if she needed this as much as you did.

You let her set the pace for a few blissful seconds before taking over again, your hips rocking forward in shallow thrusts that had her gagging around you.

"Good girl," you praised, your voice rough but calm. "Just like that."

Jeongyeon moaned, the sound muffled and broken, her fingers flexing against your thighs. You could feel your release building, coiling tight in your gut, but you weren't ready yet. Not when she looked this perfect—messy, wrecked, and utterly yours.

So you slowed, pulling back until she was left panting, her lips swollen and glistening. "Look at me," you commanded. Her gaze lifted, her pupils blown wide with want. You smirked. "Let's try that again."

The moment you released your grip on her hair, Jeongyeon didn't pull away. Instead, she dove back in with a hunger that bordered on desperation, her lips sealing around your cock with a wet, obscene noise that echoed in the quiet of the apartment.

This time, she took control.

Her hands came up to grip the base of your shaft, her fingers tightening just enough to make your breath hitch as she began moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Her tongue pressed flat against the underside of your cock, dragging up in long, languid licks before swirling around the head with a teasing flick. "Fuck—" you exhaled, your fingers flexing at your sides.

Jeongyeon hummed in response, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. She glanced up at you through her lashes, her gaze dark and knowing, before sinking down again—deeper this time, her throat fluttering as she forced herself to take more.

Spit dripped from her lips, slicking your length as she worked you over with a messy, unhurried rhythm. Every pull of her mouth was deliberate, every flick of her tongue calculated to drag out every last shred of your restraint.

You could feel the heat coiling low in your stomach, your muscles tensing as she pushed you closer and closer to the edge. "Jeongyeon—" you warned, your voice rough.

She didn't stop. If anything, she doubled down, her pace quickening just slightly as her fingers twisted at the base of your cock, her other hand coming up to cup your balls with a gentle, teasing pressure. Your hips jerked forward involuntarily, a groan tearing from your throat as you felt yourself teetering on the brink.

Jeongyeon pulled back at the last second, her lips popping off your cock with a lewd sound as she leaned back on her heels, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and glistening, her eyes half-lidded with something dangerously close to satisfaction.

"Come on," she murmured, her voice wrecked. "Let me see it."

You didn't need to be told twice. With a sharp exhale, you reached down, fisting your cock in one rough stroke as your release spilled over her face in thick, uneven stripes.

Jeongyeon didn't flinch. She held your gaze the entire time, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop as it slid down her cheek. "Messy," she mused, her lips curling into a smirk. You chuckled, breathless. "You love it."

Jeongyeon wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, her fingers coming away sticky as she examined the mess you'd left on her skin. A slow, knowing smirk curled at her lips as she looked up at you, her gaze dripping with something between amusement and challenge.

"You really didn't want anything in return, huh?" she drawled, arching an eyebrow. "Could've fooled me."

You exhaled a laugh, your cock still twitching against your thigh, half-hard and glistening under the dim light. "Funny. I seem to recall someone insisting I take payment." You tapped her cheek lightly with two fingers—just enough to make her nose scrunch up in irritation. "What was it again? 'Just once'?"

Jeongyeon swatted your hand away, her lips twisting into a scowl that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, well, maybe I overestimated your self-control."

"Or maybe," you countered, leaning in just enough to see her breath hitch, "you underestimated how good you'd look with my cum on your face."

Her cheeks darkened, but she held your stare, unflinching. "Wow. Real poetic. Should I be flattered?"

You chuckled, dragging your thumb along her bottom lip, smearing the remnants of your release against her skin. "You tell me. You're the one who practically begged for it."

Jeongyeon's eyes narrowed. "I did not beg—"

"Could've fooled me," you echoed, grinning as you gave her cheek a playful smack with the side of your cock—just hard enough to make a wet, lewd sound against her skin.

She gasped, her hand flying up to swat at you again, but you caught her wrist before she could land the hit. "Hey—!"

You tsked, shaking your head. "Naughty. Don't get pissy just because I'm right." Jeongyeon yanked her arm free with a scoff, wiping at her face again—more aggressively this time. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," you mused, tilting your head, "here you are. Still on your knees."

Her lips parted—then snapped shut again, her jaw working as she visibly fought back whatever retort was on the tip of her tongue.

The smirk on Jeongyeon’s lips faltered for just a second—just long enough for you to catch the flicker of something raw beneath the snark. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers stilling where they’d been wiping at her cheek. "This is fucked up," she muttered, more to herself than to you.

You didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. Jeongyeon’s gaze dropped to the floor, her shoulders tensing. "I hate that I don’t hate this."

You tilted your head, studying her. "Guilt doesn’t suit you." She barked out a laugh, bitter and sharp. "Yeah, well, neither does cheating on my husband."

There it was. The admission, ugly and unfiltered, hanging in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. You didn’t flinch. "You think I don’t know that?"

Jeongyeon’s eyes snapped up to yours, searching—for judgment, for disgust, maybe even for permission. But all she found was quiet understanding. "Then why—?" Her voice cracked.

"Because you needed it," you said simply. "Not just the sex. Not just the distraction. This—someone who doesn’t look at you like you’re a problem to fix."

Her breath hitched. You reached out, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone, smearing the last traces of your release still clinging to her skin. "He’s drowning, and he’s dragging you down with him. But you? You’re still alive."

Jeongyeon shuddered, her lashes fluttering shut for a brief moment before she forced them open again. "That’s not an excuse."

"Did I say it was?" You leaned in, close enough that your breath ghosted over her lips. "I’m just telling you the truth. Whether you want to hear it or not."

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "I hate you." You smirked. "Liar." Jeongyeon didn’t argue.

The air between you was thick with something heavier than lust—something raw and unspoken, tangled in the way Jeongyeon's breath still hitched when you touched her, in the way her fingers trembled even as she tried to glare at you.

You let the silence stretch a beat longer, watching the conflict play out behind her eyes—guilt, want, frustration, all warring for dominance. Then, with a slow smirk, you leaned in, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell you what," you murmured, your thumb dragging along her lower lip. "Let me distract you properly."

Jeongyeon's brow furrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to—ah!"

Her protest cut off in a sharp gasp as you suddenly gripped her thighs and yanked her forward, dragging her across the floor until her legs were sprawled on either side of your hips. She barely had time to brace her hands against your shoulders before you were leaning in, your breath hot against the inside of her thigh.

"You're thinking too much," you muttered, nipping at the sensitive skin there just to feel her jolt. "So shut up and let me fix that."

Jeongyeon's breath came faster, her fingers tightening in your shirt. "Y-you—"

With deliberate slowness, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of her jeans, peeling them down her hips along with her soaked panties. The scent of her hit you immediately—warm, heady, undeniably hers—and you groaned, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the crease of her thigh.

"Fuck," Jeongyeon whimpered, her hips jerking involuntarily.

You chuckled darkly, your hands sliding under her ass to lift her just enough—then, without warning, you licked a slow, filthy stripe from her entrance all the way up to her clit. Jeongyeon arched, a broken cry tearing from her throat as her thighs clamped around your head. "Oh my god—!

You didn't give her a chance to recover. Your tongue swirled around her clit in tight, relentless circles, your fingers digging into her hips to keep her from squirming away. She was drowning in it—her back bowed off the floor, her hands fisting in your hair hard enough to hurt, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

"You taste perfect," you growled against her, the vibration drawing another desperate whimper from her lips. "Bet you'd come perfect, too."

Jeongyeon sobbed something incoherent, her hips canting into your mouth shamelessly now, chasing the pleasure with a desperation that bordered on pathetic. And you let her.

You let her grind against your tongue, let her fingers tug at your hair, let her fall apart—because for once, she wasn't thinking about debts or guilt or her failing marriage.

She was just feeling. And God, was it beautiful.

Jeongyeon’s thighs trembled violently as she hovered above your face, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The flush on her chest had deepened, spreading down to the tops of her breasts, her skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Her fingers dug into the back of the couch for balance, her knuckles white with tension.

“Fuck—fuck, wait—” she panted, her voice strangled. You smirked up at her, your hands gripping the backs of her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. “Scared?”

Her eyes flashed—dark, defiant, needy. “Shut up,” she hissed, but her hips jerked forward anyway, her cunt hovering just inches from your mouth.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting your breath ghost over her slick folds. Jeongyeon whimpered, her thighs tightening around your head. “Do it,” you murmured, your voice rough. “Sit.”

For a heartbeat, she hesitated—then, with a sharp inhale, she lowered herself onto your mouth in one slow, deliberate motion.

The moment your tongue made contact, she jolted, a broken cry tearing from her throat as her hands flew to your hair, fisting in it desperately. “Oh—oh my god—!”

You groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her entire body as you licked a slow, filthy stripe from her entrance to her clit. Jeongyeon’s hips jerked forward instinctively, grinding against your mouth with a shameless, desperate roll.

“Fuck—right there—!” she gasped, her thighs clamping around your head as you swirled your tongue around her clit in tight, relentless circles.

You could feel her unraveling—the way her muscles tensed, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tugged at your hair hard enough to hurt. She was close, teetering on the edge, her entire body coiled tight with tension.

And then— “Wait—!” she suddenly gasped, her hands yanking your head back just enough to break contact. You blinked up at her, your lips still wet with her. “Problem?”

Jeongyeon’s chest heaved, her pupils blown wide with lust. “I—I don’t—” She swallowed hard, her grip on your hair loosening slightly. “I don’t wanna come yet.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?” She shook her head, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “I want—fuck—I want you to ruin me first.”

Your smirk returned, slow and predatory. “Oh, Jeongyeon,” you murmured, your hands sliding up to grip her hips. “You should’ve just said so.”

Then, without warning, you yanked her back down onto your mouth. The moment your tongue delved back in, Jeongyeon’s entire body arched—her back bowing off the couch, her thighs clamping around your head like a vice. A broken, guttural moan tore from her throat as you licked into her with slow, filthy precision, your nose brushing against her clit with every upward stroke.

“F-fuck—!” Her fingers twisted violently in your hair, yanking hard enough to make your scalp sting. “Right there—don’t stop—!”

Your hands slid up to grip her ass, fingers digging into the supple flesh as you pulled her harder against your mouth, your tongue swirling around her clit in tight, relentless circles. Jeongyeon jolted, her hips jerking erratically as she ground down onto your face, her wetness smearing across your chin. “Hahh—! Oh god—!” Her voice was raw, wrecked, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “M-more—!”

Your tongue flicked faster, your lips sealing around her clit to suck hard, just the way you knew she liked it. Jeongyeon shrieked, her thighs trembling violently as her orgasm crashed over her—wave after wave of pleasure wracking her body as she clenched around nothing, her cunt pulsing against your tongue. But you didn’t let up.

The moment her high started to fade, you dug your tongue back in, licking broad, flat strokes from her entrance to her oversensitive clit. Jeongyeon sobbed, her hands shoving weakly at your forehead. “W-wait—too much—!”

You ignored her. Your fingers tightened on her ass, holding her in place as you lapped at her, your tongue fucking into her in shallow, teasing thrusts. Jeongyeon’s protests dissolved into wordless, hysterical moans, her body twitching helplessly as you pushed her right back to the edge.

“Ngh—! P-please—!” Her voice was barely a whisper, her thighs shaking uncontrollably. “I c-can’t—!” You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, your lips glistening. “You can,” you murmured, before diving back in.

For a brief, suspended moment, the only sound in the room was Jeongyeon’s ragged breathing—uneven, exhausted, her chest rising and falling in shallow tremors. Her fingers, still tangled loosely in your hair, twitched weakly as she tried to catch her breath, her thighs slackening around your head just enough to let cool air brush against her overheated skin.

You pulled back slightly, resting your forehead against the inside of her thigh, your own breath warm against her damp skin. Jeongyeon exhaled shakily, her voice hoarse. "...You're insane." You chuckled, pressing a soft, almost chaste kiss to the crease of her thigh. "And yet you're still here." She huffed, her fingers flexing in your hair—not pulling, just holding. "Shut up."

You grinned, tilting your head to nuzzle against her skin, your lips brushing feather-light over the faint marks your stubble had left behind. Jeongyeon shivered, but she didn’t push you away.

For a heartbeat, it was almost sweet—the way her fingers carded through your hair absently, the way her breath steadied just slightly, the way her body relaxed incrementally under your touch.

Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, you dragged your tongue up the inside of her thigh—teasing, not quite touching where she really wanted you. Jeongyeon growled, her grip tightening in your hair. "Asshole."

You laughed, low and rough. "You love it." Her eyes narrowed, her lips curling into something dangerously close to a smile—before she yanked your head back where she wanted you. "Prove it."

Jeongyeon barely had time to gasp before your hands were under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly off the couch. Her arms instinctively wrapped around your neck, her breath hitching as you carried her through the dimly lit apartment—her legs dangling over your forearm, her back pressed flush against your chest.

"W-wait—" she stammered, but you were already pushing open the bedroom door with your shoulder, the hinges creaking softly in protest.

The bed dipped under her weight as you dropped her onto the mattress, her body bouncing slightly before settling against the rumpled sheets. Jeongyeon propped herself up on her elbows, her hair mussed, her lips still swollen from earlier—but before she could speak, you were crawling over her, your hands sliding up her sides to the hem of her shirt. "Off," you ordered, your voice rough.

Jeongyeon exhaled sharply, but she didn't argue—just lifted her arms obediently as you tugged the fabric over her head, tossing it somewhere to the side. Her bra followed seconds later, the clasp giving way with a practiced flick of your fingers.

And then—there she was. Her breasts spilled into your palms the moment you cupped them, warm and heavy, her nipples already pebbled under your touch. Jeongyeon whimpered, her back arching off the bed as your thumbs brushed over the sensitive peaks, circling them in slow, teasing strokes.

"Fuck," she breathed, her fingers twisting in the sheets.

You smirked, leaning down to drag your tongue over one taut bud, savoring the way her breath hitched. "Like that?"

Jeongyeon nodded frantically, her hips canting up uselessly. "Y-yes—more—"

You obliged, sealing your lips around her nipple and sucking hard, your tongue flicking over the peak in quick, relentless circles. Jeongyeon cried out, her back bowing off the mattress as pleasure shot straight to her core, her thighs clamping together instinctively. "Ahh—!" Her hands flew to your hair, tugging desperately. "D-don't stop—!"

You had no intention of stopping. Switching to her other breast, you lavished it with the same attention—nipping, licking, sucking until she was writhing beneath you, her moans growing increasingly broken. "So sensitive," you murmured against her skin, your teeth grazing her nipple just to hear her squeak. "Bet I could make you come just like this."

Jeongyeon's breath stuttered, her hips jerking at the thought—but before she could respond, you pinched her neglected nipple between your fingers, rolling it roughly.

Jeongyeon’s chest heaved under your mouth, her skin glistening with a mix of sweat and spit as you dragged your tongue in broad, sloppy strokes from the swell of one breast to the other. Her nipples were stiff and flushed, pebbled from the constant attention—and you weren’t done yet.

You leaned back just enough to watch the way her breath hitched, her eyes dark and half-lidded as she stared up at you. Then, with deliberate slowness, you let a thick string of saliva drip from your lips onto her left nipple. "F-fuck—" she gasped, her back arching off the bed as the cool wetness hit her overheated skin.

You smirked, blowing lightly on the spit-slick peak just to watch her shiver. "You like that?" Jeongyeon’s fingers twisted in the sheets, her thighs pressing together restlessly. "Y-you’re disgusting," she breathed, but the way her chest rose and fell betrayed her.

"Mm, sure," you hummed, before leaning back down and licking a long, filthy stripe up the underside of her breast, gathering the spit that had pooled there. Jeongyeon whined, her hips jerking as your tongue swirled around her nipple again, this time with just enough pressure to make her toes curl.

"Hahh—!" Her hands flew to your hair, gripping tight as you sealed your lips around her and sucked hard, your tongue pressing flat against the sensitive bud.

You could feel her trembling beneath you, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you switched to her other breast, repeating the same torturous attention—slobbering over her skin, letting spit drip down the curve before licking it back up with slow, exaggerated strokes. Jeongyeon’s moans grew increasingly desperate, her back arching off the bed as you teased her mercilessly, your mouth hot and wet against her. "M-more—" she begged, her voice cracking.

You pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, your lips still glistening. "More what?" Jeongyeon’s cheeks flushed darker, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "More—fuck—more of this—"

You grinned. "Good girl." Then you dove back in, your mouth drowning her in sensation—sucking, licking, slobbering over every inch of her tits until she was a writhing, whimpering mess beneath you.

The last of Jeongyeon’s clothing hit the floor with a soft thud, leaving her bare beneath you—her skin flushed, her chest still heaving from the relentless attention you’d paid to her breasts. Your own clothes followed soon after, tossed carelessly aside until there was nothing left between you but the slick heat of skin on skin.

Your cock, already spit-slick and heavy from earlier, twitched against her thigh as you settled between her legs. Jeongyeon’s breath hitched at the contact, her hips canting up instinctively—but you didn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet.

Instead, your fingers trailed down her stomach, tracing idle circles over her hipbones before dipping lower, just brushing the damp curls between her thighs. Jeongyeon jolted, her nails digging into your shoulders. “Fuck—quit teasing—”

You smirked, pressing a single finger against her entrance, relishing the way her breath stuttered. “You’re already dripping,” you murmured, dragging your fingertip through her slick folds before pushing in, just to the first knuckle. Jeongyeon’s back arched, a choked moan spilling from her lips as her walls fluttered around you. “Ahh—!”

“So fucking wet,” you growled, curling your finger just so, drawing another broken sound from her throat. “All for me?” Jeongyeon’s lips curled into a smirk, despite the way her thighs trembled around your hand. “Don’t—hnngh—don’t flatter yourself,” she panted, her hips rolling against your fingers. “I just—ah!—haven’t been fucked properly in ages.”

You chuckled, adding a second finger and scissoring them slowly, stretching her as her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. “Liar,” you murmured, leaning down to nip at her collarbone. “You’re starving for it.”

Jeongyeon whined, her nails scraping down your back as you crooked your fingers, rubbing against that spot inside her with deliberate precision. “Shit—!”

You didn’t let up, your thumb circling her clit in tight, relentless strokes as your fingers fucked into her, slow and deep. “Tell me,” you demanded, your voice rough. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Jeongyeon’s head thrashed against the pillows, her thighs clamping around your wrist as pleasure coiled tight in her gut. “I—fuck—I hate you—”

You laughed, pressing harder, faster, until her words dissolved into a wordless, hysterical moan. “Yeah?” you taunted, your lips brushing her ear. “Then why are you shaking?”

Jeongyeon sobbed, her hips jerking erratically as you pushed her closer and closer to the edge—until, with a sharp cry, she shattered, her cunt clenching around your fingers as her orgasm ripped through her. You didn’t stop. Not until she was whimpering, her hands shoving weakly at your wrist. “T-too much—”

You pulled your fingers free with a wet pop, bringing them to your lips and licking her taste off with a satisfied hum. “Perfect,” you murmured, before leaning down to kiss her—deep and filthy, letting her taste herself on your tongue.

Jeongyeon moaned into your mouth, her fingers tangling in your hair as she kissed you back with equal fervor. When you finally pulled away, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark with want.

“Now,” she panted, her legs hooking around your hips, pulling you closer. “Fuck me.”

You grinned, your cock pressing against her entrance, the tip already slick with her arousal. “Gladly.”

The first thrust was deliberate—slow, torturous, the thick head of your cock spreading her open inch by obscene inch until Jeongyeon’s nails carved crescent moons into your shoulders, her breath stuttering in her throat like a broken record. “F-fuck—” she choked out, her cunt fluttering around you as you bottomed out, her walls clenching like they were trying to milk you dry already.

You groaned, your hips pressing flush against hers, your cock twitching inside her as you gave her a moment to adjust—though adjusting was a fucking joke when her pussy was dripping, her thighs shaking like she’d been starved for it.

Jeongyeon’s head tipped back, her lips parted in a silent gasp as you pulled out almost all the way—just to slam back in with a sharp snap of your hips that punched a ragged scream from her lungs.

“AHHH—!”

That’s more like it. Your hands dug into the meat of her thighs, spreading her wider as you set a brutal pace—no finesse, no patience, just raw, filthy fucking, your cock pistoning in and out of her with enough force to make the bed creak beneath you.

Jeongyeon sobbed, her back arching off the mattress as you hammered into her, each thrust dragging over that spot inside her that made her vision whiten at the edges. “S-shit—!” Her fingers scrambled for purchase, clawing at the sheets like she was clinging for life. “H-harder—!”

You laughed, breathless, your hips snapping forward with enough force to jolt her up the bed. “Greedy,” you growled, your fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise as you yanked her back onto your cock. “Take it.”

Jeongyeon’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, her cunt squeezing around you like a vice as you pounded into her, the wet, squelching sounds of her pussy taking you filling the room alongside her broken moans. “F-fuck—!” Her legs locked around your waist, her heels digging into your ass as if she could force you deeper. “Ruin it—!”

Your fingers tangled violently in Jeongyeon's sweat-damp hair, wrenching her head back until her throat strained in a perfect, vulnerable arch. The choked gasp that spilled from her lips sent a surge of possessive heat straight to your cock, buried to the hilt inside her clenching warmth.

"Look at you," you snarled, your hips snapping forward in a brutal piston motion that made her toes curl against the small of your back. "Taking my cock like a fucking slut after all that whining."

Jeongyeon's moan cracked into a sob as you angled deeper, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing off the walls with each merciless thrust. "S-shut u—AHH!" Her protest dissolved into a shriek as you yanked her hair harder, exposing the fluttering pulse at her throat to your teeth.

You bit down - not enough to break skin but enough to make her squirm, her cunt convulsing around you in desperate little spasms. "You love this," you growled against her sweat-slick skin, punctuating each word with a punishing snap of your hips. "Love getting used, love being my filthy little cock sleeve—"

"Nnh—liar—!" she keened, but the way her nails scored bloody crescents down your back betrayed her. Her thighs trembled where they clamped around your waist, her slick coating your balls with every filthy thrust.

A cruel smirk curled your lips as you adjusted your grip, wrapping her hair around your fist like a rein before pulling - forcing her to meet your gaze through tear-blurred lashes. "Then why," you hissed, driving into her with a particularly vicious stroke that made her eyes roll back, "are you dripping all over my dick, Jeongyeon?"

Her mouth opened - to protest, to curse you, to beg - but all that escaped was a broken wail as you pounded into her, your free hand groping the sweat-slick swell of her breast to pinch a nipple hard. The dual sensations tore another ragged scream from her throat, her walls fluttering around you in erratic pulses as she teetered dangerously close to the edge.

"N-not—not yet—!" she sobbed, her hips jerking in aborted little circles, torn between chasing her pleasure and fleeing the overwhelming sensation.

You laughed - your thrusts turning erratic as your own control frayed. "Beg me to stop then," you challenged, your teeth grazing the shell of her ear. "Go on. Try."

Jeongyeon's breath hitched - her lips parted - Jeongyeon's ragged panting filled the air as her thighs trembled around your waist, her cunt still spasming weakly from the brutal pace you'd set. Sweat glistened along her collarbones, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven jerks as she struggled to catch her breath.

But then—her lips curled. A slow, defiant smirk spread across her swollen mouth, her eyes—still hazy with lust—locking onto yours with something dangerously close to challenge. "You really think..." she panted, her hips rolling just enough to make your cock twitch inside her, "...that this is the worst I've taken?"

Your grip tightened in her hair instinctively, yanking her head back further until her throat arched. "Oh?" you murmured, your thumb brushing roughly over her nipple. "You saying you can handle more?"

Jeongyeon's smirk widened, even as her breath hitched when you twisted your hips, grinding deep. "I'm saying..." she gasped, her fingers scrambling against the sheets, "...you're not half as scary as you think you are."

Bold words.

You chuckled, your free hand sliding down to grip her thigh, digging your fingers into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. "Let's test that theory," you purred—before slamming back into her with enough force to make the headboard crack against the wall. Jeongyeon's back arched off the bed, a broken scream tearing from her throat as you set a punishing new rhythm, each thrust jarring through her with brutal precision. "F-fuck—!"

"Scared yet?" you taunted, your voice rough with strain as her walls clenched around you, her body betraying her bravado with every ragged moan. Jeongyeon's nails dug into your shoulders, her legs locking around your waist tighter—pulling you deeper. "N-not even—ahh!—close," she gasped, her smirk wavering but still there. Oh, you'd break that smirk soon enough.

The air was thick with the scent of sex—musky, primal, hers—as your hips pistoned into Jeongyeon with relentless, animalistic force. Sweat dripped from your brow onto her heaving chest, mingling with the sheen glistening across her flushed skin. Every brutal thrust punched another ragged sound from her throat—ah-ah-AHH!—her voice cracking under the assault.

Jeongyeon’s thighs trembled where they locked around your waist, her heels digging into the small of your back as if she could somehow force you deeper. Her cunt was drenched, clenching around you in erratic spasms, the wet squelch of your cock plunging in and out obscenely loud in the otherwise silent room.

“F-fuck—fuck—!” she sobbed, her nails carving crimson trails down your shoulders. “Y-you’re—nngh!—gonna break me—!”

You laughed, dark and breathless, your fingers tightening in her hair as you yanked her head back, exposing the delicate column of her throat to your teeth. “Good,” you groaned before biting down, sucking a bruise into her pulse point as you hammered into her with enough force to jolt her up the bed.

Jeongyeon screeched, her back arching off the mattress, her walls fluttering around you in desperate, uneven clenches. “I-I can’t—!”

“You can,” you snarled, your thrusts turning erratic, your balls slapping against her ass with every snap of your hips. “You’re gonna take it—gonna take every fucking drop—”

Her breath hitched—her eyes widened— And then you slammed into her one last time, burying yourself to the hilt as your orgasm ripped through you with blinding force. “FUCK!”

Hot ropes of cum pulsed deep into her womb, your cock twitching violently as you filled her, your hips grinding forward in shallow, instinctive rolls to milk yourself dry. Jeongyeon wailed, her cunt convulsing around you as her own climax crashed over her—wave after wave of pleasure wracking her body as she dripped around your still-spurting cock.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the wet drip of your combined releases leaking from her stretched hole.

Then—Jeongyeon collapsed back onto the mattress, her limbs boneless, her chest rising and falling in uneven jerks. “...holy shit,” she slurred, her voice wrecked. You smirked, pressing one last, filthy kiss to her swollen lips. “Told you I’d ruin you.”

The room was quiet now, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioner and the steady rhythm of Jeongyeon’s breathing as she lay beside you, her body still warm and pliant from the aftershocks of pleasure. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the scent of sex still lingering in the air, but for now, none of that mattered.

Her fingers traced idle patterns across your chest, her touch feather-light, as if she were memorizing the feel of your skin. You turned your head to look at her, and for the first time that night, her expression was unguarded—soft, almost vulnerable in the dim light. "This was... nice," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "More than nice, actually."

A small, tired smile curved her lips, but there was something in her eyes—something bittersweet, something final. You knew what this was. A goodbye. Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead before letting your fingers linger against her cheek. "Yeah," you agreed quietly. "It was."

Jeongyeon exhaled, her lashes fluttering as she leaned into your touch for just a second longer before pulling away. "I mean it," she said, her voice firmer now, though still laced with something unspoken. "I’ll... remember this."

But not enough to stay. The words hung between you, unvoiced but understood. You swallowed the ache in your throat and smiled—really smiled—because if this was all you got, then you’d make sure it was enough. "Good," you said, your thumb brushing one last time over her cheekbone. "Then it was worth it."

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched, just slightly, before she shifted, curling into your side with a quiet sigh. You wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, memorizing the weight of her against you—the way her body fit so perfectly against yours, as if it were made to be there. But morning would come. And when it did, she would leave. For now, though—just for tonight—you let yourself pretend.

Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes of gold across the rumpled sheets where she had been. You reached out before you were fully awake, fingers brushing empty space—still warm, but not enough. The pillow beside you bore the faintest indentation, the ghost of her weight already fading.

The apartment was silent. No rustle of fabric. No hum of the shower running. No soft, sleep-roughened voice murmuring good morning. Just stillness.

You sat up, running a hand through your hair as your gaze swept the room. Her clothes—scattered across the floor last night—were gone. The glass of water she’d left on the nightstand was untouched. And on the pillow, a single folded note. You didn’t need to open it to know what it said. Some things weren’t meant to last.

You exhaled, slow and measured, before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. The sheets still smelled like her—like sweat and perfume and something hers—but even that would fade soon. Morning had come. And just like she promised, she was gone.

Interlude: Strangers Again

The first time you saw her after that night was at the grand reopening of her boutique.

Jeongyeon stood near the entrance, dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored slacks, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She looked every bit the polished business owner—smiling at customers, shaking hands with investors, her laughter bright and practiced. And when her eyes met yours across the room, there was nothing. No flicker of recognition. No warmth. No guilt. Just the polite, detached smile she reserved for strangers.b

Your chest tightened, but you kept your expression neutral as you approached. "Congratulations," you said, handing her the envelope—the final paperwork that would secure her shop’s future. "Thank you," she replied, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest second before pulling away. "We appreciate your help."

We. Not I. Not you and me.

Just we—the royal kind, the kind that meant nothing at all. You forced a smile. "Of course. Business is business." jeongyeon nodded, already turning to greet the next guest, her dismissal clear.

The second time was at a supplier meeting.

You sat across from her in a too-bright conference room, the terms of the new contract laid out between you like a battlefield. Jeongyeon’s husband—tall, broad-shouldered, with a grip that lingered just a second too long when he shook your hand—flanked her like a guard dog. "We’re grateful for your continued support," he said, his voice smooth. "Jeongyeon’s told me how instrumental you’ve been."

You glanced at her, searching for something—a crack in the facade, a hint of the woman who’d gasped your name into the dark. But she just sipped her coffee, her gaze fixed on the paperwork. "Just doing my job," you replied.

Jeongyeon’s pen paused mid-signature. For a heartbeat, the air between you thickened—then she exhaled, scribbling her name with a flourish before pushing the document toward you. "Then consider this the final step," she said, her voice steady. "We won’t need to trouble you anymore."

Her husband smiled. You pretended not to notice the way her knuckles whitened around her cup.

The last time was an accident.

You turned a corner in the shopping district and there she was—no husband, no customers, just Jeongyeon in a sundress, her arms full of fabric samples.

For a second, neither of you moved. Then, quietly: "...Hi." The word was so soft you almost missed it. You swallowed. "Hi."

Jeongyeon shifted her grip on the samples, her eyes darting past your shoulder like she expected someone to appear. "The shop’s doing well," she said finally.

"I heard." a pause. The tension between you was palpable, thick with everything unsaid. Then— "I should go," she murmured, already stepping around you.

You didn’t stop her. But as she walked away, you could’ve sworn you saw her fingers rise—just for a second—to touch the spot on her neck where your teeth had left a mark.

Then she rounded the corner. And just like before, she was gone.

One Month Later

Rain pattered against the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the Seoul skyline into streaks of neon and shadow. You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled beneath your chin as you scanned the quarterly reports—numbers and projections that usually held your focus. Tonight, they were just ink on paper.

A knock at the door. "Come in," you called, not looking up.The door creaked open. Silence.

Then—

"...Hi."

A voice you hadn't heard in weeks. A voice that shouldn't have made your pulse jump. Your head snapped up.

Jeongyeon stood in the doorway, her hair damp from the rain, her fingers twisting around the strap of her purse. No polished smile. No husband in sight. Just her—eyes wide, lips parted, like she'd just run here. Like she wasn't sure why she came. The clock on the wall ticked once. Twice.

You opened your mouth—

Jeongyeon’s Interlude – One Month Earlier

Jeongyeon had slipped out before dawn, her body still singing with the aftershocks of your touch, her skin still carrying the phantom weight of your hands. The note she left was deliberate—polite, impersonal, final. A clean break. Or so she told herself.

But reality had other plans.

Her husband barely noticed her absence when she returned home. He was already halfway through his morning coffee, scrolling through stocks on his phone. "Shop’s reopening next week," she said, testing the waters.

"Mm," he grunted, not looking up. "Good." That was it. No questions. No how did you pull this off? No thank you.

Jeongyeon’s fingers clenched around her own cup. You would’ve asked. You would’ve cared. She swallowed the Thought like a poison.

Two Weeks Later

The boutique flourished. Customers returned. Investors smiled. Her husband, for the first time in months, looked at her. "We should celebrate," he said one night, his hand sliding up her thigh under the dinner table. Jeongyeon stiffened.

His touch was wrong—too familiar, too entitled, like he’d earned the right to her body simply because the business was thriving again. You had touched her like she was precious. She forced a smile. "Not tonight." His expression darkened, but he let her go.

Three Weeks Later

The first time her husband tried to fuck her after that night with you, it was a disaster.

He didn’t prepare her. Didn’t kiss her. Just rolled on top of her, rutting into her dry cunt like he was claiming territory. Jeongyeon bit her lip until it bled, her mind treacherously replaying the way you had worshipped her—the way your tongue had lapped at her until she dripped, the way your cock had stretched her just right, the way you’d whispered against her skin—

"You’re not even wet," her husband snapped, pulling out with a frustrated grunt. She turned her face into the pillow. "Sorry." He didn’t try again.

Four Weeks Later

The dreams started.

Vivid, filthy dreams of you—of your mouth between her thighs, of your hands pinning her wrists, of your voice growling "mine" as you came inside her.

Jeongyeon woke up aching, her panties soaked, her husband snoring beside her. Guilt curdled in her stomach. But worse than the guilt? The longing.

The Breaking Point

The final straw came on a Tuesday.

Her husband brought her coffee—remembered her order for the first time in years—and smiled like he expected a medal.

Jeongyeon stared at the cup, her chest tight.

You had helped her when she had nothing. You had looked at her like she was everything. And what had her husband done? Waited until the storm passed to pretend he gave a damn? Something inside her snapped.

Present Day – Your Office

Rain streaked the windows as Jeongyeon stepped inside, her breaths coming too fast. She looked wrecked. Her hair was damp, her lips bitten raw, her eyes wild with something between desperation and fury.

"Tell me it was just sex," she demanded, her voice trembling. "Tell me you didn’t mean any of it."

The clock ticked. Outside, thunder rumbled. And Jeongyeon—proud, stubborn, broken Jeongyeon—finally cracked. "Because I can’t stop thinking about you."

The air between you crackled like live wires as Jeongyeon stood frozen in your office doorway, raindrops glistening in her hair like shattered diamonds. Your fingers twitched against the armrest of your chair—instinct urging you to stand, to reach for her, to wipe that storm-tossed vulnerability from her face.

Instead, you let the silence stretch. Let her squirm.

Then—slow as sunrise—your lips curved into a smile. Not the polite, professional one you’d worn at her boutique reopening or those agonizing supplier meetings. This was something darker. Hungrier.

"Jeongyeon-ssi," you purred, leaning back in your chair with deliberate laziness. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her throat bobbed. You watched the way her fingers tightened around her purse strap—knuckles whitening—before she lifted her chin. "Don’t." A single syllable, sharp as shattered glass. "Don’t fucking pretend with me."

Oh?

You arched a brow, swiveling your chair just enough to let one knee fall open in a silent invitation. "Then tell me why you’re here," you countered, voice dropping to a velvet growl. "And look me in the eye when you say it."

For a heartbeat, she wavered. Then—

"I hate you." The words tore from her like a confession, her chest heaving. "I hate how you—how you look at me. Like you see me. Like you—" Her voice broke.

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. "Like I what?"

Jeongyeon flinched.

And that’s when you struck.

Rising fluidly, you closed the distance between you in three strides, crowding her back against the door until it clicked shut behind her. She gasped as your palm slapped against the wood beside her head, caging her in.

"Say it," you demanded, your breath hot against her parted lips. "Or I’ll walk away right now."

A lie. You’d burn the world before walking away from her again.

Jeongyeon’s eyes flooded with furious, traitorous want.

"Like you love me," she whispered.

The moment the words left Jeongyeon’s lips—like you love me—your fingers were already moving.

One hand still braced against the door, the other slipped beneath the waistband of her skirt, fingertips skating over damp silk before finding her aching clit in one ruthless stroke.

“Ahh—!”

Jeongyeon’s back arched off the door, her hips jerking against your hand as a broken moan tore from her throat. Her nails dug into your shoulders, her entire body trembling—betrayed by how wet she already was.

“F-fuck—!” she gasped, her head thudding back against the wood. “W-wait—!”

You didn’t.

Your thumb circled her clit in tight, cruel spirals, your lips brushing her ear as she squirmed. “You don’t get to say that,” you growled, “and then tell me to stop.”

Jeongyeon whined, her thighs clamping around your wrist as pleasure jolted through her—sharp and too much after a month of nothing. “I—I didn’t—!”

“Didn’t what?” You nipped at her earlobe, your fingers sliding lower to tease her entrance, gathering her slick. “Didn’t miss this?” A slow, torturous push inside—just one finger, just to feel her clench. “Didn’t dream about it?”

“Ngh—!” Her breath came in ragged pants, her hips rolling helplessly against your hand. “Y-you bastard—!”

You laughed, dark and breathless, curling your finger just so—

Jeongyeon screamed, her cunt pulsing around you as her orgasm ripped through her without warning. Her knees buckled, her entire body seizing as she soaked your fingers, her moans filthy and unrestrained.

You held her up, your lips grazing her temple as she shook through the aftershocks. “Now,” you murmured, “tell me why you’re really here.”

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched—her eyes glassy, her lips swollen—before she collapsed against you, her voice barely a whisper.

“…I couldn’t stay away.”

Jeongyeon’s body still trembled against you, her thighs slick with the evidence of just how easily she fell apart under your touch. You withdrew your fingers slowly, watching her eyelashes flutter at the loss—before pressing them against her lips.

“Lick.”

A command, not a request.

Her breath hitched, but after a heartbeat of defiance, her tongue darted out, obediently cleaning her own arousal from your fingers. The sight sent a bolt of possessive heat straight to your cock—fuck, she was made for this. Made for you.

You tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet your gaze. “You really thought you could pretend we were just colleagues?” Your thumb dragged over her bottom lip, smearing the last traces of her taste. “After the way you screamed for me? After the way you came on my cock like a slut?”

Jeongyeon flinched, but her pupils were blown, her chest rising and falling in erratic little jerks. “I—I had to—”

“Had to what?” Your voice dropped, sharp as a blade. “Run back to a husband who only touches you when the business is profitable? Who fucks you like he’s doing you a favor?”

A choked sound escaped her throat—half-protest, half-sob—but you didn’t relent.

“I helped you,” you snarled, your fingers tightening in her hair. “Not for the shop. Not for gratitude. Because I wanted you—every damn part of you. And you knew that.”

Jeongyeon’s lips parted, but no words came.

You leaned in, your mouth brushing her ear. “But here’s the truth, baby.” A dark chuckle. “You liked it. Liked knowing I’d ruin everything just to keep you. Liked knowing I ached for you while you played fucking house.”

Her breath stuttered.

“And today?” You pulled back just enough to see the guilt and want warring in her eyes. “You couldn’t take it anymore, could you? Couldn’t stand another night of his pathetic dick when you remembered how mine felt.”

Jeongyeon whimpered, her hips twitching forward like she was already seeking friction.

You grinned.

“Say it.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“I missed you,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “I missed your hands, your mouth, your—fuck—your cock.” Her nails dug into your biceps. “I hate that I do, but I—I can’t stop—”

There it was.

The confession you’d been waiting for.

You let out a slow, satisfied exhale before sealing your lips over hers in a kiss that was more punishment than affection—tongue sliding against hers, stealing her breath, claiming her all over again.

When you pulled away, her lips were bruised, her eyes dazed.

“Good girl,” you murmured, dragging your thumb over her swollen mouth. “Now let’s fix that problem of yours.”

The moment your lips crashed back into hers, Jeongyeon melted—her defiance dissolving into a needy, sloppy mess of tongue and teeth. You could taste her surrender, bitter and sweet all at once—coffee from earlier, the lingering salt of her arousal, the sharp tang of her guilt.

Her mouth was sinful, opening eagerly under yours as she moaned, her hands scrambling to grip your shirt like she was afraid you’d vanish.

"Mmhn~... Fuck," she gasped when you bit her lower lip, tugging just hard enough to make her whimper.

You smirked against her mouth, one hand sliding down to palm the plush curve of her ass through her skirt, squeezing roughly. "This what you missed?"

Jeongyeon jolted, her hips instinctively rocking forward—only for your other hand to slide up, fingers roughly kneading the soft weight of her breast through her blouse.

"Ahh~!" Her back arched, pressing herself deeper into your touch as her nipple hardened under your palm. "Y-yes—more—"

You let out a dark chuckle, rolling her stiffened peak between your fingers before dragging her blouse down just enough to expose her.

"Look at you," you murmured, watching her flushed skin pebble under your gaze. "One month without me, and you're desperate."

She whined, her breath hitching as you leaned down, sealing your lips around her nipple and sucking hard—

"Ngh~! Hahh—!" Her nails clawed at your shoulders, her thighs trembling as you teased her with your teeth, your tongue, your hands—every touch calculated to remind her exactly what she’d been missing.

The storm outside raged—thunder cracking like a whip, rain slashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows in furious streaks. The city below was a blur of smeared neon and shadow, the glass trembling faintly under the wind’s assault.

And yet, all Jeongyeon could hear was the ragged sound of her own breathing.

Your mouth was everywhere—hot and demanding as it trailed down her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse before laving the sting away with your tongue. Your hands mapped her body like you were relearning her, reclaiming her—one rough squeeze of her ass, one possessive grope of her breast at a time.

“Ahh~… ngh…” Her head fell back against the window, the glass cool against her feverish skin. The contrast was maddening—the storm’s chill at her back, your heat pressed against her front.

You smirked, watching her reflection in the rain-streaked glass—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, blouse half-undone, skirt rucked up around her hips. “Look at you,” you murmured, nipping at her earlobe. “My pretty little mess.”

Jeongyeon whined, her hips jerking forward in search of friction, but you held her still, your grip firm.

“Not yet,” you chided, dragging your fingers down her stomach, tracing the waistband of her panties—soaked through, just for you. “Gonna make you feel it first. All of it.”

And then your hand slid lower, cupping her through the damp silk, rubbing just hard enough to make her jolt.

“F-fuck!” Her nails scraped against the glass, her thighs quivering. “Y-you—ahh~!”

You laughed, low and dark, your thumb circling her clit in slow, taunting strokes. “Tell me,” you breathed against her throat. “Tell me what you really came here for.”

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched—not just from the pleasure, but from the weight in your voice. The ache. The love you weren’t bothering to hide anymore.

And that—more than your touch, more than the storm, more than the risk of being seen—was what undid her.

“You,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “I—I came for y-you—”

Your fingers dipped beneath the fabric, sliding through her slick folds, and Jeongyeon shattered with a sob, her orgasm crashing over her like the tempest outside.

With a single guiding hand on her waist, you backed Jeongyeon toward your desk—your grip firm, your silence deliberate. The storm outside painted erratic shadows across the polished wood as she stumbled into its edge, her breath already ragged.

But then—without a word—she pushed you into your chair.

Her fingers trembled as they worked your belt, her pupils blown wide with want. The leather hissed free, your zipper rasped down, and then—

"Fuck," you growled as her small hands curled around your cock, already aching, already throbbing for her.

Jeongyeon didn’t hesitate.

Her lips parted around you, sinking down with a whimper, her tongue pressing hot and eager along your length before hollowing her cheeks to take you deeper.

"Mmmph~… ngh…" Her lashes fluttered as she pulled back, spit-slick and messy, her gaze locked on yours—pleading, possessive, starving.

You let out a rough exhale, your fingers threading into her hair—not guiding, just feeling the way she shivered at the contact.

"Missed this?" you taunted, your voice gravel-dark.

Her answer wasn’t words.

It was the way her nails dug into your thighs, the way her throat fluttered as she swallowed you down again, the way her moans vibrated against your cock like a prayer.

But more than that—it was the tears welling in her eyes as she looked up at you, raw and ruined, like she’d been waiting for this moment since the second she walked away.

Like she’d needed it.

Like she’d needed you.

And that—more than her mouth, more than the storm, more than the fucking city spread out beneath you—was what made your grip tighten in her hair.

"That’s it, baby," you murmured, watching her lips stretch around you. "Take what’s yours."

Jeongyeon’s lips were a wreck—swollen, glistening, stretched obscenely around your cock as she bobbed her head with frantic, desperate hunger. Every inch of her was dripping—her chin slick with spit, her lashes damp with tears, her thighs clenched tight around nothing as she whimpered around you.

Her tongue dragged along your shaft in slow, sloppy strokes, her nose pressing into your pelvis as she took you deep, her throat fluttering in weak little spasms—

"Mmmf—! Hngh~…"

—before pulling back with a gasp, her lips popping off your tip, a thin string of saliva still connecting her to you.

Your hand fisted in her hair, yanking her back before she could catch her breath.

"Did I say you could stop?" you growled, your hips rolling up to meet her mouth again.

Jeongyeon’s eyes watered, her fingers digging into your thighs as she choked around you—but she didn’t fight it.

No, she leaned into it, her moans vibrating against your skin as she let you use her, her tongue laving at your length like she was starved for the taste.

And when your thumb brushed her cheek, smearing the mess she’d made of herself?

She whined, her cunt clenching around nothing—because fuck, she loved this.

The sharp rap at the door sent Jeongyeon’s entire body locking up, her wide, panicked eyes flicking up to yours—but you didn’t let her pull away.

Your fingers tightened in her hair, forcing her back down onto your cock with a firm thrust of your hips.

"Mmmph—!" Her muffled whimper vibrated deliciously around you as her nose pressed into your pelvis, her throat fluttering in protest before relaxing into helpless submission.

"Come in," you called, voice perfectly steady—as if you weren’t currently balls-deep in Yoo Jeongyeon’s sinful mouth.

The door creaked open.

Your assistant manager stepped inside, oblivious, a tablet in hand as rain lashed against the windows behind him. "Sir, the quarterly reports on the new investments just came in. The numbers look strong, but there’s a discrepancy in—"

"Mmm." You cut him off with a hum, your expression schooled into mild disinterest as you lightly rocked your hips, just enough to make Jeongyeon gag softly around you. "Leave it on the desk. I’ll review it later."

The assistant manager hesitated, glancing at the floor—where Jeongyeon’s abandoned purse lay half-hidden under the chair—before nodding. "Right. Of course."

Then—

"Hahh… ngh~…"

A tiny, broken sound escaped Jeongyeon’s throat—barely audible over the storm’s relentless drumming against the glass.

The assistant manager frowned. "Did you hear—?"

"Just the wind," you dismissed smoothly, your fingers massaging Jeongyeon’s scalp in a silent warning. "Close the door on your way out."

For a second, it seemed like he might argue—but then he just nodded again, setting the tablet down before turning to leave.

The click of the door shutting was the sweetest sound Jeongyeon had ever heard.

You yanked her up by her hair, her lips sliding off your cock with a lewd pop, her face a mess of spit and tears.

"F-fuck," she gasped, her chest heaving.

You grinned, thumbing away a stray droplet from her chin. "Told you you’d be good at this."

The moment the door clicked shut, you yanked Jeongyeon up by her hair—her lips leaving your cock with a slick pop—and crushed your mouth against hers in a filthy, possessive kiss. She tasted like salt and sin, her breath hitching as your tongue claimed hers, your grip unrelenting.

But then—

"W-wait—mmph!"

Her protest died against your lips as she felt it—the smooth, cool slide of silk tightening around her wrists behind her back. Your spare tie, pulled taut in one practiced motion, knotting her hands together before she could even process what was happening.

Jeongyeon jerked, her eyes flying wide—but you just smirked, nipping at her bottom lip as you leaned back to admire your handiwork.

"Pretty," you murmured, tracing a finger down her bound arms, watching the way the fabric dug into her skin. "Now you’re really mine."

She shivered, her thighs clamping around nothing, her cunt dripping at the realization—helpless, exposed, yours.

The storm outside had reached a fever pitch—rain hammering against the glass like a thousand impatient fingers, thunder growling low and hungry in the distance. But inside, the only sound was Jeongyeon’s ragged breathing as you traced the tip of your pen down the column of her throat.

"Ahh…" Her head fell back, her bound hands flexing uselessly behind her as the cool metal dragged over her pulse.

You tsked, circling her collarbone next, the pressure just shy of pain. "So sensitive," you mused, watching goosebumps erupt in the pen’s wake. "One month without me, and you’re falling apart at a touch."

Jeongyeon whined, her hips jerking forward—but you denied her, stepping back just out of reach.

"Patience," you chided, setting the pen aside to drag your fingertips down her arms instead, digging in just enough to make her squirm. "I’m relearning you."

Your hands mapped her—sculpting the tension from her shoulders, kneading the softness of her waist, skating up her ribs to brush the undersides of her breasts—

"Ngh—!" Her back arched, her nipples pebbling under her blouse.

You hummed, finally cupping her through the fabric, your thumbs flicking over her hardened peaks until she was panting, her thighs glued together in a futile attempt to relieve the ache.

"Please," she gasped, her voice broken.

You grinned, leaning in to lick a stripe up her throat. "Please what?"

Jeongyeon shuddered, her answer lost in a moan as your teeth sank into her shoulder—

—right as your other hand slid into her panties, your fingers dipping into her drenched folds without warning.

"FUCK!"

Her scream echoed off the glass, her cunt clenching around nothing as you teased her entrance, circling her clit with maddening slowness.

"This what you needed?" you murmured, your lips grazing her ear as your fingers tortured her. "My touch? My attention?"

Jeongyeon nodded frantically, her body thrumming with overstimulation, her sanity unraveling with every brush of your fingers.

You chuckled, denying her release just a little longer— —because fuck, you’d missed this too.

Your fingers danced along her inner thigh—featherlight, teasing—just shy of where she needed you most.

“Hahh… ngh…” Her breath hitched, her hips twitching upward in a silent plea. “F-fuck—just—”

You clicked your tongue, dragging your nails up her sensitive skin instead, watching the way her muscles jumped under the sensation. “Just what, baby?”

Jeongyeon whined, her wrists straining against the silk tie binding her. “You know,” she gasped, her voice fraying at the edges. “You’re—fuck—you’re hard for me anyway, so just—ahh!”

Your hand slapped her inner thigh—sharp, stinging—and she jolted, a fresh wave of slick dripping down her folds.

“That,” you growled, leaning in until your lips brushed the shell of her ear, “isn’t how this works.”

Your free hand dug into her hip, holding her still as you finally dragged a single fingertip through her soaked slit—slow, taunting, circling her clit just once before pulling away.

Jeongyeon sobbed, her back bowing off the desk. “P-please—”

“Please what?” you purred, your cock throbbing against your zipper as you watched her unravel. “Use your words.”

She shook her head, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip—stubborn even now, even when her body was begging.

Your mouth descended on her neck, sucking a bruise into her pulse point as your fingers traced her entrance again—pressing in just enough to make her clench around nothing.

“F-fuck!” Her thighs trembled, her cunt pulsing with every near-touch. “I—I can’t—!”

“You can,” you murmured against her skin, your teeth scraping over her collarbone. “And you will.”

Your thumb flicked her clit—once, hard—and Jeongyeon screamed, her body locking up as the first wave of her orgasm ripped through her.

But you didn’t stop. No, you chased it, your fingers driving her higher, deeper, until she was shaking, whimpering, her sanity fraying at the edges—until she was sobbing your name like a prayer. And only then did you finally give her what she really wanted.

With a single tug, the silk tie slithered loose from Jeongyeon’s wrists. She gasped as circulation rushed back into her fingers, her pulse hammering where the fabric had bitten into her skin. You leaned back in your chair, spreading your thighs with a challenge in your smirk.

"Surprise me."

For a heartbeat, she just stared—lips parted, chest heaving, her blouse hanging open to reveal the marks you’d left on her breasts. Then, like a storm breaking, her eyes darkened.

Jeongyeon moved.

In one fluid motion, she spun around, her skirt hiking up as she straddled your lap—back to you, her plush ass pressing against your aching cock. Your hands instinctively gripped her hips, but she slapped them away with a breathless laugh.

"Ah-ah," she purred, glancing at you over her shoulder through her lashes. "My turn."

Then she rose on her knees, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your slacks and briefs, dragging them down just enough to free your cock—thick, twitching, dripping with pre-cum.

"Fuck," you gritted out as she rubbed herself against your length, her slick coating you, her heat maddening.

Jeongyeon moaned, her head falling back as she notched your tip at her entrance—

—and then sank down in one slow, sweet slide.

"Hahh~! Ngh—!" Her back arched, her cunt fluttering around you as she took you deep, her ass jiggling with every inch.

The mirror across the office caught it all—the way her tits bounced as she began to ride you, the way your hands dug into her thighs, the way her face twisted in pleasure as she chased her high.

"Look," you growled, slapping her ass hard enough to leave a handprint. "Look at how good you take me."

Jeongyeon’s eyes fluttered open, meeting yours in the reflection—dazed, desperate, ruined.

"M-more," she begged, her hips rolling faster. "Please—"

You grinned, helping her move with a hand on her waist—

—just as the door creaked open again.

The door swung open with a soft click—just as Jeongyeon’s hips stuttered mid-bounce, your cock buried to the hilt inside her.

Your assistant—Kim Soojin, early twenties, usually unflappable—stood frozen in the doorway, a stack of files clutched to her chest. Her eyes went comically wide, her face flushing a shade of red usually reserved for emergency exit signs.

Jeongyeon squeaked, instinctively trying to hide her face—but with her back to the door and her hair a mess of tangled waves, all Soojin could see was the obscene way her boss’s wife (as she assumed) was impaled in reverse cowgirl, skirt hiked up around her waist, your hands gripping her hips like you owned them.

"S-Sir—!" Soojin stammered, her voice cracking.

You didn’t stop.

In fact, you rolled your hips up, making Jeongyeon gasp as you smirked at your flustered employee. "Soojin-ssi," you drawled, voice dripping with amusement, "didn’t anyone teach you to knock?"

Soojin made a noise like a deflating balloon. "I—I did! Earlier! I just—the contracts—!" She flailed the files like a white flag.

Jeongyeon, mortified, dug her nails into your thighs—whether to silence you or anchor herself, you weren’t sure.

"Mm. Contracts." You squeezed Jeongyeon’s ass, relishing the way her cunt clenched around you. "Leave them on the desk. Quietly."

Soojin scurried forward, eyes glued to the floor, her entire body radiating panic as she practically threw the papers onto the nearest surface.

"S-sorry! So sorry! Won’t happen again! Ever!"

She bolted for the door—only to trip over Jeongyeon’s abandoned purse, sending it skidding across the floor with a clatter.

"Jesus—!"

The door slammed shut behind her.

Silence.

Then—

"Oh my god," Jeongyeon whispered, her entire body burning with humiliation.

You chuckled, thrusting up into her hard enough to make her yelp. "Now that," you murmured, nipping at her shoulder, "was a surprise."

Jeongyeon moaned, her resolve crumbling as you rolled her hips again, her earlier shame drowning in a fresh wave of lust.

"Bastard," she panted—but she was already moving again, her ass clapping against your thighs.

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched as your hips snapped up, driving your cock deeper inside her—her slick walls fluttering around you in shameless betrayal.

"Ahh~ ngh…!" Her fingers clawed into your thighs, her back arching as you rolled into her with deliberate, punishing strokes.

You smirked, your voice a low, taunting growl against her ear. "Look at you… getting wetter just because someone saw you." Your hands dug into her hips, guiding her movements as she bounced on your lap. "Did you like that? Knowing she could see your fat ass stuffed full of cock?"

Jeongyeon whimpered, her face burning—but the way her cunt clenched around you told the truth.

"N-no…" she lied, her voice shaking as you thrust up harder, the slap of skin echoing off the glass walls.

"Bullshit," you chuckled, one hand sliding around to pinch her clit between your fingers—making her jolt with a broken cry. "You loved it. Your pussy’s dripping."

Her moan shattered as you circled her sensitive bud, your other hand groping the curve of her ass, spreading her just enough to watch where your cock stretched her.

"M-maybe…" she finally gasped, her hips grinding down in desperate little circles. "F-fuck… maybe I did…"

You groaned, your grip tightening as you pounded up into her, hard enough to make her screech.

"God, you’re perfect."

But then—

Your hands dug into the plush flesh of her ass, spreading her cheeks wide as you admired the view—her glistening pussy stretched around your length, her untouched pucker fluttering with every thrust.

"Fuck," you growled, your thumb brushing over her tight rim, making her jolt. "Look at this… virgin hole."

Jeongyeon whined, her thighs trembling as she tried to clench—but you held her open, your cock pulsing at the thought of claiming her there too.

"Y-your husband," you mused, your voice dark with amusement, "ever try to fuck this pretty little ass?"

She scoffed, her breath hitching as you circled her rim with your thumb. "A-ain’t no one… ahh~!… big enough to try…"

You chuckled, slowing your thrusts to a torturous grind. "Lucky me."

Then—

You leaned forward, your tongue laving a hot, sloppy stripe up from her cunt to her asshole, spitting directly onto her tight ring before pressing in with your tongue.

"HOLY—!" Jeongyeon shrieked, her back arching, her hands scrambling for purchase on your desk. "F-fuck! W-what are you—AHHH~!"

You dug in deeper, your tongue fucking into her with lewd, open-mouthed strokes, your spit dripping down to mix with her arousal.

"Mmm… so fucking tight," you groaned against her, your fingers kneading her ass as you prepped her. "Gonna ruin you here too."

Jeongyeon sobbed, her cunt gushing around your cock as you teased her ass with your tongue—loosening her, stretching her, claiming her in a way no one else had.

And when you finally pulled back, your thumb pressing into her slick, relaxed hole—

—she begged.

"P-please…" Her voice was raw, broken. "I… I want it…"

You grinned, your cock throbbing at the surrender in her tone.

"Then take it."

The air between you was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and something darker—hunger, possession, the thrill of first times. Jeongyeon’s body trembled as you pulled your cock from her dripping cunt, the pop of your release sending a fresh wave of slick down her thighs.

"Ngh…" She clenched around nothing, her hips twitching backward—seeking you even now.

You smirked, dragging the thick head of your cock through her folds, coating yourself in her arousal before teasing her untouched rim with your tip.

"Breathe," you murmured, your free hand massaging the plush curve of her ass. "And relax."

Jeongyeon nodded, her fingers gripping the edge of your desk, her knuckles white with tension.

Then—

You pressed in.

Just the tip.

"F-fuck—!" Her entire body locked up, her back arching, her cunt pulsing around nothing as the burn of the stretch seared through her.

You froze, your jaw clenching at the unbelievable tightness. "Jesus," you gritted out, your fingers digging into her hips. "You’re clenching me like a vice."

Jeongyeon whined, her thighs quivering. "I-it hurts—"

"I know," you soothed, leaning over her to kiss the sweat-slicked curve of her spine. "But it’ll feel so good soon."

You pulled back—just half an inch—before easing in again, deeper this time, the slow, relentless stretch making her whimper.

"Ahh… ngh…" Her fingers scrabbled at the desk, her body adjusting inch by agonizing inch.

You groaned, your cock throbbing as her walls fluttered around you, fighting the intrusion even as they yielded. "Fuck, you’re perfect," you praised, your voice rough with restraint. "Taking me so well."

Jeongyeon moaned, the pain already morphing into something hotter, darker—the fullness, the shame, the filthy knowledge that she was letting you ruin her here.

And when you finally bottomed out, your hips flush against her ass, her gasp was music.

"M-move," she begged, her voice shaking.

With a firm grip on her hips, you yanked Jeongyeon off your lap and onto the plush carpet below. The sudden movement made her gasp, her bound hands instinctively bracing against the floor as you maneuvered her into position—knees spread, ass arched high, her dripping cunt and freshly stretched asshole on obscene display.

"F-fuck—!" she whined, her cheek pressed against the carpet, her back dipped in perfect submission.

You growled, admiring the view—her round ass jiggling with every shaky breath, her thighs glistening with a mix of her arousal and your spit. The storm outside had quieted to a murmur, leaving only the filthy sound of your cock slapping against her as you lined yourself up again.

"Deeper this time," you commanded, your palm smacking her left cheek hard enough to leave a blush of red. "Take all of me."

Jeongyeon nodded, her fingers clawing at the carpet as you notched your tip against her loosened rim—

—and pushed in with one slow, unrelenting thrust.

"NGH~! FUCK!" Her scream was guttural, her body locking up as you stretched her wider than before, the burn of penetration searing through her.

You groaned, your head falling back at the unholy tightness, your fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. "Christ—you’re squeezing me like a fucking vise," you gritted out, your cock twitching inside her.

Jeongyeon panted, her thighs trembling, her cunt dripping onto the carpet beneath her. "I-It’s too much—!"

"Liar," you chuckled, dragging out until just the tip remained before plunging back in—harder, deeper. "Your ass is sucking me in."

Her moan was broken, her body contradicting her words as her back arched, her hips pushing back against you. "M-more—!"

You obliged.

Your thrusts started brutal—pounding into her with no mercy, the slap of skin echoing off the walls, her choked cries music to your ears. The carpet burned against her knees, her bound hands fisting the fibers as you ruined her, your cock spearing her deeper with every snap of your hips.

"Look at you," you growled, one hand fisting her hair to yank her head up toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city lights blurred through the rain, but her reflection was crystal clear—teary-eyed, drooling, her tits swaying with every jolt of your cock. "Filthy fucking slut, taking it up the ass like you were made for it."

Jeongyeon sobbed, her ass clenching around you as her orgasm crept up on her—unexpected, unrelenting. "I-I’m gonna—AHHH~!"

You grinned, slowing just enough to savor the way her walls fluttered around you, milking your cock as she came untouched. "That’s it," you praised, your voice rough with lust. "Cum on my cock like the anal whore you are."

Her scream was raw, her body convulsing as you chased your own release, your thrusts turning erratic, desperate—

—until finally, with a guttural groan, you pulled out and painted her ass with thick, pulsing ropes of cum.

Jeongyeon collapsed, her body boneless, her breaths ragged.

You grinned, slapping her ass one last time.

"Welcome to the dark side, baby."

The storm had finally quieted outside, leaving only the soft hum of the city and the sound of Jeongyeon’s ragged breathing as she lay sprawled on the carpet, her body still trembling from the aftershocks. You knelt beside her, your fingers gently tracing the marks you’d left on her hips—the bruises, the bite marks, the faint red imprint of your palm on her ass.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“Was this really why you came here?” you murmured, your voice softer now, the heat of lust giving way to something quieter. Something real.

Jeongyeon let out a shaky laugh, rolling onto her back to look up at you. Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen, her eyes still glazed with pleasure—but there was a weight in her gaze that hadn’t been there before.

“No,” she admitted, her voice hoarse. “I mean—yes, but… not just this.” She swallowed, her fingers brushing against your knee. “I missed you. The way you—fuck—the way you touch me, but also… the way you see me.”

You froze, your chest tightening at the raw honesty in her words.

“And when you’re gone again?” you asked, your voice rougher than you intended. “You’ll just… ignore me? Like last time?”

Jeongyeon’s lips curved into a teasing smirk, though her eyes stayed soft. “Do you want me to?”

You growled, grabbing her wrist and yanking her up into your lap, your mouth crashing into hers in a kiss that was more claim than caress.

“No,” you muttered against her lips, your grip tightening. “I’m being selfish this time.”

She melted into you, her arms looping around your neck as she kissed you back—slow, sweet, savoring.

“Then we’ll keep doing this,” she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. “Secretly. As a… thank you for helping me with the store.” Her smile turned wicked. “At least until I figure out what to do with my husband.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” She nuzzled into your neck, her voice dropping to a husky murmur. “He’s great when things are easy… but the second life gets hard?” She pulled back, her eyes dark. “He forgets.”

You grinned, your hands sliding down to grip her ass again.

“Lucky for you,” you purred, “I never forget.”

Jeongyeon’s fingers traced idle patterns across your chest as she lay against you, her body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure. The storm had passed completely now, leaving the office bathed in the soft glow of city lights filtering through the rain-streaked windows.

Then, with a quiet sigh, she spoke—her voice so soft you almost missed it.

"You know…" She tilted her head up to meet your gaze, her eyes lighter than you’d seen them in years. "I think I always wanted you to be the one."

Your breath stalled.

Those words.

The ones you’d waited for since college, since the first time you’d watched her laugh across a crowded bar and thought, fuck, I’m done for.

Jeongyeon smiled, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "I just… never let myself say it before."

You huffed a laugh, your arms tightening around her. "Took you long enough."

She pinched your side, but her grin was bright, real—the kind of smile she’d never given her husband, not like this. "Shut up. I’m trying to be romantic."

"Romantic?" You rolled her beneath you, your lips hovering just above hers. "After I wrecked your ass on the floor?"

Jeongyeon blushed, but her legs hooked around your waist anyway. "Especially after that."

You kissed her—slow, deep, promising—before pulling back just enough to murmur:

"Then let’s be selfish a little longer."

And as the city slept outside, you did.

(Final Scene – Office, Dawn)

The first streaks of sunlight bled through the windows, painting Jeongyeon’s bare skin in gold as she drowsed against your chest. Her fingers absently traced the scars on your shoulder—the ones from the bike accident sophomore year, the ones she’d kissed better even when she pretended she didn’t care.

Then, half-asleep, she mumbled:

"We’ll figure it out."

You stilled. "Figure what out?"

She nuzzled into your collarbone, her breath warm against your skin. "This. Us. The… messy parts." A yawn. "Fuck tradition. Fuck orthodox."

Your laugh rumbled through her. "That your grand plan? ‘Fuck it’?"

"Mmhm." Her leg hooked possessively over yours. "Worked for my ass tonight."

You grinned into her hair—god, you’d missed this. Missed her.

"Jeongyeon." You waited until she cracked one eye open. "I’m holding you to that."

She smirked, already drifting off again. "Better."

And for the first time in years, neither of you let go.

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