#second to last lu post | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cigarettesuga · 21 days ago

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⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀closer than this ୨ৎ ( myg )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after a charged first meeting, yoongi doesn’t expect to text her — or end up tangled in her sheets after a quiet rooftop dinner that feels more intimate than it should. but some things are too good to leave behind, even when they don’t make sense.

featuring⠀idol!min yoongi x actress!fem!reader genre strangers to lovers, slow burn, smut with emotions™, romantic tension so thick you could chew it wc⠀12.3 k warnings explicit sexual content (fingering, protected sex, oral fixation, teasing, praising, desperate pacing), intense sexual tension, breathy makeouts, soft dominance, mutual control, light pressure to jaw/throat (non-aggressive), mild marking (hip-grabbing/bruising), lots of kissing and emotional intimacy, post-sex cuddling, internal monologue-heavy navi

lu's note⠀i’m so happy to finally share part two of charitable causes — it’s tender, it’s filthy, and it’s a little dangerous. life’s been hectic lately so updates might slow down a bit, but i’m still writing when i can. also: there’s a scene where oc talks about working with a popular actor — i didn’t name anyone ‘cause i don’t really watch dramas and didn’t wanna pick someone who’s suddenly problematic 😭 just pretend it’s your fave lol.

as always, my asks are open & your love keeps me going 𖹭𖹭

⠀⠀

yoongi woke up like he’d been dreaming with his eyes open — hazy, limbs heavy, warmth pooled in his chest that didn’t belong to sleep. his room was too quiet. the sunlight crawling across the floor was too soft. he blinked slowly, one arm flung across his stomach, the other half-buried under his pillow.

it took him a second to recognize where he was. home. the ache in his jaw from clenching during sleep grounded him. so did the faint taste of wine still lingering on his tongue.

he turned his head toward the nightstand.

his phone was there, screen black, plugged in. he didn’t remember doing that. didn’t remember coming in, brushing his teeth, changing clothes — the whole night had slipped through his fingers like water the moment the door closed behind him.

but the piece of paper underneath the phone?

that he remembered.

crisp, folded, barely visible — just the corner peeking out like it was daring him to acknowledge it. her handwriting small and confident. her name and number, sitting there like a secret only he knew how to keep.

he stared at it without touching it.

hadn’t texted her. not yet. hadn’t even typed out a draft and deleted it — though he’d thought about it. several times. thumb hovering over the messages app, brows furrowed, heart punching slow and hard in his ribs like it wanted to be consulted.

his mouth was dry. he brought his hand up and dragged it over his face, palm pressing against his eyes until the darkness turned red.

“what am i doing,�� he mumbled into his skin.

he exhaled. slow. rough.

he wasn’t like this. he didn’t do this.

he didn’t slip away from events to kiss strangers in deserted hallways. didn’t flirt with actresses he barely knew just because they looked at him like he was something worth unwrapping. didn’t let his guard down just because someone touched his elbow and whispered something sharp into his ear like a line written for him.

he was careful. calculated. controlled.

but last night?

he hadn’t felt controlled at all. he’d felt seen. and wanted. and a little reckless in a way that hadn’t scared him — not in the moment, anyway.

the worst part?

he couldn’t stop replaying it. her breath against his jaw. the way her body arched into him like they were built to fit. the sound of her voice curling into his ear just before she disappeared again — to be continued?

fuck.

he scrubbed a hand over his hair and rolled onto his side, staring at the number again like it might answer all the questions in his chest.

he didn’t move to text her.

not yet.

but he didn’t put the paper away either.

he stayed in bed longer than he should have.

his body wasn’t tired, not really, but his thoughts felt heavy — dense in the back of his skull, turning over and over like laundry caught on repeat. he stared at the ceiling. listened to the silence. blinked slow, trying not to let his brain go there again.

but it did anyway.

to her.

he told himself not to overthink it. it was fun. harmless. she was beautiful, sure. interesting too. quick with her words, sharp with her looks — the kind of woman who carried herself like she didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but might give you one just to see how you handled it.

he should be able to let that go.

just… let it exist in a vacuum. one stolen night, one breathless kiss, one private moment that didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t let it.

but his mind — traitorous, persistent — kept leading him back.

to the press of her lips against his. the smell of her skin. the way she’d looked at him like they were sharing an inside joke no one else in the room could read. how she’d flirted like it was second nature, like her words were laced with static — subtle but charged, casual but undeniable. enough to make him second-guess his own memory.

did it really happen like that?

was she really that close?

he shifted under the sheets and let out a low sigh. rubbed at his eyes. cursed softly.

a part of him felt misplaced now. out of sync with his own skin. maybe it was the solitude — the rest of the guys all enlisted, the dorms too quiet, his name suddenly carrying the weight of seven. maybe it was guilt. not for the kiss itself, but for wanting more. for thinking about her mouth while sitting in a studio chair or brushing his teeth or trying to answer emails.

what would the others say? he wondered. not in a shameful way, just… curious. would they tease him? tell him to text her already? would they think it’s weird? would jimin have noticed before anyone else that something was off?

the phone buzzed sharply.

yoongi flinched.

just for a second. barely a movement — but enough to make him painfully aware of everything around him. the weight of the blanket. the cut of light through the curtains. the silence he’d been stewing in. the tiny folded paper still tucked beneath his phone like a match pressed against gasoline.

he reached for the device, thumb swiping across the screen. not her.

[manager] yoongi-ssi, just a reminder you’ve got a photoshoot today @ 3. did you eat already? want me to grab you an americano on the way in?

he stared at the message.

normal. routine. the same kind of check-in he always got on busy days.

he typed back one-handed:

[yoongi] americano’s fine. haven’t eaten yet.

he hit send. stared at the blinking cursor in the chat a second longer than necessary. like maybe the screen would change. like maybe her name would appear right underneath.

but it didn’t.

and he still didn’t text her.

not yet.

yoongi dressed slow, like his body hadn’t quite synced up to the day yet. cotton shirt, loose jeans, something easy and familiar — he wasn’t staying in them long anyway. stylists would tear him out of this and layer him into something tailored and intentional by the hour.

his phone went in his pocket. and so did the paper.

he didn’t fold it again. didn’t look at it. just slid it into his jeans like it wasn’t whispering her name against his thigh the whole way there. like it wasn’t a brand searing quietly through denim and skin and pretense.

the drive to the label was quiet, even with traffic. his manager talked — something about the shoot setup, lighting, a quick reminder of the concept. yoongi nodded. didn’t really absorb. just stared out the window with one arm propped against the door, fingers tapping against his leg like they wanted to move. like they missed her waist. her neck. the sound she made when his mouth dragged over the hollow of her throat.

the rest of the day blurred.

he knew the steps. say hello. get ushered into hair and makeup. sit under bright lights while someone primped and shaped and added shine where the tired lines used to be. change into the first outfit. pose. tilt your chin. don’t blink. switch angles. smile like it’s not practiced.

he did all of it.

but his mind wasn’t in the room.

it was on her — the way her lips had curled around that last kiss, the heat in her voice when she whispered against his ear. the way her eyes had tracked him across the ballroom like she already knew the shape of his mouth from a past life.

he was back in the makeup chair when it finally happened.

his resolve cracked in the smallest way — just a tiny fracture — and he gave in.

unlocked his phone. typed her name into search like it was harmless.

no one would see. no one would know.

the results came fast — clips, interviews, red carpet photos. he chose a video, something recent. a panel, maybe. she was sitting on the far end, wearing something black and minimal. smiling just enough. her voice was steady, but warm. teasing.

he watched. tried not to react.

but his lips twitched at something she said — some smartass remark delivered with a little tilt of her head and that same look she’d given him in the hallway. like she was daring someone to flirt back.

a soft snort sounded behind him.

yoongi startled slightly, glancing up at the stylist behind him.

“she’s nice,” they said, still running product through his hair. “i worked with her once. sweet with the whole crew. brought coffee for the interns. that kind of person.”

yoongi nodded. neutral. not too quick.

“yeah,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to the screen. “met her at the event last night. she’s a natural under the spotlight.”

the stylist hummed. “she’s got that thing, right?”

yoongi smiled faintly — more to himself than anything. yeah. she had that thing.

he didn’t say anything else. just watched her on his screen until the video ended, heart heavier than he expected.

and the number in his pocket burned a little hotter.

he kept it together for the rest of the shoot.

he posed. changed. nodded at directions, half-listened to compliments, let the stylists fuss over the details. when someone asked him to look more intense, he just thought about her mouth on his and delivered it in a single blink. when they said softer, more thoughtful, he let the image of her laughing against his lips soften the corners of his mouth. easy. efficient. no one noticed how detached he felt.

but the moment he walked through his front door, the quiet hit him like a wave.

no music. no voices. just the hush of the apartment swallowing his footsteps as he toed off his shoes and dropped his keys on the counter.

he didn’t turn the lights on right away.

just moved through the soft shadows of his living room, fingers grazing the wall out of habit. he tugged his jacket off with one hand and let it hang over the back of a chair, already heading to the bedroom like his body knew the path by instinct.

the silence felt louder now. thick. intimate.

too much room to think.

he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed — the usual post-schedule slump. but this time, his hand drifted into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edge of that damn paper like it was a nervous tick he couldn’t break.

he pulled it out.

held it between two fingers. stared at it.

no fanfare. no revelation. just him, alone in the dark, heart tapping against his ribs in a rhythm that didn’t match the stillness around him.

what’s the worst that could happen?

that she doesn’t answer? that she regrets it? that he looks desperate? that he wants something from her and she doesn’t want it back?

his lips pressed into a thin line.

he ran a thumb over the fold crease.

and then — before his brain could catch up, before the second-guessing could wrap both hands around his throat — he grabbed his phone. punched in the number. stared at the blinking cursor at the bottom of the screen for a long, long beat.

he typed out a message before he could talk himself out of it. nothing clever. nothing planned.

just:

[yoongi] so… should i pretend we imagined that night?

he stared at it for a second.

his thumb hovered. and then—

send.

just like that.

the message slid into the chat. final. weightless. loud in the quiet.

yoongi didn’t breathe for a moment. just stared. unread. no reply. but his chest felt like it had cracked open anyway.

he leaned back, sinking into the mattress with a slow exhale, one arm slung over his eyes like it might block out the part of him that suddenly felt twelve kinds of stupid.

too late now.

the paper still sat on the nightstand. but he wouldn’t need it again.

the reply came faster than he expected.

less than two minutes. just long enough to make him stare at his screen and consider if he’d overplayed it.

then:

[y/n] color me surprised… i thought you weren’t gonna text at all.

he let out a soft breath through his nose. one corner of his mouth twitching up.

he didn’t answer right away. fingers hovering, thumbs flexing, debating what to send back without sounding too eager.

then:

[yoongi] i don’t usually text people who get me lost in hotel hallways [yoongi] you’re a little out of my routine [y/n] you say that like it’s a bad thing.

he laughed. short, surprised.

and that was it — the shift. the weight in his chest turned warm instead of heavy. he didn’t mean to, but soon enough, he was fully reclined against his pillows, phone lit up in one hand, face tilted toward the screen like he couldn’t look away.

the chat filled itself slowly. one line at a time. nothing direct. no mention of the kiss. no "so about last night."

instead, it was:

[y/n] what’d you end up wearing for that photoshoot? don’t say leather. [yoongi] was leather ever on the table?? [y/n] i don’t know your life [yoongi] you knew it well enough to pin me to a wall [y/n] are you complaining? [yoongi] still deciding.

his cheeks ached. he barely noticed until he shifted and felt the stretch of the smile again. god. he wasn’t even that into texting. usually short, efficient, dry. and yet here he was, lying in bed like some teenager with a crush, scrolling back to reread what she said just to feel it again.

and under it all — the current kept rising. a breathlessness he could taste, even through a screen. like they were both building to something but neither wanted to break it too fast.

until he did.

maybe because he had to.

maybe because the longer they joked, the heavier it sat between his ribs — what she’d said. what she’d left him with.

so he finally typed:

[yoongi] so… [yoongi] about that “to be continued” thing

he watched the little gray dots appear. disappear. come back.

gone again.

a full minute passed. his pulse ticked harder.

finally, her message came in:

[y/n] depends.

another pause. then a second message.

[y/n] you like dinner under the stars?

his heart stuttered.

he blinked.

then the third message arrived, and it felt like a dare.

[y/n] my rooftop. tomorrow night. i’ll cook. unless you’re scared of heights.

he didn’t smile this time. not exactly.

he just bit his lip and exhaled slowly — chest full of something he wasn’t ready to name.

[yoongi] what time?

he didn’t call it a date.

not out loud. not even to himself.

just dinner. on a rooftop. with a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

he told himself he wasn’t overthinking it.

he picked out a shirt and changed it twice. but that didn’t mean anything. it wasn’t nerves—it was weather. comfort. fit. totally normal to swap black for white, then back to black because the first one felt too clean and the second one felt more like him.

he didn’t style his hair. barely touched it, in fact. let it fall into his eyes and swept it back once with his fingers, like that would make it look accidental enough to not seem intentional. he wore something casual. comfortable. sneakers. a jacket, even though the air was barely cool.

no cologne. just his skin. a little lotion. done.

not a date.

not like that.

but when he checked the clock again, his foot started tapping against the floor.

he wasn’t expecting anything. not exactly. yeah, if she leaned in close—if her hand found his leg under the table or her lips brushed his again—he wouldn’t stop her.

but that wasn’t the point.

the point was… her.

the woman under the smirk. behind the quick lines and confident eyes. he wanted to know how she took her coffee. if she sang in the shower. if she hated being alone or if she loved it so much she carved silence out of busy days just to feel it on her skin.

he wanted to hear her voice without the music playing. just talk.

and maybe kiss her again, yeah. if she was in the mood.

he grabbed a bottle of wine before heading out. not because it was romantic—just polite. adult. decent.

he kept his hands in his pockets the whole drive there.

and told himself—again—it wasn’t a date.

at exactly 8:03 p.m., yoongi texted her.

[yoongi] should i ask for the address or are you gonna make me guess which rooftop belongs to you

her reply came back almost immediately.

[y/n] hold on let me adjust the spotlight and roll out the carpet [y/n] i’ll send it. don’t be late.

his lips twitched. he didn’t smile much when he texted, not in a way anyone would notice, but she had a way of pulling it out of him like it was nothing.

he typed “on my way” but didn’t send it yet. instead, he checked the location, scanned the route. familiar. one of those luxury complexes you didn’t even look at unless you were someone—or trying very hard to look like someone.

of course she lived there.

he grabbed his keys. then hesitated.

her voice echoed in his mind—something she’d said the night of the event. half-laughed over wine and dim lights. a throwaway line about how she hated most wines but had a soft spot for this one brand, some mid-shelf label that reminded her of home or old friends or maybe just something she’d stolen once from a set party.

he wasn’t even sure why he remembered it.

but now he was standing in the wine aisle at a convenience store on the way to her place, holding that exact bottle in his hand like it had always been part of the plan.

he stared at it. sighed. wondered if it was too much.

then bought it anyway.

when he finally pulled into the underground garage, the nerves hit in a slow, strange wave. not sharp, not loud—just enough to tighten his chest a little. his hand hovered over his phone. a few breaths later, he typed:

[yoongi] just parked. heading up.

her reply was short. clean. cool.

[y/n] use elevator 3. code’s 0112.

he repeated the numbers under his breath as he walked. zero one one two. like a song lyric. or a prayer.

the place was quiet. exclusive. the kind of building where everything echoed in the right way and smelled like clean money and eucalyptus diffusers.

he stepped into the elevator. punched in the code. the doors slid shut.

and just like that—it was happening.

no stylists. no cameras. no people pulling him in four directions. just him, a bottle of wine, and the echo of her kiss still lingering somewhere behind his teeth.

the numbers on the panel ticked up slow.

his fingers twitched at his sides.

not a date, he told himself again.

and then the elevator stopped.

the doors opened.

and her door—just ten feet ahead—was already cracked open, golden light spilling into the hallway like it had been waiting for him.

she didn’t dress up.

he could tell the second she opened the door. and god—he was grateful for it.

no heels. no makeup that looked like a mask. just jeans, low on her hips and snug around her thighs in a way that made his mouth go a little dry. a black spaghetti strap tank, the kind that clung in all the right places, skin glowing under soft light. she wore a button-up shirt over it—open, sleeves rolled—and it only made her look more effortless. like this wasn’t a date. like this was just her. unfiltered. untouchable.

her eyes flicked down, landed on the wine bottle in his hand.

a smile pulled at her mouth, slow and knowing. that kind of smile. the kind that said “i see you.”

“you remembered,” she said, voice soft, amused.

he almost said i’m not the type to forget, but it felt too revealing.

so he just gave a tiny shrug. “figured you wouldn’t want to fake liking something else.”

she laughed under her breath, then reached for his hand—cool fingers wrapping around his wrist like it was natural to touch him, like there hadn’t been a week of silence between their last kiss and this moment.

“come in,” she murmured, tugging him gently across the threshold.

he followed without hesitation.

and instantly, everything about the apartment knocked the air out of his lungs.

he’d expected… something polished. minimalist. luxury sheen and matching neutrals. maybe a little too clean, too curated, like a magazine spread waiting to be photographed.

but what he walked into was something else entirely.

low, warm lighting pooled in the corners of the space. mismatched lamps. candles that had clearly been lit, their wax spilled over dishes and holders like a crime scene of comfort. books stacked in uneven towers on the floor, on shelves, on the wide arm of a velvet chair that didn’t match the couch but somehow belonged. art everywhere—walls splashed with color, linework, frames that leaned instead of hanging, pieces that pulled your eyes and made you wonder what kind of soul lived here.

there was music playing faintly from a speaker somewhere—vinyl crackle and a woman’s voice, soft jazz vocals that kissed the air like an afterthought.

and above all of it—her scent. subtle. familiar now. some blend of citrus and warmth and something he couldn’t name but already missed.

he turned in place slowly, eyes scanning.

it looked lived in.

it looked like her.

the kind of apartment that told stories even when she was silent. full of surprises, personality, contradictions. no sharp edges. no pretense.

“didn’t expect this,” he said after a moment, voice low.

her hand was still in his. she squeezed it once, then let go to take the wine from him.

“what, you thought i lived in a k-drama set?” she teased.

he smiled—real this time. “a little.”

she shrugged, glancing around like she hadn’t already known exactly what she was showing him. “most people do.”

then she walked ahead, barefoot and easy, calling over her shoulder—

“make yourself at home. i just need a sec to grab glasses and check the food.”

he stood there for another beat, just… looking. breathing her in.

and then he let out a slow exhale, shoulders dropping, tension loosening with every second.

maybe it wasn’t a date. maybe it was something else entirely.

but either way—he was here.

and he wasn’t going anywhere.

he drifted toward the record player without thinking.

the vinyls were stacked neatly beside it—some in sleeves, some not, the edges worn like they’d been loved, not just collected. there were classics in there. jazz, mostly. soul, funk, old movie soundtracks. a few foreign titles he didn’t recognize, and more than a couple that made him blink because he didn’t expect her to own those. it made sense, though. the more he stood in her space, the more he realized it wasn’t about expectations. it was about layers.

he knelt slightly, fingers brushing the corners of a few records.

he didn’t plan on snooping. just looking. listening.

her apartment was quiet in a way that felt... intentional. like every soft surface had been placed there to catch sound and hold it gently. the only thing he could hear was the low croon of the vinyl still playing in the background and his own breath.

but then he glanced toward the far side of the apartment—

and his breath caught.

the space curved gently, rooms branching off like arms curling inward, and all of them led to her terrace. glass sliding doors opened onto a wood deck bathed in amber light. fairy lights hung overhead, swaying a little, the breeze soft and warm like it belonged in another city. the table was already set, simple and beautiful, the glow from the lights pooling around the plates like the scene had been carved out of a dream.

and further back—

a sitting area. outdoor sofa. pergola heavy with hanging plants. candlelight flickering against terracotta pots and dark green leaves, like the flames knew they were part of something quiet and sacred.

it didn’t look like a rooftop.

it looked like a world.

private. alive. waiting.

his lips parted slightly, gaze softening as he took it all in. he didn’t hear her footsteps. didn’t register the air shift behind him.

not until her hand slid under the hem of his shirt—slow, warm, the barest touch against the small of his back.

he startled only slightly, but didn’t move. didn’t speak.

her voice came next, right by his ear, soft enough that he could feel the words before he processed them.

“view’s pretty good, huh?” she whispered, her breath ghosting the edge of his jaw. “dinner’s almost ready.”

his spine straightened a little. not stiff—alert. like his whole body had tuned to the frequency of her.

he didn’t turn around.

just nodded, voice low. “it’s… not what i expected.”

he could hear the smile in hers. “you keep saying that.”

her hand slipped out from under his shirt, but she stayed close. too close. the stem of the wine glasses clinked gently in her other hand as she tilted her head to look past him toward the terrace.

“you hungry?”

he swallowed, eyes still on the deck.

“yeah,” he said. and it wasn’t just about food.

she nudged his side with her hip—playful, easy. “good. c’mon.”

and then she was walking again. barefoot. light on the wooden floors like she belonged to them.

he followed, fingers still tingling from where she’d touched him.

“you want help with anything?” he asked, voice soft, already halfway to the kitchen.

she glanced at him over her shoulder, a smile curling on her lips like she’d been expecting him to say that.

“sure,” she said, passing him a couple of plates without hesitation. “you can carry these out while i grab the wine and salad.”

he nodded and took them from her hands — careful, the ceramic warm to the touch, still radiating the scent of roasted herbs and garlic.

he didn’t mean to notice the way her fingers brushed his when she let go. didn’t mean to hold that feeling for longer than he should’ve. but he did. and it stayed with him as he walked out onto the deck.

the evening air was mild, kissed with the scent of jasmine from the corner planters and something rich and buttery from the kitchen. fairy lights flickered overhead like lazy stars, and the city spread out in front of them like a painting—han river glinting in the distance, buildings lit like a quiet celebration.

he placed the plates down and stepped back just as she came out with the rest. wine bottle in one hand, salad bowl in the other, and a little sway in her step like this wasn’t the first time she’d carried dinner for two out to the rooftop.

she caught him watching.

“you’re staring,” she said.

“you look like you’ve done this before,” he replied, pulling a chair out for her without thinking.

“what, dinner on rooftops with quiet men who don’t talk about themselves?” she teased, raising a brow.

he smirked. “sure. that.”

she sat with a graceful drop, skin catching golden light. “maybe i have.”

he poured the wine, not too much. the clink of glass against wood sounded louder in the stillness between them. a beat passed, then two.

“so,” she said, leaning on her elbow. “you’re not gonna ask me about my last project or what it’s like working with [insert big name actor here]?”

yoongi shook his head, taking a slow sip. “no interest.”

she blinked. a little amused. a little surprised. “no?”

“not really,” he said. “i mean—i could google all that. find interviews. soundbites. but i don’t want your press tour answers.”

her gaze flicked down to her glass, then back to him.

“what do you want?”

he exhaled slowly, staring at the way the candlelight caught her features. soft shadows under her cheekbones, a shimmer against her collarbone.

“i wanna know where you’d go if you disappeared for a week,” he said, voice low. “no cameras. no phone. just… gone.”

she stared at him for a moment. still. the corner of her mouth lifted.

“that’s a good question.”

“i’ve got a list,” he added, like it was a confession.

“yeah?” she leaned in, elbow on the table now. “what’s at the top?”

he smiled, eyes dropping to his plate for a second. “somewhere cold. quiet. maybe a cabin in japan. snowed in. nothing but books and music and someone who knows how to keep a fire going.”

“sounds romantic,” she said, tone unreadable.

“i didn’t say i’d go alone.”

that made her laugh. soft and surprised.

and just like that—it started. the shift. away from the noise. into the space where names didn’t matter and fame didn’t reach.

they talked.

about how she ended up in this apartment. how the plants were from her old place and she still didn’t know the name of half of them. about how he used to be afraid of swimming. about how she writes poetry when she can’t sleep but never reads it back. about family. about loneliness. about the kind of silence that feels like home, and the kind that feels like a trap.

they never once said idol. never once said actress.

it was deeper than that. heavier. lighter. real.

and yoongi couldn’t remember the last time a conversation made him feel full.

the dinner had passed in slow waves of wine and laughter.

conversation drifting from deep to dumb and back again — favorite childhood snacks, dreams about disappearing, people they’d outgrown, things they weren’t proud of but couldn’t quite regret. she made him laugh in a way that felt rare. surprised out of him. like he hadn’t done it in a while and forgot how good it felt in his chest.

and when the food was gone — plates scraped clean, wine glasses half-full — neither of them moved to clear anything. there was no urgency. the night wasn’t over, not even close.

she shifted first.

pulled one foot up onto her chair, knee bent. her arm draped across the back of the seat, glass resting lazily in her other hand, gaze warm and slow as she looked at him. like she was memorizing something. or maybe already knew it by heart.

he moved without thinking.

his hand found her thigh — the one propped up, stretched toward him. his fingers resting near her knee, then slowly sliding down. up. back again. just barely pressing. like a tide testing the shore.

her skin was warm under his touch.

her eyes flicked down briefly, but she didn’t stop him. didn’t comment. just took another sip of wine and exhaled through her nose like the silence between them had thickened into something sweet.

her free hand — the one not holding the glass — reached out. lightly, her nails grazed his wrist. then the back of his hand. then up, just a little. a soft, absent drag of touch. casual, if it hadn’t made his pulse jump.

he looked at her. really looked.

and maybe that was why it happened. why the question formed. why the wine and the quiet and the low hum of everything unspoken finally pushed the words to his mouth.

“you think about that night?” he asked, voice low. quiet enough that it could’ve been lost in the rustle of leaves if she hadn’t already been looking at him like she knew it was coming.

her gaze didn’t waver.

“yeah,” she said, just as soft.

he nodded, thumb tracing a slow line over her skin. “me too.”

she tilted her head slightly, the kind of movement that invited honesty. the candlelight licked the sharp line of her jaw, her mouth parted just slightly.

“you regret it?” she asked.

he let out a breath through his nose. “not for a second.”

a pause.

he leaned in a little more, eyes flickering down to her lips, then back up. “but it didn’t feel like me.”

“what part?”

“all of it,” he said. “being there. feeling that pulled in. touching someone like that when i didn’t even know their last name.”

she didn’t flinch. didn’t take offense. just kept watching him, like she understood exactly what he meant.

“was it a bad thing?” she asked, voice lower now.

he shook his head. “no. just… new.”

“you didn’t seem new at it.”

he let out a breathy laugh. “i’m a fast learner.”

that made her smile — slow and crooked.

her hand slid higher, palm over the back of his, warm and sure.

“you wanna know something?”

he hummed.

“i wanted to kiss you the second i saw you across the room. before you looked at me. before you even knew i was there.”

yoongi’s hand stilled on her thigh. heat licked up his spine like a match had been struck just beneath his skin.

“i felt it,” he murmured. “like static.”

she nodded once, slow. “me too.”

the silence returned. but it didn’t feel empty. it felt full. dense with the things they didn’t have to explain anymore.

his fingers curled gently into her leg. her thumb traced a soft circle over his knuckles.

and whatever had been hanging in the air between them all night — that quiet tension, the thread pulled tight — was starting to unravel into something softer. deeper.

real.

she leaned in like the night had called her to do it — slow and deliberate, mouth soft and parted, eyes half-lidded as she closed the distance between them inch by inch. not a question. not a warning. just a shift in gravity that he didn’t try to fight.

yoongi didn’t wait.

his hand slid higher on her thigh, fingers curling as he leaned forward and met her mouth with his.

it wasn’t gentle.

it wasn’t rough either — it was slow, like tasting something forbidden, like drawing out the first bite of something he’d been craving for too long. their lips pressed together in steady, measured rhythm, mouths moving with a kind of practiced hunger neither of them had to rehearse. it was instinct. it was need. it was built from the heat of everything unsaid.

she made a soft sound against him — a quiet, satisfied hum — and he drank it in like it was poured just for him. her hand cupped the side of his neck, thumb grazing just beneath his ear, and the shiver it sent down his spine made his grip tighten.

she kissed him like she had all the time in the world.

and when she bit his bottom lip — a sharp, playful little nip that made him groan low in his throat — she pulled back just enough to laugh against his mouth. breathless. amused. her eyes fluttered open, and she murmured against his lips, still close enough to steal another kiss if either of them so much as breathed too deep.

“your manager better not interrupt this time,” she whispered, her voice soft and stained with heat.

yoongi let out a low laugh, nose brushing hers.

“if he does,” he said, his lips barely brushing hers between the words, “i’m quitting.”

that made her smile — that slow, wicked curl that tugged at the corner of her mouth like she already knew she had him. like she knew he meant it, too.

her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails grazing his scalp lightly, dragging another quiet exhale out of him.

yoongi kissed her again — slower this time, deeper.

no rush. no noise. just the quiet crackle of candlelight and the taste of red wine on her tongue.

his other hand found her waist, pulled her closer.

and the night shifted again — this time into something heavier.

her shift came with no warning — just the subtle tightening of her fingers around his shoulders, and then the slow, deliberate sweep of one leg over his lap.

yoongi let out a quiet breath against her mouth, hands instinctively tightening at her waist as she settled onto him — not rushed, not needy, just there, confident and warm and so close it made his pulse stutter.

she moved like she’d done it a hundred times before — not with him, but like she’d always known she would. like her body had already mapped out this moment in some half-forgotten dream. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, draped loosely, wine glass abandoned somewhere behind her. his hands stayed low, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips, thumbs tracing soft lines over the thin fabric of her shirt.

their mouths moved together again, deeper now — more heat, less air.

yoongi kissed her like the wine was still on her tongue and he was trying to drink the last drop.

her breath caught when his hand slipped under her shirt. not rushed — just slow, steady curiosity, palm sliding over warm skin, tracing the curve of her waist before dipping higher, under the second layer — that tight black top she’d worn beneath. the contrast of cotton and silk against his knuckles made his skin feel too tight.

her back arched ever so slightly into his touch. he felt it — the way she pressed into his palm, her breath stuttering in the back of her throat.

and still, they didn’t speak.

not really.

just shared air and heat and quiet, involuntary sounds.

until her lips parted, barely lifting from his — and she said something.

soft. hushed. her voice like smoke against his mouth.

he didn’t catch all of it — too far gone, too focused on her body, her taste, the way his name would probably sound if she moaned it.

but he caught enough.

“…risky out here…” she whispered, a faint trace of laughter coloring her tone, like she wasn’t that worried.

and then she kissed him again — not full, just the ghost of it, barely touching — before pulling back enough to meet his eyes.

“you wanna continue in my room?” she asked.

not a flirtation. not a challenge.

just a quiet, open door.

and all he had to do was walk through.

he nodded before his brain could even make sense of the question.

not that it mattered. his body had already leaned in. already decided. already chosen her.

her smile came easy — that slow, knowing curve of her lips that made him feel like she’d just won a bet he didn’t know they were playing. she pressed a kiss to his cheek, light and quick, like punctuation. then stood, holding out her hand.

yoongi took it without a word, let her pull him to his feet — her fingers warm in his, steady. she didn’t let go.

they didn’t have to go far — just a few quiet steps across the rooftop, toward the sliding glass doors tucked in the corner. she slid them open with one hand, pulling him gently inside, and just like that, the night closed around them.

her bedroom smelled like her — floral and something deeper, muskier, like the skin just under her jaw. warm light spilled from a small lamp on the bedside table, casting everything in soft gold. it felt private. quiet in a way the rooftop wasn’t. no candle flicker, no city hum. just breath and heartbeat and bare feet on hardwood.

he didn’t have time to look around.

because the moment they were inside, she turned to him again — both hands sliding up his chest, then around the back of his neck. she leaned in close, and he was already chasing her mouth again when she stopped short — just barely.

her forehead touched his.

a pause.

she exhaled slowly, lips hovering over his, eyes closed for a moment.

“you wanna stop?” she whispered.

yoongi blinked. not because he didn’t hear her — but because he hadn’t expected her to ask. not now. not when they were this close, when his hands already itched to slide under her clothes again.

but the fact that she did — that she still wanted the choice to be his — it hit him deeper than he expected.

he laughed, low and quiet, tilting his head slightly so their noses brushed.

“you ask like you don’t already know the answer,” he murmured.

she pulled back just enough to open her eyes. her gaze met his, all soft edges and flickering heat.

“maybe i just like hearing you say it,” she teased.

his mouth quirked, one brow lifting. “you’re trouble.”

“mm. and you’re slow,” she shot back, fingers already finding the hem of his shirt.

her eyes lit up — mischief glowing like a secret behind them.

and just like that, the air changed again.

no rush.

but no hesitations either.

they were doing this.

his shirt was the first to go — not yanked, not pulled, but eased up over his head, inch by inch, as her fingers curled beneath the hem. she wasn’t watching his eyes. she was watching his skin. the way it flexed under her touch, the slow reveal of his torso beneath the fabric. he let her, arms lifting lazily, and when the shirt slipped over his head, he shook his hair back into place without looking away from her.

she didn’t comment. didn’t need to.

the way her gaze dragged down and lingered said everything.

yoongi smirked, just a little. barely there. his hands drifted to her waist, fingers brushing over the hem of her top — and then lower, skimming over the edge of her jeans like he was thinking about it.

but instead of undressing her, he stepped closer. pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, light and maddening, his hands sliding under her shirt but leaving it on. just the warmth of skin to skin. a thumb brushing over the edge of her ribs. teasing himself more than her, but he didn’t care. he liked how she inhaled sharply, like she wasn’t expecting the restraint.

her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. just raised an eyebrow — as if to say your move, then.

he took the challenge in stride.

his hands slipped around to her back, slow and sure, and when his fingers found the hem again, she lifted her arms without needing to be asked. he pulled the shirt off carefully, watching her the whole time. she stood there in her black top, skin glowing under the soft light, chest rising a little faster than before.

he kissed her shoulder.

she tilted her head, letting him. then smiled.

“you’re dragging it out on purpose,” she said.

“so are you.”

“only because you are.”

he chuckled against her skin, then let his lips trail a little lower — collarbone, then just above the swell of her chest. when his fingers dipped below the hem of her top, she grabbed his wrist gently and shook her head.

“not yet.”

yoongi looked up, heat flickering behind his eyes. “tease.”

“takes one to know one.”

and then — she moved.

her hands went to the button of his jeans.

he didn’t stop her. just watched.

but she didn’t rush.

her fingers worked slowly, almost cruelly, undoing the button, dragging the zipper down with a sound that sliced through the silence like a sigh.

she didn’t push them down though. just left them like that. undone. dangerous.

her fingers slid beneath the waistband, resting against the line of his hips.

yoongi exhaled hard through his nose, eyes darkening.

he didn’t speak.

neither did she.

but her smile said checkmate’s getting close.

yoongi broke first.

he didn’t mean to. didn’t plan it. one second he was holding still, watching her like she was a flame he could study forever — and the next, he was grabbing, kissing, reaching like he’d been starved of her for days instead of minutes.

his mouth crashed into hers — no finesse, no teasing this time. it was desperate. heated. too much tongue, not enough breath. and the sound she made — soft, muffled, almost surprised — hit him square in the chest. like he hadn’t even realized how much he needed to hear her fall apart under his mouth.

his hands slid to her hips, grip firm but careful, guiding her backward until her thighs met the edge of the mattress. she let him — smiling against his lips, hands still tangled in his hair as he pushed her down onto the sheets.

and fuck, she looked unreal like this.

her hair fanned out across the pillow, her top rumpled just slightly, one hand tracing along her bottom lip like she was waiting to be devoured. her legs still hooked loosely around his waist, her breath coming in slow, shallow waves. waiting. watching.

yoongi knelt onto the bed — one knee sinking into the mattress beside her, the other still planted on the floor as he leaned over her. his gaze dragged over every inch, hungry, reverent. his fingers found the hem of her top again, slower this time, sliding it up inch by inch — revealing skin like a secret, until her bra was finally in view.

he exhaled.

it fit her perfectly — hugged her in all the right places, soft and dark against the warm tones of her skin. his gaze lingered. not out of hesitation — but out of awe. like he needed a second to catch up to the fact that she was real and here and letting him see her like this.

he didn’t kiss her again.

not yet.

instead, his hand slid lower — teasing fingers brushing just above the waistband of her jeans, then curling around the button. he didn’t undo it right away. just played with it. thumb dragging lightly over the metal, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

she stared back at him — pupils blown, lips parted, one hand still ghosting over her mouth like she wasn’t sure if she was holding back or just baiting him.

yoongi smirked — barely there, but sharp.

“this still feel risky to you?” he murmured, fingers now toying with the zipper.

she laughed under her breath — breathless, soft, dangerous.

“only if you stop.”

his fingers worked slowly — one hook of the button, a lazy tug of the zipper — until her jeans eased open, denim gaping just enough to show a sliver of her underwear. he didn’t peel them off yet. didn’t dive in. instead, he dragged his palms back up her sides, under her top, and finally pulled it over her head completely, revealing her in that black bra, all curves and candlelit skin and a mouth that looked like sin just breathed into it.

yoongi swallowed hard.

his jeans were tight now — uncomfortably so — but he ignored the ache. filed it away. because this? this was better. her laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling like she already knew what was coming, hands fisting lightly in the sheets.

he leaned down — not to kiss her lips, but to mouth at the edge of her bra. the soft swell just above the cup. skin he could taste without removing anything. and he did — slow, deliberate presses of his mouth. lips, tongue, the faintest graze of teeth. his hand slid between her back and the bed, unclasping the bra with practiced ease. he watched the fabric part like he was being let in on a secret.

and god, she was beautiful.

his mouth dropped to the top of her chest again — kisses pressed like punctuation across her sternum, then lower. he took his time. praised her without words — just the low sound of his breath catching, the soft hums that spilled into her skin, the way his hands never stopped moving. across her ribs. her hips. her thighs.

she let out a shaky breath when his lips finally wrapped around her nipple, warm and wet and so slow it made her hips lift just slightly. he groaned against her when she moved like that — not loud, but deep, like it slipped out without permission.

“fuck…” he whispered, more to himself than her. “you’re unreal.”

his teeth grazed lightly. his tongue soothed the spot. and when she let out another breathy sound, her hand curling into his hair, he didn’t stop — just shifted to the other side, giving it the same attention. licking. sucking. kissing like he was memorizing her heartbeat through his mouth.

and all the while, his jeans throbbed with every grind of her hips against his thigh.

but he didn’t move for relief.

not yet.

she was already breathing like she was close — and he hadn’t even touched her properly.

that was the point.

he wanted her to feel him for days.

he looked up at her from where his mouth had lingered on her chest — lips parted, breath warm, hair slightly mussed from her fingers. but his eyes were sharp now. intense. like something inside him had shifted — flipped — and now he was moving with purpose instead of curiosity.

like he’d found his rhythm and it was her.

yoongi pushed himself up, hand braced beside her ribs as he leaned in again — straight to her mouth. his lips met hers in a kiss that was wetter this time, deeper, the kind that sent heat straight down her spine. his free hand slid up, fingers curving under her jaw to tilt her face to him. it wasn’t rough. it was firm. like he wanted her attention, and every inch of it.

and when he pulled back, just barely — her lips slick, parted, breath caught — he didn’t say a word. just let his thumb drag slowly across her bottom lip, watching it bounce slightly under the pressure.

then he pushed his fingers into her mouth.

slow.

intentional.

not deep — just enough to feel the heat of her tongue, to let her wet them herself. his fingers curled slightly, and she didn’t resist. didn’t flinch. just looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes like the moment had cracked her wide open and she had no idea what to do with the flood.

fuck, she was dangerous.

he slid his fingers out of her mouth slowly, coated with her spit. his hand drifted down, and he pressed another kiss to the soft curve of her neck — right where her pulse throbbed. she tilted her head slightly, breath catching again as his lips lingered.

“god, you’re good at that,” he murmured — not asking, just noting, like it was a fact she should’ve already known.

his hand didn’t stop moving.

it slipped lower, dragging along her skin — down her stomach, between her hips — until it found the heat still hidden by her underwear. he brushed his fingers over the thin fabric, just barely pressing, and even that made her hips twitch.

yoongi exhaled, low and steady. kissed her collarbone. then kissed lower — just once — before dragging his fingers slowly up the center of her, feeling the heat, the wetness even through the fabric.

“fuck…” he breathed again, mouth close to her ear now.

his thumb circled. one finger traced the edge of her underwear, like he was considering moving it. but he didn’t yet.

instead, he looked up again — gaze dark and focused, as if he was memorizing the way her mouth parted and her thighs tensed and her chest heaved, all at once.

“say it,” he murmured, voice low, just for her. “you still want this?”

not because he doubted.

because he wanted to hear her say yes.

she barely said it.

just a whisper — hoarse, trembling, thick with want. a single syllable soaked in breath and need, like it had fought its way out from somewhere deep in her chest.

“yes…”

yoongi didn’t wait.

couldn’t.

not after that.

his fingers slid beneath the band of her underwear, slow but sure, until he found the heat he’d only been teasing before. and fuck — she was already so wet for him. slick and warm and ready, like her body had been begging for this since the moment their eyes met in that crowded room.

he exhaled harshly through his nose — not a groan, not a word — just the kind of sound that broke free when restraint finally snapped its thread.

and then he pushed his fingers in.

slow, deep, perfect pressure — and the way she gasped, sharp and ragged, made his head drop against her shoulder. he stayed there for a second, buried in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, the perfume that clung to her hair and collarbones. but more than that — her sounds.

small, breathy moans caught between parted lips. the stutter of her breath when he curled his fingers just right. the quiet, involuntary way her hips lifted into his hand like her body couldn’t help but chase the high he was coaxing out of her.

“that’s it,” he whispered, voice low and rough against her ear. “just like that.”

his free hand braced beside her ribs, steadying himself, while his fingers moved deeper — curling, pressing, finding the rhythm that made her thighs shake.

she was already falling apart.

and he hadn’t even kissed her again.

her hand grabbed at his arm, nails dragging across his skin as her other fisted the sheets, mouth open and trembling. every sound she made was his now. every gasp, every breathy whimper — all of it branded in his mind like a verse he’d never forget.

he lifted his head, just to watch her.

hair fanned across the pillow, her chest rising in shallow waves, lips bitten pink and trembling.

“look at me,” he murmured — soft, commanding.

she did.

barely.

but it was enough.

the moment their eyes locked, she moaned again — louder this time, messier, one leg wrapping tighter around his hip like she was trying to pull him into her completely.

yoongi kissed her then.

hard. deep. swallowing the sound she made as his fingers thrust deeper, curling just right.

and he thought — god, she’s gonna come like this.

just from this.

and he was going to let her.

watch her.

feel her.

every trembling second of it.

her hand moved like she couldn’t stop herself.

one still wrapped around his wrist — gripping, guiding, hips twitching beneath his touch as she pressed him deeper, faster, chasing the pressure that had her breath hitching with every curl of his fingers. she wasn’t just letting him touch her. she was showing him how. claiming the rhythm. dragging it out. her thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

and the other hand — fuck.

the other slid down, across his stomach, slow and shaking, until it found the hard outline of him beneath his jeans.

yoongi’s whole body stuttered.

his breath caught somewhere between his throat and chest, a low groan vibrating in his ribs as her palm pressed down — tentative at first, then with more purpose. like she wanted to feel the way she was ruining him. like she knew he’d been holding back and couldn’t stand it anymore.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges.

her eyes met his — dazed and dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed — and when she pressed just a little harder, her fingers shifting over him, he thrust into her hand, involuntary, his fingers deep inside her still.

it was messy. desperate. their bodies moving in tandem now, hips rocking against hands, like they couldn’t get close enough.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to hers.

she let out a breathless laugh — the kind that barely made it past her throat — and squeezed him again, slow. teasing. fucking lethal.

his fingers didn’t stop. he’d found the spot inside her that made her breath break, and he curled into it with intention now, matching the pace to the way her thighs were tightening, how her nails were digging into his skin, her mouth dragging open in a silent gasp.

“that’s it,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “you’re close.”

she nodded — barely — but it was the sound she made next that wrecked him. that high, cracked moan as her hips lifted to meet his hand again, her rhythm starting to falter.

yoongi groaned deep in his throat.

because she was palming him harder now, her grip losing finesse, and he knew — knew — she was right on the edge.

so he kept going.

curling his fingers just right, his mouth pressed to her jaw, his other hand sliding to her ass to anchor her down.

“let go,” he breathed, voice shaking. “i’ve got you.”

she fell apart in his hands — breath caught, back arching, her hips grinding helplessly into his palm like her body was chasing the aftershocks. her thighs trembled, muscles fluttering beneath his touch, and her mouth dropped open on a moan that sounded dangerously close to his name.

yoongi felt it everywhere.

in his chest. in his spine. in the way his cock throbbed against the denim, painfully hard, caught in a limbo between control and the kind of need that bordered on reckless.

but it was her voice — the way it broke as she pulled him closer — that did it.

"please," she whispered, raw and aching, “i need to feel you.”

and fuck.

he swore he could’ve come right then — just from the look in her eyes. wide, hazy, flushed and blown out, still shaking, and yet so focused on him. her hands dragging down to his hips, grasping, pulling like she couldn’t bear to wait another second.

his fingers slipped from between her thighs — soaked and trembling — and he exhaled, sharp, eyes closing for just a beat.

then he moved.

with the last shred of resolve in his body, yoongi reached down, hand digging into the pocket of his jeans, fumbling just slightly. there. the foil packet brushed his fingers, and he let out a low breath, almost a laugh, something wild flickering in his chest.

he sat back on his knees, tearing the packet open fast with his teeth, his other hand already dragging the denim and briefs down his thighs.

her eyes dropped.

watched.

and stayed there.

he could feel her gaze — heavy, hungry, wide with anticipation — locked on his hands as he slid the condom on. her mouth parted slightly, breath shallow, fingers still gripping his hips as though trying to anchor herself to the moment.

yoongi looked up, caught her staring, and smiled — not cocky, not smug, just… wrecked. overwhelmed. full of something soft and dark and unspeakably fond.

“you’re really watching that close, huh?” he said, voice rough.

she nodded once, slow. lips brushing open. eyes full of fire.

“can’t help it,” she whispered.

he leaned forward, dragging his mouth across hers — a kiss that tasted like heat and hunger and too many almosts.

“good,” he murmured, hand sliding to her thigh as he lined himself up.

“’cause i want you to remember this.”

yoongi lined himself up — just the tip brushing against her, slick and hot and so tempting — and stopped.

his breath hitched.

his hands dug into the curve of her hips, holding her steady. his jaw clenched so tight it ached. because if he moved — if he let himself go that last inch — it’d be over. the moment would swallow them whole. and he wasn’t ready to lose it yet. not when she looked like this.

spread out beneath him. flushed and flushed and wrecked. the afterglow of her orgasm still softening the edges of her face, her hair stuck to her forehead in delicate strands, her thighs twitching open and ready for him.

but most of all — her eyes.

those wide, dazed eyes watching him like he was some kind of answer. lips parted, chest rising in short, sharp bursts, hands skimming down his arms like she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

yoongi looked down between them, eyes locked on where their bodies almost met — his tip just barely pressing into her folds, catching slightly as he shifted his hips.

he groaned under his breath.

it took everything in him not to slam forward.

instead, he gave her a slow rock — just enough to drag the head of his cock through her heat, the tip slipping in a little more with each movement. her breath stuttered. her nails sank into his biceps, leaving trails of heat behind.

“yoongi—” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the second syllable.

and fuck, that did something to him.

he leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, their noses brushing. his breath was hot against her mouth, voice low and dangerous.

“you want more?” he rasped.

her fingers tightened — nails biting into his skin, legs wrapping higher around his waist.

“please,” she whispered, breathless. barely a sound. but her eyes said it all.

and still — he didn’t move.

just nudged forward, inching in a little deeper. not enough. not nearly enough. he watched the way her mouth dropped open, how her brows pinched, the sound she made — like she was about to cry or scream or combust.

“i just wanna remember this,” he muttered, his own voice fraying now, hands trembling slightly as they slid up her sides. “how fucking good you feel already. and i’m not even in yet.”

she whimpered — straight-up whimpered — and it shot straight through him like lightning.

his hips rolled again, teasing another inch, and her whole body arched into him.

“yoongi,” she gasped, finally breaking.

“mm?” he teased, mouth on her cheek now. “what’s that, baby?”

her hands cupped his face so gently it nearly broke him.

fingers threading into his hair, thumbs brushing along his jaw — and then her mouth, god, her mouth — soft and urgent against his. not a kiss so much as a plea, her breath catching on the word he’d been teasing from her for what felt like hours.

“please,” she whispered, kissing him again, lips wet and trembling. “please, yoongi—”

her hips lifted as she spoke, slow and sure, coaxing him deeper — finally sinking him in, inch by inch, her body clenching around him like it had been waiting forever.

his breath hitched so sharp he gasped into her mouth.

then he groaned — low and raw, buried into the crook of her neck as her walls fluttered around him, pulling him in like gravity itself had been redefined.

“fuck,” he breathed against her skin, his voice wrecked. “fuck, you feel—”

but he couldn’t finish. the words died in his throat because she was already moving again — hips rolling, fingers still in his hair, her legs hooked around his waist like she needed him closer. like even being buried inside her wasn’t enough.

she held him there.

whispered into his ear — sweet and desperate.

“don’t stop.”

his hips stuttered, pushed deeper.

“you feel so good, baby. so good.”

yoongi groaned again, his hand fisting in the sheets beside her head. her voice was everything — warm, wrecked, coaxing him through each slow thrust like she wanted to memorize him now.

“just like that,” she murmured, her mouth dragging over his jaw, her teeth grazing his skin. “don’t stop—fuck—please, i need you to—”

and he did.

he moved — not fast, not yet — but deep. every inch deliberate. every sound she made drawing him further into her until there was nothing else.

only her.

her hands in his hair.

her mouth against his cheek.

her thighs trembling around his waist as he started to fuck her like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

he couldn’t think straight anymore.

his mind was static — white noise between thrusts — her breath, her nails, her skin, the wet sounds where their bodies met. and her voice. god, her voice.

soft and ruined, telling him more, right there, kiss me, don’t stop, and he was following every command like it was instinct.

like he didn’t know how to say no to her.

and maybe he didn’t want to.

maybe there was something in the way she said his name — not just gasped, not just moaned — but called for him. like she knew he’d come. like she knew he was hers the second she touched his face and kissed him between pleads.

he had her pinned under him now — body flush to hers, chest to chest, hips grinding deeper with every roll. the mattress creaked beneath them, sheets tangled at their waists. he was in her in every sense, and still it didn’t feel close enough.

yoongi moaned into her ear — couldn’t stop himself — and her body clenched so tight around him that his rhythm stuttered, jaw falling slack as he swore under his breath.

she whimpered when he hit deep.

he groaned when she tightened.

his mouth found her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone — kissing every inch she asked for, biting gently when her nails sank into his back. one of his hands slid up, grasping the back of her thigh, pulling her leg higher over his hip to get deeper, stay deeper.

the sweat between them made it all feel primal. feverish. real in a way that didn’t make sense, like he wasn’t sure if this was the best sex of his life or a goddamn religious experience.

and he hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

not just the heat. not just the high.

the connection.

the way her hands still held onto him even as her voice broke. the way her body moved with his like it knew him already. like it had been waiting for him to come back to life.

and he was.

piece by piece. kiss by kiss. thrust by thrust.

yoongi pressed his forehead to hers again, panting, hips rolling steady and deep as her breath caught and she whispered his name like a prayer. her nails curled into his shoulder blades.

he groaned again — low, helpless.

“fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against her mouth.

she smiled — crooked and breathless — and kissed him hard, teeth grazing his bottom lip before she said, “good.”

he laughed.

not loud. not amused. wrecked.

it cracked out of his chest like disbelief — like she’d just dared him to snap — and she fucking had.

yoongi leaned back, separating from her chest, chest heaving. and the second she started to reach for him — eyes hazy, lips parting in protest — his hand locked around her hip, tight. rough. possessive.

she gasped, and fuck, he felt it.

the way her body jolted. the way her breath hitched. the way her legs trembled around his waist.

he pressed his thumb into the meat of her hip, slow and deep — not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. he knew it would leave a bruise. wanted it to. wanted her to find it tomorrow and remember the way she asked for this with nothing but a smirk and a dare.

his other hand rose to her jaw — fingers spread, palm warm and solid, thumb dragging across her bottom lip before his grip shifted. just enough pressure to ground her. not choking. not rough. just right. enough to make her pupils blow wide, lips fall open, breath break again.

and then he moved.

his hips snapped forward — hard. deeper than before. rougher. the kind of thrust that rattled her body against the mattress.

she whined. moaned. arched. all at once.

“yeah?” he rasped, eyes locked on hers. “you like that?”

her mouth dropped open — desperate, dazed — and she nodded, voice nearly gone.

“tell me,” he muttered, fucking into her harder now. “tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

she gasped — a jagged inhale, her fingers clawing at his shoulders.

and then, through breathless, broken confessions, she told him.

about the way she thought of him the night they met — how she imagined this. him. the way she touched herself thinking about how he’d sound, how he’d moan. how she'd imagined his mouth, his hands, his weight pressing her down into her mattress, just like now.

yoongi groaned — deep, guttural, shaking through his whole chest. his grip tightened on her hip. his pace faltered for just a second before he snapped back into it — rougher, deeper, his cock dragging against the spot inside her that made her voice crack when she tried to keep talking.

“fuck, baby—” he gasped, mouth finding her neck again, kissing it hard. “you’re gonna make me come.”

and she gasped at that. her whole body reacting — fluttering around him, her legs shaking, arms locking around his back like she was trying to trap him there.

and yoongi?

he let her.

because fuck it — he wasn’t going anywhere.

he couldn’t hold back anymore.

his hips snapped into her again — deep, ragged — and this time he didn’t try to quiet the sounds that came out of him. couldn’t. not with the way she gripped him, her hands dragging down to his ass, pulling him in, guiding each thrust like she wasn’t even close to finished with him.

yoongi groaned — sharp and guttural, the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, from the place that was losing her already even as she was still wrapped around him.

he dropped his weight slightly — elbows pressing into the mattress on either side of her head, chest to chest, his face buried against her cheek. and then, just before he shattered completely, he turned and left a kiss on her forehead.

so gentle.

so quiet.

like the softest thank you he'd never say aloud.

his hair was soaked, sweat dripping down his neck, his whole body trembling with the force of it as he came — hips stuttering, breath catching, buried so deep in her it almost didn’t feel real. a moan ripped from his throat — her name barely audible against her skin.

but she didn’t stop.

her hands coaxed him through it, fingers digging into his skin, soft, desperate whimpers pushing past her lips as her hips tilted up again. chasing hers. so close.

“don’t stop,” she gasped. “yoongi—please—i’m—”

and fuck.

his body was wrecked, but his heart was still punching through his ribs for her, so he kept moving. slower now, but still deep, rolling into her just the way she liked — groaning as he felt her clench again, tighter this time, like her whole body was pulling him in to come with her.

she shattered with a gasp. a long, aching sound that cracked in the middle as her thighs trembled and her hands fisted into his skin.

and yoongi?

he felt it.

deep.

full-body.

because this wasn’t just release — it was connection. her body shaking beneath him, lips brushing his jaw, her moans quiet now but still there, like they were part of the rhythm of his own breath.

they stayed like that.

pressed together.

sweat-slick and shivering, heartbeat to heartbeat, breath syncing as the silence finally returned — not empty, not awkward.

just real.

just them.

he didn’t move.

couldn’t.

his body was still thrumming — nerves fried, lungs stuttering against hers, every part of him soaked in the weight of her. sweat on his skin, her scent in his nose, her heartbeat steadying underneath his chest like she was trying to bring him back to earth.

her arms stayed locked around him.

tight.

one hand resting flat against his spine, the other tracing slow, mindless shapes into the space between his shoulder blades. he could feel her nails, just barely — not scratching, just reminding. like she didn’t want him to slip away. like she was holding him there on purpose.

yoongi exhaled.

his face still pressed against the side of her neck, breath ghosting over her skin as he tried to find his voice. but nothing came yet. didn’t need to. the silence between them wasn’t awkward. it was full. stretched soft like a blanket. like a memory.

finally, after a minute — maybe two — he lifted his head.

just enough to look at her.

and fuck.

she was a vision.

lips red and bitten. cheeks flushed. pupils still dark and wide and glassy. there was sweat along her collarbones and a dreamy kind of haze in her gaze, like she was still floating somewhere between now and the stars.

her hand reached up — slow and sure — and gently brushed the hair from his forehead, fingers dragging soft against his skin. a quiet, instinctive gesture. so casual and so intimate he felt it in his chest like a bruise.

yoongi leaned in and kissed her.

not rushed. not hungry.

just soft. like he meant it.

when he pulled back, he let his forehead rest against hers for a beat longer before he whispered, voice low and rough, “where should i...?”

he didn’t even finish the sentence.

she understood.

she nodded toward the bathroom door, lips parting slightly, too spent to smile but too sated not to.

he pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth — then carefully pulled out of her, a soft hiss caught in his throat as the warmth of her slipped away. he moved slow, quiet, disappearing down the hall just long enough to take care of it.

when he came back, she was still there.

bare and beautiful in the soft light.

one hand outstretched — waiting for him.

yoongi didn’t even think.

he climbed back into bed, under the light blanket she’d tugged over herself, and let her pull him back into her arms. his head on her chest now, ear pressed to her heartbeat, fingers ghosting over her ribs like she might vanish if he didn’t touch her.

neither of them said a word.

they didn’t need to.

her fingers were still in his hair, slow and lazy, threading through the damp strands like she had all the time in the world.

yoongi’s arm was draped low around her waist, hand curled under the curve of her spine. their bodies had stopped moving, but his mind hadn’t — it buzzed, still full of her. the sound of her voice. the look in her eyes. the feeling of her skin under his hands, her legs around his hips, her breath right there at his mouth.

he felt wrecked. in the most peaceful way.

her lips brushed the top of his head, a kiss that was more like a breath. and then, soft — almost teasing, but not really — her voice reached through the quiet.

“you’re gonna be a problem for me,” she murmured, half-lidded eyes blinking slow, like she was already falling under sleep’s weight.

yoongi huffed a laugh against her chest.

“good,” he whispered back. “i want to be.”

she smiled — he could feel it. the way her ribs shifted slightly beneath his cheek.

a beat passed.

the kind that invited more, the kind that asked without asking.

and then she did — so quiet he almost thought he dreamed it.

“are you staying?”

he stilled.

not from fear. not from panic.

just from the sheer gravity of it.

because she wasn’t asking about just tonight. he could hear it in her voice, feel it in the soft curl of her fingers around his neck. it wasn’t about falling asleep together. it was about after. about what they did with this — with whatever the fuck this was becoming.

yoongi closed his eyes. breathed her in. his hand splayed against her lower back like it had always known how to fit there.

“yeah,” he said, eventually. just above a whisper. “i think i am.”

and she didn’t say anything after that.

she didn’t need to.

she just kissed the top of his head again, her lips barely brushing his skin, and held him tighter.

and for the first time in a long, long while — yoongi let himself be held.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

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todomochi-uwu · 2 months ago

Text

already over.

Pairing(s): Luffy x reader; Zoro x reader; Sanji x reader; Ace x reader; Law x reader Genre: Smut, angst Warnings: This content is for a mature audience Synopsis: The flesh is weak, and you are even weaker for him. Author's notes: I finished Marineford, and I feel like dying, so you might notice my love for Ace through this text. I'm thinking about writing a second part, but I'm not sure. Would you guys like a part two? Partially inspired by Already over by Sabrina Carpenter, hence the name of this work. Masterlist If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee

Luffy

You broke up with him, and it killed you, but you must face the truth: He's still too immature for a serious relationship. He isn’t what you need right now.

The idea of you not being in his life doesn’t make sense to him.

“Can we, at least, be friends?” “Maybe in the future, Luffy.” “Like, in a week?”

Pushing you out of his routine is something he can’t seem to do.

“Hey! Are we still on for dinner on Friday?” “Luff, we are broken up.” “Is that a no?”

Sends you constant TikTok videos and memes that remind him of you. You try not to answer but can’t help but see them.

Moving on from him is a nightmare cause he’s always there.

It takes something to have reality hit him.

“Oh, look at this photo Y/n posted!” He showed Usopp your profile. A thread of photos you had posted last night. The first one of you with chopsticks on your nose. The next one mid mid-bite. The third one of you smiling and looking at the camera.

"I thought you guys broke up?" He side-eyed his friend.

"Yeah, so?" He was too focused on flipping through your pictures until he came across the last one. You were posing with a guy, his arm around you while kissing your cheek. You were laughing. “Who the fuck is that?!”

“Um...”

He won't hesitate. He corners you to ask who the guy in your photo is. And when you answer honestly, it feels like a punch to the gut.

“It’s a guy I’ve been seeing.” “What? I thought you just needed a break or something. Not an actual break-break.” “Lu, we broke up four months ago...”

Be sure he’ll drive away anyone who dares to approach you. He wants you and won’t let you go. Not that easy.

It's no surprise you end up back on his bed. You love this man, your heart longs for him.

“Luffy!” Overstimulated and cross-eyed he had you, on the old and ragged couch of his living room. His tongue lapped at your wet cunt, thrusting and sucking on everything across its path. Luffy was always a messy eater, so oral sex wasn’t the exception.

"You always taste so good." He pulled away for a second, just to see the way your juices spilt out along with his spit. Then, he pushed two fingers inside, with no warning, but sure where to aim. He knew your body like the palm of his hand.

“Shit!” If he hadn’t been holding you, you surely would've face-planted. Your fingers ran through his hair, shoving his face closer to your core. Getting closer and closer for the nth time, thanks to the way his fingers fuck you and his lips around your clit.

Yeah, you fucked up.

Your head is a mess, and this won’t help. But you are weak, dumb and in love. And, painfully, in denial.

To him, it just doesn’t make sense. If you love him, and he loves you, why not be together?

“Are we good?” He asks while stroking your arm, leaving kisses on your shoulder. It’s then you realise you aren’t and he’s still the same man you broke up with.

“No, Luffy. We are not.” You get up and get dressed.

"But I miss you, Y/n, and I know you miss me too!" He hugs you from the back, "We are meant to be."

“Are we?” You won’t even look at him. No matter how much he tries.

Zoro

He doesn’t even flinch when you break up with him.

He’s the definition of lovers to enemies.

Being friends with the two of you is hell.

“Why are you acting like a fucking asshole?” “Why are you being such a bitch?”

Do not be mistaken, Zoro might act like he hates you, but he’s hurting. Having you so close but not being able to be with you is killing him. Even more, knowing it was his fault.

He took you for granted. He was neglectful and dismissive, prioritizing every aspect of his life over you. Unaware of it until it was too late.

It’s not that he didn’t care that you left, it's the fact that he didn’t know what to do to get you back. So, he resorted to anger.

Rolling his eyes every time you were brought up, being in the worst mood whenever you showed up; and arguing with you at every little opportunity he got.

Hate sex came out of nowhere, am I right?

“Don’t stop!” Eyes at the back of your head, face shoved against his pillow.

His hips pounded against your ass again and again. You’ve been going at it for God knows how long, but Zoro didn’t seem anywhere near done with you, "Such an obedient girl.” His thrusts slowed down while pressing his chest to your back, leaving kisses on the skin and biting your shoulder, “your pussy is more honest than you, baby.”

Your hands gripped desperately to his sheets. You couldn’t form a single straight thought, just his name and moans escaped your mouth. “Fuck you." You felt the knot in your belly snapping, legs trembling, and juices spilling everywhere, “Zoro!”

“You don’t have to pretend, baby. We both know how much you love this dick.” He didn’t stop, bullying your cervix with the tip of his cock, prolonging your climax, “Fuck, you feel so fucking good, baby.”

But each time, you would run away from him. Claiming it was a mistake, and that it wouldn’t happen again. (Spoiler: it did.)

He would find any excuse to get you riled up, poking you in ways only he could. If this was the only way he got to be close to you again, he would do it, no doubt.

“We can’t keep doing this.” You said while putting on your bra. Shame screaming in the back of your head.

"You always say that." He lies on his arm, looking at you with a smirk.

“I need to move on, Zoro.” A sob escapes your lips. This worries him, making him want to comfort you. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.”

"Give me a chance to prove you I've changed." He grabs your hand and looks you in the eyes, "Let me make it up to you. I won’t repeat the same mistakes.”

You contemplated it for a second. The man you so desperately love is right in front of you, begging for a second chance, but you can’t bring yourself to believe him, “I don’t trust you, Zo.”

He watches you walk away from him, and once again, he doesn’t know how to stop you.

Sanji

He’s a whore. Plain and simple. This is not to say he cheated because he didn’t... but flirting with everything that moves is just as bad.

He’s at a loss when you break up with him, claiming it came out of the blue.

“I don´t understand, my love. I thought we were okay.” “You can’t flirt with my friends and expect me to be okay with it.” “I'm just complimenting them, love. Every woman deserves to feel appreciated.”

Yeah, well, now he can appreciate them all he wants.

Do you want him to beg? He’ll do it, every day, all day.

Flowers and desserts are always present at your desk first thing in the morning.

Poems attached to gift bags at your doorstep when you come back from work.

Long texts professing his love and how much he misses you.

You gave in after a couple of weeks.

He seems genuinely sorry. He’s been attentive, caring, loving, and you are, mind-numbingly, in love with the chef. Why not give him another chance?

You look into each other's eyes while his fingers trace up and down your skin. “I missed you so much, sweetheart.” His mouth presses against your neck, leaving small, red marks on it.

“Sanji.” You whimper, running your nails against his back.

He’s slow to undress you but covers your body in kisses as he pulls off every piece of clothing. He whispers sweet promises against your body while his hands dance across your skin. “Don’t ever leave me, my love. I thought I’d die without you.”

You press your hand against his clothed member, making him whimper in your mouth. Both of you are hungry for more, longing for each other’s body and love, “please, Sanji, make love to me.”

And that’s all it takes. Sanji is inside you in a second, chasing your and his pleasure. His thrusts are desperate and uneven, but you couldn’t care less. "You feel so good, baby. Shit, so good, so good." He’s pussy drunk on you.

In the morning, you wake up feeling good and loved.

His scent and warmth still linger on the bed. The house smells like syrup. Your body aches in a good way. Could it get any better?

The moment you open your phone, you see it.

A heart-eyed emoji under Nami’s latest post.

That mother fucker.

You gather your clothes, shoving yourself into them, eager to get out and never see him again. Just as you are about to open the door, he does. A breakfast tray in his hand, makes your stomach grumble, but you refuse to acknowledge.

“Good morning, my sweet.” He places the food on the bed, “Why are you up? I thought we could have breakfast in bed.”

“I’m leaving, Sanji. Last night was a mistake.” You can’t look him in the eyes cause if you do, you know you’ll give in.

“What? But I thought,” He stutters, “I thought everything... I... We were fine.”

“We weren’t, Sanji.” You grabbed your bag, “Don’t call me.”

Ace

The absolute worst kind of ex. The perfect one you can’t seem to hate.

You broke up because you start to notice how much he loves being free, so much more than being in a relationship. He’s the flirty type, consciously or not, it was just who he was.

He won’t deny it, but he’ll say he likes meeting new people.

He will respect your decision, even if it breaks his heart. Sometimes wonders if he should have fought harder for you.

You try to stay friends. At the end of the day, Ace is loyal to those he loves and cherishes, and you aren’t willing to lose that. (And selfishly, you don’t want to give him time to be on someone else’s lips.)

Both of you act like nothing ever happened. Pretending it wasn’t a big deal, and you are okay with going back to being friends.

Outings with your friend group are the perfect excuse to see each other, neither of you brave enough to admit how much you miss the other.

Robin tries to set you up with one of her coworkers. Ace prays to God he doesn’t show up, or he’s a complete pig.

He suffers in silence every time he sees someone hitting on you at a bar. (In silence meaning that everyone in the room can tell his fuming.)

“Why won’t you admit you miss her?” “Y/n and I are better off as friends, Marco. Don’t worry about it.”

Then why won’t you leave his bed?

Ignited by the feeling of missing each other (and the amount of alcohol in your systems), you are back on his bed.

“You are such a good view.” He moans, one hand grabbing your ass while the other one rests behind his head. Enjoying the way you bounce on his dick.

You threw your head back, legs about to give in, but desperate to feel his cum inside you, “Ace!” You whimper.

“Already tired, princess? Oh, but you are doing such a good job.” Ace loves to tease you, but even more than that, he loves making you cum. Both his hands on your hips and feet placed on the bed, making you lean on his knees, he takes over.

Chest to chest, your face against his neck, you cry out, begging him to make you cum, and for him to fill you up with his cum. "Please, Daddy, please, make me cum.”

He smirked, “didn’t know how much I missed you calling me that.” He spanked you, "Don't worry, baby, Daddy'll give you what you want.”

You love your bed, but it loves him too. It'll happen at the same time every weekend.

But you know it must stop. You love him and you can’t keep hoping that someday he’ll change.

So, you’ll make the most mature choice you can think of. You ghost him.

You won’t answer the phone when he calls, messages, emails, or anyway he can contact you goes unanswered. You don't show up to events or plans when you know he will.

And it works..., for like two weeks.

It’s seven a.m., and some maniac is banging on your door. With dry spit on your cheeks and puffy eyes, you answer the door, wondering who the fuck dares disturb you on your day off.

“Ace.” Shit.

“Yeah, may I know why you are ghosting me?”

“I, I am not.” You stutter.

“Don’t lie to me.” He shoves his way into your apartment. “What’s going on, Y/n? Why are you avoiding me?”

“Because we can’t keep doing this, Ace. I can’t keep allowing myself to fall for you when you don’t want me like that.”

“You were the one who wanted to break up, not me.”

“That’s beside the point, Ace. Please, don’t make this any harder.”

“Can we at least talk about it?”

“Leave, Ace.”

Law

Sometimes, you don’t know if he’s dating you because he loves you or just to shut you up.

He cares, and you know that, but words without actions are just that.

He’s a doctor, and you understand he’s busy, but the fact that you have to break up over the phone cause he’s too busy to talk in person makes you feel better about your decision.

It’s not until he finishes his shift that reality hits. Twelve hours later.

Drowns himself in work to try and forget you. Sometimes he forgets he’s human and still can hurt.

He won't call, text or contact you to talk things over. At least not in the beginning. Do you want to break up? Fine. He’s got too much going on to deal with you. (That’s what he says to convince himself.)

Starts noticing how much you loved him, and how much he took for granted.

Homemade lunches and snacks that no longer sit on the counter when he’s leaving for work. No random texts throughout the day that pull him out of the rut. No one waited for him at home, and no one filled his days off.

Law spends hours looking at his phone, contemplating whether he should call or not. What would he even say? Sorry? I miss you? I’m a fucking mess without you?

He cringes at the idea of acting that vulnerable.

“Didn’t know you and that girl had broken up.” Law barely heard the other doctor, too busy disassociating himself in a cup of cold, bitter coffee.

“Huh?” He’s too drowsy for this.

“Yeah, I saw her last night at that new club. She looks great, no wonder she had all those dudes trying to take her home." He laughed mockingly. "If I didn't respect you enough, I would have given it a try, oh well.”

The comment makes his blood boil, but he doesn’t say anything.

After that, it doesn’t take much for him to contact you. Men and their fragile egos.

“Hello?” ... “It’s me.”

You no longer have his contact saved on your phone. It’s been months.

“Okay? What do you need, Law?” “Can we talk?”

Oh, now he wants to talk.

You go to his place, as per his request. Talking turns into crying, then into yelling and onto you being pounded on his bed. The flesh is weak, and you are even weaker for this man.

Your knees are next to your ears, tears dripping down your cheeks and his dick shoving his way in and out of your cunt. You can barely breathe, and your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. "God, Law."

“Miss me, babygirl?” His thumb pushes on your overstimulated clit, making you clench even harder around him, “do you miss my cock, love?” His thrusts won’t let up even if you cum he won’t stop, not until you are dripping out with his cum.

You are shaking, your lungs feel like they are on fire, and your core is so sensitive everything he does throws you over the edge. But you want more. You need more.

"No one can make you feel the way I do. Don't ever forget that." He says right after he spills his seed inside you. His fingers push it right back inside once it threatens to come out.

But when morning comes, everything goes back to the way it was.

You can’t go through it again. The lonely nights, the missed anniversary dinner, the unanswered texts. You won’t go back to feeling unloved.

“You don’t have to go.” He whispers while watching you put back your clothes.

You shake your head, "This was a mistake, Law." You grabbed your phone and looked for your purse.

“I know I fucked up, but...” You cut him, done.

“It’s been months, Law. I think we are past that." You close the door of his room and on you two.

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where-does-the-heart-lie · 10 months ago

Text

Sabo analysis time!!!!

Do you guys ever think about how Sabo didn't visit Dressrosa to see Luffy again? And him meeting up with Luffy was probably his very last option to secure the fruit, otherwise he would probably avoid it? Cuz i do…

Let me elaborate.

So here's what we know from the source material:

We know Sabo and the other revolutionaries were there since the early morning since Hack was already inside the coliseum for RevArmy snooping reasons.

The prize of the Tournament was revealed after the Revs were already there.

Sabo/Koala were not in contact with Robin to know if the straw hats were anywhere near Dressrosa as seen by Koala saying "I hear Robin-san’s here in this country, too."

Sabo confronted Luffy about getting the Mera-Mera No Mi only after Hack lost during Block B and Luffy got out of his own block.

I had always assumed that Sabo showed up to Dressrosa for the Mera-Mera No Mi and meeting Luffy, but that really isn't the case. Idk why it took me so long to figure that out, it’s literally shown in the Episode of Sabo (EOS) explicitly. Although, the EOS isn't exactly source material. I cant find anywhere stating whether its canon or not, but I cant find anything that would have it conflict with the original plot so i see no reason why it wouldn’t be. All that evidence from before is canon though so even without the EOS, this claim still holds water.

Speaking more of the evidence we have from of the episode of Sabo, we see him snooping around the Colosseum during the tournament, we see the moment he realizes that Luffy is participating in the event, and we see the moment he realizes that Luffy cant participate any further.

Like look at him here. He looks absolutely unprepared for what he knows he has to do. And after this in the scene right before he starts talking with Luffy, he’s like literally walking to him as slowly as he possibly can. Taking pauses in his stride to probably think about how much of a bad idea this is.

Plus, at the beginning of the episode when he’s visiting Ace’s grave, he says “I guess both you and Luffy are both mad at me.”

Sabo has had so many opportunities to meet up with Luffy before he actually does, both in Dressrosa and since he regains his memory. But he doesnt. Because he cant. Because he’s terrified of being met with scorn, anger, or even violence from his beloved little brother.

Finally, we see him plucking up the courage to walk over to luffy. All surroundings are silent besides the loud footsteps coming from his approach echoing in the hallway.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

Then he stops.

Its dead quiet.

Sabo has been pretty much deadpan this entire time, but he then smiles before he says

“I wont let you have the Mera Mera No Mi, ‘Straw hat’ Luffy.”

This is a fairly serious thing that he’s saying to this man in a fake beard and outrageous helmet, and he’s terrified of this meeting with his brother, but he cant help but smile when he’s talking with him.

The conversation that continues is very confrontational, but suddenly something clicks in Luffy’s mind. His body relaxes from it’s tense posture, he starts to tear up, his speech slows,

Then he starts to scream with recognition.

That’s his big brother.

He’s alive…

He’s Alive!!!

He’s here! Right here! Right where he should be!

Alive. Living. Free!

Luffy GRABS Sabo’s face and propels himself towards him. Suffocating and probably giving his brother whiplash in that second within that assault-hug.

All of a sudden, Sabo’s fears of scorn, anger and violence all wash away.

Luffy loves him.

They have each other now.

And now, Sabo is on his way to get that god damn fruit.

Sabo absolutely didn’t think he was ready for this re-connection, but he’s so glad he went through with it.

He has his brother back, his other brother’s powers, and the bragging rights of being able to flaunt both.

This is what I'm sayin with the "seems like fire favors these brothers" post I made. The fact that both the mera mera no mi and Luffy and Sabo were all in the same place to come together at once is a crazy coincidence. How many coincidences does it take, for a happenstance to be Fate? Probably that amount.

In conclusion:

Get this man a therapist. Please.

Heres another sabo analysis if you wanna hear more

Thank you for reading my ramblings about a fictional man. I think about him a completely average amount.

#this has been in my drafts for a while so i cleaned it up and added pictures n junk #whery thoughts #one piece #sabo #monkey d. luffy #asl brothers #one piece fan art #portgas d. ace #sabo the revolutionary #long post

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v1rtualsalvat10n · 8 months ago

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𓆩♡𓆪 how to tell you goodbye

— weeks after his mysterious disappearance, lu shows up at your door with a message for you.

notes :: TW FOR DUBCON. uh yeah I find the idea of him apologizing for doing what he has to do very hot. f!reader sorry guys this is self indulgent

You don't remember how long it's been.

But you know it'd been long enough for you to stop wondering if he was actually coming back or not, and try to cope with that fact. He was gone - there was very little doubt in your mind about that. He'd stopped responding to calls and messages, his socials went cold, his friends, at least the ones you knew, hadn't heard anything either.

He disappeared. And the last thing you ever heard from him was that he was planning on doing something... real. But he never told you what. He could be dead for all you know, and there was nothing you could do about it.

It took a pretty big toll on you. He was one of the few friends you had, and just like that he was gone. Just when things were looking up for you, your support system just had to vanish into thin air. You missed him, fuck, you missed him more than anything. You missed your little coffee shop dates, the weekend parties, playing games in your apartment when it was lonely, sitting in the park together just talking for hours.

You miss those little looks he gave you when he thought you weren't looking, the way that some of your mannerisms made him smile, the nights where your conversations would get real and you'd cry on his shoulder when it was too much for you. You miss how he'd let you.

You missed the moment when he made you look at him, and wiped your tears with his thumb, letting the tension between you two linger for longer than it should. You missed his warm, shaky breath against your cheek. But you missed the most that moment when you felt his lips on yours, just for that few seconds.

You didn't miss the way he seemed to have regretted it after.

But you remembered that the clearest of all... watching the guilt in his eyes set in as he moved away from you, standing from your couch and rushing for his bags, saying that "it was getting late" or some lie like that. You remembered how he didn't even look back at you as he walked out of your door.

And that was the last day you saw him. He texted you the next morning.

"Hey, I probably won't be able to see you for a while. Working on stuff. Gonna do something real with my life."

What the fuck did that even mean? It made you angry, irrationally so. It probably only made you angry because you thought it was your fault. But god dammit, that felt valid! You felt like you had a fair reason to be pissed. It was no secret you liked him - it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out either! He'd do something like that so carelessly, and then just throw you out?

You hated it. Maybe you'd feel better with an explanation, but the truth of the matter is that he kissed you and then mysteriously disappeared, not to be seen again. And how were you not supposed to make assumptions in that situation?

And so you'd spend your days by yourself. With no more Luigi to rely on to keep you from spiraling, you'd been curled up in your room by yourself, scrolling through his social media posts, rereading your message logs to see if there's something you'd missed.

You had a jacket of his he left at your place, and every night you'd wrap a pillow in it and breathe in the mix of cologne and his natural scent until it lulled you to sleep.

It wasn't enough. You wish he'd come back, but even if he did, what was there to say? Even if he apologized, you didn't know that you'd forgive him.

That is, until he actually did come back.

No, surely that was just wishful thinking - that knock was probably a salesman or someone stupid like that coming to bother you. You dragged yourself up from your bed and slowly approached the door, groaning to yourself before putting on a fake smile to answer it.

And sure enough, there he was. Cold and scruffy looking, his clothes ruffled and his hair matted, bags under his eyes. He pushed you inside, and slammed the door behind himself.

He kissed you again. But this time he didn't hesitate, and he wasn't gentle - he threw himself onto you, your lips messily colliding with his as he leaned into it, diving his tongue into your mouth. His hands slid down to your hips, grabbing the waistband of your sweatpants so tight it was like he might fall off the Earth if he let go.

The kiss was sloppy and desperate, and he hungrily pushed it as far as you'd let it go, which was admittedly pretty far. But then the shock faded, and you pressed your hands to his chest, shoving him back. He was weak enough that he fell back into the door, leaning against it to prevent from fully toppling over.

"What the fuck?!"

You'd never yelled at him before. Never even thought about getting upset with him. His face turned fearful, as he steadied himself and tried to walk forwards again. You took a step back for the one he took forwards.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you are, fucking with me like this?!"

His expression shifted. He just stared at you, blankly, either too tired or too numb to show any emotion anymore. And fuck, that only made you angrier. "You think this is funny? I was worried you could be dead, and now you just- show up, months later, looking like this? Why didn't you say something? You just- just-"

"I'll explain everything. Just... I really... missed you."

"Yeah? You didn't miss me enough to at least give me a heads up that you were alive!" You hid your face in your hands, sighing deeply trying to contain yourself. What reasonable explanation could there possibly be? You couldn't reason with him surely.

You hear him step forwards, and he places his hands on your hips again. You reach down to pull him off of you, but the moment you move your hands away from your face, he's pressing more kisses to your lips. He holds you tighter, his arms wrapping around you. "Get off me," you growl, but he doesn't listen.

He kisses your neck, his warm breath shaking profusely. "Luigi," you say, and he can't even look up at you. You yank one of his hands off, only for him to put it back on you with more force than the last time. "I said get off!"

"Let me make it up to you," he begs you, his gaze meeting yours as he walked you forwards, pushing you onto the couch. You try to stand, but he's quicker, and he straddles you, hovering over you and pushing you down by your shoulders. He stops looking you in the eyes, too embarrassed at what he was doing.

"Luigi, stop! I'm trying to talk to you, god dammit!" He doesn't listen. He can't. He's already straining his jeans, grinding his hips into yours. It's warm. He's warm, and fuck, you can't lie to yourself. You missed this feeling. You missed the feeling of something real being there with you. You missed him.

Your body betrays you, and you softly rock your hips forwards into his, swearing under your breath. He smiles softly, cupping one of your hips in his hand. "It's okay. I know you missed this." He looked at you, a weird sincerity in his eyes, considering what he was actually doing.

"I'm not messing around. This- this isn't funny. Let go of me." At some point you had stopped struggling without noticing, and you squirmed again, causing him to push more of his weight down onto you. He spoke softly to you. "Shh, it's okay... It's okay, I promise I won't take long. Promise, promise."

He muttered some words in Italian, something that sounded along the lines of a prayer as he rutted into you, yanking your hips up to get more friction. "Stop it," you say again, covering your face with one of your hands.

The truth is that you'd dreamed of this moment for so long. So very long. You'd dreamed of what it would feel like when he finally touched you, his skin on yours, giving you all he had to give. But fuck, not like this, not like this-

He finished with whatever he was reciting, and slipped his fingers under your waistband, along with the one of your panties and tugged them down. You pressed your thighs together, but he was stronger than you and pushed them apart, leaving you exposed for him.

"You're beautiful..." He stared down at you, leaving a crimson shade on your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I just... I felt like I had to tell you goodbye." Your eyes widened as he said that, and you shook your head. "What are you talking about? Luigi, I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere either. You don't have to do this, please-"

By the time you finished, he was already unbuckling his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking against itself making you shiver. He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, rubbing himself against your folds. He was big. Bigger than you expected. Big enough that it looked like this might leave you sore.

You tried to scoot back, but he reached for you and pulled you closer than you were before, gasping at the feeling of your wetness against his cock. He'd longed for this forever, maybe even since the moment he'd first laid eyes on you. It felt like heaven to him, despite how dirty he felt - despite the fact that he knew it was wrong.

Something about you looking down on him for this only made him harder.

He lined himself up with your entrance and parted you with just his tip, his nails sinking into your hips as he did. "Fuck," he whimpered, "I'm so sorry, amore."

And with that, he slid into you slowly. You sighed in relief, only to cry out when he was so overwhelmed by pleasure that he slammed himself into you as deep as he could manage, rolling his hips into you.

Fuck. You could feel him pressing against your cervix. His breath shook as he panted heavily, shutting his eyes tightly as he pulled out nearly all the way, only to slam back into you. He swore, leaving bruises on your sides from how hard he was holding you. It hurt but you didn't care.

He kept up this brutal force, moving all the way out just so he could thrust deep into you again. It took him a while to speed up just because he was so overstimulated by it. But when he did, he fucked you like a wild animal, slamming his hips into yours, the obscene sound of his skin hitting yours filling your apartment.

You looked up at him, who still had his eyes closed out of shame. You couldn't help but imagine what he saw behind his eyelids, what he was imagining as he fucked you in earnest. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he fought against them. "I'm sorry," he muttered, over and over again. He couldn't stop apologizing.

"It's- it's okay, it's okay... fuck-! I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you... oh god..."

That was too much for him. Your acceptance, that unconditional love of yours, the fact that he could do this, and you would still understand, pushed him over, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

His hands frantically slid up your sides as he leaned down onto you, both your chests pressed together, getting as much of his skin on yours as possible. He ran his fingers up and down you, committing every hill and valley to memory. "I'm sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you. I promise you. I promise."

He kept mindlessly apologizing as he used you, controlled by his own need. There was no stopping him now, and you didn't want to. He was beautiful even like this, even at his lowest point. You knew that you loved him in this moment.

"I'm gonna cum, please, please... I'm sorry, I need it, please, baby-" He kept babbling through his tears, which fell onto your cheeks. You closed your eyes softly, leaning into his touch, pressing your lips to his.

He devoured you in an instant, the kiss deeper than before, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he neared his release. "Perdonami, ti prego," he begged, speaking inbetween breaths.

"Lu," you cooed. "Go ahead. It's alright."

As soon as you commanded him, his eyes shot open and he threw his head back as he rammed into your cervix, spilling himself deep inside of you, his body shaking as he did. You tightened around him, the feeling of him finally letting himself go enough to make you cum too, as you called out his name.

He stayed tensed up over you for a moment, his arms struggling to hold his weight as his eyes shut, and he collapsed on top of you, his face in your chest. He started to sob, gripping you tight, one of his hands going down to entangle with yours. "I'm so sorry, amore," he repeated, over and over, "I'm sorry"s falling from his lips.

You pressed him closer, free hand stroking his hair softly as he crumbled in your arms. "It's okay. I forgive you."

"Please don't hold it against me."

"We'll figure it out, okay, Lu? We'll figure it out, together. Me and you. Because I love you."

"I love you too.... No matter what happens, remember that I love you."

#tw dubcon #tw dubious consent #luigi mangione #uhc assassin #deny defend depose #uhc shooter #luigi mangione x reader #real people fiction 18+#real person fiction #rpf #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione smut #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione imagine #free luigi

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

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The Shy One

Inspired by this post; in the same universe as this and this

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: a night out ends in an embarrassing encounter.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

It feels like you’re seeing the world through tinted glass. The low lights, the buzz of voices, and the subtle clink of glasses feed the haze around you. That and the cocktail in your hand. Just ice now. Your second. You’re surprised how easily it went down.

“Want another?” Mikayla asks as you play with the thin straw.

“Maybe not yet,” you shrug.

She grins at Alina, “lightweight?”

The other women laugh. You’re too embarrassed to admit it but you are. In fact, it’s the first time you’ve ever tasted alcohol. If they don’t mock you for confessing, they wouldn’t believe you.

“So happy you came out,” Katy grins.

“Yeah, too bad you didn’t make the work mixer last month,” Lu says.

“Hm, yeah, I just... I couldn’t make it,” you chew your lip.

“Mmm, Mik,” Katy purrs, “you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Katy tilts her head and Mikayla follows her gaze. Alina and Lu do the same and you dare to peek after them. There’s a table of men across the bar. There timbre forms a dulcet drone amid the din.

“Sexy, look at that beard.” Alina slithers

“Which one?” Lu giggles.

You shift and look down at your glass. You wrap both your hands around it and squirm. They said it was just work drinks. You don’t want to be dealing with strangers.

“Oh, honey, loosen up,” Alina grabs your starched collar and pops the top button. “You have another one of those and you’ll be dancing on the table.”

“Um,” you lean away from her, “maybe. Erm, I need to go to the restroom.”

“Boo, too early to break the seal,” Katy whines.

“Sorry,” you apologise and stand.

You take your glass with you and as you turn, you stop short as your eyes meet another pair. One of the men from the crowded table catches you in his gaze. You gulp and quickly lower your chin. You hurry on to the bar and set your empty glass on it.

“Thanks,” you say.

“Oh, thanks,” the man behind it swipes it away. “The waitress coulda grabbed that.”

“Oh, now worries,” you show a palm and turn to find the restroom.

You head down the hallway behind the bright blue sign. You dip into the ladies and claim a stall. As nice as it is to release the pressure, it’s even nicer to get a breather. You’re not the bar type. Not a drinker or a dancer, as much as Alina keeps suggesting it. You’re a total square. Thirty years old and you’ve never done anything more fun than laser tag.

You wash your hands and leave the bathroom reluctantly. The music seems louder as you come out, the voices too. As you enter the barroom, you slow down. You’re mortified to find Alina and Katy in the open space, dancing. Grinding against each other.

You stand there, frozen and embarrassed. The other women at the table cheer them on lewdly. You don’t know what to do. Sitting with Lu and Mikayla would draw as much attention as joining the dancing. This doesn’t seem like the place for that.

Maybe it’s time for you to go. You’re feeling a bit cloudy and your eyes are fuzzy. You’ve been up since five in the morning.

You slowly cross the space but have to dodge as Alina spins out and nearly crashes into you. In an effort to avoid her, you hit the side of a table, bouncing off of it and staggering until you fall onto something soft. Thank gosh you managed to find a seat in your descent.

“Mmph,” the grunt greets you with the firm cushion beneath you, “y’alright, doll?”

You look over in horror at the man who’s lap you sit upon. How embarrassing!! You look around at the other men at the table as it dawns on you. This is the worst crash landing you can imagine.

You gasp and peer back at the man who serves as your chair. He’s terrifyingly handsome. His eyes are so blue and his jaw is chiseled beneath his dark beard. His brown hair curtains down around his cheekbones and his cheek dimples in amusement.

“I’m so sorry,” you wriggle against him as he spreads his large hand across your back. “I tripped. I didn’t man to—oh gosh.”

You touch your scalding forehead and try to shimmy out of his lap. It’s useless as you can’t get much of a stronghold. You just manage to ground your butt down on him.

“You okay there?” He runs his fingertips up your spine and sends a shiver through you.

“I’m--- sorry!” You gulp out again. “Please, I’m--” you grab the corner of the table and manage to haul yourself up. “I’m so...” you shake your head and bluster. You’re burning in humiliation. You can feel the other men watching you. “Ugh.”

You turn and scurry around Alina and Katy. You quickly gather up your purse and coat as the women at the table laugh. “Oh, honey, why don’t you give him a nice ride,” Lu teases.

You blanch at her and makes a face, “I didn’t mean to--”

“Oh, chill,” Mikayla chides. “Really, it was funny. Where are you going?”

“Home,” you exclaim. “Stop laughing at me. You’ve been laughing at me all night.”

Lu scoffs, “well, you’re a bit silly, aren’t you? Act like you’ve never touched a man or a drink before.”

You frown and flutter your lashes against the singe of hot tears. This is why you always say no. Why you are always ‘busy’. You don’t fit in. You’re better off alone.

You hug your coat and bag and hurry across the bar. You push through the door and stagger out into the night with a sniffle. Oh joy, work is going to be even worse. Now they’re going to sit around and cackle at you instead of Wendy and her tacky dresses.

You look around, searching for your bearings. You need to find a cab and get out of here. You see once coming down the pavement. You shift your things into one arm and throw your other up. The taxi steers towards the sidewalk but picks up another pedestrian further down.

You huff and crane in search of another escape.

“Hey, doll,” a rocky voice calls over the hinges of the bar door. “Where’re you off to?” You continue to peer down the street, frightened as you feel a gentle nudge on your elbow, “hey, talking to you. You didn’t even give me a name after you sat right on me.”

You flinch and reel away from him, “huh? What? Oh, I’m sorry. That was just... clumsy.”

“Ah, it’s fine. Really. It was funny,” he assures you. “I’m not making fun of you. Just, a pretty girl falls right in my lap then runs away, I kinda gotta wonder...”

“Umph?” You furrow your brow, “you’re making fun of me too.”

“Why would I do that?” He tilts his head. “Come back inside. Let me by you a drink.” You shake your head and wave your hand past him at another yellow cab. He chuckles softly, “you don’t gotta be shy.”

“I don’t know you,” you insist.

“I’m tryna fix that,” he counters.

“Really, I just wanna go home,” you whine as the taxi drives by without stop.

“Right, let’s do that,” he turns and throws his hand up. He whistles and wiggles his fingers. A cab rolls right up to him. “Let’s go.”

He opens the back door and stands back. You stare at it.

“Thanks,” you sigh in relief. You get in, ducking through the door, greeting the driver with a polite, “hello.”

Yet the door doesn’t close. Instead, you’re urged further inside by the man as he sits on the seat next to you. You slide over as he pulls the door shut behind him.

“Tell him where we’re going, doll,” he commands.

You look at him, then the driver. You’re too stunned to think. What is he doing? You give your address and curl your shoulders as you shrink down.

“Now,” the man stretches his arm across the seat, “we got the whole ride to get to know each other,” he offers his other hand, “I’m Bucky, I hear I make a pretty comfy seat.”

You can’t help half a smile. You reach and shake his hand. You suppose he did help you out and he doesn’t seem angry about your unceremonious fall. You give him your name.

“Thanks,” you say again.

“Thanks? Oh doll, what kinda fool wouldn’t help a girl like you?”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #one shot #marvel #mcu #avengers #winter soldier #captain america

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luiluvr · 5 months ago

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touch — luigi mangione

oh hii !! i saw @vershautece’s post and hadddd to write this, and deepest apologies i have NOT written smut before like my blog is losing its virginity </3 anywaysss hope u enjoy it!!

WARNINGS: f!reader, 18+, sex, dry humping/thigh riding, lu cumming in his pants, college!luigi loses his virginity, unprotected p in v i tried proofreading but when i wrote this i was half asleep so ☠

SUMMARY: Literally just sex (taking Lu's virginity :3) and dry humping him in his sweatpants gahhh

WC: 2.8k

Mess, mess, what a mess! Homecoming at UPenn was no joke. The frat boys painted their bodies the college’s colors, rowdy hallways and loud music. The campus buzzed with life; and the boys showed no shame — especially Luigi Mangione. He was new; a freshman. In contrast to the other male students, he was different. Had the smarts you know would take him many places, the charisma of a romcom boyfriend, everything you could want or need.

Lucky for you, he had his eyes drawn to your pretty figure, the way your skirt bounced, your thighs, and overall, your smile. He loved those rosy lips and kind flashes of teeth.

“Did I get my back?” Luigi asks his friend, Lane.

“Barely.” His friend chuckles, most of the paint on Luigi’s lanky figure was dried. He just needed assistance mapping out the ‘P’, since he and his friends were going to line up in the stands and spell out Penn.

“Can you help me then?”

“No, I gotta get help myself, I’m not gonna paint you, that’d be weird!” Lane laughs. Luigi’s thick, bushy brows furrow, “what do you suggest then, Dr. Know-it-all?”

“Get the girls to do it.”

“Oh come on,” Luigi sighs, “I don’t want them to be uncomfortable.” Lane sighs, “they’re not gonna be uncomfortable. If they like us, anyway… You could ask Y/N..” Lane teases him, smirking and bumping his shoulder.

“We still have an hour or two.” Luigi nods, plenty of time to get painted on by his crush. You.

So, with their heads held high, the boys walked the campus with their bodies painted blue and red to the dorms where you and your friends stayed. Your roommate was actually dating Lane — you never quite understood that. A knock at the door later, and the girl’s fun get ready for homecoming was crashed with body paint.

Unfortunately for Lane, he forgot the second bottle of white paint. Your roommate accompanied them back across campus.

The other girls had disappeared, including the last blue-painted boy; leaving you alone with Mangione. You side eye him a moment, he stood awkwardly, rubbing his cracked, painted palms together. He had smuggled the white paint bottle.

You looked so cute to him, your creamy thighs, carefully lined lips and the white skirt with a blue blouse. He could feel himself growing a bit hard. It was embarrassing, you were so pretty and perfect to him, but he was a virgin — contrary to popular belief. He just liked you. He wanted you.

Luigi finally breaks the silence, watching you pull the rollers from your shiny hair. He clears his throat, “uh, Y/N?” His voice was a bit shaky.

“Yes?” You reply, your voice as smooth as honey.

“When you’re done… Would you mind helping me paint my back and uhmm.. The P on my stomach?” Don’t blush, Luigi.

Oh he’s so cute, he’s so shy asking you, his bunched up curls and tall stance. You shiver at the thought of touching him.

“Sure.” You said simply, not wanting to seem too excited.

After a bit you finally tended to him. You coated your hands in the paint and slathered it over his boney back. He wasn’t exactly the most buff guy, but he had a normal body for this age. He was really attractive, he wore those slutty gray sweatpants every girl begs her boyfriend to wear.

In this case, you didn’t ask him, he came to you like that.

It wasn’t your fault it was so obvious, the gentle outline through the fabric, you avoided looking at it, so he wasn’t weirded out by you. You always knew this guy was packing. Literally. He had you paint down to his waist, his v-line was so prominent.

For Luigi, your hands on him was like being dropped in heaven rather than the gates. He tensed a little at first but your warm palms soothe his occasional aches. He stood with posture and hopeful confidence, he liked you way too much.

“Okay, red’s done.” You state, showing him in the bathroom mirror as you wash it off your palms. “Looks great.” He says, you ended up using a blow dryer to get it dry faster. He had to sit down on the couch for a few, you did too. All that work plus doing your hair prior was tiring.

He looks over at you, his freckles show overlaying blush and his beauty marks are so perfectly placed on each cheek.

“What is it?” You questioned, wanting to know why he was staring so hard. He freezes and stares more, like a deer in headlights. “Sorry, I…I think you’re really pretty.” His cheeky, little crooked smile. You wanted to kiss him so bad.

“Thank you, Luigi.”

“O-of course.”

You smile warmly and tip your head back, looking up at the ceiling a moment, then he speaks up, his voice cracks. “I like you.” God, he was nervous.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“I like you too.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

He silently cheered and ran a lap around, celebrating in his mind, but outside he nodded and looked at you as though you’re the only girl to ever exist in this world. “I really like that skirt of yours too.” He blurts.

“Yeah?” You chuckle.

“Yeah..” He bit his lip subconsciously and looks down at your thighs, pressed together and pressed to the cushion, he was almost jealous the couch could be sat on by you. He wanted to kiss up your legs and praise every part of your body, and let himself get lost in his sexual desires for you, he wanted-

“My eyes are up here, Lu.” You smile. His hazel irises dart up, his cheeks impossibly turn more pink, and he starts to get cocky.

“They are," he says quietly. “I wanna look down here though.” He continued. Something changed, like the quiet, nervous atmosphere had shifted into an undeniable need, longing and prayers that it would evolve into something soon before one of you lost it.

You stood to get the white paint from the table, but Lu grabbed your hand and stopped you abruptly. “Luigi?”

“C’mere.” He whispers, pulling you down on his lap, somehow, at some point there was a spurt of confidence in him that shone like a star now. “Lu-“

“Shhh.” He says, looking at your body in his hands, although clothed he can only imagine what lies beneath it. He blinks, then reaches for your breasts. He looks for reassurance, once you nod he’s practically a goner. His large, slender fingers are groping and squeezing your boobs, so gently yet possessively in a way you liked.

“You’re s-so..” Words are uncomprehending in his brain, all he thinks and sees is lust. He leans forward and kisses between your collarbones. Slowly up your throat, stopping at your jaw. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I need you so badly, Y/N.” He murmurs, looking at you greedily.

With a tug, he popped open the buttons on your lace blouse, you were never one to wear a bra underneath a top like this — so when he was met with bare breasts, he almost frothed at the mouth. It took a moment before he gazes between your face and boobs, you nod; and he’s gone. Again.

His kiss was tender and he only suckled for so long before nursing the other breast, kneading one softly, then switching off. It felt so intimate, yet so sweet coming from him. You could only moan, letting your fingers curl up in his hair.

Then he cupped your ass, squeezing the flesh and all he felt was the dampened fabric of your panties under the skirt. His eyes meet yours like a needy puppy’s. “You want me…?” He asks, in a state of disbelief that this was real.

“I do.”

He fidgets for a moment, he wanted to tell you, but you had an idea. To try something different but equally pleasurable for yourself, he had no clue what you were doing until you were doing it. Softly, you straddled one of his thighs and began moving your aching need against it. He watched in awe, his cock was getting harder from the warmth, the fabric friction and your sounds. The sounds…

He exhaled, holding you in place, he nudged his thigh forward, causing a gasp to escape you. Each second grew more needful for both of you, he was so turned on he couldn’t think straight. “Lu,” you moan, and moan. Gently dry humping his thigh, it was so tender. You were so wet you left a small stain on the thigh of his sweatpants.

He was desperate and being a virgin in this state, he needed something more. Luigi grabs your hips and moves you directly on his erection. He leans so he is almost laying back, with you on top, he encourages you to keep moving.

You do.

You humped him through the sweats, his hardness rubbing against you in all of the right ways, your eyes flutter and you can feel how desperate you’re getting to have him inside you. Luigi could barely handle it, he was whiny, enjoying the view of you rubbing against his tented pants. Every now and then he’d buck up against you…

It became too much, he was guiding your hips, making sure you felt him against your pussy and ass — he groaned, feeling the twitch in his pants become more consistent until you moved so much he panted, begging you. A warmth spread against your panties and you lifted up, glancing down to find Luigi came right there in his briefs and sweats. It was a little endearing to see the male’s cum in that place. He blushes profusely, looking at you with embarrassment. “S-sorry.”

“For what?” “I came too fast.” He whispered. “I don’t think so.” You laugh softly, gazing at the mess you made of him. You turn to face him and lean over, planting your first big kiss on his lips. He moans and cups your face, kissing you sloppily for a long moment. His tongue slipped in your mouth, mapping out, wanting to remember every detail of you.

“I want you.” Your voice rang in the air. “I want you too. Bad.” He pants, then debates — “But uhm… I’m a virgin.”

You grin, pinching his cheek softly. “Oh, Lu, you think that’ll stop me?” He gushes. You tug him up from the couch, then grab the paint bottle and head back to the bathroom, shutting the door behind the both of you.

One hour to gametime.

Your fingers moved across his abdomen and lower chest, tracing the letter P, he was so shaky and sensitive still from cumming in his pants — it didn’t help he couldn’t clean that up yet either. You took extra time and care to paint him right and once done, you teasingly wiped your paint-covered thumb over his dick in the sweats.

He whined, looking down at you, there was no hiding that! “Y-Y/N..” He cooed. Just that action made his member twitch with arousal and life again. “Yes?” Weak, Luigi was so weak to you. He kissed your neck as you cleaned the white paint from your fingertips, “p-please.”

“Please, what?” You ask, looking at him as he shifts on his feet.

“Please… I need you to fuck me.”

“You’re sure you want me to be your first?”

“Positive. That's all I want.. I want you, Y/N. Please.”

From confident to straight up begging to be inside you.

You finally cave in, and the poor thing was so inexperienced, but he wanted to do the work. He only wanted to please you. Following instructions, he shimmied your panties down from under your skirt and showed off your breasts again. All in the mirror. The counter was just the right height and he could bend you over it. You stayed there, letting him get himself ready, you told him, “do what feels right, don’t rush yourself.” He nodded and carefully went a step at a time, you arched a bit and he ran his large palms over your ass. Then he pushed down his sweats and briefs, his erection was almost worse than the one before.

Luigi gently stroked himself, shakily groaning as he stood straight, adjusted your hip and aligned himself, “there we go, don’t be shy.” You say calmly. He gently poked your entrance with his tip, rubbed a bit as you wanted. He was packing — just a lot more than you expected. His tip alone felt so big and he wasn’t even inside you.

“Slowly, now..” He makes sure he’s still aligned right and gently uses his hand to guide his dick’s head into you. He watched you in the mirror. You gasp, not expecting that at all.

“Holy shit… o-okay..” You mumble, “Like I said, do what feels right.. okay?” Luigi nodded, feeling that confident cockiness coming back as he slowly pushed his length inside you, officially and fully, no longer a virgin. His face contorted, brows furrowed, he looks at your ass from this angle, the way your breasts spill out of the blouse.

He let you adjust to his size – more or so, he had to adjust to your slick tightness — he really had to focus here. All he could think of right now was how your pussy felt like heaven.

A flicker of need, and he began pushing in, pulling out, repetitively. You moaned, he did too, enjoying the feel. He got the swing of it pretty quick and ol’ sweet, nerdy Luigi was a little addict after five minutes. His hips slapped into your rear, filling the bathroom with pleasure and his length completely stretched you.

Two desperate souls, desiring. Joined together in passionate lovemaking. Luigi loved how your breasts bounced back n’ forth when he thrusted into you — how you moaned, your eyes shut and rolled back, all of it in the reflection for him to take in. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna cum.” He growls into your ear, kissing your neck as he brushes your hair aside.

“Okay.” You hum, he glances at you in the mirror. “I can pull out-“

“Don’t you dare.” You smiled slyly, cutting him off. Luigi blushed, confused, but not stopping his thrusts. “Are you sure…?”

“Yes.”

He was hesitant but fuck, he loses his virginity to you and he gets to cum inside you? Double win for him.

His movements became sloppy and erratic, needy and quick. You were a squirming, writhing mess — especially when he curiously reached under you and began rubbing at your clit. For someone with zero experience he found it quick. It made you whine, it made him feel so empowered for that moment…

“Lu, I’m gonna..” You pant, your back arching against him. He leans you up and cups around your ribs, holding you steadily so he can just thrust faster, it was a change but it felt amazing.

He made you really cry out in pleasure, your walls clung to him like a last lifeline and he groaned deeply, using it to his advantage to get off. He moved faster, despite your overwhelming orgasm, overstimulating you by continuously rubbing at your nub and nipping your neck, “You’re so fucking sexy.” He whispers, you had no clue where his sudden spark came from to be dominant, but you loved it.

Not even a full minute later, you felt him cum inside you – something you both probably shouldn’t have done but gosh, it was so worth it watching him collapse on your back, heaving and planting soft kisses on your shoulder. “That was amazing, God, Y/N, I love you.” He paused, blushing more when he realizes what he’s admitted out loud; but your expression says it all.

“I love you too.”

The both of you cleaned up, you fixed his painted body (and had to change clothes yourself, since some bits that didn’t dry, got all over you.) Thankfully Luigi had a spare pair of sweatpants, stretchy, black fabric. “Hold on, I gotta redo it now,” you smile. Although it meant ruining your makeup, you got the paint on your lips and pressed a kiss against the sweatpants, just over his dick.

“Huh – oh.” Luigi moans as you do so, he flushes and watches you. His heartbeat was quick and he felt so giddy. Gosh, he loved your touch. Then Lane and your roommate returned, he had the ‘E’ painted on his stomach. Now everyone was ready to head out and enjoy homecoming.

It was fun, Luigi and his friends walked together, but of course Lane’s observant eyes glinted. “You have fun Luigi?” He smirks. “What are you talking about?” Luigi responds. “C’mon, I know you had sex with her.”

“What? How?”

Lane pointed at his sweatpants, which he quickly remembered that your lips marked. He rubs his neck nervously and smiles. “So, you finally lost it?” Lane bumps their elbows. Luigi gazed at you, at your smile – laughing with your girl friends. He felt a sense of pride when you look back at him, his stomach flutters.

It also didn't help you had a big red handprint from Luigi's palm-covered hands on your lower butt cheek, which if you walked a certain way, was completely visible in that skirt. Luigi smiled, because he did that.

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

TAGS: @vershautece @iinfinitelimits (lmk if u want to be added!)

#luigi mangione fanfiction #luiluvr #luigi mangione smut #luigi thoughts #luigi nicholas mangione #luigi fanfiction #luigi x reader #luigi mangione

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hummingbird24220 · 3 months ago

Note

your angst writing is 1000/1000 got me tearing up when i read the zoro x swordsman reader :’)

could i request an angst luffy? i’m sure we all know he HAS to have severe ptsd after saboady and losing ace but no one from the crew ever really directly spoke about it with him. but here comes reader and lets say that something similar happened where they are in grave danger maybe got hit exactly the way ace died or they are kidnapped and then he loses it the way he did after waking up post ace death? maybe he blacks out and the crew have to hold him down like hes mad crazy while chopper is trying his best to make sure the reader survives? and ofcourse after reader is saved/survived, the crew or just reader have a sit down with luffy where he lets everything off his chest tbh i just feel like sobbing this week

Ughhhauh my feeeeeelings. I havent seen ace die in the anime yet, but i know its looming. ill probs cry ;.;

Hope this itches your angst itch. im not sure how i feel about this one, not my best, but its aight.

Enjoy!

What If I Was Too Late

Luffy x Reader

The sky had split open over the island — black clouds gnashing like teeth, lightning carving fury into the heavens. The Straw Hats were scattered across the battlefield, bruised but pushing back hard against the Marine ambush they hadn’t seen coming. You were separated from the others, fighting side-by-side with Robin when it happened.

The enemy wasn’t strong — not really. Not like the Warlords or the Admirals. But they were cruel, and they were precise. One of them had seen it. The way Luffy always shielded you. The way he watched you when he thought no one was looking.

And they used it.

Robin’s scream echoed through the trees.

Luffy arrived too late.

You were already on the ground, curled on your side, a gaping, smoking wound in your chest — right where Ace had been hit.

He didn’t even feel his legs move. One second he was on the edge of the forest, the next he was kneeling beside you, staring down at your barely-conscious body as your Devil Fruit power desperately fought to stitch you back together — but too slow. Too slow.

“(Y/n)...?”

Your eyes blinked open, foggy and unfocused. Blood stained your lips. “Lu...ffy?”

He froze.

The sound of your voice — broken, raspy, faint — was exactly like Ace’s last words.

“Luffy, I’m... sorry.”

No. No. No.

His heartbeat crashed in his ears like waves against rock. The crew started to catch up behind him, but Luffy couldn’t move. His hands were shaking. His vision blurred.

The last time he’d heard that kind of apology, Ace had died in his arms.

And now you — you — were bleeding out in front of him. Just like his brother. Just like the worst day of his life.

“LUFFY!” Zoro’s voice cracked like thunder behind him, but Luffy didn’t flinch.

Then came the scream.

He didn’t even know it was coming from his own throat until his knees buckled, and he fell forward, clutching you. He screamed so loud it felt like his lungs would tear apart, like the sky would shatter under the weight of it.

“Get Chopper!” Sanji bellowed.

Chopper was already running, crying, his hooves trembling as he dropped beside you and tore open his medical pack. “It’s not enough, it’s not enough— I need more time—!”

Luffy didn’t hear him.

He wasn’t there anymore.

He was somewhere deep, somewhere dark, somewhere filled with fire and smoke and the weight of his brother’s body in his arms.

“No—no no no no—” He clutched your face, smearing blood across your cheek as he tried to hold your head up. “Don’t die. You’re not allowed to die.”

You tried to speak, but it came out a wet gurgle.

And Luffy broke.

He surged up with a scream, haki flaring around him like an explosion. Robin fell back. Chopper nearly dropped his tools. Zoro grabbed Luffy’s arm — only to get flung aside like a rag doll.

“HE’S LOSING IT!” Franky yelled. “HOLD HIM—!”

Brook and Franky moved to flank him.

Sanji kicked at his legs. Zoro was back up, bruised but determined. It took all of them to hold Luffy down — muscles straining, eyes wild, voice ragged as he thrashed like a demon born of grief.

“I CAN SAVE HER—LET ME GO! LET ME—!”

“She’s alive!” Nami shouted, tears spilling as she grabbed his face. “She’s alive, Luffy—Chopper’s helping her—!”

He didn’t hear her.

He didn’t hear anything.

He just saw your face.

Your blood.

Your wound.

Just like Ace.

The trees were gone.

The cliffs? Flattened. Shattered like glass under a god’s fist.

What had once been a dense battlefield was now nothing but a cracked, smoldering plain, littered with the ruins of what the Straw Hats had fought to protect. Fire danced in the craters. The air sizzled with haki that boiled and thrashed like a living beast.

And at the center of it all was Luffy.

Unleashed.

He wasn’t talking anymore. He wasn’t thinking.

He was rampaging.

Every punch shattered the earth. Every scream split the sky.

“LUFFY, STOP!” Sanji coughed through the smoke, shielding Chopper and your body with his jacket. “YOU’RE GONNA KILL US—!”

“He can’t hear you,” Zoro growled, blood running down his temple. “He’s gone.”

Robin and Franky

had fallen back. Brook was covering Nami, who was crying so hard she could barely stand. Usopp was screaming Luffy’s name, waving his arms, trying to reach through the haze — but it was like trying to grab smoke with bare hands.

Luffy turned.

Eyes wide. Unfocused. Ferocious.

And he charged.

Straight at them.

Zoro moved first, swords drawn, haki shimmering — but even he hesitated.

He didn’t want to cut their captain.

But their captain wasn’t their captain right now.

He was a storm. A monster born of grief and guilt and love too big for one heart to bear.

The crew braced—

Then a whisper floated through the smoke.

“...Luffy.”

He froze mid-step.

Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

That voice—

Your voice.

Your body still lay crumpled in Chopper’s arms, still torn open, still healing slowly — too slowly — but your lips were moving. Barely.

“Luffy... ‘m here...”

The haze broke.

His knees hit the dirt with a crack.

His hands gripped his hair as he let out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a gasp, and bent forward like the weight of the sky had finally caught up with him.

“(Y/n)...?” he croaked. “You’re...”

Alive.

You were alive.

His body shook. His fists clenched against the dirt. “I thought— I thought you were gonna leave me too.”

“I’m here,” you whispered again, voice weak and hoarse, eyes barely open. “I’m here, Luffy...”

The crew held still.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Luffy crawled to you like he’d forgotten how to walk, every inch dragging across the wrecked battlefield like penance. When he finally reached you, his fingers barely dared to touch your arm.

You smiled — faint and broken.

And Luffy broke again.

But this time, it wasn’t rage.

It was relief. Terrible, overwhelming, soul-crushing relief. The kind that makes your chest hurt worse than grief.

He collapsed beside you, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice no louder than yours now.

“You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.”

The others started moving in slowly, their breathing ragged, some limping, some crying, all of them watching with wide, hollow eyes asthe Captain they thought they might have to fight finally, finally came back to himself.

The battle had long since ended, but no one left.

They couldn’t.

The ground was still scarred, trembling with the aftershocks of Luffy’s rage. No one dared move you — not while your body was still healing itself one heartbeat at a time.

So they built a camp.

Not far from the flattened battlefield, nestled under the remaining trees that had somehow survived, Robin and Franky cleared space. Sanji laid out clean blankets, warm covers. Nami took Chopper’s instructions and sterilized water, cloth, anything that could help.

And Luffy stayed exactly where he was.

He hadn’t let go of your hand.

Not once.

He sat cross-legged beside you on the thickest blanket, head bent low, gripping your hand like it was the last rope keeping him tethered to reality. His thumb brushed over your knuckles again and again, watching your face with fevered intensity, flinching at every twitch.

“Breathe, (Y/n),” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Just breathe. That’s all. Just keep doing that.”

Chopper bustled around you like a tiny storm — checking your pulse, temperature, rate of regeneration. He looked more exhausted than you did, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not until he was sure.

Luffy startled when your eyes closed for the first time.

“H-hey—hey, no, stay awake, please—!”

You stirred slightly, a soft hum escaping your lips, but your body sagged deeper into the warmth and comfort the crew had piled around you.

“Luffy,” Chopper said gently, “it’s okay. She’s just sleeping.”

“She—” He shook his head. “But—what if—what if she doesn’t wake up?”

“She will.” Chopper moved closer and tugged another blanket up to your shoulders. “Sleep is good. She needs it. The Healing Fruit’s working overtime — rest will help her regenerate faster.”

Luffy didn’t answer.

He just watched you. Watched you breathe. Watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest like it was the only thing keeping him alive now.

“She’ll be okay,” Chopper whispered, placing a hoof on his shoulder.

Luffy didn’t nod. Didn’t move.

But his eyes finally closed for a moment — just a moment — and when he opened them again, there were tears caught in his lashes.

“…I can’t lose her too.”

No one responded.

Because what could you say to that?

The captain who had lost his brother.

Who had failed to protect his nakama once before.

Who had been forced to get stronger not just for the dream, but for the fear.

He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t eat. He didn’t speak.

He just sat there.

Holding your hand.

Watching your face.

Waiting for you to wake up again.

Morning came slow.

The night had been thick with tension and the soft, muffled sounds of worry. A few birds had returned, cautiously chirping from the trees that still stood. Smoke from the distant battlefield had thinned into haze.

The crew had made camp around you in a protective circle. Sanji and Brook took the first watch, murmuring quietly while Robin helped Chopper finally lie down, his tiny form buried under a blanket as he snored gently.

Then Zoro, then Franky, then Nami.

Each of them sat near enough to hear your breathing, to glance over and know you were still alive.

Luffy had finally — finally — fallen asleep just before dawn.

It wasn’t peaceful.

His head had slumped forward, his shoulders hunched like a soldier who had never put his armor down. One hand remained wrapped tightly around yours, the other cradling it in his lap as if he were afraid you might vanish if he let go.

And then the sun rose.

Soft pink spilled over the horizon, brushing the earth with warmth that the night had stolen. The light reached your face first, gentle and golden.

You stirred.

A small sound left your lips as your brows furrowed, and your fingers gave the tiniest twitch within his.

Luffy’s eyes snapped open.

He was awake in a heartbeat, jolting upright, his hand tightening around yours instinctively as he turned to you — eyes wide, full of something raw and ragged.

Your lashes fluttered. You blinked at the light.

And then your gaze met his.

“…hey,” you rasped, voice hoarse.

He made a sound like he was choking and immediately leaned over you, his free hand cupping your face with a reverence that hurt to see. His thumb brushed under your eye, down your jaw, thumb trembling slightly.

“(Y/n)… you’re awake… You’re— You’re okay—”

You smiled faintly, trying to lift your other hand but failing. “My hand is sweaty.”

He blinked.

Then laughed.

A real one.

It was broken, breathy, soaked in relief, but it cracked through the air like sunlight through clouds. He dropped his forehead to yours, shoulders shaking.

“Idiot,” he whispered. “You scared me so bad…”

You closed your eyes again, your breath evening out.

And his tears returned — quiet, steady, without shame.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered against your brow. “I really thought… I was too late.”

You wanted to answer. To tell him he wasn’t. That you were here. That the worst had passed.

But your body was too tired.

So instead, you just tightened your fingers around his as best you could.

He felt it.

And he didn’t let go.

They moved you just after midday.

It took time — carefully coordinated effort, hushed voices, and hands that trembled more from fear than fatigue. Every step was calculated. Every shift of your weight met with winces and held breath. Chopper barked instructions, his doctor’s voice steady despite his red-rimmed eyes.

The hole in your chest was still there. A deep, awful wound that should’ve been fatal — would’ve been, if not for your Devil Fruit. It wasn’t just healing you. It was working — the edges of the injury knitting themselves closed, hour by hour. Tissues weaving back together with slow, glowing warmth.

But that didn’t make it hurt less.

You flinched when they lifted you onto the makeshift stretcher. Cried out softly when the blanket brushed too close. Your breath caught with every bump.

Luffy was there. Every second.

Helping carry you. Shielding you from sun and wind. When you whimpered, he was the first to react — flinching like he had been struck, whispering your name like a prayer he couldn’t finish.

They laid you in the softest bed the crew could manage — a nest of blankets and pillows set up inside a nearby forest clearing that Robin had chosen. It smelled like flowers and fresh grass, sunlight dappling through the leaves.

You didn’t have the strength to sit up yet, but your breathing was easier now. The pain was still there, sharp and hot, but less suffocating.

And Luffy hadn’t moved from your side.

Not once.

He sat next to the bed, his arms resting on the edge, your hand still held gently in his. He didn’t bounce. Didn’t fidget. Just watched.

Watched you.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t shout. His eyes weren’t filled with adventure or wonder or hunger.

They were red-rimmed, shadowed, and haunted.

Like he was still trapped in that moment — the second he saw your body lying in the dirt.

You stirred, watching him. “You... okay?”

He blinked. The question caught him off-guard. He looked down at your hand in his, and then back to your face.

You’d never seen him like this.

Not even after Marineford.

Not even after Sabaody.

This was quieter. Heavier. Like whatever he’d been carrying in his chest had finally cracked under its own weight.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

You stared at him — at the way he looked so much older in that moment. Not in his face, but in the silence between his words.

“…You can rest, Luffy. I’m not going anywhere.”

He shook his head, eyes burning again. “I thought that last time too.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not yet.

So you just let your hand rest in his, letting the warmth pass between you.

Letting him stay.

Letting him watch.

Because even if he didn’t say it — Even if he couldn’t say it yet — You knew:

He was more afraid than he had ever been.

And not of death. But of losing you.

It was late afternoon when the bleeding started again.

Slow at first — a shimmer of red seeping through the edge of your bandages. Nothing urgent, nothing panicked. But Chopper noticed.

He always noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pressed new gauze gently to your skin, replacing layers with practiced hands. But he wasn’t smiling anymore. His ears were flat. His hooves trembled as he worked.

You were still healing — slowly. Painfully. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped. Not completely.

And you were tired.

So tired.

Every breath took effort. Every blink dragged like the world was just a little too far away.

You whispered something to Luffy earlier. He’d leaned in, his forehead brushing yours. He’d smiled — not big, not the usual grin — but a real one. Soft.

Then Sanji called for dinner.

Luffy hesitated.

But you’d whispered, “Go eat. I’ll be here.”

So he’d gone.

Now he sat at the table with the others, plate mostly untouched. Fork in hand, barely lifting it. His foot tapped anxiously beneath the table. Every now and then, his head turned back toward the med bay.

Chopper stood near the fireplace, staring into it, silent.

Robin was the first to notice. “Chopper?”

The reindeer doctor didn’t look up.

“…She’s still bleeding.”

Everyone froze.

Luffy’s hand stilled mid-air.

“She’s healing,” Nami said quickly, her voice soft but shaky. “The fruit’s working, right?”

Chopper’s shoulders sagged. “It’s working. But it’s slow. Too slow.”

Zoro frowned. “She’s strong. She’s held on this long.”

“She shouldn’t have been able to.” Chopper’s voice cracked now — raw, low, quiet. “I didn’t say anything before because… because she was healing. But her blood loss hasn’t stopped. And she’s getting weaker.”

Luffy’s fork clattered onto the plate.

Usopp swallowed hard. “What… are you saying?”

Chopper turned.

Eyes wide. Voice tight. “I’m saying I don’t know how much longer she has.”

The silence that followed felt wrong. Like it didn’t belong on this ship, with this crew.

Luffy stared at Chopper.

Eyes unreadable. Mouth slightly open.

“She’s still breathing,” he said, as if that were enough. “She’s gonna be fine.”

Chopper took a slow step forward. “Captain… any other person would’ve died already. She’s still here because of that fruit — and because she’s strong. But I don’t know how long she can hold out like this. Her body’s not keeping up with the healing anymore. It’s—” He hesitated. “It’s like she’s… stuck. Between recovering and dying.”

Sanji ran a hand down his face, stepping back from the table. Brook stood like a statue. Robin closed her book without looking up.

And Luffy…

Luffy sat still.

His jaw was clenched. Knuckles white.

“…You said she’s still breathing.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going back.”

He stood. No hesitation. No argument.

And when no one stopped him, he walked.

Back to the med bay. Back to your side.

Like if he left again — even for a second — you might disappear.

The days passed like molasses.

Some mornings, you woke up clearer — the sky looked bluer, the wind softer. You could smile. You could speak.

Other days, you barely opened your eyes.

Your breath came ragged and slow, like your body was still trying to remember how to do something so simple.

But the wound was healing.

Chopper changed your bandages religiously, marking every millimeter of flesh that reknit itself. From a hole to a deep gouge. From a gouge to a slash. The bleeding slowed. The pain stayed.

But you were alive.

Luffy stayed as close as he could.

He came and went in brief windows — long enough to shower, to eat, to let the others make him leave when they noticed the bags under his eyes. But he always came back, slouching into the chair beside you like the world didn’t exist beyond this room.

He held your hand even when you were too out of it to notice. Talked to you when you didn’t answer. Sometimes he watched you in silence, eyes flicking to your chest every few seconds just to see it rise.

Today was a better day.

You were propped up slightly, a pillow behind your back. The wound still throbbed, but the worst of the agony had dulled to a hot, manageable ache. Sanji brought broth. Nami adjusted your blanket. Zoro sat nearby, silent but present. Chopper hovered like a satellite.

And Luffy was there.

Like always.

You looked around the room — tired, but aware. They were all here.

And so, you asked the question.

“…Luffy?”

He perked up instantly, eyes scanning your face. “Yeah?”

“…Are you okay?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any pain you'd felt.

Luffy blinked, once. Twice.

And then he let out a short, incredulous breath. “Me?”

You nodded slowly, head tilting. “You haven’t… looked okay.”

He stared at you.

Then at the others.

Zoro’s jaw tensed. Nami looked away. Sanji set the bowl down gently. Chopper shifted from hoof to hoof.

Then Luffy laughed.

A bitter, broken sound.

“You’re asking me if I’m okay?”

Your fingers tightened slightly on the blanket.

“I should be the one— I should be the one asking you that!” His voice cracked, his hands curling into fists. “You almost died, and I— I wasn’t even there—!”

“Luffy—” Nami started, but he shook his head.

He was standing now. Pacing a short, erratic line.

“I saw you lying there, and it was him all over again— Ace— Ace was right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t do anything.” His voice was shaking now. “I held him while he died. And I had to wake up without him. You know what the first thing I did was?”

He turned to them, eyes glassy.

“I screamed. I ran. I begged someone — anyone — to bring him back. I broke down like some pathetic, useless kid, and Rayleigh had to drag me off the ground.”

None of them said a word.

He looked back at you, now seated again beside the bed. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I thought I lost you. Just like him. I saw your blood, and I broke again. Just like before.”

Tears were falling now, silent but steady.

“I’ve been scared every day since Ace. Scared that someone else I care about will die and I won’t be fast enough, strong enough— enough. I try to smile, to laugh, but it’s still there. All the time.”

You reached out, fingers trembling, and he took your hand instantly — held it against his heart like he was afraid to let it go.

“…I’m so tired of being scared,” he whispered. “And when I saw you like that, I—I just—”

He didn’t finish.

He just buried his head against your hand, breathing like someone drowning in grief too deep for words.

The others stood still, quiet.

None of them had ever heard him talk like this. None of them had ever seen him let it out like this.

But maybe it was finally time.

Maybe he needed to break — so he could start healing, too.

The silence after Luffy’s confession hung thick in the air.

He still held your hand, forehead pressed against your fingers like he could anchor himself there — like you were the only thing keeping him from sinking again. His shoulders trembled faintly, his breath hitched and uneven.

You stared at him, throat tight, chest rising and falling with effort.

And then something in you cracked.

“…I was scared too.”

Your voice was small — smaller than it had ever been — and the words felt like glass in your throat. But they came anyway.

Luffy looked up.

Your eyes were glassy now, lips trembling, hands shaking. You forced yourself to keep speaking. You had to.

“I didn’t know if I was going to make it. I didn’t know if the fruit was going to… do anything. I’ve never been hurt like that before, and for a while, I didn’t feel it working. I just felt cold.”

Your voice broke.

“And I thought— I thought I was going to die alone in that field. I didn’t know if anyone was coming.”

A sob slipped out, sudden and raw, like a dam giving way.

“I didn’t want to die,” you cried. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to lose you, or anyone. I wanted to fight, but I couldn’t move. I was so scared—”

Luffy reached for you immediately, not hesitating for a second. His arms wrapped around you carefully, like you might still shatter, like he was terrified of hurting you — but you clung to him like a lifeline.

It was the first time you’d cried since you got hurt.

Not just from pain. Not from shock. But from everything else.

From fear.

From grief.

From survival.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whispered, voice muffled against his shoulder. “I didn’t want to be the reason you were hurting again.”

“You’re not,” Luffy murmured, tightening his hold. “You’re not, (Y/n). You’re here. You made it. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s a miracle,” you breathed. “I should’ve died.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own red-rimmed but clear.

“But you didn’t.”

The others stood in silence.

Chopper wiped his eyes. Nami looked away, her hand over her mouth. Sanji lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Zoro’s head was bowed, expression unreadable.

“I thought I was ready,” you whispered. “To be a part of this crew. To fight. To bleed. But… I didn’t realize how much it would hurt. Not just my body — but the fear. Of losing everyone.”

Luffy’s hand found yours again.

“You don’t have to carry that alone,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”

You nodded, tears still falling — but slower now. Softer. No longer a flood.

Just a release.

You were still healing.

But now… so was he.

Eventually, the crew gave you space.

Chopper gave your shoulder a final, gentle pat. Sanji promised something hot and rich would be waiting when you could eat more than broth. Nami pressed your hand in hers and left with a shaky smile. Zoro gave a small nod. Robin touched your cheek briefly.

Then, it was just you and Luffy.

The tent was quiet now, the air warm and still. A breeze moved the canvas slightly, but it felt calm — like the world had exhaled.

Luffy sat beside you, finally calm himself. There were still shadows under his eyes, still remnants of something broken behind his smile, but the weight of panic had lifted. For now.

He brushed your hair gently from your face, eyes soft.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “at least you’ll have a really cool scar now.”

You blinked.

Then laughed — a small, surprised sound that turned into a wince halfway through. “Ow—ow—okay, okay, not ready to laugh yet.”

Luffy panicked instantly. “Wait—are you okay?! Did it open again?! I’ll go get Chopper—!”

“Luffy.” You reached out and caught his sleeve. “Luffy.”

He froze.

You gave him a gentler smile, a breathless huff escaping your lips. “I’m okay. Just sore. Still hurts when I laugh, that’s all.”

He sat back down quickly, still hovering, hands twitching like he was bracing to catch you if you so much as blinked wrong.

You looked at him — really looked — and then shifted your hand slightly against the bed.

“…Come here?”

He stared at you.

You patted the space beside you. “Carefully. Slow. But… I want you here.”

He hesitated only a second.

Then he moved.

Slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of breaking you all over again. He laid down beside you, propping himself up just enough to curl in around your side, one arm draped gently over your waist, forehead resting against your shoulder — his straw hat resting on the ground beside the bed.

You sighed.

Your fingers tangled into his hair without thinking.

He let out a breath.

And then… silence.

But not a painful one.

Not scared.

Just quiet. Soft. Safe.

His voice came low, barely a whisper. “You feel like home.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Because in that moment — in his arms, in the quiet — You both finally believed it:

You were still here. And so was he.