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jincapableoflove · 3 months ago

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The Grumpy Girlfriend Protection Program | One-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre: sunshine bf x grumpy gf, golden retriever! jungkook, black cat! reader, office worker! reader, veterinary student! jungkook, fluff, comedy, thriller, mystery (slight), action, angst.

Summary: Jeon Jungkook has always been the sunshine in every room; warm, kind, and completely oblivious to danger. Luckily, you, his grumpy, overprotective girlfriend have made it your personal mission to keep him safe. But when the threat shifts to you instead, Jungkook proves that even sunshine can scorch, and for you, he’d burn.

Word count: 22.8k+

Warnings: reader is very protective, themes of stalking and obsession, usage of drugs (not reader or jungkook), fight scene, violence, multiple flashback scenes.

MOODBOARD

A/N: hugeeee thanks to my dear friend sy (@btswit7 ) for going through my fic and suggesting edits! ilysm. sorry this took so long for me to write. i swearrr this fic was supposed to be fluffy, cute and around 10k words but I got carried away 😔 (not sorry for that). i might've absolutely butchered the tattoo shop scene pls forgive me (I've never been to a tattoo shop before idk how it works) this is also my first time writing an action scene it prolly sucks but wtv.

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, casting a golden glow over the city. A gentle breeze drifted through the streets, the warmth of the morning wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, just the right kind of day that practically demanded an escape from the ordinary. And what better way to spend it than sprawled out on a checkered blanket, a basket full of food beside you, and your ever-so-enthusiastic boyfriend, Jungkook, grinning at you like this was the best idea in the world?

That’s right. It was picnic day. After a gruelling week at work, all you wanted was to stay in bed, sleep until the afternoon, have a late lunch, and then (ideally) go right back to sleep. But Jungkook, being the ever-optimistic, early-rising, productivity-loving man that he was, thought weekends were best spent on morning picnic dates at whatever random park he had decided on that week.

There was nothing you hated more than disappointing your sweet boyfriend, so cancelling the picnic dates altogether wasn’t an option. After extensive negotiations (read: you groggily whining while he laughed and refused to budge), you managed to compromise—morning breakfast dates became brunch dates. Because let’s be real, every extra second of sleep counts.

On the way to your picnic, you were stopped by a teenage boy, probably 17 or 18, who practically shoved a clipboard into your faces. With the practised enthusiasm of a seasoned salesman, he introduced himself, flashing a grin as he extended a hand in greeting. Then came the pitch.

“Donations for a local animal shelter,” he announced, voice laced with urgency. A shelter you had never heard of.

“The puppies and bunnies are all sick, sir, and the kittens are underfed,” he continued, his face contorting with the sheer heartbreak of it all. The kind of expression that would probably work on unsuspecting souls. Jungkook, being Jungkook, was already pulling out his wallet. And you were having none of it.

Before he could hand over a single bill, you yanked the wallet straight out of his hands. Jungkook blinked at you, stunned.

“Did you even check if it’s a real shelter?” you asked, unimpressed.

Jungkook glanced at the boy, then back at you. “Looks pretty real to me.” You sighed, taking a look at the "official website" the scammer eagerly pulled up on his phone. One glance was all it took.

“That’s a Wix template, you dumbass,” you deadpanned, shooting Jungkook a look. And to drive your point home, you dialled the actual shelter’s number. A moment of silence.

Then, like clockwork, the boy’s phone started ringing. The scammer stiffened, eyes wide with panic. And then, without as much as another word, he bolted down the street before you could report him to someone.

Jungkook pouted, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. You rolled your eyes. “I can’t believe you almost fell for that.”

“One of these days,” he muttered, crossing his arms, “you’re gonna stop me from donating to a real shelter.” You snorted, nudging his shoulder as you started walking again. “Yeah, well, until that day comes, I’ll keep saving you from getting scammed by guys who probably spent five minutes on Google slapping together a fake charity.”

Jungkook huffed, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk. “He had a clipboard. People with clipboards always seem legit.”

“Oh, right, because clipboards are the universal sign of trustworthiness,” you deadpanned. “Next time, I’ll be sure to scam you with one myself.”

He shot you a playful glare. “I’d see through you in a second.” You smirked. “Would you, though?”

Jungkook opened his mouth, then shut it again, squinting at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced. You just grinned, patting his arm. “Exactly.”

You sit cross-legged on the checkered blanket, arms crossed, watching as Jungkook digs through the picnic basket like a child on Christmas morning. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, pulling out sandwiches, fruit, and what looks like an obnoxiously yellow thermos you don’t remember packing.

You squint. “Did you sneak in banana milk?”

Jungkook pauses, looking entirely unrepentant. “No.” You stare. He stares back. The thermos stares between you, the undeniable evidence of his crime.

Finally, he grins. “Okay, maybe.”

You let out a slow exhale, reaching for one of the sandwiches while he happily pours himself a cup of his beloved banana milk.

“I don’t get how you function sometimes,” you mutter, unwrapping your food.

“I function beautifully,” he corrects, flashing you a smile that’s far too bright for someone who just lied to your face. “You’re just too grumpy to appreciate it.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘functioning adult’ like getting scammed five minutes before a picnic.” Jungkook gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “I was being charitable!”

“You were being a prime target,” you deadpan. He huffs dramatically, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich as if it’s the ultimate form of protest. Cheeks puffed out like a bunny, he mumbles through his mouthful, “You stress too much.”

You raise a brow. “I wonder why.” He ignores your sarcasm, swallowing before continuing, “Maybe if you—” He suddenly stops, mid-thought, his eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief.

Oh no. You’ve seen that look before. It never leads to anything good.

"You should feed me."

You nearly choke on your drink. Coughing, you set your cup down with a thud and blink at him. “What?” Jungkook leans forward, resting his chin in his palm with the most infuriatingly smug expression. “You know,” he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows, “since you like taking care of me so much.”

You stare at him, unamused. Then, without breaking eye contact, you take the smallest, most unimpressive bite of your sandwich—just to spite him.

Jungkook groans, slumping back. “You’re no fun.”

“You knew that when you fell in love with me.”

His lips curve into something thoughtful, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering something. Then, in one swift motion, he reaches over and swipes a strawberry from your plate, popping it into his mouth before you can react.

You gasp. “Jungkook!”

He grins, entirely unapologetic. “Yeah, but I like a challenge.” Without hesitation, you swat his hand, aiming for another grab. He yelps, laughing too hard for someone who just got smacked, dodging your next attempt with the reflexes of a seasoned strawberry thief.

"Unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head. "A menace to society."

Jungkook only grins wider. "And yet, you still love me."

And just like that, it’s the both of you, bickering, teasing, him being too soft, and you pretending you don’t secretly like it. Despite everything, you’re glad he dragged you here. Because for all his nonsense, for all the chaos he brings into your life, Jungkook makes the world a little brighter.

You hated Monday mornings with a burning passion. If you walked into work and saw someone being all cheerful and optimistic, you’d have the overwhelming urge to dump ice-cold coffee over their head, just to make their day as miserable as yours. Of course, you wouldn’t actually act on that particular intrusive thought. Not unless you had a sudden desire to get fired.

Every day, it was the same soul-sucking routine. Log into your computer, answer emails, prepare for meetings, and trudge through an endless list of mind-numbing tasks that make you question all your life choices. You were staring blankly at your screen, fingers moving mechanically as you typed up a report when your phone buzzed.

Kook 🐰💜 [11:10 AM]: Miss me yet?

Your fingers pause on the keyboard. Buzz.

Kook 🐰💜[11:10 AM]: Or are you too busy being all serious and grumpy at work? Kook 🐰💜[11:11 AM]: Bet you’re smiling right now, though.

You bite your lip. You are not smiling. Absolutely not.

“Okay, what is that face?”

Jimin’s voice cuts through your concentration like a knife. You snap your head up to find him leaning against your desk, arms crossed, a knowing smirk already in place.

“There is no face,” you say quickly, locking your phone screen and shoving it away. Jimin gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, it’s him, isn’t it?”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I swear to—”

“Ohhh, it totally is!” Jimin snatches your phone before you can react, scrolling through the notifications like he has every right to be nosy.

If there’s one person who never lets you live in peace, it’s Jimin. Coworker, best friend, professional pain in your ass, he’s all of the above, wrapped in a smug little package. You first met him when you started this job, and somehow, between the forced team projects, shared complaints about the boss, and mutual hatred for monday mornings, you ended up stuck with him for life. Not that you’d ever admit you’re grateful for it.

Unfortunately, he knows it anyway.

“Jimin, I will end you.”

But it’s too late. He’s already grinning like the devil himself. “Look at you. Getting all giddy over a text. My, my, how the mighty have fallen.”

“I’m not giddy.”

“Oh, you absolutely are.” He mimics your earlier expression, clutching his phone to his chest with a dreamy sigh. “Oh, Jungkook, my sweet precious sunshine, text me more. I can’t possibly get through this workday without knowing you’re thinking about me.”

You throw a stapler at him.

He dodges effortlessly, laughing. “Relax, lover girl. It’s cute. Gross, but cute.” You huff, snatching your phone back. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Jimin plops down in the chair next to you, still smirking. “Now tell me, what’s golden boy up to?”

You hesitate. But your phone buzzes again.

Kook 🐰💜 [11:13 AM]: Hey. Don’t overwork yourself. I’ll call you later, okay?

You stare at the screen for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you eventually settle on a simple reply.

You [11:14 AM: Okay.

…Okay, maybe you are smiling a little.

Jimin sees it immediately. And you already know you’re never going to hear the end of it.

The moment you step into the break room—finally free from Jimin’s relentless smirking, you let out a breath and pull out your phone, scrolling through your recent calls before dialling Jungkook. It barely rings twice before he picks up, his voice warm and teasing, like he already knew you’d call.

“Hey, baby,” he greets smoothly, amusement lacing his tone. “Miss me already?”

You roll your eyes, setting your lunchbox on the table with a thud. “In your dreams, Jeon.”

Flipping open the lid, the rich, savoury aroma of bibimbap immediately washes over you. The vibrant colors of the ingredients are neatly arranged, looking almost too perfect to eat—almost. You can tell Jungkook took his time making it, carefully placing each topping exactly where it should be, ensuring it looked as good as it tasted.

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest, but you ignore it. Jungkook chuckles at your silence, clearly pleased with himself. “I assume this is your way of telling me my cooking is amazing?”

“Not even close,” you say, grabbing your chopsticks. “Jimin wouldn’t shut up about you, so I figured I’d call and annoy you instead.” A deep, rumbling laugh comes through the speaker, the sound sending warmth curling through your stomach. “Mhm. Sure, love. You could’ve just admitted you wanted to hear my voice.”

Your eye twitches. “That’s not—”

“Shh, no need to be shy. I won’t judge.” You groan, tilting your head back against the chair, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. He’s impossible, and worse, he knows it.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Mmm.” There’s some shuffling on his end, followed by the faint rustling of sheets like he’s lying down and getting comfortable. “I was thinking… instead of our usual park picnic, you could come with me to get my sleeve reworked.” That makes you pause, chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little more casual. “It’s been a while, and I wanna touch up some parts. Maybe add something new.”

You lean back in your chair, considering it. You’ve seen his tattoos up close plenty of times—traced them absentmindedly, let your fingers follow the inked lines whenever he had an arm wrapped around you. There’s something mesmerizing about them, the way they flow seamlessly over his skin, each design an intricate part of him.

You definitely wouldn’t mind watching the process.

“That’s fine with me,” you say after a beat. Then, under your breath, you mumble, “But if the artist messes up, I’m fighting them.” Jungkook snorts. “Of course you will.” His voice takes on that teasing lilt that makes you want to reach through the phone and flick his forehead. “You’re so cute when you get all protective.”

Your face heats up instantly. “Oh my god, eat your lunch.”

“I will. But only if you say you love me first.” You nearly choke. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His grin is obvious, even through the phone. “Say it, and I’ll go eat.” You huff, glancing around the empty break room just to make sure no one’s around. Then, in the lowest possible whisper, you mumble, “…Love you.”

A beat of silence.

And then, even quieter, “Love your bibimbap too.”

Jungkook hums, unreasonably satisfied. “Love you too, baby. Now go eat before Jimin catches you blushing.” Your eyes widen, and you hang up immediately.

Unfortunately, when you turn around, Jimin is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking far too smug for your liking.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “How’s Jungkook?” You groan, slamming your head onto the table. You are never going to live this down.

Jimin’s laughter echoes in the room, pure evil.

Jungkook’s apartment is the kind of place that makes it dangerously easy to never leave. It’s cozy with warm lighting, soft blankets draped over the couch, and the faint scent of vanilla and fabric softener lingering in the air. You tell yourself that’s the main reason you always find yourself here instead of your own place, but, if you were being completely honest, there are a few other factors at play.

For one, his snack collection is legendary. His kitchen cabinets are stocked with an endless supply of goodies, including a lifetime’s worth of Twinkies, your weakness. And then there’s Jungkook himself, but you’re not about to admit that. Especially not to him.

Curled up on his couch, you lazily flip through his Netflix, eyes scanning titles without really registering any of them. The ambient noise of the apartment, the hum of the heater, the occasional rustling of pages from Jungkook’s workspace, only adds to the drowsy comfort settling over you. Just as you’re about to give up on finding something to watch, Jungkook suddenly plops down beside you, sketchbook in hand.

The cushion dips under his weight, and you barely manage to suppress a startled flinch. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the couch with a content sigh, flipping the sketchbook open across his lap. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, curiosity piqued despite yourself. "Okay," he says, grinning as he settles beside you on the couch. His fingers drum against the edge of his sketchbook before he flips it open, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "Wanna see what I’ve been working on?"

You nod, humming in interest. "Mhm. Sure."

The moment the pages spread out before you, your breath catches. Intricate designs fill the book, some half-finished, others shaded to perfection. There are fine, precise lines, bold strokes, and an almost obsessive attention to detail in every drawing. You can tell he's poured hours into this, into crafting something that isn’t just art but a reflection of himself.

"Damn," you murmur, fingertips tracing lightly over the paper. "You did all these?" Jungkook grins, his dimples making an appearance. "Yup," he says, clearly pleased with your reaction.

You take your time flipping through the pages. There’s a sketch of a skeletal hand doing the rock on sign, a detailed microphone showcasing his love for music, lyrics from his favorite songs inked in elegant script, and the word Bulletproof scrawled in a graffiti style, right beneath it, a note written in his unmistakable handwriting: cover-up for eye tattoo. And then, sitting proudly in between these edgy, personal pieces, is a woozy face emoji.

You huff out a small laugh. His tattoo ideas range from deeply meaningful to outright ridiculous.

But then you pause. Nestled between his designs is a rework of his tiger lily tattoo—his birth flower. But entwined around it, curling gracefully between the petals, is another flower. Chrysanthemums.

Your birth flower.

The realization sinks in, slow and warm. Jungkook goes still beside you, barely breathing. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch, or the way his ears turn bright red when he realizes that you understood. Then, like a man caught in the act he snatches the sketchbook away, snapping it shut so fast you barely have time to process it.

"Aha—! Anyway—" He clears his throat, ears burning. "That one wasn’t, uh—I wasn’t supposed to show you that yet."

Your lips twitch. "Mhm. Jeon, I see what you did there."

"What?" he says too quickly. "It’s just, you know, it looked nice with the lilies." His voice cracks. You arch a brow. "Looks nice? That’s all?" Jungkook nods a little too fast. "Yeah. No big deal."

You don’t believe him for a second.

So, naturally, you lean in, lowering your voice just enough to watch him squirm."You sure about that, baby?"

Jungkook.exe has stopped working.

With a groan, he buries his burning face into your shoulder, mumbling something incoherent against your sweater. You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest, fingers threading absentmindedly through his hair. Yeah. No big deal.

The weekend sun was just beginning to climb when Jungkook pulled up outside your place, the low hum of his car engine a familiar sound by now. You barely had time to lock your door before he leaned over, effortlessly pushing the passenger door open with that usual bright grin of his. “Morning, baby,” he greeted, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Without missing a beat, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek—warm, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You sleep well?”

You slid into the seat, closing the door behind you with a huff, eyes narrowing at him. “No, because someone was blowing up my phone with memes and ‘fun facts’ about toxic tattoo inks at two in the morning.” Jungkook had the audacity to look proud. “I just thought you should know! What if they use cheap ink, huh? Gotta protect this masterpiece.” He gestured vaguely at his arm, where his tattoos peeked out from under the sleeve of his shirt.

You sighed, clicking your seatbelt into place. “Just drive.”

As he shifted gears and pulled onto the road, you let your gaze wander around the car, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne, the faint hum of the engine, and the steady rhythm of the music playing low through the speakers. His hand, warm and absentminded, found its usual place on your thigh like it belonged there, thumb tracing gentle patterns against your skin. It was peaceful. The kind of easy, comfortable silence that only came from knowing someone so well.

But then, something caught your attention.

Your eyes drifted to the backseat, where his sketchbook sat, slightly ajar as if hastily tossed there. A few loose sheets stuck out from the pages, filled with the intricate designs you’d seen before. You reached for it instinctively, but before you could grab it, the scenery outside made you pause.

“...Wait.” Your brows furrowed as you looked out the window. The streets weren’t familiar, the route different from what you expected. You turned back to him. “This isn’t the way to your usual place.” Jungkook hummed, like he’d been waiting for you to notice. “We’re trying a new one today.”

You turned to him, suspicious. “Why?”

His grin widened, full of mischief. “Jin got a job there.” That took you a second to process. “Seokjin?”

“My cousin, yeah.” Jungkook drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at you briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “He’s a receptionist now. Lured me in with staff discounts.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “So, let me get this straight—he got a job there yesterday, and today you’re already showing up to cash in?” Jungkook gasped, all faux offense, clutching his chest as if you’d just wounded him. “I would never use my dear cousin like that.”

You gave him a deadpan look.

His lips twitched, the act crumbling instantly. “…Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted, flashing you a boyish grin. “But hey, cheaper tattoos, and I get to support my hyung? Win-win.” You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the amused smile pulling at your lips. “Does he even know we’re coming?”

“He does,” Jungkook replied, his grin not fading. “He actually told me to wait for him before I get started with the consultation.”

And that’s how you and Jungkook ended up stuck in the lobby of the tattoo shop, waiting for over thirty minutes for Jin to show up.

Jungkook exhaled loudly, rolling his shoulders before pulling out his phone and dialing Jin for the sixth time. His other hand absentmindedly tugged you closer by the wrist, a small, unconscious habit of his whenever he was growing impatient. “Jin said he’d be here soon,” he muttered, eyes flickering to the entrance yet again, as if willing his cousin to walk through the door. “Told me to get comfy and wait.”

You smirked, shifting slightly in your seat. “He did? So, naturally, he’s gonna be late.” Jungkook groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. “He promised, okay? Swore he wouldn’t ditch me this time.”

“That’s cute.” You patted his thigh mockingly. “You still believe him.” Jungkook shot you a halfhearted glare before flicking his gaze to the empty reception area for what had to be the hundredth time. His foot bounced impatiently against the floor, but before he could make another complaint, the sound of a door opening drew both of your attention.

A woman with sleek, silver-dyed hair emerged from one of the back rooms, her sharp gaze scanning the lobby before landing directly on Jungkook. Her expression immediately shifted into a perfected customer-service smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “What are you here for?”

“Sleeve rework,” he replied casually, rolling his shoulder as if to emphasize the ink beneath his sleeve. “You’re the one getting the sleeve reworked?” she asked smoothly, completely ignoring your presence. “Seokjin’s cousin, right?

Jungkook nodded, his own expression polite but confused. “Yeah, but he isn’t here yet. Jin told me to wai—”

“Oh,” she cut in, her lips curving just slightly, a little too knowing. “Well, that’s okay. I’m sure he would’ve referred you to me anyway. I could start taking care of you now.”

Something about the way she said it made your jaw clench.

Jungkook, oblivious as ever, only hummed. “Uh, I mean… I guess we could start the consultation?”

You didn’t like the way she was looking at him.

As she moved closer, the glow of the overhead light caught on her name tag—Nari. The name meant nothing to you, but something about her demeanor put you on edge.

Jungkook settled into the chair, stretching his arm out as Nari prepped her station. You remained seated across from him, phone in hand, pretending to scroll while keeping a close eye on the exchange. Nari pulled on a pair of gloves, her movements fluid and practiced as she leaned in, examining Jungkook’s inked skin. “Your ink is solid,” she murmured, fingers ghosting over the intricate designs. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

Jungkook grinned, clearly pleased with the compliment. “Yeah, my old artist was great. Just wanted some refinements, you know?”

“Mm,” Nari hummed in agreement, grabbing a marker to outline a few areas. Her gaze lingered on his arm longer than necessary, her lips curving slightly. “You’re adding new work too, right?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah, just some floral details around the tiger lily.”

That was supposed to be the end of it. But then Nari tilted her head, eyes flickering up to his face before dropping back to his arm, and subtly, but not subtly enough she licked her lips.

“I love doing florals on guys,” she said, voice dipping into something softer. “There’s just something about the contrast, you know?”

Your grip on your phone tightened. Jungkook, completely unaware of the shift in tone, simply lifted his arm to show her the faded edges. “Yeah, I wanted to add some chrysanthe—”

Before he could even finish, Nari reached out, fingers wrapping around his arm, her touch lingering.

“Oh, your skin is so nice,” she murmured, smoothing her fingers over the defined muscle as if she were admiring it rather than prepping it for work. Your eye twitched.

Jungkook blinked, a little startled by the comment but still too polite to pull away. “Uh… thanks?” Nari only smiled, nails grazing his forearm ever so slightly as she adjusted his position. “Good canvas makes all the difference.”

You swore you could hear your patience snapping like a twig. Jungkook looked slightly uncomfortable but still handed over his sketchbook, flipping to the page with his design. “This is what I had in mind for the rework,” he said, tapping the paper.

Nari barely glanced at the intricate details before tilting her head, her gaze flickering back to him instead. “You drew this yourself?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” she hummed, leaning in slightly, the corner of her lips quirking up. “That’s impressive. Not many clients walk in with this level of detail.” From where you sat, you rested your chin on your hand, unimpressed.

Jungkook offered a small, polite smile. “I just like having a clear idea before I commit.” Nari's smirk deepened. “That’s really attractive,” she mused, fingers skimming the edge of the sketchbook instead of actually turning the page. “A guy who’s artistic and decisive? Rare find.”

You blinked. What.

Jungkook cleared his throat, shifting in his seat like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Uh… thanks?” Nari finally flipped to the next page—though at this point, it felt more like a courtesy than genuine interest. “And you did all of these?”

Jungkook nodded again. “Mhm.”

“That’s insane,” she gushed, dragging her fingers over the lines like they were worth framing. “You could easily be a tattoo artist yourself.” Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think I have the patience for it.”

“That’s a shame,” Nari sighed, her fingers lingering a little too long on the sketchbook. “With hands like yours, I bet you’d be amazing at it.”

Your expression went flat. Jungkook just coughed into his fist, visibly flustered. “Uh—”

You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If you’re done with the consultation, I think you should get started with the sketching.” Your voice was even, but the words were clipped. “Unless this is just a fan club meeting now.”

That made Nari pause.

Jungkook turned to you, lips twitching as if he was trying not to laugh. Nari dared to send you a sharp glare, like you had just interrupted something sacred. But she grabbed a fineliner anyway, her movements slow and deliberate, as if making a point.

You didn’t waver. Arms crossed, you kept your gaze locked on her hands, watching every unnecessary adjustment she made—each one turning into soft, lingering touches against Jungkook’s skin. It was infuriating, the way her fingers skimmed his arm like she had every right to.

And then she bit her lip.

A coy smile played at the edges of her mouth, subtle but unmistakable. Jungkook, completely oblivious as always, remained relaxed in the chair, only wincing slightly when the cold surface of the fineliner pressed against his skin.

You were far from relaxed.

Shifting in your seat, you clenched your jaw, fingers curling against your arms. Maybe—maybe—she was just a touchy person. Maybe you were overanalyzing this. Maybe it was nothing.

“So,” Nari began, her voice light and conversational, “do all your tattoos have a meaning?” Jungkook, still staring at the ceiling like this was any other consultation, nodded. “Most of them, yeah.”

“What about this one?” She tapped the tiger lily, her fingertips trailing over the ink just a little too leisurely. Jungkook smiled, unaware of the way your patience was fraying. “That one represents passion, confidence… all that stuff. It’s also my birth flower”

Nari hummed, like she was committing that information to memory. “And the chrysanthemums?”

At this, Jungkook hesitated. For the first time, he flicked his gaze toward you, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Your posture stiffened, waiting. He cleared his throat. “They mean a lot to me.”

Nari tilted her head, expectant.

You leaned forward, expectant.

But Jungkook just chuckled lightly before answering, “They’re my girlfriend’s birth flower.” His tone was proud, almost smug, as if relishing the chance to say it out loud. A smirk tugged at your lips. That should be enough to shut this down, enough for her to finally get the message—

Except Nari barely reacted.

If anything, she just hummed again, dragging her eyes across his arm like she hadn’t even heard him. “Hm. Bet they’d look really pretty on you,” she mused, her tone as sweet as syrup. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Then again, I bet a lot of things do.”

Your head snapped up. Jungkook tensed slightly but played it off with an awkward laugh. “Uh… thanks?”

Oh, hell no.

Maybe it was the way she said it. The way her voice dripped with something just a little too sweet, like she wasn’t just appreciating his tattoos but the person wearing them. Maybe it was the fact that her fingers were still lightly dragging along his forearm, slow and deliberate, like she had every right to touch him like that. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that Jungkook, ever polite, ever oblivious, wasn’t saying anything to stop her. Either way, your patience is officially gone.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice smooth but sharp enough to cut. “So, is this your usual customer service?” you asked, tilting your head. “Or is my boyfriend just getting the VIP treatment?”

Nari barely spared you a glance. “Oh, don’t worry. I take very good care of my clients.” Your smile was saccharine, all teeth. “I bet you do.”

Jungkook shifted, fingers gripping the armrest as if bracing himself. “Baby—” You ignored him. “I thought professionalism was a basic requirement for tattoo artists. But I guess it’s optional here, huh?”

Nari’s smirk twitched, but she held her ground. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Right.” You nodded slowly, voice dripping with faux understanding. “Because flirting with your client while his girlfriend is sitting right here is so normal.”

Jungkook, bless his clueless heart, looked between the two of you like he’d just walked into a battlefield with no armor. His lips parted—he should say something, anything, should try to calm you down before things escalated, but the words never came.

Because truth be told, seeing you like this, so protective and so fierce was kind of hot.

Nari’s eyes narrowed, her confidence flickering just a little. “I wasn’t flirting.” You let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand over your chest in exaggerated horror. “Oh, my bad.” Your tone was syrupy, dripping with fake innocence. “I must have misheard when you basically drooled over my boyfriend while I was sitting right here.”

Nari let out a sharp huff, her irritation finally surfacing. She set the fineliner down with a little too much force, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and condescension. “Look, do you want me to finish this or not?”

You opened your mouth, already armed with a sharp retort—

“No.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air, calm but unwavering.

Nari blinked. “What?”

Jungkook rolled his shoulder back as he sat up straighter, his usual easygoing expression replaced with something unreadable. “I’ll get it done somewhere else.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Seriously? Just because she’s insecure?”

Oh. That did it. A slow, burning heat unfurled in your chest. The audacity, the sheer nerve to say something like that when she had been the one crossing every possible line. You barely registered standing up, only aware of the way your pulse pounded in your ears as you took a step forward.

“Excuse me?”

But before you could let loose, Jungkook was already moving. His hand found yours, his grip warm and steady as he gently pulled you back. “Let’s go,” he murmured, his voice low but insistent. Nari rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair like she couldn’t care less. “Your loss.” Jungkook didn’t bother responding. He just grabbed his jacket, intertwined his fingers with yours, and led you out of the shop without a single backward glance.

The second the door shut behind you, the tension that had been coiling in your muscles finally snapped.

“I swear—” you started, still fuming, but Jungkook sighed, squeezing your hand in his. “I know, baby,” he said, his voice softer now, the warmth of it cutting right through your frustration. “I know.”

You exhaled sharply. “She was touching you.” Jungkook let out a low chuckle, rubbing his temple. “I literally had no idea she was flirting.”

“You never do.”

That earned you a grin. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, leaning down just enough that his nose nearly brushed yours. His eyes locked onto yours with a familiar fondness. “But you do.” His voice was teasing, but there was something else there too. Something softer. Something that made your breath catch, just a little.

You scowled, but he just wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Jealous?” he teased. You scoffed.

His smile turned fond. “Cute.” You smacked his chest. “Shut up.”

Jungkook barely flinched at the hit, his grin only widening. He tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you in until there was hardly any space left between you. “That’s not a no,” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. You narrowed your eyes, tilting your chin up defiantly. “I wasn’t jealous.”

Jungkook hummed, unconvinced. His fingers skimmed over the small of your back, the touch light but deliberate. “Mhm. Sure.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “She was unprofessional.”

“True.”

“And disrespectful.”

“Very.”

“And her eyeliner was uneven.”

Jungkook snorted, finally breaking into a full laugh. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the way he was looking at you, like you were the most amusing thing in the world made your face heat up. His laughter faded into something softer, something unbearably fond. “You know you’re cute when you’re all worked up, right?”

You scowled, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I said shut up.” Jungkook grinned, catching your hand with ease before lacing his fingers through yours. “Make me.”

Your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for the briefest second, and suddenly, the air between you shifted—

“You guys done with the tattoo already?”

A loud, familiar voice shattered the moment like glass hitting the pavement.

Both you and Jungkook turned your heads in unison, only to find Jin standing a few feet away, looking between the two of you with an expression far too amused for your liking. Jungkook groaned, running a hand down his face. “Hyung, seriously?”

Jin blinked. “What? I was just asking.” His gaze flickered over Jungkook’s arm, eyes narrowing as he took in the faint ink lines still marking his skin—the rough sketch of the tattoo, untouched by the needle. His brows furrowed.

“Wait. You didn’t actually get it done?”

Jungkook huffed, crossing his arms. “No. Because the tattooo artist was too busy flirting with me.”

Jin’s face twisted in confusion. “Huh?”

You, still somewhat bristling from the whole ordeal, rolled your eyes. “She was all over him. Barely even looked at his designs before trying to eye-fuck him.” JIn’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you serious?”

Jungkook nodded, his expression flat. “Dead serious.” Jin winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I had no idea she was like that.”

At least he had the decency to look sorry.

Jin sighed, rubbing his temple dramatically. “Alright, fine. Since I unknowingly threw you both into the lion’s den, I owe you.” He clapped his hands together. “Lunch is on me.” Jungkook raised a brow. “You? Paying for food? Willingly?”

Jin scoffed. “I can be generous, you know.”

You snorted. “That’s new.”

Jin ignored you. “Come on, let’s eat. My treat. Think of it as compensation for the mess I accidentally dropped you into.”

Jungkook hummed, pretending to consider. “I mean… if you’re paying, I’m definitely ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Jin rolled his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t do that anyway.”

Jungkook just grinned. “True.”

You laughed, your earlier irritation melting away. “Alright, fine. You’re forgiven. But only if I get to pick the place.” Jin groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?” Jungkook laced his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Because you probably will.”

Jin sighed but motioned for you both to follow. “Hurry up before I change my mind.” With that, the three of you headed off, leaving the unpleasant encounter behind in favor of good food.

Nari leaned against the counter, arms folded tight as she glared out the shop’s large window. Outside, you stood near the curb, your gaze fixed on Jungkook and Jin as they chatted. You weren’t speaking, just watching with that quiet, unreadable expression. But somehow, that made Nari even angrier.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.

“What is?”

The question came lazily from the man who had just strolled up beside her. He shook out his wrists after finishing with his last client, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. His attention remained casual, uninterested until Nari gestured toward the window with a sharp tilt of her chin.

“Her.”

His eyes followed her gaze. His posture was still loose, still easygoing until he saw you. For the briefest moment, his entire body went rigid. His casual demeanor cracked, just slightly, before he smoothed it over with a slow smirk.

“Huh.”

Nari, oblivious to the shift, let out a scoff. “She threw a whole fit because I was being nice to her boyfriend. Completely embarrassed me in front of him and acted all possessive, like I was some kind of threat.” She tapped her nails against the counter, still glaring at you through the window. “And now, thanks to her little tantrum, he refuses to get his tattoo done here.”

The man hummed, tilting his head. “Jealous girlfriend type, huh?”

“Exactly.” Nari huffed before turning to him with a slow, calculating smile. “You’re good at handling people, right?” He lifted a brow. “Depends on what you mean by ‘handling.’”

She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you think you could… I don’t know, do something about her? Save Jungkook from her?” For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze flicked back toward the window, settling this time on Jungkook himself.

And just like that, his smirk thinned.

Jungkook stood beside Jin, hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listened to whatever Jin was rambling about. But every so often, his attention shifted to you. The way his fingers brushed absently over your back, the way his expression softened whenever he glanced your way, like keeping you close was second nature.

The man’s fingers curled into a fist. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath.

Nari frowned. “You know him?” A sharp exhale. A shake of his head. “Not personally. But I know of him.”

She perked up at that, her curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

His tongue ran over his teeth, jaw working as he leaned against the counter. When he spoke again, his smirk had returned but there was nothing amused about it. “Let’s just say… I have unfinished business with her.”

Nari blinked at that, lips parting slightly as she took in the underlying venom in his tone. Then, as if catching on, she let out a slow, delighted hum. “Well then,” she murmured, turning back to the window, watching you through narrowed eyes. “Wouldn’t it be fun to mess with her a little?”

His gaze never left you. He watched as Jungkook reached out, tugging the sleeve of your jacket into place with an unconscious sort of familiarity, the kind that spoke of years spent together.

The kind of familiarity that should have been his.

The corner of his lips lifted, the smirk sharpening into something colder. “Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was smooth and teasing, laced with something far more sinister.

“I’d love to.”

You groggily blink your eyes open, immediately regretting it as the soft glow of the morning filters through your curtains. Too bright. Too early. Too… awake. You bury your face into your pillow, grumbling incoherently, unwilling to leave the comforting warmth of your bed. It’s Sunday. A day meant for sleeping in, doing absolutely nothing, and ignoring all responsibilities.

Then, you feel it—the weight of an arm loosely draped over your waist, the warmth seeping through your thin shirt. Your sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process before it clicks. Jungkook.

Right. He stayed over last night.

A sleepy sigh escapes your lips as you shift slightly, pressing closer to his warmth. His scent lingers on your sheets, wrapping around you like a second blanket. You peek up, still half-asleep, and catch the sight of him lying beside you, propped up on one elbow, his phone held in his free hand. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his face, casting delicate shadows over his sharp jawline. He’s already awake, completely engrossed in whatever he’s scrolling through.

Too awake for your liking.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble sleepily, voice muffled against the pillow. Your words slur together, more of a plea than a statement, as you instinctively nuzzle into Jungkook’s chest, seeking warmth.

A deep chuckle rumbles from him, low and fond, the kind that makes your heart squeeze without permission. His arm tightens around you in response, fingers lazily tracing light circles against your back. “Five more minutes? Baby, you said that like… an hour ago.”

You don’t respond, only snuggling deeper into his embrace, fully intent on ignoring him. Jungkook exhales dramatically, an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “You’re gonna sleep the whole day away.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re literally wasting the morning.”

“Mm,” you hum noncommittally. “Not wasting if I’m warm and comfortable.” Jungkook pokes your cheek, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tries to stir you. “C’mon, let’s go out. We could get breakfast, maybe go on a walk—”

“No.” You blindly swat his hand away.

Jungkook groans, flopping onto his back in frustration. “Why did I fall for someone lazier than me?” You crack one eye open, just enough to see his pout. Smirking, you shift slightly and mumble into the pillow, “Because I’m cute.”

Jungkook huffs. “…I mean, yeah, but that’s not the point.”

Jungkook finally manages to wrangle you out of bed—a feat that takes a ridiculous amount of whining, bribing, and sheer force of will. He practically drags you across the apartment, his grip firm around your wrist, ignoring every single one of your grumbles and half-hearted protests.

“You are,” you mumble as he steers you into the kitchen, “the absolute worst.” Jungkook snorts, already rummaging through the cabinets for coffee beans. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to let you rot in bed for eternity?”

“Yes.”

Jungkook ignores you, expertly working the coffee machine like a man on a mission. You slump against the counter, still half-asleep, head lolling dramatically to the side as you watch him move around like an overly energetic golden retriever. Then, your phone buzzes on the counter. You lazily glance at the screen, skimming the weather forecast—

Rain incoming.

Your spine straightens, sleepiness vanishing in an instant as you whip your phone up to show Jungkook, shoving the screen in his face with an almost evil sort of glee. “Oh no~” you sing-song, tone dripping with faux disappointment. “Looks like we can’t go out.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow as he squints at the screen, reading the forecast. His expression quickly morphs from mild confusion to full-blown horror. “…It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” he says slowly, almost like he can will the reality away.

“Guess we have to stay in.” You sigh dramatically, clutching your chest like it pains you. “Damn. What a shame.”

Jungkook groans, slumping against the counter like his entire soul has left his body. His dreams of a fun, eventful day were shattered. “You’re lying,” he accuses weakly. “This is a personal attack.”

You shake your head, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “I don’t control the weather, baby.”

Jungkook glares. “But if you could, you’d make it rain every day, wouldn’t you?” A smirk tugs at your lips. “Absolutely.”

Jungkook throws his head back with a dramatic, suffering groan, sliding down the counter like a man defeated. You watch him in amusement, lifting the coffee cup he had just made for himself and taking a slow, satisfied sip. The moment the taste hits your tongue, Jungkook’s entire body snaps upright.

He watches, utterly betrayed, as you lower the cup with a pleased hum.

“…Did you just steal my coffee?”

You blink at him, all innocence. “You made this for me, didn’t you?”

Jungkook scoffs, expression scandalized. “No! I made it for me!”

You shrug, taking another sip as you meet his glare with zero remorse. “Tastes great, babe. Thanks.”

Jungkook clutches his chest like you’ve personally wounded him. “You’re the actual worst.”

“And yet,” you hum, leaning against the counter with a satisfied smirk, “here you are, hopelessly in love with me.”

Jungkook stares at you for a long second, lips pursed. Then, without warning, he lunges. You yelp as he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you with ridiculous ease and tossing you over his shoulder.

“JUNGKOOK—”

“NOPE,” he interrupts, already marching towards the living room. “If I can’t have fun outside, I’m gonna make you suffer with me inside.” You kick your feet uselessly, fists pounding against his back as he effortlessly carries you away. “Put me down, you muscle bunny!”

Jungkook only laughs, completely unfazed, before spinning on his heel and tossing you onto the couch like you weigh nothing. You land with a soft ‘oof,’ bouncing slightly against the cushions as he flops down beside you, stretching out like a starfish. “You are so dramatic,” you grumble, attempting to shove him away with your foot.

Jungkook just grins, easily catching your ankle and tugging you closer instead. “And yet, you love me anyway.”

You huff, too lazy to argue.

Before you can protest further, he shifts, rolling onto his side and resting his head comfortably on your lap. His eyes flutter shut almost instantly, his breath evening out as he settles in like he belongs there. At first, you stiffen, but as the seconds pass, your fingers instinctively weave through his soft, dark hair. You barely even realize you’re doing it, the motion coming as naturally as breathing.

Jungkook hums at the feeling, half-conscious, but content. His face is completely relaxed and unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. He looked so soft like this. So warm. So… safe. And something deep inside you just melts.

Your fingers slow, combing gently through the strands, nails lightly scratching his scalp. A soft scowl tugs at your lips. Because this? This is a version of Jungkook you’d fight the entire world to protect.

Jungkook must feel your gaze because, after a moment, he cracks one eye open and peeks up at you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. You blink, quickly masking your expression with a huff. To cover up the warmth creeping up your neck, you flick his forehead. “Just making sure you’re still breathing.”

Jungkook snickers, stretching lazily. “Aww, are you worried about me?”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “Obviously. You’re fragile.”

Jungkook immediately bursts out laughing, full-bodied and carefree, his entire frame shaking against your lap. “Me? Fragile? Baby, I could bench press you.”

You roll your eyes, completely unfazed. “Yeah, well, I could stab someone for you.”

Jungkook’s laughter dies instantly. His eyes widen slightly, blinking up at you as if processing your words. Then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face.

“…Okay, that’s really hot.”

You scoff, flicking his forehead again. “Pervert.”

Jungkook just smirks, completely shameless. “What can I say? I like my girlfriend a little unhinged.” You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, a deep rumble of thunder echoes outside.

Jungkook groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Great. So we really are stuck inside all day.”

You don’t even bother hiding your glee. “Tragic.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Jungkook shifts, burying his face into your stomach like a sulking puppy. You try to shove him off, but he only clings harder, grumbling nonsense against your his hoodie.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, fingers idly threading through his hair again. Eventually, he shifts, lifting his head to look at you properly. His expression softens laced with something so fond it makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t say anything. Just laces his fingers through yours, absentmindedly tracing patterns against your palm.

Then, suddenly there's a sharp poke to your side and you jolt with a squawk, trying to wiggle away. “Jungkook!” He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “If we’re staying in, we should do something.”

You glare at him, still half-prepared to smack him upside the head. “Like what?”

His smirk deepens. “You know exactly what.” For a second, you just stare at him. He stares back.Then, without breaking eye contact—he grabs the game controllers.

Jungkook’s sunshine boyfriend energy disappears the second the race countdown starts. Gone is the sweet, cuddly man who had been wrapped around you like a koala just minutes ago, now, he’s leaning forward, brows furrowed, fully in the zone.

“Loser does the dishes in both apartments,” he announces, rolling his shoulders like he’s prepping for war. You scoff, cracking your knuckles for dramatic effect. “You’re about to regret that.”

The moment Lakitu drops the starting light, Jungkook launches forward like he’s been possessed by the spirit of every pro gamer ever. Meanwhile, you barely get past the first turn without slamming into the barrier. You spam every single item box you can get your hands on, determined to take him down with sheer pettiness if not skill.

Then there’s a miracle. Jungkook is just about to cross the finish line when you hit him with a perfectly timed blue shell.

BOOM.

His character spirals into the air, crashing down just inches from victory. You zoom past him at the last second.

“IN YOUR FACE, JEON.” You throw your arms up like you just won an Olympic gold medal. Jungkook stares at the screen in stunned silence. Then, slowly he turns to you. You suddenly get the feeling you’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, cracking his knuckles. “No more playing nice.”

The next race starts and you get absolutely destroyed.

Jungkook goes full demon mode, drifting around corners with terrifying precision, dodging every single attack like he can see the future. He launches red shells, banana peels, lightning bolts— you don’t even know how he’s getting this many power-ups.

It’s a massacre. One round. Two rounds. Three. You lose every single one. By the end, your controller is nearly embedded into your palm from how tightly you’re gripping it. Jungkook, on the other hand, is lounging back against the couch, arms stretched behind his head, smug as hell.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Do you yield?”

You scowl. “I hope you step on a Lego.”

Jungkook just laughs, grabbing your wrist and yanking you into his lap before you can escape. The controllers are discarded, forgotten as you end up tangled together on the couch. His arms snake around your waist, holding you in place as you halfheartedly struggle.

Then—he boops your nose.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then groan, flopping dramatically against his chest. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Jungkook only hums, smug and unbothered. “Even though you lost, I still think you’re the cutest.”

You smack his arm. “I will actually fight you.”

“Mm. As long as it’s not in Mario Kart, I like my chances.”

Jungkook’s phone buzzes against the coffee table, the vibration cutting through the comfortable silence. He lazily reaches for it, glancing at the screen. His brows knit together for a second before his face smooths over into a grin.

“Oh, my mom’s planning a family dinner. She wants you to come.”

You, mid-sip of your newly-made coffee, nearly choke.

“…Huh?”

Jungkook tilts his head, amused. “What? You act like this is the first time she’s invited you.”

You pause, tapping your fingers against the cup. His family liked you. You knew that. His mom always sent you home with extra food whenever you visited, and his dad made it a point to tease Jungkook about “finally settling down” whenever you were around. Jungkook leans closer, watching you expectantly. “So? You’ll come?”

You exhale dramatically, pretending to be deep in thought. “…Maybe.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “Maybe?”

You smirk. “I’ll go on one condition.”

He leans in even more, suspicious. “What?”

You set your cup down with a slow, deliberate motion. Then you look him dead in the eye. “…Admit that I’m better at games.”

Jungkook snorts. “Not happening.”

You grin. “Then I’m not coming.”

Jungkook blinks. Then, before you can react, he pounces.

“YOU’RE COMING.”

“JUNGKOOK—”

You barely have time to throw your drink onto the table before he tackles you down onto the couch, arms caging you in as he buries his face into your neck. His weight presses you into the cushions, his laughter muffled against your skin.

“You little brat,” he mutters, nuzzling into you. You squirm, but he’s relentless, peppering lazy kisses against your jaw just to distract you.

“Say you’ll come,” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

“Say I’m better.”

Jungkook grins against your neck. “Hmm. How about this—you come to dinner, and I’ll let you win next time.” You gasp, shoving at his chest. “Let me win?!”

His laughter shakes both of you, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m trying to be generous, baby.”

“Jungkook, I swear—”

The argument quickly devolves into a mess of tangled limbs and laughter, neither of you backing down. Jungkook is still half on top of you, his arms lazily wrapped around your waist, completely unwilling to let you escape. His warmth seeps into you, making it harder to even think about moving. You sigh, dramatically slumping against the couch cushions. “Fine. I’ll go to dinner.”

Jungkook’s head snaps up instantly. “Really?”

You roll your eyes, poking his cheek. “Yeah, yeah. But I’m expecting VIP treatment.”

Jungkook grins, wide and bright, before leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Deal.”

Outside, the rain picks up, sheets of water blurring the world beyond the glass. The streetlights flicker, their glow reflecting off the puddles collecting on the pavement. But just beyond the window, Neither of you notice the figure standing on the balcony of the building across the street a dark silhouette barely visible through the downpour.

He watches. He waits.

The overhead lights in your office cast a dim, sterile glow, humming softly in the near silence. The usual buzz of the workplace has long since faded, leaving only the occasional click of your keyboard and the distant sound of the air conditioning whirring. You rub your tired eyes, exhaustion settling deep in your bones as you scroll through the last few emails of the day.

Just as you’re about to tackle the next document in your never-ending pile, your phone vibrates against your desk, the soft buzz cutting through the quiet. You glance at the screen, and a familiar name lights up:

Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Still working? Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Come over after work?

A small smile tugs at your lips despite the fatigue weighing on you. You reach for your phone, letting your gaze drift to the towering stack of documents beside you before sighing. There’s no way you’re finishing up anytime soon. With a resigned exhale, you type out a response.

You [6:16 PM]: Working overtime. I’ll text when I’m done.

His reply comes almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for your response.

Kook 🐰💜 [6:16 PM]: It’s late. Want me to pick you up?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you shake your head, rolling your eyes fondly. It wasn’t like you weren’t capable of getting home on your own. The walk to your apartment was barely ten minutes, and you’d done it countless times before without issue. You hated the idea of relying too much on someone else, even if that someone was Jungkook. He was always eager to drop everything for you, to take on your burdens like they were his own, and while a part of you adored that about him, another part resisted it. You never wanted to feel like you needed saving. You could handle yourself.

You [6:16 PM]: I’m fine. My apartment’s nearby, remember?

There’s a brief pause before his next message comes through.

Kook 🐰💜[6:18 PM]: At least text me when you’re home.

You bite back a smile, shaking your head.

You [6:18 PM]: Yes, yes, Mr. Protective.

A second later, your screen lights up again with a message that’s nothing but a row of emojis. You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head as you set your phone down. Stretching your arms over your head, you glance back at the unfinished work in front of you. The night is far from over, and exhaustion lingers in your limbs, but you push through.

Two hours later, the office is nearly deserted. Rows of empty desks stretch out before you, their monitors dark, abandoned by coworkers who were lucky enough to call it a day. Somewhere in the distance, the faint murmur of a janitor echoes through the halls, a quiet reminder that you’re not entirely alone. Still, the stillness feels heavy, pressing against your shoulders as you rub your tired eyes and blink at your laptop screen.

“Still here?”

The familiar voice startles you, pulling you from your work-induced daze. You look up to see Jimin standing by your desk, a bag slung over his shoulder and an amused expression on his face.

You let out a sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Unfortunately.”

He crosses his arms, leaning casually against the cubicle wall. “Overtime?”

“Yeah.” You stretch your stiff fingers before clicking through your files. “Trying to get ahead of things since I’m taking a day off for Jungkook’s family dinner.”

Jimin raises a brow, clearly holding back a smirk. “You? Taking a day off? Who are you, and what have you done with my workaholic friend?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “It’s one day, Park.”

“Still. Didn’t think you’d willingly take time off for a boyfriend’s family event.”

You shrug, shifting your attention back to your laptop. “I’m being a supportive partner. And also avoiding Jungkook’s pout if I don’t go.”

Jimin chuckles. “Yeah, that tracks.” He checks his watch, then nods toward the exit. “Well, it’s already past eight. I can drop you off—my car’s in the basement.”

You pause for half a second, tempted. It would be easy, safe. A quick ride home without having to walk through the dark streets alone. But something in you resists. You’ve always prided yourself on being independent, on handling things yourself. You weren’t about to start needing an escort home like some helpless protagonist in a thriller movie. Besides, your apartment wasn’t far, and you could take care of yourself just fine.

You shake your head. “I’ve still got work left. Need to refine a client presentation before tomorrow.”

Jimin frowns, clearly debating whether to push the issue. “You sure? I don’t mind waiting.”

You give him a small, reassuring smile. “Go home, Jimin. I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates for a moment longer before exhaling in defeat. “Alright. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“I will.”

Satisfied, he ruffles your hair in a way that makes you swat at him, laughing as he dodges your weak attempt at retaliation. “Night, workaholic,” he teases before heading out, his footsteps fading down the hall.

And just like that, you’re alone again, the dim glow of your laptop screen casting long shadows across your desk.

It’s nearing eleven o'clock by the time you finally leave the office, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders like a weight you can’t shake. The automatic doors slide shut behind you, sealing the building in eerie silence. Outside, the streets stretch before you, quieter than usual, the world dipped in shades of silver and black under the dim glow of the streetlights.

The scent of rain lingers in the air, damp and heavy, even though the drizzle had stopped hours ago. The pavement glistens under the flickering glow of streetlights, reflecting the distorted shapes of the empty road ahead. A chilly breeze whispers through the deserted streets, curling around your skin like invisible fingers. You shiver, tugging your coat tighter around you, telling yourself it’s just the cold. You exhale slowly, watching your breath fog in the night air, and begin your walk home. It’s not far—barely a ten-minute walk. You’ve done this route countless times before. It should feel familiar. Safe.

But tonight… something feels off.

At first, it’s just a small shift in the air, a faint prickle at the back of your neck that strange, creeping sensation of being watched. It crawls up your spine, makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

You shake it off, adjusting the strap of your bag. You’re just tired. Paranoid. That’s all. The streets are always eerie this late of course they are. There’s no one around, just the distant hum of traffic blocks away, the occasional flicker of a neon sign from a closed shop. But then when you’re halfway home, just as you pass the turn near the old bookstore you hear it.

A faint, subtle sound, a footstep, echoes just a second too late after your own. Your breath catches in your throat as you freeze, and the sound stops too. The silence is suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turn to glance behind you.

Nothing.

Just an empty sidewalk, stretched too long and too dark behind you. The streetlights buzz faintly, their glow flickering, casting strange, distorted shadows on the wet pavement. Your own heartbeat pounds against your ribs, a heavy drumbeat in the stillness. You swallow, trying to shake the feeling creeping under your skin. You’re imagining things. You have to be. The city is full of noises like cars in the distance, leaves rustling, a stray cat darting between alleyways. That’s all it is.

Still… your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you push forward, steps quicker now. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It lingers. Pressing against your skin like static, buzzing at the edge of your awareness. You’re not alone.

You almost pull out your phone. Almost. Jungkook would pick up in an instant and he’d tell you to stay on the line, that he was coming to get you. But you don’t.

Because what would you even say? Hey, I think I’m being followed, but I’m not sure, and I don’t want to sound like an idiot? No way. Jungkook would freak out, and you weren’t about to send him into a panic over something that was probably nothing. So instead, you pick up your pace, each step sharper, more urgent. The streetlights above seem dimmer now, their glow barely cutting through the shadows pooling at the edges of the road.

Your building is just a few turns away. You make it past the first one, then the second. Then you hear it again—not just a sound this time, but a shift, a presence. Someone is there. Your heart hammers as you whip around faster this time.

Nothing.

Your own shadow stretches long on the pavement, its shape warping under the flickering lights. The alleyway to your right is yawning and dark, a gaping mouth of blackness that seems to pull at the edges of your vision. Your pulse is a thunderous roar in your ears.

You’re not imagining this. This is real.

And now, your body knows it too and every instinct is screaming at you to move. So you do.

You rush forward, walking as fast as you can without breaking into a sprint. Your breath quickens, your fingers curling into fists, every nerve in your body on high alert. Just a little further. Just one more turn.

And then finally your apartment building comes into view, looming in the darkness like a beacon. Relief crashes over you so forcefully that you nearly stumble. You don’t turn around again. You don’t want to know if someone is standing there. Watching.

You force yourself to stay calm as you punch in the building’s entry code with unsteady fingers, stepping inside the safety of the lobby. The door shuts behind you with a heavy click, locking out the night.

You practically rush inside, the cool air of the lobby offering little comfort as your fingers tremble over the keypad. Your breath is shallow, coming in uneven gasps as you punch in your passcode. The numbers blur slightly in your vision, whether from exhaustion or the lingering tension clawing at your mind, you’re not sure. The beep of the lock disengaging feels deafening in the stillness. You push the door open, stepping inside so quickly that you nearly stumble over your own feet. The door swings shut behind you with a soft but final click, sealing you in the safety of your apartment. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

For a moment, you just stand there, listening. Nothing but the hum of your refrigerator, the faint creak of the building settling, and the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven in the silence. You don’t stop moving until every lock is in place.

Click. Click. Click.

Each one echoes louder than it should, like an affirmation that you are, in fact, secure. That no one followed you. That no one is outside, waiting. Still, the unease gnaws at you, refusing to settle. So, you make your rounds. Checking. Double-checking. Triple-checking.

You pull the curtains shut, firmly, ensuring no sliver of the outside world can seep in. You check the windows next, pressing your fingers against the glass, as if expecting to feel warmth from another presence, a breath on the other side. But there’s nothing. No shadow moving in the darkness, no faint imprint of something or someone having been there.

Finally, with a deep breath, you force yourself to move, shedding your coat, kicking off your shoes with sluggish movements. The exhaustion from the long day crashes down on you all at once, dull and heavy. Your limbs feel leaden as you shuffle toward your bedroom, every step slower than the last.

The warmth of your bed is almost enough to chase away the unease, the mattress soft, inviting and safe a stark contrast to the cold anxiety curling at the edges of your consciousness. You exhale, forcing yourself to relax, letting your body sink into the familiar comfort of your sheets.

But even as your eyes grow heavy, your mind refuses to let go completely. That nagging sense of being watched still lingers. Faint but present. And just before sleep claims you, a final thought slithers through your mind.

What if you weren’t imagining it? What if someone was still out there? Watching. Waiting.

Jungkook drives with effortless ease, one hand lazily gripping the steering wheel while the other taps against the radio in rhythm with the song playing softly through the speakers. The hum of the engine blends with the melody, filling the quiet space between you, neither of you needing to speak. The road stretches ahead, endless and open, disappearing into the horizon. A faint trace of salt lingers in the air, creeping in through the half-open window, a quiet reminder that you’re getting closer to Busan.

You sit in the passenger seat, your gaze flickering between the blur of passing scenery and the man beside you. The steady motion of the car, the warmth of the moment, it all feels oddly soothing. After days of unease, of tension wound so tightly in your body that even sleep felt like a battle, you finally feel yourself exhale.

“Can’t believe you actually agreed to take a day off for me,” Jungkook teases, his grin nothing short of triumphant as he spares you a glance. “Is this what love does to people?”

You roll your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “One time, Jeon. Don’t get used to it.”

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you for a second. His smile spreads wide, bright enough to make your chest ache with something unspoken. He reaches over without hesitation, his fingers giving your knee a playful squeeze before returning to the wheel. The touch is fleeting but warm, grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

You should tell him.

The past few days have been unbearable due to the creeping paranoia, the feeling of eyes tracing your every move and the subtle shifts in your apartment that made your skin crawl. It’s like living with a shadow just out of reach, something you can’t see but can feel pressing in from the edges. You don’t scare easily, but this has been different.

Your fingers twitch against your lap. One word. That’s all it would take. Jungkook would listen like he always does. He’d furrow his brows, tilt his head in that concerned way he does, and tell you not to brush it off. He’d probably get all worked up, insist on staying over, refuse to let you out of his sight.

And yet, looking at him now being so carefree, his bunny-like smile tugging at his lips as he taps his fingers against the beat makes you hesitate. He’s happy. Peaceful. This moment is untouched by the weight sitting on your chest, and for once, you don’t want to taint something good.

So you take a slow breath, forcing yourself to relax against the seat. You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re just being paranoid. That if anything truly happens, you’ll deal with it.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to stay in the present, to focus on the soft hum of the radio, the rhythmic tap of Jungkook’s fingers against the steering wheel. But the memory pulled at you, dragging you under before you could stop it—

You had come home after another long day at work. Your shoulders were aching from hours spent hunched over your desk. You had barely registered the familiar scent of your apartment as you pushed the door open, the soft creak echoing into the stillness inside.

Everything had looked normal at first.

Your shoes sat neatly by the entrance, exactly where you had left them. The kitchen counter was cluttered with the remnants of that morning’s rushed breakfast.

But the air had felt… different. Slightly off. As if someone had been there. Your heartbeat had stumbled, picking up speed before you could rationalize it. You had told yourself it was nothing. Just the exhaustion making you paranoid.

And yet, as you had stepped further inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The sound was the first thing that struck you. Cheerful, repetitive, out of place.

Your TV was on.

Not just on but playing Mario Kart. The character selection screen looped in the background, the upbeat jingle clashing against the heavy silence that filled your apartment. You hadn’t touched your console in days. Not since you and Jungkook played together last Sunday. Your pulse quickened.

Your eyes flickered to the couch. It had been moved just slightly. Barely an inch out of place, but enough for you to notice.

A slow, creeping unease settled into your bones as you stepped further inside, your movements cautious. Your apartment wasn’t large. There weren’t many places for someone to hide. And yet, your skin prickled with the overwhelming sensation that something or someone had been here.

Your breath hitched as your gaze fell on your bedroom door, slightly ajar. You had closed it that morning. You were sure of it. With measured steps, you pushed the door open fully. And that’s when you saw it.

Your bed—completely in ruins. The sheets were tangled, pillows tossed carelessly, the once-smooth blankets now bunched in the center as if someone had been lying there. Your stomach twisted with unease because this morning, just before leaving for work, you had made your bed. Yet now, the sheets were rumpled, disturbed in a way that sent a chill crawling up your spine. Someone had been here.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you took a shaky step back, your eyes darting around the room. Everything looked normal aside from the bed, the couch and the TV but the air felt wrong. Tainted. Like someone had occupied this space in your absence.

Your mind raced as you checked the locks. Still in place. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry.

So how— Your breath hitched as a thought struck you. With trembling fingers, you grabbed your phone and immediately dialed Jungkook. He picked up after a few rings, his voice slightly breathless, like he had been running. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, gripping the phone tightly. “Yeah,” you lied, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Where are you right now?”

"Still at the clinic," he answered easily. "Was assisting with a surgery on a Pomeranian. Poor guy had a blockage so it took longer than expected." Your stomach dropped.

If Jungkook wasn’t here… then who was?

Your fingers curled around your phone, knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your breathing even. “Got it,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Just checking.” There was a pause. Then, Jungkook’s tone softened. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Another lie. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before he could press further, you ended the call.

The only sound left was the distant loop of Mario Kart, mocking you.

The weight of the memory lingered, suffocating, but the warmth of the car, the low hum of the radio, and Jungkook’s familiar presence slowly pulled you back. You blinked, staring at him.

Jungkook was happily rambling about his mom’s cooking, hands moving animatedly as he drove. “—and she always makes extra, like extra extra, because she knows I eat a lot. But now she’s even more excited since you’re coming—oh! She even tried making those cookies you love—”

His voice was light, full of an excitement you didn’t want to taint. A small part of you wanted to tell him. But another part, the part that didn’t want to see that deep crease of concern on his forehead, didn’t want to take away his peace, told you to keep it to yourself. For now.

You turned your head, looking out the window, watching the scenery blur past. You didn’t notice the way Jungkook’s eyes flickered toward you, his brows knitting together for just a moment before he forced his usual smile back onto his face.

Jungkook pulled into the driveway, parking with practiced ease. You had been here more times than you could count, yet there was always something comforting about stepping into his childhood home like the faint scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air and the familiar sight of the wind chime swaying gently by the door.

Jungkook turned to you with a grin, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. “Mom probably made enough food to feed a small army.”

You chuckled, already knowing that was true. “She always does.”

Before you could even step out of the car, the front door swung open, revealing his mom waving enthusiastically. “You’re finally here! Hurry, come in before the food gets cold!” His mom pulled you into a hug the second you stepped inside, squeezing you tight.

“You’ve lost weight,” she huffed, pulling back just enough to inspect you with a critical eye. “Are you eating properly?”

Jungkook groaned beside you, already exasperated. “She’s fine, Mom.”

You laughed, but before you could respond, his dad stepped forward with a warm smile, offering a firm handshake. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, his voice as steady and kind as ever.

“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Jeon,” you replied politely. “Mrs. Jeon, thank you for having me—”

Before you could finish, his mom smacked your arm lightly, her expression scandalized. “Yah! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Mom and Dad.”

Your face heated instantly. “R-Right. Sorry… Mom.”

Jungkook snickered under his breath at your obvious embarrassment, and his mom beamed, clearly pleased. “That’s better,” she said, linking her arm with yours as she led you further inside. “You’re family, sweetheart. No need for formalities.”

The house smelled incredible of rich simmering broth and freshly cooked rice. The warmth of it all settled deep in your chest, making you realize just how much you had missed this. As you stepped into the living room, your gaze landed on a few baby toys scattered near the couch, a soft blanket draped over the armrest. Before you could ask, his mom sighed.

“Junghyun and his wife wanted to come with the twins, but the girls were too fussy today.”

Jungkook pouted dramatically, crossing his arms. “I still haven’t met my nieces.”

His mom shook her head, unimpressed. “You could visit them, you know.”

“I will,” Jungkook mumbled, already defeated. “Just… eventually.”

The dining table was packed with dishes his mom had gone all out, as always. Various side dishes, steaming hot soup, perfectly grilled meat, and a mountain of rice sat invitingly before you. It was a feast, one you had grown familiar with over the years, yet it never failed to impress you. Before you could even reach for anything, Jungkook was already piling food onto your plate, stacking it with precision. “Eat,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You know the rules.”

His mom beamed, clearly pleased. “At least someone in this house listens to me.”

You chuckled, picking up your chopsticks, but the moment was shattered when your phone lit up beside your plate, vibrating with an insistent ping. You glanced down, your stomach twisting into a knot.

Your pulse quickened. The messages came one after the other.

Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think you can stay safe by staying away from here? Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think he’s gonna save you? Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.

Your breath hitched. Cold fingers of unease crawled up your spine, but you forced yourself to stay composed. Your hands thankfully didn’t shake as you turned your phone upside down and set it to silent. Jungkook had noticed. His gaze flickered to the screen before you flipped it over, his brows knitting together in quiet concern. He looked like he wanted to ask, but you didn’t give him the chance.

The vibration had caught his parents’ attention too. “Oh dear, is that work?” his mom asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Yeah,” you lied smoothly, forcing a small smile. “Just some messages I need to deal with later.”

You weren’t sure if Jungkook believed you, but he didn’t press. Instead, he reached out under the table, squeezing your knee reassuringly before focusing back on his food. You tried to do the same, pushing down the paranoia clawing at your chest.

Dinner flowed with easy conversation. His parents asked about your work, laughing when Jungkook grumbled about how much time it took away from him. They also teased him relentlessly about how attached he was to you.

“Three years, and he still acts like you’re going to disappear if he looks away,” his dad joked, shaking his head fondly.

You snickered, nudging Jungkook’s foot under the table.

But Jungkook just shrugged, completely unbothered. “Can you blame me?” he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dinner continued with warmth and laughter, his parents seamlessly shifting the conversation to Jungkook’s studies.

“So, how’s school going?” his dad asked, scooping some more rice onto his plate. “Third year already, huh? Feels like just yesterday you were running around pretending to be a zookeeper.” Jungkook groaned. “Dad.”

His mom chuckled. “What? You were obsessed with animals. You even tried to ‘rescue’ the neighbor’s cat by sneaking it into your room.”

You gasped dramatically, turning to Jungkook. “Wait, I didn’t know about this!”

Jungkook sighed, shoving a bite of food into his mouth like he could physically escape the conversation. “That was years ago.”

His dad laughed. “And now look at you, halfway to becoming a real vet.”

“Not halfway,” Jungkook corrected between bites. “But yeah, it’s been tough. Classes are intense, and the practicals are even harder. Two days ago, I had to assist with a surgery, and let’s just say I wasn’t prepared for how long it would take.”

His mom’s eyes softened with pride. “You’ll be amazing, sweetheart. You’ve always had such a big heart for animals.”

Jungkook ducked his head, ears tinged pink. You smiled, nudging his foot under the table again. “She’s right, you know. You’re going to be an incredible vet.”

Jungkook glanced at you, his bunny-like smile appearing for just a second before he returned to his food. But the warmth of the moment did little to push away the unease creeping up your spine. The phone lay silent beside your plate, but you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling.

Just as the conversation was settling into a warm, familiar rhythm, the front door slammed open with the force of a small explosion.

“The prodigal son returns!”

Jungkook groaned, not even bothering to look. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

Jin strutted in like he was making a grand entrance at an award show, tossing his jacket onto the couch with an unnecessary flourish. “Heard there was food,” he announced before turning to you with a smirk. “And obviously, I had to make sure my dear cousin hasn’t scared you off yet.”

Jungkook scoffed. “You scared me off first.”

Jin ignored him completely, already making a beeline for the dining table. His mom, unfazed by the theatrics, clapped her hands together. “Oh, perfect timing! Sit, eat.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jin said cheerfully, dropping into the seat beside you. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks like a warrior unsheathing his sword, ready for battle.

“So,” he drawled, nudging you playfully. “Three years and you still haven’t run for the hills? Impressive.”

You smirked, taking a sip of your drink. “I’ve considered it.”

Jungkook gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you had personally stabbed him. “Betrayal! In my own home!”

“Technically, it’s our home,” his mom corrected.

“Exactly!” Jin said, pointing his chopsticks at Jungkook before shoving a mouthful of rice into his mouth. Jungkook’s dad, ever the composed one, leaned back in his chair and regarded Jin with an amused shake of his head. “So, how’s the tattoo shop? Are you still working reception?”

Jin waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that? I quit.”

Jungkook’s mom sighed, as if she had already seen this coming.

Jungkook’s dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jin, you just started that job.”

“Yeah, and I just quit that job,” Jin said brightly. “But don’t worry—I’ve moved on to better things.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “Should I even ask?”

“I now work at a pastry shop.” Jin declared, as if he had just announced a groundbreaking scientific discovery.

Jungkook blinked. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

Jungkook’s dad sighed. “Jin, you have to start thinking about stability. You can’t keep jumping from one job to another like this.”

Jin only laughed, waving him off like the thought of responsibility was a foreign concept. “Oh, please. Stability is boring. I get bored too fast—I need thrill, excitement, the rush of something new.”

“You sell croissants,” Jungkook deadpanned.

“And I do it with flair,” Jin shot back, popping a piece of fried chicken into his mouth. “Speaking of which, I brought some samples! The head baker said they were too ‘experimental’ for customers, but I figured you guys would appreciate my artistic vision.” He reached into his coat pocket because of course he carried pastries in his coat pocket and plopped two small, questionably green muffins onto the table.

Jungkook recoiled. “What is that?”

Jin grinned. “Matcha and kimchi fusion.”

Jungkook’s dad sighed again. His mom simply patted Jin’s hand, as if she had long since accepted his chaotic ways. Jin wipes his hands dramatically after placing down his abomination of a pastry creation, then immediately turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“So,” he starts, leaning in with the air of someone about to cause chaos. “On a scale of one to dear god, someone save me, how difficult is he to live with?”

You barely have time to react before he fires off another.

“Any plans to upgrade from ‘boyfriend’ status?” Jin asks, voice dripping with faux innocence.

Jungkook chokes so hard on his food that you have to thump his back. His mom gasps in concern, while his dad just continues eating like this is any other Thursday night.

Jin smirks in triumph. “Ah, so is there a wedding?”

Jungkook, still recovering, glares murderously. “You are so not invited to the wedding—”

Jin claps his hands together. “Confirmed!”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a spoonful of rice and hurls it straight at Jin. Jin dodges like a seasoned warrior. “Oh, it’s war now.”

A second later, a piece of kimchi smacks Jungkook right in the cheek. Jungkook gapes at Jin. “You did not—”

“Oh, I did.” Jin wiggles his eyebrows before launching another attack. What starts as a petty sibling squabble escalates into all-out warfare. Jungkook lobs a dumpling; Jin retaliates with a piece of radish. Rice goes flying. You duck just in time to avoid getting hit by a rogue piece of tofu.

“Jeon Jungkook!” his mom shrieks, voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. “Kim Seokjin!”

They both freeze mid-throw, like guilty kids caught red-handed.

His dad sighs, a long and tired sigh, the kind that speaks of years of dealing with this exact scenario. He calmly reaches for his drink. “Can we please have one dinner without someone launching food across the table?”

Jungkook and Jin exchange glances.

Then, as if telepathically synchronized, they both lift their chopsticks and point at each other. “He started it.”

You snort. His mom groans. His dad sips his tea in silent resignation.

The night air is crisp, carrying the distant hum of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees that line Jungkook’s backyard. The stars above twinkle through gaps in the branches, their light soft and distant. Out here, away from the city’s chaos, everything feels quieter like the world has shrunk to just the two of you. Jungkook slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Sorry about him.”

You chuckle, leaning into his warmth. “I like him. He makes things interesting.”

“Interesting until he’s grilling you.”

“True,” you admit, grinning. “But I can handle him.”

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh, resting his chin atop your head. You exhale, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment, savoring the security of his presence. It’s moments like these that make you forget the paranoia and the unease clawing at the edges of your mind.

But it never truly leaves.

The feeling of being watched. The weight of unseen eyes crawling over your skin. The messages you’ve ignored all night. They all linger in your mind. You glance up at Jungkook. He’s still smiling, talking about how his mom packed you extra leftovers. “She thinks you don’t eat enough,” he says fondly, shaking his head.

You should tell him.

The words sit heavy on your tongue, pressing against your teeth. One sentence, and it would all be out in the open.

But you don’t.

Instead, you nod, forcing a small laugh. “She really doesn’t take no for an answer, huh?”

“Never,” Jungkook confirms, squeezing your waist. His touch is warm, grounding. But even that warmth doesn’t reach the cold pit in your stomach.

“Jungkook!” His dad’s voice calls from inside. “Come here for a second.”

Jungkook groans, reluctant to move. “Stay here, I’ll be back,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing inside.

The moment he’s gone, the silence presses in. You hesitate before pulling out your phone, unlocking it with a swipe of your thumb. The notifications are still there, messages from Unknown piled up like unanswered warnings.

The last one catches your eye.

Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.

Your breath stutters.

The phone suddenly feels heavy in your hands, like a weight dragging you down into something inescapable.

No.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out the gentle chirping of crickets, drowning out reason. A suffocating sense of dread settles in your chest as you stare at the word, doll. There was only one person who ever called you that.

Only one voice that had whispered it against your skin, had laughed it into your ear, had let it drip from his tongue like a slow poison.

Kim Taehyung.

The room was thick with the stench of alcohol and sweat, the air heavy with cigarette smoke that coiled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. Dim lighting flickered from a dying bulb, casting long, distorted shadows across the stained walls.

Taehyung sat slouched in a tattered armchair, his body sinking into the worn-out fabric. His limbs felt like lead, the weight of intoxication pressing down on him, making his movements sluggish, his thoughts hazy. A half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, the condensation dripping onto his jeans, but he barely noticed.

Around him, his friends were strewn across the room in various states of intoxication, some laughing at nothing, their voices slurred and senseless, while others lay sprawled out, lost to the world. Taehyung exhaled a slow, heavy breath. Everything felt distant and detached until a stray thought cut through the fog: you.

His lazy smirk faltered. His fingers twitched against the armrest, tightening before relaxing again. His vision blurred at the edges, but the memories were sharp. Unwelcome. Unrelenting. His jaw clenched. He willed himself to push it away, drown it in the haze, let the high carry him somewhere else. But it never worked.

It never did when it came to you. His body was here, slouched in a torn armchair, but his mind was somewhere else. Three years ago.

"I don’t love you anymore."

The scent of espresso and warm pastries was suffocating. The quiet hum of conversation around them felt like static in his ears. But none of it fucking mattered. Not when you were sitting across from him, staring at him like he was nothing.

The words barely registered at first. His mind lagged behind reality like a glitching tape, playing back a version of events where this wasn’t happening.

"What?" His voice was sharp, disbelieving. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Your gaze didn’t waver. "I said I don’t love you."

The words cut. They didn’t hit all at once they sank in slowly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Taehyung laughed. "Bullshit."

He leaned forward, jaw tight, fingers curling into the edge of the table. "You’re being dramatic. You always do this shit when you want attention."

Your expression didn’t change, but something about it made his stomach turn. You weren’t crying. You weren’t shaking. There was no hesitation or guilt or any of the things he had relied on to keep you in line. This wasn’t like before.

Your voice was flat. "You ruined this, Tae. You ruined me."

His laugh was louder this time, bitter and sharp. "Oh, so I’m the villain now? After everything I did for you?"

"Everything you did to me."

His breath stuttered.

And then you kept going. You fucking kept going.

"You controlled me. You isolated me. You made me feel like I was insane every time I called you out on your bullshit."

His hands curled into fists. "Oh, fuck off—"

"You threatened me, Tae. You threw shit. You punched walls, grabbed me so fucking hard I had bruises for days. And every time, you’d crawl back, begging, saying you didn’t mean it—"

His teeth clenched, fury bubbling beneath his skin. "Because I didn’t!"

"You dangled your own life over my head like a leash."

His blood turned cold, the first sliver of panic slicing through the rage that had consumed him moments ago. He wasn’t winning. The realization struck hard. His grip tightened on the table, nails digging into the cheap wood as if he was bracing for impact. You weren’t supposed to fucking say that. You weren’t supposed to know.

He forced a laugh, but it came out desperate. "And what, you're suddenly a fucking therapist? Psychoanalyzing me like I’m some fucking monster?"

Your voice was quiet, but it sliced straight through him.

"I don’t need to psychoanalyze you, Taehyung. I lived through you."

The air left his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges, rage and panic clashing, drowning him.

All of a sudden, ‘his’ name fell from your lips like a gunshot.

Jungkook? That pathetic little nerd? The one he used to shove into lockers, humiliate just for the fun of it? The same one who flinched if someone raised their voice too loud?

He let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, but there was nothing funny about this. His hands shook from the effort of holding himself back.

"So that’s what you’ve been doing, huh?" His voice was sharp, venomous. "Nursing him back to health after I fucked him up?"

You exhaled, shaking your head, unimpressed.

Then, he snapped. "You fucked him, didn’t you?"

He spat the words like a curse, like they burned his tongue. Even as he said it, he knew you wouldn’t. You were a self-righteous bitch with all your morals, your bullshit standards. You wouldn’t dare. But the thought of it, the idea of you with him made his head spin, made his vision go dark at the edges.

His voice dropped to a hiss. "That little fucking loser? You let him touch you? You let him—"

His hands ached. He wanted to grab you, to shake you, to make you look at him.

"He’s a pussy, doll." His voice cracked, something wild and desperate bleeding through. "He won’t take care of you like I did."

You scoffed, expression unreadable. "You never took care of me, Tae."

"What the fuck does he have that I don’t?" His voice rose, teetering between fury and desperation. "Tell me."

You just stared at him, and that look—that fucking look—

It was over.

It was fucking over.

Panic clawed at his ribs, lodged itself in his throat, made his vision blur and his hands shake. So he did what he always did when he lost control.

"I’ll kill myself if you leave me."

The words came out fast and sharp, a desperate lifeline thrown into the storm. It had always worked before, always made you hesitate, always made you stay. But this time, you simply exhaled a breath of relief, as if you had finally broken free.

And then, for the first time, you smiled.

"Look at you." Your voice was soft. Almost pitying. "Still trying to manipulate me."

Something inside him snapped.

His vision blurred, his body moved and the next thing he knew, the coffee cup on the table was in pieces, shattered porcelain scattering across the floor.

The café had gone silent.

The whole fucking world had gone silent.

You stood, your chair scraping against the tile. Unbothered.

You walked away. No hesitation. No tears. No fucking remorse.

And for the first time, Taehyung had nothing.

Nothing left to say. Nothing left to hold onto.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, searing his fingers. He didn’t flinch. Taehyung’s jaw clenched, knuckles turning white as his fists curled against the armrest. The high didn’t feel so numbing anymore, just agitating. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts too sharp, too loud.

For almost a year, he had drowned you out with drugs, alcohol, distractions, anything to blur the edges of what you had done to him. To make himself forget the way you walked away without looking back. But the moment he saw you again it all came rushing back.

The obsession. The hunger. The need to undo it all.

You thought you walked away for good?

No. You were always his. Even when you hated him. Even when you ran. And now he was going to take back what was his.

One way or another.

After returning from Busan, you stayed over at Jungkook’s place.

You didn’t want to sleep alone. Not after the messages. The number was blocked now. You hadn’t received anything since. But still… you didn’t feel comfortable going back home yet.

Jungkook hadn’t questioned it. He just smiled and let you in, happy to have you around. But the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the guilt settling in your chest.

Because Jungkook didn’t know.

You hadn’t told him about the messages. About the unease creeping up your spine every time your phone vibrated. About the name that had resurfaced in the form of a single word:

“Doll.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything. Anyone could use that word. It was common, impersonal.

But not to you.

Not when you could still hear his voice saying it. Not when you remembered how it had dripped from Taehyung’s lips sometimes sweet, sometimes cruel.

“Be good for me, doll.” “You know I only act like this because I love you, doll.” “You’re nothing without me, doll.”

The thought alone made your stomach churn. You weren’t even sure if it was him. Maybe it was just paranoia. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Yeah. It had to be. So you pushed it down, shoved it into the corners of your mind where you didn’t have to look at it. You told yourself you were keeping this from Jungkook to protect him.

But now, as you sit at your office desk, your mind is miles away from the reports in front of you. You tap your pen against the surface, gaze unfocused.

You don’t notice Jimin watching you from across the room until he finally speaks.

“Everything okay between you and Jungkook?”

You blink, snapping out of your daze. “What?”

Jimin leans against your desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You seem off. Thought maybe you two had a fight or something.”

You force a small laugh, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that. Everything’s fine.”

Jimin doesn’t look convinced. His sharp gaze lingers for a second too long, like he’s waiting for you to crack. But he doesn’t press.

And you’re grateful for that.

Lunchtime rolls around when you finally check your phone.

The morning had been filled with client meetings, thankful for the welcome distraction. For a few hours, you managed to keep your mind from spiraling. But the moment your screen lights up with a string of unread messages from an unknown number, reality crashes back in.

Your stomach plummets.

Unknown [10:28 AM]: Did you really think blocking me would make me disappear, doll? Unknown [10:28 AM]: How cute. Almost as cute as you playing house with your little pet. Unknown [10:29 AM]: Speaking of pets… your boyfriend’s been working so hard. Diligently studying to save all those poor, dying animals. Unknown [10:30 AM]: How pathetic. Unknown [10:31 AM]: Wanna see?

Your breath catches.

The next message has three images attached. With shaking fingers, you tap them open.

First image: Jungkook in class, focused, scribbling down notes. Second image: Him in the lab, sleeves rolled up, handling equipment with practiced ease. Third image: Now. Jungkook at lunch, head slightly tilted as he listens to someone, chopsticks resting in his hand.

Your blood turns to ice as your vision tunnels, the world narrowing to a single horrifying realization—Jungkook is right there. Someone… no, not just anyone. It has to be Taehyung. He is near. He is watching. And if he is close enough to take these photos, then he is close enough to do something worse. Your phone nearly slips from your grip as pure, heart-stopping terror crashes into you. Jungkook is in danger. The first message was sent almost an hour ago, which means Taehyung has been near him this whole time. Watching him. Stalking him.

Your first instinct is to call the cops. Your fingers hover over the dial pad, heart hammering until your screen lights up again. As if he had been waiting for you to see his messages.

Unknown [12:01 PM]: I know what you’re thinking, doll. Unknown [12:01 PM]: Call the cops, and I’ll slit your pretty boyfriend’s throat right where he sits.

Your breath locks in your chest, hands trembling so violently you almost drop your phone.

No. No, no, no.

You don’t think you just move.

You bolt out of your office, barely registering Jimin calling after you. His voice is distant, but you can’t stop. You don’t have time. You race to your car, hands fumbling with the keys as you throw yourself into the driver’s seat. The second the engine roars to life, you’re speeding down the street, ignoring every traffic rule, every red light.

There’s only one thought pounding in your skull, louder than the frantic beat of your heart—

Get to Jungkook. Now.

You pull up to Jungkook’s university, barely throwing the car into park before shoving the door open. Your legs feel unsteady as you rush out, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Your hands tremble as you fumble with your phone, fingers slipping as you dial Jungkook’s number again and again. No answer. You try once more, the ringing tone stretching unbearably before it goes to voicemail.

The campus is alive with movement students chatting, laughing and going about their day, blissfully unaware of the sheer terror gripping you. You push through the crowd, scanning faces wildly, your heart pounding against your ribs. Where is Jungkook?

People glance at you, their whispers buzzing at the edge of your hearing, but you don’t care. You try his number again. Still nothing.

A sickening thought slithers into your mind— What if Taehyung already got to him? What if you’re too late?

Finally, your eyes land on him.

Jungkook stands in the courtyard, laughing with a couple of friends, completely oblivious to the danger shadowing him. The world around you blurs as relief crashes over you like a tidal wave.

Alive. Unharmed.

Your knees almost buckle, the tension in your body unravelling just enough for you to let out a sharp, shaky exhale. Your breath stutters as the panic begins to subside, but the urgency still thrums beneath your skin. Then Jungkook sees you.

His laughter dies mid-sentence, his brows knitting together in concern as his eyes rake over your disheveled form. His friends glance at you curiously, but Jungkook is already moving toward you.

"Y/N?" His voice is gentle but urgent. "What’s wrong?"

You shake your head quickly, forcing a weak, unconvincing smile. "It’s nothing," you say, voice tight. "But we need to leave. Now."

Jungkook blinks, his confusion evident. "What? I have an afternoon lecture."

You tighten your grip on his wrist, desperation seeping into your voice. "Jungkook, please. We need to go home."

His brows draw together, concern deepening in his soft gaze. "Why?" His voice remains gentle, but there's a quiet insistence beneath it. "What’s going on?"

When you don’t answer, Jungkook exhales softly before taking your hand, leading you away from the courtyard and into a quieter corner. His touch is firm but never forceful.

"Y/N, talk to me." His voice is barely above a whisper, but there’s an edge of worry to it. "What’s wrong?" His dark eyes search yours, trying to unravel the truth you refuse to say.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze. "It’s nothing, I swear—"

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitching at his sides. "That’s not true."

Jungkook doesn’t raise his voice, but the frustration is clear. He takes a slow step closer, his warmth now suffocating. "You’ve been acting different for weeks. Distant. Jumpy. And now you show up here looking like you’ve seen a ghost and expect me to just go along with it?"

You flinch at the quiet intensity in his words, but still, you don’t answer. Jungkook’s voice rises just a little, but the hurt in it is undeniable. “Do you not trust me?”

You bite your lip, guilt pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight. “Of course I do, Jungkook, it’s just—”

“Then tell me.” His fingers rake through his hair, his brows drawn together, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. But his voice stays soft, laced with something almost pleading.

“I’m not a child, Y/N.”

The words land harder than you expect, sinking deep. Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of his quiet disappointment. You know you should tell him. You should warn him. But… you can’t.

Jungkook exhales slowly, his jaw tightening as he watches you struggle with whatever it is you’re refusing to say. His frustration is evident, but his voice remains gentle, laced with quiet insistence.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” he says firmly. “If you won’t, I’ll just stay here.”

Your stomach drops. No. He can’t stay here. Not when you know Taehyung is watching. “Jungkook, please,” you whisper, gripping his wrist tighter.

“Then tell me, Y/N.” His gaze softens, but the unwavering determination in his eyes sends a surge of panic through you. You have no choice. You have to tell him something—anything—just to get him to listen.

“Someone’s been watching you,” you admit in a rush, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know who, but it’s not safe.”

Jungkook stiffens. His expression shifts from frustration to shock, then to something unreadable. “Watching me?” he echoes. “Y/N, what—why wouldn’t you tell me earlier?”

You look away, guilt gnawing at you. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still skeptical, still confused, but he can see the genuine fear in your eyes. And that alone is enough to make him give in.

“Alright,” he finally murmurs. “Let’s go.”

Relief washes over you, but just as you think you’ve convinced him to leave, your phone vibrates. It's another message.

Unknown [12:17 PM]: Ah, there you are, doll. So desperate to save your boyfriend? Cute. But I’m not done playing yet.

Your breath hitches.

Taehyung is watching you right now. Your fingers tighten around your phone as your eyes dart around the campus, paranoia seeping into your every movement.

Jungkook immediately catches the way your face drains of all color. His fingers gently close around your wrist before you can react, his other hand swiftly taking your phone from your grip.

“Jungkook, wait—”

But it’s too late. His eyes scan the message, and you feel his entire body go still. His brows knit together, his lips parting slightly as he rereads the words, processing the threat laced between them.

“Who…” His voice is quiet at first, controlled. Then, a little sharper. “Who the hell is this?”

You swallow hard, panic clawing at your chest. You should’ve been more careful. But now there’s no avoiding it. Jungkook looks up at you, eyes searching. “Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s an undeniable firmness in his tone. “Tell me.”

You take a shaky breath, forcing the words out before you can hesitate.

“I… I think it’s Taehyung.”

Jungkook blinks. For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve said something completely incomprehensible. Then, he shakes his head, a disbelieving scoff leaving his lips.

“Taehyung?” He lets out a breath, his brows furrowing. “No. That’s impossible. We haven’t seen him in years.”

You can see the way his mind is racing, trying to rationalize it, trying to convince himself that it can’t be true. But then piece by piece it all starts to click. The way you’ve been acting. The paranoia. The half-truths. Everything makes sense now.

Jungkook’s expression shifts, his grip tightening slightly around your phone. He looks at you again, this time with quiet intensity. “Tell me everything.”

You take a deep, unsteady breath and finally let it all out. Every message. Every chilling threat. The way Taehyung has been watching, lurking in the shadows, getting closer and closer. How you’ve been living in constant fear, too terrified to sleep, too paranoid to breathe. How you blocked him, but he always found a way back. The photos of Jungkook the proof showing that Taehyung has been near him all along.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He just listens. His hands slowly curl into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening, but his eyes stay locked on you, soft and unwavering. By the time you finish, your throat is tight, and your vision blurs slightly. You blink rapidly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. You quickly wipe at your eyes before Jungkook can notice.

But he does.

Without a word, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his warmth. You freeze for a second, startled, but then you let yourself sink into the embrace. His arms are strong and steady, anchoring you as if he’s shielding you from everything that’s been haunting you.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice softer than ever. “You don’t have to hold it in, Y/N.”

Your breath shudders. “I-I’m fine,” you whisper, even though your grip on his hoodie tightens. Jungkook shakes his head slightly. “No, you’re not. And that’s okay.” His hand runs up and down your back in slow, soothing motions. “You don’t always have to be strong on your own.”

Something in you cracks at his words. A single tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you don’t wipe it away. Jungkook holds you tighter, his voice firm but gentle. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I was scared.”

“I get that.” He exhales, resting his chin lightly on top of your head. “But you’re not alone in this. I’m here now. And I won’t let him hurt you.”

When you finally pull away, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding you. Now, you have to decide.

Go to the police? It’s the logical choice, but Taehyung already made it clear what would happen if you did. Jungkook’s life isn’t something you’re willing to gamble with. Confront Taehyung yourself? It’s reckless, dangerous, and probably a mistake. But part of you feels like it’s the only way to put an end to this.

Jungkook watches your face carefully, reading the thoughts swirling in your head. Then, his jaw tightens, his voice steady but firm. “If you think I’m letting you do this alone, you’re out of your mind.”

For the first time in weeks, the suffocating loneliness eases because no matter what happens next, Jungkook is with you. Suddenly your phone vibrates again.

Unknown [12:51 PM]: Such a heartwarming moment. But how far will he go to protect you?

And then another message. A photo.

It’s a picture of you and Jungkook. Right now.

He’s still here.

"Y/N?" Jungkook’s voice is soft but sharp with concern. "What is it?"

You turn the phone toward him, and the moment he sees the message, his entire body stiffens. His jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists. His voice is low but firm when he speaks.

"We’re leaving. Now."

You don’t argue.

Jungkook grabs your wrist, pulling you through the crowd of students, his grip tight but reassuring. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you scan the area frantically, eyes darting from face to face.

But you don’t see him. He could be anywhere.

Jungkook doesn’t slow down until you reach his car. He unlocks it in a rush, practically shoving you inside before slamming the door shut behind him. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. Only when he locks the doors and exhales a shaky breath does he turn to look at you.

"He’s here, Y/N." His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.

You swallow hard, gripping your phone. "I know."

Jungkook starts the car. "We’re going home. Then we figure out our next move." You nod, but the unease lingers.

Because Taehyung isn’t done playing yet.

Jungkook paces the length of his living room, fingers running through his hair in frustration. You sit on the couch, gripping your phone tightly, going over every possible option. Jungkook is still talking, still trying to come up with a solid plan but his voice fades into the background as your eyes remain glued to your phone screen.

Unknown [1:37 PM]: Come alone. Midnight. Your apartment. Unknown [1:37 PM]: Don’t make me repeat myself, doll.

Your grip on the phone tightens. Your pulse roars in your ears. If Jungkook sees this, there’s no way he’ll let you go. He’ll insist on coming with you. And that’s exactly what Taehyung wants, a reason to hurt him. Swallowing hard, you quickly lock your phone and shove it into your pocket before Jungkook notices.

“Y/N?”

You snap back to reality to find Jungkook watching you carefully. “Yeah?”

“I was saying…” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should stay at a hotel tonight. Just in case. I don’t want you anywhere near that apartment if Taehyung’s been watching you.”

Your stomach churns with guilt, but you shake your head. “No. I think we should just stay and act normal. If we start running now, he’ll know we’re scared.”

Jungkook’s eyes darken. “We are scared, Y/N.”

You force a small, tired smile. “But we can’t let him know that.”

He exhales, clearly frustrated but unable to argue. “Fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight.” You nod, pretending to agree.

But deep down, you already know that the moment Jungkook falls asleep tonight, you’re leaving.

Alone.

It’s a little past midnight when you finally slip out of Jungkook’s apartment.

You hesitate at the door, glancing back at his sleeping form. Even in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you can see the tension on his face. He had been restless for hours, his body stiff with unease, as if sensing that something was wrong.

You had pretended to fall asleep just so he could relax. It worked eventually. But now, as you step out into the cold night, a bitter weight settles in your chest.

Jungkook would never forgive you for this.

But this is the only way.

You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you make your way to your apartment. The streets are eerily quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding of your heart. Every step you take feels heavier like you're walking toward something inevitable.

Suddenly you hear a second set of footsteps.

You don’t have time to react before a hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your startled gasp.

Before you can struggle, an arm wraps around your waist in a vice-like grip, dragging you off the sidewalk. The world tilts as you're yanked into a dark alleyway. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as you thrash against the hold, but it’s uselessm his grip is unyielding, effortlessly strong.

A low, deep chuckle brushes against your ear, sending a sickening shiver down your spine.

"Took you long enough, doll."

Taehyung had grown impatient waiting for you to show up. Without warning, he forcefully turns you to face him, his grip unrelenting. The sudden contact sends a jolt of fear through you, and seeing him again after all these years feels like being doused in ice water.

Time has changed him, but not enough. His face is still achingly familiar from the sharp jawline, the tattoos that snake up the expanse of his neck to the piercing eyes that burn with something much darker.

A part of you always knew this day would come. You had told yourself that the way Taehyung left without so much as hurting you was too good to be true, but maybe, just maybe he had realised he was in the wrong and disappeared into the past like a bad dream. But now, standing here with his breath hot against your skin, you realize how foolish you were to think he’d ever let you go.

"You thought I wouldn’t come back for you?" he whispers against your ear, his voice sickeningly soft.

Your breath stutters. You try to shove him away, but he’s faster amd stronger. His grip tightens as he forces you back, slamming you against the cold, unforgiving brick wall of the alley. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and before you can recover, his fingers press into your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

The streetlamp above casts a sliver of light over him, illuminating the twisted smile on his lips.

"I gave you everything, and you threw me away for him?"

Resentment drips from every word, his voice cracking with something raw.

"I should’ve taught you a lesson years ago."

Your heart hammers in your chest, panic locking your limbs in place. But before you can even react—

A force rips Taehyung away from you, sending him crashing onto the pavement with a brutal thud.

Jungkook stands over him, breath uneven, fists still clenched from the impact. His usual softness is nowhere to be found—his expression is cold, lethal.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes the air feel heavier.

Taehyung chuckles darkly. “I knew you’d come running.”

Jungkook doesn’t take the bait. His eyes flick to you, scanning for any sign of injury, before settling back on Taehyung with something dangerously close to disgust.

“You don’t get to lay a hand on her,” Jungkook says, his voice steady. “Not now. Not ever.”

Taehyung chuckles again, pushing himself up with an air of arrogance. He rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles as if this is all a joke to him.

"You?" He scoffs, eyes glinting with amusement. "Defending her?" His gaze flickers to you, sharp and accusing. "I bet she never even told you what she did to me."

Jungkook doesn’t flinch nor does he hesitate. His voice is calm, unwavering. "She didn’t do anything." He steps forward, eyes locked onto Taehyung like he’s daring him to try again. "I know she’s mine. And I know you’re just a lying, manipulative piece of shit."

Taehyung's smirk vanishes.

In a flash, he lunges.

Jungkook barely dodges, twisting to the side just in time, but Taehyung is relentless. He moves fast, and Jungkook isn’t a fighter he doesn’t have brute force or years of experience throwing punches. But what he does have is speed, quick reflexes and the sheer, unshakable will to protect you.

A fist catches Jungkook’s side, making him stagger back, but he barely registers the pain before Taehyung moves toward you again.

And that’s when Jungkook stops thinking.

His hand finds a broken pipe lying in the dirt. In one swift motion, he grips it tight and swings, slamming it straight into Taehyung’s stomach.

A sharp gasp rips from Taehyung’s throat as he doubles over, coughing violently. But he’s not down. Not yet.

Jungkook doesn’t wait. He reaches for you, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. His eyes meet yours, urgent and fierce.

"Run."

The pounding of your footsteps echoes against the pavement, your lungs burning as you push yourself to keep running. The night air is thick, every breath heavy with exhaustion and fear.

Behind you, Taehyung is gaining. His ragged breaths cut through the silence, his footsteps unrelenting.

“You think you can run from me?” His voice is sharp, twisted with amusement and fury. A metallic glint catches the dim streetlights indicating he has a knife now.

Panic seizes your chest.

Jungkook’s grip tightens around your wrist. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate just yanks you sharply to the side. Your vision blurs as he drags you toward a dark, skeletal structure.

A construction site.

You stumble into the half-built building, weaving through stacks of bricks and steel beams. The scent of dust and concrete fills your lungs as you press yourself into the shadows, trying to quiet your frantic breathing.

Jungkook releases you only to crouch down, scanning the ground. His fingers curl around a rusted wrench, heavy in his grip. It’s not much, but it’s something.

“Stay behind me,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the fear you know he must be feeling. Your heart slams against your ribs. Your thoughts are spiralling. You should have been more careful, quieter when slipping out of the house. You can't believe you're the reason Jungkook is in danger, that he is the one standing between you and the threat. It should be you protecting him, not the other way around.

The footsteps slow. Taehyung has followed you inside.

A chilling silence settles over the space.

Then, a low chuckle.

“You can’t hide forever.” His voice is laced with amusement, the scrape of his knife dragging along metal making you flinch. “Come on, Jungkook. You really think you can protect her?”

Jungkook doesn’t move, his stance solid, wrench gripped tightly, shoulders squared. The tension is suffocating, every second stretching unbearably. You don’t dare breathe. Then Taehyung moves. The knife slices through the air.

Jungkook barely dodges, instinct driving his body before his mind catches up. The blade misses him by inches, but there’s no time to think, theres no time to breath, only react.

With everything he has, he swings the wrench. It connects hard against Taehyung’s wrist.

The knife clatters to the ground.

But Jungkook doesn’t stop this time.

His fist collides with Taehyung’s jaw, the impact ringing in the empty construction site. The force of it sends Taehyung staggering back, his body slamming against a stack of bricks. He’s weak now, unsteady, but still smiling like he’s enjoying this.

And then, in a last, desperate attempt, he speaks.

“You really think you’ve changed, Jungkook?” Taehyung breathes, voice laced with mockery. He spits blood onto the dust-covered ground, laughing through the pain. “You’re still the same pathetic kid I used to toy with. Weak. Spineless.”

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

“You’ll never be enough for her.”

The words land heavier than any punch ever could. For a split second, Jungkook falters. The old wounds, the taunts, the bruises, and the humiliation come rushing back. The memories claw at the edges of his mind, threatening to pull him under.

He remembers the way they used to laugh at him, the cruelty in their voices, the way they looked at him like he was nothing. Like he would always be nothing. He was the loser, the punching bag, the boy who never fought back. Every insult had carved itself into his skin, every shove had left something deeper than just bruises. They made him believe it. That he was worthless. That he would never be enough.

And then there was you. You. The only light in the darkness, the only person who had ever looked at him without disgust. He fell so hard, so helplessly in love with you, even though you belonged to Taehyung. It was cruel, really. The way fate played its hand. You were Taehyung’s girlfriend, yet you were the only one who saw Jungkook. The only one who stood up for him when Taehyung and his gang pushed him down. When he was at his lowest, you were there, offering kindness.

But how could you have chosen him? Him? A pathetic loser who had spent years as the butt of every joke, the weakling who was too afraid to fight back. He hears the echoes of their laughter, the mocking whispers that still live inside his head. Maybe they were right. Maybe he really is nothing. Maybe you made a mistake choosing him.

Taehyung’s voice is smooth and insidious, wrapping around him like a noose. The doubt, the shame, the years of self-hatred it all pulls him under, dragging him back to a place he swore he’d never return to. His fists loosen at his sides, his body feels too heavy, like he’s sinking into the past, like he's losing himself all over again.

But then—you.

You, standing behind him. The warmth of your presence, the unwavering belief in your eyes. The way you never once hesitated to love him, to choose him. His heart pounds against his ribs, pushing away the suffocating weight of the past.

No. No.

He is not that boy anymore. He is not weak. And he will not let Taehyung twist his mind, not when he has you to protect.

The hesitation vanishes as Jungkook moves, striking once, then again, each blow fueled by something raw, something deeper than anger—something desperate. His jaw is clenched, muscles taut, as if he is holding back years of something buried deep inside, something he never let himself feel until now. You have never seen him like this. Then another hit. And another.

His knuckles split, blood dripping onto the cold concrete, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not until Taehyung stops moving.

The only sound left is Jungkook’s ragged breathing. His chest heaves, his hands shaking.

His eyes, dark and unfocused, burn with an intensity you have never seen before. It is not just fear, nor is it just anger. It is something far more terrifying in its certainty, something that does not waver, something that does not break. It is an unrelenting, all-consuming protectiveness, the kind that leaves no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. And the most haunting part of it all—you know he did it for you.

“Jungkook.”

Your voice is sof t but it cuts through the chaos like a blade.

He freezes.

His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, his knuckles raw and bloodied. His grip on the wrench trembles, muscles locked so tightly you wonder if he even hears you.

Then he looks at you, and in that moment, something inside him fractures. The fury that had burned so fiercely in his eyes splinters, crumbling into something far more fragile: fear. But it is not fear for himself. It is for you. For what could have happened. For what he almost became.

You take a step closer, carefully, like you’re approaching a wounded animal. His breathing is ragged, his body strung so tight it might snap. But he doesn’t move away when you reach for him.

Fingers brushing against his wrist, you gently pry the wrench from his grip. His hand is still trembling when it slips from his grasp, clattering onto the ground.

“It’s over,” you whisper, your voice steady even as your own hands shake. “I’m okay.”

Jungkook swallows hard, his throat working around unspoken words. The wail of sirens cuts through the heavy silence, distant but growing closer. Someone must have heard the commotion and called the police.

Taehyung groans from where he lies sprawled on the ground, too weak to move, too beaten to fight. But you barely spare him a glance.

Jungkook exhales shakily, his entire body trembling with the aftermath of it all. His fists are still clenched, his knuckles still bleeding, but his eyes are different now.

They are not just the eyes of your sweet, oblivious boyfriend anymore.

He steps closer, hesitant, hands hovering over your arms, your waist, checking, searching, needing to convince himself that you’re still here. That you’re real.

“I could’ve lost you,” he breathes, his voice rough, breaking at the edges.

The weight of his words settles deep in your chest.

You reach up, cupping his face, your thumb skimming over the small cut on his cheek. He flinches at the touch, but not from pain he just wasn’t expecting something so gentle.

“But you didn’t,” you murmur.

Jungkook’s breath shudders out of him. His lashes flutter shut for a second, his jaw tightening like he’s holding something in, something overwhelming, something too big to put into words.

Then, in a voice so quiet, so broken, it almost shatters you

“I was so scared.”

And just like that, everything collapses.

The rage, the adrenaline, the fear everything he had forced himself to carry, to bury, it all crumbles in one breath.

You don’t hesitate. You pull him into you, arms wrapping around him, and he clings back just as tightly. His grip is almost desperate, his fingers pressing into your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

Then, suddenly, he tilts his head down, capturing your lips in his.

The kiss is not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s raw. Desperate. Heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

His lips press against yours with an urgency that steals your breath, like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into this moment. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wants to lose himself in you, in the feeling of you alive and warm in his arms.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring him to you, and he sighs into your mouth—a broken, trembling sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

When you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, uneven and ragged.

He’s still shaking.

And you hold him tighter, letting him feel it all.

The flashing red and blue lights spill across the pavement as the police cars screech to a stop.

Jungkook pulls away just enough to look at you, his hands still cradling your waist, like he’s reluctant to break contact. His eyes search yours, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you see something unshakable in them.

Taehyung’s screams cut through the air as he thrashes against the officers, his wrists locked in cold steel. His voice is hoarse, spewing empty threats, venom dripping from every syllable—

“This isn’t over!” he snarls. “You think you can take her from me?”

Jungkook doesn’t react. He doesn’t even spare Taehyung a glance.

Instead, he lifts a hand, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek, grounding himself in the fact that you’re safe.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is low, steady. A quiet promise.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

And for the first time you believe him.

Because this isn’t the same Jungkook who was oblivious, who used to let things slide, the one who always saw the good in people even when they didn’t deserve it.

This is the Jungkook who stood his ground.

The Jungkook who fought for you.

And if the world ever tried to take you away from him again, he wouldn’t hesitate.

The park is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of late morning light. Birds flit between the branches, their songs blending with the gentle rustling of leaves. A cool breeze brushes against your skin, carrying the scent of freshly baked pastries from the open basket beside you.

Jungkook sits across from you on the checkered picnic blanket, absently poking at his croissant with a fork. His knuckles are bandaged and a faint bruise lingers on his cheek just below the strip of medical tape.

You watch him, waiting.

He hasn’t said much about it. But the way he holds himself now, shoulders squared just a little more, gaze a little steadier it feels different.

“You know,” you start, plucking a strawberry from the fruit bowl and tossing it into your mouth. “For once, I wasn’t the one saving your ass.”

Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me,” he mutters, but there’s a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “I’m still getting used to it.”

“You should be proud,” you tell him, shifting onto your knees so you’re closer. “Not just because you fought. But because you didn’t let him win.”

Jungkook exhales, rolling his jaw like he’s still processing the weight of it. “I used to think…” He hesitates, gaze flickering down to his hands. “That I’d never be the kind of guy who could protect someone. That I’d always be the loser who let things slide.”

You reach out, fingers curling over his bandaged knuckles, squeezing gently. “You were never a loser, Jungkook.”

You trace a light touch over the bruise on his cheek. “And if you’re measuring strength by how many fights you win, you’re missing the point.”

Jungkook’s lips twitch, his fingers tightening around yours. “Oh yeah? And what’s the point, then?”

“That you were strong even before this,” you murmur. “You didn’t need to throw a punch to prove that. But I think… you finally see it now, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but the tension in his shoulders eases. Then, with a soft chuckle, he tilts his head and smirks. “So what you’re saying is… you’re swooning over me right now.”

You roll your eyes, but your laugh gives you away. “Unbelievable. One heroic moment and your ego skyrockets.”

“What can I say?” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I’m basically a knight in shining armor now.”

You groan. “You’re literally covered in bandages, Jungkook.”

“Battle scars,” he corrects smugly.

“You are so—”

He cuts you off with a kiss.

His lips taste like the strawberries you were just eating, but there’s something else too, something warmer. The quiet relief of knowing you’re here. That you’re safe. That you chose him, again and again.

When you finally pull away, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, exhaling quietly. “I wouldn’t hesitate,” he murmurs. “If it ever happens again. If the world ever tries to take you away from me.”

Your heart clenches. You press a kiss to his bruised cheek, whispering against his skin. “I know.”

For a while, you just sit there, basking in the quiet hum of the park, in the way his fingers stay laced with yours. The past still lingers, but it doesn’t hold you down.

You’re here together.

And for now, that’s all that matters.

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lmk ur thots <3

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lovebugism · 7 months ago

Text

✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

part one | part two

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all.

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water.

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls.

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him.

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you.

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura.

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes.

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you.

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him.

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now.

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you.

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that.

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath.

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is.

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames.

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended.

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now.

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way.

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before.

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens. “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame.

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs.

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands.

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath.

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air.

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in.

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now.

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more.

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward.

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours.

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…”

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor.

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’.

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure.

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away.

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver.

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

5K notes · View notes

himasgod · 2 months ago

Note

PLEASEEEE platonic Malleus x reader where he just judges your taste in men

Basically calling u out bc *gasp* you like THEM?!

If I could REALLY ask about who are THEM pls pls PLS make them Ace, Riddle, Leona, Vil and Kalim (I'm a slut okay)

Malleus and Reader

Where he complains about the boys you like

How would Malleus complain when you told him about the boy you like?

With Ace, Riddle, Leona, Vil and Kalim.

APPROVED ONES EDITION

I BUSTED MY ASS WRITING THIS. PLEASE, SOMEONE MAKE A REQUEST WITH OTHER CHARACTERS. I’M DOWN TO DO ALL OF NRC.

"I think Ace is kinda cute, actually.” Malleus, blinking slowly: “…You think who is what?”

He turns his head toward you like he’s just spotted a crack in the very fabric of reality. There’s silence. You swear the air gets colder.

“Ace Trappola. The one who argued with Professor Trein over homework formatting. The one who once attempted to cheat on a pop quiz and still failed. The one who slapped Rosehearts's face. That Ace Trappola?”

You nod.

“You are aware that, last week, he mooned the enchanted armor in the hall and declared it ‘a win for man over machine,’ correct?”

“Okay but—”

“And this is the person you've found appealing.”

He stares ahead, hands folded behind his back, voice unnervingly calm

“He treats life as a game he does not know the rules to, nor does he care to learn them. He teases you daily, refers to you as ‘bro’ and once called you ‘mid.’ And this endeared him to you?”

“...Maybe?? He’s fun! And kinda smart—when he wants to be.”

Malleus places a hand over his heart.

“You must never let Lilia hear of this. He will not survive it.”

Malleus Draconia does not approve!

“I think Riddle’s really admirable. I like him, Like, he’s passionate and smart and—”

"Interesting."

Malleus, 0.02 seconds later: "Concerning, but interesting."

He tilts his head like an owl and stares directly into your soul.

“You speak of someone who nearly sentenced you to public decapitation for wearing the wrong socks.”

“That was a month ago! He’s mellowed out—”

“The same Riddle who recites bylaws at breakfast? Who lectures you for yawning during study hall, claiming it disrespects the sanctity of ‘scholarly hour’?”

“Okay, yes, but he’s also really driven. Like, I respect his work ethic—”

“He once corrected Silver’s grammar in the middle of a fire drill. The building was actively burning.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

“You are attracted to a man whose idea of romance is likely organizing your schedule to the minute and berating you lovingly when you are sixty-two seconds late.”

He sighs, deeply, as if bearing the weight of your poor judgment alone.

“...You deserve flowers. Not spreadsheets.”

Malleus Draconia does not approve!

“I dunno, I think Kalim’s kind of sweet…”

“Sweet?” he echoes, tone vaguely offended. “You once nearly perished because he brought exploding fireworks into a dining hall.”

“But he apologized! And then he bought everyone cake!”

“He bought seventy cakes. Half of which were flan. You were comatose from sugar consumption for two days.”

"He meant well!! He just wanted people to be happy!”

Malleus pinches the bridge of his nose like you’ve just announced your intent to marry a hurricane.

“He does not understand the concept of ‘danger,’ nor ‘budget.’ Nor the line between ‘generosity’ and ‘bankruptcy." Even if he's rich.’”

He looks at you very seriously.

“If you confessed your feelings to him, he would likely throw a parade. During a thunderstorm. On carpeted floors. With live tigers.”

"That sounds kinda romantic though.”

“That sounds like a liability.”

He sighs, turning his face to the heavens as though begging some greater power for strength.

“It is not love, it is survival. You are enamored with chaos dressed in gold.”

Malleus Draconia does not approve!

"I think Leona’s really… alluring.”

“Ah.”

Malleus, slowly turning to face you.

“You enjoy being insulted, then.”

“What—no?! I mean, he’s confident! And smart! And he has that whole… brooding bad boy vibe—”

Malleus raises one elegant brow, his tone somehow both dry and royally disappointed.

“You are referring to the man who skipped an entire midterm because he was ‘emotionally allergic to mornings.’”

“He just needs someone to believe in him, y’know?”

“Believe in him? He kicked you off a sand dune because he ‘felt like it.’ He naps in alchemy. He once said, and I quote: ‘If it looks like effort, I’m not doing it.’”

“He’s just… misunderstood!”

“He is perfectly understood. He is chaos made of ego and nap schedules.”

“You would become his favorite pillow, his errand assistant, and—if you are lucky—his designated ‘person he smirks at when bored.’”

He puts a hand on your shoulder, face solemn.

“You do not need a man with a superiority complex. You need one who knows the day of the week.”

Malleus Draconia does not approve!

“Okay but… Vil is gorgeous. Like. Undeniably.”

“And tyrannical.”

“He’s disciplined! He has standards!”

“He once threatened to replace your entire wardrobe because your color palette was ‘offensively autumn.’ You were wearing beige.”

“He just wants me to shine!”

“He wants you to be a doll. A well-dressed, properly postured, kale-eating doll who never slouches and only drinks water with lemon slices.”

“And you think that’s bad?”

“I think if you gained three pounds he’d try to ban sodium from your life.”

Malleus looks at you like you’ve brought home a sentient blender and called it your soulmate.

“You would never have peace. Only toning creams and judgment. He once insulted Lilia’s eyeliner.”

“Okay but—he’s driven and elegant and talented and—”

“And ruthless, dramatic, and convinced that only he knows what beauty is. If you had a bad skin day, he’d schedule an intervention. With a PowerPoint.”

He exhales, softly. Almost kindly.

“You are lovely as you are. Do not let him convince you that loveliness must be earned.”

Malleus Draconia does not approve!

2K notes · View notes

slowburningechoes · 4 months ago

Text

on my mind

Ah!! Here it is, I hope you all love it. Pls keep in mind an exhausted doctoral student wrote this with little reviews/edits hehe

Summary: After months of secretly pining over Wilson, you find something suggesting he might feel the same way. Despite it all, curiosity gets the best of you and what you get is far beyond anything you ever fantasized about.

Pairing: James Wilson (House, MD) x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: very self-indulgent smut, 18+ content (NSFW/NSFM) / brief mention of past infidelity, mutual pining, sexual fantasization, slight age gap, fingering, oral (f receiving), cunnilingus, vaginal sex, office sex, desk sex, threat of exhibition, unprotected sex (pls wrap it up), body worship, breeding, soul connection, porn WITH plot and feelings

Word Count: 7.8k

here is the ao3 link if that’s your preferred site

Wilson didn’t have the best romantic track record when you reflected on it, standing outside his office, debating whether or not to knock.

That was what Cameron had told you on the first day consulting the team as a new psychologist at PPTH, when she caught you trying not to stare.

You had been so engaged in observing how the diagnostic team battled through a differential before he arrived. The quick exchange of wits and sly remarks was so enthralling, you couldn’t look away. Until something else distracted you…

The door swung open, and in walked a man who carried himself with an effortless kind of charm. His brown hair appeared perfectly tousled, but still neat enough to be professional, like he had absentmindedly run a hand through it just before coming in. His white coat, crisp and clean, hung open just enough to reveal a comfortably fitting dress shirt and a tie that was loosened ever-so-slightly.

As he stepped into the conference room, he seemed to be already three steps ahead in the conversation he was about to join — like this heated exchange was something he’d been witnessing for years. He paused, silently observing Foreman and House trade intellectually sarcastic banter. As the exchange died down, his eyes met yours. His sharp features softened as he looked at you with curiosity, the hint of a dimple appearing as his lips curved into a playful smirk.

“You know, House, I’m impressed,” he joked, tapping House’s cane with his foot. “It only took you this long to admit you need some serious psychological help.”

His warm brown eyes flicked back to you, winking, amusement lingering just beneath the surface.

A scoff escaped House, followed by a characteristic retort, “I’m not admitting anything, Wilson. Besides, I wouldn’t want you getting jealous watching someone else take the job you volunteered for all these years.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, despite knowing so little about their dynamic. Apparently, you were not alone in this reaction, as the rest of the team seemed to find House’s response amusing, likely because it was true.

“James Wilson, Head of Oncology,” he said, rolling his eyes at House’s comment. “You must be Dr. Y/L/N. I’ve heard good things from your new colleagues.”

His hand extended towards you welcomingly. Despite a flutter of nerves beneath the surface, you shook it, hoping your feigned confidence wasn’t too obvious.

“Y/N’s fine,” you responded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Dr. Y/L/N has always felt a bit too formal for me.” Your gaze held his for a brief moment, feeling the subtle weight of the connection. A soft gasp escaped your lips, despite trying so desperately to keep it in.

“Y/N,” Wilson repeated softly with a smug smile.

He held your hand just a moment longer than necessary. When he finally released it, the hold he had on you remained. There was something magnetic about him, making it impossible to draw your gaze away as he repositioned himself against the wall. You blinked a few times to ground yourself, quickly glancing down at the file in your hand before instinctively looking up at him again. His eyes caught yours and his smirk deepened ever so slightly, as if he’d caught you giving away exactly what you hadn’t meant to. He appeared to take quiet pleasure in the fact that, for just a moment, you were completely distracted by him… but you were certain that was just wishful thinking getting the best of you.

It was then that Cameron leaned towards you, voice in a low whisper, “Careful with that look — you don’t want to end up in the ex wives club.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, not only at the fact that he was divorced but that it seemed to be more than once.

Cameron nodded matter-of-factly, subtly mouthing the word “three” as she held up the same number of fingers under the table before gathering her things to head to the patient’s room.

While you felt the warning in her comment, it didn’t deter you much over the coming months. After all, it was highly unlikely that Wilson would even share your feelings. Despite this, there was something magnetic about his presence, and you often found yourself running into him, both accidentally and — more than you would like to admit — on purpose.

You had bought each other lunch in the cafeteria on a few occasions and took time to chat at least every couple of days. Even when you didn’t run into each other for a few days, both of you exchanged small reminders. One time, when you spent all day managing a patient in psychosis from the emergency department, he left a sticky note on your desk that read, "Missed you at lunch. Hope your patient is doing as well as possible. Also, House is being insufferable — rescue me soon?" A few days after that, after Wilson had an emotionally exhausting morning with some of his late stage patients, you had appeared at his office door with a cup of coffee exactly how he liked it (sickeningly sweet), offering no explanation other than a casual, "Figured you could use a pick-me-up." These exchanges became regular but still made your day every time.

There were quieter moments too, ones that lingered in your mind long after they happened. A late-night conversation in the breakroom when both of you had been too exhausted to keep up pretenses, speaking in hushed voices over lukewarm chamomile tea. A touch that lasted a fraction longer than necessary when he passed you a patient folder for a consultation he requested. Playful glances exchanged across the hallway after House made some inappropriate joke at his expense. Small pick-me-ups scratched onto sticky notes and left on desks or forgotten items.

But today, something a bit different occurred. By the time you finally got back to your office late in the day, you found a vanilla bean scone from the café waiting for you on your desk, a thoughtful surprise he had left earlier that morning. It was nothing out of the ordinary until you saw, across the brown paper, scribbled in pen, a note that read: Saw this and thought of you. Can’t seem to stop doing that lately. Come by my office soon?

At first, you thought he was just being normal Wilson — friendly, with the touch of flirtatious he has with everyone. That was until you read it a few more times and those moments over the past few weeks replayed in your mind over and over. You had been thinking of him incessantly from the moment you first saw him, but always tried to keep it professional. His note to come by sounded charged in your mind, more suggestive than any of your previous conversations. You contemplated his intentions for longer than you would like to admit, but figured you would never truly know unless you asked.

Which is exactly how you ended up here, in front of his office, two cups of coffee in hand, torn between knocking and shamefully walking back to your office. The hum of the hospital growing quiet as the typical business day came to a close.

There was no way he was serious… was he? It was probably just some stupid bet he had made with House. God, that would be embarrassing. Maybe you should just leave the coffee and accept that your relationship would only ever be a friendship. When all those inner arguments (and more) failed to motivate you to turn and head to your office, you thought back to that conversation with Cameron. Even if he was serious, it was unlikely to last. You didn’t want to end up hurt like so many times before… but you were interested to see where this went.

Curiosity is what did you in… so, you knocked. So, what if it’s what killed the cat? “Come in!” his voice called, slightly muffled from the other side.

You hesitantly step inside, jumping a bit as you hear the door click behind you. You had barely stepped into his office before Wilson glanced up from his desk, his expression shifting from slightly stressed to pleased when he saw it was you.

“And here I thought my afternoon was going to be boring,” he said, standing to meet you by the door.

You lift the coffee cup slightly, before handing it to him, “Just returning the favor.”

He raised his brow in curiosity, leaning back to rest against his desk. “Oh, is that all?”

His feigned disappointment was laced with more flirtation than you had noticed before.

You shook your head silently, glancing down at the floor as you felt an embarrassed blush spread across your cheeks.

“Your note,” you say, barely above a whisper, “...intrigued me.”

That got his attention, pausing from taking a sip of the beverage you brought.

“Oh?” His smirk turned curious as he scanned you up and down. “How so?”

You hesitated, but only for a second, “You’ve really been thinking about me?”

You brought your eyes to meet his as you finished your question, masking your nerves by tightening your fingers around your cup of coffee. When your eyes met him, the look on Wilson’s face was a mix of amusement and satisfaction.

“Well, that depends,” Wilson responds, sitting the cup down and crossing his arms across his chest. “Would saying yes make me seem endearing… or deeply concerning?”

You tilt your head, feigning consideration as you build your confidence. “Hmmm… that depends on just how much you’ve been thinking about me.”

A moment of silence passed as Wilson pondered his answer, breaking it with deep breath and a step towards you.

His grin deepened, and he leaned a little closer, admitting. “More than I should, really.”

Your stomach fluttered. You hadn’t expected him to admit it so easily, so effortlessly… or even at all. The part of you that wondered if the note had been some bet was fading, but you couldn’t help expressing your doubt even as your heart pounded into your throat.

“You’re not just… messing with me, right? This isn’t some House-ordained social experiment, is it?” Your voice was softer than you had desired, hesitation dominating your tone. You wanted to believe him more than anything, but you knew better than to take things at face value when House might be involved.

Wilson studied you for a long moment, his expression nearly unreadable, except for the flicker of something undeniably heated in his eyes.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is noticeably lower than before, still smooth and warm. “No, no… this isn’t some bet. If House was putting me up to this, don’t you think it would’ve been months ago?”

He did have a point.

Wilson tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he watched you consider his argument. Then, he slowly brushed his fingertips against the edge of the desk he rested upon, fingers tapping twice, as if considering his next words carefully. Or maybe he was just giving you time to process the shift in the air between you, which had become quickly thick and charged.

"Though if it was, I would’ve lost already," he stated matter-of-factly, bringing himself to stand up right, taking a step towards you. “Because this is painfully real for me.” His gaze flickered over your face, lingering for just a beat too long at your lips before returning to your eyes.

You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck. "What is, exactly?"

Wilson exhaled a quiet chuckle, the sound richer, deeper than his usual easy amusement, “You really have no idea, do you?”

You shook your head, any idea of what he meant absent from your mind.

"The way I catch myself looking for you even when I know you’re not there.” Wilson’s breath came slow and measured, but you could feel the tension humming beneath it, the weight of his restraint barely holding. “The way I think about you when I know I shouldn’t.”

Wilson stepped even closer, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up as he thought silently. Your breath caught as you shamelessly notice the veins in his arm becoming more pronounced, the subtle flex of his hand accentuating the tension coiling beneath his skin.

"I tell myself to stop," Wilson admitted, his tone almost confessional. "That it’s unprofessional, that I should focus on work... But then you walk into the room or I hear your voice, and suddenly, I don’t care about anything else."

“Wh-what do you think of?” You asked breathlessly, looking back into his eyes.

He didn’t respond at first, a conflicted look replaced his previous vulnerability. Wilson took the coffee from your grip, gently placing it on the desk next to his before stepping back towards you. He appeared deep in thought, the crease between his brows deepening as they furrowed and he brought his hand to briefly cover his mouth. His warm brown eyes flickered over your face, searching, as if debating how much he should give away.

Then after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, slowly and steadily, “It was small things at first. How the first day we met, your quiet laugh was so genuine and radiant.” Wilson cautiously raised his hand to barely brush fingers through the hair that hugs your cheeks. “Or how you sucked in a little breath when I said your name for the first time…”

You dart your eyes away from him, feeling simultaneous embarrassment and surprise. “I, oh — that wasn’t subtle was it?”

He shook his head with a quiet chuckle, a knowing smirk appearing across his lips.

“Not at all,” Wilson teased, bringing his fingertips to caress your neck. “Should I keep going?”

You nod quickly, likely a bit too enthusiastic. His arms came up by your ears to brace the door behind you, making your heart thud in your chest even harder.

A low hum came from his throat before continuing, “Then I started to notice how your perfume would linger after you left me.” He held still for a moment, stiff with restraint. “It’s so intoxicating… I swear it follows me all day.”

As Wilson finished his sentence, his face buried into your hair and one of his hands dropped to grip your hip. Your breath hitched at his touch as his breath warmed you, shifting from beside your ear to the curve of your neck.

“J-James,” you gasped, a near moan as his breath tickled against your skin, lips so close to touching flesh.

“I’ve tried not to think about all of it, Y/N,” he whispered deeply, barely audible. “I promise, I really have.”

The hold he had upon your hips moved to nest in the small of your back, pulling you closer to him.

“I’ve tried to distance myself, stay professional,” Wilson explained with a tone of desperation, bringing his eyes back to meet yours. “But then I’d always end up coming back… asking you to lunch or finding something, anything, that I could use to get a consultation from you.”

“So, what you're saying is... you’ve been using work to get closer to me?” You let a playful smile slip through, despite your nerves standing on end.

Wilson’s gaze softened, sincerity behind his eyes. “Is that so bad?” His voice was low, almost questioning. “Because, honestly… I couldn’t help myself. Every excuse I found — every consultation or referral or accidental cafeteria meet up — was just an excuse to see you. To be close to you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

The air around you seemed to thicken with the confession, and your breath hitched, feeling the weight of his words pressing against you. His honesty disarmed you, and you found yourself drawn in closer, despite the unspoken tension.

“And you know what?” Wilson asked, his hand in the small of your back spreading open to feel you even closer. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been thinking about me, too.”

“I —,” you breathe, a chill crawling up your spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Of course you did.

“Don’t play coy with me,” Wilson said with a bit of bite in his tone.

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your jawline, tilting your chin just enough to where you could not avoid his gaze, a knowing look in his eyes.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was softer now, rich with quiet amusement. “The way you look at me when you think I won’t catch you?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Wilson only hummed, bringing his thumb to press against your bottom lip.

“Or how you always seem to find a reason to stay just a little longer when we talk,” he continued, his face looming closer to yours. “Like you don’t really want to leave.”

You never realized he had been paying attention to any of that, or really that you had acted on your internal feelings so obviously.

Wilson’s fingers pressed just a little firmer into your waist, bringing your body flush against you. His body was soft and warm against yours.

You swallowed hard, words unsaid stuck tied in your throat. There was no escape from the truth pressing against your ribs, demanding to be spoken. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt before you could stop yourself, gripping just enough to steady yourself.

“I do,” you admitted, voice hushed. “I - I think about you… all of the time.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. Relief washes over him, relaxing the tension in his shoulder and softening his facial expressions. however, the look of desire in his eyes did not fade.

“I thought so,” he murmured, voice lacking its usual teasing lilt. Instead, he sounded almost relieved. “And how do you think about me?”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his question settle between you. It was so very “Wilson” — turning your own question back to you.

Your fingers stroked against his tie as you thought, evading his gaze. “The same as you — I think about you when I shouldn’t be,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “When I’m supposed to be working. I think of you whenever something good happens… or something bad, and I need to tell someone. When I see something and I wish you were there to see it too.” You bite your bottom lip, pulse thrumming wildly beneath your skin. Then, you barely mumble, “And — I think about you when I’m alone at night...”

Though your voice trails off at the end, Wilson’s body language shows that he heard exactly what you said. He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, his grip at your waist tightening for just a moment, relaxing again as he exhaled slowly. As he opened his eyes, they were darker, his pupils blown with an unspoken hunger, yearning that simmered just beneath the surface.

The weight of your quiet confession hung between you, making the whole room charged. For once, he didn’t have a quick-witted remark, no teasing quip to defuse the moment. Instead, he reached up, his knuckles brushing along your cheek, his touch achingly gentle.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he whispered. There was no real warning in his tone, but rather a slight hint of desperation.

You tilted your head into his touch. “Why not?”

His gaze flickered down to your mouth, lingering there for just a second too long before he looked back into your eyes. “Because,” he said, pausing momentarily, his face riddled with confliction, “...it makes it very, very hard to resist you.”

A rush of heat engulfs every inch of your body, making it nearly impossible to think. Before you can, your fingers dance across the fabric of his tie.

“Then don’t,” you respond quietly, the last bit of uncertainty melting away as the words escape your lips.

He didn’t move, which you had somewhat expected him to. You could feel the weight of his restraint, so tense it could snap at any moment. His jaw was clenched, as though he was just barely holding it together.

You didn’t want to wait anymore. You wanted him to crumble — you needed him to.

With a sharp breath, you curled your fingers tighter around his tie. You thought for only a split second before pulling him down to you with a sudden, desperate urgency that surprised both of you. Before could even think to hesitate, your lips, finally, crashed into his.

The moment your lips met, it was as if a dam had broken inside him. You felt the weight of everything Wilson had been holding back in that kiss — the hunger, the frustration, the overwhelming need. His hand that cupped your lower back pulled you in tighter, while the other cupped your cheek, ensuring you couldn’t break away from his kiss. Wilson’s lips were so soft yet demanding, the hint of sweet coffee on his tongue as he coaxed you open, exploring you with a raw intensity. His breath was hot against your mouth between kisses. A low, needy groan came from him as he deepened your embrace, motivating your entire body to react, heat pooling in familiar, secret places.

The rhythm of the kiss became frantic, desperate, each movement clumsy and raw, breaths coming in quick, uneven gasps. You could feel the loss of control in every touch, every trembling sigh that escaped your lips. Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer with need. He obliged, his fingers tracing feverishly from your back to your waist, skimming upward to your ribcage, then to the curve of your breast, each touch sending jolts of heat through your body.

Then, Wilson’s lips reluctantly left yours, only to trace the line of your jaw with messy kisses, his breath erratic. “Y/N,” he said between kisses, nearly begging. “I can’t… you have to tell me to stop.”

You shook your head, against his request. “Not a chance, James,” you breathed, your voice raw with need. The next words felt like they were ripped from your soul, a silent plea to let go, to fully give in to what had been brewing for months before. “Don't stop. Please – don’t stop.”

Wilson’s lips found yours again, rougher this time, his hands clutching you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Wilson pushed you further against the wall, lifting you up just slightly so his hips aligned with yours.

There was an undeniable ache between your legs, where the heat had gathered earlier, beginning to throb and grow slick with need. Your desire for friction was so overwhelming, you hadn’t even noticed your hips rolling into his with desperation until Wilson groaned, low and guttural, separating your kiss once more.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stop?” he asked, his words soft and just centimeters away from your lips.

“I’m sure,” You nod with reassurance. “Because this,” you whisper against his cheek, the heat of your breath brushing against his ear, “is just the beginning of what I think about when I’m alone.” The words were more than a confession, but also a promise and a challenge all at once.

“Christ, are you trying to kill me?” Wilson muttered, words laden with shock.

He dipped his head lower, pressing open-mouth kisses from your lips down the nape of your neck and onto your collarbone. His hands began to explore further, tugging your blouse from its tucked position, slipping his finger beneath the fabric. The built up tension made his touch sting, sending a shiver down your spine and the heat beneath your legs becoming practically unbearable.

“Please, James,” you whimper, a handful of his hair and the other dipping down, applying friction in an attempt to relieve your need.

He drew back, studying the quiet plea upon your face and your hand trembling against your still-clothed center, attempting to find satisfaction as you rocked your hips. You could only imagine how pitiful you looked, but it was entirely overwhelming for Wilson. His breath caught in his throat and he fell to his knees, lips parted with desire and his brown doe eyes looking up, with an expression that was almost fawning.

Wilson reached behind you to find the handle of his office door, which he clicked into the lock position. Still on his knees, he watched you silently for a few more seconds, admiring the look upon your face. Your brows furrowed in desperation, soft grunts escaping your lips, as you unsuccessfully searched for your release. He stared up at you, soaking it all in.

Then, suddenly, both his hands gripped the fabric on the outer sides of your thighs, shifting your skirt upwards to your waist and revealing your shamelessly soaked panties. The sudden rush of air hitting your sex made you gasp, chills climbing up your stomach and hardening your nipples.

Before you could fully process the atmosphere overwhelming your senses, Wilson brought his pointer finger to slowly glide over the damp spot of your underwear, running perfectly between your covered folds. As he reached your clit, your breath hitched, prompting a teasing smirk to grow across his cheeks.

“Now,” he sighed, still basking in the sight. “I’m going to show you what I’ve thought about doing to you,” he paused, placing a gentle kiss against your mound, before continuing slowly, “…Every. Single. Time. You wear a skirt like this.”

A moan escapes you as his fingers hook on either side of your underwear, pulling them down to expose you entirely. Instinctively, you kick them off your ankles.

“God, you’re so…,” Wilson places careless kisses against your thighs, admiring your bare pussy before him, “so perfect.”

You look down at him, reveling at the sight of your pussy on full display. Just as you wrap your fingers in his hair, he lunges forward, pressing his lips against your clit, bracing your back with one hand, and spreading your thighs open with the other. Your legs go weak as his tongue darts out and begins lapping at you relentlessly. The mix of his soft lips intermittently sucking your clit and the deep pressure of his fingers digging into your flesh, is so consuming that you absentmindedly tighten your grip on Wilson’s hair. You begin pushing and pulling him while bucking your hips into his mouth, fighting desperately to reach your climax.

He can sense your need, which is reflected as his tongue begins to flick more methodically against your clit in addition to providing suction. His dominant hand joins his mouth, one finger massaging your entrance before slipping between your folds. Your body responds almost immediately, becoming even more aroused as he introduces a second finger, pumping you with a complementary rhythm to the one he is devouring you with.

The sensation is so overwhelming that there are tears in your eyes, and cry-like whimpers escape softly from your mouth. “P-please, I’m so close.”

He maintains his pace, but curls his fingers just enough to find the exact spot where you needed stimulation most. Looking down at him, seeing his mouth full of you and his pupils blown wide with desire is too much to handle. His lips provide deep suction against your swollen clit and the tension burning in your stomach releases. You are overcome with pleasure as you ride out your orgasm on Wilson’s face, his fingers and tongue still putting in work to ensure he can lap up every last drop.

When you were finally able to catch your breath, your legs were impossibly weak. You steadied yourself against Wilson’s body as he rose to his feet, a look of teasing satisfaction on his face.

“You taste so sweet," he hummed, his voice low and lustful. He pulled you flush against him, the heat between you both rising with every second. As his tongue flicked against yours, you could taste yourself mixed with him, the fire inside you burning brighter with every passing second. He groaned softly as you deepened the kiss as if he couldn’t help himself anymore.

You pulled back, barely able to catch your breath, lips swollen from the intensity of his kiss. "You know, I did expect you to be a giver," you teased, running your tongue over your lips. "But that… that was better than anything I ever imagined."

“That’s because I’ve been obsessed with the idea of what you’d taste like…,” he breathed, his words thick with need, “And the scent of you… God - I’ve been dreaming about it, craving it, for months now.” He couldn’t stop himself from groaning, the raw honesty in his admission pushing you to pull him down by his tie, lips crashing together again in a messy, heated kiss.

You broke away after a few moments, breathing heavily, a smile curling on your lips as you slowly pulled his tie loose. “Well, since one of your fantasies has been fulfilled," you sighed, tone heavy with teasing lust, “it’s only fair that one of mine gets to be, too. Don’t you think?”

You look up at him through half-lidded eyes. There were so many thoughts that had run through your mind — so many fantasies you’d envisioned over and over again, but there was one that had played over and over in your mind far more than the rest.

For a moment, he was mute with anticipation, admiring how your fingers began to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. By the time words finally break from his throat, one of your hands is caressing down his chest, the other grazing along the waistline of his pants.

“I’ll give you anything, whatever you want.” He assures, reaching to cup your cheek. Pressing his forehead to yours, he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, but his voice cracks as he pleads in a near whisper, “Just tell me — but don’t stop touching me, please.”

His plea is so raw, so desperate, it makes your heart race, your pulse quickening in response. You can feel the weight of his need, how much he’s willing to surrender, and it sends a wave of satisfaction through you. You can’t help but feel a deep sense of accomplishment hearing the vulnerability and desperation in his voice.

You let your fingers trail over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. A slow, teasing smirk grows across your face as you lock eyes with him. “I’ve been thinking about this for months, you know.”

His breath catches, his pupils dilating as his gaze flickers to your lips. The heat between you both is undeniable, and the anticipation thickens.

“Tell me... tell me what you’ve been thinking,” he mutters with desperation.

You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you speak, your words a slow, tantalizing whisper, “I’ve been imagining you… having your way with me, right here on your office desk.”

The words hang in the air and you watch as his body reacts, muscles tightening and his throat bobbing with a heavy swallow.

"I’ve imagined you pushing me onto this desk, your hands all over me, taking control, claiming me,” you hum, bringing your hand to brush against the bulge in his pants. “No hesitation. Just you, making me lose myself in you."

A deep groan escapes his lips, your words and touch unraveling him. Wilson’s eyes squeeze shut as he tilts his head back as if he’s struggling to regain some sense of control. Then, without warning, his lips crash against yours. His kiss is frantic, starved for you. His hands grip you, sliding up your back, threading through your hair, pressing you so close it’s like he wants you under his skin.

"You have no idea," he moans between kisses, breath hot and uneven, "how many times I’ve wanted this, too. How many times I’ve thought about throwing everything off this desk and putting you right where you belong — right under me.”

The words send chills down your spine, desire coiling tight in your stomach. His hands are already moving, feverish and impatient, pushing under your clothes, dragging his fingertips over every sliver of bare skin he can reach. You gasp into his mouth as his grip tightens around your waist.

Then, in one swift motion, Wilson’s hands slide down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the desk. The sound of scattered papers and objects hitting the floor barely registers before he’s on you again, mouth crashing against yours, feverish and insatiable, his tongue sweeping in, tasting, teasing, like he’s trying to devour every gasp, every moan.

His hands roam with an urgency that borders on worship — gripping, kneading, learning every inch of you that he’s been deprived of for far too long. Then, with a low, needy groan, his fingers find the hem of your blouse, tugging it up, over your torso, leaving your top nearly bare before him. The fabric is barely gone before his lips descend, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your neck, over your collarbone. A sharp gasp comes from your throat as chills scatter across the tops of your breasts, your skin prickling at the contrast of the cool air and the heat of his breath.

Wilson takes a slow, deliberate step back, his gaze raking over you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of the sight before him. His chest rises and falls, his lips still parted from your last kiss. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, his fingers move to his belt. The slow slide of leather through the loops is deliberate. His knuckles graze his waistband as he pulls the belt free, the flex of muscle beneath his sleeves hinting at the tension coiling just beneath his skin.

As Wilson tosses his belt to the ground, the air feels thicker, heavier, expectation crackling between you, leaving you breathless with want. You have truly never felt this aroused in your life, your heart rate quickening, muscles tense, and every sensitive part of you swollen with desire. You never expected that you would ever really be laying on top of Wilson’s desk, watching him undress and waiting for him to take advantage of your body — let alone that he had thought about it, too.

As he moves back towards you, slacks now undone, you can’t help but notice the outline of his prominent erection straining beneath his boxer briefs. You reach out to touch him, but he meets you first — his hands slipping under your skirt, fingers digging into your skin before drawing the fabric down your legs. As the garment falls to the ground, Wilson kisses up your legs and to your torso, caressing every part he does not touch with his lips with his fingertips. Eventually, he meets your breasts, still guarded by your bra, placing kisses along the valley between them. He then cups both of them with his hands before sliding behind you to unhook the final bit of clothing that was keeping you from being completely nude before him.

As Wilson pulled the thin barrier of fabric from your body, his warm hand replaced the supportive cups that protected your tender breasts. His eyes linger on your chest, admiring as it rises and falls, thumbs grazing over your hardened nipples. Your breath seizes in your throat as he takes one into his mouth, suction pulling between gentle flicks of his tongue.

As much pleasure as you feel in this moment, you can’t help but remember Wilson’s bulge, hard and twitching just underneath a layer of cloth. You sit forward, propping yourself up on your forearms, prompting a perplexed look from Wilson who was reluctantly releasing his mouth from your breast.

“Everything okay?” he inquires, catching his breath.

You do not answer him with words, instead you lean forward and bring your palm to press softly against his bulge. Wilson’s eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a struggle between ache and pleasure as a grunt escaped him. He was full and swollen as you gripped him firmly through his briefs, precum staining the fabric darker.

You kiss his chest softly as you sneak your hand beneath his waistband. His flesh was hot as your fingers danced across his erection, which jerked in response. You wrap your hand around him, savoring how strained and tense his thick cock feels, before bringing your thumb to glide down the slit.

“I need to feel you inside of me,” you insist with a begging tone, eyes fluttering up at him with need.

Before any words come from his lips, his dick is already out and Wilson is stroking it with painfully slow, drawn-out motions. The head of his cock is swollen and flushed and a prominent vein on the underside is near-throbbing with with every motion.

“God, yes,” he groaned in agreement with your request, before pulling you down closer to the edge of the desk. “Spread yourself open for me, beautiful.”

Without taking time to think, you separate your legs, bringing your fingers down to glide through your slickness. Wilson revels in the sight, but still moves towards you — his earlier restraint melted away entirely. Placing one hand on your thigh, he uses the other to guide his cock to massage between your labia, tip grazing against your clit, sending shock-like waves of pleasure through you. He stays there for a moment, gliding himself through your folds, properly preparing both of you before lining up with your entrance.

You lock eyes, both of your faces twisted with anticipation and desperation, as he begins to sink into you with a pace so slow and deliberate it is nearly excruciating. At the same time, you were grateful for this patient approach, as the thickness of his cock stretches you out, creating the perfect mix of pain and pleasure across every inch of your body.

“Y/N,” Wilson cries in a hushed whisper, nearly half-way inside of you. “Y-you’re so tight a-and warm… damn.”

You moan in satisfaction at his words, hands searching for something to hold onto as you unravel beneath him. Seeing your fingers wrap around the edge of the desk, Wilson reaches one hand down to intertwine with yours. There is something intimate and touching about how he holds your hand as he presses deeper into you, true care mixing into this moment of raw lust.

As he bottoms out, feeling the base of his dick against your pussy, your free hand clings to his back, fingernails digging into the skin beneath his shoulder blades. Wilson fills you perfectly, stretching you just enough to still surround him like a sheath. You have never felt this full before, which makes you even more aroused, bucking your hips to grind your clit against his groin. It must look utterly pitiful, but you can’t help but search for friction.

“Fuck, you’re stretching me out so good,” you whine, pitch higher than before and laced with pleasure.

Looking up for reassurance, you see Wilson’s face is blown with pleasure, slack-jawed and brows knit together, pupils blown. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles, slowly pushing the first full thrust into you.

It doesn’t take long for him to build up the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you with ease, despite your walls attempting to cling to him with every entrance and exit.

Despite the pace being steady and his strokes being deep enough you feel them in your stomach, there is something so soft in the way Wilson fucks you — more as if it wasn’t fucking at all, but more like making love. His eyes look over you with admiration, like he’s soaking in every motion of your body, and the hand not holding yours roams freely across your skin, frequently nestling fingers against your aching clit. When a cry escapes you as he begins rubbing it in figure eights, he presses a kiss to your lips — not only to muffle the sound but as an indication that he loves to make you feel this way.

He whispers against your lips as he breaks the kiss. “You feel amazing, better than anything I ever dreamed…” You feel him trembling with overwhelm as he continues breathlessly. “I-I’ve never felt — fuck — any pussy as perfect as yours.”

“James,” you gasp, feeling his dick hit against the most sensitive area inside you. “Please, keep going… r-right there.”

Wilson nods eagerly, in surrendering agreement, “Anything you want, my love. I’ll do anything for you.”

He keeps true to his promise, continuing the same pressure and angle of his thrusts until you’re completely undone beneath him — vision blurry and every inch of your body nearly numb with pleasure. The only thing keeping you grounded is your back against wood and his hand still holding yours.

You can barely form thoughts, let alone words when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking on them needily and grunting enough that low vibrations hum against your chest. Every inch of you was buzzing with pleasure, but you felt the familiar pressure grow deep within you.

“I - I’m going to cum,” you manage to say, looking down at him with pleading eyes.

Wilson releases his latch from your breast, barely taking time to catch his breath when he provides a pressured reply, “Please, please cum on my cock. Shit — I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”

His permission is all you need to let go as he keeps up his pace, working your clit relentlessly with his free hand. Your eyes roll back into your head as the sensation of heat rushes across your trembling thighs, walls clenching around Wilson’s thick cock as you cum. The pressure slowly lessens and your clit is throbbing from overstimulation when you come back to reality, your mind still foggy in bliss.

“That was so fucking hot,” Wilson whines, face scrunched with the sweet agony of pleasure. You can tell he’s close, before he even tells you, through strained breaths. “Y/N — tell me where I can cum. I’m so close, please.”

“Cum in me,” you beg, consumed with feverish need. “I’m on the pill. Baby, please — fucking fill me with your cum.”

A guttural groan leaves Wilson’s lips as he hears your request, his dick twitching inside of you. “Christ — yes. I was hoping you’d say that.”

With a few more strokes, you feel him become rigid inside of you and his breath hitches in his throat as he releases inside of you. The warmth of his cum coating your walls sends a rush of bliss throughout your body, a soft yet satisfied smile growing across your face.

You both try to catch your breath as you come down from your shared high, soaking in the last seconds of being physically one. As Wilson’s tense body relaxes, he nearly collapses on top of you, bare chests still heaving and sweat-laden pressed against one another. You’re both exhausted, yet idyllically happy. You run your fingers through his now-damp hair as his breath slowly returns to a normal pattern.

The quiet hum of the room settles around you and the faint rustle of fabric begins to fill the air. You both begin to dress, but the heat between you lingers, tangible and unspoken. As you pull your skirt up over your hips, the soft fabric brushing against your skin, you instinctively glance at him. His eyes are fixed on you, intense, almost reverent, as if he wanted every moment, every movement, etched into his mind. The tenderness in his stare is enough to make your heart race like he's memorizing every inch of you, this closeness, this shared silence.

You gather your hair, pulling it into a ponytail, a vain attempt to fix the mess it’s become. As your fingers complete the final loop, Wilson steps towards you, cupping your face with his hands and bringing you in for a tender kiss. His thumb traces your cheek with a tenderness so light, it feels almost like a whisper. Your fingers weave through his hair, drawing him closer, as if you’re aching to be closer, wanting to melt into him, as if he hadn’t just been inside you. The moment is quiet and brief — but feels like an eternity. You both linger in it, savoring the silence that speaks volumes.

As the kiss ends, the absence of his lips on yours leaves a hollow ache, but it is almost immediately remedied when he speaks. “Come home with me?” Wilson asks, his voice wrapped in a quiet, inviting warmth.

His eyes search yours, steady and sincere, yet there’s something more behind it, something vulnerable like he’s offering you a piece of himself. “I’ve wanted this for so long... wanted you,” he says in a near-whisper, his tone thick with emotion. “Now that I’ve had you... I can’t stand the thought of letting you go.”

The sensitivity in his voice makes your heart race, his words carrying all the unspoken hopes you’ve both held onto these past few months. You let the moment stretch between you, just enough to collect yourself, but not long enough to let the fear of doubt slip into his mind.

“Of course, I’ll come with you,” you respond quietly, your voice filled with affection as you press a gentle kiss to his flushed cheek. “I don’t want to be anywhere but with you. We’ve both waited long enough for this, haven’t we?”

A soft, almost disbelieving smile appears on his face, as he threads his fingers gently around yours. “I’m so glad you said that,” he sighs in relief, his voice thick with sincerity.

“I’m yours, James,” you assure him, squeezing his hand in return. "I have been for a long time.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that,” he murmurs in a pleased tone, a look of admiration beaming down at you.

“I think you’ve shown me that tonight,” you reply with a slight tease. The months of longing, of stolen glances and unspoken feelings, all seem to settle into this one moment—solid, certain, and undeniably real. “Take me home?”

His smile deepens, tender and unguarded as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get out of here,” he says softly, opening his office door.

The silence as you walk hand-in-hand down the hall is no longer heavy with anticipation but is instead filled with something quieter, more certain. Peaceful.

Outside, the cool night air hits your skin, stinging as it contrasts your flushed cheeks. Wilson pulls you close as you walk, his thumb tracing soft circles against the back of your hand. Neither of you speaks, but the silence is full of contentment and understanding. Every glance, every brush of his fingers against yours, a language all its own.

When you reach his car, he pauses, turning to face you as if needing to see you clearly beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. His gaze lingers on your face, soft and searching, before he leans in and presses a tender kiss to your lips, sealing some still-unspoken promise.

“Home,” he whispers breathlessly, the single word carrying more weight than it should. As you settle into the passenger seat beside him, heart thrumming in your chest, you know, deep within you, that you’re finally right where you’re meant to be.

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a-hermit-pining · 4 months ago

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LADS Men as Omegas (🫣😳)

AN: I have no shame. Top reader rights. IK i suck at abo, i'm working on it people. Forgive me 😭 (I do not own these characters- don’t sue me pls)

Pairing: Lads boys x gn reader

Genre: Omegaverse

Rafayel:

Soft, cuddly, clingy, and the perfect blend of bratty, Rafayel isn’t afraid to play into his omega stereotype. He receives endless courtship proposals, but this little mermaid is already sold on his fated mate.

And when you rescue him, his heart only confirms what his soul already knew.

You are the alpha of his dreams. The dream who stepped into reality to save him. The realization makes him swoon.

He falls in love in the days of his naivety, offering you a scale from his tail in an act of quiet, instinctive devotion.

And when you take it, when you press it against your chest like a sacred vow, he knows.

He was always meant to be yours, no matter what trials your future holds.

Xavier:

The treasured omega crown prince of Philos, Xavier has spent years enduring grueling, mind-numbing courting balls, all for the sake of political alliances.

By the time he chooses you, his trusted knight, it isn’t because of love. It’s because he’s tired.

Tired of being a trophy for an alpha he doesn’t want, tired of playing the part of the perfect prince. He just wants to be done with it.

So he takes the only logical escape in front of him. A marriage of convenience.

He never expected to fall in love.

But somehow, through quiet nights and gentle hands, you change everything. Your kindness reminds him that he is more than his title, that his purpose extends beyond the throne.

Just hold him close and let him nap in your arms.

Because in a world of politics and crowns, you are the only place he can rest. For you, he will travel worlds beyond time.

Zayne:

You are both idiots in love.

You grew up together. Playing as children, bickering as teens, having each other’s backs as adults.

He never saw you as a mate. You were just his friend.

His dorm mate, who fended off riled-up alphas, who gifted him the softest blankets and cardigans when his scars ached. Who brewed coffee before med school boards and kept a supply of his suppressants on you at all times. You were kind, reliable, familiar.

That’s it, right?

Wrong.

He realizes it a little too late.

Especially when he wakes up in your bed, your scents mixed together, tangled in warmth that neither of you question.

You were never just his friend.

You were his safe place.

And maybe, just maybe, he was yours too, he thinks as he lays back down, resting his head on your chest.

Sylus:

From the moment you bowed before the Dragon Lord, your heart was his.

He, who owned the treasures of the world, was given you. A peasant beta, tribute by an indebted village.

You had nothing to return to.

Your home, brimming with siblings, had no space for another mouth to feed. At least this way, your family would be given a year’s worth of food.

Sylus did not favor mundane things.

In his den of glimmering gold, you were nothing more than an unworthy servant, bound by duty.

And yet, he could not ignore you.

Not when you, a mere human, kept doing the most human of things: cooking meals (which he did not require), washing laundry (who did that for dragons?), dusting his endless hoard (a futile task).

You were never worthy of being his mate.

And yet, somehow, there was no one closer.

You weren’t even an alpha.

But Sylus didn’t need one.

Beyond ranks and positions, there was simply presence.

And somehow, without ever meaning to, you became his greatest treasure.

In a world that did not want you, he treasured you.

Caleb:

Ever since childhood, your fates have been opposites. His in the skies, yours deep in the core of the earth.

There couldn’t be a pairing more different.

And yet— You were the one who held him when his scent shifted, the one who comforted him through the awkward, agonizing growth spurts of adolescence.

You were the one who fought for him to enter the aerospace academy as an omega.

And then, one day, he was taken from you.

And all that remained was grief. Never ending grief and hollowness.

The one who flew in the skies had been your anchor, and without him, you lost your place in the world.

So when he returns, changed, worn, distant, you find yourself asking the one question you aren’t sure you want answered:

"What did they do to you?"

And more importantly,

"Are you still mine?"

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace headcannon #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #caleb x reader #fluff #omegaverse #abo verse #alpha reader #top reader

1K notes · View notes

fakeuwus · 1 year ago

Text

MANEATER | SIM JAEYUN (M)

PAIRING: virgin!jake x yn (femreader)

SYNOPSIS: in which jake is tired of being a virgin and you're asked to help him out.

WARNINGS: smut so MDNI! vrignity loss, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex (be safe out there), creampie, riding, multiple orgasms, etc. cursing, words like slut/whore, BARELY PROOFREAD

WC: 5k, lowercase intended

MESSAGE FROM NIC: here it finally is!! (sorry for the delay) my first piece of smut,,, hope it's what everyone imagined 😁 (also tysm for 2k notes on the teaser ahh!!) big thank u to my stella, @karinasbaby for encouraging this fic, one of my biggest supporters ilysm. pls be kind as this is something new for me BUT feedback is super appreciated, tell me what u liked and didn't like! (respectfully) also reblogs would be nice as well so feel free to drop one. love u guys sm 🫶🏼

jake sim was a virgin. a pitiful, pitiful virgin. and it’s not like he was ugly. not even close to that. jake was an attractive guy, easy on the eyes. and his flirting? a real smooth talker he was.

it was as if 2000s chad michael murray possessed his very soul every single time he would chat up a girl at a party or in class.

so why couldn't he ever close the deal? how did he find himself in a steamy makeout session one second and then the next the girl is storming out of the room in disgust. every. single. time.

oh yea, because he was a fucking virgin. a pitiful, pitiful virgin.

it seemed like girls these days wanted a man in charge. someone who could help them live out their fifty shades of grey fantasies. jake would like to think he could do that for them but how could he ever learn if no one wanted to give him the time of day? what happened to the girls that would spread their legs for anything and anyone?

all jake needed was one chance. one chance to stick his dick in a hole and he can move on with his life.

his friends didn't make it any better either. he was getting tired of hearing all about their wild sexcapades every week and having nothing to contribute to the conversation.

but they don’t intentionally leave him out or make him feel bad about his lack of experience. they even try getting him with their past hookups because you know, sharing is caring right?

“dude no way you fumbled sora. she’s a real slut i was so sure she would let you hit,” sunghoon says as he’s unwrapping his sandwich then taking a bite. “bro i didn't fumble anything. it's the same shit every time, once i tell them im a virgin they dip,” jake responds while he steals sunghoon’s sandwich and takes a bite for himself.

sunghoon doesn't even argue, his best friend is clearly in distress and is need of some food. “she started ranting about how she doesnt “do” virgins because they get attached and she thinks im gonna become obsessed with her or something.”

“why do you even tell them you’re a virgin in the first place? if that's the issue why even say anything at all?” heeseung questions with a mouth full of the same sandwich that somehow now ended up in his hands.

“because if he cums in .2 seconds then the girls are gonna think he’s a bad fuck. there's no winning here.” jake nods in agreement with jay's statement as he watches jay snatch the sandwich from heeseung and finish it off.

this is what is so beautiful about their friendship. they share everything with each other, the main things being girls and food. unfortunately for jake, bites of food is all he gets.

—-----------------

“oh fuck!” jakes pants while bucking his hips forward. vision blurry, drool pooling around the corner of his mouth. he genuinely feels like his soul is leaving his body and he wasn’t sure this was even real life anymore. to ground himself and bring him back to reality, he tries looking around the room to find something to distract him.

he doesn’t want to cum embarrassingly fast and he does NOT want to be seen as a bad fuck. out of the corner of his eye he spots a baby yoda squishmallow in the corner of the room, its sparkly eyes watching jake get his dick sucked for the first time.

it’s kind of weird but he finds comfort in the plushie and focuses on it to keep him from fucking exploding.

now you might be wondering how he got here. in a hot girl’s room getting what he swears is the best head in his life (not that he has anything to compare it to.) the answer is jay, his best friend in the entire world who he now owes his first born to.

“her name’s yn. just text her and ask when she wants to meet. i told her you were a virgin already so don’t worry about that,” jay explains as he’s scrolling through your profile showing jake what you look like.

silky, flowy hair, curves to die for. to say you’re gorgeous would be an understatement. the whole ordeal seemed too good to be true.

“she wants to fuck me? even after hearing i’m a virgin?” jake asks after grabbing his milk tea from the counter and walking towards a table.

jay simply nods and throws a look towards sunghoon, signaling him to explain the rest as they all take a seat. “yea that’s kind of her thing. she loves virgins. like, her body count consists of only virgins.”

jake was perplexed by the situation. surely he’d hear about a beautiful woman who only drops her panties for inexperienced guys roaming their campus.

heeseung then speaks up, as if reading jake’s mind, “she goes to the college in the next town over. around a 20 minute drive.” before continuing his sentence he shifts his eyes towards jay and sunghoon. eyeballs darting back and forth.

some unspoken dialogue is happening between the three as they sip their sweet drinks and jake just has to sit there and watch. minutes go by and jay clears his throat and sighs, finally breaking the silence.

“she uh, actually took all of our virginities back in high school. that’s how we know her.”

pause. the fuck? he knew his friends all have gotten their dicks wet for the same girl before but at the same time? jake couldn’t believe what he was hearing. i mean, he did only just meet them three years ago, whatever they were up to before then he can’t judge.

he supposes desperate times call for desperate measures, and jake is sure he would’ve ended up in the same situation soon if they weren’t handing you on a silver platter to him.

“so… you guys had a foursome for your first times??”

heeseung instantly chokes on his boba as jake’s arm receives a punch from jay. a faint giggle is heard from sunghoon, “this bitch is choking on some balls.”

ignoring heeseung’s dramatics jay clarifies, “no you idiot, she took all of our virginities separately. we weren’t as desperate as you were.”

“and like, that pussy is so heavenly. i’d be pissed having to share her with another guy at the same time.”

“roger that, brother.”

jake looks towards the two, sunghoon rubbing heeseung’s back trying to calm him down from his almost near death over some balls.

“care to elaborate?”

“man why do you think we’re all sex crazed freaks? her pussy’s got some voodoo magic in it or something. our manhood didn’t begin when we watched porn for the first time together, it started with her,” jay pauses and shifts in his seat, slight discomfort in his lower region.

he looks up and pinches his nose, “fuck i’m getting hard just thinking about it.” sneaking a peek at jay’s lower half, jake can see his friend chubbing it up in his pants. nothing he’s never seen before honestly.

but what he hadn't seen before was how his friends were reminiscing so hard on a hook up the way they were right now. and the fact that their origin story of discovering their high libidos is all because of you? he was scared shitless of what he was about to get himself into.

-------------------

fast forward to some exchanged texts between you guys, jake found himself in your room with his pants around his ankles getting the life sucked out of him.

he quickly discovered you were very straightforward and to the point, immediately sending him your apartment address and what time to show up.

jake couldn’t argue though, all this talk about how you were gonna “change his life” and shit got him real worked up. he appreciated the fact that you skipped the small talk and went straight for his dick.

upon arriving and stepping into your living space, your lips smashed onto his and he was pushed down onto the bed. no hi, no hello. just your lucious, full lips swapping spit with his.

his hands instinctively flew to your waist, his digits gripping your plush skin as you straddle him. jake felt so in his element in the moment. making out? this is where he excels. he could do this all day if he could.

but he was here on a mission and he’ll be damned if he leaves without fucking you. or you fucking him. he was honestly down for whatever. you could ask to peg him and he would say yes.

you can sense his impatience, his face twisting in pleasure trying to savor every moment while the cogs are turning in his head, awaiting your next move. every squeeze he gave signaled that he wanted to get things moving.

you make your way down his body, peppering kisses any and everywhere leaving his skin burning. jake couldn’t believe what was about to happen.

in less than a minute he was about to get his first blowjob ever. what does he do? where do his hands go? what if he chokes you? what if he passes out from the stimulation?

before he can think of anymore what to do’s and what if’s, your mouth is on his dick and jake is seeing stars, figuratively and literally. he takes note of the little ones taped to your ceiling and thinks it’s cute.

the pink walls and plushies surrounding the two of you is such a stark contrast to your personality, or what little jake knows of you. but hey, he likes a woman with some duality to her.

“you can put your hands in my hair.”

jake finally takes a look down at you. pupils blown out, lips a bit swollen from all the sucking. you looked so, so pretty like this. he can only imagine what you look like with his cock in you.

trembling hands grab at your hair, slightly pushing you further down and a gagging noise emerges from the back of your throat. oh shit. your nose is practically meeting his pelvic bone and you aren’t letting up.

fuck it, jake thinks to himself. he was done with being patient. he starts fucking up into your mouth relentlessly, chasing the orgasm he was delaying. and you just let him.

you’re merely a hole for him in this moment and you could care less. his dick may be average in size but the girthiness of it was so delicious, you couldn’t get enough.

to make sure he reaches his high, you reach for his balls and start playing with them. his erratic thrusts combined with you squeezing his genitals he twitches in your mouth and his cum is shooting out, pooling out the sides of your lips.

and you don’t stop there. you keep going and going and jake actually feels like he’s going to pass out. “okay, okay please please!” you swallow everything he gave you and finally let him go with a pop to come up for air.

you get up and see him lying there on your bed, unmoving. eyes closed and mouth agape barely taking breaths. one might think he’s dead but this was typical.

once a guy gets to cum in a girl’s mouth for the first time they don’t know what to do with themselves. nudging him with your knee he breaks out of his trance with a lopsided smile adorning his face. god he’s adorable.

before you can suggest a break he immediately grabs you by the hips and flips you onto your back. your shorts go flying onto the floor behind him and he spreads your legs wide to prop them onto his shoulders.

his tongue immediately attaches to your clit and he starts licking you all over. slurping and sucking, as if this was his last meal on earth. he was desperate to get you to cum the way you made him and it was showing.

jake’s eating you out a little too expertly to your liking, as if he’s done this a million times. you won’t judge if he has, you’re literally the last person to judge someone’s sexual history but how is he still a virgin if he eats pussy this good?

he must’ve been met with horrible women who just used him for his mouth and left him dry. you wouldn’t do that to him though, poor guy doesn’t deserve that.

he inserts two fingers into your hole while his mouth was still working your clit. jesus christ. you didn’t notice before but his fingers were so slender and long, reaching places your own didn’t. “am i doing okay? kind of my first time.”

oh? so this was his first time eating pussy. you simply give him a nod of approval, not being able to utter a word as he dives right back in.

in all of your sexual encounters, never has there been a guy so willing to return the favor. and the fact that you didn’t even have to ask? where the fuck did jay find a guy like this? was he aware his friend was a fucking certified munch?

determined to make sure you cum, jake inserts another finger and moves his fingers in an upward motion, trying to find your spot. at least that’s what wikihow told him how to do it.

the sound of your moans and the taste of your pussy on his tongue simply feel amazing and he feels like he could come alone like this. at this point you’re panting and riding his fingers and god it’s so hot. you’re so hot.

jake finds himself humping into the mattress, trying to aid his painful hard on he’s grown since going down on you.

his wrist begins to ache with how fast he’s pumping into you but he doesn’t give a fuck, he’ll do anything to see what you look like when you reach your high.

“oh god, i’m, i’m- ahhh!” you come undone onto his mouth and hand, lips forming an o shape with the most pornographic moan he’s ever heard and he silently releases his load along with you onto the bed.

jake makes sure every single drop of your delicious juices are all licked up, driving your oversensitivity.

“so? how was i?”

you take a look at his annoyingly cute face and he’s licking all over his fingers like a lollipop. cute. gaining some of your composure, your eyes spot a wet spot on your sheets.

“wait, did you…”

“oh. sorry about that. i couldn’t help it.” jake explains with a sheepish smile and a scratch behind his head. not only is this guy a munch but he came untouched while tongue fucking you. you weren’t even sure guys like him existed, like at all.

without speaking another word, you grab the back of his neck and smash your lips onto his. tasting yourself on him has you wet all over again and you both begin to undress each other.

you detach yourself to take your shirt off and he pauses to fully look at you, drinking in every inch of your body. hands grab at your boobs and he pinches a nipple, a small moan escaping your mouth.

your body was literally to die for, the pictures on your profile barely doing you justice. and to finally be able to feel all around your curves and give your boods and ass tight squeezes was a dream come true for jake.

(he may or may not have been jerking off to the few posts you have up, counting down the days of you guys finally meeting but you didn’t have to know that)

you also took a moment to admire his body. to say jake was sculpted like a fucking greek god was an understatement, sporting a six pack and biceps to die for. veins running all over his arms and hands.

deciding it’s finally time to do the deed, you switch positions and motion for him to lay on his back. “are you ready?”

“wait! what about a condom?”

“i’m clean and i know you are so…”

“right.”

you throw your legs over his waist, now straddling him with your vagina inches from his cock. “okay, take deep breaths. i’m gonna slowly go down alright?”

jake throws a thumbs up and eagerly nods. in a moment like this he doesn’t fail to be endearing. you could literally just eat him up with how cute he was. your pussy was about to anyway.

you lace your fingers with his and slowly lower yourself onto him. there’s some intimacy with your actions and jake finds comfort in your eyes, looking at him adoringly.

it was finally fucking happening and jake couldn’t believe it. he was about to become a man. and the fact that it was you taking his virginity, a gorgeous woman who doesn’t care that he’s inexperienced and lets him hit it raw. it's really all he can ask for.

once your walls are wrapped around his tip, jake’s a goner. the little sweet moment you two shared is thrown out the window and he starts bucking his hips up into you, hard and fast.

his hands find purchase on your hips and he’s gripping them so hard you're sure there will be bruises tomorrow. you wanted to start out slow as it is his first time but it seems his thrusting says otherwise.

you press your hands against his chest and begin to move rhythmically in sync with him. jake’s eyes immediately roll back and his breathing quickens.

his hands fall to his side and he lays lifeless beneath you, letting you take full control.

all he could do was stare at the spot where his dick entered you and it was making him even more hornier. he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

your wetness didn’t help anything either. the squelching sounds indicated that you were very much enjoying this as much as he was.

“fuck you feel so good baby,” jake moans. the pet name that slips past his lips and it doesn’t go unnoticed but you also don’t question it.

for some reason the simple word made your heart jump. guys always called things like babe or even whore when they really let loose.

those never got to your head, you know they couldn’t really control themselves in the moment and you let them have their fun.

but jake has been nothing but kind to you this whole time, like he knew you were doing him a service and not the other way around.

this only fueled your desire to ensure that his sure first time exceeded his expectations so upped your menstrations. you quickly changed your pace to grind forward, backwards, and in circles making sure his dick felt every inch of you.

jake’s mind was reeling, his breath caught in his throat. he feels as if his dick was about to fall off with the way you were moving.

your body leans forward and you begin to kiss at his neck, leaving hickeys everywhere. your hot breath near his ear sends him into overdrive, must be a sensitive spot of his he never knew he had, but also how could he have known?

his hands that were once gripping the sheets meet your ass and he starts to guide you up and down his cock. you both were about to reach your climaxes, your pussy clenching with every move.

“i’m- where? fuck! where do i cum?”

“inside. cum inside me please.”

inside?? his first time cumming from sex and you were gonna let him do it inside of you? jake swears you couldn’t be any more perfect than you are right now.

you knew you threw him for a loop and honestly yourself as well. pushing these thoughts towards the back of your head you start riding him aggressively, even faster than before. “fuck, jake i’m cumming!”

“me too baby oh my god!”

and there was that damn pet name again. it makes your heart leap out of your chest and sends you over the edge.

the knot in your stomach snaps and jake follows shortly after, his load shooting into you. it pools out of you and you don’t hesitate to swipe some up with a delicate finger and bring it to your mouth, mirroring his actions from earlier.

your eyes meet his fucked out ones and you smile down at him, admiring the masterpiece of lovebites you left all over him. his vision was a bit blurry but he catches the way your lips curled upward, flashing your pearly whites.

jake finds himself instantly becoming hard again, call him easy but when a pretty girl is smiling at him like that after fucking him, can you really blame him?

you move yourself off of him and jake was fully expecting you to kick him out now but instead you position yourself on all fours, your ass in the air inviting him in.

“fuck. you’re into anal?”

you turn your head sharply to look at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow to question what he just said. the look you give him says it all and jake takes the hint and positions himself behind you.

“can we try anal next time though?”

an exasperated sigh leaves your lips and you reach over to grab his dick, inserting him into you. “umph! okay sorry.”

upon entering your pussy, jake relishes in the feeling of it. being inside your heat again leaves him breathless for the nth time today.

in and out. in and out. he tries to match his breathing with his gradual strokes. his member is extra sensitive right now and he’s trying not to lose himself. the impatience he had earlier has now moved onto you so you decide to take matters into your own hands and start fucking back into him.

your ass is now meeting his hips and the sound of skin slapping echoes in your room along with your moans. jake’s body is flailing from the sudden impact but he grounds his hands around your waist and grips the shit out of you.

he notices bruises forming on your skin but he can’t for the life of him let go. oops. he’ll do his best to remember to apologize for them tomorrow.

when there’s a good pace between the two of you, you fling yourself upward, back meeting his chest and the new angle has him reaching spots he didn’t before.

you take one of his strong arms and place it around your neck, having him choke you as you ride him like there’s no tomorrow. jake’s brain begins to turn to mush and he feels like he’s even more turned on at the revelation of one of your kinks.

and at this point you’re fucking onto him so hard, so good, he didn’t want it to end. “shit. shit. i love your pussy so much baby.” jake whines into your ear, meaning every word he said.

is it crazy to say you love someone upon meeting them for the first time? well, their pussy. yea. maybe. but who gives a fuck.

he was a man possessed by you, by your pussy. in this moment he truly believed there was some voodoo magic going on down there and he was blessed to be experiencing it.

you clench at his words, and your heart flips once more, prompting you to draw him closer to you (if that was even remotely possible)

the closeness of your bodies creates another intimate moment shared, kisses stolen from one another, hands tangled in his hair.

“i’m close,” he whispers in your ear, his breath leaving tingles down your spine. the hushed whispers you exchange contrast the sporadic thrusting that’s happening.

determined to reach your second high of the day, you push jake onto his back and settle yourself onto your knees, continuing to bounce up and down on his cock.

“yea just like that baby, shit shit shit i’m cumming, i’m cumming!”

jake opens his eyes to watch the scene unfold before him and god was it something. your back arches as you take his cum in you once more and your screams fill his ears, signaling you orgasmed right after him.

this moment alone is better than porn itself, and jake savors every bit of it. there’s absolutely no way he can even bring himself to type “nsfw” in his twitter search bar ever again after this.

you hover yourself over him leaving just the tip inside before sliding right back down, pushing his seed back in while it gushes around his cock leaving jake wanting, no needing, a third round with you.

but to his dismay you roll yourself off of his body, landing on the mattress next to him.

“so… how do you feel?”

he releases a long exhale he didn’t know he was holding, “fantastic. 10/10 experience. would do it again.” you simply giggle at his response with a shake of your head, getting up to gather your clothes.

“wait! um, could we do this again?”

you playfully roll your eyes at him, leaving his question unanswered as you begin to dress yourself.

—-----------------

sat in his computer chair, jake is finding it difficult to finish this stupid ethics assignment. how is he supposed to argue about the death penalty when you straight up almost murdered him with your pussy less than 2 hours ago?

he’s sure his professor wouldn’t appreciate if he wrote that he doesn’t give a fuck about someone serving their punishment if the culprit was you, but honestly speaking he’d let you get away with just about anything. you were an angel sent from above to him who could do no wrong.

the way your soft lips wrapped around his cock while your innocent (not) eyes bored into his soul. the way you licked and kissed every single inch of his body, leaving nothing left untouched. and god, the way you worked his dick? how was he supposed to move on from you??

you were an insatiable, sex-crazed goddess. a once in a lifetime experience he was so grateful to have.

his thoughts are interrupted by a loud knocking at his door. two seconds later, jay trails into jake’s room followed by dumb and dumber, all of them having a snug look on their faces.

they make themselves comfortable before they get right into the interrogation. jay leans against the desk, sunghoon sits in the bean bag situated in the corner, and heeseung sprawls himself across the bed.

“so virgin, how was it?”

“wasn’t i right about her pussy?”

“where did she make you cum?”

eyes rolling in the back of his head, jake takes a deep sigh before answering their questions. “one, i’m not a virgin anymore so stop calling me that. two, it was absolutely fucking amazing. literally would give up heaven for it. and three, she had me cum in her. twice.”

heeseung shoots up from his position, jaw dropped and eyes wide. “you came in her twice?!” the boys all share a bewildered expression on their faces, dramatic as always.

jake just shrugs at them, what? didn’t you usually let guys cum in you like the freak you were?

jay slaps his hands down on jake’s shoulders, aggressively turning the computer chair towards him. “jake. buddy. yn has two rules.”

sunghoon suddenly appears on jay’s left, “one. you can’t cum in her. you can cum anywhere BUT inside of her.”

heeseung follows and is now on jay’s right side, “and two. she doesn’t repeat fuck.”

immediately following this revelation there’s silence. complete and utter silence. the gazes they hold are intense and uninviting. as if they truly couldn’t believe you let their best friend who’s never felt the touch of a woman break one of your rules.

their eyes say it all, they love jake to death and are happy for him, like seriously happy and relieved he’s finally entered manhood. but really? none of them got to do what he did? what was so special about him?

you don’t even know the answer to those questions yourself. maybe it was the puppy eyes or his whiny moans that made you feel like you had him in the palm of your hands.

his eagerness to pleasure you but to also receive reminded you of the sole purpose of why you only go for virgins. they made you feel wanted while also letting you be in charge. call it selfishness but why can’t a girl have the best of both worlds?

and you’d never admit it, but jake was one of the best fucks you’ve had in a while. he never tried to be someone he wasn’t, just authentically himself. a pitiful, pitiful virgin. and he was proud of it.

it was refreshing to fuck someone who didn’t have some sort of ego right after you were done with them. immediately bragging to everyone what you two did and acting like they could pull any girl as if you weren’t doing charity work for most of them.

with all of this in mind, of course you let him cum in you. he was doing so well for you, how could you not reward him? had to let him do it twice to drive it home.

and seriously, what kind of guy gives you a tender, sweet goodbye kiss and thanks you for defiling him? you didn’t regret your decisions with him but they were definitely scaring you.

never have you ever been this intimate with a guy, but jake was different. you felt it. and what you did next didn’t scare you as much as your recent choices with him.

*ping!*

the staredown between jake and his friends comes to a halt and he digs his phone out of his pocket to check it. sliding up, he sees the message appear on his screen:

you: are you free tomorrow?

he glances at his friends’ expectant eyes and throws them a smirk. looks like he gets to break that second rule of yours.

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heesvnqie · 11 days ago

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Forbidden Fever- Lee Heeseung

pairing: lee heeseung x f!reader genre: smut, angst, romance, best friend’s cousin au warnings: explicit content, nsfw, forbidden romance, strong language, eventual unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), slight exhibitionism, slow-burn tension, reader is bold af word count: 8.5k a/n: y’all, this one’s for the heeseung stans like me who live for the tension, the yearning, and the absolute wreckage of a forbidden crush. I poured my soul into this, so pls enjoy with me in the reblogs if u feel it.

You’ve always been the quiet one, the girl who fades into the background with a shy smile and a nervous laugh. It’s not that you don’t want to shine—you just never know how to make yourself loud, how to claim space the way others do so effortlessly.

But when it comes to Lee Heeseung, Lia’s older cousin and the boy who’s been stealing your breath for four summers now, you’re anything but subtle in your heart. Your crush on him is a wildfire, burning quiet but fierce, and no matter how hard you try to hide it, it’s like he can feel the heat every time you’re in the same room.

It all started when you were eighteen, dragged by Lia to her family’s annual summer bash at their stupidly gorgeous beachside mansion. Think white walls, glass doors opening to ocean views, the kind of place that smells like sea salt and expensive perfume.

You were out of place, clutching a soda can like a lifeline, your sundress feeling too frilly, too you in a crowd of Lia’s loud, confident relatives.

Lia—your best friend since you were six, trading Pokémon cards and secrets under blankets—was your saving grace, all wild curls and brighter-than-the-sun energy. She thrived in chaos, weaving through the party like she owned it, while you trailed behind, heart pounding every time someone new said hi.

Then you saw him. Heeseung. He was leaning against a deck railing, a glass of lemonade in hand, looking like he’d stepped out of a dream you didn’t know you were having. His dark hair caught the sunset’s glow, falling in soft waves over his forehead, and his eyes—deep, hazel, and impossibly warm—held a spark that made your chest ache. His jawline was sharp enough to cut through your thoughts, his lips always on the edge of a smile, like he knew something you didn’t. He was twenty-one, a music trainee with a voice that could break hearts, and he carried himself with this easy, untouchable charm that made you feel small and huge all at once.

Lia, sharp as ever, caught you staring. “Oh no, Y/N,” she whispered, grabbing your elbow with a grin. “Not Heeseung. My cousin? You’re doomed.”

You flushed, ducking your head, but you couldn’t stop looking. When she introduced you, your voice came out barely above a whisper. “Hi, I’m Y/N,” you managed, eyes fixed on the wooden deck because meeting his gaze felt like staring into the sun.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a song you’d replay on loop. “Lia’s told me about you. You’re the one who keeps her out of trouble, right?”

You laughed, nervous and too loud, and Lia snorted, rolling her eyes. “More like she’s the one who needs saving,” she teased, nudging you. Heeseung’s smile widened, and you felt it—like a hook in your chest, tugging you toward him. That was it. One look, one sentence, and you were gone.

From then on, Heeseung was your secret obsession. Every summer, every holiday dinner, every time Lia dragged you to her family’s events, you went, knowing he’d be there.

You weren’t bold, not like Lia, who could charm a room with a laugh. You were the girl who lingered in corners, who blushed when eyes met hers, who overthought every word before it left her lips.

But with Heeseung, you felt everything louder—every glance, every accidental brush of his hand, every time his laugh filled the room. You’d catch yourself staring at his hands as he played the grandpiano in the mansion, or at the way his shoulders moved when he tossed a volleyball on the beach.

And Lia? She saw it all.

“You’re so whipped,” she’d say, sprawled on your dorm bed after a long day, tossing a pillow at you. “Heeseung’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he doesn’t even know it.”

“Shut up,” you’d mumble, burying your face in your hands, but you couldn’t deny it. You were whipped. You’d spend hours replaying the smallest moments—how he’d held the door for you at a family barbecue, his fingers grazing your back for a split second; how he’d asked you what book you were reading, his head tilted like he actually cared.

You’d lie awake at night, imagining what it’d be like his. His girlfriend. How it would feel to kiss him, to feel his voice vibrate against your skin, to know him the way you wanted to.

The summer you were nineteen, Lia’s family rented a cabin in the mountains, and you got a front-row seat to your own personal torment. Heeseung was everywhere—laughing with his cousins, helping with dishes in the kitchen, his voice echoing through the wooden halls as he sang to himself.

You tried to play it cool, but your shyness betrayed you. You’d fumble your words when he talked to you, your cheeks burning when he sat too close during movie nights, his knee brushing yours on the couch.

One evening, you were reading on the porch, curled up with a blanket, when he sat beside you, holding a mug of hot chocolate.

“Quiet out here,” he said, his voice soft, like he didn’t want to break the spell of the night. “You always hide away like this?”

“I’m not hiding,” you said, too quickly, your heart racing. “Just… like the quiet.”

He smiled, slow and warm, and you felt it in your bones. “You’re cute when you’re nervous,” he said, and you wanted to sink through the floor. Instead, you ducked your head, muttering something about the book in your lap, and he let it go, but not before his eyes lingered, like he was trying to figure you out.

Lia was relentless after that. “He so knows you’re into him,” she said, painting her nails while you died inside. “He’s teasing you, Y/N. It’s, like, his favorite hobby now.”

“He’s not,” you protested, but you weren’t so sure. Heeseung had this way of looking at you—intense, almost deliberate—that made you wonder if he could see the chaos in your head.

But you were too shy to act on it, too afraid of what might happen if you crossed that line with Lia’s cousin. So you kept it locked away, letting it burn you up from the inside.

By twenty, the tension was a living thing. Lia’s family planned another beach house trip, and you went, your heart a tangled mess of hope and fear. You weren’t the bold type, but you weren’t invisible either—you’d wear your favorite sundresses, let your hair fall loose, laugh a little louder when you knew he was watching.

Heeseung noticed. You’d catch him staring across the pool, his eyes dark and unreadable, or he’d find excuses to talk to you, asking about your classes, your music taste, your life. Every conversation felt like a tightrope, your shyness warring with the part of you that wanted to lean into him, to close the distance.

One night, you were on the beach, the party raging behind you, the air cool against your skin. You’d slipped away to breathe, the waves crashing softly at your feet. Heeseung followed, his presence like a shadow you couldn’t shake. He stood beside you, hands in his pockets, staring out at the ocean.

“You’re always running off,” he said, his voice low, almost swallowed by the waves. “What’s got you so spooked?”

You hugged your arms, avoiding his eyes. “I’m not spooked,” you said, but your voice shook, betraying you. “Just… needed air.”

He turned, his gaze heavy on you. “You sure it’s not me?” he asked, half-teasing, half-something else. “You get all quiet when I’m around.”

Your face burned, and you wanted to disappear, but you forced yourself to look at him. “Maybe you’re just… intimidating,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

He laughed, soft and warm, stepping closer. “Me? Intimidating? Nah, Y/N. You’re the one who’s hard to read.” His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more, might bridge the gap you were both dancing around.

But he just smiled, stepping back, leaving you with a racing heart and a thousand unsaid words.

Lia was waiting when you got back to the house, her smirk sharp enough to cut. “You’re blushing,” she said, poking your cheek. “What did Heeseung do now?”

“Nothing,” you muttered, swatting her hand away, but she just laughed, flopping onto the couch.

“You’re hopeless,” she said, but there was affection in her voice. “He’s my cousin, Y/N, but I’m not blind. He looks at you like… I don’t even know. Like you’re a puzzle he wants to solve.”

“Stop,” you said, hiding your face, but her words stuck with you, feeding the fire that wouldn’t let you go.

Now, at twenty-one, you’re back at the beach house for another summer, and you’re done hiding. You’re still shy, still prone to blushing under his gaze, but you’re tired of letting fear hold you back. Lia’s been teasing you all week, dropping hints to Heeseung when she thinks you’re not listening, and you’ve caught him watching you more than ever—his eyes lingering on your lips, your bare shoulders, the way you move when you think no one’s looking.

Tonight, with the house buzzing with friends, music, and the humid pulse of summer, you’re ready to let the tension snap. You’re not bold, not really, but you’re ready to be brave, to let Heeseung see the girl who’s been burning for him all these years.

The beach house is alive tonight, a pulsing heartbeat of music, laughter, and the clink of soju bottles on the glass coffee table. The air is heavy with the scent of salt from the open windows and the faint tang of alcohol, the kind of summer night that feels like it could swallow you whole. You’re sprawled on the couch, your bare legs tucked under you, a red solo cup cradled in your hands.

The room is crowded—Lia’s friends, some of her cousins, a few randoms who tagged along for the vibe—all sprawled across the living room, the floor littered with empty bottles and snack wrappers. The energy is chaotic, electric, and you’re trying to keep up, but your heart’s been a mess since you locked eyes with Heeseung an hour ago.

He’s across the room now, leaning against the wall, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he laughs at something one of his cousins says.

He’s wearing a black tank top that shows off his lean arms, the kind of casual that shouldn’t look that good but does, like he’s mocking the universe for making him so untouchable.

His eyes flicker to you every now and then, quick but deliberate, and each time, your stomach flips like you’re eighteen again, crushing on a boy you can’t have.

Lia’s beside you, her curls bouncing as she leans forward, her grin sharp and dangerous. She’s been watching you watch him all night, and you know she’s about to make your life hell.

“Truth or dare, Y/N?” Lia asks, her voice loud enough to cut through the chatter. The room quiets, heads turning, and you feel the weight of everyone’s attention like a spotlight.

Your cheeks heat up, and you curse yourself for being so easy to read. Lia’s got that glint in her eye, the one that says she’s about to push you right into the deep end.

You swallow, trying to play it cool despite the nervous flutter in your chest. “Dare,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. You’re shy, always have been, but you’re not about to let Lia make you squirm in front of him. Not tonight. You’ve spent years pining, years letting Heeseung’s presence turn you into a blushing, stuttering mess. Tonight, you’re done hiding.

Lia’s grin widens, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head. “Oh, you’re bold tonight, huh?” she teases, tapping her chin like she’s plotting world domination.

The others hoot and laugh, egging her on. Heeseung’s watching now, his head tilted, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Alright, Y/N,” Lia says, leaning closer, her voice dripping with mischief. “I dare you to… spend fifteen minutes alone with Heeseung in the upstairs guest room.”

The room erupts—whistles, gasps, a few “oh shits” from Lia’s rowdier friends. Your heart stops, then kicks into overdrive, pounding so hard you’re sure everyone can hear it.

You glance at Heeseung, and he’s still leaning against the wall, but his posture’s shifted, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question: You in?

“Y/N’s gonna combust,” one of Lia’s cousins calls out, and everyone laughs, but you barely hear them.

Your face is burning, but you force a smile, trying to channel some of the confidence you wish you had.

“Fine,” you say, standing up, brushing imaginary lint off your shorts. “Let’s go, Heeseung.”

The room loses it, whooping and cheering like you’ve just agreed to fight a dragon.

Lia’s practically cackling, her eyes glinting with victory. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she yells as Heeseung pushes off the wall, his stride easy but purposeful as he heads toward the stairs.

You follow, your heart in your throat, the weight of everyone’s eyes on your back. You’re shy, yeah, but you’re not backing down. Not when Heeseung’s looking at you like that, like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have.

The stairs creak under your feet, the noise of the party fading as you climb higher. The hallway is dim, lit only by a single wall sconce, and the air feels cooler, quieter, like you’re stepping into a different world.

Heeseung leads the way, pushing open the door to the guest room with a casual flick of his wrist. You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, the soft click echoing like a gunshot in the silence.

The room is small, intimate, with moonlight streaming through the balcony doors, casting silver patterns on the hardwood floor.

The bed is unmade, sheets rumpled, and there’s a faint scent of lavender from an air freshener somewhere. You stand there, arms crossed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, how alone you are. Your shyness creeps in, making your throat tight, but you swallow it down, meeting his gaze.

“So,” Heeseung says, his voice low, teasing, like he’s savoring every second of this. He steps closer, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him, his height making you feel small in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. “Lia’s having fun with this, huh?”

You laugh, but it’s nervous, breathy. “She’s evil,” you say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly. “She knows… you know. About me.” You wince as soon as the words slip out, wishing you could take them back. Too much, too soon.

Heeseung’s eyebrow quirks, but his smile is soft, not mocking. “Oh, I know,” he says, and your stomach drops. “She’s been dropping hints for years, Y/N. Not exactly subtle.” He takes another step, close enough now that you can smell his perfume—something warm and spicy that makes your head spin. “But you’re not subtle either. The way you look at me? It’s hard to miss.”

Your face burns, and you look away, your shyness winning for a moment. “I’m not—I mean, I don’t mean to—” you stammer, but he cuts you off with a soft chuckle, stepping even closer until there’s barely a foot between you.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice dropping lower, softer, like a secret. “Don’t apologize. I like it.” His eyes are on you, intense, searching, and you feel like you’re unraveling under them. “You’ve been driving me crazy for years, you know that? Every summer, every damn time you show up in those little dresses, laughing with Lia, looking at me like you’re scared but you want me anyway.”

Your breath catches, and you stare at him, wide-eyed, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “You… noticed?” you manage, your voice small, like you’re afraid the words will break the spell.

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Noticed? Y/N, you’re all I see.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm, light but electric, and you feel it everywhere—your skin, your bones, your racing pulse. “You think I don’t catch you staring? The way you blush when I get too close? It’s fucking adorable.”

You’re dying, you’re sure of it, your heart about to give out under the weight of his words. You’ve spent years hiding, thinking you were invisible, but he’s been watching you just as closely, and the realization makes you dizzy. “I didn’t think you… I mean, you’re you,” you say, stumbling over the words. “You’re Lia’s cousin, and you’re… you know, Heeseung. I didn’t think you’d care.”

His hand pauses on your arm, his fingers curling slightly, warm against your skin. “I care,” he says, and there’s no teasing now, just raw honesty that makes your chest ache. “I’ve cared for a while. But you’re Lia’s best friend, and I didn’t want to make things messy. Didn’t want to cross that line.” He pauses, his eyes searching yours. “But we’re here now, aren’t we?”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. The air between you is thick, heavy with everything you’ve both left unsaid for years. You’re still shy, still trembling under his gaze, but there’s a spark in you now, a tiny flame of courage that’s been building since that first summer. You take a shaky breath, stepping closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the pull of him like gravity.

“What are we doing, Heeseung?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears it, his eyes darkening.

“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice rough, like he’s holding back. “You tell me, Y/N. You’re the one who’s been running from this.”

You swallow, your heart racing, your hands itching to touch him, to close the distance you’ve been dancing around for years. “I’m not running now,” you say, and it’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done, standing there, offering yourself up to the one person who could break you.

Heeseung’s breath hitches, and then he’s moving, closing the gap in one swift motion. His lips crash into yours, and it’s like the world stops—everything stops, the party, the noise, the fear. It’s just him, his mouth hot and hungry, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you against him. You gasp into the kiss, your shyness melting under the heat of it, your hands finding his hair, tugging him closer. He groans, low and deep, and the sound sends a jolt through you, pooling low in your stomach.

The kiss is messy, desperate, years of want poured into every slide of his lips, every flick of his tongue. You’re pressed against him, his body hard and warm, and you can feel the way he’s trembling, like he’s been holding back as long as you have. His hands roam, sliding up your sides, under your shirt, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist, and you shiver, pressing closer, wanting more, needing everything.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough, wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hands slide higher, teasing the edge of your bra, and you whimper, a sound you didn’t know you could make, your body acting on instinct, not thought.

“Heeseung,” you whisper, and it’s a plea, a prayer, everything you’ve ever wanted wrapped in his name. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy with want, his lips swollen from the kiss. He’s beautiful, devastating, and you’re so far gone you don’t know how you’ll ever come back from this.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his mouth trailing to your jaw, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your head spin. “Every summer, I saw you and thought, God, she’s it. Every damn time.” His voice is low, raw, and you’re certain you can feel it in your soul, wrapping around you like a melody.

His hands move higher, one slipping under your shirt, his palm warm against your stomach, and you arch into him, your body moving before your mind can catch up, wanting him closer, deeper, more.

You’re dizzy, lost in him, your shyness a faint echo that only makes this moment sharper, more real. You tug at his tank top, your fingers clumsy but desperate, and he leans back, his eyes dark and heavy as he watches you. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low, almost a growl, and you nod, your breath shaky but unwavering.

“Never been surer,” you say, and it’s the truth, spilling out like it’s been waiting years to be heard. You reach for him again, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch, and he groans, low and needy, capturing your lips in another kiss that’s deeper, hungrier, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word into you.

His hands are bolder now, one cupping your face, the other roaming your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, teasing the edge of your bra. You’re trembling, overwhelmed but not hesitant, not with him. You want this, want him, want to finally let go of the distance you’ve been keeping for years.

You pull him closer, your lips parting for him, and he takes it, his tongue sliding against yours, slow and deliberate, making you melt into him.

The bed is behind you, the sheets rumpled and inviting, and you’re so close to falling into it, to letting this moment swallow you whole. His body presses against yours, and you can feel his want, the evidence in the way he holds you, the way his breath catches when you shift against him.

Your hands slide down his shoulders, your nails grazing his skin, and he shudders, his lips breaking from yours to trail down your neck, hot and urgent, leaving sparks in their wake.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled, rough with need. “No idea how long I’ve wanted you like this.” His hands are everywhere, one sliding up your thigh, the other still under your shirt, teasing higher, and you whimper, a sound you didn’t know you could make, your body acting on instinct, craving him.

You’re ready to give in, to let him take you wherever this leads, your shyness no match for the fire he’s lit inside you. You tug at his hair, pulling him back to your lips, and he groans, the kiss messier now, more desperate, like you’re both running out of time. Your heart is pounding, your skin burning under his touch, and you’re so close to saying yes, to letting go of everything that’s held you back—

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound is a gunshot, sharp and jarring, cutting through the haze of want. You freeze, your heart lurching, and Heeseung pulls back, his lips still hovering over yours, his breath ragged. “

Fuck,” he whispers, his voice strained, his eyes wide with the same shock you feel.

“Y/N! Heeseung!” Lia’s voice rings through the door, loud and teasing, dripping with amusement. “Fifteen minutes is up, you lovebirds! Get your asses back down here!”

The party’s noise creeps back in, muffled but undeniable, and the spell shatters. You’re both breathing hard, your hands still tangled in his hair, his still on your waist, but the moment’s gone, stolen by Lia’s relentless grin and the creak of the floorboards outside. You pull away, your face burning, your shyness rushing back but not enough to regret what just happened. You fumble for your shirt, smoothing it down, your hands trembling as you try to catch your breath.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on you like he’s not ready to let this go. “Y/N,” he starts, his voice soft but urgent, and you meet his gaze, your heart still racing.

There’s no fear in you now, no worry about what this could mean for you and Lia, for your friendship, for everything. You just want him, and you’re tired of pretending you don’t.

“We should go,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, and it’s not because you want to stop, but because you know Lia’s not going anywhere until you open that door. You’re still shy, still prone to blushing under his gaze, but there’s a new certainty in you, a spark that wasn’t there before.

Heeseung nods, slow and reluctant, his eyes never leaving yours. “This isn’t over,” he says, his voice low, a promise that makes your stomach flip. “You know that, right?”

You nod, because you do know. You’ve known it since that first summer, since the first time his voice made your heart skip. You open the door, slipping out, and Heeseung follows, his presence a warm shadow at your back.

Downstairs, the party’s still alive, music pulsing, laughter spilling over like the soju on the table.

Lia’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed, her smirk so sharp it could slice through the tension between you and Heeseung. “Well, damn,” she says, her eyes flicking between your flushed cheeks and Heeseung’s messy hair. “That was a long fifteen minutes. Have fun?”

You want to melt into the floor, your shyness making you shrink under her gaze, but you force a smile, muttering, “Shut up, Lia.” Your voice is too high, too shaky, and she cackles, loud and delighted, like she’s just won the lottery.

Heeseung’s cooler, leaning against the banister with a shrug. “Just talking,” he says, his voice smooth, but there’s a glint in his eyes that dares her to push. Lia raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, and you know she’s going to grill you later, but for now, she just laughs, shaking her head.

The game moves on, someone else taking the hot seat, but you’re barely present, your mind still upstairs, replaying the feel of Heeseung’s lips, the way his hands burned against your skin.

You sit back on the couch, your cup forgotten in your hands, stealing glances at him across the room. He’s back against the wall, laughing with his cousins, but his eyes find yours every few minutes, quick and knowing, like a secret you’re both guarding.

The night drags on, the party growing louder, drunker, but you’re sober now, the buzz of alcohol replaced by the buzz of him. Lia’s watching you like a hawk, her teasing playful but relentless. “You’re so red,” she whispers, poking your cheek, and you swat her hand away, muttering something about the heat, but she’s not fooled. “You and Heeseung, huh? I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“Stop,” you hiss, but you’re smiling, because you’re not afraid anymore.

You want this, want him, and Lia’s teasing feels like permission, like she’s cheering you on even if she won’t say it outright. She leans back, sipping her drink, her eyes glinting with mischief, and you know she’s not done meddling.

Hours later, the party starts to wind down, people stumbling home or crashing on couches. You’re exhausted, your shyness making the chaos draining, but you don’t want to leave, not when Heeseung’s still here, his presence pulling you like gravity.

You’re helping Lia clean up, tossing empty cups into a trash bag, when Heeseung finds you in the kitchen, the house quieter now, the air softer.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the counter, his voice low, just for you. “You okay?”

You nod, your heart racing again, your shyness flaring under his gaze but not enough to stop you. “Yeah,” you say, focusing on the cups in your hands to steady yourself. “Just… a lot, you know?”

He steps closer, and you feel it—the heat of him, the pull that’s been there since that first summer. “About upstairs,” he starts, and your breath catches, because you’re ready to hear it, ready to dive back into that moment. “I meant what I said, Y/N. This isn’t just tonight for me.”

Your hands tremble, and you set the cups down, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes are serious, no trace of the teasing boy from earlier, just raw, unguarded want.

“Heeseung,” you say, your voice shaky but full of longing, “I want this too. I’ve wanted it for so long.”

His breath hitches, and he steps closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers brushing yours, warm and sure. “Then let’s do this,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “No hiding, no running. Just… us.”

You nod, your throat tight, because it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of, and for once, you’re not afraid of what it means.

You’re ready, shy but certain, ready to let Heeseung be more than a crush, more than a secret. He squeezes your hand, just for a second, then lets go, his smile soft and promising.

Lia finds you a minute later, her eyes narrowed but playful. “You two are so obvious,” she says, tossing a sponge at you.

"Go sleep, Lia." Heeseung says as shej shrugs.

“Just makeout already.” She laughs, shaking her head, and heads upstairs, her voice trailing behind her like a blessing.

Lia’s voice—“Just makeout already”—lingers like a melody, a spark tossed into the dry kindling of your heart. She’s gone now, her footsteps fading up the stairs, her laughter a soft echo in the beach house’s quiet corridors.

The kitchen is still, save for the hum of the fridge and the distant pulse of the party winding down in the living room. You’re standing there, trash bag forgotten, your skin tingling with the memory of Heeseung’s kiss, your heart a quiet storm of longing and courage.

Heeseung’s watching you from across the counter, his eyes a warm, molten hazel that seem to hold the night itself. His black tank top hugs his frame, his hair a soft mess, and there’s a gentleness in his gaze that makes your shyness feel like a strength, not a cage.

He’s not just Lia’s cousin, not just the boy who’s haunted your dreams for four summers. He’s the one who sees you, who’s always seen you, and tonight, you’re done letting that slip through your fingers.

“You’re blushing,” he says, his voice soft, a thread of amusement woven through it. He steps closer, the space between you shrinking, and it’s like the air shifts, charged with something new—not the frantic heat from upstairs, but something deeper, like a promise waiting to be spoken.

You laugh, a shy, breathy sound, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can you blame me?” you say, your voice quieter than you mean, but it’s steady, anchored by the truth you’ve carried for years. “You’re standing there looking like… like you.”

Heeseung’s smile is slow, a crescent moon breaking through clouds. “Like me?” he teases, but there’s no edge to it, just a warmth that makes your chest ache. He’s closer now, close enough that you can smell his perfume again.“You’re gonna have to explain that one, Y/N.”

You bite your lip, your shyness bubbling up, but you push through it, meeting his gaze. “Like you’re everything I’ve been thinking about since I was eighteen,” you say, and it’s not a grand declaration, but it’s yours, raw and honest, laid bare in the dim light of the kitchen.

His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still, his eyes searching yours like he’s memorizing this moment, this you.

“You have no idea,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper, “how many nights I’ve thought about you. How many times I saw you laughing with Lia, or reading on the porch, and wanted to tell you how much you got under my skin.”

Your heart stumbles, full and heavy, because it’s not just words—it’s the truth you’ve felt in every glance, every brush of his hand, every summer you spent pretending you didn’t love him. “Then tell me now,” you say, your voice trembling but sure, your shyness a soft edge to your bravery. “Show me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Heeseung closes the distance, his hands finding your face, cupping your cheeks like you’re something precious, something holy. His lips meet yours, and it’s not the desperate crash from upstairs—it’s slow, deliberate, a vow pressed into every gentle movement.

You sigh into him, your hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your touch. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing yours, and it’s like a song you’ve always known but never dared to sing.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I love you, Y/N,” he says, and it’s not a confession thrown into the heat of the moment—it’s a truth he’s carried as long as you have, laid bare in the quiet of the night. “I’ve loved you every summer, every moment you were here, every moment you weren’t.”

Your eyes sting, not from sadness but from the weight of it, the beauty of finally hearing what you’ve dreamed of. “I love you too,” you whisper, and it’s like letting go of a breath you’ve held for years. “I’ve loved you since that first day, when you smiled at me and I forgot how to breathe.”

He laughs, soft and bright, and it’s the sound of everything falling into place. “Then we’ve been idiots, haven’t we?” he says, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. “Wasting all this time.”

“No more wasting,” you say, your shyness fading under the certainty of this moment, this love. You kiss him again, bolder now, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. He groans, a low, needy sound that sends a shiver through you, and you press yourself against him, feeling the hard lines of his body, the warmth that’s all him.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with want, and you nod, your heart racing but not with fear—only anticipation, only him. You take his hand, leading him through the quiet house, the party a distant hum, the world narrowing to just you two.

The stairs creak under your feet, the hallway dim and intimate, and you push open the guest room door, the moonlight spilling across the bed like an invitation.

Inside, Heeseung’s hands are on you again, but it’s different now—less frantic, more reverent, like he’s worshiping every inch of you. He kisses you slow, deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re dizzy, your hands clutching his shoulders for balance.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice soft, his lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the sensitive spot below your ear. “Always have been.”

You blush, your shyness peeking through, but you don’t pull away. “You too,” you say, your hands sliding down his chest, tugging at his tank top.

He lifts his arms, letting you pull it off, and you pause, taking in the sight of him—his skin golden in the moonlight, his muscles lean and defined, his eyes dark with love and want. You touch him, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone, his ribs, and he shudders, like your touch is a flame against his skin.

He reaches for your shirt, his eyes asking permission, and you nod, lifting your arms. He pulls it off, slow and careful, his gaze drinking you in—the lacy bra you wore tonight, the soft curve of your waist. “God,” he breathes, his hands hovering, like he’s afraid to touch something so perfect. “You’re unreal.”

You laugh, shy but warm, and pull him closer, kissing him to silence his awe. His hands find your skin, warm and sure, sliding up your back, unhooking your bra with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.

You let it fall, and his eyes darken, his breath hitching as he takes you in. He kisses you again, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples, and you gasp, the sensation sharp and electric, pooling low in your stomach.

Heeseung’s lips trail down, following the path of his hands, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. He takes a nipple into his lips, soft at first, then a teasing bite that makes you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Heeseung,” you whisper, his name a plea, and he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks through you.

“Love hearing you say my name like that he murmurs, his voice low, as he moves to your other breast, giving it the same care, the same devotion. You’re trembling now, your shyness a soft edge to the overwhelming want, and he notices, pulling back to meet your eyes. “You okay?” he asks, his hands still on your hips, grounding you.

“More than okay,” you say, your voice is quiet but sure, and you tug him back, kissing him hard, letting him know you’re not stopping, not now, not ever.

Your hands find his shorts, fumbling with the button, and he helps you, sliding them off, leaving him in just his boxers. You can feel him, hard and wanting, and it makes you blush, but you don’t shy away—you want this, want him, and you’re ready to take it.

Heeseung’s hands slide to your shorts, his fingers brushing the waistband, and he looks at you, his eyes asking, always asking. “Yes,” you whisper, and he undoes them, slow and careful, sliding them down your legs.

You step out, left in your panties, and he groans, low and soft, his hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, his voice rough, but there’s love in it, a tenderness that makes your heart swell. He kisses you again, guiding you backward until your legs hit the bed, and you sit, then lie back, pulling him with you. He hovers over you, his weight a comforting press, his eyes searching yours.

“I love you,” he says again, like he needs you to know, and you nod, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“I love you too,” you say, and it’s a vow, a truth that’s been yours forever. You kiss him, soft and deep, and he shifts, his hands sliding to your panties, tugging gently.

You lift your hips, letting him pull them off, and then you’re bare, vulnerable but not afraid, not with him.

Heeseung’s eyes rake over you, reverent, like you’re a work of art he’s afraid to touch. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and you blush, your shyness peeking through, but you reach for him, pulling him down, needing his skin against yours.

He kisses you, his hands roaming, one sliding between your thighs, finding you wet and wanting. You gasp, your hips bucking into his touch, and he groans, his fingers teasing, slow and deliberate.

“So good for me,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, his fingers circling, and you’re trembling, your shyness melting under the heat of his touch.

He slides a finger inside your cunt, then another, and you moan, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body arching into him. He moves slow, learning you, watching your face, and you feel seen, cherished, loved.

“Heeseung, please,” you whisper, your voice shaky with need, and he kisses you, soft and deep, before pulling back, his eyes dark with want.

“Want to taste you,” he says, his voice rough, and your breath catches, your shyness flaring but not enough to stop you. You nod, and he moves lower, his lips trailing down your stomach, your hips, until he’s between your thighs, his breath warm against you.

He kisses your inner thigh, soft and teasing, and then his mouth is on you, and you’re gone, your hands fisting the sheets, your moans soft and desperate.

He’s slow, deliberate, his tongue teasing, tasting, and you’re trembling, your shyness forgotten as you lose yourself in him. “Fuck, Heeseung,” you gasp, and he groans, the vibration sending you higher, closer to the edge.

He doesn’t stop, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as you fall apart, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, leaving you breathless, shaking.

He kisses his way back up, his lips soft against your skin, until he’s hovering over you again, his eyes searching yours. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and you blush, your shyness returning, but you pull him down, kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips.

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice quiet but sure, and he nods, his hands sliding to his boxers, pushing them off. You glance down, blushing at the sight of him, hard and ready, and he chuckles, soft and warm, kissing your cheek.

“We’ll go slow,” he says, his voice gentle, and you nod, trusting him, loving him,“You sure?” he asks, one last time, and you nod, pulling him closer.

“I’m sure,” you say, and he kisses you, deep and slow, as his cock teases your entrance before he presses into you, inch by inch, filling you. You gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders, the stretch intense but perfect, and he pauses, letting you adjust, his lips on your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice tight, like he’s holding himself back, and you nod, your hands sliding to his back, pulling him closer.

Heeseung’s lips are still on yours, his breath a ragged hymn against your skin as he presses himself deeper, filling you with a slow, deliberate stretch that makes your toes curl. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, the intensity of him—hot, hard, and wholly yours—sending sparks through every nerve. He pauses, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded with restraint and reverence. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice tight, like he’s leashing a storm for your sake.

“More than okay,” you whisper, your shyness a faint tremor beneath the molten want in your voice. You pull him closer, your legs wrapping around his hips, urging him deeper, and he groans, low and guttural, the sound igniting something primal in you. Your hands slide down his back, nails grazing his skin, and he shudders, his control fraying as you give yourself to him, no more walls, no more fear.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps, his lips trailing to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, a claim that makes you moan, soft and needy. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, so perfect.” His hips move, slow at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that has you arching into him, your breath hitching with every thrust. Your shyness lingers in the way you bite your lip, but it’s no match for the fire he’s stoking, the way he’s unraveling you with every touch, every word.

“Harder,” you breathe, surprising yourself, your voice a plea wrapped in courage. You’ve never been bold, never been loud, but with Heeseung, you want to shatter every quiet corner of yourself. His eyes snap to yours, dark and hungry, a flicker of surprise giving way to a smirk that’s pure sin.

“Harder?” he echoes, voice low, teasing, like he’s daring you to mean it. You nod, your cheeks burning, and he grips your hips tighter, fingers bruising in the best way. “You sure, baby? ‘Cause once I start, I’m not holding back.” The pet name drips from his lips like honey, and you clench around him, a whimper escaping before you can stop it.

“Please,” you beg, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body trembling with need. “I want you, Heeseung. All of you.”

That’s all it takes. His restraint snaps, and he thrusts deeper, harder, the bed creaking under the force of him. You moan, loud and unrestrained, your head tipping back into the pillow as he fucks you with a rhythm that’s relentless, possessive, like he’s claiming every inch of you. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice rough, his lips brushing your ear. “Let me hear you, Y/N. Let me know how good I make you feel.”

You’re lost in him, your shyness drowned by the pleasure, your body moving with his, meeting every thrust, chasing the high that’s building, burning. His cock hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you cry out, your nails raking down his back, leaving marks he’ll feel tomorrow. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his hand sliding between you, fingers finding your clit, circling with a precision that has you trembling, so close to the edge you can taste it.

“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, his fingers relentless, and you’re gone, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under. You clench around him, moaning his name, your body shaking as he fucks you through it, his thrusts slowing but never stopping, drawing out every last shudder.

He’s still hard, still moving, and you’re panting, oversensitive but wanting more, wanting him to feel what you’re feeling. You push at his chest, your shyness peeking through but not stopping you, and he pulls back, eyes questioning. “My turn,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure, and his breath hitches, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Fuck, yes,” he says, rolling onto his back, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his hips, his cock slick and hard beneath you. You blush, your hands trembling as you brace them on his chest, but his gaze is steady, encouraging, like he’s handing you the reins. “Ride me, Y/N. Show me how you want it.”

You’ve never done this, never been on top, and your shyness makes you hesitate, but Heeseung’s hands are on your hips, guiding you, his voice a low rumble. “You got this,” he says, and you believe him, lifting yourself, positioning him at your entrance, and sinking down, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep. You both groan, the angle intense, and you pause, adjusting, your breath ragged.

“God, you look so fucking good like this,” he says, his hands roaming your thighs, your waist, his eyes dark with want. “Move, baby. Take what you need.”

You start slow, rocking your hips, finding a rhythm that makes your toes curl, his cock hitting deep, perfect. His hands grip your hips, not controlling, just grounding, and you move faster, bolder, the pleasure building again, hotter, sharper. “That’s it,” he groans, his head tipping back, his throat a taut line you want to kiss, to bite. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me, Y/N.”

You lean forward, your hands on his chest, your lips finding his in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue as you ride him harder, chasing your high, chasing his. His hands slide to your ass, squeezing, guiding you faster, and he groans, low and broken, his control slipping. “Fuck, I’m close,” he rasps, his hips bucking up to meet you, driving deeper, and you moan, your own climax building, so close you can feel it in your bones.

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can think, your shyness buried under the raw need to feel him, all of him. His eyes widen, a flicker of hesitation, but you shake your head, kissing him hard.

He groans, a sound that’s almost pained, and thrusts up harder, his hands bruising your hips as he chases his release. “You sure?” he gasps, voice tight, and you nod, desperate, your lips on his jaw, his neck, begging without words. He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s gone, spilling inside you with a groan that shakes you, his body trembling beneath you. The feel of him, hot and deep, pushes you over the edge again, and you cum with him, clenching tight, moaning into his mouth as you ride out the waves together.

You collapse against him, your breath ragged, your heart pounding against his, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his lips soft against your forehead. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, laced with awe. “You’re everything.”

You blush, your shyness creeping back, but you smile, nuzzling into his chest, his heartbeat a steady anchor. “You too,” you whisper, and it’s quiet, but it’s enough, a vow in the moonlight.

He shifts, pulling out gently, and you whimper at the loss, but he’s quick to grab a tissue from the nightstand, cleaning you both with a care that makes your heart ache. He pulls you back into his arms, the bed creaking under you, the moonlight painting your skin in silver. “We’re doing this,” he says, voice firm, a promise against your hair. “You and me. No more games.”

You nod, your cheek against his chest, his warmth seeping into you. “No more games,” you echo, and it’s a truth you’ve carried for years, finally free.

The next morning, the beach house is a ghost of last night’s chaos, sunlight streaming through the windows, the air smelling of coffee and salt. You’re in the kitchen, pouring a mug, your hair a mess, Heeseung’s shirt dwarfing your frame. Your shyness is back, a soft flush on your cheeks as you catch your reflection, but there’s a glow in your eyes, a secret you’re carrying from the night before.

Lia stumbles in, her curls wild, her grin sharper than the sunlight. “Well, well,” she says, leaning against the counter, her eyes flicking from your shirt to your face. “Look who’s wearing Heeseung’s clothes. You two finally stop dancing around each other?”

You choke on your coffee, your face burning, but you laugh, shy but warm. “Shut up, Lia,” you mumble, but there’s no heat in it, just love. She cackles, throwing an arm around you, hugging you tight.

“Fucking finally,” she says, her voice softer now, sincere. “You’re good for him, Y/N. And he’s crazy about you. I’m happy.”

“Thanks,” you whisper, your throat tight, because her words mean everything. She pulls back, grabbing her own mug, still smirking, and you know she’ll tease you forever, but it’s hers, it’s family.

Heeseung appears a moment later, hair damp from a shower, his smile soft and private as he sees you in his shirt. “Morning,” he says, voice low, and he leans down, kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Lia gags dramatically, but she’s grinning, already pulling out her phone, probably to text her cousins the gossip.

“Get a room,” she says, but she’s laughing, heading out to the porch, leaving you and Heeseung in the quiet kitchen. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you against him, and you lean into him, your shyness a soft glow, your love a steady flame.

“Told you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “This isn’t going to make everything we have over.”

You smile, turning to kiss him, slow and sweet, the taste of coffee and him mingling on your tongue. “Good,” you whisper, and it’s a promise, a truth, a love that’s finally yours.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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529 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 21 days ago

Note

hiiii i love your works, especially your poly ones! i don’t really know your guidelines but i cannot get this idea out of my head! could you do a poly fic with alex and charles where reader is a performer at the f175? it could have inspiration from any singer you’d like (though i think tate mcrae would work WONDERS) thank you!!!!

taste — cl16 + alexandra saint mleux

smau + blurbs

charles leclerc x!singer reader x alexandra saint mleux

yn is skeptical when asked to perform at the f175 event— she doesn’t know much about f1, she feels like her songs are maybe a little too much for a classy event. however, after much convincing from her manager and her assistant she agrees— which would be the best move she’s ever made.

fc : sabrina carpenter

(a/n) : hi anonnn! thank u for the love and support. i almost picked tate and then i could not shake the idea i got so— i had to pick sabrina:) i hope you enjoy cutie pieee🩷

also two posts in one day?? who am i? being productive for once:)

—

yourstruly_yn

london, england 📍

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, lando & 5,109,004 others.

yourstruly_yn : lets hear a little commotion for the dress 🗣️ but in all seriousness i had so much fun at the F175 event last night— thank you @/f1 for having me and i hope no one noticed how sweaty and nervous i was around all the attractive people! YAYYYYYYYY

—

view 290,021 other comments.

username0 : she is so real for that caption

↳ username10 : she kills me bc she is also hot as hell like girl— they probably have a crush on you too

↳ lando : we do

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ username0 : aadsjsf lando

username15 : yn!! who was your favorite??

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : they were all incredibly kind but charles and carlos are incredibly charming…

liked by charles_leclerc and carlossainz55

oscarpiastri : i think my girlfriend got more excited to meet you than she ever was about me

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : she is the cutest on the planet🤍 nice to meet you both!

liked by oscarpiastri and lilyzneimer

↳ lilyzneimer : omg i love you yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : love you moreeeee

lando : if you think you were nervous— you should’ve seen ollie ten seconds after you gave him a hug. he wouldn’t move.

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ olliebearman : lando i stg

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ lando : you’re his celebrity crush 🤐

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ olliebearman : i am literally gonna slash your tires. im embarrassed.

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : don’t be embarrassed cutie pie. if it helps i couldn’t tell you were nervous hehe

liked by olliebearman

↳ kimi.antonelli : you broke him. he is smiling and wont blink

liked by yourstruly_yn and lando

carlossainz55 : tan hermosa, mi amor💙 blue means you are a williams fan, no?

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : i like whichever team invites me to the paddock first

↳ scuderiaferrari : HEYYYY YNNNN

↳ williamsracing : guaranteed she’s a williams fan!

↳ redbullracing : blue means REDBULLLLLL

↳ mercedesamgf1 : YN PLS WE R BEGGING

↳ alpinef1team : come with us yn PLEASEEEEE

↳ yourstruly_yn : ferrari it is then ❤️💛

liked by scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ lando : someone fire the mclaren admin. r you even working???

↳ mclaren : i have feelings yanno?

alexandrasaintmleux : you are absolutely stunning and such a great performer! loved meeting you 🤍

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : omg says you. you are literally so beautiful. i was nervous to talk to YOU.

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

maxverstappen1 : you managed to make this event that i did not want to attend— tolerable— and i thank you for that:)

liked by yourstruly_yn

charles_leclerc : incroyable😻🤍

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ username15 : OMGGGGGG

username22 : did anyone see how alex and charles looked at her?? the camera kept panning over to them during her performance

↳ username14 : yes omg i thought it was just me

—

The second my heels hit the red carpet, I felt my soul leave my body. The flashes were relentless, fans were screaming my name, and somewhere behind me, my assistant—Jules—was whispering “Posture, babe! Chin up! Shoulders back! Breathe!” like I wasn’t already trying not to pass out from the nerves. I tugged my dress down slightly—custom, couture, and tight—and smiled for the cameras, praying they couldn’t see how badly my palms were sweating.

“You’re good,” Jules whispered, stepping just behind me, clipboard and chaos in tow. “You look like a goddess. You sound like a legend. And every single man in a race suit just turned to stare.”

I laughed under my breath and turned my head slowly. Sure enough. A wall of F1 drivers stood just a few steps ahead—all of them in slick tuxes. And every. Single. One. of them was watching me like I was the main event. God help me.

Charles Leclerc, standing with his girlfriend Alexandra, gave me a soft smile. One of those movie-star ones, with the head tilt. Smooth. Alexandra gave me a subtle once-over, biting her lip and nodding slightly like she approved.

Lando Norris nudged Oscar Piastri and whispered something, and Oscar blinked twice like he’d forgotten how conversation worked. I gave them a little wave and watched as Oscar physically recoiled in shyness while Lando just grinned and mouthed, “Hi.”

Pierre Gasly winked. Subtle like a sledgehammer. And then—

“Hi. Um. Hi.”

I turned and found Ollie Bearman. Sweet baby Ollie. Standing just off to the side with wide eyes and flushed cheeks like I’d personally descended from the heavens.

My assistant whispered, “That’s the one who listed you as his celebrity crush on a podcast.”

Oh my god. He’s even cuter in person. I stepped toward him slowly, letting the cameras click away, and smiled wide.

“Hi, Ollie, right?” I asked softly. “I heard I might be your celebrity crush.”

His whole face went scarlet.

“Uh—I mean—yeah! Yeah, I mean—wow, this is so weird, I didn’t think you’d, like, actually know—oh god,” he rambled.

I couldn’t help it—I opened my arms. “C’mere, then.”

He blinked. “Wait—like—a hug? Right now? In front of—everyone?”

“Unless you don’t want one?”

“I DO,” he said way too fast, stepping forward like his feet were moving on autopilot.

I gave him a gentle hug, careful not to crush the front of my dress, and felt his heart pounding through his suit. When we pulled back, he looked like he might cry or combust.

“You’re doing great,” I whispered with a wink. “Can’t wait to watch your rookie season.”

He made a choked noise that might’ve been a thank you—or possibly a prayer.

And somewhere behind me, I swear I heard Jules mutter, “You just made that poor boy’s year.”

As we walked into the venue, I could still feel the heat of all those driver stares and Ollie’s stunned silence behind me.

I leaned toward Jules. “Okay but what is in the water at Ferrari? Because damn.”

—

“Okay,” Jules said, sticking a protein bar into my hand. “You’ve got fifteen minutes before you go out, your dress is still flawless, and I bribed hair and makeup with champagne to stay on standby. Now come stress-stalk the hot ones with me.”

I took a bite of the bar and followed her to the side curtain. We peeked out like two teenage girls spying on the cool kids at prom. Except the cool kids were all F1 drivers. And actual gods.

“I mean,” Jules whispered, “look at them. It’s like the Avengers of being sexy and emotionally unavailable.”

She pointed with the subtlety of a brick wall. “There’s George Russell looking like a romance villain. Carlos is definitely flirting with that engineer. Lando’s doing finger guns. Why is he always doing finger guns?”

I choked on my protein bar. “Because he is Lando.”

Then Jules nudged me. “And look. Center of the room. Ferrari. Your favorite brand of thirst.”

I leaned in and—yep. There they were. Charles, glass in hand, relaxed and charming as ever, laughing at something Lewis said. And next to him, Alexandra in a floor-length black gown that looked like liquid obsidian, eyes scanning the room like she was bored of everyone. God help me, I had a problem.

“Okay,” I whispered. “You know how I said I had a tiny crush on Charles?”

Jules gave me side-eye. “Yes. You also said you’d let him ruin you.”

“Well,” I said, dragging the word out, “I might… also have a thing for Alexandra. Like. A very serious thing.”

Jules blinked. “So… double Ferrari crush?”

“I’m panicking.”

“Don’t panic. Just flirt back. They’re both clearly into you.”

“No, they’re not—”

I froze mid-sentence. Alexandra had turned. She was looking right at us through the curtain. Like she knew. Her eyes met mine, and for a second I thought she might wave or say something—Instead, she smirked and winked.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

Jules lost it beside me, half-screaming into her sleeve. “SHE WINKED. YN. SHE WINKED. THAT WAS SEXUAL.”

“I think I blacked out for a second,” I muttered. “Was that real? Did that just happen?”

“Do you want me to slap you or get you water?”

“Neither. Just bury me in this curtain.”

We both ducked back behind the fabric, clutching each other like we’d seen a ghost. A hot, model-tier, vaguely intimidating ghost who might be flirting with me in front of her F1 driver boyfriend.

I blinked slowly. “I’m going to combust on stage. If I pass out mid-song, tell the crowd it was from artistic overwhelm.”

Jules just grinned. “You’re about to have both a Ferrari driver and his impossibly hot girlfriend wrapped around your finger. Honestly? Diva behavior. Proud of you.”

—

The lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted like someone had flipped a switch. One golden spotlight bloomed at center stage. I stepped into it slowly, heels silent on the slick black floor, the slit in my gown cutting dangerously high, the corset cinched just enough. The strings swelled, slow and seductive. The first lyric left my lips like a whisper laced with smoke. I let the silence hang between each word—like a dare. I wasn’t rushing tonight. No big notes. No high belts. Just something slow, smooth, sultry. Velvet draped in starlight. The kind of performance you don’t just watch—you feel. I found them in the crowd within seconds.

Charles.

Back straight. Head tilted. Watching me like he was trying to memorize the lines of my body, the way my hand slid slowly down my hip, the exact pitch of my voice when I purred through the second chorus. He looked dazed. Like I was singing directly into his bloodstream. And Alexandra?

God. She was absolutely still—spine like a string of pearls, lips parted ever so slightly, eyes locked on mine. No smile. Just hunger. It wasn’t even subtle. Her gaze was heavy, almost possessive, like she was deciding how I’d taste.

I sang the bridge soft and breathy, leaning into the mic like it was a secret. I let the hem of my gown fall back just enough to reveal the shimmer of my leg, and Alexandra’s fingers twitched around her champagne glass.

I saw her lean over. Whisper something to Charles. He smirked. He didn’t look away from me when he did it. When the final note hit—drawn out and decadent—the lights dropped. Silence. Then an eruption. Applause. Cheering. The kind that shakes the floor and rings in your ribs. I exhaled for the first time in three minutes. Backstage, Jules was waiting with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“You witch,” she breathed. “I just watched Charles Leclerc forget how to breathe. And Alexandra? Babe. She looked like she wanted to eat you alive.”

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat. “So… it went okay?”

Jules laughed. “They’re both going to find you before this night’s over. And I’m betting you’re not going home alone.”

I sighed and took a drink of water and started to get changed into my evening gown. Hair and makeup came in to touch me up. I stood up, checking myself in the mirror and smiled.

Jules nudged me. “Go be charming. Make the rounds. Let the world bask in the glow of your slay.”

So I did. Smile on, perfume lingering behind me like a trail of sin, I moved from driver to driver like it was a party game.

George kissed my hand and told me I “redefined elegance.” Lando was sweet talking me as he tried to get me to sit in his lap. Oscar blushed so hard I thought someone should check his temperature.

But it was Ollie who melted my entire heart. He nearly knocked over his glass trying to stand up straight. “Hi. You—uh. I mean. That was—like—wow. You’re…”

I smiled and opened my arms, and he just melted into a hug like a starstruck golden retriever.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “You’re very sweet.”

When I pulled back, he was blinking fast, cheeks flushed pink, like he couldn’t decide whether to pass out or propose. Jules was already filming. But then—then—I turned and saw them.

Charles and Alexandra. Still together. Still impossibly composed. Still looking at me like I was the most fascinating thing in the room. I smoothed my gown even though it didn’t need smoothing and took a slow breath before making my way over.

“Hello,” I said, somehow keeping my voice light despite the fact that my soul had already left my body.

“Bonsoir,” Charles echoed, eyes raking over me in that maddeningly slow way. “You were…” He exhaled. “Incredible.”

“She knows,” Alexandra said, her voice soft and low, like silk drawn across bare skin. “She had every man in the room losing his mind.”

I blinked. “I was just… singing.”

Charles tilted his head. “That was not just singing.”

And Alexandra? She leaned in a little, close enough that I could smell her perfume—jasmine and something warmer, richer. “I think you know exactly what you were doing.”

I laughed—nervously, stupidly. “Are you flirting with me?”

Alexandra smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Do you want me to be?”

My brain short-circuited. “I—”

Charles stepped in, just a little, voice low and amused. “You look like you might need another drink.”

“I need a tranquilizer.” I muttered under my breath.

Alexandra’s eyes sparkled. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m—” I touched my cheek. Burning.

She grinned. “Blushing. And glowing. It’s a very good look.”

Charles offered me a glass of champagne. “For recovery.”

I took it. My fingers brushed his. I didn’t recover.

—

I was mid-sip of champagne, trying to cool down both physically and emotionally, when I felt a soft hand brush against mine. Not urgent. But deliberate. Alexandra. She leaned in like she was about to whisper something, her breath tickling just beneath my ear.

“Come with me for a second?”

Not a question. A gentle command wrapped in silk. I didn’t even think—I just nodded. She slid her hand down to my wrist and guided me through the edge of the ballroom, past glittering gowns and conversations I couldn’t hear, until we slipped into a quiet hallway behind the venue. Dim lights. Velvet-lined walls. The faint hum of the music muted behind gold-trimmed doors. And then she stopped. Turned. Faced me.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” she said, eyes trailing down my figure like I wasn’t real.

I swallowed. “I’m just a pop star with stage fright.”

She laughed—low, rich. “No, you’re a woman who walked onstage and hypnotized a room full of people… including my boyfriend.”

My breath hitched. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, I’m not upset.” She stepped closer. “He hasn’t looked at someone like that in a long time. But neither have I.”

I blinked. “Alexandra…”

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she said, voice softening. “I just wanted a moment. With you. Away from the cameras. Away from Charles, even.”

That surprised me.

“You did something to me up there,” Alexandra said, eyes burning into mine. “The way you moved. Sang. Looked at us. Like you knew we were watching.”

“I did know,” I whispered.

Her lips curled slightly, like she liked that answer. Like it confirmed something for her She stepped even closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the delicate scent of her perfume curling around me like silk.

“Do you always make it this hard to look away from you?”

“No,” I murmured. “Just tonight.”

Just for you.

Her hand moved slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, knuckles grazing the curve of my jaw. I was holding my breath without realizing it. And then—softly, like she was testing gravity—she leaned in. Her lips brushed mine. Barely. A whisper of contact. Warm. Careful. Intentional. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just… felt. The way her mouth lingered against mine for a second longer than necessary. The quiet intake of her breath. The soft press of her palm to the side of my face as she deepened the kiss just slightly, like she wanted to make sure I understood this wasn’t an accident.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were darker. Focused. Her thumb brushed my cheekbone gently.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I first laid eyes on you,” she said.

My heart was hammering so loud I was afraid she’d hear it.

Then, from the end of the hallway—

“Alex?”

Charles. Her gaze flicked toward the sound—but only for a moment. When she looked back at me, she smiled. Not a flirty smile. A promise.

She tucked another curl behind my ear and said, low and soft, “We’re not done.”

And then she turned—just like that—and disappeared back into the light. I didn’t move for a full thirty seconds.

—

“JULES!”

I stormed back into the green room, nearly tripping over the train of my dress as I slammed the door shut and pressed my back against it like I was being chased.

Jules whipped around mid-text, wide-eyed. “Oh my god. What happened?”

“She kissed me,” I hissed, clutching my clutch like it might save me from cardiac arrest.

Jules blinked. “Charles?”

“No. Alexandra.”

Her phone clattered onto the vanity. “YOU’RE KIDDING—”

“She pulled me into the hallway, told me I was dangerous, and then she kissed me like- like—l”

Jules let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled squeal. “On the mouth??”

“No, Jules, she kissed me on the elbow—YES ON THE MOUTH.” I paced wildly, nearly running into the rack of backup dresses. “And then she smiled and said, ‘We’re not done.’ Like she didn’t just light my entire nervous system on fire.”

Jules grinned. “I told you you were the main character tonight.”

“I thought she was going to slap me for seducing her boyfriend with my eye contact and instead she kissed me like she was the one seduced!”

Before Jules could reply, a gentle knock sounded on the door.

I froze. “That’s either the PR team coming to fire me or Charles coming to duel.”

Jules arched a brow and opened the door like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life. Charles and Alexandra stood there. Unbothered. Gorgeous. Slightly glowing. Like they knew what they were doing.

“Uh-Hello,” Charles said, eyes locking with mine immediately.

Alexandra’s smile was soft, unreadable. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Jules chirped, already stepping aside like the most chaotic wingwoman. “I was just about to force her to drink water and sit down before she passed out.”

Charles tilted his head slightly, amused. “Would it be alright if we stole her for a little while?”

I blinked. “You want to…?”

Alexandra took a step closer, voice calm and warm. “The event is over. We were thinking of getting a drink. Something quieter. Off-site.”

Her gaze lingered on my lips just a second too long.

“Only if you’d like to come,” Charles added, his tone deceptively casual, but the way he looked at me, sharp and curious, told a different story. I stared at both of them. This glittering, impossible couple who had just casually invited me into… something. Jules behind me was vibrating.

“I—” I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I’d… like that.”

Alexandra smiled like she already knew I’d say yes. Charles offered me his hand.

And as I placed mine in his, I whispered over my shoulder to Jules, “If I don’t come back, tell the label I died doing what I loved.”

She winked. “Getting kissed by dangerously attractive people?”

“Exactly.”

—

The hotel suite was too perfect. One of those penthouse setups, city skyline visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, jazz playing faintly from somewhere. There was a tray of cocktails already set out, like they’d planned this. Because they probably had.

“Pick your poison,” Charles offered, already shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

Alexandra was by the window, slipping off her heels, her back arched just enough to make my throat go dry.

“I—uh, anything’s fine,” I managed.

She handed me a coupe glass with something pale and sparkling inside. “This one’s sweet. You strike me as someone who likes the bite underneath the sugar.”

My brain short-circuited. “Sure. That’s… accurate.”

We sat. Alexandra beside me. Charles across. Too far to touch—but not too far to stare. And he was staring.

“Your performance,” he said, swirling his drink slowly, “was magnetic.”

My face was hot. “Thank you.”

“No,” Alexandra chimed in, eyes not leaving mine, “You don’t understand. The way you held the room. The way you held us. It wasn’t just good. It was…” She paused. “Deliberate.”

I blinked. “You noticed that?”

“We notice everything,” Charles said, voice quiet. “Especially you.”

The air shifted. Subtle, but immediate. I took a slow sip of my drink to fill the silence, only to realize I’d already downed most of it. Alexandra gently took the glass from my hand, setting it on the table without breaking eye contact.

“Can I ask you something?” she said. I nodded.

“Have you been thinking about it all night?” Her voice was like velvet. “The kiss.”

“Yes,” I breathed. Instinctive. Honest.

Charles leaned forward slightly. “Good.”

I felt like I was floating. Or falling. Or both.

He stood, walked toward us, and crouched down in front of me, his eyes gentle but dark with something heavier. “And if I kissed you right now?”

My breath hitched. “I don’t think I’d stop you.”

He smiled—something slow and real—and then his lips met mine. Warm. Curious. Steady. Alexandra’s hand slid along my thigh as he kissed me, her touch grounding and electric at once. And when Charles finally pulled back, she was right there, her kiss softer this time, more familiar, like a secret.

They didn’t rush. Didn’t overwhelm. They just… took their time. Kissing me. Touching me. Watching me fall apart slowly between them.

At some point, Charles whispered, “You’re shaking.”

I laughed—breathless and bright. “I’m overwhelmed.”

Alexandra tucked her face into my neck, her lips brushing my skin. “Then let us take care of you.”

And they did. Together. All night.

—

I woke up somewhere between silk sheets and a mild existential crisis. The first thing I felt was the ache in my body—gentle, sweet, and impossible to ignore. The second was the arm draped across my waist, warm and possessive. The third was panic. Because oh my god I had slept with both Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux. Like… actually slept with them. Not a dream. Not a delusion. Not a spicy fanfic my brain invented mid-tour. Real.

I very gently peeled Charles’ arm off me and slid out of bed in a tangle of limbs and regret-tinged euphoria. Alexandra shifted slightly, her face still angelic against the pillow, hair loose and wild. I was doomed.

I threw on my robe and tiptoed into the living room of the suite like I was escaping a crime scene. I grabbed my phone from the couch and immediately dialed Jules. She picked up on the second ring.

“Did you die?” she asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“I think I’m in a romantic crisis,” I whispered. “A sexy, slow-burn, European art film kind of crisis.”

There was a pause. “Where are you?”

“Charles and Alexandra’s hotel suite.”

“NO.”

“Yes.”

“YOU DID NOT—”

“I did!” I hissed. “And I liked it! But now I don’t know if it was just a one-night thing or if I imagined all the feelings or if they’re going to ghost me and continue being a power couple while I spiral into a ball of public humiliation and inner monologue hell!”

Jules let out a long, slow whistle. “Okay. Breathe. Did they say anything this morning?”

“I didn’t wait for anyone to wake up! I ran like a Victorian mistress fleeing the manor after an illicit affair!”

Suddenly, I felt arms wrap slowly, carefully, around my waist. My soul left my body. Charles’ voice was quiet, close, still rough from sleep. “You’re not a mistress, chérie. You’re the one we couldn’t stop thinking about all night.”

I turned so slowly. Charles looked impossibly good for someone who had just woken up—hair messy, eyes soft, mouth still curved in that stupidly charming half-smile.

“I—hi.”

He smiled. “Hi.”

Then Alexandra appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her robe, leaning against the frame like the muse of every chaotic bisexual daydream I’d ever had.

“You left the bed,” she said, eyes on me. “I was almost offended.”

“I was panicking,” I admitted. “Respectfully.”

Charles chuckled softly. “We figured you might.”

I blinked. “So… it wasn’t just a moment?”

Alexandra came closer, gently brushing a piece of hair from my face. “It was everything but just a moment.”

Charles nodded, his hand still holding my waist. “We’ve been watching you all night. Not just on stage. Every laugh, every glance. We didn’t want one night. We want more.”

My breath caught. “You’re serious?”

“Very,” Alexandra murmured, eyes locked on mine.

I bit my lip. “I just—I didn’t want to assume, and this morning felt like I was living in an A24 film with no context.”

Charles grinned. “Then let’s give it context.”

Alexandra laced her fingers through mine. “Let us take you to breakfast. Talk. Figure this out… together.”

I nodded. Maybe too quickly.

“And can Jules come?” I asked. “She’ll explode otherwise.”

Charles laughed. “She can interrogate us over coffee.”

Alexandra smirked. “We’re not scared.”

I smiled, a little shaky, a little high on everything.

—

I was already seated at the rooftop restaurant by the time Jules arrived, but I heard her before I saw her—heels sharp against the stone floor, her sigh loud enough to part the clouds above London. She slid into the seat beside me, sunglasses still on, expression unreadable.

“I need someone to explain to me, right now, why I woke up alone in a hotel bed while you were off having a ménage à trois with Monaco’s golden boy and someone with the face of a literal angel.”

Charles chuckled beside me. Alexandra just sipped her coffee.

I closed my eyes. “Jules, please.”

“No, no, I’m calm. I’m totally fine. Just wondering if I need to make laminated flashcards for your next PR disaster so I can keep up.”

Alexandra reached across the table, gentle and poised. “I’m sorry we surprised you.”

Jules finally took her sunglasses off, blinking like she was assessing a very expensive art piece. “Surprise isn’t the word I’d use. Ambush, maybe. Sexy ambush.”

Charles looked amused. “Would you like to ask us anything?”

Jules leaned back, folding her arms. “Are you in love with her?”

The silence was instant. Clean. Like air being vacuumed out of the sky. My fork clinked softly against the edge of my plate.

Alexandra didn’t flinch. “I think we’re at the beginning of something that could become that.”

Charles nodded, his voice quiet. “We didn’t plan it. But we felt it. And we’re not walking away from it.”

Jules turned to me. “And you?”

I swallowed hard. “I don’t know what it is yet. But it didn’t feel casual. Not even for a second.”

There was a long pause before Jules exhaled.

“Well,” she said, “as long as you don’t get your heart broken without me being there to destroy someone’s car, I guess I’ll allow it.”

Charles raised his brows. “Noted.”

Alexandra smiled, then turned to me. “Did you really think we’d ghost you?”

“I didn’t know what to think,” I admitted. “I woke up and it felt like—like maybe it wasn’t real. Or maybe it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” Charles said simply.

“It was a beginning,” Alexandra added.

I looked between them. Both beautiful. Both grounded. Both looking at me like they weren’t going anywhere. I leaned into Jules for a second, like I needed one last anchor to who I was before all this. And then I looked back at them.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s see where this goes.”

Alexandra reached for my hand. Charles smiled like the sun had just risen for the first time. And Jules, of course, flagged down the waiter.

“If YN is showing emotionally vulnerable today,” she muttered, “I’m going to need another cappuccino and a pain au chocolat. Stat.”

—

yourstruly_yn

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux & 5,090,002 others.

yourstruly_yn : i leave quite an impression…5 feet to be exact ;)

—

view 389,002 other comments.

julesss : hey. from a pr standpoint not a bestie standpoint — i thought we agreed to warn me before soft launch was initiated.

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : was hoping since you love me so much you wouldn’t care

↳julesss : blah blah

lando : can the man on slide 4 fight

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : idk if he can fight but he can certainly toss me around

liked by charles_leclerc

alexandrasaintmleux : you. are. unreal. 😻

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : my goddess. i love you

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

↳ username00 : is that alex in the first pic?? ↳username10 : i believe so but who is the MANNNN??

↳ username15 : plot twist : it’s charles?

↳ username00 : delusion

pierregasly : finally someone in the paddock shorter than yuki

liked by yourstruly_yn

↳ yourstruly_yn : us short ppl still together. leave that man alone.

↳ yukitsunoda0511 : YEAH LEAVE ME ALONE.

—

alexandrasaintmleux

liked by yourstruly_yn, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc & 875,021 others.

alexandrasaintmleux : in love with love.

—

view 82,090 other comments.

charles_leclerc : lucky me 💐🤍

liked by yourstruly_yn and alexandrasaintmleux

yourstruly_yn : this is so cute. you are so cute. i am obsessed.

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

julesss : aw omg

liked by yourstruly_yn and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ username00 : jules??

↳ username15 : isn’t that yn in the third pic??

↳ username8 : i think so

↳ username7 : who is in that second pic?? yn and charles…

↳ username00 : delusional

↳ username11 : charles was seen wearing that exact outfit the other day

↳ username00 : why would alex allow that though?? let alone take a picture of it.

arthur_leclerc : i think it is time for me to meet this mysterious blonde.

liked by yourstruly_yn, alexandrasaintmleux and charles_leclerc

—

f1gossipgirls

890,374 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Uh Oh! Trouble in Paradise? Charles Leclerc was seen out in Monaco last night kissing none other than YN LN. As far as we know Charles is still in a relationship with, Alexandra Saint Mleux, who has grown close with YN LN recently. Charles caught in another cheating scandal? Not shocked.

—

username0 : oh poor alex

username8 : i always thought yn was better than this

username10 : yn really befriended alex to steal her man. disgusting behavior.

username15 : y’all are all blaming yn when charles is a known cheater. it takes two.

username17 : oh boyyyyy.

—

twitter!

Coming two days after cheating rumors— Pop star YN just dropped a new music video, and it’s already broken the internet. The sultry visual stars none other than Alexandra Saint Mleux — longtime girlfriend of F1 driver Charles Leclerc — in a steamy, intimate role alongside YN herself. The two share lingering touches, smoldering glances, and yes… a full-on kiss halfway through the video. And just when fans thought they couldn’t scream any louder, Charles Leclerc makes a surprise cameo at the very end — leaning in a doorway, watching the two walk away, hand in hand. Romance? Art? PR power move? Whatever it is, the internet is obsessed. One thing’s clear: YN knows exactly what she’s doing.

—

view 509,024 other comments.

username0 : oh yeah im def gay

username10 : this was art

username15 : does this confirm throuple?? or did yn just steal alex??

username22 : charles rlly just stood there smirking and watching them kiss I AM djnfjnajd

username14 : i need a cigarette

username21 : FINALLY things are getting interesting again.

—

yourstruly_yn

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, olliebearman & 10,032,005 others.

yourstruly_yn : will not be further elaborating at this time. think what you want.

tagged : alexandrasaintmleux and charles_leclerc

—

view 810,005 other comments.

username00 : im sorry but the first thing i noticed was the height difference between her and charles and im obsessed

alexandrasaintmleux : thinking a lot of things. all unholy.

liked by yourstruly_yn and charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc : thinking what im going to do to you both

liked by yourstruly_yn and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ username00 : CHARLES????

↳ lando : my EYES

lilymhe : replayed that kiss 20 times and started thinking about my sexuality

liked by yourstruly_yn and alexandrasaintmleux

julesss : oh i love you and i hate you at the same time. so iconic.

liked by yourstruly_yn

username20 : this is how i find out yn is for the girls too??? magical day for the gays

—

(mv blurbs)

We were seated on the edge of the bed, camera crew resetting lights for the final wide shot.

Alex was fixing my lipstick for the fifth time. “You smudge more than anyone I know.”

“That’s because people keep kissing me,” I grinned.

Alex raised a brow. “You complaining?”

Charles, from behind the monitor, didn’t even look up. “If you are, we can stop.”

I turned and gave him a pointed look. “I never said anything about stopping.”

The room went quiet for a second, the air thick with that electric, unspoken something that had grown between us.

“Just for the record,” Alex said as she handed the lipstick back, “this video is the least scandalous thing we’ve done lately.”

We all laughed. But no one said she was wrong.

—

Charles stood in front of me, tall, annoyingly smug, his eyes tracing every line of my face. “Nervous?” he asked.

“No,” I lied. “You?”

He smirked. “Terrified.”

I gripped the tie and tugged him closer—hard enough to wipe the smirk right off his face. He hit the wall behind him with a soft thud and grabbed at my hips, for a split second, we just stared at each other.

His voice dropped just enough for me to feel it in my spine. “You’re very good at that.”

“Acting?” I said, forcing a grin.

He shook his head. “Ruining me.”

—

“Final shot!” someone shouted.

I was jittery, buzzing with adrenaline and nerves and something else I didn’t want to name. Alex slipped her hand into mine just before the take, her thumb brushing over my knuckles.

“You okay?” she whispered.

I nodded. “You?”

She grinned. “I’m having the time of my life.”

Charles was watching us from across the room—his cue was to lean in the doorframe, casual. Except he didn’t look casual. He looked… captivated. Like he was seeing something he wanted to memorize. The camera rolled. We walked away. I didn’t look back. I didn’t have to. I already knew he was still watching.

—

I don’t usually watch the playback. But the second the monitor lit up with that slow-motion shot of Alex kissing me, of Charles in the doorway looking like sin incarnate in a suit—my curiosity got the better of me.

“Looks good,” the editor muttered.

Understatement of the century.

Alex watched too, arms folded beside me. “You know this is going to break the internet, right?”

“I’m not sure the internet deserves this,” I said, only half joking.

Then Charles joined us, cocked his head and said, “We look good together.”

We. Together. I didn’t say anything. But I felt it in my chest.

—

The hotel room was dim, lit only by the flicker of my phone screen and the soft city lights bleeding through the curtains. The three of us were a mess of limbs under the plush duvet — Alexandra draped across my stomach, her long hair tickling my skin, and Charles curled behind me, one hand tucked under the hem of my oversized tee, the other lazily holding his phone. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only exists after everything explodes. My phone buzzed again. Then again.

Alex groaned without lifting her head. “You checking it or just letting it vibrate us to death?”

I grabbed it and squinted at the screen. “Trending in 24 countries. There’s an edit of you and me kissing with the caption ‘real cinema is back.’”

Charles chuckled, chin resting on my shoulder. “Do they like my cameo?”

“Someone said you looked like the sexy villain interrupting two sapphics mid-flirt.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Fair.”

Alex finally rolled over, her cheek now on my thigh, scrolling through her own feed. “There’s a thread analyzing the whole video. They know, YN.”

I looked down at her. “They think they know.”

Charles hummed behind me, warm and sleepy. “Let them talk. It’s our story.”

And somehow, with both of them tangled around me, I didn’t care what the world thought. Not right now.

“I think we started something,” I whispered.

Alex looked up at me. “Or maybe we’re just finally letting it happen.”

Charles kissed my shoulder again, quieter this time. “Either way, I’m in.”

And just like that, I silenced my phone. Let the world spiral — we were safe in the eye of the storm.

—

charles_leclerc

liked by yourstruly_yn, alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55 and 12,930,000 others.

charles_leclerc : my girls.

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edensrose · 4 days ago

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꒰ ݁ ꫂ᭪ ꒱ 𓂃 The Scarlet String

˚₊‧꒰ა samurai.ᐟsuguru geto ﾉ empress.ᐟreader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

geto suguru, the imperial palace's head samurai, was a man of honour & no earthly attachment. but when he met you, the new bride of the emperor who didn't deserve you, suddenly attachment tethered in the form of a scarlet string. his soul to yours, but your heart never his. this could earn him the death penalty, but for you he'd suffer a thousand blades.

broadcast ᝰ.ᐟ✧ ancient japan, arranged marriage, mistreatment (from reader's husband), infidelity, historical sexism, mutual pining, forbidden love, star-crossed lovers, angst, mentions of sex 𓂃 wc ⌇ 3.5k

sweetheart host ᝰ.ᐟ✧ samurai suguru save meee. art cred ⌇ ( pls help me find this artist losing my mf mind )

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ was a respected man of his land. having risen through the ranks after much trial and tribulation. when he walked, people bowed their heads, when he spoke, others lowered their gazes. such reputation landed him a spot as the head of samurai at the imperial's division. that's where he met you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who heard the gossip. the new bride, is what they called you. he guarded the palace the morning of your wedding. he'd only heard rumours about the 'delicate flower' that the emperor had plucked. the 'sweetest rain to kiss the earth'. he paid no mind, a man of his stature hardly gave into worldly desires. that was until he saw you through the curtain of the hall he guarded. but a peek, but a moment and yet — in that second, any earthly whim he had long since detached tethered into one chord. a red string. pierced straight through his heart.

The sweetest rain? No, you were the sky after a storm. The caress of the sun through the heavens, painting the bleak clouds in your splendour.

A delicate flower indeed. With your petal hand in the palm of your soon-to-be husband. Smiling brighter than any chrysanthemum he'd laid eyes on.

Suguru held his breath through the officiation. Beauty, he had beheld beauty before. You? Beauty was but a teardrop in your ocean.

Teardrops. Never would Suguru imagine anyone could bear to make an angel cry.

But he was wrong.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who quickly discovered not every hand knows how to hold a flower and care for her petals. as the head samurai he naturally stayed around the imperial palace for extended periods of times. a decision of duty yet he couldn't help but regret every second that led him to this point when he saw you weep. cry over a man who barely deserved to look at you let alone share a bedroom with. suguru watched with passive eyes smouldering coals. a dragon statue. still, but ever as fierce whenever you attempted kindness to your new husband. when you conducted your duties and searched for affection. only to receive harsh words. even a shove — as suguru came to hear. for if it were in front of him, he might have committed great acts of treason that day.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who realised you were far gentler than he initially assumed. you were young, full of life, untouched by the rough flames of this world. he'd noticed it more once rumours of war stirred over the land and the emperor stationed him at his beck and call. terrified of his own hubris and decisions? maybe. suguru could only roll his eyes at the emperor behind his back, but at the very least he got to be closer to you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who started learning your routines. for your safety, of course. he discovered you preferred the gardens in the dead of night rather than the glimmers of the morning. realised you ate once for breakfast then again for dinner. during lunch you strolled and attended to whatever duty you could put your hand in. which included the more trivial matters of your servants who attempted to shoo you. only for you to drop to your knees, beside a riverbed no less! why? to help them with clothes, of course. suguru beheld it all. your mannerisms, your habits, the kind heart he wished to hold in his hands. but what shattered him the most? the interactions with your husband. the pig that didn't deserve you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who rarely spoke even as he escorted you around. your gaze would sometimes drift to him, but you'd either be graced with violet eyes staring right back, or none at all. his expressions forever threw you off. even in his casual attire, there was an air of intimidation and authority. he'd noticed your attempts at conversation, he found it adorable. bless your tender soul — but he is merely a servant. a loyal devotee to his nation and the imperial palace. if you looked at him as a block of stone and steel rather than anything breathing, so be it. as long as he could stay close to you.

"You're very quiet."

Sunlight gleamed through the midnight. Such phenomena was only possible with your eyes, your smile, your voice blossoming into the cool air.

Kneeling again, this time at your flowerbeds. Chrysanthemum, tsubaki, ajisai, but the true floral splendour sat on her knees. With a smile to part the heavens and unweave every ounce of training and discipline Suguru had established.

At the foot of the garden he stood. A mighty zelkova tree rooted in his silence and still in the midnight breeze. Awoken only by your voice. You imagined his eyes raised, but Suguru's stare hadn't left you since your arrival.

"I understand if you are unable to speak." You smiled and turned back to blooms. "I just realised I've never heard your voice. Since I see you more than my husband these days, I thought it appropriate."

Your mouth caressed the word 'husband' softer. As if it were something to be revered. Or feared. Suguru couldn't pick his poison.

Unnecessary respect, that is what you gave Suguru. He is but your servant, and yet you refused to look at him. Beneath you, but you hold consideration.

You could demand he speak. Request he shout. Hell, snapped your finger and expected him to read your every wish quick, respond even quicker. But you smiled, assured, even sympathised.

In the heavy silence snowed over the garden, your nervousness fluttered like a frozen butterfly. Waiting for your wings to shatter. Whether by your own doing or the mouth that swore to protect you.

Instead, it mused.

"I was unaware my lady welcomed conversation."

Glimmers through the night, your gaze snapped to his face. Instead of stone or steel, softness greeted you. Stoic, yes, but who knew the frightful samurai lord could smile? Even if faint and solely curled at the corners.

"Well I —" and then you were stumbling. Pushing through gravity to will yourself up and fumbled over the grass in your excitement. "I assumed you were under some vow. Or something. I'm not too accustomed —"

Steel, however, manifested on your arm. No bite, no pain, steady and shielding. Your garden brimmed with all sorts of colours and varieties, but the shade of violet that stared down upon you was something you felt compelled to paint with.

"Easy." When Suguru spoke his baritone exceeded the night. He leaned over you once your stumbling form and froze you with his presence instead. Not the kind of ice that splintered. The kind that kissed, cradled.

"My only vow is to protect you, my lady." And then it was gone.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ began speaking with you after that incident. if his lady wished for conversation then he would give it to her. his presence felt more than protective nowadays, it was pleasant. so pleasant you often pouted whenever your husband arrived and relieved suguru of his duties for the nights. thanks the heavens you wedded an emperor, yes? always busy, never around, giving you plenty of time with your new friend.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who kept conversation to a minimal. after all, you were still high above him and he knew his place in the soil. but like a persistent gardener you weeded through this stubbornness and pulled his voice like blooming blossoms. he conceded, of course. if it was your wish for a friend then that he could be. you needed one, after all. you deserved more than that. the palace, the lands, the earth and the heavens in suguru's opinion. alas, he is but a samurai and you are the empress. his gift to you will be his devotion. you learnt suguru had two loving parents who stayed snugly in his home village and a close friend of his rank that guarded the neighbouring land. in turn he learnt you adored the fine arts and humoured you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who summoned every ounce of strength and perseverance one sleepless night he ventured to the gardens to find peace and instead stirred strife in his ears. you were a married woman, of course he was well aware of your . . . 'duties'. if it were your voice he heard from your private quarters, he might have found some comfort. alas it was your filthy, borish husband. getting himself off by the sounds of it. your voice? imitation. suguru knew you adored the fine arts but he never assumed such acting skills.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who felt more than envy tugging at his heart. the red string torn through his chest coiled tight. a woman of your stature, beauty and very being should be treated with more than respect. pleasured with such bliss that she'd sleep soundlessly through the night. it seemed the emperor not only failed to handle the land properly, but you as well. it was one thing to bumble like a fool and leave other officials needing to fill in for you — but the evident need for someone else to tend to your wife? if suguru could he'd whisk you away. show you what true bliss tastes like. if the emperor isn't careful he might have to — no.

Not these thoughts.

Not these desires.

You are not some object he can whisk around in the confines of his head.

You were beauty, grace, divinity. And even his mind will serve you as such. You are the deity and he your devotee. Your image won't be tainted by his own thoughts. While he could assure your pleasure, he would never initiate.

For it was by your choice. Your decision. Your rule.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ couldn't help the stares he held across hallways, patrols, ceremonies. whether with or without your husband. your eyes locked in the way the moon misses the sun. you always held on. a second longer, a moment more, then you'd turn. would he? never. he couldn't pry his eyes from you. especially with the faux, physical affection from the emperor. oh how your gaze would drift to his, catch his lowering to the hand on your waist, then back to your eyes. you took it for granted.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who held his hand to help you out of carriages. who lingered his touch just a little longer. who extended his patrol hours to walk alongside you in the gardens. knelt down beside flowerbeds to aid your passion. who accidentally cornered you in a hallway when you stumbled over those clumsy feet only to be swiftly caught and spun against a wall with a quiet — "my lady, are you alright?"

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who looked to your opinion during meetings. while you were not allowed to speak, he often paid close attention to your opinion on certain topics and decisions; before voicing those himself. your husband was useless in ruling the lands in any case, so perhaps this is the heavens bestowing luck. that is if the bastard listened.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ stood at your side first and foremost. while he was sworn to protect the emperor, during official meetings and escorts, he was at your side. the emperor never paid it any mind. you were a woman, you needed more protection, right? little did the bastard know that if danger fell, so would he. suguru's katana would serve you. not the pig that cannot cherish you. treason? perhaps, but he had been clear to you on that night in the garden. whether you realised it or not. his only vow was to protect you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who learnt more about you as the months went by. grew closer in a way he knew threatened boundaries. but you let him. lingering touches, longing stares — you never expected to break down in his arms one fateful morning when the night was simply too much. he became a comfort you never knew possible. he would never shun you, deny you, any rejection would surely be foolish and go against his heart's code. morals? he knows their names. but you might just make him forget.

"I'm sorry." Quivered, wilted. A drooping chrysanthemum in his arms. Forlorn from the sun's scorches and overrun with your rains of tears. Angels should never weep, yet you sobbed. Lost in his strong embrace.

"I'm sorry, Geto. I shouldn't —" at the foot of your private chambers and yet in the arms of another man. Your attempt to withdraw fell short. Stilled by a large hand cupped behind your head.

Halted in your own carelessness, but brought to life by his touch. He stroked your scalp with tenderness tethered to his fingertips in those same scarlet strings.

"Why do you apologise?" Suguru murmured atop your head. In that moment, he became your sanctuary. No longer were you an empress, or a woman married off.

You were simply, you. A delicate flower he swore to never let wither. Not like this. Never.

Calloused hands cradled your face. To you it never felt softer. Suguru remained at a distance, even with your hearts intertwining. Never would he sully your image with him: a humble servant.

"Fall upon me in your time of need. I told you," his thumb brushed over your cheekbone. Imprinting his promise.

"My only vow is to you, my lady."

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who noticed your abrupt distance. had he crossed a line that morning? if you wished for him to turn you away, you should have said something. for all his strength, he is every definition of weakness when stood before you. suguru would never approach you on it, he couldn't. it was your decision to give attention and take it. even if he missed its soft kiss on his skin. even if he longed for the song of your voice to bless his ears. you barely spoke to him, barely even looked at him.

"Have I angered you, my lady?"

At last he asked. If you wished to strike him down for such treason then so be it. But your warmth was granted to him and then left him stranded, cold. Even in the tender spring.

"Never Geto — Suguru." His name on your mouth. It was a prayer, an apology, everything he wanted yet didn't deserve. Not from you, the only being high above him.

"I simply . . . think it's best to keep my distance. For our sake. Yours."

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who couldn't understand what you meant by that but held true even when it ruined him. especially with the new hovering of your husband. were the divine laughing at him? was every god in the heavens playing some cruel joke on him? if this red string is fate, then let them cut it. but who could suguru lie to? even if the gods themselves snapped the string he'd weave it back, tether every thread with his bare hands and hook himself back to you. you were an earthly desire he couldn't relinquish, and refused to. even when you seemed to wish for such. for once, he couldn't respect your decision. not when he saw how solemn you'd become. when he bore witness to your only amplified mistreatment.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who proved his vow true. a storm took the palace in steel and fury. an unexpected siege at the hands of the enemy. rumours of war had become a reality and suguru acted in his duty. to the emperor? no. while he commanded his fleet and fought for the palace, tore down the opposition and guarded the imperial. . . you were his priority. word had gotten out that you were taken — and suguru couldn't care less about the palace when its princess was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is she?"

Steel flushed to an opponent's throat. Eyes ablaze. Jaw set sight. The man shook, but grinned.

"My, have you grown soft, Geto?"

Suguru angled his blade. Struck the shoulder. Dug deep and spoke low. Sharper than his katana.

"Answer me and I'll leave enough of you intact for jigoku to recognise. Where. Is. She?"

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who could only be described as feral. he dashed for the maple forest and found the group dragging you along. tossed into a sedan and pushed around like some prize. sullied by their hands. no matter. steel bit through the air followed by shattered screams. twenty three, highly trained and enough to spark fear in probably half of suguru's men — fell to his sword in a matter of second. scarlet painted maple trees more vibrantly. each hit the floor with any hands that dared to touch you dismantled, any eye that thought it worthy of looking upon you struck, shut, stabbed. until only two stood. the samurai with his heaves and his heavy blade, flicked to the side so red scattered the floor too. he wasted no time beholding the carnage before he stood before your cowered form on the ground and hoisted you up instantly. steadying your shaky self and terrified cries. you stilled when familiar violets met you. shock, then realisation — then horror.

"Have you lost your mind!?"

Your cry painted every leaf redder. "The palace is under siege! Go — return at once, protect —"

Hands steeled tight on your shoulders. Soaked in the same scarlet. Nothing in comparison to the string that shone through the bleary night. Shimmered, strung, secure. Between you. Him. Only now visible to your eye.

Rain soaked the land. Poured into the red and washed it from the leaves, the ground, his clothes — but not the string.

"My only vow." Suguru's whisper shook violently in its shout. Refinement bled from his fingertips that held tight. Trembled you in his firm hold. He never meant to rattle you. But the quakes of his heart, his soul, seeped into his hands. Thunder crashed, so did his voice. Never raised, but fierce. Able to still the storm.

"Is to you."

As any sinner would, he allowed his hands to wander. To your face, to cradle, to caress. He flushed you into him. Uncaring of the rain, the blood, the tremor in your body. What did it matter when you melted into him?

"When will you understand that?" Croaked, paired with the thunder. You're shook again. Gentler. The man you knew, unweaved and unravelled before your very eyes. "When will you understand that my devotion is to you — and only—"

His soaked hair kissed your skin as he jerked forward. Violets frazzled, whirled and wild like the storm. His clothes bled into yours. Breaths stilled with yours. Heart beat with yours.

Can't you feel how it shattered for you? How it soared for you? Were his eyes not enough, would you rather his blood as a sign? His soul is already yours. Take the rest of his being. Him, every fibre he'd built through the years.

It didn't matter when it came to you.

"Only you."

Suguru breathed. Lashes soaked in the rain and stroking yours. Body, mind, soul, linked in this endless, agonising scarlet string he couldn't strike, cut, split. Never. He'd never.

Forbidden. His lips inched yours. Every year of training, down the drain. Every stature of his being, torn away by you. Restraint, resolve, refinement, it rinsed away with the rain.

One inch.

One touch.

That's all he needed.

It's all you wouldn't allow.

"Suguru."

You cried when you wished to kiss. You withdrew when all you wanted was to wait. Hold. Lose yourself to his lips, his touch, his love. . . love?

The red string bled. He stiffened.

"I can't." An apology to him or the heavens? He'll never know. Not with the way you still clung to him or the cracks in your eyes. Still held onto his, still fixed. Pleading, wanting, but denying. "I can't. I'm wed. I'm the emperor's wife. I am married. I cannot."

The storm cleared overhead, but not in violets. Rain continued its vast downpour, but now the heat of his body felt cold as he stared. Searching for an answer, for you, the true you hidden in the depths of yourself. The you he saw in the garden. The you he held.

The flower he adored. Now withered. Unsure.

"If you can even call that a marriage." His hand pushed to your cheek, cupped you with a gentleness you never knew. "If you could even call that disgusting pig a husband —" it's the first time his voice raised. And that's when he realised.

He broke code. He shattered tradition. Painted over it with ink of his own desire — no.

His own heart.

And as he stood there. Rooted like that same zelkova before the chrysanthemum he should have never touched, never tainted, only observed from afar. He understood that he was no longer that tree. But a blade of grass. Whispered through the wind. Wilting.

To his own soul.

"As you wish, my lady." He murmured. Even when it was his eyes that plead, wanted. Still, he denied.

His touch slipped from your skin. Arm dangled at his side, together with the string. Weighed heavy between two hearts that knew better. Or did they? Was is that they knew too well?

That fate wasn't a kiss in the rain.

"Forgive this servant for thinking otherwise."

But cruel.

#. ۫ ۶ৎ . 𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 '𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 ﹕ geto suguru ꒱ . ˚◞✧#geto x reader #jjk x reader #jjk angst #geto suguru x reader #geto angst #suguru geto x reader #geto x you #geto suguru x you #suguru geto x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #the scarlet string #samurai!suguru #fem reader

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2b4st4r · 26 days ago

Note

Could I request one piece villains (bartolomeo and Kidd included) with a soft kind reader? Like he's a monster and the reader is a literary a flower (gn reader pls) hope it's not much!

SOFT HEARTED

GN!Reader x One Piece villains (+ Kid and Bartolomeo)

(I hope I included everyone you would want)

Warnings: toxic/abusive relationships, violence/cruelty, manipulation, power imbalance, dark themes, cruelty, self-sacrifice, arranged marriage, possible sensitive family dynamics

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

DOFLOMINGOᯓ★

A Kindred Spirit in a Cruel World (3,176 words)

The salt-laced wind whipped strands of hair across your face as you gazed out at the endless expanse of the Grand Line. A gentle smile touched your lips, a familiar expression that rarely left your features. You were a soul of unwavering kindness, a beacon of warmth in a world often cloaked in shadows. For you, true joy came from the simple act of giving – a piece of candied fruit to a child with wide, hopeful eyes, a comforting word to a stranger in distress, or even, if the need arose, a selfless offering of yourself, an organ donated without a second thought to save a life. Your compassion was boundless, your empathy a deep well from which you drew strength and offered solace.

People often wondered how someone like you, so inherently good and giving, found yourself entangled with a man like Donquixote Doflamingo. He was everything you weren't – a force of nature driven by a chilling cruelty, a man who reveled in the suffering of others, who twisted lives for his own amusement. His laughter, a harsh, cackling sound, often sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest pirates, yet to you, it was merely the echo of a different kind of storm. You saw the broken boy beneath the flamboyant exterior, the scarred past that molded him into the monster he had become. And despite the vast chasm between your natures, a strange, undeniable bond had formed, pulling you deeper into his dangerous, unpredictable world. You were the sun to his moon, the calm to his chaos, a tender hand reaching out to touch the untouchable. But how long could such a fragile connection endure in the tumultuous currents of the New World, especially when one heart beat with boundless love and the other pulsed with unyielding darkness?

You were excellent at seeing. Not just with your eyes, but with your entire being. You saw the flicker of doubt behind a braggart's grin, the tremor in a bully's hand, the silent plea in a hardened criminal's eyes. This wasn't a skill you honed; it was an inherent part of you, a profound capacity for empathy that allowed you to connect with the raw, often hidden, core of another being. And it was this very quality, your boundless compassion, that had first snagged Doflamingo's attention, drawing him in like a moth to a dangerously bright flame.

He remembered the first time he truly saw it, or rather, felt it. It was on some forgotten island, a backwater where his crew had just finished asserting their dominance. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and fear, the usual aftermath of their arrival. Doflamingo was striding through the chaos, a predatory smirk plastered on his face, when he stopped. Not because he wanted to, but because you had. You were kneeling by a collapsed stall, not tending to a fallen comrade or assessing damage, but gently stroking the ruffled feathers of a terrified pigeon, murmuring soft, comforting words. A silly, insignificant bird, in the grand scheme of his brutal world, yet you treated it with a tenderness that defied the very atmosphere he cultivated. He watched, utterly perplexed, as you then offered a small, broken piece of bread to the creature, your eyes shining with a pure, unadulterated kindness that seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed armor of indifference.

It was infuriating. It was fascinating. It was, he grudgingly admitted to himself, captivating. Your inherent goodness was a stark contrast to the ugliness he embodied, and for a time, that contrast intrigued him. He found himself drawn to it, to the way your empathy softened the sharp edges of his world, to the bizarre comfort of your compassion, even when he pretended to scorn it. He’d test it, push against it, only to find it unyielding, unwavering. And a strange, possessive feeling began to fester within him – a desire to keep that purity close, to have it reflect back at him, a twisted mirror to his own depravity.

But now, that same boundless empathy, that unending compassion, was a festering wound, a constant, irritating reminder of everything he wasn’t and everything he refused to be. Your ability to see past the facade, to offer understanding where he craved fear, to forgive where he delighted in vengeance, had curdled into a bitter resentment. It was a weakness he couldn't tolerate, a light that burned too brightly in his shadowed existence, threatening to expose the very depths of his cruelty. It was what he loved and loathed, the very essence of you that both bound him and drove him to the brink of fury.

He remembered it like it was yesterday, the memory vivid and biting. It was Baby 5. She’d been careless, as usual, taking a hit during a skirmish that was meant for someone else, her body crumpling in a most un-Doflamingo-like display of vulnerability. The sight of her, pale and bleeding on the grimy deck of their ship, usually elicited nothing more than a disgusted sneer from him. A weakness. A liability.

But then you were there.

You moved with a quiet urgency he found both perplexing and infuriating. Your hands, usually so gentle, were surprisingly steady as you knelt beside Baby 5, ignoring the blood that stained your clothes. Your touch wasn't clinical or detached; it was infused with that damned, unwavering compassion that burned him. You didn't just tend to the wound; you murmured soft reassurances, your voice a soothing balm against the harsh reality of their world. He watched, transfixed, as you pushed strands of hair from Baby 5's tear-streaked face, your eyes filled with an unbearable, soft sorrow for her pain.

He saw the way Baby 5, usually so desperate for validation, melted into your touch, her rigid posture softening, her sobs subsiding into quiet whimpers. You treated her not as a tool, or a subordinate, or a nuisance, but as a person, a fragile being in need of comfort. It was a scene that twisted something cold and hard in his gut. A part of him, the part he brutally suppressed, wanted to reach out, to understand that profound connection you effortlessly forged. But another, larger part, the one that governed his entire existence, raged.

Weakness. That’s all he saw. Your empathy was a gaping hole, a vulnerability he couldn't comprehend, let alone tolerate. It was a stark reminder of the sentimentality he'd long ago excised from his own being, a betrayal of everything he stood for. And in that moment, watching you pour your boundless kindness into someone he considered expendable, the first tendrils of that bitter, simmering hatred began to wrap around his twisted heart. It was a contradiction, a paradox he couldn't reconcile: the very thing that drew him to you, the very thing he secretly craved, was also the most potent source of his disdain.

God, you were the source of his anger, the very wellspring from which his fury flowed. Your existence was a constant, irritating contradiction to his own. It wasn't just your kindness in general, but your courage to openly display empathy and compassion right there, in front of him, that truly set his teeth on edge. It was a defiance, a silent rebellion against the cruel world he'd so painstakingly built around himself. He’d watch you, offering a gentle hand to a whimpering child, speaking softly to a terrified subordinate, or even, once, just gazing with a profound, aching sorrow at the destruction he’d wrought, and a cold, sharp rage would coil in his gut.

He hated you for it. Hated the way your inherent goodness shone, unbidden and untamed, like a defiant sunbeam piercing through his carefully constructed darkness. He hated that you saw beyond the monster, that you refused to cower, that your compassion was so absolute it made his own barren existence feel even colder. It was a mirror reflecting his own twisted soul, showing him everything he'd lost, everything he'd sacrificed, everything he’d brutally suppressed to become the man he was.

Yet, it was the same damned thing that had drawn him to you in the first place. Like a moth to a flame, he'd been inexplicably pulled into your orbit. Your unwavering kindness, your fearless empathy – it was an anomaly he couldn't comprehend, a challenge he couldn't resist. He’d wanted to possess it, perhaps even to corrupt it, to see if he could break that unbreakable spirit. He’d wanted to understand it, to tear apart the enigma of your compassion, to find its weakness, its breaking point. But you never broke. You simply continued to be you, radiating that infuriating, mesmerizing warmth, a constant thorn in his side and a strange, undeniable anchor in his chaotic world. It was a maddening paradox: the thing he despised most about you was also the very thing that had, against all reason, brought him to his knees.

The air in the opulent, yet often chilling, halls of Doflamingo's palace crackled with an unspoken tension. You had been tending to one of his crew, a low-ranking grunt who'd caught a nasty fever, and your quiet ministrations had, as always, drawn Doflamingo's gaze. He watched from the shadows, a familiar knot of conflicting emotions tightening in his chest. Your effortless kindness, your pure, unadulterated compassion – it was a constant affront to his very being, a soft hand gently pressing against the jagged edges of his soul.

When you finally straightened up, he was there, blocking your path. His usual predatory smirk was replaced by something colder, more volatile. "Fufufu... still playing the innocent healer, are we?" His voice was a low growl, laced with a familiar mockery.

You met his gaze, your own eyes unwavering. "Someone needed help, Doffy."

"Help?" he scoffed, taking a step closer, his tall frame looming over yours. "Such a pathetic sentiment. Don't you see, little dove? This world doesn't reward kindness. It devours it. And you... you practically bleed it." His hand, usually so quick to unleash devastating strings, reached out, not to strike, but to brush a lock of hair from your face. The touch was feather-light, yet it felt charged with an unbearable weight. "It infuriates me."

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken truths. You knew what he meant. You always did. Your empathy, the very core of your being, was a constant challenge to his cruel philosophy.

"It infuriates me," he repeated, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "how you can look at the ugliness of this world, at me, and still find... something. How you can offer that soft hand, that gentle gaze, when all I've ever known is taking and destroying." His eyes, usually hidden behind his sunglasses, were now piercing, raw, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something akin to vulnerability, a deep-seated confusion that warred with his inherent cruelty. "I hate it."

The words were harsh, blunt, an honest confession of his bitter resentment. And yet, in that moment, the raw honesty of it was almost disarming. You didn't flinch. You didn't argue. You simply stood there, your compassion a silent, unyielding force against his venom.

Then, just as the anger seemed to reach its peak, a different kind of storm brewed in his eyes. His gaze dropped from yours to your lips, a sudden, almost desperate hunger replacing the fury. He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, his breath ghosting across your face.

"I hate you for it," he rasped, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn't quite name, "but I can't... I can't stay away."

And then, before you could even process the words, his lips were on yours. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, almost violent in its intensity, a desperate claim. It was the kiss of a man consumed by a maddening contradiction, a torrent of anger and a desperate, undeniable yearning, all tangled up in the paradox of his twisted heart and your unwavering, infuriating kindness. In that kiss, the love and the hatred, the fascination and the revulsion, all collided, binding you to him in a dangerous, undeniable embrace.

The kiss had been a jarring shift, a violent tenderness that left you both reeling. Afterwards, Doflamingo had pulled away, his face a mask of conflict, and stalked off without another word, leaving you alone in the silent, echoing hall. This was the pattern of your relationship with him – intense bursts of raw emotion, followed by a tense, often suffocating silence.

You were his, in his own twisted sense of the word. He introduced you as such, a subtle possessiveness in his tone that brooked no argument. You were a permanent fixture in his life, a strange, soft anomaly in the Donquixote Family’s brutal hierarchy. The crew, hardened by years of Doflamingo's rule, regarded you with a mixture of confusion and cautious respect. They’d witnessed his volatile rages, his chilling indifference, yet you were the one person who could, at times, evoke something else from him – a flicker of something akin to worry, a strange, almost gentle touch, or even a fleeting, unguarded expression that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

For your part, you navigated his volatile nature with a blend of unwavering patience and quiet defiance. You wouldn't change who you were for him, and he, in turn, seemed to begrudgingly accept that. He’d yell, he’d rage, he’d mock your bleeding-heart tendencies, but you would simply meet his tirades with a calm gaze, a soft rebuttal, or even, occasionally, a pointed silence that infuriated him more than any argument. He’d test your compassion, presenting you with situations designed to break your spirit, to force you to acknowledge the "reality" of his world. He’d make you witness acts of cruelty, hoping to see the idealism shatter in your eyes. But it never did. Instead, you'd find small, subversive ways to mitigate the damage, a whispered word of comfort, a hidden act of kindness, an almost imperceptible gesture of solace.

This constant push and pull was the core of your existence together. He thrived on power, on control, on instilling fear. You, on the other hand, sought to soothe, to understand, to alleviate suffering. It was a clash of fundamental forces, a storm and a calm, perpetually locked in a dangerous dance.

There were moments, rare and fleeting, when the "love" part of their relationship, however twisted, would surface. He would watch you as you slept, a strange, almost tender expression softening his usually sharp features. He'd pull you closer during a storm, the rough expanse of his arm a surprising comfort. He'd bring you rare trinkets, not as gifts of affection, but as tokens of possession, yet the act itself held a bizarre, almost endearing sincerity. And you, in turn, found yourself drawn to the wounded boy beneath the tyrannical facade, to the flicker of humanity he so desperately tried to extinguish. You loved him, not for what he was, but for what you believed he could be, for the glimpse of a tortured soul you occasionally saw in his eyes.

But then, just as quickly, the mask would snap back into place. The cruelty would resurface, the mocking laughter would echo, and the cold, hard reality of who Doflamingo truly was would assert itself. And in those moments, the hatred he held for your inherent goodness would flare anew, a constant reminder of the chasm between you. You were his greatest weakness and his most coveted possession, a constant source of both agonizing frustration and undeniable fascination. It was a love built on paradox, sustained by conflict, and perpetually teetering on the brink of beautiful destruction.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violent orange and bruised purple, a fitting backdrop for the paradoxical life you shared with Doflamingo. Years had passed, marked by countless clashes of will, by his bouts of cruel amusement and your unwavering, stubborn kindness. Their relationship wasn't a fairytale, nor was it a conventional romance. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, in the most unlikely of pairings, two vastly different individuals could, against all odds, find a way to make things work.

It wasn't that the toxicity vanished; it simply became a part of the air you breathed, a constant, low hum beneath the surface of your shared existence. Doflamingo still reveled in chaos, still inflicted pain, and still, at times, openly disdained your empathy. You, in turn, never stopped offering comfort, never stopped seeing the lost boy beneath the Celestial Dragon's veneer. But something had shifted, solidified into a bizarre, unspoken agreement.

He had learned, in his own twisted way, to tolerate your goodness. More than that, he had come to rely on it, though he would sooner tear out his own throat than admit it. Your presence was a grounding force, a silent barometer that measured his own volatile temper. When his fury threatened to consume everything, your calm presence, your steady gaze, was often the only thing that could anchor him, if only for a fleeting moment. He might scoff at your compassion, but he knew, deep down, that you were the only one who could truly see him, the only one who didn't fear him unconditionally, and perhaps, the only one who didn't want anything from him other than his flawed self.

And you? You had come to understand that Doflamingo's love was not a soft, gentle thing, but a fierce, possessive grip. It was in the way his hand would linger on your arm for a fraction too long, in the way he'd dismiss a threat against you with a chilling finality, or the almost imperceptible softening of his voice when you were truly distressed. You accepted that his world was one of shadows and blood, and you chose to illuminate your own small corner of it, a quiet defiance that he, surprisingly, came to respect. You weren't changing him, not fundamentally, but you were undeniably influencing him, softening the edges of his brutal regime in ways no one else ever could.

Their life together was a constant tightrope walk, a delicate balance between destruction and a strange, profound connection. There were no grand declarations of love, no idyllic moments under starry skies. Instead, it was in the shared silences, in the way he'd instinctively reach for your hand during a tense standoff, in the fierce protectiveness he unconsciously displayed. You were the quiet anchor to his storm, the gentle touch to his hardened cruelty, and in that complex interplay, you found your own unconventional version of forever.

The world might call your relationship toxic, and perhaps it was. But in the volatile, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line, you and Doflamingo had forged a bond that, against all logic, endured. It was a love born of contradiction, sustained by unwavering acceptance, and ultimately, a testament to the fact that even the most disparate souls could find a way to fit, imperfectly but inextricably, together.

CROCODILE ❀.ೃ࿔*

Where kindness meet cruelty (2,431)

You always saw the good in people, even when no one else did. Your heart was an open book, filled with empathy and a boundless capacity for kindness. You were the one who'd offer a comforting embrace to a weeping stranger, whispering words of encouragement until their tears subsided. Sacrificing your own well-being for another's happiness was simply second nature to you, a quiet act of devotion that defined who you were. In a world often steeped in cynicism, you were a beacon of unwavering compassion, a gentle soul whose presence brought warmth to even the coldest corners.

And then there was Crocodile. Your lover, and the jarring counterpoint to your own gentle nature. Where you offered solace, he dispensed harsh truths. Where you sought understanding, he wielded anger like a weapon. He was the shifting sands of a desert storm, unpredictable and unforgiving, a stark contrast to your own steady, calming presence. You, the compassionate secretary of the Cross Guild, found yourself drawn to the very man who embodied everything you weren't. It was a paradox, a love story etched in opposing shades, and yet, it was undeniably yours.

The docks of Nanohana were a chaotic symphony of shouts, creaking wood, and the salty tang of the sea. A young street urchin, no older than ten, stumbled, sending a cascade of oranges tumbling from their overloaded basket. The fruit rolled across the cobblestones, some squashed underfoot by hurried passersby. The child's lip trembled, tears welling in their eyes, a whimper escaping their throat.

You, ever the first to react, were already moving. Your steps were swift and light as you knelt beside the distraught child. "Oh, you poor thing," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm amidst the din. You began to gather the remaining oranges, carefully brushing off the dirt before placing them back in the basket. "It's alright, we'll get these picked up. Don't you worry." You even pulled a small, pristine handkerchief from your pocket, gently dabbing at the child's tear-streaked face. You'd likely offer to buy them a new batch of oranges, or at the very least, share some of your own rations. You wouldn't just fix the problem; you'd mend the child's spirit.

Meanwhile, Crocodile would observe the scene from a short distance, a scowl deepening on his scarred face. His eyes, sharp and calculating, would assess the situation not with pity, but with a cold, almost detached analysis. He wouldn't lift a finger to help. Instead, he'd bark, "Get up, you sniveling brat! Crying won't put those oranges back in the basket. Learn to hold onto your belongings, or you'll starve." He might even kick a stray orange further away, not out of maliciousness, but as a twisted form of tough love, a brutal lesson in self-reliance. For him, the child's misfortune wasn't an opportunity for kindness, but a chance for a harsh, unforgettable lesson about the unforgiving nature of the world. He'd tell you later that coddling only bred weakness, that true strength came from enduring hardship alone.

The docks incident was a stark, undeniable fissure in their shared reality. It was a clear line drawn in the sand, illustrating precisely where your unwavering empathy diverged from Crocodile's unyielding pragmatism. You'd spent the rest of that afternoon ensuring the child was truly alright, even managing to convince a local vendor to give them a few extra oranges, while Crocodile watched, his arms crossed, a silent, disapproving observer.

Yet, despite these glaring differences, you made it work. It wasn't always easy, and there were countless silent battles fought in the space between your intertwined fingers. But moments of unexpected tenderness, like scattered desert blooms, punctuated their harsh landscape.

You remember one particularly rough night in Alabasta, the wind howling like a banshee through the desert, whipping sand against their temporary shelter. You were shivering, despite the worn blanket wrapped tightly around you. Crocodile, ever alert, seemed to sense your discomfort without a word passing between them. He didn't offer a platitude, or even a direct question. Instead, he simply shifted closer, his large frame radiating a surprising amount of warmth. He draped his own heavy cloak over your shoulders, its rough fabric a stark contrast to the softness of his subtle gesture. He never acknowledged it, never mentioned it the next day, but the quiet act spoke volumes. It was in these small, unspoken gestures that his version of affection manifested—a protective instinct, a silent acknowledgment of your presence and comfort, even if it was buried beneath layers of gruffness.

Another time, after a particularly grueling Cross Guild meeting, you found yourself overwhelmed by the endless paperwork and the constant tension that simmered between the members. You were slumped over your desk, a headache throbbing behind your eyes. Crocodile entered, a cloud of cigar smoke preceding him. He usually had a biting comment or a new demand. But that day, he simply pulled up a chair opposite you. He didn't speak. He just sat there, meticulously cleaning his hook, the rhythmic scrape of metal against leather the only sound in the room. You didn't realize how much you needed that quiet, undemanding presence until he was there. It wasn't comfort in the traditional sense, but it was his comfort—a shared silence that somehow eased the pressure in your head and the weight on your shoulders. It was in these moments that you truly understood how deeply intertwined your lives had become, a testament to a bond forged not in similarity, but in the acceptance of profound differences.

The quiet moments, the ones where the world's chaos faded into the background, became the bedrock of your relationship. You learned to read the subtle shifts in Crocodile's demeanor, the slight tightening around his eyes that signaled a flicker of concern, or the rare, almost imperceptible softening of his jaw when he genuinely approved of something you'd done. And he, in his own gruff way, came to rely on your presence, on the gentle order you brought to the tumultuous operations of the Cross Guild, and perhaps, to his own turbulent mind.

You often found yourself sifting through stacks of bounty posters in his office, organizing the chaos of wanted criminals and their ever-increasing prices. He'd be hunched over his own desk, a plume of cigar smoke curling around his head, ostensibly engrossed in a map or a strategy document. But you knew he was aware of your every movement, the soft rustle of paper, the quiet hum you sometimes made when you were deeply focused. He’d never admit it, but your steady, calming presence was a quiet anchor in his storm-tossed life.

One evening, a fierce storm raged outside, rattling the windows of their temporary headquarters. Rain lashed down in sheets, and the wind howled like a hungry beast. The power flickered, plunging the room into momentary darkness before sputtering back to life. You jumped, startled, a small gasp escaping your lips. Crocodile, who had been observing the storm with an almost casual indifference, turned his head. He didn't say anything, but his gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than usual. Then, almost imperceptibly, he reached out and flicked a switch on a small, oil-burning lantern he kept on his desk, its warm, steady glow pushing back against the encroaching shadows. It was a simple act, yet it spoke volumes. It was his way of saying, "I'm here. You're safe."

You smiled then, a soft, genuine smile that reached your eyes. He didn't return it, of course, but you saw the briefest flicker in his own, a hint of something unreadable, perhaps even content. In that shared, silent moment, amidst the raging storm and the world's cruel indifference, you knew, unequivocally, that your contrasting souls had found an unlikely, yet unbreakable, harmony. You were the light, he was the shadow, and together, you cast a unique silhouette against the vast, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line.

Crocodile would never admit it, not even to himself, but your relentless kindness was a persistent, inconvenient anomaly in his carefully constructed world of cynicism. He viewed emotions as weaknesses, vulnerabilities to be exploited, yet your boundless empathy chipped away at his hardened resolve in ways he couldn't comprehend, let alone control. It was like a constant, gentle pressure against a rock, slowly, imperceptibly eroding its sharp edges.

He'd often scoff at your bleeding-heart tendencies, muttering about sentimentality being a burden in the Grand Line. He'd witness you offering a stray dog a portion of your own meal, or patiently listening to a tearful merchant lamenting their losses, and a muscle in his jaw would tick. It wasn't anger, not precisely. It was… disquiet. Your actions defied his every belief about survival, about the ruthless efficiency required to thrive in a world that devoured the weak.

One blistering afternoon in Alabasta, you both found yourselves navigating the dusty streets of a small desert town, en route to a discreet meeting. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the distant sound of a bazaar. As you passed a narrow alley, a faint, mewling sound caught your ear. Tucked away in the shadows, a tiny kitten, no bigger than your palm, lay curled on the grimy sand, its fur matted, its ribs starkly visible. It was shivering, despite the heat.

Without a moment's hesitation, you knelt, extending a gentle hand. The kitten, wary, flattened itself further, but you remained still, your voice a soft, reassuring murmur. "Hey there, little one," you cooed, your fingers slowly, carefully reaching out to stroke its head. It flinched, then, surprisingly, leaned into your touch, letting out a weak purr.

Crocodile stopped, his shadow falling over you both. He watched, his golden eyes narrowed, a mixture of disdain and something unreadable in their depths. He half-expected you to leave it, to continue on your way. Instead, you carefully scooped up the trembling creature, cradling it against your chest.

"We can't just leave it, Crocodile," you said, your voice quiet but firm, not even looking at him as you began to gently clean the kitten's matted fur with a damp cloth you always carried. "It's starving. It won't last the night."

He let out a low, exasperated grunt. "It's a stray, Y/N. This isn't a charity mission. We have business." His words were sharp, cutting, but you noticed he didn't move to stop you. He merely stood there, a formidable, unyielding presence, observing your tender ministrations.

You didn't argue. You simply continued to comfort the kitten, your fingers stroking its tiny head until its purrs grew stronger. You knew he wouldn't outright forbid it, not when you looked at him with that earnest, unwavering gaze. He'd grouse, he'd mock, but he wouldn't force you to abandon it.

Later, back at your temporary lodgings, you found a small, chipped bowl on the floor, filled with water and a few scraps of dried meat. The kitten, now somewhat revived, was cautiously lapping at the water. Crocodile was nowhere to be seen, but the message was clear. He hadn't asked about the kitten, hadn't acknowledged its presence beyond his initial protests. Yet, the bowl was there, a silent, grudging concession to your persistent heart. It was a vexing, illogical feeling for him, this involuntary response to your empathy. He understood power, control, ambition. But your quiet, unwavering kindness? That was an enigma he was still, against his will, trying to decipher.

Years passed, measured not by calendars, but by the relentless pursuit of power, the fleeting alliances, and the dust of countless islands. The Cross Guild grew, its influence spreading like a desert storm, and through it all, you remained at Crocodile's side, the unwavering constant in his tumultuous existence. The kitten, long grown into a sleek, healthy cat, often curled on your desk, a silent, furry testament to that long-ago moment in Alabasta and to Crocodile's begrudging, unspoken tolerance.

He never softened, not in the way one might expect. The scowl rarely left his face, his words remained sharp, and his ambition burned as fiercely as ever. But something shifted. The exasperated grunts became less frequent, the cynical remarks sometimes carried a faint, almost imperceptible hint of dry amusement. He still chastised you for your "naiveté," but the bite in his voice was tempered by a strange, almost possessive undertone.

It was during a tense standoff with a rival crew on a remote, rain-swept island. A young, inexperienced crew member, overwhelmed by the sudden violence, froze, directly in the path of an incoming attack. Your eyes widened in alarm, and without thinking, you moved. Not to fight, but to push the young man out of harm's way, leaving yourself momentarily exposed.

Time seemed to slow. Crocodile, already engaged with the opposing captain, saw it all. His golden eyes, usually cold and calculating, flashed with something akin to raw, visceral panic. For a fraction of a second, his guard wavered, a dangerous lapse. But before he could curse, before he could intervene, you had already completed your selfless act, tumbling to the ground with the crew member, both of you narrowly avoiding a devastating blow.

The fight raged on, but the brief, unguarded look on Crocodile's face spoke volumes. It was not anger at your recklessness, not disdain for your perceived weakness. It was a fleeting, terrifying glimpse of fear – fear for you.

Later, when the dust settled and the enemy lay defeated, you stood a little shaken, but unharmed. Crocodile approached, his cloak billowing around him, a silent, imposing figure. He didn't ask if you were hurt. He didn't offer praise. He simply reached out, his hook glinting, and with surprising gentleness, he nudged a stray strand of hair from your face. His eyes, devoid of their usual malice, met yours. For a long moment, an eternity in their complex dynamic, there was no anger, no judgment, only a quiet, profound understanding.

He might never articulate it, but in that silent gesture, in the way he allowed your kindness to exist unfettered in his brutal world, was his ultimate acceptance. You were the anomaly, the inconvenient truth, the softest edge to his sharpest ambition. You were the one who saw the flickering good in a heart he insisted was barren. And perhaps, in a way he would never acknowledge, you were the only one who could truly anchor the shifting sands of Sir Crocodile. You were his balance, his contradiction, and his most fiercely, silently guarded treasure. Their story wasn't one of change, but of profound, unwavering acceptance of each other's unchanging, contrasting natures.

KATAKURI 𐙚 ˚🍰 ⋆

The flutter and the stone (2,593 words)

A warmth emanated from you, a silent, comforting glow that drew people in like moths to a flame. You were the kind of soul who’d offer a gentle hand to someone stumbling, not just to pick them up, but to steady them until they found their footing again. Sacrifice wasn’t a foreign concept to you; it was a quiet understanding, a willingness to put another’s well-being above your own, even if it meant hardship for yourself. You were truly one of the best, a beacon of empathy in a world that often felt devoid of it.

But then there was Katakuri. He was a stark contrast to your vibrant spirit, a calm and serious presence, his emotions carefully guarded behind an impenetrable facade. An arranged engagement by Big Mom herself had sealed your fate, weaving your compassionate nature into the fabric of his stoic world. Now, you found yourself living alongside him on Whole Cake Island, the sweet, saccharine air a strange accompaniment to the quiet, almost detached reality you shared. You, a soul brimming with kindness, and he, a man of unwavering composure, were bound together in an intricate dance orchestrated by a Yonko.

He'd expected a hindrance, a constant, buzzing annoyance orchestrated by his mother. That's what most of these arranged marriages were: a liability, a weakness he'd have to account for. He'd envisioned someone fragile, prone to tears and dramatics, clinging to him for protection, constantly seeking attention he had no desire to give. He'd braced himself for endless chatter, for a person who would disrupt the rigid order he'd meticulously crafted in his life. The idea of sharing his space, his very existence, with someone so utterly out of sync with his own stoic nature had been, frankly, irritating. He’d prepared for the worst, for a constant drain on his already limited patience, a shadow of inconvenience following him everywhere.

But you… you were different. You were a quiet warmth, not a demanding heat. You didn't cling; you simply existed, a gentle presence that somehow softened the edges of his perpetually sharp world. The "endless chatter" he'd anticipated never materialized. Instead, you offered thoughtful observations, quiet support, or sometimes, just a comfortable silence. He’d found you, more than once, tending to a wounded crewmate with a tenderness that made even the gruffest pirates soften. You'd share your meals, offer comfort without being asked, and your eyes held a depth of understanding that surprised him. You didn't demand his attention, but your quiet acts of kindness drew it anyway.

You didn't just shine; you fluttered. You were a vibrant, living thing, a soft current of light that seemed to effortlessly navigate the harsh realities of Whole Cake Island. He found himself, against his better judgment, observing you. How you'd hum a soft tune while organizing supplies, how your laughter, soft and genuine, could cut through the usual cacophony of the island. He’d catch himself, on rare occasions, feeling a faint, unfamiliar stir in his chest when you’d offer a gentle smile his way. He'd expected a burden, a heavy weight to bear. What he got was… something akin to light. A light he hadn't known he needed, but now, he found himself, in his own silent way, watching, almost waiting, for its gentle, steady glow.

You had an uncanny knack for anticipating needs, a quiet magic that hummed beneath your gentle demeanor. Katakuri would find his favorite tea brewed just so in the mornings, a small, thoughtful gesture. Or, on days he was particularly swamped, he'd discover a meticulously packed lunch waiting for him – often including those subtly sweet mochi he favored, even though you’d never seen him eat them openly. It wasn't just for him, though. Your kindness was a boundless well. You'd often prepare extra portions, enough for his siblings, even a specially made sweet for Big Mom herself, always left in a place where it would be easily found, without any fanfare or expectation of thanks. You simply did.

One sweltering afternoon, a sudden, torrential downpour erupted over Whole Cake Island. Katakuri had been in a particularly intense training session, his usual stoicism even more pronounced as he pushed himself. He’d barely paused for breath, let alone considered the oppressive heat or the sudden chill the rain brought. His siblings, too, were scattered across the sprawling complex, many caught off guard by the unexpected shift in weather.

As he finally wrapped up, Mochi sticking to his skin from the exertion, he started towards his usual post. But when he arrived, there was a small, steaming cup waiting. Not just for him, but several, strategically placed for others who would soon be arriving. It was a ginger-lemon tea, perfectly warm, with a subtle sweetness that cut through the humidity and offered a comforting heat against the sudden dampness. Beside it, a stack of freshly folded, dry towels.

You weren't there, of course. You never were, not to receive praise or acknowledgment. But the faint scent of ginger and lemon lingered, a silent testament to your presence, your unwavering thoughtfulness. Katakuri picked up the mug, the warmth seeping into his calloused hands. He took a slow sip, and for a fleeting moment, a faint, almost imperceptible easing of his perpetually tense shoulders could be observed. You just… knew. And you acted, a quiet force of nature, making the world around you a little bit softer, a little bit kinder, without ever being asked.

You continued to weave your quiet magic into the fabric of Whole Cake Island life, a gentle counterpoint to its often chaotic rhythms. Katakuri, for his part, found himself in uncharted territory. He was accustomed to calculating, to predicting, to controlling. But you, with your unassuming kindness and innate ability to simply be, defied all his expectations. He couldn't quite categorize you, couldn't fit you into any of his established frameworks. It was unsettling, yet… not entirely unpleasant.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of territory patrols and dealing with a new batch of unruly subordinates, Katakuri returned to his private quarters. The air was heavy, the usual tension in his shoulders even more pronounced. He expected the familiar silence, the solitary decompression he always sought. Instead, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminated the room, and the scent of freshly brewed herbal tea, a blend he recognized as one that aided relaxation, wafted gently towards him.

You were there, of course, perched on a plush cushion, a book open in your lap. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, usually bright with warmth, holding a quiet understanding. You didn't speak, didn't offer effusive greetings or pointed questions about his day. You simply gestured to the steaming mug on his small table, then to another cushion opposite you.

He hesitated for a moment, an almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his face. He'd never truly shared this space with anyone, not in this way. But the subtle invitation, devoid of any demand, was strangely compelling. He settled onto the cushion, his imposing form making the furniture seem almost fragile. He picked up the mug, the warmth a welcome contrast to the cold calculation that had dominated his day.

You returned to your book, yet your presence was anything but distant. It was a comfortable, silent companionship, a soothing balm to the weary edges of his mind. He found himself, for the first time in a long time, truly relaxing. The tension in his jaw eased, his shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. He didn't know what to call this feeling, this quiet sense of calm that settled over him. But as he sipped his tea, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you read, a thought, foreign and unexpected, drifted through his mind: perhaps this arranged marriage wasn't a burden after all. Perhaps it was… something else entirely. Something he was only just beginning to understand.

The silent tea-drinking evenings became a quiet ritual, a comfortable pause in the ceaseless rhythm of Whole Cake Island. Katakuri found himself anticipating them, the subtle shift in his mood almost imperceptible even to him. He’d never craved companionship, never sought it out, but your presence was different. It wasn’t a demand, but an invitation, a soft echo that resonated within his usually unyielding self.

The little interactions began to accumulate, tiny threads weaving a tapestry of connection. One blustery morning, you found him meticulously patching a tear in his scarf, a rare moment of vulnerability in his otherwise flawless exterior. You didn’t comment, didn’t pry, but simply offered a spool of stronger thread from your own sewing kit. He grunted in acknowledgment, a sound that in anyone else might have been dismissive, but from him, it was a quiet acceptance. Later, he noticed the mend was virtually invisible, stronger than before.

Another time, during a particularly chaotic family meeting, a flurry of paper charts went tumbling, scattering across the floor. Before anyone else could react, you were already gathering them, your movements swift and efficient, organizing them back into their proper order without a single word of complaint or even a look for approval. Katakuri, observing from the corner, found a flicker of something akin to admiration stir within him. You weren’t just kind; you were competent, resourceful, and utterly unassuming in your helpfulness.

He even started to notice your preferences. The way you always took your tea with a dash of honey, not sugar. The quiet smile that played on your lips when you managed to coax a wilting plant back to life. He’d find himself leaving a small, perfectly ripe fruit on your table, or ensuring a particularly comfortable blanket was draped over your favored reading chair. These were not grand gestures, not yet. They were quiet acknowledgments, a recognition of your unique presence, and a subtle, almost unconscious desire to contribute to your comfort, just as you so readily contributed to the comfort of everyone around you.

This wasn't just an arranged marriage anymore. The rigid lines of their initial agreement were blurring, softening with each shared silence, each unspoken understanding. It was becoming something else, something real and unexpected. A quiet, blossoming partnership rooted not in duty, but in a burgeoning, unfamiliar warmth.

The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but Katakuri himself. His siblings, accustomed to his imposing, unyielding presence, might have noticed a slight softening around his eyes when you were near, a less rigid set to his shoulders. But for him, it was a profound internal reordering. The quiet comfort you brought wasn't just a pleasant diversion; it was becoming an essential anchor in his turbulent world.

One afternoon, a squall of minor, yet persistent, issues arose across the island. A supply shipment was delayed, a kitchen pipe burst, and two of his younger siblings were squabbling over a prized confection. Katakuri moved with his usual efficiency, dispatching orders, making calls, his mind a whirl of solutions. Yet, a low thrum of irritation persisted beneath his calm exterior. He found himself, almost unconsciously, seeking you out.

You were in the vast, labyrinthine library, meticulously cataloging old maps. The scent of aged paper and faint cinnamon clung to the air around you. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, as always, holding a quiet, welcoming light. You didn't ask what was wrong, didn't demand explanations. Instead, you simply offered a small, freshly baked cookie from a plate beside you. "They just came out of the oven," you said softly, a gentle invitation in your voice.

He took it, the warm, slightly crisp cookie a surprising comfort in his large hand. He ate it in two bites, the familiar sweetness a momentary balm. He then, to his own surprise, found himself recounting the day's minor frustrations, not in detail, but in a series of clipped, gruff sentences. You listened, truly listened, your gaze unwavering, a silent well of understanding. You didn't offer advice, didn't try to fix anything. You just were.

And in that quiet acceptance, the knot of irritation in his chest began to loosen. The problems hadn't vanished, but his perspective on them had shifted. He felt a quiet sense of calm, a subtle centering that he hadn't realized he craved until you provided it. When he finally rose to leave, the silence between you wasn't empty; it was full, a testament to the unspoken bond that was solidifying between you. He paused at the door, turning his head slightly. "Thank you," he rumbled, the words rough but sincere. It was a rare, almost unprecedented admission from him, a testament to how deeply your quiet presence had begun to affect him. The arranged marriage had indeed become something else entirely. It was becoming a haven.

The "thank you" had been a tremor, a subtle shift in the carefully constructed facade Katakuri presented to the world. For you, it was a confirmation, a quiet acknowledgment that the seed of connection you had diligently, patiently sown was beginning to take root. You didn't press, didn't exploit the rare moment of vulnerability. You simply offered a small, gentle smile, a warmth that resonated with the burgeoning shift within him.

The silent tea rituals evolved. Sometimes, you would softly read aloud from your book, your voice a calm murmur against the backdrop of the bustling island. Katakuri, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts, would often find himself listening, the words weaving through the usual strategic calculations in his mind. He even began to notice the stories you favored – tales of quiet heroism, of small acts of courage, of unexpected tenderness in harsh worlds. These were the stories that mirrored the silent strength he was coming to see in you.

One particularly stormy night, the type of tempest that rattled the very foundations of Whole Cake Chateau, the power flickered and died. The usual emergency lights clicked on, but the vast, opulent halls felt eerily dark and unsettling. Katakuri, ever vigilant, was already moving to check on security and his siblings. As he passed his quarters, however, a soft light caught his eye.

You were there, not with a flashlight, but with a collection of small, flickering candles, strategically placed to cast a warm, comforting glow. You were not fearful, not flustered. Instead, you were humming a soft tune, carefully placing more candles, your movements calm and deliberate. When he entered, you simply looked up, your eyes reflecting the candlelight, making them seem even brighter.

"It's easier to see," you murmured, "and… it's warmer."

He stood there for a moment, the usual tension in his shoulders finally loosening. The storm raged outside, the world felt chaotic, but in this small pocket of warmth and soft light, with you, there was an inexplicable sense of peace. He found himself, for the first time, simply existing in your presence, without needing to calculate, without needing to guard.

He sat on his usual cushion, and for the first time, you leaned in, gently resting your head against his arm as you continued your quiet work with the candles. He didn't flinch, didn't stiffen. Instead, a warmth, far deeper than the flickering candlelight, spread through him. It was a warmth that settled into his very core, chasing away the lingering chill of the storm and the ever-present weight of his duties. This wasn't just an arranged marriage, a duty to be performed. This was… home. And in that quiet, candlelit room, surrounded by the soft flutter of your presence, Katakuri, the unbreakable warrior, finally understood. This was real. And against all odds, it was beautiful.

BUGGY THE CLOWN ༘⋆𖦹 🎪 🎈

The Compassionate Heart and the Clowns Love (2,145 words)

The salt-laced wind whipped your (Y/N)'s hair across your face as you gazed out at the endless expanse of the Grand Line. A gentle smile touched your lips, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest. You were a beacon of kindness in a world often consumed by chaos and cruelty. Where others saw danger, you sought understanding. Where despair festered, you offered a comforting hand. You were the one who'd sit with someone through their darkest hours, patiently listening, offering words of encouragement, and lifting them back onto their feet. The thought of sacrificing your own well-being for another's safety wasn't a burden; it was simply who you were. You were a good soul, pure and unwavering, a testament to the best of humanity.

And then there was Buggy. He stood beside you on the ship's deck, his signature red nose twitching slightly in the breeze. He was a whirlwind of contradictions, a walking, talking paradox to your own serene nature. Where you were selfless, he was self-serving. Where you were gentle, he was… well, he was Buggy. Loud, theatrical, and prone to dramatic outbursts, he was the kind of person who'd trip over his own feet and then blame the ship for moving. He was undeniably chaotic, a clashing cymbal to your quiet melody. Yet, he was your best friend, a bond forged in the crucible of shared adventures and countless debates. What you didn't know, however, was that beneath all his bluster and clownish antics, Buggy held a secret close to his heart – a fervent, almost obsessive adoration for you. You, the kindest soul he’d ever met, the person who made his chaotic world just a little bit brighter.

You'd often find yourself tending to the small, potted tangerine tree you kept on deck, a splash of vibrant green against the endless blue. Each leaf was carefully inspected, every nascent fruit admired with a quiet joy. Buggy, ever the lurker, would pretend to be polishing his cannons nearby, his gaze, however, was fixed on you. He’d watch as your fingers, so gentle and sure, brushed away a stray speck of dust or tested the soil's moisture. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh would escape his lips as he saw the soft, contented smile that graced your face. "What a weirdo," he’d grumble to himself, but the words lacked any real bite. Instead, a familiar warmth would spread through his chest, a feeling he refused to name but cherished all the same.

One blustery afternoon, a new recruit, still green and seasick, stumbled against the mast, dropping a tray of freshly baked bread. The loaves, a rare and cherished treat, scattered across the grimy deck. The recruit's face crumpled, tears welling in their eyes, anticipating a harsh reprimand. Before Buggy could unleash one of his famously theatrical tirades, you were there. You knelt, not to scold, but to gather the ruined bread, your voice a soothing balm. "It's alright," you murmured, your hand gently resting on the recruit's shaking shoulder. "Accidents happen. We'll just bake more." You even managed a small, reassuring smile, and the recruit's tears slowly subsided. Buggy, his mouth agape, watched the entire exchange. His planned tirade died on his tongue, replaced by a strange, almost painful ache in his chest. He'd never seen anyone react with such pure, unadulterated compassion. It was in moments like these, witnessing your boundless empathy, that Buggy felt himself tumbling further, irrevocably, in love with you.

You knew Buggy's temper was as short as his stature, and often as explosive as his Buggy Balls. There were countless times his face would contort into a mask of fury, his voice rising to a theatrical roar, usually over something trivial like a misplaced map or a particularly unflattering comment about his nose. Most of the crew would scatter, wisely giving him a wide berth. But not you.

One sweltering afternoon, a clumsy crewmate tripped, sending a precarious stack of Buggy's meticulously polished cannonballs clattering across the deck. The sound of metallic chaos was immediately followed by Buggy's indignant shriek. "You imbecile! Do you know how long it takes to buff these beauties?! They're practically jewels! I'll chop you into a hundred pieces and feed you to the Sea Kings!" His body began to separate, his disembodied hands already twitching with menace.

The poor crewmate, pale and trembling, braced for impact. But then, a calm, steady hand rested on Buggy's arm. It was yours. "Buggy," you said softly, your voice cutting through his enraged bellow like a soothing breeze. "It was an accident. Look, no real harm done. We can gather them up, and I'll even help you polish them again. We have plenty of time."

Buggy's separated limbs paused, his furious eyes blinking. He looked from the scattered cannonballs to your gentle face, then back again. His anger, so quickly ignited, seemed to deflate under your unwavering calm. He let out a dramatic huff, reassembling himself with a flourish. "Hmph! Fine! But only because you asked, (Y/N)! And you'd better polish them until they gleam like my magnificent nose!" He still grumbled, but the genuine threat had vanished, replaced by a theatrical show of lingering annoyance. You simply smiled, already kneeling to pick up the cannonballs, and Buggy, despite himself, found his heart doing a strange little flutter.

Another time, during a particularly frustrating negotiation with a shady merchant, Buggy found himself completely outmaneuvered, his grand plans unraveling before his very eyes. He'd stormed back to the ship, red-faced and fuming, kicking at anything that dared to be in his path. He paced the deck, muttering curses and slamming his fist into his palm. "That conniving weasel! How dare he! He'll regret this! I'll send a Buggy Bomb right through his wretched shop!"

The crew kept their distance, knowing better than to interrupt a Buggy tantrum. You, however, approached him, a mug of steaming tea in your hands. "Buggy," you said, offering it to him. "You look like you could use this."

He glared at the mug, then at you. "What do I need tea for, (Y/N)?! I need revenge! I need to show that miserable flea who he's messing with!"

You gently pressed the warm mug into his hands. "Sometimes," you said, your voice soft and understanding, "a moment of calm can help you think clearer. Besides, you're the greatest captain on the Grand Line. You'll figure out a way to get what you want, without resorting to blowing up perfectly good shops."

Buggy stared at the tea, then at your encouraging expression. The rigid tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, almost imperceptibly. He took a hesitant sip of the tea, then another. He still looked disgruntled, but the wild anger in his eyes had softened into a frustrated pout. "Hmph. Fine," he mumbled, taking another gulp of tea. "But I'm still getting my revenge. Just… after this." He never did end up blowing up the shop that day. And as he watched you walk away, a faint, almost imperceptible blush crept onto his painted cheeks. Every time you treated him with such quiet understanding, such unwavering belief, he felt a pull, a warmth that had nothing to do with the Grand Line's sun, and everything to do with you. He was, completely, hopelessly, madly in love.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. A gentle breeze rustled the ship's sails, carrying the scent of salt and adventure. You were sitting by the railing, gazing at the glittering expanse of the sea, a quiet contentment settling over you.

Buggy, however, was a whirlwind of nervous energy. He paced the deck, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the fading light. His mind was a battlefield, warring between his usual theatrical bluster and a sudden, crippling shyness. He'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head, each version more dramatic and magnificent than the last. But now, with you so close, so calm and effortlessly kind, all his carefully constructed speeches dissolved into a jumbled mess.

He stopped abruptly, facing away from you, his hands clenched at his sides. "Y-Y-You know, (Y/N)!" he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I'm the greatest pirate captain on the Grand Line! The magnificent Buggy! No one can compare to my genius, my charisma, my... my incredible nose!" He gestured wildly to his face, but his usual confidence was noticeably absent.

You turned, a small, amused smile playing on your lips. "Of course, Buggy," you said, your voice soft and patient. "No one doubts your magnificent qualities."

His shoulders sagged slightly at your gentle tone. This wasn't going as planned. He spun around, his face a dramatic mask of internal turmoil, his cheeks a surprising shade of crimson beneath his make-up. "B-But... but there's something else! Something... something even more magnificent than my incredible powers and my vast treasure!" He took a shaky breath, his eyes darting to yours, then quickly away. "It's... it's you! You're... you're the most amazing, kindest, most infuriatingly selfless person I've ever met! You make my heart feel all... all weird and tingly! Like a hundred tiny explosions going off at once!"

He finally looked at you, his normally boastful eyes wide with a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. "I... I think I'm in love with you, (Y/N)! Madly, completely, utterly in love!" The words tumbled out in a rush, leaving him breathless. He stood there, frozen, waiting for your reaction, his painted smile feeling incredibly stiff. The silence stretched, filled only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull, and the frantic pounding of Buggy's own heart.

The silence that followed Buggy's confession hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the ship. Buggy, for once in his life, was utterly still, his eyes wide and vulnerable, fixed on your face. He braced himself for a laugh, a bewildered stare, anything but what came next.

A soft, genuine smile bloomed on your face, a warmth that seemed to banish the last vestiges of twilight from the deck. You stepped closer, your hand gently reaching out to touch his arm. "Buggy," you said, your voice a calm, steady melody that quieted the frantic beating of his heart. "You really are something else."

His breath hitched, and he stared at you, waiting.

You chuckled softly, a sound that sent a strange, delightful shiver down his spine. "Those 'weird and tingly' feelings? I get them too, with you." Your gaze, so open and honest, met his, and he felt a jolt, like a tiny electric current passing between you. "And yes, Buggy. A thousand times yes."

Buggy's jaw dropped. His eyes, usually so expressive in their theatrical fury, were now wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "Y-Y-You... you mean it?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "You're... you're not just being kind?"

You laughed again, a fuller, more joyful sound this time. "No, Buggy," you affirmed, your grip on his arm firm and reassuring. "I'm not just being kind. I really do feel something for you. All of you. Even your magnificent nose." You squeezed his arm gently, your eyes sparkling with affection.

A colossal grin, wider and more genuine than any of his usual theatrical displays, spread across Buggy's face. He let out a whoop of pure delight, so loud it probably echoed across the silent ocean. In a flash of spontaneous joy, he found himself doing something utterly uncharacteristic: he pulled you into a surprisingly gentle, yet firm, hug. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and for a moment, the notorious Pirate Captain Buggy, the loud and bombastic clown, was simply Buggy, a man completely, blissfully, and truly in love.

The news spread through the crew like wildfire. Initially, there were whispers, then outright disbelief. "Captain Buggy? In love? With (Y/N)?" But as days turned into weeks, the evidence was undeniable. Buggy, while still prone to his dramatic outbursts, seemed to have a new spring in his step. His threats of dismemberment were often softened by a glance in your direction, and he'd even been caught, on more than one occasion, looking at you with an expression so ridiculously fond it made the crewmates snicker.

You, meanwhile, remained your steadfast, compassionate self, but now there was an added layer of warmth, a quiet joy that resonated with Buggy's newfound, if still chaotic, happiness. You'd still calm his tantrums, still offer gentle guidance, but now, there was an unspoken understanding, a shared tenderness that had blossomed between the kindest soul on the Grand Line and its most theatrical pirate captain. Their journey continued, but now, it was a journey shared, two vastly different individuals sailing under the same flag, bound by a love as unexpected and vibrant as the Grand Line itself.

ROB LUCCI 𓇢𓆸

Kind Soul, Cold Hearted Love (2,158)

A salty breeze ruffled your hair, carrying the scent of the sea and distant islands. It was a familiar comfort, one that always managed to soothe the edges of your heart, no matter the turmoil within. And there was often turmoil. Not from your own spirit, which was a wellspring of empathy and unwavering support, but from the stark contrast of the world around you, and more acutely, the man by your side.

You, dear soul, were a beacon of warmth in a world often shrouded in shadow. You were the soft hand that cradled a weeping friend, the gentle voice that whispered encouragement when hope seemed lost, the unwavering presence that offered solace even at the cost of your own comfort. You would readily throw yourself into harm's way for a stranger, your kindness an almost tangible force, a quiet strength that made you truly one of a kind. You loved with a fierce, unconditional devotion, and that love was currently anchored to a man who embodied everything you weren't.

Rob Lucci. His presence was as cool and unyielding as the deepest ocean, his gaze often distant, calculated. He moved with a predatory grace, his actions driven by a harsh, singular vision of “justice” that frequently left collateral damage in its wake. There was an edge to him, a contained aggression that simmered beneath his composed exterior, a coldness that could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest marine. You were a vibrant bloom, and he, a jagged, beautiful shard of ice. How could two such disparate souls find their way to each other? And more importantly, how could a heart as open as yours navigate the guarded complexities of his? This was the story of your love, a testament to the fact that even the coldest hearts can be touched by the purest kindness, and perhaps, even find a strange, unsettling warmth.

It wasn't a grand, sweeping gesture that drew Rob Lucci to you, but rather a slow, insidious erosion of his carefully constructed indifference. He had always seen the world in stark black and white, good and evil, with himself as the unwavering instrument of the latter's eradication. Emotion was a weakness, compassion a luxury he could not afford in his pursuit of "Absolute Justice." Yet, you, with your boundless capacity for kindness, began to chip away at that hardened resolve.

He first observed it during a mission – a tense standoff in a bustling port town. A stray shot had sent a wooden crate tumbling, threatening to crush a small, frightened child. Before anyone else could react, before even he, with his heightened senses and lightning reflexes, could fully process the danger, you were there. You didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. You simply threw yourself forward, shielding the child with your own body as the heavy wood splintered against your back. A gasp rippled through the crowd, quickly followed by a collective sigh of relief. You, however, merely offered a wobbly smile to the child, brushing dust from their hair as if nothing untoward had happened.

Lucci, perched silently on a rooftop, had watched it all, his eyes narrowed. He processed the data: illogical, inefficient, entirely self-sacrificing for no strategic gain. And yet... the genuine relief on the child's face, the murmurs of gratitude from the onlookers, the soft, unburdened light in your eyes. It was utterly alien to his understanding of the world.

Later, he found you tending to a wounded Marine soldier, your brow furrowed with concern as you carefully bandaged his arm. The soldier, usually gruff and stoic, was speaking softly to you, a rare vulnerability in his voice. You listened, truly listened, offering quiet words of comfort that seemed to possess a strange, healing quality. Lucci felt a peculiar flicker in his own chest, an unfamiliar sensation. He dismissed it as an anomaly, a momentary distraction.

But the anomalies continued. You were always there, a quiet presence of solace amidst the chaos. You offered a drink of water to a tired guard, shared your meager rations with a hungry street urchin, even risked admonishment to gently correct a superior who was being unnecessarily harsh to a subordinate. Each act, small and seemingly insignificant, was a direct contradiction to the ruthless efficiency he embodied.

He started finding excuses to be near you. Not overtly, of course. He would be "observing" a sector you were in, or "analyzing" the crowd near your position. He'd catch glimpses of you, sometimes smiling, sometimes serious, but always radiating that same unwavering warmth. He noticed the way people gravitated towards you, drawn by your innate goodness. He saw how even hardened criminals, when faced with your unvarnished compassion, would sometimes falter, a flicker of something human crossing their eyes.

One evening, under the pale glow of a distant moon, you found him alone, perched on a deserted dock, Hattori nestled on his shoulder. You didn't question his solitude or his presence. Instead, you simply sat a respectful distance away, drawing your knees to your chest, and looked out at the tranquil water. After a long silence, you spoke, your voice soft as the lapping waves. "Sometimes," you murmured, "even the strongest need a moment to just... be."

He didn't reply, didn't even turn his head. But Hattori, his ever-present companion, ruffled his feathers and cooed, a soft, approving sound. You didn't press him, just continued to sit, a silent, comforting presence. It was in that quiet, unassuming moment, amidst the salty air and the vast, indifferent ocean, that something shifted within Rob Lucci. It wasn't a sudden burst of emotion, but a slow, almost imperceptible thaw around the edges of his frozen heart. He didn't understand it, couldn't categorize it, but he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wanted you near. He wanted that inexplicable warmth to continue to exist in his desolate world, even if he couldn't yet comprehend why. And that, for a man like Rob Lucci, was the beginning of everything.

The stark contrast between you and Lucci was a chasm you, in your boundless optimism, barely perceived. You saw the flicker of something in his eyes, the almost imperceptible softening of his posture when you were near, and mistook it for burgeoning tenderness. You were a creature of pure, unadulterated light, and to you, everyone possessed a spark of that same light, even if it was buried deep. Lucci, however, saw the truth with chilling clarity. He was a predator, a tool forged in the fires of ruthless efficiency, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he didn't deserve your softness.

He'd watch you sometimes, when you thought he wasn't looking. You'd be helping a junior agent untangle a complicated knot, your brow furrowed in concentration, a gentle smile playing on your lips when they finally succeeded. Or you'd hum softly to yourself while mending a torn piece of equipment, your movements deliberate and caring. You saw worth in everything, from the smallest insect to the most hardened criminal. Your compassion was a balm that seemed to soothe the raw edges of the world, and it infuriated him, even as it drew him in.

He’d tested it, subtly at first. He'd purposely use a harsher tone with a subordinate in your presence, expecting your gentle rebuke, perhaps even a look of disapproval. Instead, you'd simply offer a quiet suggestion for a more efficient, less confrontational approach, your gaze unwavering, devoid of judgment. It was like trying to chip away at a cloud with a hammer; your kindness simply absorbed the impact, leaving him bewildered.

There was one incident that truly solidified his internal conflict. A subordinate, terrified of Lucci's notoriously short temper, had botched a critical task, leading to a minor but irritating setback. Lucci's gaze had sharpened, his usual calm replaced by a cold fury that promised severe repercussions. The subordinate visibly trembled, bracing for the inevitable. You, however, had stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on the man's arm.

"It was an honest mistake, Lucci," you'd said, your voice surprisingly firm, "and easily remedied. Perhaps if we approach it from this angle..." You then calmly outlined a solution, one that was both effective and avoided any further humiliation for the blundering agent. Lucci had simply stared at you, his internal algorithms struggling to process this anomaly. You had, without even realizing it, diffused a volatile situation, protected someone from his wrath, and offered a better path forward – all with a simple, genuine act of kindness. He'd dismissed the subordinate with a terse nod, but his eyes remained fixed on you, a strange mix of grudging admiration and self-loathing swirling within their depths.

He knew he was cold. He knew he was aggressive. He had seen the fear in people’s eyes when he entered a room, the way they instinctively recoiled from his presence. And he had accepted it, even cultivated it, as a necessary shield in his brutal world. But you… you saw past the shield. You saw something he himself barely recognized, a glimmer of humanity he had long since suppressed. And the terrifying part was, your gentle touch was starting to make him feel it too. He didn’t deserve it. He was a monster, a weapon, and you were everything good and pure. The thought of tainting you, of dragging you into his darkness, was a stark reality he grappled with every waking moment. Yet, the thought of letting you go, of existing in a world without your unwavering light, was far more unbearable.

The quiet moments became more frequent, the unspoken understanding between you and Lucci deepening with each passing day. Your love didn't burst forth like a supernova; instead, it bloomed slowly, like a desert flower coaxed open by persistent, gentle rain. It was built on the small, almost imperceptible acts of kindness you showered upon him, acts that, to anyone else, might seem trivial, but to Lucci, were profound in their foreignness.

He'd often find a small, meticulously folded napkin tucked into his coat pocket, a fresh fruit or a precisely cut piece of meat wrapped inside – a quiet acknowledgment of his often forgotten meals amidst the chaos of his duties. You never made a show of it, never asked if he’d eaten it. You simply left it, a silent offering of care that gnawed at the edges of his rigid self-sufficiency.

There was the time he'd returned from a particularly brutal mission, his clothes torn and stained, his usual impassive demeanor betraying a hint of weariness. You didn't question, didn't pry. Instead, you simply set out a basin of warm water and a clean cloth, and without a word, began to gently tend to a superficial cut on his arm. Your touch was feather-light, your gaze soft and unwavering. He'd stood there, utterly still, a strange vulnerability washing over him as your fingers, so utterly unlike his own calloused ones, cleaned and bandaged his wound. He couldn't remember anyone ever tending to him with such tender care.

You also had an uncanny knack for anticipating his needs, even before he recognized them himself. If he’d been hunched over mission reports for hours, a slight tension in his shoulders, you’d appear with a steaming mug of tea, or a quiet suggestion for a brief walk. You never demanded, never insisted. It was always a gentle offer, a soft invitation to ease the burden he so stubbornly carried. He'd find himself accepting these small gestures, a foreign warmth spreading through him each time, even as his logical mind struggled to reconcile it with the cold, hard reality of his existence.

One evening, after a particularly grueling assignment, he found you waiting for him in his dimly lit quarters. You weren't imposing or loud; you were simply there, a quiet anchor in his turbulent world. You had a book in your hands, not reading, but simply holding it, your presence a soft counterpoint to the harsh silence. When he entered, you merely offered a small, knowing smile. You knew he needed to decompress, to shed the day's brutality, and you instinctively understood that your quiet, non-demanding presence was exactly what he needed. He didn't speak, nor did you. He simply sat, and for the first time in a long time, the ever-present tension in his jaw began to ease.

These small, constant acts of profound kindness, delivered without expectation or judgment, began to chip away at the fortress he had built around his heart. He saw the world through your eyes, if only for fleeting moments, and in those moments, it didn't seem so bleak, so entirely unforgiving. He knew he was undeserving of such grace, that his darkness could easily eclipse your light. Yet, the thought of your unwavering goodness, of your gentle touch, had become a silent, undeniable craving. He wasn't sure what this unfamiliar feeling was, but every fiber of his being now yearned for the quiet solace you brought.

KID જ⁀➴

Kind Soul, Ruthless Pirate (2,040 words)

The salty spray of the Grand Line was a familiar kiss on your cheek, the chaotic symphony of the waves a lullaby you’d grown to love. You were, by all accounts, a beacon of warmth in a world often consumed by darkness. If someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand; if tears fell, your shoulder was a ready haven. You’d sacrifice your own comfort, even your safety, without a second thought if it meant easing another's burden. Your heart, a vast and boundless ocean of kindness, was truly one of the greatest treasures on these seas.

And then there was Eustass Kid. The man who stood at the helm of the Kid Pirates, his crimson coat a stark contrast to your gentle spirit. He was a supernova, a name whispered with a mixture of fear and awe. Cruel, aggressive, and utterly ruthless, he was everything you weren’t. The world often wondered how someone like you could ever find solace, let alone love, with a man like him. Yet, beneath the clanging metal and the fiery glares, there was a different kind of connection—a silent understanding that defied logic. You were the calm to his storm, the quiet anchor that kept him from drifting too far into the abyss. It was a bizarre, beautiful dance, and somehow, it worked. You loved him, and in his own fiercely protective way, he loved you too.

The scent of ozone always clung to Kid, a mix of his devil fruit and the sheer force of his presence. You’d often find yourself unconsciously leaning into it, even when he was grumbling about some perceived slight from Killer or the stupidity of a Marine patrol. One afternoon, you were patching up Heat's torn jacket, a task you'd taken on countless times for the crew. The needle was finicky, and you let out a soft sigh of frustration. Without a word, a large, calloused hand, usually reserved for crushing metal or enemies, reached over and deftly threaded the needle for you. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but the small gesture, the unexpected tenderness in his rough movements, spoke volumes.

Later, as the sun dipped below the waves, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, you sat on the ship's railing, watching the endless expanse of the sea. Kid, usually pacing or shouting orders, found his way beside you. He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the railing, his arm brushing yours. The silence between you two was never awkward, but comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding. You traced patterns on the weathered wood, and then, almost imperceptibly, his pinky finger hooked around yours, a silent anchor in the vastness of the ocean. He'd never admit to such a soft gesture, but you felt the gentle pressure, a quiet affirmation of his presence.

And then there were the nights after a particularly brutal encounter, when the ship was still humming with the aftermath of battle. You’d be tending to the wounded, your hands steady and soft, your voice a soothing balm. Kid, covered in grime and dried blood, would always find you. He wouldn't ask for help, or even acknowledge your efforts directly. Instead, he’d simply plant himself nearby, leaning against a bulkhead, his good eye fixed on you. Sometimes, he’d just watch, a silent, almost possessive vigil. Other times, he’d gruffly shove a mug of hot tea into your hands, or a piece of scavenged fruit, his way of making sure you were taken care of, even as he was still dripping with the fight. Those were the moments that reminded you, and everyone on the crew, that beneath the rage and the metal, there was a fierce, unwavering devotion that only you could truly see.

You knew the signs. The clenching of his jaw, the subtle tremor in his metal arm, the way his voice would drop, becoming a dangerous rumble just before the explosion. It usually started with a trivial insult from a rival captain, a faulty navigational chart, or even just a particularly stubborn knot in a rope. Whatever it was, when Kid's temper flared, the entire crew braced themselves. But you didn't brace; you moved.

One blustery afternoon, a smaller pirate crew dared to challenge Kid's authority, their captain spewing arrogant taunts across the choppy waves. Kid’s hand immediately shot to his hilt, his muscles coiling, the air around him crackling with suppressed magnetism. Before he could make a move, you were there, your hand gently but firmly placed on his bicep. Your touch was like a cool stream against hot iron.

"Kid," you said, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the rising tension. Your eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the raw fury in his gaze softened, just for you. "They're not worth it. Let them learn their lesson another day, in a way that doesn't stain your coat." You offered a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head. He glared at the retreating ship, his chest still heaving, but he didn't move. He simply growled, a low, frustrated sound, and the crew collectively exhaled.

Later, after a particularly brutal clash with a Marine patrol, Kid was pacing the deck, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He was muttering darkly, kicking at stray debris, his good eye gleaming with a restless energy that bordered on destructive. The crew gave him a wide berth, understanding the danger. You, however, approached without hesitation.

"You're going to wear a hole in the deck," you remarked, a hint of playful exasperation in your tone.

He stopped, turning his furious gaze on you. "They almost got Killer! And they dared to call us rabid dogs!"

You walked closer, reaching up to gently cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble. His skin was warm, flushed with anger. "And you showed them they were wrong, didn't you?" you soothed, your voice a calm melody. "You protected your crew, like always. You were incredible out there." You could feel the tension slowly drain from his body under your touch. He leaned into your palm almost imperceptibly, his rage slowly dissipating into a simmering warmth. He wouldn't admit it, but your praise, your unwavering belief in him, was the only thing that could truly rein him in.

There were countless other moments, small and significant. A whispered word when he was about to rip someone’s head off for a minor infraction, a steadying hand on his arm when his temper threatened to consume him. You were his anchor, his quiet strength, the one person who could calm the raging storm that was Eustass Kid. And in return, he was fiercely, undeniably yours.

Life on the Grand Line, even with your calming presence, was relentlessly harsh. There were days the storms were less about the weather and more about the weariness that settled deep in your bones. After a particularly harrowing escape from a tenacious Marine Vice Admiral, the entire crew was exhausted, you most of all. You’d spent hours tending to the wounded, your energy completely drained.

You finally collapsed onto a coil of rope, too tired to even make it to your hammock. The salt-laced wind was biting, and you shivered, pulling your worn jacket tighter. Just as you were about to drift into a restless sleep, a large, heavy mass was draped over you. It was Kid’s signature crimson coat, still smelling faintly of ozone and his unique, metallic scent. You opened your eyes to see him standing over you, his back to the railing, seemingly engrossed in the churning waves. He didn't say a word, didn't even look at you, but the warmth of his coat was immediate and comforting, a silent acknowledgment of your fatigue. It was a gesture so unlike his usual aggressive demeanor that it spoke volumes.

Another time, a small, intricate wooden bird carving you'd been working on for weeks—a gift for a tiny, shy islander you’d befriended—slipped from your grasp during a sudden lurch of the ship. It skittered across the deck, heading straight for the churning sea. Your heart leaped into your throat. Before you could even react, Kid's metal arm shot out with lightning speed, snatching the delicate carving mere inches from the edge.

He retrieved it, his fingers, usually so destructive, surprisingly gentle as he held the tiny bird. He squinted at it, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his eye, before he simply placed it back in your hand. He didn’t comment on your relief, didn't tease you for your clumsiness. He just averted his gaze, as if catching himself in a moment of unexpected tenderness. The crew who witnessed it pretended not to see, a silent testament to the rarity of such a display from their captain.

And then there were the nights when nightmares, remnants of past dangers or the ever-present threats of the sea, would steal your peace. You’d wake with a gasp, heart pounding, the phantom chill of a near-death experience clinging to you. You’d try to calm yourself, but sometimes the fear was too overwhelming. It was during one such night that you felt the gentle dip in the hammock beside yours, and then, a warm, heavy weight settle over your hand. Kid, ever the light sleeper, had noticed your distress. He didn't speak, didn't try to comfort you with words. Instead, he simply stayed there, his large hand enveloping yours, his presence a silent, immovable anchor against the tide of your fears. In those moments, his rough exterior melted away, revealing the unwavering support of the man who, despite all odds, was undeniably there for you.

Their relationship wasn't a grand, sweeping romance, filled with dramatic declarations or public displays of affection. It was built in the small, almost imperceptible moments that stitched their vastly different worlds together.

You often found yourself sketching, capturing the fleeting beauty of the Grand Line on whatever scrap paper you could find. One lazy afternoon, while you were engrossed in drawing a particularly striking sunset, Kid approached. Instead of his usual booming voice, he merely grunted, pulling up a barrel to sit beside you. You braced yourself for a critique, perhaps even a sarcastic jab about your "childish hobbies." Instead, he simply watched, his single eye surprisingly intent on your work. When you finished, he reached out, not to grab, but to gently tap the drawing with a metal finger. "Good," he grunted, a rare, genuine compliment. It was a small word, but from Kid, it felt like a symphony.

Food was another surprising avenue for their connection. While Kid was a notoriously unpicky eater, devouring anything put in front of him with aggressive efficiency, you knew his quiet preferences. If there was a specific, less common fruit scavenged from an island, you'd make sure a portion was always set aside for him, even if it meant foregoing your own. He'd never acknowledge it with words, but you'd catch him sometimes, a fleeting glance in your direction, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of thanks as he devoured his share.

One chilly evening, after a particularly rough storm, you were bundled up on deck, shivering despite your layers. Kid, who rarely seemed affected by the elements, walked by, then paused. He disappeared for a moment, only to return with two steaming mugs of heavily sweetened tea, a rarity on the ship. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours, a silent warmth passing between you. He then settled down beside you, not too close, but close enough that the heat radiating from his large frame offered extra comfort. You drank your tea in comfortable silence, the quiet companionship a testament to the deep, unspoken affection that thrived between you both.

These were the moments that defined your love for Kid: the unexpected acts of consideration, the silent understandings, the unwavering presence. You were his gentle compass in the storm, and he, in his own gruff, powerful way, was your steadfast anchor. It was a love forged not in commonality, but in the profound acceptance of each other's contrasting natures, a testament to the idea that even the fiercest of flames could find solace in the kindest of breezes.

BARTOLOMEO ༉‧₊˚.

Gentle Soul, Boisterous fanboy. (1,925 words)

A soft breeze ruffled your hair as you looked out over the sparkling expanse of the Grand Line. You were a gentle soul, known across islands not for grand feats of strength, but for the quiet power of your compassion. When someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand. When tears fell, your embrace was a comforting harbor. You'd willingly stand in harm's way if it meant another's safety, a quiet guardian in a chaotic world.

And then there was Bartolomeo. Your Barty. He was… different. Where you were a gentle ripple, he was a crashing wave, all boisterous declarations and unwavering devotion, particularly when it came to the Straw Hats. His love for Luffy and his crew was a force of nature, often expressed with a protective snarl towards anyone who dared disrespect his idols. He was loud, he was brash, and sometimes, he was absolutely infuriating. Yet, beneath the thorny exterior of the Straw Hat fanboy, you knew there was a fierce loyalty and a heart, however uniquely expressed, that beat just for you. It was a strange harmony, your quiet grace and his roaring passion, but somehow, it worked.

The first time Bartolomeo saw you gently coaxing a frightened stray dog out from under a market stall with soft whispers and a piece of your lunch, he stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been in the middle of a rather loud, one-sided argument with a street vendor who’d dared to suggest "Straw Hat Luffy was just a pirate." His own booming voice had faltered, his eyes fixed on your serene face as the dog, tail wagging, licked your outstretched hand. He felt a strange lurch in his chest, something entirely unfamiliar to the usual surge of fanboy rage.

"Oi, what're you doing with that mutt?" he'd gruffed later, sidling up to you as you shared your water with the now calm animal.

You’d simply smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "He was scared, Bartolomeo. He just needed a little kindness."

He'd grunted, shuffling his feet. Kindness wasn't exactly in his usual repertoire, especially not towards a mangy street dog. But watching you, it seemed… right. Later that day, you found a surprisingly fresh, if slightly squashed, fish left discreetly beside the dog you’d befriended. You knew exactly who it was from, even if he'd never admit it.

One blustery afternoon, a new recruit to Bartolomeo's crew, overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated chaos that often followed in the wake of the Straw Hat Fan Club, broke down. He was curled up in a corner, sobbing quietly, convinced he wasn't cut out for pirate life. Bartolomeo, for all his bluster, looked genuinely perplexed, his usual bravado deflating slightly. He just stood there, hands on his hips, completely unsure how to handle a crying man.

You, on the other hand, moved without hesitation. You knelt beside the man, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "It's alright," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm. "It's a lot to take in at first, isn't it? But you're stronger than you think. We're all here to help each other."

You stayed with him, talking softly, until his sobs subsided and he looked up with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Bartolomeo, watching from a distance, felt that familiar, strange lurch again. You had a way of seeing past the surface, of finding the vulnerable core that he, with all his walls and his loud exterior, often missed. He might not have understood how you did it, but he knew he was endlessly grateful that you did.

The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the screech of gulls as your small ship, the Kind Heart, bobbed gently on the waves. Bartolomeo, as usual, was perched on the figurehead – a surprisingly well-carved depiction of a smiling sheep – his green hair whipping in the wind. He was excitedly pointing towards a hazy island on the horizon, a place rumored to hold a legendary, incredibly rare type of cola that even the Straw Hats hadn't tasted.

"Y/N! Look! That's gotta be it! The Isle of Fizz! I can just imagine how stoked Boss Luffy will be when I tell him I found cola even he's never had!" Bartolomeo's voice boomed across the deck, his enthusiasm infectious despite its volume.

You chuckled, adjusting the worn map in your hands. "The legends also say it's guarded by some rather… enthusiastic creatures, Barty."

He scoffed, slamming a fist into his chest, a green barrier momentarily flickering around it. "Hmph! What kind of weaklings could stand against the great Bartolomeo?!"

You smiled softly. His confidence, though often over the top, was also strangely reassuring. You knew that beneath the bravado, he would always have your back.

As you drew closer to the island, the lush green foliage gave way to towering, oddly shaped rock formations that seemed to bubble and fizz at their peaks. The air grew sweeter, carrying a faint, almost sugary aroma. Suddenly, a volley of sticky, brown projectiles rained down on your ship.

"Cola bombs!" Bartolomeo roared, deflecting the sticky globs with his Barrier-Barrier Fruit. "See, Y/N? I told you there'd be a challenge!" He actually seemed thrilled.

You, however, were more concerned about the creatures launching the attack. They were small, furry beings with large, bulging eyes and what appeared to be miniature cola bottles attached to their backs. They chittered and screeched, their tiny hands furiously squeezing more cola bombs.

"They seem more scared than aggressive," you observed, noticing how they retreated slightly whenever Bartolomeo's barrier appeared. "Maybe we should try talking to them?"

Bartolomeo stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "Talking? To fizzy furballs that are trying to glue us to the deck?"

"Well, fighting them doesn't seem to be getting us any closer to the cola, does it?" you pointed out gently.

With a dramatic sigh and a roll of his eyes, Bartolomeo relented. "Fine, fine. But if they try anything, they're getting a face full of barrier!"

You carefully approached the edge of the ship, offering a piece of the sweet bread you'd baked that morning. "Hello there," you called out softly. "We just want to see the cola. We won't hurt you."

The furry creatures paused their attack, their large eyes blinking curiously at the bread. One particularly bold one crept closer, sniffing cautiously. You held your breath as it tentatively nibbled at the offering. Soon, others followed suit, their chittering softening into more curious sounds.

Bartolomeo watched the scene unfold, his usual boisterousness replaced with a quiet fascination. He saw how your gentle demeanor and genuine kindness were having a far greater effect than any display of strength could.

Eventually, one of the creatures, seemingly the leader, gestured with a tiny paw towards a path leading into the island's interior. It made a series of bubbling noises, and you had a feeling it was inviting you to follow.

"Well, Barty," you said, turning to him with a smile. "Looks like they're willing to show us the way."

He grunted, but there was a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Hmph. Guess being nice ain't always a bad strategy, huh?" He still looked ready to deploy his barriers at a moment's notice, but for now, he followed you onto the Isle of Fizz, a strange blend of gentle diplomacy and impenetrable defense venturing into the unknown.

You lay on the makeshift cot in your ship's infirmary, a bandage wrapped around your arm. The scent of medicinal herbs filled the small space, a stark contrast to the sweet, fizzy aroma of the Isle of Fizz that still clung faintly to your clothes. Bartolomeo paced back and forth in the cramped room, his usual swagger replaced by a tight furrow in his brow.

"I just… I don't understand, Y/N!" he exclaimed, his voice rough with a mixture of worry and exasperation. "Those cola geysers were strong! One wrong step, and – and you just jumped in front of that little fur ball! Why would you do that?!"

You offered him a weak smile. "He looked so scared, Barty. And he was just trying to protect his home, just like we would."

"Protect his home?!" Bartolomeo threw his hands up in exasperation, his green hair swaying wildly. "Y/N, you could have been seriously hurt! That cola could have burned you something awful! And for what? Some… some fizzing rat!"

"They weren't rats, Barty," you said gently, wincing slightly as you shifted. "They were just trying to defend their treasure. Besides," you added, your gaze softening as you looked at him, "you were right behind me. I knew you'd protect me."

Bartolomeo stopped pacing, his face softening slightly, though a hint of his frustration remained. "That's not the point! I shouldn't have to protect you from your own… your own selflessness! You can't just keep throwing yourself into danger like that!"

He knelt beside your cot, his large hands hovering awkwardly above yours, as if unsure whether to touch you. "You're… you're too kind, Y/N. Too good for this world sometimes. And it scares me." His voice was softer now, the booming edge gone. "What if I wasn't fast enough? What if my barrier didn't hold? What would I do then?"

You reached out, your uninjured hand finding his. His fingers were rough, calloused from years of fighting, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. "You would have found a way, Barty. You always do. And besides," you squeezed his hand reassuringly, "I know my limits. I wouldn't do anything truly reckless."

He looked down at your hand in his, a conflicted expression on his face. He knew your heart was pure, that your every action was guided by an innate desire to help others. It was one of the things he loved most about you, this unwavering compassion. But it also terrified him. The Grand Line was a dangerous place, and your tendency to put others before yourself was a constant source of worry.

"Just… just be more careful, okay?" he mumbled, his gaze still fixed on your hand. "Think about yourself sometimes too. You're important, Y/N. More important than any fizzy cola or scared little creature in the world."

You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. For all his bluster and obsession with the Straw Hats, Bartolomeo cared deeply. In his own loud, protective way, he loved you fiercely. "I will try, Barty. I promise. But you have to promise me something too."

He looked up, his green eyes questioning. "What's that?"

"Promise me you'll never stop being you," you said softly. "Your strength, your loyalty… even your crazy fanboy moments. That's all part of why I love you."

A faint blush crept onto Bartolomeo's cheeks, and he looked away, a rare moment of bashfulness. "Tch. Of course not. Who else would protect Boss Luffy's honor with such… enthusiasm?"

But as he looked back at you, a genuine, heartfelt smile touched his lips. He squeezed your hand gently. "Just… try not to give me so many scares, alright?"

You chuckled, a warm feeling spreading through you despite the ache in your arm. "I'll do my best, you big softie."

He scoffed, puffing out his chest. "Softie?! I am the great Bartolomeo!" But the grin on his face betrayed him. In the aftermath of the cola geyser and your selfless act, a deeper understanding had settled between you, a quiet acknowledgment of the contrasting forces that somehow, beautifully, held you together.

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