laectrl

[laectrl]

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈 ♛

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. gladiator!Sukuna x princess!Reader, historical AU – ancient rome, misogyny, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, eventual smut [MDNI], degrádation, power play (?), bondáge, chöking, hair-pulling, overstimulátion, dácryphilia, fíngering, cünnilingus, tït súcking, knîfe play, cūm eating, full nelson, outdoor sêx, table sêx, balcony sêx, pool sêx, angry sêx, size difference, breêding, unprotected sêx, multiple örgasms, gröping, pet names, TL;DR: Sukuna can't keep it in his freaking pants

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 18.9k 💀

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. i <3 a good ancient rome fic, but please don’t be alarmed by the wc—the first two acts are boring (but necessary) world-building + plot and whatnot, but the third act’s where things get GOOD, iykwim // available on ao3 // dividers by @uzmacchiato

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈.

This was bound to happen sooner or later.

Well, with being raised so near the emperor’s circle of friends and family, you had never been exactly shielded from death and despair, per se; and, let’s be honest, attending a gladiators’ game in the Colosseum was practically fate.

During the times of Ancient Rome, you had an . . . uncommon upbringing, to say the least. Abandoned as a mere newborn, you were taken in by none other than the emperor and his wife, who failed to have any real children of their own. Growing up, they treated you like a daughter they never had, and gave you a life of endless prosperity and luxuries. Your bedroom—decorated and gilded in gold; your closet—always stocked and more ornate than even the average noblewoman’s; and your life—full of only the highest expectations.

Despite coming from a pitifully low background and rising to such a rank that made your peers during schooling envious, you learned some much needed qualities such humility and humbleness. Well, you were practically everything but a princess, after all. You lived in the palace with the emperor and empress, but you weren’t royal by blood. Sure, you were noble; and your time was mostly taken up by serving the empress as her lady-in-waiting, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life was pleasant like this.

You enjoyed serving the empress who took you under her wing, and found no difficulty in assisting with her day-to-day tasks. Dressing, accompanying, running errands. It was simple; there was never a rush for you.

Today was no different.

With the radiating, beaming sun blinding civilians with no mercy—from merchants, to nobles, to plebeians—the star did not leave a single mortal untouched or unaffected.The cruel rays shining upon skin glistening with sweat and hair tousled and unruly only displayed each spectator’s discomfort as the minutes rolled past and the gladiators had still yet to enter the amphitheater.

Fanning yourself, as you sat high above the stands beside the empress, you couldn’t help but express your wonder, turning your head ever so slightly to meet her eyes. “How long does Your Imperial Majesty think we will have to wait?”

“Child, how many times will I have to make myself clear? Such formalities between us are hardly ever necessary,” the woman—clothed in a purple stola—scolded, replying with a maternal smile. “But, to answer your question,” she began, clearing her throat, “I figure . . . not so long. You know how men can be: adjusting their armor, fixing their hair, getting stage-fright. It’s all the same to me. How can one worry about their appearance when it’s plausible their blood will just be splattered along the arena in the end?”

You pretended to laugh at her disposition.

Contrary to popular belief, the empress was a nice woman; an understanding woman; someone who ruled alongside her husband with equal—if not rivaling—authority and a scholar’s intellect. You occasionally thought of her as someone practically born to lead, and after spending your whole life in the palace, you’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, while the face of the empire was usually imagined to be the emperor’s, it was not seldom that the empress was the one pulling additional strings behind the stage.

Misogyny is a nasty prejudice, and if it weren’t for the way things were, you had no doubt in standing behind the idea that the empress would be just as great of a prominent ruler as those who had come before her husband.

Of course, even with being such a morally virtuous person, the empress was born into royalty, and had never served someone a day of her life; and alongside being surrounded in endless luxury, comes the inevitable quality of aporophobia. The woman wasn’t as cruel as most, however; yes, she looked with disdain at poverty and unfortunate souls, but didn’t turn a blind eye, no.

She cracked jokes at, made fun of, and used people of lower rank for her own amusement, but it was all “harmless,” as she called it, similar to having a jester in one’s court. Even while mocking those she deemed helpless and lowly, she never failed to grant them whatever resources they requested when visiting her throne. You may have heard of kindness without honesty and honesty without kindness, but kindness with neither honesty nor humility? Strange. 

Well, don’t start getting the wrong idea now. The empress could be with preconceptions, but she was a charming woman within retrospect.

Before the empress could poke fun at any more people, the Colesseum’s spectators suddenly burst into roars and bellows and yells as the appointed gladiators of the first match entered the arena. 

Two men. Both of adequate height—no less than six feet, you assumed. But, were they slaves? you wondered. No. No, they were too muscular for that. Oh, well, then again, that quality may have been from manual labour and other work of the like. Although the naked eye failed—from how high up your seats were—to see a real difference, you could still tell one of the fighters was shorter than the other, from the length and distribution of their shadows.

The taller competitor, with a reddish-brown beard and deformed knees, caught the interest of the woman beside you, and she turned to whisper (albeit poorly) in your ear and laugh about his disagreeable features.

“I heard his name was . . . Remus, or something. But, if you asked me,” the empress laughed, “I would say he was nothing but a damn fool—a fool disgracing the name of the God of War’s son.”

You met her eyes, which seemed to almost glow beneath the sun. “You suppose he will lose?”

“Suppose?” she repeated, tossing coins into a betting pool as if it were impossible for her to be wrong. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The other fighter—the shorter one—held a gloomy expression on his face, and didn’t look a day over twenty. A slave; competing for a chance at freedom? It wasn’t so far-fetched.

The referees were soon called to their positions, the armed combatants took their stances, and the munera commenced.

Swords met, shields resisted attacks, and little to no blood was drawn. Again, and again, and again. The crowds booed, raised their voices, and expressed their boredom and utter disappointment like spoiled children; it made your ears hurt, and you chewed at your bottom lip in agonizing anticipation of what was to come of these poor men. But, nevertheless, the show had to go on.

Even with the fierce sun, and beads of sweat accumulating on just about everyone’s foreheads, the fighters regained their positions and began anew—this time, with more violence.

The shorter man looked as if he finally realized he could turn his life around if victory was his and started to hold the hilt of his sword with gathering excitement rather than fear. Stabs cut through the air, piercing absolutely nobody, and consecutive gasps erupted within the stands as suspense arose alongside the growing lust for blood.

Both men lunged forward consecutively, throwing jabs at the other, just to fail and jump back, before trying again.

With the heavy toll of labour dealing on each competitor’s body and soul, they both looked equally older compared to how they actually were on the records. The fight was nothing if not unpleasant. More often than not, according to the empress, gladiatorial games were always more entertaining when the combatants were more . . . manly. Or, masculine? Attractive? All the same.

And, anyway, you couldn’t exactly deny Her Imperial Majesty’s claims. For, even as you remained with a neutral expression on your face, you couldn’t help but cast side-glances at the figures of the gladiators. Muscular, but . . . not muscular in a lovely way. Their faces were dirty, cheeks hollow, and hands grimy. It seemed like the exertion on their bodies would be more of a morality cause than how hopeless their fight was continuing to be.

Even with the increase of energy and work being infused into the swords’ clashing and shields’ refuting, only a few minutes had passed and you already began to grow bored, waiting for the moment the fight would be either called off or a more formidable opponent would be brought into the arena. A bull, for instance.

It wasn’t until a rock—thrown by a spectator in the stands—landed just beside the left foot of the taller fighter with a thudding sound that, for a second, the man froze, either confused or unable to decide on what to do, and his opponent wasted not a second more before moving in for an attack.

The blade of a gladius pierced the taller competitor on the side of his abdomen, and his sword dropped onto the floor with a dull sound, seemingly filled with a sense of inevitable defeat, as the man himself fell soon after, his body landing prone beside his weapon. The sight was almost poetic, and even the empress found it in herself to let out a little gasp (despite her early confidence in the outcome).

The arena went silent. Utterly silent.

Would the referees consider foul play? Spectator interference? Everyone wondered, and eyes moved from one man to another to try and figure out the decided outcome of the match.

You only noticed how clammy your hands had gotten throughout the climax of the match when you followed the example of other spectators to rise in ovation and break out into plaudits and hollers after the shorter fighter was finally announced victorious. Letting out a breath you did not know you were holding, you wiped the sweat off your palms at the fabric of your palla.

The gods were not on the taller man’s side this day, for, the fate of the match was due to two factors. A) the rock was interference, yes, but it was neither an advantage nor a disadvantage for either of the competitors. Since, according to the spectators, both of them could’ve been affected by it; the taller man just happened to be frozen while the other gained consciousness. And, B) any one of them could’ve stood still, but, perhaps, the taller one really was as stupid as he looked.

The empress told you both men were, in fact, slaves, and that you had been correct in your assumption. But, you had no reason to celebrate, for you felt pity for the fallen; but, anyhow, death would’ve come sooner or later to him. The rest of his life would’ve been spent bending over machines and gathering hay and tending to cattle.

On the other hand, fortunately for those hard of hearing, the applause died down more swiftly than the end of the fight came, and most spectators had already begun to seat themselves back down when the victorious competitor exited with his treasures, and two new combatants entered, instantly silencing any other leftover noise.

Their names were announced, but you could not pick up a single syllable, for, only a millisecond after, the crowds had once again broken into loud cheers and yells; these competitors were apparently not ordinary gladiators. Probably well-known, or excellent fighters, is what you assumed.

Although their match had yet to begin, the second pair of fighters were already visibly sweating beneath their heavy armor and shields.

Now, from the height of your seat, you could not distinguish which of the men were taller, but you could easily set their countenances apart.

The silver-haired one carried himself with an elegant, almost prince-like gait, and his eyes shone like the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean Sea under the rays of the glaring sun. His lips—thin and pink—occasionally formed into a taunting smile or flashed his pearly whites at swooning women in the stands. He was particularly attractive, and despite yourself, you found the act of looking at him rather enjoyable.

His eyes raised above the crowd of spectators for a moment, before meeting the emperor’s in a friendly fashion. Then, flitting to the side, he gave a small acknowledgement to the empress. And then, finally, to you. His eyes met yours with a flirty ulterior motive and he smiled an almost boyish smile, but you couldn’t deny the fact your cheeks seemed to warm at the sight of his brief greeting and acknowledgement before he turned back to evaluate the crowd with squinted eyes (courtesy of the overly sunny weather).

Clearing your throat and settling the ridiculous thumping of your heart, you sat up in your seat and, ignoring the teasing remarks of the empress, your eyes moved over to take a look at the other gladiator.

He was . . . perhaps, the complete opposite of the silver-haired one.

A total brute, if you did say so yourself. Pink, rosy hair. Defined muscles. A sharp nose and pierced ears. He had the arms and legs of a high-ranking Roman soldier, and, even from how high up you were, or how blinding the sun was, you could still clearly tell his chest would be just as chiseled as the rest of him. He was, without a doubt, a piece of eye-candy if you had ever seen one. But, what intrigued you most about him, were his tattoos. Inky, black markings that circled around his wrists, thighs, and decorated his already daunting face.

You had been staring at him for a while when you felt the intimidation of his piercing gaze meeting your figure up in the stands, seemingly having taken notice of your ogling. Sinking back down in your seat, your body squirmed nervously and awkwardly under his unforgiving stare, as if you were trying to escape his sights. 

You couldn’t understand the meaning for your very sudden and growing embarrassment for having been caught, and you pretended to avert your focus elsewhere. But minute after minute continued to pass by, and you could still feel the pair of crimson eyes burning holes at the side of your head.

Like a child finally succumbing to the scolding of their parents, you turned back to face the gladiator, and, like you imagined, he had not moved his eyes off of you for even a second. His lips were sealed in a thin line, and the expression on his face, emphasized by his seemingly bored eyes, displayed nothing but want and desire. Was it want and desire to exit the arena? Or, want and desire to avoid throwing his life away in a gladiatorial game? You could not decide on an answer.

Your eyes wandered downwards, and landed upon the pink-haired brute’s weapon of choice. He had a gladius, like most fighters of munera, but it was . . . different, in possibly the most subtle way.

A ruby lay clear as day in the dead center of his capulus—the hilt of his sword. The color unmistakably matched up with the shade of the sword’s master’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but flicker your gaze from one to the other.

The only event that managed to take your attention off of the man and his blade, was the empress, who interrupted your focus and leaned in to whisper in your ear. “What do you look at so intently, my dear?” she questioned, before waving her hand in dismissal. “Never mind; look over there. Yes, right there. Do you see that man? The pink-haired fighter?”

You nodded.

“His name is Ryoumen Sukuna, but you must know, most people have started calling him King of the Colosseum.”

“Sukuna? King of the Colosseum?”

The woman ignored your growing curiosity, and moved on to other subjects. “He’s a fine one—personal favorite of the emperor, you know. Lovely physique, an agreeable countenance, and boundless skill in a match to the death. I hear his streak of victories has not ended since he began gladiating all the way back since he was twenty.”

“How old is he now?” you asked, your desperation for information on the man growing second by second.

“Six-and-twenty? I could not tell you, darling.”

While you and the empress conversed, whispering about the combatants behind ring-adorned hands which covered your mouths (to avoid any scandal which could arouse from lip-reading), the match began and the gladiators took their designated positions before plunging head-first into battle.

Sukuna swung his blade up in the air with one quick movement before bringing it back down to strike the silver-haired gladiator in either the neck or the back of his head. But the man seemed to have guess the intention for that attack, and side-stepped away. Which, for the most part, probably would have left Sukuna to deliver a useless blow to the sands and allow his opponent an open opportunity, but it was clear to even the lowest of the lows that he was far from inexperienced with the blade.

He neither tarried nor let his mistake take the best of him, and moved to retract his weapon quicker than how the other fighter escaped it.

Blow after blow was delivered by both men, and no visible cuts or injuries were inflicted on either of the two.

Despite none of the fighters being able to land a successful hit on the other, their fails were only due to the fact that their skill was matched, and that no matter how many party tricks or ploys or schemes they had up their sleeves (or, in this case, manicas), neither one of them could fool the other. Well, at least, not for too long.

Even with the lack of blood, the spectators were still kept entertained and satisfied from the number of impressive and, to the naked eye, seemingly humanly impossible dangerous attacks.

You had noticed, after a few attempted blows—all resisted from the usage of shields, that, what looked like to be mere strategy, was probably something more on the lines of technique. Sukuna’s technique, to be clear.

With the advantage of his height nearly always towering over his opponents, Sukuna subconsciously developed, over time, a habit of striking over-head. And, with arms like his, it was no trouble for him, at all, to lift up an iron blade and do such a thing. Sukuna frequently swung his gladius and struck at the side of the silver-haired fighter’s head, which was usually blocked by the opponent’s shield, or avoided by the said opponent ducking and subsequently swiping at Ryoumen’s legs.

It was overly facetious. Too facetious, actually—for a duel that would only result in death and horror.

If it wasn’t obvious before, you were not at all a fan of gladiatorial games. No, not even in the slightest. You looked upon the thought of unnecessary murder serving the sole purpose of entertainment for all civilians ranging from plebeians to nobility to royalty with disgust and disdain. Watching two men fighting in a ring—sometimes blindfolded, sometimes with no weapons save for their hands (which are dangerous enough)—was ridiculous. Or, that’s what you thought.

See, you wouldn’t have even been present at the current gladiator fight had it not been for the coercing of the empress, who, according to her, needed you by her side, since her husband would be seated at a separate stand (for reasons you did not know). But honestly, now that you were both watching two men stab and jab at each other, it seemed to be the other way around.

The empress was enjoying herself to the fullest, while you, on the other hand, were horrified; and that was saying a lot, considering you had seen warfare since your adolescence.

“Getting bored?” the empress asked, getting your attention amidst the cheering of the crowds.

You shook your head, exiting your train of thought. “Not at all.”

The woman looked at you tenderly, and touched your cheek with her cold fingers. “Cannot say I’m surprised. Ryoumen certainly knows how to put on a show for a woman he deems rather oculorum captans.¹”

¹ Eye-catching.

You pretended not to understand whom that was directed to. “Is that . . . why he has yet to deliver an ending blow?”

“Oh, nonsense. The man’s a flirt, yes, but he would never let fraternizing stand in the way of a victory. It’s impossible. Gojo is just, perhaps, the only gladiator who could ever rival him.”

At learning of the silver-haired fighter’s name, you let your eyes briefly return to the match. Blood had now managed to have been drawn, and both of the blade-wielding beasts had now sustained injuries on their triceps. You thought yourself a lucky one to have missed witnessing how that came about, and turned back to meet the empress’s eyes while yells continued to erupt within several sections of the arena.

“Will it continue going on like this?” you asked, gesturing to the missed blows and endless clanks of shields. “It seems the men could only die from exhaustion now.”

The empress offered you a strange smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“How do you mean?”

“This won’t be their last match. They’ll have a draw, and the editor will enable the defeated to live another day. But only for the sake of another match to take place soon after.” The woman said everything like it was a declaration, and not an assumption or probability. It made you uneasy, in a way.

“. . .Another match?” you repeated. “What ever for?”

“A gladiator match is a spectacle—it’s a source of entertainment. How will the crowds be entertained when their favorite gladiator is killed in a common, ordinary game? A game succeeding two slaves, more or less,” she added, snorting.

“So, they’ll be kept alive?”

“For another match, id est verum;² it will take place before the festival of Vulcan. It will be, by far, the greatest gladiator match ever seen by the people of Rome. Now, I cannot spoil too many details, but, all I can reveal is, expect the unexpected.”

² That is correct.

And, just as the empress had said, the match between the silver-haired gladiator and Ryoumen Sukuna was declared a draw soon after your conversation with the woman, as decided by the editor. This decision not only satisfied spectators on both rooting sides and caused an uproar of hollers, but also guaranteed an adequately sized and enthusiastic audience for the final and tie-breaking match of the year, which was, clearly, going to be the event looked forward to for the rest of the month.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

You were beginning to think the most crucial detail someone has ever failed to tell you was how the last man you wanted to see right now was good friends with the emperor—pals, even! Which was great, just great.

“I know you would rather die from scaphism,” said the man, as he plucked a grape from a bowl, “but you can at least try and act like you’re enjoying this instead of standing there like a sulky child.”

Ryoumen Sukuna, a proud, formidable opponent in the arena—widely known as the King of the Colosseum, continued to be a haunting presence in your life even after his match ended with a draw two weeks ago. It was embarrassing enough that you could break so easily under his stare, and that, in addition, he knew that—just as well as you did (if not better). But to have him roam around the palace? While you were living there? Mallem mori.³

³ You would rather die.

The pink-haired man held favor from the emperor, since it seemed they knew each other even before the younger began a career in dueling, and alongside their acquaintance, came the event of Sukuna’s frequent visits to the palace. It had been a fortnight since the last munera, and you had already seen the beast of a man a total of fourteen times. It was like he knew he was tormenting you.

And, gods, it was absolutely childish how much you began to loathe the color red ever since. Time and time again, the appearance of Ryoumen Sukuna was continuously marked by either a ruby-adorned weapon lazily left around the premises, or a red cloak whipping through the air as you (in that scenario) would be staring at his broad back with a bitter taste in your mouth, while deciding whether to walk away or to dig a hole in the ground and die away like a hobbit.

Red was like a bad omen for you.

Wherever it was, you could bet a hundred horses that Sukuna would turn up sooner or later.

Now, normally, if the emperor invited friends over, you would not mind—no, not even in the slightest; for, from all the years you spent kissing the asses of royals who you came across, you had learned to blend in with high society. But, with Sukuna, it was different. You couldn’t keep your cool around him; seeing him always left you heavily bothered.

Even when you first met him (or, saw him, actually; because you two never formally introduced yourselves)—even then, you failed to stay calm and composed. Was it his eyes? Or his looks, in general? He was attractive—very attractive, tu non mentior,⁴ but, was that really all there was to it? You refused to face a man solely because you deemed him unbelievably good-looking?

⁴ You could not lie.

No, that wasn’t it. Well, that was part of it, but it wasn’t all. You couldn’t stand being in the same room as Ryoumen Sukuna because—because you were afraid of him. I mean, c’mon, you’re dragged along to watch a gladiator match (and, mind you, you despise unnecessary murder), and then you lock eyes with a man who looks like he could tear the entire empire apart with his bare hands, and now you have to act friendly with him? At least, in front of the emperor and empress? You had every right to avoid him at any chance you got.

And, not only that, but, aside from his frequent—almost annoyingly frequent—visits, he always held the same damn look on his face. Red, crimson eyes that looked at you like an animal would its prey; it was like, every opportunity received, Sukuna would size you up, as if envisioning as many ways possible he could kill you just like he does his opponents. But, fuck, his eyes were your weakness.

Staring through your soul like he wanted something, and in a way that made it seem as if he knew every thought that went through your head, including your fear of him—and imagining how he could exploit said fear like the cruel brute he was.

The empress and her husband wanted you two to get along, but you just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never meet those bewitchingly crimson eyes with an emotion lacking hostility.

“I am not sulking,” came your reply, moments later.

“Yeah? Then, why are you just standing in the corner of the court like someone in time-out?”

His laugh made your blood boil, and you couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, scowling with your eyes facing away like a scolded child. How could he stand there, looking at you with those same red eyes, and act like nothing was the matter? Of course, something was the matter! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the verge of throwing yourself into a bush of thorny roses.

The emperor and the missus had left the two of you in the gardens, because, according to them, they had some “business” to attend to, and thought you would be eligible enough to be able to give the guest a tour of the terrace and the courtyard which stretched beyond it. That was a grave mistake on their part, for Sukuna was right, you really would rather die than speak with the man for more than a few minutes.

“Has it ever occured to you that not everyone enjoys your presence?” you spat out, finally having mustered up the courage to approach Sukuna from your little hiding spot.

Your steps were slow, languid, but the pink-haired brute saw them as nothing short of flirtatious. In fact, when you were just a foot away, he took it upon himself to close the distance between you two, staring down at your figure with that same enigmatic look in his eyes.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got quite the nerve showing up here as often as you do.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tell me, what is your purpose for coming here, anyway?”

Sukuna laughed—a cold, cruel, taunting laugh. “Can a man not step foot in his future palace?” But, when he noticed the confusion evident on your face, he smiled grimly, before taking you arm-in-arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

It was more of an order, if anything, but with the strength he used to pull your arm into his, and with the intimidatingly imperiling energy practically radiating off his body, you did not refuse his subtle coercion to take a stroll around the gardens, (especially since his gladius was still strapped in its harness).

Taking a slow pace, the two of you walked arm-in-arm around the various bushes, plants, trees, and vineyards that surrounded the estate. While making your way around the scenic landscape, Sukuna, in a low voice, began to speak.

He told you of his imprisonment, and how, for four years, he had been idly rotting away in a cell, before his persecutors decided to finally end his life and throw him in an arena. Sukuna did not attend any schooling for gladiators, and was untrained. When he first stepped foot in the Colosseum, almost everyone thought he was to die. But, miraculously, he, instead, survived. His first match, he won. His second match, he won.

The officials kept throwing him into munera, and every single time, he came out undefeated. Sukuna was a criminal since birth, but when he made a career as a gladiator (albeit against his will), he quickly made a name for himself. Ryoumen Sukuna rose in fame and fortune—not only for his skill when it came to swordsmanship, but also for his looks. The man may have been a notorious criminal, but he was a fan-favorite when it came to the ladies.

It was as if the gods regarded Ryoumen as their champion, seeing as they granted him victory through every editor that oversaw his matches.

With each gladiatorial game that passed, Sukuna’s opponents only grew tougher and tougher, which, mind you, never proved a problem. The man’s prizes and incentives for surviving the arena increased with each match, and Sukuna’s wealth grew in unmistakable abundance, surpassing even the fortune of an average nobleman.

When Sukuna was but a boy, he never dreamed of a life in the Colosseum; but in this realm, one either wins or loses. The Parcae wait for no man, and mortals of all ages and all walks of life know one thing: Vincere aut mori.⁵

⁵ Conquer or die.

“Each time I unsheath my blade,” Sukuna began, stopping just before an olive tree, “I do not know whether I will breathe for another night. But the higher-ups in this empire are all but damn fools. The last match, right before we celebrate Vulcan, will determine everything. If I kill Satoru Gojo, my name will live on long after my life’s end. If I die by his trident (the weapon my silver-haired rival wields) . . .” His voice trailed off.

“That’s not a possibility I’m against,” you interjected.

“Very funny.” Sukuna turned to look down at you. “For that’s a possibility that simply will not happen.”

“What, don’t tell me you’ve consulted an oracle or something of the sort?”

The pink-haired man laughed in your face; it was cruel and unsounding. “You dare doubt my victory, woman?”

“I doubt everything when it comes to you.”

Your stroll around the palace gardens came to a sudden end, as Sukuna roughly pulled you by the shoulders and placed you both to stand face-to-face. His expression was dark, and his tone inhumane. “Listen, and listen well, girl. The emperor offers me a prize I cannot reject. If I win my most anticipated match yet, he will bestow upon me—by the power vested by the gods above—whatever it is I please.”

You couldn’t help but interrupt once more, your curiosity getting the best of you. “You mean to tell me, you’ll ask for the empire? Is that what you mean by ‘future palace?’”

“I won’t ask for the empire. No, my prize will be something far greater. And when I get it, the empire will soon fall into my hands as easily as it was for you to fall into mine.”

“So, that’s all it is that you want? The empire?”

Sukuna leaned down to meet your eyes, his stare burning holes through your flesh. “I want control.”

“Well, let me tell you something, sir,” you began, coolly, whilst taking a step backwards with each word you spoke, “you won’t find that here.”

But when you were just about to exit the garden, and finally get the fuck away from the brute of a man you called Sukuna, you could just barely hear him utter—with that sensuously slow voice of his—five words, that seemed to stick with you even after you left the premises. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”

It was as if you had pushed your luck far too much for the gods’ pleasure, and now, they were giving you something along the lines of a punishment.

Even after Sukuna’s visits changed from daily, to every other day, to weekly, and then, to nothing but a faint memory of the past, his voice never left your head, like a deity putting a certain thought or belief or action into a mortal’s mind. It was overbearing, and you couldn’t draw the line between delusion and reality.

When you set off to fetch herbs for, say, preparing baths or something of the like, Ryoumen’s cold, dark voice, which practically dripped with malice, seemed to follow you every way you went. Feeling a hand perch on your shoulder always had you shuddering, whether it was a trick of the mind or an action actually done by someone else. Entertaining yourself with the playing of an instrument—you preferred the cithara⁶—degressed from a pastime to a new torture method. Between picking strings and producing melodies, came the haunting face of Ryoumen Sukuna, which proved more of a distraction rather than a stimulation, seeing as dissonance and incorrect, out-of-tune notes were the only sounds played.

⁶ An instrument.

You knew that you were in your right mind when you first met the fact that you avoided the man for being afraid of him, but only now, were you finding yourself validated by the shivers you got from the mere thought of him appearing. Somnus was not a god of your favor; your dreams—more like nightmares, it seemed—only filled you with more despair each time you arose in a cold sweat.

It was unfair how much of an effect the beast had on you.

Alas, your hopes of freedom were for naught.

Another fortnight passed, and it had now been a total of thirty days since you last spectated a gladiator match. You were neither surprised nor anxious when the empress dragged you along to another match at the Colosseum (by then, you had realized it was practically fate), but what you were astonished to see, however, was the sight of fires which blazed unwaveringly before you.

It was evening; the arena was lit up with several immensely-sized bonfires, whilst the air darkened with the amount of smoke flying up to the clouds above; the stands were decorated in tapestries and other displays of insignias; and the crowds bustled and roared with uncontrollable excitement and an unquenchable lust for blood.

The emperor sat in his respected box—the cubiculum—with his lions beside him, while you and the empress sat in the Imperial Box opposite to his.

The night was young, and the winds—smelling of the fragrant incense being burned—lashed and whipped unforgivably at your plaited updo and thin clothing. Even with the bright, old stars beaming down at the gold of your jewelry, your eyes shone downwards, covered ever so slightly by the veil you wore atop your head. You did not want to watch this match, but, despite the fact, you neither declined nor pressed for complaints when the empress ordered for your accompanying presence at the amphitheater.

“My child,” was what she began with, before saying, “the Parcae.”

It was short, it was simple, and yet it had the same effect on you that it would have—had her selection of words been more compious.

Fate called you.

There was no doubt in that.

For, when you found your seat in the arena . . . There it was again. That same piercing gaze delivered your way, and that same intimidated reaction you experienced. Like prey having been caught in its predator’s trap. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling of two red, crimson eyes staring right back at you, and you worked arduously to ignore his unmistakable stare, using turning to the side and facing a neighbor or digging in your bag as an excuse to escape making eye contact.

Ryoumen Sukuna had entered through the Gate of Life, (as did all gladiators of the time), and if the growing rowdiness of the crowds hadn’t brought you to that attention, the sudden chill in the air would.

Gojo Satoru’s entrance into the Colosseum followed soon after, and you bit your lip at the memory of the last time you met his sea-blue eyes. It was distant, long-past, but you liked to think about it every now and then; sometimes when you dipped your fingers into similarly-colored waters, or, when the clouds rained and thundered over the empire.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but you did not know the silver-haired gladiator like you feared his crimson-eyed opponent. Fear is power. Power is love.

“Dearie,” called the woman dressed in ornate fabrics, as she placed a hand on your knee, “do quit the shaking of your leg. If the sight of blood brings about your nerves, we can always have someone over to cover your eyes with a palm branch when the time comes. I am not mistaken, corrigere?⁷”

⁷ Correct.

“No, Empress, I appreciate your kindness, but,” you paused, casting your eyes downward, “there will be no need. I can assure you that, blood hardly disturbs me in the slightest. I am just . . .” Your voice trailed off, your fingertips grazing the folds of your palla. “I wonder who will survive this evening.”

“My, my, my, has my dearie taken an interest in gladiatorial matches?” The empress smiled, teasingly. “I didn’t know you cared for a matter you previously spoke about with such disdain.”

Your cheeks warmed, fists clenched, and your breath caught in your throat. Embarrassment was an inexplicable feeling, and you looked to the side before changing the subject. “Who has your favor?”

“Is that even a question?” The woman erupted in laughter, surprised at how you could even question her about who she rooted for, especially due to the known fact about one man, and one man only, who had been dwelling at the royal abode as a repeated visitor.

You whispered mumblings under your breath—something along the lines of paenitemus,⁸ or, ignoscas mihi.⁹

⁸ Apologies.

⁹ Excuse me.

“My turn to question,” the empress managed, between her fit of laughter, “tell me, daughter of mine, which lucky man has your favor?”

You were silent for a moment—indecisive, one could say—but thanked the gods above when the gladiators were abruptly called to state their oaths, and, therefore, giving you an excuse to avoid providing the empress an audible answer.

You leaned forward in your seat, and watched as both Ryoumen Sukuna and Gojo Satoru spoke, consecutively, with their eyes set on one another. The crowds ceased their commotion, and watched, with intent so significant it brought them practically to the edges of their benches, as the challengers gave their swearings of the vow directly tying them to the will of the gods as they gave away their lives—the sacramentum gladiatorum, it was called.

Sukuna’s eyes were dark, that you could tell, and the overall atmosphere surrounding him screamed a lust for blood. His voice was cold, as if he wanted to get everything over with already, whilst the ruby on his swords’s hilt shone reflective under the moonlight’s illumination. He did not speak like it was an obligation, he spoke like it was a duty. 

“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroqua necari pateor,” they both vowed.

Each man knew he were to either conquer or die; the speaking of those words only solidified the matter for all to hear. Victor or not, the lives of gladiators are objects of entertainment according to the match’s editor’s will. The gods speak, blood drips, and blades bury the undead. Spectators are roused as both competitors ready themselves, (which is a spectacle in itself, truthfully speaking), but you, on the other hand, are only able to watch with a sense for danger in the air. It was almost amusing. Timor mortis morte pejor.¹⁰

¹⁰ The fear of death is worse than death.

As both men began to circle each other, throwing insults and taunts, you could not help but drift off to the memory of that fortnight Sukuna spent at the palace. His words lingered in your ears, and the feeling of his hands on your shoulders, his arm around yours—it was . . . you couldn’t put a finger on it. There was, just, something about what he said that gave you an uncanny feeling in your gut.

Sukuna wanted control, you knew that, but, if he came out victorious this same night, he wasn’t planning on asking for the empire. He already made sure you got that through your skull, but, all the same, you couldn’t pin-point what it was that he did want. Gold? Treasures? He already had plenty. Women? No, his collection of admirers already exceeded a great number. Land? Yes, that had to be it. But, then again, whatever it was that Ryoumen wanted, he claimed it would have the empire falling into his hands sooner or later. Land couldn’t possibly be the answer for that . . .

Whilst you stayed in your head, thinking to yourself, the match had already begun to get less boring. Both men had each delivered at least two hits to the other, and the clanks! of iron against iron could be heard audible throughout the arena.

Sukuna took side-steps, a new technique he had developed, while the silver-haired gladiator struck the tips of his trident at places most people wouldn’t have even imagined possible.

Grunting, the pink-haired man swung his gladius like it was a mere toy, while spitting on the coarse, rough sand. That action alone sent several sections of the Colosseum swooning. But, despite the fact, Gojo didn’t let any of it get to his head, and, in lieu, let out an almost facetious whistle.

“Dunno if you’re aware, Ryoumen, but this isn’t exactly a great time to pick up ladies,” was what the lean, pale man said, joking, as he continued stabbing with his trident.

“Any time is a great time; what are you going on about? Could pick up a chick with my eyes closed.”

The two men went forwards and backwards with their banter, like two boys rebelling and messing around in school. They joked like immature adolescents, but fought like champions of the gods. The skies were cloudless, with the moon shining bright, and it was thus unclear whose side Olympus was on. But what really confused you, was the sudden thumping sound that reached your ears. Especially with the lack of drums or any similar instruments visible, you were left in a sense of unanswerableness.

The sound of the thumping was loud, and continued to increase in volume as the match went on. Gojo slashed at Sukuna’s armor—the drum beat faster; Sukuna stabbed at Gojo’s helmet—the drum beat in a staccato fashion; Gojo stumbled on his own two feet, struggling to fight back against Ryoumen’s gladius—the drum did not beat faster, but, instead, crescendoed, along with the roars of the crowds.

It was incredibly overwhelming.

You turned to the empress, in order to ask if the emperor had hired any percussion players, but Her Imperial Majesty paid you no mind, for she was extremely engrossed in the fight, repeatedly expressing her frustrations and anticipation by cursing under her breath.

Everyone was in their own world. Spectators, as they watched and rooted for their favorite gladiator. Nobles, as they placed bets and other games of the like. The emperor and empress, as they analyzed the match and reactions of the crowds (as to decide who to favor when the time came for a turned thumb). And, if it wasn’t obvious before, the gladiators, as they fought for both their lives and honor.

First blood was drawn a while ago, but only now, had real stabs been given. Pierced through his armor, clutching at his chest while taking steps backwards, was none other than the infamous, silver-haired Gojo Satoru. You did not know much about him, other than the fact he was an attractive man (A/N: don’t even start with me), but you couldn’t help but feel pity seeing him come to a loss so soon.

While the drum beat faster, and the volume amplified, booming across the walls of the amphitheater, you could make out, just slightly, the life returning back to Gojo’s eyes. Blood dripped, yes, but it was not plentiful enough for death to visit the grounds of the Colosseum.

Gojo’s hands twitched, his slender, pale fingers stained with blood and marked with sand, but his figure fought back for composure, and the fact soon became clear as his legs grew stiff, and his steps grew less irregular as the seconds went by.

You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice the man’s recovery, but it would have been strange to admit Ryoumen was the one behind it all. Seeing as a duel to the death in an arena was all a mere lousy game to the pink-haired brute, it wasn’t a refutable accusation to say Sukuna was only toying with his opponent’s life. Nearly piercing through Gojo’s chest, just to stand and watch solemnly as he stumbled—you soon grew familiar with the idea of Ryoumen testing the waters: seeing just how much Gojo could take before the ever anticipated match-ending move was played.

Murder flashed in the pair of crimson eyes, and the etchings on Sukuna’s gladius gleamed under the moonlight as he drew up his sword for one last round.

Gojo regained his stance, delivered a blow at Sukuna’s side, which, for second, appeared to at least wound the beast, but Ryoumen, ever the calculated, drew back; and as the drum continued to beat and thump in the background, both men fought with a newfound rush of vitality and zeal for blood. Hollers sounded through the crowds, coins dropped into dishes, and the shaking of your leg quickened.

Sukuna kept silent, like a scheming child, while he hit Gojo with the end of his sword. The attack was with enough force for the silver-haired gladiator to be knocked down, off his feet, and onto the floor of the arena. A retaliation was not lacked, as Sukuna received small, insignificant and weak stabs of the trident to his abdomen, as Gojo fought for the continuation of his name, but it was for naught.

The climax of the drum’s beating was reached when Sukuna delivered an almost humorous kick to his opponent, before turning to face the emperor in his Imperial Box. Gojo’s face was full of yearning and want—but, whether it was for death or life was uncertain. He laid, injured and on the brink of mortality, but he was silent, and ceased any more attacks.

Crowds grew silent, but stayed as rowdy (somehow), as everyone turned to the emperor in anticipation. Clothed in the naturally designated purple toga, with a laurel wreath to emit godly status and authority, the emperor stood before and above all. A pollice verso¹¹ was given, after careful thought, and as the beating of the drum quickened, the blade of Ryoumen Sukuna’s gladius was driven through the heart of Gojo Satoru.

¹¹ Turned thumb.

But before such an action occurred, the beast did not forget, with audible cruelty, to spit out the words, “The moonlight’s illumination makes it easier . . . to see how pathetic you are.”

Blood seeped from the wound in Gojo’s chest and spilled out from between cracked lips; and as the fallen gladiator was soon carried out the Gate of Death, the beating of the invisible drum ceased, and you lost your capability to form words.

Surprise, pity, anger—they were all shown in your expression. With parted lips, and denial etched all over your face, you sunk down in your seat as others around you stood up to applaud, cheer, cry out, and much more.

At his zenith, Ryoumen Sukuna backed away from the corpse at his feet, dug his gladius into the floors of sand, and looked ‘round at his spectators. Turning his head, meeting the eyes of those who wanted him dead and those who prayed for his victory, Sukuna held a scowl on his face, like he wasn’t affected in the slightest by having just murdered a man.

Ryoumen was a man who knew how to hold himself in stance and gait, much like a god or a king. Raising his arms wide, eyes flickering to pierce everyone’s souls, his voice came out just as cold as it had been last fortnight—when he decidedly said, in front of everyone, “Behold, mortals; feast your eyes upon the monster you have set free for your pleasure.”

This was the King of the Colosseum.

You could see that much, now.

***

The sun rose proud, the mockingbirds cooed gently, and the blessing of the dawn of a new day had been upon citizens of Rome.

Senators were gathered ‘round while royals and other noblemen stood and watched alongside. Whispers and murmurs were plenty, but when the emperor asked for whatever it was that the gladiator wanted, there was a stunned silence as the pink-haired beast took long, full strides to approach none other than you. Kneeling before your feet, and kissing the back of your outstretched palm, even the gods watched with pleasure and anticipation whilst an answer revealed itself. 

Silent, swift, and yet, never before, so concise. The air was still, the noise had ceased, and even the falling of a pin could be heard clear as day whilst your figure twitched and shook ever so slightly—fear having begun its taking of your body.

It was needless to voice that same wretched look Ryoumen Sukuna offered your way, his crimson eyes peering up at you from beneath his eyelashes. It was nothing short of a horror.

The day after Gojo Satoru’s death, a circle of royal acquaintances had gathered at a pavilion of the palace to watch as the emperor granted whatever prize Ryoumen Sukuna wished for. Elephants, tigers, lions, and other beasts of the wild, were already lined up and harnessed. Stacks of jewelry and treasures littered the marble floors. It was clear the emperor had already expected what offers could be possibly made, and so he decorated the palace in accordance. But, when the fearsome gladiator chose to, in lieu, take you as his bride for a prize, there was unanimous astonishment.

Rising back to his feet, the pink-haired victor—dressed in his signature red cloak, ruby-adorned blade, and now, an additional laurel (to signify his victory the last evening)—looked down at you with a strangeness about his eyes. Your hand was still in Sukuna’s when he turned to face the emperor, who stood with a calm demeanor, contrasting just about everyone.

“You ask for the princess?” the emperor questioned, curious.

“If it can be done.”

The emperor laughed, adding, “But, you must know, son, there are many women who will not be happy by this news.”

At this, the crowds burst into laughter. The tension in the air dissipated, but you . . . you looked at the ground and at your feet, praying you misheard or were even dreaming. But alas, you couldn’t have strayed farther from the truth.

“You would kiss the hand of your prisoner?” you whispered, whilst everyone was distracted in their fits of laughter.

“Am I not a prisoner, as well?”

***

You were twenty years old when your hair was parted by a spear, separated into six locks, crowned with nature’s gifts and herbs, and covered by a flammeum (also known as a veil). With your face painted, jewelry adorned, and dress made ready, you were escorted and sent off to join in matrimony with Ryoumen Sukuna. Tears in your eyes, a palm branch in your hands, the completion of the ceremony came, and it was then time for the wedding feast: the banquet. 

It was to take place at the atrium of the palace, similar to the wedding ceremony.

Pheasants were killed, venison was brought, raw oysters were consumed, and shellfish made its appearances at the banquet. You sat beside the man you now called your husband, picking at your meals and distracting yourself with entertaining the guests. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat silent, for the most part; his hand resting on your hip as he watched, full of intent, as your lips parted and moved with each syllable you uttered.

There were a-plenty dancers, poets, and musicians present at both the wedding ceremony and banquet, but, for each ritual up until now, Sukuna had failed to take his eyes off of you. Red, crimson orbs—that seemed to never stray from yours.

It had been a week since you last spoke to Sukuna, the day he claimed you as his, and, in truth, if it were in your will, you would wish to never speak to him again. You hardly paid any mind, at all, to him as the both of you sat side-by-side, presenting yourselves as a married couple to the families, friends, and well-wishers who attended your wedding feast.

When the attention was directed elsewhere, and you received a much-needed break from entertaining your guests with talk of whatever it was that came to your mind, you reached for your goblet of wine, thirsty and parched, but were stopped by a ring-adorned, scarred hand, belonging to Sukuna, which held you firm by the wrist.

“I have murdered a man for you, dear wife,” began Sukuna, a cold, enigmatic look in his eyes as he peered into your face; “there is blood on my hands solely for your sake, and you refuse to even acknowledge my presence?”

You tried fighting back, stretching your fingers and reaching out for your goblet, but, surprise-surprise, his strength surpassed yours. With a huff of defeat, your hand—once writhing in your husband’s grasps—relaxed, and you gave into responding. “Do not forget, husband, I was not the one who called on you to do such a thing.”

Sukuna laughed, released your wrist, and opted to rest the side of his face on his fist as he watched you drink, a demented (but captivated) look on his face all the while. “Gods, I always forget how much of a sweet-talker you can be,” he snickered.

“You are delusional,” you deadpanned, continuing with your drink.

“And you, my dear, are—”

“Bitchy?”

“No.”

“Cruel?”

“No.”

“Exasperating?”

“I was going more for . . . bewitching.”

You set your wine down; silent, as you avoided Sukuna’s eyes.

But the man had different plans, seeing as he gingerly seized your left hand, and laid a kiss upon your ring finger (which connected to the vena amoris¹²), before kissing down each digit, making sure his lips met almost every piece of gold on your hand. The action would’ve been seen as romantic through your eyes, if you had forgotten what got the two of you here in the first place.

¹² Vein of love.

You did not speak until he was done, and when he was, you said, your voice above a whisper, “Husband.”

“Wife.” His response was almost immediate.

“I am . . .” You turned to meet his eyes. “I am bored, and would like to hear a story. A tale. Anything.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me—Tell me why you chose me.”

“I chose you because . . . I wanted you. Simple. Can a man not have his wants? His needs? As one chooses their life’s path, so I have chosen a woman I worship. A woman I need. A woman I love.”

“Need I remind you that lust is not love?”

A darkness came over Sukuna’s eyes, like a storm succeeding the calm. “Lust can be many things,” he replied, before lifting his goblet. “Care for a drink?”

You lifted your goblet, but hesitated, caution taking over your nerves. “I have had enough to drink for the night.”

“What, no toast for your husband?” Sukuna joked, his tone sly and cunning, as if there were an ulterior motive laced beneath his invitation.

You turned to face Sukuna, the bracelets and cuffs on your wrist sliding from their rightful places ever so slightly. 

“Never in a million eons, you devil.” Seven words uttered before you finished off the wine in your goblet in one go.

The wedding feast ended with confarreatio, which led to the beginning of the next ritual. Domum deductio took place, and, that same evening, your innocence was stolen—ripped right out from your cold, bare, fucking, hands.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

Marriage, actually, wasn’t all quite as bad as you had imagined . . . Okay, that was a lie.

Your first debut outdoors, after your joining in nuptials and being on the arm of Ryoumen Sukuna in front of government officials and nobles, took place a week after your wedding ceremony. The two of you had gotten up to making much use of your lectus genialis, and, even with the longing of fresh air and seeing familiar faces, it still took a bit of convincing for you to exit the doors of the estate; for, exhaustion had gotten the best of you.

It was hot outside; the sun shone cruelly, but you enjoyed being outside of the estate’s premises for once.

“I still don’t understand why you declined traveling by a litter,¹³” Sukuna said, bitterly, as he sat with his arms crossed, and his expression stern, whilst looking out the carpentum’s¹⁴ windows.

¹³ During Ancient Rome, a litter was a portable couch or bed that was carried by slaves or animals.

¹⁴ A luxurious Roman carriage used by the privileged.

“I am not a fan of parading,” came your calm reply.

“You’re a princess—by blood or not. Either way, a woman, as beautiful and alluring as you, should be treated as such.”

Your cheeks did not warm; Sukuna’s way of speaking about you like this was far from new, and you had gotten used to it, ever since your first encounter.

“Ryoumen,” you called, almost like a mother soothing a fussy child, “why do you feel the need to coddle me?”

“Coddling?” he repeated, seemingly offended. “You’re my wife, my treasure. The question should be why I would do anything but.”

The noises of the bustling street, talk of the people, and the sound of clothing against clothing, were all drowned out by the running of hooves and the whips of the carpentum driver. It was a spacious carriage, you had to admit, but with the amount of times the vehicle rocked and jerked on the uneven roads, you had soon begun to find yourself sitting impossibly close to Sukuna. Your elbows touching, shoulders meeting—it was uncomfortable due to the evident size differences.

“You forget that you won me, husband.”

“What is the difference?” sighed Sukuna, running a hand down his face. “I would’ve put a ring on your finger sooner or later.”

“. . .”

“Though, I do argue that, killing a man for your hand, was quite romantic . . . What, don’t give me that face.”

You looked at Sukuna with a stupid expression. “You . . . are a silly man.”

“All but for one woman,” he replied.

When you entered the carpentum, neither of the two of you knew where it was you were going. To the shops, to the villages, to the palace—it was unknown. Or, maybe, the destination was to remain indefinite on purpose. You liked traveling through the city, meeting the eyes of citizens you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. You enjoyed the scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and children laughing as they played in the streets. You liked it all, and you missed it all, even. But, gods, were you getting soft.

There was a pair of men passing through the road, and you would not have noticed them had the vehicle not yielded to let them pass.

“Look at their shoes,” Sukuna said, leaning in closer as the carriage was stopped, so you could hear him over the commotions. “Disgusting.” 

“Do remember you were born in a prison, husband.” You remained straight-faced whilst you spoke, as neutral as one could be whilst keeping your eyes forward.

Sukuna let out a bark-laugh. “What a saint you are, huh.”

Your carriage was just about to approach a turning corner, when, completely out of the blue, you heard one of the men exclaim to the other, “Ah, look at that one, Caius! A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she?”

His companion replied, saying, just as scandalously, “Not half-bad, my friend,” he laughed, eyeing you up and down. “Never before have I wished more to be an emperor; just imagine what works I could perform if she was a slave.” 

“If?”

“If. No way she’s anything but royalty. No man in his right state of mind would let her out of the streets if she was property.”

The two men snickered, carrying woven baskets filled with crops as they went, completely oblivious to the way Ryoumen sized the both of them up, seemingly possessed by a sudden lust for blood. Now that he thought about it, he had not killed in a while.

You tried to put a hand on Sukuna’s arm, in a poor attempt to soothe his growing anger, but he did not pay any mind to that, for he stuck his head out the luxuriously decorated carpentum, and retaliated against the perversion of the men with insults of his own. Yelling Latin curses left and right, all the obscenities in the book and footnotes. His voice was cold, and rough around the edges, but what surprised you most, was the tone in which he said, “Somnia omnia quae vis, nothi; praecidam manus tuas antequam tangas eam.¹⁵” You had never seen or heard such anger.

¹⁵ Dream all you want, bastards; I will cut off your hands before you even touch her.

But, before Sukuna could say something more offensive than “Te futueo et caballum tuum,” or, “Fututus et mori in igni,” the men recognized his carnage-filled reputation in the Colosseum from his notorious tattoos, and, with such fear they could’ve wet themselves, the both of them went, scurrying off in the opposite direction of where they came from, even going as far as dropping every basket they carried before making a run for it.

You caught a glimpse of them in their distress, and agreed—their shoes were disgusting.

Although settling into Sukuna’s estate took little time, familiarizing yourself with life as a married couple, on the other hand, took . . . some time, to say the least. The both of you had your ups and downs, and the path to warming up to your husband was a rocky one, seeing as your marriage was not out of love (not in the beginning, for the most part); so, naturally, there were some days where the two of you did not get along so well. And, who knew valets and maidservants could serve as such good marriage counselors? 

Bright, sunny days had you seated outside, beneath the shade of olive trees, and while the songbirds sang along, you often kept yourself occupied by playing your cithara.⁶ Your husband was seldom home for most of the day, and you had learned how to keep busy whilst the only company you had was the flames rising forth from the hearth, and the tamed animals which lingered while your fingers danced across melodious strings.

⁶ An instrument.

Today was different.

Sukuna had no appointments to meet, no guests to entertain, and no matches to play. He met you in the gardens of your home, and stood, stiff and broad, just three paces from where you sat on a fountain’s coping. It was as if he were afraid to approach, to disturb and interrupt your playing, but you knew he was just deciding whether or not he was welcome.

“You play well,” came the sound of his voice.

“How could I not? There is never much to do around here.”

“Weaving?” He raised an eyebrow, still standing still like a statue.

“I fear I do not see as much joy in that as I used to.”

“And why is that, dear wife?”

“I find . . . other activities to take up the majority of my time.”

“Such as?”

Romans were barbarians in the arena and in the bedchambers.

You did not know sex until you were bedded by Ryoumen, and you did not know libido until you experienced what it meant to really be fucked. Growing up, sexual intercourse was always described as marital duties, but with Sukuna, it felt like a pleasure—quite literally.

Day and night, night and day.

It was all you knew the week following your wedding ceremony, and it was all you desired when coming home to the brute of a man you called your husband. The two of you did not exit the bedroom once during the week you spent after the final nuptial ritual. He had ruined you in the best way possible, you sometimes thought, and with little difficulty had he gotten you addicted to the feel of his cock, his tongue, and his fingers. Merely thinking about it all had your cheeks growing warm and your core practically aching with need.

But sex wasn’t all you received from the man; there was also endless banter, cruel mocking, rough touches, and arguments. Sukuna wasn’t a kind, vanilla man, you realized that the moment you laid eyes on him; and he was, if anything, a deviant. A monstrous one, at that. 

Retaliating against him got you absolutely nowhere, and arguments only ended in sex. It wasn’t healthy, no, but it wasn’t like anyone said it would be.

With every step you took backwards, Sukuna followed with two forwards. The two of you had been arguing about a trivial matter—it had been long forgotten, actually—but neither of you had the decency to end your quarrel. Your yells and insults echoes throughout the walls of the estate, and servants paid mind to avoid the room you two currently occupied.

“Have I ever told you how much I absolutely loathe your pompous, fucking, ass?”

“Oh, sweetheart, only about a million times,” he answered, obviously taking your anger with a grain of salt. “But, how could I not? when you always do more than just tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes at the man, and cursed. “Go rip out your tongue and rub it raw with a strigil.”

“I always forget how much I love to hear you dirty-talk.”

“You are a dog,” you spat out, as Sukuna had you backed up against the edge of a table.

“And you, my dear wife, are a beauty to behold.”

Mentally having patted himself on the back for rendering you speechless, Sukuna closed the distance between you two and placed a kiss on your hand like he always did. Sexually appealing, successful, and charming? Damn the gods for giving him it all. 

You and Sukuna were stood just centimeters apart, his arms caging you in as he stared down upon you with that unforgettable look in his eyes. It was intimidating, indeed, but you were his wife, for gods’ sake! you could surely hold your ground.

“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” you said, placing your palms on the surface of the table behind you as you challenged Sukuna’s unwavering gaze, staring up at him with eyes doe and, still, equally as hardening.

“Good. Flattery isn’t quite my style.”

Sukuna raised a hand to rest on your cheek, before bringing you in for a zealous kiss. All teeth and tongue. It hurt—how rough he held you, that is—but it was a different type of pain. A type of pain you enjoyed suffering. His lips met yours, and you tasted blood on his tongue. You could not tell whose it was. Whether it was from him handling you with little to no care, or it was from him, himself, or it was from another, more foreign, source, you did not know.

You responded to his kiss with just as much violence as lust. Your body pressed against Sukuna’s, seeking as much friction as you could, whilst the two of you molded into each other like pieces of a puzzle. While Sukuna kept you pinned against the table, with nowhere to turn, your hands found their way to perching on his shoulder and on his beating heart, in efforts to maintain stability (which was proving to be a challenge, if you had to be honest).

Whispers and murmurs against lips; nipping and biting of sharp teeth; heavy breathing and the failure to catch breaths—it was overbearing. The room felt stuffy and overcrowded, when, in reality, it was only the two of you.

“Were you—mmph—acting like a bitch because you missed this?” Sukuna jeered, sloppily kissing you between each word.

“I would act like a bitch regardless.” You clawed at his chest and toga, having gone equally as mad from the mere feeling of kisses alone, but, in any way, your words came out all the same as you had intended them. “Taking me as your wife may have come easily to you, but wooing me won’t.”

“Lucky me,” Sukuna exhaled, releasing you from his nearly-suffocating kiss but not from his grasps. “I’m all for a challenge.”

One of his hands shot to your hip, his grip unforgivable and white-knuckled, whilst his other hand trailed down your thigh, slender fingers tickling your warming skin through the fabric of your clothing, and sending the hairs on your neck to stand up. You held your breath, hands back to their original positions on the table’s surface, as Sukuna reached the edge of your dress, lifting it to your waist.

Cool air hit your skin almost instantly, and goosebumps arose along your limbs. But, still, you did not breathe; it wasn’t until Sukuna’s cold, cruel voice spoke up that you did.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he cooed, staring at the dampness of your core. “No undergarments? Must be all for me.”

He spoke as if you were a feast; it made you bite your lip to the point of bleeding, and caused your legs to almost go wobbly, like a fawn.

Ryoumen tilted his head down to meet your neck, before he sank his teeth beneath the skin of your clavicle. It was scandalous in all the best ways possible, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan which left your lips. He sucked at the wound, kissed it, and moved his lips to other areas of your collarbones. He nipped and bit at freckles and moles, sucked on your skin—leaving love marks in his way, and, despite the feat, never failing to litter sloppy and wet kisses all the while.

With his mouth on your skin, Sukuna’s hands worked elsewhere. He trailed a cold hand up your thigh, teasing you with touches to the point of it becoming agonizing, before finally getting to where you needed him most. You were dripping enough for no lube to be needed, but the man was still courteous enough to dip one finger within your folds, before following with a second. Curling them deep inside of you, and hitting just the right spot; your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your hands shook and jerked uncontrollably as you dug your nails into Sukuna’s toned biceps.

Moans and whimpers left your lips left and right, yet he was only beginning.

His fingers bullied your clit, continuing their assault mercilessly; and whilst the sound of your growing cries bounced around the walls of the estate, his pace and roughness only reached new heights, seemingly possessed by the satisfaction of bringing you to Cloud Nine.

“Sukuna . . .” you whimpered, struggling to form words. “Sukuna, please. Please, I need to—”

“Need to what?”

“I . . . nngh,” you managed, moaning within your pleas, “I need to cum. I need to cum, you stupid bastard.”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your husband?” Sukuna taunted, pausing his attacks on your neck and the skillfulness of his fingers between your legs with not even a second thought.

You were this close to being brought over the edge, and you whined and wiggled your hips as Sukuna stopped reaching so deep within you, but, instead, opted for circling the tips of his fingers around the embarrassingly wet entrance of your clit. It was not even close to enough; he was punishing you, you were sure.

“No, no—nngh! Why did you stop?” you cried, bucking your hips in an attempt at reaching bliss.

“Because you have not an idea on how to speak to the Head of the House, wifey.” His crimson eyes bore into your teary ones, and you clawed and scratched at his neck, trying desperately to pull him closer to you.

“Ryoumen, no, please. Please—I need to . . . I need to . . .” Your voice trailed off. Truthfully speaking, now was possibly the worst time to gain a conscience.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I . . . Please, Sukuna. I need you. I, fuck—I need you. Please.” You looked into his eyes, crying entreaties like your life depended on it. “Please, I need to cum.”

“See? Not so bad, now, was it?”

Sukuna did not resume his assault with his fingers, but, instead, for possibly the first time in history, knelt down, before you, before his wife, and pressed a degrading (if anything) kiss to your pretty, puffy lips, before attaching his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking stripes up and on it with a velocity that left you leaving permanently visible claw-marks on the furnished table.

You could not hear, you could not move, you could not speak, you could only feel. Feel the feeling of Sukuna’s rough tongue gliding through your wetness, plunging and pumping and ravaging throughout your folds, reaching spots deep within you, causing you to see stars as he reached that one good spot. It was ruthless, it was sinful, and it was so, so, so, so wrong, but, then again, it was just so, so, so, so good.

Flicking his tongue, and curling it, Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit. The whole act of it was just . . . incredibly intimate. Your thighs squeezed and squeezed, hands gripping his hair for support, but it was still too much. With a final kiss to your clit, you felt the coil build in your stomach, and with a scandalously loud cry, you came on Sukuna’s tongue, shaking and writhing as tears fell from your dazed eyes.

Allowing you to ride out your high, Sukuna lapped at your release, gripping onto the flesh of your ass with white knuckles to keep you from squirming and wiggling.

“Mm, tastes so good, baby.”

“I . . . ahh . . . too—too much. Sensitive.”

“Poor baby,” he cooed, mockingly, before his voice turned cool once more; “you can handle it.”

Rising to his feet, and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, Sukuna stared at the wood behind you whilst watching you catch your breath, chest heaving as you depended on the table for balance. “It was a smart move to buy such a large table,” he murmured, stepping closer.

But before you could ask what on earth it was that Sukuna was referring to, he answered all your questions by lifting you up by the meat of your hips and laying you on your back on the rough wood of the table. It was cool against your bare skin, and sent a shiver running up your spine.

“You . . . What?” you questioned, attempting to sit up, before being roughly shoved back down.

“Don’t ‘What’ me, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you’ve been waiting for. Unless, of course, I’m hearing complaints?”

“. . .” You gulped, swallowing the lump in your throat, before crossing your legs behind Sukuna’s back and pulling him closer to your cunt, the hard-on—barely hidden beneath his toga—being pressed right up against where you needed him most. It sent a shock to your core.

“Now that’s a good girl.”

He pulled the dainty cloth of your dress off your body as easily as it was for you to put it on when you awoke that day’s morning, and mindlessly threw it onto the floor behind him.

“Sukuna, you—could you take any longer?” Laid bare before his eyes, you shivered, but not before pulling your husband impossibly closer. His hands planted on areas beside your head, and your lips met, molding together, as wildly as before.

Squeezing your eyes shut, breathy moans drawn forth from your lips, you held the sides of his throat in your hands, and occasionally carded your fingers through his rosy, unruly hair. All while sneakily dragging a bare foot up the fabric of his toga, revealing tattooed skin as you went. You couldn’t wait any longer, and if you were the one who had to get your husband’s cock out, so be it.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Sukuna couldn’t care less for your impatience; he . . . had an appreciation of the sort, for the rare times you took mild control.

Sukuna murmured, laughing against your kiss-bitten lips, “So impatient today, wifey.”

“Like you’re not?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking down at you once the two of you released each other for breath. His eyes were dark and dull, but you noticed the strands of hair askew on his face, (if it wasn’t already enough for you that his toga was now completely off). “Come on. Do you really want to go down that route, sweetheart?”

“I can’t help it. Bullying is just such—o-oh!”

Despite biting your lip, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, arching your back as Sukuna had your hands pinned down above your head on the table. The first thrust had the air knocked out of your throat, you didn’t even notice it was coming in the first place! Even with the amount of times he bedded you, you had never gotten used to his size. Long, girthy, with veins that twitched and never failed to send you straight to Olympus? Yeah, you couldn’t really blame yourself.

“All it took to keep you from running your mouth was some cock, huh? Yeah, you make such a good whore for your dear husband, don’t you.” His cold, dark voice, complemented with the contradicting degradation and praising words of his sent you spiraling albeit it was only the beginning.

You kicked your feet, whining and gasping for breath when Sukuna took the opportunity to lean down, littering bites and love marks on your bare chest, trailing, ever so slowly, all the way up to the swell of your breasts. Hands still pinned to the table, legs locked around Sukuna’s waist, meeting his continuous thrusts without fail, your back arched with pleasure, giving Sukuna easy access to your tits, bouncing in all their glory before his mouth.

He leaned over your body, the difference in your heights showing itself clearly at this moment, as he swirled a wet, warm tongue around your areola, before attaching his lips to your tit, biting every then and there around the soft mound. Your nipples, perky and hardened long ago, reacted as they always did when they met Ryoumen’s lips. Sensitive, they were, and it showed, when you squirmed uncontrollably under his assaults, eyes opening and closing with vertigo.

“Such pretty tits,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations to your already aroused buds, “bet they would look even better all swollen with milk for my heir.”

You whined, moaning from the thought alone—argument long forgotten. Your cunt, its walls, actually, tightened at the idea of Sukuna giving you a baby, and you were sure he noticed with the way he was smiling like a madman with your tit in his mouth, one hand pinning yours down, the other twisting and pulling and pinching at your other neglected nipple.

“Mm, yeah. You like the sound of that, don’t you? clenching down on me like a vice. Want me to hold you down and make you a little mommy? Is that what you want?”

You nodded fervorously, throat dry from crying out, and mind already gone and thoroughly fucked-out.

Sukuna laughed, like the cruel man he was. “Well, if that’s what my lovely wife wants, it’s what my lovely wife gets.” 

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you thrashed around and moaned aloud like a crazy woman as the tip of Sukuna’s cock hit you in all the right places. It was incredibly overwhelming, and with the way your walls were convulsing around the cock reaching depths deep within you, the both of you were sure your second orgasm was to come no later than the first one.

Your cervix—kissed over and over and over again by the head of his cock; your tits—groped and bitten and sucked with relentless roughness; there really was no end to the pleasure you received from Sukuna. You felt stimulation all over to the point it was embarrassing how much you were pushed over the edge by simple touches and caresses alone. Even hearing Sukuna’s grunts and the rasp of his voice had your cheeks growing warm and your skin glowing under a thin layer of sweat.

“O-Ohh, I . . . nngh,” you whimpered, your wrists growing sore as your voice grew meek, letting out a soft, quiet “Please.” 

Blood rushed to Sukuna’s ears at the sound of your weak voice, and, most importantly, also rushed to his cock. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? We’ve been over this, darling. Use your words.”

“I—but . . . Sukuna, please! I need to . . . I need to cum. I—hahh.” You let out a shaky exhale, your orgasm within fingertips’ reach. 

“You want to cum? Go on, then, and cum right on your husband’s cock, just like the slut of a wife you are.”

Everything turned to black when you reached your climax; warm, sticky whiteness running down the base of Sukuna’s cock. He finished inside of you soon after, one last grunt and deep groan marking his release, whilst his seed filled you to the hilt, reaching deep inside of your quite fertile cunt at his cock still being buried in your twitching walls. You didn’t think at all about the possibilities which could follow after having laid down with Sukuna unprotected, and it seemed it was the same for him, as well.

His grip on your wrists did not give out, but still, nevertheless, loosened ever so slightly, revealing a ring of red marks around your wrists. You breathed out a sigh, shaking with eye-opening bliss as your stomach, once empty, was now bloated with the impeccable amount of semen shot by your husband. It swelled, full and swollen, painted white with ropes of cum, and when Sukuna pressed down on the bulging outline of his cock, you let out a poor whine.

“Don’t tell me you’ve given out on me just yet, sweetheart. You don’t think we’re finished already, do you?” 

***

Crawling out from beneath messed up sheets, climbing over sprawled out limbs, and tiptoeing around in nothing but a loose-fitting stola had your escape occurred—exiting from the bedchambers smelling of musk and sex, and entering the balcony, seeking breaths of fresh air.

You did not usually awake before your husband (he was usually up and out of the room by the time you opened your eyes), but perhaps yesterday’s exertions had tired him out, seeing as neither of you slept from after supper to the break of day. And, yes, while you, too, were also thoroughly exhausted, you fell into the arms of Somnus much before Ryoumen did, which likely contributed to your quite early waking.

The view downwards was pretty. Blurred shades of green and blue and white. You could see servants walking to-and-fro, and, for a moment, you remembered when your life was something similar.

The sun shone on your face as brightly as it did when you first saw the man still lying asleep in your bed, but you did not raise an arm to shield your eyes. It was quiet, and you felt more alive than you did in weeks. 

Morning dew fell from trees, and the birds sang. The railing on which you rested your elbows was cold and rough, it reminded you of something that you could not quite put your finger on, at least, not until you heard the sound of footsteps behind you, and the yawning and cracking of unused bones.

“Surprised to see you’re not already knocked up with my kid,” came the raspy, unfamiliar morning-voice from behind you.

“Surprised to see you awake at a time after six,” you quipped, not turning around to face your lover.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and a bare chest pressed itself against your back as Sukuna’s lips met your collarbones, kissing your skin in greeting. “A snarky one, aren’t you? What, did last night not soothe your wants?”

He was always so clingy in the mornings. Like a needy child.

“. . .You are only wearing a subligaculum,¹⁶” you observed, changing the subject with haste.

¹⁶ An undergarment.

“It’s not like I hear any complaints,” he joked. “Besides, no one’s up here. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a servant taking a little peek.”

You swallowed. “Nonsense.”

“Smart girl.” He rested his chin on the top of your head, his weight resting on yours, causing you to lean the combination of your weight on the balcony railing. “Now, tell me, what is someone like the missus doing someplace out here?”

“Can a woman not be alone in peace?”

Sukuna seemed to pause in faux thought, before finally saying, “Not when that woman is my woman.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“What are you doing out here?” you questioned.

“Seeing my wife,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact fashion.

“But,” you bit your lip, “don’t you have any business to attend to?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, removing his chin off of your head and, trailing an ice-cold hand down your spine, which sent shudders throughout your body, he slid a sneaking finger up your thigh, until, with an agonizingly slow pace, he stuck a digit up your cunt. All this he did in a casual manner, like it was an everyday thing—which, technically speaking, it was.

“Are you trying to get me to leave you alone?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a finger up your pussy, “because it might be a little late for that.”

You whimpered, collapsing on the balcony railing for support when a second finger was added.

Sukuna curled his fingers, scissoring them and quickening his pace as he did so. The squelching of your cunt sent you over the edge, the idea of someone overhearing—or, worse, seeing—the two of you in this act had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Sukuna, please, we—nngh! We shouldn’t . . .” You let out a shaky exhale. “Not—Not out here.”

Sukuna leaned down to place a kiss to the lobe of your ear, giving a sloppy, dirty lick to the skin there. “Why not?”

“Because . . . someone—” You were cut off by Sukuna’s fingers hitting your sweet spot, and couldn’t help but let a scandalously obnoxious cry slip from between your lips, the three syllables of your husband’s name following soon after, like a prayer.

“Because someone, what?”

His voice mocked you, whilst the longest of his fingers bullied your cunt, and his thumb, every so often, circled around and applied pressure to your clit.

“Sukunanngh . . . I—You . . . You bastard,” you groaned, whining against the palm slapped over your mouth.

“What was that? Oh, you want me to fuck you?” His fingers moved faster, his voice growing cruel and dark. “Well, who am I to decline my bride, hm?”

Pulling his fingers out from between your legs, leaving you a shaking, heaving mess, Sukuna moved on to bring the ends of your dress to your hips, gripping and groping the flesh there as he pressed the outline of his cock against your slick.

Your breath got caught in your throat, choking on your spit, and you whined from the weight of his cock against your ass. You were dripping from the thought alone of Sukuna taking you right now, right here—out in the open, out on the balcony, where anyone, and I mean anyone, could catch a glimpse of their master and mistress from below.

Teasing the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your entrance, you bit your lip till you bled, pressing your ass back against Sukuna for any sort of friction to relieve you of the throbbing of your core, but that only worked against you; a harsh slap! was delivered to your left ass cheek, which sent you crying out, arching your back away from Sukuna. But that wasn’t even close to enough.

Bringing a hand to the column of your throat, his nails digging into your skin, creating red, angry crescent marks, Sukuna had you gasping for breath as he held your throat in his grasp, choking you to the point of gagging, but not yet enough to cut off your airway. 

Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, saying, in that rough voice of his, “You wanted to be fucked like the dirty whore you are? I’ll show you how much of a dirty whore you are.”

Grabbing a handful of your ass, Sukuna pushed you against the balcony railing, bending you over with ease.

“Wait, I . . . I—mmph! . . Nngh . . . Ahh—Ahh!”

Your voice, still evidently hoarse from last night, was cut off by Sukuna slamming his cock into your cunt, shutting you up as his hips pistoned against yours whilst you braced yourself by clawing at the railing below you.

“You are dripping. You really are insatiable, huh . . .” he muttered, releasing your throat as you gasped for air, only to be cut short by rough, deep thrusts that had you seeing stars.

“Sukuna . . . hahh.” 

“Tight as fuck, aren’t you? Cunt’s gripping my dick like a goddamn vice.” 

Sukuna ripped your hands off the railing, bringing them behind you and binding them together with gods knows what. Probably a cloth he found lying nearby. You writhed and squirmed and writhed and squirmed, but to no avail! Your wrists were bound to your back, held just above your ass. Now, you had no way to hold yourself steady, no longer pushing yourself off of the railing for support.

“I . . . nngh.” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you could not find even the strength to complain about your having been tied up.

Fully bent over, your ass bouncing with each thrust, you moaned and mewled to your heart’s desire. Slick dripped down your legs, and though the ticklish sensation left you bothered and just slightly uncomfortable, that feeling was soon forgotten by the cock absolutely pounding your dripping cunt.

Your shame was gone, you were a ruined woman through and through.

“Fucked the attitude out of you, yet?” Sukuna laughed, burying himself inside of you before pulling out, leaving just the tip in, before slamming himself back in, and repeating his assaults. He was like a big, mean bully, having fun by tormenting none other than his bride, his prize, his property.

You thought it degrading, but found heat pooling in your stomach at the afterthought, nonetheless.

“Gods, you . . . you are such a dick,” you managed out, through screams twisted between pain and pleasure, a line which you could not exactly draw.

“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”

Birds scattered throughout the confines of their habitat at the not-so-peaceful-sounding noise of your cries, and you were sure someone had to have noticed the deviant behavior taking place upstairs on the master’s floor of the estate.

“Then hurry up and make me . . . hahh . . . c-cum, you ass. You are such a—”

One particularly hard thrust had you seeing stars as Sukuna’s cock hit your cervix, surely wounding your womb as the words got stuck in your throat, and your legs gave out beneath you. The only thing holding you up being Sukuna’s hand tangled in your hair, giving a rough tug, which forced your tear-streaked face back, and the other one being on your hip, his grip white-knuckled as his thrusts turned from rough and coordinated to stuttering and staggered.

You came without resolve, your moans merely music to your husband’s ears as he, too, finished inside of you, his cock pumping endless ropes of seed up your cunt, stuffing you till excess bodily fluids were forced to drip down your thighs. Your stomach felt warm and bloated as you were filled to the brim, seed ending up snug in your womb as Sukuna pumped you full of his cum, not wasting a drop, and even going as far as scooping up the excess fluids to shove two fingers in your mouth, allowing—more like forcing—you a taste of your actions.

After all, Ryoumen Sukuna was nothing if not a cruel man.

***

It was the eleventh of October when Sukuna left the estate without a word, and it was the eighteenth of the next week when he returned.

You had been out in the gardens, overseeing the yard-work when, in the middle of giving orders to trim the bushes to the left ever so slightly, a maidservant had come running to notify you of your husband’s departure. He did not leave a note, did not kiss you goodbye, and did not give commands for any of the servants to inform you of his leave (the maid just happened to be particularly loyal to her mistress).

“Cecelia!” was what you first exclaimed, surprised by her sudden appearance beside you. “What brings you here?”

“Mistress, I—I have brought word that the lord of the estate has taken his leave. On a horse or two.” The woman spoke between gasps for air, she seemed out of breath, perhaps from chasing after Ryoumen and his steed(s). “I saw a carriage pull away from the gates, and I . . . I supposed he did not inform you, either.”

“Oh, that’s . . . I thank you for the note, Cecelia. But that will be all. You’re correct, he did not tell me, and,” you paused, touching your index finger to your chin, “I do ponder where he went.”

You assumed your husband would only be missing for one evening, and return the next to fill you in on his seemingly hasty departures. But one sleepless night turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into even the advisors of the estate beginning to worry for their master. In turn, however, you had begun to grow indifferent to your missing husband.

On the fourth day, you discovered news of yet another gladiator match that was to take place. And who was to compete in it? Take a guess.

Being petty was a greatness of yours, and, while for a time, you were able to keep entertained by playing your beloved cithara, reading, or tending to your gardens, you had begun to grow bored. The estate was large enough, and, with your husband being gone, you were even more lonely than you were before. You had no children to run through the halls, no friends who could visit the property, and no duties besides your hobbies to keep you company.

On the fifth and sixth day, you had already invited over a number of “guests” to the estate. Your beauty was no unfamiliar subject to the people of Rome, and it wasn’t difficult to find men in want of serving as entertainment to you.

You had some feed you grapes, some play their music to you, some read their philosophy and literature, some tell you of stories from afar; it was all very enjoyable. Or, well, the idea of it was.

On the seventh day, you had appointed a raven-haired, older man to keep you company. He was a traveler of sorts, and had many stories of the West and the East to tell you. From wraths of gods, to legendary criminals, and heinous crimes, he knew it all. He made you laugh, and was . . . not a bad flirt, if you did say so yourself. But it was nothing serious.

You were in the middle of drinking wine with the fellow, when, by the informing of Cecelia, you were notified of a something that required your utmost attention at once. She did not explain further, but you noticed an urgency about her eyes, and did not tarry.

Excusing yourself, you stood up from where you lounged rather casually on the ornately designed sofa, and took graceful, calculated steps down a hallway to the left wing of the estate.

You were nearing the room Cecelia pointed you to when, to your utter surprise, a rough hand had pulled you to the side, keeping your back flush against the chest of a man you could not see, for his other hand held the blade of a dagger right against the column of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged, and your hands went up to attempt (and fail) at removing the dagger-wielding hand.

Your heart pounded, and the blood rushed to your ears.

“Did you miss me, . . . wifey?”

His stray hand was gripping the flesh of your hip, and held you firm above the ground, where you dangled, your legs kicking around uselessly.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing?” you managed to whimper out, against the dagger being pressed against your neck.

“As much as I love to hear those pretty sounds of yours, angel,” he began, before his voice suddenly turned cold, “there is a man in my house, standing next to my woman, and making her laugh. Care to explain?”

He did not release you from his grasps, but lifted the blade just a centimeter away from the skin of your throat so you could form coherent sentences. How thoughtful.

“When my husband has left for a week with no explanation, am I supposed to not keep myself occupied?”

“So you’ve borrowed a man to keep you company.”

“Are you turning this against me?”

“Should I be?”

Learning your husband has yet to retire from gladiating, and discovering he has come home, with a dagger to your neck upon arrival, was infuriating enough to make you forget the possibility of throwing yourself into his arms in greeting. He did not tell you a word about his match, prior and after, and you were the one in the wrong? Men were nothing but animals.

“. . .”

You kept silent, your face defeated, and Sukuna, finally having decided to let you go, released his hold on you and sheathed his blade once more, before dropping you back onto your feet. You nearly stumbled over yourself finding your balance, as Sukuna began to turn away, walking down the marble-tiled hallways.

“My hands are bloodied. I will be in the bathing quarters.”

All this he said, whilst his back was kept to you.

Several moments later, you had a valet escort the raven-haired guest out of your estate, and, next thing you knew, you were storming down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps reverberating throughout the estate, an evident display of your boiling rage. Your maid-servants weren’t unfamiliar with your and the master’s almost daily feuds, and were, by now, practically accustomed to setting out changes of clothes for when your arguments concluded.

Cursing to yourself as you went, your footsteps continued to thunder as you approached the bathing quarters, where you could hear small splashing sounds inside. You threw open the door, the scowl and glare on your face both clear as day whilst you walked in a straight line towards the pink-haired man who sat at the steps towards the end of the pool.

He was naked, completely bare in all his glory, but you couldn’t notice, not from how clouded your vision was with anger, no. His arms were resting on the edges of the pool, and his expression was cool as he leaned back, watching you approach him with not even a flinch.

“You motherfucker. You think you can just come waltzing in here, and avoid all your problems? You don’t pay any mind to the fact I’ve been worried sick, because my husband has left the estate with not even a word of explanation, and then, come to find out, he’s been gladiating?” You berated him without end, pointing a finger at his emotionless face as you walked along the pool’s edges. “Who do you think you are? 

“We’re married, remember? You won me. And now, you’re putting your life on the line? Whilst we are married? I don’t give a fuck whether you’re competing to win more wives, Ryomen, but where does that leave me, huh? If you die? I was just some temporary toy for you, and my life will basically end, as well? I will have no worth, Sukuna. No one takes in a ruined woman. And I’m not a solicitor, or, at least, I don’t want to be . . .”

Sukuna didn’t respond, and you were honestly thankful, actually. You feared, if he did speak, you would fold within seconds, so you took the time you had to get your frustration out and your point made.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me you didn’t retire? I mean, I would still hate you, but . . . fuck, you are such an ass.” You ran a hand down your face, stopping just two paces away from the beast, before continuing your storming. “Gods, you take new lows each day. I can’t believe my life is tied to yours for as long as I live—!”

You were shut up by the action of Sukuna pulling you down by the ankle and dragging you into the pool, manhandling you in all your writhing and struggling, and seating your ass right on his lap with ease, your back flush against his bare chest as his hand came up to wrap around your throat just as it had earlier.

You screamed, but another hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling any whimpers and noises you let out. Through your anger, you could not remember to think about how your dress was now thoroughly soaked through.

“Mmph . . . !” 

His face tilted downwards despite your struggles, and his lips whispered into your ear, his breath fanning hot air against your skin that left you with a strange tingling sensation.

“You never stop complaining, do you? You want to know why I left? Without explaining? Has it ever occured to you that, maybe I wanted you to truly hate me, after all, so the potential news of my death wouldn’t affect you? You make me out to be an animal, but even the gods know I’m not heartless.” You could practically hear his eye rolling. “C’mon, wifey, don’t you know, I’ve no need for another wife when I’ve already gotten my hands on a goddess right here. A goddess, that just so happens to be the world’s biggest bitch.” 

You struggled against Sukuna, your legs kicking and splashing in the water as your nails clawed at tattooed biceps. “Mmph! Mmm—Mmph . . . !” 

His left hand released your neck, but he didn’t let up on your mouth. “I only took the match because I was bored. Truly. Wanted to taste blood. But, what would you know about that? You’re an angel.” His voice was mocking, and dripped with malice. You shivered.

You gasped, desperate for air, when Sukuna finally removed his hand off your mouth, but your relief was short-lived when he tore the fabric off your body in one swift tear.

“What?” he asked, jeeringly, when you looked at him in confusion. “We’re already in the baths, might as well undress, too.”

The water was only up to your belly button, and a shiver ran up your spine from the low temperatures of the room. Sukuna, however, was like a walking, talking bonfire; he literally emitted heat.

Your nipples hardened from the air, and you squirmed around on Sukuna’s lap, growing uncomfortable. “You . . .”

“What’s the matter, honey?” He feigned concern, cooing. “Feeling pity? Gonna admit your mistakes?”

“I—”

He cut you off. “Let your body do the talking, and maybe I’ll find the heart to forgive you.”

Sukuna’s hands trailed down to your chest as he spoke, cold fingers going up to grope and pinch and tweak at your hardened nipples with each syllable he uttered. It sent a shock through your body, and you bit your hand to keep quiet.

“O-Oh, my . . . Nngh . . .” You mewled and twitched uncontrollably.

You didn’t know how much you loved the feeling of Sukuna’s hands fondling the mounds of your tits until you met your husband, and even then, he reminded you almost every day.

“Yeah? Does that feel good?” he asked, voice full of sarcasm. “What I fuckin’ thought, you whore. So needy and bitchy, all for some dick, aren’t you.”

Sukuna continued his assault on your buds, pulling and tugging at your nipples like it was child’s play. You arched your back at the stimulating sensation, your core growing warm from his fingers alone as you continued to attempt suppressing your noise with a fist in your mouth.

“Hahh, I—Sukuna . . . Mmph! you . . . You bastard.” 

You pressed your naked thighs together, your own hand flying in-between to apply pressure to your clit; your orgasm soon hit you like a chariot. The friction newly added was more than enough to finally throw you over the edge as you came from solely Sukuna playing with your tits, groping and squeezing like they were mere toys.

“Fuck, wifey. Making a mess from only my hands? Maybe I have been depriving you.”

Your release dripped all over your hands, and Sukuna brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the juices off like wine. His lips made squelching noises around the bodily fluids, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as you felt the warm wetness of the sensation.

“Sukuna . . .” you whined, eyes growing teary with need.

“I’ll give it to you soon enough, princess. Quit your nagging,” was the reply that came, whilst Sukuna refused to let go of your fingers, even going as far as biting on them, leaving a clearly indented mark of his teeth on the skin, before finally releasing your hand from his grasp, and wiping his mouth clean of your slick.

Sukuna’s muscles were toned, abs flexing, and skin tanned from the ever-so cruel sun that shone down on the people of the empire. Even if his hold on you was gentle, his distribution of strength was enough to make it seem otherwise. That was made quite clear when he decided to abruptly cut your bliss short by lifting up your thighs by the backs of your knees, pinning them to position by your ears.

Legs spread, pussy weeping, back arched; you looked a mess. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, your hair was disheveled, body marked up with teeth marks from previous nights, and you could do nothing but claw and scratch at Sukuna’s arms. But, hot mess aside, (or not), you looked nothing short of a damn feast in Sukuna’s eyes.

Whimpering, mewling, and crying out, your ass was sat on Sukuna’s bare lap and the only thing running through your mind was your insatiable lust for being ruined by the brute you called your husband.

True to his word, Sukuna lifted your ass up with ease, before bringing you back down, practically smashing you onto his cock with one rough thrust. His tip pierced your cervix without fail, kissing all your sweet spots like habit.

It had been seven days. Seven, fucking, days without this man. And the first thing he did was fuck you like he meant to break you.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat as he continued to mercilessly slam his hips up into yours, bouncing you up and down without abandon whilst he kept your legs spread in the air.

The two of you had never tried this position before, but, gods, were you thankful for having done so. From this angle Sukuna’s cock reached areas deeper within your cunt than ever before, and with your thighs separated, it was significantly easier for Sukuna to fully bottom out before thrusting his entire length and girth back in, fucking you through the tears that fell and the sobs that left your lips from the constant thrusts, and bounces, and the frequent feeling of his hips pistoning against yours.

“Awh, don’t tell me my sweet wife is crying.” 

You nodded weakly, hiccuping, completely delirious.

“Shame. Your tears will only make it worse,” he said, darkly, wetting your skin even further as he licked a stripe up your cheek, ridding you of the tears that fell from your eyes.

Throughout all of Sukuna’s rough fucking, you came multiple times, his cock filling you with warm seed up to the brim. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking, pussy squirting all over, and lips quivering; but not once, never in any of those times, did he stop for you to catch your breath and regain your composure. He fucked you through every orgasm and continued to the next and the next.

Water splashed all around your naked bodies, and you couldn’t tell if you were more wet from the pounding of Sukuna’s cock, or from the pool you two were currently in.

Your skin was warm, wet, and glistening with sweat.

Behind you, you could hear Sukuna’s jagged breathing and, every so often, his grunts. The man wasn’t a very vocal one, but he never tried hiding his moans and groans, per se. He had no shame in whining in your ear from how tight your walls clenched down on his cock, and definitely wasn’t afraid of whimpering from the feeling of your ass grinding down on his chest, your slick dribbling down his naked abdomen.

“Ahh . . . ! Ahh—Nnghh . . . !” 

“Mmm . . . unghh . . .” 

“Hahh, o-ohh . . . !” 

Sounds of cries and plap, plap, plaps! filled the bathing quarters, and your cheeks warmed from the embarrassingly lewd noises the two of you made. That, and the feeling of veins on Sukuna’s cock twitching and sliding up and down and in and out of your weeping cunt had your eyes rolling backwards and your toes curling with the coming of an orgasm.

“Now, hahh, you gonna tell me why there was a man in my estate?” Sukuna managed to ask you, whilst he kept his cock ramming your poor, used pussy, lips of which were puffy and erect with need.

“W-What? Why are you—”

“Asking that?” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Dunno, maybe because my wife was home-fucking-alone with the dirty bastard.” 

His cock twitched inside of you, and you clawed at Sukuna’s biceps as he spoke. It seemed that, with every second the two of you spent speaking about the man who was in your home, Sukuna grew more and more frustrated, his thrusts turning out clumsy and sloppy and rough.

“I . . . I t-told you already, Sukuna,” you whined, stuttering from his thrusts. “He was just keeping me company, I . . . unghh, swear.”

“Only keeping you company?”

You nodded profusely, your voice growing weak from Sukuna’s cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. “S-Swear. Hahh, I . . . ahh . . . mmph! I swear—I swear.”

“Yeah? You swear?”

“M-Mhmm . . . Gods, please, Sukuna, o-ohh! gods, I need to cum. I need to cum!”

“Why not, go on, then. Cum all you want on your husband’s cock. Yeahh, atta girl. Shit, you’re fucking milking me dry, aren’t you. Want my seed so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck my kid into you?”

You mewled, music to Sukuna’s ears as every last drop of cum fell from your cunt, coating his dick with your fluids whilst the two of you rode out your highs. Your walls were painted white with Sukuna’s seed, filling you to the hilt as he kept his cock buried in your warm, wet cunt. Yeah, this one would surely take—Sukuna would make sure of that.

After all, this was bound to happen.

[laectrl]

"安らぎの場所"

[laectrl]

Crayon dreams

Pairing: Na Baek-jin x female reader

Summary: A quiet visit to the orphanage stirs unexpected emotions when a child’s innocent question forces you and Baek-jin to confront a future you never dared to imagine.

Sunlight drifts through the high windows of the orphanage playroom, painting rectangles of warmth on the wooden floor. You sit cross-legged on a soft, threadbare rug with a half-circle of children gathered around. A storybook lies open in your lap, and your voice is gentle as you bring its characters to life. The kids listen with rapt attention, giggling at your animated expressions and sound effects. Their laughter is a soothing melody, one that eases the heaviness you didn’t realize you were carrying in your chest.

As you turn the page, you glance up and notice Baek-jin leaning against the doorway. His tall frame nearly fills it, broad shoulders relaxed in a charcoal dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s ditched the suit jacket today, but still looks out of place in this brightly colored room – a lone figure of shadow amidst the pastel walls and paper crafts. His dark hair catches a halo of afternoon light, but the hard angles of his face remain unreadable. His arms are folded loosely, an indulgent half-smile tugging at his lips as he watches you entertain the children. To anyone else, that faint smile might be imperceptible, but you’ve learned to read the subtle softness in his eyes when he’s at ease. Here, away from prying eyes and the weight of his other life, he allows a trace of warmth to surface.

“…and the brave little bunny found her way home. The end,” you conclude softly, closing the book. A chorus of clapping and cheers erupts from the kids. You can’t help but grin widely, heart swelling at their delight. Immediately, a few little hands shoot up, eager to request another story or a game. Before you can respond, a tiny girl with pigtails – Nari – crawls into your lap with a sheet of paper clutched in her fist. She’s about five years old, with chubby cheeks and big brown eyes that shine with affection. She has been your little shadow for weeks now, ever since you started volunteering here.

Nari holds up her drawing proudly. It’s done in bright crayon colors – a shaky stick-figure scene of a man, a woman, and a child holding hands under a yellow sun. You recognize yourself in the woman’s oval face and long hair, drawn in with a purple crayon. The man in the is colored all in black, toweringly tall beside the others – unmistakably Baek-jin. Between the two figures is a smaller one with pigtails and a pink dress. All three are smiling with oversized, happy grins.

Your breath catches in your throat at the innocence and hope captured in those wobbly lines. “This is so beautiful,” you say, voice hushed. You run your thumb gently over the childlike scrawl of the three figures. A family. Your heart aches at the sweetness of it. “Thank you for drawing this for me. Who are these people here?” you ask, feigning a light, curious tone even as your chest tightens.

The little girl beams, pointing eagerly. “It’s you,” she says, her small finger tapping the purple figure. Then she points to the other one. “And Baek-jin oppa.” Finally she taps the little girl in between. “And that’s me!”

A soft exhale escapes you. You glance over at him by the door – he’s still watching, his smile gone now, replaced by an intense, unreadable look. Did he hear? You can’t tell, but his posture has shifted; he stands a little straighter, hands now loose at his sides. You notice one of his sleeves has slipped back down to his wrist. Absent-mindedly, he pushes it up again, and for an instant you catch a glimpse of dark ink curling around the strong tendon of his forearm. The edge of a tattoo, usually hidden beneath his polished exterior, peeks out before he covers it. It’s a stark reminder of the world he belongs to outside these cheerful walls.

You swallow and refocus on Nari. She’s waiting expectantly for your reaction to her artwork. Around you, a couple of the other kids start to drift away in search of another activity now that storytime is over. One boy has dragged Baek-jin into helping stack some new board games on a shelf, and you see him wordlessly oblige, lifting the boxes with ease. The boy chatters at him, undeterred by his silence. Despite his quiet nature, Baek-jin has a presence that demands respect – even children seem to sense it. Yet they aren’t afraid of him. In fact, a few younger ones cling to his legs now, giggling as they attempt to climb him like a tree. A ghost of a smile touches his lips again. He pretends not to know how to play along, but then crouches to their level, letting them clamber onto his back with a patience that makes your heart flutter.

“They really like him, don’t they?” Nari observes in her tiny voice, drawing your attention back. She’s now curled against your chest comfortably, watching the other kids swarm your fiancé. There’s pure admiration in her eyes – he must seem so strong and cool to a child. You smile gently and brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

“They do,” you agree. “Baek-jin’s like a hero to them.” The words leave your mouth before you can think twice. A hero… perhaps that’s a stretch for a man with blood on his hands. But here, seeing him gently spin a toddler around to elicit a gleeful shriek, it’s easy to forget who he is beyond this place. You allow yourself, just for a moment, to indulge in the fantasy that this is normal – that he is normal, that both of you are simply a young couple spending a sunny afternoon with kids who adore you.

Nari twists around in your lap to face you, her expression suddenly serious in that way only small children can manage. “Unnie,” she says, using the affectionate term for an older sister, “can I ask something?”

You feel a pang of tenderness at her earnest face. “Of course, sweetheart,” you reply, smoothing down her wrinkled drawing on your knee. “You can ask me anything.”

She hesitates, biting her lip. Her gaze flickers over to your lover across the room, then back to you. “Do you and Baek-jin oppa come here every day?” she asks slowly.

You shake your head, slightly puzzled. “Not every day. We come on weekends, you know that. During the week we have work.” You offer a reassuring smile. “But we wish we could be here every day. I love spending time with you all.”

She nods thoughtfully, but you sense that wasn’t her real question. She fiddles with the edge of your blouse for a moment, gathering courage. When she speaks again, her words come out in a rushed whisper, as if afraid to say them too loud: “Are you and Baek-jin oppa… my new parents?”

Time seems to freeze for a beat. You feel the question like a small earthquake in your soul, shaking loose emotions you’ve kept carefully in check. Her big hopeful eyes search yours, utterly guileless, and you forget how to breathe. Your vision blurs as a hot sting gathers behind your eyes.

“I–” You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Nari’s question hangs in the air, achingly earnest, and you are completely at a loss. Gently, she reaches up to touch your cheek with her tiny hand, as if trying to comfort the sudden sadness she sees there. The tender gesture breaks you. A tear slips free despite your efforts to hold it back.

Her face falls when she notices your tears. She thinks she’s done something wrong. “I’m sorry,” she says in a small, frightened voice. “Please don’t cry, unnie. I just… I just thought—” Her own eyes well up, misunderstanding your silence.

Immediately, you gather her into your arms, holding her close. “No, no, it’s okay sweetie,” you whisper thickly, stroking her hair. Your throat feels tight. How can you explain the complicated truth to a five-year-old? How can you possibly make her understand that you’re crying not out of sadness at her, but at the impossible sweetness of her wish – and the impossibility of fulfilling it?

Behind you, you hear footsteps approach quietly. A large warm hand rests on your shoulder. You know without looking that it’s Baek-jin; you’d know his touch anywhere. He squeezes gently, a silent question in the gesture. You tilt your head up to see him now kneeling beside you on the rug. The children who were playing with him have scampered off, giving you three a bubble of relative privacy amid the bustle of the room. His dark eyes flicker from Nari’s tearful face to your own. His jaw is tense, but there’s a flicker of concern in his gaze – and something deeper that looks almost like regret.

Nari turns her head toward him, still tucked in your embrace. Her small voice trembles with yearning. “I just thought maybe… because you both come here together and you’re so nice…” She wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. “I thought maybe you could be my mom and dad.” Her last words are barely audible.

You feel Baek-jin’s hand tremble ever so slightly on your shoulder. It’s rare to see him unsettled; this man who stares down danger with a cold smirk is now struggling to find words to say to a heartbroken little girl. After a moment, he reaches out and gently pats her back. His movements are careful, almost awkward, as though he’s afraid he might hurt her with his strength. “Nari,” he says, his voice low and surprisingly soft, “you know we… we care about you a lot.”

He pauses, glancing at you for guidance. You give a tiny nod, encouraging him to continue. You’ve never heard him speak in such a tender tone before – it’s both beautiful and painful to hear. “You’re a very special girl,” he continues. “Anyone would be lucky to have you as their daughter.” His throat works, as if the next words are hard for him. “But… I’m sorry. We’re not… able to be your parents.”

The little girl sniffles, rubbing her face against your chest. She doesn’t fully understand, but she nods slowly into your shirt. “Because you’re not married?” she asks innocently. “Or because you don’t want a daughter?” That last question breaks on a hiccup, and you can feel the crack it puts in your heart.

“Oh, honey,” you whisper, cradling her face in your hands so she looks at you. “It’s not that we don’t want you. We do, we love spending time with you. You’re wonderful.” Your voice quavers despite your attempt to sound reassuring. How can you make her believe this truth? “If things were different…,” you begin, then bite your tongue. That path only leads to promises you can’t keep.

Baek-jin finishes gently for you: “Some grown-up things make it hard right now. But you did nothing wrong. We both care about you so much, and we’ll always be your friends.” The word friends feels utterly inadequate, but it’s all he can offer.

Nari studies his face with a solemn intensity, as if deciding whether to trust what he says. Finally, she nods again. “Okay,” she whispers. She pulls back from your arms slightly and reaches for Baek-jin. He looks startled for a split second, but then he leans in and lets her wrap her little arms around his neck. You see him close his eyes as he returns the hug, one large hand splayed protectively against the small of her back. In that embrace, you witness two sides of your lover colliding – the hardened gang leader who deals in intimidation, and the man who, deep down, yearns for something pure and good in his life. His fingers tremble where they cling to the girl’s tiny frame, as if he’s afraid to let go.

“Nari!” calls one of the orphanage staff from across the room. “Come help me carry the snacks, darling.” The older woman smiles apologetically at you and your partner, probably assuming the child is bothering you. You quickly shake your head to indicate it’s fine.

The little girl reluctantly releases Baek-jin and looks between you both. “I have to go,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand again. She musters a brave little smile. “Thank you for listening. I’m sorry I made you sad.”

Your eyes well up anew. You hug her once more, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you assure her softly. “I promise.” Baek-jin nods in agreement, gently ruffling her hair. She gives you each one last squeeze – her tiny arms around your neck, then his – before she scampers off to join the matron.

Silence hangs between you both as you watch her skip away. She’s already chatting with the matron, resilient as ever, though she casts a shy glance back at you two before disappearing into the kitchen. The colorful crayon drawing remains in your hands, a fragile testament to a dream that for one innocent moment felt almost within reach. You stare down at those smiling stick figures – at you and Baek-jin holding her hand – until your vision blurs with tears again.

Baek-jin shifts beside you, lowering himself fully to sit on the rug. The usual confident distance he keeps has vanished; now he’s close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his body. He gingerly takes the drawing from you, studying it in silence. “She drew this?” he asks quietly. His voice is rough around the edges, as if he’s been holding back a tide of emotion.

You nod, wiping at your cheeks. “She’s been making lots of drawings lately. But this… this one is new.” A shaky laugh escapes you as you add, “I guess it’s her vision of a perfect family.”

He inhales slowly. He traces one long finger over the crayon figures, lingering on the little girl in pink. “I never had that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “A perfect family.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but you hear the pain beneath it. You turn to look at him. His profile is bathed in the golden light – sharp jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the paper. You know bits and pieces of his past: the neglect, the abuse, the crushing loneliness. He rarely speaks of it, but you suspect his generous donations to this orphanage are not just charity or a convenient front for money laundering – they’re personal. Perhaps Baek-jin sees a reflection of his own childhood in these halls, and maybe, in some way, he’s trying to give these kids the chances he never had.

Your hand finds his, your fingers intertwining with a familiarity born of love and countless stolen moments. He turns his palm upward, grasping your hand firmly as if anchoring himself. The Chrome Hearts rings he wears press cool against your skin, a contrast to the warmth of his touch. Neither of you speaks; words feel too small for the swell of emotion in your chest. Instead, you lean your head against his shoulder. He lets out a slow breath and presses a kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering there. It’s a tender, unspoken apology.

Later, as dusk falls, you find yourselves in the small courtyard behind the orphanage. The children are inside eating their snacks, and you and Baek-jin slipped out for air, needing a moment to regroup. The evening air is cool and carries the scent of cut grass and the faint sweetness of blossoms from a lone magnolia tree by the fence. You stand together under its branches – you with your arms wrapped around yourself, and he a protective step closer than usual.

For a long while, neither of you breaks the silence. The sky overhead is tinged with orange and pink, the sunset gentle. You can still hear the muffled sound of kids’ laughter through an open window. It contrasts with the turmoil in your heart.

“She asked if we were her new parents,” you finally say, almost whispering. The words taste bittersweet on your tongue. Saying them aloud makes the moment even more real, and your chest tightens all over again.

“I know,” Baek-jin replies softly. He’s removed a cigarette from his pocket at some point, but it remains unlit between his fingers – a habitual crutch he’s apparently decided not to use in front of the children. He twirls it slowly, gaze distant. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

You turn to face him. His expression is guarded, but the fact that he hasn’t put distance between you – that he’s standing so close you could rest your head on his chest if you dared – speaks volumes. He’s hurting too. You realize it in the way his brows knit together, in the unsteady exhale he releases when he meets your eyes.

“It broke my heart,” you admit, voice trembling. “She’s just a little girl and all she wants is… is someone to love her. A family.” Your throat tightens painfully. “And for one crazy second I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell her that we’d be her parents and take her home and give her everything she deserves.” The confession spills out in a rush, and once it’s out, the tears you’d held at bay start falling again. You cover your face with your hands, ashamed of how desperate you sound, how unrealistic. “It’s stupid, I know. We can’t just… we can’t do that.”

His arms are around you before you can say more. He pulls you against him, and you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder. His embrace is firm and secure, one hand cradling the back of your head as if shielding you from the world. “It’s not stupid,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s not.”

You clutch the fabric of his shirt, steadying yourself in his hold. Against your ear, you hear the steady thump of his heartbeat – a sound that usually calms you. But tonight it only reminds you how fragile all of this truly is. How many nights have you fallen asleep to that heartbeat, wondering if it would be the last time you felt it? How many times have you watched him leave in the dead of night for “business” and prayed he’d come back safe?

“It is impossible, though,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your eyes search his face, tracing the familiar scar near his eyebrow, the hardened lines etched by a life of crime and responsibility far beyond his years. “We can’t have that kind of life. Not as things are now.”

Baek-jin’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t flinch from your gaze. If there’s one thing about him, he’s never been one to shy away from hard truths. “I know,” he says quietly. “Because of me.”

He doesn’t say it with self-pity or anger – just a resigned acknowledgment. It hurts to hear nonetheless. You reach up and cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the smooth skin just above the edge of a fading bruise at his jawline. A souvenir from some confrontation a week ago, no doubt. “I didn’t say that,” you reply softly. “I chose to be with you. I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

You hesitate, voice catching. “It’s just—sometimes I’m so scared,” you confess. “I’m scared that one day you won’t walk through the door, that I’ll get a call saying you’re… you’re gone. Or that someone will hurt you, or even use me to get to you.” The fears pour out, each one a weight that’s been pressing on your heart. You’ve both tiptoed around these fears for so long, unspoken, but tonight they demand to be heard. “I’m scared that this life you lead will destroy you. And then all of this—” your voice breaks, “—all of what we could have, will vanish.”

His eyes close at your words, pained. Gently, he covers your hand on his cheek with his own. “Look at me,” he whispers, and you realize you’d averted your gaze. You force yourself to meet his eyes – they’re shining in the dimming light, raw with emotion he usually keeps tightly locked away. “I’m still here,” Baek-jin says. “I’m right here with you.” He rests his forehead against yours, a gesture of intimacy and trust. “I know I’ve put you in danger just by loving you. I know.” His voice drops to a rasp. “Every day I wonder if I should let you go to keep you safe, but I… I’m too selfish. I can’t give you up. You’re all the light I have left in this world.”

Your breath catches, and a soft sob escapes you. You hadn’t known he thought about letting you go. The idea of not having him in your life is unbearable, even if loving him is fraught with risk. “I don’t want you to let me go,” you say fiercely, your hands curling into his shirt. “I want you, Baek-jin. Just you. I want a life with you… but a safe one. I want us to grow old together without fear that each day might be the last.”

He nods, pressing closer. “I want that too,” he confesses, voice cracking – an echo of the boy he once was, who dreamed of a normal life before the world taught him otherwise. “God, I want that. With you.” Baek-jin’s arms tighten around your waist, as if trying to fuse the two of you together. “Tell me what she asked you again,” he suddenly says, a strange urgency in his tone.

You blink, confused and still teary. “What?”

“Nari,” he clarifies, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Her question. Tell me exactly how she said it.”

Sniffling, you recall the little girl’s voice. “‘Are you and Baek-jin oppa my new parents?’” you repeat softly. The words feel just as impactful the second time.

He closes his eyes for a moment, absorbing the question like a physical blow. When he opens them, there’s a sheen there – a hint of moisture he quickly blinks away. “A family,” he says under his breath. He manages a faint, sad smile. “We must have looked like one to her. Coming here together every week… playing with them…”

“You would make a good father,” you say before thinking, your voice tender and sure. It’s something you’ve always believed, even if he can’t see it himself. Despite the darkness in him, Baek-jin is fiercely loyal and protective. You’ve witnessed his unexpected kindness in quiet moments – like how he always brings extra cartons of milk for the kids’ snack time, claiming it was ‘leftover’ from his warehouse; or how he funded the orphanage’s new library under an anonymous donation. Those gestures, small and large, convince you that under the layers of hardened gang leader lies a man capable of great love.

He lets out a soft, disbelieving chuckle at your comment. “I don’t know about that,” he murmurs. “But hearing you say it… it makes me want to try someday.”

Someday. The word hangs between you both, as rosy and fragile as the dusk light. You dare to let that hope kindle again in your chest. Someday. Maybe not now, not while his phone still buzzes with dangerous calls and his nights are still claimed by risky dealings – but someday there might be a different life.

“You mean it?” you ask, voice small. “That you’d try? For… for a future with me? With a family?”

Baek-jin tilts your chin up, looking at you with an intensity that makes your heart lurch. “I can’t promise anything,” he says, and you appreciate the honesty even as you hold your breath. “But for you… I want to try. I want to believe it’s possible. That I could leave it behind. That I could deserve that life.” He swallows hard. “With you by my side, maybe I can.”

A tear rolls down your face, this time a tear of cautious happiness. You rise on your toes and kiss him – a gentle, lingering press of your lips to his. He responds immediately, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other firm around your waist. The kiss is slow and heartfelt, a promise exchanged in silence. In it, you pour all the yearning you have: for him to come home safely each night, for mornings without dread, for a little girl’s crayon drawing to one day become reality.

When you part, you rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing unsteady breaths. The sky has deepened to twilight, the first stars appearing faintly above. Through the window, you hear Nari’s laughter ringing out, high and bright – she must be telling one of her silly jokes to the other kids or the staff. The sound makes you smile in spite of everything.

“We should go back in,” you whisper. “They’ll wonder where we went.”

Baek-jin nods, but neither of you moves just yet. He slips his hand into yours, entwining your fingers. For a moment, you stand there together under the magnolia tree, hand in hand, gazing through the window at the life that you both dream of – a life filled with children’s laughter, bedtime stories, and peace. You squeeze his hand. In your mind’s eye, you can almost see it: him with a tiny girl perched on his shoulders, her pigtails bouncing as he spins her around; you, cradling a baby with his eyes; the two of you sitting on a porch swing watching your kids chase fireflies on a summer night. A peaceful future. It’s a delicate picture painted in the brightest colors of hope, as vivid as any crayon drawing.

Baek-jin’s voice breaks through your reverie, low and determined. “One day,” he says, as if reading your thoughts. He brings your joined hands up and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “One day, I’ll make sure we can have that. All of it.”

You nod, letting yourself believe him. “One day,” you echo softly.

With that unspoken promise warming your heart, the two of you turn back toward the orphanage. He opens the door and gestures for you to go in first, his hand gentle on the small of your back as you walk inside. The bright lights and cheerful clamor of the dining hall greet you. Nari spots you almost instantly and breaks away from the group, running over with a cookie in hand. She pauses a few steps away, suddenly shy after her earlier candor.

You kneel and open your arms, and she rushes in, giggling as you lift her up. Baek-jin stands beside you, and the little girl grins at him, offering the cookie in her hand. “I saved one for you,” she says brightly.

He takes it, and though the corners of his eyes crinkle with genuine warmth, he teases her in a solemn tone, “Only one? I’m a big guy. I might still be hungry.”

She giggles. “Okay, you can have two!”

Baek-jin chuckles and accepts the treat, then surprises both you and Nari by leaning in to kiss the little girl’s forehead. It’s a swift, gentle gesture – so natural and affectionate that your breath catches. “Thank you,” he says quietly to her. Perhaps it’s for the cookie, or perhaps it’s for something more. She just giggles again and squirms in your arms, wanting to be put down so she can run back to her friends.

As she scampers off, you and your lover share a look. In his eyes you see a spark of that someday you both long for. And in your shy smile, he must see the steadfast hope you carry for him.

No, you can’t be Nari’s new parents – not today. But as Baek-jin’s hand finds yours again, giving it a reassuring squeeze, you hold onto the possibility that someday, in a world where he’s free from shadows, you might return here not just as volunteers, but as a family. Until then, you will cherish these small moments of light and fight for the future that little girl unknowingly sketched for you – a future where love isn’t weighed down by fear, and where crayon dreams come true.

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One Lock, No Keys?! - Park Gyeong-Won x Reader

—F! Reader | MDI-Minors do not interact | Mating press | Unprotected s*x | Oral (Fem receiving) | Idk what else | 2.6K Words | Enjoy!

You honestly had no idea what you did to piss off Park Gyeong-Won so much. Sure, he tolerated you when you were working with him—professional, efficient, borderline robotic—but the moment you weren’t operating side by side, it was like you stopped existing. He never looked your way. Never responded to your small talk. Just…ignored you, completely.

Ever since you joined the NHUH’s trauma center team, you couldn’t recall a single negative interaction that was started by you. You made a conscious effort to be kind. Always greeted people with a smile, sometimes a wave if they were across the room, and more often than not, threw in a compliment or two—whether it was about a colleague’s new haircut or how well someone handled a tricky procedure. You weren’t trying to win a popularity contest. It was just how you operated. You believed in good energy, especially in a place so steeped in stress and life-or-death situations.

But maybe that’s exactly what rubbed Dr. Park the wrong way. He was quiet. Reserved. Almost stoic. He rarely said anything that wasn’t strictly necessary. If he wasn’t speaking to Jang-Mi or Yang Jae-Won, he was probably in the gym, alone, silently pounding out his emotions on a treadmill or with a pair of dumbbells. Maybe your constant cheer felt invasive. Or maybe he just didn’t like people like you—people who smiled too easily, who laughed too loudly, who believed that kindness could actually make a difference in a place built on tragedy.

Still, it stung a little. You didn’t need to be friends, but damn, would a “good morning” have killed him?

However, that shouldn’t be what’s bothering you right now.

Earlier this morning, the trauma center was on the brink of collapse itself—ambulances screaming in one after another after a nearby building caved in. Patients flooded the ER with broken limbs and one case of impalements that made even seasoned nurses flinch as you moved past. You were running—well, trying to run—from cot to cot, triaging, stabilizing, cutting through the chaos with a pen in one hand and adrenaline in the other.

Every step sent a sharp pulse of pain up your leg. The sprain you’d earned the night before—something stupid, a bad twist while rushing down the slick stairwell—was now screaming for attention. You couldn’t run properly. Could barely pivot. And during every operation, you had to keep shifting your weight awkwardly between your legs, trying to stay steady.

Between the bone-deep exhaustion, and the ever-looming presence of his eyes—Park Gyeong-Won, glaring like he could see every stray thought leaking out of your skull—you were barely holding it together. He didn’t say anything, of course. He didn’t need to. The weight of his silent judgment was enough. Enough to make your hands shake. Enough to make you second-guess every decision as you clamped arteries and stitched through torn flesh.

And when the last surgery was finally done, when the trauma bays went still and the stretchers stopped rolling, you couldn’t stop the tears. They slipped out slowly at first, then all at once, harsh and bitter—each one feeling like a slap of reality you didn't feel pain. Maybe if you’d moved faster. Focused harder. Maybe if your knee hadn’t given out just for a second. Maybe then someone else wouldn’t be fighting for their life right now.

You don’t remember walking to the rooftop. Just the sound of the door clicking shut behind you. The night air is cool—biting, almost—but welcome. You dry your face quickly, out of habit more than dignity, then sink onto the nearest bench by the railing. Pulling your coat tighter, you shift your weight again, tucking your knees to your chest as you curl inward, seeking warmth.

Seoul sparkles in front of you. A city of stars and steel. Alive and burning, even while your world feels like it’s crumbling. You carefully tug the edge of your scrubs up. Wincing when you catch sight of your swelling knee. Silently, you try to massage it, hissing when pain flared up your thigh.

Between the act of massaging your flesh and mentally holding back tears, you hadn’t heard the sound of the ceiling doors closing and footsteps walking close.

“That looks.. bad. Let me see it.” A voice rang out from behind you. Followed by a hand setting on your shoulder and a body swiftly moving around the side of the bench.

You yelp, swiftly sliding the hem of the pants down and looking up at the mysterious person suddenly. Your lips parted in a gasp as the familiar face of Park Gyeong-Won met yours and sat close to you. Swiftly you pull away towards the other end of the chair but not fast enough.

A pair of warm hands wrapped carefully around your ankle, guiding your leg into his lap with unexpected gentleness. Before you could protest, the soft tug of fabric followed — your scrubs being eased up — and his fingers pressing tentatively against the tender skin just below your knee.

A sharp ache pulsed through your leg, radiating up your thigh and into your chest. Instinctively, your hand shot out, gripping his wrist and pulling him away.

“What—what are you doing?!” you snapped, voice low but tense with pain, your fingers clenching tighter around his.

He didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked up to meet yours with a guarded look, the corners of his mouth drawn tight. “I’m trying to figure out why you’ve been limping through every op like nothing’s wrong,” he muttered, carefully freeing his wrist from your grip and shifting his gaze back to your knee. “You tripped. Hit it on something, didn’t you?”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah—but that doesn’t give you the right to just grab me like that,” you fired back, swatting at his hand as it inched toward your other leg. “It was only one side. No need for some full-body exam.”

He exhaled — more tired than annoyed — and ignored your protest, gently lifting your other leg anyway. “You’ve got a habit of brushing these things off and pretending you’re fine,” he said, his voice quieter now, though no less firm. “But you’re not as convincing as you think. I can tell when you’re hurting.”

You stiffened but didn’t resist as he checked the other leg, his touch light and clinical. After a moment of quiet inspection, he gave a short, satisfied hum. No bruises there.

From his coat pocket, he retrieved a clean piece of cloth, folded it carefully, and placed it over the bruise. With practiced hands, he tied it securely — not too tight — then tugged your scrubs gently back into place.

“Keep a warm compress on it,” he said, not looking at you right away as he set your foot back down with care. “Don’t let it stiffen.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “Why do you even care?” you asked, trying to sound dismissive — but the curiosity was genuine. “Also, I’m the surgeon here. I know how to manage swelling.”

He finally looked at you then, his frown easing, though his expression was still serious. “Exactly,” he said. “You’re the surgeon. And you take care of everyone but yourself.”

“Plus, I'd like if my favorite Surgeon isn’t crippled as she runs though the halls to see me.” He muttered underneath his breath, standing up and glancing towards the doors that lead back into the hospital. “And if I’m being honest, you're too pretty to be injured.” He added quieter but you caught it.

“Pardon?” You smirk, looking up at him and standing suddenly. Taking a hold of his coat and tugging him a bit closer. “Did I hear.. that I’m too pretty to be injured?” You chuckle. A smirk replaying on your lips as you watch his cheeks paint with a blush that flooded his features.

“Do you.. like me Gyeong-Won?” You smile, stepping closer so your lips were a breath apart. Challenging to see what he would do.

Park Gyeong-Won took a shaky breath in before leaning forward and kissing your soft pliant lips. His hand snaking behind you. One on your waist and the other on the nape of your neck. Smirking into the kiss when he felt you gasp before melting into his advances.

He watches as your eyes widen before fluttering shut, how your hands unsure of where to go—land on his shoulders, and how when he pushes forward, you fell back into the bench.

He pants as you broke the kiss, licking his lips and groaning at the taste of your spit on his. “Yes. I do. But I should probably stop before I go insane.” Gyeong-Won rasps, stepping back and swiftly walking towards the door

The sound of his footsteps walking away makes you snap out of your daze. Quickly, you stand up and try to walk towards him watching as his hand grasping the door knob firmly and pushing. Grunting when the door didn’t budge and held firm. “I guess that’s a no.” He sighs, walking back to you and picking you up.

Looking into your eyes, he laughs as you stand there in his arms frozen. “The doors locked, and I’m pretty sure that you’re just as bad for me as I am for you. So.. if you kiss me again. I don’t think I’ll want to stop.” He mutters, looking into your eyes with a smile.

You pause, looking back at him and biting your lip. Momentarily unsure of what to do. Being stuck on a roof, really had no privacy. But you couldn’t help but lean forward and connect your lips again.

Gyeong-Won took your soft kiss as a sign and swiftly walked towards another door that led off the ceiling of the NHUH. Setting you down and taking your hand in his. He swiftly pushes open the door and grunts when he finds it locked again. Swiftly without thinking about it, he kicks the lock and pushes again. Watching as he stumbled inside the hall before pulling you with him.

“Stay close. And fuck.. stop looking at me with those eyes before I take you at the first sight of a bed.” He growled. Swiftly walking down the halls with you in tow and straight towards the dormitory.

Hurriedly opening the door, he dragged you inside and pushed you down onto his bed. Locking the door and swiftly discarding his coat and shirt. He walks towards you with purpose and reaches down to take off your coat.

“Are you sure you want this?” He pauses, looking down at you. Concern flashing over his features as he watches you whimper beneath him.

“Yes.. Gyeong-Won please..” you pant, gently reaching up for his hands and placing them on your waist. “I just.. never knew you liked me.” You mumble, glancing away and hiding your face with your hand.

Gyeong-Won laughed underneath his breath and tugged on the bottom of your shirt and pulled it up. Helping you adjust yourself to take it off before throwing it in a random corner. “Mhm.. but now I have you underneath me and I don’t plan on letting you go.” He smirks, pulling your pants down even faster and reaching towards the waistband of your underwear.

Dragging the lace off of you, he pocketed the garment before he slid between your thighs effortlessly. Grabbing your thighs to sit on his shoulders and thrusting his face into you like he was starving.

He might as well be because the first swipe of his tongue is so hot, so eager, that you nearly jerk away from the sudden pleasure. Not that Gyeong-Won would let you. His fingers dig into the marked-up plush of your thighs, keeping you right there as he groans into your pussy like you’re the best fucking thing he’s ever tasted.

“Have you been eating pineapple?” He pauses, the question was sudden and so weird that you glanced at him between your legs.

Nodding slowly, you perch yourself up onto your elbows and blink in confusion. “Yeah.. how did you know?” You ask, pulling back slightly. However you didn’t get far. A pair of hands grabbing your ass and pulling you back so your pussy was on full display for him.

“Because I can taste it.” He growls, his tongue laved a path from your pulsing little hole to your swollen nub, deft fingers spreading you apart for his feasting. He murmured softly as his lips latched onto your clit and drew the bundle of nerves as far into his mouth as was humanly possible. It was like a firecracker was sent off in your brain with the pleasure that spiked through you at the action. Your spine bowed off the sheets and only a firm hand spread across your stomach brought you back to the mattress.

With practiced ease he pulled down his pants and tugged at his dick. A moan vibrating your clit as he pressed one last kiss into your lower lips and stood up. His tip kissing your entrance one last time before he slowly pushed inside.

His head jerking back as he filled you up. “Mmpfh—“ You try your best to suppress your moans, but he’s already thrusting into your cunt like a man starved. His cock kissing your cervix with every deep thrust sends you spiraling into pleasure.

The sound of skin against skin slowly reverberating in the room as he needily pushes into you. A groan escaping his lips as he pressed you into a mating press and adjusted the angle of his thrusts. “so. kiss. fucking. kiss. perfect,” he punctuates each word slowly. Each kiss he leaves sends an electric sensation through your body, eliciting shivers and the growing warmth between your legs.

A whimper slips through your lips as you reach to grip at the sheets beside you. Your eyes rolling back in pure pleasure as he thrusted into that one mind-numbing spot in your pussy that had you screaming.

Reaching down, Gyeong-Won began to play with your clit. Smirking when you get impossible tighter and begin to squirm. His other hand pressing down on your stomach. His thrust getting harder and more punishing as he felt your cute stomach bulge with every thrust.

“You feel that baby? Hm?” He rasps, grabbing one of your hands and pressing it against your stomach. “You feel it? Yeah.. that’s me in your guts.” He groans.

As his fingers sped up on your clit, turning it sore as you began to cum. Smearing the white liquid around. “That's itttt, sweetheart. let it all go,” he mumbled, continuing his assault on you.

“N-no more!—haah!-pl-pleaseeee,” you wailed, hands gripping the duvet so hard they trembled. It already felt like he was melting your insides with his cock.

Thrusting his thick cock in and out your squelching wet pussy that was practically clinging onto him for dear life. Watching you try to squirm away, he leaned down further onto you. Smirking when his dick kept slamming into your clit and causing you to tighten your holy walls around him again.

“Cum with me..” he groans into your ear, his hips finally groaning to a sloppy pace as he aimed to fuck his cum into you so deep that it painted your warm cervix. A harsh slap to your clit made you arch your back into him and squirt against his hand.

The white liquid painting his abs and cock as your eyes rolled back into your head. Panting and gasping for breath as Gyeong-Won slowly pulled out and watched his cum spill out of you.

“You don’t think we’re done do you?” He smirks, flipping you over gently and repositioning himself.

Ta-Da! All done! I’m so sorry for taking so long to write this one. I’ve been honestly so busy with classes and personal life stuff. I’m really sorry and hope you guys enjoy this one. Honestly, I think I kinda suck at writing smut. 😀

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skinner and the rat. I

Pairing: Han Su-gang x Reader

Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Teacher-Student Relationship, Power Imbalance, Reverse Power Imbalance, Age Difference, Dark, Su-gang being deranged as hell

Summary: Familiar faces and familiar violence—you thought after almost ten years, the kid you left would never remember you, but you were wrong.

Word count: 1898

"Spell the word 'onomatopoeia' and give me the meaning of it."

"Onomatopoeia," he mimicked your pronunciation. "O-N-O-M-A-T-O-P-O-E-I-A, refers to the vocal imitation of a sound."

He then wrote the word on the white board using the blue marker, whispering the same letters that he recited to you not long ago.

"Your handwriting is getting better, Little Su-gang."

Hearing you refer to him in that nickname again, he sulked and mildly kicked you under the table. 

"I'm not that shorter than you, Miss," the eleven-year-old boy protested.

Miss. 

It has been a few years since you started being his tutor, but the boy never knew your name and only referred to you by that word. Although it sounded rather distant for him not to call you by your name, you could say that he has warmed up to you more and more. Of all the paid individuals working for and under him, you were the only one he has not treated in that particular way. His mother, too, appeared to like your presence so much she continued hiring you to teach his unteachable son English lessons after his normal classes despite you being in your teens and from a humble background in financial terms. 

"Still not taller than me, though." You smirked, demeanor full of mirth. "You can complain when you're a head taller than me."

He blew you a raspberry—an act unbeffiting for a wealthy couple's only son—but being the childish girl you were, you stuck your tongue out at him as well.

"Shouldn't you be mature?" he taunted. 

"Shouldn't you be tall?" You rummaged into to the big pocket of your backpack. "Here, have a candy."

"Miss, why do you keep giving me this?"

He looked at the cheap sweet treat pointedly. With his expensive palate, it was understandable that he would not like and artificially flavored poor-people food, and yet, he twisted open the plastic wrapper and popped the candy inside his mouth. He shoved the plastic inside his short pocket, his red-hued ears betraying the act of nonchalance he was trying to showcase. 

"Why not?" You smiled, finding his behavior similar to your younger brother's. "Everyone should be rewarded for their excellence from time to time. Besides, it's the only thing I can afford."

You rubbed your hands onto your clothed shoulders, mentally chastising yourself for not remembering to grab your jacket. Your skin pricked, and when you checked your arm, you saw circles potruding until they formed lumps of shape. 

Your hives just got triggered.

"Reward?" he said, taking his wristwatch off and handing it to you.

"Why are you—"

"Here. Your reward."

Is this one his ploys where he gives you something valuable and then accuse you of stealing?

"I can't wear jewelry," you reasoned, holding his wrist and wore the watch around it, which he calmly let you do. "They make my skin itchy."

His dark, lightless eyes traveled from your fingers to the area on your arm where your hives were located, and he ran his own hands on the reaction. 

"Maybe it's because you're wearing fake ones."

You deadpanned and stopped him from touching your skin. It was bad as it was; you did not want them to be worse. 

"How honest." You shook your head in amusement, never seeming to be offended that he was making fun of your financial situation. "Your good grades are enough reward for me." 

Even in his younger age, he could feel that the actual reason for your refusal of his offer was something else. However, he did not care enough for him to pry the answer from you. 

"Juice, young miss," a maid excuses herself, carrying a tray of pitcher and two fancy glasses. 

You refused, not wanting this act of goodwill to be used against you in the future.

"Are you going to drink that terrible tetrapack chocolate drink again?" Su-gang mocked. 

"Oh, please. You love drinking that terrible, terrible, choky-milk."

When you said that, his usually dull, expressionless eyes widened. A faint pinkness crept its way onto his cheeks, making his pale face look almost alive.

"I'm firing you." 

"You can't." You reached a hand and ruffled his neatly combed hair. "You love me teaching you."

As the maid placed down the tray, you whispered, "Be careful."

As though she did not hear your words, she shakily poured her employer a glass of juice. Her grip on the glass pitcher slipped, and then—

You gasped, the icy-cold liquid biting your skin. You scrambled to stand up, wincing at the sight of your favorite blouse and only pair of trousers being drenched with orange juice. The juice soaked up into your every single article of clothing, causing you to tremble even more. 

"I'm—I'm so sorry, Miss!"

Through chattering teeth, you smiled and dismissed her by saying, "It's okay."

You felt like crying, knowing that you would need to go home looking like this and that the stain the liquid would leave could never be removed by ordinary bleach. You, however, did not show this looming breakdown, because you knew what would happen to the maid if you were to ever show the slightest sign of displeasure toward her.

"I need a towel," you muttered.

"I apologize, Miss!" the maid stuttered, desperately searching for a way to fix the issue.

"What's with the screaming?"

The mistress of the house went down from the stairs with her high heels clacking. Each beat of her steps was multiplying the dread that was pooling the maid's guts.

She knew that she was done for. 

"Madame—Madame! Please don't—"

"My god!" Missus Han exclaimed. "What's happened to you, dear?"

"I accidentally poured juice on my clothes," you lied.

You knew that it was a futile move to do so, especially when the maid was behind you, kneeling while holding the pitcher of juice. 

"I didn't take you for a clumsy type." She rose an eyebrow, her cold eyes sending shivers to her employee and the other ones around her. "I'll give you new clothes."

Shortly, she beckoned you to come with her to a room that you were sure you have never seen being opened before.

Inside the room was a queen bed with sheets of your favorite color. The curtains, the carpet, the decorations—everything inside screamed of you, as though you were the one who designed the interior. Missus Han entered the walk-in wardrobe and looked through the hangers and hangers of clothes herself, even offering you you to pick what you want from them. In the end, she chose a pair of shoes surprisingly your size, a tailored cream-colored blouse, a long, silk skirt, and—

A pair of undergarments.

"Don't return these to me. I specifically bought them for you."

You nodded, your brain finding for an explanation as to why she would have an entire room seemingly dedicated for you. Nervously, you accepted her so-called gifts personalized for you, your eyes downcast. 

"Are those rashes?" she suddenly brought up. 

"Hives, madame."

"Hives?" she repeated with a tone so tender you almost forgot who you were talking to. 

"Cold urticaria."

"Are they caused by the juice?"

"They get triggered when I'm in a cold place for too long."

"We can turn down the air-conditioning, dear." 

"Your son likes it when it's cold," you replied. "This is his house. It's not like I could just change things just from my personal comfort. As long as he's being cooperative, I don't think there's anything else I could ask for."

A flash of jealousy appeared in your madame's eyes, and her smile shrunk.

She caressed your face with a look that could only be described as bitter yearning, as if you were a thing she wants but could not have. 

"I wish you were my daughter."

After changing, you opened the door, and you heard a sob. The source was a person from the first floor of the mansion. 

"Young master!" a maid shrilled on the top of her lungs while a eleven-year-old boy kept dragging her by the hair. "I beg of you!"

"Shut your mouth!" He slapped her face repeatedly before pushing her into a wall. "Give me a pitcher. Give me a pitcher!"

In fear, a male household staff leaped to get to the refrigerator and brought him a pitcher. Without hesitation, Su-gang poured all its contents onto the quaking woman screaming from her dear life. You averted your eyes, your heart sinking with each hit of his fists making contact with her skull.

"That is what happens to dogs who couldn't serve their masters properly." 

Your eyes pricked, knowing damn well you belonged to these dogs the Han's were spitting on. Your mama, before that incident happened, was a dog in this bright, elegant cage, too. 

How could you be so different from them, then? 

The aftermath of the Han's heir was disastrous. Blood spilled on top of the floor, mixed together with juice and tears. Glass shards glinted, reflecting the light from the two-meter long chandelier that hung silently. Muffled cried from the untouched staff could be heard bouncing back from the walls, slow to travel due to how large the gaps are between parallel walls. 

"It seems that our session for the day has ended," you quietly said, even your voice was afraid to get out. "I'll be going." 

"Where's my hug?"

You bent your knee to match the level of his eyes and wrapped him around your arms. You did not embrace as tightly as you used to, and you were grateful to whoever was there that he remained stiff. You could not stomach the idea of him hugging you back when your mind was being plagued by thoughts of his hands hitting you. 

He was terrifying when he was harming his employees, and the fact that he looked like nothing was wrong was even more terrifying to you. 

"Take care," you mumbled. 

"Come back, okay?" he said, with an underlying threat. "I'll give you candy. Better—no, the best—brand."

"Oh, you're early. What a diligent young lady," an older woman said as she wiped her face with the sleeve of her top. "I'm Jae-Kyeong Lee, and you?"

"[Full Name], Teacher Jae-Kyeong Lee," you answered as you bowed, helping her with her things. "I dislike taking the subway during rush hours, so I left home early."

"Your first day, right?"

The skies above rumbled, and the light rain became stronger, loud enough to be heard inside the teachers' lounge. 

"Yes, Teacher." 

"You look quite young." She smiled at you, which you gladly returned. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-four." You put her bag down carefully. "Freshly graduated." 

"Oh, you took an academic break?" 

If academic break is what they call stopping to save money in order to attend a decent college, then yes. 

"Mhm, I took a year off."

"What's your first class?" 

You told her what it was, and to your surprise, her pleasant disposition died down. Her small smile was replaced with a grimace, and you could sense the fear permeating through her clothes. 

"That's Su-gang Han's class, no?" she checked, swallowing thickly. 

"Yes, it's the one."

"Is there something wrong with the class?" you inquired, feigning ignorance regarding the obvious cause of her horror.

She attempted to send you another smile, yet this time, it did not reach her eyes. 

"Just do your best."

next chapter.

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Lee Jun young as Han Su gang in Brave Citizen (용감한 시민) 2023

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Wrecking ball.

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x reader

Summary: You're pregnant, just like Seong-je wanted.

Warning: FWB to Lovers, Violence Overprotectiveness, Possessiveness, Weird pregnancy cravings, Soft Seong-je? Mention of murder, Fat shaming? Arguments, Fluff? Yandere Geum Seong-je, Toxic relationship.

Part one

"FUCKING DAMN IT!" you screamed as the snack you so lovingly prepared for yourself and the baby in your womb fell from the counter to the floor with a booming crash of broken glass and scattered food.

Gripping your eight-month baby bump and the counter, you squaded the best that you could do and started picking up pieces of glass.

This had been happening more often than you would like. Since you got pregnant again, you somehow became clumsier, and no item was safe in your hands. Seong-je, Your boyfriend—yes, your boyfriend—was the one who picked up after your messes.

You just knew he would be pissed for not calling him for help, but he was outside smoking, probably leaning against the rail of your apartment, looking down at the people minding their business. Seong-je had surprisingly tried to refrain from smoking directly around you when you both learned of your pregnancy and you didn't want to ruin his smoke break.

After much more struggling, you picked up all the shards of glass, wrapped them in rags, and duct-taped them before throwing them away along with the food.

You were in the middle of washing your hands when the front door opened and footsteps came to the kitchen, stopping behind you and Seong-je's arms wrapped around your stomach. "How's my girls doing? " he muttered, tracing kisses down your shoulder.

"We're good!" You yelped as he bit your shoulder, snickering meanly. You rolled your eyes with a smile; he was still an asshole, that's for sure.

Once you got done washing your hands and dried them, you spoke up, "We need to go back to the convenience store. I ran out of my favourite snack"

Seong-je hummed before letting you go, "Fine, let's go." He took your hand and led you to the door.

The store was as peaceful as possible being a teen hot spot. Teenage boys laughed and talked loudly; they didn't care who heard them.

Their stares were obvious; it was like you were some blue, tall alien with a tail instead of a pregnant woman shopping for snacks, but the death glare Seong-je gave them coupled with his renowned reputation, they quickly went back to their own business but much quieter.

You walked out of the store, bag in hand. "Fuck. I forgot to get some cigs, I'll be back, Angel face." His arm slipped off your shoulders as he walked back into the store.

Not even a second, a boy came up to you, a smirk on his chapped lips, "Wow, you're so damn fat. Are you having little cows?" He laughed at his joke, his words slurred and his breath reeks of beer.

"Leave me alone." You said, taking a step back, and the boy followed, his hand stretching out towards you. Just when his hand touched your arm he was yanked back by his shoulder and flung back from the bone-crushing punch to his nose. You gasped, frozen in fear as Seong-je picked the drunk by his shirt, drew his arm back, and, with as much force, punched him; blood gushed out of the poor teen's nose like a red river.

Your breath quickened and your bag dropped to the floor, your hands covering your ears, trying desperately to block the sickening sound of Seong-je fist against bone.

Flashes of Hak-Kun, the man who made the mistake of wanting to be more than your friend—to be your boyfriend when you were already marked by Seong-je. Flashes of his body on the cold concrete of night, his features unrecognisable, his plasma a pool under his skull. The Union members laughed cruelly as they watched Seong-je beat the boy until he was no longer breathing.

You could hear his body being dragging carelessly against the concrete.

Your body trembled and the ability to breathe became harder and harder.

A suddenly strong kick from the inside of your stomach snapped you out of the anxiety attack, and your eyes shot opened.

Your boyfriend was still striking the man over and over again, each time he hit harder. People were gathering at the scene and phones were being pulled out. Fuck this wasn't good.

"SEONG-JE!!!" you yelled desperately as you watched helplessly. His fist paused just before he made contact, and he turned his head in your direction. His hardened eyes softened once he recognised the panic and fear in yours. He released the other boy's shirt and let his body drop to the floor with a thud.

You hurried to him, took hold of his arm and rushed him away, the bag of food long forgotten in the commotion. On the walk home, neither of you spoke a word to the other. You didn't care; you were fuming and you refused to argue in public.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!?!" You stormed angrily past him into the apartment and spun on your heels.

"I was thinking I wouldn't let some punk touch my girl. My pregnant girl." He looked at you over his glasses and stuffed his bloodied hands in his jean pockets, the indifference in his tone only made you more pissed.

"You can't just start fights! What if the police came and took you to jail?!" You paced, your heart beating fast at the thought of Seong-je being taken away from you and your baby girl.

He scoffed like your concerns were pointless.

"You could have killed him, Seong-je." You stopped pacing and turned to face him, hoping he'd see reason.

His eyes snap to you, "I should have. I fucking should've scooped his eyeballs out, shoved down his throat and let him choke on em"

Why? Why was he so incapable of seeing your perspective? You love him; you love him so that the mere thought of living without him was like the world ending to you and now you have a daughter on the way. It's like he didn't care about you or your baby.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I said get out! You just don't care! Do you?! Why can't you see things my way! You think only about yourself, not how it would affect me or our baby! You're such a fucking asshole! I thought you changed but you're still the same jerk!!" You wept "I can't even look at you!"

He stood unmoving, simply peering at you; what he thought or was feeling was unreadable, and then he sauntered out the door, leaving you to wallow in your emotions.

He hadn't come back until an hour later; by that time, you cried yourself to sleep on the couch. Waiting for him.

Seong-je sighed quietly, placing the plastic bag beside him as he squatted in front of you, his thumb brushing away the streaks of dried tears, "Angel face..wake up." He whispered softly,"Let me see those pretty eyes."

Your eyes fluttered open, a sleepy whine stuck in your throat.

"I got you something." He grabbed the plastic bag and opened it for you to see the contents inside. Potato chips, a jar of Nutella, Noodles and ice cream are a few of many of your cravings.

He wasn't always the best at apologising but he tried.

You smiled.

[laectrl]

Wrecking ball.

Pairing: Geum Seongje x reader.

Summary: When you made a deal with Geum Seongje to be fuck buddies the first rule was not to fall in love. You broke it, and to make matters worse, you might be pregnant with his baby.

Warning: Dark, Friends with benefits au, Unplanned pregnancy, Unrequited love, Abortion, Angry sex? Creampie, Back shot, Pussy slapping, Spitting kink, Degrading kink, Praise kink, Fingering, Breeding kink, Dubcon, Yandere Geum Seongje.

A/n: I'm thinking I will be writing a part two that's less intense and dark. That focuses more on the actual pregnancy. @dripoftheseus, @mirwors, @minghaosimp, @seoulazzyy.

Fire, A consuming fire lit underneath your skin, beads of sweat drenched your body and the fierce rutting of Seongje's hips against your butt, driving his cock deep into your depths.

"Look at her, Angel face..look at how well she's taking me," Seong-je grunted in your ear, his bicep tightened around your throat.

You glance at the body length mirror in front of you. You were a mess. Tear-dried streaks on your cheeks, lips swollen and bruised from the passionate kisses you shared, and your collarbone, breasts, and stomach were littered with bite marks and hickeys. Your nails dug into his arm, helpless in the chokehold he had you in.

You choked out a broken moan, your thighs were coated in a shimmering creamy combination of pre-cum and juices that wrapped a ring around Seong-je's member base. Every time his hips drew back, thin strings of cream connected you together, and every snap forward, the mess grew.

"Beautiful, huh? Takes me like a fucking champ." His fingers trailed down to your clitoris and rubbed the small bud in a sharp figure eight. You trembled, another orgasm was forming, and it felt like the sixth one today.

Seong-je chuckled naughtily as your pussy clenched on his cock, "Am I gonna make you cum?" His thrusting turned into a rapid yet precise pounding while he inched you both to your full bed. His arm left your throat, and his fingers gripped your hair, shoving your face into the mattress. "Do it. Come for me." He growled.

"Fuck—i'm cumming!" You cried and gripped the bedsheets into tight fists as you came.

"That's it—angel face...fuck I'm close." Seongje hissed as his hips sped up in his ruthless pounding, riding out your orgasm. His grip on your locks tightened as he began to chase his, "where should I cum, shitttttt—Should I give you some angel wings?.. Would-ah fuck-Would you like that?" Seong-je's lips stretched into a grin when you nodded desperately.

He pulled out quickly, his cock laid on your ass, his knuckles lightly brushing against your skin as he stroke himself til he let out a deep moan and spurts of his semen landed on your backside.

Your legs trembled before giving out, your knees crushing to the plush floor while you rested against the side of your bed. Your body weak and tired from the hour or so fuck sesh.

You panted, inhaling as much air as you could, and looked over your shoulder at the sexy delinquent.

He was a little better, not by much.

His brown hair was darker from sweat and lay flat against his face, his glasses were low on the bridge of his nose, and his chest heaved, doing his best to gather air himself, and the sweat that lingered on his body made his skin shine.

Nothing was said as Seong-je lazily sauntered off to the bathroom to take a quick shower, and as you cleaned yourself with the box of tissues you kept on the bedside table; after you finished, you crumpled the tissue and threw it into the small trash can by the bedside table. It was routine by this point. For a bit, you sat on the floor before lifting yourself up onto the bed, and as you lay there, the running water of the shower faded in the background.

Minutes passed, and finally, the bathroom door opened. And Seong-je walked out, drying his hair with the towel nonchalantly, it was almost sexy. He opened the last drawers of your dressers that sat in your sliding-door closet and took a pair of black jeans, a matching shirt with a colourful tiger print on the front, and some plain boxers. Lastly, he grabbed one of his jackets off the metal rod and strode to the mirror.

For a moment, he didn't say a word as he got dressed. "I won't be back until a week or so, I have some union bullshit to deal with." He said, combing his messy hair with his fingers, "I hope I don't hear about someone seeing you with a guy. You know what happened last time. We wouldn't want a repeat. Do we? " He stared at you through the mirror, adjusting his glasses, his voice a threat.

How could you? The smell of blood, the heavy iron-like scent, still lingered in your nostrils when the memory haunted your thoughts. The poor boy, bloody and unresponsive, being dragged off by some of the union minions, flashed in your mind every once in a while. You liked to pretend, maybe, maybe there was a small chance that he was alive and breathing.

But the truth and Seong-Je wouldn't let you forget the reality of that night.

"I know." You muttered and nodded slowly, you knew better now.

"Good," he smirked sadistically, "I'll see you later, Angel face." He winked at you, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked off. The soft click of the front door echoed in your quiet apartment.

Angel face, you wanted to despise that nickname, you wish it didn't make your body feel warm and make your heart skip a beat every time you heard it.

He told you one night as you both lay in the afterglow. He called you an angel because you were too kind to a bastard like him. An angel, a beautiful being sent to rescue his damned soul from the fiery pits of hell, a safe haven.

And It showed.

His toothbrush sat by yours in the bathroom, along with his favourite food and his preferred drinks in the refrigerator and pantry. Shoes side by side with your own, and a makeshift gaming setup in the corner of your room. A side of your bed was reserved for him.

You. Your apartment. Is his home away from home.

You felt proud and happy, even because of who he is. Someone who views everyone around him as lowly, barely deserving of his acknowledgement and who doesn't like people being too close to him. He let you close, he let you touch him, please him, care for him like you meant something to him; however, the other part of you, a small piece, knew he would never see you like that.

Despite all the reasons, you should let him go, kick him out, and tell him to never come back. You won't, and simply can't. Maybe because you were lonely, a lone wolf without a pack of her own, or the very thing you loathed admitting, is that you wanted to love him.

You do love him..

The first few days without him were tough. He had spent three weeks with you prior to his leave. You had already familiarised his warmth, the slight brush of his skin as he slept beside you, and the smell of his natural musk combined with nicotine still clinging to his pillow. Used to his awful habit of smoking, used to the harsh clicking of the mouse and keys, the creak of the game chair anytime he moved. So adapted to his touch, to his voice, to everything that was him.

He didn't spare you a text or call. He is completely ghosting you, ignoring your good morning, good nights, and are you okays.

You felt like a lovesick puppy waiting for her master.

"How much longer?" Seo-yeon, your childhood best friend, yawned. Her hand covered her mouth and rubbed her teary eye with the other hand. You called her over early in the morning after you had finished puking up your dinner from last night for the eighth time this week, and like the awesome friend she was, she arrived in minutes.

"Don't yawn!" You giggled and reached over the bed to slap her thigh, you didn't want another round of endless yawning.

"I can't help it! " she laughed and dodged your teasing hit, rolling onto her side as she lay on top of your bed.

You shook your head playfully and checked your phone.

"One minute..." You responded to her question, watching the large white numbers counting down on the middle of the screen, the playful feeling gone and vanished. The comforting touch on your shoulder helped a little, but not enough as the alarm went off.

"Well..?" Seo-yeon asked, peering into the bathroom, her hand on the doorframe.

Words failed you, and tears formed.

Two bright red lines glared at you.

You looked at the other pregnancy tests. Six red lines stared back.

You cried as Seo-yeon pulled you into a hug. You cried because you were happy, you carried Seong-je's baby in your womb, the man you loved desperately. You cried because you were devastated, you couldn't keep it, you had to let the little girl or boy go. Seong-je isn't a father type, and he wasn't loving. All he knew was violence and sex.

How could someone who saw the pain of others as fun be a dad?

You wept for a reality that would never be.

The abortion clinic was cold, unfeeling and dreadful. You regretted not agreeing to let Seo-yeon come with you but this was something you had to do alone. Your fingers lightly caressed your stomach. Two weeks, The doctor you saw confirmed it. A baby the size of a pinhead rested under your palm.

A being made entirely of Seong-je and you.

A small being that you had to let go and give back to the heavens. It wasn't the time or place; you wanted the baby, and you wished that you could somehow raise it, but you didn't have the money or support, and Seong-Je would drop you with no hesitation.

You needed him more, wanted him more..loved him more.

They called out your name.

There was no turning back. You stood with your purse and let the nurse lead you into the back.

Seong-je rolled his shoulders and lifted the cigarette to his lips, inhaling and allowing the nicotine into his lungs and out his nose. soothing his nerves as he walked up the stairs to your apartment.

It's been an interesting yet stressful couple of weeks. He met an intriguing newbie that had been hanging around Baku, got stabbed in the foot by said boy and had to take a tetanus shot, left the Union and saved a romantic Eunjang loser from some fuckers, and almost became a good guy. Seong-je chuckled at the thought, flicking the cig over the rail, trusting the rain to extinguish the paper stick. It was the most fun he had in a while.

The tension that built over time rolled off him like mist. It felt good—comforting, to be home. He missed this and you. He shrugged off his jacket, put it on the hook by the door and took off his shoes hazardously, leaning his palm against the wall that separated the entrance and the living room.

Seong-je paused.

Heartbroken cries, your cries came from the other side of the wall.

"I-i keep thinking about it, Seo-yeon." he heard you sniffle.

"I know, I know." Seo-yeon cooed over the phone.

"How can I go on k-knowing I got rid of my baby, of what could have been? H-how can I face Seongje and pretend like nothing happened?"

Seongje jaw clenched, and he turned to open the front door and shut it loud enough that you could hear him 'coming in'. This gave him the reaction he wanted as he rounded the corner.

You immediately hung up the phone with a hurried goodbye and stood up from the couch. The excited, happy smile on your lips fades when you notice the expression he wore. You've seen Seong-je angry; that was unavoidable; either he was pissed because some dumbass from the Union messed up and he had to fix it, or someone said something he didn't like. You were always there to calm the storm but his anger was never directed at you. He was furious.

"S-seong-je–" You tried to speak, he wasn't having it.

"What was that call about?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing..obviously nothing." You gulped, the words came out too fast to stop them. He hated when people lied to his face.

His expression darkened, and after a second, his lips curled into a crooked smile that didn't reach up to his eyes."Strip, go to the bed and lay down on the bed, on your back."

You hesitated. He did not like it.

"Either you strip like the good slut you are, go to the bedroom and get on the bed or I rip those fucking clothes off, drag you to the bedroom and throw you onto your back. Trust me, you won't like what I'd do next." He said angrily, taking a step closer. You took off your clothes and rushed to your bedroom. Seong-je followed after you. You lay on the bed; you obeyed him faster than you ever did before.

Seong-je stripped slowly, taking his sweet time as you panicked internally.

He crawled onto the bed, pushed your legs apart harshly, and rested between your spread thighs. He softly touched the edge where your pussy meets your thigh, "You lied, had an abortion, didn't think to tell me and did so without my permission." He growled and slapped your cunt.

"I-im sorry! I should have told you. Please. I'm sorry!" You cried, your eyes watering.

"You fucking should be. This Is my body. I own you, body and soul." He spat out. The second slap echoed in your ears, a tear falling from the painful strings to your folds and clit.

"How about I knock you up again?" He tilted his head slightly, grinning as you looked at him with sheer panic in your obs. His thumb began to rub your clitoris.

"What?! Seongje, you-fuck!" You moaned wantonly as his index and middle fingers pushed past your entrance and curled upwards.

"Sorry slut I didn't think I heard you." His fingers pressed the roof of your spongy walls, his hand jerking upwards at a fast, punishing pace. His fingers fucked you, and your pussy made wet, loud, lewd squelches as he pushed his fingers back inside.

"Please, please, let me cum!" You begged; your body inched close to your orgasm. You bucked your hips wildly, grinding against his palm.

His digits yanked out of your pussy before you could let go and gave it a painful slap.

"You don't get to cum. You don't deserve it." His arms wrapped around your thighs and dragged your closer to him, his mushroom tip poking your slit. With no warning, he snapped his hips forward, his balls smacked your ass.

Seong-je groaned his eyes closing in bliss. He missed your perfect, made-for-him cunt. He missed you..

He drew his hips back and snapped them again. His eyes opened, looking down at where you become one, and he smirked as you squealed.

Moans, squeals, and cries for him to slow down, only served to turn him on. He pounded your pussy, cruelly and harshly. The loud plap, plap plaping of his lower half colliding with your own, made your body tingle in a mind-numbing way.

"You're gonna look so fucking good with my baby in your slutty womb, stomach swollen and around because of me." He hissed as you clenched, "Yeah, you like that? You want my damn brat?" His fingers gripped your jaw, you had no doubt bruises were starting to form because of his tight grip.

You tried to shove him away, your hands weakly pushing his torso, trying to get him to pull out. It was unless. He just kept thrusting, your attempts doing nothing to stop him.

"No!" You thrashed, and he slipped deeper than he was before. Your mind became mesh.

"No? no?" Seong-je snickered, "You're a shit liar, angel face."

"N-no, I am n-" you whine as Seong-je's spit lands on your tongue; you swallow like you always did before.

He cursed, his cock driving into you faster as your eyes rolled back and your body jerked from his new pace.

"Take my cum and get pregnant bitch!" He moaned, his dick throbbed and pulsated, his cum painted your fertile womb in a milky white. You screamed as his climax triggered your orgasm, and your slick spurted out onto the bedsheets under you.

You didn't have time to truly caught your breath, Seong-je picked up his thrusts.

"Did you think we were done Angel face?" He smirked.

You were screwed, literally.

[laectrl]

[laectrl]

Love me not - Ravyn Lenae

➜ Geum Seongje x reader

"You haven't received any news from your boyfriend in days. But one day you saw him, living as if nothing had happened"

English is not my first language, so im sorry for any grammar mistakes. Enjoy !!

The class ended, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Quickly, you take off your ballet pointe shoes and put them away in your bag.

Your hand reaches for your phone, tucked inside one of the bag’s pockets.

Hoping to find a notification from your boyfriend, Geum Seongje.

But there was nothing. The last message was one you had sent:

"Hey. Are you okay? Stop avoiding me on purpose."

And he hadn’t even seen it, which was driving you crazy.

You knew him, you knew what kind of things he was involved in, but he always let you know when he was busy or couldn’t reply to your messages.

But this time was different. He hadn’t replied, and the more you tried to reach him, the more it felt like a lost cause.

You set your phone down. The room was empty now, the night settling outside the window.

With lazy movements, you gather all your belongings and throw on some joggers and an oversized hoodie to head back home.

You walk alone. At the end of the street, you spot a convenience store.

It wouldn’t have caught your attention if it weren’t for the tall boy with glasses stepping out.

Your boyfriend. Casually shopping, as if he hadn’t been ignoring you for days.

You call out for him, but he doesn’t hear you.

You try to catch up, but his strides are twice as long as yours due to the height difference.

He steps into what looks like a warehouse—old, a little eerie, to be honest—but you follow him inside.

"Seongje," you call out. A few seconds later, he appears, tilting his head in confusion upon seeing you there.

"How did you find me?" he asks simply, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

You stare at him, incredulous. "You literally appeared in front of me while I was heading home." Your voice is steady and cold.

He chuckles, that air of superiority—the one that somehow always draws you in.

"You’ve ignored me for days, Seongje," you demand.

He scans you from head to toe, like he always does.

"Did you just come from practice?"

You nod, still annoyed.

Slowly, he steps closer.

"You must be tired, princess. Let’s sleep." His hands find your waist, rubing up and down, a smirk on his face.

You know how things go with him. Every time you argue, he brushes it off by shifting the conversation completely.

Almost instinctively, you place your palms behind his neck, gazing into his eyes.

You want to be mad at him—for disappearing, for ignoring you, for acting like nothing happened.

But he’s making it impossible. His eyes alone are enough to make you forget everything.

Without hesitation, he brushes his lips against yours.

"Let me make it up to you," he teases, waiting for your reaction.

When you close your eyes, he takes it as a sign to kiss you—so he does.

Softly at first, as if apologizing. Then deeper, rougher, led by want and need.

Let’s just say that the next day, you didn’t make it to ballet class.

[laectrl]

Deep Headcanon: Na Baek-jin as a Boyfrie

Na beak jin x GN!reader

"You taught me that love shouldn't save me. It should just let me be someone new. - Na Baek-jin

..................................................................................

A Tense Romance: The Awakening of Vulnerability

Na Baek-jin doesn't fall in love easily. He sees attachment as an exploitable weakness, a distraction from his objectives. But you are the exception he never anticipated.

You arrived as a quiet counterpoint to his coldness: neither dazzled by his charisma nor frightened by his methods. You answered him without trembling. On that day, you became a mystery greater than all the schemes he orchestrated.

Love, for Baek-jin, is never expressed in simple words. He has never said "I love you." He doesn't know how. But you hear it in:

"You came home late. You should avoid that alley."

"I've changed your access code. It's safer now."

"I looked into that professor who's treating you badly."

He speaks of love as one draws up war plans: coldly, strategically, never saying why he worries.

But you learn to translate.

Heavy Silences, Talkative Glances

Baek-jin is not a man of tender gestures. But when he looks at you, his gaze says what he cannot verbalize. In his eyes, there is an anxious obsession, a love that frightens him.

The rare times he touches you, it's calculated:

He silently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, as if to make sure you're real.

He lets his hand brush yours when no one is looking.

He places a coat over your shoulders, not because you're cold, but because he cannot bear for anything to touch you without his consent.

It is a silent love, yet almost violently intense.

The Forbidden Notebook

One day, you discover a hidden notebook in a locked drawer. It's a journal. Na Baek-jin writes in it what he will never say.

"Today, they smiled at someone else. My stomach tightened. Is this fear?"

"I almost told them I was afraid of losing them. But it would have sounded like a loss of power. So I said: 'Do what you want. It's none of my business.'"

You never speak to him about it. You protect this secret as he protects yours. But sometimes you leave a note between the pages, a silent answer to his inner war.

Love Through Chaos

He draws you into a world of power, manipulation, and contained violence. But he never directly exposes you. He places an invisible barrier between you and what he does. Yet you know. You know his world devours his soul, that he sacrifices his last illusions of goodness.

And sometimes, at night, he breaks. He sits beside you. He says nothing. But his hands tremble. You place your hand on his, and for once, he doesn't pull away.

"I don't know who I would be without what I do. But I know that if you are no longer here, I am nothing."

This is not a declaration. It is a raw plea.

Mending What's Broken

Love with Na Baek-jin isn't about flowers or perfect photos. It's a field of ruins where you choose to plant a flower.

It's the silence in an empty apartment, where he leaves you the key, but never explicit permission. You invite yourself in when he can't take it anymore. You don't ask questions. You let him breathe. You make rice, you open a window.

One day, you fall ill. And unexpectedly, he takes care of you. In an almost mechanical, clumsy, yet clinically precise way. You sense he's never done this before. But he reads, he learns, he makes lists.

"You need to drink every 2 hours. I set alarms. I avoided anti-inflammatories; they interfere with your medication."

You cry. And he doesn't understand why.

The Day He Was Afraid

That day, you disappeared for six hours. Your phone was off. He searched everywhere. He called every contact, every camera, every informant.

When you return, exhausted by a simple dead battery and a traffic jam, he has no words. But he pulls you close, hard, brutally.

"Don't ever do that again. You don't have the right to disappear. You're not just someone in my life. You are my only anchor."

It's the first time he cries. And you say nothing. You just rest your head against his shoulder. And you understand: he let you in. You are in his nervous system now.

Rage and Tenderness: The Living Paradox

Love with Na Baek-jin is brutal and tender. He knows no moderation. When he worries, he shouts. When he's scared, he turns cold. When he loves you, he trembles.

He loves you like one loves on the edge of a void. Like someone who has never known solid ground.

But he learns. With you. Every day. Slowly. In small doses.

He starts sending you messages with a ❤️ that he deletes and re-adds three times before pressing "send." He starts resting his head on your shoulder, in an almost childlike gesture. He learns to fall asleep without fearing abandonment upon waking.

The Seasons' Notebook

One day, you create a tradition: writing him a letter with each change of season. He never replies. But you continue.

One winter day, he hands you a notebook. It contains his replies. All of them.

Spring: "I never thought I could love someone as much as my ambition. You showed me that love doesn't erase strength; it redirects it."

Summer: "I watched you laugh today. I wanted time to stop. For the first time, I wished to live for someone other than myself."

You cry as you read. He pulls you into his arms. And for the first time, he tells you:

"You are the only thing in this world I don't want to control. Just keep."

An Uncertain Future, But Together

Na Baek-jin doesn't believe in tomorrow. He lives by the logic of the present: control, survive, defend.

But sometimes, he watches you sleep, and he dares. He allows himself to dream.

He imagines an apartment where you don't have to hide. A café he would open, far from schemes and fists. A dog. Maybe a child. Normal evenings.

He doesn't believe it yet. But he confesses it to you one evening, whispering against your neck:

"I never thought I'd live to be old. But if I have to... I'd want it to be with you."

And that's what love with Baek-jin is.

It's not clean. It's not easy. But it's true.

It's the kind of love that hurts, that heals, that sometimes destroys, but if it survives, it becomes indestructible.

Because he loves you with all that he is—even what he hates about himself.

And one day, he finally understands that he might deserve to be loved in return.

Not despite all of it.

But because of all of it.

Love as Healing

Na Baek-jin remains a man of contradictions. He controls, he tests, he doubts. But he loves. Intensely. As if you were the last purity he deserves.

He respects you. Not just your body, but your ideas, your freedom, your right to question him. He relearns how to live. He deconstructs what he was taught: that love is weakness, that the world is a power game.

With you, he learns that intimacy is not a danger but a liberation. That saying "I'm tired" doesn't mean "I lose" but "I rest in your arms."

Love, Baek-jin Style

Loving Baek-jin isn't living an ideal romance. It's being loved by someone who knows the taste of blood, but who chooses to lay down his weapons before you.

It's seeing a boy everyone believes invincible wake up with a start at night and whisper: "Are you here?"

It's learning to decipher silence, to read between the lines of a gaze, to understand that a "Be careful" said while looking away means: "Come back alive to me; I wouldn't survive your loss."

It's living a love that doesn't try to be perfect, but chooses to be true.

It's loving a boy who has done terrible things, but who, with you, learns to be gentle without feeling weak.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

°Moments when he says I love you without words

The First Time He Fought for You

It was an alley. You weren't supposed to be there. Not supposed to see what you saw.

They surrounded you — not to truly hurt you, but to test. To hurt him, indirectly.

And when he arrived, he didn't even look at you at first.

He just stood in front of you, back straight, fists clenched.

He didn't yell. He didn't threaten.

He destroyed them. Methodically. Without a word.

And when it was all over, his knuckles bleeding, breathing heavily, he turned to you.

Not to reassure you.

He just whispered:

> "I told you not to linger here."

But his hands were trembling.

And you understood: it wasn't anger. It was fear. A panic-stricken fear of losing you.

The Night He Allowed Himself to Cry

You came to his place unannounced.

You found him sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathroom door, soaked in sweat and cold water.

He'd been fighting. Again. Not to survive this time — just because he didn't know what else to do to exist.

You didn't ask him any questions.

You sat across from him, knees touching knees.

And there, in the cold light, he lowered his head. He murmured:

> "I don't know how else to be. I've tried. But I always fall back."

> "You don't deserve someone like me."

And without you responding, he cried. Not loud sobs. Silent tears, full of humiliation and love intertwined.

You reached out your hand. He took it. It was the first time.

The Night He Whispered "Stay"

You were ready to leave. Another argument. Too much tension. Too many walls.

You had gotten out of bed, silently, in the dark.

And as you gathered your bag, you heard his voice. Deep, cracked. So human.

> "Stay."

One word. Just one.

Not a plea. Not an apology. A confession.

You stopped.

He sat up, still wrapped in the sheets, hair messy, gaze burning. He didn't move, but his whole body seemed to reach out to you.

> "I don't want you to leave... even if I don't have the words to tell you properly."

> "But if you leave... I know I won't recover from that."

You stayed.

Not because he begged you. But because it was true.

The Day He Had a Nightmare and Sought You Like a Child

He had always slept alone. Even with you beside him, there was a tension in his muscles that never truly left.

But one night, he screamed in his sleep.

A hoarse, deep cry. The kind that seems to well up from childhood, from unspoken traumas.

You woke him. He was sweating, eyes wild, hands clutching the sheet.

He looked at you as if he'd forgotten you truly existed.

And then he reached out.

Not like a lover. Like a ten-year-old boy who doesn't want to sleep alone in the dark anymore.

You came close to him. He hugged you so tightly you gasped for breath.

And in the crook of your neck, he whispered, almost inaudibly:

> "I dreamed you were leaving, and I couldn't catch you."

> "Even my legs wouldn't respond."

The Day He Said "I Love You" Without Saying It

He will never say those words in a classic way.

But one evening, as you watched the rain fall against the windows, he entered the room.

He sat beside you, rested his head on your shoulder, and remained there motionless for long minutes.

Then, as if speaking to the rain:

> "Before you, I never wanted to go home."

> "Now, it's the only place I want to go."

You said nothing. You simply placed your hand on his.

And he kept it there.

The Day He Entrusted You With His Future

It was mundane. A subway station. A moment between two obligations.

You were talking about plans. About the future. Simple dreams: a dog, a car, a normal job.

He smiled. Rare. Almost sad.

And then, without looking at you, he said:

> "Do you think a guy like me can have all that?"

> "Not now. But one day. With you."

And that day, for the first time, he allowed himself to hope.

Not in silence.

Out loud. With you.

The Moment He Defended You... From Yourself

You were devaluing yourself. Again.

You laughed, saying you weren't good enough, that you didn't understand why he stayed.

He froze.

Then he stood up, approached slowly, and looked you straight in the eyes.

> "Don't you ever say that again."

> "You are the only clean thing in my life. And I swear, I will destroy anyone who makes you believe you're worthless—including you."

You felt like crying.

Not because he was yelling. But because it was true. Raw. Protective. Na Baek-jin, in all his rage to love.

And That Silence...

The most intense?

It's not a scene. Not a declaration.

It's that moment, where you're sitting next to each other, saying nothing.

He looks at your hands. You look at the scar on his chin.

And in that silence, you feel everything he will never be able to express.

> That he loves you like a survivor loves the morning light.

> That he's afraid, every day, of losing you.

> And that he's ready to become a new man—not for you.

But because, thanks to you, he discovered he was capable of it.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

Conclusion:

Na Baek-jin as a boyfriend is not an easy romance. It's a story of healing, of balance between control and surrender, between strategy and sincerity.

But if you hold on, if you understand his language, if you respect his silences, then you become more than a love for him: you become a refuge. And he will be willing to do anything to protect it.

Na Baek-jin never learned to love. But with you, he creates a new code. A love that is at once raw, honest, and indestructible.

..................................................................................

Other weak hero class fanfictions here

Yeah. My man (⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

@mariii-0001 @mizxuqii @iiwsmr

[laectrl]

+ MUTUAL FRAUD

in which two teens fake being One Piece fans for each other, only to find out that they're terrible liars, and a little bit in love.

GO HYUN TAK X READER

fluff

The first time he saw her, she was standing outside Eunjang High’s gate, leaning against the brick wall, one leg propped up, lollipop tucked between her lips, earphones in as she scrolled through her phone—laughing every few seconds like the world existed only for her amusement.

It was like someone had hit pause on the world.

Everything dulled around her—except for the glow in his eyes.

Was this how love at first sight felt?

A fuzzy warmth in your chest?

A flutter in your stomach just by seeing someone exist?

“Gotak! Why’d you stop like that?” Baku’s voice slammed into him like a train, snapping Hyun Tak out of whatever daze he’d been drowning in.

He blinked. Jun Tae was already over there—talking to her. Si Eun nodded politely. Even Baku, with all his noise, was grinning wide.

But she—

She glanced up at the sound of his name.

“Coming!” Hyun Tak called, and when he jogged over with a sheepish smile tugging at his lips,

Her mouth parted slightly.

Just for a second, they looked at each other—just one second.

But it hit like a full minute of sun pouring through a window on a winter day.

She wasn't expecting much when Jun Tae texted her that morning.

"Swing by Eunjang, I'll return your book. Also, want you to meet the guys."

She hadn't planned much, she stopped by right after her school ended. A lazy lollipop to fight the summer heat and a playlist to kill time while she waited outside Eunjang High’s gate.

No big deal.

She’d meet a few boys, nod, smile politely, and go home.

That was the plan.

Until she looked up—and saw him.

Messy hair, broad shoulders, blue hoodie like he lived in it. He wasn’t doing anything special. Just standing a few feet away from Baku, blinking like someone had unplugged his brain.

But something about the way his eyes softened when he looked at her—like he wasn’t expecting to see the sun but got blinded anyway—

It made her pause.

She hadn’t even realized she stopped laughing at her phone until her mouth opened slightly, the lollipop practically falling out.

"Who... is that?"

He jogged over when Baku shouted something, hair bouncing slightly with each step.

And when he smiled—just a little, soft and almost shy—

Her heart did something very stupid.

It flipped.

Turned sideways.

Fluttered against her ribs like it was trying to climb out.

He looked at her just once. Just for a second.

And in that second, she felt it—

That dizzy, lightheaded, "oh no he's cute" moment that girls in dramas have before the intro song kicks in.

She quickly glanced away, forcing her lips to wrap back around the lollipop, willing her heartbeat to calm down.

She could play it cool. No big deal.

Just another boy.

She didn’t even know his name.

Didn’t even know if they’d talk.

But in that half-second of shared eye contact—

Her world tilted. Just a little.

And something inside her whispered:

“Please let him be the kind of boy who talks about things just to make you smile.”

---

“She’s from Kanghak High,” Jun Tae said later as they walked toward the usual chicken shop. “Old friend of mine. Y/N.”

Hyun Tak tried to play it cool. “Cool. Uh... cool name.”

His hands were in his hoodie pocket. He stared forward like he didn’t want to ask.

But he did.

Hyun Tak tried to focus on the conversation—on what everyone was saying, the usual banter and jokes. But the truth was, he wasn’t listening to the words.

He was listening to her.

To the way her voice rose when she laughed, light and unbothered. The way her hair shifted gently with the breeze, catching the sunlight in strands he wanted to memorize. The way her eyes occasionally flicked toward him—brief, accidental glances that somehow felt like punches to his chest.

He wasn’t sure what they were all talking about.

But he knew how many times she smiled.

And he knew exactly how it made him feel.

And in no time, he didn't even realise how he ended up sitting right across her at the chicken shop.

And she… didn’t realize how hard it would be to look anywhere else.

She pretended to scroll through the menu even though she wasn't really reading it. Every now and then, her eyes would flicker up—just for a second, just long enough to see him.

Hyun Tak sat with his arms on the table, hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, fingers tapping lightly against the wood like he was trying to match a rhythm only he could hear. He wasn’t saying much. Just smiling at whatever Baku or Jun Tae said. Nodding. Occasionally letting out a soft laugh that—

God. That laugh.

She almost dropped her chopsticks when she heard it for the first time. It was low, kind of boyish, and it curled around her chest like a secret.

He didn’t talk much, but when he did glance at her—like he just wanted to make sure she was still there, still listening—it sent a ripple down her spine.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No slow-motion hair flips. No cheesy k-drama sparkles.

Just the quiet, magnetic pull of sitting across from someone who made the world feel a little softer, a little more focused.

Like background noise suddenly knew how to hum in tune.

She noticed how he always made sure the sauce was near her side. How he offered the last drumstick without a second thought. How he kept brushing his hair back, only for it to fall right back into his eyes—like the universe was determined to make him look adorable.

She sipped her soda to calm the nerves that wouldn’t stop dancing.

And when their eyes met again—brief, unplanned, warm—

She smiled, pretending it was casual.

But inside, her heart whispered quietly:

Please look at me like that again.

---

"Bye!" she called out, her voice bright and warm, a grin stretched wide across her face like she was genuinely happy to have met them.

It echoed in his ears.

Hyun Tak lifted his hand to wave along with the others, trying to hide the way his smile lingered a second too long.

And that’s when he saw it—

The keychain dangling off the side of her bag, bouncing lightly with every step she took away from them.

A small, round figure with a straw hat and a wide grin. The colors were a little faded, like it had been with her for a while.

One Piece.

His eyes narrowed just a bit, something shifting in his brain.

Jun Tae was always going on about it. Something about pirates and dreams and loyalty and power-ups. Hyun Tak never really cared for it—he barely watched cartoons, let alone anime—but now?

Now it was different.

Because she liked it.

Or at least… she had the keychain. That had to mean something, right?

He stared at the little pirate bouncing on her bag until she disappeared down the street.

And in his chest, something clicked into place.

A quiet, determined thought.

---

That night, he didn’t even notice how quickly time slipped away.

What started as a casual search—“One Piece characters explained”—spiraled into an accidental three-hour rabbit hole.

He watched clips with half-lidded eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. He paused every few seconds to read the comments, double-checked character names, skimmed through fan wikis, and tried to memorize just enough to sound natural.

Straw Hat Pirates. Devil fruits. Grand Line.

It all blurred into a mess of colors and quotes and names he could barely pronounce.

But every time he wanted to give up, he’d remember that little keychain bouncing off her bag, and the smile she gave when she said goodbye.

That smile alone made reading twenty paragraphs about a talking reindeer somehow worth it.

He wasn’t trying to become a fan.

He was just trying to find a way in.

A way to sit across from her again—this time with something to say.

---

He was mid-chokehold—arms wrapped around Baku’s neck in playful vengeance—as the four of them strolled out of Eunjang’s gates, the afternoon sun spilling gold over their shoulders.

Hyun Tak had barely slept.

He'd spent half the night drowning in One Piece lore—memorizing character arcs, googling “best quotes to casually drop,” and silently mouthing Luffy’s full name like it was an exam question.

Still, he hadn’t expected to need it so soon.

And then—

His eyes landed on her.

She stood by the sidewalk, that familiar lollipop tucked between her lips like punctuation. The breeze played with the ends of her hair, and just like yesterday—just like that first second—everything else dimmed around her.

His arms dropped from Baku’s shoulders.

Literally. Just let go.

Baku stumbled forward with a strangled cough. “Bro—what the hell—”

But Hyun Tak didn’t hear him.

She had looked up.

And she smiled again. That same smile from yesterday, a little lopsided like it didn’t try too hard—but still managed to knock the wind out of his lungs.

He stepped forward, adjusting his hoodie, trying not to trip over the nerves that gathered all at once in his chest.

“Yo,” she said, waving casually.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly.

It came out softer than he meant. Barely above a whisper. Like his voice had forgotten how to work the moment she looked at him again.

She tilted her head, amused. “Rough night?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You look like you fought your pillow and lost.”

He huffed a laugh—short, nervous, and undeniably fond. “Yeah, kinda.”

There was a silence, a little bit awkward until he decided to break it, "you've... um, you've got a cool keychain. Luffy."

Her eyes widened a fraction—surprised. She glanced down at the little pirate swinging by her bag, "uh, yeah."

"Who's your favourite character?" He asked out of nowhere. She took a break... A long one as she tried to process the rate at which her heart beat with every smile of his.

"Luffy." She answered, smiling a bit awkwardly but in his eyes, it was the sweetest smile.

And that was how it all started. She started showing up in front of Eunjang everyday, never missing a single one.

And it was only for one reason.

To see Hyun Tak.

And Hyun Tak started running to the gate as soon as the bell rang.

For only one reason.

To see her.

---

She really looked forward to these afternoons. Watching him run over, drop an One Piece reference like that's all he talks about. But she didn't mind. In fact, she loved it. Everytime he would say something.

“So, uh… you think Luffy’s Gear Fifth is overpowered or what?” he asked one day, leaning against the wall next to her, trying to sound casual despite the way his heart was doing backflips.

She popped the lollipop out of her mouth, raising an eyebrow. “Gear Fifth? Uh… yeah, it’s… pretty wild.”

He didn’t notice the slight hesitation in her voice, the way her eyes flicked to the side as she scrambled for a response. To him, she was just playing it cool, like she always did.

“Right? Like, the way he just—boom—turns everything into a cartoon? Insane.”

She nodded, biting back a grin. “Totally insane.”

She didn’t know what Gear Fifth was. Not really. She’d heard the term maybe once, from a friend who wouldn’t shut up about anime, but she hadn’t watched a single episode of One Piece in her life.

The keychain? A random gift from her Jun Tae, shoved onto her bag because it looked cute and she didn’t care enough to take it off.

But the way Hyun Tak’s eyes lit up when he talked about it—the way he leaned closer, voice buzzing with excitement, like he’d been waiting all day just to share this with her—made her want to keep up the act.

So she did.

She googled terms in secret between classes, watched fan-edits at 2 a.m. until her eyes burned, and forced herself to sit through five episodes straight without understanding why Zoro kept getting lost or why Sanji wouldn’t stop flirting. It was chaotic. Long. Overwhelming.

But when she would remember Hyun Tak's smile

—God, it was worth it.

---

“You really think Enies Lobby was the best arc?” he asked one afternoon, brows raised like he was quizzing her on a final.

She hesitated only for a second. “Yeah,” she said with forced conviction, “I mean—Robin’s ‘I want to live’ moment? Kinda iconic.”

His jaw dropped a little. “Right?! I cried.”

She blinked. “...You did?”

“Don’t tell the guys,” he added quickly, ears turning pink, “but yeah. Ugly cried.”

She smiled, warm and unbothered. “That makes two of us.”

It didn’t. She hadn’t even gotten to Enies Lobby yet. But she made a mental note to skip ahead that night, just to see the moment that cracked him open like that.

---

This went on for weeks. Quiet moments by the gate, post-school banter that was 60% anime and 40% stolen glances.

He brought her snacks sometimes—“Zoro’s favorite rice crackers,” he claimed. She pretended she knew what that meant. She once brought him a straw hat keyring and watched him go still for a second before blurting, “I’m gonna treasure this forever, just so you know.”

---

And the truth?

The truth was she hadn’t meant to fall this hard.

She only stopped by the gates that first day on a whim, half-curious, half-bored.

But now—

Now it was the best part of her day.

Seeing him wait for her.

Seeing him light up the second their eyes met.

---

But soon everything was catching up to her.

The references were getting harder to fake.

And the hesitation in her voice was growing.

She tried. God, she tried.

Every night she'd google summaries, skim episode breakdowns, and even bookmarked a list of “Top 20 One Piece Moments To Pretend You've Watched.” She memorized names, powers, even the stupid boat’s name. She didn’t get it—but she got him. The way he smiled when he talked about it. The way he looked at her like she was the only one who ever really listened.

And Hyun Tak?

Hyun Tak was drowning.

He had exhausted the “Best One Piece Quotes to Casually Drop” article by week two. Every night was a last-minute cram session—watching half-speed TikToks about arcs he didn't understand and squinting at spoiler-filled Reddit threads just so he wouldn’t mess up the timeline when she inevitably asked something he wasn’t prepared for.

He thought she was a superfan.

She thought he was a superfan.

And both of them were completely wrong.

---

One afternoon, they sat on a park bench, sharing a bag of chips he’d bought “Luffy would love these,” he’d joked. The conversation drifted to One Piece again, as it always did.

He was mid-ramble about the “Thriller Bark arc,” words tumbling out faster than he could think, when she went quiet. Too quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, pausing, chip halfway to his mouth. She twirled the lollipop stick, eyes on the ground.

“Yeah, just… thinking.” Her voice was softer than usual, and it made his stomach twist. Had he said something wrong? Was she bored?He tried to keep it light.

“What, you don’t think Thriller Bark’s the best? C’mon, that shadow-stealing thing was wild.”

She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, super wild.” Her fingers brushed the Luffy keychain, and she bit her lip.

He noticed—how could he not?—and something in her hesitation made his chest tighten.“You sure you’re okay?” he pressed, leaning closer, his voice softer now.She met his eyes, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, the park fading to a hum. “I… yeah. It’s nothing,” she said, but her heart was screaming: Tell him. Just tell him.

---

The next afternoon, she was at the gate, but her usual lollipop was gone. She fidgeted with the Luffy keychain, her stomach in knots.

Hyun Tak jogged up, his smile as bright as ever, but she saw the way his hands fidgeted in his hoodie pocket, the way his eyes darted to hers and away.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual. “No lollipop today?”

She laughed, but it was shaky. “Needed a break from sugar.” A lie. She just couldn’t focus on anything but the truth clawing at her. They walked to the chicken shop, the silence heavier than usual. He tried to fill it with a One Piece reference—“You think Usopp’s ever gonna confess to Kaya?”—but it felt forced, and her nod was half-hearted.

At the table, she pushed her fries around, heart pounding. He wasn’t eating either, his fingers tapping that nervous rhythm. Finally, she couldn’t take it.

“Hyun Tak,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I need to tell you something.”He froze, eyes wide. “Yeah?”

She gripped the keychain, the faded Luffy staring back at her. “I don’t watch One Piece. This—” she held up the keychain, “—was just a gift from Jun Tae. I’ve been pretending to know it… because I wanted to keep talking to you.”

For a moment, he just stared, and her heart sank. Then his face broke into a grin, and he laughed—loud, relieved, that boyish laugh she loved. “Oh my God, are you serious?”

She blinked, confused. “You’re… not mad?”

“Mad?” He leaned forward, still laughing. “I’ve been faking it too! I saw your keychain and thought you were a superfan, so I’ve been staying up all night watching episodes I don’t even understand just to talk to you.”

Her jaw dropped. “You—what?”

“Yeah!” He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks red. “I’m, like, three arcs in and still clueless. I just… didn’t want you to think I was boring.”

She burst out laughing, the knot in her chest unraveling. “I’ve been googling ‘One Piece summaries’ in class! I thought you were the superfan!”

They laughed until their eyes watered, the chicken shop fading around them. When it died down, he looked at her, his smile softer. “So… we both suck at this, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “But… I kinda like that.”

“Me too.” He paused, then reached across the table, his hand brushing hers. “Wanna start over? No pirates. Just… you and me.”

Her heart did that stupid flip again, but this time, it felt right. “Yeah. I’d love that.”As they left the shop, the Luffy keychain swung on her bag, no longer a lie but a funny, cherished memory.

Months later, when they were holding hands at the arcade, Hyun Tak gave her a new keychain—a tiny blue hoodie, just like his. She clipped it next to Luffy, and every time they walked together, the two charms bounced side by side, a quiet reminder of the silly, perfect way they found each other.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

I feel like this is the best I have written so far 😭 I love it!

TAGLIST

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser

[laectrl]

plsplsplsplspls nsfw sub! hyuntak headcannons !!!

NSFW SUB! HYUN-TAK HEADCANNONS

FEM

🩶 He’s tough in the streets, obedient in the sheets.

Go Hyun-tak walks like the world owes him something — confident, intimidating, untouchable. But behind closed doors? One word from you and he's melting, eyes softening, voice getting lower as he nods and waits for your next instruction. He lives for it — the thrill of letting go.

🩶 Praise him and he’ll do anything.

Call him a good boy and you’ll see his entire demeanor change. His breathing hitches. He gets needier. He’ll beg without even realizing it — whispering “please” as he presses kisses to your skin, hands trembling from restraint, desperate for your approval.

🩶 Desperate touches.

Hyun-tak’s hands are rough from fights and street life, but when they’re on you? They’re reverent. He touches like he’s scared you’ll vanish — slow, careful, full of worship. But if you deny him even a little, he gets frantic, gripping tighter, mouthing at your thighs like he’s starving.

🩶 He lives to be edged.

He won’t admit it out loud, but you figured it out fast. His hips twitch when you pull away right before he finishes. He groans in frustration, hides his face in your shoulder, and begs quietly. By the time you finally let him come, he’s ruined — voice hoarse, body trembling, mind fogged.

🩶 His mouth gets him in trouble

Sarcastic little comments? Cocky comebacks? Yeah, Hyun-tak's mouth runs fast — until you shove your fingers past his lips and tell him to suck if he wants to keep talking. And he does. Eagerly. Filthy, obedient, and red-faced.

🩶 He’s a mess for soft dom energy.

Nothing drives him crazier than when you coo at him while completely controlling the pace. “Such a good boy, letting me use you like this… you like being mine, don’t you?” His hips buck in response, and he can’t even form words anymore — just nods, whimpers, and gasps your name.

🩶 Aftercare is where he melts.

After all the moaning and the overstimulation, Hyun-tak collapses in your arms like a worn-out puppy. He buries his face in your chest and clings to you like you're the only stable thing in his life. Letting you wipe him down, kiss his temple, stroke his hair — it's the only time he ever really feels safe.

MALE

🩶 Acts like he's in charge — until you really take control.

Hyun-tak has this cocky, confrontational swagger — like he’s untouchable. But the second you get him alone, that tension turns into submission. One shove against the wall, a hand to his throat, or your voice going low with a command — and he folds fast. He's all bark until you’re behind him.

🩶 Desperately needy, but stubborn about admitting it.

He’ll pretend he’s fine, that he doesn’t need you to touch him. But he stares at your hands, shifts in your lap, presses closer when he thinks you won’t notice. Tease him a little — a palm over his bulge, a whisper in his ear — and suddenly he’s begging, breathless and flushed.

🩶 Choking kink? Yes. Praise kink? Double yes.

Grip his throat while calling him a good boy, and you’ll have him twitching in your hand. He loves the way your strength makes him feel small — not weak, but owned. The more praise you give between rough thrusts or while using his mouth, the harder he falls apart.

🩶His mouth gets reckless, and you shut it down.

He runs his mouth constantly, always talking shit — until you pin him down, shove your fingers between his lips, or fuck his throat until he can’t talk at all. When he gags around you and looks up with teary eyes, you know he’s exactly where he wants to be: broken down and obedient.

🩶 Overstimulation drives him wild.

You get him off once — and he thinks it’s over. That cute, shaky breath? That wide-eyed look when you don’t stop? That’s when the begging starts. “Wait—fuck, I can’t—” turns into “Please, please, I’m gonna—” and then he’s cumming again, completely wrecked, body trembling under your hands.

🩶 He wants to serve you.

Whether it’s dropping to his knees when you walk in, laying back and letting you use him how you want, or jerking himself off for your amusement — Hyun-tak gets off on the idea that you own him. Every bruise you leave is a mark he wants to wear.

🩶 Post-scene, he melts like putty.

Hyun-tak doesn’t say much after, but the way he clings to you says everything. He curls into your chest, lets you kiss his bruised-up skin, and nuzzles against your jaw. That proud, defiant boy is nowhere in sight — just your soft, worn-out, submissive Hyun-tak, hiding in your arms like it’s the only place he belongs.

GN!

🖤 The toughest in public, the softest in private.

Hyun-tak has a reputation — loud, fearless, hands always ready to throw down. But with you? The second the door closes, he changes. His shoulders drop. His tone quiets. He follows your touch like a command. You don’t have to yell — one sharp look from you, and he’s obeying.

🖤 He thrives under your control.

Pull his hair. Pin his wrists. Sit on his lap and make him stay still. He’s addicted to power shifts — where he doesn’t have to lead or think. He craves being guided, teased, and told exactly what to do. Your praise or punishment is the only thing that really gets through that guarded exterior.

🖤 His brat side is subtle… until it’s not.

He’ll talk back with that smug smirk, thinking he’s being clever — until you're pushing him down and making him repeat himself while whimpering. “What was that, tough guy?” you ask. And suddenly he’s biting his lip, face flushed, pride crumbling under the heat of your dominance.

🖤 Eye contact wrecks him.

Hyun-tak tries to look defiant when you touch him, but the moment your eyes lock with his and you give a firm, “Look at me while I ruin you,” he loses control. His bravado cracks. He’ll moan into your shoulder, hands gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

🖤 He loves being used — but only by you.

Push him to his knees, ride him until you’re satisfied, or whisper that he’s yours and he’ll give you everything. Letting you take control, letting you use him for your pleasure — it makes him feel needed, desired, owned in the best possible way.

🖤 His aftercare needs are deep — even if he doesn’t say it.

Hyun-tak tries to act like he doesn’t need anything once the heat fades. But he always ends up curled close, letting you run your fingers through his hair, whispering soft things in his ear. He doesn’t talk much, but the way he clings to you says enough: you’re his safe place.

A/N: I hope however requested enjoys and plz request more if you're satisfied with what I post🙏🏾🙏🏾

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Hii ☺️😊

May i ask you which fandoms do you write for ??

hiiii

so technically i mostly write for weak hero but i write for almost eveery fandom like kdrama's and anime too sometimes, im good with evereything honestly, i once even write about a kdrama i had not watched yet (it was fun tho), i dont really have any big NO's in writing

i can tell you my main one's tho

list here:

my demon , true beauty, weak hero class, bloodhounds, night has come, twinkling watermelon,straykids,one piece,ateez,bts,my demon,mha,(honestly any kdrama/kpop/anime group)

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lae | 22 | she/her

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ about me:

emotionally attached to fictional characters and actors, makes layouts and posts random shit. ADHD. living off hyperfixations. super emotional and sensitive. kind of tall. gamer girl who plays a lot of cod. loves candles, the winter and autumn. obsessed with the rain (can’t sleep without it). loves cooking and baking. doesn’t know what to do with her life and is stressing every day :p

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ blog status:

NSFW! dark, soft and everything in between. minors dni. mostly reposts, randoms little rants, and layouts.

DMs are ALWAYS open but i tend to ghost like a victorian child in a foggy manor (not always, i promise).

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ DNI IF:

You’re a minor, racist, homophobic, a terf, a p*do, a straight ignorant man, a weirdo, someone who makes fun of others interests or people who haven’t done anything to you, someone who fetishizes people, pro israel, trump supporter, rightist

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ my type:

hmm, glasses wearing men who could ruin my life? villains, cute losers, maybe something in between, sometimes someone who could be my father or mother. it changes daily.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ current obsessions:

weak hero: na baekjin, geum seongje, go hyuntak, yeon siuen, ahn suho, seo juntae, baku

bloodhounds: kim gunwoo, hong woojin

d.p.: jang sungmin/nina (I will never forgot you pookie ilysm), han hoyeol, an junho, seo eun, shin ahwi, lim jiseob, park beomgu

trauma code: dr. baek, yang jaewon

study group: yoon gamin, park geonyeob, lee joon, lee hyunwoo, pi hanwool, lee jiwoo, choi heewon

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ layout stuff:

feel free to request layouts! I’ll do anything. like anime, movies, moods, characters. i’m not perfect but i’ll try for you :) ⤷ masterlist

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ now playing:

Sex, Drugs, Etc. – Beach Weather

Let Me In. Cosmic Symphony Ver. - Tanerélle

Gossip Folks - Missy Elliot, Ludacris

Rather Be - GIVÉON

One Call - Pino, Norah‘s World

Oh My Little Baby Boy (Hardstyle)

Belly - Sailorr

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ tag guide:

#lae’s rants — random stuff, like opinions on shows

#lae’s layouts — as the name says, my layouts

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#금성제. inspired by @juliettejwnewinesa‘s fic