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mingapace · 19 days ago

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𝕹𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖞 𝕯𝖔𝖌

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ(ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ?), ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ. [Also, English is not my first language]

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6K

It's been a shitty day. There's no other way to say it.

You started with a flat tire, then the usual blackout at the store forced you to manually enter every receipt, with your boss breathing down your neck at every minor mistake. The boiler gave up the exact moment you walked home and now… now it’s raining.

But not the slow, lazy kind of rain that makes you want to curl up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. No, it’s raining like the sky is serving a sentence.

The wind howls like a dying animal, crushed under the weight of the storm, shaking the hedges and trees with force—something you find strangely hypnotic. The rain lashes fiercely against the kitchen window as you stare through them.

At least the house is quiet. You made yourself canned soup—the dinner of the desperate—and swallowed it standing up, leaning against the counter, without even turning on the TV.

Your cat weaves between your ankles, rubbing itself, searching for food to satisfy its greed.

You bend over and scratch behind its ear while pouring the contents of the wet food into the small ceramic bowl on the floor.

You were about to stand up and grab some dry food when a dull thud breaks the roar of the rain. Then another thump follows. The metallic clang of trash bins tipping over.

You freeze. It’s not the first time this has happened—there are raccoons and stray animals around, although lately they've been rare.

Slowly you set the can down on the trash and walk into the hallway. The government-issued rifle hangs above the door, not out of paranoia. From protection. From them.

It wasn’t an explosion. Nor an invasion or a scientific breakthrough, like in the movies.

It was a slow accumulation of evidence. An escalation of “isolated incidents” too similar to ignore. Unexplained disappearances. Blood-drained bodies, animals reduced to carcasses in the suburbs. And then the videos: grainy, shaky, filmed with cell phones in the dead of night. Eyes that glowed too bright in the dark, shadows moving against the laws of nature, and smiles full of fangs.

At first, it seemed like a prank. A joke.

Then they started arming themselves.

The creatures of the night—vampires, werewolves, spirits, hybrids never classified—had always existed, only they had known how to hide for centuries. But the era of total surveillance shattered that fragile balance. Technology had discovered them and humans, predictably, responded with fear.

And with fear came solutions. Special patrols, UV ray weapons, sacred barriers, identification serums.

And above all, the Custodians: government and paramilitary groups licensed to hunt, contain, or eliminate every anomaly.

Officially, it was for collective safety.

Unofficially, it was a cold war.

Because humans had never truly accepted that they were no longer the only species at the top, and the creatures of the shadows… had never truly forgotten what the world was like before.

So the government equipped the population with weapons to counter these creatures if needed, and the number of paranormal events drastically dropped.

Your fingers tighten around the rifle’s handle, and you load it with a familiar motion. The metallic click rings loudly in the stillness of the house.

You open the front door, and the cold, wet air hits you full force. You pull your jacket tighter around you, looking down the alley beside the house. The bins are overturned, the open bags spilling their contents across the driveway. The streetlamp’s light flickers in the rain, making everything blurry and trembling.

The distant sound of sirens piques your curiosity.

You take a step forward, stepping down from the porch, then freeze again.

At first, you don’t see it.

You hear it.

Another thud to your left. You look toward the small tool shed in the garden and frown. The door was closed.

Too well closed.

You know that door. It’s old, it sticks, and you always leave it ajar so you don’t have to force it every time you need a trowel or a bucket.

And despite the strong wind, it stayed magically shut.

You feel a chill slide down your back.

You advance with the rifle gripped tightly in your hands, the barrel pointed ahead as you move in that direction. Your heart pounds hard but your hands stay steady. You’ve learned to keep panic at bay.

The grass beneath your shoes is soggy from all the water; every step makes a wet squelch. Your breath condenses in front of your mouth.

When you reach the door, you press your ear to the wood but hear nothing. Not even a breath.

With a sharp motion, you fling the door open. The wood creaks and hits the inside of the shed, and in the confusion, you see eyes shining in the dark and something reflexively bolts forward.

The first shot rings out in the night, echoing, and hits the back of a tin barrel. You’re about to reload when you see him emerge from the shadows. Kneeling.

Hands raised, palms open, eyes wide.

“No! Please! Don’t shoot!”

At first, you think it’s just a homeless person, maybe a drug addict or drunk who ended up in your garden, but then, in the dim glow of the outside lights, you notice more.

The hands are long, the nails too sharp. The skin pale as wax, blotched with blood. The neck stiff, the jaw clenched as if trying to contain unspeakable pain. And the eyes. When he realizes you won’t shoot, he raises them just slightly. They are glossy behind the wet hair falling over his forehead, but a type of red that could only belong to one of them. A creature of the night. A vampire.

“Stop right there!” you shout, clicking the magazine threateningly. Your voice is sharper than the rain pelting down on you.

You see him bend slightly over himself, knees scraping the grass as he inches forward, letting out a wet, deep sound, like he’s drowning.

“I-I didn’t mean to frighten ya. There was nowhere else! I'd have left… I just wanted to hide 'til—” he stammers, shoulders tensing as the police lights begin to color the horizon red and blue. They had probably heard the shot.

You don’t let anxiety take hold and don’t look away from the dangerous creature before you. He’s on your property now, and who knows how long he’d been hiding in the shed. They would ask questions, interrogate you for hours.

As common as those creatures were, so were the people who protected and hid them. And the system certainly didn’t treat them differently once they found out.

“Shit…” you whisper, your finger trembling on the trigger.

“I beg ya. Let me stay 'til they're gone. I won’t harm ya…” he continues in a whisper so low you have to strain to hear, as if he fears the Custodians might hear even through the wind and rain. “I swear on everythin'… on everythin' I've got left. Please, just for tonight. Don’t tell them I’m here.”

Each word is a cough. When he tries to move, you see one leg visibly tremble. His voice breaks on a sob that doesn’t even sound human.

You swallow hard. Instinct tells you to shoot him, to finish him before the Custodians find him.

But looking at him—so broken, so different from every story you’d heard or seen about vampires—you wonder what you’re really seeing.

Not a predator. Not a monster, at that moment.

Just a being close to his end.

“Move.” You say, rifle raised. “Inside. Before they see you.”

He looks at you as if he doesn’t understand.

“What?”

“You heard me. Inside. Now.” The sirens in the distance are getting closer. Time is running out.

The creature drags himself, almost crawling. Each step a groan, a test of endurance. His legs barely hold him; his face is contorted in pain. When he crosses the threshold of your house, he collapses in the hallway, his back against the wall, the rug slowly stained by the blood leaking from his leg. He stays there, without even the strength to turn toward you.

You slam the door shut.

The lock clicks. Two turns. Then silence, almost.

Now the rain is just a muffled sound against the windows.

You feel droplets drip down your hair and neck but don’t bother brushing them away.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your cat peek out from the kitchen and instantly flare up when it fixes its yellow eyes on the man. It emits a low, threatening hiss, like a little dragon. Its fur bristles and tail puffs before it leaps and disappears toward the bedroom as if it had seen the Devil himself.

The vampire barely lifts his face, cracked lips curling into something that might have been a smile.

“Looks like I've got a bit of charm for 'em.” He murmurs, voice trembling.

You don’t laugh. You don’t move. You don’t lower the weapon.

You still keep it pointed straight at his face.

“Don’t move.” You order. “At the slightest, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

He doesn’t protest. Just nods slowly. Then a jolt bends him in two. A moan escapes his lips and he wraps his hands around his leg exactly where his pants tear, muttering something you don’t understand—maybe a curse or a prayer.

After a few seconds, you notice the trembling. Fingers twitching near the gunshot wound.

You take a deep breath and curse your conscience.

You turn without a word and head to the bathroom cabinet, where you keep an old first aid kit. Nothing serious: iron tweezers, sterile gauze, a couple of bandages, and discount disinfectant.

You bring everything back to the hallway, rifle clutched in one hand, and toss the small box toward him. The kit lands half a meter away, slides on the floor, and opens sideways, spilling some of its contents.

“That’s all I’ve got.” You spit.

The vampire leans forward and slowly reaches for the tweezers.

You watch him tear more at his pants, the fabric soaked with blood and water clinging to his skin, revealing the bullet’s entry wound still lodged in the flesh.

You almost turn away when he inserts the tweezers into the wound, but you don’t. You can’t.

The sound is wet, disgusting. He growls, his head hitting the wall, sharp teeth clenched to keep from screaming.

A bloody, steaming piece of metal falls to the floor with a dull clack. It must have been silver.

The tweezers land beside the bullet, and you hear him let out a big sigh of relief.

“Thank you…” he whispers.

You stare at him.

“Don’t thank me.”

You lean against the wall opposite him for some stability on your tired legs, watching the wound start to close, the blood stop seeping.

“Name's Remmick.”

You frown at his introduction but don’t return the courtesy.

Time passes.

You stay there, unmoving. Eyes glued to the figure collapsed on your hallway floor. The vampire seems to have stabilized. His eyes closed, occasionally moaning—a low, painful sound that scratches your ears like sandpaper.

You wanted to say you’d stay awake. You wanted to believe it.

But your body had other plans. You’d had an exhausting day and the adrenaline rush was wearing off; it had kept you standing so far, but now it was pulling all the accumulated fatigue down onto your body.

You drag yourself to the couch without ever looking away from him. You keep him in your sights even as you sit down. But your eyelids grow heavy, your eyes burn, and your heartbeat slows, irregular.

Just five minutes, you tell yourself.

Just one breath.

Then the night closes over you.

You wake up with a jolt.

A gasp. Your heart pounding like a hammer against your sternum. Short of breath.

Morning light slams against the windows, filtering faintly through tightly drawn curtains.

A pale, milky white. The rain has stopped, and the world is quiet.

Too quiet.

You sit up suddenly, your stomach clenched in a knot as you look around. The hallway is empty.

The vampire’s body is no longer there.

“For God's sakes.”

The word comes out like a gunshot, sharp and dry. You immediately reach for your neck, searching for bite marks, teeth, anything. Your fingers move across your skin—nothing.

You check your arms. Then your legs, lifting the edge of your pants slightly—again, nothing.

No marks, no bites, no punctures.

But the anxiety doesn’t fade.

You scan the room, searching for any trace. The carpet is still stained, bandages are scattered, and the forceps are still crusted with dried blood—clear signs that the previous night hadn’t been a nightmare.

Then, in the gleam of the light, a glint catches your eye. The rifle.

It’s neatly placed on the low table next to the couch where you’d been lying.

You didn’t leave it there. You had it with you, gripped tight, until sleep took you.

You snatch it up and check the magazine. Still full, the two bullets nestled inside.

Your hand trembles slightly. You wonder how many chances he had—and how many he ignored.

But more than anything: why?

An unmistakable clatter of pots reaches your ears.

You grip the rifle tighter and take cautious steps down the hallway, shoulders tense and eyes scanning every corner. The window in the hall is closed—but you don’t remember shutting it.

Your steps falter when a warm, salty scent wafts into the air, sliding under your nose: bacon.

And something else.

You turn the corner, tension braced for an ambush. And instead…

“Mornin' to ya, sweetheart.”

The voice greets you before the image does. So light and full of cheer it nearly makes your temples throb.

The vampire, Remmick, is there. Standing at your kitchen stove.

He’s still wearing the stained white t-shirt he tried to clean, and one of your aprons is tied around his waist. His hair, still damp, is awkwardly slicked back but sticks out in odd angles.

You stop at the threshold, almost paralyzed, slowly lowering the rifle to let it rest at your side. You can’t speak. Can’t even think.

Remmick smiles as he moves a piece of sausage from the pan to a plate on the set table.

“Had a look in yer fridge, found a few bits.” he says, briefly adjusting the flame under the scrambled eggs. “Thought ya might fancy a hot breakfast, y'know -after pullin' some poor bastard outta the fire last night.”

Your eyes scan the room, taking in every detail.

The two windows: both closed, sealed carefully against daylight. Even the small gap above the sink is covered with a dish towel taped in place. Only the bluish glow of the overhead lights illuminates the scene, preserving his safety zone.

“Ya were up before I even got the coffee sorted,” he adds, nodding toward a gently steaming mug on the counter. “Only had the instant stuff, sadly. Spotted the moka, yeah, but…I reckon yer outta proper grounds.”

You stare at him. Still silent. Your mind unable to fit this scene into any definition of “threat.”

Remmick slides the finished plate along the counter, placing it on the opposite side from where he stands. He watches you intently as you approach—his red eyes now replaced with wide, gray, puppy-like ones.

You pick up the plate and bring it closer to the stool.

“Thanks… I guess?”

His eyes shine with such open gratitude it’s almost painful to bear—and you’re certain that if he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.

You rest the rifle against the kitchen island, not willing to be too far from it, and sit down on the stool.

“You said your name’s Remmick, right?”

He nods, wiping his hands on the towel before untying it from his waist.

“Is there a reason they were after you?” you ask firmly. You see him smirk, but before he can speak, you add, “Besides the obvious,” motioning at his entire being with your fork.

The smile fades from his lips. Not all at once, but slowly, like a candle dying out.

He leans on the back of the chair in front of him and lowers his gaze, as if debating whether to lie.

“They sold me off.” he murmurs finally.

You raise an eyebrow. “Sold?”

He grimaces, like the word tastes bad in his mouth.

“A volunteer… one o' them folks who, well, y'know how it goes…”

Of course, you’d heard about them. Volunteers—humans who offered themselves willingly to the creatures of the night. But even that had been outlawed and prosecuted.

“The fuckin' Custodians jumped me 'fore I'd even physically step away from the lad.”

He lowers his eyes for a second and you think, for a moment, he regrets his wording as you grimace visibly.

“Haven’t laid a fang on anyone without askin' in donkeys' years, swear it.”

The kitchen is silent for a few seconds after his justification.

Then, the alarm explodes in your chest like a gunshot.

A sharp, repeating buzz vibrating against your thigh from your pocket.

You grab it—7:48 - Work

The weight of time crashes down on you suddenly, like you’d forgotten the outside world still exists.

You have a job to show up for, a life that—until yesterday—was made of routine and reassuring silence.

You jump up, ignoring the full plate and now-cold coffee.

You swing open the closet by the front door, yank down your coat, and slip it on in swift movements.

The keys jingle as you grab them from the hook.

Luckily, you hadn’t changed clothes the night before—you’re still in your work uniform.

As for hygiene, you’d freshen up later after handling the store’s incoming inventory.

Meanwhile, Remmick watches you—just outside the kitchen doorway, peeking down the hallway.

You turn to him and force your voice flat, emotionless.

“By the time I get back,” you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, “I don’t want to find you here.”

You see his shoulders drop by a millimeter. When he opens his mouth to speak, you turn, open the door, and leave.

Morning and afternoon drag on, marked by the ticking clock above the register and the dull clatter of empty carts.

You sort the shipments quickly, serve customers with your usual professionalism, and close the till.

You watched the sun start to set behind the buildings of the industrial zone, casting dirty gold streaks across the windows and signs.

Sounds became muffled, and by 7 PM, you flipped the sign to CLOSED.

The walk home is always the same: four blocks, a downhill slope, two intersections.

The asphalt is still wet from last night’s rain, small puddles scattered here and there.

You slide the key into the lock and the door creaks as you push it with your shoulder.

Your hands are full—the bag, the keys, a crumpled sack from the corner store where you picked up coffee grounds and dinner.

You expect silence. Emptiness. Maybe a note on the table saying goodbye.

Instead…

The hallway, where last night there were footprints, blood, and mud, is spotless. The carpet is gone and the floor gleams, faintly scented with alcohol and soap.

You lower the grocery bag just inside the door and step into the living room.

You see him before you even cross the threshold.

There. Sitting on the floor by the cold fireplace.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye but says nothing.

“I told you to leave.”

You’re tired. So very tired.

“Yeah, I know” Remmick lifts his chin slightly but stays seated. “You did.”

The silence that follows is thick, full of unsaid things. But he breaks it quickly.

With soft, cracked words, turning onto his knees.

“I cleaned up the whole place. Set things straight. Blankets folded, all that. Even had a gander at the sink trap—it leaks a bit, but nothin' serious.”

You squint at him. You don’t care about the sink. Not now.

“You’re still here,” you repeat. It’s an accusation, not an observation.

Remmick shifts slightly, his gaze dropping back to the floor.

“Please,” he says. “Just let me stay. Not askin' for much. I can… I can lend a hand. Clean, keep an eye on the place when you’re out. Whatever ya need.”

You take a few steps closer.

You didn’t bring the rifle—but you feel like you could summon it with a thought, if needed.

“You’re asking me to take you in like a stray dog?”

“Jeez, darlin', I'll be whatever ya want. A bloody pet. A shadow in the corner. A dusty armchair -don't matter. I’ve nowhere else. Nowhere safe.”

You look into his dark pupils, those irises just a little too deep to be human. There’s pleading in them, yes—but something worse, too.

Abandonment.

You know creatures like him—vampires, especially—have perfected persuasion as a weapon. They sell pity and weakness when it suits them, and their instincts never truly sleep.

They’re hungry, unstable.

Lies with legs.

Remmick looks at you. He doesn’t get up.

And silently, without another word—but sealing your decision—you head to the kitchen to put something in your stomach before hunger makes you faint.

Against all odds, the cohabitation went well. The days began to blur together, like water slipping through your fingers. Every morning you woke up with a light pressure on your feet, and from that you knew Remmick was back.

He never talked about where he went at night. You had explicitly told him that if he killed someone you would not protect him again so you hoped he would respect this wish of yours.

He would leave quietly, shortly after you had fallen asleep, and return before the first light of day filtered through the tightly drawn curtains in the living room. You would find him curled up at your feet, immobile, as if he had never moved from there.

Your cat, who had his place of honor on the pillow next to yours, still seemed very wary of him and hissed every time he tried to stretch out on that side of the bed, making him take a step back and return to your feet. All this with some grumbling of displeasure from the vampire.

Instead, you got used to his presence as you get used to the constant noise of an old boiler: annoying at first, then strangely reassuring.

You began to ask his opinions, to organize movie nights on lighter days, to take long walks in the nearby park (reassured by his presence that would certainly ward off any other predators).

Every now and then, when you got close enough, you felt his icy fingers brush the inside of your wrist or any point he managed to reach and he would stare at you. Those eyes, which had something bestial, but also desperate.

And as your attitude towards him changed, his gestures changed too. He became more… attentive. More present. More fixed.

One day you found him outside your shop, waiting for you under a streetlight after closing. He didn’t say anything, he ran to you and stood next to you as you closed the shutter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And from that day on, it was like that every night, when the sun was low enough for him to come out.

He watched you finish your shift. In silence.

From that day on, you started to notice strange things. When you talked to some customer for too long outside the shop at closing time, Remmick seemed to… change. His eyes became dark, shiny, like wet glass. If you laughed at someone’s comment, his hands twitched a little, closing into tight fists. But he didn’t say anything.

When the person disappeared, his true self returned. With that crooked smile and the stories of his day or what TV show he had found, scrolling a bit.

As a result, you never felt in danger. It was disturbing, sure. But you had gotten used to it. It had become part of your routine, like canned soup or cat biscuits.

That is, until the fateful day that changed everything came.

It wasn’t a date. Not officially.

He had been one of those regulars, the kind who always cracks the right joke and leaves you a few extra coins in the tip jar. When you explained that you were busy, he had smiled, almost amused, and suggested a drink after your shift. A drink, nothing more.

And so you had accepted. You hadn’t even had time to let Remmick know. The man had shown up at your shop door a few hours early and since your boss was already in there, you asked him if he could let you finish early that day. You had intended to have a quick drink and then go home, before the sun went down.

But that wasn’t to be.

When you come back, hours later, the sky is already dark and the air smells of wet earth. You open the door without making too much noise, but you see him right away. There. Standing in the hallway, as if he’s been staring at the door the whole time.

“Where were ya?” he asks softly. But his voice is too calm to be forced.

“At work.” You say, taking off your coat. “I left a little early. A customer offered me a drink and—”

Remmick approaches instantly. He’s a few steps away from you before you can finish speaking. His eyes swipe over you, your hands, your neck, your face. He touches your arm, then your shoulders, as if to make sure you’re okay.

“Are ya alright?” he murmurs. “Did someone…do ya harm?”

You look at him, confused. “No. I'm okay.”

But you see the exact moment he changes.

The smell. The smell of that man.

Remmick can smell it inches from your face. The cologne, strong, invasive. He tracks it with his nose, almost sniffing the air. Then he stops, his nostrils quivering.

His eyes flash red. And he stares at you.

“Who was it?” He whispers, his voice scratchy. “Who laid a hand on ya?”

“Remmick…”

“It’s on ya. Here-” he says, brushing your hair, “-and here…” His hand lingers just below your ear, the exact spot where your skin still feels warmest. “He put his mouth here, didn't he now?”

Your heart races. You take a half step back, but Remmick follows you. Not with anger. With hunger.

He kneels slowly in front of you, and his face comes close to your stomach, rubbing it against the material of your shirt making you swallow loudly. His hands move up your thighs and as he stands again he makes sure that his body rubs against yours until it reaches under your chin.

You feel his breath on you, against the column of your naked neck.

You don’t know what to do. Your brain is confused, you don’t recognize the creature in front of you.

“I've to… get it off ya.” He continues. “I can’t bear the stink of it. I don’t want it lingerin' on ya, not a trace.”

He gently brings you against the piece of furniture in the hallway and you, dazed by that mixture of desire and anxiety, let him do it. The edge pushes painfully against your back until his hands close on your hips again and lifts you up to sit on it as if you didn’t weigh a gram.

Remmick slides between your legs before you can close them, his body leaning on yours.

“I… I can go wash myself if it bothers you…” you add, pressing your palms on his shirt-covered chest to maintain distance and making him growl.

His hands leave your body only to rest on the sides of the furniture, blocking your way out as your breath catches in your throat when his face comes inches from yours.

“How fuckin' dare they lay a finger on ya…” He whispers, and when he speaks, his voice is broken by something more animalistic. His face bends on your neck, slightly up, and there, right where he had felt the other’s mark, his lips open.

You slide a hand into his hair, ready to pull with all your strength before he bites you but instead of the stinging pain of his teeth, you only feel a slow, wet caress, which makes you gasp involuntarily.

Your grip on his head loosens and you hear him sigh, his breath hot against your wet skin. Even though his body temperature is still a few degrees cooler than normal, the way he touches you burns.

His hands move again, closing on the sides of your waist and gently pushing forward until his hips are flush with yours. There’s no urgency in the gestures, but no slowness either. He’s clearly driven by a certain need that goes beyond the body.

“I still feel it…It's still clingin' to ya, love.” His voice is plaintive and he brushes you behind the ear with another slow lick, as if he wants to erase every trace of the other’s passage with his tongue.

“You have no notion how much it hurts. It's like fire on my skin, knowin' someone even looked at ya… thought about ya… touched ya…”

He leans down again, his lips landing on your neck with sick adoration, while one hand slips under your sweater, resting against your belly, his forehead laze on yours, shaking.

“I don’t just want to have ya…” he whispers against the skin of your shoulder. “I want to belong to ya. Yours to toss aside, break if you must, use as you will. And when someone so much as looks at ya, I want them to know -I’m there. Always there. And you’re mine.”

The sound he makes when your fingers close slightly in his hair sends a jolt of pleasure to the center of your core and makes you inadvertently grind against him, earning another hiss of need from him.

You feel it. Hard, hot, against your pants-covered lower parts, and when you use that hardness to find a moment of relief, he bites your shoulder lightly but without breaking the skin.

His chest rests against yours, holding you still but not imprisoned.

You are free, you could push him away. But you don’t.

And he knows it.

“Tell me ya want it too…” he whines, pressing against you insistently and making you tense when he presses just right but not enough. “That's it's not just pity. That ya want to keep me. That ya want me here. Always.”

His eyes, red now, search for you, while you’re distracted taking from him, lit by a feverish light.

“Let me stay, baby. Let me be the one who keeps ya safe. The one who warms your bones. Let me be the shadow, trailin' after ya. The beast lyin' at your feet. The lover in your bed.”

Then, lower, with that desperate tone that makes your insides twist:“Let me be yours, for fuck's sake…please.”

And that’s the last straw.

You tilt his face at a comfortable angle and press your lips against his, forcefully. Your tongue invades his mouth but Remmick responds with the same ardor, intertwining his tongue with yours.

His hand, firm on your belly, begins to move up under your shirt, making its way with trembling fingers, as if he were touching something sacred. Every inch of your skin lights up under him. He moves like a man who is thirsty and the only source of water is you.

“Do ya even know what ya are to me now?” He asks you with a thick voice as his lips separate from yours and pass over your chest, still dressed. “The poison...and the cure, both.”

You almost laugh at his dramatic nature but swallow it when the sweater is the first piece to be discarded, leaving you under his heated and supernatural gaze. It’s all there: the adoration, the longing, but above all that silent madness that scared you the first time and now… tightens your stomach in a vice that you can’t untangle.

He bends over your breast, taking it between his lips and clenching his teeth on the small bud in the center, making you arch against him.

The hand that isn’t busy holding your breast ventures under your pants—which you hadn’t even noticed he’d opened—and his fingers slide between your soaked folds, pinching your clit between them.

You let out a meow that makes him growl. It’s a hoarse sound that slides slowly down with him, he grabs the waistband of your pants to slide them down your legs and leaves you naked under his hungry gaze.

“Look at yourself, darlin'. Is all this for me?” His tongue flattens against your wetness, gathering it as it passes and, as if the first taste had gone to his head, he dives headfirst between your legs, devouring you completely.

“Fuck…you’re an idiot…” you moan, pressing yourself as close as possible to his mouth that closes on your delicate mound.

You feel his fingers wet with your own pleasure, pressing against your entrance and pushing in effortlessly, pumping forcefully in and out to draw as many sounds as possible from your lips.

He licks you with unnatural slowness, rhythmically, as if it were an ancient ritual.

Just when you feel your orgasm reaching you, his fingers and mouth move away from you. His lips return up. He kisses your belly, your chest, your throat, until he returns to your face. His red eyes burn into yours.

“What are you-?”

“Let me do it.” He stops you, as he brings one of your hands to the fly of his pants. Your fingers, until then useless, close around his clothed erection, making him shudder and whine. “Let me fuck you, darlin'. Let that sweet pussy tighten 'round my cock.”

His face bends to yours, his nose running along your jaw, like a dog asking for a firmer caress. And you give it to him.

You undo his belt in one swift motion and unzip his zipper with a slowness that could have killed the most patient man.

When your fingers capture his erection you let his weight rest against your palm, smearing your palm with his precum and pump down once to test the length and width. Remmick moans against your cheek and pushes against your hand, the tip brushing your inner thigh.

You curve your lips into a smirk.

“Do you think you deserve to fuck this pussy, Remmick?” Remmick pulls back to look at you, surprised by your tone but definitely delirious, his mouth slightly open, revealing traces of small fangs.

“…No.”

You frown as you twist your wrist, gripping it harder, but he continues.

“Shit…no, I don’t reckon I deserve this.”

His hips snap forward and you almost lose your grip when he comes so incredibly close to your entrance, leaving a trail of liquid.

“But I swear…I could spend me whole life tryin' to earn it. Every day. Every bleedin' night. With all that's in me.”

He brushes his lips against your forehead, submissive and feverish.

“Go ahead, then.” You slide the tip of his erection against your pussy lips, wetting them with your own arousal, his hands closing on your hips, and you tilt him toward your entrance. “Make me yours.”

You feel his breath hitch and then he does.

He takes you.

It’s not a human sound, much less an animal one, that he lets out when he enters you completely, without giving you a second to get used to the stretch. You accept it with a hiss of pain, tightening your legs around his pelvis.

You’re not surprised when he pulls back slowly, your walls closing in on him as if to keep him in place, and then he sinks in deeply again, establishing a punishing rhythm. The piece of furniture you’re leaning against bangs against the wall and for a moment you pray that he doesn’t create a hole.

Every thrust is an oath. Every whine, a broken soul that offers itself to you without asking for anything in return but yourself.

“Ah… fuck… you’re…” and he never finishes the sentence. The words blur with his breathing and need so he kisses you violently and sweetly at the same time, his tongue moving in your mouth with the same rhythm with which his body sinks into yours. He clings to you as if you could save him, and destroy him at the same time.

As his hips begin to wobble, you feel two fingers press against your clit, curling your toes and digging your heels into Remmick’s back.

You move your face away from his to get more air in your lungs as your orgasm hits you hard, making you see stars.

Your tight channel grips his erection and you hear him moan in your ear as he comes inside you, murmuring your name like a plea, his hands still gripping your hips, almost afraid you might vanish beneath him.

And as he tucks his head between your shoulder and neck, nuzzling his nose against the column of your throat with a contented sigh, you realize it’s not just possession.

It’s belonging.

Video Gif: Here Dividers: cafekitsune

#remmick #sinners #ryan coogler #vampire #remmick fanfic #fanfiction #remmick x reader #jack o'connell #remmick smut #remmick x you #pathetic remmick #service top remmick #sub remmick

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hangesophtalmologist · 6 months ago

Text

playing with fire burns like hell

part 1

previous name: the salesman’s obsession

part 1, (part 2)

pairing: squid game's salesman/ recruiter x f!reader

synopsis: when someone dares to interrupt his game, the infamous salesman ought to punish them... but she doesn't intend to play by his rules.

warnings: violence, physical assaut, social stigma, psychotic mc, squid game au

a/n: we shall give the people what they asked for (salesman x readers) (i'm people)

The slap rang out like a gunshot, ricocheting off the cold subway walls. The man on the ground – disheveled, panting – flinched. His cheek blossomed red, but he didn’t dare look up. Above him, the Salesman stood poised, palm still tingling. His eyes were bright but empty, the light behind them clinical, dissecting.

"Come on now, one more try,” he taunted. His voice was smooth, almost musical and weightless, as if he were suggesting a game of chess. "Don’t stop at three. You’ll regret that more.”

It wasn’t joy he was feeling. Amusement, merely. Detached, surgical. Like stepping on something fragile just to hear the crack. The pathetic, the desperate – they all crumbled the same way. He just had to give them a little push, and their precious facade fell apart, leaving behind the twitching core of greed, ready to humiliate itself for scraps.

The sweating businessman bent to pick up his red tile, trembling. His shoulders sagged under the weight of silent despair. Miserable. The Salesman’s lips curled, though not exactly enough to be called a smile. He enjoyed the process. The inevitability of it.

Another failure.

He raised his hand, licking his lips in anticipation, but before he could swing, something unexpected happened. A hand grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Unshaking.

Cold.

His head snapped to the side; the sharp turn of a predator interrupted mid-hunt.

You.

His gaze narrowed. He’d noticed you earlier, lingering on the platform’s edge. Background noise. He rarely missed details, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps that was the first red flag.

His gaze drifted over your hand, slender fingers circling his wrist like a cuff. He could break free easily. Yet he didn’t. Your grip felt… deliberate. Measured.

“Enough,” you said, cocking your head to the side, sly eyes scrutinizing him.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Interest flickered, not outwardly hostile, but curious. He searched your face for clues – that familiar, nauseating blend of pity and self-importance most saviours carried. Yet, your eyes betrayed neither. But he didn’t need any tells – he knew people like you. Hypocrites yearning for crumbs of recognition.

“And who might you be?” His voice retained its warmth, but irritation simmered beneath it.

You stepped between him and his trembling opponent, your hand falling away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze darkened as annoyance started to seep in his body. He didn’t even watch as the man behind you scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the crowd like prey escaping a hunter. His focus was entirely on you now – the intruder. He examined you for long time – longer than what he was used to. The Salesman never cared much for remembering anyone other than his recruits – but there was something about the lines of your face, the crooked slope of your mouth, the mischief in you pupils. Something challenging. Something he wanted to crush.

"You just cost me 100,000 won," he said lightly, adjusting his cufflinks with meticulous care – but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the casual tone. "So. How do you plan to pay me back?"

You shrugged, defying. “I don’t plan to.”

His grin widened, but the glint in his eyes sharpened. “I see. Then I’ll have to take it from you. A slap or cash. Choose.”

“I have a better idea,” you smirked, lazily flicking the red tile between your fingers. “I’ll take his place. I want to play too.”

His smile faltered. The thrill flickered out, but simply for a second – you weren’t desperate, not twitchy or ashamed. Not his typical prey. Yet. Because after all, if you wanted to play, it was because you wanted money – like everyone else.

He just needed to crack your confident mask to see you scrambling for it.

A chuckle escaped his mouth, hunger for your humiliation gnawing at his stomach. He wanted to see your heroic aspirations slapped out of your mind until you were nothing more than the lowlives he usually dealt with.

Yes. This would be even more fun to watch.

His smirk returned, though colder. “Fine. Each loss costs 100,000 won. Can you pay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

Your smugness stirred something primal in him—something ugly, something he hadn’t felt in years. You flipped the red card over your fingers, defiance oozing off you. Then in a split second you hurled the tile to the ground with surprising force. There was no hesitation, no tension. He didn’t need to look down to know you had flipped the blue card over. He watched you carefully, waiting for the inevitable flicker of relief that most winners betrayed.

None came.

Your eyes had barely left him either, like you were also gauging his reaction. Your lips stretched in a predatory smile – a thrill of excitement ran down his veins.

“I paid the debt. Now let’s play for real,” you cheered, displaying a naïve smile, one that could have fooled him as genuine if there wasn’t a flick of calculation - measurement - behind the easy curve of your lips.

The Salesman was a man of control – he could recognize when someone was leading a game, and right now this someone wasn’t him. He wasn’t surprised when you succeeded again.

“You won,” he stated, but there was no satisfaction, no amusement – he was still hungry for your humiliation. He reached for his luggage. But your foot stopped him, stepping on it as you suddenly reduced the distance between them.

“Oh no, Mister. You must have misunderstood me,” you slowly leaned towards him and whispered against his face.

He should have seen it before – but it was only now, when you were inches away from him, that he finally noticed the spark of amusement hidden in your eyes. It wasn’t heroism, nor greed that animated you.

Danger. His heart raced with the adrenaline that was reserved for his favourite kills, an all-too-powerful feeling that welcome your next words.

“I wasn’t playing for money.”

And then with sudden, brutal efficiency, you slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him stumbling on his feet and wipe any thought from his mind.

The crack resounded louder than his own had.

His head jerked to the side, pain stinging his cheek. Silence stretched between you. The slap burned, but not as much as the unfamiliar sensation curling in his gut.

Your laugh cut through the quiet, light and playful, but dripping with something – something mad.

He scoffed, bringing a hand to massage his cheek. It was stinging, the only proof that the last seconds had happened. When he looked back at you, you had tilted your head in an innocent expression.

But your conniving smirk was taunting him. “I get you now; it is quite fun. Have a nice day, Mister.”

You turned and walked away, your figure shrinking under the flickering subway lights.

The Salesman didn’t follow. Not immediately.

He watched you disappear into the station, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting fractured shadows on the tiles.

He stayed rooted, fingers twitching at his side, replaying the moment. Over and over.

Then, without warning, he laughed. Deep, unhinged, shaking laughter that echoed through the empty station. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharper and more vicious than he had felt in years.

You.

You weren’t a prey.

No, you were something far more valuable.

You were a challenge.

And he would break you. Piece by piece.

#squid game #the salesman #x reader #the salesman x reader #squid game season 2 #angst #ennemies to lovers #gong yoo #squid game imagine

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decagondice · 4 months ago

Text

༓ Too Busy Being Yours ༓

༓ Pairing. Soft!Sylus x f!Reader

༓ Synopsis. In the stillness of a world built on shadow and steel, Sylus stands alone, the weight of her absence pressing against his chest. She lingers in every corner, in every detail — the gleam of his eyes, the quiet hum of the city, the cold touch of his sidearm.

༓ Content. Soft!Sylus, sfw, F!Reader, Established Relationship (?) comfort, Loneliness (?), Sylus misses you whilst you're away, fluff, Yearning, Domestic (?), Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 1.3k

༓ A.N. This was super rushed but its almost 5am and I have been stuck with thoughts of Soft!Sylus whilst having Hozier's cover of 'Do I wanna know?' on constant loop. (I would recommend listening to that while reading this piece)

[Artwork by Petrus Van Schendel - 'Dutch Market by Moonlight', 1853]

The window was a fractured sheet of black glass, and beyond it, the vast sprawl of Onychinus bloomed in shades of dull copper and cold mercury. The city never slept — it simply lulled into a different kind of wakefulness, one that hummed with the murmur of distant engines and the low, syrup-thick din of voices lost between floors, beneath flickering neon eaves. Sylus stood before it, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up over the worn sinew of his forearms, a coin flipping between his fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the dim light, its rhythm steady and almost meditative, like thoughts drifting into the quiet of the room, rising and fading into nothing.

He was waiting, though he would never call it that.

The apartment was too still without her, the silence swallowing the edges of the hours until they blurred together into one endless dusk. She’d been gone for days — maybe weeks — and though they had lived apart before, this time the absence ached differently. This time, she left her fingerprints on every surface she’d touched, and even in her absence, he felt her. In the hollow press of his pillow, in the half-drunk cup left on the counter, in the way her voice seemed to echo up from the floors themselves.

He wasn’t the kind of man who fumbled for words, but she had built herself a shrine in his mind without even trying. And it would be his curse — perhaps his only one worth bearing — to kneel before it willingly.

The phone buzzed on the glass table beside him, the screen illuminating briefly before dimming into a soft reflection of the room. Her name. A tether to the living world.

He let it ring once — twice — before answering, his voice low and indifferent, a thin veil over the frayed edges of his waiting.

"How are you?" Her voice was a warmth too tender for a world like his, too light to belong in the grip of a man like him.

Sylus laughed, a breathy, unguarded thing that slipped out before he could smother it. The kind of laugh that belonged in dark hallways or against the curve of her neck, close enough that no one else could steal it.

The phone rested lightly against his ear, but his gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the windowpane, to where the sky peeled itself apart over the distant harbour, light bleeding into water like ink into silk.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because how could he tell her —

That every day without her was a hollow stretch, a penance paid in silence. That no matter how he occupied his hands — in deals, in schemes, in fights where blood became the only language spoken — she followed him.

She was in the weight of the guns he cleaned with meticulous fingers, in the cold press of steel that always reminded him of how her hands felt against his jaw — not soft, not fragile, but deliberate, certain, like she knew exactly what kind of man she was holding and didn’t flinch. She lingered in the polished chambers, in the oil-slick sheen of metal under dim light, each piece of his arsenal now a reliquary touched by her presence. Even the treasures he hoarded — the rings, the loose chains, the antique blades and strange glimmering artefacts collected in careless greed — all of it, touched now by her absence.

She was in the rain-slick streets beneath his shoes, the reflections of passing headlights gliding like ghosts beside him, the pulse of the city now syncopated to the memory of her heartbeat against his. A curse, perhaps. But if this was damnation, he’d bear it with the grace of a condemned man walking willingly into the mouth of hell.

Because Sylus — sharp-edged, gloved in the faint trace of dark woods and leather, the cool weight of steel a constant companion, with hands that had taken lives and seized fortunes — had known love first as a weakness. A blade turned against its wielder. A story with a ruinous end. But then there was her. Love, in the shape of her name. Love, not a thing that devoured, but something that held. Not a soft surrender, but a reckoning — two hands reaching into the dark and pulling him out without flinching at what they found.

He had told himself once that love was a thing best kept at a distance, lest it burn the house down around him. But now, even knowing the smoke would always follow, he could no longer resist standing in the heart of it.

She was there in the smallest details — the gleam of his carmine eyes when the light caught them just right, the weight of his jacket settling over his shoulders, the angle of his chair at the table where they sat together, knees brushing beneath wood. She was in the stories the city whispered, in the scars on his knuckles and the lingering taste of her on his tongue.

Her dragon, she had called him once — smoke and fire and ruin. And yet, it was she who wandered into his den, fearless and bright, leaving the scent of flowers in her wake. Perhaps he was the storm she wandered into — all steel winds and unyielding sky — and perhaps she was the quiet omen he had ignored until it was far too late to turn back. Or perhaps they were simply two souls damned to meet again and again, drawn together not by fate but by the quiet hunger of the earth itself.

It would not matter. If every lifetime led him back to this — the shape of her back beneath his hand, the sound of her voice softened by sleep, the way she pulled apart the silence between them with nothing but a glance — then Sylus would walk every damned path willingly. Sin, virtue, heaven, hell — none of it mattered if it meant keeping her. Not locked away, but free — because she chose to stay.

And what a thing that was. To be chosen by her.

"Did you miss me?" she asked, her voice a gentle needle, sliding between his ribs.

The window, cold against his fingertips. The city breathing outside. The distant gleam of headlights trailing like unspoken words between them.

"Haven’t had time to think about it," he said, his voice low, teasing, smooth as a blade sharpened on stone.

But they both knew.

And so the conversation slipped into silence — not uncomfortable, not empty — but the kind of silence built by people who knew every corner of each other. Her breath through the speaker, soft and even, and then — a quiet laugh, low and effortless, like a hand brushing through water. It was the kind of sound that lingered, curling around him even after it was gone. His fingers traced idle circles against the glass. They did not need to speak of longing. It was already there, woven into the space between every word, every inhale.

They existed in that place — a liminal space where shadow and steel met sunlight and skin, where dragon and archnemesis tangled together not in ruin, but in something softer. Something whole. And as the call ended, as the city stretched before him and the cold air pressed against the glass, Sylus stood alone — but not empty. Never empty.

Because even when she was gone, she was still there, as sure as the weight of his weapon resting within reach, as sure as the steady beat of his pulse in the quiet of the room.

Everywhere he went, she was already there.

And in every lifetime to come, in every heaven or hell, he would walk willingly beside her again.

Just to see her.

To have her, as she is — treasured and whole, free to be herself.

And for Sylus, that was enough.

A.N. I have been putting off reading Sylus' dragon myth for the longest time, so my details here might be a bit off, so please excuse me there! Hopefully my brain can generate more Sylus stuff :D Thank you for reading!!!!

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xingumi · 3 months ago

Text

jasmine (megumi fushiguro x reader)

“you can’t, okay? not with him. not with anyone else. just me now.”

tags: sfw, fluff, crush confession, possessive megumi, jealous megumi, friends to lovers, itadori is also there, nobara is also there, megumi can’t be honest with himself

notes: first fic!! also posted on my ao3, my writing requests are open :3 i wrote this for my friend and maybe some1 else will like too... art by @pantarheio8

----

megumi makes every effort to be a perfect gentleman. he holds your bags on shopping trips, picks up the lunch bill, and pulls his punches while sparring with you during training. his gestures are always perfectly measured, showing slight softness but keeping him at a safe, respectable distance. mostly because he didn’t like what it would mean for him if he let himself get any closer.

his self control was a fragile thing, fraying at the edges when you spared a glance for anyone else. there is a limit to how far his friendly courtesy goes; his greed speaks to him stronger than his restraint, whispering insidious little thoughts– should be mine…

he only recently came to the shameful realization of just how much he likes you. it didn’t happen all at once, it was slower. quieter, like a stray thread of his heart snagging and unraveling before he could stop it. he caught himself looking at you for a moment longer than necessary and he noticed the way his chest felt too tight when you smiled at him. it pained him how badly he wanted to monopolize your attention and how easily you monopolized his.

by the time he understood what it meant, it was already too late. megumi fushiguro had fallen in love with you. and somehow, that was the last thing he had ever wanted.

he cared too much about you to say something to you, to be freed from his silent yearning and to love you the way you were intended to be loved. he couldn’t throw away your friendship for feelings that he himself didn’t understand.

so he kept his hands in his pockets when he wanted to reach for yours. he looked away when you leaned in too close. he bit his tongue when the words hovering on the edge of his lips weren’t the ones a friend should say.

still, he hated the bitterness that came from being kept from his heart’s desire.

the proof is in the muscles in his face that twitch and flash a disapproving frown at the sight of itadori laxly throwing his arm around you. it bothered him how easily yuji touched you like it was nothing at all. it bothered him more that you seem to lean into the “friendly” gesture. he tries to explode itadori’s arm with his mind, unavailingly.

“on saturday, we can spend the whole day in tokyo, girls trip, no boys!” nobara exclaims like an eager grade schooler, linking her arm through yours and yanking you from itadori’s grasp. while thankful for that, a small wrinkle forms between megumi’s tightly knit brows. it doesn’t seem fair that she gets to lay claim to your time in a way that he couldn’t without blowing his cover. even nobara isn’t safe from megumi’s possessiveness. he sighs and turns a page in the book he’s pretending to read.

you free yourself from being sandwiched between your two friends, standing abruptly from the couch.

“i’d love to, bara, but i’m training with fushiguro that day.” you say apologetically, turning on your heels and planting yourself in the seat next to megumi.

hearing his name is bittersweet. he wishes you wouldn’t be so formal, but he loves hearing you say his name. in the quietest hours of the night, he imagines the sound of your voice ringing in his ear, calling his name over and over again.

“whaatt? is this true?” nobara demands, narrowing her eyes at megumi. her voice snaps him back to reality and he replies without looking up.

“she skipped last week. it’s only fair.” he remembers that you were markedly missing that day. your absence didn’t go unnoticed as you’d hoped it would.

nobara huffs, defeated. “oh yeah, AND we missed human earthworm 4 because you saw it last saturday with yuji!”

megumi’s whole body stiffens. the room feels a little smaller and his breath suddenly feels uncomfortable in his throat.

is that where she disappeared to? a whole day with him? why not anyone else? did they… were they just hanging out? why didn’t she tell me? i’ve known her for longer than he has, so why would it be him?

megumi is quiet for a long minute. his white knuckles grip the book in his hand that he’s been using as a prop. his eyebrows are stitched together closer than before and his lips have pressed themselves into a thin line.

i don’t even care! but… was it a date? does she like him or something? he definitely likes her, that piece of shit, he doesn’t know the first thing about her.

but she didn’t even think to ask me. i want her to hang out with me. am i too late?

he barely heard the rest of the conversation. his mind was stuck on the image forming in his head— itadori walking beside you, making you laugh, sitting too close in a dark theater.

if he tried anything, i’ll seriously kill him. he’s dead either way.

you notice megumi’s withdrawn posture and look at him inquisitively, craning your neck to gauge his body language. he’s quiet but not this quiet. he looks really, really pissed off. to you, it just looked like his book had just deeply offended him. you lean closer to him to get his attention. his eyes shoot up for a brief second to meet your concerned eyes. he feels like he’s been caught, like you can see right through him.

“‘s something wrong?” you ask, wanting to put a comforting hand on his knee. you stop yourself, not knowing how he would receive the touch.

“confusing chapter,” he lies, with more hardness in his voice than he intended.

–

megumi couldn’t think straight the rest of the day. he was filled with a tight uneasiness and a heart-sinking feeling simmering beneath his skin that was impossible to ignore. he was so distraught by the idea of someone else making you smile in a way that was supposed to be his to earn.

the day passed unwillingly. every conversation felt like static in his ears. the training session was a waste of movement, his focus was shot to hell. even the simplest things—walking through the halls, eating dinner, hearing your voice—felt grating. the more he thought about it, the worse it got. the worse he got.

the sky had deepened from azure to deep navy and the corridors quieted for the night. he was sick of his thoughts looping over themselves, tangled and knotting up. he figured that he’d done enough sulking for the day.

megumi found himself on his feet, walking through the hall in a posture and cadence that felt weird, even to him. he couldn’t stop his feet from dragging as he navigated his way to your room. the walk was too short for him to reconsider his reckless decision. he stares at your door blankly before tapping three hollow knocks on the wood.

“hello? it’s me,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard through the wall. his voice is quivering already.

you’re reading your textbook when you hear his familiar voice cut the silence of the evening. startled, you slide out of bed to meet him at the door. he’s unexpectedly close to the door when you open it, making him shift back half a step.

“hi, megumi,” you smile and look up at him. his arms hung awkwardly at his sides and his hands clenched and unclenched, like he didn’t know what to do with them. the blue light from the window in the hallway hit his angular face in a way that carved shadows along his sharp features, making his eyes seem darker and stormier. he’s always been handsome, sure, but something’s different about him now. you feel strangely intimidated by the broadness of his shoulders and the severe look he’s giving you now.

he’s quiet for a second too long, also taking in how pretty you look out of uniform.

“may i come in?” megumi asks, his voice still low.

“of course,” you reply.

if he was nervous before, he was absolutely frantic walking into your room. his heart drummed against his ribs in a hurried rhythm, an anxious percussion echoing in his chest.

“make yourself at home,” you gesture with open palms to your room. megumi is too nervous to sit so he stands with his feet planted in the dead center of your room.

“i hope i’m not intruding, were you up to something before this?”

“not at all, you actually saved me from studying for history,” you laugh a little. his expression softens and his resolve is refreshed by the sound of your laughter. how could he let anyone else take this from him?

“okay, good…” megumi’s voice trails off. his breathing is heavier than usual. multiple beats of silence pass, too long and too heavy. it’s never usually awkward like this. you watch him, a bit lost as to why your crush of many months is standing in your room, stiff as a soldier at attention.

even now, when he’s uncharacteristically uneasy, there’s something magnetic about him. a long day has weathered his usual guarded demeanor, leaving him looking just a little undone—his hair messier than usual, and in his casual clothes, the sharp control he always carries himself with has softened at the edges. somehow, his unpolished silhouette makes him even more handsome. there’s something breathtaking about seeing him like this, as if, for once, you’re seeing what’s underneath all the restraint he usually wears like armor.

still, he couldn’t have come at this hour of the night to have small talk. you don’t speak, just tilting your head at him, sensing there’s something he wants to say by the way his lips are parted slightly.

he realizes then he has to get it out. he swallows hard, trying to draw enough moisture from his throat to speak. he exhales sharply through his nose, eyes flickering to the floor before dragging back up to meet yours.

then–

“i–,” his breath hitches. the words stick in his throat, thick and burning, because once they’re out, there’s no taking them back. he takes a labored breath before trying again. this time, his voice comes out in a rush like floodgates opening.

“i just have to say something. i can’t watch like everything’s okay, i can’t pretend like it doesn’t bother me because it does. it really, really does. it’s driving me insane, because it’s not just today, it’s every time i see you with someone else, every time i think about–” he sucks in a shaky breath before his words roll out heavy again.

“i like you, okay? i’ve always liked you. you don’t know what you do to me and i’ve never felt this way about anything.” he drags one hand through his hair and avoids your gaze.

“i’ve been waiting all this time– i don’t even know for what, but it was completely stupid because it feels like you’re slipping through my fingers and i’m too late and i just can’t–” he’s becoming completely undone in front of you, his voice swelling like an intense musical score. he shakes his head and struggles to become coherent. his voice comes out quieter when he speaks again.

“i just– i can’t lose you. i can’t stand the thought of it, please…” by the end of his desperate ramble, his eyes have darted to every corner of your room and he’s sweating. when the dust has settled, he’s breathless, almost panting.

“please, say something,” he’s pleading now, his voice even lower.

despite his request, you don’t say anything at all. you can’t find the words. your feet move by themselves, silently taking swift steps towards him and closing the distance between the two of you. you hook your arms under his, pulling yourself to his chest. you finally hear how hard his heart is beating now. your head rests underneath his chin as you firmly wrap your arms around him and breathe him in fully.

“you don’t have to worry about losing me.”

megumi doesn’t immediately register the warm pressure that’s lodged itself comfortably against him. suddenly, his knees feel weak and his shoulders slump, finally being relieved of the tension he’s been holding all day. at the same instant, the invisible barrier he’d built around himself shatters, crumbling beneath the weight of your warmth.

for a moment, he can’t move at all, but his instincts bring his arms to you, hesitant at first, then tighter, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. his hands grab at the fabric of your shirt, less chivalrously than he would’ve consciously decided.

“you really mean it?” he whispers hoarsely. you nod without pulling yourself away from him.

in this moonlit memory, beautiful and tender, you can’t help but laugh. stoic and aloof megumi fushiguro has become a nervous wreck in a way you could’ve never imagined. you found it both endearing and amusing how helplessly vulnerable he made himself be for you. amusing only because he had been so wracked with anxiety, thinking you didn’t feel the same way, and he couldn’t have been more wrong.

he feels the vibration of your failed attempt to hold your laughter and looks down, arms still around you. you meet his eyes, beaming ear to ear.

“this is about that thing with itadori, right?”

he throws his head to one side and gives a weak scowl, irritated at the mention of his name. you laugh again, taking his dramatic annoyance as an answer to your question. it also annoyed him how well you knew him; he was a completely open book to you. he shakes his head. “no, well yes, but no, not really,” he huffs.

“i’ll have to thank him for bringing this out of you then.”

“i think you’ve had enough time with him recently.” megumi retorts quickly, abruptly shutting that idea down.

you laugh again while soaking up the last seconds of his embrace before finally peeling yourself off him. you’re still connected at the waist when you meet his half lidded eyes, intently focused and glazed over with need.

“you can’t, okay? not with him. not with anyone else. just me now.” he whispers, suddenly serious.

he says it with such authority that you don’t question what he means. you give him one slow nod. you notice how painfully close your faces are. you feel his steady breath tickling your skin. his hand finds its way to your chin, tilting your head up and to one side. anticipation paints your face as you both inch closer—

#megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #jjk megumi #jujitsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #possessive megumi #jealous megumi #friends to lovers #sfw

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horchatakoo · 2 months ago

Text

The More You Struggle, The Tighter I Hold

Synopsis: Jungkook has given you everything, so he doesn’t quite appreciate it when you choose a broke college boy over him. Themes: chaebol yandere jungkook, rich brat reader, mind conditioning, manipulation, age gap, older jk, nsfw, smut, dubcon, crempie, pregnancy kink

Jungkook has spoiled you rotten for as long as he can remember—lavishing you with expensive gifts, funding your every whim, covering your wishlist without hesitation. Free trips abroad for you and your friends, extravagant dinner dates, even pulling strings to get you into your dream university when your grades didn’t quite meet the requirements. A simple call to the dean, a casual mention of your "relation," and suddenly, doors that should have remained closed swung wide open for you.

He has always been there, protecting you, guiding you, offering advice like a good older brother would. And for years, that’s exactly how you saw him—a doting, dependable presence, someone you could always rely on.

But Jungkook never wanted to be just seen as an older brother.

He wanted more.

Maybe it started the first time he met you, when your father brought you to one of his meetings with Jungkook’s grandfather. You were just ten years old then, a shy, quiet child clinging to the edges of the conversation while he, at sixteen, regarded you as the little sister he never had. Someone fragile, someone to protect.

At least, that’s what he thought his feelings were.

Until you turned seventeen.

That was when everything shifted. Your body began to change—your hips, your chest, the graceful curve of your waist.

Your innocence took on an unintentional allure, oblivious to how you moved, how your body would be pressed into him when you came running to hug him, how you smiled, or how your presence began to unearth something dark and possessive inside him.

That was when Jungkook stopped seeing you as his little sister. And started seeing you as something else entirely.

He saw you as a woman, a woman that should belong to him, rather than that of a younger sister, but you are oblivious to that fact.

Jungkook’s help isn’t limited to just you—it extends to your entire family, ensuring their unwavering favor, shaping their perception of him as a saint, a savior, a blessing from heaven that they could never repay.

When his grandfather retired as chairman of the Jeon Conglomerate, Jungkook stepped into his rightful position, making sure that your family reaped the greatest benefits from his power.

But those benefits didn’t come without cost…

He had orchestrated everything. Pulled the right strings, made the right moves, and watched as your family’s company crumbled under carefully placed pressure—only for him to appear at just the right time with an outstretched hand and an offer too generous to refuse.

A lifeline. A godsend.

Your father and brother were given prestigious positions within his empire—roles they were woefully unqualified for, yet perfect for keeping them satisfied.

Jungkook knew your father had been embezzling funds from the Jeons for years, a rat biting the very hand that fed him. But Jungkook never stopped him. He never exposed him. Instead, he tolerated it, even allowed it, letting your father gorge himself on wealth that Jungkook could make back in mere minutes.

Because money has never been an issue to him,

It’s not what Jungkook wanted the most…

You are.

Your family had been consumed by greed long ago, blind to the noose tightening around them as they dug their own graves.

And Jungkook?

He only watched in quiet amusement.

He had always known their sins would serve him one day. That when the time came, their insatiable hunger for wealth and status would tip the scales in his favor.

After all, they were nothing more than beggars dressed in wealth—always grasping for more, always willing to sell whatever was necessary for a place at the Jeon table.

Even you.

And why wouldn’t they? Everything they had—every luxury, every privilege—existed only because of him.

If not for Jungkook, your family would have sunk into bankruptcy long ago.

You were almost just like them—you couldn’t live without gold under your feet. The only difference was that you never took advantage of anyone, never used people for your own gain.

You weren’t capable of something like that.

In Jungkook's mind, a kind and innocent thing like you isn’t capable of such sin.

You were just... spoiled. If that was the right word for it. Born into wealth, raised in luxury, never knowing what it was like to beg for anything.

And Jungkook was fine with that.

More than fine.

Because once you became his, he planned on spoiling you even more.

For a long time, everything unfolded just as Jungkook had planned—until he received the most offensive news from you.

“Kookie, meet Hoseok. We’re in the same college department… he’s, um, my boyfriend.”

You introduced him shyly, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you wrapped your arms around your boyfriend’s slender frame.

Jungkook sat there, his glass of wine in hand, gaze locked onto the two of you. He looked at Hoseok from head to toe, trying to process what you had just said—as if hearing it aloud would somehow make it more real.

Here you are, standing beside a guy who looked like he had thrown himself together in five minutes—jeans, Converse, and a wrinkled T-shirt that was probably the first thing he grabbed from his small closet.

An attire that's entirely not suited to a luxurious dinner place like this

His nervous smile only made the contrast more jarring.

And then there’s Jungkook, in a perfectly tailored suit, polished shoes, a Patek Philippe watch on his wrist—an image of wealth and power that felt completely at odds with this moment.

“You never told me anything about this… guy, baby,” Jungkook finally spoke, his voice cold as he set his wineglass down.

Of course, you're twenty now. It's only natural that you’d have a boyfriend. But he never imagined it would be this soon, especially since he’d never seen you show any real interest in relationships.

He always thought your attention was his alone—that no unworthy man could ever steal it.

But it seems he was wrong.

In his mind, maybe he should’ve arranged your marriage with him sooner.

Hoseok stiffened at the way Jungkook called you baby, but he quickly shook off the thought. You’d told him before that Jungkook was like an older brother—maybe this was just how he spoke.

“Well, I always forget,” you said casually, taking a seat and gesturing for Hoseok to join you as you skimmed through the menu.

Jungkook only hummed in response, swirling the wine in his glass.

“U-uh, hi, sir,” Hoseok finally spoke up, his voice tentative, trying to break the tense silence.

You had warned him before coming in that Jungkook might come off as strong and intimidating, but that he was actually sweet underneath it all.

But nothing about Jungkook’s aura felt sweet to Hoseok.

Well—at least to you, Jungkook was sweet.

Jungkook certainly heard Hoseok’s attempt at a greeting. He even glanced at him briefly. But he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, his attention remained fixed on you.

“Baby, do your parents already know about this?” His voice was calm, but there was something heavier beneath it, something unreadable.

You tensed for a second but quickly recovered. “Kookieeee, please don’t tell them. You know how they can be sometimes. I only told you because I knew you’d be happy for me,” you said with a sweet smile.

You were definitely wrong about that.

None of this made Jungkook happy. Not even a little.

But he chuckled softly, watching how you tried to act cute in front of him, hoping to convince him to keep your little secret.

"Fine,”

Hoseok sat there, feeling increasingly uncomfortable—the way Jungkook’s presence seemed to dominate the space, the way the dynamic between the two of you didn’t quite sit right with him.

This wasn’t how normal childhood friends act, even if you say that you're very close with Jungkook.

Still, he chose to remain silent. He wasn’t about to speak out of turn in front of a man who looked like he could crush him for even the smallest mistake.

Jungkook drained the last of his wine, then glanced at his wristwatch before rising from his seat.

“Well, you two have fun,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Order whatever you want.” He said as he handed you his black card.

“But Kook! I thought you had cleared your plans for tonight?” Confusion flickered across your face.

“Yeah, I know, baby. But you know how it is. I’m a busy man.”

That was a lie.

He had indeed cleared his schedule. This night was supposed to be just for the two of you. But Hoseok’s presence had ruined his appetite.

My driver will pick you up at eight,” he continued, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You know how your mom doesn’t like you coming home late.”

“Uhh, sir… I actually intend to bring her home myself—”

“Alright, baby?” Jungkook cut him off, his voice gentle but firm, like a parent dismissing a child.

The conversation was already over.

You hesitated for a second before nodding. “Okay…” you murmured, the slight sadness in your voice betraying the unspoken truth:

Jungkook didn’t like Hoseok for you.

And he never would.

And just like that, the night ended with you being picked up by one of Jungkook’s driver after you and hoseok finished eating dinner that jungkook had paid for.

Hoseok might not say it aloud, but he hated it…

Hated how Jungkook had effortlessly covered the bill when he could’ve just taken you somewhere he could afford.

It felt like a reminder—like a quiet way of putting him in his place.

And it didn’t help that you wouldn’t stop babbling about how good the food was.

“God, that steak was delicious! It tasted almost the same as the ones we had on our Europe trip…”

Hoseok only hummed in response, already annoyed, his fists clenching at his sides as the two of you stepped out of the restaurant. And there it was—a sleek black Mercedes waiting in front of the restaurant, Jungkook’s driver standing there to greet you.

“Good evening, Miss Y/N.”

You barely noticed Hoseok’s stiff posture beside you. “My driver’s here. Bye, Hoseok!” you chirped, flashing him a small smile before slipping inside the car without a second thought.

Hoseok stood there for a moment, watching as the car pulled away, his jaw tightening.

If that’s how Jungkook reacted, then what more if your parents found out you were dating him?

And though you had always been so kind to Hoseok, he couldn’t help but feel like he was beneath you—like he wasn’t someone worthy of standing by your side.

A week had passed since that dinner. The one where you introduced Hoseok to Jungkook like it was nothing, like it wouldn’t shift the earth beneath your feet.

You honestly thought things were going fine.

But Hoseok had been… gone.

Not in the literal sense—no, he was still enrolled, still somewhere in the city—but he hadn’t attended any of your shared classes, hadn’t shown up at the student publication office where the two of you spent almost every afternoon.

His name no longer popped up in your notifications, no missed calls, no good morning texts.

Just... silence.

A gaping void where he used to be.

You reached out to people, trying not to sound desperate.

But the responses were all the same:

"I don’t know." "Ask someone else." "We’re not getting involved in your drama."

Drama?

What drama?

Everything was going fine. Wasn’t it?

Something in you says that he's avoiding you, but you refuse to accept that, because everything was just fine. Instead, you convince yourself to believe that maybe something has just happened that doesn't concern you, perhaps a family emergency that he has to take care of.

But why is he not messaging you if that's the case? The longer the silence dragged on, the more it chipped away at your patience.

Until finally, you decided you’d had enough.

If he wasn’t going to face you at uni, then you’d confront him at his apartment. You need to get your answers to the questions that have been bugging your mind.

You didn’t bother texting. You didn’t even knock.

The spare key he’d given you months ago still worked.

The lights were off when you stepped inside. Your first impression was that he might not be home—you were halfway through calling his name, just to make sure he really wasn’t there, when you heard something from the bedroom—faint, but unmistakable.

A moan.

You stopped cold.

Your heart plummeted straight into your stomach.

No.

No, no, no.

You moved before you could think better of it, storming down the short hall toward his bedroom. The door was cracked open just enough.

You pushed it.

And instantly wished you hadn’t.

There he was.

Hoseok.

On top of someone, some girl you barely recognized from one of the campus orgs. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back, both of them breathless, gasping, fucking like they had no care in the world until they felt your presence that caught them off guard.

You felt stupid—after all those days of searching for him, calling and worrying, wondering what could've happened to him, only to find him enjoying himself between some other girl's legs.

A strangled noise left your throat as you stumbled back a step. Your vision blurred for a second, and the ringing in your ears drowned out whatever garbled excuse the girl tried to throw on as she scrambled for a sheet.

Hoseok didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t even look guilty.

He didn’t bother covering up. Didn’t even look surprised anymore. Just annoyed.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling away from the girl beneath him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You were frozen, the image of him and that girl still burned behind your eyelids.

“You stalking me now?” he scoffed, reaching for his jeans without shame. “God, I should’ve known you wouldn’t take the hint.”

“The hint?” your voice cracked. “You disappeared on me, Hoseok. You ignored my calls, ditched class—what the fuck was I supposed to think?”

He rolled his eyes, zipping his pants. “That it’s over. That’s what you should’ve thought.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But… you didn’t even—”

“Didn’t even what? Text you some sappy breakup message?” he sneered.

“Why would I waste my time on that? It’s not like we were anything serious.”

Your breath hitched, refusing to believe what he just said, though it was crystal clear.

"You told me you loved me!"

“Yeah, well,” he said, grabbing a shirt and carelessly pulling it over his head, “I say a lot of shit. Doesn’t mean I meant it.”

The girl behind him giggled under the covers, which only infuriated you further, and Hoseok didn’t even glance at her. His eyes were on you, and they weren’t kind like how it was before.

“Look,” he said, “That Jungkook guy? He opened my eyes, alright? You’re nothing but trouble. Ever since I got with you, my grades lowered, fuck, my scholarship's even hanging by a thread. My future is on the line. You dragged me into your chaos and I’m finally fucking done.”

You blinked back the sting in your eyes, confusion tightening in your chest. How was Jungkook even involved in this?

“No… Jungkook wouldn’t do that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not like that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hoseok barked a bitter laugh, eyes blazing. “Well, he fucking did.”

“Go cry to your sugar daddy or whatever the hell he is to you. I’m done.”

You were speechless.

As much as you hated Hoseok for cheating on you, there was one person you blamed even more—Jeon Jungkook. The tears came before you could even begin to process it all, a sob breaking in your throat as the pain swallowed you whole. Hoseok didn’t spare you a second glance; he shoved you out of his dorm like you were nothing, slamming the door shut in your face.

You felt betrayed...

not just by Hoseok, but by Jungkook.

How could he sabotage the one relationship that meant the world to you? How could he be so cruel and manipulative, as if destroying what you had would somehow bring him any satisfaction?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Jungkook had always been your angel, your protector. The thought of him being the one pulling the strings, the one who ruined you, didn’t make sense.

You wanted so badly to believe that Hoseok was just lashing out, making excuses for his betrayal. But no matter how tightly you clung to that hope, his words rang with a cruel kind of truth that you couldn’t ignore.

You didn’t even know how you got here.

After all the drama, the shouting, the betrayal—after all the tears you’d shed in Hoseok’s hallway just this afternoon—you should’ve been curled up in your bed, buried under blankets, trying to sleep the pain away.

But here you were.

At Jungkook’s building.

At his penthouse.

Driven by rage, betrayal, confusion, everything tightening in your chest until your body moved on its own.

You barely remembered how you got through the lobby. The security guard looked up from his desk and blinked in surprise, but when he saw your face, something in his demeanor softened.

“Miss,” he said gently, “You can go right up. He said you’re always welcome.”

Of course he did.

You hated how familiar this was—how the elevator doors opened to his private floor like the building itself was trained to welcome you. You hated that your trembling fingers still remembered the code. The moment the door swung open, his scent was already wrapping around you like a trap.

And you hated, most of all, that he looked happy to see you.

He was standing in the middle of his massive living room, wine glass in hand, dressed in a soft brown sweater and slacks, like the world hadn’t just been shattered around you.

His smile bloomed the moment your figure came into view.

“There you are,” Jungkook said, voice warm and slow, eyes twinkling as he opened his arms for you.

“Come here, angel. I was just thinking about y—”

Instead of a tight hug, all he got from you was a slap in his cheek.

The slap rang louder than you expected.

His cheek snapped to the side, skin blooming red where your palm struck him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Just stood there with his face turned, lips slightly parted, as if you’d short-circuited something in him.

Silence.

Then slowly, his eyes returned to yours as his calm demeanor didn't change.

A slow smile curled at the corner of his mouth—too knowing, too soft, too smug.

“Ah,” Jungkook murmured, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “So you found out.”

And that was the only confirmation you needed. It was all his doing. A part of you had already known it was him, but you needed to hear it from him, and he delivered.

Your throat tightened, but no tears came this time. You were all cried out.

“So you really did it,” you whispered. “You ruined us.”

Jungkook tilted his head as he eyed you intensely. “Ruined?” he echoed, like it was a foreign word.

He let out a breathy laugh, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“No, baby. I didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly. “I just reminded him of what he already knew.”

You stared at him in disbelief

His eyes dropped to your swollen, puffy face—red-rimmed eyes and cracked lips. He stepped closer, not to console, but to admire.

“I hate seeing you cry,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle against your cheek.

You slapped his hand away.

He didn’t flinch.

“You had no right,” you snapped, voice trembling with restrained fury. “Hoseok and I—what we had, it was real. He loved me. We were—”

“He was weak,” Jungkook cut in smoothly, “and undeserving.”

“You don’t get to decide that!" You shouted at him as your face flushed red from anger.

“I do,” he said calmly, like he was explaining something to a child.

"Don’t you get it, Y/N? You belong to me. After everything I’ve done for you, for your family, and you still dared to choose him? I was being generous, patient, so fucking kind with you. But let me make one thing clear."

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he grips your chin a little too tightly, leaning in until his lips nearly graze your ear.

"I don’t share. No one touches what’s mine."

Your breath hitched, skin prickling where his words lingered against your ear. It all started to make sense—every sweet gesture, every moment he showed up exactly when you needed someone, the silent ways he looked at you like you were already his. His care had never been brotherly. Not even close. You had been so foolish, blind to the possessiveness hiding behind his soft smiles, mistaking his obsession for affection.

And now that the truth was out, there was no going back.

Your legs felt unsteady as you took a step back, but Jungkook didn’t let you get far. His hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, gentle yet firm, anchoring you in place.

“You manipulated Hoseok,” you whispered, the realization choking out of you. “You wanted to ruin us.”

He didn’t even flinch. His thumb caressed the curve of your jaw, voice steady and low.

“No. I had to ruin him. Because he was in the way.” His smile curved, slow, and sinful. “He was holding onto something that never belonged to him in the first place.”

Jungkook, you used to know, the boy who used to laugh with you, protect you, was gone. In his place stood a man whose obsession clung to you like a vice, dark and suffocating.

He looks like he could kill in this moment, as you keep on throwing hurtful words at him

“You’re fucking insane! I don’t ever want to see you again! I swear to God, I’ll leave the country if that’s what it takes to get away from you!” you screamed, ripping his hand off your neck with every ounce of strength you had. He was too strong. It took force, and it hurt.

You see, Jungkook had always been patient. Painfully patient. If he hadn’t been, he would’ve taken you years ago.

But now? Now the thread had snapped. And the moment those words left your mouth, something inside him broke.

Leave?

You were going to leave him?

After everything he gave you? After everything he destroyed for you?

“No, baby. You’re not fucking leaving,” he said lowly, eyes dark as he stalked toward you like a predator. He gripped your arm hard, making you stumble back, his breath hot against your face.

“Let go! I’ll tell my father everything!”

He smirked. “Oh yeah? Want me to dial him for you?”

You tried to fight him, lashing out like a wild animal. The vase by the table shattered as your arm knocked into it, and you didn’t even think—you just grabbed a jagged shard and held it up, hand trembling, eyes wild.

“Stay the fuck away from me, you psycho!”

He stared at you with that maddening calm, like you were amusing. Like, your resistance was cute. And then he stepped forward with lethal grace.

He knew his flowering words and soft tone wouldn't work with you in this situation, you left him with no choice but to use a little bit of force in order to tame you.

“You really think I’d let you hurt yourself over something this stupid?”

In one swift movement, he twisted the shard from your fingers, faster than you could react. Before you could scream, his hand was in your hair, the other on your waist, and your head slammed into the wall with brutal force.

The last thing you heard was your name on his lips before everything faded to black

Your head throbbed painfully as consciousness slowly crept in. The ceiling above you was initially unfamiliar—until the soft fabric brushing against your skin, the scent of expensive cologne, and the dim glow of the city lights pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows reminded you exactly where you were.

You're still in his penthouse... in his bed.

You shifted, realizing you were wearing one of your pajama dresses. One you hadn’t worn in ages. One you hadn’t brought here.

A soft voice broke through the fog in your head.

“You’re awake,” Jungkook murmured beside you, his fingers gently stroking your hair, eyes filled with something unsettlingly tender. “You hit your head, baby. I had to take care of you.”

For a fleeting second, you saw him—the version of Jungkook you used to know. The kind smile. The boy who was always there. But you forced yourself to push that illusion away. That version of him is just an illusion, a facade to his true, dark intentions.

You scrambled off the bed in a panic, nearly tripping over yourself as you ran to the door. Locked. Every other exit—locked. No keypad, no handle you could pry open. You darted from one end of the penthouse to another, only to find nothing but dead ends.

“It’s no use,” Jungkook said calmly, standing from the bed, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watched you look for an exit.

“You’re staying here now. I’m not letting you run away from me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” you snapped, voice cracking with disbelief.

Then you saw it—all your designer clothes, your bags, your makeup, your shoes, tucked neatly in his walk-in closet like they belonged there.

Like you belonged here.

You spun to face him, breath short and broken.

“You moved my things…”

“I’ve been preparing this for a while,” he simply said as he slowly walked toward you.

“This is insane,” you whispered, eyes wide with disbelief, your voice trembling before it exploded into a scream. “My parents—they’ll come for me! You’re gonna pay for what you’re fucking doing!”

Jungkook chuckled low, dark, and slow, like he found your defiance amusing. He stepped closer, eyes gleaming with possessive fire as he tilted his head. “Come for you?” he echoed, voice almost mocking. “You mean your greedy parents who work for me now?”

He leaned in, voice dipping into a growl against your ear as he added, “Sweetheart, they’re the ones who sent all your things here. They were more than happy to hand you over to me."

And that’s when it hits you—you’re alone in here, with no one to run to. Even your parents betrayed you, their only daughter, all because they were too blinded by the money Jungkook has.

"No! This is impossible. My parents wouldn’t do that—Jungkook, please," you begged, falling to your knees as you wrapped your arms around his legs. At this point, you didn’t even know why you were begging him. Desperation? Hope? A final plea for the version of him you once knew?

But empathy was the last thing on his mind.

Instead, the sight of you, broken, pleading, lips trembling as you whispered his name, only turned him on.

There was something so intoxicating about having you like this, so helpless and pretty on your knees, as your plump lips were wet with your tears.

Sooner or later, he'd have you crying for something else.

"Shh, sweetheart," he cooed as he crouched down to meet your level, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that contradicted the madness in his gaze. "Stop crying. You’re going to learn to love it here. This is your home now."

Indeed, you had no choice but to stay in his penthouse for these past few weeks, trapped in his world with no way out. Your days blurred into one another, a monotonous loop of routines: a cold, solitary bath, forced meals, and endless hours spent staring at the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You waited for Jungkook’s return, your mind spiraling as the isolation ate away at your sanity.

The silence was maddening. The lack of human contact drove you to the edge, and desperation took hold.

You missed the life that you once had, partying and going out with friends, attending classes, and so on, so you tried to escape, of course.

The first time, you managed to hurt one of his security guards as you scrambled your way out, though it was of no use as there were too many of them.

The second time, you threatened to harm yourself with a kitchen knife if they didn’t let you out.

That was when Jungkook decided that enough was enough. He began working from home, his eyes always on you, keeping you under his watchful gaze, with every sharp tool that he thought you could use to hurt yourself are now hidden or moved away.

"Ahhh... please stop!" you pleaded as a harsh slap landed on your bum. You were bent over, turned around with your tummy pressed against his knees as he spanked you (if that makes sense).

"Fucking stubborn woman! What did I tell you about lying, huh?!" he growled, landing another slap to your ass. The dress you were wearing had ridden up, exposing your bare core—he hadn’t allowed you to wear any undergarments.

You didn’t know why, but your body had been so needy and hot these past few days. You’d been getting wet out of nowhere, so turned on that you ended up touching yourself in the bathroom whenever he wasn’t around—too embarrassed to let him see you like that.

And just like now, you were already soaked from the way his rough palms met your skin, each slap sending a sting of heat through your core, making you tremble with want.

It was humiliating… and unbearable.

But of course, Jungkook knew everything.

He’d been slipping aphrodisiacs into your meals every time he forced you to sit on his lap and eat like a baby. And yes—he knew how you secretly touched yourself, thanks to the hidden cameras planted all over the house. He got off on watching you fall apart when you thought he wasn’t looking, addicted to how lewd you’d become under his control.

“Dirty whore,” he sneered, fingers suddenly sliding down back and forth to your slick folds. “You’re even getting wet from this, huh?”

You shuddered instantly, a sharp moan ripping from your throat as his fingertips grazed your sensitive pussy lips before spreading it with his fingers, exposing just how soaked and desperate you truly were.

“Look at you,” Jungkook muttered, almost amused as he ran his fingers along your soaked slit, spreading the slickness just to watch you twitch. “Dripping all over my lap like a fucking slut. Getting off on being punished?”

You whimpered, face flushed with heat, your fingers curling into the fabric beneath you as his touch sent sparks down your spine. His voice was low and mocking, but it lit you up in the worst way.

“You act like you hate it,” he said, dipping one long finger inside you without warning, “but your cunt tells me the truth.”

A breathy moan escaped you, hips jerking as the digit curled deep inside. He moved slowly at first, dragging it out just to watch your body react. Then he added a second, scissoring them apart, stretching you as you gasped.

“Such a filthy little thing. Bet you’ve been dreaming of this, huh? My fingers inside you while you grind your pathetic pussy on the bathroom sink,” he hissed into your ear, his fingers now pumping with more force. “You like being watched, baby? Knew I’d see you eventually?”

You couldn’t even form words anymore—just broken moans and whines as your walls clenched around him.

Then came the third finger.

You cried out, your legs trembling as he stuffed you full, knuckles deep now, fucking you rough and slow, like he wanted to feel every desperate flutter inside you. The stretch burned and thrilled you at once, leaving you clawing at his thigh, right on the edge.

So close. You were right there. Vision hazy, thighs slick and shaking, pleasure curling so tight it hurt.

But then he stopped.

Just like that—everything halted. He pulled his fingers out, slow and wet, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing.

You gasped, back arching as if trying to chase the feeling, your body trembling with frustration.

“N-no—please!” you cried, writhing against him, your once stubborn self now long gone, like a passing rain as you begged “Please, Jungkook… don’t stop, please—I need it, I need you—anything!”

He held his slick fingers up to your lips, eyes dark with twisted satisfaction. “Anything?” he smirked. “Then beg like the needy little cumslut you are.”

Without hesitation, you nodded, eyes glassy, lips parting as you leaned in—desperation burning in your gut.

“Yes—please, Jungkook. I’ll be good. I swear. Just—please—”

But he didn’t wait for you to finish.

He pressed his fingers against your lips, the same ones slick with your arousal, and you moaned as you eagerly opened your mouth, sucking them in like they were his cock. Tongue swirling, lips sealing tight around each one, you cleaned them with such obedience it made his cock twitch beneath you.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, his breath shallow, eyes dark and gleaming.

Fuck.

The drug worked.

He knew it would, but seeing the result was another thing entirely.

There you were—his once defiant little brat—on your knees, brain fogged, drooling around his fingers like they were candy. Completely unaware. Completely his.

So sweetly fucked up that you didn’t even care anymore that you were locked in here. That he owned your body, your mind, your every breath.

And now, after all your pathetic little protests, you were begging him to touch you? To fuck you?

Thought you hated me, sweetheart. Thought you wanted to escape.

His cock throbbed at the thought—how far gone you were. How easy it had become to twist your desire into obedience.

And he wasn’t even close to done.

Jungkook slowly pulled his soaked fingers from your mouth, watching your tongue chase after them like you couldn’t stand to be without the taste.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “You want to be fucked that badly, huh? You want to be ruined?”

You nodded, whimpering as you pressed your thighs together, slick leaking down the insides of your legs. “Yes—please, please—kookie"

That was all it took.

He gripped your hips with bruising force and dragged you down off his lap, flipping you over like a ragdoll onto the plush carpet. You barely had time to gasp before he was yanking his sweats down, cock already thick and hard, veins throbbing with anticipation.

“Then take it,” he growled, grabbing your thighs and spreading you open. “Take all of it, slut.”

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

Your back arched, a choked scream bursting from your lips as he buried himself to the hilt—stretching you so deep, so full, it knocked the air from your lungs. There was no time to adjust. He didn’t give you that luxury. His hips were already snapping into yours, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls as he fucked you raw.

“God, listen to you,” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back. “Crying on my cock like you were made for this. And maybe you were, huh? Just a filthy little hole to fill up and break down.”

Your mind was gone—drugged, drunk off him, off the stretch and the heat and the possessive grip he had on your body. Your moans turned to sobs, pleasure slamming into you over and over, your nails clawing at the floor as he pounded into you without mercy.

“Gonna come?” he mocked, voice ragged, hips grinding against you with devastating precision. “You’re already close, aren’t you? Fucking pathetic. All it took was a few slaps, a little drug in your food, and now you’re creaming all over my cock like a whore.”

You could only moan his name in response—broken, needy, soaking him with every thrust. The coil in your gut tightened so violently you couldn’t breathe, your body ready to shatter.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, his voice like poison and silk.

“Then come for me,” he whispered. “Let me feel this ruined cunt squeeze around me.”

And just like that—you snapped.

Your orgasm hit like lightning, legs trembling, walls clenching around him so tight it dragged a feral groan from his throat. He didn’t stop—riding you through it, fucking you harder, chasing his own high.

“Take it,” he grunted. “Take every fucking drop. Gonna put a baby in you, gonna make you round and full"

With one final thrust, he slammed deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, cock pulsing as he filled you full. Your body jerked, overstimulated and wrecked, tears sliding down your cheeks as you lay there trembling under him.

Breathless and used

And Jungkook—still buried deep inside you—grinned.

The room still smelled like sex.

Your body was limp in his arms, skin marked with his touch—red, bruised.

Jungkook hadn't let you move much after he’d fucked you into the floor. He'd simply gathered you into his lap, his cock still wet with your slick, and held you there, stroking your hair like you were the most precious thing he ever ruined.

“I think it’s time,” he murmured against your temple, voice soft. “You’ve been good lately.”

Your lashes fluttered as you looked up at him, dazed and exhausted. “Time… for what?”

“To go see your family.”

Your breath caught.

He chuckled. “Under my watch, of course. couldn't let you be naughty"

Jungkook knew he couldn’t keep you locked up forever. That would only risk bringing back your stubborn streak. No—rewarding you with a bit of freedom was the smarter move. After all, you were already too blind to see that any of this was wrong.

You should’ve felt uneasy or angry, like the first time he brought you here. But you didn’t.

Not anymore.

Now, you understood.

Jungkook was right. He did know what was best for you. You were wrong to think the man you once loved was gone. He wasn’t. He never left. He just needed to tame you—to show you who you truly belonged to.

“Thank you, Kookie,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him, clinging to the only person who ever really saw you.

clearly pleased—finally seeing you with the man they had always wanted for you. It wasn’t just approval in their eyes anymore… it was pride. As if they, too, had finally earned their seat at the Jeon table.

You sat quietly beside Jungkook, his presence towering even in his silence. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the table, firm and possessive. Every so often, he’d squeeze—his palm sliding just a little higher, fingers teasing slow circles into your skin, right where it made you press your legs together.

And then he walked in.

Hoseok.

He wore an apron now, working as a server at the restaurant your parents had chosen. His eyes widened when he spotted you, tray in hand—probably shocked to see you after the messy breakup you had with him.

You should have felt mad that he was there—should’ve remembered how deeply you once loved Hoseok, loved him enough to choose him over Jungkook, again and again.

But you didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Because now you knew. You remembered what Jungkook told you—what he made you see.

Hoseok had never loved you. Not really. He’d cheated on you. Lied. Gaslit you into thinking it was your fault.

Only… he hadn’t done it on his own. Jungkook had orchestrated it all—manipulated things behind the scenes to tear you away from him.

And you weren’t even mad about it anymore.

Because he’d been right all along.

You didn’t belong to Hoseok. You never did.

Jungkook squeezed your thigh again and leaned in close, his voice low but unmistakably proud.

“We’ve been trying for a baby,” he said loud enough for Hoseok to hear, tilting his head just so. “Finally setting a date for the wedding too.”

You blushed on cue, eyes falling to your lap, but you didn’t pull away when he kissed your cheek—didn’t protest when his arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer.

Hoseok’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, but then he nodded stiffly and focused on serving your family before he turned back to the kitchen, defeated.

Good.

Jungkook’s fingers traced idle circles on your hip, slow and smug.

“That’s right, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine. Always were”

#jungkook #bts fanfic #yandere jungkook #jungkook oneshot #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts #jungkook x reader #fanfic #bts yandere #bts oneshot #yandere

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 11 months ago

Text

Rage Becomes Her

Aemond x bastardTargaryen!female

Summary: of all the Targaryen bastards he could have underestimated, it should not have been her | Word Count: 3.8k~ | Warnings: smut, Aemond being a fat douche, mentions of sex work, angst, oc described as having Targaryen features

No day was as cursed as the day her mother looked between her bloodied thighs, glancing up at the faces of her friends and common women, with shame and fright. The babe between her legs was pink and crying, their skin glistening with afterbirth, and a tuft of silver hair atop their tiny head.

What was survival, when the Gods had bestowed a Targaryen bastard into her belly.

Her own daughter lived as her mother did, learning the ways of the body and pleasure. She could recall the first time a man leered at her. Only two and ten and barely formed into the shape of a woman. Somehow the silver sheen to her hair made men think they could have her before her ripening. Plucked from the tree too early.

If only her mother could have resisted the irresistible pull of greed. Purses of gold coins lined her pockets, paid to her with the virtue of her only daughter.

An income. Nothing more.

It was only when she died, that she formed her own protection. Madame Sylvi gave her more freedoms than the usual whores. Bestowed upon as her ‘choice’. Something she had known little.

The brothel was tucked away in one of the narrow, winding alleys of King's Landing, a hidden enclave where nobles and commoners alike sought the pleasures denied to them in the light of day. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the low murmur of whispered promises. Sweet ones, from between the lips of whores.

The men who paid for the service or fucking a young woman with silver hair were usually all the same. Drunken fools with egos far bigger than their cocks, eager to stick whatever they pleased between her legs to make themselves feel like men.

She rarely spared it much thought. She moaned sweetly and whispered hushed mutterings to inflate their already fragile masculinity. Did what she had to do to survive, like so many around her.

But she would be remiss not to think about her most recent patron. One whom she had stolen from Madame Sylvi, who did not seem particularly precious about the loss, seeing as the One Eyed Prince simply crossed the threshold to her room instead. As long as business was within her four walls, she was content.

He was, at first, quiet and required work and effort to calm his fraught and tense muscles. But like most men, the second he sheathed himself inside her, he was a man driven by the inescapable warmth of not only her cunt, but by the comfort of what it provided. However false.

The night is seared firmly into her memory. His body heavy with Milk of the Poppy, he staggered as he pulled his clothes off, and for some time he was unable to become hard due to its calming effects. And she saw the familiar pang of annoyance most men got when their fleshy counterparts would not do as the mind commanded.

She will never forget the look upon his face as she knelt in front of him, took his heavy manhood in her palm and pressed her lips to the shaft, stroking upwards with her touch and tongue. Beneath him like this, his face angled and sharp, one could be mistaken he was a statue. His skin resembled such porcelain. Made smooth by the hands of the Gods themselves.

He had looked upon her as if she were an entity of the Seven Heavens. And when she took him into her mouth, his breath hitched, and his hands instinctively tangled in her hair. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and relief that washed over him in waves.

She moved with an expert's grace, her rhythm steady and unhurried, drawing soft moans from his lips. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist; there was only the warm, wet heat of her mouth and the exquisite torture of her tongue. He closed his eye, surrendering to the pleasure, feeling the tension in his body slowly melt away. Aemond's grip tightened as he guided her movements, lost in the sensation and the raw intimacy of the act.

He fucked in very much the same way. With urgency. As if someone were to take her away.

Was it some necessity this great man needed, away from the bustling court and the duties of his birth?

Or she reasoned he fucked her because he was simply bored of Sylvi.

But as it became more and more regular, she began to realise that her forbidden parentage played a more significant role than she had first thought. He wanted someone who looked so like his ideal, but someone who ultimately was destined to remain, steadfastly, inferior.

Aemond Targaryen pushed open the heavy wooden door, its creak swallowed by the hum of conversation and laughter inside. He pulled his hood lower, shielding his face from prying eyes. Though he was a prince, here he was just another man seeking escape. Several women crowded him, offering wine, their bodies and services with doe eyes and lips framed with rouge.

The back of the brothel was shrouded with silken curtains, providing no real privacy but rather giving one the security of feeling it. Pale pinks, lilacs, warm amber glows bounced off the stone walls, a warm emanating through the space as if walking through honey, and willing to be drowned in it. It was a dangerous feeling indeed. The warm, sticky call of a woman’s body.

The first time he saw her he did not like her. The whore with silver, golden hair. She had a bastard’s taint on her bloodline despite its noble sheen. There was a part of him that refused to admit that despite the muddied nature of her birth, that she was beautiful. He was still willing to be held by Sylvi back then, cuddled against the woman’s breasts like a babe.

It was different now.

Sylvi regarded him, using her body as somewhat of a shield, to part him and the heavenly depravity that lay across the threshold. She said nothing, and simply extended her hand, to show her palm. Aemond noted the surprised look in her knowing eyes when she felt the weight of the purse, the familiar tune of coins ringing true and greedily.

She fetched a hefty price compared to the others. One Aemond was willing to pay for her company.

When he pulled the silks aside and stepped within her lair, she was seated as usual, upon a chaise draped with rich fabrics, her posture relaxed and yet alert. Her hair, so much like his own, caught the flickering candlelight, like looking up to the stars when one was too deep in their cups, only to find the silver light stretching across their vision.

Only the muffled music was heard, and the rapid thud of his heart.

The fabrics lay like water on her skin, cinched at her waist. The translucent material had her rosy buds perk beneath it, the glimmering and blushing shade of pink almost alike to her own flesh in the low and intimate amber light. She did not need to show herself to entice, he thought.

“My Prince.”

She greeted with a soft, warm melody of enchanting, in a manner that eased his shoulders but not his soul. He regarded her face the same way Sylvi did to him. One eye glazing over her familiar features.

His motions were easy to memorise. He would do no more than was necessary, as most patrons did. He would strip from his clothing, lay between her thighs and take her roughly. Preparation for someone as lowborn as her, and getting paid for it, was no necessity for a customer, nevermind a prince.

There were glimpses where it was enjoyable. But Prince Aemond was guarded, sometimes so much so she hardly thought him capable of the act. But he would surprise her. And once he was done, he would lay beside her, and he would talk, with only their flesh as comfort.

Sometimes, like right at this moment, he would just lay beside her, running her bright locks, ruffled from their salacious acts, through his long and slender fingers. She often thought he looked like a lost soul, eyepatch discarded and bared in this wretched place for her to lay her eyes upon. And then another thought lay under that still. The thought that this man before her had such hate in his heart for his half sister’s children, and yet visited her every other evening to sink into the haven that her own existence offered.

An existence she was sure he internally loathed.

But it seemed he loathed himself more than anything else.

“Do you dream of being more than you are.” Not a question. An inquisition shaped as a demand.

She hesitated, knowing that her answer must please him. "My dreams are inconsequential, my prince. My only desire is to serve you and to bring you comfort."

He smirked, satisfied with her response. "It is the natural order of things. Your role here suits you, providing solace to those of us born to higher stations."

She felt her brows furrow in annoyance, but tried to soften her features, his keen blue eye boring into her face. Your role here suits you. And what was that exactly? A whore who merely existed to be a sheath for men’s blades whenever it suited them. A vessel, nothing more.

"I would never forget, my prince," she said softly, her eyes downcast. "Your presence is the only thing that gives my life meaning."

Aemond reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. "Sometimes, I wonder if there is more to you than just your services to me."

Her heart quickened, but she kept her voice calm and composed. "I am whatever you need me to be, my prince."

Often, that was all it took to sate him.

He would always come back, in varying moods, and she felt the reins on her white-hot temper begin to slip, the flames rearing to the roof of her insides the more delicate insults came out of his mouth. Those among her argued that he cared for her deeply. But how can a man care for a woman and say such hurtful words in exchange?

A bastard, indeed she was. But her existence strayed the line between demanding some semblance of respect, drawn to her by the milky skin and pale hair that he recognised in himself. She pondered this contradiction endlessly. Why did he come to her, night after night, seeking her presence, only to remind her of her inferiority? What was it about her that captivated him, despite his disdain?

Her thoughts often wandered as she prepared for his visits, trying to unravel the mystery of Aemond Targaryen. Did he see something in her that he could not find elsewhere? Was it the shared blood, tainted as it was by her illegitimacy? Or was it simply the thrill of asserting his power over someone who mirrored his own visage?

“You seem troubled.”

“It is nothing,” his response was cool, followed by the discarding of his hood, only turning when she urged a decently full glass of wine into his hand.

“You forget, my prince, that I am well-versed in the art of reading men. Tell me, what burdens you tonight?”

Stealing the wine from his lips, he cannot help the wandering of his fingers, tracing the golden spun locks of her hair that glow moonlit as he touches them. “Your features betray you,” he muses, “do you ever wonder what it would have been like, had you been born legitimate?" he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

She hesitated, searching his eyes for any hint of sincerity, but found only the cold amusement that so often accompanied his words. "It is not my place to wonder such things," she replied, her voice steady. "My fate was decided long before I drew my first breath."

He tilted his head, studying her. "And yet, you bear the mark of our blood so clearly. It must gnaw at you, knowing you could never rise above your station, no matter how much you resemble the dragonlords of old."

"Perhaps," she admitted softly, "but we all have our roles to play, my prince. Even those born amongst lust and lechery."

Aemond's fingers continued their path through her hair, his touch both gentle and possessive. "You speak wisely for one of your birth," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It is a pity you were not born to a higher station. You might have made an interesting rival."

"Or an ally," she suggested, daring to meet his gaze.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Or an ally," he conceded. "But as it stands, you are here, and I am there. The order of things remains unchanged."

"And you come here to see me," she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "What does that say about you, my prince?"

“I enjoy you.”

"Or perhaps the dragon seeks something he cannot find elsewhere."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his pride pricked by her words. "Do not presume to understand me. You are here because I allow it."

"And you are here because you need it," she countered, her voice a seductive whisper. "What drives you to seek solace in the arms of a bastard? A whore?"

He pulled back, his eyes narrowing. "You speak too boldly-"

"I speak truth," she said, her gaze unflinching. "Something even a prince cannot escape."

Aemond regarded her for a long moment, a mixture of contempt and fascination warring within him. She was a puzzle, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of her bloodline. He hated and desired her in equal measure, drawn to the mystery of her existence.

She let out a breath, surprised when his fingers wrenched around her face, tugging her towards him. But her expression never faltered. “I wonder who is the depraved cunt who sired you,” Aemond murmured, deep and low against her face.

“Prince Daemon or the late King Viserys, it does not matter. Half of the whores on the Street of Silk knew the shape of their cocks-”

Aemond's grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. "Watch your tongue," he hissed, his breath hot against her skin. "You may have Targaryen blood, but you are still a whore. Do not forget your place."

She winced but refused to look away. "And yet here you are”. Her voice was steady, defiant, challenging him despite the pain.

His eyes narrowed, the fury in them warring with something deeper, something he could not name. "I am a man who indulges in his whims," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Nothing more."

"Is that all it is?" she whispered, her voice softening, searching his gaze. "An indulgence? Because if that's true, you wouldn't keep coming back."

Aemond's grip loosened slightly, his fingers trailing down her cheek. "You know nothing of my reasons," he said, a trace of vulnerability slipping through his hardened exterior.

He looked at her for a long moment, the conflict within him evident in his eyes. "You remind me of what I am and what I can never escape," he said finally, his voice a raw whisper. "The blood we share, the legacy that binds us. You are a mirror, showing me my weakness. The weakness of my House."

"And you, my prince, are the reminder of what I could have been. The life I was denied, the nobility I can never claim."

Aemond's hand twitched, a sudden urge to pull her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his, but he forced himself to remain still. He could not afford to show that side of himself, not to her, not to anyone. In another world, she might have been born legitimate, a sister to him, one he could wed, bed and breed at his leisure.

And yet.

"You speak of nobility as if it is something you could ever grasp," he said, his voice softer, yet still laced with condescension. "You will never be more than what you are now. A whore, a bastard, a mere footnote in the history of my House."

Her eyes flashed with quiet anger, a smouldering fire that burned beneath her calm exterior. How dare he speak to her this way? He knew nothing of the struggles, the pain, the countless indignities that had shaped her life.

"How fortunate you are, my prince," she said, her voice measured but tinged with bitterness, "to never have known the struggles of those who are less fortunate. To speak so easily of things you can never truly understand."

Aemond's gaze hardened, but he did not interrupt her.

"You may see me as nothing more than a whore and a bastard," she continued, her words steady, each one a dagger aimed at his pride. "But you know nothing of the world outside your gilded cage. You have no idea what it means to fight for every scrap of dignity, to claw your way through a life that was decided for you before you even drew breath."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and something he couldn't quite name. "You forget yourself," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You forget to whom you speak."

"And you forget, my prince," she shot back, her voice unyielding, "that respect is earned, not given by birthright alone. And certainly not because you have a dragon."

A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken truths and simmering tension. They stood there, locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to back down, both caught in the web of their shared blood and conflicting worlds. There was a strange respect in his gaze. As if he had seen the same flames that captivated him.

Slowly, she reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the purse Aemond had paid her that night. She held it out to him, her hand steady. "Take it back," she said quietly, but firmly. "I don't want your coin."

He stared at her for a long moment, the purse heavy with silver between them. Slowly, he reached out and took it from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. The touch was brief, but electric, a spark that neither could ignore. He could not help the smile that rose to his face, testing the weight of his coin in his palm. Looking down upon the woman in front of him with a cold but unyielding respect.

The events of that night lingered in Aemond's mind, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The war was intensifying, and the tension within the Red Keep was palpable. It was during one of these tense small council meetings, that Aemond found his thoughts straying.

“Prince Daeron’s dragon, Tessarion, has at last taken to wing. Your brother expects to join the fight soon.”

He half listened to Lord Wylde, his head half turned, eyes darting to listen to the cries of the smallfolk so loud it was as if they were in the room. Screams. Cries of terror.

“Dragon!”

“Get inside!”

“And when he does…the Hightower host will be unstoppable.”

He acted on instinct, feeling the hot whips of something he would not admit was panic at the back of his neck. The doors gave way to a bright, sunny afternoon. His one eye squinted to peer into the blue abyss, narrowed to the appearance of a great beast.

A dragon, its silver scales gleaming in the sunlight, descended from the sky.

Silverwing.

And there, riding atop the great beast, was her. Her silver hair flowed behind her like a banner for war, and her eyes, filled with determination, met his with an intensity that took his breath away. Aemond's mind raced, understanding dawning on him as he realised the implications.

Rhaenyra's recruitment of Dragonseeds had borne unexpected fruit.

She guided Silverwing to soar over King's Landing, her movements graceful and confident. She made several passes, almost as if she were flouting. The dragon's powerful wings created gusts of wind that rippled over Kings Landing, sending leaves and dust swirling, with smallfolk and merchants knocked off balance.

Aemond stood there, watching in a mix of awe and resentment. There was a part of him that couldn't help but admire the sight, the sheer power and majesty of the dragon, her commanding presence. But another part of him burned with anger. The idea of a bastard riding a dragon, flaunting her newfound status above the city, challenged everything he believed in.

What did that make him? How was he special if bastards could claim dragons? The exclusivity of his birthright felt tarnished, the unique status of House Targaryen diluted.

She seemed to sense his gaze, turning Silverwing to circle back and hover momentarily over the Keep. Her eyes locked onto his, a silent challenge in her gaze. She was revelling in her newfound power, asserting her place in a world that had tried to deny her.

Aemond's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He liked her, there was no denying that. She fascinated and infuriated him in equal measure. But the sight of her riding Silverwing, basking in her defiance, stoked the flames of his inner conflict.

As Silverwing ascended higher, leaving King's Landing behind, Aemond's eyes followed them until they were mere specks against the sky. He stood there long after they had disappeared, wrestling with the tumultuous emotions swirling within him. Admiration, anger, attraction, and resentment collided in a storm that he couldn't quell.

The sun was setting by the time Aemond reached Vhagar. The great dragon stirred, sensing her rider's agitation. Aemond's resolve hardened as he climbed onto her back. With a command, Vhagar spread her immense wings and launched into the sky, the force of her takeoff shaking the ground below.

The flight to Dragonstone was swift. The wind whipped through Aemond's hair, his mind racing as fast as the dragon beneath him. He couldn't let this challenge go unanswered.

As Dragonstone came into view, the outline of Silverwing against the darkening sky confirmed his target. He urged Vhagar to increase her speed, but the older dragon's pace couldn't match Silverwing's agility. Aemond's frustration grew with every beat of Vhagar's wings, the gap between them refusing to close.

She watched him, the man who had insulted her, bedded her, wronged her, as he turned his great beast mid-air, her own dragon purring against her touch atop the peak of a tower of Dragonstone. Even from afar, she could sense his frustration, the simmering anger that radiated from him, and she revelled in this unique reaction, savouring the way it felt.

For a moment, their eyes met, and in that silence, a thousand emotions passed between them. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching as she sat firm atop her beast, the wind whipping her hair around her face. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was also a sense of resolution, a quiet acknowledgment of the lines they had drawn.

That this was no surrender.

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