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goonforgeto · 2 days ago

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f1 driver!nanami x perfumer!reader

SYNOPSIS — It’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town French perfumery to gorgeous Monaco in the middle of July, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. But between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of Grand Prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. And when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.

CONTENT — mdni, age gap (nanami is 31, reader is 23), takes place in the 1950s, inaccurate f1 history/general history inaccuracies, i cannot stop talking about f1 im sorry, hotel lobby reference wink wink, loss of virginity, nanami has a HUGE dick, semi public sex, public making out, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected piv sex, floor sex, biting/licking, strangers to lovers, mentions of a character death, fast paced romance, angst, happy ending

PSA — this fic is 22k words, which was too long to post on tumblr, so i had to break off the end, which will be posted soon.

a/n: this fic is for @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab! i meant to have this out so much earlier but ao3 writers curse is real and i could not catch a break. i hope you enjoy my combination of jjk and f1 and i sincerely apologize for the terrible smut i feel so awk writing it.

push to pass | masterlist | divider | part 2

July, 1955

You had a sinking feeling the universe wasn’t on your side the moment you realized your business trip—thinly disguised as a much-needed vacation—coincided with Monaco’s most chaotic weekend of the year: the Grand Prix.

The city had transformed overnight. What should have been a quiet few days by the coast filled with business, dinners, and soaking up the sun was now a blur of revving engines, champagne-soaked balconies, and tourists with more money than sense. Hotels were overbooked, taxis impossible to catch, and every café table already claimed by someone wearing silk and sunglasses worth more than your rent.

Still, you tried to focus on the reason you came. A private commission from a wealthy Italian heiress: she wanted a signature perfume that smelled like danger, like lust.

Something unforgettable, she said, her voice thick with too much wine when she had visited your perfumerie at your hometown in Grasse last spring.

She was ecstatic when she heard you were planning to open your first standalone boutique, and declared that Monaco was the only place worthy of your scent.

That had been two springs ago. Now, in the heat of July, you were standing in the middle of your not-quite-finished shop on Rue de Princess, ankle-deep in linen samples and sawdust, squinting at a half-installed light fixture while your architect bickered with the electrician in rapid-fire French.

The boutique was still more bones than body, but the walls smelled of promise. You’d spent the morning sorting glass vials and raw materials you had shipped from Grasse—vetiver, jasmine, tobacco, bergamot—trying to mix something that felt like heat and adrenaline without sliding into cliché.

You were halfway through dabbing something sharp and citrusy onto your wrist when the front door burst open with a crash loud enough to startle the architect into dropping his tape measure.

A man—tall, blonde, and out of breath—stepped inside. He pushed the door shut behind him with his shoulder and locked it. Then turned around.

“Please,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Just… give me sixty seconds.”

Your first thought wasn’t who he was, or even what he was doing in your boutique. It was that he smelled like engine oil and something sweet beneath it—like burnt sugar clinging to warm skin.

“Pourquoi la porte n’était-elle pas verrouillée ?” you ask your architect in French, barely sparing the intruder a glance as you speak. Why was the door unlocked?

He blinks at you, clearly unprepared for anything other than startled compliance. However, the stranger in the doorway doesn’t move. He just watches you with a calm, measured stillness.

“I was being chased,” he says simply, in broken French with the faintest lilt of something foreign beneath it. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your eyes flick toward the front windows. The sheer curtains ripple just enough to reveal movement outside—shadows pacing, the glint of lenses catching sunlight. You recognize the rhythm of paparazzi on a scent.

The architect mutters something under his breath, likely an excuse, and disappears into the back with the electrician, conveniently, or cowardly. You’re left alone in the room with him. The stranger. The man still standing like this is his safe house.

You cross your arms. “Are you famous?”

That gets a response. The ghost of a smile, subtle and restrained. He steps closer to the counter, eyes scanning the half-finished boutique. There’s paint on the floor, swatches tacked to the walls, and your latest trials scattered across a brass tray. He picks up a small, clear bottle with care, tipping it slightly to catch the light, then rolls it between his fingers like it might whisper secrets.

The scent clings to his skin.

“Depends who you ask,” he says, finally switching to English. “You don’t recognize me?”

You shrug, unbothered. “Should I?”

That smile again, wider now. Real. Not warm, but aware. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Though it does make this hiding place a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You watch as he unbuttons the top of his shirt, just enough to breathe, revealing the fine edge of a scar across his collarbone. There’s a twitch in his fingers, like he wants to sit, but doesn’t know where in your half-finished world he’s allowed to land.

“Do I call the police?” you murmur.

He sets the perfume bottle down with reverence, eyes meeting yours. Steady. Intent.

“I don’t plan to stay long,” he says. “Just needed somewhere to breathe for a minute.”

You hum, leaving behind your samples and making your way toward him. You’re still deciding whether he’s worth the disruption.

“I haven’t apologized,” he says, his voice softer now, stripped of the earlier confidence. “For intruding. I’m sorry, and… thank you for letting me stay.”

You stop just short of him, a careful distance between your body and his heat. Up close, he smells like sun-warmed leather, salt, and the faintest trace of engine smoke. There’s tension still clinging to his frame, like he hasn’t fully unclenched since stepping through the door.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say lightly, though your gaze sharpens. “I still haven’t decided if I’m going to charge you.”

His mouth twitches again.

“I’m afraid my wallet’s in the car,” he murmurs.

You narrow your eyes, studying him now not as a stranger, but as a puzzle. He had the kind of face designed for magazines and tabloid spreads—angular, golden-skinned, impossibly clean-cut in a way no man really was. Except the scruff on his jaw betrayed a long day, and the fine line of a healing cut beneath his ear whispered of something sharper.

“So,” you say, voice softening but not yielding, “who exactly are you?”

He looks at you for a moment—really looks. There’s something unreadable behind his eyes, something not entirely comfortable with being recognized. But then he exhales, like he’s decided to give you something.

“Kento Nanami,” he says. “Japanese driver for Maserati.”

A beat.

Then, without a hint of ego, he adds, “I fear I’m partly the reason the streets outside sound like a wasps’ nest.”

“I see,” you say slowly, and offer the barest smile. “So you're the reason I’ve been nearly flattened crossing the street all day.”

His mouth lifts at the corner again, but he looks almost sheepish this time. “I’m truly sorry about that.”

You watch him for a beat longer. Most men with a name like his would already be sprawled across your showroom chaise, expecting champagne. But he remains standing, polite hands tucked in his jacket pockets, gaze never dropping below your eyes.

“Come on,” you sigh, and nod toward the high stool near your workbench. “Sit before you put a crease in your spine. You look like you haven’t breathed in an hour.”

He hesitates, just for a second, before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the stool with the kind of quiet control you suspect he applies to everything he does. He rests his forearms on his thighs, eyes roaming over the brass instruments, the scattered vials, the curling paper blotters that still hold ghosts of half-finished perfumes.

“So what’s this?” he asks, nodding toward the environment around him—brass tools glinting in the low light, unlabeled vials catching the sun, fabric swatches hanging like ghosts of decisions not yet made.

You follow his gaze, then glance back at him.

“This,” you say, “is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.”

He hums, low in his throat, like he understands both possibilities intimately.

You lean back against the edge of the workbench, arms folding loosely across your chest. “My boutique. Or it will be. I signed the lease two months ago. It’s not open yet, but somehow the heiresses already know where to find me.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth, but you don’t offer the name of the woman who sent you here. He doesn’t ask.

“I make perfume,” you add. “My great-aunt had a few small shops in Grasse. One in Nice. Mostly small, quiet places. This is the first time I’m doing something on my own.”

Nanami doesn’t say anything at first. He just nods, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling like he’s trying to picture what the space will look like when it’s finished.

“It suits you.”

You blink. “The boutique?”

He glances at you. “The ambition.”

That earns a quiet breath from you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t even know me.”

He doesn’t look away. “No. But I’ve seen the way you hold your work.” His gaze drops briefly to the vials on the counter. “There’s care in it.”

There’s a pause long enough to shift the air between you.

Then he clears his throat, gently lifting a small bottle from the tray. He holds it between his fingers like it might crack if he moves too fast. “What’s this one?”

You reach out, take the bottle from him carefully, and unstopper it.

“It’s still in progress,” you say. “A commission. Something she wanted for race weekend.” You tilt the wand once. The scent is strong—leather, bergamot, pepper—but the softer notes still haven’t settled right. You haven’t figured out what’s missing yet.

Without thinking, you hold the wand up toward him. “Wrist?”

He hesitates for half a second, then shrugs out of one glove and extends his hand. You dab the perfume lightly on the inside of his wrist, then wait.

The silence stretches a little.

He brings his wrist to his nose slowly, breathing in once, then again.

You watch him. Not the way he moves, but the way he stills.

“…It’s sharp,” he says finally. “First. Like the start of a race.”

You nod. “It’s supposed to be.”

“But there’s heat under it. Something warmer.”

“That’s where I got stuck.”

Nanami lowers his hand. He looks at you, quiet now in a way that feels heavier than the room. “You’re close.”

You huff softly. “I don’t want close. I want the exact moment you lose control and know it.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just holds your gaze a little too long.

You look away first.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “That probably sounded—”

“No,” he says, gentle now. “I know what you meant.”

“So why’re you running from the paparazzi?” you ask, tucking the stopper back into the bottle and setting it aside with the others.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I had a crash during free practice 2,” he says simply. “Rounded a corner too fast and lost control.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You okay?”

“I walked away,” he says, which is neither yes nor no. “The car didn’t.”

You nod once, quietly filing that away.

“I don’t usually do interviews or anything,” he continues after a pause, tone dry. “So everyone wants a chance to be the first to shove a mic in my face. Or a camera. Doesn’t matter what they ask. Just that they’re asking it first.”

You hum, moving to your cabinet to shelve the last of the day’s test vials. “Nothing like a little blood in the water.”

“Exactly.”

You hear the scrape of the stool as he shifts, then the low creak of it settling under his weight again.

“I didn’t mean to crash,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to hide here, either. It just… looked quiet.”

You glance at him then.

He’s looking down at his wrist, where the scent still lingers.

You don’t say anything. Just lean back against the cabinet and fold your arms again, softer this time.

“You picked the right door.”

His mouth twitches—an almost-smile, subtle but real. “I’ll try to remember it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Planning on crashing again?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not if I can help it.”

You nod toward the street. “You think they’re still out there?”

He tilts his head, listening. For a second, there’s nothing, just the faint clink of glass in the distance as someone closes up shop down the block.

“Maybe.”

You watch him for another beat. He’s not what you expected when he walked in—less polished, more… human. Tired, maybe. Or just not used to people who don’t immediately want something from him.

“You can stay until they’re gone,” you say. “But only if you promise not to knock anything over.”

He smiles properly now, low, easy, and a little surprising. “I’ll try not to.”

You move back to the workbench without another word, slipping into a rhythm that’s familiar. The room settles with you, still, but not silent. Outside, the street’s gone quieter. Inside, the soft clinks of glass and rustle of paper fill the space.

Nanami doesn’t speak, but you can feel his eyes on you, like he’s watching someone work a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand but wants to.

You pull a small ceramic palette toward you and uncap one of the vials you’d set aside earlier. The scent that rises—sharp, clean, too precise—makes your nose wrinkle.

“This isn’t usually where I mix,” you say after a while, not looking up. “In case I’m not home, I’m building a studio in the back for that. Better ventilation. Fewer distractions.”

You glance his way. His expression stays neutral, but his brows lift just enough to acknowledge the irony.

You give a small shrug. “But the bottle I sent out for the heiress—it didn’t sit right.”

Nanami leans forward slightly on the stool, elbows resting on his thighs again. “So you’re rewriting it?”

“In a way.” You swirl a drop of base oil with a citrus resin, watching it cloud the mixture. “Not from scratch. Just… nudging it toward what it was trying to be.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods toward the array of small vials near your right hand.

“What are those?”

“Modifiers. Accents. Most people wouldn’t notice them directly, but they change everything underneath.” You pause. “Wanna help?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Help?”

You gesture to the tray. “Pick one, any one. First instinct. We’ll see what happens.”

He seems skeptical. “You’re letting a stranger play with your formula?”

“Only because you’ve got a good nose,” you say, not entirely teasing. “And I’m curious.”

He leans in slightly, scanning the labels of tiny handwriting in faded ink. He hovers over a few, then finally reaches for one near the back. He holds it up between two fingers.

“Hinoki,” he says.

Your eyes flick to the bottle, then back to him. “…Interesting choice.”

“Good interesting?” he asks, and it sounds sincere.

You smile, just a little. “Let’s find out.”

You draw a small pipette and carefully add a drop to your mixture. The shift is immediate—cooler, woodier. Something cleaner than what was there before, but grounded. You lean in, closing your eyes.

The imbalance that was bothering you? Gone.

You blink, glance at him. “That was… actually good.”

He huffs. “Surprised?”

You tilt your head. “Impressed.”

He looks away, but the edge of his mouth pulls just slightly upward. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The scent hovers between you, sharp citrus softened by something quiet and green.

“I think you just solved my problems, Kento Nanami,” you smile, glancing at him over the rim of the mixing palette.

He lifts a brow, but there's a quiet satisfaction in his expression—subtle, like everything about him. “Glad to be of use.”

You reach for a clean blotter strip, dip the end into the blend, and wave it gently in the air between you.

“This is it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “It finally… settled.”

Nanami leans forward slightly as you offer the strip, careful not to touch. He inhales once, slow and thoughtful, eyes flicking closed for just a moment.

“It smells… sexy?,” he says softly.

Your chest tightens, just for a second. You blink, caught off guard by the way he said it.

“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be,” you say after a beat.

He nods, like he understands.

You tuck the blotter away, labeling it neatly in pencil. “You want to name it too, or should I not give you that much power?”

Nanami chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm. “No,” he says. “That part belongs to you.”

You glance toward the windows. The light’s shifted again—softer now, tinged with late afternoon gold. The street outside looks quiet. Whatever crowd had been chasing him earlier seems to have moved on.

You turn back to the bench, reaching for a clean bottle from the box beneath it. The glass is simple. You hold it in one hand while pouring the mixture with the other, steady and precise.

When the vial’s empty, you stoppered the bottle and ran your thumb over the top.

“Formule 11,” you say quietly. “I’ll write the label later.”

Nanami watches you as you cross the room, ducking into the back to grab your bag and coat. When you return, you’re pulling on your gloves, bottle tucked carefully in your side satchel.

“I have to go deliver this,” you say, voice light but not apologetic. “Client’s expecting it before dinner.”

He nods once, sitting up straighter on the stool, like the moment’s shifting and he can feel it too.

You pause at the workbench, then reach across and grab something from a hook by the door—your architect’s hat, soft cotton, well-worn. You step toward him and place it gently in his hands.

“If you sneak out the back,” you murmur, “go straight to the next block and turn right. That’ll take you back to the main road without anyone noticing.”

He looks down at the hat, then up at you again. “You’ve done this before.”

You smile faintly. “Not with race car drivers.”

He holds the hat a little tighter in his lap. “Will I see you again?”

You meet his gaze, quiet for a beat. “Probably not.”

He watches you carefully. Not disappointed exactly, but thoughtful, like he’s working through something he’s not sure he’ll say aloud.

“I’m free tomorrow,” he says, “after noon. Qualifying starts around one. I could get you in. Quietly.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “I just want to say thank you. I don’t know what else I have to offer.”

That earns a quiet laugh from you, soft and surprised. You glance at the door, then back at him.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Nanami gives a small nod, like he knows better than to press.

You adjust your coat and put on your sunglasses, hand on the doorknob now.

“Don’t let him see you leave,” you call gently. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I gave you his hat.”

Nanami lifts it in a half-salute. “I won’t.”

You disappear into the dusk, the bell over the door chiming softly behind you.

“KENTO NANAMI WALKS AWAY FROM CRASH, WALKS STRAIGHT INTO RUMORS — AGAIN.” Crowd-favorite refuses interviews for fifth year running as speculation grows ahead of Monaco GP.

Your black coffee has long gone cold, abandoned on the edge of the café table as you scan the paper, fingers leaving faint smudges on the corner of the page. You’ve read the same paragraph three times now—not because it’s well-written, but because your brain keeps circling the same thought like a drain.

How did you not recognize him yesterday?

His face is everywhere. Above the fold, below it. Different expressions, same intensity. Even when caught in motion, mid-step or mid-turn, his gaze is sharp, grounded—impossible to look past. And yet you did. You talked to him like he was just some stranger ducking the press. Let him wear your architect’s hat. Let him touch your work.

The bell above the café door chimes behind you, a burst of cold air brushing against your back as someone steps in. You don’t turn around.

Instead, you flip the page, eyes catching the headline from the day before:

“NANAMI: SILENT BUT DEADLY.” Japan’s golden ghost chases third straight title while giving press the cold shoulder.

You huff, folding the paper in half, trying not to overthink it. But since last night—since a surprise dinner you hadn’t planned to attend (or really been invited to, not that the heiress cared)—you’ve learned three things about Kento Nanami:

He was serious about the no interviews. He doesn’t speak to the press, doesn’t pose for cameras, doesn’t play the game. Every headline printed about him is mostly stitched together from guesswork, gossip, and grainy photos taken when he’s not looking.

He's a three-time world champion. Five years in Formula 1, four of them with Maserati. Two back-to-back wins in the last two seasons. And if he wins this week, it’ll be his third in a row—four in total. That kind of record makes people obsessive.

He's thirty-one, and started racing at six on a dusty little track outside Tokyo. Took a two-year detour through law school, then came back like he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Maybe he still does.

You set the paper down, letting out a slow breath.

The part that gets you most isn’t the stats or the headlines.

It’s that he looked at you like none of it mattered, like he wasn’t the Nanami Kento.

You rub at the corner of your mouth, unsure if you’re smiling or grimacing.

Somewhere in the street behind you, an engine growls to life, unmistakably expensive. You sip your now-cold coffee, eyes lingering on the newspaper one last time, reminded that Qualifying starts in less than two hours.

You stand, brushing down the front of your long dress before placing your fascinator carefully back atop your head. The satchel slips easily across your shoulder, the glass bottle inside tucked snug between a silk scarf and your wallet.

“Merci, Sylvie,” you call toward the barista as you pass the counter.

“À bientôt,” she replies with a smile, already clearing your cup. See you soon.

The café door swings shut behind you, and the city air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of salt from the nearby water. The streets are still buzzing, though not as loud as they’ll be by race time. You tuck your chin deeper into your scarf and raise a hand for a taxi.

It pulls up within minutes and you slide into the backseat, instructing the driver to drop you off at the marina.

As the car pulls away from the curb, you glance once over your shoulder, back toward the café window where you’d been sitting. The paper’s still on the table, folded and forgotten.

You don’t regret leaving it behind.

The familiar scenery of yachts and sailboats quickly replaces the narrow, sun-worn buildings as you near the marina. Sleek white hulls line the docks like teeth, flags fluttering softly in the breeze. The water glints under the late morning sun, a gentle sway rolling through the harbor.

You thank the driver, stepping out with a quiet merci, your heels clicking lightly against the wooden planks as you make your way down the dock. A few workers are already out—coiling ropes, polishing chrome, moving like it’s just another Saturday, even though the city’s thrumming with the pulse of race week.

The docks look nothing like they did the last time you were in Monte-Carlo.

Now, the roads are blocked off with metal barricades and brightly colored signage. Police in vests line the intersections, directing foot traffic while trying not to be bowled over by the swarm of vendors, staff, and spectators crowding the sidewalks.

Where calm seaside paths once stretched quiet and open, now scaffolding rises above the pavement, draped in banners of team logos, tire brands, and champagne ads printed larger than life. Grandstands have been erected where cafes used to spill out onto the street, their tables cleared to make room for race marshals and media crews. The air buzzes with energy and the distant hum of engines tuning in the background.

You pass a section of fencing wrapped in black netting, just opaque enough to keep the view partially obscured. Behind it, glimpses of activity: mechanics moving like clockwork, crew members wheeling carts stacked with equipment, someone in a fire suit stretching quietly against a wall.

Even the sea seems different today, choppier somehow, like it’s reacting to the weight of the city’s breath holding tight in anticipation.

You clutch the strap of your satchel in one hand.

The last time you walked this route in spring, it was lined with yachts and morning joggers. Now it feels like the entire world has been invited to watch something happen. For some reason, you’ve decided to step straight into the middle of it.

You follow the signs toward the entrance checkpoint, your steps slower now, the weight of what you’re doing catching up to you in the space between footfalls.

A security guard stands at the gate, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning everyone who approaches. You offer a small smile as you near.

“Salut, I’m here to see Kento Nanami.”

The man lifts a brow. “Do you have a paddock pass?”

You hesitate. “No. He invited me yesterday, said—he said he’d leave something but…” You trail off, realizing how thin it sounds.

The guard’s expression flattens a little. “I can’t let anyone in without clearance, mademoiselle.”

“It’s not—look, he told me to come. It was last minute. I wasn’t exactly—” You sigh, frustration catching at the back of your throat.

“Name?” he asks, unimpressed.

You’re just about to answer when you catch the flicker of movement beyond the barrier. Kento Nanami, walking out from behind one of the garages, head turned slightly as he listens to something being said beside him.

He’s dressed in a white fire-resistant undershirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the top of his racing overalls tied loosely around his waist. There’s a smudge of something near his jaw—grease, maybe—and a glint of sweat at his collarbone that hasn’t quite dried yet.

The moment he sees you, his steps slow.

The guy beside him says something else but Nanami doesn’t answer. He holds up a hand, eyes locked on you now.

Then he’s moving toward the gate.

“Is she with you?” the guard asks, tone shifting instantly.

“She is,” Nanami replies, not looking at him. “Let her through.”

You exhale, relief blooming in your chest as the gate swings open. He waits just on the other side, arms crossed loosely now, a towel slung over one shoulder, gaze steady as you approach.

“You came,” he says simply.

You try not to look too pleased by the surprise in his voice.

“Well,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair beneath your fascinator, “you did owe me a thank you.”

That gets the faintest pull of a smile from him. Almost too small to catch—but there.

“Come on,” he says, nodding for you to follow. “I’ll show you the paddock.”

And just like that, you're walking beside him.

The air inside the paddock is hotter, tighter, filled with the scent of oil, rubber, and that distinct metallic tang that clings to machines running just a little too close to their limits. The garage is alive with movement—engineers moving with practiced ease, radios crackling, fans humming low in the background.

Nanami walks just ahead of you, offering the occasional nod or clipped instruction to someone passing by. He doesn’t introduce you to anyone until you reach the far side of the garage—where another man is perched half-sideways on a folding chair, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, race suit unzipped to his waist like Nanami’s, but far less neatly.

You know who he is before Nanami even opens his mouth.

Satoru Gojo��Formula 1’s reigning legend, its most magnetic headline, the youngest to ever win a championship, and the only one in history to hold six.

He's lounging like the paddock was built for him. Which, in a way, it probably was.

“Gojo,” Nanami says, voice low but firm. “This is—”

“The perfumer,” Gojo cuts in, turning toward you with a slow grin that’s far too pleased with itself. “From the boutique. Finally.”

You blink. “How do you—?”

“He told me,” Gojo waves vaguely at Nanami. “Which, by the way, is basically the loudest thing he’s ever said about anyone that wasn’t tire pressure or lap data.”

Nanami exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I always listen to me,” Gojo replies, then leans toward you slightly, conspiratorial. “We met once, didn’t we? No—wait. You look like someone I bumped into in a hotel lobby in Tokyo. Summer of ’52?”

You stare at him. “I… don’t think that was me.”

“Shame,” he sighs, settling back with a wink. “That woman smelled amazing.”

Nanami levels him with a look.

Gojo just shrugs. “Anyway. Welcome to the circus.”

He offers a hand, and despite yourself, you take it. His grip is firm, warm.

“She’s staying for the rest of qualifying,” Nanami says, not quite a question.

You glance at him, then back at the chaos of the garage, the speed of everything moving around you.

And then back at him.

“I suppose I am.”

Nanami gestures for you to follow him as Gojo is swept up by a mechanic calling out lap times from a clipboard. You catch Gojo’s parting wave over his shoulder, sunglasses slipping back down his nose.

“Don’t let him scare you,” Nanami says, his voice low as he walks beside you again.

You glance over at him. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“Good,” he replies, eyes flicking ahead. “That’s half the problem with him. Too many people act like he’s untouchable.”

You walk in step with him through the maze of garages, wires coiled along the walls, tires stacked chest-high, crew members brushing past with focused urgency. Every space buzzes with energy, but there’s something methodical in the chaos—every movement part of a larger rhythm.

“Where does all of this go when the race is over?” you ask, sidestepping a cart full of tools.

“Crated up and shipped out. We’re in Spain next week,” he says, barely needing to raise his voice over the din. “Every week, a new city. A new setup. Then we do it all again.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine the weight of that repetition. “It’s a lot.”

“It is.” A pause. “But it doesn’t feel like much when you’re the one in the car.”

You glance at him, curious. “What does it feel like then?”

Nanami’s quiet for a beat. The sounds of the paddock move around the two of you but he doesn’t rush his answer.

“Still,” he says finally. “Everything else gets very quiet.”

You let that settle for a moment as he leads you toward one of the support trucks—open on one side to reveal rows of spare parts, stacks of helmets, and a row of posters outlining engine diagnostics.

Someone calls his name as you step inside—an engineer, tall and lanky, clipboard in hand.

“This is Ino,” Nanami says. “He keeps the car alive.”

Ino nods in greeting, then glances at you with faint curiosity. “You’re not press.”

“No,” you say. “Perfumer.”

He smiles slightly. “Weirdly, that makes more sense.”

Nanami shows you the tire wall next, different compounds lined up in rows, all marked with coded paint. He explains the differences simply, clearly, the way someone does when they’re used to being misunderstood but still want you to get it.

Then it’s on to the telemetry station, the broadcast trailers, a corner of the paddock where someone’s quietly eating lunch beneath a fan. It’s a strange, moving village of its own, temporary, but entirely self-contained.

When he finally circles you back to his garage, the quiet between you has settled into something softer. Familiar, even if it shouldn’t be.

He checks his watch, then glances at you.

“You have about ten minutes before we’re called for briefing,” he says. “You want to stay?”

You lift a brow. “Would it be strange if I did?”

He considers this.

“No,” he says. “But it would be rare.”

You smile, just a little. “I’m not here to be common.”

That earns the barest flicker of something at the corner of his mouth—close to a smile, but not quite.

He nods toward the back of the garage, where a spare stool sits tucked near the wall.

“You can wait there,” he says.

You settle onto the stool, your bag tucked against your side, the sounds of the paddock humming around you. Nanami moves a few steps away to speak with one of his engineers, his posture instinctively straightening the closer he gets to the car.

And as you sit there—watching him shift from man to machine, you realize you’re not just seeing him differently now.

You’re seeing the whole world he lives in. And you’re not sure yet if you belong in it.

He returns fifteen minutes later, his undershirt now slung casually over one shoulder, his upper body bare beneath the suspenders of his racing overalls.

His skin gleams faintly under the garage lights—golden, lean, traced with the kind of strength built over years, not months. There’s a scar low on his left rib, pale against the skin, and a thin trail of oil smudged near his collarbone, like he’d wiped his hand without thinking.

You look up as he approaches, and he doesn’t say anything right away and just runs a towel across the back of his neck and tosses it over a nearby crate.

“You alright?” he asks, voice quieter now, the edge of work still clinging to him.

You nod. “Warmer here than I expected.”

“Heat’s worse inside the suit,” he mutters, half to himself. “You forget how heavy it is until it’s already on.”

He reaches for a bottle of water, twists the cap off, and takes a long drink. His throat moves with the motion, and for a moment, the rest of the garage noise dulls around you.

There’s something oddly private about it all, this glimpse into a world just behind the curtain.

He catches you looking and offers a small, wry smile. “You’re staring.”

You raise a brow. “You walked in half clothed.”

“I didn’t realize it was a problem.”

“It’s not,” you say simply, and his smile deepens just slightly.

Then someone calls his name again and he sets the bottle down.

“I have about twenty minutes before I’m in the car,” he says, glancing toward the pit lane. “You want to stay and watch?”

Your fingers brush the edge of your satchel.

“Wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”

Nanami nods once, then starts pulling his sleeves up.

And you sit back, quietly, as the man becomes the machine again.

“So what’s this race about?” you ask, your voice low beneath the hum of the garage. “If it’s not the official thing.”

“Qualifiers,” he says, adjusting the strap on his glove without looking up. “We run laps. Fastest time gets pole position for the main race.”

You nod slowly, watching the way his hands move—calm, practiced, every gesture deliberate.

“And you… want to be in front?”

He glances up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. “You always want to be in front. It means clean air. No one kicking dirt up in your face.”

You study him for a beat. “You sound like you’ve done this a few times.”

That earns you a look. Not annoyed—more like amused that you’re still pretending not to know.

“I read the papers,” you admit, softly. “After you left.”

Nanami’s mouth twitches at the corner. “And?”

“And now I know who you are.”

He pauses. “Do you?”

The question lingers between you, but you don't answer. Not right away.

Then someone calls five minutes, sharp and clipped. Nanami gives a short nod in return, then looks back to you.

“You’ll hear the engine before you see anything,” he says. “It’s loud. Stand near the monitors if you want to see times come through.”

“What’s a monitor?” you ask, brows lifting slightly. “Is that like a… television?”

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder. There’s a brief flicker of something in his expression—half amusement, half recognition that yes, you’re definitely not from this world.

“Sort of,” he says. “It’s a screen that shows lap times and sector data. Mostly numbers. Nothing exciting unless you know what you’re looking at.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it. “Right. Numbers on a screen. Riveting.”

That earns the smallest twitch of a smile from him. “I’ll explain after.”

He turns back toward the car, and you watch as he steps into the flurry of activity—crew moving in sync, tools being passed, someone crouched near the front wing checking tire pressure. There’s an energy that builds as he gets closer to the machine, like the whole space subtly shifts to meet him.

Someone helps him zip up the rest of his suit. He pulls on his gloves, then his helmet, and his goggles go over his eyes. And just like that, the man you’ve been getting to know is replaced by something sharper.

And then the engine starts.

The sound rolls through the garage in a low, thunderous growl. It’s not just loud—it’s alive, rumbling through your ribs, climbing the walls, spilling into your chest like heat.

You take a step back, instinctively.

A mechanic gestures for you to stand near a small viewing station along the wall—a curved screen behind glass, the numbers already flickering in and out as the first cars begin their laps.

You find your spot, heart racing, eyes flicking between the screen and the blur of motion as Nanami’s car pulls out of the garage.

The moment Nanami’s car slips onto the track, something changes.

The garage doesn’t go silent, but the energy shifts. People move with more purpose, eyes fixed on equipment, radios crackling with clipped phrases and calm urgency. One of the engineers stands near the viewing station, arms crossed tight, murmuring lap times under his breath as they roll in.

You stay near the edge, just far enough not to be in the way, watching the monitor like you’re learning a new language in real time.

Sector one: green. Sector two: yellow. Final: green.

You’d asked someone what the sectors meant. They’d explained it simply enough: the course is divided into three parts—sector one, sector two, sector three. Each car is timed in each section. Green means faster than their last run. Purple, fastest overall. Yellow means slower.

“Clean run,” someone mutters. “Grip’s holding better than yesterday.”

You don’t really know what that means, but you watch the screen anyway, Nanami’s name appearing third on the timing list after his first flying lap. Cars continue to cycle through, all streaking past the garage entrance with a high, sharp whine that cuts clean through the air.

Nanami’s back into the pits quickly. The crew swarms the car—adjusting tire pressure, checking suspension, brushing dust from the body with gloved hands. You don’t see his face again, not under the helmet, but you can tell he’s speaking to the team lead—his gestures are quick but calm, head tilted just slightly as he listens.

Then he’s back out again.

The next run is faster.

Sector one: green. Sector two: green. Final: green.

The board updates. He’s holding at P4 now—provisional fourth on the grid. Two tenths off the lead. Half a tenth behind Gojo, who he manages to overtake at the next corner.

“Car’s tighter through the chicane,” the engineer murmurs beside you. “Still losing time on the back straight.”

You squint at the monitor. “That’s… bad?”

“Not bad,” he replies. “Just not pole.”

You glance toward the track again, watching Nanami slice through a corner at full speed, barely a whisper of tire screech. Everything about his driving looks effortless—fluid, precise, like he’s threading a needle at 150 miles an hour.

He finishes his final lap with just two minutes left in the session. The board doesn’t change—still P3.

Someone exhales beside you. “That’s probably it.”

The engine sound fades as Nanami pulls back into the garage. The moment the car rolls to a stop, the team moves in again, but it’s calmer now. More routine. The kind of silence that follows a job well done—even if it wasn’t perfect.

He removes his helmet a beat later, raking a hand back through damp hair before he steps down from the car.

His eyes find you immediately.

You don’t say anything—just offer a small nod, not quite a smile.

And he nods back, a quiet kind of understanding passing between you.

Gojo’s name flashes up on the board a few minutes after Nanami’s final lap—P8.

You don’t know much, but even you can tell that’s not where he’s supposed to be.

The garage doors roll open again and Gojo storms in before the car fully stops, tearing off his gloves and helmet in one motion. The second his boots hit the floor, he throws the helmet with a sharp thud across the cement, where it bounces once before spinning to a stop near the tire racks.

“No way Fushiguro got pole,” he snaps, voice loud and sharp, echoing off the concrete. “I was two tenths up before that last sector—two tenths!”

No one responds right away. The air in the garage has shifted again, but not like before. This time it’s thick with heat, frustration hanging like humidity in summer.

Gojo paces in a tight circle, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild behind his sweat-slicked fringe.

Nanami doesn’t flinch. Still suited up, still standing beside his car, he watches Gojo calmly, like this is just part of it. Like he’s seen worse.

“Maybe next time don’t overcook turn six,” Nanami says, evenly.

Gojo whirls around. “I didn’t overcook turn six.”

Nanami raises a brow.

Gojo exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. I slightly overcooked turn six.”

One of the engineers edges over, muttering something about cooling down the car. Another crew member discreetly retrieves the helmet and sets it back on the bench like it never happened.

You stay quiet in the corner, watching. It’s not tense, not really. Just charged. Like everyone here knows this is what it means to want to win badly enough that losing stings even in practice.

Eventually, Gojo turns and catches your eye, as if just now remembering you’re still there.

He points a finger at you. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”

You blink. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. That was a judgmental blink.”

Nanami sighs. “Satoru.”

Gojo throws his hands up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Then, grinning despite himself, “I’ll just crash his car tomorrow and sleep better at night.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Ino, the engineer from earlier, walks over to the two of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, a streak of grease smudged near his jaw like he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

He nods at Nanami first. “Your second run was tighter. You’re still dropping a little time on the straight, but sector one’s clean now. You hold P3 unless someone pulls something stupid in the next three minutes.”

Nanami gives a small nod, already half-aware.

Ino turns to Gojo next, raising a brow. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

Gojo groans. “Is there any good news?”

“You didn’t blow the engine,” Ino offers dryly.

“Comforting.”

“And the telemetry’s clean. Your brakes were cooking, but not catastrophic. You need to ease off.”

Gojo snatches a water bottle off the table behind him and takes a long drink. “I hate this track.”

“You said that about Imola.”

“And Spa.”

Ino doesn’t even blink. “And Monza.”

“Don’t act like Monaco isn’t cursed,” Gojo snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That kid getting pole? That’s not talent, it’s voodoo.”

“Fushiguro is fast,” Nanami says simply, checking his gloves before slipping them off. “He always has been.”

Gojo looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. He just slumps back onto the nearest chair like he’s aged ten years since stepping out of the car.

Ino gives you a brief glance, like he’s reminding himself again that there’s a civilian here, then gestures to the side of the garage. “They’re clearing the lane. Both your cars will be inspected in ten.”

Nanami nods, and Ino disappears back into the chaos, already flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

Gojo leans his head back, eyes shut now, voice low.

“You’re not going to be insufferable if you finish ahead of me again, right?”

Nanami doesn’t answer.

You glance at him. “Is he usually insufferable?”

“Without trying,” Nanami replies, calm as ever.

Gojo lifts a hand and flips him off without opening his eyes.

“We have to go get weighed,” Gojo says after a beat, still sprawled in his chair. “Then we’ve got that fan event on the south side of the track.”

“I’m not going,” Nanami announces, without looking up from where he’s unfastening the top of his suit.

Gojo lifts his head. “You have to. It’s in the contract.”

“I’ll take the fine.”

“You always take the fine.”

Nanami doesn’t respond.

Gojo swings his legs down, sitting upright now, like he’s actually considering arguing. “Nanamin. Come on. Just an hour. You stand there, you sign a few things, you pretend to smile. That’s it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Nanami finally looks up, then glances briefly in your direction. “I have other plans.”

You blink, unsure whether that was for your benefit or Gojo’s.

Gojo raises a brow, follows the look, then slowly leans back again, smirking like he’s solved a puzzle no one else was playing.

“Ah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Other plans.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Fine,” Gojo says, standing up and brushing off his pants. “I’ll just tell the team their golden boy’s brooding in the garage with his perfume girl.”

You open your mouth to say something but Nanami speaks first.

“They already know.”

Gojo grins. “Of course they do. They know everything.”

He points at you as he walks off. “Try not to ruin him. He’s delicate under all that quiet.”

Then he’s gone, whistling to himself as he disappears toward the weighing station.

The garage is quieter now, less crowded. Most of the crew has scattered, radio chatter fading into static, the sharp edge of the session giving way to a lull that feels oddly intimate.

Nanami glances at you again, his suit still half-open at the collar, hair damp, posture loose in a way it hadn’t been when you arrived.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, voice lower now, not quite private, but close to it. “Wait for me?”

You nod. “Alright.”

He watches you for a beat longer, as if making sure you mean it, then gives a quiet nod and turns, heading toward the far end of the garage, where the weigh-in area sits just beyond the barriers.

You watch him go until he’s out of view. Then you settle back on the stool, the noise around you muted now, the space oddly warm despite the open structure of the paddock. The smell of fuel and rubber still clings to the air, but it’s familiar now. Like the room’s adjusting to you as much as you’re adjusting to it.

Outside, the sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

He returns when the sky’s gone pink and orange. The energy of the paddock has dipped with the light. There’s less urgency now, more clean-up and conversations echoing faintly from somewhere down the row of garages.

You spot him before he says anything.

His hair is damp, pushed back neatly, still drying at the temples. He’s changed, traded the fireproof suit for a loose linen shirt and khakis, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of worn-in Sperrys on his feet. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him look, and somehow, the quiet suits him just as much as the control.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.

“My apologies. Medicals took longer than expected.”

You glance up at him, letting your smile show this time. “It’s okay. I told you I would wait.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing around the now-sleepy garage. “You’ve been sitting here all afternoon. You hungry?”

You blink. “Are you… asking me to dinner?”

“I’m asking if you’ve eaten,” he corrects, but there’s something dry and just barely amused in his tone. “There’s a place across the water a local recommended to me last summer.”

You pause like you’re considering it, even though you already know your answer.

“Alright,” you say, pushing up from the stool. “But only if you tell me what it felt like out there, while you were driving.”

He looks at you for a moment, unreadable. “Dinner first.”

You fall into step beside him as he leads the way out of the garage, the last of the sunset slipping across the marina, and the rest of Monaco humming quietly in the distance.

He walks you down a narrow path past the quieter edge of the paddock, the fading light stretching long across the concrete. A few lingering crew members nod at him in passing, but no one stops him. He moves like someone used to being observed, but not interrupted.

At the edge of the lot, he unlocks the door to a sleek, low-slung car and drops a duffle bag into the small trunk.

It’s a Maserati A6G/54 Spyder Zagato—all smooth curves and polished chrome, deep navy blue with cream leather seats. Even idle, it looks fast.

You blink at it, then glance at him. “Courtesy of the team?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Technically.”

You trail your fingers lightly along the passenger door before he opens it for you. “It’s beautiful.”

You settle into the seat, the leather soft and warm from the sun, and watch as he slides into the driver’s side—steady hands, relaxed shoulders. He starts the engine, and it purrs to life.

The car winds through Monaco’s narrow streets with a grace that feels effortless, the engine low and smooth beneath the hum of the evening. Streetlights flicker to life as you pass beneath them, casting soft, golden glows across shuttered windows and balconies dripping with summer flowers.

You don’t talk much on the drive, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Nanami drives like he lives: measured, focused, never wasting more than he has to. Every so often, you catch him glancing toward you at red lights, like he’s still not entirely sure you’re real.

You arrive at a small restaurant tucked into the hillside just past the marina, a little hidden terrace overlooking the curve of the coast. No sign out front. Just warm yellow lights strung low and the scent of wood smoke and garlic wafting into the street.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place they put the drivers,” you murmur as he helps you out of the car.

“That’s the point,” he says simply.

The hostess greets him by name, not even surprised to see him. No fanfare. Just familiarity. You’re shown to a small table near the edge of the terrace, the kind with worn wooden chairs and a view that makes you sit back a little slower. The sea stretches wide and dark below, the harbor glittering quietly behind you.

Nanami orders without looking at the menu, something in practiced French. A bottle of wine, too, and water without ice. You watch him as he leans back slightly in his chair, fingers resting on the rim of his glass. The linen shirt clings slightly to his arms now, still damp from the heat of the day, his collar open just enough to soften the edge of him.

The server disappears, and the quiet settles again.

“So,” you say after a beat. “Is this your idea of recovery?”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Better than the fan event.”

You take a sip of wine. “Still sounds like a fine to me.”

“I’ve paid worse.”

You smile, letting the moment breathe. The food arrives not long after—simple dishes, local and warm, the kind that taste better outside under fading light with someone who isn’t pretending to be anyone else.

For a while, you talk about everything but racing. And perfume. The things in between. Where you grew up. The first time he crashed a kart. How you used to try and match scents to people you passed on the street.

“You still do that?” he asks, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes.”

“And me?”

You pause, considering. “Something sharp, like cut stone. On the cleaner side of things.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That sounds... impersonal.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. You don’t budge for anyone, but you don’t need to.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. But he doesn’t look away either.

And under the soft clatter of dishes and the far-off hum of the city below, something between you begins to settle into place.

“So,” you ask, taking a bite of your food, letting the wine smooth out the edges of your nerves, “how’d you get into racing in the first place?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going to sell me to the press, are you?” he says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands a little flat, like even he knows it’s just a deflection.

You offer a small smile. “I make no promises,” you joke back. “With the kind of money I’d make from that I wouldn’t need to sell another bottle of perfume for years.”

He chuckles, then he reaches for his glass and finally says, “I didn’t mean to. Not really.”

You look at him, waiting.

“My best friend growing up, Yu, he was the one who was obsessed. We started at this little track near his family’s house. Mostly on weekends and summer breaks. He was the one who read all the specs, memorized every pole position, begged his parents for a secondhand kart.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“When we got older, he wanted to go pro, but I went to law school. Thought I’d grow out of it, eventually. And there’s no guarantees in motorsport, I needed something stable.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the space fill in with the hush of cutlery, the low murmur of other tables.

“He was hit by a car,” Nanami says quietly. “Week before his twentieth birthday. Didn’t make it. I wasn’t even in town for his funeral.”

You mouth hangs open, just a bit.

“I dropped out after that. Took every yen I had, moved to Europe, started over. Didn’t really care about the politics or the sponsors. Still don’t. I just… liked the feeling of being behind the wheel. It was the only thing that made sense.”

You set your fork down, gently.

“And the interviews?” you ask, softer now.

He shakes his head. “They never asked about him. Just about me. And I never had anything worth saying if it wasn’t about him.”

You watch him for a long moment, the lights from the harbor casting soft golden arcs across his features.

“You could’ve walked away,” you murmur. “And you didn’t.”

He looks at you, really looks at you then, and there’s something quiet and raw in his expression. Not grief, exactly—but something that lives just beside it.

“I think,” you say carefully, “he’d be proud.”

He doesn’t reply right away. But then he lifts his glass slightly, toward you.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

Your hand finds his across the table, your delicate fingers resting atop his larger ones. The touch is light at first, but he doesn’t move. Just lets your warmth settle there, grounding him.

Nanami glances down at the contact, then back at you. His hand shifts, not to pull away, but to turn beneath yours so your palms meet. His fingers curl gently around yours, like he needed that touch just as much.

The noise around you fades into something distant. The clink of glasses, laughter from a nearby table, the sound of the sea brushing against the marina wall—all of it softened beneath the weight of the moment.

“You didn’t have to tell me any of that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He doesn’t speak. There’s a kind of peace in his stillness now. A quiet that feels less like restraint, and more like understanding.

Outside, the sky is deepening into navy blue, the last hints of color giving way to the shimmer of early night.

Nanami gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You want to go for a walk?”

You nod.

And this time, when you rise from the table, it’s with your fingers still threaded through his.

He walks beside you down the narrow path that winds along the edge of the hill, the restaurant fading behind into soft music and clinking cutlery. The air smells like salt and warm stone, the city lights flickering gently across the bay below.

“How about you?” he asks after a minute. “Why become a perfumer?”

You glance at him, then out toward the water. “My dad was one,” you say delicately. “My dad and my great-aunt. They ran a small lab together in Grasse. I grew up in it. I helped stack blotters in jars, labeled things in terrible handwriting, and got scolded for messing up the oils.”

Nanami doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, eyes on the cobblestone ahead, but tuned completely to your voice.

You pause before continuing.

“But when I was ten, my dad left. Cheated on my mom. Moved to America with his new family.” You exhale, slow and controlled, like you’ve said it before but it still costs you something. “He took the name with him. My mom didn’t want to fight over it. She and my great-aunt started over with what was left.”

His hand tightens around yours—not sharply, just enough that you feel it. Like a presence rather than a reaction.

“They raised me,” you say. “And I guess I always wanted to prove something. That we didn’t need him to keep doing what we loved. That our name wasn’t the only one that meant something in a bottle.”

You look at him then, half expecting pity, but he offers none.

Just understanding.

“You did,” he says softly. “You are.”

For a moment, you’re quiet again, the path ahead lit in gold from a streetlamp clinging to the curve of the road.

Then he adds, a little drier, “Though I’m biased. I helped with your last one.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from you.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Nanami.”

He glances down at you, that same subtle pull at the corner of his mouth.

“Too late.”

You’re mid-laugh, brushing his shoulder as you say something teasing, when the sound of wheels suddenly cuts through the air.

A child rockets down the hill on a bicycle, his laughter echoing off the walls as he barrels past, too unbothered by the curve ahead.

Nanami reacts before you do.

One hand wraps around your waist, the other steadies the small of your back as he pulls you in, tight against him. The bike zips past, barely missing you, the gust of it brushing your skirt.

Your breath catches from the nearness of him.

His chest is firm under your palms, his shirt still faintly warm from the restaurant, smelling of clean linen and the barest trace of something woodsy, something sharp. His hand lingers at your hip, fingers splayed wide like he forgot to let go.

You tilt your head back, eyes meeting his.

He’s close. Closer than before. His brow still slightly furrowed from the reflex, his jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that give him away.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“I should’ve pulled you sooner,” he says, voice low. “You almost got hurt.”

You shake your head slightly. “No harm done.”

Except your pulse is doing a slow, traitorous thrum beneath your skin. And he still hasn’t let go.

Nanami’s gaze drops, not far. Just to your mouth. Then back up again.

A breath passes between you.

And then, slowly, he steps back. Releases you with the same care he took holding you. His hand brushes along your waist as it slips away, a ghost of contact that lingers longer than it should.

The moment’s over.

“Shall we?” he asks, voice perfectly even.

You nod, heart still a little too loud in your chest. “Yeah. Let’s keep walking.”

You walk for a while without speaking, your footsteps falling in sync as the road curves lower along the coast. The air smells of sea salt and something faintly sweet—maybe someone baking, or citrus trees behind gated villas. The city is quieter now, softened under twilight, Monaco’s usual shine turned more golden than blinding.

You don’t reach for him again, but you’re aware of every inch between your bodies. A distance that feels deliberate. Measured. Like you’re both pretending not to feel the gravity tugging you closer.

“I don’t usually do this,” you say eventually, voice barely above the hush of the waves below.

Nanami glances sideways. “Walks?”

Your mouth quirks. “No. Let strangers pull me into their garages. Let them buy me dinner. Tell them about my father.”

A beat. Then, softly: “I don’t usually tell people about Yu.”

You glance up at him. “So we’re even.”

His eyes catch yours, the quiet understanding still there, but something warmer now underneath it. He nods once.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. The truth is, you’re not sure why you did—at least not in any way that makes sense. You just know that when he looked at you in the garage, oil-smudged and serious, asking if you’d wait… you wanted to.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you admit. “But then I read the papers. Saw your face everywhere.”

He raises a brow. “Recognized me then?”

“No,” you say, teasing. “Still don’t really know who you are.”

That gets a rare smile—something softer, not as carefully managed as the others. “Good.”

You walk in silence again, your shoulder brushing his once, then twice, before either of you adjusts your pace.

“Come on,” he says suddenly, cutting left onto a narrow path that veers uphill. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate only a second before following. The path is steeper here, lined with ivy-covered stone walls and shuttered doors. You climb higher, the sounds of the street fading below.

When you reach the top, the view opens like a secret—Monaco spread out beneath you, lights glittering against the dark, the sea stretching endless and black beyond the bay.

You breathe in, quiet awe catching in your throat.

“It’s not a podium,” Nanami says beside you. “But it’s close.”

You turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you.

“Step up on that rock,” he says, nodding to a flat stone nestled against the overlook’s edge. “You get a better view.”

You glance at it, then at him.

“You just want an excuse to look at me from below.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “I am nothing but a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling up your neck as you step up anyway, the stone cool under your heels. He was right—the extra height shifts the whole scene, widening the scope. The harbor glows below like a spilled string of lights, the sea calm and endless beyond it.

But it’s not the view that keeps your attention.

It’s the way Nanami’s watching you.

His hands are in his pockets now, but his shoulders are relaxed, chin tilted slightly back to keep you in frame. There's something unguarded about the way he looks at you now, like he’s not pretending not to want you anymore.

“You were right,” you murmur, gaze flicking back toward the bay. “It’s beautiful.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel the heat of him through the soft night air.

“So are you,” he says.

Your eyes meet his again, and this time, neither of you looks away.

The silence stretches.

Then his hands are at your waist, steady and warm, guiding you gently back down from the rock like you’re something fragile, like you’re precious.

And when your feet touch the ground, you don’t let go.

His hands are still at your waist, and yours have found their way to the front of his shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric like they’ve been meaning to settle there all evening.

“Forgive me if I’m reading into this wrong,” he murmurs. His face is mere inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek. “But I can think of nothing else other than kissing you.”

Your pulse flickers, your breath catching.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against the collar of his shirt, just above the first button. “You’re not wrong.”

He leans in slowly, giving you space to change your mind.

You don’t.

When his mouth meets yours, it’s careful at first, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to want this.

But you kiss him back, softly at first, then deeper, until the quiet restraint that’s defined every shared glance, every half-smile, finally gives way.

His hand slides up your back, fingers anchoring at your nape, while your body leans into his, instinctive and natural.

The city glitters on, indifferent to your moment.

The kiss deepens with a slow, deliberate ache.

He tilts his head slightly, lips moving against yours with a patience that only makes you want him more. There’s nothing rushed about it—just quiet, measured hunger, like he’s been holding back all day and only now letting it show.

You curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, his chest warm and solid beneath your palm. One of his hands slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek as he coaxes your mouth open, like he’s memorizing the way you taste.

A soft sound escapes you, too quiet to echo, but enough that he hears it.

His mouth lingers just a second longer, before pulling back—barely.

And then: “Ahem!”

The sound snaps you both apart like you’ve been caught stealing something.

You glance to your right.

An older man, walking his tiny dog along the path, gives you both a disapproving squint as he continues past, muttering something in French about “young people” and “no shame.”

Nanami clears his throat, one hand falling from your waist, the other smoothing his shirt like it might help him recover the last minute of composure he just lost.

You stifle a laugh behind your fingers, cheeks flushed.

He looks at you again, jaw ticking, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That was… untimely.”

You nod, still trying not to laugh. “Very.”

But even as you start walking again, your shoulder brushing his—you know neither of you has forgotten the kiss. Or the way you’ll be thinking about it all night.

By the time you make it back to the car, the night has settled in fully—quiet and warm, the scent of the sea curling in through the open passenger window. Nanami opens the door for you without a word, the gentleman in him never missing a beat, and you slide into the passenger seat with a sigh that’s softer than it should be.

He circles around, settling behind the wheel. The engine hums to life beneath his hands, low and sleek, and the Maserati rolls forward like it’s barely touching the ground.

“Where can I drop you?” he asks after a few quiet blocks, his eyes flicking over to you before returning to the road.

You glance at him, then out at the empty streetlights glinting off shuttered windows and balconies. It feels too early to say goodnight, and too late to pretend this was just dinner.

“My boutique,” you say at last, voice gentle.

He nods, shifting gears like he already knew you’d say that.

“I want to know more about you,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The words aren’t dramatic. They don’t land with a crash. But there’s something about the way he says them—calm, intentional—that makes your breath catch a little.

You glance over at him, finding only sincerity in his profile. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking too hard about something that matters more than he’s willing to admit.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice softer now, quieter with the windows rolled down and the wind lifting strands of your hair.

He takes a beat.

“What your favorite scent is,” he says. “What you dreamed about when you were twelve. If you like mornings or if you hate them. If you’re planning on staying in Monaco after this commission’s done.”

You smile—slow, surprised.

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“I have time.”

“Okay,” you say, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Ask me one by one. But you have to answer too.”

Nanami hums in approval, turning onto a quieter street, where the lamplight stretches long across the pavement. “Let’s start simple.”

You glance over at him, waiting.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-three,” you reply.

He nods once. There’s a pause, brief but noticeable.

You tilt your head. “Your turn.”

“Thirty-one,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The numbers settle between you like a quiet marker. Not alarming, not awkward—just honest.

You glance at him again, thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad.”

He raises an eyebrow, just enough for you to catch it. “Were you expecting it to be?”

“No,” you murmur, smile curling at the edges. “Just… not surprised.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something wry or self-deprecating.

“Your turn,” he says.

You think for a second.

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

He exhales a short laugh, like the memory surprises him. “I think I wanted to be a writer,” he says. “Or maybe a detective. Something quiet.”

You glance at him, slightly amused. “And instead, you chose the fastest, loudest job imaginable.”

His smile finally breaks through. “I was six.”

The car slows as he nears your street, engine humming low beneath your feet.

“Your turn,” he says again, voice quieter now. “What scent do you love most?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you look out the window, eyes tracing the familiar turn toward your boutique.

“Ambergris,” you say eventually. “It’s rare and very expensive, but it smells exactly like the ocean. It just lingers without asking for attention.”

He pulls up in front of the boutique, shifting the car into park. Then looks at you—really looks.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You glance over. “Why?”

He studies you for a moment longer, his voice soft.

“Because you linger, too.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy and neither of you moves to open the door.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, fingers resting lightly on the strap of your satchel. "I have work to do, but it's only six… and I think I have a bottle of champagne left from when I signed the lease."

His gaze lifts to the windows of your boutique, still dark behind the shutters. Then back to you.

“You’re offering me cheap champagne and the scent of plaster dust,” he says, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips.

You arch a brow. “That’s the offer, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’d be an idiot to say no.”

You slide out of the car, footsteps quiet against the cobblestone as you move toward the door. He follows without a word, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen slacks, the evening light soft on his face.

When you unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of wood, resin, and unfinished plaster greets you. You flick on the light—just one lamp near the counter—and the space glows with a quiet, golden warmth.

He steps in behind you, gaze drifting across the shelves still half-stacked, the walls still bare.

“It’s different at night,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You slip off your hat by the door, already moving toward the back room, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home. I’ll find the champagne.”

You find the bottle tucked away behind a box of sample vials—still wrapped in the tissue paper the landlord had given you when you signed the lease. A single champagne flute sits in the cabinet above, and you pull out a second, mismatched one from a crate marked “to unpack.”

When you return to the front, Nanami is standing by your workbench again, one hand resting lightly on its edge, eyes scanning the scattered bottles and handwritten notes you’d left from earlier in the day. He hasn’t touched anything, but you can tell he’s paying attention.

You set the glasses down and start working the cork loose.

“It’s not cold,” you warn, tilting the bottle.

“I won’t hold it against you,” he says.

The cork pops a little louder than you meant it to, echoing in the quiet of the boutique. You pour, handing him the less-chipped glass before settling on the stool you’ve claimed as your own over the past few weeks.

Nanami remains standing, sipping carefully, then nods once in approval.

“Not bad.”

You smirk. “You expected worse.”

“I expected something flat. This is… charmingly mediocre.”

You raise your glass. “To mediocrity, then.”

He clinks his against yours.

A quiet stretches between you. He takes another slow sip, then glances around the space again.

“It suits you,” he says.

You swirl your champagne once, letting the bubbles settle. “It’s still a work in progress.”

“So are most things worth doing.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

Outside, the street is quiet, the world soft with the hush of early night. But in here, there’s something warm building between you—measured, patient, but undeniable.

You take a slow sip and set your glass down. “Do you want to see what I was working on earlier?”

He sets his drink beside yours, stepping closer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Show me.”

You walk him toward the back of the boutique—past boxes of hand-labeled vials, scattered strips of scent blotters, and an old drafting table repurposed into your mixing station. There’s a small amber bottle sitting near the edge, uncapped, waiting.

“I started reworking an old formula after you left,” you explain, reaching for a clean blotter. “I want something I can put on shelves that everyone knows about.”

You hand him the strip, freshly dipped.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like you’ve offered him something more intimate than a piece of paper.

Then, he brings it to his nose.

The reaction is small, just the soft lift of his brows, the almost imperceptible way his eyes narrow, like the scent has caught him off guard.

“It’s familiar,” he murmurs.

“It should be,” you say, offering a small smile. “You inspire finish it.”

You move beside him, shoulders almost touching as you lean forward to adjust the proportions on a handwritten note. “The base is the different, but I added more of what you picked yesterday. I think it finally feels… real.”

He looks down at the bottle again, but then his eyes are on you.

“And what will you call it?”

You pause.

“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Names come last.”

He studies you for a long moment, the air between you thick with something that isn’t just perfume.

“I think,” he says, voice quiet now, “you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

You blink, unsure how to respond.

“You have a talent for making things feel like they’ve always existed, like they’ve just been waiting to be found.”

You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your pulse too loud.

Instead, you move to cap the bottle, fingers steady despite the warmth rising in your chest.

And when you do finally turn back, he’s still watching you, like he’s not in a hurry for you to say anything at all.

“I haven’t known you very long,” he says, voice low, the kind of quiet that draws your attention even before the words fully register. “But I really like you.”

You look up at him, caught between surprise and something warmer that’s been building slowly since the night began. His expression is steady, unreadable in that maddeningly calm way of his—but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the way his hand flexes against the edge of the workbench, that gives him away.

You set the capped bottle down between you. “That’s… honest,” you murmur.

“I don’t see the point in anything less.”

His gaze drops briefly—first to your mouth, then lower, to the exposed sliver of collarbone just visible beneath your blouse. When his eyes rise to meet yours again, they’re darker. Focused.

It sends a subtle wave of heat up the back of your neck.

You don’t step away. Neither does he.

The air between you tightens, thrums.

“What is it you like?” you ask quietly, almost a challenge.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a single step closer, close enough now that the scent of your work mixes with the crisp linen of his shirt, the faint trace of his skin beneath it.

“I like that you don’t fawn over me,” he says, his voice lower now. “That you looked me in the eye before you knew who I was.”

You tilt your chin, breath catching. “And now that you know I know?”

His hand lifts—slowly, deliberately—brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, feather-light against your jaw.

“I like that you still look at me the same way.”

Your pulse flutters beneath his touch. You’re sure he can feel it.

Neither of you moves for a long, suspended second.

Then, barely a whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”

Your breath slips out shakily.

“No,” you say, almost too quickly. “I don’t.”

His hand slides fully to the side of your face now, fingers curling behind your neck—not rough, but sure. His thumb brushes along your jaw as he leans in, eyes flicking to your mouth just before his lips meet yours.

The kiss is warm at first. Controlled.

Measured.

Like everything else he does, it starts with intention.

But then you respond.

Your hand lifts, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt just over his heart, and something in him shifts. The restraint breaks.

He kisses you deeper—his other hand bracing against the workbench behind you, caging you in. His body presses in closer, firm and solid against yours, and you gasp softly into his mouth when his lips part yours with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs.

His mouth moves with purpose like he’s been waiting for permission and now refuses to waste a second.

You pull him in harder, your side hitting the wall. His hands slip to your waist, fingers splayed, gripping you like he needs the anchor, like the scent of your skin is something he’s desperate to memorize.

You’re not sure how long it lasts.

Time loses shape.

There’s only the brush of his mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the quiet sigh that escapes you when his tongue strokes against yours—and the low groan that rumbles from his chest in response.

By the time you break apart, your lips are kiss-swollen and your breath comes in shallow pulls.

His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath still uneven, but his hands steady now—one still on your waist, the other resting just beside you on the bench, giving you space even as he stays close.

“I won’t go farther if you don’t want me to,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper against your lips. “I really do like you. And I am a patient man. I can wait.”

Your fingers are still curled in his shirt, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He hasn’t pulled away. But he doesn’t press in either.

Just waits.

Your gaze lifts to meet his, and what you find there makes your pulse trip all over again—want, yes, but tempered with something gentler. Something careful.

“I won’t make you wait,” you say, pressing a peck against his jaw. “Not when I want you just as badly.”

You feel the way his breath hitches slightly at your words. His hand at your waist tightens, fingers flexing as if he's grounding himself, resisting the urge to close the space between you again too quickly.

He turns his head, brushing his nose against your cheek, lips ghosting over your skin. “Say it again.”

You tilt your chin, letting your mouth find his ear.

“I want you, Kento.”

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours, hungrily, with none of the earlier restraint. His hand slides up your spine as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting, claiming, like he’s been waiting all day for this—like he’d kept it bottled somewhere deep behind his calm exterior until now.

You gasp softly against him, your back arching as his body presses flush to yours, the heat of him making your head spin. The scent of him floods your senses, grounding you even as everything tilts.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, holding you there as he deepens the kiss, slow but intense, lips moving against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, your lips are tingling, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, “since the moment I walked into your shop.”

You smile, dizzy and breathless.

“I knew you were trouble the second you touched that bottle,” you whisper.

His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your throat—hungry again already. “Then it’s mutual.”

He works his way down, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, then lower, down the column of your throat, to the soft slope of your collarbone. You tilt your head back to give him space, your breath catching each time his lips meet skin.

His hands are patient, practiced. They find the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one, with the kind of care that feels more intimate than haste. When the last button gives, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind you.

What’s left is your slip—a delicate, lace-trimmed undergarment in soft ivory, the kind worn beneath dresses in the summer, structured yet feminine. It hugs your figure in all the ways that matter, the satin catching the low light of the workbench lamp.

He exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, not in awe, but reverence like the word was made for you.

You reach for him again, tugging him closer by a belt loop on his pants.

“Come here,” you whisper.

His mouth finds yours again. You respond in kind, hands fisting in the linen of his shirt as your back hits the edge of an unfinished cabinet behind you. It’s half-constructed, shelves still bare, wood unpainted, the scent of sawdust lingering in the corners of the boutique.

You stumble back together, tangled in each other, laughter catching in your throat before it’s swallowed by another kiss. His hands slide to your hips, gripping firmly, guiding you up as you shift—half-sitting, half-leaning—against the wooden structure, your legs parting instinctively to let him settle between them.

The hard edge of the shelf presses into your thigh, but the only thing you feel is the heat of him, his palms skating over your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your slip. His lips drag along your jaw, your neck, the place just below your ear where your breath stutters.

You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.

“I need to sit,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. His voice is warm with affection, but there’s a touch of gravel in it now—strained, uneven. “Forgive me… my knees are going to give out.”

You smile against his mouth, breathless, lips tingling. “I thought race car drivers had stamina.”

“I do,” he says, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But I also crashed yesterday.”

Fair enough.

He lowers himself onto the stool again, settling with a soft exhale as his back meets the wall. You follow without a word, slipping sideways into his lap, your knees bracketing his thigh, one arm looping around the back of his neck.

He lets out the faintest groan when you settle against him, hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. His palm slides up, slow and steady, until it rests just beneath your ribs, anchoring you in place.

For a moment, you just look at each other, your breath mingling in the space between you, your fingers toying with the buttons near his collar, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath heavy lashes.

“I could stay like this,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear now, rougher with honesty than heat.

“So stay,” you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No one’s asking you to go.”

You nip gently at the soft skin of his earlobe, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Your mouth trails from there, slow and unhurried, pressing wet kisses along the strong curve of his jaw.

His skin is warm, still carrying the faint trace of whatever cologne clung to the collar of his shirt.

Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling tight for a moment, before you loosen your grip, moving down to the buttons of his linen shirt. One by one, you undo them with quiet precision, the fabric parting beneath your fingers to reveal the hard lines of his chest and the soft rise and fall of his breath.

He watches you closely the entire time, eyes dark, jaw set, but not stopping you.

When the last button gives, you push the shirt open, your hands resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat under your palms.

“You’re very quiet,” you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

He swallows, voice rough when it finally comes. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

His hand lifts gently to your chin, fingers warm beneath your jaw as he coaxes your gaze away from his chest and back up to his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs—low, steady. There’s a softness in the way he looks at you, like he wants you to feel everything, not just rush past it.

And then his mouth is on yours again.

His lips move against yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’s afraid of forgetting how you taste if he stops for even a second.

His hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge gently as your mouth parts for him again, and you feel him sigh—into you, through you—as if kissing you is the only thing anchoring him right now.

You shift in his lap, drawn closer by instinct, and his other hand slides down to grip your thigh, grounding both of you in the middle of the barely-finished boutique, between scent bottles and blueprints and dust.

Your legs bracket his, one tucked between his thighs, the other hooked snugly over his left leg. The position draws you closer, chest to chest, your breath mingling as the kiss deepens.

“Need more,” you murmur, the words slipping out between kisses, barely coherent.

Your hips shift on instinct, a slow, investigative roll against him, and his grip on your waist tightens in response. His breath catches, a stifled sound that makes your stomach twist, and when he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops to yours.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Nanami whispers, voice ragged.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers firm, guiding your movements as you rock against him. Even through layers of fabric, the friction is electric, every shift sending sparks up your spine. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded, gaze fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse race.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Just like that. Let me feel you.” His voice is low, rough with restraint, and the way he holds you makes you feel cherished and wanted all at once.

Your breaths come faster, mingling with his as you move together, the press of your bodies and the heat building between you. His thigh flexes beneath you and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you as the coil tightens in your belly.

Nanami’s hand slips up your back, drawing you closer still. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter.

As pleasure finally begins to rip through you, Nanami’s hands move gently. He brushes his lips along your jaw, then trails them down to your shoulder once again. With a soft question in his eyes, he slides his fingers to the straps of your slip, giving you a moment to nod your consent.

Slowly, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away and leave your upper body bare to the cool air and his admiring gaze. His breath catches, his eyes drinking you in. His hands trace lightly over your skin, his touch feather-light, as if committing every detail to memory.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have had the privilege of seeing,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. He presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, then another to your heart, holding you close as you come down from your high.

His lips find their way back to yours, each kiss a gentle promise. “Let me taste you,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice deep and intent. With surprising strength, he rises, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He lowers you to the floor with careful precision, his movements both protective and yearning.

As you settle beneath him, Nanami pauses, a rueful smile touching his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“I must confess,” he says softly, a hint of dry humor threading through his words, “this isn’t quite how I imagined our first time—on the floor, of all places.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then meets your gaze.

His eyes flash with something you haven’t seen before.

“But I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.”

His hands roam delicately over your skin, exploring as if memorizing every detail. The floor may be hard and the moment unexpected, but the warmth between you is undeniable. He lowers himself, lips trailing along the outline of your breasts.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, his voice a gentle invitation. “I want you to feel safe with me, always.”

You nod, your hands coming up to his face, bringing him back down toward you.

Your legs fold under you, allowing space for Nanami’s larger body to fit atop of yours.

Nanami’s gaze searches yours, patient and attentive, as if he’s reading every unspoken word. He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breath.

“I trust you,” you whisper, your voice soft but certain.

His hand lifts off of the ground, cupping your breast, and delicately massaging the underside.

His lips curve into a gentle smile, and he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering with care.

Your head tips back, feeling a warmth blossom in your chest. With every touch, every look, Nanami makes it clear that your comfort comes first. The world outside seems to fade away, replaced by the quiet intimacy you share.

His mouth finds your nipple, latching on and suckling on the bud gently. Your hands are tangled in his hair. Around his neck. On his shoulders, your nails digging into him slightly.

And when he licks his way down your body—your dress and slip discarded somewhere in your boutique—your back arches off of the ground, trying to find more friction. Any friction.

“Lift,” he whispers, a roughness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Two of his fingers tap at your hips, and you comply, pushing your feet into the ground as you raise your hips.

Nanami’s index fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to pool at your ankles. His lips, now wet and swollen, make contact with the skin at your pelvis, trailing open mouthed kisses down toward where you need him most.

Your hand moves slowly, from the ground up toward his head, pushing him down more aggressively than you had initially meant to.

He breaks contact, sitting upright on his knees, and his eyes meeting yours.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he says. “Good things come to girls who wait.”

You groan at the loss of contact. “Please, Kento. I can’t wait much longer.”

Your hips lift again, this time wiggling upward toward him, begging for him to touch you anywhere.

Nanami’s eyes darken with desire as he watches your pleading movements, the air between you thick with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gaze back to your exposed skin, his breath warm against your sensitive flesh. His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, sending shivers through you, before he finally leans in again.

His thumb glides gently along your center, gathering your arousal with a slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver through your whole body. He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a quiet, appreciative hum before letting them slip free, glistening in the low light.

His gaze meets yours before he lowers his hand again. With exquisite care, he slips a finger inside you, the movement unhurried and attentive, as if he’s savoring every reaction you give him. He sets a steady rhythm, his touch both patient and purposeful, coaxing pleasure from you with every gentle thrust.

His free hand rests on your hip, grounding you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. Each sensation is heightened by the way he watches you, utterly focused, as if you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“So wet,” he murmurs.

His lips linger on your skin, each kiss a gentle promise that leaves your nerves tingling. The teasing is exquisite—every touch, every press of his mouth against your knee, stoking the fire building inside you. When his tongue finally traces a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, your breath catches.

He pauses, teeth grazing the soft curve of your thigh in a playful bite, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The warmth of his breath fans over your most sensitive skin as he peppers kisses closer to where you need him most, each one drawing out a fresh wave of longing.

When his mouth finally finds you, the sensation is overwhelming. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and shiver. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, and the way his hands anchor you.

With every caress, he’s not just exploring your body—he’s worshipping it, making you feel cherished and seen. The pleasure builds in slow, steady waves, each one higher than the last, until you’re lost in the rhythm of his devotion, the world beyond the two of you fading away completely

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as waves of pleasure build. The world narrows to the two of you, your breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. He’s now three fingers deep, stretching out your cunt, showing you just how much he’s captivated by you.

His name tumbles from your lips as you come undone.

Nanami slows, grounding you with gentle touches as you ride out your orgasm.

He withdraws his hand with care, then shifts back, reaching for his belt. The sound of his zipper is quiet but electric, anticipation humming between you as he slides his pants down and off.

His cock springs free— long and thick and angry at the tip. It slaps against his lower stomach with a vulgar noise, precum leaking down his length slowly.

You catch your breath, eyes widening as you take him in. He notices your hesitation, pausing to search your face. “Is this your first time?” he asks quietly.

You nod, cheeks flushed. “I want to… I just— I’ve never—” Your gaze drops, lingering on the space between you.

He moves closer, cupping your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “But if you want this, I’ll go slow. I promise.”

You glance down, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “You’re… bigger than I expected,” you admit, a nervous laugh escaping you.

Nanami smiles, gentle and understanding, a soft laugh escaping his mouth. “We’ll take our time,” he assures you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Tell me if anything hurts, and I’ll stop. I want this to be good for you—only if you’re ready.”

He leans in, kissing you softly, letting you feel his patience and care with every touch, making sure you know you’re safe, wanted, and never rushed.

Nanami’s hands cradle your thighs, spreading them. He settles between you, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You nod, giving him silent permission, and he positions himself at your entrance, the anticipation making your heart race.

You feel the gentle pressure as his tip begins to enter you, your breath catching at the unfamiliar stretch. Instinctively, you tense, a soft wince escaping your lips. Nanami immediately stills, his hands soothing over your hips, his voice calming.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You bite your lip, nerves and anticipation mingling. “Is it in yet?” you whisper, glancing up at him.

He lets out a low, shaky breath, his restraint evident. “We’re about halfway,” he admits, his voice thick with both concern and desire. “You’re so tight… it’s almost too much.”

A flicker of doubt crosses your face. “It won’t fit,” you say, your nails digging into his arms as you try to anchor yourself.

He meets your gaze, his eyes full of warmth and encouragement. “You can take it,” he assures you, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Just relax for me, yeah? I’ll take care of everything.”

He moves slowly, his hands never leaving your skin, grounding you as he begins to press forward. The stretch is intense, and you tense instinctively, a small gasp escaping you. Nanami pauses, brushing your cheek with his thumb, his voice a soothing anchor. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, waiting for you to relax, his patience unwavering.

You focus on his touch, the warmth of his body, and the trust in his eyes. Gradually, you adjust, your body yielding to him. The discomfort fades, replaced by a new, overwhelming sensation—pleasure blooming where there was once tension.

He moves with care, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace. Soon, the pain is a distant memory, replaced by a deep, rolling pleasure that makes you cling to him, your breaths mingling as you move together.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awe in his voice. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

Nanami’s head rests near your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, grounding yourself in the overwhelming sensations. The room is filled with the sounds of his grunts and your screams. The world outside fades away and your vision goes white.

If anyone were to look through the window, they’d find you an unclothed, cock-drunk mess on the floor— courtesy of Nanami thrusting deep in places you didn’t know existed inside of you.

“It’s too much,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you shift beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.

Nanami’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he steadies you. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, his tone gentle and encouraging. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. When you instinctively tighten around him, he lets out a shaky laugh, his control wavering. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “If you keep that up, I won’t last much longer.”

You meet his gaze, a flush rising to your cheeks at the vulnerability in his eyes. He slows his movements, giving you time to adjust, his thumb tracing comforting circles on your hip.

“Just focus on me,” he says softly.

Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure builds, overwhelming and all-consuming. “I’m close,” you manage, voice trembling. “I think—I don’t know, it just feels so good.”

Nanami’s grip tightens on your hand, his own restraint slipping as he meets your gaze, eyes dark with longing. “Me too,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Just hold onto me.”

The rhythm between you grows frantic, both of you chasing that final, shattering release. His words—soft, encouraging, reverent—anchor you as the sensation crests, your bodies moving in perfect sync. In one breathless moment, the world falls away, and you both come undone together— his name on your lips, your on his, his arms holding you close as you ride out the aftermath side by side.

He pulls out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling empty. With gentle care, his hand moves between your thighs, rubbing once more at your clit, his touch lingering as he traces the evidence of your shared release. He brings his fingers to your lips, his gaze locked on yours, warm and intent.

“Open for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Taste the mess you’ve made.”

You part your lips, letting him press his fingers gently to your tongue. Afterward, the room is quiet but for the sound of your mingled heartbeats and gentle, contented breaths. Nanami presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, awe and affection in every word.

You rest against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, limbs boneless and warm. He wraps an arm around you carefully, protective without being possessive, the pads of his fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine as your breathing slows.

After a beat, he leans back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“Are there any towels in the back?” he asks softly, voice low, grounding. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

You nod sleepily, pointing toward the curtained hallway near the rear storage room. “Stack in the cabinet beside the sink.”

He kisses your forehead, then slips away with quiet efficiency, disappearing into the shadows. You hear drawers opening, a tap running briefly, and when he returns, it’s with warm water and soft linen.

He kneels in front of you without a word, gentle and unhurried as he helps you feel like yourself again—caring for you in a way that says more than any compliment ever could.

When it’s done, he helps you slip back into your clothes, fastens the buttons with surprising care, and reaches for the bottle of champagne you’d been drinking earlier.

“You still want that toast?” he asks, raising the bottle slightly, a rare glint of playfulness in his eyes.

You nod, smiling as he pops the cork. He hands you your cup and sits beside you, your bare knees brushing.

“To your boutique,” he says softly, raising his glass.

“To your first place finish tomorrow,” you counter, clinking it against his.

The champagne is warm and flat, but neither of you seem to mind.

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he tips his glass back, his free hand finding yours again.

“Come tomorrow,” he says, quiet but sure, the way everything he says is. “To my race.”

You take a sip of the warm champagne, eyes still on the rim of your glass as you reply, “Can’t,” a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve distracted me far too much, Mr. Nanami.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and almost private, as if he’s not used to being told no—but is strangely delighted by it when it comes from you.

“Is that what I’ve done?” he asks, turning slightly to face you better. “Distracted you?”

You finally meet his gaze. “Completely. And I do have a boutique to finish setting up, you know.”

“Right,” he nods, but the glimmer in his eyes betrays him. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, the gentle clink of glass against wood filling the silence as you tidy up the space around you—folding a stray cloth, straightening a few scattered bottles. Your hands move on autopilot, but your mind’s already slipping ahead, out of this room, out of this night.

He watches you, then breaks the stillness with a question that lands heavier than you expect.

“When do you leave?”

You pause, your fingers brushing over the rim of a glass before curling into your palm.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Soon, I think.”

Nanami shifts on the stool, his eyes following you as you move. “I can extend my stay,” he says, steady and certain in the way only he can be. “I want to see you again.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That’s not the best idea,” you say softly.

His brows furrow, not in anger, but confusion. Maybe even hurt.

“Why not?”

You exhale through your nose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you’ll be gone again in a week. And I’ll be back in Grasse.”

He opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, but you hold up a hand.

“I’ve seen how this works,” you continue. “You live on tracks and in hotel rooms and in front of cameras. I’m simple, and we’re both busy, and you live this fancy life, and we… We don’t exactly… fit.”

There’s a long pause.

“But it felt like we did,” he says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

You turn away, suddenly too aware of how close he still is. “It’s not that simple, Nanami. You and me—it’s not real. Our lives are too different.”

You hear the stool scrape against the wood floor, then the soft hush of his footsteps crossing the boutique. They stop just a breath away.

“Why won’t you at least try?” he asks, voice low but unmistakably strained. “We can make it work. I can write letters, send postcards. I’ll fly you out for all the European races. Hell, I’ll take the train if you hate flying. Just—don’t walk away from this before it even starts.”

You turn to face him, your mouth already drawn tight with the ache you’ve been trying to swallow since he kissed you the first time.

“It’s not about trains or flights, Nanami,” you snap, sharper than intended. “It’s about reality.”

His brows crease. “Reality is whatever we decide to make of it.”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head, “reality is that you’ll be gone again in two days, and I’ll be here, sweeping dust off the floor and trying to get this place to open before summer ends. While you’re on podiums and avoiding magazine covers, and getting asked to dinner in every country you visit.”

“You think I care about any of that?” he says, incredulous now, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Do you think I want champagne parties and interviews and—being chased down the street? I hate that part of this.”

“Then why do you do it?” you fire back. “If you hate it so much, why not just leave?”

“Because I love racing,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it. “Because I made a promise to someone who never got the chance to chase this dream. And because it’s the only thing that makes sense most days.”

You stare at him, and something inside you twists.

“And I love what I do,” you whisper. “But I don’t expect anyone to wait around while I chase it.”

He steps closer, jaw clenched. “I’m not asking you to wait. I’m asking you to try. That’s all. We met a few days ago, and I already know I’ll regret it if I don’t fight for this.”

Your voice is quiet now, but no less sharp. “And I already know it’ll hurt more if I let myself believe you mean that.”

The silence that follows is thick like the whole room is holding its breath.

Finally, he says, softer, ��So that’s it?”

You look at him, and for a moment, it feels like your heart might break under the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t know,” you say. “But I need space to think. And you… you have a really big day tomorrow, so you should go.”

He nods, jaw tight, the muscle ticking as he turns slightly—like he might leave. But then he looks at you one last time.

“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”

And then, without waiting for a reply, he walks toward the door.

Nanami’s hands are sweaty, his gloves damp despite the leather’s grip. The temperature in the car is really hot.

He rounds turn eleven during Q3, the tires screaming just a little too loud as they catch the edge of the curbing. His jaw tightens.

The engine roars in his ears, but his mind is sharp, steady. There’s only one lap left. One shot.

He calculates it in a heartbeat—Gojo, Fushiguro, and Zenin are ahead. Barely.

He’s P4.

Just tenths of a second separate them, and he knows their driving styles as intimately as his own. Gojo overdrives the straights, Fushiguro’s quick through tight corners but burns tires fast, and Zenin is ruthless, but predictable.

If he plays his cards right—tightens his line through the chicane, keeps the throttle steady through the tunnel, shaves time off in sector three—he can catch up. Maybe not all of them. But at least one.

Maybe two.

And maybe, if the universe doesn’t hate him today, all three.

He exhales once, eyes narrowing beneath the visor. The blur of Monaco’s cityscape whips past him, but all he sees are his marks. His gaps. His openings.

Turn twelve—tight, downhill, dangerous.

He brakes later than he should, later than anyone else would dare. The tires scream, the rear twitches under him, but he holds it. Just enough grip to slip past Zenin, who’s forced wide and loses the line.

P3.

He doesn’t celebrate. No time. He’s already recalculating.

Gojo is ahead, quick as ever, but messy under pressure. Nanami takes the tunnel clean, narrows the gap by half a second. Gojo swings wide, Nanami takes the inside.

P2.

His heart hammers, sweat trailing along his spine. He doesn’t blink.

Sector three now.

Fushiguro’s precise. Even though it’s his first season, he’s almost too perfect. But perfection is brittle under heat.

Nanami pushes the engine harder, clips the apex like muscle memory, tires barely grazing the barrier. He knows this car and it listens to him now like it was made for this moment.

The final corner comes and goes in a blink.

He’s inside. Fushiguro tries to defend, but there’s no room. Not unless he wants contact. Not unless he wants to lose everything.

He lifts.

Nanami’s through.

P1.

The straight opens ahead. The crowd is a blur—flashes of white gloves and waving flags. The checkered flag rises into view.

The engine’s screaming at redline, and Nanami crosses the line with a full car length to spare.

First.

The radios burst to life—his engineer yelling, the garage roaring, someone laughing through static.

But Nanami says nothing.

He exhales again, slower this time.

Under the helmet, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He won.

Mechanics swarm the car before the engine even cools, team radios barking, photographers he’s trying to avoid already jostling for angles.

He unclips the wheel, hands trembling slightly. He’s soaked through, suit clinging to his spine, chest rising and falling under the weight of it all.

He climbs out slowly, methodically—no fist-pumping, no yelling. Just the quiet stillness of a man who doesn’t need to scream to know he earned this.

The cheers roll down from the stands like thunder. But he doesn’t really hear them.

His helmet comes off.

His blond hair is flattened with sweat, face streaked with grit, but his eyes sharp— looking for you.

“Nanami!” a team member shouts, clapping him hard on the back. “You fucking did it!”

He barely nods before being pulled away.

First stop: the weigh-in station. Every driver is weighed post-race to ensure minimum weight requirements. He steps onto the scale, tired but upright, and a steward records the number before waving him off.

Then the media zone. Bright lights, too many microphones. A blur of questions he half-hears, and avoids.

“Nanami, how does it feel—?”

“Three back-to-back wins—what changed this weekend?”

“Talk us through that pass on Fushiguro—”

He waves them off, refusing to answer.

And then he’s moving again—past the cameras, through the tunnel of crew members offering slaps on the back, hugs, champagne flutes shoved into his hands.

There’s a podium ceremony to prep for.

The white Maserati race suit is peeled off and replaced with a clean one, zipped halfway as he walks out into the golden hour light of Monte Carlo, sun dipping toward the sea.

Gojo’s already on the second step, grinning like a lunatic. Fushiguro stands on the third, jaw tight, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Nanami takes the top step.

The anthem plays. The flags rise. He doesn’t blink.

When the champagne sprays, he lifts the bottle, but barely raises his arm.

The moment protocol lets him breathe, he’s gone, pushing through the maze of garages and crew tents, pace urgent but composed.

He only stops once—at a little flower stall tucked beside the marina. The woman behind the cart recognizes him immediately, mouth agape, but says nothing as he gestures toward the simplest bouquet she has: cream roses, lavender sprigs, something fragrant and soft.

“For someone special?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

He only nods.

He drives fast—quieter roads now, the Grand Prix chaos receding behind him, the Maserati gleaming under the falling sun as it winds through the narrow city streets toward your boutique.

The windows are dark when he gets there. Still half-built, still quiet. But the door is unlocked—just slightly ajar—and that’s when he sees him.

The architect. The same one from that first day. He looks up from a blueprint, blinking at the sound of the bell.

Nanami steps inside, bouquet still in hand.

Your name falls from his lips when he walks in, posed more as a question.

“She’s not here,” the man says gently. “She left this morning. Said she had to return to Grasse to finalize something.”

Nanami’s lips part. “She didn’t—she didn’t say goodbye.”

“She said she’ll be back next weekend,” the man adds, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t mention much else.”

Nanami stands still for a long beat. The bouquet hangs loosely at his side, the scent of the flowers mixing with faint traces of dust and wood glue still lingering in the air.

Next weekend.

He nods once, quietly and then he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

By morning, he’s already on a plane to his next race—another country, another city, another track.

But the bouquet?

He leaves it behind on your workbench.

TO BE CONTINUED...

taglist: @bluukive @callme-naomi @seellove @southrasiansandas @roresgf @bxnfire @seokjinfairy @araveticazx @mylilsodapop @nanasrambelingsons @dilfkentolover @papoiyu @hannibuttered @cherryredkissez @tqrxi @angelkiyo @caffine-exe @meikstv @crustyaintdusty

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moonsglare · 3 months ago

Text

frustration. || arlecchino x reader [NSFT][MDNI]

Arlecchino is, for lack of better term, sexually frustrated. The cure is conveniently close and willing—read: you, her wife—but the universe has… other plans.

cw. literally just smut. all the hallmarks of my usual smut blah blah breeding arledick etc

notes. nothing to say for myself. but like this is like 6k words

She cannot focus.

It is a novel situation for her, to be sure. Arlecchino has always been of a more straightforward, single-minded disposition. Tasks are to be completed with grace and efficiency—she has never liked dallying, or letting work build up in increments. She likes to, “lock in”, as the children say, and be at her leisure to go about her personal business for the remainder of the day. And yet, today, it is taking every last ounce of willpower in her to keep her eyes on the spread of papers on her desk—and not the low, nagging heat in her abdomen.

She considers, briefly, banging her head on her desk. But such behavior is unbecoming of a Harbinger, so she settles for leaning back in her chair and sighing, folding her hands over her stomach with enough force to turn her knuckles white in an effort to stave off the urge to let them travel lower, beneath her desk, to deal with her problem. It’s not like she couldn’t. No one comes into her office without announcing themself first, and she keeps a box of tissues on her desk at all times. She isn’t particularly loud, either; at least, not when she’s alone. The mess would be minimal, she’s certain, and she’d get some relief from this need thrumming up and down her spine, but, well…

Frankly, she doesn’t really enjoy her own hand anymore—not after several years of marriage to you. It works, sure, but she doesn’t feel that same release, that same bonelessness in her lower body when it’s with you. Sometimes it does surprise her, the carnal lust you inspire within her, but then she remembers the feel of your sweet cunt around her cock, and the way you look beneath her, spread out and beautiful, tears of pleasure clumping your lashes and mewling her name and—

She groans, feeling her pants get tighter. Not helping, she berates internally, crossing her legs. Her cock aches, almost embarrassingly so. Though, she supposes, it has indeed been a while since she was last able to indulge in you. Work has been increasing, on account of the rising number of Gnoses making their way into the Tsaritsa’s possession. All that remains is that of the Pyro Archon’s, and at this eleventh hour there is much to be done for every Fatui agent, at every level. As a Harbinger, she is no exception.

She sighs again. If only you were here, she thinks idly, thumping her head against the cushion of the chair. You’d tease her relentlessly for being so wound up, but then you’d sink down to your knees before her spread legs, tease her zipper down with your teeth and—

“Fuck.”

Fuck.

Arlecchino pinches the bridge of her nose with one dark hand and shoves her waistband down her hips with the other.

Her cock practically springs free as soon as it’s released from the confines of her slacks, the engorged, leaky tip nearly touching the underside of her desk. Her toes curl in her heels as the cool air of the room kisses the sensitive flesh, and she circles her thumb and index finger around her thick base, right over the thatch of black and white curls that lead upward in a tapering triangle to her navel. She hisses at the first shift of her hand upward, and chews the inside of her cheek as her thumb swipes at her cockhead to spread the pearly proof of her arousal up and down her stiff cock.

Her free hand covers her eyes as she lets them slip shut, and she retreats into certain filthier memories. She can picture you with near perfect clarity—half-moon eyes trained on her as she tangles a fist in your hair, and slowly rocks her wet cock against your cheek. Your tongue is stuck out utterly obscenely, further wetting her already slick length before she draws back to press the tip to your shining lips. They part obediently, and then she’s sinking into your warm, wet, mouth—and she can’t help the way her hips buck into her own fist at the memory.

She delves deeper into that recollection, and her body reacts in kind. The pace of her hand rises, the sloppy noise of her jerking herself off echoing in her office. Her tip leaks an absurd amount, one she knows you’d complain about if you ever saw. You’d complain about it then put your mouth on her until your nose brushes her happy trail and the muscles of her back tense at the thought of having you deepthroat her, of being so deep in your willing mouth that you gag on it.

“Fuck, darling,” she pants, starting to feel far too warm for all her layers. Her fist flies over her cock now, absolutely shameless, her hips starting to rise up from her chair. In her mind you’re bobbing your head up and down, up and down, hollowing your cheeks ruthlessly as your fingers toy and caress her balls. Her jaw is clenched tight enough she swears she hears it creak, and with a final, harsh stroke she tips herself off that knife’s edge, coming with a muffled snarl into her palm and shooting her cum all over the underside of her fir desk. It’s thick, viscous, and strings of it cling to her twitching dick as she comes, making an utter mess. She slides her fist up and down her softening dick to wring every last ounce of pleasure she can, but it’s not the same as having you swallow around her or—Celestia above—having your perfect, tight cunt squeeze around her as she comes.

She comes down with a sigh, releasing her slick, sensitive dick and reaching for the box of tissues. That nagging heat is… not gone, but quelled, at least for now. That restlessness is still there, a buzz in her muscles that’s irritatingly present. In the back of her oxytocin-fogged mind she feels a sense of exasperation towards herself for being unable to keep from jacking off like some hormonal teenager as she wipes clean the evidence of her indulgence from her desk, cock and slacks.

By the time she’s tucking herself back into her pants, the sun is beginning to set outside her window. She’d be clocking out soon, and that means heading home to your shared bed—which, if she’s lucky, she can hopefully put you through tonight and satiate this frankly demonic lust in her system and become a normally functioning member of society again.

She is not lucky.

You’re already asleep by the time she gets back, and she doesn’t have the heart to wake you for sex of all things. You’re worn out as is—it really is a busy season for the Fatui, and someone of your rank certainly has much on your plate. So instead, she cleans up, then slides into bed next to you, and lets the way you instinctively snuggle up against her turn that ember of need in her belly into a gentle hearth of affection in her heart.

Maybe next time, she thinks.

“Next time” ends up being a whole week and a half later. Arlecchino is truly barely clinging to her sanity. She’s antsy, snappish, and backed-up; and worst of all, her curse is acting up. There’s a soreness in her arms, a pervasive heat under her skin, like her blood is boiling. No number of ice packs or cold showers do anything to soothe the heat and uncomfortableness, and it leaves her in a much, much worse mood.

Her agents bear the brunt of her ire. Never her children, by the Crimson moon, never—but all her agents walk on thin ice around their Harbinger. She’s high and dry, not unlike the gunpowder in their rifles, and it only takes a single spark to set her off. Nowadays, anyone going into her office is seen saying a quick prayer to the Tsaritsa before entering. Not that it offers much protection, but at the very least their final act would’ve been worship of the Archon, who would hopefully embrace their ashen corpse in her cool arms once all was said and done.

Put frankly, it’s Bad, with a capital B.

And so she’s ready to snarl when the door to her office is pushed open so casually, only for it to die between her teeth when she notices who has walked in. It’s you, in your Fatui coat, the lightest dusting of snow in your hair. You offer her an apologetic smile and hang up the thick mantle next to hers on the rack, then walk over to round her desk and press a kiss to her temple.

“You okay?” you ask when you draw back, and Arlecchino has to resist the urge to chase after your touch. She doesn’t fight it when your fingers curl in her hair, and you draw her head to rest against your side.

Her fingers twitch at the question, and she sets down her quill. She shakes her head with a soft sigh, inhaling the scent of you—you smell of pine and firewood, with the hint of fresh snow’s frostiness. The dull throb in her arms reduces somewhat. “Not… entirely.”

You make a quiet noise of acknowledgement at that, carding your fingers through her hair. You find the clasp of her low hair ornament and gently pry it loose, letting her hair fall free and she lets out a muted groan of relief as some of the pressure in her skull reduces.

“Rough day?”

“A week would be a kinder estimate,” she replies, almost petulant, and you laugh gently, a low crackling like firewood in a warm hearth. She noses closer to you and nearly whines when you pull away to sit before her on the edge of her desk instead, your legs between her knees.

“Poor thing,” you coo, fingers trailing down from her hair to the collar of her suit jacket, your index finger slipping past to tease it loose. “You’re so tense, baby. Need my help?”

Your touch is already addling her brain, and she blinks slowly. “Pardon?”

“Oh, baby, it really is bad, huh?” you giggle, using your other hand to pop the buttons of your own uniform, and oh—her pants are suddenly far, far too tight. “The letters weren’t exaggerating.”

She can barely muster up the brain power to ask you what in Celestia’s name you mean by that, because fuck the sight of you undressing on her desk is sending all of her blood down south. “Letters?” she rasps hoarsely, and you smile, like a fox in tall grass.

“Mm, letters. So many agents submitted in an additional request that I do something about your, ah… situation,” you tease, letting your shirt fall off your shoulders and onto the wood below you, and you’re really, really trying to kill her because why else would you be wearing her favourite lingerie set underneath? “Lucky for them—and you—I know just the cure.”

You raise your leg, and press the heel of your foot ever so lightly against her bulge, and she makes a choked noise, tingling fingers digging into your calf. You lean back on her desk, a pure vision of lust, eyes half-lidded as you gaze down at her.

“Well, husband? Care to partake?”

She has your back flat against the desk in seconds.

You let out a startled “oof” that tapers into a moan as her lips attack your neck, pressing bruising, biting kisses into the tender skin there. Her teeth scrape your pulse and she groans at the salty tang of your skin, laving her tongue and shamelessly licking into the cleft below your jaw. She’s growling like some sort of feral beast as she fumbles with the zipper of her pants, unhelped by the way your ankles have locked around her lower back with a deceptively tight grip. It takes a firm hand on your hip, pressing you into the wood in a way that has you mewling before she can wriggle enough space to shove a hand between you both to free her straining erection.

Her tip catches on your clothed cunt the moment it’s exposed, tapping against your swollen clit over its hood and making you whine. There’s a wet patch on the delicate lace of your panties, and Arlecchino has half a mind to drop to her knees and put her mouth on you instead. But her own cock twitches almost angrily at the thought of being deprived of your pussy now that she’s got the opportunity. She uses the hand trapped between your bodies to grasp her base, and she uses her shaft to rub up and down the covered lips of your core until the fabric is sticky and translucent with your slick and her pre-cum. All the while her mouth remains busy, sucking marks and bruises into your neck, collarbones, and anywhere in between that she can reach.

“Arle,” you whine, digging your nails into her broad shoulders, “c’mon, please—”

“Begging so soon?” she grunts in return, silencing you with a nip to your earlobe. “What happened to the teasing minx you were a minute ago?”

“She’s—mnn—way too horny to entertain you right now,” you quip back, your fingers creeping higher up her spine to the nape of her neck, and scratching at the base of her skull. Tendrils of sensation, like a many-limbed spider, skitter down her back and her hips roll of their own accord, a twitch rather than a thrust. Still, it has you making more of those lovely, plaintive noises, and Arlecchino herself is far too worked up to tease you as well. “Hurry up—”

“Shh,” she soothes, the hand on your thigh grasping your chin so she can swallow your words with a kiss. Her tongue shoves into your mouth, tracing the edges of your teeth and licking against your cheek. Her other hand tugs your panties to the side as her hips bump forward, her cockhead parting your lower lips wet with slick. “Shh, darling, be patient.”

And you gasp into her mouth when she finally pushes in, your fingers winding tight in her hair and tugging. She hisses as your cunt bears down tight around her, fluttering and pulsing in time with your heartbeat. Her achy, trembling hands fly up to smack down on the desk around your head with an audible thump, her entire body shuddering at the sensations lancing up and down her body like a raging blaze. She inhales a tense, unsteady breath as she pushes in further, the wet noise of your cunt sucking her cock in nearly making her dizzy—or that might just be the latent headache from before, she isn’t sure anymore. In any case, she pushes deeper, inch by inch, splitting you open on her dick until your hips meet with an obscene noise, and she nearly topples over you, the strength in her right arm giving way until she’s forced to brace her weight on her elbow instead. She pants into your neck as she lets you adjust, muttering a string of almost incoherent praise against your skin.

Your face is hidden in her shoulder, your body arching up from the table in lust-drunk frenzy, and then you’re shifting your hips, drawing a strangled noise from deep in her throat. She wants to pin your rocking hips to the wood but her hands and forearms are already worsening in their ache, burning up from within, and so she decides to draw back and fuck forward at the same time you shift low, and it has her pressing so deep inside you that you nearly sob.

“Fuck– Arle,” you whimper, nails digging hard enough into her shoulder she’s sure she’ll have marks for the next day or two, “fuck, missed you, missed you so much— shit, you’re so good—”

Her only response is a low rumble as she starts to thrust in earnest, each slap of her hips against your thighs making her solid desk creak. You’re babbling nonsense into her shoulder, a slurry of words spilling from your bitten lips much like the way your slick is dripping out and around her cock as she fucks into you. There’s a burning behind her eyes, and her arms are starting to protest further. The dull ache is now a rhythmic pulsing, and her rhythm falters as she’s torn between the extremes of pain and pleasure. Frustration nips at the back of her head and her nails scratch the finish of her desk as she wills herself to overcome the pain.

You’re already squeezing around her, inarguably close to your orgasm, but she can’t stop the choked noise of pain from slipping past her lips. She kisses and nips at your neck and fucks you hard enough the desk slide forwards, but your years of marriage has attuned you to her like no other living person. Even through your hiccuping moans and mewls you pierce through your own need with concerned clarity, palms on either of her shoulders as you lean back against the desk to get a better look at her.

“Arle, mnn— what’s wrong?” you breathe, eyes searching her face and lips pulling into a frown when you notice the conflict in her expression. “Hey, hey— shh, what’s wrong?”

She lets out a half-bitten sigh of frustration, stilling her hips and dropping her head into the crook of your neck. Her arms are throbbing now, the muscles of her forearms feeling like they might just melt right off her bones. Your hands cradle the back of her head as you catch your breath, patting her hair.

“Is it the curse?” you ask softly, and she can only manage a wordless, defeated nod into your shoulder. You hum at that, and gently place your palms against her chest to push her back and sit yourself upright again. Her hands twitch with slight relief as the pressure of holding her upper body up fades, and they slacken further when you take them in your own, thumbs brushing over her knuckles.

“Let’s finish this another time,” you suggest quietly. “I don’t want to continue if you’re in pain.”

I can keep going, a stubborn part of her protests—probably her dick talking, to be honest—but as much as she wants to continue she knows you wouldn’t let her. She’s impressed, but also not surprised at how quickly you can shut off your own arousal, in a sense, out of nothing but concern for her. It’s… heartwarming, but also a little frustrating, when she’s pretty sure emptying her balls inside your cunt would fix at least a few of her problems. But she relents, slipping out of you with a muted noise and she lets you clean her up—because you never let her lift a finger when her curse flares up—and then yourself, before you slip your clothes back on and stand on slightly wobbly legs.

“Let’s go home,” you murmur, taking one of her aching hands in your own. “Let me take care of you.” The fire in her veins does not dissipate, but it settles ever so slightly, and she manages the smallest of smiles, reserved only for you.

“As you say, my dear.”

At home, you wash her, dress her, then lead her to bed where you hold her close against your chest. It isn’t often she allows herself to little spoon, but the background pain of the curse has worn down her walls until they’re paper-thin.

So tonight, she lets herself be held by you as your fingers dance up and down her arms, soothing in familiarity, until she slips beneath the veil of a dreamless sleep.

When Arlecchino wakes up, she realises 2 things: 1) she’s hard, again, and 2) you’re having what she thinks is a very fun dream. Through the foggy haze of sleep and the barely-there, grey wisps of early morning light, she sees—and feels—you squirming on the bed, brows drawn tight and lips parted around little mewls. Her hand on your hip feels the way your whole body is tense, the muscle beneath your soft flesh flexing as you twitch in response to whatever she’s doing to you in your dreams.

“Arle—” you whimper, thighs pressing together subconsciously, and her dick twitches in response in her sleep shorts. She buries her face in the crook of your neck with a rumbling groan, her hands—now mercifully painless—squeezing around the meat of your hips. Her fingers tease the waistband of your panties, and you shiver.

“I’m here, sweet thing,” she murmurs, lips kissing a trail up to your ear. “Open those pretty eyes for me, hm?”

It takes you a while before your eyes finally flutter open, and a little longer before you distinguish the boundary between dream and reality. When you do, your arms come to wrap around her back, like they’ve always meant to be there, and she presses the shape of a kiss into your neck.

“Good morning,” she purrs, drawing back to brace herself above you on her elbows. She takes in that half-dazed, half-aroused expression of yours with a greed that would put some of her colleagues to shame, feeling her blood smoulder in her veins not with pain but with pure, unadulterated lust. “Good dream?”

It takes you a beat to process her words, but you nod, almost shyly. “Yeah. Very… good.”

She leans down and presses her forehead to yours, teasing your lips with her own and making you whine. “And what exactly did you dream about, darling?”

“You,” you answer without hesitation, your eyes meeting hers with nothing but adoration. She smirks at that, kissing the corner of your lips, and then your cheek, then your brow, all over your face. You breathe a soft laugh at the ticklish sensation, and butterflies stir the heat in her gut.

“Oh? And what was I doing, pray tell?”

You smile. “Lots of things.”

“Well, do elaborate.”

You roll your eyes, and before she can react, one sneaky hand of yours has snaked down between both your bodies to cup her bulge through her sleep shorts, and she makes a half-bitten noise of surprise and arousal at the touch. You grasp her through the fabric, your thumb lazily rubbing her tip until a wet spot of her pre-cum forms. Your other hand cups her nape, tugging her close enough to breathe your next words right into her mouth.

“I think,” you begin, and Arlecchino swears her dick gets somehow harder at the low sultriness of your voice, “we should cut to the chase and finish where we left off yesterday.”

“That so?” she manages to rasp, and you nod, leaning up to kiss her, biting and demanding, your teeth worrying her lower lip in a way that’s making her feel deliriously horny.

“Mm,” you hum, and your hand on her dick squeezes just a little tighter. “C’mon, baby, ‘m already so wet, just fuck me, please? Missed your cock, baby—”

It’s nothing but filth from your lips but Archons does it work. Arlecchino is pinning your wrists above your head with one hand immediately, the other shoving her sleep shorts down and kicking them off before her lips attach to your neck with an intensity that’s almost ruthless. You gasp, arching up, then moan when her free hand rubs you through your panties. Fuck—you’re drenched, just like you said you were. The cloth sticks to your lower lips, practically translucent, and perfectly outlining your lower lips almost like a second skin. Normally, she’d indulge in a little teasing, but restraint is a pipe dream for both she and you right now, so instead she tugs your panties to the side, and pushes in like she needs it to survive.

“Fuck,” she snarls, at the same time you moan her name, and maybe it’s the residual neediness from your dream but you’re coming immediately, back bending into a crescent as your cunt squeezes and flutters around her cock, your inner walls tightening around her to the point she feels dizzy, like you’re trying to cut off her damn circulation. Your hips jerk and twitch erratically as your muscles tense and relax, pleasure ripping through you. She rocks her hips slowly to coax you through the high, and it’s a wonder she doesn’t bust right then and there.

That is, unfortunately, where Arlecchino’s restraint ends. Because as you come down, she only increases her pace, free hand holding your hip down and in place as she starts fucking you, bullying her thick cock into your eager, greedy cunt with each drive. The headboard smacks against the wall with each thrust, echoed in time by your loud, shameless cries. “That’s it,” she growls, lips descending onto your breast through your nightdress, “that’s it, darling. Take my cock like the good girl you are.”

Arlecchino can see the whites of your eyes with how far back they’ve rolled into your skull, your lashes kissing your cheek with each flutter. Each movement is accompanied by an obscenely wet, squelching noise as she stirs up your insides and rearranges your guts. Arlecchino glances down and exhales roughly when she sees the bulge she forms inside you, rising and retreating with every snap of her hips. Her balls draw up tight, and she’s so, so close.

“I’m going to cum, sweet thing,” she grunts, nipping at your jaw. “Going to fill this perfect cunt with my seed, hm?”

The noise you let out at her words is wanton and needy, your fingers clenching in her grasp, digging into your palms. “Yes, yes, Arle— please, I want it, I need it,” you beg, writhing beneath her, “please, baby, need it so bad— I love you, I missed you, please—”

She kisses you to shut you up, releasing your wrists to claw both her hands into your waist. Your hands immediately claw at her back, nails drawing red lines into her skin. Her breathing comes in tense, ragged pants, one hand moving down to grip your thigh and push your knee to your chest, opening you up further for her pistoning cock in a way that makes you howl. Your cunt ripples, pulses and clenches, molding to every ridge and vein of her dick until it all comes to a brilliant, blazing head as she bursts off the edge, sinking her teeth into your shoulder as she hilts balls deep and—

She shoots more than a week’s worth of backed-up tension deep into your welcoming cunt, thick, hot ropes battering your tender inner walls. A low, rumbling groan emanates from her throat, past the clamp of her teeth in your shoulder as she comes and comes, filling you until it leaks around the seal of your lower lips, forming a frothy ring of white around her base.

“I love you,” she gasps, choked off and strained as she laves the bite on your shoulder with kisses and her tongue, “sweet thing, I love you so, my good, perfect girl.”

Your whimpers turn into little overstimulated sobs, your body trembling and squeezing around her. Her intense drives turn into languid thrusts as she winds down from her high, and she presses tender kisses all over your shoulder, collar and neck to coax you and herself through it. But even when you’ve caught your breath, cheeks beautifully flushed, she’s still achingly hard in you—and you seem to still want to take advantage of the fact.

“Arle,” you mewl, adorably needy and clearly not fully satiated, “again, please? Want to feel you again.”

“Greedy,” she breathes, but she draws back, pulling out with a wet squelch. You protest petulantly, and she shushes you gently as she presses your thighs together, turning your lower body onto your side. Arlecchino takes just a moment to admire the way your cunt squeezes around nothing, and some of her load dribbles out to coat your slick lower lips. Her throat dries up, and she traces a finger through the mess as if entranced. Your hole flutters in response, your hand encircling her wrist to tug her closer. She shakes her head with a soft huff, lightly smacking your ass but nonetheless shuffling forward to align her still stiff dick with your cunt before sheathing back in again.

“Still so tight, sweetheart,” she breathes, and the sensation of her cum sloshing around inside you as she moves makes her toes curl. “So good for me, hm?”

One of your hands fists in the pillow behind your head, while the other grasps her hip. “Jus’ for you,” you slur out, barely coherent, “only you, baby, ngh—“

“I know, darling,” she hums, trading her fast, ruthless thrusts from before for slow but deep drives, bullying the tip of her cock right against your sweet spot. The hand not on your ass grips your ankle to stop your leg from kicking out at the stimulation, her thumb massaging the base of your calf tenderly. “You were made just for my cock, weren’t you? This pretty pussy was made for me, takes me so well.”

You nod brainlessly on the bed, clearly beyond any more thought. You just lie there and take her cock, over and over, and a mix of affection and lust tangles in her chest. She leans down to devour your lips in a demanding kiss, chest to chest, your nipples stiff beneath your nightdress. Her eyes narrow at the fabric barrier, and she’s tugging the straps down your arms with her teeth and making you shiver as the cool air of the room meets your stiff peaks. Then her lips descend like rapture, sealing around one first to suck and nip, gently pulling, not enough to hurt but certainly enough to feel. She sucks shamelessly at your breast, only leaving one for the other once it’s thoroughly marked up. All the while she continues to fuck into you, pace not faltering even in the slightest.

“Baby—“ you gasp, feeling the coil in between your hipbones start to tighten and tense, “—baby, ‘m gonna cum, fuck—“

Arlecchino snarls, and one hand grips your shoulder, and then she’s manhandling you onto your front before you can even register what’s happening. She traps both your legs between her own and lies flat above you, nearly crushing you into the mattress as she pushes in deep. Your pussy practically convulses, and you moan almost whorishly at the new depth she’s achieving with you prone like this. Your face is half-pressed into the sheets, your noises muffled, and Arlecchino remedies that by tangling her fingers in your hair and tugging back. She takes in the drool trickling down the corner of your lips as she fucks you absolutely stupid, only the whites of your eyes visible.

“Go ahead and cum, darling,” she murmurs, “make a mess on my cock. It’s all yours.”

And you do, beautifully, sweetly, with a hoarse cry of her name. You squeeze and pulse around her dick, a rhythmic clench of your muscles around her from base to tip, like you’re trying to draw her orgasm out as well. She bites her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood to prevent herself from doing just that—rocking slowly and shallowly as you course through the waves of your orgasm.

Once your shivering subsides, she leans down to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder—and then she’s gripping your hips with both hands and tugging them up, up, and up until you’re face down on the bed with your ass braced up on your knees. You whine at the sudden movement, only to be smothered when she curls her fingers around your nape while the other grips your hip and she starts utterly pounding into you again.

“Arle—“ you cry out, like a sob, “—wait, ‘s too much, baby—“

Her fingers press on the underside of your neck, your throat, effectively smothering your protests. Not tight enough to choke, but certainly tight enough to feel. She fucks you with the subtlety of a battering ram, all ruthless tenacity, like a woman possessed. She keeps going despite your pleas—you haven’t said the safeword yet, after all. The hand on your hip isn’t idle, occasionally smacking the globe of your ass as it shakes with each harsh thrust.

“‘Too much?’” she mocks, grinding her dick in as far as it can go, “but this sweet cunt keeps clenching around me, darling. You can take more, I know you can.”

You don’t protest with words anymore, just whiny half-sobs, and she rapidly approaches her second high. The muscles of her lower body tense and flex, her hamstrings burning slightly with exertion. All the while she murmurs quite praise barely audible over the plap-plap-plap of skin meeting skin, because for all she may be fucking you like a common whore you are still her wife, her darling beloved, and she will ensure you know as such.

She leans down and kisses all over the side of your face, the hand on your neck abandoning its harsh grip to curl lovingly over your own fisted in the sheets. She coaxes you to let go of the fabric, and then she’s slotting her warm fingers between your own, gently holding your hand even as she seemingly fucks you to oblivion. She rests her head against yours, cheek to cheek, and whispers, “I adore you, my darling, my sweet girl. Take all of me, sweetheart, take it all.”

She buries herself as deep as she can go when she comes, her cum undoubtedly spilling right at your cervix. She entertains the idea that it’s making its way into your womb, that she’s breeding you, and she hisses softly as another jet of cum spurts from her tip into your tender cunt. She feels her balls twitch as they empty into you, pumping you full for the second time this morning. More of your slick and her cum drips from you, down your thighs and onto the sheets which most certainly have to be changed later.

When she finally pulls out, she feels boneless, like she could flop over and sleep another eight hours. But first, she gently guides you back onto your back, her hand cupping your cheek to focus your glassy gaze on her.

“Look at me, darling,” she whispers, thumb caressing your cheek. “Are you alright?”

It takes you a minute, but then you’re turning your face into her palm to kiss the heel of her hand and nodding. “Yeah,” you answer, voice shot, and a tiny flutter of pride swells in her gut. Your eyes flick down her body, widening a fraction, before a disbelieving laugh slips from your lips.

“You’re still hard?”

Arlecchino huffs. “I did tell you it has been a long week.”

She’s not fully hard, more so semi-hard—one more round would have her soft for certain. Although, she can’t quite bring herself to ask for one more round, with the way you’re so thoroughly fucked out. You seem to notice her turmoil, as always, and reach down to grasp her semi-hard dick, pumping it slowly. She shudders, hands digging into the meat of your thighs. “Darling…”

“Come closer,” you order, and she does, and you both groan when her dick slides over your pussy, tip catching on your clit. She glances at you quizzically—and then you’re flattening your hand over your lower lips, creating an almost makeshift passage for her to fuck. She swallows thickly, desire reigniting in her gut, and she does exactly that.

She moves slowly, languidly, eyes locked in yours as her dick slides back and forth over your messy cunt. Her length is covered in her own load and your slick, making the slide easy. She makes an effort to bump your clit with each movement, relishing in the way you sigh with pleasure. Something warm blooms in her chest, beneath her sternum, and it draws her to you like a magnet, compelling her to lean down and capture your lips in a soft kiss. Your free hand cups her jaw as you return it with equal fondness.

“I love you,” she breathes into your mouth, and you smile against her lips.

“I love you too,” you answer, caressing your thumb over her cheekbone, before mewling softly, eyes slipping shut. “Arle, mm… gonna cum, baby.”

“Me too, darling,” she groans as her thrusts get a little jerkier. She’s not long, now. She makes a choked noise when your fingers grasp her gently, your thumb alternating between rubbing the sensitive underside of her frenulum and her leaky tip, and then she’s toppling off the edge with you in tow. “Fuck—“

She lets out an uncharacteristically high-pitched cry as she comes, spilling her cum onto the plane of your belly. She’s only distantly aware of you finding your peak as well, thighs twitching as you come from stimulation on your clit alone. She collapses on top of you, shuddering and shaking, her face tucked in the juncture of your shoulder and neck, as she keeps painting your belly with ropes of cum until she’s finally drained dry and soft.

The sun is warm on her skin when she finally comes to again, your hands tracing up and down her back just making her go even more boneless against you. This is what she’s been needing—this full and complete release, where despite how she can’t seem to move a muscle she feels as light as a feather.

“Thank you,” she rasps against your neck, and you chuckle.

“For what?”

“For this,” she answers easily, kissing your shoulder. “And for being with me.”

Your arms loop around her broad back, and she sinks further into the sanctuary of your embrace. You’re warm, like a perfect hearth on a cold day.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, with anyone else.”

The sentiment pulls a rare, genuine smile from her, that she hides against your skin like a playful secret reserved only for you and no one else—not the Fatui, or the House, or even the gods. Just you, and only you, the way it’s meant to be, and always will be.

“And I, you—forever and always, my love.”

She made this vow once at the altar, and she will continue to make it every day until she last draws breath—for it is the one thing she knows to be true in this world, beyond fate and even beyond death: that she loves you, and you love her, and that is all she needs.

#sev.writes #[nsft]#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino smut #no one asked but. this is how estelle’s conception goes JAJDHXNSSNCN #ok bye going to shower and then *cries* do statistixs #cant even spell it right but idc atp shcjdmkd #bon apetitty arle nation

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flofaiiry · 2 months ago

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i think it's common consensus on this app that jack abbot has a breeding kink so imagine telling jack u have baby fever after seeing a few cute videos on tiktok or something and ur probably also ovulating so u want it extra bad. this man immediately springs into action, picking you up off the couch where you're curled up watching said baby videos and carrying u full bridal style to the bedroom. at first ur like jack!!! wtf!!! and he just goes, "u said u want a baby, so lets go make a baby," with a TOTALLY STRAIGHT FACE. normally he's all about making you come a few times before he fucks u but after hearing you say how badly u want to be pregnant with his baby all of his patience just flies out the window and he's bending you over onto the bed the second you walk into the room, shorts pulled down only enough to reveal ur panties and then those are only getting pulled to the side because this man cannot wait another second to be inside of u. he fucks u hard and deep and slow, just saying absolute filth about how well u take him and how pretty ur going to look carrying his baby and how he cant wait to make you a mom. like i said he is impatient so he definitely doesn't last long, his orgasm coming on as soon as yours finishes. "you sure you want this? huh?" and ur nodding like an idiot begging for him to fill u up and put a baby in you and those words are all he needs to just bury his cock in you and finish as deep as he can inside of you. he also definitely fingers anything that leaks out back into u, muttering smth about how you can't waste any of this.... idk just a thought

#i dont know what just came over me #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #flora's thots

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msfantasy-anime · 11 months ago

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Sorry, I’m … married!

Monkey. D Luffy x Reader

Request: An overly zealous marine by the name of Shimoi Zappa is enraptured by your beauty and just will not take no for an answer. Your final rejection comes in the form of a blow to his face which earns you a bounty and DoA wanted poster.

A/n: not my best, but I’m setting up the story to pushing Y/n into the straw hat crew for future adventures.

Part III

It’s been long since you parted ways with your ‘husband’ and the straw hat pirates on the docks that day.

Despite his incessant pleas, to join the crew. You were adamant on having a your own adventure. You weren’t quite ready to give up your freedom to serve in a wanted pirate crew, the world government chasing you until you are caught.

Piracy was always a dream of Sabo, Luffy and Aces, but yours was just to explore the world.

Despite all your reasonings, the tearful parting left you feeling unsure if you made the right decision. The New World is far more dangerous than the redline ever could be, maybe joining a strong and rambunctious pirate crew would’ve actually led to even greater adventures.

You continued to contemplate, your eyes glazed off into the distance sunset horizons as the merchants ship that granted you passage is offloading supplies onto a marine base island.

The captain of the merchants ship encouraged you to explore the island, but the marines on an isolated training island is begging for trouble. All of the officers are hyped up on self-importance, they’re all itching to prove their self worth by dominate any and all around them regardless if it was warranted enough. You’ve traveled enough to know that there are just as many corrupt marines as there are good marines. But you have truely had your fill for a life time and avoid them where possible.

It’s better to just stay nice and close to the ship and leave as soon as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, your train of thought comes to a crashing holt when you feel the intense sensation of being watched.

Springing from your seat, you turn around quickly, to see the creeping figure of a marine, slinking up behind you.

“Oh dear, oh my, what a sight you are.” The tall creepy marine exclaims, his cheeks blushing. “I knew you’d look pretty considering how gorgeous you look with just your back turned! My name is Shimoi Zappa. May I have your name miss?” The marine swoons. His flirtations make your stomach sink.

“Errrrrrm… it’s Y/n.”

“Y/n?! What a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” He swoons yet again, making you wildly uncomfortable.

“Gee, thanks.” You dead pan, looking towards the merchants ship, begging silently for help escaping this weird encounter.

“Please Miss, my heart has never yearned for another like it has for you. Please do me the honour of becoming my wife!” With one knee to the ground, he snatches your hand and places a weirdly wet kiss along your knuckles.

“UGH! No, thanks anyway.” You try to add politely on the end, whipping the back of your hand.

Falling completely onto his hands and knees, he begins to sob hysterically into the ground. “No?! Why?!” He sobs once again, grabbing your hips pushing his teary eyes into your abdomen, making your squirm in discomfort.

“Sorry, you see I’m…” Your mind reels in search of the perfect answer that won’t offend the creep whilst also strongly reaffirming your unavailability. “Im married!”

“This cannot be, this can’t be! Where is this husband of yours.” He asks, looking around, as if a man would pop into immediate view. Your jaw clenches in irritation, why couldn’t he just believe your words?

“Well, he’s off exploring the world-“

“Without you?! What kind of husband abandons his wife like this?! He mustn’t be a good husband if he leaves you alone out in this world full of creeps.”

“Right…”

“Please reconsider leaving that useless husband of yours and marry me instead.” He begs once again, grabbing your hand once again and giving it a pleading squeeze.

“Listen buddie, shut up about my husband. He’s a great man. Someone as vile as you will never understand.” Your usual amicable nature goes flying out the window. The overbearing flirting was one thing, but no one will ever disrespect Luffy to your face and live to tell the tale.

All commonsense goes flying out the window as you hand a devastating heavy hit to his face, knocking him out instantly.

“Hey Luffy! Come and look! There’s a new pirate bounty out.” Brook exclaims excitedly.

Luffy launches himself with bountiful energy, keen to see his new bounty. Only to be faced with the non other than your bounty.

Monkey. Y/n 100,000,000 berries. Dead or Alive.

“Hahaha! She said she didn’t want to join because having a bounty would make it hard to travel- but the dumby went and got a bounty anyway! Hahaha!” Luffy cackles. “Huh? Hey, did you guys notice that Y/n has my last name? That’s weird- I wonder why they did that.” Luffy questions scratching his head.

“100,000,000 million berries! What did Y/n do?!” Nami asks Brook in horror.

“The article says that Y/n was visiting the marine training island on a merchants ship when she punched a marine after talking poorly of her husband Monkey. D Luffy.” Luffy’s cackle continues until it comes to an abrupt halt.

“What island was she on again? Let’s go pick her up on the way to Big Moms.” He announce with a wide toothy smile.

“Great, maybe we can also steal some food while we are at it.” Nami agrees, returning back to the helm.

#one piece imagine #one piece x y/n #one piece x s/o #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece fluff #luffy x you #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy imagine #luffy fluff #luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy x Reader

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gossamyrrh · 4 months ago

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♯ 5 MINUTES ⋮ L. ACKERMAN

୨ৎ fluff, fem pronouns used when referring to reader | you and levi's nighttime routine . . . divider by @/toastray ⊹ ࣪ ˖

it begins as always:

levi comes home late. withered. drained of all his energy and then some, moving on auto-pilot throughout his flat like a poorly-oiled machine, having fallen victim, yet again, to the havoc of a long day at the office.

he toes off his loafers with some struggle. sluggishly removes his coat. shuffles to the master bedroom with an unfathomable amount of lethargy, that he cannot begin to understand how he managed to make it there without passing out—

(in this state, he can’t understand a thing at all.)

—but, somehow, he does.

and when he enters the meagre room, his heart skips a little to see you there, cocooned in your knitted blankets, a lone candle lit to keep you company, he suspects. though he is utterly weary—on the precipice of acute exhaustion, eyes rimmed with red and brimming with fatigue, he thinks, it is all worth it if you are there.

a smile dusts upon his lips.

you say not a word. just watch him with eyelids half-drawn as he drags his feet past the threshold, creating a chorus of linen and cotton strumming, and proving that you, too, are a victim of a long, long day.

you wait for him to collapse onto the bed, a stubborn spring corkscrewing into his spine, a small yelp escaping in reply, before you murmur: “how was your day, my love?”

he sighs, and it is shaky. crumbling. like the cavity of an old rock that has long eroded to morsels and flakes of grit. succumbed to the ever-moving passage of time. he wants to lie. more than anything, he wants to lie. tell you that everything went smoothly, that he finally has the upperhand—thinks he might get a promotion soon. but then he hears a rustle, and your fingers are carding through his hair—grazing along his scalp, lifting a weight from his shoulders that he is convinced only you have the power to do.

and then the truth comes spilling: “quite exhausting.” you gently run your nails against his skin. a hum slips through parted lips. “and i hate being away from you for so long. it makes me anxious.”

you smile bashfully, letting out a small huff as the apples of your cheeks swell. “well, it’s a good thing i’m here now, mr. ackerman. what would you ever do without me?”

nothing, levi thinks. less than nothing, even, if such a thing could exist. he turns onto his stomach, curls closer into you like a man seeking shelter, until his head rests in the crux of your lap. he stares for a moment, starry-eyed and awestruck and stunned at his sheer fortune of having you, before he blinks. slowly. as if committing the scene to memory. “and how was your day, mrs. ackerman?”

your smile thins slightly.

“exhausting, too.” you absentmindedly twirl a lock of his hair now, deftly spinning the delicate thread of ink about your pretty fingers with a practised ease. the menial motions have begun to make his breaths slow, his eyes droop. but a new feeling is integrated. bliss, he thinks. this weariness is starkly different from before. soft, billowy. “but enough about me. is there anything i can do for you, my love?” he hums softly. shakes his head just the slightest. smiles faintly at your typical redirection. “just… stay. please?”

you, of course, oblige. there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

like routine, it is another five minutes until you are blowing your candle out, and levi is cuddling you beneath the covers. the night, at last, grows quiet.

an. i love him so . . .

#levi ackerman angst #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x y/n smut #levi ackerman fluff #captain levi #aot fluff #aot x reader #attack on titan fluff #levi fluff #levi aot #levi ackerman #hark the angel’s sonnet 𓂃 ༒︎ ࣪ ˖

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sweetinsaniiity · 1 year ago

Text

My Heart, I Surrender

► 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 - intruder!san x virgin!reader ◄ ► 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚜/𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 - smut with plot, age gap of 10 years (but both full adults), sociopathic tendencies but San is a !gentleman, suspense, somnophilia, fingering, hair-pulling, , corruption kink, breeding kink, oral sex (FL receiving), creampie, no protection (do NOT do this!), tit sucking, rough sex, size kink, overstimulation, cum tasting ◄ ► 𝚃𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 - MDNI, sexual assault, degrading name calling (slut, whore), heavy dubcon content , CNC, reluctance, gaslighting and manipulation to give in, fear play, loss of virginity ◄ ► 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 - 16.5K (goal was 14K but oh well) ◄ ► 𝚂𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 - The most unforgettable night of your life happens when an intruder breaks in and steals your body, your innocence, and your heart. ◄

► 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 - If this is triggering to you, please do not continue. This is a work of fiction not meant to represent the members in real life. I DO NOT CONDONE THIS TYPE OF ENCOUNTER. This is not a go-signal for anyone to do this. This is a fantasy and IT SHOULD STAY THAT WAY. You have been warned. More notes towards the end. Join the taglist here. Title from I Prevail ◄ ► 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - @ginger-mingi ◄

The pouring rain has always provided me with a sense of comfort I cannot even begin to explain. I wasn't sure if it was the sound of it hitting the pavement, or even the smell of it as it watered the meadow fields. Oh, the fresh scent of it when it hits my nose when I inhale brings serenity.

So here I stood under a dingy, little waiting shed where I sought shelter from the rain that I claimed to love.

I looked left and right hoping to see a bus coming while I rubbed my arms and my teeth chattered, but nothing. Even the waiting shed did absolutely nothing to shield me from the biting cold.

I sighed, instantly regretting not making it on time here for the other bus. With nothing better to do, I sat back down on the somewhat clean-ish seat that the shed provided and waited it out. If it wasn't for the rain, I would have been busy admiring the lush trees and the beautiful spring flowers that surrounded the area like I always usually did when I waited for the bus.

I perked when I saw headlights to my left through the haze, but I quickly became disappointed when I realized it wasn't my bus, it was just a car passing by.

"Damn," I deflated back onto my seat. dejected at the thought of staying in this shed for longer than I wanted to.

I stared at the oncoming car, suddenly wishing I could drive. I wouldn't be waiting if I knew how. It came faster and faster until I was able to make out its model and its colour - a sleek black.

And then it completely stopped in front of me.

I frowned, confused and then got frightened at what the owner possibly wanted. It could be anything, but the one that struck in my mind was some sick psycho that wanted to do things to me, a lone girl in a deserted area.

I cursed in my mind when I looked around and nobody was around to hear me scream for help just in case. I looked down suddenly, finding my shoes interesting, hoping that the driver would go away soon.

I bit my lip when I heard the distinct sound of a car window rolling down. Oh God, I thought nervously. Was I about to get kidnapped?

"Y/N?"

As if I wasn't nervous enough. My confusion grew not only because I heard my name out of nowhere, but that voice sounded a little too familiar.

I looked up and my heart stopped beating for a second or two. He was the kind of handsome that made me hold my breath and those chestnut eyes that stared already spoke to me before he even said a word.

"M-Mr. Choi!" I blurted out in mild surprise. I stood up and began to approach his car but quickly stumbled when I realized it was still raining. "W-What are you doing here?"

I blushed profusely when he smiled at me, it was heart-melting, especially when his dimples popped out from his cheeks. I mentally cursed myself for being this embarrassing in front of him.

"This is near my workplace," he replied. He slowly raked his eyes from my feet all the way to my face and his smile grew wider. "How long have you been waiting for the bus?"

"Almost an hour," I replied truthfully.

His smile drops slightly and he clicks his tongue. He presses on something and I hear the click of something unlocking. "Get in," he cocked his head towards the passenger seat.

My face heats up even more if that was possible. "Oh," I squeak out. "I-I couldn't possibly impose on you, I'm fine, really."

"Please, I insist," he pauses to gauge my reaction. "I would feel awful if I just left you here stranded."

I was weighing my options, but the reality was, I was afraid he would hear how hard my heart was beating if I was to go into the same space as him, let alone something as intimate as a car.

He sighed when he saw me doubting. "We live in the same complex anyway, plus that bus won't be coming soon," he insisted.

I pursed my lips together, and it didn't escape his attention. He was right, I was the one being unreasonable. Plus, I knew him. I knew he had pure intentions - to simply just take me home.

"Okay," I murmured, finally agreeing to his insistence.

I stopped breathing when he broke out into the widest grin. "Good," he beamed.

I was about to move and get my stuff from the seat when Mr. Choi got out of the car and started to walk towards me through the rain. "You're going to get wet!" I tried to stop him.

"A little rain wouldn't hurt me," he shot me a wink and I almost fainted at the sight.

He passed me and I caught a whiff of his cologne, the smallest hint of it already transporting me into places I don't dare go in. He carried my stuff for me as he opened the umbrella I didn't even notice he had because I was busy looking at him.

"L-Let me carry the umbrella, at least," I offered like a decent human being. I made a move to grab the umbrella, but he quickly moved it away.

I glanced up at him and I was taken aback by the sharp and scathing look he gave me, but it was gone in less than a second. He opened the car door for me and I immediately forget about it. To his warm cologne and his even warmer actions, it was easy to like him.

"Cold?" he asked as he buckled his seatbelt. I nodded, not that I had a choice, I was literally shivering when I got in.

I murmured a small 'thank you' when he upped the heat in his car, and just like that, we drove away from that wretched waiting shed. I held in a satisfied exhale as I sank into the softest and most comfortable seat I've ever sat on.

"You said your workplace was near here?" I began to speak in hopes to fill in the awkward air. "May I ask what you do?"

"I have a startup company along with my friends downtown. You know that 7-Eleven by the corner?" I nodded slowly and he hummed. "It's near that area. I always pass this road to go home."

So that explains the aura he exuded - mature, well-put together. And, by God, the way he always dressed. Today, he wore a business suit that was tailored so well and emphasized his body. It made him look like he had power.

"You?" he continued. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, I just met up with a couple of my friends," I shrugged. "Got a little too carried away and missed my ride."

"No one offered to take you home?"

"They all live on the other side of the city, plus my complex is far. I don't mind riding the bus."

There was a moment of hesitation on his face. "I can drive for you from now on," he offered as he glanced at me side-eyed while he tried to focus on the road.

I watched him side-eyed as well, afraid to turn my head to stare at him head on. My mouth felt dry and I didn't know what to say, and there was a certain gentleness in his voice that made me want to reach out to him.

"N-No, I don't want to be a bother, Mr. Choi."

"San."

"Huh?" I asked, confused.

In an instant, he turned and our eyes finally met. "Just call me San."

"I-I can't possibly do that," I muttered. I felt my heart lodge onto my throat, but I tried to play it cool. "You are my senior."

He put on the most inviting, volatile, and apathetic smirk. It was such the opposite expression to his usual gentleness. "Why?" San raised a mischievous brow. "Your boyfriend is going to get mad?"

I couldn't move, it felt like I would have to muster tremendous effort to do so, and my brain was lagging. I had to think and move well.

"No, I don't have a boyfriend," I finally uttered. His smirk grows bigger, though I chose to ignore it.

"That settles it, then," San chuckled more to himself, the sound of it so low that it brought shivers to my spine.

He noticed it and before I could turn away from him clearly flustered, a grin spread across his face and made him look even more handsome than he already was, if it was possible. I'm pretty sure my face was redder than a tomato right now.

"Are you going to be a dear and think about it, at least?" San looked left and right on the street before driving across the familiar intersection that led to the complex.

At that moment, I felt my body flush warm. I must have made a small sound of agreement because San let it go for now and finally concentrated on driving both of us. I'm not even sure, and I don't want to care right now.

It was silent, the only sound we could hear was the rain hitting the roof of the car and the heater whirring in the air. Outside there is no traffic and the light had finally gone, which might mean that it was almost nighttime. The fragile peace had taken over us, and it gave me moments to think.

Being in the car with the one and only Choi San definitely wasn't in my list of things to do today. He was well-known in the complex we lived at immediately after he moved in a couple of months ago. He wasn't my neighbour, not even close, but even he had caught my unassuming eye.

He was attractive - hot, to be frank. When he walked into the room, it seemed as if conversation stopped to sit in stunned silence, he had all of our attention and he knew it. He knew damn well we all found him attractive, yet he never let it all go into his head. He was the sweetest gentleman who always smiled and helped around without asking for something in return.

I couldn't help the admiration I felt for him, and it wasn't only me who held a high opinion of him, everyone I knew did so that automatically doesn't make my admiration anything special in itself.

Or maybe mine was something more. I quickly brushed the thought away from my mind because I knew that it was impossible. San might not even look or want somebody that was much younger than him. In this case, if I wasn't mistaken, I was a good ten years younger than him.

"You look like you want to say something," San suddenly spoke.

"Do you have a family?" I sputtered out before I could stop myself.

I was waiting for San to laugh or think I'm stupid, or perhaps make a snide remark of how nosy I was getting, but it never came.

"No, I currently don't," he replied, the gentleness he was known for back in his voice.

Which means that he's open to having one in the future.

"I see," I trailed off. I didn't know what else to say, I already got the answer to my question.

I choked on my next breath when I felt San's right hand grab my thigh. Almost robotically, my head slowly swivels to stare at him wide-eyed with unparalleled surprise. He stayed focused on the road, but I saw a ghost of a smirk grace his lips.

"Close your mouth, doll," San whispered, his voice dropping into a husky rasp. "Look away."

It took everything in me to do so and stare straight ahead on the unwinding road. The sudden grab made my heart pound so hard, the way his thumb would slowly caress my thighs left goosebumps in its wake.

"Mr. Choi," I began, trying very hard to keep my voice leveled, but we both knew that it sounded shakier than the sky right now.

He side-eyes me once more, his other hand still maneuvering the steering wheel, and raised a brow. "I told you," he griped. "It's San."

A shaky breath left my mouth when he squeezed my thigh. It was enough for me to feel it, but not enough for it to hurt - not even close. He let go momentarily and drummed his slender fingers on my thighs, instead. I swallowed as I stared at his sinful fingers, the things they could do...

"Say my name."

I snapped out of the indecent thoughts from my head before they could fully form. "Pardon?" I questioned.

He chuckled, this time, those dimples of his popped out again. I could have sworn my heart leapt out of my chest. "I said," San spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "Say my name."

"B-But--"

"Say it."

I gasped when he squeezed my thigh with more pressure. It still didn't hurt, but something else of mine hurt. "Okay, okay," I sighed. "S-San."

His lips stretched into a satisfied grin and he finally let go and kept his hand to himself. "Good girl," he smiled.

The hair on my nape prickled at the way San's voice - deep, thick, and most of all, powerful - but that wasn't even the worst part. He was smiling, and that smile was something he reserved when he was being the sweetest, most precious gentleman everybody knew him to be.

What have I gotten myself into? Was he not who everybody, including me, thought he was? My chest was about to explode, my hands were getting clammy and I was close to hyperventilating as I leaned closer to the door to try and avoid him.

Soon enough, we reached the apartment complex and he had slowly stopped the car in front of my apartment. I don't know how he knew where I lived, but at this point, I was not even going to ask. I might hear something I was not ready to hear.

"T-Thank you," I mumbled and hurriedly grabbed my things so I could get the hell out of his car as fast as humanly possible. There was no way I was staying in it longer - it was suffocating.

I speedwalked immediately away and I was about to be completely out of his sight when he stopped me and called me back. "Y/N, wait."

I cursed under my breath and begrudgingly looked back at him with an expectant gaze. The tremors in my heart upped when I saw that beautiful smile I always found attractive on him.

"I'll see you later, doll," he said with hopeful vigor. Did I want to see him again?

"I highly doubt it," I nervously tucked a stray hair out of my face to avoid looking at him. At the end of the day, he was kind enough to take me home but it ended there. We had nothing in common and there was no way he would look at me like that.

He smirked, the dark look in his eyes made me shrink from where I stood. "You never know."

He definitely doesn't mean that. Right?

I didn't bother to watch his car drive off. I quickly ran into my apartment and straight into the shower in record time to take the grime off of my body and hopefully, relax.

That was wishful thinking on my part. There was absolutely no way I could erase that odd encounter with San from my brain in the next few weeks.

I stood still in the shower and let all the water flow from my scalp all the way down to my toes. Heat filled my entire body when I stared at the section where San had squeezed my thighs. It was slightly pink from the pressure, something that would face away in a couple of minutes.

The way his personality would switch in a matter of seconds creeped the living hell out of me. He went from being so endearing to something else completely that went over my brain capacity.

I frowned, not fully able to comprehend how San was as a person. This is exactly why you should never take a person at face value - they might end up surprising you in ways you never thought was even possible.

I dried my hair, still in a daze. Usually I would spend some time with skin and body care, but tonight I didn't care enough to even make an effort, so after I was done with my hair, I put on my favourite silk nightgown.

I decided to sit down momentarily on the couch to do some deep thinking, but that ended up being a dud. Within moments, I was asleep.

I stirred awake in the middle of the night, I was confused, I was the type who slept like a log once I'm out - this means I usually never wake up in between my sleep, if not, at all. I tried to shake the confusion and moved my arm towards the bedside table to grab my phone.

'4:20 A.M.'

I groaned softly, frustrated at the fact that it's dead in the night and I was sentient. I had to work in a few hours and I never did well when my sleep pattern was disturbed. I willed myself to sleep and put the blanket over my head.

I opened my eyes, startled. Blanket?

I tried to make sense of what my mind was slowly realizing. I was in bed when I knew for a fact that I had fallen asleep on the couch hours ago.

My brain alerted me into panic and this time, I was fully awake. Maybe I had walked to my bed half asleep and I just didn't remember it? Impossible. I was a heavy sleeper, I would have definitely remembered if I got up unceremoniously. So the question was, how am I here, and how long have I been here?

I sat up, rubbing my eyes timidly to will the sleepiness away from me. Maybe I have just been stressed out at work and am blacking out sometimes, which was worrying if that really was the case.

I looked at the couch I was in and everything was fine, except for the dark figure sitting down on it. I stared for a few minutes before shaking my head.

"Definitely tired," I mumbled to myself, disoriented, before laying back down and trying to fall back asleep. I wonder what that was...

My heart dropped to my stomach when I realized what the hell I just saw and I opened my eyes once more, this time, the sleepiness was fading away. A dark figure sitting on my couch?

How long has it been here just watching me sleep? I stiffened, the energy in the room felt absolutely different. I stayed still, listening quietly if something would be moved or if I was really imagining things.

But nothing. Just the thick, sinister silence that enveloped the room. With mild unease slowly creeping up to me, I chose to stay still in fear, hoping that this was only a dream and that thing was a figment of my imagination.

Except that I knew it wasn't. I knew it was a person. I saw that it was a man. He was sitting comfortably on my couch with his arms crossed, watching me sleep.

My worst fears came to life when I heard a shuffle and the distinct sound of somebody getting up from the couch. My heart started beating frantically when I felt the bed dip behind me. I tried not to flinch at the sudden intrusion, I tried not to breathe either.

Who was in my bed? How in the world did they even get in? I was a thousand percent sure I locked the door when I came home too, so how? Luckily, the only other entrance to my apartment - my window - was in my direct view, and my heart dropped when I saw that it was wide open.

'Please, go away, please,' I prayed inside my head, but things never really worked out like that, didn't they?

I felt a large hand touch my leg, its presence leaving a burning feeling upon my skin. It stayed there for what seemed like forever until it gently lifted the blanket up a bit so the hand could slide up my skin.

I tried to remain unmoved as my mind struggled to make sense of what was happening and I almost let out a whimper when I felt the rough hand slowly caress my skin and it wept higher until it stopped at my clothed thigh. His hand was dangerously close to my core and it was terrifying.

I shut my eyes as tightly as possible, the dread of waiting what he was going to do next making me want to pass out in extreme horror.

He did the unexpected - he lifted his hand away from my thigh and I would have been relieved, but I felt the mattress dip even more and I can tell from the movement that he was trying to climb the bed and stay next to me.

Tears started to pool in my eyes, I was petrified in fear. I heard the man sigh softly as he slowly started to stroke my hair in the warmest and gentlest manner. I stopped breathing when his fingers slowly started to trace my face - my cheeks, lips, nose.

"I know you're awake," I heard him whisper, cutting through the dead silence.

I willed myself to open my eyes and it took a while for them to adjust, but the panic seeps into me nonetheless when I saw him. He was sitting tentatively beside me, and since he was against the light, I still couldn't see his face clearly.

But I can tell he was huge. There was no way I could fight him.

"Did you...move me to the bed?" I asked, my voice shaking as I fought the tears from falling from my eyes.

"Yes," he replied, and the sound of it sent shivers to my body. He had a deeper voice, it was unfortunately pleasant to my ears.

"What do you want from me?" I asked next, afraid of what the answer might be. He began to stroke my hair again. "Please, don't do that..."

He tensed, his hand stopping at my head and I was terrified that he would start grabbing my hair, but surprisingly, he does stop. "A lot of things," he cryptically replied.

I suppress a whimper when I feel him move. I was too terrified to move and the intruder took the opportunity to lean down my ear.

I exhaled a terrified sigh when I felt his breath hit my ear. I finally let out a whimper when he blew softly in my ear and more goosebumps flared up on my skin. He chuckled softly, the closeness of his proximity emphasizing how menacing it was.

"For example," I could hear the smirk in his voice. "You, for one."

My eyes go wide, the reality of the situation crashing down on me abruptly, and I realize what his intentions were with me - he was going to assault me.

Tears started streaming down my face, and without thinking, I pushed the blanket off me and quickly tried to roll to the edge of the bed, but I didn't make it too far when I felt my feet being grabbed.

I screamed bloody murder when I was dragged roughly back into the middle of the bed, my hands grabbing I could to stop myself, but it was no use.

I was flipped to my back and I cried harder when he grabbed my arms violently and pinned them above my head as he straddled me.

"Please don't hurt me," I cried, my own pitiful voice getting to me. I closed my eyes as tightly as possible as if that would make the man on top of me vanish.

I flinched when I felt fingers stroke my cheek gently. "Shh, breath," he hushes. "I need you to calm down."

I struggled momentarily underneath him. I gasped when he pushed the hand he was using to pin both of mine on the bed with a pressure that was almost painful. "Stay still," he said, his voice taut.

I tried my luck again but all that earned me was a growl from him. "Stay still," he reiterated coldly, the gentleness in his voice gone. "And shut up."

I listened and I stayed still for what seemed like hours, my position vulnerable. I was afraid of what he'd do if I disobeyed.

I gulped when I felt him leaning forward, gasping quietly when I felt his other hand cup my cheek and give it a gentle kiss, his lips lingering for a while before he started whispering the most soothing words I'd hear for a while.

"Just like that, doll, breathe in and out for me," he mumbled tenderly. He started to soothingly stroke my skin - my face, my neck, my arms. "I am not going to hurt you."

"I'm going to scream if you don't get off me," I spoke in an attempt to threaten him, and it came out sounding pathetic.

He hummed like a gentle parent comforting their child. "There's really no need, I said I'm not going to hurt you, so don't be scared."

"Y-You're scaring me," I gulped, my eyes still closed.

How can I not be scared? He was huge and I knew for a fact that even if I died trying, I don't have a chance of overpowering him.

He planted a small kiss on the top of my head and I caught a whiff of his cologne. I froze, that smelled extremely familiar.

"Am I?" I heard him sigh. "I'm sorry."

I can hear and feel the blood rushing to my ears. Now that my sight is blank, all my other senses are stronger and I am now slowly realizing how awfully familiar his voice was sounding. I just couldn't pinpoint who exactly it was.

"Do I...know you?" I slowly asked, my chest heaving up and down to due my breathlessness.

Unfortunately, he noticed it. My breath hitched when his free hand, the one not pinning mine down, lightly brushed my hardened nipples. I cursed mentally for not wearing a bra tonight.

"You're a curious one, aren't you?" he mumbled before he stopped touching my breasts. I breathe a sigh of relief. A couple more seconds and I would have made a sound.

"Maybe you do," he continued. "Maybe you don't."

What a terrifying response. A stranger, an intruder, was in my home and basically holding me captive and I had no idea how far he would go tonight.

I ignored him and my shaky voice sounded, "What do you intend to do to me?"

Fright constricted my chest when he leaned down and gave the soft skin on my neck little bites, pecks, and licks. "What do you want me to do to you?" his husky voice purrs into my ear.

Heat spreads all over my body at the involuntary pleasure I felt from the little of kisses, the small kissing sounds his lips were making against my skin loud in my ears and I ashamedly clenched my legs together. I felt him smile against my skin when my body betrayed me and I gasped a bit when he sucked on my skin.

"I'm going to make you feel good," he murmured, his free hand touching and squeezing my hips and sides, just stopping below my chest.

I whined moving my head slightly in a poor attempt to get him off of me. It was extremely humiliating. "Don't," he warned, his voice rigid and gravely.

Tears started to form again in my eyes. It was so pathetic. Had I been stronger enough, I would have been out of here. I gasp when his hand kneads my breast, and he was doing it so tenderly as if he was afraid that I would burst if he wasn't careful enough.

"P-Please," I arched my back unwillingly towards his hand. I felt him groan deeply against my skin, the vibration sent shivers to my spine.

"Shh, I said stop moving," he held me tighter, more tensely. I got a bit frightened, he was so unpredictable that I didn't know how to act.

My brain can't properly wrap around the situation. He's an intruder, which I can only assume as someone who is never up to any good, but he is excruciatingly gentle, and the way he can make my body react to his touch was alarming.

"Ah!" I squealed when he suddenly pinched my nipple. He laughed huskily and he didn't do it again. My skin was on fire, I have never been more terrified in my life than right now.

"You feel so good, I can't wait to make you mine." he growled. "Not that you weren't yet."

It occurred to me that it must be a nightmare, perhaps I should just go with it, or maybe if she refused he would willingly leave. But that would never happen, he was here to take me.

I snapped back into reality when I heard the worst sound I could possibly hear all night - a zipper being undone.

I began thrashing and resisting again. "Wait, wait, please stop," I begged. "I-I'll give you anything you want, I have money---"

I screamed when his hand wrapped around my neck. "You're testing my patience, doll," he hissed, squeezing on the sides of my neck.

I choked on little air, I was getting lightheaded before he let me go. I took big gulps of chair as I coughed, scared out of my wits. Oh God, I thought dreadfully. He's going to kill me!

"You move one more time," he whispered menacingly. "I am going to shove my cock in you and fuck you like the little cumslut you are." I whined when he bit my shoulder painfully, I was pretty sure it drew blood. "You understand?"

When I didn't respond, he bit my shoulder harder. "Speak when told to," he growled.

"Yes! Yes! Okay, okay! Please," I cried like a wounded animal, - well, I am now - and he lets my shoulders go.

"Good. If you're a good girl, I won't do anything," he chuckled. He gave me soft kisses on the area he bit. "You poor thing..."

This was much worse than I thought. I hate this, I hate every single moment of this. I had noticed early on that if I did as he said, he would be fine, but the moment I acted up, he would get rougher.

"Anyway," he said sarcastically. "I don't want your money."

"Why not?" I blurted out before I could stop myself.

He laughed amusingly. He had an infuriatingly attractive laugh. If only it wasn't too dark, I could have seen his face too. "Because money can't get me what I want right now."

I frowned. "I'm going to call the police on you," I stated, my voice shaking, hoping that he'd get intimidated enough.

"Cute," he chuckled lowly.

"Please, don't do this," I begged loudly.

"Why not?" he clicked his tongue. "I promise that I wouldn't do anything you don't want."

"I don't want you here," I sniffled.

"Don't say that," he replied tensely, his grip on my hands tightening as well.

There was nothing more I wished for right now than somebody to help me. My mind drifted to Mr. Choi. He would have helped me if I asked. I regretted not getting his number like everyone did.

Even with the odd encounter in the car with him, I knew him to be of moral standards and he would help. He was the only one I knew big and strong enough to take this stranger down.

He finally let my hands go and I tensed as I felt him moving in on top of me. I whimpered when his hands spread my legs so he could lay down on me in between them. I blushed both in anger and embarrassment. I had no underwear tonight and I can feel his erection straining through his pants.

His mouth found mine and my eyes flew open immediately. He gave me an open mouthed kiss before pulling away to grasp the back of my neck.

"Look at me," he demanded roughly. I shook my head aggressively and in rebellion and turned my head to the side in spite. He can honestly kiss my ass---

"Oh," I rasped when his hand started to massage and knead my inner thighs. I winced when his mouth started to attack my neck again. This time he roughly bit and sucked, his tongue swirled all over the sensitive parts of my skin as his hands slowly went higher and higher at a dangerous pace.

I was overwhelmed with the odd mixture of pain, fear, pleasure, and hopelessness. The way his hot breath hit my ears was so distracting too.

"Doll, look at me," he whispered against my ear in a tortured voice. "I want to see your beautiful face."

"Please, stop! I really don't want to," I gritted my teeth.

He chuckled. "We'll see."

He lifts my nightgown up to my hips and before I knew it, his nimble fingers grazed my pussy. I was petrified, heat ignited my whole being. I hear his shaky breaths against my ear and I fight off the urge to even breathe, myself.

"Stop it, please, stop," I begged through my broken cries.

He ignored my pleas as he played with little tufts of my hair down there. I didn't shave, yes, but I wasn't expecting this either. He traces my pussy lips with a finger, sliding up and down, and I couldn't stop the moan from my lips when he goes in between.

"That feel good?" he whispered, his voice taut. He groaned when my body shakes beneath him as he circled my swollen clit. "I can give you more than this."

"N-No, please, I-I think I'm good," my voice trembled from the sensation.

"Then look at me," he commanded, his voice back to its kind tone as he coaxed me. "Please, doll."

"I don't know you enough for that type of connection," I swallowed. "Just get this over with."

"But you do know me, have you forgotten?" he mused, his fingers slowing down. I tried to rack my brain for anything, but there was nothing. When I didn't reply, he sighed. "I guess not."

His form went from slight amusement to a detrimental, subtle disappointment. I can feel his despondent stare penetrate through myself, and it was then I realized that he was actually disappointed at my lack of response.

"That man in the car earlier," he began. "Who's that?"

I was confused at first, then I remembered what he was referring to. Terror washed over me, he was watching me when San had taken me home?

"A friend," I curtly replied, making it short and hopefully he'll buy it.

He scoffed lightly and removed his hands from my aching cunt. I was pleasantly surprised when he actually got off me and sat on the edge of the bed with his back turned on me. I breathed a sigh of relief but not for long because he still seemed like he wanted to ask more and I was right.

"A friend, huh?" he scoffed again. "It didn't seem like it earlier. There was definitely a connection there."

I gulped. This man was dangerous. He was watching close enough to know the difference. I had to tell him the truth. "It wasn't like that," I bit my lip. "Mr. Choi has always been kind, he's a key figure in the complex."

His back tenses. "Why? You think you don't have a chance or something?"

"That thought never even crossed my mind," I sighed.

"Why?"

His voice was very strained. I paused, not knowing what to say. It was unnerving and the silence was making me sweat. I stared at his form and I almost gasped when I looked up at his face.

I couldn't see it but the shadows in his side profile blew my mind. This man was clearly handsome, not that it mattered since he was a creep, but I don't know. Maybe I was expecting a drunkard of an imp. Certainly not this one.

He clenched his jaw and I had to restrain the cynicism in my eyes. "Is it the age gap?"

My eyes widened in surprise. How did he know? San definitely didn't look that old from afar. That or I'm the one who looks old.

"W-Well, not necessarily," I stammered. "Though that is a huge factor, yes." I had this urge to tell him the truth, I don't know why. "Plus, there's no way Mr. Choi would look at me in that way."

"How would you know? You never once spared even a glance in my direction."

I was confused at what he was referring to. He did say that I knew him, but I certainly don't remember anyone that I was close with enough for me to look at them. The physical aspect too, this man is big and sturdy, I don't remember...

My brows furrowed in concentration as the man stood up from my bed and my breath halted. That was a lie, I did know someone who looked like this.

He stepped into the light and I audibly gasped. I'd always known he was incredibly good-looking but the light that the moon gave him did him justice. His jawline was exquisite, such a contrast to his cat-like features, and by God, his body.

He stared at me with a seriousness I'd never seen him wear before as he took his grey suit off. He was left with a black turtleneck sweater that did nothing to hide his large biceps from me.

"S-San?" I uttered his name before I could stop myself, sitting up so I could take a good look at him and determine if he was an apparition or not.

I couldn't help the shock and the dread that came over me. The one person, I had been putting up on a pedestal, the one man I had been thinking of asking for help in my dire situation was none other my intruder.

"I am deeply disappointed with you, Y/N. Truly," he shook his head in mock concern and crossed his arms over his chest.

San stared at me as I attempted to cover my almost naked body with my blanket and a couple of pillows. "That's not going to help your case," he smirked.

"I'm going to scream," I said indignantly. San raised a brow in amusement. "I mean it, please get out! I won't tell anyone---"

"Scream, if you must," he shrugged nonchalantly, walking closer to the bed again. "I paid the neighbours for vacation. They're probably halfway across the world now," he grinned sadistically.

I gasped when he put his arms on the bed, leaned on me, and whispered in my ear. "It's just you and me, doll. So go ahead, scream. It turns me on."

I pushed him away from me hastily and edged myself to the corner of my bed. "You're a monster!" I screamed.

San laughed loudly. "Finally," he mused. "I was so sick of playing nice with you. I like you like this. You look prettier."

The way he laughed out loud maniacally and sadistically scared me almost half to death. It was loud, deep, and menacing and it reminded me of how the devil would laugh if it existed.

I was alone, so screaming really wouldn't do anything. And I certainly wasn't going to knowingly do anything that was going to excite him. That was a terrifying thought.

The fact that it was the Choi San - the well-known gentleman, the man who was known to always smile despite everything, the one who drove me home without anything in return, at that time at least, and the person who was beloved by everybody from children to elderly people.

And the one I had admired from afar because of those qualities. I felt betrayed, and it hurt more than I'd like to admit.

We stared at each other for a moment, unmoving. San's icy glare was shrouded with the unmistakable fire of anger and lust, and I was afraid of how he would hurt me if he had become a little too unstable.

"You're a sociopath," I declared after the awkward silence.

He raised his brows in a seemingly displeased manner, but at the same time, I knew he was amused. "Oh? Pray tell, my pretty doll," he mocks. "Enlighten me."

"I mean it," I declared, exasperated. "Y-You can't just break into my apartment like this and expect me to like you afterwards! You're sick in the head!"

He sighed, looking away from and staring at the window he broke into. For a second, I thought he was rethinking his actions, but no. He wasn't the Choi San I knew him to be anymore, I wasn't sure how far his instability would take me.

He side-eyes me, I looked back expectantly. "You can just give in to me or we can do this the hard way," San convinced, his tone calm but persuasive. He knew he had the charm and he was using it to his advantage.

"You took that option away from me when you forced your way in here and touched me in ways I didn't want," I scoffed.

I was about to say more choice words, when San whipped his head towards me fast and I noticed his eye twitching slightly and the veins popping on his forehead while he looked at me long, too long, and hard. I gulped. He was angry.

I know I shouldn't, I know that I'm digging my own grave here by talking back at him but I can't help it. Whether it was the betrayal, one only I knew, or the adrenaline, I wasn't sure.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Y/N," he hid his annoyance with arrogance. It was the first time he said my name tonight and it dripped with venom. "Come hell or high water, I will make you mine."

The conviction in San's voice at his confession was nothing short of astounding and the way he's looking at me right now, I can't stand the intensity of it - he would rather take death than failure right now.

"And who do you think you are?" I was irked, really irked actually. It was the easiest way to hide my panic. "And if I say no?"

San smirked, darkness shrouding his features like he was waiting for me to screw up and say something stupid so he had an excuse to finally say what he's been wanting to say.

"I'm going to fuck you," San dared, no hint of amuse left in his tone. "The plan was to make you submit, but if it's impossible, then I'll just take you. The choice is yours."

I was taken aback. "You wouldn't," I whispered.

San cocked his head to the side. "Would you like to test that theory?"

I can tell he was serious, too. I haven't known him well, but tonight was not the night to test his integrity and if he was a man of his word.

"Can we just do this next time?" I begged. "I-I can come up with a better proposition for us--"

"No," he quickly cut off. "I already called out of your work earlier, anyway. We have all night and morning."

My face contorts in confusion. "What?" I apprehensively asked.

San started to stalk towards me until he was at the end of the bed. I gulped, the way his muscles rippled against his clothes emphasized just how big he was and how powerless I was.

He poked his tongue against the inside of his cheeks as he looked down on me, literally and figuratively. He exuded a power that you can't touch, and honestly, it made me realize how truly dominant he was.

"I know everything about you, doll," he said as he took his wristwatch off and placed it on my bedside table. "I wanted you the moment I saw you for the first time."

I was tense and I watched him take his necklace out next while maintaining eye contact with me. "I kept asking around about you because for some reason, we never were in the same place together. You know what they said?"

I swallowed restlessly when he started to unbuckle his belt next. "You were the sweetest, kindest, and now that I'm up close and personal, the most innocent thing too."

His eyes darkened by the second and it reminded me of that sharp and scathing look I thought I saw on him earlier before I got in his car. It clicked; which one was the real San?

"I know everything about you, my doll, except for one thing," he smirked before he took his turtleneck sweater off. "I don't know how you sound when I'm inside you, yet."

"You can't do this," I whimpered pathetically, trying not to look at how unfortunately beautiful his naked torso was.

His smirks widened. "You asked me in the car earlier if I had a family." Finally, his pants were off too. "I could give you one right now."

I didn't even have the time to look at his body - both in embarrassment and denial - and I let out a loud cry of protest when San grabbed my legs again and pulled me towards him. I kicked to try and stop him from having a good grip, but he was too strong.

"Hey, stop! Get off of me!" I screamed when he got on top of me and pinned me down on my back again. He secured me by pinning my legs as well with his knees. "Stop!"

His hand covers my mouth and my screams drowned into a muffled cry instead. "Shut the fuck up," he hissed. My eyes widened in terror at his threatening tone.

His eyes were so dark, fierce, intense, and domineering and it was then that it sunk in that he really was going to have his way with me. I groaned when he bucked his hip onto my stomach. I panicked, I could tell that it was going to tear me into two.

"Get off me, you bastard!" I growled when San took his hand off my mouth.

He laughed that attractive laugh of his again, the dimples that made me like him popping out once more. "You don't listen well, huh? I told you to shut up."

"And I told you to leave me alone!" I snapped back. His eyes twinkle in amusement. "So both of us are bad at listening then!"

In an adrenaline rush, I spit on him, and my saliva landed directly on the corner of his mouth. He was surprised for a second before he covered it up with annoyance. "You're getting on my nerves," he chuckled without humour.

Without breaking eye contact with me, he stuck his tongue out and slowly, sensually, licked my spit for him to swallow. I feel a gush of wetness between my legs and my cheeks burn in embarrassment while I whine in denial.

He raised a brow, pleased. "Don't fight on this. Your body knows what it wants."

"Go to hell," I growled in refutation.

His eyes narrowed into slits. "What's that?" San spat out in anger.

His hand hastily grabs the front of my nightgown with such force that the straps both broke. I gasped and then groaned in pain when his hand grabbed my exposed breasts painfully.

"Please," I croaked, my voice strained. "Don't hurt me."

A startled cry escaped from my lips when he bit down on my hardened nipple and tears formed from my eyes. He looked up at me and his eyes softened when he saw the pitiful state I was in.

"Be still," mumbled apologetically. "I won't hurt you."

I exhaled in relief but that relief quickly washed off of me at San's next words.

"If you listen to what I tell you, I won't hurt you."

"Please, I can't do--ah!" I yelped when he bit my nipple again.

"I wasn't asking," he hissed. His tone left me no chance to argue with him.

I can feel the fear in my chest waiting to take over at San's threats. But I was a virgin! It's not that I was a prude or I thought I was better than anyone else, no man has held my interest enough and most of them were after my body more than me as a person.

I bit my bottom lip hard when San's mouth started gently kissing my chest and then his mouth closed around my nipple while he played with other.

"Wait," I whimpered when he started to gently suck, his tongue flicking out to lick them and then twirled it around his tongue. It was something new for me and I couldn't help but shake.

"Relax, doll," he murmured in between his sucks.

Tingles filled my whole body, and I felt something tickling down there. Pleasure radiated all over and body in ways I couldn't understand and I started to moan uncontrollably.

I looked down and saw San already looking up at me while he continued licking the sensitive bud. It was such an erotic sight and before I knew it, a wave of pleasure sent my body into shock and I began spasming against San's chest.

San held me in his arms and let go of my nipple with a small 'pop'. I buried my face onto his chest in shame - I had just orgasmed with my nipples, alone.

San gently laid me back and we stared at each other wide-eyed, both of us clearly shocked at what just happened. Surprisingly, San doesn't comment on it. He leans in and gives me a kiss on my forehead.

"Good girl," he murmured. He put my arms around his neck and he buried his head on my neck and rocked my back and forth. "That's my good girl, just relax, okay? I got you..."

The way he was looking at me with such tender eyes and there was an expression in it that I couldn't exactly pinpoint. His soothing voice filled my ears and I let myself get lost in San for a moment.

"My pretty girl, oh, my Y/N..."

"Everything about you is so beautiful to me."

"I adore you so much, you know?"

"You are so perfect, and you are mine."

That hit me like a ton of bricks. I broke away from a confused San and my tears started to fall from my face. This was so wrong, what was I doing? But he felt so good with me...

"Baby doll, please don't cry," he pleaded.

"I can't do this," I started to try and get up. "Please get away from me..."

He releases a sigh and holds me in place. "Listen to me," his voice held an edge to it. I turned my head rebelliously and gasped when he held my jaw tightly and forced me to look at him. "Listen," he growled, eyes glazed in unparalleled anger.

I was having a small panic attack. "I just need a moment---"

San slapped my already aching jaw with a force enough for me to get out of it, but not enough for me to bawl in pain. "Listen to me," he snapped. "Silence. Not a sound from you."

I nodded my head quickly, afraid. "If you resist, I will punish you," he threatened. "And you know how I'm going to do it?"

I held in a whimper, truly afraid since San had this crazed manic expression on his face that I've never, ever seen him have. "Well," he smirked. "Let's hope you don't find out."

He gets up and quickly drags me using my arms to straddle him. "Wrap your hands around me," he demanded.

I did as asked and he grabbed my hips to immobilize me. San looked up at me with such intensity and I can't help but look away. I felt exposed and humiliated and I couldn't help but let out a small moan when I felt his hardness twitch underneath me.

"What was that?" he mocked. "What did I tell you about making a sound, you whore?"

I breathed hard and heavy, my exposed breasts moving about, but I didn't answer him back, scared that my response would trigger him.

"Answer me," he demanded.

"P-Punish," I stuttered pathetically.

"Correct," San grinned and it resembled a rabid animal who was ready to pounce on its unsuspecting victim. "Little sluts like you need to be dominated."

I was wide-eyed when he grabbed my hair and manually moved my head up and down. "That's right," he laughed sadistically. "Good girl."

San leaned in and put his lips against mine in a rough kiss. When I refused, he pulled the back of my hair again until I gasped in pain. His tongue plunged inside my mouth and I tried to turn but he painfully pulled my hair again as he moved away slightly.

"Stop it," he whispered against my lips. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He pushed my head and he kissed me again, this time, more gentle and more considerate. I tried to see what he was going to do if I moved, and true to my suspicions, I felt his hand tightening against my hair again.

Having no choice, I gave in to what he wanted. San groaned in my mouth and pressed his harder, playing with my tongue sensually as he massaged my tits. My skin began to feel warm and my heart began to beat faster and faster and I was pretty sure he felt it. Or was that his own heart beating with mine?

When San touched my cheek with frenzied motions, I hissed and I couldn't help but moan in protest. He pulled back and tenderly touched my face where a bruise was forming.

"What happened?" he asked softly. "Was it..?"

I quickly shook my head. "No, I-I mean, well, I barely felt the slap and you didn't even do it hard."

It was true. I don't mean to defend his actions, he's an asshole for that but even in a haze, I felt him repressing and it was only meant to break my panic attack.

"I'm sorry, doll, please tell me what happened," San murmured apologetically, his words somewhat loving.

I hesitated but the look in his eyes was so soft that I just had to. It was the gentle San that everyone knew him for when everyone would ask for his advice and wisdom. I bit my lip, remembering that there was a time where I almost went to him.

"Earlier in the car," I began muttering. "I didn't meet up with friends, I-I, uhm..."

"Go on," San assured me, tenderly rubbing my arms.

"I didn't meet up with my friends like I said I did," I revealed. "My ex called to try and get back with me. He got handsy when I-I said no."

His hands tighten on my arms and his eyes transform into a murderous glare. He pulls me into a hug and pulls away. "I'm going to fucking kill him," he cursed under his breath intensely.

"And you," he continued, putting my face in his hands. "You will never, ever interact with him ever again. You're going to tell me if he bothers you again, okay?"

I nodded apprehensively, unsure of what to say. "Good," San kissed my forehead. I bit back a cry of surprise when he laid me down on the bed and started to crawl his way down.

"W-Wait, what are you doing?" I panicked when he lifted the other half of my nightgown and lifted my legs to rest on his shoulders.

"I'm going to make you forget about that scum," he declared like he was telling me the weather. "Until you only know me."

I was still confused as he hadn't taken his boxers off, that is, until I finally got a good look at him. He was handsome, the type that can bring you to your knees. His dark hair was disheveled and when my eyes traveled down to his chest, I wasn't surprised to see that he was fit and the muscles on his abdominal area were very prominent.

The arms he used to leave my legs up were massive and I can tell he spent a lot on the gym working them out. However, it was nothing compared to the tent he had on his boxers. I'm not one to usually comment on it, but I can tell he was big. It's super cliche and honestly, it made me cringe to even think about, but I've only heard of that size in the novels I read.

"You look so beautiful," he suddenly said. His stare was so intense and serious that I couldn't help but blush. "I mean it, Y/N. You're beautiful. I'm going to make you believe it."

Before I could say anything, I felt his fingers touch my slit. I bit my lip to stop the moan that threatened to pass my lips, but when San pressed on my clit, I had to let out a muffled mewl.

"Don't hold back on me now," he smirked, rubbing my nub gently at first. "I told you, you will forget everything but me."

My eyes widened when he licked his fingers and went back down there. The roughness of fingers added a new sensation I never thought I'd feel and it was bringing me such shame that I was even feeling this way.

"San, please," I mewled again when he added more pressure in his ministrations.

Suddenly, his fingers were gone and it was quickly replaced by his mouth. "San!" I screamed in surprise.

I felt him laugh and the vibration of it caused me to arch my back and accidentally rub myself in his mouth. San took advantage of this and dove his tongue between my folds, lapping at anything he could get his tongue on.

"Just like that, doll, " he spoke in between his licking and sucking.

I moaned loudly, my hands grabbing on the blankets in pleasure. He kissed my clit and gently suctioned on it, releasing it and doing it again and that tingling sensation from down there came back, but this one felt different; stronger.

"San, stop, it feels weird," I moaned and sighed, closing my eyes involuntarily and shaking a bit against San's mouth.

"Quiet," he murmured, ignoring my plea and continuing on.

I choked on my breath when I felt his finger slip inside my pussy while he still licked. It hurt a bit, but nothing crazy. He pushed deeper and farther, until he stopped unexpectedly and quickly got up to look at my face with the most shocked expression I've ever seen him have.

"You're a virgin," he reeled in disbelief. "You're a virgin?"

I looked at him wide-eyed, embarrassed. My breath was quicker and it made me breathless. "I am," I admitted.

"B-But how? You're so beautiful," he stammered, clearly still in shock.

"I-I've been waiting for the right person."

He closed my legs, leaned his forehead on my knees, and a deep groan that was similar to a suffering soldier sounded at the back of his throat. He laid there for a moment until he got up from the bed and paced around my room.

I was left laying down on the bed as I watched him go through something akin to a midlife crisis. My virginity was the reason why my ex left me and why nobody stayed with me. I wanted someone true, someone I was sure I wanted to be with and vice versa.

San briskly walked around, stopping to face palm himself, then stayed in his spot to raise his head in frustration. He collected himself before he marched towards me with a stormy expression.

He leaned down and gave me a chaste kiss on my forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled away and walked off to where his clothes were and started putting them on.

His gaze was steely when he looked at me. "I'm leaving," he said, voice tight.

I sat up slowly as I watched him put his sweater last and then his jewelry, a little surprised at the turn of events. "You are?" I couldn't help but ask, slightly confused.

San nodded. "I am."

I wasn't complaining at all. This was a blessing in disguise. "I don't get it," I said as I covered my exposed chest with a blanket. "Why now?"

San exhaled a sharp breath, barely controlling himself. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment and he opened them again, he looked so tortured.

"Y/N, I cannot touch you," he whispered. "I want you so fucking bad. I don't just want you. I need you."

I couldn't breath, my chest was so tight. He exhaled a sharp breath again. "I won't be able to stop myself right now if I don't leave. I want to fuck you so bad, stick my dick in you and fuck you so hard you'll forget your own name."

"But not like this," he shook his head. "I don't want your first to be like this. I don't want to hurt you."

I was so stunned at his admission. "So we're...done here?" I asked softly, unsure of what was even happening.

"Yes. We are."

"What now, then? What's going to happen after this?"

San paused. "I don't know. I'll live my life, and you'll go back to ignoring me."

"Alright," I whispered. I was trembling as I tried to mend the straps of my nightgown enough for me to wear it temporarily so I wasn't too exposed in front of San. Not that it mattered, he's seen everything.

I stood up from my bed and San headed through the door to leave when he suddenly paused. He turned around and faced me hesitantly. "Have a good night," he said.

I nodded and turned to look at the damaged window where he came through earlier to break in my room. "How am I supposed to fix this?" I lamented.

He turned and marched towards the window and inspected it closely. I stared at the way he furrowed and unfurrowed his brows in concentration.

He stared me down and back at the window and he definitely got snappy. "I'll pay somebody to fix it tomorrow," he announced tensely.

"Why are you mad?" I asked.

He raised a brow. "I'm not," he denied.

I frowned but I let it go. "There's going to be a storm tomorrow," I sighed. "Nobody in their right mind will come down tomorrow."

"Can you call your parents right now?" San asked gruffly.

I shook my head. "They live abroad."

His brows raise in surprise and curiosity but he doesn't dwell on it. "Friends?"

"I didn't lie when I said they lived in the next city."

He ran his fingers on his hair with annoyance, his tongue poking his cheek with a scowl. "Doll, you can't stay here."

I smiled without humour in irony. I wanted to tell him that technically, this problem I'm having right now is his fault but I don't. I'm too tired to argue.

I heard him sigh. "Get dressed," he said. "I have tools in my apartment that we can both grab so I can do it today, myself."

"Okay," I murmured.

San nodded. "I'll wait outside."

When I was done, I saw San leaning towards my doorway and I had to suppress staring at him. He looked good, but he looked aggravated when he saw me, and he reached down for my hand and he began walking us through the complex.

I breathlessly tried to keep up with him. This is going to be the first time I'm seeing where San's apartment is. His hand felt warm in mine and without pausing, he walked both of us to the furthest part of the complex.

"No wonder we barely saw each other," I couldn't help but state. "You live on the other side."

He didn't reply. He took one glance at me and continued walking. I followed him obediently without question.

I had an idea where he was leading me. The complex was split into three parts - the regular kind, the modernized kind, and the luxurious kind. I lived on the second one, and true to my suspicions, San lived on the third kind.

"You live here?" I asked in awe.

I was so fascinated with this area and the fact that San was known to everybody. People here barely interact with anybody, that would mean that San would go out of his way to go join and seek out the people in the regular part.

I was so taken aback by my own thoughts that I didn't realize that we were by his door.

"Yes, almost two years now," he replied flatly. "After you."

Unsurprisingly, the interior looked grand and deluxe, albeit a little empty. It made sense, San seemed like a minimalist person and it showed both in how he dressed and designed his home.

He tilted his head towards a door at the end of the hallway. "Tools should be over there," he said, not looking me in the eye. "Let's go."

It was obvious that this was his bedroom when we both went in. The room was large, there was a king sized bed in the middle of it and a couple of pictures hung all over the area. I went and inspected them closely and saw that he was with a couple of people.

"Family?" I asked.

He hummed in response while he took his suit off and hung them somewhere. "Sort of. They're lifelong friends."

He stepped towards the bedroom door, closed it slowly, and turned the lock before he faced me. I was confused, when he looked at me, his eyes were the darkest I have ever seen.

"Get on the bed," he commanded. "I'm going to fuck you."

I didn't fully understand what he said. I thought I heard him wrong, but he was dead serious. "W-What?"

His eyes never left me as he stalked towards me like a predator. "I said," his tone was grim. "Get on the bed."

My eyes widened and the wind was knocked out of my chest. "B-But you said you weren't going to touch me," I whimpered.

"I know what I said," he snapped, his jaw clenching hard. "I'm taking it back."

San stepped forward and stopped a couple of feet away from me. I stared at him wary and not knowing what to do. I'm sure my eyes held terror. "Don't do this," I pleaded.

I yelped when San pushed me on the bed. He stood by it and watched me scramble to get up. I was truly frightened at the person in front of me. He leaned over and placed his hands on the bed while he stared at me.

"You don't get it do you?" San grimaced. "There are no tools. At least, not in my bedroom."

My eyes widened in realization. His eyes narrowed in veiled anger as he continued. "Why would you come here with me? I broke into your apartment and almost took you against your will! Do I look like the safest person to be with right now?"

My chest fell and ragged breaths escaped me, but he wasn't done yet. "Don't you think with your brain?" San hissed. "You are at my mercy right now. If I want to take you, no one would know."

"Are you going to...?" I whispered.

His scowl deepened. "Yes."

It all happened too fast and I had no time to dispute him. My shirt and pants were off in less than a minute and he slammed me against the bed.

"San, wait---"

I gasped when he slid a finger inside me quickly and I was unable to stop the small whimper of pleasure I felt. That felt a little too good. I didn't even notice that his clothes were gone too, and I couldn't help but look down.

My suspicions were unfortunately right - he was not small. And he was hard. I may be a virgin, but of course I knew what dicks looked like. It was very imposing, it made my heart beat with hesitation and a little fear.

I tensed when he got on top of me and I felt him kiss my forehead softly. "I'm sorry," I heard him whisper.

I subconsciously pressed my fingers on his shoulder, trying hard not to look up at him or even inhale. The scent of him, alone, was driving me mad. I felt him hot and hard, pressing against my hole, and he thrust in bit by bit.

"Oh God, San, I can't," I cried out. The pain was so intense that it brought hot tears to my eyes. I heard him groan when I clawed his back.

"I'm sorry, I'll be careful," San cooed as he gave me tiny, little kisses here and there.

A strangled cry was torn from me when I felt him move again. His pleasure filled moans hit my ears, the vibrations from his chest sending tingles to my spine. "San..."

"Just a bit more, baby," he whispered. "You can take it, I know you can..."

He made small, gentle thrusts and I couldn't help but applaud the patience he had for this. I can feel how he was dying to just thrust in one go. I groaned again, fully wrapping my arms around his neck, in pain. I knew it was painful for the first time, but this pain was a bit too much.

"Fuck," he hissed, looking down at me with lust in his eyes. "I'm sorry, are you alright?"

I nodded and he took it as his signal to push in a little more. When he completely bottomed out, I couldn't help but moan loudly. The pain felt like the good kind.

"Oh fuck," he groaned. "Your cunt was made for me."

He pressed a hot kiss on my shoulder. The dirty talk was making me dizzy and I felt warm tingles spread all over my skin. San stayed inside me, unmoving, for a while and we decided I've warmed up enough, he began thrusting.

"San, it hurts," I yelped in slight pain. If I was being honest, it felt unbelievably good.

"Just take it for now, baby, it's going to feel better soon, I promise," he pecked my lips before he buried head on my shoulders.

And he was right. I swallowed a moan when San began to pick up the pace a bit. I didn't realize that I was moving my hips to his pace until I heard San whisper the dirtiest things in my ear.

"Y/N, fuck, Y/N, Y/N," San moaned my name like a prayer with each vicious thrust of his hips. "Doll, please tell me I can go faster than this, please."

I moaned in response, not being able to formulate a single word. San goes from fully gentle to straight up rearranging my insides. "San, San, t-too fast!"

Each thrust of his cock sent shockwaves through my body and it didn't take too long for my laboured breathing to turn into wanton moans with the way he went in and out with his quick rhythm. I felt him twitching, pulsating, inside of me and I squeezed.

"Don't do that, baby," San groaned. "God, you feel so fucking good…”

He pushed onto me and took my mouth in a stormy, demanding kiss. I felt his hand reaching from my hip to my front and his fingers pressed up to my clit.

"You like this, doll?" San asked tentatively.

I nodded my head and kissed his neck. "I do, don't stop."

His fingers stroke me, his thrusts not slowing down. Tears from the slight pain and pleasure combined fell from my eyes and his speed built back up, slamming into me so hard, I screamed loudly over and over again.

"Just like, Y/N, come, yes, come for me," San bit my shoulder and it was over.

It was my first orgasm from fucking and my body spasmed against him so hard, San had to hold me down.

"Fuck, oh fuck, you feel so fucking good," San's muffled moans felt intense against my skin. "You're mine, okay?"

"S-San, oh, San---"

I screamed when he grabbed my hair and bit my ear. "Say it," he growled. "Say you're fucking mine."

"San---"

"Say it, goddamn it, fucking say it!"

His thrusts got more brutal, ferocious, more ruthless. "Okay, okay!" I moaned. "I'm all yours!"

"Fuck," he got out and thrusted back in roughly. I saw stars then and there. "You're mine, you're mine, fuck.”

His thrust went even faster than before, the bed was squeaking very loud, and the slapping of skin against skin more obscene than before. It was agonizing as I was still sensitive and I felt another wave of pleasure come, but this time, there was no pain.

"S-San, f-fuck, I-I can't---"

"I want my cum in you," he abruptly cut off, slamming into me so hard I was afraid I would bruise just from his thrusts alone. "God, I want my fucking cum in you."

"Please," I cried. "I-I can't do this anymore---"

He shushed me gently, slowing his thrusts down, but it was worse because he was doing long, deep thrusts instead. "One more, baby," he murmured. "Give me one more and I'll stop."

He kissed me hard. "I'm going to fucking pump you full of cum, doll, I'm going to breed the fuck out of you, fuck, this body deserves to be filled up..."

His words did something to me and I just came without warning. I screamed, my body shaking, shuddering beneath him. I felt warm liquid gush inside me and San's deep groans hit my ears and it felt more intense than the last.

"Good girl," San gave me a hot kiss on my neck and I shuddered.

I moaned when he pulled out, though it stung a bit. I felt his fingers dip back in there and when he put it up, we both groaned at the sight of his cum glistening and stringy against the light.

"Open up," he murmured. I hesitated but did as told anyway.

He put his cum-stained fingers inside my mouth and I grimaced at the salty, bitter taste. "I don't like it," I complained.

San laughed out loud and crashed on top of me, exhausted. I almost fell asleep when I felt him get up and leave the room. It hit me of what I have just done, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

I groaned in protest when I felt something cold and wet down there and I opened my eyes to see it was San concentrating on cleaning me up like he was getting paid to do it with a damp towel gently and slowly.

"Thanks," I murmured. "I...should get going."

He stares at me, all traces of roughness, maliciousness, and sociopathy gone on his face. He looked like the San I'd come to admire from afar before all of this happened.

He titled his head. "Why?"

I frowned. "Isn't this customary? I'm not sure if you want me to stay. People will see, it's already morning."

"Let them see," he shrugged. "Of course I want you to stay. Plus, it's not like it's much of a secret, anyway."

That piqued my curiosity and all traces of sleep went away. "What do you mean?"

He finished cleaning me up, discarded the towel in the nearest bin, and tucked my legs back in the softest, most comfortable blanket I've ever laid down on. It probably cost more than my whole bed set.

I blushed when he smiled at me. It wasn't a fake or imposing one - it was genuine. "I'll be right back, okay? Then we'll talk."

True to his words, he went back, but this time, he had a glass full of water and two shirts. He guided me up to sit down and brought the glass to my mouth, the only thing I had to do was make an effort to swallow. I had to suppress a satisfied moan when the water hit the back of my throat. All the screaming before and after sex...

"Arms up," he coaxed. I was confused but did so anyway. He put what I assume was his shirt on me, and then put the other shirt on his own body.

I let him do what he wanted, the resistance felt so tiring to me. This was the man that violated me in every way possible, yet why do I feel this pull towards him?

I already knew the answer - there was always something there. Now that he had taken my virginity, the pull has increased tenfold, and the way he was so sweet to me was a mystery on its own.

"So, how many?" I asked when he laid down next to me and put my head against his chest.

"How many what?" San asked.

"You know," I gestured between the two of us. "How many girls have you done this to?"

I was referring to the break in. He frowned and shook his head. "I am deeply offended, but I understand so I can't be mad. The answer is zero."

"You expect me to believe that?" I deadpanned. "You were an expert in being a criminal."

"It's not that," he sighed. "I can't count the times I stayed awake in this very bed and pretended you were mine. That was enough practice on its own."

He kissed the top of my head. "And I told you," he continued. "It's not a secret."

"What do you mean, San?"

"I wasn't subtle about it, everyone literally knew I liked you," he chuckled. "No offense doll, but you're dense as fuck."

"Funny," I muttered, unimpressed.

San laughed. "No, seriously. I did everything to try and get your attention, I sent flowers to your doorstep every Friday, for God's sake."

My eyes widen and I look up at him. "That...was you?"

"Who did you think it was?"

I paused, hesitant, remembering his words earlier. "M-My ex..."

It was the reason why I even met up with him in the first place. I thought he was trying to win me back using his cheap ways. San stared at me, and I could see the anger slowly rising in his eyes, but alas, in the end he ignored it, thankfully.

"Hmm," he hummed. "If he tries something, tell me. I'm not just saying this just because of what happened between us, but as a human being concerned for another's well-being. What he did was wrong."

I nodded. That seemed fair for now. I tried to suppress the blush that was threatening to flare my cheeks up. His words make it difficult for me to hate him, for now.

"Having said that," he cleared his throat. "I tried to chauffeur you too, at the bus station."

"And I meant it when I said I didn't want to impose," I mumbled.

"The point is, anyone with two eyes can see it, doll. I always seeked you out of everyone," he sighed.

He cupped my face in his hands and looked straight into my eye. "I know you have feelings for me, and it's driving me crazy that you haven't realized it yet. I'm sorry it had to be this way."

"But what you did was wrong," I frowned, putting my small hands on his to push him away so he wouldn't see how distraught I was because he was telling the truth. "Just because I'm not putting up a fight, doesn't mean I'm happy. Why did you do it?"

San looked so crestfallen and I hesitated for a bit. "I...don't know," he admitted. "I'm so, so sorry, doll. Please don't push me away."

"You don't even know anything about me besides the basics" I sighed.

Held my hand tenderly. "Then let's try now," he smiled tightly, hopefully. "You said your parents were abroad, where?"

I stared at him, giving in eventually. "Yes. In London," I replied tentatively. It was a lie, but he won't know.

"Ah. Migrants?"

"No, I laughed a bit. "I was actually born there."

"So you have that accent?" San teased.

"Maybe, you tell me," I said with the said accent.

I reveled in his surprised face. "So why are you here, then?" San asked, genuinely interested.

"We went here for a vacation but I fell in love being here and yeah, I stayed," I chuckled. "It's probably why I caught your eye, because I moved differently."

San shook his head at me. "No," he said. "You would've caught my eye, regardless, United Kingdom or not."

He hesitated, pausing. "I know you're lying."

It was my turn to be surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Why you're here," he said. I was about to say something when he cut me off. "It's okay, you can tell me when you're ready."

I smiled at him. "Maybe one day."

"I'm just a little concerned about the age gap for now," he confessed. "And I know you are too."

"It's not that," I clarified. "Someone your age would prefer looking for someone your age, not someone ten years younger."

"Does it bother you?" San raised a brow.

"No, not in the slightest," I replied truthfully.

For the first time after we were done, San gave me a genuine smile. It was the type that reached his eyes; the type that reached a part of my heart I've been denying.

The next day, I woke up alone in San's bed on what seemed to be in the middle of the afternoon.

I couldn't suppress a hiss when I sat up. Besides my pussy, my entire body felt sore. I'm not surprised, we literally went straight into it. It made me realize that I was so out of shape and I needed to catch up.

When I felt the side of the bed, it was still relatively warm. San must've gotten up half an hour before me.

Which wasn't a bad thing. Now that I'm alone in my thoughts, I can focus on thinking about what to do from here not just for me and San, but for myself without him. I couldn't deny that the sex was mind blowing, but I had basically forfeited any real chance I had to erase myself from San's life and vice versa.

Giving in was a no-brainer. No matter how hard I tried, I knew all my efforts would have been proven futile in the grand scheme of things. I screwed myself up, however. And now, I want more.

After some more thinking, I decided to get up and talk to San. I put back on my underwear but I didn't bother wearing some pants, and San's shirt was large anyway. I just have to be careful not to bend over.

I was instantly hit with the smell of food when I got close to the kitchen, after much exploring, and my stomach began to rumble uncontrollably.

San was sitting by the kitchen island drinking a cup of coffee. He typed away on his laptop with furrowed brows. I watched the man I spent the night with - he wore a black shirt paired with black jeans yet he still managed to look good.

My heart palpitated when I realized he was wearing a pair of glasses. I've never seen him wear glasses before. He looked sophisticated, more chic, more attractive.

"Working?" I said out loud when he still didn't notice me.

San finally lifted his head up to look at me and his eyes slightly widen. I suddenly felt self-conscious when he started slowly taking in body slowly from head to toe until his eyes reached my face. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he gulped.

"Morning, well, afternoon," he snapped out of his trance. "Come sit. I ordered some food for us."

"This is a lot," I murmured when I sat down and tried to pick what I was going to eat. "Why did you order this much?"

"I didn't know what you wanted," he shrugged. "And I didn't want to wake you up to ask, better safe than sorry. Coffee?"

I nodded awkwardly. It was harder to be normal around him than I thought. San seemingly wasn't affected at all - he was still the confident, undaunting, self-assured, and bold man I knew who I was always careful with even before all of this.

He sat back down on his chair. "Did you sleep well last night?"

"Yes."

"That's good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I cringed at how awkward I was acting. Not that I wasn't before, but I was more so now that we've far more things that normal acquaintances do. San smirked widely at my predicament, clearly enjoying the effect he has on me.

"I'm leaving in an hour," he said. "Something came up at work, but I'll be back before sunset."

He looked at me to gauge my reaction. "I would like it if you were still here when I come back, I'll take you out to dinner. If not, I understand."

I had to stop the urge to smirk, myself. Wasn't dinner supposed to come first before the sex? This is going nowhere, I thought. It's either I talk to him now or I won't do it all. It was now or never.

"Uh, San," I cleared my throat. He looked at me expectantly and I almost backed out. "Can I talk to you?"

All the humour and mirth disappeared from his face and he became so rigid and tense right before my very eyes as if knew what I was going to say. In hindsight, we both knew he did.

"Okay," he mumbled.

I took a deep breath and laid it all out on him. "You don't need me to tell you again that taking me against my will whether or not we had sex was wrong."

San listened attentively. "You hurt my feelings," I croaked, my appetite suddenly going down. "You violated me, you couldn't approach me like a normal person? You could have knocked on my door."

Tears started to fall from my eyes but San looked twice as hurt as I did, if that was even possible. "Doll, please," he pleaded, reaching out to hold my hand but I didn't let him. He looked even more hurt. "I'm sorry, please don't say you're going to leave--"

"San, 'sorry' isn't going to cut it," I interjected rather harshly. "They way you went about this was so, so wrong. What were you even thinking?"

He didn't say anything for a while. "I don't know."

I saw red. "You don't know?" I scoffed. "What do you know?! Which one is the real San?"

"I know that my feelings for you are very, very strong," he answered without any hint of deception in his eyes. "You know who I am, Y/N."

"I wouldn't say that, you genuinely scared me last night."

He sighed before burying his face in his hands and groaning softly in frustration. "I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry, my doll, I'm so, so sorry. I truly am. I don't want to lose you, not like this."

When he looked up at me again, I held back a gasp of surprise when I saw his eyes glistening with tears. "I was wrong, I know I'm a piece of shit," he sniffled. "I'm sorry for scaring you, you were right, I was sick in the head. I don't know why I did what I did, and I have absolutely no excuses for it."

I felt limp and San took that opportunity to hold my hand in his and repeatedly kissed it and my heart ached. I felt lighter though, I know the apology was shit compared to what I went through, but the acknowledgement was much appreciated on my side.

"I'll make it up to you, okay?" San guaranteed. "You said you were waiting for the right person?"

He gave my hand another hot kiss. "I'm going to prove I'm the right person for you, Y/N, I promise you," he assured with desperation. "Even if it takes a lifetime, please baby, just one chance..."

Call me a bitch, but I intended to make him stew a little bit.

"One chance, San, just one," I whispered. "If you screw up, I'm going back to London."

I won't go back to London though, that was the last place I'd go, but it was just a just-in-case type of a thing if he does screw up.

San buried his face in my hand in an attempt to cover the silent cry he was pouring out of his system. "Thank you," he whispered. "Can I hug you?"

I shook my head firmly. "No," I denied. "You don't deserve anything."

San pouted, and damn it, it was cute. "Okay."

He wasn't the only one screwed anyway - I may honestly be more screwed than him. I've liked him for so long but I was always afraid that he wouldn't look at me. When he found out I was a virgin and he stopped, I fell for him a bit more. If only he didn't fuck me afterwards.

The fault wasn't his own though. I didn't push him away. For now, it was better this way so I can gauge his sincerity, especially about why I wasn't in London in the first place.

A couple of months passed since that fateful night, and true to his words, San did everything and anything possible to get into my good side.

We were the talk of the whole complex. San wasn't exactly the most private person when he was trying to show his affection. It was uncomfortable since the whole complex seemed to cheer when they found out San was trying to woo me, but I slowly got used to it.

Sometimes I would even look forward to it. I do feel a little bad sometimes because maybe I was power-tripping a little bit but the tiniest complaint from me and San would get into action.

"How was your meeting?" I asked when he entered my apartment.

He sat down on the couch with a heavy sigh. "Terrible," he groaned. "Bastards are trying to haggle from us with at least 30% of the original price. It's ridiculous."

I never denied him of time either. I knew I liked him so it wasn't difficult at all for me, so we would hang out at each other's places, though more him in mine than vice versa.

We were in an odd spot, we were technically together but not at the same time because we never got intimate or held hands or kissed. Not ever since that night.

"So what did you do?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Oh. I said yes."

I raised a brow in surprise. "You did? That's a huge percentage, San. "

"Don't worry," he brushed off with a smirk. "You know me, doll, I always have to get something in return. Wait here."

He went outside again and he was gone for approximately half an hour before he came back again, this time, he was carrying a box.

"What's that?" I asked out of curiosity when he set it down at the dining table.

"It's for you, my doll," he smiled. "Open it."

I hesitated, staring at him apprehensively, to which he laughed. "Seriously," San insisted. "You'll like it, I promise, there's no bugs in there or something."

I picked it up and turned it slightly. It was a lot heavier than I thought. I raised my eye to San, and he had this look that was a mixture of pride and fear of rejection. Carefully, I lifted the covers of the box and was surprised at what I saw.

"Yubari King!" I exclaimed in genuine surprise. I looked up at San and he beamed ear to ear at my expression. "San? How?"

"That 30% I was talking about earlier, I exchanged it for these babies," he carefully tapped the expensive melon. "Our client had Japanese connections, you'll get more of these soon."

When San asked if he could get me something, I mentioned these in passing because I know they were extremely difficult to find in Korea and are on the expensive side as well.

"Y-You didn't have to," I said, feeling extra guilty.

"I told you," he smiled, grabbing my hand to kiss me. "I meant it when I said I'll do anything for you."

"Thank you, San, I really appreciate it," I murmured, giving him a small hug. "You're going overboard, I'm telling you."

"I'm really not," he teased. "How about you slice that for us? I kinda wanna try it."

And that I did. The moment I bit into it, I couldn't help but moan out in satisfaction. It was so crunchy, the middle of it the sweetest I have ever tried, and it really put it into perspective why these were very expensive.

"Holy fuck," San exclaimed. "I can't believe this actually tastes good."

"What were you expecting anyway?" I teased.

"I was hoping they'd taste like shit so I couldn't justify the price," he rolled his eyes playfully.

"So thanks to you, we're eating good shit," I chuckled.

"Yeah?" San smiled. "Would it be possible to get a kiss, at least?"

I froze, my arms and legs becoming a bit rigid. San notices and visibly panics. "No, I'm sorry--"

"We agreed that I was going to do this on my own time?" I was frowning, trying very hard to keep my voice leveled, but I was shaking a bit. I put the last slice of the melon and chewed on it rather roughly.

"You're right, baby---"

"Don't call me that," I hissed.

San deflated, looking visibly upset. I felt so bad, but I can't help the way I felt. "Sorry," he whispered.

This wouldn't be the first time I had snapped at him. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I wasn't ready for any sort of intimacy with him even though I did want to give him a chance. Maybe it was the small trauma he inflicted.

Deep down, I knew it was because I was scared that once I let him in, he would stop because maybe he only wanted me for the thrill I gave him and my body.

"I'm going to take a nap," I sighed as I got up from the couch and tried to head to my room.

"Ba--Y/N, please, please, I didn't mean to make you mad," San pleaded. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

"San, I don't know, go pick some four-leaf clovers, or something," I spat, finally closing the door behind me.

When I laid down on my bed, I felt a bit lonely and cold. Today, San was supposed to sleep here. Yeah, for people not dating, we would sleep in the same bed. It was my sick way of dealing with my bad memories of him; so I can replace them with good ones.

At the far corner of my room, my eyes landed on the bouquet of the most beautiful jasmines I have been taking care of for weeks now. My eyes teared up, San gave them to me and I was floored. They were very rare where we lived.

I hit an all time low depressive state today. It had been two weeks since San and I started trying for each other and a week since I last saw even his shadow.

Oh, I was pissed alright.

I sighed, I suppose I was right in not giving him a full chance because where was he? He literally disappeared, it was infuriating. It was one thing if he talked to me before and after, but no, absolutely nothing.

But behind all that anger, was sadness. I thought we were going to have something real despite the horrible start we had.

I sighed deeply and was about to go to my room and try to sleep everything out, but my doorbell suddenly rang. I was confused, I wasn't expecting anyone.

My eyes widened. Unless it was my parents. I got nervous, I wasn't ready to face them yet after running away.

I took a deep breath and opened the door, only to be face to face with someone I thought I'd never see again.

"San?"

He thrusted a bouquet of flowers in my hand. "Hi," he whispered.

"What the hell, Choi San?" I gritted my teeth. "You disappeared for a week without telling me where you were! I thought you left for good!"

"I'm sorry, doll, I really am," he frowned. "I didn't have service in Virginia."

"Virginia?" I raised my brow in genuine surprise. "What on God's green Earth were do you doing there?"

He smiled widely, looking proud of himself. "I bought you your favourite flowers."

"What are you talking about? Those are---oh my God," I gasped audibly when I took a good look at the bouquet.

They were blue jasmines, a very uncommon species of flowers mostly found in the United States. My eyes started to tear up. "San," my lips quivered.

"I'm sorry I took so long, but you deserve the best," he assured, his smile growing bigger. "I told you I'd do anything for you."

I woke up all of a sudden, the pitter-patter of the rain hitting my windowsill loudly interrupting my nap. Suddenly, my mind went to San immediately.

I went out of my room to check if he was still here. I felt horrible for snapping at him and I intended to apologize. I was confused when I didn't see him because his jacket and phone were both still here.

"San?" I called out of nowhere while I tried to look at every nook and cranny in my room, but he was nowhere to be found.

I decided to go in my small backyard, knowing San wouldn't be there anyway, but my feet took me to my destination in my half asleep state.

I was about to leave after looking around, but my head quickly whipped back around to do a double-take. My jaw dropped instantly, I was wrong, San was here.

"Oh God," I whispered, horrified.

There he was, the big and strong man kneeling down the soaked grass searching for something in a way so concentrated, you would think he was looking for gold underneath the soil.

He was looking for a four-leaf clover. What have I done?

Without thinking, I quickly ran towards him in the pouring rain, not caring if I wasn't wearing any slippers or carrying an umbrella, I just wanted to get him out of there.

"San, you idiot!" I screamed in frustration, quickly kneeling beside him to try and get him up. "Stop it!"

He was startled at first. "Doll, you're going to get sick," he frowned. "Go inside, I'm sorry I can't find any---"

"Forget it, I didn't mean it like that, please," I begged in exasperation. "I don't want you to get sick!"

We both stood in the middle of the grassy yard, not caring if the rain hit us. "You care about me?" San asked quietly.

"Of course I care about you!" I exclaimed, stomping my feet on the ground as if it would help me explain my thoughts. "I care about you a lot, you dummy."

He revealed a dimpled smile - a smile that was only reserved for me. "I'm glad," he spoke, grabbing me by the arm, then the head, and then leaned in to give me a kiss.

I kissed him back with equal desperation. It was everything I needed right now and the sparks that traveled through our bodies were intensifying the unspoken feelings between the two of us. Yeah, intense would be the word I'd use.

Before we both knew it, our clothes were gone and we were a mess trying to have each other on my bed, not caring if we were both wet from the rain. It might sound ridiculous, but there was no other way to describe what we were doing but making love.

"This is something you want, right?" San asked. "You'll have me, and you're going to want me to have you."

"More than anything in the world," I replied.

"Y/N, I mean it," he kissed my lips. "I want all of you, not just your body."

"Show me," I whispered.

All our pretense and doubt went out and the world melted away into nothing. Everything was raw and intense, every breath fast and both our hearts were finally becoming into one. This was only our second time being this intimate, and maybe I was delusional, but this one felt better than the first. Maybe because I had feelings for San this time. Everything happened as quickly as it started.

"I won't let you down," San murmured, hugging me and giving me a tender kiss on my forehead once everything was said and done. "My feelings for you are deep."

"As mine are," I tilted my head to meet his lips. "Just don't break through my window again."

San laughed loudly. "I won't," he turned to the window he fixed up quite well. "On one condition."

"The audacity," I playfully rolled my eyes. "What is it?"

"Be my girlfriend?"

I frowned. "I thought that was a given?"

"Oh," he shrugged. "I wanted to ask anyway. Is that a yes?"

I nodded and was about to say something witty to him, when my phone rang loudly in the background. Without thinking nor looking at the screen, I answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Oh, Y/N, it's about time you answered," my dad's irritated voice sounded from the phone.

I yelped in surprise and stared at a curious San. "Ah, D-Dad, can I c-call you back in a minute or two?"

I hung up before my dad could even say no. I hit my forehead frustratedly with my fist while mentally how dumb I was.

"Doll? Is everything okay?" San asked, worried. "Why'd you hang up? This wouldn't be the first time either."

I peered at him cautiously. "You noticed, huh?"

"Is it related to why you don't want to go back to London?"

"Yes," I sighed. "I'll explain later, let's get dressed first."

I dressed hurriedly because knowing my father, he would call back if I was even a second or two late from the promised time. If San and I were going to be together, he needs to know why I'm here. It's just a shame that he had to find out this way.

"It's okay, doll, I'm here if anything," San assured while the phone rang. "Oh, he picked up."

I panicked a bit and positioned the front camera to my face and out of San's. "Dad!"

“I'm disappointed that my only daughter doesn't want to talk to me," my dad's face held a little sadness, but nothing crazy. "Mingi and mom say hi."

"Who's Mingi?" San hissed. He winced a bit when I kicked him on the leg.

"I'm sure my brother," I glared pointedly at San. "And mum is fine."

My dad rolled his eyes dramatically. I guess that's where I got

my bratty attitude from. "They'd be better if you came back home," he sighed dejectedly. "Next time you don't answer your phone, I'm cutting off your allowance."

"Dad..."

"I'm serious, Y/N, I'm getting old," he began to say, and I got nervous because I knew what he was about to say next. "If you could just give my friend's son a chance, you might make a connection with him."

San's gaze went from curious to immediately pissed. He gave me a flat look of annoyance. "Don't say a word," I mouthed silently at him.

"Dad, you know I want to be with someone I truly liked," I sighed exhaustedly. "And I want the relationship to be natural, not because we were matchmarked with one another."

"I didn't tell you to marry him on the spot, sweetie," he said with a frown. "I'm not going to force you, but all I ask is an initial meet up and see where it goes from there."

When I didn't answer, my dad continued his tirade. "And what do you do, you rebellious child? You run away when you know we can't reach you!"

I glanced at San with a tight smile and a mutual understanding passed between us. Now that the truth was out, San looked weary and I got extremely nervous.

"I've met him plenty of times, he's a great guy, Y/N. Very polite, intelligent, and easy on the eyes too."

"I'm sure he is, dad," I chuckled nervously when San glared hard at the phone. He glared at it so hard I'm surprised laser beams haven't shot out from his eyes yet.

"If only you gave him a chance," my dad hummed thoughtfully. "He's a bit older than you are, but I'm sure you'll be in good hands."

"You know I'm not into older men," I mumbled under my breath. San had the gall to look extremely offended.

I muted myself really quickly and lifted my phone up so my dad couldn't see my annoyed face. "I'm just making excuses, don't give that look," I hissed at San. He just rolled his eyes like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"He's not that old," another voice said from the background who wasn't my father. He must be out with his friends somewhere.

San raised a tentative brow and slowly sat up, but I ignored him. He can stew for all I care. It's cute that he's jealous but this wasn't the right time, my dad might ask me to separate with San and I wasn't ready to get heartbroken yet, especially since we just made up.

"Ah, that's my friend, Cheol," my dad said. "Actually, it's his son that we were hoping to pair you up with---"

"Give me that shit, I can't take this anymore," San hissed and roughly grabbed the phone from my hands. I was about to protest loudly but when he gave me that especially terrifying glare of his, I sat back down.

"Please don't say anything stupid," I pleaded.

He raised a brow and rolled his eyes. He's really pissed, oh my. He cleared his throat and positioned the front camera properly towards his face. My dad must be so confused right now.

"Sir," San started with the most polite, but firm voice I've ever heard him speak. Spoken like a true business. "I'm your daughter's boyfriend and with all due respect, I really like---dad?"

I was so startled at San's voice but apparently so was he. It was like he saw a ghost with how pale and how wide his eyes have become.

"San? San! Is that you?! Give me that real quick, Hyun Sok..."

I swiftly sat beside San so we were both in the camera. I was so surprised I couldn't even say a word. We heard quick shuffles from the other line and another man that looked just like San, but older, also had this shocked expression.

"That was your dad?" San looked at me.

"That was your dad?" I shot back.

"What are you doing in London, dad?" San managed to say despite the shock.

"Never mind me, son, what are you doing there?" his dad queried. I saw my dad shuffle in the camera and if it wasn't for the situation, I would have laughed at how priceless his shocked expression was.

"I knew that voice sounded familiar," San grumbled.

"Well, since it came to this," San sighed. He held my hand and brought it up to the camera for both our fathers to see. "Dad, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Doll, this is my father, Choi Jongcheol."

"Y/N? Is this true?" my dad inquired. I nodded in confirmation, afraid of his reaction, but instead me and San had the surprise of the lifetime when they started laughing loudly and chaotically.

"I gotta hand it to your son, Cheol, he sure gets the gold, know what I'm saying?"

"I taught him no less than that! Shit Sok, this was even better than we were hoping for!”

"Didn't even need to set them up for a dinner date, my God."

"Definitely went straight to dessert."

"Aye!"

"Okay," I spoke slowly and awkwardly. "Dad, what's going on?"

"Your boyfriend," he chuckled. "That's who I wanted you to meet a couple of years back!"

I was surprised, and so was San, with the new information. Now that I think about it, everything fit. The timeline of when San moved here, especially, and one time he did mention his father trying to set him up with someone but he also denied the offer.

"I thought you didn't want someone older?" my dad raised a brow mischievously.

"Some things change," I shrugged, trying hard to hide my blushing cheeks.

"How did you two meet?" Jongcheol asked curiously.

"You don't wanna know," San chuckled nervously. I blushed harder when he kissed my cheek in front of both our dads and both of them had this shit-eating grin on their faces.

"Well, we don't want to hold you guys," my dad said awkwardly and not making eye contact. I was confused until he said, "Your hair is messy, and San's shirt is on backwards."

I groaned in embarrassment and covered my face as I ducked away from the screen in order to save face. San chuckled softly at my demise.

"Well, be careful you two," San's dad teased and I heard my dad laughing in the background. "Use protection, Choi San, but not too much. We don't mind grandkids soon---"

"Dad! Ugh, so embarrassing!" San screamed and hung up.

He tossed the phone away somewhere on the bed as if it was the plague, itself. We both burst out laughing at the irony of the situation for ten minutes straight.

"Had I known it was you," I chuckled as I laid my head on his shoulder. "I'd have agreed immediately."

"We both didn't know, it's okay," San hummed. "We both ended up together anyway, didn't we?"

"True. The irony of it all, I can't believe this," I smiled. "Still, we could have met sooner."

"Sooner than that," he sighed. "Your brother has been trying to invite me to your house back then too. I just always said no because we were both busy trying to start the company."

I was startled. "You know my brother?"

I hadn't seen my brother, Mingi, for a while now. He was the reason why I was successful in moving here, though I never told him why. And my parents never told him either because I knew they didn't want to stress him out for his---

The realization hit me. Mingi was also ten years older than me, I was a happy accident, you see, and he was also trying to start a company with his friends here!

"Yes," San confirmed. "He's one of my best friends, didn't you see the photo by the doorway?"

I knew the photo he was referring to. It was the one that hung in his room, one of the very few decorations he had, that I was looking at where I thought it was his family at first and he said they were lifelong friends.

"I-I don't remember what it looked like," I admitted. San whipped out his phone and showed me the picture and my jaw hung open when I saw Mingi at the very top corner of the photo. "I've never seen Mingi with pink hair before, how was I supposed to know?!"

Needless to say, I was definitely going to call Mingi later. San laughed out loud at my expression and once again, we were laughing together.

"This fate thing is crazy," I giggled. "Do you regret anything?"

"Never," San shook his head. "I say we celebrate this new found information."

"And how do you propose we do that, Mr. Choi?" I teased.

I screamed when San got on top of me and he hovered over me with a playful smirk on his beautiful face. "I can think of a few ways," he pecked my lips. "What do you say?"

I giggled uncontrollably and nodded. We might not have started on the right track and some people might think I'm dumb for giving the man who forced me to his will a chance, but something tells me we're going to be fine.

By all means, San isn’t perfect and neither am I, but sometimes we need people who aren’t perfect to help us achieve what’s good for us, not what is right.

#ateez #ateez smut #kpop smut #san smut #san x reader #choi san #ateez hard hours #ateez au #ateez fic #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez angst #ateez imagines

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shirefantasies · 1 year ago

Text

LoTR Characters + Pregnant Reader (Wife!Reader)

Back with more parent AU because it's some of my favorite fluff! Consider this a Part 1 to an anon request that’ll be on its way hehe (also an AU where something happens with Celebrían apparently 😥)

Warnings: conception, pregnancy-related illness and symptoms mentioned, very long post lol

Aragorn

✧ Neither of you had made any concrete plans. No set in stone hour of your marriage reserved for the growth of your family or dubbed too early. Thus, you are unsure how your husband will feel about your news, the fact that you got yourself checked out the first moment of illness, mother's intuition in full service already, it would seem. You cannot keep your smile to yourself, though, as you stroll in search of Aragorn, hand hovering about your own waist as if in disbelief. He had just returned from a hunting trip when you found him, smiling shakily at his amusement when you pulled him immediately aside into the next room over. "What troubles your heart?" The man had intuition of his own, years of silent observation- there was no lying to him. "I just learned that I am with child, Aragorn," you took his hand, seeing no point in being anything but direct, "due for the birth next spring if all goes well." "With blossom comes the next blessing of my kin," your husband replied, that wise look in his blue eyes causing you to shake your head fondly, "what could be more beautiful? What a gift you have given me and how could I ever repay it?" Shaking your head once more, you simply grinned and, sighing with relief and anticipation alike, replied that being the amazing father you know him to be will be all you need. Leaning forward, Aragorn laid his head against yours, brushing your noses as he held you.

✧ Looking out upon the kingdom, the realization that is is his kingdom still sinking in, and that he has made this place a home for new life as well. That this is the very reason he fought for a safe world. It brings such a rush to his heart that he goes off in search of you at once, kissing you warmly and caressing your still-small bump.

✧ Aragorn loves doing anything he possibly can to make your days easier, treating you like the queen you quite literally are! He pampers you with treatment like massages, washing your hair for you, drawing you baths, and the like.

✧ While you no doubt have many people at your disposal, quite similarly your husband enjoys cooking for you by hand and memorizes everything that makes you sick if anything as well as the random foods your cravings make you obsessed with, trying to creatively incorporate them into everything.

✧ You knew it already, but your pregnancy brings about the reminder that this man has such a way with encouraging words, his voice the only thing that cuts through the clouds of your changing moods.

✧ Aragorn is the one who tells you not to be so hard on yourself, that you are doing an amazing thing and you are desirable as yourself, no more and no less. No need to hide yourself, no need to perform, no need to feel anything less than the beautiful soul you have always been. Remember, he tells you, he is going nowhere, and you will endure all together.

Legolas

✧ For so long had you and Legolas hoped for your little life, long enough of trial and hope that you’d all but given up until you felt a shift. Felt on the brink of illness at nearly all times, seeking healing for a mystery illness and leaving with news that had your husband holding you for minutes on end, tears sliding down his cheeks, and refusing to let go of your hand all day. Holding you like you might shatter, his other hand wrapped gently around your waist where his hand can brush the curve of your soon-to-be-growing belly. “We did it, my love. We will finally be three.”

✧ Your husband grows wistful, getting a distant look in his eyes before smiling and reminiscing on his younger days. “What demeanor shall our little one have, do you say? I would not mind having two of you,” he teases, while you say a child like him would be much easier!

✧ “Both of your little ones sound quite healthy.” “Both?” You are shocked, but Legolas’s grin never falters, nor does his surprisingly tight, hearty grip upon your shoulders. “Twins,” he keeps repeating in wonder throughout the day.

✧ You and Legolas have a bet running on the twins, if they are to be identical or not. You think they are both boys, while Legolas thinks he has a little girl waiting for him, too. “Wishful thinking,” you tease him. “Absolutely,” he agrees, smiling softly at you.

✧ As time passes, he does tease you about your waddle. “Shall I slow down a bit?” Cheeky prince, but that’s why you love him!

✧ Legolas’s eyes never fix you with anything but awe. He is simply amazed at all the wonders your body is capable of and what it endures. Even though that wonder also manifests as him almost constantly asking if you are alright, it is worth it when your husband looks at you as though captivated by a goddess.

Boromir

✧ Boromir caught you with your eyes bulging out of your head, not a single chance of delaying your discussion. Such news as you have just received can only be considered a blessing, and yet you still are shaken to the core with the spiking precursor of excitement and hope, hope that your husband would be happy. Your words burst forth the moment he took your hands, asking you whatever was wrong and nodding faster and faster with each step of your detailed medical visit. His smile grew and grew until he could hardly help himself, taking your face in his hands and pulling you into a kiss that more than assuaged your worries. “Why do you look so worried? Such a wonderful blessing was beyond anything I could imagine,” he tells you, a hand reaching to rest gently upon you.

✧ He all but tackles you to bed that night, kissing again and again your lips, your cheeks, and down finally to your belly.

✧ Boromir’s appreciation of your body never ceases your entire wait. His hands always caressing you, his words always sweet upon your ears, especially to cut through the deprecating ones your own lips utter. It baffles your husband that you cannot see how utterly glowing you are.

✧ One hundred percent though will he be teasing you about the odd cravings you get; even as he goes to fetch them he’s making faces, asking if you’re sure, joking about what strange taste the little one has.

✧ You suspect you are carrying a son while Boromir’s guess is a little girl. After you remind him that a mother knows, he rests a hand over your bump and replies with a teasing grin “Why can’t a father know as well?” “Because you do not have to carry him for the better part of a year!”

✧ One of Boromir's favorite things in this world is the sight of how his lent garments fit you tighter and tighter, bringing a twinge to both the loving and the possessive sides of his heart...and his hands to wrap around you or cup your cheeks and pull you into a kiss!

Gimli

✧ His intuition is off the proverbial charts. It is he who first makes any mention of your chances, stating you should not strain yourself in your condition. You are confused, you even protest, but in the end you have your little appointment and your husband has a smug little moment of ‘I told you so’ before the realization of just what he’d been sensing hits him, dropping his jaw and sending his arms flying about you, lifting you up into the air with a hearty laugh. “The mighty line continues! And thanks to such a beautiful lassie no less! You'll want for nothing, I promise you, and no harm'll come to either of you while I yet draw breath."

✧ Has strong opinions about how well you should be eating, so barring you being stricken with sickness Gimli will be making or otherwise providing for you the heartiest of meals, all the things he believes are necessary to raise up a strong little dwarfling. Thank the fortitude and solace of his people, but you are sick very little your entire journey with this and all other little ones you share!

✧ Given the strength of dwarven genetics, you both assume that you are expecting a boy; thus, your husband insists on crafting a tiny axe for him. “For when he’s older, of course!” Gimli assures you, waving his hands defensively.

✧ No worries about your pregnancy weight here- suffice it to say that a dwarf finds the extra pounds quite appealing and has no hesitation about showing you such!

✧ Any exhaustion you feel is the only thing that stops Gimli from taking you around to all his friends and loved ones and likely anyone else who will listen and announce that he has a child on the way!

✧ Nesting is a very strong instinct of his! Gimli builds and crafts by hand all of your baby's furniture and decor, even an adorable mobile of horses, little dwarves with pickaxes, and little effigies of your favorite animal all dangling above his crib! Leaning his head against your belly, he asks the baby "Well, what do you think? Only the finest for my little flame!"

Frodo

✧ Your husband wasn’t sure at first. Not sure if he would feel whole enough after all he endured to bring a life into this world, but you, oh, you… The one who brought life vividly rushing back to his heart, color returning to his life and comfort to his pain. One day a pang struck his heart and he realized it would mean the world if after it all he was able to create life, and more importantly to have something so amazing come of your love. Soon after you both eagerly hoped for the signs, and it took but a few months. Frodo worried you would be sick, but confirmation comes after weeks without your cycle, nothing more. For once, no pain shall come to Frodo Baggins or those he loves.

✧ Your health is his greatest concern, so much so in fact that Frodo has soon befriended practically every midwife in the Shire, melting them with his endearing eagerness to know all he can about your possible afflictions and what you need. His concerns soon gather you the proverbial village of help should you ever send Frodo off for something beyond his breadth.

✧ It breaks Frodo's heart when his nightmares or moments of panic coincide with your own fragile emotions for the first time, for he should be caring for you, not the other way around, but when you hold each other, tears soaking into the opposite shirt, he realizes that what you two have is an understanding and trust strong enough to fortify each other even in darkness.

✧ In case you were not already aware, you are so lucky in your choice of husband! Discussing names soon emerges into your conversation and it almost takes you aback how quickly agreements on a girl and boy name are reached!

✧ The one time during your entire wait for your little one that brings tears to Frodo’s eyes is the day you bring home a bolt of fabric and when he asks what it is for, you answer to make him and your new arrival matching garments.

✧ You catch him smiling widely at you, love glowing in his bright blue eyes as he watches you do even the smallest things, your little waddle or the way you practice folding diaper cloth. All you can imagine is those same eyes fixed upon a babe in his arms, shooting Frodo the same look right back.

Sam

✧ It seemed that every other conversation you shared with your beloved Samwise revolved around babies, so much so that your few still-unmarried friends had grown sick of it. Anyone with a baby in the Shire, though, knew who to look toward for care! You and Sam gushed over little clothes, little hands, went on for goodness-knows-how-long about how much you'd like a little Sam and he wants a miniature version of the loveliest girl he'd ever seen followed of course by you saying why not both? Sam loved life so much, saw beauty in growth and creation and every joy in it, so of course he wanted a big family and all his infectious sunshine on the subject just made you fall in love with him more and more. Months of trying passed, though, before you came to Sam in a daze, before you cupped his precious face in your hands and whispered to him we did it. Before he tackled you to the soft grassy ground and held you, weeping tears of joy and kissing your hands, your cheeks, finally your lips once he'd spoken how much he loved you.

✧ Takes to sleeping a bit lower, his head nuzzled against your torso. In the night you can feel his nose and lips ghosting over it and even hear little whispers when you both can't sleep, but you say nothing, letting Sam have his moments with the little one.

✧ The worry he has about everything the first time around. "Are you sure you can eat that? I don't want you to get sick." "Is that too heavy?" "Don't trouble yourself a mite when I'm right here, I'll bend over for it." "Alright, only if you're certain nothing will happen to the baby, sweetheart." As much as you want to remind him that you are still a fully functional woman, you know that Sam is an action man and this is his way of showing he cares.

✧ The meals he cooks you. You will be eating like a queen all because Sam wants to keep the baby strong, of course! As a bonus, it truly is like he knows what sets you off and avoids those things without even having to ask.

✧ “Imagine all the wee feet running through here,” Sam muses in bed one night, your head tucked in the crook of his neck. “The little hands grasping ours,” you add. “All the little ribbons we can tie in a girl’s hair.” “Taking your little boy out to the garden!” Once again, your friends act positively sick of how sweet you are, but inside anyone can see how deliriously happy you and Sam are and feel warmed by it.

✧ “When the time comes,” Sam always assures you, your hand tightly in his, “I’ll be right here. Wild horses could hardly drag your Sam away.”

Merry

✧ Your reveal is made a bit anticlimactic thanks to your husband’s teasing ways. “You’re knitting.” Glancing down at your work, you simply nod. “Yes.” “You never knit.” Merry’s eyes narrow. “Is it for somebody?” “If you must know,” you set your needles carefully in your lap and tease back, “this is for your child. Any complaints now?” “My child?” Jaw dropping, Merry looks at you like you’d just offered him the whole of Middle Earth. “That’s right,” your voice softens, even cracking a bit with emotion at the sight of his smile, “you’re going to be a father, Merry.”

✧ Merry’s adorable little habit of making you a pillow pile to lay on during your time of the month carries right through to your pregnancy. And of course it continues even when you remind him you’ll not be able to stand up from in because he will be right there to help you up!

✧ Because you've taken up knitting, Merry wheedles with all his charm and love and kisses an additional creation from you: a sweater made from the same yarn as baby's. "You are lucky to be so adorable," you tease him, looking up from your work to kiss his lovely lips. Maybe, you thought, a whole matching set for three would be in order, though…

✧ Another one who teases you, joking about how he is finally able to outrun you!

✧ The type of father to chastise the baby whenever they kick you too hard, lecturing to the front of your dress about hurting your mother and how that simply won’t do, then looking up at you with a humored smile.

✧ Compliments increase at least twofold upon your revelation, Merry never sparing the kindest words about your strength, certainly, but mostly your beauty. Never once during any pregnancy do you feel unloved, unwanted, unattractive, for even when your eyes can find no light within your reflection there your husband is practically worshipping every corner of your form.

Pippin

✧ Desire for a family was something that had drawn you two together as a couple, though you may have found yourself talking Pippin down from ten children! “Maybe start with five,” you would always tease him. So the moment your hypothesis is tested and confirmed, a grin you can’t remove spreads across your face and you run to collect everything for your surprise. Surprise is the only word you can use when Pippin opens his gift and sees the tiny knitted hat you’ve placed inside the box. “What is this for? Little small, is it not?” “If it was for us, perhaps.” It ended up taking you reaching out for his hand and resting it upon your lower belly for the massive grin to spread across his face, but once it does Pippin is laughing loudly and giddily, swinging you back and forth in ecstasy!

✧ Runs to get you whatever your need with barely an question. After all, who is he to say what it's like being with child, and if you want it, you shall have it. Hot water bottle? Certainly. A cup of tea? Of course. Three more pillows? Why, he'll strip your whole bed down. Panics a little if the request is to relieve pain, so prepare to hear a crash or the shuffle of a trip or two before you have the item in hand or on body.

✧ "What is this for?" "What are these?" Lucky you love him, your husband does have many a question of all the supplies you gather for after your new addition is welcomed. "Oh, to keep the hands safe? That makes sense." "Wait, you need to wear that... to catch the bloo- oh, my." He gulps. "I'm going out right now. I'm getting you a cake and some jewelry and some flowers and anything else you'd like."

✧ Can barely keep his hands to himself. Pippin was always the most affectionate husband you could ask for, but now? Now you two are practically a package set and nary can you travel without his arm around you, hand about your waist and gently running up and down over your little growing bump.

✧ Your baby seems to have inherited your husband’s personality, for even before the birth many signs of how active your little one is are present! Those poor ribs of yours will get kicked more than a few times with all the fluttering your little one stirs up inside of you! Pippin, of course, wants to feel it all and luckily he is never far from the scene. If he is, though, you bet he will run!

✧ Pippin is always laying with his cheek resting on your belly, talking to the baby about anything from how his day’s gone to how they have the most amazing and beautiful mother. Your heart can’t help fluttering every time.

Faramir

✧ Faramir has the most uncanny way of reading you like a book, a habit endearing as it is frustrating. Thus the moment he catches you smiling to yourself he is smiling back, approaching you with teasing question of what has you so happy. For once, though, you have the satisfaction of catching your husband off guard, resting your head against his shoulder and a hand upon his chest as you tell him you just cannot wait to see him as a father. "Someday, my love," he takes your hand and kisses it, "if I am so blessed." Giggling, you shake your head against him. "Blessed indeed! Someday shall be this fall," you answer, and peeling back from him you receive another spike of satisfaction at his wide blue eyes, the drop of his jaw and the race of his heart beneath your hand. "Are you certain?" You nod. This time, he takes both of your hands in his and with tears in his eyes thanks the heavens for you even as he shakily laughs, your bright demeanor never failing to put a smile upon his face. "Our child will be so loved." "I know."

✧ Your husband finds himself lost in reverie more and more often, drifting out of reality into some distant, but nowhere near out-of-reach, dream of your family, seeing you as a mother the most beautiful sight he can conjure.

✧ Faramir adores holding you from behind, his hands curled gently over where your bump forms and his head resting gently upon your shoulder, flowing hair tickling your cheeks and neck lightly.

✧ "One for each of us," is Faramir's joke when one of Gondor's finest medics grants you the knowledge that you are not expecting one child, but two. Your husband is there in the storms, the waves of anxiety rolling within you over being there for your twins. "You are not alone," he always reminds you, a hand joined with yours right over the twins' little hearts.

✧ If you wanted a husband who actually does his due diligence learning all he can about growing babies, birth, and postpartum care, then Faramir is another excellent choice! He’ll be spouting off facts about the whole thing ranging from what size the babies currently are to why you might have contractions after giving birth. Your mood determines whether you listen in or tell him to kindly stop.

✧ Just as with you, Faramir’s insecurities sometimes get the better of him, but they also fuel him, bringing a fire you can see to his fair eyes as he speaks with determination how he will love all his children equally.

Eomer

✧ Pride glows upon your countenance as you flit about the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the roast you'd made for dinner. A kingly feast is in order, for not only had you heard your husband performed exceptional drills this day, but you yourself are the host of something exceptional. Eomer and you have been enjoying each other's company much these days, so the news is not so much of a shock as it is a celebration, exuberance at a line enduring, two dreams fulfilled as one, especially for your husband, who speaks often of how he longs for a full, boisterous home. Six if he's lucky. Well, you can hardly wait to help him along, pulling Eomer into your arms for an enthusiastic kiss before he can even toe his boots off, and when he chuckles and asks what has taken hold of his beautiful wife you let your news fly. Shouting for joy with abandon, Eomer lifts you up into his arms bridal-style, kissing your lips again and again. Dinner is all but forgotten as he kneels before you, holding your waist and pressing kisses all over the bodice of your dress and thanking you for making his day, nay, his life, perfect.

✧ Eomer is always proud of you, but the moment he finds out you are with child that feeling swells and positively drips off of him, every outing with him suddenly seeming quite like a chance for him to show you off. An arm around you at all times, a smile of great joy and satisfaction, news shared to all who dare make conversation with you both, and even kisses in public! Eomer is simply on top of the world and not a thing will topple his spirits.

✧ As somebody who never much studied the workings of women, though, Eomer is… a bit out of his depth. You will have to teach him some things like why your emotions swing so or what to look out for to know when your water breaks. This man has been in battle, seen heads roll in the most literal sense, and yet when you describe the eventual passing of your placenta his entire face contorts in a look of horror that has you all but doubled over in laughter.

✧ “You look so beautiful with child,” Eomer purrs, “we’ll have to do this again sometime.” You smack his arm, but cannot resist giggling at the way your husband still gives you butterflies.

✧ Your new addition had not even arrived yet and Eomer is commissioning a child-sized saddle, unable to contain his excitement as he describes all their future rides to you!

✧ As you dream up names, Eomer has many suggestions from the great halls of his own people, ancestors and great warriors alike, but making considerations of your own background is equally important to him, so he is more than willing to go back and forth for the perfect solution.

Eowyn

✧ No one had thought it possible, but they should have known. Impossible was not in Eowyn’s lexicon, and that was exactly why you loved her, one part within many of why you became her wife. And now, the healer confirmed you were carrying her child. …Very well, technically her banner-bearer’s child as the two of you had been forced to get a bit creative, but to have support and help from those who had begun with such uncertainty meant the world. Even Eomer had come around, having offered similarly, but of course you had to remind him that Eowyn wanted a child of her own, not a niece or nephew! Without Guthláf’s, er, donation, you would never bear witness to the broad and beautiful smile on your wife’s face, the tears glistening in the gorgeous blue of her eyes. “A child…” “Our child,” you add, leaning forward until your foreheads touched and noses brushed, a tearful smile upon your own face as your wife gently held your waist.

✧ Having worked so many times as a nurse lends well at least to Eowyn, for she is firm and unrelenting in her urging, nay, forcing, you to rest. No ifs, ands, or buts are to be accepted from your strong-willed beauty, let her dote on you, for she does it with great pleasure. And besides, the harder you fight, the harder she'll work to keep you lain down.

✧ Understanding the pain and symptoms of your time of the month completely also translates; thus Eowyn is ready with remedies for your aches and pains, hot water and herbs awaiting you. She rarely snaps back at your moods, choosing to be silent in the worst of times because she knows. Really, she does.

✧ She cooks for you, and whether you say anything about that or not likely depends on how willing to hide your honesty behind the hormone excuse if it is not taken well.

✧ Reminds you constantly how strong you are. In your lowest of moments, the times you struggle to stand and straighten your aching spine, feeling massive and utterly useless, Eowyn is there to hold your hand and tell you that you are hosting and creating life as she so speaks. You have made the ultimate sacrifice of your body and the greatest of pain to bring just as great a blessing to yourself and your wife. Far from useless, you are divine.

✧ “What does it feel like?” Resting her head on her hand, the one that wasn’t lain against your fluttering belly, she questions you as the baby kicks. “For you?” Part of her wishes to have this experience herself someday, while another takes your descriptions with trepidation. She does not enjoy being restricted, after all.

Haldir

✧ “Lie down, please, my love.” Haldir’s concern with your sickness increased daily as did the pain of seeing you feeling so weak and ill. You tried to push through and for as much as he loved your strength, your husband was not having it this time. Pride was not worth seeing you doubled over again, whether from pain or, arguably worse, illness. You relented in the end, resting and beneath the spinning of your head at the end of the day feeling not a seed of energy to protest an inspection. Healing herbs had you perking up a bit, and perked up you needed to be when the dark-haired, round-faced healer nodded sagely and with a wide smile told you you were with child, and these early days were likely to be the worst. For the first time in days the sobs that escaped you were accompanied by a smile, your face utterly breaking as Haldir held you against his chest, weeping too and thanking you for all you would endure for this blessing.

✧ Physically carries you places as often as he can be spared to do so. Lifts you up bridal-style to move you across your home and sits you up before he feeds you. Your illness brings out a tender, caring side you have never seen in your strong, stoic husband, but it makes your heart swell that much more for him and for the life you two are to have with your child.

✧ Another symptom you experience is the aching and swelling of your feet, but Haldir sits you down facing him and makes the best work of them he can, hands gentle as always as they soothe your skin.

✧ Even in the later months as your illness abates, though, your husband remains protective as ever, standing between you and any potential harm with the fiercest look upon his face and a hand upon your middle, even if the threat is an object you’ve hurt yourself on.

✧ The way shock melts into a wide, ecstatic smile unlike your husband’s typical demeanor when the healer repeats that yes, she could definitely hear two heartbeats beside yours is worth more than any gold in the world. Haldir pulls you into his arms, chuckling deeply. You feel his head shake slightly, slowly, atop yours in wonder.

✧ When you sleep, Haldir will always be holding you close, whether it is an arm draped over your bump loosely if you’re hot or need space or else you fully tucked into your husband’s warm embrace.

Galadriel

✧ Galadriel is actually the one who assuages your worries that your dream will not come true, having full faith in you as much as the magic of this world. And she is right, of course, confidence proven in the aid you receive from a member of her guard and even the way she knows it to be true before the healer even confirms the news. As much as she jokes about seeing a glow around you, the width of her beautiful blue eyes, the shine therein, tells you that your wife is as elated to hear it beyond a shadow of a doubt as you are: you are hosting a little life for you both to nurture.

✧ You being pregnant only aids in her mysterious nature. She can be convening in a council with the wisest of minds from afar and will use you as an excuse to step away at her will. "If you will excuse me. My wife is with child." They are not even aware she is married. Some of them may not understand how it all works, but before they can ask any clarifying questions Galadriel has already slipped away to be with you.

✧ One tendency you unwittingly adopt is falling asleep in the oddest of places, your exhausted body giving out upon its own terms. Always will you wake up draped in one of your wife’s shawls or blankets, however, no matter how odd the spot.

✧ Both of you can hardly resist the allure of tiny garments, smiling every time you see them. It also rings a bell of realization within your minds as you hold a tiny gown up to your midsection. Truly as you speak, there is a tiny body within you! What magic it is to be a woman!

✧ What magic indeed, you later reflect as another pain strikes your back not long after. Hosting tiny bodies came with all the assorted blessings and curses of your kind, one not long without the other. Sighing, you make to approach the chaise across the room and soon your wife is with you, moving its drapes aside and lowering you gently to its cushions, a soothing hand tracing up and down your aching spine.

✧ "I hope she looks like you," you both turn to each other and say simultaneously, mothers' intuition firmly aligned in your hearts, from which so much love for each other pours from, Galadriel immediately drawing you closer to press her lips to the crown of your head.

Arwen

✧ Elrond had been quite hesitant about your relationship with his daughter at first- were you the best choice for her? Could someone like you keep her safe? And how, of course, would she be given the child she so desired? Questions you yourself had posed to her, but she refused to listen, telling you her mind, and heart, were sealed. Little do you know, however, that all of Rivendell would come to love you as their own, see and praise the way you cared for Arwen, and in Lindir’s case even provide the healers with a chance at you giving your wife the family you both yearned for. The moment you tell her the healers’ method worked and she is to he a mother, you both are, her features lighten, taking on the wondrous joy of youth again as she grabs your face, falling onto you with a kiss of pure love.

✧ So accusing if you've overexerted yourself, leaning in closer with a look of sometimes-teasing, sometimes-serious scrutiny. "Surely you did not carry that up the stairs all by yourself, right?"

✧ Do not even bother trying to fake feeling up to anything, whatever the task, for Arwen can see right through you and will insist you sit down, taking your hands in hers. "Rest. You have your burden- let me take the others. My heart bears no ill."

✧ Her affection gets softer, light touches to your waist and hands resting over yours. One hand upon your hip or belly and one on your shoulder as you two sway gently, foreheads pressed together.

✧ Arranging your nursery is one of Arwen's favorite pastimes: painting a gorgeous meadow mural upon the wall, stitching a soft toy to lay within the crib, asking you which fabric you prefer for blankets.

✧ Your bundle of joy can make sleep difficult, but one silver lining Arwen points out in a low whisper one morning is how many sunrises you’ve now gotten to share with each other.

Elrond

✧ Reservations about having a fourth child so long after the others disappeared every time Lord Elrond caught sight of you holding a neighbor’s child or even just showing the loving care that had him convinced he would be well even marrying a second time at all. Every smile, every sweet thing you did, all of it came back to Elrond in a rush when you told him he was to become a father again. For once he did not feel too old, too tired, nothing but the elation of his every desire unfurling to him before his very eyes from your warm embrace. To be chosen as the father to your child was the greatest honor the lord of Rivendell could imagine.

✧ Your every ailment is minimal, for Elrond knows exactly what is best for each and every one. Nausea? The perfect tea blend awaits to calm the waves you feel. Aches and cramps? Your husband is happy to give you the most heavenly massage, his hands finding every needed spot as if by magic. A swell of emotion? He does not speak unless bidden to, simply holding you through sudden waves of tears, frustration, or both until he feels your body relax against his.

✧ Being married to an elf with the gift of foresight comes with the benefit of worries soothed, but also a joke shared between you both. For many a time you teasingly chastise him not to look too far and spoil the surprise of whether you have a son or daughter on the way!

✧ Standing behind you, Elrond rests his hands around your middle and presses a kiss to your cheek. Just when you think the bliss of this moment, of having your whole little new family all together within your husband’s arms, cannot increase is when Elrond shifts his hands, taking on the great weight you carry. Peering up into his soft blue eyes, your whole body deflates in a sigh of sweet relief as he holds you.

✧ He can never truly understand your experience, but Elrond has witnessed this process. All he wishes is to tell you all your pain shall pass, even the worst memories will fade and ease, but such words will sound insensitive, so all he does is continue to hold your hand and stand proudly at your side.

✧ One thing your husband cannot resist is showering your future little one with gifts, even jewelry for when they are a bit older and the tiniest circlet to place upon the beloved head, matching Adar's perfectly.

Want to meet the little ones? Part 2 coming soon 😉

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