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𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧 | 𝐉𝐮𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 𝐇𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

➳❥ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: Based on this idea shared by @eruwinh

➳❥ 𝐀/𝐍: At some point, I felt like I wrote too much and other times, I felt like I wrote too little. However, I truly enjoyed writing Jugram yearning since he’s usually described as someone on top of his game. It was nice to have him in a state of uncertainty and willing to be taught.

➳❥ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ content, fem!reader, mutual pinning, flashback, bodyguard!Jugram, post TYBW Jugram, eavesdropping, misunderstanding, arguments, confession, smut with plot, body-worshipping, guiding an inexperienced Jugram, fingering, oral (f receiving), soft sex

➳❥ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.3k

➳❥ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭��𝐱𝐭: After the war between Shinigami and Quincy ended, Jugram survived, yet found himself at the pinnacle of his purpose once more, serving. Though this time, it was as the bodyguard of the last child of an influential family among the remains of Quincies. Now, after nearly a year of serving you, he found himself entirely compromised and ready to run, unable to continue his duty, all due to not understanding nor being ready to confront the reason behind his emotions when it came it you.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The front door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, echoing through the quiet halls of the house. It was well past one in the morning, and your feet were killing you. You didn’t even bother trying to hide your wince as you leaned against the wall, reaching down to unclasp one of your heels, only to fumble and nearly lose your balance. Before you could curse or try again, a familiar hand steadied your elbow.

“Careful,” came that calm, soothing voice from behind you. Steady and tender yet controlled—always too composed after all this time.

Jugram stood there in a dark trench coat, black gloves tucked into one hand after peeling them off, his sword tucked neatly into his belt, hidden perfectly, and his long blond hair perfectly tied in a low, half-up-do like the hours hadn’t touched him at all. No bags under his eyes, no sign of exhaustion. You on the other hand felt like you’d been steamrolled over by every high-society sycophant in the city.

“Still standing after hours of high-noble talk of securing the last of the pure-blood Quincy lineage?” you joked and leaned against the wall, adjacent to the front door as you observed him removing his sword—a common practise once he was indoors. “God, those old men wouldn’t shut up about Quincy’s bloodlines. What’s next? A breeding programme?”

“If that were the case, I’m sure your presence would secure a future,” he quietly whispered as he lowered himself to a knee, gently catching your ankle before you could protest. However, he realised in the heat of the moment what slipped out his mouth, freezing for a second before continuing like nothing happened. His touch was sure, warm through the thin stockings you wore. You couldn’t help but blink down at him as he unbuckled the strap with surgical precision as though his words didn’t leave your heart pounding.

“Hey—” you started, caught between amusement and awkwardness.

“I noticed you were limping by the end of dinner,” he murmured simply without looking up, focusing on removing your shoe. “It was unnecessary to endure that long.”

You snorted at his awareness. “I wasn’t limping. I was floating, elegantly.”

There was a fleeting moment as the corners of his mouth twitched—just barely—but it was there. The smallest crack in the mask. “I’ll be sure to notify the press of your grace,” he dryly muttered, moving to the other shoe with that practised care. When he was finished, he stood with a smoothness that shouldn’t have been fair for someone that tall or stiff.

“You do this for all your employers?” you teased just to see if he’d react.

Pausing as he rose to his full height, his icy blue eyes met yours. “No,” he breathed after a moment. “Only for you.”

In that moment, the hairs on your neck stood and a small shiver of goosebumps rolled down your spine. You felt the tension in the atmosphere shifting, thickening, as his soft-spoken words lingered in the air much longer than intended. From where he stood before you, an arm’s length, you could smell the subtle vanilla rippling off him, clinging to his much taller frame like a cocoon. You wanted to lean in closer and bury your nose into his scent, but the suddenness of his proximity became aware—how much taller he was, how broad his shoulders were beneath that coat, or how easy he was to reach out to and hold.

You found yourself swallowing. “You’re really dedicated.”

“It’s my responsibility, remember?”

“…Riiiight,” you drawled, lips quirking. “And yet, I’m the one you let wander to the dessert table size times without intervention.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Because I feared you’d stab someone if I interrupted you.”

Grinning at him, even though he was trying to be encouraged by your humour, you noticed how his gaze had softened. Gone were the pinched brows and pursed lips he wore all night. There. There it was again—that flicker of warmth he never admitted to, the one he only ever showered when no one else was around.

The air between you simmered again, thick with unspoken words. His fingers were twitching at his side while you felt the words rising in your throat the longer you gazed at him, but you weren’t brave enough to give them shape. Not yet.

“Tea?” you offered instead, slipping past him, and brushing against his arm.

There was a flicker of hesitation as he stared at your moving figure. “It is late.”

“I’m well aware,” you called over your shoulder. “But you know how it is with routine. I’ve been forced to socialise with boring Quincy traditionalists all night, so it’s fair that I detox with cake and chamomile. Come or don’t.”

You didn’t need to make another offer as his body swivelled and feet automatically moved to follow your footsteps into the kitchen, resting your shoes and his trench coat atop the shelves on the way. Behind you, you could feel his eyes trailing across your back, your bare shoulders, the carefree sway of your hips freed from the heels. You pretended not to notice—pretended not to revel in all the times he’d done things like this lately—small, silent acts of care that kept building like a slow-burning kindling.

As he found himself naturally trailing behind you, a small smile was dancing at the corners of his lips at how this all came to be. At first, there was reluctance from him, only doing this out of duty and what was supposedly right because what else was he to do? But eventually, whatever strings that held onto him firmly, had slowly begun to loosen their grip and gave him the freedom to embrace his role, willingly, compared to the hesitation and worry at the start of it all.

“You do understand how this reflects upon our race? From near extinction, to extinct, all because we trusted your King!” your father’s voice rattled throughout the room despite the low cadence he spoke with.

Then, there was a clipped pause before the pained sigh from your mother. “We gave you our sons, and in return, we gain their deaths. How are we supposed to view this…trust?” she quipped, leaning forward in her seat, eyes locked onto the target ahead. “What do you suppose we do with this information now?”

“With you, more importantly?” your father cut in with a rather harsh tone. You could picture the way he folded his arms, narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips with a look that could kill a man on the spot. But this was no ordinary man he was speaking to—this man took glares worse than what your father threw his way, and yet, there was a fraction of disappointment in his demeanour.

Silence befell the room. From where you crouched behind the baluster, you could only make out some tuffs of gold tresses from the visitor and the stiff posture of your parents. Then, a weary exhale followed, breaking the silence, but adding to the tension.

“I understand the gravity of the situation Mr and Mrs Y/F/L/N. We were entrusted with your children’s lives, and failed—”

“You all failed,” your father corrected with a huff. “I should have known that Yhwach’s promises from the start were bound to fail, yet I was hopeful, and it cost me my boys.”

There was then the rustling of fabric and the sound of boots moving against the carpet. A blurry exchange of words followed, too angry, too diplomatic for you to care about, until the last statement caught your attention. It didn’t come from your parents, but instead from the guest.

“His Majesty gave his life, as did the rest of us,” he replied eventually. “But I am still here as his heir—something, someone of the Empire that once was. That can still serve a purpose.”

“And what does that mean to us?” your mother muttered. “Do we hang your cloak in the hallway and pretend it makes up for a bloodline thinned to nothing?”

“I came,” he breathed and then took a pause, brows pinched, “because your family stood with Yhwach to the very end. I thought you deserved more than a letter.”

There was a loud swear from your father, undignified and enraged, before the sound of the cushions squishing against his body as he leaned back, fingers under his chin as he stared at the Grandmaster. “Hmm. Serve a purpose, you say?” your father darkly laughed, but there was a glint in his eyes, one that spoke of amusement. “Then if you claim to honour the legacy for Quincies, you will find the task I have in store for you to be accepting—something to prove your…dignity and service to us.”

Jugram’s eyes widened momentarily before regaining composure. His posture remained poised, hands stationed at his side, and head afront, meeting your father’s gaze before dropping to his feet. He found himself holding in a breath he wasn’t aware of; not often was he left in anticipation or surprise, but it was to be expected. What family would not be willing to take out their frustrations on him, the surviving Quincy heir, for the loss of their future and loved ones? Bracing himself for the bite after all the barking, he stood tall.

“My last blood—pure-blood—my daughter. You will protect her, and only her,” your father declared without opposition as he rose from his seat and walked over to Jugram, standing shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye. “Serve this so-called purpose you claim to have, and don’t fail us, or I’ll have you join your King and other comrades.”

He could still remember seeing your face freshly when you came out from hiding behind the balusters, dressed in high-end luxury wear, with a solemn expression. However, your eyes had given way to how you genuinely felt, and in that moment, he felt understood. You were both confused, drifting in the wind however it blew, and accepting what was in the moment.

Jugram froze internally. His objective to serve wasn’t unnatural; it was engraved in his blood, but for another who wasn’t Yhwach, it was foreign. But the recollection of failure, disappointment and uneasiness—not knowing what else to do—floating overhead like a signal woke him up. He had to prove his worth and his capability to be a pillar for the once-existing Empire, right? And it meant starting from somewhere. Even if it was small. Even if it was protecting someone not of great importance.

He swallowed his pride.

Exhaling, he shuffled on his feet to stand even taller, alert. “Then I will honour my vow and uphold my duty as a Quincy, proving that I am capable of protecting,” he declared, as he bowed before your parents with conviction. “I will protect your daughter.”

From that day onwards, he had built his walls so high to prevent any mishap. He couldn’t take the disappointment of not meeting expectations. Of not being considered valuable. He needed to prove his worth. But you refused to let things be and broke through—the very foundations and pillars—encasing him in the real world, your world. Countless nights he spent questioning his duty and mentality had led him down the same path with the same answer every time—you. You made his job easier and difficult at the same time. You had him feeling things that left him dumbfounded.

He scoffed.

By the time he had entered the kitchen, you were halfway through cutting a lopsided slice of chocolate cake when you heard him enter. Quiet as always—you didn’t turn around immediately, instead letting the clicking of porcelain and faint rustling of a cloth occupy the lack of voices. Using that same cloth, you caught the sight of his delicate fingers reaching out to retrieve the second mug beside you before he said anything.

“I told you,” you murmured over your shoulder once more, “cake and chamomile. As a veteran of high society bullshit, this is the only acceptable recovery ritual.”

There wasn’t a response from him immediately as he placed the mug next to yours, like he belonged in your space. And strangely, he did. He had his own shelf in the fridge, knew where the tea tins were, his room was beside yours, walked beside or directly behind you, and always adjusted the dimmer lights to your preferred setting without being asked. He fit in like he was meant to from the start, and you weren’t sure if he had seen that.

“How do you survive this?” he asked eventually, curiosity laced in his voice, given this being his first official gathering he attended with you since his arrival half a year ago. You would have expected him to have an idea of these events under Yhwach’s rule, organising Yule Balls and dinners, unfortunately, not.

You laughed softly, kicking open the cutlery drawer and pulling out two forks. “Alcohol. Passive aggression. Inherited spite. You get used to it.”

Accepting the fork you offered him, he remained standing across from you, leaning slightly on the kitchen island, eyes trailing over your frame in your cocktail dress now wrinkled and slipping a bit off your shoulder.

“You don’t seem used to it,” he stated matter-of-factly.

You arched a brow at him. “Not one bit. You’re observant.”

“I have to be.”

“That’s your excuse for staring?”

That prompted him to fall silent—long—but he didn’t deny it.

You felt the tension resurfacing, simmering, festering into something thicker you were sure no knife sharp enough could slice through it.

Shifting your stance with the roll of your hips, you stabbed your fork into the cake. “Honestly, it’s not the people I hate. It’s the pressure, expectations. Half of them expect me to become a Quincy monument. The other half just want to marry me off to cement what little legacy we have left.”

His jaw tightened, something you didn’t miss, but he didn’t look at you. Casting his glance aside, he stared at the monochromatic floor. “You’re not obligated to fulfil anyone’s vision of the past,” he said too softly. “Not even your family’s.”

Now that surprised you. He always spoke like he was duty incarnate—honour and sacrifice. Yet here he was telling you to let go of what was expected. Giving him your entire attention, you jutted your chin out, almost accusatory. “Is that what you believe? Or are you just saying what I want to hear?”

Meeting your gaze, his expression was nearly unreadable, but his voice cracked just slightly when he spoke again. “I believe in the old ways of the Empire,” he whispered. “I bled for it. Killed for it. Believed it would mean something, and in the end…I was just a sword. A shadow of His Majesty’s will.”

You swallowed, feeling the static in the air altering. He never spoke about the war. Not like this.

“And now?”

He looked down at the fork in hand as if it had betrayed him by being there. “Now I make tea, and take off your shoes, and stand in your kitchen in the middle of the night wondering how this became…enough.”

Sliding your plate on the counter, you sauntered over to him as you felt something tender tugging behind your ribs.

“Maybe it’s not about what’s ‘enough.’ Maybe it’s just about what’s real, what’s right.”

As your words fell from your lips, he lifted his head, letting his eyes roam your face before settling on your eyes. His lips parted; a rasp of breath escaped before he closed them. For the first time as you stood before him, he didn’t look so tall, so out of orbit. As the silence continued to wrap around you once more, but comfortably this time, your fingers brushed against his, and he didn’t flinch. Your eyes fixated on his.

“I think you’re adjusting pretty well,” you commended with a lift in your cadence to ease the static in the air. “You even stopped flinching every time I swear.”

He grimaced. “I haven’t.”

“Liar,” you laughed carefree.

His lips twitched at the sound of your voice—an almost-smile reserved for only you. Then, without meaning to, you reached up and brushed your thumb across his jaw. Just once, testing the boundary that had never been spoken but always lingered between you.

Your touch led to his stillness. He simply stood there, breathing slowly like he didn’t trust himself to move.

“Jugram…”

His name left your lips as a whisper, but before you could say more, his phone buzzed. The moment shattered.

You dropped your hand, turned away too quickly, and suddenly the kitchen felt colder than it had seconds ago.

His phone continued to buzz, though he didn’t answer it, nor glance at it. “I should check the perimeter,” he said quietly. And just like that, he stepped away—composure intact, sliding back into place like the armour he typically wore. Only this time, you didn’t stop him as your fingers twitched at the realisation of him departing from their touch. You watched his back as he faded out of the kitchen, into the vestibule, before you heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

It was always a matter of time before things went back to how it was from the very start—business.

Rocking on your heel, you blew a gush of air and picked up the remains of cake and tea, clearing out the area. You weren’t particularly fond of meeting the stern expression from the maids in the morning for a dirty kitchen. It didn’t take you long to tidy up and venture to your room, changing out of your cocktail dress, a hot shower and into some baggy pants and oversized top. All the while, your thoughts continuously drifted back to Jugram and the way his eyes would follow you around, sometimes hooded or filled with an awareness that burned him to the core painfully. Each time you passed near, his fingers would twitch, jaw clench.

And your parents? Oblivious, or rather, nonchalant about the ordeal, so long as he committed to his duty of keeping you safe. Asking them to get involved was pointless; they wouldn’t budge.

Glaring at the carpet like it cursed you, you wondered if he had returned indoors by now. There was a heavy downpour which started ten minutes ago; surely he wasn’t foolish enough to keep trekking through the rain.

Silently padding through the hallway, the soft pitter-patter of the raindrops against the glass filled the silence. Though you didn’t have to remain in its company for long when you stopped short of the study three rooms down and heard the rapid whispers of German being exchanged from inside. Letting your curiosity get the better, you inched closer towards the study door left slightly ajar. From your vantage point, his back was to you, standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear.

“Nein. She doesn’t know,” he murmured in a clipped, colder tone. “I’m not sure it matters anymore…not when I’ve been here for a while—not when I’m compromised like this.”

Then, there was a long pause.

“I’m not sure, but if leaving—”

At that point, you had heard enough. Your heart had dropped to the depths of the ocean at the mere thought of him leaving already.

Pushing the door open, Jugram stiffened mid-sentence, slowly lowering his phone and turning to face you. At the same time, a flash of lightning rippled throughout the sky, illuminating the room and him, blessing him with a fallen, angelic look.

“How long were you listening?” he gritted.

“A few Sternritters survived the war and found me four months ago. They gathered at an abandoned outpost in Europe, expecting my return, however, I was protecting you—” he paused, meeting your eyes for a moment and then looked to the floor, “—I was set to leave—”

Shutting the door, you crossed the room to stand less than a metre from him, arms folded with a pained expression. “Long enough to realise that teaching you about modern technology was probably an error in my doing,” you snarled before a beat of silence followed. “How long?”

A beat of silence passed before he replied.

“You were going to leave after everything? After months of…of this?” You stepped forward.

“I hadn’t made a decision.”

“That’s not the point, Jugram. You went behind my back—”

“I’m not required to inform you of—”

You cut him off, the pain bubbling into anger. “Don’t you dare pull that professional shit with me right now,” you snapped, feeling your voice wavering. You could sense the barbed wire coiling around your throat, growing tighter with each second.

His eyes lifted off the floor and met yours, and in the instant, he could see the reflection of his stormy eyes in yours. It made his heart clench. “This…isn’t about you.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Your voice rose, shaking as if the strings were about to snap. “You live here with me. You dress my wounds when I get hurt during training. You stay up at night when I can’t sleep. You kneel down in front of me and take off my damn shoes when I’m too tired to stand. And you think this isn’t about me?”

His silence only fuelled you to continue.

“Why do you run?” you pleaded. “Have I—Is it because you’ve grown tired of protecting me? Have I become a nuisance? Is that why you push me away—grown so distant and shut me out?”

He gritted his teeth at the mere whisper of you considering yourself the problem. “You? The problem?” he whispered in disbelief, eyes softening when he caught a glimpse of your glassy eyes. “…Never. It’s me. I don’t know what this is?”

Of all the confessions you had hoped to hear, those were not expected. His words left you holding your breath while your eyes searched his for more answers.

“I was forged to lead, but also to follow orders; to kill when commanded. I was never meant to feel anything. And now I’m here in this strange, loud world, and I don’t understand why I look at you and have the ultimate desire to stay.” He took a step closer, closing the gap. You thought you had imagined it, but it was true when his right hand lifted and curled in the air, hovering over your cheek. There was a slight tremble as he held it there, savouring the warmth while terrified that you might disappear. “I don’t understand why I want to touch you. To be in your presence. Protect you. Not because I have no choice but because I need to.”

You could hear the crack in his voice before it all fell silent as you held his gaze.

Then, glancing at his hand, you brought his wrist closer and inched your face outwards to meet his knuckles. The moment his knuckled brushed against your cheek, you heard his unsteady exhale—you could feel the tremors in his touch as you nuzzled your cheek into his palm, enjoying coolness and calluses.

Jugram froze.

“To think that I wouldn’t need the same thing you need,” you supposed into his wrist, eyes closed as you savoured his touch before placing a chaste kiss against his pulse, smirking when it jumped. Lifting your gaze to meet his widened expression, you took the final step to remove all spaces between you—all boundaries and lines drawn were diminished—and cupped his face.

“You don’t have to be afraid if we need the same thing. You’re all I ever had my eyes on,” you confessed softly, standing on your toes and inching your lips closer to his. “And I want you to need this as badly as I do. So touch me.”

His lips were merely a few inches from yours when he stiffened, lashes fluttering as he fought internally. The hand that once cradled your cheek joined his other on your waist, fingers curling and unfurling.

“You want to. I can feel it. Every time we’re close, every time you look at me like you want to devour me but can’t let yourself have that opportunity,” you breathed against his lips and craned further to give a fleeting touch. “I’m not asking you to break your oath. I’m asking you to stop pretending you’re still not human and have this.”

The loud silence ringing in your ears drowned out the thundering background of the pouring rain. The shadows on his face, perfectly symmetrical, painted his internal struggle. The opening and closing of his mouth as he took deep inhales, eyes fluttering from your lips to your eyes, then back to your lips.

Fuck it

His grip tightened on your waist as he pulled you flush against his chest and smashed his lips with yours in a messy, unbridled kiss. It was sloppy, hurried, and inexperienced, yet you felt all his emotions and fears being poured out as your lips interlocked. The tension that reached its crescendo had snapped under its own weight, all heat and frustration and months of silence combusting in one bruising kiss.

You gasped as he pushed you backwards, sandwiching you between him and the desk, his body caging yours. His calloused hands roamed your waist, encircling and slipping under your shirt to rub the silver of skin available at the base of your spine, while the other traced your neck and face, cupping it like glass in case it was all taken away. Your body shivered under the heat from his touch like it was satisfied after so long.

He suddenly pulled away, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing hard and leaving a string of saliva connecting your lips. He dared not meet your eyes, knowing the depths of emotions that swam in his might lead you to push him away. Instead, he held you, focusing on your scent, your warmth, your contour, your presence.

“I shouldn’t—” he finally choked out.

“You should,” you corrected, dragging your fingers down his face to grip the front of his shirt. “You already are.”

“Then…then, show me,” he uttered in desperation, slowly opening his eyes and letting you see the swirling storm within—the dark rings of blue and dilated pupils. “I…I still don’t know what I’m doing.” His brows furrowed with raw vulnerability, cheeks faintly flushed and eyes darting between your mouth and your gaze like a man overwhelmed by thirst but too afraid to drink.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, loosening that perfectly-kept golden fall from its low tie, letting it spill between your hands like silk. The moment you did so, he leaned in again to capture your lips, kissing you deeper this time, less hesitant. The sound he made—like a groan tucked inside a sigh—broke something in you. Jugram moaned softly as he felt your nails scrape lightly along his scalp, the sensation making him falter, his hands tightening at your waist. His tongue brushed yours, slow and reverent, as if memorising your taste, and broke the kiss only to press another against your jaw, your cheek, your throat, anywhere he could reach.

“I always thought needing something for myself would make me weak,” he breathed heavily along your collarbone as you tilted your head to give him space.

You reached between your bodies and guided his hands higher, placing them over your chest. At the contact, his fingers twitched, then stilled, causing you to look up at him.

“Don’t be afraid. I want your hands on me. Stop holding back.”

It was then, he cupped you fully, squeezing gingerly through the fabric. He stared at your breasts with awe, his thumb tracing over the soft curve until his fingers found the peak of one nipple beneath your clothes. The feel of it stiffening beneath his touch made his jaw clench.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered in reverence. “You feel…like nothing I’ve ever touched.”

You guided his touch again, helping him lift your top over your head to reveal your bare breasts to the cool air—the shadows of the raindrops cascading on them. His pupils dilated, mouth parting in amazement, while his hands acted faster by cupping them, thumbs brushing across your nipples in slow, circular motion.

Instantly, he lowered his mouth to your chest and kissed the upper swell first, then hesitated before tentatively letting his lips brush over your nipple. The warmth of his breath made your skin pebble, and when he finally drew the hard peak into his mouth, you arched with a soft cry. A hand slid around your back, pressing you into him as he suckled, tongue learning the texture of your skin. The very taste of you had him moaning into you, lost in the newness of your body.

As for his other hand, it was guided downward, trailing it over the skin of your stomach until his fingers hovered just above your core. Your legs shifted apart instinctively, inviting him in, and his eyes burned into yours with a ferocity you had never seen in him before.

“There?” he asked innocently.

“Hmm, touch me here.”

His fingertips brushed against the damp fabric of your panties, and his breath caught, feeling the soaked heat waiting for him. “You’re already wet…”

“For you,” you whimpered, biting your lip. “Always for you.”

Your words were merely an incentive for him to gingerly cup you, his hand trembling, then pressing more firmly, dragging the heel of his palm against your clit. The moan that escaped your throat made his knees go weak, which he swallowed up by leaning to kiss you once again. As the kiss progressed, his fingers moved slowly, uncertain at first—exploring the softness between your thighs, the slippery warmth that welcomed every hesitant stroke.

“Take ‘em off,” you encouraged against his lips. “I want your fingers inside me.”

With clumsy hands, he peeled your underwear down and dropped to his knees before you, golden hair spilling over his shoulders like a curtain of light. His eyes, filled with need, met yours as he hitched your leg upon the desk, and cupped your bare pussy like it was holy relic. You were swollen and wet, glistening in the low light of the study, and Jugram looked every bit entranced.

His fingers explored with more confidence now, two of them parting your folds, dragging slowly through the slick that clung to your skin. And when he found your entrance, sliding a digit in, then another, he gasped as your tight heat clenched around him.

“Gods, you’re so tight,” he groaned, pushing deeper and instinctively curling his fingers until you were the one gasping. “Was that—?”

“Yes. Right there, keep doing that—”

Your encourage urged him to pump his fingers with more purpose, the pads of them pressing against your sweet spot as his thumb stroked circles over your clit. The rhythm building quickly, prompting your body to arch into his hand, thighs trembling as he drove you higher and higher. “I want to taste you,” he suddenly uttered, before sliding his fingers out and replacing them with his mouth, licking a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your hands gripped his hair, your hips bucked, and he groaned into you, eyes fluttering shut as he wrapped his arms around your thighs to hold you still.

His tongue worked expertly despite his inexperience, led purely to your moans and the way your body shuddered under him. He suckled your clit, licked your folds, and fucked you with his tongue until your legs threatened to collapse.

“Ju…gram,” you stuttered breathlessly. “I’m c–…lose.”

He groaned in approval and kept pushing, relentlessly, his mouth latching to your clit, tongue flicking with hungry, messy strokes. You felt your body cease, as your release poured onto his tongue, and he consumed it like a starved man, moaning and pushing his face deeper as he lapped your clean, moaning your name between kisses to your drenched folds. When he finally pulled back, lips glistening and chest heaving, you tugged him to stand up.

“I need you inside me,” you begged. “I want all you.”

Just hearing the way you yearned for him made his cock throb painfully in his trousers, and with you help, he stripped them off, shirt included until he stood completely naked before you. The sight of him left you breathless—thick, veined, flushed dark with precum at the tip, waiting to be put out of misery. Leaning into you, nuzzling his face into your hair as he breathed in your intoxicating scent while grinding his cock into your thigh.

“Tell me what you need me to do…”

Wordlessly, you guided him to the chaise behind him, pushing him down to lie down flat against the cushions. Then, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, and grasped his cock, running it up and down your folds, letting him feel the heat and wetness he caused. The way he hissed when his tip caught your entrance, a slow trickle of your arousal dribbling down his length, made your anticipation falter and lined yourself up with his cock. One hand on his chest while the other gripped the base of his cock, you slowly suck down, stretching your pussy. Feeling like he had been shot, Jugram tossed his head back, eyes widened with disbelief as your slick heat swallowed his inch by inch.

“I’m…inside you,” he breathed, not fully believing the situation still.

Smiling at him, you planted both hands on his chest and started rolling your hips slowly, grinding your clit against the base of him. His hands shot out to grip your waist like he was afraid he’d lose his mind, panting your name as he pulsed deeply inside you. Your movements were fluid, reverent, like a prayer—each roll of your hips grounding him further into a reality he never imagined he deserved. He held your waist tightly, thumbs digging into your skin as he watched you ride him with soft gasps and fluttering lashes.

“You’re doing so perfect,” you sighed. “Just let it happen… let yourself feel me.”

Every syllable urged him to groan, and you felt his hands travel up your back, one sliding into your hair, the other caressing your shoulder blade as if trying to memorise you by touch alone. His lips eventually found your throat again, sucking gently as his hips began to move in tandem with yours, finding the rhythm of your need. Every deep thrust upward struck a spot inside you that made your toes curl, and your voice catch in your throat. His name tumbled like a prayer from your lips, and for each, he growled softly like it fuelled him—like hearing you come apart over him finally grounded the storm that had raged inside his chest for months.

Pulling you down and pressing you to his chest, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and trembling, teeth grazing your skin. “I never thought I’d be allowed this,” he whispered against your pulse. “I’ve done too much. Been too much…for anyone to love.”

Hearing his tender confession, you cupped his face and pulled him back so he could see the truth in your eyes. “You’ve protected me, stayed with me, comforted me when you were the one breaking inside. You think—ugh, shit—I didn’t feel how hard you fought for me even there was nothing left to fight for?”

In an instant, his fingers tightened their grip in your hair as he leaned forward to sweep your lips into another kiss, slower. His other hand slid down to your hips as he thrust up with more force, hips slapping into yours as his composure began to crumble. Your breasts bounced against his chest, nipples grazing his chiselled skin, shooting tiny ripples of goosebumps across your body. The overwhelming combination built a friction too fast—his cock hitting deeply, your clit catching every grind of your hips against his. You moaned into his mouth, struggling to keep up and focus on his cock at the same time.

“Like this?” he rasped, watching your face intensely.

“Hmm, ye—oh gods, yes…”

He kept that steady rhythm, grinding his hips with each plunge, ensuring you felt every thick inch of him—every bump, vein, rigid and curve—dragging through your passage. Your nails scraped against his chest, adding to his faint scars, when the pleasure became too much. In addition to his mouth travelling down your neck and finding purchase at your nipples, suckling them with a holy reverence as he fucked you.

Your walls fluttered around him, making his breathing stutter. He buried himself deeper, grinding hard as your body convulsed above him, your orgasm coursing through you like a white, hot lightning rod. The feel of your orgasm around him, your walls milking his cock, spiralled him to follow immediately after. He didn’t even have the time to prepare when his cock twitched and then pulse hard, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside your pussy. The sounds of his soft, brokenly moans against your skin as he came, hips still jerking as he cum filled you with each throb, filled the room, no longer the sound of rain permeated the air.

Melting against him while his arms cradled your body like it was something precious, you both panted into each other’s skin. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just the sound of your racing hearts and slowing breaths filled the study, punctuated only by the occasional shudder of his chest against yours.

Then, quietly, he whispered, “I didn’t know I could be this…human.”

Brushing his damp fringe from his forehead, you smiled at him. “You are. You always were. You just never let yourself feel it.”

“Then let me keep learning. Let me keep choosing you.” He kissed your collarbone again, softer this time.

Wrapping your legs tighter around him, keeping him buried inside, your body still clinging to every drop of his warmth. You reaffirmed once more. “Then stay. Not as a bodyguard. Not out of duty. Stay as mine.”