#(I watched the finale and he was in it so I guess that counts??) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thedensworld · 3 days ago

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Run Devil Run | c.sc

Pairing: Incubus Seungcheol! x Con Artist Reader! (feat. Incubus Jeonghan)

Genre: Supernatural romance au!

Type: fluff, angst, fantasy, smut (mdnil!)

Word Count: 16k (supposed to be 24k—tumblr didn't let me)

Summary: Who would've thought that a simple job—to stage a scandal with a rising actor—would entangle you in the world of an incubus label director?

The bar buzzed with conversation, jazz humming softly in the background. It was Saturday night—meaning Yoon Jeonghan would be here.

You’d done your research. A top actor, effortlessly perfect, scandal-free. Your client wanted that to change.

Your task? Make him fall. Break him. Ruin him.

At the bar, Jeonghan leaned against the counter, whiskey in hand, smirking at a friend’s story. A glance—brief but deliberate—flickered your way.

Hook set. Now, let him bite.

The job had come a week ago, a simple text: “I need your help.” You ignored it—until the money arrived. Then a name: Yoon Jeonghan.

The woman’s story was familiar—whirlwind romance, lavish dates, and then… nothing. Left in the cold, she wanted revenge.

You didn’t care for love or betrayal. You cared for the payout. And tonight, Jeonghan would learn that even the untouchable could fall.

You swirled the drink in your hand, watching as Jeonghan laughed at something his friend said.

Jeonghan was used to being chased.

Women fawned over him, men admired him, and the world seemed to orbit around his existence. Yet—you wouldn’t do either. That was the trick. The secret to standing out in a crowd of people desperate for his attention.

So, you didn’t approach him.

You didn’t stare.

You didn’t giggle or whisper or find excuses to brush against him like others did.

Instead, you let him notice you.

A game of restraint. Push and pull. You exchanged fleeting glances, offering just enough of a smile before looking away—calculated disinterest wrapped in a veil of mystery. Just enough to spark curiosity.

And then, as expected, the inevitable happened.

He came to you.

“You seem familiar,” Jeonghan mused, sliding into the barstool next to you. His voice was smooth, effortless—the kind that made people want to listen. The kind that could make anything sound interesting.

You blinked, feigning mild confusion. “Do I?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with the slow precision of someone who enjoyed the chase, not just the catch. His smirk deepened, a quiet amusement settling in his gaze, as if he had already figured something out.

“No,” he said. “But I wanted to see what you’d say.”

Clever.

You exhaled a soft chuckle, tapping your fingers against the glass, letting the moment stretch just a second too long. “And what did I say?”

Jeonghan took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something dangerous.

“Exactly what I expected.”

The corner of your lips twitched, but you held back a full smile. Interesting. Yoon Jeonghan had expected you to play along, and you had. But now came the real challenge—staying one step ahead of him.

“You must hear that a lot,” you mused, swirling your drink, letting the ice clink against the glass. “People thinking they know you.”

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, elbow resting on the bar, gaze never leaving yours. “You tell me,” he countered. “Do you think you know me?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. Did you know him? Not in the way his fans did, not in the way his past lovers did. You knew his habits, his routines, his weaknesses. You had studied him like a script, memorized the beats of his life until you could predict his next move.

But the real answer? Not yet.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, lips curving just enough to leave him guessing. “But I do know people like you.”

Jeonghan’s brow lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. “People like me?”

“Effortless,” you said, lifting your glass in a lazy gesture toward him. “Everything comes easy to you. You don’t chase—you let people come to you. And when they do, you decide how long they get to stay.”

Jeonghan let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if to acknowledge the hit. Bullseye.

“And yet,” he murmured, resting his chin on his palm, “you’re still here.”

You hummed, letting his words settle between you. “Maybe I just like a good drink.”

Jeonghan’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. He didn’t believe you. And that was fine—you weren’t here to be believed. You were here to make him want more.

“Then let me buy your next one,” he said smoothly, signaling the bartender without waiting for your answer.

You should’ve refused. That would’ve been the smarter move. But you let the moment linger, let the tension coil just a little tighter before you nodded.

One drink. One conversation. One night.

Step one was complete.

But Jeonghan wasn’t the only one watching you tonight.

The articles were everywhere. Headlines flashing across news sites, gossip forums buzzing with speculation, and YouTube videos dissecting every detail of Yoon Jeonghan’s playboy agenda.

You watched it all unfold with a satisfied smile, the soft trickle of water from your watering can filling the quiet space of your office. The scent of damp soil mixed with the rich aroma of coffee, the warmth of the air feeling heavier than usual.

Your laptop played a video in the background, a commentator going on about Jeonghan’s fall from grace. It was almost amusing—how quickly the world turned on someone they once adored. But you knew better than anyone that public opinion was fickle.

Then, your phone buzzed.

A notification flashed across the screen. Transaction complete.

Your client—Jeonghan’s scorned ex—had sent the rest of the payment.

Your smile grew.

You set down the watering can, wiping your hands on your jeans before sinking into the worn-out couch. Your office—small, cluttered, filled with plants—was yours. For now, that was enough.

You pulled out your calculator, fingers moving swiftly.

First, your brother’s tuition—non-negotiable.

Second, your grandmother’s care home—she deserved comfort.

Third, office renovations—peeling ceilings, a collapsing couch, long overdue.

Lastly—yourself. Barely enough, as always.

Despite pulling strings to bring down a top actor, you were still scraping by. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

On your laptop, gossip videos dissected the scandal you’d created. They’d never know the truth.

Or so you thought.

Your phone buzzed, a new message lighting up the screen. And just like that, something shifted.

Unknown Number: You work fast.

Your breath hitched.

Before you could even process it, another message came through.

Unknown Number: But tell me—did you really think you could play this game without consequences?

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to loosen your grip on the phone. Threats weren’t new.

People didn’t like to lose—especially the rich and powerful. Anonymous warnings were nothing new—bitter exes, regretful clients, or nosy threats trying to scare you into confessing.

Your eyes flickered to the message. Jeonghan? Unlikely. You had covered your tracks well. He was an actor, not an investigator, too busy with the media storm to suspect you.

Whoever it was, it didn’t matter. You tossed your phone onto the coffee table, watching it slide to a stop. Job done. Paid. Time to move on.

Yet, as you leaned back, arms crossed, the unease lingered.

The air in the office was tense, thick with the weight of unspoken accusations. The blinds were half-drawn, blocking out the city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The atmosphere was suffocating, the kind that made even the most composed individuals feel restless.

Director’s Office.

Yoon Jeonghan sat in the center of it all, arms crossed, his usual effortless confidence slightly fraying at the edges. Across from him, his lawyer and the head of PR were reviewing documents, their expressions unreadable.

At the head of the table sat Choi Seungcheol—director of the label, and the one man in the room Jeonghan actually cared to hear from.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before leaning forward. "You saw her, right? She was seducing me first." His tone wasn’t defensive—more exasperated, like he couldn’t believe he even had to explain himself. His gaze flickered toward Seungcheol, silently urging him to back him up.

After all, Seungcheol was there that night. He saw it happen.

But the director didn’t react. He sat with his arms folded, watching Jeonghan with the kind of expression that made it clear he wasn’t interested in excuses.

The PR manager sighed, adjusting her glasses before flipping a folder shut. “That doesn’t change the fact that you wanted to keep in touch with her,” she said, her voice professional but firm. “We warned you about this, Jeonghan. You know how fragile your public image is. The media was just waiting for a story like this.”

Jeonghan clicked his tongue, leaning back in his chair. “So what? I can’t even talk to someone without it becoming a scandal?”

His lawyer, who had been mostly silent until now, finally spoke. “It’s not just about talking to her,” he said evenly. “The photos, the texts, the late-night meetings—it all paints a picture that’s hard to defend.”

Jeonghan frowned. He had played this game long enough to know how the industry worked, but this—this felt orchestrated. Too precise. Too perfectly timed.

“Someone set me up,” he muttered, more to himself than to the room.

“I don’t care who approached who,” Seungcheol finally said, his voice edged with irritation. “I care that this is everywhere. I care that my phone has been ringing non-stop since morning. And I care that the shareholders want a statement before this gets any worse.”

His gaze hardened as he looked directly at Jeonghan. “I need a solution. Now.”

Silence hung in the room. The PR manager exchanged a look with the lawyer before clearing her throat. “Damage control is possible,” she said, flipping through her notes. “We issue a vague denial—something like, ‘These rumors are unfounded, and we ask for privacy.’”

Jeonghan scoffed. “That makes me look guilty.”

She shrugged. “You already do.”

Before he could argue, Seungcheol spoke. “What about flipping the narrative? A bigger distraction.”

Seungcheol tapped the desk, thinking ten steps ahead. “A fake relationship could work. But we need more—something bigger to pull focus.”

Understanding clicked. The PR manager hesitated. “You want another couple. A distraction.”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol said. “Jeonghan’s scandal won’t fade with a denial alone. But if we drop a flashier dating rumor within the label, it’ll steal the headlines.”

The lawyer adjusted his glasses. “So, we sacrifice another artist?”

Seungcheol’s lips curled. “We redirect.”

A heavy silence settled. The PR manager finally asked, “Do you have someone in mind?”

Seungcheol nodded. “Mingyu.”

Jeonghan snapped his head up. “What?”

“He’s perfect. Popular, clean, beloved. A dating rumor with the right person won’t hurt—it might even help.”

Jeonghan scoffed. “You think he’ll just agree to this?”

Seungcheol’s gaze turned cold. “Mingyu knows how this industry works. And if he doesn’t—he’ll learn.”

The heavy door clicked shut behind the PR manager and lawyer, leaving the room unnervingly silent. The moment they were gone, Jeonghan let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration no longer masked by the polite indifference he wore in front of them.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, pushing himself up from his chair and pacing toward the window.

Seungcheol watched him from behind his desk, fingers loosely laced together. His expression was unreadable, but Jeonghan had known him long enough to recognize when he was thinking—really thinking.

“You were there that night.” Jeonghan said, turning back to face him. “She flirted on me first. You saw it.”

Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “I did.”

“Then why the hell am I the one getting burned for this?” Jeonghan scoffed. “I didn’t even take her home. Hell, we barely touched. And yet, somehow, I wake up to articles painting me as some kind of serial womanizer?”

Seungcheol tapped his fingers against the desk, his gaze still sharp. “Because it wasn’t just that one night, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan’s frustration stilled.

“What?"

Seungcheol tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but firm. “You kept talking to her after that.”

Jeonghan frowned. The past few weeks flashed in his mind—messages exchanged late at night, conversations that stretched on longer than he expected. She was intriguing, he’d give her that. Something about the way she spoke, the way she held herself, made him curious enough to keep coming back.

“I mean… yeah,” Jeonghan admitted, crossing his arms. “But it wasn’t anything serious. Just casual conversations.”

Seungcheol arched a brow. “Casual conversations that somehow ended up in the hands of reporters.”

Jeonghan clenched his jaw. He hated this. The scrutiny, the accusations, the way the media twisted reality until even he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

With a sharp exhale, he stood up abruptly, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The city stretched beneath him—bright, alive, and completely indifferent to the storm brewing in his career.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered, his reflection staring back at him. “Why now? Why her?”

A beat of silence.

Then—Seungcheol’s voice, quieter this time. “That’s what I’ve been wondering too.”

Jeonghan turned, catching the way Seungcheol’s gaze had darkened.

It wasn’t just frustration anymore.

It was something else. Something more calculating.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, Jeonghan felt a flicker of something uneasy settle in his chest.

Your eyes fluttered open, neon light streaking across the ceiling. A slow breath, a hand against your chest—your heartbeat was fast but steady. Just a dream.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. Yet, warmth lingered down your arm, a whisper brushing your ear. The details slipped away the more you reached for them.

"I finally found you."

The words echoed—unfamiliar yet strangely familiar. Stress, maybe. Or exhaustion. You sighed, rubbing your face, glancing at the clock. Too early to wake, too late to sleep.

You swung your legs over the bed, cool floor meeting your feet. Just a dream. But as you poured a glass of water, unease crept in. It didn’t feel like a dream.

Settling at your desk, your laptop’s hum filled the quiet. The screen glowed as you skimmed emails��clients, trouble, requests. Your fingers hovered over the trackpad when a notification popped up.

Hansol [2:03 AM]: Not sleeping yet?

You sighed, already knowing where this was going.

You [2:04 AM]: Why?

The reply came almost instantly.

Hansol [2:04 AM]: Have you thought about the last project I told you? The offer still stands, sweetheart.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair.

You [2:05 AM]: No bride project for at least ten years. The last one gave me so much trauma I had to get therapy sessions with Seungkwan.

A beat passed before his response popped up.

Hansol [2:05 AM]: LOL! Then let me know if you’re willing, alright? The money is yummm.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. Of course, he’d say that. His “bride projects” paid well but came with headaches, complications, and emotional baggage you had no interest in carrying again.

Closing the chat, you turned back to your emails—plenty of jobs, none that would leave you questioning your life choices at 2:30 AM. The city never slept, and neither did you.

The streets were quieter, wrapped in a hush interrupted by the occasional car. The neon glow of the convenience store flickered as you pushed the glass door open, the familiar chime greeting you. You had one mission—ramen.

As you debated between spicy or cheese, thud.

A sharp collision sent you stumbling.

“Shit, sorry,” a low voice muttered.

You looked up. A man in a dark hoodie, his features shadowed. Just another late-night customer—except something about him felt familiar. Not his face, not his voice, but the scent that lingered as he passed—warm, deep, intoxicating.

Your fingers tightened around the ramen cup as you watched him grab a drink and head to the counter. Had you met him before?

You weren’t sure. But as you stepped back onto the quiet street, the feeling lingered in the cold night air.

Hansol’s car smelled of coffee and faint cologne, a familiar mix that usually kept you alert—but not today. Your head lolled against the seat, exhaustion weighing you down as the city blurred past. Before you could fight it, your eyes slipped shut.

Hansol chuckled. "Wow. You’re actually sleeping?"

You barely registered his teasing. He’d never seen you like this—always sharp, always tense. But lately, even with rest, the exhaustion never left.

A gentle nudge stirred you. “Hey, we’re here.”

Blinking, you sat up, wincing. “My head hurts.”

Hansol glanced at you. "You drank last night?"

You hadn’t. In fact, you’d been sleeping better than ever—yet waking up drained.

"You should see a doctor," he muttered. "It’s time, Y/n."

You shot him a glare. “I don’t need a doctor.”

He sighed but let it go.

Stepping out of the car, you slipped effortlessly into your role. The fatigue faded as you straightened your posture, the poised, confident woman you were paid to be taking over.

Hansol dropped you at the meeting point, and soon, a sleek black car arrived. Your client stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks with a practiced smile.

"Shall we?"

Looping your arm through his, you matched his polished aura. "Of course," you replied, flashing a perfect—if tired—smile.

Dinner went flawlessly.

Every answer was effortless—Ivy League graduate, prestigious hospital, exclusive golf membership, world-renowned cooking class. His skeptical parents melted, and even your "fiancé" looked relieved. If his mother had planned more blind dates, this dinner had surely put an end to them.

Stepping outside, you exhaled as the cool night air washed over you. The act was over. Another job done. Another paycheck secured.

You turned to bid your client goodbye, offering a polite nod as he thanked you. But as he walked away, a strange unease crept up your spine.

Something was missing.

Your bag.

Your pulse quickened. You glanced around, retracing your steps in your mind. Had you left it inside? Dropped it along the way? You turned, scanning the pavement, your fingers twitching with impatience.

Then, a shift.

A scent—faint yet unmistakable—brushed past your senses.

Your breath hitched.

It was subtle but eerily familiar, the kind of fragrance that stirred something deep in your memory, something you couldn’t quite grasp. Your body tensed before your mind could make sense of it.

And then you saw him.

A man stood before you, holding your bag.

"You left it on your chair," he said.

His voice was deep, steady—too steady. There was something unsettling in the way he spoke, an inexplicable weight behind his words. His presence was striking, commanding, as if he belonged nowhere yet filled the space completely.

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

Something about him…

The way he stood, the way his fingers curled around the strap of your bag, the way the glow of the city lights flickered against the sharp lines of his face—it all felt disturbingly familiar.

“Ms?”

His voice cut through the thick silence, pulling you back from the haze clouding your mind. You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to focus.

He extended your bag toward you. “Here. I need to go.”

You reached out, fingers barely brushing against the fabric before he turned away, slipping into the night like a shadow.

And then it hit you.

Your breath caught, cold and sharp.

A chill slithered down your spine, your limbs locking in place as realization clawed its way through you.

It was him.

The man from your dream.

The whisper still lingered in your ears.

The ghost of his touch still burned on your skin.

And now—he was real.

The dream wrapped around you like silk, pulling you into something deep, something intoxicating. You weren’t just dreaming—you were feeling.

Warm hands traced the curve of your waist, deliberate and slow, as if memorizing every inch. A breath ghosted against your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

"You feel it, don’t you?" The voice was deep, teasing, laced with something darkly amused.

You did.

Your body arched instinctively, pressing into the warmth that surrounded you. His touch was light but possessive, fingertips skimming along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before stopping—just enough to drive you insane.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. The way his lips hovered just above yours, close enough to steal your breath, but not quite touching. The way his presence consumed you, making it impossible to think.

"Who…" Your voice was barely a whisper, lost between shallow breaths.

His lips brushed your ear. "You already know."

Your pulse surged, heat pooling low in your stomach. You wanted to answer, to reach for him, but the moment your fingers grazed his skin—

You woke up.

A sharp inhale, your chest rising and falling as if you had run miles. The air in your room felt too cold, your sheets too warm, your skin still tingling from a touch that wasn’t real.

But it had felt real.

Your fingers curled against the fabric beneath you, trying to shake off the lingering sensation. Your mind was still hazy, but one thought pushed through the fog.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t just a dream.

The hotel lobby buzzed with chatter and clinking glasses as you nursed an overpriced latte, eyes on your client’s target—a CEO lost in conversation with a younger woman. Routine. Predictable.

Then, the air shifted.

A presence entered, commanding, electric. Your breath hitched. Him. The man from your dream. Tall, refined, exuding quiet authority. His sharp gaze swept the room, as if aware he was being watched.

Impossible. Just a dream. And yet, he was here.

You should’ve ignored it. Stayed focused. But your feet moved before you decided.

He was heading to the bar.

Your heels clicked against marble as you followed, anticipation curling in your stomach. He looked rich—dangerously so. But you knew this world, played its games, mastered its weaknesses.

Still, as you stepped into the dimly lit bar, your confidence wavered.

Seungcheol sat alone, whiskey in hand, fingers tracing the rim. Shadows accentuated the sharp planes of his face—control, power, effortless command.

And against all reason, you walked toward him.

He noticed you the moment you approached. His gaze flickered to you, lingering, as if he had already expected your arrival.

“The bag?” His voice was smooth, rich—like something expensive and aged, much like the drink in his hand.

You nodded, fingers lightly brushing over the strap of your purse. “I saw you the other night. I wanted to thank you properly.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle yet undeniably amused. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Neither did I.” The words left your mouth before you could filter them. It was true—you hadn’t planned on this. But now that you were here, standing in front of him, you weren’t sure if you wanted to walk away.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly, studying you with the quiet intensity of someone who had already figured out half of your secrets. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but it was sharp.

Then, as if testing the waters, he asked, “Was that your boyfriend with you?”

Your breath hitched—just barely—but you recovered quickly, shaking your head. “No, he’s just a friend.”

He hummed, as if considering your answer. Another brief silence stretched between you. The awkwardness was all on your side, and yet, he didn’t push. He didn’t pry. He just observed.

You weren’t sure whether that made him dangerous or intriguing.

The bartender set a fresh drink in front of him, and Seungcheol picked up the glass, taking an unhurried sip before finally speaking again.

“I’m Seungcheol,” he said at last, setting his drink back down. “Choi Seungcheol.”

For the first time in years, you hesitated.

Not because you didn’t have a name prepared. Not because you were crafting the perfect lie.

But because, against every instinct, you didn’t want to lie.

So, you did something you hadn’t done in a long time. You reached out, your fingers meeting his in a firm handshake. His grip was warm, steady, unwavering.

“Ji Y/n.”

Seungcheol held your gaze for just a second longer than necessary. And in that fleeting moment, as your skin tingled where it touched his, you had the unsettling feeling that this man—unlike anyone before him—wasn’t easily deceived.

At first, it was just a dream—fleeting images, whispers, a touch so real you woke up breathless. But as the nights passed, the dreams became more vivid, more intense. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his gaze, the ghost of his voice murmuring things you could never quite remember in the morning.What unsettled you most wasn’t the dreams—it was how easily you fell into them.

For someone who once needed medication just to rest, sleeping before 11 felt unnatural. And yet, here you were, slipping into unconsciousness effortlessly.

Then, Seungcheol started appearing.

At a restaurant, seated a few tables away, his laughter blending into the hum of business chatter. At a convenience store, where his hand brushed yours as you reached for water.

“Didn’t take you for the instant ramen type,” he mused.

“Didn’t take you for a convenience store kind of guy,” you shot back.

Then, a café. A library. Each time, his presence was casual, yet deliberate. Until now—when he stood just a few shelves away, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading.

You leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “Busy man like you sure has a lot of free time.”

He smirked. “Coincidence?”

“No.”

“Luck, then?”

You scoffed. “Not the word I’d use.”

He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—rich, spiced—filling the space between you. “Then what would you call it?”

Your pulse skipped.

Coincidence? Fate?

Or something else entirely?

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But here you were, beneath him, the warmth of his body caging you against the mattress. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the depth in his dark eyes as he looked at you—really looked at you.

Your breath was uneven, hands gripping the sheets as if they could anchor you. Seungcheol’s fingers traced a slow path down your arm, his touch light but deliberate, sending a shiver through you.

His thumb brushed against your cheek, a touch so gentle it almost felt unreal. “Tell me to stop,” he said, almost like a challenge.

You parted your lips, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. But they never came.

Because despite everything—despite the dreams, despite the unsettling pull you felt toward him, despite the fact that you barely knew him—

You didn’t want him to stop.

His kiss was deep, consuming, as if he was trying to claim every part of you. The room filled with the sounds of your shared breaths, your soft whimpers against his mouth. His movements were measured, deliberate—each thrust a silent declaration.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, one hand moving to tilt your chin upward.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. There was something vulnerable there, something raw that made your chest tighten. The intensity in those dark eyes was almost too much to bear.

Your fingers traced the contours of his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath your touch as he moved. This intimacy—it terrified you. Not because it felt wrong, but because it felt too right.

"I've wanted this," he confessed against your neck, his voice strained. "Wanted you."

You arched into him, your body responding to his confession in ways your words couldn't yet articulate. His name escaped your lips in a breathless whisper, and you felt him shudder against you.

"Say it again," he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"Seungcheol," you breathed, and it felt like surrender.

His rhythm changed, became more urgent, more desperate. Your nails dug into his shoulders as pleasure built within you, a crescendo approaching its peak. The world narrowed to just this—his body against yours, the heat between you, the way he looked at you like you were something precious and wild all at once.

"Seungcheol," you gasped, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. His rhythm never faltered, even as your body began to tremble beneath him.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with desire. "Let go for me."

The pressure building inside you crested like a wave. Your vision blurred at the edges as pleasure consumed you, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers. Seungcheol watched your expression intently, seeming to savor every flicker of ecstasy that crossed your face.

"Beautiful," he murmured, slowing his pace slightly to let you ride through the intensity of your release.

When you began to come down, he pressed his forehead against yours, his breathing labored. "Not done with you yet," he whispered, adjusting his angle slightly before resuming his determined pace.

Your oversensitive body quivered as he continued his relentless rhythm, each thrust sending aftershocks through your system. The new angle had him hitting a spot that made your toes curl, building another impossible wave of pleasure.

"I can't—" you whimpered, but Seungcheol silenced you with a deep kiss.

"You can," he breathed against your lips. "One more time for me."

His movements became more erratic, a telltale sign he was close. One hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your most sensitive spot with practiced ease. The dual sensation was overwhelming, drawing a broken cry from your throat.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice strained. Sweat glistened on his brow as he maintained his punishing pace. "Together this time."

Your body responded to his command as if it belonged to him, trembling and tightening around him as a second climax built impossibly fast. His eyes never left yours, dark with hunger and something deeper—possession, adoration.

"Seungcheol, I'm—" Words failed as pleasure crashed through you again, more intense than before. Your back arched off the bed, pressing your chest against his.

"Fuck," he growled, his rhythm faltering at last. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks as he drove into you one final time, burying himself deep. You felt him pulse inside you as he came, his whole body tensing before he collapsed against you, careful to brace most of his weight on his forearms.

You had slept with Seungcheol more times than you could count.

What started as a dream—his touch, his voice, the way he fit so seamlessly into your nights—became reality, over and over again. Every time you were with him, it felt like stepping into a world where only the two of you existed. His lips traced paths you once imagined, his hands held you in ways that left no room for doubt. He knew your body better than you did, drawing out sensations that blurred the lines between dreams and waking.

And yet, no matter how many times you fell asleep beside him, no matter how deeply you surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, you always woke up exhausted.

At first, you ignored it. You chalked it up to the intensity of it all—the way he consumed you, the way you let him. But then it became impossible to overlook. You were sleeping earlier than ever, yet you woke up feeling depleted. Your limbs ached, your thoughts dragged, and there was a strange hollowness in your chest, like something inside you was slowly being siphoned away.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, only seemed to thrive.

You noticed it more with each passing day. He looked sharper, stronger—his skin glowing, his energy boundless. If exhaustion ever touched him, he never showed it. If anything, he seemed even more alive after every night spent with you.

The realization gnawed at you, a silent unease creeping up your spine.

One night, as you lay in his arms, your body sinking into the mattress with a heaviness you couldn’t shake, you finally gave voice to the thought that had been haunting you.

“Do you ever get tired?”

Seungcheol’s fingers stilled against your skin, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable in the dim light.

“Why do you ask?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to push past the drowsiness that had already begun to pull at you. “Because I do.”

For a long moment, he simply looked at you. Then, with a slow, almost knowing smile, he reached out, his fingertips tracing along your collarbone.

“Maybe you should rest more,” he murmured.

And just like that, exhaustion swept over you again, pulling you under before you could say another word.

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “She looks like hell.” He gestured toward the closed bedroom door, where you lay unconscious, an IV hooked into your arm. “And before you start—yeah, I know you don’t want me here, but someone has to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t drain her.”

Jeonghan gave him a pointed look. “Then why is she hooked up to an IV in your bed? You’ve been feeding on her too much, Cheol.”

Silence settled. Then, Jeonghan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “So, this is it? You’re using her to set a trap?”

Seungcheol leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Didn’t she do the same to you?”

Jeonghan’s smirk faltered for half a second before he scoffed. “I knew she was playing a game the moment she approached me. I just didn’t expect you to be part of it.” He studied Seungcheol.

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. His gaze landed on you, your figure shifting beneath the blankets. A deep sigh left his lips—part relief, part something heavier he refused to name.

Your eyelids fluttered open, confusion flickering as you spotted the IV in your hand before meeting his gaze.

“You passed out yesterday,” he said, voice low. “I called a doctor.”

Your brows knitted. “Yesterday?” Your throat was dry.

Seungcheol handed you a glass of water. “Drink.”

You sipped slowly, mind piecing things together. Exhaustion, then nothing. A blank space where time should have been.

“What happened to me?”

Seungcheol’s expression remained unreadable. “You’ve been overworking yourself. Your body shut down.”

A lie. A careful one.

“I don’t just pass out,” you muttered. “What aren’t you telling me, Seungcheol?”

His fingers curled slightly against his thighs. “You need rest. That’s all that matters.”

Doubt lingered, but you couldn’t resist the pull—an invisible force tethering you to him. You should have been wary, but his touch sent warmth through your veins, his presence grounding you.

You let yourself drown in him, as if he were a calm ocean, deep and endless. You didn’t care if you couldn’t breathe—as long as it was him, you’d be fine.

And you were addicted. Obsessed.

With the way his fingers traced your skin, the way your name sounded in his voice. The way he kissed you—slow, deliberate, savoring every second—left you aching for more.

It wasn’t just desire. It was something dangerous.

And even if it destroyed you, you didn’t want to escape.

Hansol’s eyes narrowed as he took in your appearance, fingers wrapping around your wrist. "You're so busy these days. Rest, won't you?"

You forced a small smile, gently pulling back. "I’m fine."

He didn’t look convinced but let it slide, plopping onto your couch and stretching out. Then, as if it had just crossed his mind, he asked casually, "By the way, I saw you with a man the other day. Who’s that?"

Your body stiffened for a fraction of a second before you masked it by tidying the scattered papers. "What man?"

Hansol scoffed. "Don’t play dumb. I know all your clients, and that guy? He wasn’t one of them." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So? Who is he?"

You sighed. Hansol wouldn’t drop it. "Just someone I met recently."

"And by ‘met recently,’ you mean what? Your new mark?"

You hesitated before shaking your head. "No."

"Then what is he?"

That was the real question, wasn’t it? Even you weren’t sure how to answer.

"Anyway..." Hansol grinned, pulling out a freshly purchased comic book. "Look at this! Just got it today."

You glanced at the cover, amused. "You still buy physical comics? Everyone’s moved to digital."

He scoffed, hugging the book dramatically. "Digital has no soul. Nothing beats flipping through real pages."

You chuckled. "Alright, what’s this one about?"

His eyes lit up. "It’s about an incubus."

Your brows furrowed. "An incubus?"_

Hansol blinked. "Wait—you seriously don’t know?"

You shrugged. "Should I?"

He sighed, flipping a page. "An incubus is a demon that seduces humans and feeds off their energy. You know—" he wiggled his eyebrows—"in that way."

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shoulder. "Figures you’d be into this."

"Hey, don’t judge! It’s actually good. It’s about a girl who dreams of an incubus but doesn’t realize he’s real. Every night, he visits, making her crave him until she’s completely dependent. She thinks she’s just exhausted, but he’s been feeding on her, draining her little by little. By the time she figures it out, she’s already too weak to fight back."

Something twisted in your stomach.

Tired. Drained. Weak.

Hansol kept talking, flipping pages. "She loses weight, feels dizzy all the time. Always tired but wants him more, not knowing why." He smirked. "Sounds intense, right?"

You swallowed, forcing a chuckle. "Yeah… intense."

"Told you it’s good. You should read it. Might learn something interesting."

You laughed along, but your hands tightened around your sleeve.

Because suddenly, the exhaustion, the weight loss, the dreams—none of it felt like a coincidence.

You found his business card when you were at his place one night. It must have slipped out of his pocket, lying unnoticed on the floor. Instinctively, you reached for it, intending to put it back where it belonged. But the moment your eyes scanned the text, your breath hitched.

Choi Seungcheol

Director of Universe Factory.

Your heart pounded violently against your ribs. Jeonghan’s label.

Your hand flew to your mouth, stifling a gasp.

How had you missed this? How had you not recognized his name, his face, his presence?

The realization hit like a freight train. Did Seungcheol know?

Did he know that you were the one responsible for making his company’s profits plummet a month ago? The same person who had meticulously executed a con that left Universe Factory scrambling to recover?

A cold shiver ran down your spine.

You had to get away.

You tried. You really did.

You made excuses—work, exhaustion, anything you could think of to put distance between you and him. He never questioned it, only offering short replies to your messages, never demanding more.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because even when you weren’t with him, he was still there. Lingering in your thoughts. Haunting your dreams.

The first night, it was just a presence—watching from the edges of your subconscious.

The second night, he was closer. A whisper at your ear. A phantom touch against your skin.

The third night, you woke up breathless, his name slipping from your lips before you even realized.

You pressed a hand against your chest, your heart racing.

You had stopped seeing him.

So why did it feel like he had never left?

Seungcheol had been wondering about you.

He wasn’t sentimental—more of a deal with the mess later kind of guy. But you had left him with a mess he couldn’t clean up.

Something had changed.

He had been watching—casually, of course. Just a little supernatural surveillance. Totally normal. Except what he saw wasn’t.

You were better. Brighter. Lighter. The exhaustion that once clung to you was gone. Meanwhile, he was restless, irritable—craving something he couldn’t name.

Then, there was that night. When Jeonghan touched you, Seungcheol saw it—a spark. Energy demons would kill for. A problem.

So when Jeonghan’s photos with you surfaced, Seungcheol stepped in. Don’t see her again.

Jeonghan had only smirked. Oh, you have no idea.

Maybe he didn’t. Because then, Seungcheol crossed the line.

A little dream visit—just curiosity. But then, it became a habit.

Your subconscious wrapped around him like warmth after centuries in the cold. Your energy seeped into him, made him sharper, stronger—alive.

It wasn’t just hunger anymore.

It was you.

And now, he was hooked.

The smoky scent of the city clung to the cool breeze as Seungcheol spotted you instantly—he always did. The way your grip tightened around your glass and your shoulders stiffened told him everything. You weren’t just uncomfortable. You were ready to bolt. And you did.

Seungcheol sighed, already knowing you wouldn’t make this easy. He followed at a steady pace, matching your quick strides onto the quieter streets. The moment you felt him near, you spun around, eyes sharp.

"Don't touch me," you said, voice firm. "I'm done."

Seungcheol exhaled, half frustrated, half amused. But then he saw them—a group of men lingering in the shadows, eyes locked on you. His smirk vanished. Before he could act, you stopped abruptly, your next words heavier than before.

"Let's stop all of this."

Your gaze met his, searching. Then, barely above a whisper—“I know you’ve been hiding something. And now... I know.”

Seungcheol’s smirk returned, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Huh. So you figured it out."

"You knew I'm a con artist," you pressed. "You’re dragging me down, aren’t you?"

Seungcheol blinked, then chuckled. "Huh?" His tone was almost amused.

"You’re doing this for revenge," you accused.

His smirk deepened as he stepped closer. "That’s all you know?" His voice was smooth, teasing—testing you.

Your breath hitched. "What else is there to know?"

Seungcheol tilted his head, considering. Then—"If you really knew me, sweetheart, you'd know I never get involved unless there’s something in it for me."

Your pulse quickened. “Right. You wanted revenge for Jeonghan.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “But if that’s all you think this is about…”

The flickering streetlights cast shifting shadows over his unreadable expression, making you feel like you were standing at the edge of something dangerous.

"What do you mean by that?" you asked, voice steady despite the tension coiling in your chest.

Seungcheol only hummed, stepping forward. You instinctively stepped back.

That smirk deepened.

“Think about it,” he murmured. “If I really wanted revenge, wouldn’t I have done it already?”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach twist the way it did.

You narrowed your eyes. “So what do you want?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, eyes flickering over your face like he was searching for something. Then, suddenly, his gaze dropped lower—to your wrist.

A slow grin curled at his lips.

“You’re still wearing it.”

You froze.

Your pulse pounded as you followed his gaze—only to realize what he was looking at.

The bracelet.

A simple, dark-threaded band with a single obsidian stone at its center. A gift—at least, that’s what he had called it when he first slipped it around your wrist.

You had never really thought about it before, had never even considered taking it off. But now, standing under the weight of his gaze, it felt like something else entirely.

A claim.

Your stomach twisted.

You looked back up at him, searching his face, suddenly desperate for an answer you weren’t sure you wanted. “What is this?”

Seungcheol chuckled, a deep, amused sound that sent a chill down your spine.

“You don’t know?” He stepped closer, voice dropping just slightly. “And here I thought you were catching on.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Something about the way he was looking at you made your breath catch.

Your mind flashed back to Hansol’s words from days ago—the way he had joked about incubus—demons and energy and how they marked their territory. You had laughed it off at the time.

But now…

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight around your wrist.

Seungcheol’s smirk didn’t fade. “Let’s just say… it’s been keeping you safe.”

Your heart pounded.

Safe from what?

And why did it suddenly feel like you had been walking into a trap this whole time—one that had already closed around you before you even realized it?

The room was enveloped in a hushed silence, broken only by your soft moans and the distant, steady hum of the city beyond the window. His breath was steady and rhythmic, while his fingers lazily traced gentle circles on your skin, providing a soothing contrast to the electric tension in the air.

Again.

You were at a loss as to how you always found yourself in this position—beneath him, with him, despite the myriad reasons you had to stay away. Yet here you were, captivated once more.

His body moved with a practiced rhythm, sending you spiraling into a realm of bliss. The way he touched you was intoxicating, and you craved him repeatedly, an insatiable desire igniting every nerve. His lips melded with yours, a fervent welcome to another peak of ecstasy. You moaned his name, a symphony of pleasure that made him chuckle, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

“Tell me you still don't want me," he murmured, his voice a low growl as he thrust into you with an urgency that matched the intensity of your need.

You couldn't lie—not in this moment when your body betrayed every rational thought. Words failed as pleasure coursed through you, rendering your earlier protests meaningless. The moonlight filtering through the half-drawn blinds painted silver streaks across his shoulders, illuminating the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I..." your voice faltered as he shifted his angle, drawing a gasp from your lips.

"That's what I thought," Seungcheol whispered, his breath hot against your ear. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending shivers cascading down your spine. "You can deny it to yourself all day, but your body never lies to me."

Your fingernails dug crescents into his back, marking him in ways your pride would never allow you to claim out loud. The evidence of your surrender was written in every arch of your spine, every breathless plea that escaped your lips.

"I hate you," you whispered, the words lacking any conviction as they dissolved into another moan.

Seungcheol laughed, the sound vibrating through your joined bodies. "No, you don't." His pace slowed deliberately, making you whimper in protest. "Say it. Say what you really feel."

The city lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes that bore into yours, demanding honesty when you were at your most vulnerable. He knew exactly what he was doing—reducing you to nothing but raw sensation and truth.

"I need you," you admitted, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside you.

It seemed to satisfy him.

"It's not fair," you managed to whisper, your voice breaking as he continued his relentless pace. "The way you—" Your words dissolved into a moan as his hand slid between your bodies, finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

Seungcheol's eyes darkened, pupils dilated with desire as he watched your expression change. "Life isn't fair, baby," he said, his voice rough with restraint. "But this—" he rolled his hips in a way that made you arch off the bed, "—this is exactly what we both need."

The sheets lay tangled around your legs, a testament to the fervor of moments past, and the comforting warmth of Seungcheol's body remained pressed against you. His touch was still imprinted on your body, the weight of him lingering even as he shifted beside you, one arm draped over your waist like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

“You never learn, do you?” he mused, voice low, teasing.

You scoffed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Shut up.”

His chuckle was deep, amused. “You say that, but here you are.”

“Tell me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Why are you here, really?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

But then, without warning, he reached down, fingers barely grazing your wrist—right over the bracelet. A slow, almost possessive touch.

And suddenly, you remembered Hansol’s words again.

Demons don’t just take.

They claim.

Your stomach twisted.

Seungcheol’s lips curled. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

The truth was, you had been thinking about it. Ever since he pointed out the bracelet, ever since he hinted at something you weren’t sure you were ready to understand.

And now, here you were.

Back in his space.

Back in his hands.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost… coaxing. “You’re exhausted.”

You wanted to protest, wanted to push him away. But the moment his fingers traced slow circles over your wrist, a sudden, overwhelming exhaustion settled over your body.

Heavy. Draining.

Your eyelids fluttered.

You barely felt it when he pulled you to his chest, guiding you under the sheets, his warmth pressed against your back.

The last thing you heard before sleep took you was his voice, a whisper against your skin.

“You’re mine.”

The night stretched in quiet warmth, the city lights casting soft glows against Seungcheol’s bedroom walls. His sheets smelled like him—musky, familiar, intoxicating in a way that made it harder to breathe. Your body still tingled from where he had touched you, but your mind was louder, restless, caught in the weight of everything you hadn’t said yet.

You turned your head, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair was slightly tousled, how his lips were parted just enough to make you want to kiss him again. He looked relaxed, at ease—like none of this meant as much to him as it did to you.

That thought hurt more than it should have.

“I think I…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak. “I think I love you.”

Seungcheol stilled.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. No teasing smirk, no amused glint in his gaze—just quiet, unreadable silence.

Then, he exhaled, running a hand throuugh his hair. “You don’t have to say things like that.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m not just saying it,” you murmured, your fingers tightening around the sheets. “I mean it.”

Seungcheol sighed, his expression conflicted. “You think you mean it,” he said carefully. “But we both know what this is.”

Your chest tightened. “And what is this?”

He hesitated. “It’s… fun. It’s good. But it doesn’t have to be more than that.”

You felt something inside you crack.

“You think I only want this because it’s fun?” Your voice was quieter now, the hurt creeping in despite how hard you tried to hold it back.

Seungcheol sighed again, this time rubbing the back of his neck like this conversation was making him more tired than it should. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Too late.

“You keep coming back to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I know part of it is because I—” He stopped himself, looking away. “I know what you did to Jeonghan.”

Your breath hitched.

“I know why you started this,” he admitted. “And I don’t think you owe me… whatever this is.”

He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t being cruel. But somehow, his quiet honesty hurt even more.

“I wasn’t lying,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I do love you.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. “I’m not the kind of person you should have feelings for.”

Silence.

Seungcheol woke to silence—empty, cold. His arm reached out, fingers brushing against vacant sheets. You were gone.

His jaw tightened. Last night. Of course.

He exhaled, rubbing his face. He had warned you—he wasn’t someone you should want. But it didn’t matter.

His fingers brushed the bracelet on his wrist—the same one you wore. A claim. A binding.

You could try to leave. You always did.

But you would always, always come back.

You sat in front of your laptop when the door opened. Looking up, you saw Seungcheol enter, sleeves rolled up, suit jacket draped over his arm.

Three days. Three days of silence, of neither seeing him nor feeling his presence in your dreams.

You missed him—that much you could admit. But missing him didn’t change the fact that you felt alone in this game, one where the rules were never in your favor. And if there was one thing you hated, it was losing.

Straightening, you leaned against your desk, arms crossed. "I'm not an entertainment label director, so my office isn’t sleek or modern," you remarked casually, but there was an edge to your tone.

Seungcheol chuckled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked exhausted—shoulders slightly slumped, faint lines near his eyes.

"You’re avoiding me." His voice was low, unreadable.

Before you could respond, his finger traced the curve of your jaw, featherlight yet sending a shiver through you.

"I’ve been busy."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Too busy to even dream?"

You stiffened. Of course, he had noticed.

His hands settled on your waist, grounding you. His voice softened. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

You turned away, throat tightening. He had wounded you, and the worst part? He didn’t even realize it.

It hurt.

You had confessed, bared your heart, only for him to look at you like you were foolish. Like your love was laughable.

He didn’t think you deserved him. That someone like you should love someone better.

But what was he? An incubus? A demon who fed on pleasure, draining those he touched?

The thought ached, a dull weight pressing on your ribs.

"Please, don’t."

Your voice was fragile, but it was enough to make him freeze. His grip on you tightened—not in possession, but in hesitation.

Even now, he was still searching for an answer instead of realizing what he had done.

His eyes, usually dark with desire, flickered with something else—confusion, uncertainty. And then, frustration.

"You don’t mean that," he murmured. "You always come back to me."

A bitter laugh threatened to spill from your lips.

"Is that what you think?" you whispered, finally turning your gaze to meet his.

His breath hitched.

You saw it then—the faintest crack in his confidence, the small flicker of doubt behind his usual smirk.

He stepped closer, closing the space between you, his warmth wrapping around you like a force you couldn’t escape.

And you—God, you—tried so hard to fight it.

Tried to fight the way your body still reacted to him, the way your heart still ached for something more, something real.

You wanted to hate him.

But you wanted him more.

And that was the cruelest part of it all.

The kiss was deliberately slow, lingering in a way that felt like a silent argument—one neither of you was willing to lose. It wasn’t just about desire; it was about proving something. That this pull between you was inevitable. That no matter how much you tried to deny it, fate had already tangled you together.

You wanted to push him away, to yell at him to leave, to tell him that you were done. But you couldn’t. Physically, you couldn’t. Your body refused to obey the logic screaming in your head, betraying you in the cruelest way.

Then, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the haze, snapping you both back into reality.

You broke apart just in time for the door to swing open.

Hansol froze at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the tension in the room—Seungcheol too close, your pulse too quick.

"I… didn’t know you had a guest," Hansol mused, gaze flicking between you two before smirking. "Should I step out?"

You steadied yourself. "No, you’re good. He was just leaving."

Seungcheol’s smirk lingered, but he didn’t argue. You pushed him back, out the door, locking it before he could speak.

Hansol crossed his arms. "Okay. What the hell was that?"

You exhaled. "Did you bring the comic?"

He blinked, then pulled it from his bag. "Almost forgot."

You traced the cover, grounding yourself. Hansol studied you. "Who was that?"

"Nobody."

Hansol scoffed. "Right. Locking the door wasn’t suspicious at all."

"Do you want me to read or not?"

He sighed, then muttered, "If he’s messing with you, I’ll handle it."

You smiled, knowing he couldn’t. Not when Seungcheol wasn’t even human.

Seungcheol and Jeonghan sat at the dimly lit bar, the low hum of conversation surrounding them. Seungcheol looked exhausted—more than Jeonghan had ever seen.

"You’re never this tired," Jeonghan mused, swirling his drink. "Haven’t fed in a week?"

Seungcheol exhaled heavily, rubbing his face. As his wrist shifted, Jeonghan caught sight of it—the bracelet. His expression darkened.

"You actually did it," Jeonghan muttered, fingers tracing the intricate design. "You claimed her."

Seungcheol gave a small, reluctant nod.

"You know what that means, don’t you?" Jeonghan pressed. "It binds her to you. No other demon can touch her. But you can’t just walk away either." He studied Seungcheol’s face. "Let me guess—you haven’t fed on her since."

Silence.

Jeonghan scoffed. "She’s avoiding you?" His smirk was sharp. "The great Seungcheol? And here I thought humans were addicted to you, not the other way around."

More silence.

Jeonghan sighed. "I warned you," he said, shaking his head. "You were playing with fire the moment you visited her dreams. But claiming her?" He gestured at Seungcheol’s worn-out state. "Look at you. You’re falling apart."

Seungcheol scoffed, but there was no amusement in it. "She didn’t walk away."

"Then where is she?" Jeonghan challenged.

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

"You thought you had control," Jeonghan continued. "Thought she’d keep coming back. But you did something worse." He leaned in, voice quiet but sharp. "You made her love you."

Seungcheol inhaled slowly, the weight of the words settling.

"And now," Jeonghan murmured, "you’re suffering the consequences."

Seungcheol chuckled dryly. "Drop it."

Jeonghan set his glass down. "You know what happens when a demon loses control of the bond."

Seungcheol remained silent, but his grip on his glass trembled. The exhaustion wasn’t just hunger anymore. It was something deeper. A creeping weakness. His once-effortless strength now required effort.

"You’re already feeling it," Jeonghan observed.

"I just need to feed," Seungcheol muttered.

Jeonghan scoffed. "You think that’s it?" His gaze flicked to the bracelet. "You tied yourself to her. And she’s rejecting you." His voice dropped. "You already know what that means."

Seungcheol swallowed hard. He knew.

The demon in him was fading. And something else—something human—was taking its place.

A late-night knock startled you. You had been drowning in work, avoiding sleep—avoiding him.

But there he was.

Seungcheol stood at your door, weaker than you’d ever seen him. Paler, unsteady, his usual confidence gone.

"Seungcheol—"

"I need you..." His voice was strained before he collapsed.

Instinct took over. You caught him, his body cold, his breath shallow. Panic rose as you reached for your phone, but his weak grip stopped you.

"No… don’t," he murmured. "Your touch… it’s enough."

Your heart pounded.

Guiding him to the couch, you watched him slip into unconsciousness. Your gaze flickered to Hansol’s comic—a scene of an incubus fading without his bonded partner.

Your stomach twisted.

"How much do you need me, Seungcheol?" you whispered, brushing your fingers over his icy skin.

His eyelids fluttered. A ragged breath.

More than you had ever imagined.

"A kiss?" You swallowed, searching his face. "Sex?"

His fingers twitched weakly beneath yours, but then, his voice—so soft, so unlike him—broke the silence.

"I just need you here."

Your breath hitched.

For the first time, there was no teasing in his tone, no smirk playing at his lips. Just quiet, raw honesty.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows, the scent of cologne and something unmistakably him lingering in the air. A slow, rhythmic beeping filled the silence, drawing your gaze to the IV drip beside you.

Your body felt impossibly heavy, fingers curling weakly against the sheets. Then, you noticed him.

Seungcheol sat beside the bed, dark eyes trained on you. He looked different—strong again. The exhaustion that once drained him was gone. A chill ran through you.

"I'm sorry you had to go through this," he murmured.

Your throat was dry. "What time is it?"

"You passed out for two days."

The weight of his words settled over you. Two entire days—gone.

Your mind traced back to when he had collapsed in your arms, weak and powerless. And now… he was whole.

"You drained me."

He didn’t deny it. Just a slow, deliberate nod.

"You know now."

Seungcheol parted his lips—I was…—but the words never came.

"You almost died." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Without thinking, you reached out, cupping his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

"But I drained you."

You shook your head, a tired smile forming. "I'll be fine."

His gaze lingered before he pulled the duvet over you both, warmth seeping into your skin as he traced your face, memorizing you.

"I missed you..." His voice was fragile.

You hesitated before muttering, "I missed you too."

Something in him softened, but it was fleeting. He took your wrist, pressing a lingering kiss near the bracelet—his mark on you.

"But if I keep doing this… I’ll drain you."

"You can drain me," you replied without hesitation.

His jaw tightened, resisting the urge to kiss you, to erase this moment.

"I told you," he whispered, "I'm not someone you can have feelings for."

Your breath hitched. "Then what? Let you waste away for two weeks, only to return to me in the middle of the night, desperate?"

His breath caught.

For the first time in centuries, Seungcheol felt something foreign coil inside him—something dangerously human.

"You don’t love me," you whispered, resigned. "But you need me."

Seungcheol clenched his jaw, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his touch. He wanted to deny it. Wanted to push you away.

But he couldn’t.

Because you were right.

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening on your wrist before he forced himself to let go. His lips parted, but for a long moment, no words came. You watched him, breath steady, heart not.

"You deserve the truth," he finally said, quieter than you'd ever heard him. "I should've told you a long time ago."

You waited.

"I'm an incubus."

His gaze stayed on you, searching for fear, for rejection. But you stayed. You always stayed.

"I feed on energy," he continued. "Desire. Touch. That’s how I survive."

You curled your fingers into the duvet, letting his words settle. You had suspected it—pieced it together from his presence in your dreams, the way he moved, and most of all, from the comic Hansol had lent you.

"I read about this," you said, voice steady. "In a comic."

Seungcheol blinked. "A comic?"

You nodded. "Yeah. It explained a lot—how incubi bond, how they claim someone as their main energy source." You glanced at your bracelet, smirking. "Though it didn’t mention incubi being this annoyingly persistent."

He let out a short laugh. "That’s what you’re taking from this?"

"Well, yeah. You disappear for weeks, show up half-dead, and now I’m your personal charger."

He scoffed, amusement flickering in his eyes. "It’s more complicated than that."

"Maybe. But it also means you need me more than I need you."

Seungcheol leaned in, smirking. "Is that so?"

You lifted your chin, playful. "Pretty much. So, what do I get for keeping you alive?"

He studied you, then sighed dramatically. "Fine. I’ll owe you one."

You grinned. "Make it a big one."

Shaking his head, he chuckled. "You really are something else."

Jeonghan finally saw you again after months of you staying with Seungcheol, and to say he was amused was an understatement. The very person who had caused a scandal, who had once driven Seungcheol into a blind rage, was now living under his roof.

Leaning against the bar counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips, he asked, "So, you stopped being a con artist?"

You matched his smirk. "Who said I did?" The challenge in your eyes hadn’t entirely faded.

Jeonghan chuckled. "You weren’t this feisty when you approached me."

You shrugged. "That was work, Jeonghan. I was paid for that."

Turning to Seungcheol, Jeonghan smirked. "See? I told you—humans are more evil than us."

Seungcheol sighed, rubbing his temple. "Not this again."

Jeonghan only grinned. "It’s just funny. You were ready to tear the world apart over her, and now? Look at you—domesticated."

Seungcheol didn’t want to admit it, but something was changing. He felt drowsy, struggled with paperwork, even found himself getting emotional over your favorite animated movies.

Jeonghan noticed. "Have you been visiting the Underworld lately?"

You perked up. "What’s the Underworld?"

"A place where we were born," Jeonghan said vaguely.

"I thought incubi were born from humans," you mused.

Seungcheol chuckled, handing you a plate of apples as he settled beside you. "Your comic didn’t mention that?"

Jeonghan smirked. "You learned about us from a comic? Alright then, what else have you learned?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Well, incubi are supposed to be effortlessly seductive, but judging by Seungcheol’s struggle with paperwork, I think my comic exaggerated."

Jeonghan laughed while Seungcheol groaned. "Remind me why I keep you around?"

"Because you need me." You grinned, taking a bite of your apple.

Jeonghan nudged Seungcheol. "She’s not wrong."

You tapped your fingers against the plate. "Actually, some things in the comic were true—incubi can’t form real emotional attachments, they need to bond with someone to maintain energy, and if they go too long without feeding, they lose their abilities."

Jeonghan and Seungcheol exchanged glances.

“That’s... accurate,” Jeonghan admitted. "Who wrote this comic?"

"Some guy named Laurent."

Both men froze.

You frowned. "What?"

Seungcheol sat up. "Laurent?"

Jeonghan let out a low whistle. "That explains it."

Your curiosity grew. "You know him?"

Seungcheol exhaled sharply. "He’s one of the oldest incubi. No one’s seen him in centuries."

Jeonghan crossed his arms. "If he wrote that comic, it means he’s been watching from the shadows."

You blinked. "So… I’ve been getting life lessons from some ancient demon?"

Seungcheol groaned. "Pretty much."

Jeonghan smirked. "And here I thought it was just a random fantasy story."

You glanced at the comic, suddenly seeing it in a new light. "Great. So I’ve basically been studying from a demon history book."

Seungcheol and Jeonghan shared a look. They knew what to do.

Tracking Laurent down had taken effort—favors, cryptic messages, and a web of connections. Yet, standing before a plain apartment door, Seungcheol felt an odd disbelief. No hidden sanctuary, no forgotten castle—just this.

With a breath, he rang the doorbell. An older man answered, his sharp gaze assessing.

"I’m here for Laurent," Seungcheol said evenly.

The man’s lips curled. "What’s your business?"

A strange unease crept into Seungcheol—his hands trembled. Why?

Then—

"Scoups?"

His demon name. No one had called him that in ages. Seungcheol stepped back, stunned.

"Who are you?"

The man chuckled. "It’s been a long time." He pushed the door open. "I’m Laurent."

Silence.

Seungcheol stiffened, mind reeling. Laurent—one of the most powerful incubi—stood before him, aged. Human.

They sat in dim light, the air thick with unspoken truths. Laurent poured himself wine, watching Seungcheol with quiet amusement.

"You already know why you’re here."

Seungcheol’s fists clenched. The exhaustion, the emotions, the way his body responded to you like a man’s, not a demon’s.

Laurent sipped his drink. "You’re becoming human."

The words hit like a blow.

"Why?" Seungcheol demanded.

Laurent’s smirk was almost pitying. "The energy we take—it doesn’t just sustain us. When given willingly, with love—it changes us."

Seungcheol froze. Images of you flashed in his mind—your touch, your warmth, your unwavering presence.

"You love her," Laurent said simply.

His stomach twisted.

"And she will die."

The air left Seungcheol’s lungs.

Laurent’s voice softened. "Just like mine did."

Seungcheol saw it then—the empty, endless future without you.

"You have a choice," Laurent said.

Seungcheol swallowed hard. "What choice?"

"Leave. Sever the bond. She’ll live."

A cold, meaningless existence stretched before him.

"And if I stay?"

Laurent’s gaze darkened. "Then she will give all of herself to you until there’s nothing left."

Later that day, you noticed Seungcheol sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the floor. His usual sharp, confident presence was replaced with something distant, something unsettling. His fingers idly played with the edge of the bracelet on his wrist—something he rarely did unless he was deep in thought.

You set down your book and shifted closer to him. “Seungcheol?” you called softly, but he didn’t react.

Frowning, you reached out and touched his arm. That finally pulled him out of his trance, his dark eyes flickering to you as if just realizing you were there.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, searching his face.

For a moment, he hesitated. You could see it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed back words he wasn’t sure he should say. But then, with a slow exhale, he leaned back against the couch and ran a hand down his face.

“I met Laurent today,” he admitted. His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual weight.

You tilted your head. “And?”

He let out a bitter chuckle. “And he’s human.”

That made you pause. “Wait, what?”

Seungcheol turned his head to look at you, his expression unreadable. “He used to be like me. An incubus. One of the strongest. But… he told me something.”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

Seungcheol’s fingers tightened around the bracelet, as if grounding himself. “He said that the energy we feed on… if it comes from someone who loves us, it changes us. It makes us human.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I never thought that was possible, but… he’s proof.”

Your lips parted slightly, trying to process that revelation. “So… you’re becoming human?”

He inhaled sharply, his gaze dropping. “It seems like it.”

Your heart pounded at the thought. Seungcheol, the man who had once told you he couldn’t feel love, who had warned you not to fall for him—was changing.

“You’re becoming human?” you repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it even more real.

Seungcheol’s brows furrowed slightly at your reaction, but before he could say anything, you reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly. “Seungcheol, that’s… that’s amazing! Do you know what this means?”

His lips parted, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “…What?”

You laughed softly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It means we could grow older together. You won’t have to live in the shadows anymore, no more feeding on others—just us, together.” The words tumbled out with excitement, your heart swelling with a hope you never thought you’d have.

But Seungcheol didn’t smile.

Instead, his grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you, and your joy slowly began to wane.

“…What is it?” you asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.

Seungcheol took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping before he finally forced the words out. “Laurent’s bonded partner didn’t survive.”

Your heart stopped.

The warmth you felt just moments ago was snuffed out in an instant, replaced by something cold and heavy in your chest.

“What?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. “Laurent became human because his partner loved him. But that love… it drained them. Took everything from them until there was nothing left.” He finally met your gaze, and for the first time, you saw something you never thought you’d see in his eyes.

Fear.

“If this keeps happening,” he whispered, voice unsteady, “you’re going to die.”

"Whatever happens in the future, let's face it together."

Seungcheol took a week off. It shocked everyone—he had never taken a break before, never needed one. But this time, he did. And if things between you and him were bound to change, if your time together was uncertain, then he wanted to spend at least this one week with you.

The days passed in a blur of warmth and quiet happiness. Mornings began with sunlight filtering through the curtains, the soft rustling of sheets as you slowly woke up. Seungcheol was already beside you, tracing his fingers over your cheek, smiling as he watched you stir.

"You made me breakfast?" you murmured, voice still laced with sleep.

He nodded, leaning in to kiss you. "Of course."

And though breakfast wasn’t the only thing shared that morning, you were grateful.

The week felt almost surreal—coffee dates where he held your hand across the table, late-night drives with the windows down, cool air rushing past as he stole glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. Dinners where he let you order for him, just to see what you’d choose. Walks through quiet streets, fingers laced together as you talked about everything and nothing.

For the first time in his existence, Seungcheol understood happiness—not fleeting pleasure or the rush of energy from feeding, but something real. If this was what it meant to be human, then maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so bad after all.

Time stretched, endless yet fleeting. He had never lived like this before—indulgently, freely, with no urgency pressing against his back. He no longer needed to feed, no longer felt the ache of hunger clawing at him. Instead, he felt full in a way he couldn’t explain.

With you, time was measured in laughter filling his home, in the absentminded way your fingers played with his as you watched movies. In the weight of your head against his shoulder when you dozed off mid-conversation, in the way you hummed while stirring sugar into his coffee—like you belonged there.

One evening, you dragged him grocery shopping. A mundane thing, something he’d never thought about. But as he watched you debate over cereal brands, something settled in his chest. He wasn’t just existing—he was living.

"You okay?" you asked, tilting your head.

He blinked, realizing he had been staring. Exhaling a soft chuckle, he nodded. "Yeah… I just—" He hesitated. "I think I’m human now."

You furrowed your brows. "Seungcheol, you’ve been human for weeks."

He swallowed. It wasn’t just the physical changes—no fangs, no unnatural strength. It was the way his heart ached at the thought of losing this, of losing you.

Without thinking, he pulled you into his arms. Right there, in the middle of the grocery aisle, between shelves of canned goods and snacks, he buried his face in your shoulder, holding you tightly.

"You made me human," he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Good. Now you can grow old with me."

"You're my first happiness."

That night, Seungcheol held you closer than ever before. There was something different about the way he felt your warmth against him—something deeper, something human. For the first time in his existence, he felt alive.

His body no longer burned with an unnatural energy. Instead, there was only the steady rhythm of his heart, matching yours. His breaths, once controlled and measured, now rose and fell in sync with yours. He had never truly slept before—not in the way humans did—but with you beside him, he drifted off into the most peaceful slumber he had ever known.

At some point in the night, you had whispered, voice quiet but full of meaning, “If you said I’m your first happiness, promise me I’ll be your first grief as well.”

He had furrowed his brows, eyes still heavy with sleep, and pulled you even closer. “Don’t say things like that,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. “We have time.”

You had only smiled in response, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his chest until his eyelids finally shut.

For the first time in his life, Seungcheol dreamt—not of darkness or hunger, but of a future with you. A future where you both grew old together, where he learned to live as a human by your side.

That morning, the world was unusually quiet.

A soft breeze filtered through the open window, carrying the distant sounds of a city slowly waking up. The golden light of dawn stretched across the sheets, warm and gentle, casting a glow on the two figures still lying in bed. Everything felt still, peaceful—like the universe itself was holding its breath.

Seungcheol stirred first.

His arms were still wrapped around you, your body tucked safely against his chest. A small, content sigh escaped his lips as he buried his face into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you. For the first time in his life, he had truly slept. And it had been beautiful. Warm, comforting—human.

He never thought he’d experience something so simple yet so precious.

His lips curled into a lazy smile as he murmured, “Morning…” his voice husky from sleep.

But you didn’t answer.

His brows furrowed slightly, but he brushed it off. You always took a little longer to wake up, especially after nights like last night. His fingers found your cheek, ready to trace the familiar shape of your face, but the second they touched your skin, something cold shot through him.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched.

His entire body tensed as his mind tried to deny what his senses were telling him. Slowly, he pulled away just enough to look at you. His heart slammed against his ribs, harder and harder, as his hands gently shook your shoulders.

“Hey…” he whispered, voice unsteady. “Time to wake up.”

But you didn’t move.

Seungcheol let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to stay calm. Maybe you were just in a deep sleep. Maybe you had overexerted yourself the day before. Maybe—

He pressed his fingers to your wrist.

Nothing.

His throat tightened. His hands trembled as they moved to cup your face, tilting your head ever so slightly. Your lips, once so full of warmth and laughter, were parted slightly—silent, unmoving. Your skin, which had always been so soft under his touch, now felt distant, cold.

Seungcheol’s stomach dropped. A sharp, unbearable pain coiled in his chest as he shook his head, as if denying reality could somehow undo it.

“No,” his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He pulled you into his arms, holding you as if his warmth could bring you back. “No, no, no—please, baby, wake up.”

His grip tightened, desperate. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps as his world began to shatter. “You said we’d grow old together,” he choked out. “You promised.”

But you didn’t answer.

You never would again.

And just like that, Seungcheol understood.

He had finally become human.

And now, he had to endure the cruelest part of being one.

Loss.

His first happiness. His first grief.

Seungcheol held you tighter, his body wracked with silent cries, whispering your name over and over again like a prayer, like a plea.

But the only answer was silence.

Sleep, my love, don’t be afraid,

I’ll hold you close till dreams fade.

Hush, my love, don’t shed a tear,

My heart will always keep you near.

Drift, my love, where stars shine bright,

I’ll follow after—just not tonight.

Seungcheol jolted awake, breathless, your voice still lingering—a lullaby so vivid he swore you had been there.

The next night, half-asleep, he saw you again. Sitting at the edge of his bed, fingers threading through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. Warmth spread through him—until he woke up to an empty room.

At work, he was a shell of himself. His staff whispered, assuming love sickness, a long-distance strain. No one knew the truth.

Until Jeonghan, absentmindedly, let slip: her funeral.

The office fell silent. The rumors shifted.

"Boss’ girlfriend passed away?"

The weight of it settled. It explained his hollow eyes, his exhaustion, the way grief clung to him like a shadow.

But even with the world knowing, nothing changed. Seungcheol still woke up alone.

"You know," Jeonghan started, his voice casual, "since you’re human now, maybe you should start thinking about dating again."

Seungcheol barely reacted. He exhaled slowly, shutting the file and setting it aside. "Not interested," he muttered, rubbing his temple as if the mere suggestion gave him a headache.

Jeonghan sighed. "Look, I get it. Losing her… it messed you up. But you can’t spend the rest of your life alone. You’re human now, Seungcheol. That means your time is limited. And whether you like it or not, humans aren’t meant to live in solitude."

Seungcheol let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I’ve lived for centuries without love, Jeonghan. I can do it again."

"But you weren’t human then." Jeonghan tilted his head, studying him. "You feel things now, don’t you? The loneliness, the exhaustion… the emptiness."

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Jeonghan could see it in his eyes.

Instead, Seungcheol changed the subject. "Why are you really here?"

Jeonghan smirked, knowing he had struck a nerve but letting it slide. "The governor’s charity ball. It’s next week, and you need a partner."

Seungcheol scoffed. "I’ll pass."

"You can’t pass," Jeonghan corrected, pushing himself off the desk. "It’s an important event for your company, and the governor personally invited you. You know how these things work—you show up alone, and people start whispering even more." He smirked. "And trust me, you don’t need any more rumors flying around about you."

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I’ll figure something out."

"You mean I’ll figure something out," Jeonghan corrected with a grin. "Don’t worry, I’ll find you the perfect date."

Seungcheol waved him off dismissively. "Don’t bother."

Jeonghan ignored him, already pulling out his phone. "Too late. Consider it my personal mission to make sure you don’t look miserable at that ball."

Seungcheol didn’t argue. He was too tired to. And deep down, maybe he knew Jeonghan was right. But that didn’t mean he was ready.

The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. Seungcheol stirred, his breaths uneven as his body adjusted to reality. His skin still burned with the lingering sensation of touch—your touch.

It had been so vivid. Too real.

In the dream, you had been there, warm and alive, your hands tracing over his skin like you were memorizing him all over again. He could still hear your breathy laughter against his ear, feel the way your fingers tangled into his hair as you whispered his name like a secret only the two of you shared. Your lips ghosted over his, gentle yet intoxicating, pulling him deeper into something that felt both familiar and foreign.

Seungcheol swallowed hard, his chest tightening. The dream wasn’t just intimate—it was overwhelming. He had never felt so close to you before, not even when you were alive. As he stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering in his chest. It wasn’t just a dream. He knew it. He could feel you.

But you were gone.

The cruel reminder settled over him like a weight he couldn’t shake. He let out a sharp exhale, running a hand over his face. He needed air. He needed to move. Anything to escape the phantom sensation of you still lingering on his skin.

As he got up, his gaze landed on the mirror across the room. For a moment, he swore he saw something—someone. A soft silhouette, watching him with the gentlest smile.

He blinked, and it was gone.

But the warmth in his chest remained.

The day of the charity ball had arrived, but Seungcheol barely felt present.

His phone buzzed with a message from Jeonghan.

Jeonghan: Found someone for you. She's the daughter of a business partner. Classy, quiet, won’t talk much. Just show up and leave—it’s just one night.

Another text followed, listing the dress code details. Jeonghan had already informed Seungcheol’s secretary, who had arranged everything.

Seungcheol sighed, rubbing his temple. He had barely gotten through the day, his energy drained before the event even started. The morning had already left him shaken—your dream, your touch, your presence still lingering in his mind like an unfinished melody. He barely had the focus to sit through meetings, and his staff had stopped trying to engage him in conversation.

They all knew. The rumors had already spread.

"Boss' girlfriend passed away."

He could feel their pitying glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. He hated it. Not because they were wrong, but because they were right. He had lost you. And the weight of that loss sat so heavily on his chest that even breathing felt exhausting.

The thought of putting on a suit, standing beside a stranger, and pretending for the night—it was suffocating. But he had no choice.

With another tired sigh, Seungcheol loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It was going to be a long night.

As Seungcheol arrived at the grand charity ball, his phone buzzed with a message from the woman Jeonghan had arranged for him.

_I'll be waiting outside the ballroom._

With a quiet sigh, he notified his secretary before making his way through the lavish venue, away from the crowd and towards the entrance.

His eyes landed on a woman standing with her back to him. Short, wavy hair cascaded down her shoulders, and she wore a gown that matched the tone of his suit perfectly. Jeonghan hadn’t even mentioned a name. How was he supposed to address her?

For the sake of appearances, for the sake of networking and those who relied on him, he had to do this.

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward.

"Excuse me?"

Seungcheol’s breath hitched. His body stiffened as the woman turned around, and suddenly, the noise from the ballroom behind him faded into nothing.

It was you.

Standing there in the dimly lit hallway, wearing the same tone of gown that matched his suit perfectly, you looked just as you always had—alive, warm, real.

His mind refused to process what he was seeing.

His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach out or step back. He had spent months waking up to the ghost of your touch, hearing your voice in dreams, feeling your presence haunt every waking moment. But this—this wasn’t a dream.

It couldn’t be.

You smiled softly, as if his shock amused you. "You're late," you teased, tilting your head slightly.

Seungcheol’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His throat tightened. His heart—his human heart—was beating so loudly he could hear it in his ears.

This was impossible.

“You…” His voice barely came out. “You’re—”

You took a step closer, reaching up to brush your fingers lightly against the lapel of his suit, the same way you always did when fixing his collar before events. “Did you miss me?”

His breath shuddered. His entire world tilted on its axis.

Seungcheol didn’t know if he was dreaming, if he had gone insane, or if something beyond his understanding had brought you back to him.

But at that moment, he didn’t care.

Because you were here. And that was all that mattered.

Jeonghan was deep in conversation about his acting comeback when he saw you—alive, casually dining with one of Seungcheol’s business partners. His breath hitched. Impossible. Yet there you were, smiling and waving as if nothing had happened.

Later, he found you waiting for him. Arms crossed, you met his gaze.

"You mind explaining how you're here, breathing?" he asked.

“It’s complicated," you admitted. "God gave me another chance—on one condition."

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. "You’re not human. What condition?"

"A job. A mission." You smirked. "Exposing frauds."

He scoffed. "Fitting for an ex-con artist." Then his tone shifted. "Have you seen Seungcheol?"

You hesitated.

Jeonghan studied you. "You know he’s human now, right? And a wreck since you left. Barely eating, barely sleeping. Still hears your voice."

Your fingers tensed around your glass.

Jeonghan sighed. "Why are you really here?"

A whisper. "I had to come back."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Jeonghan exhaled. "Go see him."

And now, Seungcheol stood frozen in the dimly lit corridor just outside the ballroom, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and longing. His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach for you or step back, afraid this was nothing but a cruel trick his mind had conjured.

But you were real. The warmth of your skin, the rise and fall of your breath—it was all real.

Before he could think, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his grip almost desperate, as if you would disappear the moment he let go. His heart pounded against his ribs, erratic, uneven, human.

He buried his face against your shoulder, inhaling deeply, his voice breaking as he whispered, “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

You smiled softly, your hands finding their way to his back, tracing slow circles to soothe him. “You’re not dreaming, Seungcheol.”

His arms tightened around you, afraid—so afraid—because he had already lost you once. He had held you in his arms before, lifeless and cold, and now here you were, warm and steady, breathing life back into his world.

“I’ll be here, Seungcheol,” you murmured, your voice gentle, reassuring. “I won’t go anywhere.”

He exhaled shakily, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “You can’t just say that and disappear again,” he muttered, his voice rough with emotion.

You pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, your fingers brushing over his cheek. “I won’t. I promise.”

Seungcheol finally loosened his grip, just enough to look at you properly. His eyes traced over every detail of your face, memorizing you all over again as if you might disappear if he blinked.

“You said you wouldn’t go anywhere,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your cheek, still afraid to believe this was real. “But how? How are you here?”

You let out a small sigh and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

Seungcheol studied your face, searching for answers, but the warmth in your eyes kept him grounded. He nodded slowly, though he still had a thousand questions swirling in his mind.

Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted. He swallowed hard, his voice lowering. “In my dreams…” His fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “The lullaby. You touching my hair. Kissing my temple.” He looked at you intently, almost afraid of the answer. “Was it really you? Or just my mind playing tricks on me?”

Your expression softened, and you reached up, cupping his cheek with both hands. “It was me, Seungcheol.”

His breath hitched.

“I couldn’t wait until today,” you admitted with a small, sad smile. “I wanted to see you. Even if it was just in your dreams.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a moment, taking in your words, letting them sink into every part of him. His grip on you tightened as if needing to anchor himself.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Hearing you. Feeling you. And then waking up to nothing.”

“I know,” you said softly, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “You’re here now.”

“I am.”

And for the first time in months, Seungcheol felt something other than grief—something like hope.

Later that night, as Seungcheol and you stepped out of the ballroom, his secretary followed closely, ensuring everything was in order before escorting you both to the car. The evening had been overwhelming—full of whispers, stolen glances, and emotions Seungcheol wasn’t ready to process just yet.

But as they reached the parking lot, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. His secretary looked at him in confusion.

“Sir?”

Seungcheol exhaled, then turned to face him with a firm expression. “Listen carefully. Tomorrow morning, I want you to make an announcement at the office.”

His secretary straightened. “An announcement, sir?”

Seungcheol nodded, glancing at you briefly before saying, “Tell everyone my girlfriend isn’t dead.”

There was a beat of silence.

His secretary’s eyes widened slightly, his professional mask slipping for just a second before he quickly composed himself. “I—Understood, sir.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness, before letting out an amused chuckle. “Wow,” you muttered, looking at Seungcheol. “That was… direct.”

Seungcheol turned to you, his expression serious yet affectionate. “I don’t want anyone talking about you like you’re gone.” His fingers brushed against yours before he clasped your hand fully, squeezing it gently. “You’re here. And I want the world to know it.”

You tilted your head, watching him, your heart swelling at how fiercely he claimed you—like he was making sure no one, not even fate, could take you away from him again.

With a soft laugh, you squeezed his hand back. “Well then, I guess I’m officially back.”

As the car door opened, you reached for Seungcheol’s wrist, stopping him before he could step inside. He turned to you, puzzled, but his expression shifted when he saw what you held—a bracelet, woven from threads darker than night, laced with a faint shimmer of silver that seemed to glow under the ballroom lights.

Without a word, you wrapped it around his wrist, fastening it with a soft touch. The moment it clicked into place, a faint warmth pulsed against his skin, spreading up his arm like a heartbeat in sync with yours. Seungcheol's breath hitched as he felt something shift within him, something deep, as though an invisible thread had tied you both together.

His fingers traced the charm at the center, feeling a soft hum of energy beneath his touch. “What is this?” he asked, voice quieter than before, almost reverent.

“A bond,” you murmured, watching his reaction. “A connection. A reminder that no matter what happens, we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

Seungcheol stared at you, then at the bracelet. He felt it—you—through it. Your presence, your energy, something anchoring him in a way he hadn't felt since the moment he realized he was losing his power. His grip on your hand tightened, afraid to let go, afraid that this was all still just a dream he would wake up from.

You smiled softly, brushing his hair back as you whispered, “Whatever happens, we’ll find a way.”

The silver in the bracelet gleamed faintly, as if responding to your words, sealing the promise between you.

Seungcheol swallowed hard, his heart pounding in a way it never had before. Then, pulling you into his arms, he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, breathing you in as if grounding himself in your reality.

“We always do,” he whispered. “And this time, I won’t let anything take you from me.”

The bracelet pulsed once more, as if sealing the vow between you both.

The memory returned like an old song—familiar yet distant. Seungcheol still tasted the bitterness of wine, the scent of aged oak and candle wax lingering in Laurent’s dimly lit apartment.

Laurent swirled his glass, voice tinged with regret. “I once thought love was just a transaction, a necessity for survival.”

Seungcheol listened.

“But after I became human, I realized how little I understood—the way love lingers, even when they’re gone.” Laurent sighed. “I wish I had cherished her more. Maybe then… she would’ve found a way back too.”

Seungcheol’s grip tightened. He knew who Laurent meant.

Laurent chuckled, void of amusement. “I was a new human. My heart was still learning. But you—you loved her enough to defy the order of things. To believe there was still a way.” His gaze softened. “I never did. And that’s why she never returned.”

Seungcheol watched the wine cling to the glass before slipping down.

Laurent leaned back. “I hope your story has a different ending.”

The words stayed with him.

Now, as you brushed your fingers against the bracelet on his wrist, Seungcheol held onto that memory—and onto you.

Because this time, he wasn’t going to lose you.

270 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 3 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 16

˗ˏˋ choosing yourselfˎˊ˗

"You deserve better than a quickie in a musty bathroom stall, and Jungkook should know that, even when he sounds earnest and literally kisses your shoulder. But whatever, because it doesn't last long—he's back to being an asshole after Jason takes you both home. And then it's time you make a choice for yourself, because you can't allow to second-guess yourself like you've done multiple times in the past."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9k

content: self-recrimination on a mirror, jungkook being a horny fuck, shoulder kisses, jungkook being irrational and paranoid, jason being a gentleman, coffee date plans, fighting, gyno appointments, yoongi being weirdly supportive and feeling like finally making a choice for yourself.

✧ author's note ✧

HO-HU-HEY.

WELL. Here it is. Chapter 16. The girlies (and the girlies include me) took forever to reach the last goal, so naturally I gave in, lowered the bar, and got my cheeks clapped by the consequences because it took you all of five days. Five. Fucking. Days. I hate you all (affectionately). The bar is going BACK UP and this time I’m standing on business. Don’t test me. (You absolutely can. I’m weak.)

Anyway. Let’s talk about the chapter.

I loved writing this. Like genuinely. As much as I enjoy the pining and the tension and Jungkook being the absolute worst, this one hit different. There are so few stories that actually show characters doing normal life things—especially uterus-having characters dealing with the reality of taking control over their bodies. I wanted to write that. I needed to write that.

But more than the appointment itself, this was about Y/N. About her doing something for herself, on her terms. About taking back agency, making an uncomfortable but important decision because she knows if she walks away from it, she’ll never come back. She’ll spiral, overthink, talk herself out of it. So she does it now. Impulsively, but intentionally. And like... that’s growth, baby. That’s real.

Also?? Yoongi. My beautiful, quiet king. I didn’t know how to write him into this initially but I knew—I knew—he had to be the one who went with her. Because he’s not loud, he’s not overbearing, he doesn’t project his shit onto anyone else. He’s just present. He’s calm. He listens. He helps because he wants to, not because he needs to be thanked or seen for it. I loved deepening their bond this way, giving her a moment of safety that doesn’t come from the people we expect, but from the people who show up. He’s so important in that apartment and I feel like this chapter gave him the spotlight he deserves.

Anyway. I hope you enjoy it. I hope it makes you feel seen. I hope it makes you feel like your choices matter, and your body is yours, and it’s okay to be scared and still do the thing anyway.

Now go comment. I'm watching you. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

The thing about standing on business is that it’s a lot harder when Jungkook texts you like that.

Not that it matters. Because you are standing on business. You’re in the bathroom, alone, which is exactly where you should be after dealing with a full thirty-five minutes of Jason’s smooth eye contact, Jimin’s shit-eating grin, and Jungkook’s insufferable, cocky-ass messages.

And before anybody even thinks it—no, you’re not here because of Jungkook.

You’re here because you’re tired. That’s it. Because this damn building is too hot, and your eyes were practically sliding closed during that last poetry discussion. Because you just needed some cold water on your face, a minute to wake yourself up, to breathe.

Not because of his texts.

Not because the way he talks to you does anything.

And definitely not because your thighs were pressed so tight together under that table that even Jason’s deep, articulate voice wasn’t enough to drown out the low thrum that Jungkook might have been right about something.

You glare at your own reflection. Point a silent, accusing finger at yourself.

“Be so fucking for real right now.”

Your reflection does not respond.

You splash more water on your face. Cold, crisp, refreshing. But also kind of not refreshing, because all it does is make you hyper-aware of how warm your skin feels. How annoyingly wired your body is.

You don’t like his dirty talk. You don’t. It’s embarrassing. It’s cringe. It’s the kind of thing that should have you rolling your eyes and shutting your phone off instead of, you know, letting him keep going. Letting him pull you into it.

It’s not arousal, okay?

It’s secondhand embarrassment.

It’s your brain cringing so hard that it doesn’t know what to do with itself, so it misfires and sends weird signals to the rest of your body.

That’s all.

Because you’re not one of those people who fuck in gross library bathrooms. You’re not desperate. You have standards. You deserve better than some icky stall, no matter how kissable someone’s lips are.

No matter how good their dick game is.

Or their tongue.

Or mouth.

Or hands.

You groan. Plant your hands on the edge of the sink and lean in. Stare at yourself, deadpan, through wet lashes.

“You deserve better,” you say flatly, like the universe needs the reminder as much as you do.

The thing is, you’ve always prided yourself on your self-control. On knowing exactly what you want and how to get it without messy entanglements. Feelings complicate things. Feelings lead to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to that pathetic, hollow ache you've made an art of sidestepping.

And yet.

And yet, there was something about the way Jungkook looked at you in that goddamn laundry room. Something almost… soft. Curious, even. Like he wasn’t seeing you as a sparring partner or a mild inconvenience but as—what? Someone worth watching? You’d laughed at something dumb, something fleeting, and for once, his response hadn’t been smug amusement or provocation.

It had been real. Bubbly. Almost fond.

Which is, obviously, a problem.

Or at the very least, it’s becoming one.

Because these observations are unwelcome intrusions into what should be a straightforward arrangement. You don’t want to see Jungkook as a person with layers and complexities and actual human qualities. It was much easier when he was just ‘the sexy Pulse stranger with the great arms’ who happened to be excellent in bed. An object of convenient lust and equally convenient disdain.

And now he’s Jungkook. Jungkook, your insufferable roommate. Also Rogue. Also Griffin’s human, also the guy whose vinyl collection is a shrine to John Mayer, for reasons you refuse to unpack.

With each passing day, he trespasses further into familiarity.

And the knowing drapes itself across your sternum like Griffin at dusk—silent, insistent, impossible to ignore.

You exhale. Straighten. Shake it off.

Push the door open.

That’s it.

You’re done. Over it. Whatever.

The door swings open, and you step out, chin high, pulse steady. Or—well. Steady enough.

And then there he is.

Leaning against the wall next to the men’s bathroom like he has all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of those stupidly well-fitted jeans. The overhead light casts shadows along his jaw, sharpening the already unfair angles of his face, but the smirk softens them—lazy, knowing.

Roguish.

You almost roll your eyes so hard they might never recover.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “Finally gave in?”

You blink at him. Then, with all the dignity you can muster, you gesture back toward the bathroom door you just exited.

“Yeah, totally. Gave in so hard I went to the women’s restroom instead of the men’s. I really let you have your way, huh?”

Jungkook chuckles, deep and quiet, like he’s indulging a particularly entertaining child.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muses, dark eyes sweeping over you. “Took a while in there. Thought maybe you needed a little extra… motivation.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Heat flares up your spine because you know exactly what he’s talking about—his texts, the ones you definitely didn’t let affect you, no sir.

And Jungkook knows you know. He always does. Which is exactly why his smirk widens when you scoff, brushing past him like he’s the least interesting thing in this godforsaken building.

He follows, of course. Falls into step beside you, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach tighten. “Bet you thought about it, though.”

Your breath stutters. Just barely. And his grin? That infuriating, cocky thing? It widens.

“You’re annoying,” you inform him, as if he doesn’t already know.

As if he isn’t enjoying the way your steps falter for half a second, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like they’re itching to grab something—his wrist, his shirt, the stupid gold chain he’s wearing right now—

“Mm.” He makes a sound of mock consideration, eyes flicking down and up, lingering at the hem of your skirt before dragging back to your face. “And yet, here we are. You in my text messages. Me in your head.”

He doesn’t need to specify what part of your head. He’s an asshole, but not an idiot.

You exhale sharply through your nose. “God, you think you’re so slick.”

“I am so slick.”

“You’re the least slick person I know.”

“So how do you explain,” he hums, leaning in just enough for his breath to graze your cheek, “the fact that you keep coming back?”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Because—because technically, yes, but also, no, because this thing you have? It’s not about coming back. It’s about convenience. About stress relief. About what you both need, when you need it, nothing more.

So you school your face into something unimpressed, flick him a look, and say, “Your dick isn’t that good, Jungkook.”

And fuck.

He laughs.

He full-on, throaty chuckles, low and pleased and—fuck, the way it rolls through his chest, how it practically purrs out of him, like you just told him the funniest joke in the world.

His hand flexes in his pocket, like he’s restraining himself. His teeth catch his bottom lip for a second, his tongue flicking against it as his gaze devours you, and he exhales a slow, amused…

“God, the things you do to me, woman.”

And you shouldn’t feel that in your knees. You shouldn’t feel it in your stomach, in your throat, pooling low and warm and dangerous.

But you do.

And he knows it.

Which is why he takes another step closer, all effortless heat and bad decisions, and murmurs, “Say the word, Phoenix. I’ll take you right back in there. Won’t even lock the door.”

And goddamn it.

You hate him.

So you move.

Not away from him, exactly, but toward the nearest bookshelf like you suddenly need a distraction.

A book, a title, any excuse to look busy.

To look unbothered.

Jungkook follows. Of course he does. He’s right there at your back, trailing you with a slow, measured step like a fucking german shepherd that already knows the outcome. He doesn’t cage you in with his arms, doesn’t press you into the shelves or block your escape.

Doesn’t need to.

Because he’s close. Just enough that when you reach for a random book, you sense him. The heat of him licks at your skin, his presence a weighted thing against your spine.

You try to ignore it.

The way he leans, just slightly, the way he tilts his head to let his voice skate over the shell of your ear.

“You’re so mean to me, Phoenix,” he murmurs, and it’s not fair how smooth his voice is. How it drops into something lazy and indulgent, like he’s stretching out the syllables just to see how they sound against your skin. “Act all tough, but I know you. Know what you like.”

Your fingers tighten around the spine of the book.

Stupid.

Reckless.

Should’ve grabbed one with a title that could at least pretend to justify this whole act. Not Introduction to Microeconomics.

Jungkook exhales a soft laugh, like he can see your poor choice, like he knows.

“You’re funny,” he muses, and then—because he’s the worst—he dips his head, close enough that his nose nearly brushes the slope of your throat. “But I’m serious. Want you on my lips so bad right now.”

Your pulse slams against your ribs.

“Don’t even need to fuck you,” he goes on, like his own words are making him drunk, like he’s just thinking out loud. “Just wanna drop to my knees, put my mouth on you, make you all messy.”

You swallow. Hard.

“And you’d let me.” He whispers. “Wouldn’t you?”

Your jaw locks. Because fuck him. Because he’s right.

Because you can already feel it, that slow, humiliating heat coiling low in your stomach, the weight of his words settling between your legs.

And Jungkook knows it. Knows your silence isn’t no. Knows the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers tighten around the stupid fucking book, the way you’re not moving away.

He shifts. Subtle, barely there, just enough for his chest to brush your shoulder. Enough to make your breath catch when his lips ghost over your pulse.

“Wouldn’t even rush it,” he continues, and he sounds wrecked by the idea, voice rough with it. “Would take my time. Make you fall apart real slow.”

You should tell him to shut up. You should shove him off, roll your eyes, something.

But you don’t. Because you hate him. And worse—you want him.

You want him.

It’s a humiliating truth, one that settles in the pit of your stomach like something molten, something that licks up your spine with every exhale he spills against your skin.

His breath hovers, a phantom thing, barely-there warmth that seeps through the fabric of your long sleeve. A cruel contrast—how your body ignites under something so light, how your nerves spark like kindling when he isn’t even touching you properly.

Not yet.

Then—his fingers.

Slow, deliberate, reaching. Not for your wrist or your waist, not for your throat or your hip—no, that would be too easy. Too expected.

Instead, they find the fabric at your bicep. A simple touch. A barely-there tug.

And then another.

Torturous. Measured.

The sleeve slides down, inch by aching inch, and you know—you know—this is your moment. This is where you shove him off, where you huff and scoff and tell him to fuck off with his slow-burn seduction act.

Except you don’t.

You just stand there, staring at the shelf in front of you, trying not to melt out of the way the air feels against your bare skin. How exposed it is now, how Jungkook’s gaze lands heavy where the fabric used to be.

“Wanna taste you so bad right now, Nix.”

Your other hand finds the bookshelf. Not to grab a book. Not to turn the page on this whole situation.

For balance.

Because your body betrays you, trembles—just slightly, just enough that you can feel it.

And he sees it.

Feels it.

His breath dips lower. Warmer. Until his lips graze the bare curve of your shoulder.

And then he presses in.

A kiss. Featherlight. Barely there.

But devastating, because it cracks through you, sends goosebumps skittering down your arms, shivering at the nape of your neck..

“Ro—”

“I’d seriously drop to my knees right here,” he interrupts, voice quiet but wrecked. “Wouldn’t even think twice.”

Your fingers tighten against the bookshelf.

And then—

“Y/N?”

Jimin’s voice.

You move first. Swift. Normal. Like nothing just happened, like your knees weren’t about to fucking give out. Jungkook straightens, smooth, unhurried, expression lazy and unreadable.

When you turn, Jimin is there, brows furrowed, completely oblivious.

“Hey.” You clear your throat, tilt your head, something, anything to make yourself feel normal again. “What’s up?”

Jungkook stays quiet. But you can feel him. His warmth still lingers. His gaze still burns.

And it’s only when Jimin starts talking—some filler, something meaningless—that you realize your sleeve is still slipped down, fabric bunched at your elbow.

And Jungkook is still looking.

Jason appears before you fully process it, stepping into your periphery with that calm, inquisitive expression of his, eyes skimming over your face like he’s assessing something.

“You good?” His voice is gentle, curiosity laced in his tone.

You nod. “Yeah. Done for the day.”

His eyebrows quirk. Just a fraction. “Oh.”

Jimin, standing a little to the side, shifts his weight. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“Oh, no,” you answer smoothly, already toeing the conversation in a different direction. “I took the bus today.”

Jason hums. “I can take you home if you want.”

And then—movement.

Jungkook.

Shifting. Sliding in, looping an arm over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His body radiates heat, casual in its weight, but you feel the deliberate nature of it. The timing. The message.

“Sure,” he drawls, voice all syrupy amusement. “Taking us home, Teach?”

You barely resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs, but you do shove his arm off with a sharp shrug, angling an elbow against his side—not forceful enough to hurt, but definitely not subtle.

Jason blinks. “You two live together?”

You don’t hesitate. “Roommates.”

Jason smiles, nodding, like the answer pleases him. “Well, in that case, I’d be glad to.”

You hear Jungkook chuckle behind you.

You flip him off.

But you both start walking.

Jason's car smells like expensive cologne and ambition.

You're sitting shotgun whilst Jungkook's sprawled across the back seat of Jason's immaculate SUV, taking up more space than seems physically possible, one arm slung across the headrest as he stares out the window with half-lidded interest.

The leather beneath you is that specific type of luxury that feels both comfortable and like you shouldn't be allowed to touch it at the same time—and Jason's got one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, and he's telling you about his dissertation—something about modernist literature and the fragmentation of self-identity in post-war narratives.

It sounds impressive. It probably is impressive.

You're nodding along, asking questions in the right places, and generally pretending that you're not stupidly aware of Jungkook's reflection in the side mirror, watching.

"What about you, Jungkook?" Jason asks suddenly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Y/N mentioned you're studying film?"

Jungkook's reflection shifts, his posture straightening just slightly.

“Yeah," he says, voice easy, unbothered. "Film and Media Studies."

"What year?"

"Dunno," he answers, and you can practically hear the shrug in his voice. "Taking classes from different years. Whatever looks interesting."

Of course he is. God forbid he follow any sort of structured plan like a normal student.

"Planning to go into academia too, or straight to industry?" Jason continues, clearly trying to make polite conversation despite Jungkook's lackluster responses.

His response is a mere sound in the back of his throat, something between a chuckle and a scoff. Then: "Industry. Theory's nice and all, but I'd rather be behind a camera than writing about one."

Jason nods thoughtfully. "Smart move. The academic route isn't for everyone. It takes a certain patience. Methodical thinking."

You immediately note how Jungkook's expression shifts—just for a second—into something sharper, more focused.

Then it's gone, replaced by that same lazy half-smile he always wears.

"Yeah," Jungkook drawls, leaning back. "Guess I'm just more of a hands-on learner."

The way he says "hands-on" shouldn't feel loaded.

It doesn't, really.

Except that your mind immediately flashes to those same hands on your skin, and you have to resist the urge to shift in your seat.

Jason seems oblivious, continuing. "What kind of films are you into?"

"The good ones," Jungkook replies, and you can hear the smirk without even looking.

"That's... vague."

"I'm a visual guy. I like things I can see."

Jason laughs, a polite sound. "Fair enough. Any directors you admire?"

"Too many to list," Jungkook answers, and there's something in his voice now—a subtle tightness, like he's getting bored with the interrogation. "But hey, I'll give you one. Wong Kar-wai. His use of color and the way he frames longing? Unmatched."

You blink, a little surprised. Not by the answer itself—you know Jungkook's capable of actual intellectual thought, even if he pretends otherwise half the time—but by the genuine passion that briefly flares in his voice.

Jason nods, seeming genuinely impressed. "Interesting choice. 'In the Mood for Love' is a masterpiece."

"Yeah, it is." There's a beat, and then Jungkook adds, "What about you? You a film guy?"

"I appreciate it as an art form, but literature's my passion." Jason's hand moves from the gearshift to the steering wheel as he navigates a turn. "Though I teach a module on film adaptations of classic literature occasionally."

"Cool," Jungkook says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. Then, abruptly changing the subject: "How'd you end up TA-ing for Y/N's class?"

You shoot Jungkook a look through the mirror.

What is he doing?

"I'm not actually Y/N's TA," Jason clarifies smoothly. "I just run study groups for students across different modules. Help where I can."

"Just out of the goodness of your heart, huh?"

“Something like that. Plus, it looks good on the CV."

You jump in, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "Jason's been really helpful. I was drowning in all that Sylvia Plath symbolism before today."

"I'm sure he has," Jungkook murmurs, and when you catch his reflection again, his eyes are narrowed slightly, focused on the back of Jason's head.

Then the rest of the ride passes in a…strange, stilted rhythm—Jason asking questions, Jungkook giving just enough of an answer to seem polite before flipping the question back around.

You filling the gaps with comments and questions of your own, trying to figure out why the air suddenly feels too… saturated?

By the time Jason pulls up to your apartment building, you're exhausted from the mental gymnastics of trying to parse what the fuck is happening.

"Here we are," Jason announces unnecessarily, putting the car in park. "Nice place."

Jungkook's door opens before the words are fully out of Jason's mouth.

“Thanks for the ride, man," he says, climbing out with easy grace. But instead of heading straight for the building entrance, he pauses, one arm resting on the car roof, waiting.

For you.

Jason turns to you, one hand still on the wheel, the other now resting on the center console. "Listen, Y/N, I was wondering if you'd like to grab coffee sometime?”

He smiles, and you like the way the corner of his lip tugs upward genuinely, a dimple forming on it.

It’s cute.

It’s attractive.

Then he smiles. Gaze briefly flicks to Jungkook, then back to you, whispery. Adds: “Just the two of us, I mean."

Your stomach does a pleasant little flip because—wow. An attractive, intelligent guy who can discuss poetry without making dick jokes? Asking you for coffee? Like a date?

Is this real life?

"I'd like that," you say, smiling.

"How's Saturday? There's a café near campus that does incredible pour-overs."

Shit. Saturday. Jungkook's stupid surprise birthday dinner.

"I actually can't Saturday," you say, genuinely disappointed. "I have this... thing I can't get out of." No way are you telling him it's for Jungkook's birthday. "But maybe Sunday?"

"Sunday works." His hand moves then, fingers wrapping lightly around your wrist. "It's a date, then."

His touch is warm, brief, and makes your chest flutter.

You nod, gathering your bag. "Thanks again for the ride. And the study help."

"Anytime."

Stepping out of the car, you see Jungkook still standing there, watching. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable as he pushes off from where he's been leaning against the car.

You walk over, and together, you head toward the building entrance. Jason's car idles behind you for a moment before pulling away, and only when the sound of his engine fades does Jungkook speak.

"I don't like him."

It's so abrupt, so matter-of-fact, that you almost laugh.

"Okay? Did I ask?"

Jungkook doesn't respond right away. His lips press together, jaw tightening for a split second as you reach the elevator. He hits the up button with more force than necessary.

"He gives off vibes," he finally says, as the elevator doors slide open.

You step inside, hitting the button for your floor.

“Vibes," you repeat flatly. "What are you, suddenly psychic or some shit?"

"Don't need to be psychic to see he's fucking weird."

The elevator begins its ascent, and you lean against the wall, eyeing him.

“English major and almost a professor. Makes sense why you don't fuck with him, don't you think?"

Jungkook's head snaps toward you. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Just saying," you shrug, "you're clearly threatened by anyone with a vocabulary that extends beyond 'fuck' and 'vibes.'"

"Oh fuck off," he scoffs. "He's not that impressive."

"More impressive than you pretending to hate classic films to sound edgy."

His eyes narrow. "I never said I hated—"

"Whatever, Rogue. Keep your weird opinions to yourself. I'm going on a coffee date with him Sunday."

"Great," he says flatly. "Have fun with Professor Stick-Up-His-Ass."

The elevator dings. You push past him, digging in your bag for your keys.

"What is your problem?" you demand as you walk down the hallway. "He was perfectly nice. He gave us a ride home. He actually listens when people talk."

"I'm just saying I don't fuck with him."

"And what's that to me? Why do you think I care who you fuck with?"

"Nothing," Jungkook says, fumbling for his keys—so you stop rummaging through your bag. "I'm just stating my opinion. I'm allowed to not like people."

"Yeah, but you're telling me like I should care?" You follow him through the door. "Like your opinion matters to me somehow?"

"No?" He turns to face you. "I'm just fucking saying. That's it."

"Well, don't."

"Don't what? Talk?"

"Don't act like your shitty opinions on my social life matter."

The apartment feels too small suddenly. Like the walls are closing in.

Why is it so hot in here? Did Yoongi crank the heat again? God, you're going to have another fight about the thermostat after this.

"Look," He sighs exasperatedly, and the sound makes you want to kick him on the shin. "I get it. He's all polished and proper and talks about dead poets with you. Fucking fantastic. I'm just telling you he seems like a fake-ass bitch."

"A fake-ass—what are you even talking about?" Your voice rises because what the actual fuck? "You're literally making shit up. He seems perfectly normal."

"Normal? Did you miss the way he kept cutting me off? Or that weird laugh thing he does?"

"Oh my god." You throw your bag onto the counter. "You're so full of shit. He was trying to keep the conversation going while you gave one-word answers like a sullen teenager."

"Yeah, because he kept asking me the same basic-ass questions like I'm in a job interview or some shit."

"It's called making conversation, dickhead. Something you clearly know nothing about."

Jungkook tosses his keys onto the counter with a clatter. "There's making conversation, and then there's whatever the fuck he was doing. Dude's weird. Period."

"He's weird? That's your whole argument? That's the hill you're choosing to die on?"

"You didn't catch it?" Jungkook looks at you like you're the dense one. "That whole thing about teaching 'occasionally?' The way he kept touching the gearshift? And the fucking wrist grab at the end? So fucking unnecessary.”

"Oh my god." You're actually laughing now, incredulous. "You sound completely unhinged. He barely touched me!"

"It's not about—" Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "It's the pattern, Nix. The whole vibe is off."

"The pattern? The vibe?" You mimic his voice. "Are you listening to yourself? You sound like a conspiracy theorist."

"Fine," he throws his hands up. "You're so fucking right, as always. Go hang out with Captain Control Freak. See if I give a shit."

"Captain Control—what are you even talking about?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Go on your little coffee date with Professor Perfect."

"Why are you being such a dick about this?" Your voice rises, frustration boiling over. "It's just coffee!"

"And I'm just saying he seems like an asshole!" Jungkook's voice matches yours now. "But sure, ignore me. What the fuck do I know, right?"

"Right! What the fuck DO you know? You met him for twenty minutes and suddenly you're an expert?"

"I know enough to spot a fucking red flag when I see one."

"A red flag? Are you kidding me?" You make an incredulous sound. "Because he has a nice car and uses big words? Those aren't red flags, those are called being an adult!"

"No, because he's putting on a whole act!" Jungkook's gesturing wildly now. "The scholarly bullshit, the fake interest, the—"

"Maybe he's actually interested in literature? Have you considered that possibility, genius?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's very interested in 'literature,'" Jungkook makes air quotes. "Along with controlling every fucking conversation and situation."

"You're being ridiculous." You give him a blank stare, accompanied by a chuckle. "Completely ridiculous."

"And you're being naive!"

"No, I'm being NORMAL!" The word echoes off the kitchen walls. "You're the one having some weird meltdown over nothing!"

"It's not nothing! The dude's giving off major control freak energy and you're too busy swooning over his vocabulary to notice!"

"I am not swooning over anything!"

"Whatever. You clearly can't see what's right in front of you."

"And you clearly can't handle not being the center of attention for five fucking minutes!"

Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up. "The center of—what? That's what you think this is about?"

"I don't know what it's about! That's my whole point!" You're making no sense!"

"I'm making perfect sense! You're just not listening!"

"Because you're not saying anything worth listening to!"

“Fine! Go ahead. Do whatever the fuck you want. It's your life."

"Yeah, it is my life. And you know what? I WILL do whatever the fuck I want."

"Great! Awesome! Have fun!"

"I will!"

"Good!"

"GOOD!"

You glare at each other, both breathing hard—and Griffin chooses that moment to saunter in, meowing loudly as if to say ‘what the fuck is all this noise about?’

"Your cat wants food," you snap, needing the last word.

"He's not just my cat, he lives here too," Jungkook fires back, because apparently he also needs the last word.

"Then maybe you should focus on feeding him instead of my social life."

"Maybe you should focus on not getting involved with pretentious assholes!"

"I live with one, so I think I can handle it!"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you too."

You turn away, stomping toward your room. "You're such a jerk."

"And you're a stubborn bitch."

You flip him off without looking back, slamming your door with enough force to rattle the walls. You hear him mutter something through the thin wood—probably another insult—before the sound of cabinets opening and closing tells you he's probably feeding Griffin.

Dropping onto your bed, you stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what just happened.

What the hell was that about? Since when does Jungkook care who you hang out with? And what the fuck was all that ‘vibes’ and ‘energy’ bullshit?

It shouldn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

Except now there's this annoying doubt in the back of your head.

Not because Jungkook's right—he's definitely not—but because he seemed so sure. So genuinely worked up about it.

Not jealous, just... concerned?

Angry?

Something.

God, you need to get a grip. This is exactly what happens when you live with people too long. Their crazy starts to sound almost reasonable.

Jason is fine. He's normal.

Jungkook is the one being insufferable and childish because he can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes.

So honestly?

Fuck him.

You deserve to go on a date with someone who actually listens to what you have to say.

So you will.

And if he wants to whine about it, well. That’s his problem. Not yours.

Staring at the confirmation email on your phone should not be making your stomach turn like this.

It's just an appointment. A totally normal, adult thing to do that people handle every day without breaking a sweat. Just another checkbox on the grand list of things labeled ‘Taking Care of Your Body’ that you've been putting off for... well, forever.

But there it is: Appointment with Dr. Camila Rivera, Wednesday, 4:45 PM.

You'd done it yesterday night, after the fight with Jungkook, after slamming your bedroom door hard enough to rattle the walls.

You'd sat on your bed, fuming, and somehow that anger had propelled you toward something productive for once. A quick Google search for ‘gynecologist near me,’ a few clicks, and suddenly you had an appointment.

Easy-peasy. Totally casual.

Except it wasn't. Not really.

Because the truth is, you've never been to a gynecologist before. Not once in your life.

And it's not like you're some kind of prude. You're not. Just ask Jungkook. Or, you know, don't—his ego is inflated enough as it is. But the point stands: you're sexually active. You know your way around a condom. You're not completely clueless.

You're just... inexperienced in certain areas.

Official areas.

Medical areas.

Because going to a gynecologist meant telling your parents you needed to go to a gynecologist. Which meant admitting you were having sex. Which meant watching your mother's face crumple into that specific blend of disappointment and judgment she'd perfected over the years. The one that said, ‘I raised you better than this’ without her having to speak a word.

It was easier to just... not go. Stick with condoms. Cross your fingers. Hope for the best.

But things are different now. You're living on your own. Making your own decisions. Sleeping with your insufferable roommate whenever the mood strikes. Planning coffee dates with hot TAs who might—if things go well—become another notch on your metaphorical bedpost.

The thought sends a little thrill through you.

Jason. With his deep voice and thoughtful gaze and ability to analyze poetry without sounding like a pretentious asshole. Would he be different in bed than Jungkook? Less demanding, maybe. More measured. Or maybe he'd surprise you.

God, when did your brain become so fixated on sex?

That's what freedom feels like, you tell yourself, stretching your legs out across your bed. It's natural. Healthy, even. You've spent years living under your parents' suffocating expectations—their carefully crafted vision of who you should be, the life you should lead, the choices you should make. Always excelling, always proper, always in control.

Well, fuck that. You're done being controlled.

Hence, the appointment.

Because if you're going to be sexually liberated (the phrase makes you cringe a little, even though it's just in your head), you should probably be responsible about it. Birth control pills, or maybe an IUD—something more reliable than condoms alone.

Something that puts you in control of your body, for once.

That's what this is really about, isn't it? Control. Wresting it back from the people who've held it for too long.

Your parents. Their expectations. Their constant, stifling presence even when they're miles away.

You glance at the time on your phone: 3:32 PM. About an hour before you need to leave.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because while making the appointment had been an act of defiance, of independence—actually going feels different. More real. More intimidating.

You've done your research. Read all the ‘What to expect at your first gynecology appointment’ articles online. You know it will involve questions about your sexual history (complicated), your family medical history (boring), and a physical exam (terrifying).

The problem is, you'd planned to ask Yeji to go with you. She'd been to gynecologists before. She'd know what to expect, how to act, what was normal. But she texted this morning to say she'd caught some stomach bug and could barely make it to the bathroom, let alone across town to a doctor's office.

Which leaves you... alone.

And you shouldn't need someone to hold your hand through this. You're an adult, for fuck's sake. People do this all the time.

But the anxiety bubbling in your stomach doesn't care about logic. It's there, persistent and nagging, making you wonder if you should just cancel and reschedule for when Yeji's feeling better.

No. That's the old you talking. The you that let other people's expectations dictate your life. You need to do this, and you need to do it today.

But maybe you don't have to do it alone.

Jimin is in class right now. Emma's too far away.

And you and Jungkook are still not talking.

You glance at your bedroom wall, the one that separates your room from Yoongi's. He's home today—you heard him shuffling around earlier, the familiar sound of his bedroom door closing, his music faintly filtering through the walls.

Yoongi's different from Jungkook. Quieter. More observant. He doesn't waste words or gestures. He doesn't fill silences just to hear himself talk.

Would it be weird to ask him? Probably. But also... maybe not.

Yoongi has this way of making the strangest things seem normal, simply by refusing to treat them as strange.

Before you can overthink it any further, you're on your feet, moving toward your bedroom door, then to Yoongi's. Your knuckles rap against the wood before your brain can catch up with your body and tell you what a ridiculous idea this is.

There's a pause. Then shuffling. Then Yoongi's voice, slightly muffled: "Yeah?"

You open the door tentatively. Yoongi's seated at his desk, headphones on, one ear now pulled back as he swivels in his chair to face you. His expression is neutral—not annoyed, exactly, but definitely interrupted. Behind him, his computer screen glows with what looks like a complex audio editing program, tracks upon tracks stacked neatly in multicolored rows.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," you start, hovering in the doorway. "I, uh, I was wondering..."

Yoongi blinks at you, his gaze tracking over your face for barely two seconds before his eyes narrow slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and just like that, you hesitate.

Is it that obvious? Do you have ‘first-time gynecologist panic’ stamped on your forehead in neon letters? God, this is embarrassing.

"Nothing's wrong," you say, too quickly. "I just—" You take a breath. "I have a doctor's appointment, and I was supposed to go with Yeji, but she's sick, and—"

"What kind of doctor?" Yoongi's already slipping his headphones off, setting them on his desk.

"Gynecologist," you admit, the word feeling foreign on your tongue.

You brace for awkwardness, for judgment, for that subtle shift in his expression that says this conversation just got weird.

It doesn't come.

"When's the appointment?" he asks instead, like you just told him you're seeing a dentist.

"Four forty-five."

Yoongi glances at his computer screen, then back at you. A slight furrow appears between his brows—not judgmental, more like he's calculating something.

"Is it your first time?"

Your mouth opens, then closes.

Is there a neon sign above your head that says ‘VIRGIN TO WOMEN'S HEALTHCARE’ blinking in hot pink? How does everyone just know these things about you?

"Yeah," you admit, heat creeping up your neck. "First time."

Yoongi nods like this confirms a theory. "I can take you."

You blink at him, confused by the easy offer. "You don't have to—"

"I've done it before," he says with a small shrug. "My sisters. Lost count of how many times I've sat in waiting rooms while they got checked out."

"Your sisters?" This is new information. Yoongi has barely mentioned his family in the few weeks you've lived together.

"Two of them," he says, shrugging. “Older and younger. They'd kill me if they knew I was calling them a pain in my ass, but..." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Pain in my ass."

"I didn't know you had sisters," you say, still hovering in the doorway, surprised by this glimpse into his life.

"East Village, you said?" He inquires, stretching his arms over his head. "On 14th?"

"Yeah, but—seriously, you don't have to. I can go alone. It's fine."

Yoongi looks at you, really looks at you, his gaze direct but not unkind. "But you don't want to. That's why you're here. Give me ten minutes to finish this section, and we'll go."

The simplicity of it knocks the air from your lungs.

No questions about why you need to go, why you can't go alone.

Just acceptance.

Just help.

"Thanks," you manage, your voice smaller than intended.

Yoongi makes a sound—something between a grunt and a hum—that you interpret as 'you're welcome' before focusing back on his work. You linger for a moment, uncertain, before backing out of the room and gently closing the door.

Fifteen minutes later, you're sitting next to Yoongi in an Uber, your knee bouncing nervously as you watch the city blur past the window.

You've barely spoken since leaving the apartment, the silence between you not uncomfortable but definitely... present.

"Have you been to this doctor before?" Yoongi asks suddenly, his voice quiet in the confines of the car.

You shake your head. "First time."

"First time ever?"

There's no judgment in his tone, just curiosity, but you still feel a flush creep up your neck. "Yeah. My parents were... strict."

Yoongi nods like this makes perfect sense. "Mine too. Different things, though."

"Like what?"

He shrugs, his shoulder lifting in a smooth, controlled motion. "Music. They wanted the classical route—Juilliard, orchestra, all that. Not producing. Definitely not hip hop."

"But you did it anyway."

A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "Eventually. Took a while."

There's more to it, you can tell. You recognize it because it mirrors your own experiences—the rebellion, the constant calculation of how much you can take without being taken from.

"Are your sisters musicians too?" you ask, curious about these siblings he's mentioned.

His eyebrows lift slightly, like he's surprised you're interested enough to ask. "Mina and Soonhee? Nah, they got different rules. Mina's older—she got to do dance, no questions asked. Soonhee's the baby—she's in med school now, but she did competitive cheerleading through high school. I was the only one who got the 'practical career' lectures."

"That's fucked up."

He huffs a laugh, soft and low. "Yeah. Parents, man."

"So how'd you end up being the gynecologist escort service?"

This time, the laugh is fuller, unexpected enough that the driver glances in the rearview mirror. "Soonhee. She was seventeen, terrified of going alone, and didn't want our mom knowing yet. So I took her." He shrugs again. "After that, it was just... normal. Picked her up from appointments sometimes when our parents were working. Drove Mina a few times too."

Something about this image—Yoongi, quiet and steady, sitting in a waiting room while his sisters get their reproductive health sorted—makes your chest warm.

"That's... really nice of you."

"It's not a big deal." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "That's what family does."

The car slows as you approach your destination, and suddenly the nerves are back, coiling tight in your stomach.

This is happening. You're really doing this.

Yoongi must sense the shift because he looks at you, his gaze direct but gentle. "They'll ask a lot of questions. Some feel invasive, but they're just doing their job. If you don't know an answer, that's okay. If something feels wrong or hurts too much, speak up. Don't just endure it."

"Okay," you whisper, and for a moment, the two of you just look at each other—you, the girl who's spent her life trying to be perfect, and him, the boy who's learned to create his own definition of it.

The car stops. The driver announces your arrival. Yoongi nods once, decisive.

"Let's go."

The waiting room is exactly what you expected: too-bright lighting, uncomfortable chairs, ancient magazines, and the faint smell of disinfectant.

What you didn't expect is how much calmer you feel with Yoongi beside you, his presence steady as you fill out paperwork on a clipboard.

"Family medical history," you mutter, scanning the form. "Like I'm supposed to know if my great-aunt had ovarian cancer."

"Just write what you know," Yoongi says, not looking up from his phone where he's responding to what looks like a work email. "They mostly want the big stuff."

You nod, focusing back on the form.

Name, date of birth, insurance information (thank god your parents still have you on their plan, even if they'd probably have a collective aneurysm if they knew what you were using it for), medications (none), allergies (none), sexual history...

Your pen hovers over the ‘number of sexual partners’ field.

Two, technically.

One in freshman year—David, your boyfriend for all of three months, who'd been sweet but forgettable—and now Jungkook, who is... neither of those things.

Not that anyone needs to know about that particular arrangement.

Especially not Yoongi, who lives with both of you and would make things weird if he knew.

It's bad enough that he might hear things through the walls sometimes—though you've been careful, for the most part. Extra careful.

Because what you and Rogue have isn't something that needs to be analyzed or discussed or turned into some big thing. It's just sex. Convenient, mind-blowing, occasionally wall-banging sex. No strings, no expectations, no complications.

And honestly, there's something almost thrilling about the secrecy of it all. The way you can brush past Jungkook in the kitchen while Yoongi's there, both of you acting like you didn't have your legs wrapped around his waist twelve hours earlier.

The control of it.

The power in knowing something no one else does.

Soon to be three partners, maybe, if things go well with Jason.

The thought sends an unexpected twinge through you. Not guilt, exactly, but something adjacent to it.

"You know," Yoongi says suddenly, his voice low, "I never asked why you wanted to come here today."

You glance up, surprised. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Sure. But there are lots of reasons people go to gynecologists." His eyes remain on his phone, giving you the space to answer without the weight of his gaze. "Regular check-ups. STI testing. Birth control. Problems."

"All of the above?" you say, aiming for a joke but landing somewhere closer to honesty. "Mostly birth control, though. I've been... thinking about it for a while."

And it’s true, because condoms, while effective, aren't foolproof.

Not that you're telling Yoongi that you're sleeping with anyone, let alone Jungkook, let alone possibly Jason soon.

Some things are better kept private. Safer that way. No one's business but your own.

Yoongi nods. "Smart."

That's it. No lecture about being careful, no brotherly concern about who you might be sleeping with, no judgment about your choices. Just: smart.

"Thanks," you say, and you mean it for more than just the compliment.

"Soonhee has an IUD," he offers casually. "Says it's been good for her. Less to remember."

You blink, caught off guard by how easily he's discussing this. "I was thinking about that. Or maybe the pill."

"Makes sense." He mumbles, typing into his phone now. "Mina did the implant thing—the arm one? She had mood swings at first, but they evened out."

You're about to ask another question when a nurse calls your name.

Suddenly, your heart is in your throat again, the clipboard clutched in your sweaty hand.

"You'll be fine," Yoongi says, taking the clipboard from you with gentle fingers. "I'll be right here."

You stand, smoothing down your shirt with shaky hands. "This is weird, right? You barely know me."

Yoongi looks up at you, calm but thoughtful. "Not that weird. We live together. That counts for something."

Something about his words steadies you.

You've lived with your parents for most of your life—but this is the first time it's felt like more than just sharing space.

Like there's something about proximity that builds its own kind of trust, its own kind of care.

"Thanks, Yoongi," you say again, meaning it more with each repetition.

He nods once, then returns to his phone, the conversation complete.

As you follow the nurse down the hallway, you realize something surprising: you're glad it's Yoongi out there waiting. Not Yeji, not Jimin, not anyone else.

Just Yoongi—quiet, steady, unfazed by the messiness of being human.

And for the first time since moving in, you think maybe, just maybe, this apartment isn't just a place you live.

Maybe, in some small way, it's becoming home.

Your entire life, you’ve been told what to do with your body.

Stand up straight. Smile more. Don’t eat that. Wear this. Be modest. Be pretty. Be better. Smaller. Quieter. More.

It’s a strange feeling, sitting on the edge of an exam table in a paper gown that crinkles with every breath, realizing that for perhaps the first time, you’re making a decision entirely for yourself.

About yourself.

By yourself.

Dr. Rivera is nothing like you imagined. You’d pictured someone older, stern, clinical. Someone who would make you feel childish and naive.

Instead, she’s maybe mid-thirties, with a warm smile and dark curls pulled back in a bun. She sits on a rolling stool, reviewing your forms, asking questions in a voice that somehow manages to feel both professional and conspiratorial—like you’re both in on something important together.

“So this is your first time seeing a gynecologist?” she asks, looking up from her tablet.

You nod, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest, to make yourself smaller under her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Any particular reason you decided to come in now?”

Do you tell her that you’ve been having casual sex with your roommate? That you’re hoping to add a handsome TA to the rotation? That after years of letting other people—parents, professors, partners—dictate what you should do, you’re finally deciding for yourself?

“I want to start birth control,” you say instead, aiming for casual confidence but hearing the slight waver in your voice. “Something reliable.”

She nods, no judgment in her expression. “Have you been thinking about any particular method?”

“I’ve been researching a few. The pill, IUDs…”

“IUDs are excellent long-term options,” she says, setting her tablet aside. “Both hormonal and non-hormonal varieties have their advantages. The hormonal ones can help with period symptoms—lighter bleeding, less cramping. The copper one doesn’t have hormones, so there are no hormonal side effects, but periods can be heavier, especially at first.”

You’ve read all of this online, but somehow hearing it from an actual doctor makes it feel more real.

More possible.

“How long have you been sexually active?”

“A few years,” you say, the vagueness intentional. “Not consistently.”

“Using condoms?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Remember that birth control protects against pregnancy, but condoms protect against STIs. It’s always good to use both unless you’re in a mutually monogamous relationship and have both been tested.”

You nod, like a good student receiving familiar information. But inside, something tightens. Because you haven’t been tested. Not really. Just the standard blood work at check-ups.

Another thing to add to the list of adult responsibilities you’re finally catching up on.

“I’d like to do a pelvic exam and Pap smear today, if that’s okay with you,” Dr. Rivera continues. “It’s recommended for women your age, and it will help us make sure everything looks healthy before we proceed with birth control.”

The exam succeeds.

And in itself it is… well, not pleasant, exactly, but not as terrible as you’d feared.

Dr. Rivera talks you through each step—the speculum (cold, but not painful), the swabs (quick, a little uncomfortable), the manual exam (weird pressure, but over quickly).

It’s not dignified, but it’s not humiliating either. Just necessary. Clinical. Part of being a woman with a body that needs maintenance and care.

Afterward, as you sit back up, adjusting the paper gown around your knees, she asks, “So, were you thinking you’d like to start birth control today, or did you want some time to think about options?”

“Today,” you say, the word coming out more confident than you feel. Then, because honesty seems important here: “I’m afraid if I wait, I’ll talk myself out of it.”

Dr. Rivera’s smile is understanding. “That happens more often than you’d think. If you’re interested in an IUD, I could insert one today. We have both hormonal and copper options in stock.”

Your heart jumps a little. You hadn’t expected to actually do this today. You’d thought there would be more steps, more time, more chances to second-guess yourself.

“The copper one,” you say, a decision forming as the words leave your mouth. “I’ve been reading about it. I like that there are no hormones, and that it works right away.”

“The ParaGard,” she nods. “It’s effective for up to twelve years, though you can have it removed anytime. The insertion can be uncomfortable—some women experience cramping during and after the procedure. Are you on your period now?”

You shake your head.

“That’s fine. Some doctors prefer to insert during menstruation because the cervix is naturally a bit more open, but it’s not necessary. We can do it today if you’re sure.”

Are you?

Are you sure you want to make this decision, right now, without more time to think?

Are you sure you’re ready for this level of control, this level of commitment to your own autonomy?

The voice in your head that prompts those questions sounds suspiciously like your mother’s—whispers that maybe you should wait. Think more. Ask someone else’s opinion. Perhaps this is too rushed, too impulsive.

But then another voice rises—your own voice, tired of being drowned out—saying that you’ve thought enough.

That waiting is just another form of letting fear make your decisions for you.

That you know what you want.

“I’m sure,” you say, and the words feel like a declaration of independence.

Dr. Rivera walks you through the procedure, what to expect, potential side effects, when to call if something feels wrong. She’s thorough without being patronizing, clear without being alarming. By the time she leaves to gather the necessary materials, your nervousness has dissipated, and all you’re left feeling is an odd sort of calm.

This is happening. You’re choosing this. For yourself. By yourself.

And then, the actual insertion.

Which, just like the exam, isn’t pleasant.

There’s pain—sharp, sudden, deep—as the IUD passes through your cervix. A cramping that radiates outward, making you gasp and grip the edges of the exam table. But it’s over faster than you expected, though the cramping lingers.

“You did great,” Dr. Rivera says, stripping off her gloves. “The cramping should ease up in a day or two. Ibuprofen will help. And remember what we discussed about checking the strings, about when to call if something doesn’t feel right.”

You nod, absorbing the information through the haze of discomfort and, oddly enough, a strange sense of triumph.

Because you did it. You came here, you made a choice, and you followed through. No one told you to. No one had to approve. Just you, deciding what happens to your body.

It’s a small thing, maybe. Basic healthcare that thousands of women access every day. But to you, in this moment, it feels monumental.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it deeply.

Dr. Rivera smiles, like she understands exactly what you’re thanking her for.

“Take your time getting dressed. The nurse will bring you some information to take home, and I’ll see you for a follow-up in a few weeks to make sure everything’s settling in well.”

When she leaves, you sit there for a moment longer, one hand resting lightly on your lower abdomen.

There’s something in there now, something you chose, something working for you without you having to think about it.

Protection. Freedom. Agency.

It hurts, yes.

But it’s a hurt with purpose.

A discomfort you’re enduring for yourself, not for anyone else.

As you dress slowly, careful of the cramping that makes you wince, you think about all the times you’ve twisted yourself into shapes that pleased others. All the choices you’ve surrendered in the name of being good, being agreeable, being what everyone else wanted.

Not this time.

This time, you chose you.

Yoongi doesn’t ask questions when you emerge, moving slightly slower than before, your face a little paler. He just stands, tucks his phone into his pocket, and falls into step beside you as you make your way out of the clinic.

“Need anything?” he asks simply as you wait for the Uber outside.

You consider for a moment. “Ice cream, maybe.”

He nods, like this is the most reasonable request in the world. “There’s a good place three blocks from here. If you’re up for the walk.”

The cramping is uncomfortable but manageable—and your need for something sweet and creamy is too compelling to deny it.

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your course to fall in beside him. “I’m up for it.”

You can’t help but think how strange really life is.

How you’re walking through the East Village with Yoongi, a copper IUD safely nestled in your uterus, making decisions that have nothing to do with what anyone else thinks you should do.

It feels like freedom.

It feels like growing up.

It feels, for the first time in a long while, like your life is actually yours.

Maybe that’s worth a little discomfort.

goal: 300 notes and this time I am not lowering the bar

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@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex

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invincibledc · 9 hours ago

Note

Please please pleaseeeee can we have more of Jack?

જ⁀➴𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐨𝐰! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐦!

────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐒!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

Synopsis: when Jack explodes. He explodes. All because his own henchmen had fucked with the wrong person to kidnapped. The one to be the start of his obsession.

Genre: oneshot/slight yandere

Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin sister of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome.

Word count: 822

Anger barely encapsulates what Jack feels in this moment. His men had promised him a surprise, and he had little patience for surprises.

With his dyed green hair and piercing cold blue eyes, he strode into the warehouse where his so-called henchmen awaited. Sucking on a blueberry-flavored lollipop, his favorite, he remained unfazed by the setting around him.

Jack positioned himself in front of the massive door, inhaling deeply before stepping inside. “Where are they?” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly. He navigated through the stacks of storage boxes until he finally spotted his henchmen—three older men—glaring at him with the usual joker goon attire. Their lack of enthusiasm set a tone that didn’t sit well with him.

“What’s this all about?” he asked, moving assertively toward the trio.

“Guess what!” one of them chimed in, a bald man Jack had nicknamed Baldie due to his shiny head. Jack bit down harder on the lollipop, feeling his time stretched thin.

“Spit it out,” he ordered coldly, his expression darkening. He longed to return to the place he reluctantly called "home," even if it hardly felt like home at all. The three men exchanged glances before one of them shifted away, prompting Jack to raise an eyebrow in skepticism.

Minutes later, Jack sees a girl with a bag over her head. She seemed to be unconscious, making Jack furrow his brow and narrow his eyes to almost slits.

“Who the hell is she?” he snapped, the Brooklyn accent sharpening his tone. “Don’t tell me you brought me some damn girl off the streets.” As he spoke, he yanked the lollipop stick from his mouth, discarding it recklessly.

Jack strode toward the girl’s body, a confident smirk on his henchmen’s faces as they watched him take action with a decisive, swift movement.

But as Jack saw her, his eyes widened in shock. His henchmen misinterpreted this reaction, thinking he was simply entertained.

“Tada! We captured Bruce Wayne’s daughter. Aren’t you thrilled, boss?” the bald one taunted, while the others nodded in agreement.

Jack stayed quiet, his hand caressing your face. Your beautiful face with a busted lip, a small bruise under your eye. His hand started to shake, his other hand balled into a fist, it was obvious they caught you off guard.

They harmed your face.

They dared to mar the beauty he cherishes in you. Jack rose to his feet, a shadow cloaking his face. He began to laugh slowly, but it was not the familiar laugh that echoed in the past.

No, this one was chilling, dark, and laced with malice. He felt something more profound than mere anger—he felt a fierce rage, an overwhelming possession, an all-consuming obsession.

He would be the one to confront you; he would dominate this cat-and-mouse game. They have interfered with his design and obliterated its very essence. They have trampled on his obsession.

Jack's laughter erupted, louder and more menacing, sending a spine-tingling sensation through his henchmen. The pride that once adorned their faces began to fade, replaced by the dawning realization of fear.

“You.. you did this?” He says, still laughing through words as he points to your body, tied up by ropes that also seem to bruise your body.

“W-we did..” one of them said with uncertainty how to answer.

With that simple answer, Jack stopped laughing. He turned his head to face them, finally giving them a glance at his crazed expression. His cold eyes were freezing, the natural blue now deep ocean blue eyes.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” Immediately with that, Jack pulled out a gun, pointing it with a dark expression. “It was fun when it lasted, pathetic.”

The bald one stood up straight, feeling brave as he walked towards the boy. “That’s a toy gun, you aren’t fooling anyone, Junior.” the man says, trying to lighten the situation.

“Is it?” Jack said with a mused grin, the bald man went to snatch the gun when a loud gunshot ran through the air.

The man fell suddenly in front of Jack, Jack’s cold blue eyes stared at the bleeding body. Blood spattered on his clothes and face. Jack effortlessly wiped the blood off his painted face with his gloved thumb.

He looks up at the other men who seem like they sit in their pants, which is good to know.

“I’m not forgiving the rest of you who stuck with this plan.” He raises his arm, the men try to protest, trying the find the words to plead to the emotionless boy.

“Wa-wait!—”

Two gunshots went off.

Jack sighed, putting his gun up and looking at your body with a somber look. “Oh baby girl, they fucked up ya' face, your beautiful face my beloved.” He says softly, untying you from the ropes.

He lifted you bridal style and left the warehouse, not caring for the bodies as all he cared about was you.

His obsession.

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echobx · 2 days ago

Text

Creep - loser!incel!Rafe × fem!reader

summary: you thought it would be a normal hookup but the guy you thought to meet wasn't who he presented himself to be

warnings: smut, p in v (protected), backshots, oral (male receiving), Rafe being disgusting (literally), incel behavior, (implied) virgin!Rafe, porn mention, showering, faking an orgasm, spanking (not hot), jerking off

word count: 1.9k

author's note: idk how this came to be. one moment I was yapping to my bestie about how disgusting and loser s1!Rafe is and suddenly I'm sitting there writing this and I didn't even intend the smut it just happened... anyway, I don't think this one will go well with the Rafe girlies, it's okay, bc idc all that much

“You wanna watch something?” He wipes his greasy hair from his face, nodding towards the TV and not really waiting for an answer. You don't quite understand how you ended up in this situation- false. You know exactly how you ended up here, sitting on the expensive leather couch in this mansion that “will soon be his anyway.”

You just wanted to hook up, so you went on the apps and found, who you thought to be a nice and genuine guy, but turned out to be creepy and very fucking weird. So when you showed up at the address he sent you, which wasn't a hotel like you assumed, you first wanted to turn around and leave, but Rafe actually looked like his pictures and the house was huge and expensive, so you decided to give him a chance.

“Uhm… sure,” you shrug your shoulders, pulling on the skirt of your tight dress, trying to stop him from staring you down as if you were a sex doll or something. You really don't know what is going on in this guy's head, just that he is making you very uncomfortable.

“A’ight,” Rafe finally turns towards the TV and leans back, switching it on just for a porn to appear on-screen. It’s the same shit your ex liked to watch, two full-breasted, skinny women doing their best to please the guy with a dick bigger than you've ever seen in real life. And that is why you don't like it, because it simply doesn't look real, even if you manage to separate the fact that they are all just pretending to be enjoying it as much as they do, because to you, it doesn't look very enjoyable to be choking on a dick that size.

“I love this one,” Rafe breathes and shifts his hips, making your eyes jump to his bulging crotch.

You clear your throat, “do you have a bathroom I could use?”

He doesn't look at you when he answers, eyes fixed on the screen, hand rubbing over his dick through his sweatpants. “Upstairs, third door to the right.”

You get up, walk around the couch and as you pass behind him, you hear him grunt a breathy “oh fuck” as if he's actually getting off right now.

The bathroom is modern and minimalistic; dark tiles on the floor and walls, a big glass shower, a long sink with an even longer mirror hanging above it and a toilet that has the seat up. He sent you to his own bathroom. Of course he did.

After freshening yourself up you look at yourself through the mirror and exhale deeply. “Just leave. Just go, y/n. This is not worth it,” you tell yourself, silently repeating it in your mind as you make your way downstairs to tell him exactly that.

But when you stop in the doorway of the living room the words get stuck in your throat. Rafe is sitting there, his pants pulled down while stroking his dick.

You should run out without saying anything, but you also can't take your eyes off how big he is. He is definitely the biggest you've ever seen, even bigger than the one on TV just now.

“I-” you start, and he turns to look at you, continuing to fuck his fist.

“Wanna help me out?” he asks without any charm or intrigue in his voice. He sounds dull and almost bored, as if he didn't actually want you to be there anymore.

You close your eyes, taking one deep breath and another before speaking. “Why am I here?”

“You wanted to come over to fuck, I guess,” Rafe shrugs. He's right, you did want to do that, but you're getting more and more unsure about it.

“This isn't how this usually goes for me,” you sigh and go to sit down by his side again.

His tip is swollen and so red it looks angry, which wouldn't be too bad to look at if he didn't smell so… unclean and if he didn't have razor burn all over his balls and around his dick.

“Do you know how to suck dick?” Rafe is blunt, too blunt for a guy who doesn't know how to clean himself before letting a girl come over.

“Wh- What?” you stutter out.

“You wanna suck my dick, don't you? I know that look on your face. Every girl who looks at me like that wants to blow me, I just don't let them,” he tells you, and you've never been so sure about something being a lie in your whole life.

You smile at him, “maybe we should go upstairs. More private.” And more opportunity to get him clean before you even think about touching him.

“No one's home, we can do it here,” Rafe almost insists.

“Upstairs or nothing.” It's the only pride you have left in you, insisting on the location where you will lose all and every ounce of respect you have left for yourself.

“Fine,” Rafe groans, getting up and pulling his pants back up but not turning off the TV before he leaves for the stairs. “You can leave it on. I'll finish that later,” he tells you just as you want to switch it off.

He's sitting at the edge of his bed when you get there. Pants off and still fully erect.

“Can you join me in the bathroom in two minutes?” you ask him and don't wait for an answer, if he wants you, he needs to do as you say first.

The shower is hot and steams up the whole bathroom when he steps in behind you.

“What's your name again?” Rafe asks as you grasp for the body wash.

“Y/n,” you answer and start lathering him up, trying to not raise his suspicion about your actions and just make it seem like foreplay to him.

“You always shower with your hookups?” he asks and you smile sweetly.

“Just the special ones.” Your hand is working on his cock, trying to clean it as best as you can now that it's no longer hard. Maybe it should've been the biggest warning sign to you that he wasn't hard, although you were naked in front of him, although you were touching him.

“I'll fuck you if you suck my dick,” he says, eyes closed as you cleaned him.

“That's nice of you.” You don't know where those words are coming from. You also don't know why you are even doing this because no matter how big his dick is, it surely isn't worth all that, and yet here you are.

All dried up you take him to his bedroom, sitting him down on his bed as if he needs all the guidance you can give him.

“Can I fuck your face now?” he asks almost innocently, and you're inclined to say no.

“You wanna stand or sit?” you ask, and he stands up, taking his hand to your shoulder and pushing you down to kneel before him. His semi-hard cock right in your face.

There's no teasing or fun or anything familiar about it. As soon as you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, he's rammed himself inside you, leaving you no air to breathe. He's forcing himself down your throat repeatedly, making you gag and cry and almost throw up. Rafe is brutal and self-centered, not that you expected much else after everything that happened before. And while you are choking on his dick, trying to breathe as much through your nose as your body lets you, you keep wondering who the sweet guy was you texted and what happened to him to be the Rafe you now have in front of you.

“You look like a slut,” he laughs breathlessly, and you can picture your mascara stained cheeks in your mind. It's just a hum you let out to tell him you agree, but he's not prepared for it. The soft vibrations make his dick spasm at the back of your throat, and he curses, pulling his dick out just in time to let his cum drip all over your face. No amount of showers would be able to remedy the disgusting taste of his seed, so you have no choice but to get up and wash yourself.

The look your face is giving you through the mirror isn't a pleasant one. The girl staring back at you is pissed and feels just a smidge violated by his obvious porn obsessed habits. You can be happy he didn't also give you a neck strain…

“Come back, I'm hard again,” Rafe yells, and you force your body to move towards his demanding voice.

“You have condoms, right?” you ask, and he nods, a brush of white under his nose. Of course, he can't get hard unless it's drugs or porn shit. You should've known better.

“How do you want me?” you ask with a sultry voice, as you watch him roll the “extra large” condom over his dick.

“Face down, ass up,” he commands, and you climb on the bed. Better this way, at least then he won't know you faked it, if it comes to it.

“Go slow,” you tell him while turning your head to see him kneeling behind you.

“I know how to fuck, bitch,” Rafe scolds you, and you really doubt he does.

He tries to slam into you, but your cry of pain and the lack of wetness isn't helping him much with that.

“Be quiet and take it,” he tells you and slaps your ass, from the top down, only resulting in a dull pain that spreads from your cheek to your pussy.

He lines himself up again, pushing hard but slow, and if you hadn't started to play with your clit, he would still be playing with dry bones. After a while your body gives in and he manages to bottom out. You're stretched to your limits, tears welling in your eyes and hoping that your body will soon ease the pain.

“God, you're tight. You a virgin?” he asks with a laugh.

“No. Are you?” you bite back, and it lands you another slap.

“Shut the fuck up and take it,” Rafe growls, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in, which works a bit smoother this time. Your cunt is slowly but surely giving into him; getting wetter with every thrust of his.

You moan in rhythm with his movements, and a bit louder at his degrading words. If this was a movie, you're giving him an Oscar worthy act, and he doesn't even know it.

“Tell me you're close,” Rafe pants behind you, his thrusts growing increasingly more sloppy.

“So close,” you moan, purposefully clenching around him, and he fucks you faster, destroying even just the tiny amount of built-up you had managed to gain from his fat cock.

“Fuck! I'm the best!” Rafe screams and groans even louder than before, so you scream a bit more and clench a bit harder, until he pulls out and leaves you empty and unsatisfied.

“That was amazing. We should do it again,” Rafe smiles at you while you turn around to look at him. He's already pulled his boxers back on and is grasping for his sweats.

“Sure,” you nod and smile.

When you walk past the living room downstairs he's already back on the couch and back to fisting his cock. You shake your head, just a silent “creep” leaving your lips, and leave without saying goodbye, blocking him on the apps as soon as you get in your car. And even though it was probably the worst sexual experience in your entire life, it still gives for the most unhinged story to share with your friends.

please don't copy and/or post my work onto other platforms! ~e©ho

taglist: @redhead1180 @spideysimpossiblegirl @drwstarkeyy @princessmaybank @kys4-20 @immyowndefender @julczimozart @hoe4sunarin @m2m2m2 @mochimms @itsme-again @maybankslover @th3eternalersi @because-i-like-toxic-men @htlkira @rafescvntyclubgf

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fics #~fanfiction #my writing

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inseobts · 5 hours ago

Note

Hey, hope you’re doing good. I know you have many request but I have an idea.

Reader is the "sister" of Ace, Sabo and Luffy. Reader disappeared after Sabos death and years later, after Aces death, Luffy met her in the new world and he is so happy that she’s alive.

Maybe Reader has a devil fruit power that let her body turn into fabric and can make it harder so softer to fight enemies

Luffy’s ‘sister’

luffy x reader (platonic I guess)

a/n: I wrote it thinking it happens after the time-skip and before dressrosa arc. Also I didn't know if you wanted it to be platonic or not so I tried to stay in the middle + some talks about Ace and Sabo to make it emotional but also funny.

tags: post-timeskip, asl's sister, memories, humor

words count: 3.1k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“Captain! There’s a ship up ahead!” Usopp shouts, peering through his scope “It’s not attacking, but… there’s someone standing on the mast!”

Luffy’s eyes narrow. A lone figure stands tall against the wind, their long coat billowing like a flag. He squints, and for a second, his breath catches.

No way.

Before anyone can react, the figure leaps from the mast. They’re coming straight for them.

Zoro reaches for his swords, but Luffy throws out an arm “Wait!” His voice shakes. The others hesitate, Luffy never sounds like this.

The person lands gracefully on the deck, boots tapping softly against the wood. The wind carries their voice as they straighten.

“It’s been a long time… Luffy.”

His world tilts. He knows that voice. That face. His heart slams against his ribs.

“Y/N??” His voice cracks as he shouts your name.

The crew watches in shock as their captain rushes forward, arms flailing. Before you can react, he crashes into you, hugging you tight.

“I thought you were gone!” Luffy shouts into your shoulder, his grip like iron “You disappeared! After Sabo—” His voice stumbles, raw and unguarded.

You tense at the names, but slowly raise a hand to his back, patting him “I didn’t die, Luffy.”

“But you weren’t there!” He pulls back, eyes glistening “Why did you leave like that? Why didn’t you come back?!”

You sigh, fingers curling slightly “Because I wasn’t strong enough.”

“That’s stupid!” Luffy exclaims, pouting “We needed you!”

Before you can answer, Zoro clears his throat “Uh, Luffy, mind explaining?”

You glance at the swordsman, then at the rest of the crew “Oh… right. I guess you guys don’t know me.”

Luffy grins, though there’s still a hint of sadness in his eyes. He turns to his crew, beaming “This is Y/N! My sister!”

“WHAT?!” Nami, Usopp, and Chopper yell at the same time.

“Not by blood,” you correct, crossing your arms “Ace, Sabo, and Luffy—” Your voice falters just slightly “We swore to be siblings when we were kids.”

Robin watches you carefully “Then why have we never heard of you?”

You don’t answer immediately. Your fingers twitch, and a thread unravels from your sleeve, dancing between your fingers.

“I disappeared,” you finally say “After Sabo’s ship was destroyed, I—I lost it. I ran. And then when Ace...”

Luffy flinches, and you stop. The air between you is heavy.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, rolling your shoulders “I got stronger. And now I’m here.”

Sanji steps forward, eyes softened despite the cigarette between his lips “You survived all this time alone?”

“Not alone,” you smirk “I had my own crew for a while. And my devil fruit helped.”

Before anyone can ask, your body shifts. Your arms ripple, turning into woven fibers, flowing like silk before hardening like steel. You smirk “I ate the Nuno Nuno no Mi. I can turn my body into fabric, make it soft, hard, anything I need to fight.”

Franky whistles “That’s super cool!”

You chuckle, but then Luffy suddenly grabs your shoulders. His grin is wide, bright, filled with something he hasn’t felt in years.

“You’re here,” he says, voice full of relief “You’re really here.”

Your breath hitches. You never thought you’d see that smile again, not aimed at you. Not after everything.

But here he is. And something deep inside you, something broken, starts to mend.

“Yeah,” you murmur “I’m here, Luffy.”

And for the first time in years, you let yourself believe it.

Luffy doesn’t let go. His grip is strong, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens up even a little.

You sigh “Luffy, I need to breathe.”

He finally steps back, laughing “Oops. But I still can’t believe it! You’re alive!”

The crew watches closely, their curiosity thick in the air. Nami crosses her arms “Okay, so you’re Luffy’s ‘sister.’ But why are you here now?”

You hesitate. You’ve had plenty of time to think about what to say, but now that you’re here, nothing comes out easily.

“I heard about what happened.” Your voice is quieter now “To Ace.”

Luffy’s smile falters, and the ship falls silent. The crew shifts uncomfortably, all of them stealing glances at their captain.

Your hands clench into fists “I wasn’t there for him.”

Luffy’s expression darkens, but he shakes his head “It wasn’t your fault.”

You let out a bitter chuckle “That’s funny, coming from you.”

His jaw tightens, but before he can say anything, you push forward “I looked for you after Marineford. I heard you were alive, but by the time I tracked you down, you were already gone. Off training, I guess.”

“So you’ve been looking for him this whole time?” Robin asks.

“Not exactly,” you admit “I had my own things to take care of. But when I heard the Straw Hats were back in the New World… well, I figured it was time.”

Luffy tilts his head “Time for what?”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck “To come back. To fight alongside you.”

For a moment, Luffy just stares. Then, his face splits into the biggest grin.

“That’s awesome! You should join my crew!”

The words hit you like a punch.

Your mind pulls you back, years and years ago. Four kids, sitting in the woods, dreaming of the future.

“I’m gonna be King of the Pirates!” Luffy had shouted, grinning from ear to ear.

Ace had smirked “Then I’ll be the one to make sure no one beats you.”

Sabo had laughed “I’ll see the whole world first. Every inch of it!”

And you had thrown your arms up, puffing out your chest “Then I’m gonna be the strongest and most beautiful pirate captain ever! The most beautiful and powerful woman that no man can defeat!”

The boys had groaned at your declaration, but you had been serious. You wanted to stand among the greatest, make a name for yourself, lead your own crew.

But after Sabo’s death, that dream had faded. You let yourself forget it, bury it deep. You lost sight of what you wanted.

Yet here Luffy is, standing in front of you, still believing in his dream like nothing had ever changed.

And somehow, that makes you smile.

“I haven’t decided yet,” you say honestly “But I’ll stick around for a while.”

Luffy pumps his fist in the air “That’s good enough for me!”

Zoro steps forward, eyeing you critically “If you’re going to be traveling with us, I want to know what you can do. A devil fruit alone doesn’t mean you can keep up.”

Your lips curl into a smirk “You want to test me, swordsman?”

Zoro’s hand rests on Wado Ichimonji’s hilt “I want to make sure you won’t be dead weight.”

Luffy laughs “A fight! Yeah, let’s see what you got, Y/N!”

You crack your knuckles “Fine. Let’s take this to the deck.”

Within minutes, the crew forms a rough circle around you and Zoro. You stretch your arms, fabric threads extending from your sleeves before retracting.

Zoro rolls his shoulders “You ready?”

You grin “Always.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, he vanishes. Fast. But you’ve fought swordsmen before.

You twist, your body unraveling into woven strands as his blade slices through where your torso should be. He lands behind you, eyes narrowing at your now fabric-like form.

“Interesting” he mutters.

You re-solidify and whip your arm forward, threads shooting out like a whip. He blocks with his sword, but the force pushes him back.

Sanji whistles “Not bad.”

Zoro lunges again, this time faster. You harden your right arm, making it as dense as wood, and block his strike. But you misjudge his strength. His blade slices clean through, cutting your arm right off at the elbow.

Chopper gasps “Zoro! You cut her arm!”

But you don’t even flinch. Instead, the severed fabric of your arm ripples and knits itself back together, new threads forming until your arm is as good as new.

“Nice try” you tease, flexing your fingers.

Zoro’s eyes flash with interest “Huh. So that’s how it works.”

Before either of you can move again, Luffy jumps between you, laughing “Okay, okay! You’re strong! Zoro, she wins!”

Zoro scoffs but doesn’t argue. He sheathes his sword “You’ll do.”

Luffy throws an arm around your shoulders, grinning “Then it’s settled! Y/N is sailing with us!”

You shake your head but don’t push him off. For the first time in years, something feels right.

Maybe this is where you’re meant to be.

The next few days aboard the Sunny feel… strange. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

Luffy drags you around, introducing you to every part of the ship as if you’re not already well aware of how a crew operates. You humor him anyway.

Chopper asks you a million questions about your devil fruit. Franky gushes over how “super” your ability is. Brook tells you a story that somehow turns into a song. Sanji cooks you meals that make your stomach ache with nostalgia.

At night, you sit alone on the deck, staring at the stars. You remember sitting like this with Ace, Sabo and Luffy, talking about the future, making stupid promises.

“You’re thinking about them, aren’t you?”

You glance over. Luffy is sitting beside you, his usual grin absent. His expression is quiet, thoughtful.

You sigh “Yeah.”

A long silence stretches between you. Then—

“I miss them too.”

Your chest tightens. Luffy isn’t good with words when it comes to things like this, but the way he says it, the raw honesty in his voice, hits you harder than anything else.

“I wish I could’ve been there for Ace,” you admit “I wish I could’ve helped.”

Luffy shakes his head “Ace wouldn’t want that. He did what he wanted. Just like Sabo.”

The name makes your throat tighten. The last time you saw him, he was setting out on that boat. You were kids. You never got to say goodbye.

“Do you ever wonder if things would be different?” you ask quietly.

Luffy looks up at the sky, thinking. Then, he grins “Nah. Because I’m still gonna be King of the Pirates!”

You blink at him, then let out a small chuckle “You really haven’t changed, huh?”

“Nope!” He grins wider, stretching his arms behind his head “Back then, we all had our own dreams, right? Ace wanted to make sure no one beat me, Sabo wanted to see the world, and you—”

He turns to you, his grin turning softer.

“You wanted to be the strongest and most beautiful pirate captain ever.”

Your breath catches. You haven’t thought about that in so long.

Luffy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees “And y’know what? You already did it.”

You stare at him “What?”

“You’re still a captain, even if you don’t have a crew right now. And you’re already the strongest and most beautiful woman pirate I know!”

Your face heats up, and you smack his arm lightly “Idiot. You don’t just say stuff like that.”

“But it’s true!” Luffy laughs “You didn’t give up, Y/N. You’re still out here, still fighting. That means your dream is still real.”

His words settle deep in your chest. You lost sight of that dream for so long, let yourself forget it after Sabo’s death. But hearing it from Luffy…

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe your dream never really died.

You exhale, a small smile tugging at your lips “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

Luffy grins “Then let’s keep going together!”

You laugh, shaking your head “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

“Nope!”

You roll your eyes, but something in you feels lighter.

The next morning, the crew is gathered around the deck, eating breakfast. Luffy, as always, is stuffing his face like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

You sit next to him, sipping your drink when he suddenly smacks the table “Oh yeah! I should tell you guys some stories about when we were kids!”

You nearly choke “Luffy—”

But it’s too late. The crew is already interested.

“Oh? This sounds fun” Robin says with a knowing smile.

“Yes, tell us more about our dear Y/N!” Brook laughs “Embarrassing stories, if you have them!”

You glare at Luffy, silently warning him to shut up. He ignores you completely.

“Okay, okay, so there was this one time Y/N lost a bet and had to marry one of us!” Luffy announces proudly.

You drop your cup “Luffy, shut up!”

“Wait, what?!” Nami and Usopp both exclaim.

Sanji nearly chokes on his cigarette “Marry?! Who?!”

Luffy grins mischievously, pointing his thumb at himself “Me!”

You groan, burying your face in your hands “I hate you.”

The crew erupts into laughter.

“Wait, wait,” Franky says between chuckles “How did this even happen?”

Luffy leans back, grinning ear to ear “So we were playing this game, and Y/N lost as always. Ace said the loser had to marry one of us for the day.”

“Ace was the priest” you mutter, shaking your head.

“And Sabo was the one crying like a proud parent” Luffy adds “Like, real tears! He was all, ‘No! Y/N, you're too young for this!’”

Usopp is wheezing “He actually cried?!”

“Yeah!” Luffy nods enthusiastically “I don’t even know if he was faking it or not, but it was so funny!”

You groan “I wanted to punch every single one of them so bad, but Ace said it was against the ‘sacred marriage rules.’”

Zoro smirks, raising a brow “So, did you two actually go through with it?”

Luffy shrugs “Yeah! I even made her a ring out of leaves.”

“And then I threw it at his face, and he started crying like a baby, so Ace had to end the act.” you grumble.

The crew bursts into laughter again. Even you can’t help but smile a little.

“Man,” Luffy sighs, looking up at the sky “We were so dumb back then.”

“You still are” you retort.

He laughs “Yeah, but it was fun, right?”

You pause, thinking back to those carefree days in the forest. Even with all the fights, the chaos, the stupid dares, you wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

“Yeah,” you admit with a small smile “It was.”

Luffy grins wider, shoving more food into his mouth.

The conversation shifts, but as the crew laughs and jokes around, you can’t help but feel a warmth in your chest.

Then suddenly Zoro smirks, arms crossed “So, she’s not your sister but your wife?”

Silence.

Then—

“EH?!” Usopp nearly spits out his drink.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” you yell at the same time.

Luffy tilts his head “Huh? But she’s my sister.”

Brook chuckles “Well, technically, if you were married, wouldn’t that make her your—”

“NO!” you cut in before he can finish that cursed sentence.

Sanji slams his hands on the table, looking like he’s about to explode “Luffy, you idiot! You were married to such a beautiful lady, and you didn’t even treat it like a sacred bond?!”

“It was a joke, you idiot!” you snap.

Luffy just laughs, completely unfazed “Yeah! It was just for a day! She couldn’t be my wife for real anyway, she actually had feelings for Ace.”

Dead silence again.

Then—

“WHAT?!”

Your eyes widen as your face heats up “I did what?!”

Luffy nods confidently “Yeah! I'm not that stupid... You totally liked Ace, right? I mean, you always got flustrated when he teased you. And you looked all shy and stuff whenever he did something nice for you.”

You freeze, blinking at him in utter disbelief “Luffy, what are you talking about?!”

Luffy grins, oblivious to the red creeping up your neck “Well, yeah! You were always blushing around him, and when Ace told you he’d protect you, you got all embarrassed and smiled like you were secretly happy.”

Your eyes twitch as you realize what he’s saying “Luffy, that was just because Ace was a big annoying idiot!”

Luffy tilts his head, thinking it over “Hmm… Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly that. But you definitely cared a lot about him!”

You rub your temples, trying to keep your cool “I did care about Ace, but NOT like that!”

The crew watches, barely containing their laughter as Luffy’s words continue to spiral.

Luffy isn’t fully convinced “But you were always jealous when he’d hang out with Sabo, you wanted to be with him all the time.”

You stare at him in disbelief “What?!”

“Yeah! I thought you were just mad ’cause you wanted Ace to spend more alone time with you!”

You grit your teeth, ready to explode when suddenly, Robin, who has been quietly listening, raises her hand and looks at you with a knowing smile.

“Ohhh! So you liked Sabo!”

You freeze.

“Eh?” Luffy tilts his head in confusion.

Robin’s expression remains calm as she leans forward, explaining “Yeah, from what Luffy is saying you always seemed a little flustered when Ace teased you, but not because of him, it was because Sabo was watching, right?”

Your heart skips a beat as you realize the implication. The room goes quiet. The crew looks between Robin and you as the pieces start to fall into place.

“What do you mean?” Usopp asks, his voice shaky, as if he’s starting to understand.

Robin continues, her eyes twinkling “When Ace said he would protect you, you didn’t get flustered because you liked him. It was because you wanted Sabo be the one to protect you, not Ace.”

Your face burns “I—I didn’t like him like that!”

Luffy blinks, completely oblivious “Huh? I always thought you were shy around Ace because you liked him.”

You fight the urge to bury your face in your hands “No! I didn’t!”

But as the crew starts piecing Luffy’s stories and your reactions together, you realize they’ve started to connect the dots. Robin did a good job analysing is all. Yet Luffy never caught on.

Franky scratches his head, still a little confused but grinning “So, wait, you liked Sabo the while marrying Luffy?”

“NO!” You practically shout, flailing your arms “I—”

Luffy, ever the oblivious one, just laughs “Heh, it’s okay, Y/N. It happens to everyone! I mean, you liked Sabo? It’s cool!”

Your embarrassment grows tenfold “Luffy, I swear—”

The crew is in full-on teasing mode now, and you just want to hide. Sanji’s voice cracks as he dramatically falls to his knees “Sabo, you lucky one…”

You finally give up. You collapse into your seat, covering your face with both hands “I hate all of you. We all were just kids… I was just a dumb kid with a dumb crush for a dumb kid...”

Despite your frustration, a small smile sneaks onto your face. This was ridiculous, but it felt… kind of good. Having these memories out in the open, even the embarrassing ones, made you feel like you were truly home again.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Now this is your new life with the Straw Hats.

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bugixxxbunny · 2 days ago

Text

I'll call B4 I Cum

How I think BSD boys would act before they cum, inspired by the Outkast song!!!

Content Warning: food play, dry humping, mentions of suicide and once again swearing!

Word count: 6,484

"I'll call before I cum; I won't just pop over. Out the blue, I hope that you do too!"

song here!

Dazai in the port Mafia is a teasing man. He knows how your body will react. His hips move painfully slow, making you beg and cry out, "Stop being so meannn!" You whine out pretty dribbles of spit run down your swollen lips and chin. "Oh, Belladonna, I won't until you agree." He has a lazy smirk. You can't see with your face being shoved into the puffy mattress. His other hand shoves your back into a deeper arch. Your back aches from doggystyle, and so does your stuffed cunt, begging to be given proper attention. You had always denied Dazai's request for a double suicide. This time was different because he put you in a hard spot between life and pleasure. Maybe it was sick and twisted, but it was surely hot. A loud smack was heard in the stuffy room, making you cry out, "Come on, Belladonna, you know I hate waiting." Dazai whines, his cock aching to release as he smacks your ass harder, "Fine." You moaned; this makes Dazai speed up instantly. His pace was brutal, making soft "Ah ah ah" come out of you on impact of his hips on the fat of your ass. His head was tossed back, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead, "F-feels good, Belladonna." This was your first time hearing the executive stutter. Dazai's deep moans grow with his pace. He gasps, Dazai's deep moans grow with his pace. "I'm going to have such a fun time teasing Chuuya, I got to fuck you, and he doesn't." "m'gonna cum!" His voice is like wind chimes; it's unexpected; it's quick and airy. You turn your head back to witness the flushed, messy Dazai's rugged breaths spill from his bitten lips. Pretty handmade bruises and hickeys left from your fun earlier. "You close darling?" His voice was soft. Your pussy flutters around him. You nod, focusing on him. His face twists with pleasure as he stuffs you with his cum. His large, nimble hands squeeze your ass as he tosses his head back, letting out a few high-pitched whimpers and moans as you both cum.

Ranpo, the greatest detective, loves sweet treats or any treat, in fact. It was Ranpo's 27th birthday. You both had finished up the little party at the agency. You and Ranpo headed home. You took on the duty of making Ranpo's cake. After putting the final touches of whipped cream, you had created a system. Your left hand was dedicated to popping on the strawberries, and your right took care of the very needy. Ranpo whom sat on the counter: "Ngh, faster!" Ranpo's eyes were open slightly; they looked hazy. His jaw slack, hot puffs of air escape; his hips needly thrust up into your soft palm. "Ranpo," you said warningly, "You're going to make me mess up!" he whimpers, "I'll take my hand off." Ranpo huffs in this bratty nature, "I'll be good," he said reluctantly, not trying to have the warmth of your hand leave his leaky cock. He waits patiently with a lot of deep sighs, huffs, and wiggling. "Finally, I'm done!" You smile looking back at the finished cake. Ranpos whines, "Can I please get my birthday gift now?" This was your time too, huff. "You don't appreciate me, Ranpo." You dip your finger in the cake and swipe some on his lips. "Here, try it." Ranpos's warm tongue trails across his mouth and your finger. "Mmm, it is good." You snicker, grabbing a handful of cake and shoving it into the distracted Ranpo's mouth. He licks his lips. You switch hands, smearing cake on his twitchy cock. Ranpo moans in shock. That's why Ranpo loves you; you keep him guessing. He barely can read you; that's why when you flatten your warm tongue on his cock to clean him up, all he can do is squirm in pleasure, his eyes fully open, watching you taste your great creation lathered on his cock, "Gah! Too much off, off, I'm cumming," he whined, not wanting to finish so quick. He tried to push your head away, but too bad for him, he busts on your face. "Ranpo, now I have an even bigger mess to clean up. Well, let me not leave my first mess unclean." It's not too long before Ranpo's cock is stuffed back into your jaws.

Gravity himself Chuuya Nakahara, loved old, expansive wines, so when he invited you over to try some, you knew something was fishy. Chuuya hated opening his nice wines and would gladly wait years to pop open a bottle of the blood-colored liquid. You decide to go anyways but brought along sweet old Dazai. When Chuuya answered the door, he seemed displeased to see the chestnut-haired man. "Aww, Chuuya, are you not happy to see me? You should know we are tied at the hip." Dazai pulls you close so your sides mush together. Chuuya grumbled, "Shouldn't you be trying a new method? for suicide unless you'd want me to kill you." Now the three of you sat in Chuuya's living room, hammered. Dazai's phone wouldn't stop ringing off the rails. "If you don't answer the fucking phone, Dazai, I will wring your neck." "But Chuuya!" Dazai whined, "I just know it's Mori, and I have some earned to run for him." "Just make it quick; I know you can," you said, trying to encourage Dazai. "Oh, fine." And in one swift motion, Dazai stood up and walked off to answer the phone. "Tell me why you brought the freak here." "Then tell me first why you even invited me to wine tasting in the first place?" Chuuya grumbles, his freckled cheek dusted red, "I wanted to get closer to you than that idiot Dazai." You just giggle, "Oh Chuuya, you're so strong but so stubborn." You crawl closer to the redhead and take your seat on his lap. "Tell me how you feel; let it all out, Chuuya." At first, Chuuya had some trouble talking about his feelings but then spilled it all out. "I think Dazai is a stupid prick and—" but before he could continue, your hips cut him off as you slowly grind on his growing bulge. "Keep going, you're doing so good, Chuuya." Chuuya's body shudders at the prasie, but he perseveres with talking, his voice wavers. "And you're absolute it's not fair that someone like him works and is so close to you." Chuuya pours his heart out to you about his petty jealousness, but by the end, he's mewling, pulling at your hips to rut against him faster. He's drooling and panting like a dog. "Arg, you're so good at this," he slurs, "shh Rember Dazai's in the other room" his hips pop up against yours he bites his lips to stay quiet. "You going to cum?" He nods vigorously. He whimpered like he was kicked, his blue eyes rolling into the back of his head as he gasps. and soils the front of his jeans twitching with pleasure. You leap off his lap as you hear Dazai's heavy footsteps. "I'm backkkk."

omg sorry gang this is quite short, and I fucking disappeared. I know I was also supposed to do Mitsuya but I couldn't help myself! also if anyone wants to specify any characters, they want me to write for you can js ask me!! again sorry for the length and being gone so so long missed y'all won't make these mistakes again!

-bunny ♥

#dazai osamu #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #dazai x chuuya #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #bungou stray dogs chuuya #dazai x reader #chuuya x reader #ranpo edogawa #bsd ranpo #ranpo x reader #bungou stray dogs ranpo #x reader #fanfic #bsd fanfic

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billthedrake · 3 days ago

Text

LINEAGE (PART ELEVEN)

"You're off your game, Bill," Todd Fiedler said as my drive went far left of the fairway.

My doctor, neighbor and confidante was now fully middle aged and now that he'd started up Crossfit, he was starting to get some major DILF looks. I had only two non-Drake men I was close to, Todd and the pilot dad Doug Newcomb. I had to think it was because they were incest dads, too.

I cursed and put my club back in my bag. "I'm a little distracted, I guess."

Junior looked over at me with a smirk when he heard me say that. He had been watching Todd's youngest son Sam get ready to tee off.

Todd seemed to catch onto something. "Are you two...?"

I gave Junior a look to silently ask him. My son nodded.

"We've been keeping it under wraps, Todd, but Junior and I have our first date night tonight."

That got a surprised smile from Fiedler. "Yeah?" He looked over at Junior. "You excited, Junior?"

"Yes, sir," Junior smiled. "Kind of dream come true, really." He blushed as he said this, though. I realized that like me he was dying to tell people, to not have it be a secret.

"Sorry I didn't tell you before, Todd," I said.

"Tell him what?" Sam asked as he walked back to his golf bag. We hadn't even watched his drive.

"Bill and Junior are dating," Todd announced.

"Way cool," Sam said with a smile.

"Wait..." I said, putting two and two together.

Todd placed his arm around Sam's meaty shoulder. "We're still figuring stuff out..."

Sam got a playful smirk and said, point blank, "Dad won't let me do anal yet."

"Sam!" Todd exclaimed. It was funny to see him be the shyer one, but I could see the Fiedlers' directness in talking about their sex life had rubbed off on their youngest son.

Sam was undaunted. "Come on, Dad.. we can trust the Drakes with this shit."

I looked over. Junior was eating this up. Amused and also enjoying the open talk.

"You can, Dr. Fiedler. I mean, I know you and Dad talk everything."

Todd smiled and looked at me. "Well, I respect that some things between father and son need to be private. But, yes, it's very nice to have a sympathetic family to share with."

The air was cleared that day. Todd and I no longer felt the need to for the private conversations, and that afternoon, I talked openly with him about Braden's fertility pills and the chance for multiples while taking them.

And Todd talked about the pills his dad often took. "We call 'em the Fountain of Youth," he said with a chuckle. "Low dose cialis, low-level testosterone booster, and some supplements for semen production."

I could see Sam's face grin as he listened to his Dad talk about his granddad's sex life. "Lets you get it on two, three times a night, even at his age. Only drawback is it brings the sperm count way down... I mean, the sperm production stays the same but with a lot more cum it's way less effective. So you don't want to go on that pill when you're trying to breed."

"I'm good without the Fountain of Youth, Todd," I said with a proud smile. I had a healthy sex drive and between Braden's full-heat mode and this thing with Junior I was very horny lately.

"It would be fun, Dad," Junior chimed in, playfully giving a smirk of his own. He was 18 and had a crazy sex drive, and I could tell he was imagining my increased libido.

Sam laughed.

It was funny. But I kept my poker face on. "We'll discuss this over date night, young man."

***

I had a garment bag hanging in the back seat of the SUV, with my and Junior's nicer clothes for the night. He was a little quiet as we got in and drove our way to the highway leading into the city.

I patted his knee. "You OK, buddy?"

He nodded, quietly. "Yeah, Dad. I just can't believe it's happening."

I shot a quick look over. "But you're OK with this, right? We don't have to..."

Junior interrupted. "Oh yes we have to," he said and we both laughed.

I could tell he was hesitating to be serious, but finally he said, "I guess I'm young and don't know what I'm doing."

I got a little quiet. "I thought you'd had experience before. I mean, you said..."

He nodded. "That's just sex, Dad. Can I speak freely?"

"Of course."

"I guess until lately, I thought I was one of those guys who just loved fucking or getting my cock sucked."

Just hearing Junior talk so bluntly was getting my dick hard as I drove, but then again I'd been boning up on and off all day. "That's very fun, Son."

He laughed. "Yeah." Then. "Dad... you ever regret settling down with Daddy?"

"Course not," I said. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "I didn't know if you felt the need to fuck other guys."

I paused and weighed whether I should tell Junior. But I figured if I was going on a date with my son, I should be honest with him. "Your Daddy and I... we occasionally play with others. I guess that's our way of having a little extra fun in a serious marriage."

"Beside me?"

"Besides you, son."

That made Junior smile, I could tell even in my peripheral vision. "Very hot." Then I could tell he was trying to figure out. "The Fiedlers?"

I shook my head. "No, they never seemed open to playing that way. Though Todd knows more about my sex life than anyone other than your Daddy." I heard Junior start to ask another name, probably the Connors, but I stopped him. "I'm not playing twenty questions with this, OK?"

"OK, Dad." A little admonished, but I think it was just the curiosity getting to him.

I have another pat to his leg, and this time did not remove my hand. "So... my son's a player, huh?"

"Maybe," he said. "I don't know. I enjoy that for sure... but with you, Dad... if you wanted me to, I'd cut out the other guys."

I gulped. "We'll figure that out, kiddo. For now, let's just enjoy the fun dating stage, OK?"

"Sure, Dad," he said. "I almost made that rule number 7 but figured we should talk about that first."

I nodded. I realized I didn't know my son's experience level. "How many other guys we talking about?"

"Three regular. But I've gotten a bunch of blowjobs, kind of anonymous, you know?" Damn, Junior had done some growing up, real fast. "You mad at me?" he asked.

"You're your own man, Junior. I want you to be careful, and yeah, I'm gonna lecture you from time to time. But sex is a natural part of life." Then, as I made the turn off into the city, I had so ask. "So, Junior... what have you done sexually with these men?"

"Only fucking. And getting head, though I've sucked one other guy besides you and Daddy." I could tell it was still a thrill for Junior to talk openly and crudely about sex with me.

"You're wearing protection right?"

"For fucking, yeah... that condom fund, remember?" he said, lightheartedly.

"Yep, the condom fund. Just making sure it's going to its intended use."

"Definitely," Junior said with a proud tone in his voice. "Found out they're cheaper in the 36 box," he smirked.

Junior and I shared a sense of humor and I had to laugh. "You're bragging," I teased back.

"A little, yeah," he said.

"Your dad can brag, too," I said back.

"Yeah?" he asked.

I reached down to rearrange my boner in my shorts, the other hand on the steering wheel. "I've not worn a rubber in twenty years."

"Hot," Junior said. I could sense him adjusting his crotch, too. "I can't fucking wait to bareback."

"Just be responsible, Junior. I mean it." Easy Bill, I thought. Going too hard into Dad mode will kill date night. But I still wasn't fully convinced of Junior's maturity level here.

"I know, Dad," he said softly. Then, "Thanks for being cool about all this."

I looked over. Bill Jr. really was a special young man. Brade and I had raised him right and now I was reaping the reward. "Thanks for being my arm candy for date night, Son."

That got a pleased laugh from him. "Sure thing. I mean, I got a really hot Dad, so I think I'm the lucky one."

I drove to the hotel first and gave the valet the keys while Junior and I got our overnight bags and the garment bag.

He had an excited smile after we checked in and rode the elevator up to the room. "Are we good, Dad?" he asked. "I worried the killed the mood just now. Talking about other men."

"Nonsense," I said, with a flirtatious smile beneath my ball cap. "I want us to get to know each other more this weekend, Junior. Not just as father and son. OK?"

"Sounds amazing," he said, then lowering his voice, he added, "I'm hard as fuck."

"You're getting me there, too, kiddo," I growled.

I hadn't been sure how date night would play out. I'd initially thought we'd drop our stuff off, get showered and changed and then head to the restaurant. But as we stepped into our room, we set down the bags and immediately stepped toward one another. I gripped Junior's cap off his head and tossed it aside, and he did the same to mine. Our heights were exactly matched and it felt magnificent to kiss that way.

We were worked up and yet not completely rushing it. I felt up Junior's warm body beneath his polo golf shirt and he did the same to me.

I finally pulled back and patted his chest, taking the occasion to feel how hard and developed his leaner, teen pectoral muscle was becoming. "I hope you don't mind when your Dad lectures you."

"Not at all, Dad," Junior smirked. "You still lecture Daddy?"

"Sometimes," I grinned. "Not that much."

"Rule number 6, right?" he smiled. The rule about never being too old to be lectured.

"Rule number 6," I said, leaning in for a quick peck. Here goes, I thought. "Well, I wonder what your thoughts are on getting some kissing lessons tonight and tomorrow."

As predicted a worry swept over his face. "I'm not doing it good, am I?"

I massaged his arm. "You're doing it great, kiddo. You kiss like an 18 year old, and that's hot as fuck. But maybe I can coach you in some other speeds."

That made Junior smile. "I'd like that, Dad. I want you to teach me everything."

I smiled back. "There's another thing. Your Daddy and I..." I stopped myself. "No, I'm not gonna make it about your Daddy. Let's just say I get really into talking during sex."

Junior had seen a little of this, but I had held back before. And we rarely had the chance to fully explore.

I wanted to reassure him. "If you're up for it, that is. We don't have to."

"I'm game to try, Dad. What kind of talking?"

I moved my hands over his shoulders and down his arms again. Sensual, seductive. "About incest. The fact you're my son, and I'm your dad."

That got a positive reaction. "And you're my granddad, too."

"I'm on date night with my grandson," I said back, lust rising in my voice.

"Dad.... is it against the rules of date night to have sex first?"

I shook my head. "Not in the Drake household."

"I'm fucking glad I'm a Drake."

"I'm fucking glad you are, too, buddy."

We kissed, and I could sense Junior trying to go softer at it, to mix it up.

I pulled back. "I want you to suck your father's cock, Junior."

He nodded. "God, yes."

I walked us back and guided Junior to the edge of the bed. I undid my shorts and it didn't take me long to haul out my thick, long hardon. Nor for Junior to lean forward to taste it.

"This made you, Junior. This cock sired you."

"Oh God, yeah," Junior hissed as he licked up and down my shaft. I could tell he was getting into this. "Perfect fucking cock on my dad."

"Nineteen years ago... I fucked your Daddy."

I worried I was going too far, but Junior looked up at me with wide-eyed excitement. "You made me that night, Dad?"

"I made you that night, Son. Most magical sex I've ever had. My first incest kid."

"Shit," Junior hissed. He took me into his mouth and bobbed up and down. Excited to suck me, but I knew he was even more turned on by talking about this. So when he pulled off he looked back up at me and growled, his teen voice surprisingly deeper in lust. "What position did you fuck him in... when you made me?"

"Missionary," I said. While some parts of me and Brade's relationship would remain between us, I felt that date night was an occasion to share more with Junior. "Your Daddy prefers it face to face."

Junior smiled. "How do you like to fuck, Dad?" He asked. Junior had a naughty horny streak that he was beginning to feel freer to show me. It turned me on.

"I like fucking Braden on his stomach," I said. "Or doggy."

Junior LOVED this. Loved seeing me let my hair down. "Doggy is fucking hot, isn't it, Dad?"

"Sure is, Son," I said.

"It's probably my favorite," he said thoughtfully.

I reached down and ruffled his hair. Like I did when he played little league as a kid. I had this intense affection for Junior and was loving every minute of this. "I will say this, though, Son. Breeding a man... impregnating him... missionary seems right. You get to see his face when you knock him up."

"Oh FUCK, Dad..." Junior hissed. "You're so fucking hot." He dove onto my dick again. Sucking too roughly, even. I'd definitely have to give him blowjob lessons this weekend. But for now, I enjoyed letting him work out his lust and his desire for my cock. He sucked me for a minute before I pulled back.

"Let's get naked, Son," I suggested.

Within seconds our golf clothes were strewn on the hotel room floor, tossed aside, and Junior and I connected naked in a father-son embrace. I loved the feel of his younger body next to mine and his hard prick pressed against my own, our dicks so similar other than the foreskin Braden and I left on him. We made out, more impetuously than romantically, and I finally rolled us over till I was on top. Junior let me.

We humped against one another as my son held me tight and wrapped his legs around my waist. I paused and pulled back.

Looking down on my son's cute, handsome face, I ran my fingers along his cheek. "You've never been fucked, have you, kiddo?"

He shook his head. Afraid as much as he was horny. "No, Dad. Don't think I'm into that. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," I said. "I'd never pressure you into anything, Junior."

"I guess I'm a little too much like you, Dad."

I laughed. "It's true, buddy." I rolled off him, but kept caressing his face, his neck, and his body as I took in the magnificence of his naked golf-jock body. "I don't know what two tops do on date night, but I'm sure we'll have our fun."

It was a half joke, and Junior was on my wavelength. "I wanna suck your cock again, Dad. Get you off."

I was rock hard and I smiled as I leaned back and gestured toward my erection. "Have at it, kiddo... only a little gentler this time, OK? That gets me off more."

I thought Junior would feel admonished by the suggestion but instead he nodded eagerly and scooted down to take me back into this mouth. No licking foreplay this time. Eagerly, Junior swallowed about three inches and slowly bobbed his way to four, then five. I didn't even have to coach him. He just cut back on the suction and it felt magnificent. Soft, wet milking sensations from him mouth.

"Oh damn, Son... that's it, buddy... you're making your Dad feel real fucking good right now... like that... up and down... my own son sucking me... make love to that dad cock, kiddo.... Fucking hot incest blowjob.... incest date night."

That idea did it, along with Junior's softer sucking. I blasted hard into my son's throat and it took him by surprise. But within a second he adjusted, pulling off to take the cum into his mouth.

I thought he'd swallow my load but instead he pulled off as the dribbles were still coming out of my dick. Junior lurched up over me and met me in a heated kiss. I opened my mouth for it and felt my own cum being fed to me.

I'd never snowballed before, but it felt fun and naughty. I fed the cum back to Junior, and he repeated the action. Between us, my cum was getting frothier as it mixed with our saliva.

Junior was tugging at his prick and soon I felt his body tense and his hot spray cover my torso.

"I always wanted to try that, Dad," he said as we both pulled back from each other, having finally swallowed the shared cum load.

I patted his thigh. "You're gonna show your old man some new tricks aren't ya, kiddo?"

"Hell yeah," he grinned.

I looked over at the clock. "I could stay like this forever, but we got a dinner reservation to make in an hour."

I let Junior shower first. When I finally stepped out of the bathroom after my shower, it was amazing to see my son getting ready for our date. Hair gelled, dress trousers and button down, loafers. Clean cut, jock next door.

He was absorbed his phone, like teenagers often get, but then looked up at me getting dressed. I'd picked out a navy suit for the occasion, though I decided not to wear a tie.

"What?" I asked as Junior stared at me.

He shrugged. "You're really fucking handsome, Dad."

I winked. "At 56, they call it distinguished looking," I joked.

Junior laughed and stood up to get his sport coat off the hanger. He slipped it on his athletic body, and the effect was incredible, making my son look older while bringing out his fresh-faced youth.

"Talk about handsome," I said. I could see why Junior had such success in finding men to have sex with. I stepped up and leaned in to kiss him softly.

"I still can't believe I'm going on a date with my Dad," he said softly.

"The night's young kiddo," I replied. "But we should get going."

****

Dinner was surprisingly normal. Normal conversation about golf and school. We talked a lot about Junior's plans. The colleges he wanted to visit, what he wanted to major in. He asked me a lot about my career and different parts of finance.

Finally, Junior looked around at the restaurant. Not super fancy but a nice fine-dining place. "When was the last time you took Daddy on date night?" he asked.

I could sense some guilt slipping in, like he was stealing me away from his other parent.

"You know Braden and I have date night twice a month," I said. It was a Friday ritual where Brade and I would line up a babysitter, usually one of the Fiedler boys, to look after our sons, the twins especially, and Junior would help entertain Evan and Keith.

"I mean, like this," Junior replied.

"Once a year," I said. "Your Daddy is happier catching a basketball or hockey game instead. But for anniversaries, I like to get dressed up."

"I like it, too," Junior said with a strange sincerity.

I paid the check after we were done, and neither of us had to discuss what was next. We'd be going back to our hotel room.

It was a nice contrast from the rush earlier. I'd brought a nice scotch and poured some into the rocks glasses from the minibar.

"Here's to an amazing evening, Son," I toasted.

Junior raised his glass and then took a sip. I could tell he was getting used to the taste.

"Not your thing?" I asked.

"It's pretty fucking good, Dad," Junior said. "I guess the expensive stuff is expensive for a reason."

"Pretty much," I agreed. "I take it you're being responsible with the drinking these days?" I couldn't help it. A father's gonna be a father.

"Yes, sir," Junior said. He got quiet.

"I killed the mood," I said.

He shrugged. "I gotta earn your trust, Dad," Junior said. "I know that."

"Kiddo..." I said. I felt very emotional just then. Like, this felt different than dating Braden had been starting out. That was all the guilt and taboo and the rush of incest, my first time connecting with my own son romantically. But Junior was both more headstrong and emotionally vulnerable. I thought I had experience incest dating, but this second son was a whole new challenge.

My reaction pleased him. He gave a smile and a little of the old Junior was back. "I'm gonna do it, Dad. Be the man you respect." He ran his hands along his wool trousers, a nervous tic I was finding adorable. "You're not even gonna have to tell me. I'll know."

I smiled back and gave a sexier grin. I pulled up one shoe to unlace and remove it, then the other.

"What do you say we start those kissing lessons, buddy?"

He nodded eagerly.

We didn't remove our clothes at first. We just lay on the hotel bed, side by side. Close.

"First, the peck," I said. I leaned in and just touched my lips to Junior's. "Some boys grow out of kissing their dads like that."

"Not me," Junior hissed. And repeated it. And again. We laughed.

"What next?" he asked.

"Knocking on the Door," I said.

"You have names for all these kisses?" Junior laughed.

"I'm making them up as I go along," I admitted. "All right, keep your lips closed."

I then pressed my lips against his and opened my mouth to slip out my tongue. Gently I tapped his lips three times before licking along them.

"Fuck..." my son growled.

"You do it, now," I urged. He did and it was sensuous and thrilling. Finally I opened my mouth and let his tongue slide in. I now tapped my own against his tongue tip before pulling back.

"That's The Encounter."

I could tell he wanted to make a wise-ass remark but didn't.

"Again?" he asked.

I took the lead this time. Only rather than pull back I went deeper, gently battling his tongue until Junior got the hint to do the same. Adding a little bit of suction...

"Classic French Kiss," I explained.

I showed him a couple more speeds, inventing stupid names for them, before I said. "And one more. The Need."

Junior was amused and very turned on. "What the fuck is The Need?"

I smiled, scooting closer to Junior. "It's what your Daddy does when he's really in heat.... I'm gonna slip my tongue in and I want you to do you best to suck into your mouth, like you want to pull me all the way into you, Son."

We did just that and as Junior sucked, I plunged in with my tongue and he sucked some more. It drove me wild and surprisingly it drove Junior wild too. We'd been focusing on kissing but now he pawed at my crotch, feeling the hard dick forming a ridge there.

He was breathing heavy when I finally pulled back.

"You got a favorite, Dad?"

I shook my head. "Nope. It's all about mixing it up. Being on the same wavelength as your man."

Junior took that in like they were profound words of wisdom.

"So, Dad... you told me to think about something I'd want to try."

I'd forgotten about that, but I replied, "Tell me, buddy."

"I don't know... I guess when I watch porn, I love watching guys rim each other."

"And you wanna try it?" I asked.

"We don't gotta, Dad," Junior said, defensively.

"I'm game, buddy," I smiled, running my hands along the button down beneath his suit coat.

He smiled. "You, um, do that with Daddy?" he asked.

I shook my head. "We've done it some. Just not our thing." I pulled back, and began to undo my belt and trousers. "But let's give it a try, OK?"

Junior followed suit, getting out of his dress trousers and underwear and showing off a dick that was as hard as earlier. That's when I knew he wanted to try being rimmed as well.

We didn't even bother removing the rest of our clothes... dress socks, shirt and coat, watch... that was all still on as I lay back on the bed and looked at my handsome son. "You wanna go first, buddy?"

"Yeah, Dad," Junior replied. His voice croaking he was so turned on. That's what made me want to do this, seeing how much it excited my son.

I pulled back my legs, spreading them some. Junior could see my hairy trench and my tight pucker in the middle.

"FUCK YES..." he hissed, jerking his prick some as he got into place. "That's a fucking beautiful hole, Dad."

I lay patiently, letting my son get his eyeful before he leaned in.

"Shit!" I exclaimed. I'd never actually been rimmed before. It tickled more than anything.

Junior pulled back. "You OK, Dad?"

"Yeah, I'm OK," I said. "Go ahead and eat your dad's ass, Son."

The blowjobs had to be coached. But Junior was a natural at rimming. Eager but not overly eager. He got past my initial defensiveness and eventually it felt good. I mean, I don't think I craved the act in itself, but seeing Junior in hungry ass-eating mode was a turn on in itself.

"Shit, Dad, I almost came," he grunted as he pulled back, sap dripping from his foreskin.

"Let me do you," I urged.

Junior got a big smile and positioned himself on all fours, facing away from me. The very position was enough to make my cock throb and leak, but it was the sight of him pulling up his shirt tails and showing off that golf jock ass that had me going. I'd noticed Junior's butt before, but I was now realizing how frickin' perfect it was. Not meaty-muscular like Brade's, though God knows that was my normal turn on. But Junior had hit leg day enough to have a nice round bubble ass on his taller build. The buns completely hairless and smooth, though as he spread his legs I saw the faint dusting of stray hairs around his ass hole.

I dove in. Hungrier than I expected to taste Junior's hole. I'd done this some for Braden over the years, but Brade never took to getting eaten out, and I never craved it myself.

But running my tongue along my second son's hole and feeling the heat and tightness against my tongue, knowing he was cherry... that made me an instant convert. It was my turn to match Junior's lead, copying his tongue work and adding my own spin on things.

"Eat my ass, Dad. Eat your son out." Junior was also getting into the sex talk, which made me prod harder against the tight ring.

"I'm gonna cum, Dad, if you keep that up." Junior was jerking his prick again.

I didn't stop. Instead I smacked my hands on his hard teen buns and gripped tightly, pulling them apart as I went feral on his hole, licking, sucking, frenching my son's ring.

"OH FUCCK!" came his cry. He was orgasming hard.

I let him ride that cum for a couple of seconds and leaned up. I spit into my palm and that was all the lube I was gonna have. I gave my prick three steady tugs and was firing my dad cum all over his crack.

"Shit..." he hissed, surprised by the sensation but turned on.

I gave it up, until I leaned forward, collapsing on Junior's back some. I circled my arm around him and held tightly as we caught our breath.

"Thanks for that, Son. I loved it."

"I loved it, too, Dad. A little too much," he said in a chuckle.

"We're not gonna wait till next date night to do that again," I said.

Indeed, we repeated the act the next morning, Junior sitting his jock ass on my face as we went longer. Then we switched and he did the same to me.

Turns out, two tops can do just fine on date night.

***

Junior and I got home by 11AM. Junior went to drop his stuff up in his room, while I went to find Brade. He was in the backyard, tossing a football with the other boys, while the twins played with toys in the grass nearby.

My husband gave me a curious glance, maybe apprehensive. Wondering how the date had gone.

I smiled and nodded, then patted his shoulder affectionately as I called out to Keith. "See if you can make your Dad run for it, little man...." Keith got a smile before putting on his serious game face then pulled his arm back to throw it as hard as he could. He was only 11, but he still had some power to his throw. I ran after the ball, barely catching it. I did my best to return it to Evan, with an equally solid throw.

I looked over. Junior was out now, talking to Brade. Maybe sharing details about the date, who knows. The twins were happy as clams. Ev and Keith were getting in competitive mode with me.

It was one of those moments that I realized: I loved being a family man.

#drakestories

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kathaelipwse · 11 hours ago

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Guarded By You - C.Seungcheol

Chapter 2: Echoes of Broken Vows and Crimson Warnings

Warnings: Stalking, childhood trauma, emotional distress, implied violence, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Author’s Note: This chapter delves into past trauma, childhood neglect, and psychological distress. If any of these themes are triggering for you, please proceed with caution. Your well-being is important, so take care of yourself while reading. <33 Word Count: 2459 words

<<<previous chapter - next chapter>>>

Series Masterlist

The cabin, a rough-hewn sanctuary carved from the heart of the ancient forest, stood as a stark testament to isolation open only to the military staff well former military as well. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, pressed against your skin, a stark contrast to the sterile, climate-controlled world you knew. The silence, broken only by the crackling fire in the hearth, was a heavy, suffocating presence, a stark reminder of your vulnerability.

Cheol, a figure of stoic strength, had transformed the cabin into a fortress, his movements precise and efficient, a testament to his military training. He’d secured the perimeter, set up surveillance, and established a silent, watchful presence that both reassured and unnerved you, a constant reminder of the unseen danger that lurked in the shadows.

"Why here?" you asked, your voice a hushed whisper, the lingering fear from the stalker's message a cold knot in your stomach. "Why so far away? Why this isolation?"

He didn’t turn from the fire, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames, his expression a mask of impenetrable calm. "Isolation. Security. No witnesses. No distractions. This is a controlled environment, where we dictate the terms."

You sighed, rubbing your temples, the tension a physical ache. "You make it sound like we’re in a war zone."

"We are," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a statement of fact rather than an exaggeration. "A war against someone who knows your every move, every vulnerability. Someone who sees you, even when you think you're unseen."

A shiver ran down your spine, the cold seeping into your bones despite the fire’s warmth. "Can we… can we talk about something else? Anything else? Something… normal?"

He finally turned to you, his eyes dark and unreadable, like obsidian shards reflecting the firelight. "What do you want to talk about? What normalcy do you seek?"

You hesitated, searching for a topic that wouldn’t send you spiraling into panic, a topic that might offer a sliver of understanding. "My life, I guess. The one you’re now in charge of. The one I barely remember. The one that feels like a stranger's story."

He raised an eyebrow, a silent question, a flicker of curiosity in his usually impassive gaze.

"You know," you began, your voice trembling slightly, "it hasn’t always been red carpets and flashing lights. There were… other times. Before all this. Before the fame, the fortune, the fear."

You spoke of your childhood, a fragmented tapestry of foster homes and fleeting connections, the constant search for a place to belong. You spoke of the long hours, the relentless auditions, the sacrifices made for a dream that had turned into a gilded cage. You spoke of the loneliness that clung to you even in the midst of adoring crowds, the feeling of being watched, judged, and ultimately, owned. You spoke of the emptiness that followed you like a shadow.

As you spoke, your voice grew softer, the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of your words lulling you into a false sense of security. The rhythmic crackling of the flames, the steady cadence of your own voice, the sheer exhaustion of the night, all conspired to pull you under. Your eyelids grew heavy, your words trailing off into a mumbled silence, your body succumbing to the weariness that had settled deep within your bones.

Cheol watched you, his gaze fixed on your sleeping form. He saw not the famous actress/model, the guarded celebrity, but a ghost from his past. A small, fragile child with wide, trusting eyes and a bright, infectious smile that had been slowly extinguished by the harsh realities of their shared past.

He remembered the Silent House, the orphanage that had been their shared prison. He remembered the cold, echoing halls, the threadbare blankets, the way the silence pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't just the absence of noise; it was the absence of warmth, of comfort, of anything resembling kindness. It was the silence of forgotten children, the silence of broken promises, the silence of a world that had abandoned them. He remembered you, a tiny 4-5 year old figure, a ghost in the vast emptiness, clinging to his side, your small hand reaching for his, a silent plea for protection he initially wanted to ignore.

He had resented you then, a small, fragile thing disrupting the harsh equilibrium he had built for himself. You were a painful reminder of the vulnerability he had learned to bury, a stark contrast to the hardened shells of the other children. They were survivors, like him, forged in the crucible of neglect, and you were a delicate flower in a field of thorns, a constant reminder of what they had lost, of what they had never had.

He remembered the first time he saw them turn on you. A pack mentality, a cruel game of dominance played out on your small, trembling frame. They whispered taunts, their words sharp and cruel, designed to break you, to shatter the fragile innocence that clung to you like a second skin. He watched, his jaw clenched, a strange mix of anger and disgust churning within him. He wanted to look away, to pretend he didn’t see, to preserve the sliver of detachment he had carefully cultivated. But something stopped him.

He saw the way your small shoulders shook, the way your eyes filled with tears, not of anger, but of a deep, soul-crushing despair. It was the despair of a child who had already learned that no one was coming to save them, that the world was a cold and indifferent place. He saw the way you curled into yourself, trying to become invisible, to disappear from their cruel gaze, as if wishing hard enough could make the pain go away. It was then, a flicker of something he couldn't name, a raw, primal protectiveness, that he stepped in.

He remembered the shock on their faces, the sudden silence as he stood between you and them, his small frame a defiant barrier. He remembered the anger that surged through him, a burning rage fueled by the injustice of it all, a desperate attempt to shield you from their cruelty. He remembered the fight, a clumsy brawl fueled by rage and desperation, a desperate attempt to protect a fragile life, a fragile hope.

He didn’t tell you then, but he hated the way you cried at night. Small, muffled sobs that echoed in the darkness, a constant reminder of the pain you endured. 'Mama,' you’d whisper, your voice a broken, desperate plea, a sound that tore at something inside him, a sound that echoed his own unspoken grief, his own longing for a warmth he had never known. He’d sit on the edge of his bed, his gaze fixed on the shadows, his hands clenched into fists, fighting the urge to comfort you, to offer a solace he knew he couldn’t provide, a solace he himself had never received. He knew the emptiness of a world without a mother's embrace, and hearing you cry for that phantom warmth broke him, shattered the carefully constructed walls around his heart.

He’d watch you during the day, your eyes following him, a silent plea for protection, for a connection in a world that offered none. You trusted him, a trust he didn't deserve, a trust that made him uncomfortable, that chipped away at the walls he had built around his heart. He was your shield, your silent guardian, a role he never asked for, but one he couldn’t abandon, a role that slowly became his purpose.

He remembered the pinky promise, your small finger wrapped around his, your voice a solemn vow, a fragile promise in a world of broken oaths. "I’ll never leave you, Cheolie! Never! Pinky promise!" He felt a strange pang in his chest, a flicker of warmth in the cold, empty space where his heart used to be, a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, someone wouldn’t leave, someone would stay.

But then remembered the day the rich couple came, their eyes drawn to your bright smile, your innocent charm. He saw the way you looked at him, your eyes filled with confusion and fear, as they led you away, a silent question hanging in the air, a question he couldn’t answer, a question that echoed in the emptiness of his own heart. He remembered the empty space you left behind, a void that had never been filled, a wound that had never healed, a silent scream that echoed in the emptiness of the Silent House, a scream that had echoed in his soul ever since.

He remembered the years that followed, the cold indifference of the other children, the emptiness of the orphanage, the way he stopped trusting, stopped hoping. He remembered the vow he made, a silent promise to himself, to never let anyone get close again, to build walls of ice around his heart, walls that, despite his best efforts, were crumbling now, under the weight of a forgotten past, under the weight of a promise he couldn’t break, a promise you didn’t even remember making, a promise that was now his burden, his duty. The day he turned 17 he ran away from that ditch place; with the silent hope of being able to see you….just a glance would have done too but-

His thoughts were cut of by a sudden, sharp noise from outside shattered his reverie, a whisper in the wind that sent a chill down his spine. He moved with a practiced swiftness, his body a coiled spring, his senses on high alert. He climbed the ladder to the cabin’s rooftop, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest, searching for any sign of intrusion, his gaze piercing the darkness like a predator's.

Fifteen minutes later, he descended, his expression grim. The perimeter was secure, but the noise had been unsettling, a phantom echo in the silent night, a reminder that they were not alone. He stepped back into the cabin, his gaze falling on you.

You were frozen, your eyes wide with terror, staring at the mirror above the mantle. He followed your gaze, his own eyes widening in shock.

Scrawled across the mirror, in your own crimson lipstick, was a chilling message: "You look nice while sleeping, sweetheart."

The stalker had been inside. While he was on the rooftop, they had been in the same room, a phantom presence in their supposed sanctuary, a chilling reminder of their vulnerability. The message, written in your own lipstick, was a violation, a twisted intimacy that sent a wave of nausea washing over you.

He scanned the room, his eyes searching for any sign of forced entry, any disturbance. Nothing. The cabin was as secure as he had left it. The stalker had moved like a ghost, a phantom presence, a chilling reminder of their power, their ability to infiltrate their supposed safe haven.

"Calm down," he said, his voice low and steady, a command issued in a war zone, a promise he intended to keep, a promise he had made to himself, to you, long ago in the cold, echoing halls of the Silent House. "I’m not leaving you alone. Not for a second. Not while he’s still out there. Not while he’s this close."

He took off his coat, the tailored black fabric a stark contrast to the rustic setting, and draped it over your shoulders, the warmth a small comfort in the face of the chilling message, a fragile shield against the encroaching fear. The fear in your eyes mirrored his own, a shared understanding of the danger that lurked in the shadows, a shared understanding of the past that haunted them both. The hunt was on, and the hunter was closer than they thought, their presence a chilling whisper in the silent night, a promise of a future that felt increasingly bleak.

The stalker's message was more than a threat; it was a violation, a twisted intimacy that sent shivers down your spine. It was a reminder that you were not safe, not even in the supposed sanctuary of the cabin. The knowledge that he had been in the same room as you, watching you as you slept, sent a wave of nausea washing over you. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a puppet on strings, dancing to the tune of a madman.

Cheol's presence, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a cage. His constant vigilance, his unwavering gaze, felt suffocating, a constant reminder of your vulnerability. You felt trapped, caught between the predator outside and the protector inside, both of whom seemed to hold your fate in their hands.

The silence in the cabin was heavy, thick with unspoken fears and unspoken memories. The crackling fire, once a source of warmth and comfort, now seemed to mock you, its dancing flames casting grotesque shadows on the walls, shadows that seemed to whisper the stalker's name.

You wanted to scream, to lash out, to break free from the suffocating atmosphere of fear and control. But you were frozen, trapped in a nightmare you couldn't wake from, a nightmare where the past and the present collided, where the ghosts of your childhood mingled with the terrors of the present.

The stalker's message echoed in your mind, a chilling reminder of your vulnerability. "You look nice while sleeping, sweetheart." The words, meant to be intimate, felt like a violation, a twisted declaration of ownership. You wanted to scrub the words off the mirror, to erase them from your memory, but they were etched into your mind, a permanent scar on your psyche.

You looked at Cheol, his face a mask of stoic calm, his eyes dark and unreadable. You wanted to ask him about his past, you wanted to understand why he looked at you with such intensity, with such a mix of protectiveness and pain.

The night stretched on, an eternity of fear and uncertainty. The cabin, once a refuge, now felt like a trap, a place where the hunter and the hunted were locked in a deadly game of cat and mouse. And you, the fragile prey, were caught in the middle, trapped between the ghosts of the past and the terrors of the present.

… To be continued

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aureentuluva70 · 1 day ago

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Thank you for the tag @saurongorthaur9!

My dad always liked lotr, and it was my dad who first introduced me to tolkien's works, although funnily enough the first major introduction I had of it wasn't through the actual books themselves, not even the movies. but the Lego videogame of the first two Hobbit films, (he wanted to start tame before actually showing us the movies and well, I guess playing a lego version of the hobbit certainly did it) a game which my siblings and I often spent hours on binge-playing multiple times over. My dad later showed us the actual Hobbit movies, which I really enjoyed and just like with the lego games, my siblings and I loved binge-watching. Over the years I've come to realize just how flawed the Hobbit films are, especially now that I've read the actual Hobbit book(which I actually just finished today! There couldn't have been better timing!), and yeah, there's a LOT they could have done better and differently, but I honestly just can't bring myself to hate those films. Perhaps it's because of my nostalgia-tinted glasses, but they-and the lego games-were my first major introduction to Middleearth, so I just can't hate them as so many others do.

After watching the Hobbit films we later on went to watch the Lotr films, and I honestly have a far less vivid memory of watching them compared to the Hobbit movies. I don't even remember most of my thoughts or reactions while watching at all and while I remember liking them, at the time and age I was in-10 to 12 I think(?)-I preferred the Hobbit films far more. Something about the Hobbit movies was just more appealing to me at the time.

It unfortunately would be quite a few years before I actually read the books. The most I would get in terms of actually "reading" them was me randomly skimming through the copies we had at home, which yeah, barely counts as reading. I remember trying to read the silmarillion for the first time, getting about two pages in and then giving up. There was so, so much information and it just boggled my mind, which luckily for me, is something many others seem to have experienced when trying to read the silm for the first time. I would take to watching summaries of stories from the silmarillion by watching deepdive youtube videos instead.

Why it took me so dang long to actually read Tolkien's books was mostly because it was during my teenage years that I kinda just...fell out of love with reading books, which I highly suspect depression and too much internet use had something to do with it. (Seriously, too much internet absolutely MURDERS the ability to read and focus for long periods of time, to the point it feels more like a miserable chore.) I just couldn't read books for fun anymore, not like I used to as a kid.

Several years after my first attempt at trying and failing to read the silmarillion, I decided to try my hand at reading it again. I was in high-school at the time. I must admit I mostly did this because bringing our own book to read in English class was required, and for some reason I decided: "hey, why not try the silm again?"

And I actually managed to finish the book! During a time where it felt like I had to physically force myself to read a book for long periods of time I actually finished it!

And that was when I really started to fall into the middle earth rabbit hole, and just kept falling, and I've become utterly entrenched in it ever since. If I was an average fan before, most of my knowledge based off of the movies and the occasional YouTube Men of the West video, now I was absolutely hyperfixated on Tolkien's world, and it's slowly but surely been helping me get back into reading just for the enjoyment of it again. I still often have to summon up some will in me to read a book, but it's become far, far less of a chore for me, and more and more lately something I actually look forward to. I've bought many of the History of Middleearth books, just last summer I finally picked up my dad's copies of the Lotr books on the shelf in the basement and read them all, and literally today I finished reading the Hobbit. (Talk about THE perfect timing. AND ONE DAY after March 25th, the anniversary of the Ring of Power being destroyed? AND that it was TODAY that I got tagged to talk about how I got introduced to Tolkien's world? Coincidence? I think NOT.)

This post became a lot longer than I intended but it really does feel like I've come full circle, there and back again, and looking back it really makes me realize just how far I've come, and it renews my gratitude to Tolkien for the world he so lovingly created. I legit don't know where I'd be right now without it. God bless Tolkien, the absolute madlad, for all the hope and wisdom and memories his works have given to so many people, myself included.

Okay.

Something that brings all of us together is our love for Tolkien's work, and its spinoffs.

So, question: What got you into Tolkien?

I'll start.

When I was 12, my father urged me to read The Hobbit. So I did, and I was mesmerized by it, to the point where I'd stay up in the middle of the night to read it. I never got beyond that, though.

Two years ago, I decided to reread it, and I fell in love all over again with the story, characters, Tolkien's writing style, everything. So I decided to read The Lord of the Rings. I got the first book, read a couple of chapters.. and gave up. It was too verbose, too prosaic.

The next year, that is, a few months later, I tried my hand at it again. This time, I got through four chapters, but I still couldn't read the rest. Then.. I began crushing on a guy who'd read it, and so I grit my teeth and went for it. I read, and read, and this time, I found myself enjoying it. Bonus, the guy and I got into conversation.

After finally finishing the first book, I even started the second, and watched the first movie with my family. (By way of flirting I asked the guy whether he liked PJ's Trilogy, and he told me he "found them low budget" so that, um, ended. I'm no longer crushing on real people.)

I read the second, the third book, reread The Hobbit a third time, watched all the movies, and joined Tumblr. Then I got motivated to read The Silmarillion. I'm currently working on that, as well as my Tolkien collection.

Honestly, one thing that fuels my love for the work is all my lovely mutuals who I've gained through this love.

So.. no pressure tags: @gauntletgirlie @wowstrawberrycow @valar-did-me-wrong @balrogballs @ghost-of-morrowbright @gingeragenda @greenleaf4stuff @dragon--ashes @dwarveslikeshinythings @numenoria @onebillionblorbos @zaldritzosrose @varda-star-queen @the-bogginses-are-gay @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @daughterofthesunlands @princessfantaghiro and anyone else I've missed/wants to join.

#tolkien #Lotr #Hobbit #Silmarillion

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 1 day ago

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Toto’s Guard Dog – Part 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

Word count: 576

Pairing: Toto Wolff x reader

Summary: Y/n finally flips the game on Toto, turning the tables with subtle touches and bold teasing

________________________________________________________

It hit Y/n like a lightning bolt.

For weeks, Toto had been playing with her—smirking, touching, whispering in that low Austrian murmur that sent shivers down her spine. He knew what he was doing to her, and he was enjoying every second of it.

But then she saw it.

The momentary flicker in his expression whenever she pushed back.

The way his smirk faltered—just for a second—when she called him obsessed with her.

The way his fingers twitched when she held his gaze for a little too long.

Toto Wolff, the smug, unshakable, all-powerful team principal, was not as unaffected as he pretended to be.

And that?

That was interesting.

She tested the theory in the Mercedes garage first.

Toto was leaning over a desk, talking strategy with an engineer, sleeves rolled up, watch gleaming on his wrist—the usual dangerous look. Y/n strolled in, casually resting her hand on his shoulder as she peered at the laptop screen.

“What are we looking at, boss?” she asked, making sure to lean in just enough.

She felt it. The way his muscles tensed under her touch.

Then, she leaned closer, brushing his arm as she pointed at the screen. “Mmm. So serious.” She tilted her head, letting her voice drop just slightly. “You love being in control, huh?”

Toto turned his head, gaze locking onto hers.

For a second, just a second, she saw it—his throat bobbed, his jaw clenched, and his fingers flexed like he was resisting the urge to do something about it.

Gotcha.

But then, just as quickly, he smirked. “Schatzi,” he murmured, voice silky smooth, “if you want my attention, you need only ask.”

Y/n’s breath caught—damn it.

Fine. Round one went to him.

But the game was officially on.

Her next move was in the paddock.

They were walking together when a reporter from Sky Sports approached. “Y/n! Any thoughts on this weekend’s battle between Mercedes and Red Bull?”

She hummed, tapping her finger against her chin. “Well, obviously I want us to win. But I do love a challenge.”

The reporter smiled. “You don’t mind things getting a little… competitive?”

Y/n glanced at Toto.

And then, before she could second-guess it, she reached out and straightened his tie.

Toto froze.

Everyone saw it. The reporters, the cameramen, the entire paddock. His smirk didn’t drop, but his eyes—his eyes told a different story.

Y/n smoothed her hand down his chest, feigning innocence. “I thrive in competition,” she said sweetly.

Toto inhaled sharply.

She smirked.

This time, he was the one left standing there, speechless, as she walked away.

By the time the press conference rolled around, the paddock knew.

George nudged Lewis. “She’s flipping the game on him.”

Lewis grinned. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Y/n took her seat next to Toto, crossing her legs slowly, deliberately, watching as his gaze flickered downward before he caught himself.

When Christian Horner started talking—some nonsense about Red Bull dominance—she leaned in toward Toto, close enough that only he could hear.

“Do you ever get tired of him?” she murmured.

Toto huffed a quiet laugh. “Every day.”

She tilted her head, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe next time, I should sit on your lap instead. Just so he knows his place.”

Toto stiffened.

His hand clenched on the table.

For the first time ever, she had made him squirm.

And damn, it felt good.

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callsign-muffin · 24 hours ago

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Heal Together: Chapter 13 (Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw fic)

I feel like this is the first time in a while that I've posted a chapter in a reasonable amount of time. I'm so grateful for everyone's patience with me while I write. I appreciate every single like, comment, reblog, and tag request so freaking much. As things slowly get better in my personal life, I hope I can continue to post for you all regularly.

Masterlist + Playlist

Word Count: 2.4+

You weren’t sure if you were going stir crazy on the unit, but you swore all eyes were on you when you walked on to the unit for your next shift. But it wasn’t even 7am yet, you hoped that maybe your coffee just needed to hit. Word spreads fast at the nursing station, you knew that much. Maybe it got out that you weren’t renewing your contract and took a staff job elsewhere? You weren’t necessarily well liked, especially by the older nurses and some of the resident team. But you were respected, or so you thought.

You looked up at the board to see your assignments, two walkie-talkies… this was gonna be a hard day.

Lisa, the career night shift nurse, who ran strictly on caffeine and spite, raised her eyebrows at you, “don’t go starting a fling with your patient assignments today, Y/L/N.”

Your stomach dropped but you had to play it cool and just ignore it, “I’ll receive report when you’re ready.”

The day was absolutely exhausting, with two patients that could walk and talk but were not fully orientated to their environment. Half of your day was spent cleaning them up since they were incontinent and the other half was spent trying to keep them from getting out of bed on their own and falling. And in an understaffed military hospital, there were no sitters who could watch over them, just you and the coworkers that were willing to help… which wasn’t all of them.

Madi nudged you, “Hey, are you working tomorrow?”

You shook your head, eyes laser focused on the computer. You were so behind on charting, you were drowning.

“Let the girls and I take you out for drinks tonight.” She said, “To celebrate your new job.”

Your eyes darted to her, “How did you know I got another job?”

Madi smiled weakly, “Word travels fast when you’re surrounded by a bunch of boomer mean girls.”

You snorted, that was the perfect way to describe the older nurses on the unit. “Okay. But nowhere fancy. I just wanna shower and throw on a nice pair of jeans.”

“Hard Deck?” She suggested, “Maybe that cutie boy with the mustache will be there and can drive you home.”

Your voice dropped lower, you didn’t want to be heard, “You mean my boyfriend?”

Madi’s face lit up, “So it’s true.”

You bit your lip and kept my voice quiet, “How did it get out? I swore Carly to secrecy.”

“Dr. Parks is fucking a nurse down in the ED, the one that took care of Bradley…” she matched your quiet tone, “She told him and he told Maggie, the certified yapper, and it spread like wildfire over the past couple days while you were off.”

You buried your head in your hands, “The last two weeks of this contract is going to be absolute hell.”

█ ✪ ��▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

Y/N: Shit day at work. I’m gonna meet the youngins for drinks after I shower and change. Carly’s driving me, will you drive me home?

Bradley: Of course, sweetheart!

Y/N: We’re going to the Hard Deck, you should make an appearance if you’re feeling up to it.

Bradley: Drinks with my favorite girl, at my favorite bar? Abso-fucking-lutely

“How ya doin’ kid?” Maverick asked, he and Bradley finally had a moment alone after the last briefing before breaking for lunch.

Rooster smiled, “Besides still being sore as fuck, better than I’ve ever been.”

“The nurse?” Mav inquired.

“Y/N,” He corrected his uncle-like figure, “She’s more than a nurse. She’s like… my favorite person in the world.”

Maverick smiled, “Your dad used to say that about your mom. He’d say, ‘Yeah Pete, you’re one of my best friends. But Carole, she’s my favorite person in the world.’”

“There’s no one better to be second best to, I guess.” Bradley chuckled.

“Third best, once you came along.” Maverick shrugged, “And that was absolutely okay with me.”

“I think we’re gonna take a trip to her hometown soon, before her new job starts.” Bradley said nervously.

Mav nodded, “Which means you’re probably gonna meet her parents… Does that scare you?”

“A little, it just hurts a lot that she can’t meet mine… she’s so much like Mom but not in a way that’s, like, weird. But in a way that she’s comfortable and familiar.” Now Bradley was really opening up. Maverick tried not to look too excited. “The first time I ever brought her back to my place, I offered her a drink before things… happened. And she looked at me and said ‘Take me to bed or lose me forever’. I don’t remember much of Mom and Dad together but I remember her saying stuff like that and it made my dad laugh so hard.”

“Do you have any pictures of her?” Maverick asked curiously.

Bradley pulled out his phone and pulled up a selfie he took with Y/N at the Hard Deck a few weeks ago, just a few hours before that amazing night they spent together.

“She’s a pretty girl, Brad.” Mav said, “She seems sweet too.”

“She is,” Bradley agreed, “she’s also smart as hell, full of attitude and wit. She’s… she’s everything.”

Bradley sat down next to Bob at a table with Phoenix, Fanboy, and Payback.

“We’re going to the Hard Deck for Thirsty Thursday, Roo.” Payback said, “You coming or are you gonna be too busy hanging out with your girlfriend?”

He smiled at his friend, “I’ll be doing both.”

“Yeah, Y/N and the nurses are all gonna be there tonight.” Phoenix added.

Bradley was taken aback, “How did you know that? She just texted me about it…”

Phoenix shrugged, “She texted me too. Is that allowed, Bradshaw?”

He chuckled, “Of course it is, she loves you.”

“See any other cute nurses for the rest of us during your last hospital visit?” Fanboy asked, “Time to spread the wealth.”

“You know how Phoenix loves a woman in scrubs.” Bob added with a wink in her direction.

Nat kicked him swiftly under the table.

“Unfortunately, no.” Bradley chuckled, “I was too busy having my ass handed to me by Y/N for not calling her.”

Fanboy choked on his water, “You didn’t tell her you were coming to her place of work after being ejected from a fucking plane?!”

“I had to call her and tell her.” Phoenix rolled her eyes, “Because I had a feeling he fucking wouldn’t.”

Rooster shrugged, “I have since learned the error of my ways. It’ll never happen again.”

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

You loved that your weekend was being kicked off with a Thirsty Thursday. Since you knew you had a safe ride home and no one at work respected you anymore anyways, you decided to let loose a little bit. Carly brought a round of tequila shots to your high top table, Sam followed closely behind with a round of hard seltzers.

Madi laughed, “We’re chasing our shots with more alcohol to drown our sorrows about Y/N’s contract ending.”

“And because she’s leaving us for labor and delivery!” Carly passed you a shot and a High Noon, “It’s only right that we get her fucked up!”

“Cheers to Y/N surviving the next two weeks being the talk of the unit!” Sam held her glass up.

Everyone did the same and clinked the shot glasses together, tapped them down on the table and then choked the shots back and chased with the sweet yet still alcoholic taste of High Noons. It was the first time since college you had a head rush like that.

“Lisa told me not to hook up with any of my patients when I got report from her today.” You rolled your eyes.

“Fuckin’ bitch,” Sam snorted, “Maybe if she got laid for once she’d be a little more tolerable.”

You, Madi, and Carly all burst into a fit of giggles. Sam was known for always saying the quiet part out loud, even if it got her some glares. Her strong backbone is what’s helped her survive as a new young nurse starting out in a military hospital’s intensive care unit.

As the silly conversation went on, you found yourself peering at the door every once and a while, waiting for Bradley to walk through it… You also noticed Carly doing the same thing, a hell of a lot more than you were. There was an air of nervousness about her. Who was she waiting for? It better not be some shit head straight out of basic training, or worse, Hangman.

“Next round’s on me, girls!” You pulled your card out from your wallet.

Carly slapped your hand away, making you drop your credit card, “No way, Y/N! We’re treating you all night.”

You tried to argue but Madi talked right over you, “We’ve already decided this. You’ve done so much to help all of us during your contract, more than the nurses who were supposed to train us.”

You shook your head, “Not really…”

“You taught me how to give report without shitting my pants and to organize my lines.” Carly said.

“You taught me to talk to patients whenever I’m assessing or doing anything to them, even if they’re intubated and sedated because it helps with agitation.” Sam added.

“You taught me to double tourniquet for tough IV placements to help the veins really pop out.” Madi said, “I almost never miss now!”

You puffed out your lower lip, “I’m really glad you all are saying these nice things while I’m sober. If I had anymore alcohol in me, I’d be ugly crying.”

All the girls’ faces lit up and then a familiar raspy voice said, “Sweetheart, you couldn’t do anything ugly if you tried.”

You jerked around and jumped into Bradley’s strong arms, “I’m so happy you’re here!”

He held you for a moment, rubbing your back, “The day didn’t get any better?”

You shook your head, “Not until I got here with these girls.”

“Now that you’re nice and distracted, I’m gonna go grab us another round.” Carly smirked at you and Bradley, finally releasing each other from your embrace. “Can I get you anything, Rooster?”

Bradley passed her his card, “You can put it on my tab and let me help you carry stuff. The usual suspects are at the pool tables and would love to see you guys.”

“Meet you there?” You suggested.

Carly and Bradley nodded and made their way to the bar.

Sam took your hand, “I’m so scared of all of them, the guys are so fucking hot.”

You giggled and gave her hand a squeeze, “Don’t be scared, they’re all really nice. And don’t let them know you think they’re hot, it’ll go to their heads.”

You were catching up with Bob and Phoenix when Bradley and Carly appeared with seltzers, beers, and shots. Their hands were so full.

“Aw, let me help you.” Phoenix cooed and walked up to… Carly? She kissed her sweetly and took half of the drinks from her hands.

In that moment, everyone stopped and stared. Processing what they just saw.

“Surprise!” Carly squeaked and smiled awkwardly.

“How did I not put this together?” Bradley chuckled, handing you a High Noon.

“You’re gay?” You asked the two of them in disbelief.

Bob cut in, “Are we stating the obvious? Natasha is gay and grass is green.”

Everyone burst into hysterical laughter.

“Hey, hey,” Phoenix said, “I think she directed that more towards Carly than me.”

Carly looked at you with concerned eyes, “I only just kind of figured this part of me out. Are you mad at me? For not telling you?”

You shook your head, “No! Of course not!”

“So let me get this straight… or gay,” Hangman started.

Coyote rolled his eyes at his best friend, “Here we go.”

“I’m called a total creep for chatting up the cute young nurses but Phoenix starts dating one of them and doesn’t get any shit?”

“That’s ‘cause you are a fucking creep!” Payback called out, making everyone laugh again.

You walked over to Carly and wrapped your arms around her, “I’m so happy for you, kid.”

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

Bradley flipped through all the tracks on the jukebox on the other end of the bar. He peered behind over his shoulder and saw Y/N, drunk and happy by the pool table with his best friends. She was talking to Fanboy about something that had her really worked up, Bradley could see the passion all over her face and in her gestures. She was setting Mickey straight on something, wagging a single pointer finger in his face as she spoke.

God, she’s the fucking cutest. Rooster thought to himself before turning back to the jukebox.

Y/N had asked him to pick a classic for her. He had to find something that was giving old school, 1970’s joy. And he found it. After adding the song to the queue, he swaggered back over to his girl, walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist mid rant.

“What’s got you all fired up, Sweetheart?” He chuckled and pulled her close.

“Fanboy thinks that Legally Blonde isn’t a feminist masterpiece!” She spat and glared at his teammate with disdain.

Bradley chuckled, “Grow up, Mickey. Everyone knows that Legally Blonde is an excellent movie!”

“Yeah!” Y/N cried out, snuggling her back closer into Bradley’s chest, “Grow up!”

Fanboy was getting a kick out of riling Y/N up, “It’s not realistic!”

Before Y/N could bite back, the starting lines of Bradley’s jukebox pick started playing. Her eyes lit up and she turned around in Bradley’s arms to face him.

“This is a classic!” She squealed happily.

Bradley sang to her and let his hands wander down into the back pocket of her jeans, “You can rely on the old man’s money! You can rely on the old man’s money! It’s a bitch, girl, but it’s gone too far, ‘cause you know it don’t matter anyway. Say money but it won’t get you too far, get you too far.”

And just like that, everyone in the bar was boppin’ along to Hall & Oates. When the next chorus came around, everyone was singing. Phoenix playfully bumped Bradley and Y/N as she danced and sang with Carly. Hangman, Coyote, and Bob used their respective pool cues as microphones and sang their hearts out like everyone’s own personal background singers.

Y/N sighed happily in his ear.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, baby girl?” He asked softly as the song came to an end.

She pulled back to look at him with her big doe eyes, “How happy I am, here, with you.”

He rested his forehead against hers, “That’s so funny, I was also thinking the same thing.”

Tag list:

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@that-gay-person-27

@alwayshave-faith

@caitsymichelle13

@thespillingvoid

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@amiets2

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x y/n #rooster x reader #rooster x y/n #rooster x you #top gun fic #top gun maverick fanfiction #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #top gun maverick fic

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thisgirlnamedblusy · 2 days ago

Note

Ciao, blusy! 😊

I think this idea might be a bit triggering, so you can totally ignore it if you want, but I just thought of it and had to share! What if Mother Miranda kidnaps the Reader because she thinks they know who the perfect vessel for Rose could be, but they really don’t have a clue?

So, after asking a bunch of questions and getting no answers, Miranda gets super mad and hands the Reader over to Donna to lock them in the basement. Miranda drops by every now and then, trying to get the Reader to talk, but when they keep quiet, she loses it and tortures them. After she’s done, she tells Donna to do the same when she's gone.

Donna hesitates at first, but eventually decides to take care of the Reader after Miranda leaves the mansion. This whole cycle keeps happening—Miranda tortures the Reader, they don’t know anything, then Donna comes in to help afterward.

But one time, Miranda totally runs out of patience and goes harder on the Reader than ever before. Donna can’t handle it, so she finally steps in and convinces Miranda that the Reader really doesn’t know anything. After that, she takes extra care of the Reader and all that good stuff!

Yesss!!!! Sorry about the delay and thank you for your request!!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :)))))

Hopeless

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, slightly dark themes, hurt & comfort, fluff...

Word count: 7,514

Summary: You are trapped in a nightmare and no one was going to save you...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! :))

“She's a stubborn little bird,” the blonde commented with a sinister smile, glancing sideways at the other woman accompanying you, the one dressed entirely in black.

“I don’t...” you murmured.

“Shut up!” the woman dressed as a priestess, the woman who had kidnapped you a few days ago, shrieked. “If you're not going to tell me what I want to know, remain silent.”

The other woman looked at the witch briefly, but you couldn't tell how, since a strange black veil covered her face.

You knew little about where you were at that moment. You remembered the cold, an impressive mansion next to a waterfall, a portrait you could barely make out, and finally the darkness and dampness of a basement.

At least it wasn't the kind of cage that woman Miranda had locked you in for days, but of course, you were aware that your situation hadn't improved at all.

“Ugh...” Miranda sighed, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head. “Donna, I guess I can trust you.”

The lady in black nodded slowly, without saying a word. All you could do was watch, instinctively protect yourself, and slide to the floor. Trying to escape wasn't an option; you had marks on your arm to prove it.

The veiled woman didn't move; she stood before you, like a stone statue. You didn't know for sure, but you had the feeling those hidden eyes were watching you.

The priestess moved forward, leaning over you as you shielded yourself with your arms.

“You're lucky I have important things to do than make you talk, little bird,” Miranda whispered to you, tilting her head. “Or rather… You're almost lucky,” she murmured with a terrifying laugh, sitting up and addressing the woman in black again. “Fine, Donna… Keep her alive, will you?”

The lady nodded slightly again, and a cold draft told you that your kidnapper had moved away, causing you to lower your arms. The woman leaned toward the witch, murmuring something you couldn't hear.

“Of course you won't let me down, my dear,” the blonde said. “Well, I have to go, and I'll tell you again: As much as you'd like to play with her... don't kill her, okay? And you, little bird,” she whispered, approaching you again. “Don't force poor Donna to disobey me, will you? She doesn't like rude dolls.”

With a wide smile, the kidnapper turned around, leaving the dark room, leaving you alone with the unknown, silent lady.

The sound of the elevator told you she had left, and your heart calmed slightly, at least until your gaze fell on the strange woman again.

The silence was somehow reassuring, but uncomfortable. That lady in black stood motionless, her eyes probably fixed on you. For a moment, you thought you felt some relief, but the words of that woman, Mother Miranda, echoed in your head.

“Please...” you sighed softly, keeping your gaze on her. “Please help me, that woman has kidnapped me.”

The lady didn't move, but she turned her head towards you, showing she was listening. Of course, there was no response.

“Please, I shouldn't be here, I...” you insisted, standing up, but keeping your distance from that Donna lady. “I haven't done anything to deserve this.”

Once again, silence reigned in the dark basement.

“I've been locked in this place for days. I'm hungry and thirsty. Please, I beg you, set me free,” you pleaded, clasping your hands together.

A sigh escaped the black veil, and her heels clicked as she got closer to you, as if she were studying you, watching you. A pale hand reached out slowly, cautiously, towards your face.

You averted your face from the contact, causing her arm to flinch and a gasp to emerge from the black fabric. Then, without saying a word, she walked toward the door, ready to abandon you there.

“Wait!” you screamed desperately, lunging at her, grabbing her wrist. “Help me, please,” you whispered.

The lady turned slowly, slipping from your grasp with a sharp movement, but not moving away from you.

“Please... Donna, y-your name is Donna, right?” you stammered, breathing heavily, sensing an invisible danger that seemed to be stalking you.

She looked at you, you were sure of it, and grabbed your shoulders with a swift movement, forcing you to walk backward, to the back of the room.

“No, please, no,” you said, closing your eyes, fearing a retaliation, one that never came.

The sound of her heels fading away made you relax, keeping your gaze on the lady in black as she disappeared through the door, merging into the darkness of the basement.

“No...” you sighed, walking back to the exit. “Wait, please wait!”

The door slammed shut in your face, and you began to bang desperately on it.

“Help!” you shrieked, your fists bouncing off the wood. “Please, someone help me!”

“Shut up, you noisy girl!” A disgusting shriek came from the other side of the room, making you flee to the small bed. Could it be that strange woman? That voice certainly didn't suit her at all.

Exhausted, you sank onto the mattress, curling into a ball and letting the tears escape. Your situation hadn't improved, it never would.

Maybe it was your fault for fleeing your country, for seeking refuge on the old continent, for wanting to create a new life.

Almost a year ago, you lost your father, the only person you had left in the world. If you closed your eyes long enough, you could still hear his last words, his distorted voice through the phone, his last call.

“You have to burn those documents, (Y/N), do you understand?”

“Dad, what's going on?” you asked, his voice sounding cold, as if he were hurt.

“Honey, y-you just do what I say, do it, (Y/N), and no matter what happens... Remember, your father loves you more than anything...”

You obeyed his orders without question, unaware that it would be the last time you would speak to him.

The next day, reality hit you. That strange scientific expedition had gone wrong. The ship your father was on, along with his companions, had run aground in the Louisiana swamps; there were no survivors.

You'd never know what really happened, what was in those documents he forced you to destroy, but you barely gave it any thought. You were left alone, your dreams as a young scientist sunk with that ship.

Nothing mattered anymore; nothing was left for you in the United States. You'd have to start from scratch.

You spent months traveling around Europe, looking for the ideal place for someone like you, but there didn't seem to be one. Romania seemed pleasant enough, and spending one more day among those snowy mountains was the worst decision of your life.

Being kind was your downfall. An old woman asked you for help crossing a street, something that wasn't suspicious at all. Then you saw her smile, and everything went black.

You woke up in a cage, next to a blonde woman who called herself Mother Miranda. It didn't take you long to recognize that woman in one of your father's photos. She, along with him, had worked in the scientific group, The Connections, and had been on the Louisiana ship.

It was impossible; that woman was an old woman, and suddenly, she transformed into that horrible witch.

What did she want from you? Information, documents your father had kept secret, documents that apparently contained something very important to her.

And so, you ended up kidnapped in that strange village filled with nighttime roars, with shadows that seemed to lurk around that imposing castle. But Miranda's patience had its limits, and after days of torture, she decided to take you to that mansion, with that lady in black.

You were trapped in that place, and the worst part was... no one would come for you, something Miranda reminded you of again and again. What horrors awaited you with that woman in mourning? It seemed you wouldn't have to wait long to find out.

Your crying was interrupted by the creaking of the door.

That woman named Donna appeared slowly, and you instinctively got out of bed, leaning against the wall farthest from her. She was holding something in her hand, something steaming, which she placed on a small table next to a glass of clear liquid.

“W-What...?” you sighed in confusion, peering over to see what the steaming plate contained. It seemed impossible: Food. “What...?”

She didn't answer; she just stared at you, as if waiting for something. You, of course, didn't move, but tried to confirm that what was on the plate was indeed food, eyeing it suspiciously.

“A-Are you giving me food?” you asked in a low, cautious voice, taking a step forward. “Why?”

You expected nothing but a tense silence in response.

A tired sigh escaped from behind the black veil before the lady approached, roughly tugging at your arm and leading you to the table.

“Let me go!” you yelled, trying to defend yourself. You were weak, and that woman seemed stronger; you had nothing to do. “No!”

Her hand rested on your shoulder, pushing you down onto the chair in front of the steaming food.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice trembling, your senses clouded by the alluring smell of that plate of pasta. “What do you want from me?”

She didn't respond. She let your arm go and brought it up to your face with a strange, erratic movement, wiping away with her thumb a tear that was running down your cheek. You remained motionless, petrified with fear as her hand moved down to yours, to the marks left on your skin by the handcuffs you wore in that cage.

Her finger curiously traced the wounds, gently, delicately.

Your instinct forced you to move away, frightened, and she responded with a quick gesture, moving away, but still looking at you.

The lady clasped her hands in front of her, nodding towards her plate of food, turning and disappearing quickly, leaving you alone again.

When you recovered, you looked at the pasta. It might have been poisoned, it might be the last thing you'd ever eat, but your desperate stomach growled loudly, forcing you to pick up the fork.

The flavor was perfect, delicious, and the warmth ran down your throat, comforting you. There was nothing unusual, no sour taste to indicate that the dish had been altered in any way. It was food, real food.

You devoured the pasta quickly, noticing how you regained some strength, how the water calmed the screams in your dry throat. Maybe you'd gotten lucky, or so you thought for a second.

After dinner, you began to feel lucid and looked around the room more closely.

Flour, cans of preserves, boxes... At least you wouldn't go hungry. You sat up in bed, sighing, wondering what you could do to save yourself, and noticed a detail: the bedroom door wasn't completely closed; a black line appeared between the frame and the handle.

“My God...” you sighed, slowly getting up, pushing the door to check that it wasn't, indeed, locked. That could be your chance.

You were afraid, but your desire to escape was much stronger. Carefully, you walked, peeking through the door, looking around. Darkness was all you could see.

After a few minutes, checking that the woman wasn't around, you decided to try your luck, see if you had any luck left. You slowly left the room, wandering through that damp and gloomy place.

The labyrinthine hallways were a bad idea, and you turned to look for the exit, only to find a wood-paneled room, one that seemed to lead to a possible salvation. The creaking walls and the feeling of danger invaded you, forcing you to walk faster.

A smile formed on your face when you saw your salvation: an old-fashioned elevator that seemed to be waiting for you.

“Come on, come on, come on,” you repeated, nervously pressing the button, trying to open the door grille, without success. It was locked. “No, no, no, damn it,” you wailed, grabbing the bars and shaking them. “There has to be something around here I can use to open it,” you muttered, looking around.

“I wouldn't do that, stupid!” A squeaky voice like the one from a moment ago startled you. You'd been caught.

You gasped in shock, turning around as quickly as you could; there was no one, nothing in that place, only the dim light from a lamp, confirming that you were alone.

“Shit,” you whispered, your heart about to jump out of your chest, scanning your surroundings, looking for the lady in black, the source of that unpleasant voice.

Walking, you moved forward, peeking into the rooms you found and tripping over something that had been thrown on the floor. It looked like a doll, an antique ventriloquist's doll made of porcelain and wood.

“What’s this?” you asked quietly, bending down to pick up the puppet and examine it closely. “What the...?”

“Boo!”

“Ahhhh!” you squealed as the doll moved, as that squeaky voice came out of its mouth and its limbs thrashed in your arms. “Oh, God!” you squealed again, dropping the doll and running through the hallways.

“Hey! Be more careful, stupid! I'll tell Donna, I'll tell Donna!” it crooned, its sinister laugh echoing off the basement walls as you desperately tried to flee.

“Fuck, fuck,” you gasped as you ran, staring into the darkness behind you, clumsily tripping over something that crossed your path, a black figure you knew. “Donna...” you sighed, horrified by the consequences of your attempt to flee, but too scared to even think about it.

“Hey, come back here!” that voice shrieked, forcing you to make a stupid gesture, to take refuge behind the veiled woman, protecting yourself from that terrifying living doll.

The lady in black turned her head towards you, allowing you to see a thin line of pale skin on the sides of her veil. Realizing your mistake, you stepped away from her black clothing, unable to find a valid excuse for your behavior.

“S-Sorry, I was...” you murmured, moving further away from the lady as she followed you with her gaze. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“Bullshit! Donna, she was trying to escape!” the voice spoke, making you retreat behind the lady again, who this time pulled you away, grabbing your arms.

“Please... I won't do it again, I...” you begged as she held you, while, out of the corner of your eye, you saw something impossible: That doll walking on its own, approaching you. “Oh my God... it's impossible...”

“Shut up, silly girl, do you think you could escape? Silly, silly,” the doll mocked, hands on its hips.

The lady abruptly let you go, approaching the puppet, extending its arms to her owner.

“How is this possible?” you asked, delirious at the sight before you, observing every detail of the doll. “No... This isn't happening.”

“Miranda didn't send us the smartest girl in the class, huh?” the puppet mocked, causing its laughter to bounce off the walls. The woman in black remained motionless.

“Are you a ventriloquist?” you asked, slowly moving away from the lady and her doll. “S-Sorry, I…”

“Shut up, silly girl,” the doll—or the woman, you didn’t know—scolded you. “By the way, the bathroom is down the hall on the left, not by the elevator gates.”

“Yes, I…” you said, thinking maybe you were talking to Donna, that it was her way of communicating with people. “I won’t try anything again, I promise, but please, d-don’t hurt me, Donna.”

“Donna? Lady Beneviento to you, stupid,” the doll snapped, making your legs shiver. “I’m The Fabulous Angie, but you can call me Angie for short,” it said afterward, extending a wooden hand towards you. “Come on, don’t be rude!”

Hesitant, but wanting to protect your life, you shook off the doll’s hand, walking away shortly after, your gaze searching the end of the hallway.

“That's it, go to the bathroom and then to bed, silly, don't make us angry,” Angie said, as you walked around, mouth agape.

You had no choice but to do what she said; everything was too strange, and you were too tired to think about anything else or run for your life.

Once in bed, the thoughts and memories of what you had experienced prevented your body from resting; living dolls, women in mourning, dark hallways... Yes, you might not be in a cage anymore, but you were in another prison.

The creaking of the door put you on alert again, deciding it was best to pretend to sleep, hoping the punishment for your disobedience would be swift.

The mattress sank with a new weight, and the scent of lavender that flooded your senses told you it was the lady in black who had sat down. With your back to her, you closed your eyes tightly, suppressing as much as you could the trembling of your body, the involuntary sobs you were emitting.

“Ti prego non piangere...”

You had to make a great effort not to jump when you heard that hoarse voice, so different from the doll's. You felt a warm hand in your hair, a subtle and silent caress. Her hand tangled itself slowly in your hair, and another hand pulled up the sheets to cover your trembling body.

Despite the strangeness of the situation, you didn't move. You let her cover you in a disturbingly maternal way, getting up with a sigh and carefully closing the door again.

You didn't have the desire or the time to think about what had just happened; it would be best to wait until the next day.

Nothing happened when you woke up. There was no punishment for your daring; there was nothing, only silence, only the distinctive smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of heels leaving your room.

“What?” you said drowsily, checking that you had a full breakfast on the table, your eyes searching for the lady in black. “Breakfast?” you asked, your voice cracking with sleep. You looked at the toast and the freshly brewed coffee.

“Good morning, stupid!” a high-pitched squeal almost made you jump.

That horrible doll was on the floor, waving mockingly at you. No matter how hard you searched, you couldn't find its owner, and you couldn't find a rational way to explain that extraordinary ventriloquism.

“Ahhh,” you murmured in fear, shrinking in on yourself as the puppet climbed onto the table.

“Well, I hope you've learned not to try anything stupid, silly girl,” Angie said, in a military tone. “It's your life that's at stake.”

“Miranda said she needed me alive,” you whispered, causing that sinister laugh to hurt your ears again.

“Oh, there are worse things than death, silly girl,” the puppet mocked, leaning too close to you and pretending to clear its throat. “So, Donna asked me to tell you that you can't get out of here, no matter how many times you try.”

“Donna told you to tell me? Aren't you her?” you asked curiously, shaking your head, but letting your hunger take over, reaching for a piece of toast. “I don't understand what's going on here...”

“Me? Donna? Please... I'm much more funny than her, you'll see,” the doll laughed, sitting on the table and swinging its legs, leaving you more and more astonished. “Anyway, you can wander around the basement, but try anything strange and you'll pay dearly for it, stupid...”

With those disturbing words, the doll disappeared, causing the idea of escape to return to your mind, but not as intensely as before. You knew there was real danger in that place.

Two strange days passed. You ate breakfast, lunch, dinner... That strange woman fed you, but never said anything, not a word came from behind that black veil. You only saw her on those rare occasions; the rest of the time, you were alone.

Despite the warnings of that impossible living doll, you tried to escape once more, realizing, to your misfortune, that the place was much more dangerous than it seemed.

It was so real... much more real than a dream. The hallway was on fire, a ship's siren ravaged your ears, and your dead father haunted you, blaming you for everything. You didn't know what that was, how it was possible to hallucinate so lucidly every time you approached the elevator, but you didn't ask.

Donna, that Donna Beneviento, seemed to pay no attention to your escape attempts, probably because she, somehow, was causing those horrible visions. Resigned to staying there, you began to carefully explore that basement.

There was no torture, no contact. If it weren't for the fact that you knew the Angie doll was following you, it would seem you'd been abandoned to your fate in that place, alongside a lady in black who seemed nothing but a ghost.

“Hmm...” you murmured one bored morning, tired of begging for your release, accepting your cruel fate, studying the books in the old office.

In one of them, something was sticking out of the pages. You carefully pulled it off the shelf, frowning as you read a title you didn't understand.

“Italian? Great, I should have paid attention in my classes,” you commented with a wry smile, flipping through the pages until you found the paper sticking out.

It looked like an old black and white photograph, a photograph showing a family with serious expressions: a father, a mother, a teenage girl, and a baby, held in the woman's arms.

Curious, you turned the photograph over to read a small inscription.

Famiglia Beneviento, 1987

“1987?” you asked silently, shaking your head and turning the photo over again.

The teenage girl looked somehow familiar; she was a brunette, with her hair tied back in a messy bun and... with a scar across her right eye. In her arms, there was something even stranger: that sinister doll, Angie, was resting in the arms of the young woman, which meant one thing: That girl was Donna, the lady in the black veil.

“It's not possible,” you said, reading the inscription again. No, it certainly wasn't possible. The lady's hands were young, too young for that date, for all the years that had passed. “What are you?”

“Do you find anything interesting?” A familiar voice made you turn quickly, to discover something terrifying.

That horrible witch, Mother Miranda, was leaning against the doorframe, staring at you with glowing eyes. Fear gripped your body; the relative tranquility you'd experienced disappeared with her presence. You backed away slowly, your throat dry, you were paralyzed.

“You look fine, (Y/N),” the blonde commented, approaching slowly. “But I'm afraid we need to talk.”

Screams, demands, shoving… Your days in that cage resurfaced from your vague memory. Miranda tortured you on a chair, inside a sinister workshop while the lady in black, oblivious to what was happening, seemed to be working on something.

“You can’t remain silent forever!” Miranda shrieked, furious, gripping your cheeks tightly as your tears stained the stone floor. “For the last time…” she snarled, hurting you, digging her metal nails into your skin. “Where are those documents? What was the plan B?”

“I-I…” you stammered, paralyzed with fear, hissing in pain. “I don’t know what plan B you’re talking about, I don’t know anything, I swear…”

“You’re lying!” the witch shrieked, letting you go, almost knocking you off balance. “Your stupid father discovered a way to improve Eveline… I know you know it, speak up!”

“I don't know who Eveline is,” you said, your voice breaking, clumsily shielding yourself with your arms. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“You useless little girl!" she yelled again, slapping you hard, knocking you to the floor. You felt a painful wetness on your cheek.

Desperate, you curled up on the cold stone floor, pleading desperately.

“Please... I don't know anything, please,” you sobbed, letting your tears soak into the blood running down your cheek due to the cut of her golden nails.

“Ugh,” Miranda protested, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “You're stubborn (Y/N),” she murmured, approaching, bending down and tugging hard at your hair. “Luckily for me, no one's coming after you. You can shut your big mouth as long as you want, I can wait…”

The woman released you, causing your head to bounce against the floor as you sobbed uncontrollably.

“Sorry, Donna, looks like you have to hold her in a little longer,” the priestess murmured before disappearing from the doors. “I'll come back tomorrow.”

The silence was only interrupted by your crying, your moans of pain. You remained lying on the floor, being closely watched by the living doll, which moved away, running toward its distracted owner.

“That looks bad,” Angie commented.

The woman stopped sewing, glancing at you before continuing.

No one was going to save you, and that reality made your tears intensify.

“I-I have to get out of here,” you muttered, dragging yourself along the floor towards the exit, clumsily trying to escape, something you knew you couldn't do.

The lady in black abruptly rose from the chair, still watching you, walking slowly towards your torture-battered body. She seemed nervous, playing with her hands in front of her body and seeming to nod and shake her head erratically, turning away from you.

When you heard her walk away, you continued crawling, but exhaustion and despair stopped you, causing you to collapse.

Donna, Lady Beneviento, stood up again, gesticulating strangely, as if she were debating something internally. Finally, her pace quickened, and her arms picked you up from the floor, pulling you to your feet. Panic gripped you.

“No, no! Please, no!” you begged, struggling with the woman, preventing her from holding you, kicking until she had no choice but to lift you into the air with a strength that was unnatural.

The lady in black effortlessly led you to a room adjacent to the dark workshop, dropping you into a chair. You tried to get up again, but a firm hand on your shoulder prevented you from doing so.

Weary, you lowered your head, the cut on your cheek beginning to sting. Donna stepped away when she was sure you wouldn't try to flee, opening a small cabinet on the wall as you watched.

“Please... let me go,” you sobbed, feeling the desperation speak for itself. “Please, Don... Lady Beneviento...”

She didn't respond. She turned around, holding a few jars and bandages, sitting in front of you. Frightened, you sensed a new round of torture.

“Don't do this, you don't have to do this...” you sobbed again, grabbing her wrists before they moved towards your face. “No, please...” you sighed, seeing in the motionless lady an opportunity to fight. “Don't touch me, don't touch me!” you screamed, frantically, moving your hands as hers approached your face again.

In one of your desperate gestures, you grabbed something, a black cloth that had been left in your hand; the black veil. Shocked by what you had done, you looked at the lady, discovering a truly beautiful woman, with a deformity on her face that was far from the small scar in the photograph.

Her single eye widened in surprise, and her expression grew cold, turning dangerous.

“Oh my God... I'm sorry,” you said, lowering your gaze, squeezing your eyes shut to withstand the blow you were sure to receive. Nothing happened.

Donna snatched the black cloth from your hands, glancing at it briefly, then back at you and finally deciding to leave the veil on the table.

“What... What happened to you?” you asked, moved by her appearance, by a beauty that seemed impossible to you.

The woman kept her gaze on you, but said nothing. She quickly brought her hands to your face again, bringing you back to the harsh reality.

“Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!” you begged, shrieking, resisting her advances.

A cool sensation and a slight stinging settled on your wounded cheek. Fearfully, you opened your eyes, discovering that her hand was on your skin, alcohol and a cotton ball were cleaning your wound.

“What...?” you murmured, confused, seeing that this strange lady was healing you, looking intently at your wound while the cotton ball soaked with your blood. “Ouch...” you moaned at the stinging, causing her hand to retreat.

Her mysterious gaze rested on yours briefly before she brought the cotton closer again, her movements gentler.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, sobbing, feeling a strange relief in your wound. “Why are you healing me?”

Donna didn't respond; she continued with her meticulous work, applying disinfectant, studying each of the blows the blonde witch gave you. She spread cream on her hands and carefully rubbed the bruises on your wrists while you, paralyzed, could do nothing but watch.

“Why aren't you talking to me?” you asked, pulling her back from her strange task, making her look at you briefly. “Talk to me!” you squealed demandingly, pulling your wrists away from her touch. “Fucking hell, say something!”

She gave you a dark look, but grabbed your hands again, applying more cream to them, ignoring your words.

“Shit...” you protested, shaking your head, wondering what you could do to get a word out of her mouth, an explanation, a reason for everything that was happening. “Don't you speak my language? You're Italian, aren't you?” you said, knowing you were walking a tightrope.

The woman stopped, but silence was still her answer.

“Fuck... P-Parli l’italiano?” you stammered clumsily, without causing the slightest reaction from the brunette, who seemed to be staring at your hands. “Aiutami, per... per favore...”

The woman looked up, removing one of her hands from your wounds, running a strange caress over your face. For a moment you thought you saw a smile, a change in her expression, but it was fleeting, too short.

“This isn't fair,” you sobbed, unable to get a response. “I shouldn't be here, I... Ah...” you hissed in pain as she placed a small bandage on your cheek, securing it tightly to your skin.

She opened her mouth, even if it was only for a brief moment, but no words came out. She simply rose from the chair with a discreet sigh, picking up her veil and putting it back on, ready to leave you alone.

Without fully understanding what had just happened, you dissolved into tears, in the confusion surrounding that new life, that horrible new life.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the last time Miranda went to that house. Like a sinister routine, the torture took place in that old workshop, and then, yes, then that lady in black, that silent, strange woman, treated your wounds.

Torture, affection, care... a spiral of pain and comfort repeated itself for several days. You could think whatever you wanted, but deep down you saw something different in Donna, something different in that woman who, little by little, stopped wearing the black veil, allowing you to study her features.

Your desire to escape was still intense, but doing stupid things wouldn't improve your situation. Somehow, that woman felt a certain... affection for you, a certain pity. Maybe you needed a different strategy.

“Why dolls?” you asked, wandering through the workshop while the lady painted a porcelain face. It was a bad idea, but you had to try.

During your stay in the basement, you had learned a little more about her, a little more about the lady in black. Apparently, she wasn't right in the head, suffering from an illness she inherited from her family. She was a shy girl who only spoke through her doll.

Your investigation came to an abrupt halt a year too far in the past, when, apparently, Mother Miranda took pity on her soul after the death of her family.

Something had happened; something had caused that woman to retain her youth after all those years. She couldn't be that old, she simply couldn't, just as her doll Angie couldn't move on her own. You were convinced; Mother Miranda had a lot to do with it.

“Y-Your father made dolls, didn't he?” you insisted upon hearing her silence again, leaning a closer to the lady, who paused for a moment. “I-It's a strange job. You don't see many porcelain dolls anymore.”

Donna didn't respond, but you were used to it. You sighed, shaking your head and picking up a finished doll, observing every detail, but still glancing sideways at the lady in black.

“It's beautiful,” you said with a natural smile, combing the toy's hair. “You're good”

“Basta,” a hoarse voice made you put the doll back. It wasn't the irreverent Angie speaking, it was that husky voice you heard on your first night in that house. “I know what you're trying to do.”

“Donna?” you asked surprised. She had spoken. “Oh, so you can talk,” you said in a lower voice, pulling away slightly when her eye met yours.

“Mother Miranda warned me,” the lady whispered, putting that porcelain head aside and crossing her arms. “She warned me that you would try to get along with me, that you would try to earn my sympathy.”

“I didn't...” you said, knowing that she understood your attitude, that she wasn't as easy to fool as you thought. “Well, so what if I do? I've been in this house for two weeks, trapped, being tortured.”

“That's because you want to,” Donna murmured, making you raise your eyebrows.

“Because I want to? That's a good one,” you said incredulously, crossing your arms. “You kidnapped me.”

“I didn't kidnap you,” she said, slowly standing up, making you regret your words.

“You're keeping me here,” you challenged, your voice nervous but strangely confident.

“I follow Mother Miranda's orders,” she stated, blinking erratically and sitting back down, sighing.

“Of course, you always follow Mother Miranda's orders,” you whispered, unfortunately loud enough for her to hear. “What the hell do you owe that horrible woman?”

“Don't you dare talk about Mother Miranda like that!” Donna shrieked, furious, clenching her fists on either side of her hips. “She saved me, she saved us all!”

“She did that to you, didn't she?” you said confidently, pointing at the deformity of her face.

“You...” the lady hissed, looking at you darkly. “You don't know anything, stupida,” she snarled, looking away. “Everything changed. I changed for her, for the Gods. It doesn't surprise me that an outsider like you doesn't understand.”

You were about to say something, but decided to keep quiet, decided to suppress the curiosity her words stirred in you.

“Do your siblings also obey her that way?” you asked, certain you were beginning to understand how that village worked, the Four Lords, the Black Gods…

“Mm,” Donna murmured disinterestedly, returning her attention to painting that empty face. “(Y/N)...” she said in a slightly different tone, with a different expression.

“You know my name,” you sighed, confused, trying not to lose your temper.

She didn't respond; of course she didn't.

“Just tell her what she wants to know,” she finally whispered, subtly signaling to you that the conversation was over.

“I'd love to, but it turns out I don't know anything,” you replied, leaning on the table, watching her hands work delicately. “So I guess things will stay this way, huh? Miranda tortures me, and then asks you to heal me so she can break me again.”

“She didn't ask me to heal you,” Donna said in a dark voice, making you freeze for a moment.

“No...?” you stammered, blinking in confusion. “Then... why are you doing it?”

“I hate seeing something so beautiful damaged...” It was a sigh, a terribly low whisper that came from her lips. It was the last thing she said before silence fell in the workshop.

The lady's words entered your ears, lodged in your mind, in your chest. A strange statement that made you begin to feel a certain... relief, the certainty that this woman wouldn't hurt you.

You didn't understand her elusive reasons, her veiled words, but you embraced your new reality. Miranda would hurt you, but Donna would heal you, take care of you. For someone like you, it was much more than you thought you deserved.

But the torture grew worse and worse. Miranda's screams masked Donna's subtle words of affection, her strange whispers in a different language. The blows and the slaps began to make your skin forget the soft touch of the dollmaker's hands, the relief you felt from her caresses.

Even Miranda, tired of her failure, ordered Donna to torture you, to extract the information in any way possible. But Donna... she didn’t do it.

Everything turned dark, sad, and you didn't know how much longer you could endure.

“I can't take it anymore...” you sobbed as Donna treated your scratches, your new wounds now overlapping the old ones. “This is too much...”

“You can stop this, (Y/N),” the brunette murmured, wiping the blood from your arms. “Just tell her what she wants to hear.”

“I don't know anything!” you shrieked, pulling away from the lady's caresses. “I don't know anything... I... I burned the documents, I didn't read them... but she doesn't believe me... she'll never believe me... If there were any way to know what was in them... But there isn't...” you cried desperately as the lady looked at you stoically, without interrupting you.

“I believe you,” Donna said, making you rise your head. “No one is stupid enough to put up with this on purpose.”

“Do you believe me?” you asked hopefully. She nodded slowly, grabbing your hands, which began to caress each other. “Oh my God... you have to, you have to tell her.”

“I can't,” the lady sighed letting your hand go and shaking her head.

“Fuck... well...” you muttered, starting to lose your temper. “Then just kill me! Kill me now, I can't take it anymore! I can't do this, Donna, I can't... I'm suffering...” you sobbed, letting your body lean into hers, letting her arms wrap around it and your head bury itself in her chest.

“Calmati (Y/N),” she whispered in your ear as you clutched her clothes, desperate, crying like you never had before.

“Yesterday she asked you to torture me,” you said, your voice muffled by the fabric. “She asked you to continue and you didn't... Fuck!” you shrieked, abruptly pulling away, standing up from the chair. “I don't even have a reason to want to get out of here! My parents are dead, my girlfriend left me and... Shit, shit, shit!”

You screamed, kicking chairs, everything within reach.

“My life is so miserable that you're the only person who's ever given me any affection! And look at you, you're crazy, you have living dolls and... Fuck!”

“I'm just trying to take care of you,” the brunette defended herself, hurt by your words. “I know what it's like to be alone, you know? I know it better than anyone, but you... you can still save yourself, just... you just have to tell her...”

“I have nothing to tell her,” you said in a passive tone, slumping into the chair. “If you truly believe me, you know there's no solution, I have no escape,” you commented indifferently, playing with the bandages.

“It's only a matter of time before Miranda realizes. If she doesn't kill me first, then...”

“Then?” the lady asked, with a childish look.

“I'll die,” you declared, shaking your head, noticing how you had accepted your fate. “She'll kill me or, well, she'll set me free, and then... then I'll be alone again.”

“I-It doesn't have to be that way, (Y/N),” Donna intervened, gripping your hands too tightly. “You could... you could stay here, with me. Neither of us would ever be alone again.”

You didn't answer, didn't want to answer. Stay with that woman? It’s crazy...

As time passed, the proposal faded. You didn't speak of it again, nor did she, but somehow, it sounded better and better in your head, even though you refused to think that way.

“I've had enough of you, (Y/N)...” Miranda hissed the next day, in another round of relentless torture, pacing around your semi-conscious body. “I'm getting tired, girl... I'm getting tired of you.”

“T-Then... kill me,” you said, your voice hoarse from crying, from the pain of an excessive beating, from noticing how she'd already lost her patience.

“Mm, you'd like that, wouldn't you?” the witch mocked, putting a foot on your chest. “I'm not going to give you the satisfaction... Speak!” she yelled, stomping hard on your foot, causing your screams to echo around the workshop.

Donna looked away, pretending not to see, not to know what was happening. Your eyes sought her help, that affection she gave you, but it was far away, too far away.

“You impertinent brat,” Miranda murmured, grabbing your arm, forcibly lifting you to your feet. “Very well, I think you can still talk with one less arm,” she threatened, lifting you up and pulling out her golden nails, ready to mutilate you.

“No!” A different scream appeared in the room, and the priestess abruptly stepped back as some arms pushed her away. “Basta! Basta, per favore!”

It was Donna, the lady in black pushing her Goddess away from you. Miranda's face was something that would be difficult to forget.

“Donna,” the witch said, straightening her clothes, approaching the brunette, who bent down to gather you in her arms, cupping your face. “What are you doing? Donna! Cosa fai?”

“D-Don't hurt her anymore, please, don't... don't hurt her,” the brunette sobbed, caressing you softly, letting a tear land on your surprised and weak face.

"Oh, I can't believe it," the blonde laughed, walking toward you, tilting her head. “Don't tell me you've grown fond of her... What were you doing when she asked you to torture her? Cuddles?” she mocked, pouting.

“S-She... (Y/N) doesn't know anything, Mother, she told me,” the Italian woman said, her voice breaking, flustered by her creator's anger. “She doesn't know anything...”

“She doesn't know anything,” she repeated, with a nasty grimace. “Gods, Donna, I can't believe you're stupid enough to...”

“(Y/N), tesoro... please, look at me...” the lady in black whispered, patting your cheeks to keep your eyes from closing. “Perdonami…Perdonami, tesoro…”

“Please, I’m going to throw up,” Miranda sighed, observing the scene and shaking her head, her expression changing. “Have you fallen in love with her, Donna? How predictable…” she murmured afterward, bending down towards you.

Donna pulled you away from her touch, causing the witch to laugh ironically, standing up again.

“Damn… it’s true, isn’t it? That girl doesn’t know anything,” she commented with a nervous gasp. “Then… well, I guess you can have her. But I’m warning you… I don’t want any trouble,” she said in a disgusted tone, fading into a black cloud.

“D-Donna,” you gasped, weakly grasping the pale hand that was caressing you. “Donna…” you sighed, letting your eyes close slowly, succumbing to the darkness.

“No, no! Per favore! (Y/N)!”

You thought you'd never open your eyes again, but you did, slowly, feeling a strange, pleasant comfort.

“Mm...” you murmured, your body aching, discovering an unfamiliar room and a pressure on your hands.

Donna was sitting in a chair across from you, her head buried in the mattress and her hands tightly squeezing you. She was crying, you could feel it. Somehow you remembered how she had saved you, what had happened; you knew Miranda wouldn't come back, thanks to that strange lady in black.

Your hand slipped from hers and traveled to her black hair, stroking it slowly.

“(Y/N),” she gasped, raising her head hurriedly, tightening her grip on your hand. “You're awake.”

“Yes...” you sighed, looking around. “Wow, this bed is much more comfortable than the other one,” you joked, checking your wounds.

She laughed through her tears, sitting on the bed, still looking at you, admiring you.

“It's all over now, (Y/N), she won't hurt you again,” she explained, cupping your face in her hands, making you smile for the first time in a long time.

What happened next surprised you, but it wasn't unpleasant at all. Donna pulled you in, briefly placing her lips on yours in a salty kiss, quick and clumsy, but terribly affectionate.

“You... you saved me, Donna,” you said, ignoring the kiss. “Thank you...”

“I couldn't do anything else,” she replied, signaling to Angie to give you a glass of water. “Drink, you need to hydrate.”

“Yes,” you sighed, looking at her lips, leaning in closer, kissing her again, deepening a kiss of gratitude, with an affection that went far beyond simple affection, although you tried to ignore it.

“I liked that,” Donna said shyly, her cheeks flushed, like a little girl. “S-So that means... you'll stay with me?” she asked impatiently, kissing you quickly again, caressing your free hand as her lips sought to touch yours in a clumsy, inexperienced, but adorable way.

“I can't imagine myself anywhere else but with you, Donna...”

#donna beneviento #donna beneviento x reader #oneshot #re8 donna #re8 village #requests

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