#.even if they don't have sharp teeth or are monsters

[youthguk]

Black Ribbon Bride ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

wc: 18k

WARNINGS: explicit content (minors do not interact), explicit smut, forced marriage, power imbalance, slight graphic violence, death threats, mentions of murder, forced intimacy

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

His touch, when it comes, is winter-cold against your cheek. Your soul flinches from those precise fingers even as your body remains still. He carries the scent of woodsmoke and exotic spice, foreign and dangerous.

The smile he offers holds neither warmth nor malice - just the satisfied smile of a man who always gets what he wants. "Don't look so scared," he murmurs, voice silk over steel. "We're going to have so much fun."

One week ago.

Dawn hasn't broken, but consciousness seeps in like winter frost. Your body knows the rhythm of secrets - when to rise, when to fade, when to become nothing more than a shadow against stone walls.

The pre-dawn air tastes of endings. Each breath crystallizes before you, little monuments of everything you can't keep. Your fingers, sheathed in black silk, trace meaningless patterns on frozen glass - a language of loss you're still learning to speak.

The chapel path recognizes your footsteps. Frost shatters beneath each step like promises, like futures, like the carefully constructed cage of expectations you've lived in since birth. Even your older sister Nora, who shared these halls with you for three years, never discovered this sanctuary where ancient pines hold their breath and weathered stones keep their silence.

Beyond the courtyard, the other girls drift between rose gardens and marble benches, their uniforms pressed to perfection, their laughter measured in careful octaves. But here, in this forgotten corner where mist meets morning, you've found something raw and real - a holiness that has nothing to do with their polished prayers.

Your Saint-Margaux winter uniform clings like a second skin, ivory wool buttoned to the throat like armor against uncertainty. The black ribbon anchoring your curls might as well be a crown of thorns.

"Je ne suis pas prête," you breathe, watching Lake Geneva stretch below like quicksilver. The French makes it sound poetic. Then, softer still, in Italian: "Non sono mai stata pronta per questo."

Your carefully constructed future lies shattered at your feet: The UN internship you earned through sleepless nights. Geneva's diplomatic corridors where you were meant to walk. Rome's ancient streets calling your name. All those perfect grades, those meticulously practiced curtsies, those debate championships – sacrificed to your father's unexplained whims.

London. The word tastes like ash on your tongue. Why there? Why now?

Your mother's note burns against your ribs, her elegant script a funeral dirge: "Be ready by sunset. They're coming."

École Saint-Margaux rises behind you, a cathedral to calculated futures. Here, where tears are forbidden unless quoted in Ancient Greek.

"We don't raise dreamers here," Madame Directrice always says, her smile sharp as cut glass. "We raise queens."

They're forged into living weapons, taught to smile while drawing blood. 

"Queens who smile through gritted teeth," you whisper to the dawn. "Queens who negotiate peace while swallowing war. Queens who marry power because they're not allowed to claim it for themselves."

Your schedule mocks you with its pristine normality:"En garde!" at noon brings your final dance with steel, four o'clock tea with Professor Valbonne - discussing Machiavelli while pretending your world isn't crumbling.

Lavender-lined suitcases wait in your room, packed by your mother's trembling hands. Your sister's muffled sobs echo through the halls like ghostly footsteps. Your brother Luca's silence speaks volumes. And your father... his absence is a wound that both terrifies and relieves you, his iron grip on your future tightening even when he's not here.

Something crackles in your pocket - a dried white peach blossom, edges curled like fingers reaching for yesterday. Its fragrance unlocks a memory: blood on snow, trembling hands, a boy whose name you never learned but whose life you saved many years ago with nothing but quick thinking and forbidden fruit.

The blossom slips from your fingers, caught in the morning breeze. You watch it spiral toward Lake Geneva's steel-gray surface, this final piece of softness you can't afford to keep. Your sister's allergy to white peaches - your most cherished scent and flower - feels like fate's way to mock you once again.

A motorboat violates the lake's surface, its wake splitting the silence like an omen. You trace a cross in the frozen air - half benediction, half curse - and whisper words that taste like goodbye. The chapel bell announces noon with solemn finality. You turn toward the university, spine straight as a blade. Non importa più.

Queens don't look back, and prisoners learn to watch without turning. You've been both.

The salle d'armes wraps you in familiar scents - chalk dust hanging thick in afternoon light, ancient leather padding worn smooth by generations of calculated violence. Trophy cases line the walls, their glass clouded with age, each cup and medal entombed like frozen dreams that never learned to fly.

You move beneath centuries-old beams, your breath a whispered prayer behind cold mesh. The blade in your hand sings with deadly grace, an extension of everything you've been molded to become.

Your opponent dances the steps she's been taught - precise, controlled, a perfect puppet of propriety. But there's wild electricity in your veins today, something that makes your movements liquid lightning. You strike not with the measured grace they demanded, but with elegant fury barely contained.

The lunge comes like destiny - inevitable, beautiful, terrible. Your blade cuts through air like fate itself, writing tomorrow's grief in today's perfect form. Steel kisses steel with a sound like breaking promises.

Her parry comes a heartbeat too late. Your point finds her heart with butterfly gentleness, the touch both caress and condemnation. This is how we end - not with violence, but with devastating grace.

"Touché," falls like judgment in the hollow air.

You retreat with practiced poise, each step a study in contained rebellion. This is Saint-Margaux's secret language - not fencing, but warfare dressed in silk and centuries of refined cruelty. They taught you to fight like falling snow - beautiful, silent, deadly. To strike with a smile, to kill with courtesy.

But beneath your perfect form writhes something untamed - a creature of starlight and stolen chances, something they couldn't breed out or break down. It's the same force that once made you save instead of strike, that makes you wear defiance like perfume and weaponize tenderness.

Victory brings no applause - only silence thick as cemetery snow. The maître d'armes nods once, your wild heart thundering rebellion against your ribs as you lower your blade.

That's when you feel his presence - Professor Valbonne, half-shadow and unspoken truths at the gallery's edge. His stillness speaks volumes in this temple of calculated violence.

He waits until the salle empties, approaching like truth itself- inevitable, terrifying.

"Your blade speaks what your voice cannot," he says softly, studying you with that terrible gentleness that makes your ribs ache. "You fence like someone who has learned to turn cage bars into wings.”

A laugh escapes you, sharp as broken glass. "Wings are just prettier prisons, Professor."

"Perhaps." His eyes hold yours, steady as truth. "But they remember what freedom tastes like."

You turn away, sweat-damp black ribbon clinging to your neck like a collar. White peach and rosewood cling to your skin - soon to be scrubbed away, replaced with the sterile scent of duty and diplomacy.

"You look haunted today," he observes. "Or you’re just not happy to see me.”

"I’m not happy to leave," you answer, truth slipping past your guard like a blade between ribs.

Silence stretches between you like a bridge neither dares to cross. He leans against cold stone, a scholarly revolutionary in this fortress of careful conformity.

"If I could write you a future," he says, "it wouldn’t begin with someone else's last name.”

Something in your chest splinters, words hanging between you two like shattered stars. You both understand everything, there is no need to name things vocally. "I was born to be a transaction."

His jaw tightens, grief etching itself in the corners of his mouth. "You were born to be a revolution."

His arm appears like an offering - this small rebellion, this moment of pretend equality. You take it with the care of handling broken dreams.

The walk to the chapel gates is a funeral march in slow motion. Words would only pollute this last pure thing between you - this shared understanding of cages and wings.

At the threshold, he pauses, eyes fixed on horizons you'll never touch.

"When they write your name in history," he says, "make sure they spell it in lightning."

You look up at the ghost-pale sky, where even clouds know better than to break formation. He'll never read your name the way he hopes.

You slip away like morning frost before the sun, before he can watch another future die.

Raindrops streak down the airplane window like tear tracks you weren't allowed to shed at every carefully orchestrated farewell. The sky bleeds into the same shade of steel that haunted every funeral where your spine had to remain straight as a blade.

First class feels like a gilded cage - all polished chrome and hushed whispers. The flight attendant's eyes slide past you like oil on water, trained to see nothing, hear nothing. Somewhere between Geneva's promises and London's threats, you're suspended in limbo, watching France blur beneath cotton-wool clouds.

A quiet sob catches in your peripheral vision. Nora. Your sister - your perfect and pristine Nora - has mastered the art of beautiful devastation. Even now, she's practicing for her future role: the tragic bride. Her fingers tremble against Chanel-painted lips, but her posture remains museum-worthy. The tears that escape are precisely timed, like crystal drops in a champagne fountain.

"Have you heard-" her voice cracks like fine porcelain, "-what they whisper about him? The youngest Jeon?"

You trace patterns in the condensation on your window. Each swirl feels like writing epitaphs for the futures dying in your chest. The glass fogs with your silence.You don't answer - she's not speaking to you but to whatever god abandoned girls like you to fates like this.

Nora's laugh sounds like shattered crystal. "Last spring - crashed a Maserati through the Louvre's courtyard. Called it 'performance art.' Three million in damages, swept under imported Persian rugs."

"The auction incident," she continues, voice dropping lower, "when he used Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' as an ashtray. 'Too pedestrian,' he said. The curator nearly had a stroke."

"And the women-" her voice catches, "God, the women. Like butterflies in his collection. He pins them down with diamonds, watches them suffocate in luxury, then adds their tears to his champagne."

The papers call him 'l'héritier de marbre' - the heir carved in marble, as though his beauty could excuse his barbarism and his wealth could cleanse the blood from his hands.

The Jeon empire rises like a gilded fortress: Jeon Antiquities & Restoration. They polish history until it gleams, restore broken things until they're worth more than they ever were whole. But beneath every restored masterpiece lies a massacre; behind every preserved beauty, a battlefield. They don't just collect beauty - they weaponize it.

Their public face gleams like polished marble, but beneath? It's all gunmetal and old blood. The Jeons don't just run an empire - they curate violence, frame it in gold, and sell it at invitation-only auctions. They don't just kill enemies - they transform them into art, into debt, into whispered warnings.

And Jungkook Jeon? He's their youngest sin. Trust fund terror with a smile that breaks hearts and necks with equal elegance. The whispers follow him like perfume: genius, they say. Rebel, they whisper. Monster, they mean. Every society photo shows the same warning: beauty sharp enough to draw blood.

"He'll destroy me," Nora whispers, pressing her forehead against the cool window. "Like one of their marble angels - pretty and hollow and broken."

"Isn't that the point?" Luca's voice cuts across the aisle, sharp as a blade between ribs. "Better broken than worthless."

The temperature drops ten degrees. You turn, ice crystallizing in your veins.

"One more word," you breathe, "and I'll show you exactly what Saint-Margaux taught us about making pain look elegant."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" He doesn't look up from his Financial Times fortress. "At least crying prettily might raise your market value."

Nora's whole body flinches, a butterfly pinned to silk. Your mother's voice slides through the tension like a poisoned blade. “Fix your face, Nora. Tears age you. The Jeons prefer their art unmarred."

The silence that follows tastes like ash and dying dreams. You grip your armrest until your knuckles match your mother's pearls, trying to anchor yourself to something - anything - that isn't falling apart. But there's nothing solid left to hold.

Jungkook Jeon. The name sits like lead on your tongue. You've never met him, but you know him - the way prey knows predator. A man carved from privilege so ancient it's crystallized into cruelty. Living art with venom in his veins. A marble god with gunpowder for blood. And your sweet sister is being gift-wrapped for this demon in Dior.

Grief fractures through you like safety glass, a web of tiny breaks held precariously together. The pain comes in relentless waves - not just for Nora, but for the shadow of your own future. Her tragedy is merely a preview of what awaits you in the procession of sacrificial daughters, your fate already sealed in your father's ledgers.

Your family fortune bleeds out in frozen accounts and foreclosed dreams. The name still glitters - just enough to barter away daughters like vintage jewelry. Your father's already pricing your future, weighing your worth in potential alliances. He'll find someone hungry enough, cruel enough, rich enough to buy the last of his daughter's freedom.

London materializes beneath you like a tomb of fog and steel. As you watch Nora reapply her Chanel Rouge with surgeon-steady hands, you see her clinging to composure like a lifeline, still believing grace might be armor enough. Something hot and sharp lodges in your throat - she thinks dignity will save her, and you pray she never learns how wrong she is.

Rain hammers against the windshield as your car crawls through the rusted gates of Amare estate. The ancient iron groans like a wounded beast, London's sky weeping harder as though trying to wash away the shame of what you've become. Each raindrop feels like an accusation against the facade you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Home sweet home," Nora whispers beside you, her voice trembling like the droplets sliding down the glass. You say nothing, watching the ghost of your childhood dreams loom before you - a castle turned prison.

The marble steps are cracked now, nature's fingers prying apart what wealth once held together. You trace the familiar path with your eyes, remembering how your smaller self used to dance here, spinning tales of ivory moldings and enchanted corridors. Now the walls tell different stories - of water stains mapping your decline, of paint peeling away like shed skin, of chandeliers that sputter and gasp rather than sparkle.

The door creaks open before you reach it, and there he stands - Father, a shadow cut from faded glory. His suit whispers of too many wears, though his pocket square stands at attention, starched with the last remnants of your pride. The silence between you stretches like a taught wire.

"Twenty-three minutes late," he says, each word falling like ice. "I suppose punctuality wasn't part of that expensive education."

Nora's breath catches beside you, a butterfly trapped in a jar. You feel her fingers brush against yours, seeking anchor, but you both know better than to grasp it.

He steps aside - not an invitation but an order. As you pass, his fingertips graze your shoulder, light as frost but heavy with unspoken threats. Your body remembers before your mind can catch up - memories of shattered crystal, of cold water, of darkness behind locked doors. The bruises have faded but the lessons remain, written in your bones.

Mother's heels click against warped wood, a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The foyer air hangs thick with mildew and Chanel No. 5 - decay dressed in designer perfume. Each breath feels like swallowing stones, the weight of this homecoming settling in your chest like lead.

"Your rooms are prepared," Mother announces to no one in particular, her words floating in the shadows like lost things. "I trust you remember where they are."

Your suitcases land with hollow thuds against marble that's seen better days. Your father's presence fills the space like frost, immediate and biting.

"The Jeons arrive in two days." Each word falls like a death sentence, precise and final. "We'll be ready."

His eyes rake over Nora like winter wind, cataloging every imperfection. "Go upstairs. Fix yourself. You look weak." The last word snaps like a whip, and Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - folds in on herself like origami crushed in a cruel child's fist.

The question that's been poisoning your thoughts since Geneva claws its way past your lips, "Why would the Jeons even want us?"

Your father's smile is all broken glass and tarnished silver. "Because our name still matters." He savors the words like aged wine. "Because even monsters want their sons to marry nobility." He turns away, leaving you to drown in the acid truth of it. You don't push further - this rare moment of actual answers instead of his usual artillery of screams and humiliation feels like a trap you're too tired to spring.

Rain drums against the window panes like a metronome counting down to dawn. The sound almost - but not quite - drowns out Nora's muffled sobs filtering through the wall. Each hitched breath feels like a dagger between your ribs as you trace the sound to her room, finding her curled into herself at the edge of her bed. Her silk robe pools around her like spilled moonlight, mascara-stained tears mapping constellations of despair across her pillow.

"Don't-" she chokes out before you can speak, her fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please, just... pretend you can't hear me falling apart."

The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle beside her. Some wounds run too deep for words to reach, so you let the silence speak instead.

"God, you don't even see it, do you?" Nora's laugh shatters like crystal against marble. "The way they look at you - at Saint-Margaux, at every gala, every breath you take. Like you're something rare and precious. While I..." Her voice cracks. "I'm just... here. Taking up space. Fighting for scraps of attention."

The words hit like ice water. You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. You've spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, of folding yourself smaller and smaller until you barely cast a shadow.

"Nora, I-" But she cuts through your protest like a blade through silk.

"There was someone," she whispers, each word falling like a confession. "In Switzerland. Behind the old cathedral where the shadows grew long in winter. His hands were gentle - like he thought I might shatter. He looked at me like I was art worth preserving, not just another pretty thing to be sold."

Your heart stops. Dating wasn't just forbidden - it was heresy against the careful cultivation of your worth. You were precious commodities, after all. Pristine dolls waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

"He loved me." Her voice breaks on the past tense. "And I thought... for once, someone chose me first. But then the Jeons...I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me when we have you." She presses her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking. "Who would want the spare when they could have the masterpiece?"

Something fractures in your chest - not a clean break, but a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward. All this time, she'd carved out this tiny paradise of stolen moments, while you... you were an open wound she kept comparing herself to. The realization burns like bitter poison in your throat.

But looking at her now, trembling like a bird with clipped wings, how could you be angry? She'd dared to grasp at happiness in a world that offered only gilded cages. The secrecy stings, yes, but her pain cuts deeper than any betrayal.

Save her, your heart screams. But what power do you have? You're just another pretty puppet with strings of silk and obligation, taught to bend but never break, to endure but never fight.

Words fail, so you reach for her hand instead. Your fingers intertwine - a bridge across the chasm of secrets between you. You can't rewrite her tragedy, but you can stay there with her. At least for today.

Midnight strikes with mechanical precision, each chime reverberating through the drawing room like fate's own countdown. Through leaded glass, you watch them arrive – three obsidian vessels cutting through the rain, their polished surfaces drinking in what little light remains. No emblems mark their passage. No flourish announces their intent. They move with the silent certainty of apex predators.

At your vanity, fingertips ghost over the black ribbon – your chosen weapon for tonight's battle. Beside it, the perfume bottle gleams with poisonous promise. White peach, innocent as first love, deadly as the last. You anoint the silk with calculated precision, watching droplets seep into darkness like secrets into skin. When you weave it through your hair, the scent wraps around you like a lover's promise – or a noose.

Your mother's approval comes in glacial silence. Luca's scorn breaks it like thunder.

“Still playing the grieving virgin?” he sneers, eyes catching on your ribbon, your carefully crafted despair. “Or are we mourning your relevance, sister? The Jeons didn’t come for you.”

You meet his gaze with the weight of winter. “You’re standing in a house that’s falling apart.”

“Which is why we’re selling the prettiest thing we have left.” he hisses, teeth gleaming. “And it’s not you.”

The words dissolve like frost as you descend, each step carrying you closer to the awaiting storm. Your father stands sentry at the door, his spine curved in submission to powers greater than pride. The air shifts – not with cold, but with the kind of sharpness that precedes bloodshed.

They enter like darkness given form. The matriarch first, towering in her sovereignty. Her nineteenth-century choker catches light like a blade – emeralds and onyx, beauty and warning intertwined. She surveys your home as one might examine a failing empire: cataloging weaknesses, calculating worth.

The grandfather follows, silence his scepter. One nod to your father speaks volumes – here, at last, is someone who makes even your tyrant tremble.

Their entourage filters in like smoke – advisors, guards – until finally, he appears.

Jungkook.

He moves like sin made flesh, each step a study in controlled chaos. Power clings to him like shadow to night – from his obsidian gaze to his deliberately disheveled elegance. His suit, artfully askew, mocks propriety while his presence commands it. Dark hair kisses his throat like spilled ink, and raw energy radiates from him like heat from a forge.

His disinterested sweep of the room stutters when it finds you. Something flickers in those depths – recognition, perhaps, or hunger – as your carefully chosen scent reaches him. His posture shifts minutely, like a predator catching prey's scent on the wind. His gaze lingers, heavy as prophecy, and something molten coils in your core.

You don't yield. Nora materializes beside you, trembling like autumn's last leaf. Perfect in her dress, betrayed by the rising flush on her throat, her glassy eyes, her failing breath. Your mother makes introductions like offerings at an altar, your family name wrapped in silk and shame.

The scene unravels with terrible precision. Nora's curtsy falters. The white peach blooms around you like judgment. Her allergy reveals itself in stuttering breaths and panic-wide eyes, her composed facade cracking like ice in spring.

Guilt lashes you even as hope whispers that your plan might work. But the Jeons' reaction isn't pity – it's disdain.

"We were promised perfection," the matriarch pronounces, each word a blade. "Not fragility."

Your father's mask slips, pride warring with fear. "She's merely overwhelmed—"

"She's weak," Luca interjects, venom dripping.

The room descends into chaos – old money snarling at older money, wounded pride clashing against cold contempt. Until…

"She's not the one I want anyway."

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

The room falls still as breath catches in throats - your mother frozen mid-gesture, Nora swaying like a reed in winter wind, the matriarch's face transforming to cold, unforgiving marble.

"Jeon Jungkook—"

But his gaze remains unbroken, and the white peach at your throat burns like a brand. This wasn't the sacrifice you had intended to make - your carefully laid plans had twisted into something unrecognizable, leading you down a path you never meant to walk.

A silence falls like velvet, heavy with unspoken words that press against the gilt-edged walls until even the shadows hold their breath.

Your father's eyes dance between you and Nora like a master appraiser examining jewels. His gaze is cold arithmetic - measuring worth, calculating losses, tallying gains. To him, you were never daughters; merely assets in his grand portfolio. Two precious stones: one crystal, one porcelain. Now one bears a fatal flaw.

His lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer as he delivers your fate with businesslike efficiency. "If that's the one the Jeons want..." A careless shrug seals your destiny. "Then she's yours."

The words strike like winter frost, crystallizing the air in your lungs. Beside you, Nora's choked sound of despair is quickly muffled by your mother's gloved hand.

Your plan shatters — delicate, doomed, never yours to control. You were meant to be the savior, not the sacrifice. The thought of becoming his choice had never even whispered across your mind.

Memories assault you in violent flashes: your father's leather-bound ledger, your mother's desperate mantra of survival, the wicked glint of Jungkook's rings catching lamplight, white peach perfume clinging to black silk like a death shroud. The sound of breaking - not glass, but your very essence - as your name is bartered away without consent.

You shrink into yourself, a child's instinct to become invisible. But his gaze pins you like a butterfly to velvet. There is no hiding now. You are seen. You are chosen.

The Jeons regard you with clinical interest, recalculating your worth like merchants at auction. The matriarch's lips press into a blade-thin line. The grandfather's slight nod falls like an executioner's axe.

As they file out, you remain rooted, a marble statue carved from pure shock. Nora trembles beside you fragile as frost about to crack, but your arms hang useless. Screams build in your throat - take her instead, take me back, unmake this moment - but they die unspoken, turned to stone by terror.

He approaches with lethal grace, each step a claim of ownership. His presence weighs on you like storm clouds heavy with lightning. You've become his territory now, marked without permission.

His touch, when it comes, is winter-cold against your cheek. Your soul flinches from those precise fingers even as your body remains still. He carries the scent of woodsmoke and exotic spice, foreign and dangerous.

The smile he offers holds neither warmth nor malice - just the satisfied smile of a man who always gets what he wants. "Don't look so scared," he murmurs, voice silk over steel. "We're going to have so much fun."

The doors seal your fate with thunderous finality. You sink to the marble floor, barely conscious of the movement. Around you, the scene arranges itself like a baroque tragedy - Nora's muffled sobs providing the score, your mother's absence speaking volumes, Luca's triumphant smirk completing the composition.

Reality settles over you like a burial shroud: you are no longer daughter or sister or savior. You have become property, his property. And as this truth sinks its teeth into your heart, you wonder if anything of you will remain when he's done.

Time slips by like grains of sand through an hourglass, each moment dissolving into an infinite stretch of silence. The world outside your window fades to watercolor impressions, bleeding at the edges like a painting left in the rain.

You exist in whispers now. Food remains untasted, questions unasked. The house holds its secrets close - rewound clocks marking phantom hours, curtains drawn against persistent daylight. From your perch on the velvet chaise, you watch raindrops trace silver paths down windowpanes, each one carrying away fragments of the freedom you once knew - freedom lost by your own design.

When they come to take your measurements, you don’t move. The Jeons’ tailors arrive with tape and notebooks, their hands cold and precise. They don’t look at your face. They pull the fabric of your nightdress taut against your hip bones, murmur numbers in a language you don’t understand, and note the curves like they’re assessing a statue to be replicated.

Their fingertips brush against your skin as they take measurements - the inside of your arm, the curve of your neck, the gentle slope of your back. One whispers to the other in hushed tones, no doubt commenting on your rigid posture and reluctant demeanor.

Your mother hovers nearby, her voice drifting through the air like wisps of smoke. "Add more stones," she murmurs. "She needs to shine beside him. Something from the Jeons' blue vault - something rare." She pauses, eyes critical. "Yes, longer sleeves. Hide the ribs."

Your father's voice cuts through the room, sharp and businesslike. "If we're going to do this, make it count. Double the diamonds. Let it be known what house she's marrying into."

You stand motionless, a butterfly pinned beneath layers of silk and expectation. Numbness flows through your veins like winter frost - you neither flinch at the bite of pins nor stir at honeyed compliments. In the mirror, a stranger stares back: a creation of ice and diamonds, beautiful and hollow, already half-ghost.

Time blurs in the silence of the house, each day melting into the next. The halls have grown quieter, more hollow, with only the ghostlike passage of untouched food trays marking the hours.

But it's Nora's absence that weighs heaviest on your heart, making each breath more difficult than the last. No footsteps outside your door, no whispered conversations through the wall, not even the faintest sign of her presence in the dark hours.

You find yourself unable to cry, your grief crystallized into something too solid for tears. Instead, a single poisonous question haunts your thoughts: What was the purpose of your sacrifice if she doesn't comprehend what you tried to do for her?

And Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - remains distant, unreachable. She neither visits nor acknowledges your presence, as if the space between you has become an uncrossable void. Perhaps she harbors hatred for what you've done, or maybe the truth is more painful: she was never meant to be saved, and you were never meant to be her savior.

The veil floats like a whisper of tulle and threat, weightless as frost yet heavy with fate. Before the gilt-edged mirror, you sit wrapped in ivory and diamonds, a bride sculpted from winter's essence. The silk remembers your shape, clinging to your ribs while stones adorning your sleeves scatter morning light like scattered secrets.

Behind you, voices blend together - the dressmaker's soft murmurs, rustling house staff, and your mother's instructions cutting through the air like sheathed knives. But your mind wanders elsewhere, to someone unexpected.

Valbonne. His calm, curious voice echoes in your memory, speaking of how your mind was a cathedral and your anger a kind of music. He saw you differently then - the girl who fenced with restrained grace, never allowed to truly run free. His words linger like an unfinished promise: "If I ever read your name in history books..."

You wonder now if he would even recognize you. You look at your reflection, skin glazed in peach and powdered rose. This is not the girl who wrote essays in French about revolutions and smiled over Latin conjugations at dusk. This is not the girl who debated in the courtyard until her voice cracked, or the one who wanted to work for the UN, who wanted to be something.

“Je ne suis plus moi-même,” you whisper to the mirror. I am no longer myself.

The door opens without warning. Through the mirror's reflection, you see her - Nora, her hair pulled back too tightly, her lipstick perfect, looking like grief painted in gold.

"So this is the masterpiece," she says, her voice cutting through the silence. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with accusation.

"You came," you whisper, your breath catching.

She moves into the room with controlled fury. "I had to see it - the moment where you finally became what you always wanted."

Confusion breaks through your numbness. "What are you talking about?"

Her laugh rings out like shattering crystal. "Don't act innocent. YYou didn’t just take my wedding — you took the one time I was finally enough."

"But you said you'd rather die than marry him," you protest, your voice weak. "You were crying about someone else-"

"You think tears meant I didn't want this?" She advances closer, each word precise and sharp. "A man like him - rich, young, beautiful. I could have thrived. Do you know how many girls would kill to be chosen by Jungkook Jeon?"

Your pulse thunders in your throat as she continues, her voice turning to ice. "I would have let the other one go for this. For once, I wasn't second choice. But you-" her eyes narrow, "you couldn't stand it."

"That's not true," you manage, rising on trembling legs. "Tu pleurais. Tu disais que tu voulais disparaître-" ["You were crying. You said you wanted to disappear-"]

"You're so greedy," she cuts you off, ignoring your French plea. "You needed to be both savior and sacrifice, martyr and bride. You couldn't let me have anything without making it about you."

You can only stare, your carefully constructed world unraveling thread by thread.

"I hate you for it," she says simply, then turns and leaves. You want to scream that it wasn’t supposed to be this way — but guilt is louder than truth.

The door closes behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. In the silence that follows, you stand motionless before the mirror. The veil trembles in the breeze, but your eyes remain dry. There's no room for tears in a girl made of lace and betrayal - only silence, the lingering scent of peach perfume, and the sound of your heart shattering beneath a cathedral of lies.

The cathedral is carved from light and silence, its vaulted ceilings vanishing into shadow. Golden ribs and silvered arches trace delicate patterns overhead, while chandeliers hang like captured constellations. Candlelight pools along marble, dancing across a sea of couture-clad guests draped in legacy, their hollow eyes and diamond-adorned faces watching with barely concealed hunger.

You stand at the center of their attention, both masterpiece and sacrifice. Your gown, threaded in silver and framed with pearls, shimmers like a dying star. The train follows you like a whispered surrender, while your veil - long enough to mask your doubts but not your trembling - floats ethereally around you. In this moment of pristine ceremony, everything glows with an intensity that burns.

Your body glides down the aisle — but your mind lags behind, somewhere in the crushed space between Nora’s voice and your father’s warning. You don’t remember when the music began. You barely register the clicking heels, the cameras, the smell of roses imported from Florence. Everything is white and violent.

Your father walks beside you with measured grace, his hand firm on your wrist and posture iron-stiff with pride. You sense his movement before the words come — his mouth dipping close to your ear.

"If you dare to ruin this," he hisses through clenched teeth, "I will destroy everything you are."

Your breath catches as he continues, his grip tightening painfully, "One wrong move in Jeon’s mansion and you'll wish you were never born. No one will take you in after you displease Jungkook. You'll be ruined, discarded, a broken doll no one wants to touch."

Wordlessly, you nod, your gaze fixed on the endless expanse of marble before you - a pristine river of white that stretches like fate itself, each step bringing you closer to him, inevitable as gravity pulling stars from the sky.

Jungkook waits at the altar like a marble statue come to life, all sharp edges and cold beauty. His black suit might as well be carved from midnight itself, perfectly fitted to his frame like a second skin. The single pearl at his throat gleams like a tear frozen in time - a beautiful "fuck you" to tradition. His hair falls in a precise line across his nape, ink-black against stone-white, and you hate that you notice. You hate that you care.

You hate how your traitorous mind catalogs every detail - the fresh haircut, the way his jaw clenches slightly, the calculated perfection of his appearance. Each observation feels like a betrayal of yourself, like you're collecting precious stones to add to your own cage.

His eyes don't leave you as you approach, dark and assessing, like he's appraising a rare artifact he's already purchased. Your footsteps echo through the cathedral - not because you're walking slowly, but because each step feels like signing away another piece of yourself.

When your fingers finally meet his, the air shifts like it always does around him. His hand is warm, steady and sure against your trembling one. You try to hide it, this weakness, but his knowing smirk tells you he feels every quiver. Of course he does - the self-satisfied glint in his eyes suggests he anticipated your trembling long before you arrived. Nothing escapes that calculated gaze.

The vows dissolve like sugar on your tongue, crystalline and too-sweet, while the officiant's words blur into a symphony of carefully chosen platitudes. Unity, power, bloodlines, blessings - "eternity" floats past like a butterfly with broken wings, and "legacy" follows, heavy as a curse.

The ring they give you burns cold against your skin - platinum and promises binding you tight. Your "I do" emerges barely above a whisper, like a secret you never meant to tell, the words feeling foreign in your mouth as if borrowed from someone who knew how to want this. But Jungkook's response rings clear as church bells, sure as sunrise, as though he's been rehearsing this moment since birth.

When the ceremony concludes and the crowd rises in a wave of silk and diamonds, he leans in close enough to count your heartbeats. The kiss isn't proper - that would be too kind. Instead, his lips find the corner of your mouth, precise as a knife's edge yet soft as a threat, tasting of possession.

You freeze, a perfect statue in white as the cathedral carries on its ancient dance of sparkling chandeliers and clicking cameras. But deep inside your chest, something ancient and angry begins to stir, like the first crack in winter ice.

The ballroom unfolds, adorned with champagne and ancient bloodlines. Beneath vaulted ceilings, strings swell while crystal and candlelight dance together, every surface glinting with gold, diamond, and carefully crafted deception. At Jungkook's side, you stand like a statue carved from pearl, his arm a ghostly presence at the small of your back while you receive strangers masquerading as friends - your smile and curtsy perfectly measured, your voice carefully contained.

The first dance ends and your gown whispers warnings as the floor fills with aristocracy. Distant royals and international moguls move through the space while women drift by in couture worth fortunes. The air is heavy with imported orchids and centuries of refined violence, threatening to pull you under.

The Jeons move through the room like gods draped in tailored suits, untouchable and unreadable. His mother maintains her regal pose, wine glass pristine and untouched, while his grandfather sits motionless as heated marble, observing all. Around them, guests trade danger and influence with practiced ease, their diamonds and secrets competing for brilliance.

Though Jungkook's fingers remain steady at your waist, his eyes retain their coldness. Behind you, the Jeon security team emerges from the shadows - Namjoon, Jin, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin, and Yoongi. Their beautiful suits barely conceal the violence in their bones, each man moving with purposeful intent, awaiting instructions.

The music shifts. Your first dance has ended. The floor is filling again with distant royals and corrupt diplomats, soft laughter smeared across every corner. Toasts rise like smoke. Cameras flash. Every mouth says “congratulations” while every gaze says “how long until she breaks?”

The numbness, ritual, and pretending almost bring relief, until everything shifts. You sense their presence before you see them - in the subtle falter of musicians, the way Jungkook's posture stiffens, and how Namjoon and Jin move closer without touching, just hovering near.

When you look toward the entrance, they materialize: The Maranzano Syndicate. Their appearance is immaculate - perfect suits, gleaming shoes, and smiles that stretch too wide. Though you know nothing about them specifically, you recognize their nature - the kind of silence that's been trained to kill.

Leading them is a man your age, his presence commanding attention. Handsome and controlled, he moves across the floor with deliberate grace, champagne in one hand and clear intent in the other. As he approaches, you feel the temperature drop and every Jeon ally tense. When he stops before you, his smile carries weight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says, tone velvet-smooth. “It would be rude to leave without congratulating the bride.”

Jungkook’s hand twitches at your waist.

The man takes your hand — slowly, theatrically — and raises it to his lips. His mouth doesn’t touch. But it hovers just enough. Long enough. The entire room stills.

"Leo Maranzano," he murmurs. "Piacere."

The glass shatters from Jungkook's grip as he lunges forward, seizing Leo by the shoulder. His face transforms from marble to murderous fury. "Disappear," he growls.

Leo's smile widens with deliberate provocation. "You're not the only one who appreciates women's beauty, Jeon."

Violence erupts in an instant - too swift for the guests to follow, but precisely what these trained men anticipated. Tables crash and champagne sprays as chaos unfolds. Jin materializes to shield you while Namjoon steps protectively forward. Through the mayhem, you glimpse Taehyung dispatching an attacker, Yoongi's blade appearing and vanishing like lightning, and Hoseok moving with lethal grace.

At the center of it all stands Jungkook - sleeves torn, chain gleaming against his throat, transformed into something dangerous and wild. He doesn't command; he simply acts, throwing bodies aside with ruthless efficiency.

You remain frozen, deaf to Namjoon's urgent words. Your eyes fix on Jungkook - your husband - as he hurls another man to the ground. The wedding ring seems to tighten around your finger, a burning reminder of your vows.

Jungkook whirls toward you, blood staining his collar, eyes fierce. "Why the fuck are you still here?! GO!"

But your legs won't move. Namjoon curses and drags you backward as another violent crash reverberates through the floor.

And then silence descends as a single gunshot echoes through the room. At the center stands Jeon Grandfather, holding a pistol with an ivory-inlaid grip. His expression carries not anger, but disappointment as he raises the weapon, wielding it like a priest might hold a cross during sermon.

His voice slices through the tension. "Back in my day, men didn't dishonor women and children with their cowardice. They handled their vengeance where it belonged - in the dark, out of sight."

The assembled crowd remains motionless as Leo steps forward with deliberate confidence. "I came to honor the bride," he states simply. When Jungkook moves to retaliate, Jin restrains him with a firm hand and whispered warning.

Turning to you with a gaze both gentle and menacing, Leo continues, "The Jeon family killed my father. They will answer for that, but not tonight. My grandfather learned patience, as will I." His smile transforms into something sharp and dangerous as he adds, "Try to enjoy the wedding night, Mrs. Jeon."

Jungkook lunges forward, his face contorted with murderous rage. "Keep my wife's name out of your dirty mouth before I fucking kill you," he snarls, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Namjoon's arm shoots out to block his path while Hoseok grabs his shoulder from behind.

"Not here," Namjoon hisses through clenched teeth. "Think of the consequences."

Jungkook's eyes burn with barely contained violence, but he stills under their restraining grip, every muscle in his body taut with suppressed fury. Leo's satisfied laugh echoes through the room as he and his men retreat, the heavy doors closing behind them with finality.

In the tense silence that follows, a single voice dares to ask, "Shall we continue?"

The music returns, violins gliding back into waltz-time as champagne flows freely. The guests — trained creatures of legacy and fear — seamlessly resume their practiced dance of pretense, their laughter echoing through the hall as if violence had never touched these marble floors.

Jungkook, temple still stained with blood, vanishes down a darkened hallway while waiters weave through the crowd with fresh glasses. Under the glittering chandeliers, toasts rise and fall like waves against the shore, each clink of crystal a studied performance of normalcy.

You stand frozen, diamonds cold against your trembling collarbones, and face the terrifying reality of what you've married into — and wonder how long it will take to learn the art of survival in this glittering, dangerous world.

The ride is long and silent. One black car glides through the night like a hearse, and behind it — two more, identical in their gleaming precision. Their engines hum low like beasts beneath chains, headlights slicing through London fog as if daring the dark to follow. The city blurs past in streaks of silver and neon, but inside the car, everything is still.

You sit beside Jungkook, trembling quietly in a cage of lace and diamonds. Your gown spills over the leather like a spilled secret, crushed and wrinkled at the knees. You keep your hands folded like a prayer that will never be answered.

Across the seat, he is all silence and shadow.His jaw is clenched. His breathing even. But his mind is somewhere else — you can feel it, like storm clouds gathering in the distance. One leg draped loosely, his ringed fingers tapping once against the edge of the window. There is blood at his collar, dried now, half-hidden beneath the pearl.

No one speaks. Outside, security guards on motorcycles flank both sides. A third car follows behind, lights off, ready. One of the men in the front seat glances back, but neither of you look up.

The Jeon penthouse rises above the city, all glass and power, its windows gleaming with cold wealth. You don’t even remember how you got out of the car — just the blur of doors opening, voices murmuring orders, arms lifting packages and flowers and boxes of gifts wrapped in gold paper and blood-colored ribbon. They carry everything inside.

The penthouse is breathtaking in its silence — a towering open space where the walls don’t hold memories, only expensive taste. Marble floors echo under your shoes. The scent of white roses hangs in the air like a threat disguised as beauty. Chandeliers glimmer above you with a cruelty sharper than candlelight. Even the air here feels conditioned to perfection — expensive, perfumed, untouched.

Jungkook strides ahead silently, his jacket unbuttoned and fists clenched tight. His people dissolve into the shadows with practiced efficiency, bowing once before they disappear. The heavy doors seal shut with a decisive click, leaving you utterly alone.

You remain frozen where they abandoned you, rooted to the pristine living room floor like some tragic modern art installation. Your wedding gown - this beautiful, suffocating thing - pools around your feet like spilled moonlight. The veil still clings to your hair, a gossamer reminder of promises made under crystal chandeliers. Each breath is a battle against the corset's cruel embrace, while your legs have long since surrendered to numbness.

The silence stretches between you like a taught wire, ready to snap. He's there, a dark silhouette against darker shadows, methodically undoing his cuffs with elegant, calculated movements. Without a word, without even the courtesy of a glance, he vanishes into the bedroom.

When exhaustion finally drives you to follow, the bedroom rises before you like a gilded cage - all emerald walls and gleaming gold, with a bed that could swallow kingdoms whole. The sharp edges of wealth cut through any notion of comfort. You're a sparrow in a falcon's nest.

And there he is - sprawled across silk sheets like sin incarnate, jacket discarded but otherwise fully dressed, radiating the casual danger of a predator at rest. His silence fills the room like smoke.

"Why are you still dressed?" The words fall like ice between you.

You stand paralyzed, breath caught in your throat as your fingers nervously twist in the yards of white fabric. His eyes rake over you methodically, dissecting every tremor and fear until his expression settles into something more cutting than cruelty - pure disappointment.

His words shatter your composure, unleashing a tide of fury that drowns your fear. "I never wanted this," you whisper, voice trembling with raw emotion.

"What?" His expression darkens dangerously.

The truth pours out, bitter and sharp. "This marriage, you, this entire twisted world - I only did it to save her."

He rises like a storm gathering force, each movement a study in controlled violence. City lights paint him in shadows as he stalks closer. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Words become weapons: "You were never wanted. Not by her, not by me. You were a death sentence, and I stepped in because she was dying at the thought of you."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes - not shock, but a terrible fascination. His smile unfurls like a blade. "Interesting."

He advances slowly, and you instinctively back away, feeling every bit the cornered prey he sees you as.

"Did you think we'd sleep in separate beds on our wedding night?" he murmurs, fingers moving to his buttons. One by one, they come undone like falling stars.

You can't look away as skin appears - beautiful and brutal, carved from marble and midnight. He undresses like someone who's never known shame.

Then he's behind you, his presence radiating heat and shadow as his breath ghosts across your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your dress, methodically undoing them one by one while panic floods your veins, causing you to tremble uncontrollably.

He pauses, lips brushing your ear: "Anyone would want this night with me. But you're shaking like prey about to be devoured."

The warmth vanishes. His voice turns to steel. "I don't need this."

He collects his jacket like gathering shadows. At the threshold, without turning: "If you change your mind, I'll be in the other room."

Then he's gone, leaving you alone with your fear and your fury and your wedding dress coming undone.

You lie in the dark, cocooned in too much silence and too little peace. The sheets whisper over your bare skin as you shift — lace against skin, skin against memory. You hadn't meant to take the dress off so soon, but the corset had left bruises across your ribs, and your legs gave out the moment he left. Now you wear only your underwear and the quiet pulse of your thoughts, lying in the center of a bed too large, in a home too vast, after a night too violent to forget.

Sleep eludes you as memories of the night replay endlessly in your mind. The echo of gunfire lingers, accompanied by Maranzano's haunting presence - his smile forever imprinted in your thoughts, the way he regarded you like a silk-draped warning. Yet what truly unsettles you is the image of Jungkook - bloodied fists, disheveled collar, claiming you as his before a room of demons.

In a strange twist of fate, you realize he became your sole defender, choosing you for reasons still shrouded in mystery. This revelation propels you from the bed.

You wrap yourself in a robe of pure seduction - flowing silk that caresses your skin, its shortened hem and plunging neckline suggesting intentions you hadn't consciously formed. Or perhaps you had.

Moving silently through the penthouse, you find yourself before the open double doors at the hall's end. The room beyond bathes in amber light, where Jungkook reclines on an enormous bed, his bare chest catching gold like sculpture. A MacBook rests in his lap, screen light playing across his jaw, while his legs - long, parted, powerful - stretch across the duvet, clad only in black boxer briefs.

His eyes meet yours and he freezes, the air between you transforming into something tangible. You witness the exact moment desire overtakes thought in his gaze as it traces the curves beneath your silk-draped form.

Setting aside his laptop, he leans back with calculated grace, the embodiment of sin made flesh. "Knew you'd come to your senses," he drawls as he tilts his chin and widens his legs slightly, a silent command. "Go ahead."

Instead, you voice your turmoil. "The wedding... the Maranzanos... I can't sleep."

His jaw flexes, a slight tell. "I don't know what I'm more afraid of," you confess softly. "Them... or you."

Something in your words spurs him forward, his predatory grace on full display as he rises, his arousal evident against the thin fabric of his boxers. You try to steady your breathing as he approaches with measured steps.

"I will never let those filthy fuckers touch something that's mine," he declares, voice cold and sharp. "And you are mine."

Your slight nod draws his scrutiny. "Still afraid?"

"I believe you're powerful..." you hesitate, "but power itself can be terrifying."

His smile turns razor-sharp as he closes the distance between you, until his breath mingles with yours. "You think I'm a monster."

"I know you are."

His laughter - deep, rich, dangerous - slides down your spine like poisoned silk.

“Everyone’s a monster,” he murmurs. “You just happened to be lucky enough to marry the most dangerous of them all.”

His hands find your thighs. His thumbs drag slowly upward — grazing, pressing, testing. Your robe parts beneath his touch. You feel heat spread like fire through your veins, breath catching as his fingers brush over your hips, then the curve of your waist, the dip between your breasts. Your body trembles, not from fear anymore but from something deeper, more primal.

"Let me pull back the curtain," he whispers against your neck, "and show you what I might give you."

At your subtle nod, he guides you to the bed with the careful precision of someone handling their most precious weapon.

You’re guided gently into his lap — your thighs folding around him, your knees pressed to the mattress, your robe already falling from your shoulders. His hands don’t rush. They devour.

You begin to move — hesitant at first, your hips swaying forward with tentative rhythm, the silk of your underwear dragging against the heat straining beneath his boxers. It’s an unbearable kind of friction, featherlight but charged, as if every breath you take draws fire from the contact.

Jungkook exhales harshly — the sound low, broken — his head tipping back slightly as your hips grind again, slower this time, deeper. His hands stay resting at your thighs for a moment, as though he’s restraining himself, letting you move, letting you lead. But his muscles twitch under your touch, like a storm waiting to shatter the sky.

You find your rhythm. Back and forth, your hips brushing his with increasing urgency, and the softest moan slips from your lips, unbidden — a sound that startles even you.

His reaction is immediate as his mouth trails to your neck, pressing a kiss just below your jaw — hot, open, unhurried — then drifts lower, brushing over the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, teeth grazing so lightly it sends shivers down your spine. He’s not in a rush. He explores you like he’s reading a language he already knows but wants to savor syllable by syllable.

Your breath catches as his lips skim the edge of your bra, teasing the skin above the lace. He doesn't ask. He doesn’t need to. His hands slide up your ribcage, palms wide and reverent, finding the soft swell of your breasts and cupping them through the fabric — thumbs stroking lazily over the thin material, coaxing gasps from your throat like he’s plucking at the strings of some hidden instrument.

Every moan you release feeds the hunger in his eyes. And he’s watching you — every twitch of your hips, every parting of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. It consumes him.

You can feel his arousal beneath you, hot and solid, straining harder with every roll of your body. His hands move again — one gripping your waist with bruising intent, guiding your movements, while the other trails along the curve of your lower back, holding you flush against him.

The rhythm intensifies — friction now slick, pulsing, unbearable. Your thighs tremble. His jaw clenches. Every breath is shared now, your open mouths hovering close, not kissing but just existing in that charged space where desire lives and burns.

You can feel the tension building, hovering at that delicious edge. When he moans - low, guttural, nearly a growl - something inside you shatters. As you arch forward, his hands tighten their grip possessively. You feel yourself unraveling — not with shame, but with the devastating knowledge that no one has ever made you feel like this before.

You’re close — so close — when his hands suddenly shift.

With a strength that feels effortless, Jungkook lifts you in his arms as though you weigh nothing at all, his grip steady beneath your thighs. The motion steals your breath. The loss of rhythm makes your body cry out silently, aching and wanting.

He lays you down onto the bed like he’s placing something sacred — your hair fanning over silk, your skin burning against the cool sheets. The robe hangs loosely at your elbows, forgotten now, as your chest rises and falls with a rhythm that has nothing to do with breath and everything to do with him.

He kneels beside you, his gaze slow and molten, taking in every curve, every tremble, every shiver that escapes you now without resistance.

His hand skims down your stomach — fingers dragging with maddening slowness. The silk of your skin, the shallow dip at your navel, the heat blooming beneath every inch of his touch — he traces it all, not as a man in a hurry, but as one who means to memorize you.

His fingers find the center of your heat, where friction once burned and now aches for more. A gasp escapes your lips as he pauses, his other hand reaching for the clasp of your bra. Before you realize it, your palm presses against his chest, stopping him.

Not yet. Whether from fear, pride, or the need to maintain some control, you can't let go completely. The tension between you crystallizes into something quieter than rejection as he studies you, his expression unreadable.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks in a voice both molten and low. "This act of patience," he murmurs, "is exclusive. For you."

His words sink into your skin more than they reach your ears, and then he moves lower. He doesn’t remove the bra — doesn’t try again — but he does not ignore you. His mouth descends over the lace, hot breath seeping through the delicate fabric. His tongue flicks, teasing just above the cup. Then lower. The edge of your breast. The underside. He kisses there, open-mouthed, savoring the way your body arches, how your thighs tense around nothing.

His hands slide down across your waist, steadying you before moving lower with deliberate intent. You feel him shift, his shoulders slipping between your knees, parting them with a reverence that only makes the air leave your lungs faster.

He presses slow, searing kisses along the inside of your thigh. His fingers draw your underwear aside with maddening control, brushing lightly against sensitive skin before his mouth descends.

The first drag of his tongue is like nothing you were prepared for — slow, wet, deliberate. Your back lifts from the bed as your hand shoots out, gripping the sheets like they might anchor you to the earth.

He moves with the precision of someone who has studied power — who knows exactly how to wield it and when to be cruel with pleasure. His tongue circles slowly, testing you, tasting. Then deeper — firmer. His mouth closes over you, lips parting to suck gently, then harder, then teasing again, and again.

You cry out, a sharp, desperate sound you’ve never heard from your own throat before.

Your hand finds his hair. Your fingers tighten in the dark strands as his rhythm deepens, his moans vibrating against you, low and hungry. Your thighs tremble as your breath breaks apart.Your body begins to spiral faster, helplessly — his tongue working in endless rhythm, his grip steady on your hips as you start to fall apart in his mouth.

You cum like something tearing open inside you — high and hot and trembling — your gasp catching, then breaking, then disappearing entirely as your body arches up into his mouth like it belongs nowhere else.

He maintains his steady devotion, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you lay completely still, breathless and undone beneath him.

When he finally rises, his mouth glistening and eyes dark with pride, he presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before meeting your gaze with a satisfied smirk. His voice comes rough with shadow.

"Now that," he purred against your trembling thigh, voice dripping like honey and sin, "was just the beginning of what I can give you."

You wake tangled in silk and shattered moonlight, sin still sticky-sweet on your tongue. Your robe whispers secrets against feverish skin, one sleeve sliding down like a lover's touch, sheets still singing hymns of his warmth. There's an ache threading through your muscles like golden honey, each pulse a reminder of hands that knew too well where to press, where to bruise, where to worship.

The air is thick with him still - spice and shadow and something darker, something that tastes of stolen prayers and midnight confessions. You stare up at a ceiling that gleams like polished bones, willing yourself to forget.

But memory is a cruel mistress. She paints his hands in watercolor bruises across your mind. His mouth - oh god, his mouth - the way he consumed you like you were his last meal, like you were salvation itself. And you? You broke apart like stained glass beneath a light, scattered and sacred and his.

You must have lost your mind.

You press trembling fingers against closed eyes, shame and want warring in your chest like caged birds. It should repulse you - this descent into darkness, this willing fall from grace. Some part of you remembers innocence, remembers when touch meant tenderness instead of torrential need.

But there's a monster living in your ribcage now, purring at the memory of worship wrapped in violence. It remembers the weight of him, the raw intensity of his focus, the way he made devotion feel like damnation.

Have you always been this hollow, waiting to be filled with fire?

The bedroom holds no answers. Just cold marble and colder air, roses drowning in some foreign scent that wasn't there before. Everything's too sharp, too sterile, too vast.

He's gone. Of course he is. Demons never linger for too long. The penthouse feels different now, hollow and cold in his wake. Stepping into the hallway, you're greeted like fine china - precious, pristine, breakable. The world wants its doll back, wants to forget how she shattered in the dark.

There's a ritual waiting by the window: breakfast laid out like an altar. Poached eggs under crystal domes catch morning light like tears. A blood orange bleeds perfectly on white china. Fresh brioche exhales steam into the silence. The Jeon family crest watches from your napkin, judging.

You don't dare touch any of it.A maid ghosts through the room, her "madam" falling too quickly, too properly, gaze skittering away like scattered pearls. Another servant arranges your armor for the day: silk blouse with a collar high enough to hide secrets, modest skirt, pearls to match your cage.

Steam curls from behind the bathroom door, a siren song of hot water and false comfort.Your feet refuse to move. This attention scrapes against your skin like sandpaper wrapped in silk. It's not luxury - it's surveillance dressed in gold leaf.

Watched. Always watched.

Every gesture is a report in waiting. Every bite you don't take will be noted. Every wrinkle in your robe tells stories to ears you'll never see. The mirrors - god, the mirrors - they're everywhere, reflecting your uncertainty in infinite angles until you're drowning in your own discomfort.His presence lingers like smoke, invisible but choking. The walls have eyes, and they all belong to him.

You perch at the table like a bird about to flee, clutching silk around yourself like armor.The perfect breakfast dies slowly in the sunlight.Your appetite fled with the night.

It starts like this: a whisper of rebellion, soft as moth wings against silk. Your fingers find the white peach perfume, its crystal bottle cool and dangerous in your palm. One spritz — delicate, precise — finds your wrist. Another graces its twin. The hollow of your throat accepts the third like a blessing. The scent blooms in the air, all summer-sweet defiance, honeyed memories that curl through empty halls like forgotten prayers. And no one — no one — dares stop you because of some allergies.

These marble halls may cage you in gold and expectations, but they can't dictate the way you smell anymore, can't police the way your bare feet whisper secrets against cold floors. Your robe trails behind you like a queen's cape, leaving echoes of fruit and rebellion in your wake. Deep in your belongings, the black ribbon waits. It remembers you, this small scrap of darkness. It remembers the shape of your defiance.

The silk slides home against your hair and it for a moment it feels like armor. He materializes like a dark fairytale - no warning, no preamble. Just the whispered code at the door and footsteps that paint promises across marble floors. When he enters, the room holds its breath. Storm-cloud presence, predator grace. His skin still gleams from whatever violence he's been courting - white shirt, rain-slick hair and a towel draped carelessly around his neck. Cedar and sweat and danger roll off him in waves.

Your ribbon-bound hair and peach-sweet defiance catch his attention like matches to gasoline. His grin splits the atmosphere. "Miss me, Pesca Mia?"

The Italian drips like honey-coated thorns - My Peach - far too gentle for a man whose smirk could cut glass. You answer with silence, with measured steps past him, with carefully crafted distance.And of course he follows, tigers don't let prey walk away.

"Playing ghost bride still?" His voice chases you down the hall. "We share a home, Peach. Looking at me won't turn you to stone."

But then the air thickens, and his shadow swallows yours whole. His hand finds your wrist - a brand of heat that stops your heart.

He materializes before you, all aristocrat skin and lethal grace. Too close. Not close enough. Your eyes refuse to trace the dangerous landscape of his chest.

"Why?" Confusion bleeds into his voice, softening its edges. "You're my wife, yet you treat me like a stranger."

You meet his gaze at last. Your voice comes arctic cold. "You are."

Two words, quiet as falling snow yet sharp as winter wind. Something flickers in his expression - pain, maybe, before pride swallows it whole. His laugh comes out all broken glass.

"You think I'm desperate for your attention?" Arrogance wraps around his words like armor. "Girls would kill to wear your crown, peach. Don't think you're irreplaceable."

Your silence lingers, though his statemnt stings. He exhales - one sharp breath that carries worlds of frustration. And he urns away like you're not worth the oxygen.

"I won't beg you to claim what's already yours," he mutters, defeat dressed as disdain. "You don't want me? Fine."

His exit is soundless, but it echoes in your bones. The door slams like punctuation. But the halls still whisper of peaches and regret.

IIt's 2:17 a.m. and the universe holds its breath.

Your heartbeat counts time with the expensive clock on the wall, both of you locked in this infinite moment of waiting. Silk sheets coil around you like living things as you sit there, spine straight as a blade, every nerve ending electric with that delicious cocktail of rage and loneliness. The lamp bathes everything in honey-gold light, making shadows dance across the pristine emptiness beside you - a canvas waiting for a body that isn't there.

He hasn't returned. You tried maintaining your cold façade, denying how the empty space beside you slowly hollowed out your chest, how the silence grew unbearable. You called it strategy, convinced yourself it was necessary breathing room. But now? Now you're done waiting. Your fingers find your phone with lethal grace.

Namjoon picks up on the second ring, his voice heavy with sleep yet carrying an edge of anticipation, as if he'd been expecting this call.

"Is he with you?" The words slip out like ice daggers.

The pause speaks volumes. "...No. He's at The Roselace."

Your lashes lower once, slow and dangerous. "A club?"

"Yes." The word hangs there, heavy with implications that flicker like warning lights in the dark. But you stopped needing warnings the moment you tasted rebellion on your tongue. Your voice doesn't just turn to steel. No, it crystallizes into something far more dangerous: diamond-sharp certainty wrapped in velvet menace. "Bring the car around. I want to go."

Another heartbeat of silence, shorter this time. "I'll be outside in five."

Night bleeds neon across rain-slick streets, your revenge wrapped in a dress that fits like a promise. The city's a living thing tonight, all electric pulse and wet concrete confession. And you? You're winter made flesh in the backseat, ankles crossed like loaded guns, while Namjoon pilots the car through streets that taste of destiny. He knows better than to speak - you can't small talk with gathering storms.

Jin materializes at the club entrance like a harbinger, umbrella in hand, face carved from marble. His words fall soft as burial dirt: "Back lounge. Always."

You ghost past him without acknowledgment. Some moments don't need words.

The Roselace wraps around you like sin in silk stockings - all crushed velvet shadows and dripping crystal light. Bass thrums through your bones while bodies write poetry against each other on the dance floor, everything drenched in rose-gold desperation and champagne dreams.

Then the VIP lounge opens its maw and your world tilts sideways. There. Him.

Jeon Jungkook. Sprawled like fallen royalty across black leather, shirt undone like an invitation to sin, silver chain catching light like stolen stars. A glass of scotch hangs from his fingers.

But it's the women that make your blood crystallize. They're draped across him like living jewelry, all velvet curves and sheer promises. Their hands map territories you were claiming last night, lips writing stories against skin that was against yours yesterday. One whispers something that pulls a smirk from him like poison from a wound.

His eyes find yours across the chaos.

And smiles like the devil has just been entertained.

Your body moves without conscious thought - a bullet made of silk and fury. The click of your heels against marble sounds like a countdown to chaos. Your fingers find soft flesh, yanking the nearest woman away from him with the kind of graceless violence reserved for scorned goddesses.

Her shriek pierces the air like shattered crystal. She stumbles backwards, a doll thrown from its perch.

"You selfish, arrogant, fucking idiot-"

His laughter cuts through your rage like a knife through velvet.

"You're so fucking sexy like this," he purrs, voice dripping with dark honey, watching your anger like it's the most exquisite show he's ever seen.

"I swear to God, if I ever see…" The words die in your throat. Because his mouth claims yours like he's signing a contract in sin.

He kisses you like he's trying to steal your soul - all open mouth and wicked smile. One hand cradles your face like you're made of precious things, while the other brands your lower back, pulling you into his lap like you're the missing piece he's been waiting for.

Time stops breathing.The bass still pounds through the walls but the world goes quiet. The women dissolve like smoke. Staff melt into shadows. Even the velvet walls seem to lean away. There's nothing left but the dangerous heat between your teeth and his. He breaks away just enough to trace your bottom lip with his tongue.

"Don't look at me like that in public," he whispers, eyes like molten gold. "I'll forget every rule I've ever learned."

Your palm finds his cheek - not gentle, not cruel but Jungkook only grins wider.

The city blurs past like smeared watercolors as Namjoon guides the car through rain-slicked streets. Jin's profile cuts a careful silhouette against neon-lit windows. The air between you all feels like the moment before lightning strikes.

You're a study in barely contained fury next to Jungkook - all crossed arms and white knuckles, electricity crackling beneath your skin. He's sprawled in his seat like a fallen angel, that split lip you gave him worn like a badge of honor, watching you with the kind of smile that makes devils nervous.

"Still giving me the silent treatment after that kiss?" His voice drips honey-sweet venom.

"Touch another woman," you breathe, each word dipped in ice and promises, “and I will bury your body in the same marble your family worships.”

Up front, Jin's cough shatters the tension. Namjoon's eyes catch yours in the mirror - a flash of pure amusement you choose to ignore.

And Jungkook? He laughs like you've just told him the most delicious secret, leaning in until his breath ghosts across your ear, voice pure sin, "Baby, your jealousy looks better on me than designer suits."

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. But your traitor pulse skips like a scratched record, and the devil's smile says he knows exactly what he does to you.

A knock that sounds like the universe holding its breath. Like fate writing the first line of a tragedy.

You're poised at the edge of the grand sitting room like a statue carved from anxiety and expensive silk. Your blouse is buttoned to your throat - armor, really. Chandeliers drip gold light like honey. White roses perfume the air with your false hope of Nora coming to visit you too with your family. And then the door opens the past comes crawling in like poison through your veins.

Your mother glides in first - her hairspray a helmet, her lipstick a warning sign in crimson. Then Luca, wearing wealth like a borrowed skin, pressing family obligation against your cheek in a kiss that tastes of nothing. And finally - because the universe has a cruel sense of dramatic timing - your father.

He moves through space like a black hole, warping reality around him. The kind of presence that makes rooms smaller, air thinner, daughters invisible. His suit whispers of faded glory but his eyes? They gleam with collector's greed.

Your flinch is barely perceptible, but Jungkook - beautiful and dangerous - catches the subtle movement like a treasured secret. He's sprawled in his armchair like it's a throne, all devastating grace and calculated nonchalance. Whiskey glass dancing between elegant fingers, watching, waiting. The temperature drops ten degrees when his gaze sharpens.

"Where's Nora?" Your voice plays at lightness. Fails.

Your mother's hand waves away concern like smoke. "Unwell."

Luca's jaw twitches. He won't meet your eyes. Your father has no such restraint.

"Well?" The word drips disdain. "This is all... quaint. But when are you buying me a proper mansion?"

His words splatter against the pristine air like acid on silk.

You straighten your spine. "The Jeons have already given enough."

Jungkook's laugh of disbelief is velvet-wrapped steel.

"Enough?" Your father's scoff could curdle cream. "I gave Jeons my precious daughter. Raised you right. Paid for her schooling. Trained her to speak six damn languages. And they give what? A glorified cottage and few millions on bank account. This is not serious."

Jungkook shifts - barely a movement, but it rewrites gravity. You speak first.

"Don't embarrass us." You aim for ice. Your voice cracks like spring thaw.

Your father whirls. "Since when did you grow fangs, little girl?"

His hand rises - a familiar choreography of pain, promising bruises that would match your designer earrings. But the blow never lands.

Jungkook's fingers wrapped around your father's wrist with quiet, absolute authority - a prophecy written in bone and blood.

“My grandfather raised me with manners,” Jungkook muses, voice soft, “taught me to never strike someone older.” He leans close. "Don't make me disappoint him."

The silence has teeth. Your father's face performs an ugly dance between rage and humiliation. He retreats, inch by inch. Jungkook releases him like dropping something contaminated.

Then, quiet as a blade between ribs: "And don't ever think of hitting my wife."

The room stills. Your mother's face turns to marble while Luca shifts uneasily on his feet.

They retreat like storm clouds dispersing - your father leading with violence still coiled in his shoulders, your mother trailing behind him like winter fog. At the threshold, Luca pauses to mumble an apology before disappearing, leaving only traces of expensive cologne.

When the doors finally close, silence blankets the room like fresh snow. You exhale years of fear.

Jungkook stands beside you, offering neither touch nor words - just his presence, steady as gravity, protective as shelter. In this space where fear once lived, something gentler takes root.

Warmth.

Maybe love isn't some grand revelation inscribed in starlight. Maybe it's quieter than that - like finding shelter during a storm you didn't know was coming.

There was something about that moment in the sitting room. The way his hand caught your father's wrist mid-strike, precise as a knife's edge, gentle as snowfall. Not a word spoken, just the weight of his presence beside you, heavy as gravity and twice as constant.

Protection wrapped in silence. Devotion dressed in designer suits.

And how it caught in your throat - this unfamiliar feeling of being shielded rather than shaped, protected rather than possessed. Like watching a bruise bloom backwards, violence turning to velvet beneath your skin.

You've spent so long being a prize to be won, an asset to be traded. But here, in the aftermath of that infinite moment, you taste something different on your tongue. Something that whispers of possibility, of paperback endings you never dared to want.

Because maybe love isn't about grand gestures or flowery declarations. Maybe it's in the way he caught your flinch like a secret worth keeping. The way he stood guard over your fear without trying to own it. The thought haunts you like perfume, sweet and lingering, as you drift through marble halls in bare feet. Past crystal that catches light like promises, through silence that feels, for once, like peace.

Tonight, you could let the walls down brick by brick. Maybe tonight, you could let the curtain open just a little wider. Not in surrender, but in hope of something softer. Something that tastes less like warfare and more like coming home.

The clock says 11:42 p.m. when you finally allow yourself to move. Your robe slips to the floor like dusk shedding its skin, and you reach for the lingerie that still carries its tag, something delicate and barely-there — lace the color of antique ivory, with ribbon straps that whisper against your shoulders like secrets.

You spray white peach across your collarbone, behind your knees, over your wrists. The scent hovers in the air like the memory of hands you don’t flinch from. You find the black ribbon — a little wrinkled now, a little tired — and tie it loosely in your hair. A small crown. A little defiance. A reminder that this softness is yours to give.

Then — because courage needs ritual — you pour yourself half a glass of wine. You sip it standing by the window, your reflection doubled against the city: bare legs, trembling fingers, a girl sculpted from want and silk and something beginning to resemble hope.

What if I’m allowed to be held gently? the thought hums behind your ribs. What if I’m not just a transaction in pearls?

Tonight, you want more than to be protected like property - you want to be wanted like a woman. You want to feel that warmth again and maybe dare to discover more of it. Setting down your glass with shallow breath, your heart presses against your ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom. Then, with quiet certainty, you call his name. “Jungkook.”

Not a shout, nor a whisper - just your voice carrying through the stillness. And somewhere in the penthouse, you sense the shift in the air, hear the soft footsteps approaching. You wait, your heartbeat marking time in the silence.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When the door finally creaks open, the light from the hallway carves his silhouette in gold.

Jungkook enters shirtless, barefoot, and breathing like he ran. The low waistband of his black boxers hugs his hips like sin sewn into fabric. His dark hair is tousled, damp at the ends. His chest gleams faintly from the shower or the gym — you can’t tell — but the muscles move tight beneath his skin as he scans the room, jaw clenched.

"Did something—" His words trail off as he takes in the sight before him.

Laid out across the pale sheets like a prayer wrapped in lace and quiet invitation. The ivory lingerie clings to you like mist, your legs tucked slightly to the side, bare shoulder framed by long hair and black ribbon. One hand holds the edge of the sheet. The other rests over your stomach — steady only in appearance.

You don't speak, simply holding his gaze and letting him take in the sight before him. His breath catches in his throat as he stands motionless, a moment of pure reverence washing over his features. Something raw and unguarded crosses his face, as if witnessing something he'd only dreamed of. You offer a gentle, uncertain smile and reach for him with tentative fingers.

“Jungkook.” A whisper. A gift. Like a flame lit in the darkness.

His expression shifts, tension and panic melting away in a single breath. What replaces it is hunger - not the violent kind that devours, but the kind that worships.

“Fuck,” he breathes, crossing the room like gravity commanded it. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch as he drops to the edge of the bed, body sinking against yours in one fluid, dangerous motion.

His skin is hot — all over, everywhere. His thigh presses to yours, bare and hard. His hands hover at your waist like he’s afraid to touch too much. But his eyes... his eyes consume.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You swallow. You’re trembling now, but it’s not from fear. ���I wanted you here.”

That breaks the last thread of his restraint. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that starts tenderly - cautious at first, his hand cupping your cheek with careful reverence. But when you respond, matching his intensity, the gentleness gives way to something deeper, more urgent.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, your body pressing to his instinctively, lips parting under the low groan that leaves him like the last tether snapped.

That’s when he loses himself. His body crushes into yours, warmth and weight and scent — white peach still fresh on your throat, and he moans against your mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever been given something soft.

Is this what it means to be wanted? you think, dizzy under the weight of him.

His hand slides down to your hip, then your thigh, pulling you closer, and you feel it — his arousal, hard and unmistakable, pressing between your legs through the thin barrier of his boxers.

You gasp softly into his mouth. He pulls back, just enough to whisper — breath ragged, lips brushing yours. “You have no idea what you do to me, Peach.”

He leans down and begins trailing kisses down your throat, hot breath dragging over your skin, and then his fingers move to the front clasp of your bra — slow, teasing — as if asking silently. You nod once, breath catching in your throat as the fabric falls away. He pauses, eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the sight of you. With a low, reverent sound, his mouth finds your breast - tongue teasing your nipple with exquisite tenderness until you arch up against him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Jungkook," you breathe, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin. "Want more, baby?"

He switches to the other side, tongue dragging in a spiral before sucking — hard. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t gentle. He groans in approval then he’s back at your lips again, devouring you now, and his hand slides between your legs, palm pressing against the damp lace.

“Shit. You’re already this wet?”

Your hips buck as his fingers slip past the fabric, dip down, find you with terrifying precision. He circles once, testing. “Let me hear you,” he whispers against your mouth. He sinks one finger in and you cry out softly — not from pain, but from the sudden fullness.

“So tight,” he breathes, “fuck—” and adds another. He curls them both — slow, precise, devastating — and your body trembles like silk beneath a storm.

You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers stroke deeper, searching and finding the ache you never let yourself name. His mouth is at your neck again, tongue warm, breath hotter. He doesn’t rush and doesn’t demand. He explores you like he’s learned you — like every moan, every arch of your back, is a sacred response he’s waited lifetimes to unlock.

The pressure builds, low and thick, like a fire rolling beneath your skin. His palm grinds against the base of you with every push, every curl, and it lights you up from the inside — slow-burning, tender, terrifying.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips dragging against your throat. “Let go. Just feel me.”

And so you surrender to it completely, allowing yourself this precious first taste of freedom. You let go of the shame, the cold hands of your past, the bruises you were told to hide and the hunger you were told to deny. You let go of every time you were touched only to be controlled, looked at only to be priced. Because this is different - his mouth leaving trails of reverence across your skin, his voice a mixture of raw need and gentle wonder.

This is the silk of your thighs shaking against the sharp cut of his rings, and the way he slows his fingers just when your breath catches — just to listen to the sound of you breaking open.

And in the chaos of it, a thought blooms. You feel good. The revelation hits like lightning in slow motion. God, you feel so good. You didn’t know it could feel like this. Like warmth without danger. Like pleasure without debt. Like being touched and not owned, kissed and not erased.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s deeper — slow and thick and intoxicating. He kisses you like a man no longer teasing, but claiming. You moan into his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his neck. He groans low, a vibration that pulses down his chest, straight through to the way his fingers curl again, firmer this time.

“You feel this?” he breathes against your lips, his voice barely coherent. “How your body’s taking me so fucking sweet? You were made for this.”

You whimper — a sound of surrender, of disbelief, of joy. You’re trembling now, the pleasure cresting fast, and he knows it. He sees it. He watches you fall apart under him like he’s watching art come to life.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me see you fall, baby. Let me feel you break.”

And when he whispers “Come for me, Peach,” the world splits open. Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. And the moan that spills from your lips is broken and holy, like a prayer finally answered. Your body pulses around his fingers, over and over, as he coaxes every wave from you, patient and wicked and tender.

He doesn’t stop until you collapse back into the pillows, breathless, limbs heavy, the world spinning in white peach and warmth. You blink up at the ceiling, then at him, marveling at how the space between you finally feels like sanctuary instead of battlefield. Though familiar with pain, this experience is different. For the first time, pleasure flows through you without guilt or fear, and you find yourself yearning for more, unashamed of your desire.

You’re still trembling in the aftermath, breaths shallow, lips parted, your whole body drawn tight like silk thread loosened from its spool.

Jungkook kisses your throat — soft, slow — and you feel his breath against your skin, warm with awe, not just desire. His hand strokes gently along your thigh, then stills. For a moment, he just watches you.

You nod, breath trembling, body already molded to his heat. He shifts lower, moving from your mouth to the space between your legs, his skin brushing yours in a trail of quiet possession. The soft rustle of fabric draws your gaze downward — his boxers sliding off his hips with effortless ease, revealing him fully.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The sight of him — aroused, bare, utterly unashamed — steals the rhythm from your lungs. There’s fear, yes, curled low in your belly like something primal and unspoken, but it’s laced with something stronger, deeper: anticipation that feels like hunger, and the dizzying ache of knowing there’s no going back.

He sees the shift in your eyes — the tension, the heat, the way your thighs press together unconsciously — and his gaze grows darker, steadier. There’s no smirk now, no cocky remark, just quiet reverence carved into every line of his face as he settles over you, breath warming the skin below your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice rough but patient. “I’ll never take what you won’t give.”

You swallow, fingers curled around the sheets. “I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.”

And God, the look in his eyes — something wounded, something honored — like he’s trying not to fall apart just from hearing you say that. He kisses you again, slower this time. His hand cups your cheek. You feel him guide himself to your entrance, his length brushing against the soft slickness between your thighs. He presses forward, just the tip, and you gasp — a sound that’s more surprise than pain.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You inhale, long and slow, and when he begins to push in deeper, you feel the stretch — unfamiliar, thick, slow. Your body adjusts to him inch by inch, heat curling deep in your belly as he moves inside you, every second filled with breathless restraint.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, “you’re so fucking tight—so warm—it’s driving me insane.”

You whimper as he settles fully inside you, his hips finally flush against yours. He doesn’t move at first — just stays there, forehead against yours, eyes half-closed.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect, Peach.”

You shift your hips slightly, and the sensation ripples through you like wildfire. “Move,” you breathe. “Please.”

His first thrust is slow, careful. He draws out almost entirely, then presses back in — deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. The rhythm is slow at first, aching and tender. Every time he sinks into you, you moan softly, your fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling as they wrap tighter around his waist.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take me, baby. Let me in deeper.”

“You feel so good,” you whisper, dazed. “It’s… it’s so much—”

“You can take it,” he breathes against your mouth. “You were made for me.”

His rhythm builds. Not frantic, not rough — just sure. Deep. Intentional. You feel every part of him, each thrust grinding you deeper into the mattress. His name spills from your lips like confession. His hands grip your hips tighter as you start to move with him, arching, circling, giving as much as you take.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispers, panting against your shoulder. “So fucking wet, so tight—fuck. You were made to take me.”

You moan louder — the sound shameless, raw, a full-body ache turned into voice. The pleasure builds so fast it almost frightens you. Your walls pulse around him, fluttering each time he hits that spot inside you that makes the world collapse.

He thrusts deeper now, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, sweat-slick skin slapping against yours. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breath and moans and curses bitten between kisses.

You can feel the edge. You’re tumbling toward it, helpless to stop.

He starts to move faster — still careful, but no longer holding back. Your moans rise to meet his as he thrusts deeper, fuller, the wet sound of him filling you over and over echoing through the room, joined by skin meeting skin and both your voices breaking into the air like shattered stars.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust harder, rougher now, “say it—say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, legs tightening, eyes rolling back. “Only yours.”

Your climax builds like a storm held too long behind trembling sky — not sudden, but rising, demanding, layered with sensation you can barely hold.

Every thrust winds you tighter, every kiss unravels something old in your chest, every whispered word — you’re mine, you feel so fucking good, you were made for this — leaves you burning, open, filled. Your nails dig into his back as your moans dissolve into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. And then — it hits. Hard, deep, unstoppable.

Your body arches into him as if trying to fuse, your cry breaking against his lips like something holy, too raw to be pretty, too intense to be silent. The wave doesn’t crest — it shatters, again and again, your walls pulsing around him as pleasure rushes over you in waves so sharp it almost hurts. You barely register the curse he chokes into your neck, the way his rhythm breaks.

His hands grip your hips — tight, desperate — and he buries himself to the hilt one last time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a guttural groan that shakes you to the bone. The sound he makes is not triumphant — it’s wrecked, torn from his throat like he was holding it back too long. His forehead drops to yours, breath trembling, body shivering as he rides the aftershocks with you still wrapped tight around him.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper from the loss. He kisses your lips to soothe you, then your shoulder, then your hip. Then he lies beside you, pulling you to his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You wrap your arms around him. Your leg stays hitched over his waist, like your body doesn’t know how to stop holding him.

His hand rubs lazy circles into your back. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his skin. And for the first time in your life — in this warm, slow silence — you feel safe. And maybe, just maybe…

…a little bit loved.

Stillness hits different in the morning-after glow. And then there's the heat between your hips, like your body's keeping secrets from last night.

The black ribbon is tangled in the linen near your waist half-unraveled, like a confession. The air's thick with white peach and memory, and you're breathing it all in like it might disappear if you don't.

Love. The word sits in your chest like a bird that forgot how to be afraid. Is this it? This quiet after the storm, where nothing hurts and everything's warm and your body remembers kindness instead of fear? Where peace isn't just a pretty lie people tell in daylight?

His voice reaches you first - all sleep-rough and commanding, drifting through the penthouse like smoke. He's on the phone somewhere in the kitchen, words too far to catch but tone saying everything.

The silk of your robe whispers against your skin as you tie it. Your feet carry you toward his voice like you're caught in the undertow of last night's tenderness. Maybe you just want to see him. Maybe you just need to know this isn't another beautiful dream your mind made up. Maybe it's because for once, someone held you like you wouldn't shatter. You turn the corner.

And you stop.

You find yourself frozen in the archway, dawn's first light painting you in half-shadows. He hasn't noticed you yet.

There he stands - a study in contradictions. Bare chest catching morning light, sweatpants riding low, silver chain kissing his throat like a whispered threat. His shower-damp hair curls at the nape of his neck, soft in a way that makes your heart ache. The untouched water glass in his hand trembles slightly.

But his voice - winter steel now, nothing like the honey-warm murmurs from last night. All sharp angles and cold professionalism. You clutch your robe tighter, silk whispering against your skin like a warning. The transformation happens in heartbeats - his tone flattening, sharpening, becoming something familiar in its danger. Like watching a knife being unsheathed.

"No." The word falls like ice. "Don't bring him in." Silence stretches, taut as piano wire. "Leave him where he is. I'll handle it myself."

Glass meets marble with a gentle accusation. "I said leave him. Yoongi—this one's mine."

He turns, and time stops breathing. There you stand, a portrait in morning light - bare feet on cold floors, white silk clinging to last night's memories, hair still tangled with black ribbon. Peach perfume hangs between you like a broken promise.

The call ends abruptly, leaving silence to crystallize between you like. His phone finds its place on the counter with deliberate casualness. He shrugs, voice light as smoke. "What?"

Words fail you. Your eyes speak volumes. "It sounded like you were giving an order," you whisper, throat desert-dry. "To kill someone."

The pause that follows feels ancient. His response comes without hesitation even thought you see slight regret in his eyes. "I was."

Words echo through the kitchen like a shot that didn’t need a bullet. Your breath hitches before you realize it’s even left you, chest tightening under the satin tie of your robe. The morning light has turned unforgiving now — too clear, too sharp, too holy for a confession like that to survive without tearing something apart.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches you with that maddening, polished calm — the kind that doesn’t come from confidence but from certainty. The certainty of someone who has never had to regret his actions because power paved over everything that came after them. Jungkook stands there in black sweatpants and bare skin, the picture of a man too rich to be touched by consequence, too young to be so terrifyingly composed.

And you realize it — fully, bone-deep — that last night, you kissed a man who was capable of this. You let him touch your body with hands that break other men open. You slept in the arms of someone who casually decides whether another heart should keep beating.

You let him inside you. And he’s let death inside himself.

“I…” Your voice breaks like glass against tile.

He tilts his head slightly, unreadable. “Are you surprised?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He takes a step closer, but it’s not enough to reach you. Just enough to feel the weight of his presence settling into your skin like smoke.

“I never lied,” he says, quieter now. “You called me a monster. I never disagreed.”

You want to scream. You want to shake him, claw your way out of this invisible trap you’ve stumbled into, this house with velvet floors and bleeding walls, this man who kissed you like worship and murders without flinching.

“I know,” you whisper, and it’s all you can manage. “It’s just—”

The sentence never lands. It crumbles halfway through, pulled down by the gravity of your throat tightening. Your face crumples, lashes wet before you even know what you’re crying over — the shattered illusion or the horror of having ever believed in it. Tears spill silently down your cheeks as your trembling fingers fail to wipe them away.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper, and your knees almost give. “I am just so fucking stupid.”

He takes another step forward. His voice is softer now, unsure. “Y/N—”

“Don’t come near me!” It tears out of you like thunder, shrill and broken and sharp. He halts, hands open at his sides, stunned — and something flickers in his eyes then. Not guilt. Not remorse. Just something… hurt.

“You knew what I was,” he says, his voice rising now too, cracking like heat through glass. “Don’t look at me like I’ve changed. I didn’t pretend to be anyone else.”

You can’t stop the shaking. You want to run and tear and scream and break all the mirrors that ever told you this was safety. “I know. I just—I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you cry, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “I didn’t know I’d be the kind of girl who could fall for someone who kills people like it’s breakfast.”

He flinches. “You think this is easy for me?”

Your laugh is bitter, strangled. “Easy? It’s not normal to kill, Jungkook. It’s rotted. I guess I thought—God, I guess I was just confused. Maybe I mistook this all for love because I never saw love before? And maybe I am just broken—maybe I let you touch me and hold me and fuck me because I don’t know what else love could feel like.”

Silence slams into the room again. He stands there, chest rising, jaw tight.

"Could I ever be with someone like you?" you whisper, wiping under your eyes. "A man who deals in death? No. What you offer... this isn't love. This is just velvet and guns. And God help me, I got lost in how good they felt."

You turn then, robe twisting around your legs, footsteps already thudding back toward the bedroom before he can speak. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Don’t follow me!” you scream from the hallway, a sob catching on your throat. “I can’t even breathe around you anymore.”

For a moment, you hear nothing. Just the hum of the fridge. The distant city beyond the window. The silence that only comes after something inside you snaps. Then his voice, low and bitter behind you, cutting through the air like frost on glass.

“This is life,” he says, not loud, but deep enough to sink. “You’re either prey or predator. You think marrying a monster’s hard? Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be married to a coward.” You hear the door close seconds later.

He’s gone.

The bedroom is filled with lingering traces of your shared intimacy. Of everything that happened between midnight and morning — the black ribbon fallen half beneath the bed, the white peach still clinging to the hem of your robe, the echo of hands and lips and breath where silence now smothers it all.

You stand there for a while, motionless in the center of the room, one hand pressed to your lips like that might keep the sobs down. But they claw their way up anyway — low, gut-wrenching sounds that don’t belong to any version of yourself you’ve ever let survive.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the edge of the dresser. It’s instinctive, almost mechanical — the way you slide the drawer open, the way your hand curls around the strap of your old black backpack, the one you brought with you the day you arrived. It still smells faintly of Switzerland, of pressed notebooks and old perfume and snow.

Your body moves with the strange grace of someone else's strings - mechanical poetry written in desperate motion. Each movement is sharp, decisive, divorced from thought. Clothes tumble into the backpack like falling stars, necessities gathered by muscle memory while your mind screams white noise. Underwear. Blouse. Jeans. The basics of a life you're trying to rebuild, tossed together like a prayer. Your hands work faster than your heartbeat, racing against the clock of his inevitable return. You have to go - have to run - before his gravity pulls you back into orbit, before the dangerous warmth of him seeps back into your bones and turns your resolve to stardust.

With trembling fingers, you slip your ring off and place it on the marble counter of his bathroom beside his cologne. The note you write by hand comes out unsteady, the paper remaining crumpled as your shaking hands set down the pen.

If I ever meant anything to you, please don’t come after me. Let me go in peace. Let me have whatever life I can build without this. Don’t ruin it.

Your signature lingers at the bottom of the note, an inked farewell that feels heavy with finality. Placing it gently on his pillow, you turn away from the life you're leaving behind, knowing there's no turning back now.

The elevator descent feels like falling, each floor counting backwards as seconds slip by like shards of glass against your spine. When you reach the street, a grey and uncaring sky looms overhead as you step into a taxi, hood drawn up and voice carefully controlled while giving the driver your destination.

In the silence that follows, only the steady hum of tires and the blur of an indifferent city keep you company. Your phone's screen blazes too bright as you retrieve it with trembling hands. You try your sister first - one ring, two rings, then voicemail. You end the call before leaving a message.

When you dial Luca next, the four rings that pass before he answers feel heavy with unspoken weight.

"Luca," you whisper, voice trembling, "I left him. I need to come home."

There's a heavy silence before his voice comes through, flat and serious in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"You can't come home, Y/N. If Father finds out you walked out, he'll kill you."

His words carry no drama or shock - just the bleak certainty of someone intimately familiar with their father's nature.

"But where can I go?" Your voice breaks.

He exhales slowly before responding, "I'll send you an address. I have an apartment no one knows about. You can stay there while we figure things out."

"An apartment? I don't understand, when did you even…"

"Don't ask questions," he cuts in, his tone growing darker. "Just get off the street. Now."

The line goes dead and a message appears moments later - coordinates falling into your phone like a stone into still water. You read the address twice, memorizing it before turning to the driver.

He nods at your new instructions, changing course as the indifferent city slides past your window.

And then—time fractures like glass beneath winter's first frost. The world lurches sideways, reality splintering at its seams. The door bursts open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence. Dark figures emerge as rough hands grab you, pressing a chemical-soaked cloth against your face.

You fight with every ounce of strength, your body thrashing against the iron grip of your captors. But the chemical-laden cloth works quickly, and consciousness begins to slip away like all the maybes you’’ll never get to live. The world around you blurs and distorts, reality folding in on itself until finally, mercifully, everything fades to black.

.

.

there’s a second and final part already finished and available exclusively here

(if you have any issues with it - message me directly, not anon pls)

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

[sansloii]

gonna need to know if andris is putting fingers in mouths or getting fingers put in his mouth, respectfully 🫴

Excuse the lack of formatting and w/e but Andris is 100% putting fingers in someone's mouth

[nataliedecorsair]

For this Halloween, I present you my MRI monster + a little bonus story about it >:) --

It’s the tail end of October, when the days shrink down to thin slices of cold sunlight. The late autumn air is sharp and crisp. It’s carrying the scent of wet, dying leaves; it stirs a strange feeling inside you, a mix of melancholy and restless hunger for something more. An adventure, perhaps... or something darker.

And why not? You’re young, curious and like everything weird and unusual. For you anything out there is a story, and this one could be a story about the unfortunate abandoned hospital at the end of a broken road. Folks say this place is haunted, but maybe no one’s ever dared to find out for sure. You're certain it is time for you to solve this mystery for good.

You ease your way inside. The door gives a long, miserable creak as it opens, as if it hasn’t been touched in decades. The paint, once green, is almost gray now; it hangs in shreds, peeling off the wood like dead skin. The air in the hallway hits you, stale and thick, smelling of dust and something sour. You pull out your flashlight, clicking it on with a soft snap, and the narrow beam cuts through the dark, scanning over pockmarked walls and the occasional room. But, of course, you don't see anything but empty beds, rusty buckets, piles of ragged fabric left to rot. No signs of ghosts or ghouls - or anything remotely interesting, for that matter.

You explore for ten minutes, maybe more, telling yourself you’ll see something any second now. But after the seventh empty room, you start to think there's no mystery at all. Pretty expectable, isn't it? Or what, did you really think you’d find anything but dust, broken glass, and busted syringes? With a sigh, you turn to go, shaking your head.

You take a step into the hallway, flashlight slicing through the shadows, and that’s when you hear it: a low, dry crrrk-crrrk. At first, you think it’s the old building settling. But then it comes again, irregular and jittery, like static: crick-crack, crick-crick-crack. The sound’s sharper now, that unmistakable staccato of a Geiger counter ticking.

Your heart beats faster. You swing the flashlight in the direction of the noise, but there’s nothing there, just the same hollow walls and chipped paint. Crick-crack-crick. Louder now, closer... For a sick, sinking moment, you wonder if there’s something radioactive buried here, and shake your head in disbelief.

"It doesn’t make any sense," you think. "I don’t even have a Geiger counter." But your mind, stubborn as a mule, wrestles to make sense of the nonsense, to catalog that weird crackle and shove it into some drawer that fits. Maybe you’re just hearing things? The building is old, there could be some pipes. It's always the pipes that make the most uncanny noises.

But the thing making that sound... it doesn’t care whether you understand or not.

You run forward, not watching where you're stepping, and a rusty bucket clatters across the floor. You fumble as your flashlight slips from your hand, the beam ricocheting off the walls and scattering shadows like startled birds. You crouch to retrieve it, fingers scrambling over the filthy, dusty tiles. And that’s when you see it, illuminated by the flashlight laying on the floor.

Feet.

They're human, but wrong. Slightly translucent - and shot through with slowly swirling masses of black and red liquid, twisting just under the skin. You look upward, and you make out the outline of a woman in a tattered, filthy hospital gown. Her body consists of that liquid, contained within the thin walls of her grayish skin. Everywhere but her head. It looks like an MRI scan, flickering between 2D and 3D, a nightmare too strange for your eyes to comprehend. Empty white orbs stare down at you, soulless and wide. She has no lips, but her mouth peels back, revealing a row of long, black teeth: it almost looks like a smile. She leans in, and before you can scream, rushes towards you - and the world plunges into darkness.

...You wake up in your own bed, the morning light spilling through the curtains. What a horrible nightmare you just had! Head feels so heavy, it hurts with this annoying, pulsating, throbbing pain deep within your brain. You feel feverish. You got sick, perhaps? It would explain the dream, so realistic - and so ephemeral at the same time.

With a sigh, you brush your palm through your hair, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep... but your fingers snag on something. A clump of hair. You pull it free, bewildered. Since when have you started balding? Confusion morphs into unease as you glance down at the skin of your hand, red and sunburn. Sunburn in October? In this area?

"I should definitely see a doctor," you think, an anxious knot tightening in your stomach. "But not in this abandoned hospital." Nervous chuckle escaped your lips, as you tried to calm yourself down with this silly joke. "I will never go there again, whether it's a dream or not."

…At least, you thought so. -- More spooky art here and here

[beloveds-embrace]

What if in og dukedom Kiong was also a Duke but from another kingdom, perhaps the "monsterous northern duke" webcomics like to do lol.

You meet him at a gala in his kingdom (maybe Price had to attend for some political reason?) and make polite conversation, not bothered by this massive intimidating man (you live with Simon after all)

And he feels so at ease with you. This kind and warm woman who is unafraid of him, doesn't shy away from him when he moves a little closer. Perhaps you don't know about the rumors around him being a monster.

But you did know, you mentioned as you watched noblewomen gossip behind their fans. They were just nasty words spoken by bored nasty people. And you smiled so warmly up at him, him of all people.

It made his chest tighten watching you leave to return to your husband's side. He can't help but start looking into you after the gala, wondering what your life is like back home.

And it breaks his heart hearing what people say about you. Calling you a barren woman who's destined for divorce, how you're doomed to become a fallen noble because of it. You were the sweetest woman he's ever met, there's no way fate would have take the chance of motherhood from you. Obviously this was your husband's fault.

And he was more than happy to take you from him and give you all the children you were meant to have.

Wait omg yes i love this 😫 always the cliche northern duke tho hehehe will never get bored of that trope LOL

Dukedom au masterlist

I’m just thinking of him unable to stop thinking about you, even when months passed. In just one night, one gala, you had thawed the ice around him and now, you are all his thoughts circle back to you, you, you.

The flickering firelight danced across the dark stone walls of König’s private study. The room was quiet save for the occasional crackle of the hearth and the faint rustling of paper as he read through the letters his informants had gathered. With each word he read, a knot of anger tightened further and further within his chest, his calloused fingers gripping the parchment.

“Barren,” the word stood out on the page like a cruel slash across delicate skin. “A failure of a wife. Her inability to bear children has become the subject of much speculation among the Southern court. Whispers grow louder of Duke Price seeking annulment or taking a mistress. Some say he might already have.”

König’s sharp, pale eyes lingered on the word. His jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. How dare they? How dare anyone reduce you to such indignity? The woman they were speaking of- the woman he could not get out of his thoughts no matter how much he tried- was kind, intelligent, poised beyond anything the shallow nobles of the Southern Kingdom could comprehend.

You spoke to him with no fear, no judgment. Not a single noble was worth half the delicate shoes you wore.

And this was what said nobles spoke of behind their gilded walls?

He exhaled through his nose, a harsh, controlled sound as he set the letter down. His hands, broad and powerful, trembled faintly as he dragged them over his face, trying to compose himself. His mind betrayed him, conjuring an image of you at the gala months ago, your warmth and grace so at odds with the venomous words on the page.

König stood abruptly, his imposing height casting long shadows across the room. The parchment fluttered to the desk, discarded, as he began pacing. Long strides carried him to the window, where snow fell silently beyond the frosted glass. He stared out, his breath fogging the pane, though his eyes saw nothing but the specter of his anger.

Unbelievable.

This wasn’t just idle gossip. He knew better. Rumors of this kind didn’t grow legs this much unless someone was feeding them. And who else but your own husband could have allowed such things to fester?

“Price.” König spat out the name like a curse.

The thought of the Duke filled him with a cold fury. John Price, who stood beside you at that gala with the possessive air of a man who knew what he had but didn’t deserve it. Price, who allowed these baseless, cruel rumors to circulate unchecked while you stood tall and weathered them alone, a lighthouse in the dark, deep oceans of nobility.

König’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. What kind of man allowed his wife- his Duchess- to suffer such indignity? A real husband would have silenced those rumors before they even began. A real husband would have cherished you, ensured the world saw you as König did: radiant, strong, untouchable. A goddess in your own right.

But Price… Price was blind. Or perhaps worse- he simply didn’t care.

Unbelievable.

“It’s his fault,” König growled to himself, taking a deep breath to calm the anger rolling through him.

Still, idea burned like a brand in his mind. If Price had been the husband you deserved, these rumors wouldn’t exist. If he had protected you, König wouldn’t be reading about your supposed “failings” in a cold Northern study lacking your warmth. The hearth was just a pale imitation of you.

His gaze returned to the letter on his desk. He reached for it, smoothing the crumpled edges with surprising gentleness for a man of his size. He scanned the hateful words again, and instead of despair, something else stirred within him- resolve.

If John Price wouldn’t shield you from this venom, then König would. He didn’t care what it cost him. You deserved better, and he would ensure you knew it. The Northern nobility bowed to him; no rumors against you would be allowed once he got you with him.

König pulled out another parchment, clean and smooth, and he wrote a letter. He needed to know what you’d like in general to have around, to make this space more comfortable for you.

How could a man be so blind to the treasure he had? König truly couldn’t fathom it. You deserved love, adoration, and everything the world had to offer. If John Price couldn’t see that, König would ensure that you knew your worth.

He dreamed of sweeping you away to his estate, where the snow-capped mountains would shield you from the cruelty of society even if by the time he had you, all their tongues would be culled. He imagined you holding his children, your laughter filling the halls of his once-empty home.

Yes, he decided. You were meant to be his.

Months later, so much information gathered, another diplomatic meeting brought you back to the Northern Kingdom. This time, König ensured he was present, his heart pounding at the thought of seeing you again.

When you arrived, carefully stepping out of the carriage with John’s help, he couldn’t help but crack a smile; you looked so lovely, bundled against the cold in a fur-lined cloak and mittens, the deep and pale blues of your clothes making you look like a snowflake. He approached immediately, pale blue eyes bright.

“Duchess Price,” he said, bowing slightly. “Welcome back to the North.”

Your smile warmed him more than the roaring fireplaces in his castle ever could.

“Duke König,” you replied, offering your hand for him to kiss. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

He took your hand gently, his calloused fingers brushing against your gloved ones. “The pleasure is mine, my lady. Shall I show you the gardens? They’re especially beautiful this time of year.”

John watched from a distance, forced away as the servants began showing them to their room, though his sharp eyes narrowing as König led you away. Simon, standing beside him, crossed his arms with a grunt.

They… didn’t like this.

P2

[monster-disaster]

Feral question—

How would different monsters react to their human partner giving them playful love bites? Just randomly too not just during sexy time

Also what type of monsters would go crazy when their partner leaves scratch marks on their back during sexy time?

monsters x human!Reader Good to know: some spice, nothing serious

The simple answer: they love whatever you do to them. But let's unpack it a little bit:

Your orc finds it amusing whenever you bite his bicep just because it's there, and you can't say no to an opportunity like that. Your bite barely feels more than a small nibble, a teasing little thing that makes him grin. And, of course, he has to return the favor. He knows exactly what the scrape of his tusks against the sensitive skin of your neck does to you, and by the time he is finished, the mark of your nails is all over his broad back. Deep, stinging trails that only make him rumble into your heated skin with satisfaction. He wears them like a trophy. He only rolls off you when he knows you have nothing left to give him, tangled in his embrace, all breathless and boneless.

Your werewolf knows all too well the primal urge to bite a loved one, but you only do it when he is in his human form because, well, fur. He loves it. It registers in his mind as a claim, and he only wishes the mark would stay, but he is happy with the ones you leave on his back too. Sometimes, the way he urges you to dig deeper, to leave something more lasting, almost makes you hesitate. Almost. But you can see it in his eyes how it rewires his brain in ways he can't put it into words. And when he becomes absolutely sure you are the one, he won’t settle for fading marks anymore. No, he will take it further and tattoo your name somewhere on his body as a permanent claim for the world to see. You will call him silly for it, but deep down, it does something with your brain too.

Your naga laughs whenever you attempt to bite him. Your weak, blunt human teeth do absolutely nothing to his scales. And unfortunately, your nails either. Not without causing him real damage, but he appreciates the sentiment anyway. And he is more than happy to return the favor. Between the two of you, it’s always you who ends up with the marks of your lovemaking, but it's fine, because soon, he will propose, and there will always be a ring on his finger as your claim over him.

Your dragon is similar. A soft, fragile human like you could never leave a mark on his thick scales, but it doesn't mean he doesn’t go absolutely feral when you try. The fact that his pretty, delicate mate wants to claim him? It only adds to his ego. And he would really, really like to return the favor, but he can't. He is all too aware of how dangerous he can be. He is a predator through and through, and you are his sweet, little treasure. Instead, he drowns you in gifts and grins, all too smug and pleased with himself, whenever you sink your teeth into him.

Your goblin found it weird the first few times when you bit him while he was busy with the most mundane things, but he got used to it quickly. Now, if too much time passes without you chewing on him, he starts getting antsy. Did something happen? Are you mad? He won’t rest until you finally put your mark on him again. You created a monster with your habit, but honestly? Neither of you are complaining.

Your minotaur gets horny the moment he feels your teeth on him. It doesn't matter if it's the middle of the day and you have a bunch of things to do, now, you are his for the next several hours. Minotaurs are not predators like werewolves or rakshasas, they don't have the instincts to claim with bites and scratches. They prefer the stuffing you full until you are dripping method. And your minotaur isn't different, but because of this, he finds your need to bite him and claw at him even more exciting.

Your rakshasa never misses the opportunity to flash his sharp canines whenever you bite him, saying now it's his turn. He finds your habit more amusing than anything. His pretty bunny wants to bite him, really? Cute. But the scratches you leave down his back? Now, they are a different story. Those make him purr. He loves nothing more than stretching out beside you, all relaxed and spent with your mark slightly burning on his back.

[these-lovely-monsters]

Tentacles Under The Bed - Part 4

[NSFW | 18+]

Characters: gn!tentacle monster x f!reader

Content: tentacles, eldritch monster, blow job, deep throating

A/N: If you were missing the tentacle smut in part 3, don't worry, I got you :)

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ⋆

Smiling faintly, you give Karl another kiss, lingering a bit longer this time. After a moment, you feel its mouth part and something soft and wet strokes against your lips. Realizing that it's Karl’s tongue, you open for it. It immediately dives in, curling and twisting around your own tongue.

You groan softly at the sensation and return its strokes with licks of your own. Even though you can’t get too close to Karl’s mouth for fear of its razor sharp teeth, you’re perfectly happy with this alternative version of a kiss. 

Deciding to be a little bold, you wrap your lips around Karl’s tongue and suck gently. Suddenly, a melodic humming sound fills the room and it takes you a moment to realize that the noise is coming from Karl. This must be its sound of pleasure and it’s strangely beautiful.

Pulling back to catch your breath, you place your hand on Karl to keep it from chasing your mouth. You’re surprised to find that its surface is spongy and soft but solid. Not at all what you expected from its goo-like appearance.

“No. Give me more, my little delicacy.” Karl protests.

Laughing, you reply, “I guess you like that, huh? We can do more of that soon but I…” You fidget with your hands, unsure how to ask for what you want. “I want to touch you. To…make you feel good like you did for me.”

Karl perks up at that. “You want to touch me?”

“Yeah, if that’s alright with you?”

Without replying, Karl leans back and you watch as a vertical slit opens in the lower middle portion of its body. A new, lighter colored tentacle emerges from the gap and sways in the air in front of you. In addition to the color, this tentacle is different from the others. It’s smaller and thinner than the rest and it has no suckers lining it. The end is also slightly enlarged in a club shape rather than a tapered point.

It almost reminds you of one of the fantasy dildos you’ve been wanting to buy online and you blush again. At the thought, you realize that you’re not actually sure what gender Karl is so you ask awkwardly, “Karl, is that a—is this your…?”

“This is how we transfer sperm to another for procreation—a penis as you would call it. But each of our kind has both reproductive organs.” It says as it waves its new tentacle in the air.

"Oh, I mean—then what are your pronouns?"

“My species does not have the concept of gender. Whatever you would like to call me is fine.”

“Ok so is ‘they/them’ alright?”

“Ye—yes” Karl stutters out as you reach down and stroke a finger along their cock, finding it slick and moist. You wrap your hand around their length and pump up and down once. The humming sound fills the room again and you smile at their obvious pleasure.

For a few minutes, you continue to stroke their cock, squeezing harder and increasing your pace. Using your other hand, you reach down and tease your fingers along the slit around the base of their cock. They shudder in response and the humming increases in volume.

Wanting to give them even more, and maybe selfishly wanting a taste for yourself, you drop down to your knees on the soft plush carpet.

“What are you—” They don’t manage to get anything else out as you tentatively lick at the club-shaped tip. The slick substance coating their cock is sweet and creamy, almost like vanilla frosting. The humming stutters at the action and you do it again, surprised but delighted at the odd flavor. Noticing a small slit on the tip, you probe it with your tongue and the hum deepens.

As you lick and suck at the tip, you continue to stroke and tease the rest of their cock with your hands. When a clear glittering substance begins to well in the slit, you lap it up eagerly, the taste of vanilla bursting on your tongue. You moan in pleasure at the deliciously sweet flavor and dive back in for more.

Eventually, once you’ve become more comfortable with this new cock, you open your mouth and take it as far in as it will go. Hollowing your cheeks, you suck hard as you bob your head up and down while swirling your tongue along the underside.

“Yes,” Karl’s voice echoes in your mind, more guttural now. “Let me have more.”

Before you can ask what they mean, a tentacle wraps around the back of your head as they hold you in place while their cock slides down into your throat. You gag at the intrusion, wanting to pull away, but a part of you loves that they’re taking control like this. You brace your hands on their soft body for support and try to relax, letting them have their way with you.

They pull out again, allowing you to breathe for a moment before shoving back in even deeper this time. As they fuck your mouth, going deeper with each thrust, another tentacle wraps around your neck. They don’t squeeze though and you realize that they’re feeling the bulge of their cock as it slides in and out.

Wetness is dripping between your thighs at being used as a fuck toy for this giant tentacle monster and you squirm, trying to find some relief. But you’re determined to give Karl their pleasure this time so you just squeeze your thighs together and enjoy the erotic scene.

Tears are streaming down your face from fighting the gags wanting to climb up your throat and snot is pouring from your nose. You probably look like a mess but you don’t care as long as Karl doesn’t stop. Noticing the wetness on your face, they reach up with a tentacle and gently rub at the moisture on your skin. Another tentacle reaches up and traces the edge of your lips which are stretched wide around its cock.

“I do not want to see you cry but I love the taste of your tears.”

Moaning at their words, you swallow convulsively. The humming noise intensifies with a new, much deeper, thrumming sound that harmonizes with the melodic notes. When you feel Karl’s cock begin to swell, the sounds filling the room speed up and you think they might be close.

Within a few moments, their thrusting becomes jerky until they stop fully, holding their cock deep inside your throat. It suddenly starts undulating and you feel a thick, cool substance sliding down your esophagus and filling your stomach. It feels as if it goes on forever until finally the humming subsides and Karl gently eases themself from inside you.

Slumping back, you cough and wipe at your wet cheeks. Your throat is raw and your underwear is completely soaked but you’re entirely satisfied at getting to do something for Karl this time.

They reach out tentatively to stroke your neck and ask softly, “Did I hurt you?”

Smiling, you place a hand on their tentacle and squeeze gently. “No, I liked that a lot. Was it…ok for you?”

“Yes my sweet. It was the most exquisite thing I have ever experienced aside from watching you come apart on my tentacles.”

⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ⋆

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

taglist: @blushycadaver @pearlofrose @gothicsugarslvt

[hawnks]

You're jealous. It makes you lash out, makes you meet Keigo with claws and teeth and cruel, irrational accusations.

You pack a bag after your last big blow up, shame dogging your every move. A week. Maybe a little more. However long it takes you to stop feeling like a monster, to rein in these dark impulses that have taken hold of you.

He stops you at the door with a firm grip around your arm. Looming over you, leaning down until he's in your space.

"Why?"

How can you even respond. Why? Isn't he angry with you? Doesn't he see how unreasonable you're being?

You tell him the truth. "I'm embarrassed, Keigo."

His hold on you tightens. "So you're running away?"

"I'm not--" You let out a long breath. "I just need to calm down. Get a hold of myself."

"You can do that here. At home."

You tug. He doesn't release you.

"I don't want you to see me like this."

His expression turns stormy.

"You want to keep secrets from me?" You can't even question this before he's continuing, eyes amber bright and sharp as he pulls you further into his space. "You don't want me to see you what --jealous? Don't I have a right to know? Don't I deserve to be with you for this? We're lovers, and you still want to hide pieces of yourself from me?"

Trembling, you let yourself be drawn back into the penthouse. You couldn't fight him even if you tried.

He sets you on the bed, so he can push you down, curl up on top of you, all around you. Caging you in.

"There," he says. "You're not going anywhere. Would it help if I told you about all the times I wanted to kill anyone who touches you? How about how I want to lock you up, forever and ever? I can show you the collar I picked out, if that would make you feel better." He leans up so he can nibble your ear, whisper, "Or you could put it on me, if you want."

[werecreature-addicted]

Someone who starts to become a little worried that with how rough and animalistic their werewolf partner becomes during sex that they're not really themselves or of human intelligence in the moment.

So in the middle of the act they ask their werewolf to "prove that they're still themselves". The werewolf then proceeds to growl out their partners praises, listing every reason they love them and how much the mean to them. With every word causing them to fuck them even harder and more passionately than before; desperate to give their beloved a time of their life they so clearly deserve.

it's not that you don't love having sex with your boyfriend like this- you love the primal way he takes you growling in pleasure in your ear. it's just you aren't sure that it really is your boyfriend. You love the feeling of his claws digging into your skin as he gropes you and pulls you back against his hips as you weakly try to escape his rough thrusts.

"don't run from me I'm not done with you" he snarls his sharp teeth snapping at your shoulder as he rolls his hips pushing his cock deep enough inside you that your thighs tremble, his full knot pressing against your entrance, not quiet pushing inside of you. he doesn't want to cum yet, he's using your pussy to edge himself. the harsh growl of his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

You wonder how much he remembers when he shifts. it always seems to be a bit of a blur when he comes back to his more human side. you reach up and cup his inhuman face as best you can. He presses his face into your hand.

"It's you right?" you ask, huffing a little. he cocks his head to the side a little confused.

"Of course it's me."

"Prove it," you ask. He slows for a moment, still buried deep in your fluttering cunt, he presses his forehead against yours.

"pretty girl, was I too rough with you? do I seem more like a monster than a man right now?" he asks softly, in the softest voice you'd ever heard him use, he hooks one of your legs around his arm and pushes it up to your chest so he can thrust deeper into your much-abused cunt.

"it's me, love, and it's you. god, it's you," he breathes as if you are the most precious thing in the world. "look at you, my pretty thing so perfect for me, love you so much I'm so lucky you're mine, you are mine right? let me hear you say it," he pleads. the soft way that he praises you, the needy way he wants to claim you, this is much more like him, the werewolf that you know and love.

"i'm yours," you say easily, because you are his, mind body, and soul.

[youryanderedaddy]

Pandora

tw: female reader, non-con, free use, sedatives mentioned, prolonged captivity, meta

You often think about your old life, even though you promised yourself - and keep promising yourself, that you won't. You think about all the little joys and freedoms you took for granted - the small, cozy flat you were renting for cheap in a shabby, but hip neighbourhood. Choosing whether to go to a lecture or skip it, those hazy mornings when you'd wake up with your head pounding and a cold compress plastered on your forehead by a caring friend after a wild night. What a privelege it is, you realize now, to be at the center of your own life. To have sugar for breakfast or coffee at midnight, to fuck whoever you want and go out every weekend - to hold your friends and your loved ones close, and to have the option to be picky, very picky, to choose who gets to be in your life. Because for normal people, for all those other star-eyed 20-something year old girls, freedom is the default, a statement of enpowerment, liberation, living the life - for the first time, as an adult.

And you want to spit at their pretty faces. You feel the same way towards yourself from the past - you want to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some wisedom falls off, because she, they, don't know how good they have it. That autonomy is not always a mere state of being, but a continuous figh against the forces gripping it with tooth and nail, making you a slave, a shell of your former self. And he is no different.

He crawls onto the bed with a complete lack of grace, making it creak, the soft foam sinking in under his weight, and you fight a tired groan, imagining the same heavy, sweaty mass of a body laying over you, drowning you in a sea of pretend-softness, of pillows and bloodied feathers, into a dip that could be both a sex hollow, and your personal coffin, eventually. And although you wish you still had the tact to find your own bleak thoughts distateful, the severe repetitivness of this little "exercise", you're assured, would turned even the most sensible into cynics.

"Shh, it's okay." He whispers, covering your mouth with one warm, sweaty palm, muffling all the little sounds you can't help hissing through your already fried vocal cords, while the other strokes your hair gently, but all you can think about is grease. Grease, because he hasn't let you leave the bed in approximately eight days, give or take, ravenously hungry for your flesh. Grease, because he's still wearing that wretched blue uniform, soaked in machine oil - because if you close your eyes, you feel like it's dripping down onto your face and into your mouth through the gaps of his thick crooked fingers.

"It's okay, baby, be good now. It will over in a second. Just lay back and relax." Matt explains slowly as if you're stupid, as if you haven't been in this situation before, in this exact position on your back like some animal in heat, and God, you really hate his name. It's so simple, so honest - sounding, almost sweet, and it makes you want to reach out and claw his eyes out.

Now that you think about it, you hate his eyes too. They are brown, if slightly warm when the sun hits, but no matter how you look at it, there is nothing extraordinary about them. Or about his nose, or his lips, or his ears, or his cheeks; through and through, he's completely ordinary just like every other man on this planet. And perhaps you hate that the most, because in your dreams, in your nightmares, monsters are inhuman. Either inhumanly terrifying with big ugly horns and teeth as sharp as a dagger, or inhumanly beautiful, with hands so soft they pull you in before they devour you. Monsters are not boys like Matt. And things like this don't happen to normal, ordinary girls like you. And yet.

"Shit, you're so tight, n-ngh." In the heat of the moment he grabs the fat of your thigh, squeezing it for leverage - and it allows him to thrust into you harder, harder, pumping in so fast it almost frustrates you.

He's completely obsessed with you, keeping you tied down to his bed day and night, trembling over the possibility of you somehow breaking free. He fucks you as much as he wants, whenever he wants, because there is nothing you can do about it, besides lay there and take it. You'd scream if his hands weren't in the way. You'd fight if you weren't numbed down to your very bones with sedatives, unable to move an inch. But despite all his twisted efforts, the sadistic thrill of seeing you fully at his mercy, only a tad more human than a blow-up doll, he's never satisfied. Never slows down, never tires - over and over and over again, and you're exhausted.

"A-angel, you have no idea h-how perfect you look like this. F-fuck, I want to be inside you forever." Matt moans, breathing into your hair, staring at you forehead-to-forehead from above, and for a split second, you stare back.

And just for a second, you let your hell break loose. Somehow rehearsed, somehow repetitive, familair tight warmth washes over you, starting from your abdomen and spreading well into your lungs, making it hard to inhale. It's as if your throat muscle clamps down, refusing to let the tears go, to let them pop in and show their ugly heads to the world that, frankly, can't see you anyways, because he took you and hid you deep into his tower. And no one can see them now.

"I can't believe I found you, my love. I am never, ever letting you go. We never have to part again. Now we can truly be together forever." He mumbles feverishly, shoving into you with sloppy frenzy as he always does when he's close to climax. He pushes your whole body down and brings your legs up, bottoming out just to jut in again with newfound ferocity. And then he kisses your temple softly, very, very softly, as if to apologize for the entire thing. But it hurts nonetheless.

As the tears gloss over your eyes, burning your retina with acidity, you wish you could scream. Alas, dolls can only sing when their key is turned - and yours already sinked to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found again.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

34 / 3.2k / part 2 of shark mermen Gaz and Soap for mermay >:)

...

You wake up to the morning sunlight glimmering off Gaz's salt-glazed skin. He's leaning over you, watching you intently with those fathomless all-black eyes.

You gasp and immediately drag yourself away--or try to, given the way his tail is wound under your legs like a snake's. In your haste, you bump up against Soap, who lurks behind you, somehow again taking you by total surprise.

Your heels scrape against sharp gravel as you fight to get out of reach. Gaz's tail coils inward as if to drag you back in, and you almost collapse over it in your scramble. But you finally manage to get out of reach. You stare down at them, your heart pounding in confusion and panic.

Soap smirks like this is the most fun he's had in weeks. His tail swishes in the shallows behind him. "G'morning."

This is a nightmare. A hallucination.

"Don't look so shocked," Soap says. "You've still got all your pieces. You really should try being more thankful. We saved your life."

"Saved my--" You cough and sputter. Salt and sand coat your throat. "You tried to kill me!"

"You would've died anyway," Gaz says. His matter-of-fact tone of voice is somehow more terrifying than Soap's high-energy arrogance.

"We were havin' a little look at you," Soap says. "That's all."

"You bit me!"

"Just a nip," Gaz admits. "I was curious."

"I wasn't," Soap says with a flash of his sharp teeth. He looks down at the second set of teeth marks--his teeth marks--on your calf. "That's a love bite."

⬇ nsfw, monster mermen, overt predator/prey dynamics, blood kink ⬇

You pull your legs in, withdrawing further up the rocky beach as you get to your feet. You don't have much space to get away from them. Worse, this tiny cove will be all but swallowed by high tide. The only way out is either back into the water or up the rocky face of the cliffs on all sides. You can only imagine the rock cutting into your bare hands and feet--or worse, climbing halfway up, slipping, and landing on the carpet of glass-sharp gravel.

There’s nowhere to go.

Soap stretches toward you again as you back away. He does it in this motion like a shrug, like he's luring you into a false sense of security by making you think he just happens to be putting his hands near your ankle. He can’t hide how the muscles in his shoulders bunch, wanting to pounce. "You'd have a better chance jumping back into the sea and holding your breath than climbing those rocks, human. Maybe you outswim us this time, even. Want to try?"

"I'll take my chances," you snap. His claw brushes your foot, and you quickly backpedal, climbing up onto the biggest boulder you can manage. It's only about as waist-high, though, and unsteady. Not quite tall enough to boost you toward any solid footholds up the forty-or-so-foot cliffside. Still, you have to try.

Gaz watches with annoyance as you reach for a shallow indent in the rock. "You'll kill yourself. Be reasonable," he scolds.

Your fingers find uncertain purchase in the shallow ridge overhead, and you force your toes to get with the program and grip what might be a rocky shelf to your side.

The two mer watch you haul yourself up a few feet. Soap pushes himself up the beach to get a better view, tail curling. Gaz studies the muscles in your legs. Then he watches your hands grip the rocks. You look even more defenseless in the sunlight, skin battered from exposure and clothes torn from the waves. His eyes follow the curve of your calf to the blood that's dried on your ankle. It looks bad.

He doesn't see you making it high enough for the inevitable fall to kill you, but it irritates him that you're choosing to act like this. You're fragile. Obviously, if he and Soap wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. They did their best to not kill you. He did, anyway.

"You think we'd let you drown when the tide comes in after keeping your fragile human body alive and intact this long?" Gaz calls up.

You ignore this in favor of boosting yourself up another foot. Your fingers slip on the next hold. Gravel clatters down the rock and showers both mer.

Soap smirks. "Gonnae fall, aye?”

Gaz's voice is flat. "Let her."

You make it up another two footholds before you slip.

Soap's smirk morphs into a wild laugh as you topple backward. You land on the rocks, hard, air knocked out of you with a surprised gasp. Both mer prowl toward you.

You dig the heels of your hands into the wet sand to scramble to your feet again. A sudden, sharp pain makes you hiss. You rip your hands out of the gravel to see a shard of curved glass sticking out of your palm of your dominant hand. Blood stains the base and wells up, trailing down your wrist.

Soap clocks the smell of blood. "What d'you want to try next, hmm?" he muses, tail swishing behind him. "Hurry up before the tide comes in or that cut'll attract somethin' unfriendly."

You glare at him. You want to scream. Or cry. You need help, but what are the chances the rescue boats will come back this way?

"So?" you snap, hiding your hand against your chest as he leans closer. "What does it matter to me if you eat me or something else does?"

"We don't care to eat you," Gaz says. "And if we did, we wouldn't share."

"Don't know about that, Gaz," Soap purrs. "You think she looks delicious, don't ya?"

You look from one to the other, still clutching your bleeding hand. "Why would you bring me here if you didn't want to eat me?"

"Curiosity." Gaz's eyes dart back to your face. “I told you.”

Frustration burns in your chest. "You bit me. You dragged me around the water. What else is fucking left to be curious about?"

Gaz hesitates. To him, you are a sight. Tattered clothes clinging to your damp body, he can see more of you than when he first spied you on that little boat, sitting so carelessly with your legs dangling in the water.

He stares at the bite wound on your arm. It's not just a “nip” like Soap’s--it's deep. A bite that left a deep, dark, ugly mark surrounded by a ring of dark blue-purple bruising. It will scar. The memory of his teeth will always be in your skin. He can still taste you: fresh adrenaline, copper blood, and seawater.

"What you feel like." His voidlike eyes are half-lidded, his voice soft. "Up close."

You glance back at him, your heart pounding. You're defenseless right now--you have been since they threw you onto this beach. So there has to be some truth to what they're saying, right? You remember reading somewhere that sharks are curious. That they sometimes investigate with their teeth, biting without any real intent to injure. So... maybe...

Soap leans in behind you and skims his clawed fingertip up your arm, his voice just past the shell of your ear. "We can take you back to shore, easy. We just need to clean those wounds. How about it," he purrs into your ear. "Gonnae help us help you?"

You shy away from his touch, feeling goosebumps break out all over. "Okay. Okay, fine." You glance down at your hand, then at Soap. "But not... not you."

You look at Gaz, hesitant, but your meaning is clear.

Soap's smirk twists into a frown. "Why not me?"

Gaz snatches your wrist. "Come here, then."

You find yourself pulled into the arms of a shark again as Gaz shuffles you into the crook of his arm. You're awed at how much bigger than humans these shark mer are. He coils his tail under you both. He grips your bloodied wrist in one hand and plants the other firmly on your hip to slide you even more flush against him. Any protest you had dies in your throat as he repositions your injured hand in his and plucks the glass out in a single, rough motion. A gasp punches out of you. The noise has Gaz pulling you closer, his arm wrapped tight around you.

You tense up, watching the claws on his hands very carefully, but he seems to maneuver you in such a careful, conscientious way to keep from hurting you with them that, once he has you positioned on his tail, you relax somewhat. They really are being careful with you, you realize. Some of the tension leaves your shoulders. You breathe out through your teeth. You can let this happen. Some people would love to be in your position, even. There's something tender but not quite gentle in how he grips you and how his thumb presses into your thigh.

He tucks your head under his chin. A low hum vibrates in his chest. Something about the sound is soothing. Or at least distracting enough that you don't notice him moving your hand to his mouth until his hot tongue laves over your wound.

Your blood--in his mouth--and roaring in your ears. How did you let yourself be tricked into letting a shark lap up your blood while he’s holding you close enough that you can see the beads of sea water clinging to the scarred ridges of his chest?

Even Gaz is somewhat surprised at the way his tongue instinctively scrapes over your wound to stem the blood flow. It's not an entirely animal compulsion to lick the wound clean--it's a practical enough way to clear away the blood. Tasting you is a bonus. That's what he tells himself as he trails his tongue down your arm to catch what's dripping down in rivulets to your elbow.

You squirm at the sting. Gaz tightens his grip.

"Is that all you were curious about, then?" Soap asks, sliding closer. He's talking to Gaz but looks down at you with glimmering solid blue eyes.

"Steady," he breathes, his voice still rough. He can smell your nervousness. He can feel your heart pounding. "She's got cuts all over. Let me..."

You feel his hands begin to peel away your tattered clothes and slide under them. You bite down on a squeal, grabbing his wrist. "Hey--!"

Before you can voice your protests fully, Soap's fingers brush the small bite mark on your ankle. You jolt, pulling your legs away and hugging them to yourself. Distracted by this, Gaz lets his free hand glide over the outside of your leg. His calloused fingers follow the curve of your hip, your thigh, your calf. He tugs your leg free so he can study the underside, too. He runs the pads of his fingers all the way back up to the bend of your knee, along the flesh of your hamstring, across the inside of your thigh. You shiver.

At the same time, Soap tugs at the bottom of your tattered shirt with interest. "Why d'you humans wear cloth? Is it because your skin is too thin?" Before you can reconsolidate yourself enough to answer, he scoffs. "All the good it does you. Shreds easier than seaweed."

“Mm,” Gaz agrees absently. He shifts you so your back is back braced up against his chest, your legs bunched up atop his tail. This way, he can keep you here and keep his hands free. He’ll have as much access to you as he needs.

At this angle, you feel rather than see the smooth dark planes of Gaz's chest and stomach. It should be wrong to notice the scars that run over his arms as they pass over you. Or the way his muscles ripple under your back. His body is a dichotomy: warm to the touch and smooth as fine silk, but rough and coarse with scars. Plus there’s the shark half.

Soap snatches up one of your ankles. He prods at your foot. "You get around on these?"

You huff. "When I can, clearly."

He runs the edge of one of his claws over the top of your foot, follows the arched bone underneath, and presses into your instep. He pokes and prods and presses hard on the ball of your foot with a curious look. "Must be slow."

"Doesn't have to be fast," you mutter.

"Then how d'you catch food?"

"I don't have to catch my food."

"You're a predator, though. You've got eyes facing forward."

"I can hunt what I need to hunt.” Salads and instant noodles, but you don’t bother saying that.

"That's good." Soap's hands slide to your toes. He finds it weird how your feet sort of resemble his hands. Little fingers and claws and everything. "As long as you've got prey slower and smaller and softer than you are."

"If that's even possible," Gaz says.

You scowl. Rude.

Gaz seems to enjoy your sour reaction a little too much. "I suppose your prey must be stupid, too."

"Watch it."

A smirk plays at his lips as his gaze flicks down to the rest of you, curled up on his lap in his arms. "Do you think you can make me? What'll you do--scratch me with your claws?" He laces your fingers with his. Your soft, blunt human fingers and his thicker, sharper, callused ones. "Bite me with your razor-sharp teeth?"

"Maybe."

"How vicious." He nudges your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "Go on, then."

You consider it. Then you realize it would just prove his point, so you turn your face away with a huff. You wish you'd paid more attention to all those National Geographic specials about mer. You don't specifically remember any real-life cases of shark mer eating humans, but there are definitely made-for-TV movies about it.

Soap's hands creep up to your calf. His thumbs prod your shin and then your kneecap. "I can feel her bones," he says in surprise.

"We both have bones.”

"Well, yours are like rock. Ye got thin skin, hard bones. 'Cept your claws." Soap's fingers wander up your bare legs past your kneecaps. When they make it to your thigh, he grips it with his whole hand and squeezes lightly.

He's fascinated--amazed, even--by your body. It's almost enough to make you feel self-conscious, but everything you'd cover up is a fascination for them. Bumps, stretch marks, pock marks, folds, fat, stubble--you feel yourself tense up when hands wander to those parts of yourself you've learned to be ashamed of, but they don't react. Of course they don't, but still. It feels strange.

Gaz notices your discomfort. He keeps his grip light and loose on you, but his eyes linger on the flesh of your thigh in Soap's hands, the way your skin dimples under the pressure. "It's like a seal,” Gaz says.

"My thigh is like a seal?"

"Soft and blubbery,” Soap adds. "And seals are delicious." He leans down and pinches a bit of skin in his teeth.

You squirm a bit at the harmless little nip, but moreso at the way his hand slides a little too far up your thigh. You put your uninjured hand over his to stop it from going any higher.

Unfortunately, that just seems to draw his attention to what might be up there. His eyes flick up to your shorts. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't seem like nothing." He grabs the hem of your shorts to slide them higher.

You grab his hands. "Hey!"

He grins. "You're a bit twitchy.”

"That's not allowed," you tell him, face burning.

"Isn't it?" Gaz says. He loops his long fingers under your thigh and lifts it up as if to give Soap more room. "Whose rule is that?"

You quickly snap your thighs shut anyway, curling your legs into yourself as best you can. "My rule. Don't touch."

A low noise of frustration rumbles in Soap's chest. "Why do humans cover up so much?" His hands slide up your outer thighs, and he bends until his face is almost level with your stomach. His frown deepens as if this were the thing he was really curious about. "Just let me look for a second."

"Absolutely not."

"Waste of nice soft human skin," he mutters. "Hiding it all away."

“Let us in,” Gaz says.

“No.”

"Not even me?" he asks.

"No."

They both frown.

"Why not?” Gaz asks. “What are you keeping there?"

You huff. "It's my-- my reproductive things. Happy?"

"Your... reproductive things." Soap furrows his brow and turns his head to Gaz. "Reproductive like a fish?"

Gaz's fingers continue to squeeze your inner thighs in slow, deliberate motions. "No," he says after a beat. "Like a mammal."

"Ah. So?" Soap gives you a blank look. "Those are all up inside you then, aye? Nothin' to see."

He takes hold of your knee again. You immediately pull out of his grasp and turn to the side, sitting up on your knees this time as Gaz shifts his tail to accommodate you. "Nothing to see as far as you're concerned," you respond, curt.

Soap continues to leer at you, but his prodding is less insistent at your clear refusal. "Just tell us then. Where is it exactly? In the front? Or the back?"

You cross your arms. "None of your business."

"Don't humans mate for fun?" Soap asks.

“I didn't say that.”

"They doooo," Soap singsongs. He smiles and bares his teeth, the sharp points on his canines glinting in the light.

All the heat that had gone out of your cheeks comes rushing back in. " Do you?"

Soap grins again in that annoying way. "We do. Very fun. So what's the big deal?”

"We're not mating is what," you snap. You push yourself off of Gaz’s lap and stumble a bit, catching yourself with a splash into the deepening tide. "When are you taking me back home?"

Soap looks disappointed at the possibility of being deprived so suddenly of his new toy.

Gaz frowns too. "Now you're talking like you didn't enjoy yourself." He pushes himself up and follows you into the water, his fins cutting through it smoothly. "But a deal is a deal. We’ll take you back to shore. Once night falls, of course."

"But it's morning!"

"So it is." Gaz circles your legs, forming a crescent around you as he comes to a rest on his side in the shallow water. He smirks at you like he finds your confusion endearing in a tedious way. "Night will come again. We've got time until then."

"But the tide will come in," you remind them, casting a look back at the tiny little cove.

"It will,” Gaz agrees.

You don't like the way his smirk grows. Soap grins, too.

A slow realization that you're being toyed with comes over you. "What am I supposed to do, then?"

Gaz's smirk turns to a lazy little grin to match Soap’s. "Keep letting us entertain you.”

You hem and haw, but ultimately, when they pull you back into the shallow water with them, you don’t fight it. You’d rather conserve your energy.

Soap's hands join Gaz's, running up your strange human legs again. "We're going to keep her. Right, Gaz?"

"Of course," Gaz murmurs. The sea doesn't like to release its gifts. "Why would we bother leaving a catch intact without keeping it?"

...

part 1 / [part 2] / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

more Gaz / more Soap / more mer au / masterlist tag

[urprettylildoe]

𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 ♡︎

Introducing our lovely and definitely not dangerous trio: Red bull, Monster and Boom Boom!

One little taste of them and your fate is sealed, even if you may not know it yet.

They may be different, but if there's one thing they all share, is that they want to break you and make you crave them, like a drug.

So keep on having little tastes of them, because soon, that's all you're gonna think about.

(tw: yandere behaviour, dependency, isolation poisoning)

𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋

sleek and tall, with bright eyes buzzing with excitement and hair wild like he just rolled out of bed — he's always near you. His love doesn't just burn like a mundane, sweet lover's. No, it takes over and consumes everything around you.

he's convinced that you need to spend every waking moment with him and him only. He's your saviour — he's been there with you during the darkest times of your relationship. You need him, and so does he.

no one, absolutely, no one will ever come close to him or you. That's how much you're meant for each other.

...

his chin plants itself onto your shoulder blade, eyes drawn to the screen like a moth to a flame. The jacket with red and blue accents that he always wears is long forgotten on the floor.

"Who're you texting, baby?" there comes the million dollar question after a beat of silence.

your thumbs don't stray from the keyboard, but you crane your head to give him some of your attention. you don't want to relive that type of situation again. "My friends"

his head spins, edges of his vision blurring. Those pests. They're trying to take you away from him, from his love and try to make you need them instead. No way.

however, it seems like the worst thing has yet to come, as you say next: "they're suggesting we go out." your words are seemingly an attempt at gaining a semblance of independency, presenting it as a fait accompli. cute, but futile, he thinks.

fingers trailing lower to your waist, he condescendingly mutters out a: "you're not thinking of going out, are you?" a dark chuckle follows, "seriously, sweetie?"

the way he speaks to you makes you feel small, inferior even. like you need him, and oh, you do — you really do.

"I-I-"

"y/n, darling," his words carry a disarming charm with a hint of menace, an illusion of amiableness, "why don't we just stay in, hm? promise i'll make it worth your while."

the phone is tugged out of your hands and cast aside, because in his books, you've learnt it's a crime to focus on something else when your dear boyfriend is right there in front of you, doting on you.

while he leans over you and showers your face in distracting kisses, do you decide to protest once more, with more firmness in your tone, "but they've been planning this outing for ages now, i just can't cancel on them again."

to your dismay, he just dips his head back down and directs his attention to his previous onslaught of affection, while chirping: "of course you can. If they're your friends, they'll understand."

yes, but for how much longer, you think.

"And if they don't —" hands greedily grab what they can as they roam freely, squeezing, fondling. "— then that's okay too, because m'the only one truly does, hm?"

and as much as you hate those words, you realise he's right. it's you who's responsible for coming to him so willingly, so you just don't have the right to walk away from what you've built.

"gorgeous thing," his hands tug up your top, teeth scraping your jaw as he peppers kisses there. A beast, one that kept you in the dragon's tower, plucking each and every knight out of your life and proclaiming himself as one. "All this for me and me only, right? No one else"

the only thing you could do was nod, close your eyes and take it.

he gifted you wings that you weren't allowed to spread.

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑

not a soft, gentle emerald colour, instead, he has sharp, lime green for eyes that stare into your very soul. with black, short hair, a ripped build, leather boots and torn jeans, he's practically a hazard sign at this point.

he wants you to feel alive with him, not just cooped up in your room wasting away. Now, that's boring. His sweetheart deserves to see everything and anything, and he won't afford any distractions.

from the start, you were pulled into his chaotic world, where rules don't exist and no one is ever safe. you're on your toes the entire time and normalcy is a foreign concept here.

...

The car roars down the road, engines screaming in protest and tires screeching loudly. Unfazed, he leans back in his seat and continues this little game o his, narrowly missing other vehicles. The air vibrates with impending disaster awaiting at any second now.

Your fingers dig into the seats harshly. Earlier's lunch rises up your throat, its contents threatening to escape your mouth. The pit in your stomach grows deeper when he shows nothing but disregard for the risks that he was taking.

He laughs hysterically like an evil madman, eyes watering either from utter amusement or the wind whipping against his eyes. "Isn't this so fun?" you manage to miraculously hear his words over the sound of your heart beating loudly in your ears and the car. "Way better than staying in your room all day, huh?"

You're able understand that he wants you to throw all your responsibilities away for the sake of 'living your lives to the fullest' or some nonsense he spouted in your room earlier. But this? No, this was too much, even for him.

His hand cunningly sneaks up on your thigh but you refuse, wrenching it out of his grasp and pressing yourself against the car door. You could feel him frown. Maybe he'll slow down?

Yeah, right.

He pushes the speedometer up into high territory with more purpose than just meaningless fun now. Then, a threatening growl: "say you love me."

"W-what?" you're not sure you heard him correctly.

"I said—" his words are more impatient now, which is starting to bleed out into the way he drives as well, " — say. you. love. me."

your eyes probably look like they're about to pop out of your skull, jaw going slack. "are you crazy?! have you lost your mind? slow down, this is dangerous."

that only motivates him to go faster. the surroundings outside blur into hazy shapes. one wrong move, and you'd be six feet under. based on the situation, that didn't seem like such a far-fetched outcome anymore.

"I've lost my mind a long time ago, baby. you should know that by now," he calls out, a cold grin on his face, eye twitching.

"slow down, goddamnit. we're gonna crash!" arms wrapped around your knees, you clenched your eyes shut, letting out an involuntary sniffle.

what you should've expected is the smile that grows wider before he sighed blissfully, "how lovely would that be? to die together? the epitome of true love," each word slipping past his lips doesn't fail to surprise or scare you. "and i'm not above making that dream a reality, unless you say it."

"okay, okay, I love you!" you spit out the words before you could even blink, because you'd rather die alone than let him come with you even after death.

he hums, a frown marring his lips like a disappointed mother. Mockingly, he taps his chin, letting his other guide the wheel and your interwined fates both.

"That doesn't quite convincing, sweetheart," he coos with a pout, eyes narrowing. "do you want to die? 'cause it seems like you want to for someone who isn't trying hard enou-"

"I love you!" you cry out, hands cupping your face in your hands, "I want you, no, I need you. I love you more than anything, more than everything. Just, please, slow down."

silence hangs in the air, followed by the sound of the engine calming, before the seat unbuckles on his part. rough, calloused thumbs rub away tears you didn't know were falling down your face.

"Shhh, shh, you did good. i knew those pretty words were hidin' somewhere," he sounds so triumphant, like a golden medal should be placed around his neck. despite the urge to claw his eyes out, you turn your head and cry in his chest, because who else will you turn to if not him?

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐌

one would think he was born in a tight business suit, with his hair slicked back and his neutral face expression at all times. He's got everything meticulously organised and controlled down to the last bit. And you're no exception.

you're more of a puppet than anything, honestly — dancing to his tune, rendered silent and obedient to his each and every command.

there isn't anything in your life that you could control or calls yours anymore, and you don't think there will be anytime soon.

...

the dining table is lively, with the guests having their fill of the salivating dishes and laughing at jokes for their precious reputations that they needed to uphold.

he sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably and legs spread. And then there's you, straddling one of them and clad in a pretty blue outfit (his favourite colour). you don't really have to sit somewhere else, when you have your sweet man here.

Fingers toying with the necklace, which is one of the other things bought by him, he tilts the glass of wine up to your lips and allows you small sips before bringing it back down to give you an illusion that you're drinking more than just one glass. you do get drunk very easily, he says. you don't.

the rule is especially important this evening. he needs you sober for this.

he presses a kiss to your temple and watches the longing shining in your big eyes as everyone chats with one another, mouth parting as you nearly chime in. you're to speak only when spoken to by others, his words remind you.

"what're you thinking about?" a whisper against your skin startles you out of your daydreaming. ah, he noticed, he always does.

"nothing," you suck in a harsh breath. eyes dropping to the floor as if a puppy reprimanded by its owner. this is the life you're used to, but it doesn't hurt any less with each event where you're reminded that you're not normal anymore.

his knee bounces underneath you out of habit rather than a deliberate action this time, "you sure? do you not like my gift?" his eyes drop down to said gift hanging from your wrists and neck, "or is it something else?"

you know that he knows what's really going on; he likes to play the long game and not outright say anything. a smile grows on your lips, even if it's a weak one. there's no use in hurting your cheeks when it's obviously forced, instead you'll stall. "no, I really love them. and m'telling you, nothing's going on."

and just when he's about to prod further, sharp coughing interrupts a moment. not just someone clearing their throat, but full-on wheezing.

the man from earlier. you freeze at the realisation. the one who touched your arm while greeting you. you thought he'd let it go. you're clearly wrong about that.

while the guests scurry around his now slumped form and frantically cry out, a large familiar hand cups your jaw and forces you to stare ahead at the terrible sight.

he speaks calmly, like this was a daily deed, "you see that, pretty? yeah, keep lookin'. that's what happens to people who dare to touch what's mine." crooning, he hugs you tighter against him, "and you, dear, belong to me."

tilting your head towards him now, he relishes in the look in your eyes. fear, dawning horror, but never surprise. how he loves your expressions.

you'd never run. you know better than to from a man who's got everything planned out for him, and tonight's a testament to what he'd do to get rid of a fault in his world. a devil in a suit and a blue tie.

[emiqip]

Pt.2 Apocalyptic Ponyo AU ft. Shockwave and his menaces @keferon

If there was something you learned while living in the ugly, rotten and forgotten parts of the city your whole life, it was that trust was to be given away scarcely and returned fiercely. 

Damus learned this lesson fast. Abandoned beside a squalid garbage bin after his guardian couldn't afford to take care of him anymore- not that they tried in the first place anyway. Life got only more complicated from there: food and shelter were always scarce and had to be fought for, especially if you were a scrawny kid like him and had to tussle and shove middle-aged junkies daily, to be able to scavenge inside the most recent load of trash from the local shitty restaurant in hopes for some lukewarm scraps. 

And then years passed and he became less and less alone. Other kids joined him and life became just a tad bit more bearable. He slowly warmed up to them, feeling for maybe the first time the warmth of what could resemble a family, even if his was little and a bit broken. They looked out for each other: yes the older kids obviously held the most authority and weight out of all of them, but it wasn't unusual to see the twins putting on their best intimidating appearances and stand tall in front of any adult after they dared pick on one of their older siblings- he had seen the scratches and bite marks covering the poor soul who tried to steal Windcharger's lunch...

It had always been left unsaid, but it was clear they loved and cared deeply for each other- that sort of care that looked rough and jagged from an outsider perspective, but it was their kind of love and nobody- adult or whatever could ever have a say in this. 

But it was when you cared so intensely that even at the mere prospect of losing something so dear, your body and soul started betraying you.

He felt it when the apocalypse hit and now... as he watched Blue- young, naive and kind Blue, caged behind a massive wall of sharp teeth and even sharper claws, smiling happily, without a care in the world.

The beast followed the gaze of its small prisoner and finally locked eyes with the new arrivals. Sharp cat-like blue eyes curiously took in the presence of the remaining kids, with its mouth slightly open in surprise, the monster tilted its head and from its throat came forward a small melody of clicks and trills. 

Damus felt his heart sink. God, what did he do in a previous life to deserve this? When he caught himself moving forward on shaky legs, it was already too late. His brain was in overdrive. He had to get the kid out of this situation now. 

"...Blue, buddy, I want you to listen to me very carefully." His throat felt dry and the hands that were clutching his weapon were clammy with sweat. 

"Uh? O-okay." The younger kid briefly looked at his captor before returning his focus on his brother. 

"...walk slowly towards me and hide behind us." 

"What?! Dee I'm not in danger yeah I know Sir. Pancake can be a bit intimidating at first even I was scared but he patched up my knee with some sea moss I don't know how he knew how to do that but-" 

"Buddy please- just- sigh come here Blue!" He hated interrupting his littlest brother during one of his spiels, but now was not the right time. Stress and frustration began eating up at him from inside: why couldn't he see how dangerous this thing really was?! 

"No." 

Wait. 

"WHAT?" 

"I said. No."

Bluestreak huffed, crossing his arms in a pure show of defiance. "I'm perfectly safe where I am, you're being a jerk." To everyone's absolute horror the child lifted his right hand and patted one of the beast clawed fingers to prove his point- in return he got a quiet happy trill. 

"If he really wanted to hurt me he would've done so already and I'm not letting you shoot him." 

He hated to admit he kinda had a point. When the twins left the scene they left the two alone, leaving the youngest completely unprotected against a beast several times bigger than himself. If that thing really wanted to see them all dead, he wouldn't even be here to ponder the possibility. 

Oh for fuck sake, he knew where this was going. They were NOT going to adopt a random fish person. 

Were they?

 \\\

Well wasn't this quite the situation he found himself in? 

Honestly, he had been only searching for a place to finally experience some peace and quiet, away from the grubby hands of the Senate and, consequently, his very dear colleagues. If he had to speak with esteemed senator Tyrest again and entertain him as he blabbed away about 'Rectitude' and 'Order', while an impressive persistent piece of algae clinged on his front teeth- he was going to lose it and offer himself as lunch to the first frenzied monster he found. 

As he reached the surface he began to notice the utter and total destruction around him. Apparently a massive cataclysm had hit a few days prior, leaving the city in utter squalor- he wondered how many lost their lives in the wreckage. Wondering the landscape now engulfed by water. He passed what were once streets, houses and parks- ordinary places where people like his spent their time just... living. 

He wasn't unfamiliar with humans, of course: little hardy creatures, with a knack for destroying everything they came across, even themselves. But he would be lying if he didn't admit he came to favor them- oh, yes! Their utter lack of self preservation had wholly endeared them to him. How depressing things turned out to be. 

He let his train of thoughts race aimlessly as he finally let himself breach the water and slowly heave himself on a random slab of abandoned concrete, perfectly warmed up by the midday sun and he prepared himself to doze off to the calming lull of the waves around him...

A voice- oh no, a couple whispering voices reached his audial fins. They sounded young, very young, but he could not discern the meaning of their words. Too entranced by the new language he didn't notice that one of the speakers was getting quite close to his face, until he felt a sharp poke on his cheek that abruptly made him open his eyes and stand on alert. 

What came after happened too quickly for his still foggy brain to follow entirely: three small humans, most likely guppies, scrambled away from him. The two he presumed were the oldest sprinted as far as possible, while the runt of the bunch got his tiny final caught on a stray rock and fell miserably on the hard ground. 

The other screeched once more as they hurried away to who-knows-where, leaving him and their tiny companion alone. Surely not the best wake-up call he ever had but it can only go better from here, can it? 

A tiny whimper woke him up from his stupor as he once again focused on the small pile of human still plastered on the floor before him. Poor dear must have hurt himself, well that won't do. Slowly, gently he caressed the back of the little darling as he kept softly hiccuping- it was a shame humans skin wasn't as tough as his, it would prevent such inconveniences to happen, not that he blamed the little thing for his own poor biology, of course. 

"Oh sweetheart, it's going to be okay I promise. You're a very tough small fry, I've got you." He let himself coo softly like he heard parents do to their own off-spring. Still minding his own size and sharp points, he dared to nudge the guppy over and inspect the damage himself- turns out the little one had only grazed his right limb, nothing a small dab of sea moss cannot fix. 

As he tended to the guppy's injury, he witnessed the little thing's mood change completely: from an inconsolable heap on the floor to a lively chatterbox- even if the meaning still escaped from him, the constant stream of sound made for a pleasant background as he continued his ministrations. And anyway, the guppy was happy just talking his audials away, who was he to stop his fun? 

Once he deemed his work acceptable enough, he gently prodded the little one to stand beside him, close enough to cover him with one of his fins as a make-shift blanket, and keep him cozy and warm against the evening ocean breeze. Sleep crept closer to him once more, as he listened to his new small ward rant about this and that, while the last rays of the sun warmed his back. Content and at ease he felt his body betray him as he recognized a familiar pleased rumble start in his throat. 

He let himself relax further, knowing this far out nothing would dare attack him and his little guppy. However, he was pleasantly surprised when from the rubble emerged three more small humans. 

Well, he counted six unattended little ones so far- this was getting quite awkward really, who was leaving all these children lying around? They were clearly sporting some sort of weapons, he guessed- although he felt that was reasonably natural, considering humans didn't have any claws or sharp fangs to defend themselves with. 

He watched as the two parties shared a fairly animated conversation. These were most likely his guppy's little friends or... siblings? No matter really since they were all way too young to be wandering around alone in a place like this. 

It was final then! He ought to protect and care for these little ones, until they wouldn't need him anymore.

pt.3 !!

[emacrow]

Danny glared at Scarecrow man from the corner of his play table in the living room pt 3 by emacrow/creator

Stabbing his orange colored playdoh shaped scarecrow with his plastic fork as he stared hard at the sweating bullet Johnathan Crane, who was sitting in the dark purple couch with Lilith making drinks in the kitchen behind.

He could feel the dark energy radicating off this little toddler with the glowing eyes, teeth looking a bit too sharp as the kid stabbed the playdoh repeatedly.

"My mommy." Growled the possibility of a long lost distant related demon brat Robin.

Meeting the demonic toddler once more after 2 months after the wedding with his legs barely able to walk like a goddamm baby lamb toward the kitchen while Lilith looking more refreshed, moving easily the he was.

"You leave like the rest of them after I'm through with you, in the dirt."

That child is a dangerous little monster under an angelic face that can trick Lilith with how this kid attempted to have him killed on multiple occasions.

"She not your mommy."

Don't even get him started on the forever frozen icicles in the shower that almost killed him, fucking tiny plastic sword trap the kid's closet that was sharpen to almost stabbed him in the gut when he opened it to put away the brat's toys or the fake tantrum to scream so loud that his eardrums nearly went deaf.

"You don't deserve mummy."

Kid had a vendetta over him, just even being 3 feet close to Lilith without him death glaring him like a vengeful spirit.

The staring contest only lasted for a few seconds when Lilith came out of the kitchen with her favorite medieval mug of tea, a cup full of coffee with three drops of honey for him, and planet designed sippy cup full of hot chocolate and side of marshmallows for Danny.

That brat's evil face suddenly switched like a god damn switch, eyes sparkling with that gaping tooth smile staring at Lilith like she brought the moon itself to him, kissing her cheek with a soft giggle.

"Thank you, mummy." He said, sipping his sippy cup, his little feet swinging back and forth.

Lilith doesn't realize she was fooled by that demon in disguised.

Well, at least he got one thing on his side, which was the dark massive horse that lived in the backyard of Lilith home in the stable house. Nightmare was her name, and she was obsessed with him and scarecrow masks, probably due to the fear toxin residue.

Lilith had a stern talking to that stalker horse after he almost freaked out, seeing that horse somehow in his part of the closet trying to steak his ninth spare scarecrow outfit again to hoard in the stable right when he tried to get ready for the meeting, dragging Jonathan back to Lilith's house by his jacket.

He has evil plans to do goddammit!

Previous pt 2 link here<-

[lilaccmilk]

@lulz-nematode-belmont ask and you shall receive 🫶🏻 and i'm sorry this took soooo long.

Since you were little you've always feared monsters and the dark. Especially the monster under your bed. But as you grew up, you managed to convince yourself that it was just a myth. But now, as you've moved to your new house, over the course of past few months, you feel that the monster under the bed thing wasn't just a myth to scare children.

You wake up in the morning, not even remembering when you went to bed, with bruises on your thighs and your pussy sore. You tried setting up a camera, but "somehow" the camera didn't record anything except darkness.

This time around, you're prepared to stay awake the entire night, so you get in your bed and close your eyes. After almost an hour, you feel your blanket being pulled down from over you. You remain still, and you feel giant hands on your thighs spreading your legs apart.

You feel a presence hover over you, and suddenly you switch on the lights, just to see a tall dark figure, he looks almost like a human, except he has a skin that matches the darkness of the night, his hair as white as snow. His face is pleasing to look at. Even the razor sharp teeth, you feel safe with him around, he starts to retreat wide eyed, but your voice stops him— "You've been visiting me?"

"Yeah" he replies kind of guilty. "I'm not....mad, just surprised" you laugh. "What have you been doing in your visits?" you add on. "I've been fucking you with my tongue. Couldn't resist" he speaks softly.

You blush at his straightforwardness about what he had been doing. Honestly you didn't mind, just hoped that you could've stayed awake while he was busy eating you out. "You're aroused?"he grunts. Your eyes widen, how could he sense that? You, yourself couldn't. "Am I?" you ask to no one in particular.

"Yeah, more so than the other days." he replies anyways. "Now what?" you question to him. "I can leave if you want me to, but if you want me to stay, just know you'll never get rid of me. You will be mine and I will be yours." he replies, his voice turning dark at the end.

You pause for a bit and then just say one word, "Stay." And all hell breaks loose, you're on your back, legs spread, shorts ripped apart and him face to face with your cunt. You try to close your legs out of shyness but he holds them apart, his voice rough as he speaks "Don't try hiding yourself from me, sunshine. You're all mine."

He then wordlessly licks up your pussy. His teeth carefully toy with your clit. He eats you out with so much vigor, it makes your back arch off the bed, and he pins you down by your hips to the bed. He gets so messy, it's like he's eating you out for his own pleasure rather than yours. He continues his ministrations on your poor cunt and you cum around his tongue. He keeps on going until you come 3-4 times more.

"I think that's enough for you tonight. yeah?" He speaks. You're too tired to say anything and wordlessly pull him closer to you to cuddle him.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

but now i’m thinking of a twilight au where reader mom is from the tribe and is a shifter, image her moving back to folks and being welcome by the pack?? the batfamily trying to find her and find her at the pack.

adopted by sam and emily, dating someone ( maybe a vampire or a werewolf or connor or ALL??) IMAGEEE. l

"SHEWOLF"

I LOVE THIS ASK!!!(can you tell I'm a supernatural fan?)

Werewolf!reader is as cute as she is dangerous. Her eyes are so bright, they are petrifying. Her teeth are razor-sharp; her nails could cut down any unsuspecting victim. When reader was younger, she couldn't control her shifting; half the time, she would be in full wolf form, tearing up couches and pillows, maybe even clothes. But how could your mom be mad at you? Your absolutely adorable amber eyes, black fur, and wagging tail—she couldn't stay angry for long. And you sneeze; your wolf ears pop out, the same with your tail. You're the youngest of the pack, and it was even worse because you were the smallest. The little pup who can't go hunting cuz "she'll slow us down." But when you got older, you had the most insane growth spurt, making your cousins jealous because you towered over them in wolf and werewolf form without even trying. Even in human form, you're taller, and the reader has some dog-like aspects she'll never grow out of. Like when living with the Waynes, they didn't want to wrestle at all, saying that's for kids. But you need to let off steam, and what's better than letting off steam with wrestling? You and your cousin used to go crazy wrestling in wolf form, destroying most of your mom's furniture. But when Jason hears you whine like a puppy because he won't wrestle with you, he ends up giving in and gets surprised at how strong you are, wolf form or not. You're on top of him, screaming again! You connect with Damian's animals a lot. Titus snarled at you once, and you scared the poor dog away with a growl. You apologized quickly afterward. Alfred, the cat is scared of you; he has no clue what you are, but he knows you're not human. You try your hardest not to scare him to death, but he runs away from you every time. You want to cry. "Ha! He's scared of you!" Duke says with a laugh, but your eyes are droopy and turned down with sadness. "Why?" When the bats first see the transformation into a werewolf and then back to human, they are horrified, shocked, and confused. Except Bruce; he's a little surprised. "You would grow to be that big! I didn't mention it, but your werewolf form is a little uncanny valley-like; you're somewhere between girl, monster, and wolf. It's like a cute little Monster High doll—something you'd see on Supernatural. And when you shift into a wolf, it's kinda odd because you're bigger than the average wolf—way bigger and heavier—but there's something strangely human about you. Barbara says your eyes look so human when you're a wolf, and how when you bark or howl, it sounds like words. But don't let them watch you eat after a successful hunt; they'll be traumatized. Duke, when looking for you (because you've been in the woods too long), just sees you in the middle of gnawing at a deer, ripping the meat right off the bone. Bloodshot eyes, sharp teeth wet with drool and blood, ears pointed down as blood covers your snout. He's completely paralyzed until you speak, 'Duuuke…'" It's like a mixture of a growl and a rasp. He'll have some nightmares after that, but your excuse, "I was hungry," won't work. One time, you came home to the manor with a moose carcass, saying, "Dinner!" Expecting Alfred to cook it, and he couldn't say no when you were staring, whimpering, and pouting. You're my favorite person to hunt with; Cass is a great runner. You've inherited your pack and tribe, meaning you'll soon be the one taking care of it, and you honestly can't wait. But the elders aren't ready to let you go—not now, not ever. So what do they do? They give you a small rosary cross necklace that stops you from shifting for a minute. It's 10% silver, but not enough to hurt you—just enough to leave you in human form. But you can't leave a wild animal caged for long.

[wrthzell]

hi! Could you write a Vander x male reader where Vander in his werewolf(?)/Warwick(?) form recognizes the reader, and reader also recognizes him, and is so so happy to meet his old lover again

Sorry any mistakes, English is not my first language!

𝐑𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍 — (Vander/Warwick X Male Reader).

Note: Thank you for the request! No worries; English is not my first language either, and your request was very comprehensible. It turned out a bit short, but I hope it's to your liking.

Summary: The old memories of what could have been and what was haunt you, but after being called to the mines you once used to work on, you find that maybe your life won't have to be filled with regret and longing.

Warnings: Spoilers, don't read unless you've watched Arcane.

Key: (Y/n) — Your name. | (H/c) — Your hair colour. | (E/c) — Your eye colour.

Sickly green neon lights reflect on murky brown water, and a stomach-churning stench rises from the walls of the worn-down building; the grey impregnated itself in any surface it touched, like acrid sulfur. (Y/n) crouched in front of The Last Drop, (e/c) eyes squinting to make out any recognisable feature in what once was a haven to him.

He dusted off the dirt that had collected in the upper part of his pants and inhaled sharply, lungs long accustomed to the poisonous fog of his hometown. He pressed forward. The inside was empty—needless to check; he wouldn't find her inside. The paper felt like lead in his pocket, heavy and foreboding—a reminder of his failures and the grief that followed any Zaunite like a wailing shadow.

He hadn't gone to the mines in years, and he hadn't had to work there in such a long time that he wasn't sure what exactly they looked like after everything. The entrance was falling apart, and wood planks, detached and broken, littered the floor, and glass cracked underneath his shoes. He tightened his jaw and looked down, the pitch-black darkness of the cave illuminating with every step. 

Thump, thump, thump. The impact of his boots against the floor echoed—the caves amplified each sound closer than it truly was—and the faint noises of water dripping reached his ears along with a low rumbling. She was deeper there, had to be. His fingers rubbed the paper note inside his pocket, hope simmering inside his chest.

Thundering footsteps started to come in his direction; something metallic scratched against the walls. He raised his guard, crouching and aiming his gun at the origin of the sound. The walls illuminated in a quick flash, and a dark shadow moved too fast for him to brace himself for it, the thing colliding into his chest and throwing him to the ground.

Mismatched eyes looked straight into his, and a gaping maw with sharp teeth stopped just short of tearing his face apart. Shivers went down his spine, and his lips quivered, tears welling in his eyes as he raised a trembling hand to the creature's face. A sharp set of footsteps entered the place, the light going up again and illuminating the monster's face further. Greyish dark fur coated a familiar face and warped it into something recognisable but not completely. 

“Thought you'd want to see him.” Powder announced, her gun clanking against her belt. 

Vi stepped closer, opening her mouth and closing it before finally settling on explaining it. “It's...”

“Vander.” He held the man's face in his hands, tears falling down his eyes, a thunderous storm inside his heart. The man he loved. The man he loves. He holds him tenderly but strongly, as if afraid that when he lets go, it will all dissolve and morph back into his bleak reality.

Vander softens, resting his head against the crook of the other man's neck. A content sigh leaves his nose and ruffles the hair on the (h/c)-haired man's head. “(Y/n).”

“Sheesh, even he recognised him way faster than you did.” The blue-haired woman jabbed at her sister, the corner of her mouth pulled up in a teasing smirk. Her facade breaks as she sees a hand outstretched in her direction. 

(Y/n) reassuringly squeezes her hand, a wide smile on his lips as he unburies his head from Vander's fur and turns it towards his daughter. “Thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me. You love him as much as we do,” she laughs bitterly. Her hand, albeit hesitant, holds his tighter.

“I do. I don't know how you found him or what happened, but you brought me back to him. I haven't felt like this in so long.” His voice sounds choked, and he looks back at the pair of blue and yellow eyes, his hands caressing the rough skin. He feels Vander's strong arms curl around him, and the fur tickles his neck and arms, warm and comforting. “I love you,” he whispers in the man's ear, loud enough for only them to hear it.

“Love... you.” He answers back.