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[gietvloerarnhem]

Waarom een Gietvloer de Perfecte Keuze is voor jouw Woonkamer

🛋️ Gietvloeren voor de Woonkamer 🎨

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#interieur #woonkamer #gietvloer #gietvloerarnhem

[ja3yun]

Please, Please, Please | P.JS

criminal!jay x good girl!reader

warnings: angst, slight fluff, smut (mdni), multiple sex scenes, unprotected sex, oral (m&f rec.), multiple orgasms, fingering, car sex, cliffside bj, white dragon, slightly toxic!jay at the beginning, possessive, crime (obvs), mentions of robbery, theft, guns, money laundering, violence, blood, overall criminal behaviour from multiple parties, tough love, confrontation, touch her and you'll die, anything else lmk!

w.c: 34k (sorry)

synopsis: synopsis: visiting your tax fraudulent dad in prison and nothing was new, except the boy being carted in to the police station in cuffs. when you follow your connection on a reckless whim, it opens you up to a world filled with crime, love, and realisations about who you are.

a/n: hi! this was heavily anticipated and i went back and forth on this for a long time regarding making it a series or keeping it a one shot. In the end, i decided to make it just one thing. i really do hope you like it, i tried to set the pace as best i could with the little wordcount blr will give me so i am praying it's okay! anyway, enjoy! as always, reblogs, comments, etc etc are all appreciated and loved <3

“Now be a good girl for me, Y/N,” your dad gushes, his eyes tired and hand placed against the glass. He looks like half the man he was before stepping into this place.

The greyness of the prison seems to leech the colour from everything around it, leaving only the stark contrasts of shadows and light, along with his navy and white uniform. The fluorescent lights inside cast a sickly pallor on your father's face, accentuating the lines of worry and regret etched into his once confident features.

He was a self-made man, once the toast of the town, known for his business acumen and seemingly Midas touch. But behind the facade of success, he had been entangled in a web of deceit. It all began with a seemingly harmless decision to bend the rules - just a little. He had justified it to himself as a necessary measure, a way to keep the business afloat during tough times. It was just a bit of creative accounting, he had thought. But what started as a small indiscretion soon snowballed into a full-blown scheme of tax evasion.

For years, he had hidden his tracks well, moving money through a labyrinth of offshore accounts, shell companies, and falsified records. His lifestyle had grown ever more lavish, the fruits of his ill-gotten gains displayed in a sprawling mansion, luxury cars, and vacations to exotic locales. Yet, the more he accumulated, the more paranoid he became, always looking over his shoulder, fearing the day when his carefully constructed house of cards would come crashing down.

And crash it did. An anonymous tip-off to HMRC triggered an investigation that swiftly unravelled the elaborate fraud. The evidence was damning – millions of pounds in unpaid tax, laundered funds, and fraudulent claims. The trial was short and sharp, the verdict inevitable. The judge's gavel fell with finality, marking the end of his freedom and the start of his journey behind bars. 

Luckily, or unluckily depending on how you view it, he only got five years in prison which is unheard of for someone who committed such a lavish crime with lots of money involved. So far, he has served four and a bit out of five years and is set to come home in 6 months.

However, that freedom is still a while away, and the only way you can see him now is through this thick glass panel, speaking to him through a telephone. The visitation room is grim and impersonal, with rows of metal chairs bolted to the floor, and a cacophony of muffled conversations echoing off the hard surfaces. The phone is cold in your hand, a lifeline to the man who once seemed invincible.

Your dad's prison uniform hangs loosely on his frame, the drab, coarse fabric a far cry from the tailored suits he used to wear. He shifts uncomfortably on the small stool, the shackles around his wrists clinking softly with every movement. Every visit you have with your dad, it’s always the same jargon; “Be a good girl”, “Stay out of trouble”, or, “Don’t be bad like your dad.” It’s always a useless reminder because, for 20 years of your life, you have never once gotten into bother.

From a young age, you have been the epitome of a model child. You always listen to your parents, excel in school, and never once give them cause for worry. Your teachers often remarked on your diligence and kindness, always quick to help a struggling classmate or volunteer for a school project. While other kids might have dabbled in teenage rebellion, you stayed focused, driven by an internal compass that always pointed towards doing the right thing.

You are just so scared of disappointing your father.

Even at University, you stay away from parties and stay focused on keeping your head straight, making friends with people of similar character to you - if they even are still your friends. Most of them dipped on you once your father got convicted, not wishing to be associated with a criminal’s daughter, or more importantly, a girl with no money.

Little did they know that you were very much still wealthy thanks to your dad’s extra-sneaky antics.

Now, sitting across from your father in the sterile confines of the prison, you feel a pang of sorrow mixed with frustration. His reminders to stay out of trouble feel almost insulting, a stark contrast to the reality of your life. You have always been the one to shoulder responsibilities, to pick up the pieces and move forward.

Sometimes, you wish you could just do something out of character, something others would deem reckless.

“Dad, I’ve never been in trouble,” you remind him gently, trying to hide the sting of your words. “I’ve always been a good girl, remember?” To a fault, sometimes.

He sighs, the weight of his guilt evident in his tired eyes. “I know, Y/N. I just…I worry about you. I don’t want you to end up like me.”

“You don’t have to worry,” you say firmly. “I’m not you. You made it perfectly clear the path I need to be on.”

Your words sting into his chest, but his face never shows it. You’re right anyway, you have always lived up to his impossible expectations. Instead, he nods and relents, dropping the subject altogether. Just in time, too, because the guard quickly steps in to wrap up the visit.

“Time’s up,” the guard announces, his tone brisk and indifferent.

You both hesitate for a moment, savouring the last few seconds before the separation. “I love you, Dad,” you say, your voice soft but resolute.

“I love you too, Y/N. Be strong,” he replies, his hand still pressed against the glass.

With a final nod, you place the phone back on the hook and stand up, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you as you walk away. The sound of the door buzzing open and then locking behind you is a harsh reminder of the reality you both face.

Stepping out of the visiting room, a tumult of emotions surges within you - sadness, frustration, and a lingering sense of helplessness. Each step feels heavy, as if the burdens of your father's past are pressing down on your shoulders. The overhead lights in the corridor cast a stark, cold glow, reflecting off the polished linoleum floor and intensifying the sterile atmosphere of the prison. You hate it here, trying to avoid the place as much as possible, only visiting your dad maybe once every five months.

It’s not that you don’t love him but this place isn’t built for someone like you.

As you navigate the maze of hallways to head to the exit, a sudden commotion draws your attention. Two guards are escorting a man into the facility, his wrists bound behind his back with handcuffs. He walks with a defiant swagger, despite the firm grips on his arms. His black slacks and tight-fitted black polo shirt cling to his muscular frame, giving him an air of unrefined power. His hair, meticulously gelled back, now shows signs of disarray from the rough handling, with a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead.

"Fucking calm down, I'm walking with you," he growls, his voice dripping with sarcasm and defiance. The deep timbre of his words reverberates through the corridor, causing a ripple of tension among the guards and onlookers. 

You pause, momentarily taken aback by the scene unfolding before you. The man's audacity and the raw edge in his voice contrast sharply with the controlled environment of the prison, sparking an unexpected intrigue. Certain prisoners cause scenes, but never have you seen it up close, only hearing about it through the words of your father.

As the guards march him up the corridor, his dark eyes lock onto yours for a brief moment. His face is strikingly beautiful - dark eyebrows framing his symmetrical face and dangerous eyes that seem to pierce right through you. He looks more like a model than a felon, and the incongruity of his appearance in this setting sends a jolt through your system.

His gaze trails down your body as he gets closer to you, slow and deliberate, igniting a rush of heat that spreads from your cheeks to your core. His eyes linger on your curves, and you notice the way he licks his lips, a predatory smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The intensity of his attention makes your breath catch, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you in this stark, fluorescent-lit hallway.

“Hey, darlin’, how’s it going?” he asks as he passes, his tone nonchalant but menacing, the kind of menacing that makes your pulse quicken and your skin tingle.

“Move along,” one of the guards snaps, shoving him forward. But even as they push him into a room, he cranes his neck to keep you in his sight for as long as possible. His eyes burn with defiance and amusement, and he smirks, the expression filled with a dangerous charm that leaves you momentarily breathless.

The door slams shut behind him, and the spell is broken. You’re left standing in the corridor, your heart racing and your mind reeling from the unexpected encounter. The raw magnetism of his presence lingers in the air, intertwining with the myriad of emotions already churning within you.

“Ma’am, please come this way,” a guard gestures for you to step through the gated door. Numbly, you follow his direction, your mind still preoccupied with the intensity of those dark eyes.

You step through the gate, hearing the metallic clink as it locks behind you. Making your way to the front desk, you feel a strange mix of adrenaline and bewilderment coursing through you. You remove your visitor’s badge and place it on the desk, your fingers lingering on the smooth plastic for a moment.

“Who was that?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though your voice betrays a hint of the curiosity you feel.

The guard behind the desk, a burly man with a no-nonsense demeanour, looks up from his paperwork. “Park Jongseong,” he replies, his tone matter-of-fact. “He's a series regular here. It's best not to catch his attention; he eats girls like you for dinner.”

You swallow hard, the guard’s words sending a shiver down your spine. “Eats girls like me for dinner?” you repeat, more to yourself than to him, the gravity of the warning sinking in.

“Yeah,” the guard nods, his expression grim. “He’s got a reputation. Charismatic, but dangerous. You don’t want to be on his radar.”

You nod, thanking the guard before turning to leave. The encounter with Park Jongseong, brief as it was, has left a deep impression. You replay the guard’s words in your mind, a cautionary tale that echoes with the reality of the world you’ve just stepped out of.

But you’re so over listening to everyone’s advice, allowing your body to rule your head for a moment. Maybe this is your chance to break free from the shackles of your life and enter a new world of freedom.

Even if it is with someone behind bars.

_____

You sit in the visiting room, the sterile environment starkly contrasting with the elegance of your outfit. You're wearing a pastel blue Versace dress, its delicate fabric clinging to your figure in all the right places, the intricate design showcasing a blend of sophistication and subtle allure. The dress features a fitted bodice with delicate lace details, the skirt flowing gracefully to just above your knees. The soft, cool hue of the dress enhances the warmth of your skin and the high neckline adds an air of modesty.

Your heartbeat feels like a defining accessory, pounding in your chest, a constant reminder of your anticipation. Normally, visiting your father doesn’t elicit such a reaction - your heart maintains a steady rhythm, the meetings imbued with sadness and routine. 

But today is different. Today, you aren't here to see your father. You're waiting for the man who shared a fleeting moment with you two weeks ago, the memory of his intense gaze still fresh in your mind.

The minutes tick by slowly, each one amplifying the tension coursing through you. Your eyes keep darting to the door, waiting for it to open and reveal the man whose presence had left such an indelible mark on you. The guards move about their routines, the clinking of keys and distant echoes of conversations creating a backdrop to your restless thoughts.

This is a bad idea, probably your most foolish one, but you had to see him just once more to truly understand the leap your heart performed when you looked at him for the first time. You have never gone against your father’s wishes of staying out of trouble, but this was an itch you couldn’t ignore, the pull towards the felon all too real.

Your emotions are a chaotic cocktail of anticipation, fear, and excitement. The adrenaline rush is almost dizzying, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you to leave, to not get involved with someone so dangerous, but the other part - the part that felt an inexplicable connection - can’t bear the thought of walking away without understanding what it is about him that draws you in so powerfully.

You glance down at your hands, noticing how they tremble slightly. You clasp them together in your lap, trying to steady yourself. The fabric of your dress feels soft and cool against your skin, a contrast to the heat coursing through your veins. You shift in your seat, trying to calm your racing thoughts, but every small sound in the room heightens your awareness, keeping you on edge.

As each second drags on, the waiting becomes almost unbearable. Doubts creep in - what if he doesn’t remember you? What if this was all just a meaningless encounter for him? But then you recall the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, so why wouldn’t he remember you?

You tell yourself that this is more than simply gratifying a passing curiosity; it's about understanding the electrifying connection you felt. It's about breaking free, even if only for a moment, from the bounds of your usual, routine existence.

Your father’s voice echoes in your mind, warning you about the dangers of straying from the straight and narrow path. You’ve always been the good girl, the one who follows the rules, but something about Park Jongseong makes you want to throw caution to the wind. There’s a thrilling allure in the forbidden, in stepping outside your comfort zone to explore the unknown.

When the buzzer sounds around the room, you jump slightly even though you have heard that klaxon indicating the unlocking of the door numerous times over the years. But this isn’t a polite chit-chat with your dad; this is a meeting with a man whose crimes you don't know the extent of, nor how dangerous he truly is, all because you got fanny flutters.

The prisoners filter through, each one going to their respective visitors with longing and hurried speed. Then, Jongseong waltzes in, his hands cuffed in front of him. His navy, ill-fitted trousers, paired with a tight white v-neck that showcases just enough of his chest to let your imagination run wild and non-styled hair give him a dishevelled yet irresistibly handsome appearance. His dark eyes scan the room, exuding a sense of confidence and dominance.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs over as you try to compose yourself and stop tears from escaping down your legs. Prison boys have never done anything for you, but Jongseong is on another level of attraction.

The room feels hotter, the air thicker, as your anxiety spikes like you’re playing a brutal game of emotional volleyball and you are always on the losing side. Jongseong whispers something to the guard beside him, his voice low and smooth but indecipherable. The guard glances your way, then points directly at you, making your heart race even faster, like you’re suddenly under the spotlight of an interrogation room.

Jongseong’s eyes land on you, and a smug smile spreads across his face. There's a flicker of surprise and confusion flashing across his features, but it quickly vanishes, replaced by that same predatory gleam you remember. He strides over to you with a casual arrogance, his every movement exuding confidence.

As he reaches the booth, he throws himself into the seat opposite you, the long chain connecting his hands and feet skate along the floor. He leans back, his eyes never leaving yours, the cuffs around his wrists clinking softly with the movement. The intensity of his gaze makes you feel as if the rest of the room has faded away, leaving just the two of you in this charged, electric moment.

Reaching for the phone, he places it against his ear and waits for you, chewing his gum leisurely, his eyebrows raised in an expectant arch. Your body remains still, paralysed by the magnetism of his presence, his pupils like black holes, sucking you into his hold. For a few beats of your heart, you can’t move, his gaze pinning you in place with an almost hypnotic intensity.

Finally, you gather the courage to lift the receiver, your hand trembling slightly as you bring it to your ear. The action feels monumental, the weight of the phone a tangible connection between you and the enigmatic man before you. As soon as you do, Jongseong smirks, leaning his elbows casually on the ledge behind the glass panel.

“Now who are you?” he inquires, devouring your appearance with trailing glances.

“...My name is Y/N,” you reply so softly he almost doesn’t catch it coming through the receiver. 

"Well, Y/N, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He drawls, his voice a low, lazy murmur tinged with amusement. His eyes gleam with a mix of curiosity and wickedness, and the leer never leaves his face.

You remain silent, the words caught in your throat as you grapple with the swirl of emotions and thoughts racing through your mind. His half grin widens and he tilts his head slightly, still chewing his gum with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Okay, let me rephrase,” he says, his tone shifting to a mockingly thoughtful one. “What is a little lamb like you, requesting to see a big bad wolf like me for? Do we know each other?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and charged, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies your reaction. You can feel the pulse of your heartbeat in your ears, a relentless drum that amplifies the tension between you. His words, laced with a blend of sarcasm and genuine intrigue, challenge you to respond and also hurt your chest a smidge. You have been thinking about this man who you saw for a maximum of 20 seconds for the past fortnight, dreaming about him and finding ways to get a visitor’s badge to see him and you probably haven’t passed his mind once.

Taking a deep breath, you find your voice, albeit shaky. “No…we don’t know one another,” you admit, suddenly realising the insanity of this whole ordeal. You begin to bite your lip and inwardly curse yourself for being so reckless.

“Then why are you here? ... Fuck, are you the lawyer they keep trying to pounce on me?” The sudden defensiveness in his words gets your attention, the sharpness of his voice creating a tremble in your legs. He is slowly putting his guard up the more he looks over your expensive outfit, drawing conclusions about you in his mind as he mistakes you for someone he would rather jab himself in the eye than see.

Quickly, your eyes widen, and you shake your hand up in defence. “No, no, no. I’m not a lawyer,” you explain, rushing the words out of your mouth to halt the wall he is placing between you. “I just-I want to get to know you.”

He pauses, the tension in his posture easing slightly, but his eyes remain wary. “Get to know me?” he repeats, his tone conveying scepticism and enlivened curiosity. “And why is that, darlin’?”

You swallow hard, your heart still racing and now paired with an uncomfortableness in your underwear as he calls you the endearing nickname, his accent filtering through your ears like your favourite song. “I don’t know,” you confess, looking down at your lap. 

It’s pathetic, you know it, but you don’t know why. Well, you know you had to see him because your brain is insufferable and will not let you forget anything of the man’s existence, but that is all the reason you have come to see him, all it took for you to want to delve into his life. If you told him that, he would either see you as pathetic or easy prey.

“You don’t know?” he echoes back to you with a laugh, his body fully unguarded once again. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip. It is at this moment that the penny drops as to who you are, his finger starting to wag as he leans back in the chair with an elated beam on his face.

“You were here when they carted me in.” The fact sits between you as it kisses a blush over your face in embarrassment, his realisation of your identity now suddenly making you wish that the ground would open up beneath you and swallow you whole. “Did you like what you saw that much, you just had to come see it up close?”

Jongseong’s eyes glint with amusement, the smugness radiating off him like heat waves off asphalt. He leans back further, making himself comfortable, his chains clinking softly against the chair. His body language oozes confidence, the kind that borders on arrogance, and his grin stretches wide, revealing perfectly aligned teeth that contrast heavily with the dark intensity of his gaze.

“Look at you, all flustered,” he teases, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “I must’ve made quite an impression, huh?”

Your mind races, searching for an answer that feels as elusive as he is. He chuckles softly, the sound rich and full, vibrating through the phone line and into your very core. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything,” he says, his tone almost gentle now. “Your eyes tell me everything I need to know.”

His self-belief is unshakable, a fortress built on years of navigating the rough waters of his life. The smugness in his manner is not just arrogance but a well-honed weapon, a way to keep people at bay while drawing them in. He knows the power he holds, and he wields it with a finesse that leaves you both disarmed and intrigued.

“Okay,” he leans forward again, his face so close to the glass panel that you wish it would disappear, allowing you to admire his features without the glare from the overhead lights as they dance annoyingly on the shield. “Let me tell you a few things about me. My name is Park Jongseong, although you already know that, don't you, darlin’?” 

He pauses, his gaze lingering on you with a disconcerting intensity as you shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. How else could you have possibly arranged a visit with him? The question flashes across his face, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. After all, as far as he knew, only family could visit him and fuck knows where they are. So how did you manage to worm your way in?

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. He nods knowingly before continuing. "I'm 22, been in and out of here about four times. I love romantic walks on the beach, and before you ask, it was car theft." The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of excitement and trepidation. His casual confession answers most of your unspoken questions, including the big one: why he was here. The revelation that he wasn’t in for something more sinister like murder eases some of your apprehension. Your heartbeat steadies and you feel a strange sense of relief mixed with the undeniable pull towards him.

The glass between you seems to distort, creating a shimmering mirage. Every word, every glance is charged with electricity. It's reckless, dangerous, but the allure is intoxicating. He studies you, his eyes drinking in your flushed cheeks and trembling lips. Leaning closer, he whispers into the phone, his voice a husky caress, "You're fucking beautiful. I could eat you alive."

The words are a cold reminder of the guard's chilling warning. Yet, instead of fear, you feel a thrill of defiance. Before you can stop yourself, you whisper back, "Why don't you?"

Surprised by your own boldness, you feel your face heat up even more. Jongseong’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of astonishment crossing his features before a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. “You’d like that, huh?” he asks cheekily, poking his tongue to his cheek.

He spots the cross hanging around your neck and shakes his head in disbelief. “Darlin’, you’re a good girl, I can tell. So why the fuck are you trying to play with me?”

His question hangs in the air, challenging you. You can feel his eyes boring into you, waiting for an answer. The intensity of his gaze, combined with the unexpected boldness that had surged through you moments ago, leaves you speechless for a second.

"I..." you begin, your voice trembling slightly. "I don't know. Maybe because for once, I want to do something reckless. Something just for me."

He chuckles a deep, throaty sound that reverberates through the phone. "Oh, so you’re saying I’m just for you? That I can give you what you crave?” His voice is dripping in seduction and you are pretty sure you’re dripping on the stool you’re uncomfortably shifting on. “You’re playing with fire, little lamb. You sure you can handle the heat?"

The challenge in his tone ignites something inside you. You nod slowly, eyes locking onto his. "I'm not afraid of being burnt." You are, in fact, scared of a little heat but the thumping of your heart and the lightness of your head right now is a feeling you want to experience again and again, and you know for certain that the only person in this world that can give you this exhilaration is the criminal in front of you.

Jongseong's eyes hold a captivating potency as he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over the glass. "We'll see about that," he murmurs, a low, dangerous promise. "But be careful what you wish for, darling. Once you step into the fire, there's no turning back." His words hang heavy in the air, a tantalising mix of threat and allure.

Just then, the harsh clang of a metal object against the door shatters the intimate atmosphere. "Visiting time's over!" a guard's voice booms through the room. A wave of disappointment washes over you, a bittersweet pang as the realisation of impending separation hits you hard. Time flew by far too fast and you felt like you didn’t even get to scratch the surface of what you wanted this meeting to be

The playful arrogance in his eyes softens, replaced by a vulnerability you hadn't expected. "Hey," he begins gently, his voice a stark contrast to his usual bravado. "I'm out in three months." The words hang suspended in the air, a promise that ignites a spark of hope within you. “Wait for me, yeah?” he asks, his eyes searching yours for an answer. Despite the softness, there's a flicker of his usual cockiness in his gaze, as if he already knows your answer. “Come on, you know you want to. I’m worth it.”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. The guard’s voice booms again, and you know you have to go. The brute of a man is already making his way over to Jongseong to escort him back to his cell. Jongseong stands up, still holding the phone, and smiles a mock-innocent grin at you.

“Take care, darlin’,” he says, his voice a soft caress that sends shivers down your spine. “And don’t go fucking around while I’m gone. I’d hate to have to get done for murder.” A mischievous glint dances in his eyes, a reminder of the man he is and that he has made you his own from here on out.

His words are a blend of a promise and a threat, leaving you breathless. The guard finally reaches him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and pulling him back. Jongseong doesn’t resist, but his eyes stay locked on yours until the last possible moment, a smirk playing on his lips.

As the guard leads him away, you feel a mix of emotions swirling within you - excitement, trepidation, and a strange sense of belonging. The connection between you and Jongseong is undeniable, and the anticipation of what’s to come only heightens the tension. 

You hang up the phone and stand, your legs feeling unsteady. As you make your way out of the visiting room, the reality of your decision settles over you. Jongseong has already left an indelible mark on your heart. And as much as he has claimed you, you realise with a surge of confidence that you have claimed him too.

And you’ll patiently wait as long as you have to.

_____

The sun blazes overhead, its subtle heat beating down as you sit on the hood of your car outside the prison gates. Your outfit is casual yet sexy: a form-fitting red tank top with mesh detailing paired with high-waisted denim shorts that accentuate your curves, knowing Jongseong will appreciate the effort. You’ve learned a lot about him over the past three months through your almost daily phone calls. Conversations about life, likes, dislikes, and everything in between have built a connection that transcends the barriers of the prison walls.

The memories of those short but impactful conversations play through your mind as you wait. Jongseong's deep voice details his favourite songs, the foods he craves, and the gossip around the cell blocks. You remember laughing together over his stubborn insistence that dark chocolate is superior to milk and the surprising revelation that he actually does like to walk along the beach and it wasn’t just a sarcastic comment the first day you met him.

There was that one agonising week when you couldn't reach him. The anxiety had eaten at you until you finally learned he'd been thrown into the hole for an outburst with another prisoner. The story came out later: a dispute over the weight bench had escalated until Jongseong had whacked the guy over the head with a dumbbell as a result of testing his patience. It was a reminder of the world he was still entangled in, sometimes it’s easy to forget that he is in prison for a crime and that you both aren’t just long-distance lovers.

Seeing him in person had been almost impossible due to the strict visiting rules regarding family members being the only ones who could visit. But you weren’t deterred. With a little persuasion and a few hundred pounds slipped to the right people, you managed one precious visit. The memory of him that day is vivid: a busted lip, a black eye, and a new tattoo of a dagger with a dragon wrapped around it. The sight had sent your pulse racing. Despite the bruises, or perhaps because of them, he had never looked hotter. You’d been tempted to break the glass and pounce on him right then and there.

Although you still have some fear about injecting him into your peaceful life, you can’t deny the happiness you feel when he calls or the flutter in your stomach when he makes a slightly lewd comment describing exactly what he is going to do to you once he gets his hands on you. 

You know you’re in for a wild ride in every sense of the word.

Luckily for you, you don’t have to wait too long because, right on time, you hear the gates open with a strained creak and yet, your heartbeats are somehow louder. The door of the gates swings open with a groan, revealing Jongseong. He's wearing the same black polo and fitted black trousers you saw him in that first day, now with an added black duffle bag slung over his shoulder. The sight of him makes your heart quicken and throat close up as anxiety, both good and bad, courses through you. He looks every bit as dangerous and enticing as you remember, his stride strong and purposeful.

The closer he gets to you, the more urgent his steps become. His eyes lock onto yours with an ardour that makes your breath catch. He can’t wait to finally hold you in his arms, to feel your skin touching his. The world around you fades away, leaving only the magnetic pull between you two.

You jump down from the hood of the car, your legs slightly wobbly with excitement and nerves. Jongseong reaches you in a few long steps, chucking his duffle bag to the ground without a second thought. His hands grasp your face, fingers spreading out to cup your cheeks and jaw, his touch both firm and tender. The heat of his palms sends a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively lean into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad chest.

His pupils blaze with longing and something deeper, more primal. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones as he holds you in place, as if grounding himself in the reality of your presence. He can’t quite believe you’re here and that he can finally know what you feel like. The air between you crackles with unspoken desire and the pent-up tension of months just out of reach.

"Fuck. Hi, darlin’," he whispers, mouth slightly open and eyes shaking. Part of him can’t fathom that you waited for him; most girls he fucks with never keep their promises to stay his, too scared to actually tag along in his life, but you did because that’s the kind of good girl you are: forever loyal and faithful.

"Hi, Jongseong," you smile softly, any fear you had now replaced with glee. The way his eyes are drinking you should scare you, the same way they did that day three months ago, but now it makes you feel wanted and desired in a way no other person has ever made you feel. 

Call it the growth of character and a desperate need for the man in front of you.

Jongseong's eyes darken as he watches you wet your lips, anticipation crackling in the air between you. His gaze locks onto your mouth, and then suddenly, without giving you a moment to react, his lips crash against yours with a fervent urgency. His hands thread through your hair, fingers tangling as he tugs your head back. The motion elicits a gasp from you, and he takes full advantage, his tongue slipping into your mouth to explore and conquer.

The kiss is wild, messy, and breathtaking. His tongue moves against yours with a possessive hunger, claiming every inch as if staking his territory. The taste of him is intoxicating, a heady mesh of his unique flavour and mint that leaves you dizzy. His lips move with a bruising intensity, sucking and biting, leaving your mouth tingling and swollen.

You moan into the kiss, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly, needing something to anchor yourself as the world spins around you. The force of his kiss, the way he devours you, sends a rush of heat straight to your core, making you ache with need. Every brush of his tongue against yours, every pull and nip of his lips, fans the flames of your desire higher and higher.

Jongseong's hands slide from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against his body. You can feel the hard planes of his chest against your softer curves, the heat of him searing through your clothes. His touch is both rough and tender, a dichotomy that leaves you craving more.

The kiss deepens, growing more frantic and desperate. It's as if he's trying to pour three months of pent-up longing and frustration into this one moment, and you respond with equal fervour. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against you.

Never in your life have you been kissed like this. The rush and excitement tingle all over your body as his large hands dig into your skin, his fingers pressing firmly into your back, grounding you in the intensity of the moment. His tongue strokes against your own in a heated dance, each movement eliciting a new wave of desire that courses through you.

Your ex-boyfriend gave you soft pecks and gentle arm rubs, leaving you wondering if you even wanted to be with him. Those kisses were perfunctory, lacking the fire that now burns between you and Jongseong. This heated exchange, this raw, unbridled passion, makes you understand just how much you can crave a person.

Your own hands roam over his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric. Every touch, every brush of his lips against yours, ignites a spark that sets your entire being ablaze. You feel like you could drown in this moment, in the intensity of his desire and the way it mirrors your own.

Jongseong breaks the kiss just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours as you both pant heavily. His eyes are filled with a mix of lust and seduction. It makes you want to keep kissing him until your lips fall off, your mouth missing the invasion of his tongue suddenly.

As you go to lean in once again, he pulls back and shakes his head, a cocky smile plastered on his face. Your heart drops for a minute, thinking about how you might be too needy for him, too clingy. It was a constant complaint from your last boyfriend, so that insecurity bubbles up to the surface.

“No, baby,” Jongseong says, his voice low and teasing, his smile widening at your puzzled expression. “Not unless you want me to fuck you in front of the guard back there.”

Your cheeks flush a deep shade of crimson, embarrassment and excitement mingling to create depth to the shade. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, spotting the guard lingering a few feet away. Jongseong twists his body to give the officer a final wave, his gesture a clear, arrogant fuck-you to both authority and the system that has confined him. His smirk is one of satisfaction, and it only makes you shiver more, feeling the raw energy that radiates off him.

As the guard’s eyes follow Jongseong’s movement with disapproval and curiosity, Jongseong finally pulls his gaze back to you. His hand moves to grab his duffle bag, lifting it with effortless ease before sliding his arm over your shoulder in a possessive, almost protective manner. The touch of his arm against your skin sends a jolt of electricity through you, and you instinctively lean into his side, savouring the closeness and warmth of his body.

“Come on,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, commanding murmur, suddenly turning slightly serious despite the small smile on his face. “We gotta stop somewhere real quick.”

_____

Stepping out of the car, Jongseong takes your hand and leads you towards a diner. The building has a certain charm despite its rundown appearance. The paint is peeling in places, and the sign flickers intermittently. Only a few patrons occupy the scattered booths inside, which is slightly strange considering it’s the middle of the day and diners like this are typically occupied by teenagers and first dates.

Which is exactly why you are so excited. This is your first real date with Jongseong, and you cannot wait to get to know him on a deeper level. Although you would say you know him pretty well, all those 15-minute-a-day calls have done wonders for learning about each other, but this isn’t time-restricted or monitored by guards; this opens up the opportunity for a pure and unfiltered conversation with him.

Peering up at him, you see his relaxed manner and smile. You will never know what it is like to be locked up, but you can imagine how draining it can be - the kiss of freedom from the air must uplift his spirit. 

As you walk into the diner, the chequered floor and the nostalgic aroma of coffee and fried food fill the air. The decor is dated, with vinyl booths and Formica tables, but there's a certain cosiness to it. You expect Jongseong to lead you to a booth so you can have your long-awaited date, but instead, he guides you through the diner's main area, straight towards the kitchen. 

You glance around, confused. "Where are we going?" you ask, looking back at him.

"Just some business, then you'll have me all to yourself, alright?" he replies with a wink, giving your knuckles a soft kiss before continuing forward.

You follow him, weaving through the bustling kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of food on the grill, and the chatter of the chefs create a cacophony of sounds. Jongseong nods and exchanges brief greetings with a few of the cooks, who glance at you curiously before returning to their tasks. One chef, a burly man with a white apron smeared with grease, gives Jongseong a nod of recognition and jerks his head to the door coming into view.

Finally, Jongseong pushes open a heavy metal door at the back of the kitchen, revealing a starkly different environment. The room beyond is dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of smoke and something more acrid. It is filled with brute-looking men, one of them is counting a stack of money with deliberate precision, his thick fingers moving with practised ease, while the others eye Jongseong and you with cold, assessing gazes.

The atmosphere is tense; you feel suffocated, if not by the smoke, then by the glares you are currently receiving. Something tells you that these men and Jongseong are not on the best of terms.

The man counting the money looks up, his eyes narrowing slightly. He has a thick, muscular build, and a scar runs down the side of his face, giving him a permanently grim expression. “Park fucking Jongseong,” he chides, placing the notes down on the table beside him. “Where the fuck did you go?”

“Aw, did you miss me, Bang?” Jongseong fake pouts, jutting out his bottom lip. “I’m touched, really.”

Standing up, Bang towers over the table, his broad shoulders casting an imposing shadow. His eyes, dark and unyielding, bore into Jongseong with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. 

Jongseong, however, remains unfazed. His casual demeanour contrasts sharply with the palpable hostility in the room. He releases your hand and takes a step forward, his movements deliberate and confident. “I was in the slammer for a few, you know how it is,” he says coolly, like losing months of his life to prison bars was as casual as forgetting to pick up milk from the shop run. “I’m here for my money.”

Bang scoffs a low, guttural sound that reverberates through the room. “What fucking money? you waltz back in here like I owe you something, is that it?” He crosses his arms over his chest, muscles bulging under the strain. “You’ve got some nerve.”

Jongseong’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’ve always had nerve, Bang. And you owe me for the car that put me behind bars.” He glances back at you, his eyes softening for a moment before returning to the hardened stare of his adversary.

You stand rooted to the spot, your heart pounding in your chest. The smoky air feels even thicker now, each breath a struggle. The men shift slightly, their eyes flicking between Jongseong and Bang, anticipating the next move, like they’re awaiting instructions.

You’ve seen scenarios like this play out in movies and even then do you hate the feeling it gives in your stomach, so now watching the movie play out in real life makes you feel a little nauseous because you know this can only end badly.

Bang’s lips curl into a sneer. “You’re demanding I pay you for that piece of shit car? The one with the kicked-in engine? Mate, you’re fucking delusional. That car couldn’t have even paid your pathetic bail.”

“You asked me for that specific car, I delivered, now give me my money.” Jongseong’s calm and cocky aura suddenly shifts to a dangerous one, one you hadn’t quite prepared yourself to see. Of course, you knew this side existed; you don’t survive multiple bouts in prison without developing an edge. But witnessing it firsthand is something else entirely.

His posture changes, shoulders squared and jaw set, exuding a raw, unfiltered intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. The room seems to shrink around the two men, their confrontation a silent battle of wills. The other men at the table straighten up, sensing the shift in tension, readying themselves to pounce as soon as their boss gives a signal.

This is bad.

Placing your hand on his arm, you draw his focus to you. Your eyes gleam up at him, silently conveying worry. “Jongseong, let’s just leave it, you just got out,” you plead as your head shakes in disapproval. If there was one thing you have learned from the stories Jongseong has told you, it’s that his temper is a short fuse, and with the lock on his jaw, you know he is a few seconds away from exploding.

His eyes soften momentarily as he looks at you, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if to rein in his anger. For a brief moment, it seems like the confrontation is over. But before you can even attempt to lead him out of the room and back to your car, Bang’s voice cuts through the air, dripping with derision. “Yeah, Park, listen to your bitch before I set my men on both of you.”

The words hang in the air, a malicious echo that sends a chill down your spine. Jongseong stops dead in his tracks, his body going rigid. You feel the shift instantly, his muscles tensing under your hand.

The calm exterior he had tried to maintain shatters. Jongseong whirls around, eyes blazing with fury. “What the fuck did you just say?” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous, a stark contrast to the calm, controlled tone he had used before.

Bang smirks, leaning back in his chair, clearly relishing the reaction he’s provoked. “You heard me. I said listen to your slutty side piece before I make sure you both can’t walk again,” he repeats, his voice dripping with contempt. “Did that hit a nerve?”

Before you can react, Jongseong lunges forward, his fist connecting with Bang’s jaw with a sickening thud. The force of the punch sends Bang sprawling to the floor, the chair skidding across the room. The men around you jump to attention, but no one makes a move to intervene, their eyes wide with shock.

“You don’t ever threaten my girl like that,” Jongseong growls, standing over Bang, who is struggling to get up. “Ever.”

You can’t deny the fuzziness in your stomach when he claims you as his girl. The simple slip of the tongue somehow drowns out his outlandish actions. Bang deserved it after all.

Bang wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, his eyes blazing with a mix of pain and rage. “You’re gonna regret that, Park,” he spits out, though there's an unmistakable tremor of fear in his voice now. With a snap of his fingers, his men spring into action, advancing toward Jongseong with menacing intent.

Jongseong steps back, his stance shifting into a defensive posture, muscles coiled and ready. “Darlin’, go wait in the car, I’ll be out in a minute,” he murmurs, his gaze locked onto the advancing men. His arm is outstretched to shield you, the veins in his forearm prominent as he tenses.

You hesitate, torn between the urge to stay by his side and the instinct to protect him despite his obvious capability. “But-”

“Be a good girl,” Jongseong’s voice is firm yet gentle, laced with a protective urgency. He meets your gaze with a stern but concerned look that brooks no argument. With a heavy heart and a lump in your throat, you nod reluctantly, stepping back into the kitchen.

Your eyes remain glued to him, a mix of fear and helplessness tightening in your chest. The seconds tick by slowly, each moment feeling like an eternity as Jongseong prepares to face off against men far larger and more intimidating than any security guard or gym bro you’ve ever encountered.

The room’s atmosphere thickens with tension as the men close in on Jongseong. One of them, a burly figure with arms like tree trunks, grabs hold of Jongseong, his grip like iron. Jongseong struggles against the man’s hold, his muscles straining as he fights to break free.

Another of Bang’s men seizes the opportunity, delivering a brutal punch to Jongseong’s midsection. The impact sends a sharp gasp through the air, and you watch in horror as Jongseong’s body lurches from the blow. His face contorts in pain, but he doesn’t give in, still trying to break free from the grip holding him back.

From your vantage point, you can only watch in helpless horror as the fight unfolds. Jongseong’s strength and skill are evident, but the overwhelming numbers and sheer size of his opponents make it daunting. Each punch landed on him seems to resonate with a bone-deep impact, and the grunts and shouts of the men create a chaotic symphony of violence.

The sight of Jongseong, usually so composed and confident, struggling against the odds is almost too much to bear. You want to rush in, to do something, anything to help, but the kitchen's doorway feels like an insurmountable barrier. Your heart races, your breaths coming in quick, uneven gasps as you watch the scene unfold.

Jongseong’s eyes meet yours briefly, a flicker of reassurance in their stormy depths even as he endures another punishing blow. The look he gives you is a silent promise that he will get through this, that he’s fighting not just for himself, but for both of you. He will be damned if any of these men thought for a second that it was acceptable to threaten you or lay a finger on your precious body - especially not since he has just found out how beautifully soft your skin feels on his fingertips, or how perfectly your lips mesh with his own.

With a strained grunt, Jongseong uses his legs to kick out at his assailants, creating a brief moment of respite. His body, still taut from the impacts, is hunched and battered, but his spirit remains unyielding. He turns to face you, his voice a mix of anger and desperation cutting through the cacophony. “Y/N, get the fuck out of here!” he yells, his command urgent and fierce.

Nodding frantically, you stumble back, your breath hitching as you watch Jongseong throw a sharp, decisive punch at the man who had been holding him back. The impact sends the man staggering, giving Jongseong a brief but crucial reprieve. The fight rages on around him, but for a moment, his focus is entirely on you.

You retreat through the kitchen, your mind spinning with fear and helplessness. Your only thought is to get to safety, to ensure Jongseong’s instructions are followed. You burst through the back door and into the parking lot, the air cold against your flushed skin despite the sun still blaring.

Once outside, you hurry to the car, your mind racing. The dim light of the diner’s parking lot does little to ease the anxiety curling in your stomach. You can’t help but worry about Jongseong - about what’s happening inside and whether he’ll come out unscathed.

You lean against the car, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you glance anxiously towards the diner. The minutes stretch on interminably, amplifying the knot of worry in your stomach. The tense stillness seems almost unbearable, and just as the fear of the worst begins to grip you, you see Jongseong’s figure finally emerge through the door.

He strides towards you, each step purposeful but burdened. His face is a canvas of bruises and blood, his eyebrow bleeding in a thin streak that trails down his cheek. The sight of him, battered and raw, sends a shiver of dread through you. You can barely hold back the tears as you rush forward.

“Oh my god, Jongseong-” The words tumble out, laced with a mix of relief and anguish, but they are abruptly cut off as Jongseong’s lips crash onto yours. His kiss is fierce and demanding, a raw burst of emotion that takes you completely by surprise.

His hands are strong and desperate as they frame your face, his touch scorching against your skin. The kiss is so hungry, so primal, that it eclipses the first kiss you shared, which is hard to believe if you weren’t the one on the receiving end. The intensity of it is overwhelming, the force of his need evident in every movement. He pulls you closer, his lips moving with an urgent, almost frantic rhythm.

As he deepens the kiss, his hand trails down from your face to his own throat, his fingers gripping the base of his neck. The gesture is both intimate and possessive, reminding you that he called you his girl and fought on behalf of you. The thoughts add another layer of desire from your end, the protectiveness he already has over you despite only knowing you for a hot minute makes your skin tingle with glee.

Every sensation is amplified - the rough texture of his lips against yours, the heated pulse of his touch, and the faint tremor of excitement in his frame. You can taste the salt of his sweat and the faint metallic tang of blood from his cuts mingling with the warmth of his breath. His other hand moves to your lower back, pulling you tighter against him, his body pressing firmly into yours.

Jongseong had forgotten how much of a thrill he got from fighting, the way seeing the blood splatter - from both his rival and himself - made him feel alive. It had been too long since he had a good kick like this, the prison scraps he would be part of were nothing like this, too weak and pathetic. This is the kind of adrenaline he wanted, one when he didn’t know if he would make it out alive. But he knew he had to, for your sake.

The image of you flashed in his mind as he was pummelling into the men and Bang. The thought of dragging you into this dangerous world gnaws at him, but it’s a burden he’s willing to bear. He can’t imagine asking you to walk away, even though he knows he’s pulling you into a dangerous world with wicked consequences.

Jongseong pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his breath heavy and laboured. The heat in his gaze is unmistakable, an intense blend of desire and desperation. Blood smears across your cheek where his fingers had been, the sight and scent adding something raw to the moment. He never wants to see you hurt, but the blood smudged on your skin makes his blood run thinner with lust.

He gets horny when he is riled up like this, that much is evident by the way he is suddenly pushing you against the car and pressing his growing erection into your lower abdomen. The cold metal of the car against your back is a stark contrast to the heat of his body, a jarring reminder of the reality you're in, yet it only heightens the sensations coursing through you.

Jongseong's lips return to yours, more aggressive and demanding as he tries to consume you entirely. His hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, fingers digging into your skin with a need that borders on feral. The bruises on his knuckles brush against your flesh, a rough reminder of the fight he's just endured for you. His touch is searing, leaving trails of fire in its wake.

A low, guttural groan escapes him as he grinds his hips into yours, the friction sparking a desperate ache deep within you. Your hands find their way to his hair, pulling him closer, as if you could fuse your bodies together. 

His name falls from your lips in a breathless whisper, a plea and a promise all at once. Jongseong responds with a growl, his lips trailing down your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks that claim you as his. His hands roam lower, gripping your thighs and lifting you slightly, pressing you harder against the car.

“Darlin’, I’m gonna fucking ruin you,” he whispers into your mouth with promise. He means this both figuratively and physically. He is going to lead you down a dark path, and he can’t say he’s even the slightest bit sorry about it.

Without warning, he swings the backseat door open and tosses you in, his strength overwhelming. You barely have time to catch your breath before he's on top of you, the weight of his body pressing you into the seat, his hands moving with a desperate urgency. His lips find yours again, a hungry, demanding kiss that leaves you gasping.

The confined space of the car adds an extra layer of intensity, the heat between you palpable. Jongseong's hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, his fingers digging into your skin with a need that borders on feral. He breaks the kiss, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, "I need to taste you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation that leaves you trembling. He moves down your body, his lips and hands leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The car's interior feels too small, too hot, as he shifts between your legs, his eyes dark with desire as he looks up at you.

“You okay with this?” he asks, seeking consent. Your body language is enough to tell him that you want this probably as much as he does, but the thing is, he doesn’t know how much of a good girl you are. If no one else got to touch you like this, he would be ecstatic, but it also means you could want to take your time.

There is a flash in his eyes that makes your core pulse and has you nodding without thinking. “Yeah, I want this,” you whisper out, though it sounds like you’re bellowing the words through a megaphone, the desperation in your voice making sure of that.

Kissing along your stomach as his hands undo your shorts, his lips dipping lower as he pulls them off of you. “Has anyone had you before?” The tone of his voice is gritty and hoarse, swallowing his jealousy at even the thought. 

Just because he would be fine with it, doesn’t mean he can’t wish to curse any man that had the audacity to think they are worthy of being with you.

Swallowing the forming saliva in your mouth, his dangerous glare into your eyes tells you that perhaps you should lie and say no, that you haven’t had past lovers. But if he caught you lying, you think the repercussions might be worse than whatever will come if you tell him the truth.

“Yes, one.”

“How many times did he have you?”

“What are you talking about?” 

“How many times did he put his disgusting, unworthy mouth on you?”

Oh.

You physically shrivel up, feeling small under his intense stare and gripping hands. You can’t actually recall how many times your ex boyfriend went down on you but it can't be more than four times, claiming he didn’t see the point in it when he could just fuck you. Safe to say the sex you had with him was lacklustre.

“Not many,” you manage to whisper, feeling the heat of shame and anger rise in you. The memories of the past, the way you were neglected, seem to pale in comparison to the intensity Jongseong is offering you now. “Three times? Maybe four?”

“Well, which is it? Three or four?” he insists. His fingers dip into the band of your underwear, teasing your skin with a ghosting touch.

“Why? Does it matter?” This was absolutely the wrong follow-up question to ask because Jongseong’s eyes turn black, jaw setting into the same locked position it did earlier.

“So I know how many times I need to make you cum to wash him out of your system,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, the touch searing and electric against your skin. He pulls them down, tossing them aside with a careless flick of his wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear, a raw hunger that leaves you breathless.

His hands grip your thighs, spreading them apart with a possessiveness that sends a thrill of anticipation through you. The heat between your legs is unbearable, the need for his touch almost painful. His breath is hot against your skin as he trails kisses down your inner thigh, each one sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

Jongseong’s lips hover just above your centre, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive parts, making you shiver with need. The anticipation is excruciating, every nerve ending screaming for his touch. 

“Tell me, how many?” he murmurs, holding back from diving in which is just as painful as it is for you.

“I really…I really don’t remember,” you reply honestly. No matter the number of times your ex-boyfriend was between your legs, he never made you cum anyway so that might have everything to do with the memory lapse.

Something tells you that you will remember exactly how many times Jongseong gets between your legs.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with determination. "Okay, I’ll make it five, just to be sure," he says, his voice rough with need. When his tongue finally makes contact, it’s like an electric shock, pleasure shooting through you in waves.

He works you over with a skill and intensity that leaves you gasping for breath. His tongue moves with purpose, each flick and swirl designed to draw out your pleasure. He knows exactly where to touch, how to lick, to drive you wild. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you firmly in place as he devours you, the sensation almost too much to bear.

You arch against him, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could never get enough. His low, satisfied growls vibrate against you, adding another layer of sensation that leaves you trembling.

"Jongseong, please," you gasp, your voice shaky and filled with need. The world narrows down to the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his hands, and the waves of pleasure crashing over you. You can feel yourself spiralling towards the edge, every touch pushing you closer and closer.

Jongseong has a tongue and mouth simply made for eating pussy, and he is showing you just how someone should be licking and slurping at your sensitive area. Not even two minutes have passed and you can already feel the pressure of your orgasm building; a new record for you. Not even when you manage to find some alone time can you make yourself cum this quickly.

His mouth is relentless, tongue flicking and swirling with a precision that has you seeing stars. He alternates between gentle laps and firm, insistent strokes, each movement designed to push you higher and higher. His lips seal around your clit, sucking and releasing in a rhythm that leaves you gasping. The heat of his mouth, the roughness of his tongue, and the sheer determination in his every move send you spiralling towards ecstasy.

When the first orgasm hits, it’s like a tidal wave, your body convulsing with the force of it. Jongseong holds you through it, his mouth never leaving you, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re left trembling. His hands grip your hips, anchoring you to the car seat as you ride out the waves of sensation.

But he doesn’t stop. His fingers find their way inside you, curling and stroking with a skill that has you begging for breath. He adds a second finger, then a third, stretching and filling you, making you deliciously overwhelmed. His tongue continues its assault on your clit, harshly flickering in tandem with the movements of his fingers.

“Jongseong, I-” you gasp, trying to form words through the haze of pleasure.

“I know, darlin’,” he growls, his voice vibrating against your skin. “I can feel you. Don’t hold back.”

His fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot with unerring precision, each stroke sending shivers up your spine. His tongue dances around your clit, alternating between gentle flicks and firm, insistent licks that have you teetering on the edge. The second orgasm comes even faster, your body hypersensitive from the first. It crashes over you, leaving you gasping and moaning his name. Jongseong’s mouth is relentless, his tongue and fingers never stopping, never giving you a moment to catch your breath. He knows exactly how to push you to the edge and then pull you back, prolonging the pleasure until you’re a quivering mess beneath him.

His determination is relentless. He pushes you through the third orgasm with the same intensity, his touch never faltering. He adds another layer to the sensation, his nose pressing against your clit as his tongue and fingers continue their work. Each orgasm leaves you more breathless, more spent, until you’re a quakinh mess beneath him, gripping at his hair in a desperate attempt to ground yourself from euphoria.

“I need you to scream my name,” he murmurs against your folds, his voice dark and commanding. “I want everyone to know who’s making you feel this good.”

It is only at that moment you remember that Jongseong is eating you out in a diner car park where anyone can look in the window and see your lewd actions, never mind hear them.

But that doesn’t stop you obeying him.

The thrust of his fingers quickens as your juices begin to fly around in your car and drip down your leather seats, your essence acting like holy water as you bless the car with your backseat serenade. Your hand grips the silver cross around your neck as you curse the Lord's name in vain, the only thing you can worship right now is a criminal’s touch.

“Jjongie,” you mewl out, losing yourself to your lust and heat, eyes rolling to the back of your head. He smirks as you create a nickname in the midst of the pleasure, loving the way it sounds falling from your tongue. 

He will only ever let you call him that.

The fourth orgasm builds slowly, the pleasure mounting with every touch, every stroke. Jongseong’s fingers hit that perfect spot over and over again. His tongue dances across your clit as he makes his tongue rigid, each flick sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. You can feel the pressure building, the heat coiling in your belly, until it finally explodes, leaving you shuddering and gasping for breath.

“Jjongie, please,” you beg, your voice hoarse and broken. “I can’t take anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” he insists, his voice rough with desire. “You’re gonna give me one more. Just one more, darlin’.”

He keeps going, his mouth and fingers working together in a symphony of pleasure. The fifth orgasm is the most intense yet, your body extremely susceptible and on edge from the previous ones. He adds a fourth finger, stretching you wide, probably even wider than your ex’s cock ever did, his tongue working your clit with a precision that has you seeing venus. He uses his tongue apply pressure in ways that have you feeling every single nerve ending come alive. The pleasure builds and builds until it finally crashes over you, leaving you a quivering, trembling mess beneath him for the nth time.

When he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glistening with multiple layers of your arousal, he looks at you with a fierce, possessive pride. "There," he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "Now you’re mine. Only mine."

He climbs up your body, his mouth finding yours in a searing kiss that tastes of you. The connection between you is electric, something beautiful. You fight the tiredness as you plaster a smile of happiness and contentment across your face, and he kisses all over your cheeks and lips, creating a line of adoration. His kisses are softer now, each one a tender promise.

As the initial rush of passion subsides, you finally take in the full extent of his injuries. His face is a canvas of bruises and cuts, each mark a testament to the fight he endured. Your fingers move gently, tracing the path of the blood streak on his eyebrow, smoothing over the swollen skin with care. The sight of him beaten like this makes your heart ache.

"Promise me you won't keep doing this?" you ask, your voice tinged with worry and desperation as you wipe the mixture of your slick and saliva from his mouth. Your eyes search his, pleading for an answer, a reassurance that he won’t put himself in harm's way again.

Instead of a verbal response, Jongseong leans in, capturing your lips in another kiss. This one is soft, tender, and lingering. It speaks of unspoken promises and the turbulent emotions between you. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

Although you take the kiss as a sealed promise, you should know better than to trust a criminal.

_____

Walking out of your campus building, you see an unfamiliar car paired with a very familiar man waiting on the sidewalk. Jongseong leans against the sleek monochrome vehicle. He looks as confident and imposing as ever, with his hair gelled in his typical style and a fitted black T-shirt that shows off his tattoos, earning some judgmental glances from your peers.

You wave off your friends, a wide smile spreading across your face. Skipping down the stairs with glee, you bound towards him, unable to contain your excitement. The moment Jongseong spots your figure approaching, the hard stare and scowl he portrays vanish, replaced by an expression of equal joy to yours.

In the past month, you and Jongseong have grown incredibly close. Despite his semi-cold exterior and rough edges, there's a softer side to him that only you get to see. He's protective and loyal, his tough shell cracking open whenever you're around. The little things he does - like texting you as soon as he wakes up, remembering your favourite bands name, plus all the members, or listening to you read him excerpts from the book you divulge in while he works out - reveal a tenderness he rarely shows to anyone else.

Jongseong opens his arms, and you leap into them, wrapping your legs around his waist as he catches you effortlessly. He buries his face in your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, grounding himself in your presence. The onlookers judge, whispering among themselves, but neither of you cares. Being with each other is all that matters.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes.

He grins, a rare, genuine smile lighting up his face. "Couldn't stay away from my darlin’ too long, could I?" he murmurs, his voice a blend of affection and mischief. "Thought I'd surprise you."

You chuckle, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Well, paint me shocked."

Setting you down gently, he keeps his arms wrapped around your waist, not wanting to let you go just yet. “I thought we could drive out for a bit, I need to visit my bank for a…slight withdrawal,” he explains.

You nod, eyes twinkling. It doesn't matter what the errand is; any time spent with Jongseong feels like an adventure. Over the past month, you've done everything together: hitting the gym, shopping for your dorm kitchen, and running around to the post office to send some letters. Even mundane trips to the bank like this seem exciting when he's by your side.

As you both get into the front seats, you can't help but ask the million-dollar question, "Where did you get this car?"

Jongseong's life outside has been anything but easy; his criminal record makes it difficult for him to secure a steady job. Despite this, he's always trying, often because you push him to stay on the right path. You appreciate his efforts, knowing how much he resists resorting to his old ways. At least, as far as you know.

"Just a banger from one of my mates," he replies nonchalantly, as he starts the engine. "Nothing compared to yours."

"I think it suits you," you say, glancing around the shabby interior. The car is a patchwork of bumps and scratches, with a dashboard that's seen better days and seats that are well-worn and torn in places.

"Because it's battered and dented?" he quips, a teasing note in his voice.

"No," you respond, playfully hitting him on the arm. "Because it has a certain charm about it, if you look past the scrapes and cuts."

A shy, almost boyish grin settles upon Jongseong’s face, very much out of character for him. Considering you’re admitting to seeing past his rugged appearance and guarded heart, even through the guise of the car, he can’t help but appreciate the compliment. His fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel as he pulls out onto the road.

You settle back into your seat, watching the world pass by outside the window. The car rattles slightly, but it feels like an extension of Jongseong himself - rough around the edges, but with a hidden depth that you can't help but admire.

The journey takes you away from the hustle and bustle of the campus, the road stretching out for miles ahead. The landscape transforms into a picturesque scene painted with warm, golden hues. Sunlight bathes the rolling fields in a soft glow, casting long shadows that dance across the green grass. Farm animals graze contentedly within the sweeping wind, their movements leisurely and peaceful. The serene beauty of the countryside envelops you, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts that often plague your mind.

As the scenery blurs by, you unlock your phone and realise you've been so caught up in sight-seeing that you hadn’t noticed how much time had passed. A slight furrow forms on your brow as you glance at the clock, wondering why on earth you are still driving.

"Your bank branch is really far away, Jongseong," you observe, a hint of curiosity in your voice.

"Yeah," he replies, placing a hand on your exposed leg, his touch warm and reassuring. "I guess it is, huh?"

His tone carries a weird, knowing look on his face, something that makes you sceptical but also intrigued. There’s a spark of mischief in his eyes, one that you’ve come to recognise. It’s the look he gets when he’s planning something unexpected. Despite the small sliver of doubt in your mind, you decide not to question him further, choosing trust over anything else.

The road ahead twists and turns, each bend revealing more of the idyllic countryside. Birds soar in the sky, their songs adding a melodic backdrop to your journey. You find yourself relaxing into the seat, the comfort of Jongseong’s presence and the captivating landscape blending together into a perfect moment of tranquillity.

That moment is about to be severely interrupted.

Jongseong takes a sharp turn off the main road, driving down a narrow, gravelly path that leads to a run-down building in the middle of nowhere. The structure of the bank is weary and neglected, its facade chipped and the white stones which make up its exterior are now yellow with a mixture of smoke and years of tear. The windows are grimy, and the door doesn’t shut over as the hinges hold the doors askew. Weeds sprout through the cracks in the pavement, and the entire place exudes a sense of forgotten utility. You wonder who on earth decides to keep money here.

Jongseong pulls the car to a stop and gets out, jogging around to open the door for you. He helps you out with a gentle grip on your hand, his touch a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. 

You notice the tension in his shoulders, his usually composed exterior seems frayed, much like the edges of the black duffle bag he retrieves from the backseat. The bag, reminiscent of the one he had when coming out of prison, is empty save for something weighing it down slightly. 

"What's that for?" you inquire, pointing to the duffle that is trapped in his tight grip.

"I'm just going to get a lot of money, that's all," he replies, smiling so innocently that it looks almost devious.

Why wouldn't he just keep it all his money in the bank in the first place? Places don't even usually take cash these days. You internally start to question, unable to suppress the growing unease. He is acting strange and suddenly, your gut isn’t feeling so happy.

Jongseong extends his hand, fingers stretched for you to interlock with his. His grip is firm, reassuring yet compelling. They are so big compared to yours that they practically swallow yours whole. As he starts to walk away, you can’t help but notice he isn’t locking the car. You know no one is around, but considering he used to steal cars for a living, you think he would know the dangers of leaving it out in the open like this.

Regardless of your apprehension, you follow him, the gravel crunching under your feet as you approach the run-down bank. Jongseong’s pace quickens, his body language a mix of urgency and confidence.

As you step inside, the air is stale, carrying the scent of mildew and old paper. The interior is dimly lit, dust particles dancing in the beams of sunlight. Surprisingly, there are people scattered in the foyer: an older couple who have to be in their late sixties and a man who exudes zero confidence, his pale complexion and silver-rimmed glasses, paired with his shrivelled frame.

The worst thing the man does is look at you for a second longer than Jongseong would like. Cracking his neck, Jongseong pulls you closer to him as he stares the man down, giving him a warning shot. Quickly, there are no eyes on you.

Jongseong is always like this, silently threatening any man who even dares to glance at you. One time, you were at the supermarket, innocently buying a bottle of wine and some Sensations chilli and lime crisps, when the clerk had the audacity to speak to you - it was just to ask if you needed help, that was too many words according to Jongseong. He had given the clerk a harsh look, his jaw clenched tightly as he pulled you closer, ensuring the man understood his silent message. The poor guy had paled, quickly ringing up your items without another word.

You glance around the run-down bank, taking in the cracked tiles and peeling wallpaper. The entire place feels like it’s on the verge of collapse. As you watch Jongseong, you notice him checking the duffle bag a few times, his eyes scanning the room with a sharp intensity. Something about his demeanour makes your stomach twist with unease.

"Jongseong, what are we actually doing here?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the growing anxiety.

"Darlin', I'm getting money, why else would we be here?" he laughs as if you’ve asked the dumbest question he has ever heard. His tone is light, but his eyes remain hard, focused.

You bite your lip, glancing around the room once more. The older couple is speaking softly to each other, their attention nowhere near you. The timid man with glasses is fiddling with his phone, his hands trembling slightly. Despite the seemingly mundane scene, your gut is yelling at you that something is terribly wrong and you think you know what it is.

"How are you getting the money?" you ask, the words catching in your throat. You’re scared to even pose the question due to the answer you might receive.

Jongseong doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances at you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before he turns his attention back to the bag. The silence stretches uncomfortably, and you can feel the tension in the air growing thicker.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the realisation dawning on you. “Jongseong, please, tell me we’re not here to-”

“Next,” the woman calls in front of you, breaking your chain of thought.

Jongseong gently unravels your intertwined hands and steps forward to the desk. The woman behind the counter looks up with a bored and disinterested expression, her fingers tapping impatiently on the worn-out surface.

“What can I help you with today?” she asks, her tone flat and mechanical.

Jongseong smiles brightly, tilting his head slightly as he leans closer. “I need you to put all the money in the bag,” he says, his voice smooth and sweet.

The woman furrows her brow in confusion, her mouth opening to question him, but the words die in her throat as Jongseong smoothly pulls a gun from the duffle bag and presses it to her forehead. His smile never falters, remaining charming and innocent, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

You feel your stomach drop, a cold wave of fear washing over you. Your hands tremble, and your breath catches in your throat. The world around you seems to blur, the edges of your vision darkening as panic sets in. You can hardly believe what’s happening. This isn’t the Jongseong you know, the one who holds you gently and kisses you tenderly. This is a side of him you’ve never seen, a side that terrifies you.

“Jongseong,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the rushing blood in your ears.

He doesn’t look at you, his focus entirely on the woman in front of him. With a calm and steady hand, he clicks the safety off the gun. “10s and 20s in the bag, love. Quickly.”

The woman’s eyes widen in fear, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she begins to gather the bills. The crisp rustling of paper fills the charged silence, punctuated only by the faint hum of the bank’s outdated air conditioning. Her movements are jerky and hurried, every action underscored by the mounting tension in the room. Her terrified gaze flits nervously between Jongseong and the duffle bag, reflecting the same panic you feel surging within you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice another bank worker, a woman in her late forties with a spiky haircut fit to rival Shirley Carter from Eastenders, sliding her hand toward the hidden panic button beneath the desk. Jongseong’s sharp eyes catch the movement instantly. With a swift, fluid motion, he pivots the gun’s direction, the barrel now pointed at the second worker. “Don’t even think about it,” he warns, his voice cutting through the air like a razor blade.

The woman’s face drains of colour, her eyes widening in terror as she freezes mid-reach. Her fingers twitch nervously, the hand hovering inches from the button. You can see the palpable fear in her expression as her face goes slack, slowly withdrawing her hand to ensure her own safety, not daring to provoke Jongseong’s ire.

Turning back to you for a moment, Jongseong makes eye contact with you, winking in joy as if you are equally having as much fun as he is.

And the funny thing is, he can see it inside of you. Behind that fear, is a flash of thrill that even you haven’t registered. It’s something he can identify because it is the exact same look he has in his orbs when he does something that spikes his adrenaline. This is exactly why you came to him that day and the exact reason he has kept you by his side.

You’re cut from the same cloth, even if sewn to different clothes.   

As the woman finishes stuffing the bills into the bag, her hands moving with a frantic speed, Jongseong maintains his disarming smile, but the menace in his eyes betrays his calm demeanour. The bag grows heavy with the weight of the cash, the rustling paper now almost rhythmic, a morbid symphony underscoring the gravity of the situation.

When the woman finally slides the bulging duffle bag across the counter, her face pale and stricken, Jongseong’s fingers close around the handle with a sense of finality. He casts one last wary glance around the bank, his gaze briefly meeting yours with a reassuring nod that feels more like a promise of survival than comfort.

“Thanks for the service, sweetheart. Really, it has been class. I’ll write you a good Yelp review, for sure,” Jongseong's voice drips with arrogance and sarcasm, an unsettling calm underlying his criminal actions. He turns to you, his eyes intense yet strangely affectionate. “Let’s go, darlin’.”

With the duffle bag in hand, he leads you towards the exit, his grip on your wrist firm yet unyielding. Your legs feel like lead as you follow him, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the empty space. You glance back at the bank workers, their faces a portrait of fear and confusion, and you can't shake the crushing sense of guilt that weighs on your heart. Yet, there is a strange feeling of exhilaration that beats in your chest, a rush you’ve never felt before.

The two of you step back into the bleak daylight, and Jongseong’s car waits in the same spot. Now leaving it unlocked makes sense; you need to make a quick getaway. He opens the door for you with an almost gentlemanly gesture, though his eyes are still sharp, scanning the surroundings.

You both jump into the car, the doors slamming shut simultaneously. Jongseong hits the gas, the car lurching forward with a screech of tires. The engine roars to life as he maneuvers onto the road, the world outside blurring into a frenetic swirl of colours and shapes. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, adrenaline flooding your system. It's the closest to an existential crisis you’ve ever come, the reality of what just happened clashing violently with the surreal rush of it all.

Jongseong wears a shit-eating grin, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous glee as he speeds down the highway. He runs a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into place messily. Suddenly, he slams his palm on the steering wheel a few times in sheer excitement, his laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “We fucking did it!” he exclaims, his voice filled with disbelief and triumph.

You look at him like he’s crazy, his entire being now radiating joy despite just committing a felony big enough to land him back in jail. Your mind races, a whirlwind of fear, excitement, and bewilderment. How could he be so thrilled, so elated, after what just happened? The exhilaration from moments ago is rapidly giving way to a gnawing anxiety, the reality of your actions sinking in.

"Pull over," you finally manage to say, your voice barely steady.

"What?" Jongseong's grin falters for a moment, confusion clouding his features.

"Pull over," you repeat, more forcefully this time.

"Do you want to get caught?" he snaps, acutely aware that the police have probably been alerted by now. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror, scanning for any signs of pursuit.

“I want to know what the fuck you think you’re doing.”

Jongseong’s jaw tightens, and any joy that was flowing through his body has now evaporated, escaping through the heavy exhale from his nostrils. His hands grip the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white, the tendons in his arms standing out starkly. The atmosphere inside the car grows heavy, thick with tension and unspoken words.

You realise instantly that you’ve crossed a line, the severity of your words sinking in as his anger radiates off him like a palpable force. The air between you crackles with electricity, the adrenaline of the heist replaced by a chilling fear of the unknown. You’re not scared of Jongseong, not really, but of the intensity of his reaction and what he might be thinking.

He hard shoulders the car to the edge of a cliff, the tires screeching as he brings the vehicle to an abrupt stop. The scenery outside is almost picturesque, the cliff overlooking a vast expanse of ocean, waves crashing against the rocks below. The golden hues of the late afternoon sun cast long shadows, but the serene beauty of the landscape does nothing to alleviate the suffocating tension within the car.

Jongseong's cold glare freezes you in place, his eyes dark and unyielding. "Repeat that last sentence," he demands, his voice low and menacing.

"I...I," you stammer, too overcome with slight fear to form a coherent response. It’s not Jongseong himself that scares you, but the raw intensity of his emotions and the unpredictability of the situation.

"Did you just swear at me?" he asks, his tone sharp enough to cut through the thick silence. His eyes bore into yours, and you can see the flicker of hurt beneath the anger.

The fear of what he’s thinking, the consequences of your words, paralyses you. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. The reality of the situation crashes over you, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable.

“I... I didn’t mean to-”

“Get out of the car. Now.” His voice is a low, dangerous growl, leaving no room for argument.

You scramble to comply, fumbling with the door handle. Your fingers tremble as you push the door open, the heavy metal creaking in protest. As you step out, the uneven ground beneath your feet adds to your growing sense of disorientation. The wind whips through your hair and the cliff's edge looms just a few feet away, adding to your sense of vulnerability.

Is he going to leave you here? The thought is a panicked whisper in your mind, the idea of being abandoned on this desolate cliffside sending a fresh wave of fear coursing through you. But he wouldn’t do that, he is too infatuated by you to abandon you.

So you’re quaking in trepidation and adrenaline for what he has planned.

Jongseong steps out of the car with a deliberate calm, the door slamming shut behind him with a resonating thud. He looks at you, his expression unreadable, the earlier anger now replaced by something cold and calculating. 

“On your knees,” he commands, his voice hard and unyielding.

You hesitate for a moment, confusion and anxiety warring within you. The words seem surreal, echoing in your mind as you try to process what’s happening. But then the steel in his eyes brooks no argument, and you realise you have no choice but to do as you’re told.

Slowly, you lower yourself to the ground, the rough gravel biting into your knees. The indignity of the position, combined with the terror of being so close to the cliff, leaves you feeling utterly exposed. You glance up at Jongseong, searching for a hint of what’s to come, but his face is a mask of icy determination.

Noticing the tremble in your lips, a soft, almost tender expression flickers across his features. He reaches down, his hand cradling one side of your face gently. “Shhh, darlin’. I’m just going to wash those dirty words out of your mouth,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively soothing.

Your heart pounds harder, anticipation and fear twisting into a knot in your stomach. You watch, wide-eyed, as he undoes his belt with deliberate slowness, the metallic clink echoing in the stillness. He pulls down the zipper, his movements controlled and precise, never breaking eye contact with you. It is only now that you know what he means by washing the dirty words out of your mouth.

Jongseong takes out his cock, thick and long, a sight you can’t quite get used to, no matter how many times you see it. Your fingers grip tightly at your skirt as you endure the rough gravel digging into your knees. Despite the discomfort, your focus is entirely on his eight-inch length, its pink tip throbbing with desire, mirroring your pulsing clit.

Seeing the light of excitement in your eyes, Jongseong smiles wickedly. What he saw back at the bank, that flicker of wanting rush and spontaneity is instilled deep within you, and what perfect way to get it out of you than making you suck his cock on the edge of a nth-drop-foot cliff.

He taps the head of his cock against your lips, his expression a blend of mock innocence and raw hunger. “You know I don’t like doing this, Y/N," he says, his tone dripping with false remorse. Jongseong doesn’t care about you swearing at him, not really; he’s just looking for an excuse to ease the horniness swimming through his blood and to bring out the real you that's hiding in the shadows.

“Unless...you want to be bad?” He tilts his head, his gaze feigning curiosity because he already knows the answer. “I saw it in your eyes, darlin’. That blood rush because you know you’re doing something bad.”

You shift slightly on your knees, licking your lips, your eyes fixated on his member. The desire to take him in your mouth is overwhelming. The fear, guilt, dread, excitement, and power mix into a heady cocktail -  it creates something inside you that you have long sought after. Your life that has been so built up in the foundation of being perfect for your father is draining and mundane, which is why you were drawn so irresistibly to him. He can give you everything you crave, even through unorthodox situations like this.

Jongseong teases you, swiping his tip along your lips. As you open your mouth in eager anticipation, he pulls away just out of reach, a smirk playing on his lips as you lift your ass from your heels, chasing it like a dog with a bone before you yield. 

He starts pumping his cock slowly, his eyes locked onto yours. “You can be as bad as you like, baby,” he leans down slightly, his voice a low, seductive growl. “As long as you're a good girl for me, okay?”

“Yes, Jjongie,” you nod quickly, desperate for your mouth to be filled. The anticipation, mixed with the danger of the cliff and the fear of being caught, makes your pussy ache and your heart race.

With a sudden, forceful motion, Jongseong grabs the back of your head, pulling you closer. "Open wide," he commands, his voice firm yet filled with desire. You comply, your mouth opening eagerly as he thrusts himself deep, filling you completely. He groans in pleasure as he begins to fuck your mouth with rough, passionate thrusts.

His hand rests on the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he sets a deliberate pace. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him in, your tongue swirling around his length, paying extra attention to his tip when it hits the edge of your lips. The heat and weight of him on your tongue send shivers down your spine, and you moan around him, the sound vibrating through his dick.

“Take it all, darlin’,” he murmurs, his grip tightening as he pushes deeper, your gag reflex kicking in. Tears spring to your eyes, but the mixture of pain and pleasure only fuels your desire. You moan around him, the vibrations making him groan louder.

Jongseong’s pace quickens, his long length hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. You struggle to breathe, but the sensation of being used, of surrendering completely to his control, sends waves of heat through your body. Despite the intensity, you crave more; you can’t get enough. Every thrust, every moment of control he exerts over you, only deepens your need. You love this, even though you probably shouldn’t.

Because you have always been so compliant to him, never pushing his buttons, every time he has ever touched you has always been rough but with an overwhelming cast of softness, scared to push you too far considering your limited sexual experiences. But right now, it is pure lust and dominance taking over his body. This is your chance to show you can take it, soft or hard, as long as it’s Jongseong.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he pants, his eyes dark with lust. “So good at taking your punishment.” You nod as best as you can, his cock still buried in the back of your throat as you try your best to widen it, accommodating his girth the best you can.

His praise spurs you on, and you bob your head faster, your hand coming up to stroke the base of his cock in time with your movements. Jongseong’s breath hitches, his hands gripping your roots for support. The veins on his arms bulge with the intensity of his grip, his knuckles white.

His breathing becomes erratic, and you feel his cock twitching, a clear sign he's nearing climax. His eyes close momentarily, his brow furrowing, then lock onto yours again, filled with raw desire.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he groans, his hips thrusting in sync with your movements. “I’m so close.”

His thrusts become more urgent, more forceful. You can sense the muscles in his abdomen tensing with each movement, a sheen of sweat making his skin glisten. His jaw clenches, his breathing ragged. You are lost in the moment, your body reacting instinctively, wanting to please him, to draw out his release. The sensation of his cock filling your throat, the taste, the feel - it’s intoxicating, leaving you craving more with every second.

Suddenly, he tightens his grip on your scalp, pulling you down hard onto his cock, burying himself so deep that his bell is well past your tonsils, almost hitting your voice box. The force and intrusion makes you gag, and he holds you there, deep in your oesophagus. Your eyes water, and you feel his cock pulsing as he reaches his peak.

With a guttural moan, Jongseong shudders violently, emptying himself deep within you. The hot torrent of his seed floods your throat with a sudden intensity that makes you gag, the unexpected force sending spurts through your nose. The sensation is both startling and overwhelming, the heat and discomfort mingling in a strange thrill. Your nostrils burn slightly, each breath catching the faint, musky scent of his cum, and you feel the final thick, warm fluid trickling down your throat and seeping from your nose.

Jongseong's grip on you is unyielding, his body taut with pleasure, eyes squeezed shut in an expression of raw ecstasy. His cock pulses and twitches as he drains himself completely, the final spurts leaving him trembling. Slowly, he loosens his hold, withdrawing from your mouth with a slick, wet sound, his length coated in a mixture of saliva and cum.

You gasp for air, your lungs burning as you draw in ragged breaths. The remnants of his release cling to your lips and drip from your nose, the salty taste lingering on your tongue. The myriad sensations leave you dizzy and lightheaded, but there’s an undeniable satisfaction in the aftermath of such a powerful, primal exchange. Your chest heaves as you recover, each breath a challenge, and despite the intensity, you can’t help but feel a deep, insatiable hunger for more.

Jongseong tucks his cock away before looking down at you, the white dripping down your nose, chin and onto your chest. The sight makes him tremble, an aftershock of pure adoration for the messy girl before him. "You are so beautiful, baby," he murmurs, crouching down to wipe the seed from your face. Your lazy smile spreads across your lips, a blend of bliss and contentment washing over you. The intensity of the experience leaves you feeling floaty and disoriented, but there’s an underlying sense of satisfaction and connection that warms you from within.

"Just don't swear at me again, okay, pretty? You gotta trust me," he continues, opening your mouth with his thumb and sticking his fingers in, making you clean them up. The taste of his cum lingers as you obediently suck his fingers clean, your eyes overcast with a mixture of bliss and unfamiliarity. You nod, feeling a bit contrite.

"I'm sorry. It won’t happen again, I was just...surprised. You should have told me what we were doing." You can’t help but feel a twinge of regret. It would have been nice to have a heads-up that you were committing your first crime, even if you were just an accomplice.

Jongseong sighs, understanding your point of view. He helps you stand, his hands steadying you as your legs feel like jelly. He brushes the gravel from your knees, his fingers lingering slightly as he ogles at the indents and scrapes, oddly admiring the view. There's a gentleness in his touch, a stark contrast to the roughness of moments before.

"You would never have agreed to come with me if I did tell you. I wanted you to see and feel the rush of it all," he explains, his voice filled with conviction. He leans in, kissing your lips gently, the softness of his kiss a vastly different feeling from the burning in your throat and nose. "You did, didn’t you? You understand it now."

The memory of the heist flashes vividly in your mind, the exhilarating chaos of it all. Standing side by side with Jongseong as he robbed the bank was like stepping into another world, one where every second was charged with a thrilling sense of danger and excitement. The cold metal of the gun in his hand, the authoritative bark of his commands, and the wide-eyed fear in the faces of the bank staff and customers - it was a symphony of sensations that left your heart pounding in your chest in the best possible way.

You pause, the truth sinking in. "I...I do," you admit, knowing there’s no point in denying it. The rush, the adrenaline, it’s undeniable. But the risk, the fear of losing him, it lingers in your mind. "But there are other ways to get that same rush, ones that don't risk me losing you."

For the first time, Jongseong's heart feels like it's punching his rib cage. He can’t believe the depth of your concern, the intensity of your feelings for him. "I know, but I'm not going anywhere," he promises, his voice filled with sincerity. You give him a sceptical look, worry etched into your features. "I'll be careful. You're my good luck charm, and you're never leaving my side. So, what is there to worry about?"

Jongseong's arms wrap around you, bringing you closer. His warmth envelops you, providing a soothing presence amidst the chaos of your thoughts. You cuddle into his hug, a smile pulling to the middle of your cheeks. His steady, robust heartbeat is a calming contrast to your own. The lingering taste of him, the scent of sweat and musk, it’s all becoming music to your senses. 

He can't believe he has found someone so perfect for him. Someone to ground him and see his potential, even through everything. Maybe there is a part of him that wants to tone it down a little, because the fear of losing you too is something his heart doesn't want to bear thinking about.

Although the rush and excitement of breaking the law pumps the blood through his body, even just laying his eyes upon you has the same desired effect. Perhaps you could be his new rush. Jongseong had never considered another way to get his kicks because this is all he has known for so long, the window you're opening up in his mind lets him peep into what could be, rather than what he knows.

Sirens blare softly in the distance, almost acting as a backing track to your loving waltz. But you know you can’t stay standing here for long, very few roads to turn and navigate if they caught up to you. Looking up at him, you smile, oddly calm despite the circumstances around you. “Let’s go. We can book a motel.”

“Good shout. I don’t think I can wait to fuck you.”

You look puzzled, brow furrowing as you process his words. "Do you not hear the police? I mean we need to keep low."

Jongseong laughs, a low, rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. His hand traces your waist, fingers pressing gently into your skin. "Oh, I know," he says, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and desire. "But I also meant what I said."

_____

The smell of chlorine fills the air, a sharp, clean scent that immediately evokes memories of summer afternoons spent poolside. Beneath the tang of chemicals lies the faintest hint of dampness, the kind that clings to cool tiles and wets the soles of your feet. The ambient humidity wraps around you like a warm blanket, the moisture hanging heavy in the air as you take careful steps forward, your senses heightened by the darkness that surrounds you.

A blindfold is secured over your eyes, its fabric soft against your skin, blocking out the world and leaving you in a realm of anticipation. Jongseong's hands are firm yet gentle on your arms, guiding you carefully, his touch reassuring as he leads you to the unknown. His fingers occasionally rub soothing circles on your arms, grounding you, while his lips brush tenderly against your shoulder, planting a kiss that sends a shiver of warmth through your body.

"Just a bit further," he murmurs, his voice a low, comforting rumble in your ear. The sound of it makes you smile, your heart swelling with affection, but the mystery of what lies ahead keeps a slight edge of nervousness tingling in your veins.

“Jjongie,” you giggle, a mix of excitement and anxiety bubbling in your chest. “What’s the surprise?”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “If I tell you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

You laugh, but there’s a faint tremor of unease beneath your amusement. “I don’t like your surprises...” you say, trying to keep your tone light, but there’s a flicker of real concern in your voice.

Your mind drifts back to the last time Jongseong had surprised you. What was supposed to be a simple drive had turned into something much more exhilarating - and terrifying. He’d taken you on a late-night drag race, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as he floored the gas pedal. You’d ended up in his lap, your lips wrapped around him as he tried to navigate the twisting roads. The memory of him nearly crashing into a lamppost as he swerved around a corner, the car jerking violently while you were mid-act, flashes vividly in your mind. It had been thrilling, dangerous, and unforgettable, but it had also left you with a newfound wariness of his surprises.

Jongseong suddenly stops, halting your thoughts along with your steps. He releases his grip on your arms and takes a moment, his eyes scanning over the scene before him. You can sense the slight shift in his demeanour, the way his breath catches ever so slightly, as if he’s nervous, though he’s doing his best to hide it.

“Okay, are you ready?” he asks, his voice taking on a more serious tone, as if the moment ahead holds weight.

“It depends on what for,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper as the tension in your chest tightens.

“Yes or no answer, darlin’,” he says, his tone gentle but firm.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as the anticipation builds. It crawls over your skin like tiny insects, a sensation that makes you think of the creepy-crawly trials from I’m a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here. The unknown feels like it’s pressing down on you, making your heart race in your chest but in an excited, throwing-up way, not in an anxiety-inducing throwing-up way.

“Yeah...I’m ready,” you finally breathe out, your voice laced with a mix of courage and curiosity.

With that, Jongseong reaches up and slowly removes the blindfold. The world beyond the darkness gradually comes into focus as your eyes adjust to the light. You blink a few times, your vision sharpening, and then the scene before you fully reveals itself.

You find yourself standing at the edge of a beautifully lit gymnasium pool. The water is calm, its surface reflecting the soft glow of the lights that line the ceiling and walls. The pool stretches out before you, the deep blue water inviting and serene. The entire space is transformed, the usual harshness of a gymnasium replaced by an almost magical ambience. The soft glow of string lights hangs above, casting a warm, golden hue that dances across the water’s surface. Candles flicker gently along the edges, their flames steady despite the humidity, adding a touch of romance to the already enchanting atmosphere.

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart swelling with emotion as you take in the sight before you. “Jjongie...” you whisper, your voice thick with a mixture of awe and emotion. A smile begins to creep across your face, slow but unstoppable, and you feel a sting in your eyes as tears threaten to spill over.

“It’s nice, right?” Jongseong asks, his voice soft, filled with an affectionate warmth as he watches your reaction.

“Nice?” you echo, shaking your head in disbelief. “It’s beautiful. When did you do all of this?”

“A few hours ago, while you were getting ready,” he admits with a shy smile, rubbing the back of his neck as if the effort was no big deal, though you can tell he’s pleased with himself. It actually took him well over three hours to sort everything out, and an hour of that was simply to untangle the lights he had managed to wrap himself up in.

You look at him, the adoration you feel for him filling every corner of your being. The surprise, the thoughtfulness of it all, is overwhelming in the best possible way. It’s not just about the setting he’s created, but the care and effort he’s put into making this moment special for you.

As you step further into the softly lit gymnasium, your eyes catch sight of a blanket spread out near the edge of the pool, surrounded by twinkling fairy lights. The setup is simple yet thoughtful: a wicker basket sits in the centre, along with two plates, some cutlery, and an assortment of your favourite snacks. You can't help but smile as you notice a small bag of Percy Pig sweets peeking out from the basket, their bright, cartoonish faces bringing a touch of humour to the romantic setting.

Jongseong follows your gaze, a proud grin spreading across his face when he sees you've noticed the details. “See, I got all your favourites, even those ugly pigs,” he teases, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tries to keep a straight face.

You turn to him, feigning offence. “Excuse me? Percy Pig deserves respect.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” he laughs, rolling his eyes playfully. “Now, sit down before I eat them all myself.”

You both settle down on the blanket, the fabric soft beneath you as Jongseong reaches for the basket. He pulls out a bottle of cheap wine and a pair of plastic glasses he bumped from Tesco, it’s not really stealing, just an accidental 'forgot to scan it' - along with the basket, some plates, and the fairy lights that encompass the space. He did pay for the wine though, that much he can pour guilt-free.

“This is really nice, Jonseong. But how did you manage to rent out the pool after hours?”

He takes a sip of his wine, a nonchalant shrug accompanying his response. “I know a guy.”

You narrow your eyes at him, scepticism evident in your expression, but you don’t press further. “Why did you choose this place? You know, picnics are usually in parks, not next to chlorine-filled water.”

Jongseong chuckles, his eyes twinkling with playful mischief. “Well, duh. I know I’ve spent most of my life in prison, but I do know basic picnic etiquette.” He rolls his eyes dramatically before continuing, “I just wanted to do something different. Trying to create an original experience, you know? Besides, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly fancy restaurant material.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, appreciating his honesty. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the stillness only broken by the gentle lapping of the water and the hum of the old but functioning AC. The ambience is peaceful, the soft glow of the lights reflecting off the pool’s surface, creating a serene atmosphere that makes you feel completely at ease.

But there’s a question that has lingered in the back of your mind for some time now, one you’ve never dared to ask. You hesitate, the words sitting heavy on your tongue, unsure if now is the right moment to bring it up. Eventually, curiosity wins out, and you break the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

Jongseong looks at you, his expression softening. “Anything, darlin’. You know that.”

You’ve always respected his privacy, never prying into his past because, in your mind, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the person he is now, the man who’s made you feel more cherished than anyone else ever has. But he’s mentioned his past in passing, little snippets here and there, and now feels like as good a time as any to learn more.

“When did you first go to prison?” you ask, your voice tentative, almost unsure.

His reaction is immediate, his eyes widening for a split second before he quickly downs the rest of his wine, using the alcohol as Dutch courage. Jongseong usually isn’t nervous about discussing his past, knowing that the judgement and resentment from others can’t change the path he’s driven down. But with you, it’s different. He doesn’t want you to see him in a different light, doesn’t want his past mistakes to taint the way you look at him now. 

You see the turmoil flickering across his face, and you quickly reach out, grabbing his hand to offer comfort. “It’s okay,” you say gently, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to tell me...it was stupid of me to ask.”

He shakes his head, taking a deep breath as if steeling himself. “No, it’s not stupid. You deserve to know.” He pauses, his voice quieter when he finally speaks. “I was 16. They charged me with domestic assault.”

You feel your body tense up at his words, recoiling slightly, but before you can pull away. Though your brain doesn’t want to jump to that conclusion, it’s the first thing your mind flickers in front of your eyes. 

Jongseong squeezes your hand tightly, his eyes earnest and pleading as he sees you leap to conclusions that make him feel sick. “Oh God, no, not like that, baby,” he quickly clarifies. “I would kill myself before I ever laid a hand on my partner. I couldn’t even fathom the idea.”

Relief washes over you, your muscles relaxing as you search his eyes for the truth. “Then who?”

He looks away for a moment, his jaw clenching as he struggles to find the right words. “My dad,” he finally says, his voice rough with emotion. “He was fucking awful, and I just snapped one day after school. The neighbours called the police, and they carted me off. Next thing you know, I’m serving two months in juvie.”

You feel a surge of anger on his behalf, your heart aching at the thought of what he must have gone through. “He deserved it, though, right?” you ask, needing to hear it from him.

“Fuck yeah, he did,” Jongseong replies, his voice seething with barely contained rage. “Fucking prick was a good for nothing low life and let him know it. After that, it was just a downhill spiral. Selling, stealing, fighting... it’s hard to get out of that life once you’re in it.”

The rawness of his words hangs heavy in the air, the weight of his past pressing down on both of you. You can see the pain in his eyes, the memories of a life he’s tried so hard to leave behind. You want to say something, anything, to make it better, but words feel inadequate. Instead, you simply hold his hand tighter, letting him know that you’re here for him, that you’re not going anywhere.

As Jongseong finishes recounting his story, you listen intently, the gravity of his words settling over you. The conversation has taken a turn for the deeply personal, exposing vulnerabilities you had only glimpsed before. His past is a labyrinth of mistakes and regrets, mirroring the tangled web that ensnares people once they slip into a life of crime. It reminds you of your father’s own downward spiral, how once he got entangled in embezzling money, every effort to escape only seemed to complicate matters further. It’s a relentless cycle, each attempt to break free only making the situation worse. 

But as you gaze at Jongseong, with his defiant eyes and mischievous grin, you see a boy who, despite his reckless choices, has a core of goodness. The crimes he’s committed are not born from malice but from a life he was thrust into, a life he has never known how to escape. Maybe, just maybe, you can offer him a different path, one that leads to a better future.

“I think there’s a better life out there for you,” you say softly, your voice trembling with sincerity.

Jongseong meets your gaze, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that catches you off guard. He stares at you for a moment, his mind churning and eyes twinkling with realisation. “I think there is.”

A gentle smile begins to spread across your face. Despite the adrenaline-fueled adventures and the excitement of petty crimes you’ve shared with him, you’ve come to realise how much Jongseong means to you. The thrill has been exhilarating, but now it’s time to give back, to help him find the life he deserves. The life that’s not defined by theft and deceit but by something more meaningful.

“I got you something,” he says, breaking the silence with a hint of mischief in his tone.

Curiosity piques as you ask, “What is it?”

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, his voice light but carrying a touch of seriousness.

You comply, and the sounds of him rummaging through the picnic basket fill your ears. The rustling of items and the faint clink of metal create a suspenseful atmosphere. There’s a brief pause, and you hear him take a slow, steady breath. The anticipation is palpable, crawling up your spine like a swarm of butterflies, each flap of their wings a reminder of the momentous occasion unfolding.

“Okay, open.”

You slowly open your eyes, adjusting to the dim glow of the fairy lights that flicker around you. Jongseong holds out a tiny white box, his expression a mix of nervousness and hope. Your heart skips a beat as you take the box from him, the weight of it feeling surprisingly significant.

“Jongseong...” you whisper, a mixture of shock and affection in your voice.

“Open it,” he urges, his eyes locked onto yours with a fervent intensity.

With trembling hands, you lift the lid of the box. Inside, nestled in a bed of soft cotton, are two simple yet elegant rings. The sight of them takes your breath away, the understated beauty of the rings striking a chord deep within you.

“What is-”

“Now, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Jongseong interrupts, a playful glint in his eye. “I’m not proposing or anything. I love you, but I’m not letting you marry an unemployed loser who’s couch-hopping between friends’ flats. This is just to remind everyone that you’re mine.”

Your eyes widen, the significance of his words settling over you like a warm embrace. “Y-you love me?”

Jongseong looks at you as though your question is absurd. “Wasn’t it obvious? I’m literally obsessed with you.” He takes one of the rings and carefully slides it onto your finger. “I didn’t think I had to make a big song and dance about it when I show you how much I love you every day.”

The simple act of placing the ring on your finger speaks volumes. It’s not just a gesture; it’s a declaration of his feelings, one that surpasses words. Jongseong has never experienced love before, has no frame of reference, but if all those tacky magazines in the prison recreational room were correct, this is what love is supposed to feel like. It’s raw, sincere, and unfiltered.

It’s willing to become a better person for them.

“I love you too,” you say softly, the words flowing from your heart with a new depth. It’s the first time you’ve uttered those words to someone who wasn’t family, and the weight of the phrase carries a profound significance now. It’s not just about affection; it’s about a deep, abiding connection.

Jongseong’s laughter fills the air, a rich, throaty sound that resonates with joy. You tilt your head, puzzled by his sudden amusement. “What?”

“Well, duh!” he says, his tone a mix of mock arrogance and genuine affection. “You get googly-eyed every time you look at me. Even when I was getting carted off to prison, you were practically gushing over me - probably in more places than just your chest.” His gaze drops to your skirt, a cheeky smirk playing on his lips.

“Oh my God, shut up!” you exclaim, playfully shoving him. But as you do, his balance falters, and he tumbles backward into the pool with a splash. The cold water surges around him, and you burst into laughter at the sight of his surprised, spluttering face.

Before you can fully enjoy the moment, Jongseong’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into the pool with him. The shock of the cold water envelops you, the fabric of your dress clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

“Jongseong!” you cry out, trying to push him away as you sputter and splash him. “This is Prada!” You gesture to your drenched dress, the expensive fabric now ruined.

“And this” he retorts with a grin, pinching the soggy fabric of his non-designer t-shirt, “is from the lost and found box.” He gives you a sheepish smile, but when he sees your unamused expression, he quickly adds, “Okay, okay, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“It’s ￡700!” you protest, though there’s a playful undertone in your voice.

“Then I’ll steal you a new one,” he quips, his tone light but earnest.

You fix him with a serious look, though your lips twitch with a suppressed smile. “If you want me to keep this ring on,” you say, holding your hand out of the water to display the glinting band, “then you need to promise me you’ll stop stealing, and fighting, and anything else that could get you locked up.” Your voice grows more serious with each word. “I can’t lose you.”

Jongseong’s expression softens as he takes your hand in his, pressing a tender kiss to the ring before placing your hand over his heart. “Scout’s honour. For you, I’ll be on the straight and narrow. I solemnly swear that I, Park Jongseong, will never commit another crime.” His tone is light-hearted, but the sincerity in his eyes assures you that this promise is different from the ones he made before.

Just as you’re about to respond, a booming voice interrupts. “Hey! What are you two doing here?”

You both turn to see a security guard marching toward you, his face a mix of irritation and confusion. Jongseong glances at you with a sheepish grin, water dripping from his hair. “Well...starting now, I’ll commit no crimes.”

“Huh-” Before you can fully comprehend the situation, Jongseong is already dragging you out of the pool, his hand gripping yours tightly as you both scramble to your feet. You catch sight of the security guard sprinting toward you, his expression growing more determined.

“I thought you said your friend helped you out?” you huff as you run alongside him.

“Yeah, my friend called Lockpick,” Jongseong replies with a grin that reaches his eyes, bending down to pick his ring up. “Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

Despite the chaos, you find yourself mirroring his bright smile. Maybe you’ll let him commit some crimes after all - just as long as you’re along for the ride.

_____

The reflection in the mirror feels like a portal to the past, a glimpse into a version of yourself you thought you’d left behind. The long, opulent gown drapes elegantly over your frame, its intricate embroidery catching the light in a way that’s both nostalgic and unfamiliar. The diamond earrings - a gift from your father on your 16th birthday - sparkle with a cold brilliance, a stark reminder of the expectations that have always weighed heavily on your shoulders. Your hair is styled in a sleek, elegant updo, every strand meticulously in place, as if you were once again the picture-perfect daughter in his carefully curated world.

It’s been months since you last had to dress like this, stepping into a role that now feels more like a distant memory than a reality. But tonight is different. Tonight is a special occasion. It’s the night of your father’s grand welcome-back party, a lavish affair meant to reintroduce him to the world of business after years behind bars. This event is more than just a celebration; it’s a calculated move to solidify his reputation as a formidable figure in the corporate world, a moneyed tyrant who, against all odds, has maintained his iron grip on power.

Despite the scandals that would have buried anyone else, your father’s influence remains unshaken. His business partners and corporate clients still stand by his side, drawn by the promise of wealth and the unspoken agreements that bind them together. Perhaps it’s the money he’s skillfully laundered for them over the years or the secrets he’s kept buried deep, that have ensured their loyalty. The room will be filled with men in tailored suits, their faces masked with polite smiles, but beneath the surface, a web of silent transactions and mutual dependencies will be at play. 

You love your father, you really do, but big soirees like this have never been your thing. Attending them always felt like a chore rather than a time of relaxation and merriment. Maybe it was because of the prestige and pressure it was being your father’s daughter, or maybe it was the constant polite smile and meaningless interactions with people you didn’t know that weighed down the atmosphere.

Either way, you had to show up for your father, just as you are now. He would be so disappointed if you missed this and you can’t bear the thought. So you will put up with the uncomfortable attire for at least a night.

The good news is, one man will be by your side the entire night, a thought that washes over you like a wave of relief. Jongseong's presence brings you an immense sense of ease, though the prospect of him meeting your father for the first time still stirs a flutter of anxiety in your chest. It has to happen eventually, and what better setting than a crowded party where distractions abound?

Jongseong isn’t a people person and he avoids interaction unless absolutely necessary. The only person he ever makes an exception for is you, which is why he agreed to accompany you tonight despite his discomfort. You know how much this evening will demand of him - being surrounded by a crowd so different from him, full of people who thrive on small talk and business banter. But he would do anything for you, simply because he loves you. And you know that no combination of words could ever fully express your gratitude for that.

As you twirl a strand of hair into place, you steal a glance at the ring on your finger, smiling at the symbolic silver. It puts some comfort into your chest even as you mentally brace yourself for whatever the night will bring. You step out of the bathroom and your eyes immediately find Jongseong. He stands in front of the free-standing mirror in your dorm room, struggling with his tie, wrapping it around and around, only to fumble with the knot.

A soft giggle escapes your lips, drawing Jongseong's attention. His head snaps up, and the frustration in his eyes melts away, replaced by a look of pure awe. His gaze softens, shimmering with admiration as he takes you in. It never seems to matter whether you're dressed in sweatpants or a £5,000 gown - Jongseong always looks at you as if you are the only person in the world.

To him, you are. The only one who truly matters, anyway.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, his hands dropping from the black silk tie as he stands there, completely mesmerised. He takes in how the dress hugs your waist, how your hair frames your face perfectly, and he suddenly feels unworthy to even be in your presence. “You look so beautiful, darlin’. You make diamonds look dull.”

Your heart flutters at his words, and you dip your head slightly, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. Slowly, you walk over to him, smiling softly. “Thank you, Jjongie. You look really handsome,” you reply, your voice earnest and full of affection. And it’s true - he looks like something out of a wet dream, the kind you've had more times than you’d ever admit. The way his fitted black trousers accentuate his frame, the crisp white shirt that contrasts so beautifully against his tanned skin, and the fresh undercut that highlights the angles of his face - all of it makes you want to forget about the party entirely and lose yourself in him.

As you reach him, you gently take the tie he was struggling with earlier and start to tie it, your fingers deftly creating a Windsor knot that could rival any royal affair. You’ve done this countless times for your father, and the thought crosses your mind of how he might be feeling as he dons a suit for the first time in five years.

Jongseong tilts his head back slightly as you loop the end of the tie through, fidgeting like a restless child. “Hold still,” you chide him with a playful roll of your eyes, amused by his toddler-like impatience.

“I fucking hate ties,” he grumbles, trying his best not to squirm as you pull the knot tight. Jongseong has never been one for formalwear; he despises suits with a passion. The only times he’s ever worn one have been for court dates and funerals, events that always seem to bring trouble in their wake. To him, the tie feels less like an accessory and more like a silk noose.

You sigh softly, nodding in understanding. “I know, baby, but please, just bear with it. Tonight is important.” Your voice is gentle, and you shoot him an apologetic glance as you finish adjusting the tie, making sure it’s perfectly in place.

Jongseong knows how much this evening means to you. He’s also noticed the subtle changes in you ever since your father regained his freedom. He’s not blind to the way you’ve become a little more reserved, a little more cautious. He wonders if it’s just the anxiety of tonight or if it’s the looming reality that your father will soon learn about your relationship with him, along with his not-so-angelic extracurricular activities. Either way, Jongseong has been extra vigilant, more protective of you than ever.

You pin the tie bar in place, stepping back to admire your handiwork with a smile. “There, not so bad, huh?”

“I feel like a circus attraction,” he mutters, resisting the urge to loosen the knot and unbutton the collar. Formalwear has never been his style, and tonight feels like he’s being paraded in front of an audience he wants nothing to do with.

You place your hands on his chest, rubbing small circles to ease the tension you can feel building beneath your palms. “I would come to see you perform every day,” you joke lightly, rising on your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his lips. His mouth is warm, his lips soft, making you wish they were attached to yours every second of the day.

A smirk tugs at the corners of Jongseong’s mouth as his hands find their way to your hips, pulling you closer. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the outline of your lips, the sensation causing your carefully applied Charlotte Tilbury Pillow Talk lipstick to smudge and transfer onto him. The kiss grows more intense, erasing all thoughts of the party, the people, and even the daunting meeting with your father. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and nothing else matters.

But it can’t last forever, as much as you wish it could. In an ideal world, Jongseong would rip the overpriced dress off your body, and the two of you wouldn’t leave your dorm room for days. Yet, reality pulls you back, and with it, the obligations of the night. You reluctantly pull away, feeling the weight of the evening settling back into place.

Jongseong instinctively tries to follow your lips, but you step back, offering him a remorseful smile. “C’mon. We need to head downstairs. Sunghoon should be arriving to pick us up in a couple of minutes.”

At the mention of another man’s name, your boyfriend’s ears perk up, and his eyebrows knit together in suspicion. “Sunghoon?” He practically spits the name out, his jaw tightening visibly. There’s an edge to his voice, one you recognise all too well.

You roll your eyes playfully, familiar with Jongseong’s lack of enthusiasm when another man is in the same room as you. “Babe, he’s just the driver for my parents. They insisted he pick us up,” you explain, your tone gentle but firm, hoping to diffuse his growing irritation.

Jongseong’s gaze softens a fraction, though a trace of his protectiveness lingers. “I could drive us,” he offers, his voice low, the implication clear. He wants to be the one to look after you, not someone he doesn’t know.

Exhaling loudly, you shake your head and cross your arms. “If you drive us, you won’t be able to drink. Now imagine being in a room full of upper-class businessmen and not one ounce of Jack Daniels in your system?” 

That gives Jongseong food for thought as he stands in silence, weighing up the pros and cons of an alcohol-free night next to pretentious laughter and fake compliments. He shivers at the thought, his body visibly shaking at the idea of sobriety. 

The look on his face causes you to laugh and nod your head. “Exactly. Now come on.”

Your boyfriend loosens his tie slightly, prioritising his comfort over meeting your father’s strict expectations. The simple gesture sends a ripple of unease through you, as if the crooked tie is a symbol of everything that could go wrong tonight. You wouldn’t say you’re normally an uptight person, but moments like these set your nerves on edge, making every little detail feel like it carries immense weight.

As you pick up your handbag, you pause at the front door, bracing yourself for the conversation you know you need to have. Your heart races, fearing how Jongseong might react. “Jongseong?”

“Yeah, darlin’?” he replies, his voice softening as he senses your hesitation.

You swallow, choosing your words carefully. “Please don’t…embarrass me tonight.”

The words hang in the air, and you immediately regret how they sound. Jongseong’s expression shifts, confusion flickering across his face as he narrows his eyes. For as long as he has been yours, he’s never known you to be embarrassed by him. “When have I eve-”

“Maybe not embarrass, but…” you interrupt, realising your words came out harsher than you intended. “Just don’t be so overprotective or try to hunt down any man that looks at me or breathes next to me. I love you so much for it, but not tonight, okay? This is a big deal for my dad, and I need you two to get along.”

You see the surprise in his eyes as he processes your request. Despite your concerns, you can’t help but adore his possessive nature - the way he scowls and asserts his claim over you in front of anyone he sees as a threat. The way he reacted to Sunghoon’s name even sent a thrill through you, though you knew tonight wasn’t the time for that. You need him to dial it back, and surprisingly, he doesn’t push back.

Instead, Jongseong simply takes the Prada bag from your hand, his fingers interlocking with yours. There’s a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips, a sign that he understands your embarrassment isn’t about him but about the high expectations your father holds.

“We’ll get along just fine, darlin’. We already have so much in common. We can swap prison stories,” he jokes, but the humour is lost on you. Your gaze hardens, stern enough that it could turn anyone to stone, and he immediately raises the hand holding your bag in mock defence.

“Okay, okay. I’ll behave,” he promises, his tone shifting to a more sincere one. “But if anyone speaks out of line about you, I’m knocking them into next Thursday.”

You sigh, the tension easing slightly as you nod in agreement. “Thank you,” you murmur, leaning in to peck his cheek in gratitude. The small gesture of affection helps to soothe the lingering anxiety, and as you walk him out the door, your heart feels a little lighter.

_____

As expected, when you arrive, the scene before you looks like something straight out of Jay Gatsby’s wildest fantasies. The sprawling 13-bedroom mansion, once your childhood home, has been transformed into a shimmering spectacle of wealth. Guests are crowded around the grand entrance, their laughter and chatter spilling out onto the manicured lawn. The estate is alive with the hum of a party that promises decadence at every turn, a stark reminder of the world your father has clawed his way back into.

Despite the legal battles and the assets stripped from him, your father had been too cunning for the law. He’d anticipated the fallout, shielding the most valuable pieces of his empire under your mother’s name. The house, the cars, even some of the art that adorns the walls - they all remained untouched, legally out of reach.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the evening settle over you as you step out of the car. Jongseong is by your side in an instant, his presence a steady anchor amidst the swirl of luxury and status. His hand intertwines with yours, a silent promise that he’s with you every step of the way. Although he might be uncomfortable, his main priority is ensuring your happiness throughout the night.

As you both approach the entrance, the grandeur of the night unfolds around you. The glittering chandeliers cast a warm glow over the marbled floors, and the air is thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and cigars. The crowd parts slightly as you and Jongseong make your way inside, their eyes flicking toward you, assessing, judging, some with curiosity, others with veiled envy. 

Jongseong’s grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly, a small but reassuring gesture. You glance up at him, catching the faintest smirk on his lips as he surveys the scene. He’s out of his element here, but you can tell he’s already sizing up the room, assessing who’s who and what role they might play tonight. There’s an edge to him that you can’t help but feel guilty for, placing him in an environment that you know won’t accept him.

Even though his tattoos are covered and his criminal status is concealed behind the expensive suit you bought him, these people sniff out those who aren’t like them, making it known by the judgement on their faces.

Gazing around, Jongseong quickly understands why you’ve been so anxious about tonight. The reality of this world is even worse than anything he could have imagined. The opulence, the haughty faces, the way the guests carry themselves with an air of superiority - it’s suffocating. How you were raised among these people and managed to emerge with your spirit intact is beyond him, but it makes one thing abundantly clear.

“Now I know why you came begging me for a change of pace,” he whispers in your ear, his eyes never leaving the snobbish guests who seem to be measuring each other up as much as they are the room itself.

You twist your head to look at him, a curious expression on your face. “I did not beg,” you correct him, recalling your first encounter differently than he does, the memory bringing a smile to your lips.

Jongseong shrugs, a playful grin spreading across his face as he swings your bag lightly by his side. “Well, you certainly were begging the day I got out. What was it you said to me in the car?” he teases, eyes sparkling with mischief as your cheeks start to heat up at the memory. “That’s it! It was ‘Please, Jongseong, I can’t take it-’”

Your hand shoots up to cover his mouth, your eyes widening in playful horror, though a laugh escapes your lips before you can stifle it, making your attempt at scolding him lose some of its edge. “Stop it! This is what I meant by behaving,” you warn, though your tone is more amused than stern.

Jongseong chuckles against your palm, his eyes softening as he leans in to kiss it gently before lowering it from his lips. “Actually, you said not to get possessive,” he counters, still grinning. “You should have been more specific.”

You shake your head, trying to suppress your own smile as you meet his flirty and playful gaze. He has a way of easing your nerves even in the most tense situation. 

As you share a quiet laugh with Jongseong, the warmth of the moment is interrupted by the sudden approach of a familiar figure from your past. A woman with perfectly styled blonde hair and a designer dress that practically screams old money makes her way toward you, her smile wide and fake, the kind that never quite reaches the eyes. You recognize her immediately - Emily, a girl you once called a friend before your father’s fall from grace. Her presence alone is enough to make your stomach turn, knowing the kind of person she truly is.

“Y/N! Oh my God, it’s been forever!” Emily exclaims, her voice dripping with an over-the-top enthusiasm that you know is completely fabricated. She flings her arms around you in a hug that’s more for show than anything else, the scent of her expensive perfume cloying as it invades your senses.

You force a smile, stepping back slightly as you extricate yourself from her embrace. “Emily, it’s...good to see you,” you reply, keeping your tone polite but guarded. The last thing you want is to give her any ammunition, especially not tonight. 

It’s not just Jongseong that has to behave.

“I was just telling everyone how much I missed you,” she gushes, her tone oozing false sincerity as she waves her hand around, drawing attention to her perfect manicure. “I mean, it’s just been so sad without you around. How have you been? And your father - what a comeback, right?”

The mention of your father sends a pang of irritation through you, but you maintain your composure, nodding politely. “Yes, it’s been a challenging time, but he is getting through it.”

Emily doesn’t miss a beat, already shifting her focus as her eyes flicker over to Jongseong. Her smile widens, eyes sparkling with interest as she takes in his tall, imposing figure. “And who is this?” she asks, her tone dropping into something far more flirtatious. Without waiting for an introduction, she steps closer to him, batting her eyelashes in a way that’s almost comical. “You must be new around here. I’m Emily,” she purrs, her hand reaching out to lightly touch his arm.

Jongseong’s expression shifts instantly, his easygoing demeanor turning icy cold. He doesn’t flinch, but the look in his eyes makes it clear that her touch is entirely unwelcome. He slowly peels her hand off his arm, his disgust barely concealed. “Jongseong,” he says curtly, his voice devoid of any warmth or interest.

Emily’s confidence wavers, but she recovers quickly, trying to brush off his reaction as if it were nothing. “Well, Jongseong, if you ever need someone to show you around, I’d be happy to-”

“Not interested,” Jongseong cuts her off, his tone sharp enough to slice through her facade. He shifts slightly, positioning himself closer to you, making it clear that he’s not here to entertain her or anyone else.

Emily's smile falters at Jongseong’s blunt dismissal, but she’s not one to back down so easily. She adjusts her posture, regaining some of her poise as she leans in closer, clearly determined to salvage the situation. “Oh, of course,” she says with a laugh that sounds more forced than genuine. “But you know, sometimes it helps to have a fresh perspective. Someone who knows how these events work, who can help you navigate the crowd.” She casts a glance at you, her eyes flickering with something that resembles pity before she looks back at Jongseong, her flirtatious tone back in full force. “I mean, you wouldn’t want to get lost in all this chaos, right?”

Jongseong doesn’t even dignify her with a glance this time, his patience visibly wearing thin. He can feel the subtle shift in your posture, the way your hand tightens around his, signalling your growing irritation. The last thing he wants is for this interaction to ruin your night - or worse, to make you feel anything less than the incredible person you are.

He sighs softly, more to himself than anyone else, before turning his full attention to Emily, his expression hardening. “Listen,” he begins, his voice low and steely, “I don’t need anyone to navigate this place, least of all someone who doesn’t know when to back off.” He steps even closer to you, his arm slipping around your waist possessively, pulling you snugly against his side. “I’m here with my girl. She’s all the perspective I need, and she’s the only one I’m interested in listening to.”

Emily’s bravado crumbles further, her forced smile now barely holding together as she realises she’s completely outmatched. The icy edge in Jongseong’s voice leaves no room for misunderstanding - her presence is neither wanted nor tolerated. She tries to laugh it off again, but it comes out as more of a strained chuckle. “Well, I didn’t mean to intrude,” she mutters, clearly flustered, as she takes a small step back.

Jongseong doesn’t let up, his gaze still fixed on her, making sure she fully understands. “You did,” he replies bluntly, “but you can fix that by walking away.”

You watch the exchange, feeling a mix of relief and admiration for the way Jongseong handled it. He didn’t just brush Emily off - he shut her down in a way that left no room for further attempts. You can’t help the smug smile that is etching onto your face.

Emily finally seems to get the message. With one last awkward smile, she turns on her heel and hurries off into the crowd, her confidence shattered. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, the tension in your body slowly easing as she disappears from sight.

Jongseong looks down at you, his expression softening instantly as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” he asks gently, his tone a stark contrast to the icy one he’d used just moments ago.

“Yeah. Let’s go get a drink.”

“Music to my fucking ears,” he laughs, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head before letting you lead the way to the kitchen. The hum of the party surrounds you, but all you can focus on is the comfort of his presence.

As you walk, Jongseong asks, “Why did she even come up to you? Didn’t you say they all turned on you once they found out what your dad had done?”

You nod, casting a glance at the sea of faces that once belonged to people you called friends. Now, they wave at you as if the last five years of cold shoulders and whispered gossip had never happened. “Yeah, but back then, they didn’t know my dad had managed to keep a massive chunk of his money. While he might not be a billionaire anymore, he’s still a millionaire - and that matters more to them than a prison sentence.”

Jongseong raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of incredulity and disgust. “So they would’ve stuck around if you’d just shown them your bank account?”

“Pretty much,” you sigh. “But Dad warned me not to flaunt the money he’d managed to save, just in case HMRC came snooping again. So when they thought our family lost everything, they ditched me without a second thought.”

You pause as the reality of it all sinks in, the bitterness of that betrayal still fresh. The socialite life was all you had known - luxury, parties, and a circle of 'friends' who thrived on status. But when your family needed support the most, they scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving you to navigate the fallout alone.

“Darlin’,” he begins, his voice low and soothing as his thumb traces slow circles over your waist, pulling you closer to his side. “You’re worth more than any thick-wallet prick in here,” he assures you, his tone filled with a sincerity that makes your heart swell. And you know he means it. If you were anything like the sea of people flooding your childhood home, he would never have given you a second glance.

But Jongseong saw the real you. From the moment his eyes locked onto yours in that cold, sterile visiting room, he knew there was something deeper inside of you - a spark, a fire that refused to be dimmed by circumstance. It’s why he held you so close then, why he slipped that ring onto your finger with unwavering certainty, and why he’s fallen so madly in love with you. To him, you are the closest thing to perfection, a rare and beautiful soul in a world obsessed with superficiality.

Despite the designer clothes that drape your frame, Jongseong sees beyond the surface. He sees your heart - pure, honest, and untainted by the judgmental ways of those around you. He knows you crave something more, a life that pulses with thrill and adrenaline, and he’s vowed to give you just that until his last breath.

Reaching the bar tucked away in the back of the kitchen, Jongseong picks up two champagne glasses and hands you one. He watches the bubbles rise rapidly, a sign of the high quality, and it sparks a question in his mind.

“Can I ask something?” he begins, his tone careful.

“Sure,” you reply, your gaze still lingering on the crowd outside.

“I know your dad still has money, but how is he allowed to keep making it if he stole millions? Surely that puts him on some sort of corporate blacklist?”

Before you can respond, a deep, familiar voice cuts through the air, stopping you cold. “Well, actually, son, no one can stop you from making money other than yourself.”

Your eyes widen as you whirl around to face him. Your father stands before you, looking nothing like the man you last saw behind bars. He’s put together, polished, every bit the powerful businessman he once was. His suit is immaculate, tailored to perfection, and his cufflinks gleam, catching the light and silently broadcasting his wealth.

The transformation is startling. Gone is the weary, defeated figure you remember. In his place stands a man who looks like he’s never missed a day in the office, as though the years of scandal and incarceration were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His presence is commanding, and it’s clear that the fall from grace hasn’t stripped him of his confidence - if anything, it’s sharpened it.

Jongseong’s grip on your waist tightens subtly, a silent show of support as your father’s eyes sweep over the two of you. The tension in the room thickens, and you feel yourself shrinking under the weight of his gaze. The confidence you’ve worked so hard to build falters, replaced by a shyness and timidity that Jongseong hasn’t seen in you for a long time. It’s as if you’ve reverted to the woman you were when he first met you - uncertain, reserved, and desperate for approval.

This isn’t the version of you that Jongseong knows and loves. You’ve grown so much since then - becoming strong, confident, and unafraid to live life on your own terms. You’ve finally broken free from the need to be a good girl for your father, embracing the freedom that comes with living for yourself. But that was easier when your dad wasn’t standing right in front of you, his mere presence pulling you back into the shadows of your past.

Jongseong feels a pang of frustration as he watches you retreat into yourself. Everything he’s done - every word, every action - has been for your sake, to help you see your full potential. Even the blowjob he made you give as punishment on the cliff a few months ago was meant to ignite the spark inside you, no matter how harsh or cruel it might have seemed at the time. Because when you love someone, you want to see them thrive, to become the best version of themselves.

But as he watches your father’s influence pull you back, he realises that this whole life - the expectations, the wealth, the need for validation - holds you back from that. Your father is the anchor chaining you to a life you’ve outgrown, and Jongseong knows that as long as he’s around, you’ll never truly be free to be the person you’re meant to be. And that’s what hurts him the most - seeing the woman he loves, who’s fought so hard to break free, being dragged back into the very world she’s been subconsciously trying to escape.

“Who’s your friend?” your father asks, his tone dismissive as he deliberately reduces Jongseong’s role in your life to that of a mere acquaintance. He doesn’t even spare him a glance, focusing instead on you with a look that makes your heart race with anxiety.

“Dad, this is Park Jongseong. He’s my boyfriend, actually,” you reply, but your voice grows quieter with each word, betraying the confidence that usually defines you.

It feels like being hit with a brick as you watch your father’s mean stare shift to Jongseong, sizing him up, looking for flaws, for any reason to disapprove. The tension is suffocating, and you can’t help but feel the weight of your dad’s judgement pressing down on you.

Your father’s eyes narrow slightly, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, he asks, “How did you two meet?”

You hesitate, suddenly realising that the truth might not be the best option. You should have thought of something more palatable, maybe something like Tinder or Hinge - anything but the truth. Your mind scrambles for a safer answer, but before you can stutter out a response, Jongseong steps in, his hand tightening on your hip as he smiles confidently.

“Prison, actually,” he says, his voice smooth and unbothered.

Your father’s expression barely changes, but the atmosphere in the room grows even heavier. “Oh? And what were you in for?” he asks, his tone as sharp as ever.

Jongseong meets your father’s gaze evenly, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “Now, sir, you know that’s the number one rule of prison - don’t ask a man his crime.”

Your father’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, you know mine and you seem to want to dig your nose further into my business. It’s only fair I know yours, considering you’re chasing my daughter.”

Jongseong almost laughs at the word ‘chasing’ as if he hadn’t had you wrapped around his finger from the moment your eyes first met. “Let’s just say my conviction only landed me a few months and not five years.”

You nudge Jongseong’s side sharply, panic flaring in your chest. This isn’t what you wanted. You wanted them to get along, for your father to see the man you love the way you do. But instead, it feels like they’re circling each other, sizing each other up like adversaries in a game where you’re the prize. The tension between them is thick, and you can feel the clash of their personalities reverberating through the air.

Even with the sharpness of Jongseong’s words, your father doesn’t flinch. Instead, he recovers with the kind of ruthless calm that only years of power and manipulation can teach. He steps closer, eyes narrowing as they lock onto Jongseong with cold precision.

“Is that so?” your father begins, voice low and dripping with disdain. “I’ve always believed a man’s past speaks volumes about his future. What exactly does yours say?”

Jongseong doesn’t back down, his grip on your waist firm, almost possessive. “It says I learn, I adapt, and I move forward.”

Your father’s eyes harden, his lip curling into a sneer. “Adapting is for the weak. Real men don’t make mistakes in the first place.”

Jongseong’s smile is icy, his eyes flashing with barely restrained anger. “Is that what you told yourself when you ended up behind bars? Or is that just the lie you’ve convinced everyone else to believe?”

The words hit like a punch, and for a split second, something dark and dangerous flickers in your father’s eyes. But he quickly masks it with a cruel smirk. “I’d watch who you’re speaking to, kid.”

“Oh, I am,” Jongseong replies, his voice steady but laced with venom. He leans in slightly, his gaze unwavering as he adds, “I’m just not a fan of the view, if I’m being honest.”

Your father’s wicked grin tightens, the facade of civility cracking just enough to reveal the simmering rage beneath. He steps back, his eyes narrowing as he takes in Jongseong’s defiance. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? But cleverness won’t get you far in my world. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

Jongseong doesn’t flinch, his expression hard as steel. “I’m not in your world. And I don’t want to be.”

For a moment, the tension between them is palpable, a silent battle of wills that electrifies the air around you. Your father’s gaze flicks to you, his eyes cold and calculating, as if weighing his next move. Then, just as quickly, he turns on his heel, dismissing you both with a scoff.

The confrontation leaves you seething, a turbulent mix of anger and frustration churning inside you. You turn to Jongseong, your eyes alight with fury, the fire of your indignation barely restrained. “I told you this was important to me! Why would you speak to him like that?” Your voice is sharp, quivering with raw, unfiltered emotion that has been simmering beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

Jongseong meets your gaze with a hardened expression, frustration and determination reflected in his eyes. “Because, unlike you, Y/N, I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not in front of your dad.”

The accusation hits you like a slap, your eyes widening in disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you demand, your heart hammering against your ribs, the blood pounding in your ears.

Jongseong steps closer, his voice dropping to a lower, more deliberate tone, yet the weight of his words lands heavily. “Look at yourself. The moment you heard his voice, you shrank. You’re biting your lip like you did when we first met - nervous, unsure. I’m not exactly close with my own family, but I’d say you shouldn’t regress to a scared little girl just because your dad is around.”

His words strike a nerve, a pang of guilt mingling with your anger. The urge to defend yourself rises within you, but the sting of his observations cuts too deep, slicing through your defences. The bitter truth of it, undeniable as it is, leaves you reeling. The moment your father entered the room, all the strength and confidence you’ve painstakingly built crumbled, leaving you feeling vulnerable, like the uncertain girl you once were.

You open your mouth to retort, but no words come. Instead, a flood of frustration and hurt surges through you, overwhelming your capacity to respond. Your hand shakes as you grab your drink, the glass cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the burning turmoil inside. Without a second thought, you down it in one long, desperate gulp, the sharp burn of alcohol barely registering as you push past Jongseong.

Your footsteps are heavy and determined, as you weave through the crowd, making your way out of the extravagant party and up the stairs to find some solace. You hear Jongseong call after you, but you don’t turn back. His brutally honest words, coupled with your father’s oppressive presence, have left you feeling raw and exposed, your every nerve frayed. 

You push open the door to your old bedroom, the wood groaning in protest as you force your way inside. The room is a ghost of your past, a time capsule of your childhood preserved in pale pink walls and delicate lace curtains. The bed, still dressed in floral sheets that once seemed so perfect, now feels foreign -  too innocent. The room should have felt comforting, like a sanctuary. Instead, it feels like a cage, trapping you in a version of yourself you no longer recognise.

Jongseong is right behind you, his presence filling the doorway as he refuses to let you retreat into silence. “Don’t walk away from me, Y/N,” he says, his voice low but firm, tinged with a desperation you rarely hear from him. “This isn’t how we do things.” He will always make sure that any argument that arises between you is figured out then and there, knowing how unresolved issues lead to cracks in any relationship, and he refuses to let your father be the hole in your boat.

You whirl around to face him, anger and hurt warring within you. “Well, sorry if being called a scared little girl by my boyfriend makes me not want to speak to him,” you snap, the words dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. The accusation still stings, a wound that refuses to heal.

Jongseong steps further into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His expression is stern, but there’s a flicker of pain in his eyes, a crack in his resolve that you can’t ignore. “Then fight me on it,” he challenges, his voice rising with frustration. “But you can’t, can you? Because you know it’s true.”

You shake your head, the denial is quick and sharp. “It’s not, Jongseong. You just wouldn’t get it.”

His laugh is bitter, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a blade. “Why? Because I’m not upper class and drinking my weight in champagne that costs more than your college tuition?” His words are laced with an edge, a defensive wall thrown up to protect himself from the hurt he feels.

You recoil, the accusation striking a chord you hadn’t expected. “You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what do you mean?” he presses, his gaze unwavering. “You love me for who I am, right? Because class doesn’t matter to you, and you see me for who I am?”

“Exactly,” you reply, the word strong and meaningful. It’s the truth - you do see him, all of him, you saw him as more than his prison uniform, you saw him as more than the scum society makes him out to be, you see him as your equal, not someone below you.

Jongseong takes a step closer, his voice softening as he reaches out to you. “That’s exactly my point. I see you for everything you are, past the good girl and quiet mouse, because you’re more than that. You’re confident, powerful, your mind is so fucking strong, baby. So why on earth are you turning into someone who’s scared to even breathe too loud as soon as he steps in front of you?”

His words pierce through your defences, and you feel a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. “Because, Jongseong, he would be so fucking disappointed in me,” you confess, the admission tumbling out before you can stop it. The weight of your father’s expectations, of the life he’s tried to mould you into, hangs heavy over you. “He told me my entire life to stay out of trouble, to be a good girl, keep my nose clean, and just get through life. If he finds out I-”

You falter, the words catching in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, to admit the truth that’s been festering inside you for so long.

Jongseong doesn’t let you hide from it. “You what? Actually found someone who makes you happy and lets you breathe?” His voice is intense, but there’s an underlying gentleness to it, a plea for you to see what he sees. “Y/N, he’s trapping you, and you can’t even fucking see it. That first day you came to see me in prison, you told me you wanted to do something for you, something reckless. You want out of this life, Y/N, and he’s gonna drag you by the feet back into it. He might have gotten out of prison but he’s trapping you in one.”

His words cut through the fog of fear and doubt that’s been clouding your mind, the truth of them undeniable. The life your father envisioned for you - a life of safety, of predictability - has always felt like a gilded cage, something that kept you comfortable, but never truly alive. The past few months with Jongseong have been a whirlwind, a taste of something real, something that makes you feel like you’re actually living instead of just existing. And yet, here you are, retreating back into old patterns.

Jongseong takes another step closer, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his touch warm and grounding. “I’m sorry but I’m not going to watch the love of my life lose herself, all to please a hypocritical prick.”

The tears that have been threatening to fall finally spill over, and you close your eyes, letting the weight of his words sink in. He’s right. You hate the mundane, prissy life you’ve been living, the one that your father insists is the only right path for you. The past few months with Jongseong have been the most precious, the most real, moments of your life. But even as you were getting ready for tonight, you could feel yourself slipping back into those old, timid ways, the ones your father would approve of.

You open your eyes, meeting Jongseong’s gaze, and for the first time, you allow yourself to truly acknowledge the truth. The life your father wants for you isn’t the one you want for yourself. And as terrifying as that realisation is, it’s also liberating.

Your voice trembles as you finally speak, the weight of everything crashing down on you. "I’m sorry, Jongseong," you murmur, your words carrying a multitude of apologies: sorry for lashing out, sorry for dragging him to this party, sorry for trying to hide who he is from everyone downstairs who didn’t even deserve to know him, sorry for all of it.

But before you can continue, Jongseong cuts you off, his voice firm but tender. “Don’t you dare fucking apologise, darlin’.” He pulls you into his arms, holding you so tightly that it feels like he’s trying to shield you from the world itself. His embrace is warm, strong, grounding - everything you need right now. “I just want you to be happy. It might come off as mean but if I have to thump it into your head by showing some tough love I will.”

His words are more than just a declaration; they’re a vow. A promise that he will protect your happiness at all costs, even if it means standing against your father or anyone else who threatens it. You can feel the fierce determination in the way he holds you, as if he’s ready to take on the entire world if that’s what it takes to keep you safe, to keep you smiling.

You look up at him, your eyes searching his, and what you see there makes your heart swell. He’s not just saying these things - he means them, every single word. “I am happy,” you whisper, your voice soft but full of conviction. The truth of it warms you from the inside out because you know that your happiness isn’t tied to the gilded expectations of your father or the superficial approval of those downstairs. It’s here, in Jongseong’s arms, in the life you’re building together.

His eyes soften at your words, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he leans down. The moment hangs in the air, thick with unspoken emotion, and then his lips meet yours in a kiss that is tender, yet filled with all the passion and love that’s been bubbling beneath the surface. The world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you, anchored in this shared moment of understanding and connection.

The kiss deepens, a slow, deliberate melding of lips that speaks of everything words cannot. His hand finds the clasp that is holding your hair neatly and unhooks it from your strands, his fingers threading through your hair as he draws you even closer, erasing the space between you. There’s a fervent intensity in the way he kisses you, as if he’s trying to pour every ounce of his love, his frustration, his devotion into this single moment. You respond in kind, your hands sliding up his chest to clutch at his shirt, needing to feel the solid warmth of him beneath your fingertips.

Your heart races, matching the rhythm of his as you lose yourself in the kiss, in him. The heat between you rises, a slow burn that spreads through your body, making you dizzy with the intensity of it. Every brush of his lips against yours, every breath you share, feels electric, sending shivers down your spine.

When you finally break apart, it’s only because you both need air, but even then, he doesn’t pull away. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin as he exhales shakily. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his gaze, and what you see there makes your breath hitch - a raw, unguarded love that leaves you feeling vulnerable yet more cherished than ever.

“I’m so in love with you,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion, as if the kiss has stripped away all his defences. “I’d do anything for you, Y/N.”

You smile widely, joy and harmony finally flowing through your body for the first time tonight. The tension that had gripped you earlier is melting away, replaced by a warmth that spreads through your chest and settles deep in your bones. In this moment, with Jongseong’s love laid bare before you, everything else seems to fade into insignificance. It’s just the two of you now, tangled in this shared vulnerability, and for the first time in a long while, you feel truly free.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head slightly as you take in the man standing before you - the man who has seen you at your weakest, yet loves you with a fierceness that makes your heart swell. Considering how you started as a good girl, falling into the dangerous allure of a criminal, you can’t deny how far you’ve come. The path you’ve chosen has been anything but easy, but standing here now, it feels like it’s all been worth it.

Without another word, you lean in and capture his lips in another kiss, this one more deliberate, more purposeful. It’s as if you’re reaffirming the connection you share, grounding yourself in the reality of his presence. Your hands slide up to cradle his face, your thumbs gently brushing over his cheekbones as you pour every ounce of your love and desire into the kiss.

Jongseong responds immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, as if he’s afraid to let go. The kiss deepens, the heat between you growing as your bodies press together, the boundaries between you blurring until all you can feel is him - his warmth, his strength, his unwavering love.

As the kiss intensifies, you pull back just enough to catch your breath, your lips brushing against his as you whisper, “Does doing anything for me include having sex with me on my childhood bed?”

The playful challenge in your voice brings a mischievous glint to his eyes. Jongseong smirks, his fingers tenderly wiping away the semi-dried tears on your cheeks, as if washing away the remnants of your earlier sadness. His touch is so gentle, so reverent, that it makes your heart ache with affection.

“Well,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone as he smirks down at you, “I did say anything.” There’s a teasing edge to his words, but you can see the heat in his eyes, the desire that matches your own.

He steps back slightly, his hands moving to the knot of his tie. With a slow, deliberate motion, he begins to loosen it, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of him, his dark hair slightly tousled from your earlier embrace, the way his fingers work the tie free with a practised ease, sends a thrill through you. It’s as if the act of loosening the tie is symbolic, a shedding of the constraints that have held you both back tonight.

As the tie finally slips free, Jongseong lets it fall to the floor, his smirk widening into a full, knowing smile. His gaze is filled with undeniable heat as he reaches for you again, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. “You sure about this?” he asks, his voice a husky whisper against your ear.

“More than sure,” you breathe, your hands sliding up his chest and around his neck as you pull him toward the bed. The thought of being with him here, in this room filled with memories of your past, feels like a reclamation of everything you’ve fought to become.

Jongseong follows your lead, his hands never leaving your body as you guide him toward the bed. When the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, you sink down onto it, pulling him with you. The look in his eyes, a mix of affection, desire, and something deeper, something primal, makes your pulse quicken.

He hovers over you for a moment, his hands braced on either side of your head as he looks down at you. The air between you is charged, electric, as if every breath, every touch is heightened by the intimacy of the moment. “You’re so beautiful,’” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, and then his lips are on yours again, claiming you with a fierce, possessive hunger.

Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt, and you begin to work them free, your movements impatient, driven by the need to feel his skin against yours. He lets out a low growl of approval as you push the fabric aside, your hands sliding over the smooth planes of his chest, tracing the contours of his body and tattoos as if memorising every line, every dip.

Jongseong’s breath hitches when your hands dip lower, and he meets your gaze with a look that is equal parts love and raw, unfiltered desire. “You really want this, darlin’?” he asks, his voice rough as his fingers brush against your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Because you might not be walking straight down those fancy stairs of yours after this.”

You nod, your eyes locked onto his as you answer, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “I want you. I need you.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. With a smirk that sends a shiver down your spine, Jongseong leans down to capture your lips in another searing kiss. His hands begin to work on the fastenings of your dress with a sense of urgency, his touch both gentle and insistent. He slowly unzips the back of the dress, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pushes the fabric down.

As the dress falls, it reveals your bare chest, and the sudden chill of the air causes your nipples to harden instantly. Jongseong’s eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight, his breath coming faster as he revels in the moment. His hands, now free of the dress, move to gently cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, making you gasp softly.

Jongseong’s hands continue to explore your body, his touch electrifying as it moves from your breasts down to your waist. He pauses for a moment, eyes locked with yours, his breath heavy with desire. With a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse race, he hikes up the skirt of your dress, the fabric bunching around your hips as his hands trace the length of your thighs. The anticipation is almost unbearable, your skin tingling everywhere he touches.

As his fingers brush against the lace of your underwear, a soft gasp escapes your lips, the heat between your bodies intensifying. Jongseong’s eyes flicker with a primal hunger, but there’s still a tenderness in the way he touches you, a silent promise that he’s going to take care of you, to give you exactly what you need.

In response, your hands move with equal urgency, fingers trembling slightly as you reach for the button on his trousers. You can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten under your touch, the barely restrained power that lies just beneath the surface. The button comes undone with a quiet pop, and you begin to slide the zipper down, the sound barely audible over the heavy breathing that fills the room.

Jongseong lets out a low groan as you push his slacks down his hips, your hands brushing against his hardness through the thin fabric of his boxers. The sensation sends a jolt of desire through you, making you more impatient to feel him against you, inside you. You could start a new religion for his cock alone.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a newfound urgency. As his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties, he teases you, drawing out the moment until you’re practically trembling with need. His touch is both gentle and demanding, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

You arch into him, your hips pressing closer as he slowly slides your panties down, his hands skimming over your skin in a way that leaves you breathless. Jongseong’s mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck and across your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin.

“I want them to hear you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, a promise of what's to come.

“Jongseong-” your voice falters, cut off by the way his fingers dip between your thighs, tracing a slow, agonising path along your slick heat. The sound of your own gasp fills the room, and you can feel the tension winding tighter within you, ready to snap at any moment.

He smirks against your skin, a dark satisfaction in the way your body responds to his every touch, every word. "I need to hear you beg for it," he whispers, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he pushes his fingers deeper, coaxing more desperate sounds from your lips.

Your hands find his hair, tugging him closer as you grind against his hand, needing more, needing everything. "Please, Jongseong...I need you," you manage to gasp out, the words barely coherent as pleasure overtakes your senses.

He pauses, his breath hot against your ear as he lets out a low chuckle. "I know you can do better than that, darlin'," he murmurs, his voice laced with a teasing challenge. His fingers press deeper, curling just right, as he waits for you to give him exactly what he wants.

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, pushing you closer to the edge. You moan, your body instinctively arching towards him, craving more of his touch. Your fingers dig into his scalp as you writhe against his hand, the building pressure almost unbearable.

"Please," you gasp, your voice trembling with need, "I need you so badly, Jongseong. I'll do anything...just, please."

His smirk widens, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he feels the intensity of your plea. "That's more like it," he growls, his voice deep and full of raw desire. He continues to work his fingers in and out of you, his rhythm slow and deliberate, keeping you on the edge.

"You’re doing so well," he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear as his lips brush against your skin. "But I want to hear you scream my name, baby. Let me hear how much you want me."

Your chest heaves with each breath, and the pressure inside you becomes almost too much to handle. You nod frantically, your voice a desperate plea as you finally give in, letting out a loud, passionate cry that fills the room. Jongseong’s eyes light up with approval, his fingers and lips moving with even more intensity, pushing you towards the edge with an insistent rhythm.

With a low growl of approval, Jongseong finally sheds the last of his clothes, his eyes locking onto yours with a hungry intensity. He positions himself at your entrance, and the first thrust is a slow, deliberate invasion that fills you completely. A moan escapes your lips, resonating through the room and mingling with the soft rustle of the sheets beneath you.

He holds himself still for a moment, savouring the way you clench around him, feeling every shiver that ripples through your body. His eyes roam over your flushed skin, admiring the way your chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. “You feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “So tight around me.”

Gradually, he begins to move, each thrust steady and deep, pushing you further into the realms of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding you to match his rhythm. “That’s it,” Jongseong growls. “Feel every inch of me, darlin’. It belongs to you anyway.”

His words ignite a new fire within you, and your body responds with a frenzied energy. You feel every ridge, every curve of him, each thrust driving you wild with desire. “Jongseong,” you gasp, your voice trembling with need, “more…”

His pace quickens, becoming urgent and insistent, the pleasure building to a nearly unbearable crescendo. The room is filled with the heady mix of your moans and the rhythmic sound of flesh meeting flesh, each noise echoing off the walls and creating a chorus of raw, primal passion.

With a sudden shift, Jongseong pulls back slightly, his hands guiding you to a new position. He flips you onto your side, his movements smooth and fast, a mixture of desire and intent in his eyes. You roll over and get a surge of anticipation as Jongseong positions himself behind you, allowing him to enter and hit you deeper than before, giving you that ‘more’ you so desperately craved.

Jongseong’s thrusts are now angled upward, hitting a spot that makes you gasp with each push. The sensation is overwhelming, a blend of deep, rhythmic pressure and the intimacy of your shared movements.

“Is this what you needed?” Jongseong asks breathlessly, his voice filled with a rough, almost primal edge as he adjusts his rhythm to match the new position. “Tell me how it feels.”

Your answer comes out as a moan, your words mingling with the sounds of your combined pleasure. “Yes, Jongseong,” you manage to gasp, “It’s so deep, so perfect.”

As he continues to thrust into you, Jongseong’s lips find your neck, his kisses soft and heated against your skin. He trails his mouth up and down your neck, each touch sending shivers down your spine. His breath is warm and tantalising, his kisses growing more insistent as he marks you with his mouth.

You can feel his tongue flicking against your skin, each kiss more urgent than the last. His teeth graze gently, then with a bit more pressure, leaving a trail of kisses and marks that grow darker with each pass. “You’re mine,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice a deep, possessive growl. “I want everyone to know.”

The sensation of his lips and teeth against your neck only heightens the pleasure you're already experiencing. Each mark is a vivid reminder of the passion that drives you both, a tangible sign of the intensity and connection you share. “Jongseong,” you gasp, feeling the combination of his thrusts and the trail of kisses that map your neck. “Please, don’t stop.”

But you mean it in every sense - don't stop fucking you, as though every thrust and every shuddering release is a lifeline. Don’t stop loving you, as though the depth of his affection and the way he holds you close is your greatest comfort. Don’t stop pushing you to be who you are, to embrace every part of yourself, to feel alive in his arms and in his gaze. You want him to keep driving you to discover and explore every hidden part of yourself, to keep challenging and encouraging you in ways you never imagined.

He responds with a low, approving growl, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he drives into you with renewed fervour. “I won’t,” he promises, his voice rough with desire and a depth of emotion that goes beyond the physical. “Never.”

As he continues to thrust into you, his movements become more intense, more urgent, as if he’s trying to convey his promise with every powerful push. The room seems to pulse with the rhythm of your shared passion, the sounds of your pleasure echoing off the walls. Jongseong’s grip on your hips tightens, his touch both possessive and protective as he guides you through the waves of ecstasy.

“Feel every part of me,” he murmurs, his voice a blend of tenderness and raw need. “I’m right here, with you, always.”

The intensity of his thrusts pushes you closer to the edge, each movement sending shivers of pleasure through your entire body. His kisses become more fervent, each one a reminder of his love and his commitment. You can feel his heart pounding against your back, a steady, reassuring presence that matches the rhythm of his thrusts.

“You’re everything to me,” Jongseong says, his voice breaking slightly with the force of his emotions. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you ride the waves of pleasure he’s giving you. His words, combined with the sensation of him inside you and the way his lips leave their marks on your neck, create a powerful cocktail of intimacy and desire. “I don’t,” you manage to breathe out, your voice filled with a mix of pleasure and gratitude. “I never will.”

With a final, deep thrust, Jongseong brings you both to the peak of your shared climax. Your body convulses in waves of pure, unadulterated bliss, each shudder and moan a testament to the intensity of your connection. Jongseong’s release follows closely, his groans mingling with yours as he holds you tightly, his kisses now soft and tender against your neck.

As the initial rush of pleasure begins to subside, your muscles gradually unwind, each tremor giving way to a lingering afterglow. The room is filled with the soft symphony of your synchronized breathing, the steady rise and fall of your chests in perfect harmony. Jongseong’s kisses on your neck become gentle, almost reverent, as he trails a tender path of affection across your skin. 

You feel his body relax against yours, his warmth enveloping you in a cocoon of intimacy. He pulls your face to his, capturing your lips in a deep, tender kiss that steals away the breath you had only just regained. Lost in the peacefulness of him, you savour the slow, lingering connection, each touch and caress a silent expression of his affection.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” Jongseong murmurs against your lips, his voice low and inviting, his breath warm against your skin.

You nod, a contented smile spreading across your face. “Yeah, let’s do it,” you reply, your voice filled with unwavering resolve, knowing that the moment you step out of this place you once called home, you’ll never look back. He grins, playfully nudging your nose with his, his eyes sparkling with a mix of affection and mischief. “If Emily even looks at you again when we go down there, I might just rip her eyes out.” Jongseong is sexy all of the time but he is even sexier with a post-sex glow, so you know there are going to be some eyes on him, a pair of them just better not be hers.

Jongseong’s laughter fills the room, a deep, resonant sound that carries a note of both joy and possessiveness. He rests his head on your shoulder, planting light, affectionate kisses. “And to think, I was the one who was supposed to keep my cool and not get possessive,” he teases, his voice light and full of warmth.

“You’re not the only possessive one in this relationship, you know?” you reply with a soft smile, a hint of playfulness in your tone. “I just don’t show it as much.”

He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening as he shifts slightly, still buried to the hilt inside you. “I think you should show it more often,” he suggests, his voice low and laced with a delicious hint of provocation. “I’d let you put a collar on me and walk me like a dog if you asked.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you giggle, your laughter mingling with his as the intimate moment stretches between you, the connection deepening with every shared breath.

Eventually, you both begin to move, your limbs heavy with the lingering remnants of passion. The atmosphere shifts as you get dressed, pulling on your clothes with deliberate slowness, savouring the last few moments of solitude before reentering the world outside this room. The extravagant party downstairs beckons, the muffled sounds of music and laughter a distant hum, reminding you of the life you’re about to leave behind.

As you descend the grand staircase, the chandelier above casts a golden glow, illuminating the room filled with elegantly dressed guests, all of whom are focused on your father as he prepares to make a speech. The moment his eyes land on you and Jongseong, he falters, his gaze narrowing as he takes in your dishevelled appearance. His jaw tightens, and though he says nothing, the tension in the room shifts, a subtle ripple that everyone seems to sense. He knows exactly what you’ve been doing.

At the bottom of the stairs, you pause, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your mind. The opulence of this life, the weight of the expectations you’ve carried for so long, all press down on you. For a brief moment, doubt gnaws at the edges of your resolve.

Sensing your hesitation, Jongseong wraps his arms around you from behind, his presence grounding you in the here and now. He presses a tender kiss to your neck, soothing the marks he left there, his lips warm and reassuring against your skin. He keeps direct eye contact with your father, an unspoken challenge in his gaze, before turning his attention back to you.

“Let’s go, darlin’.”

And that’s all the encouragement you need to leave everyone in this room behind, everyone but the man holding you close, promising to love you forever.

_____

You sit across from each other in a worn red booth, the familiarity of the setting wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. The walls are adorned with faded photographs and vintage memorabilia, a tribute to a simpler time that feels worlds away from the chaos that often surrounds your lives. The table between you is cluttered with half-eaten plates of food - greasy fries, a burger with a bite taken out of it, and a tall milkshake slowly melting in its glass. It’s a scene of domesticity, of normalcy

“I’m sorry, but not even anything in prison was that disgusting,” he quips, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated horror.

You can’t help but laugh at his theatrics, the sound bubbling up from deep within you. The way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who matters, even with your food combination choices, makes your heart swell with affection. “Come on, just try it! I promise you’ll love it,” you urge, holding out a fry that you have dipped in your milkshake, your eyes sparkling with playful challenge.

Jongseong hesitates for a moment, then leans forward and takes a tentative bite. His expression shifts from scepticism to genuine surprise as the sweet and salty combination hits his taste buds. His eyes widen, and he breaks into a grin. “See?” you say, triumphantly, as he reaches for more fries, dipping them into the ice cream and stealing them from your plate.

“Get your own, oh my God!” you protest, swatting his hand away with a laugh, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. It’s moments like these - small, stolen snippets of happiness - that make everything else worth it. The world outside might be chaotic, but here, in this little diner, it’s just the two of you, lost in each other.

But the illusion of safety is fragile. As you’re caught up in the moment, a subtle shift in the atmosphere catches Jongseong’s attention. A police car pulls up outside, its lights off but the engine still running. You barely notice it, too wrapped up in your banter, but Jongseong stiffens, his senses on high alert. His gaze follows the officers as they exit the car with a sense of purpose, their strides firm and unyielding as they approach the entrance.

You feel a prickle of unease, a small knot forming in your stomach as you notice Jongseong’s change in demeanour. His playful smile fades, replaced by a mask of cool detachment, his eyes darkening with the familiar wariness that never quite leaves him. The joy that lit up his face moments ago vanishes, leaving behind the hardened edges of a man who’s been on the run for far too long.

The officers push through the diner’s doors, their presence commanding immediate attention. They don’t bother with the usual pretence of surveying the room; their eyes are locked on your table from the moment they step inside. Your heart races as they approach, each step closer fueling your growing sense of dread.

“Park Jongseong?” one of the officers asks, his tone clipped and authoritative, as they come to a stop in front of your booth.

Jongseong doesn’t flinch. “Who’s asking?” he replies, his voice steady, laced with a defiant edge. He’s been here before, too many times to count, but it never gets any easier. The threat of losing his freedom, of being torn away from you, is always looming, always just one misstep away.

The officer’s gaze sharpens, not missing a beat. “You’re under arrest for theft. Anything you do or say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

Your heart skips a beat, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. Your mind reels back to the bank job you both pulled off, the thrill of it now tainted by the cold reality closing in around you. Jongseong remains unfazed on the surface, but you can see the flicker of realization in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

“Yeah? And what exactly did I steal?” Jongseong challenges, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he stands up, squaring his shoulders, ready for the confrontation. He never liked the police for obvious reasons, but what makes it worse is when they hound him like this when he has done nothing wrong.

The bank you robbed months ago would have already sent him to prison if they knew it was him, and any of the other petty crimes don’t require four policemen and a van.

The officer doesn’t back down, keeping his tone calm but firm. “Mr. L/N has reported his diamond cufflinks missing, and when we searched your place, we found them.”

Your boyfriend lets out a harsh laugh, the sound bitter and incredulous. “Yeah? First of all, you can’t search my home because I don’t have one. Second of all, you need a warrant for that, don’t you?” But even as he speaks, you can see the gears turning in his mind. If your father is behind this, as it now seems, the situation is far worse than he’d anticipated.

Your dad is far more powerful than you could ever imagine. That time in prison only gave him more contacts than enemies, and with Jongseong just another fish in a pond, they will happily throw him back to the sea with the right amount of persuasion. 

Before Jongseong can react, the officer pulls out a pair of handcuffs, snapping them around his wrists with practised ease. He struggles, but it’s no use, the cuffs hold firm, and the officers aren’t about to let him go.

“Jongseong!” you cry out, desperation lacing your voice as you rush to him, placing yourself between him and the officers. Your hands cradle his face, trying to keep him grounded, to keep him from doing something reckless. His eyes soften as he looks down at you, trying to offer a reassuring smile, but you can see the worry etched into his features.

“It’s okay, darlin’. They’ve got nothing on me,” he says, his voice gentle, but you both know the truth: if your father is pulling the strings, there’s no telling how deep this goes. He’s trying to comfort you, to make you believe that everything will be fine, but there’s a part of him that’s not so sure. 

“But-” you start, only to be silenced by the press of his lips against yours. The kiss is soft at first, a promise of return, but it quickly turns desperate, as if he’s trying to memorise the feel of you, to hold onto this moment in case it’s the last. It’s a kiss that tells you everything you need to know - he’s scared, and so are you.

You can’t lose him.

The officers pull him away, and you watch helplessly as Jongseong is dragged out of the diner and shoved into the back of the police car. His face, once full of life and laughter, is now clouded with that deadpan stare. You run out after him helplessly and fear for what will come coursing your veins. 

Through the window, he mouths the words, “I love you,” and you nod, tears blurring your vision as you choke out the response, “I love you too.”

As the police car drives away, taking him with it, the world around you seems to crumble, leaving you standing alone in the diner’s driveway. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, snapping you out of your daze. You pull it out, and your heart sinks when you see the message from your father: “Come home, princess. Be a good girl.”

The words ignite a fire in you, a seething anger that burns hotter with every passing second. You clench your fists, your eyes falling on the ring Jongseong gave you - the promise of a future together, a future you’re determined to fight for. You made a vow to him, to wait for him no matter what, to stand by his side through thick and thin. But before you can keep that promise, there’s one last obstacle you need to overcome.

Your father.

_____

[bouncybongfairy]

Everything & The Kitchen Sink

Butch Wolverine x Fem Reader Smut

Summary: Logan promised to come home early from the bar after her shift. You make dinner and get ready only for her to come home late and drunk. This some how leads to the two of you tribbing on the counter.

Word Count: 1.0k+

TW: Fingering, Tribbing, Nipple Play, Squirting

(THIS IS A W|W FANFIC)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

You were cleaning up the kitchen after making dinner. Logan was supposed to be home over an hour ago, she was working as a bouncer at a local bar. She promised you she’d come straight from work, you’d spent all day preparing for just that. Cleaning the entire apartment, did all the laundry, made dinner, ect. Took a long shower, exfoliated and moisturized. You already wrapped her plate up and stored it in the microwave. Preoccupying yourself by watching TV until you fall asleep. 

Logan carefully unlocked the door and saw you laying so still and statuesque. In comparison to what she sees at the bar all day you truly looked like an angel. The light of the television casting on you like you were glowing. She was past tipsy but not staggering or anything, she liked seeing how peaceful you were; knowing that once you woke up it’d be a completely different story. She opened the microwave and started salivating, it was her favorite. Baked potato with sour cream and chives, corn on the cob, two slabs of steak cooked medium rare, grilled shrimps and roasted carrots. 

It looked so amazing she didn’t bother heating it back up. Stuffing her face, only using utensils when she had too. She hadn’t eaten anything before or during work and drank on an empty stomach. It was like the plate was fucking glowing. Lighting the cigar she had tucked behind her ear. Too drunk to care that she was sparking up inside. She came over to you and ran her finger along your bare thigh. Wearing her tee shirt and the band of your panties peeking out. 

“Mmhm, you’re so soft,” she grumbled to herself, letting her calloused hand run up and down your skin. Stirring you awake and gently letting her body fall on top of yours. You were starting to stir awake, remembering how late Logan was. You push against her shoulders but she doesn’t care. Continuing to kiss your neck and grope your chest. The liquor and burnt smell of the cigar coming from her breath only reminded you of her loyalty to the bar. 

“You’re late,” you huffed, sitting up and trying to get out of her grip.

“Was a late night baby,” she mumbled.

“And you're drunk,” you said, successfully wiggling out of her grip. Picking up the coat she let drop on the floor when coming home. Logan took this opportunity to grip your hips and thrust herself against you. 

“So?” she laughed, pulling at the waistband of your panties and letting them snap against your skin. Entertained by how you jumped and squealed when the elastic hit you.

“I waited for a long time… I was all excited and you left me waiting..” you trail off. It sober her up a bit, knowing that you had waited for her while she lollygagged at the bar. Logan didn’t realize how much her company meant to you. Probably due to her own insecurity but she missed seeing the way she undervalued herself was affecting you. She wrapped her arms around you and pulled you to her chest. 

“I should have come right home. I’m sorry,” she said, kissing the top of your head. 

“It’s okay, I know you have a lot going on. Just promise for next time,” you said, wrapping your arms around her waist, “I’m glad you ate,” you said, noticing her dishes on the counter. 

Logan wasn’t paying attention anymore, now completely focused on running her hands down your body. She couldn’t get your smell out of her nose and it was starting to affect her self control. You were oblivious to how worked up she was becoming, Instead being off in your own little world. As much as you hated her cigar habit, the smell was somewhat comforting now as much as you complained about it. Sometimes you’d avoid washing the smoke smell off hoodies and pillow cases. You moved your hands up to her hair, brushing the loose stands out of her face. Eventually running your nails down her arms, you could feel the goosebumps form; her body hair standing somewhat making you giggle. 

She was breathing hard, especially when you looked up at her. Big doe-eyes staring up at her, eyelashes fluttering and hair messy from your nap. Logan smashed her mouth against yours, bringing her hands up to cup your face. Pressing herself against you, pinning your body to the kitchen island. Her thumbs rubbing your face as you work your tongues together. It was sloppy and getting more heated by the minute. She grabs you by the waist and sets you on the counter. Her eyes damn near boggling while watching the recoil of your breast from being sat down so hard. 

She grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it over your head, exposing your chest. Seeing her so animalistic and feral was making your stomach feel inflamed. A deep blush covering your face and neck while wetness starts to drip down your folds; Logan herself felt a heartbeat in her jeans. Your noses were pressed together and you could smell the whiskey on her breath. Normally it would bother you but it was undeniable that when Logan was drunk she didn’t hold back during sex. Normally she was more gentle, enjoying giving you pleasure. The liquor made her more brutish and unfiltered and it was so fucking hot. 

Hearing all the filth that slipped past her lips that normally went unheard due to her shyness. Using her strength against you, biting down on your soft skin with brutal force. Logan pecked your lips before moving down to your chest. Taking one of your nipples into her mouth and starts sucking and flicking her tongue. You ran your fingers through her hair and moaned loudly. Arching your back and balling your fists up in her hair. Your legs immediately begin to tremble from the pleasure. So sensitive from the anticipation that has been building in your belly all day. Resting your lips on the top of her head while groaning and whimpering into her hair. She pulled your panties to the side and used her middle finger to feel around your folds. 

Smearing your wetness all over your lips before pushing two fingers into your entrance. She was completely zoned out, having your tit in her mouth while curling and pumping her fingers in and out of you. Any time she nips at the senstative bud you tighten yourself around her fingers; only encouraging her to do it more. Your walls felt so velvety against her digits. She broke out of her daze and pulled away from you slightly to see your face and God what a sight it was. You were completely red in the face, practically panting trying to catch your breath. 

Eyebrows furrowed and nipples puffy and swollen; a light from above the kitchen island shining down on you. Making your chest glisten from the saliva covering your breast. You pulled her onto the counter to join you and started tugging at her jeans, which she quickly took off. Laying her back against the cold tile of the island. Before climbing on top of her, you sink your tongue between her folds. Spitting and flicking your tongue around, looking up to see Logan on her elbows. Cursing and sputtering while pushing herself against your mouth. Getting a little too excited you reach up and try grabbing at her chest. She snatches your wrists and pulls you towards her; now straddling her, you knees on either side of her hips.

 “I’m not that drunk,” she huffs and starts gripping your hips, prompting you to start grinding your hips. 

Now rubbing each other's sexes together, your wet folds sliding between one another. The tile was hurting your knees a bit but it didn’t stop you from quickening your pace. Finding the perfect rhythm, your clits continuously brushing against each other. Logan was arching her hips up, positioning herself so she could watch you ride her. Sitting up on her elbows and watching your tits bounce, saliva dripping onto her stomach. Too pussy-drunk to care if you were drooling or not.

“I’m cumming…” you groan out, taking her off guard.

Grabbing two handfuls of Logan's hair and pinning her fisting to the counter below you two. Your fists on either side of her head while riding out your orgasm. Squirting without stopping grinding your hips, causing the wetness to spread and spalsh all over Logan’s stomach. She immediately cums from watching you unraveling into a squirting fucked out mess. Digging her nails into your hips while thrusting her hips up, trying to get closer to you. Crying out, so overstimulated and jerking your hips forward. You collapsed on her chest, not giving a fuck about sleeping in your own wetness. Logan was too drunk to care, using the tee shirt to cover you like a blanket and falling asleep with you on her chest.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

That’s it, Princess

Summary: You sneak out the Keep to rile up your husband. And his punishment is...not what you thought it would be.

Based off this ask:

A/N: So I think I was possessed when I wrote this cos I blacked out halfway through so. I also changed the request up a bit to suit what I wanted to write. Hope it lives up to expectations 😁

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, Minors DNI, pussy slapping, fingering, p in v sex, mean Aemond, suggestions of a safe word, orgasm denial, name calling, Aemond creampies reader cos he wants lots of little heirs

You huff.

The sun had barely kissed the horizon to give way to the evening before you threw your embroidery to the floor, more angered than anything else. Another night. Another night where Aemond would not return to your marital chambers. 

There were several excuses he made, all centering around his duties. Whether it was training, helping his grandfather, being at his mother’s beck and call or spending days with Helanea, more often than not these past weeks Aemond found more comfort in only returning to your chambers in the dead of night when you were already asleep.

Not only were you frustrated, you were hurt. Did he not realise how he was treating his wife? Yes, it had barely been four moons since the wedding and the first two moons had been heavenly. More often than not you were slotted against one another, tangled in the sheets with the heady stench of coupling in the air. But a moon or so ago, he completely flipped. Unconscious or not. 

At first, you smiled at his explanations like the pliant wife you should be to a Targaryen prince. But now you felt you’d given him enough chances. 

You were alone at court. Being neither a Targaryen nor acquainted properly with his sister and mother, there was no female company to preoccupy you. Day after day, it felt like you were just mindlessly existing, sewing pattern after pattern to fill the uncomfortable void that Aemond’s lack of presence left behind.

At first you thought that marrying him, bearing his heirs and living at court would be every woman’s dream. But it was quickly turning into something akin to limbo. How were you supposed to bear his heirs if he was never even around to see you? The whisperings were starting to whirl around at the lack of pregnancy. All of the critiques pointed at you.

So that was it. Fuck it.

You would give him something to be angry about. Anything, any emotion would do at this point. Just something from him to acknowledge your mere existence.

There was a perpetual frown on your face as you pulled the heavy cloak over you. You’d opted to change into a dress that did not explicitly show your status, thereby ridding you completely of jewels, all bar the ring that tied you to Aemond. It was a part of you now, and the thought of taking it off had not even crossed your mind.

With a light push of your hip against the painting in the corner of the room, the passageway opened up and the darkness and draught crept in. There was no hesitation, you were so angry. You pulled the hood up against your hair, though once you were out in the capital there was no need for it, no silver hair to cover. You were not like them and it was evident in the way Aemond had been so nonchalant to cast you aside for more important matters. 

The sweet relief of the air of Kings Landing swept through your hair and over your skin and you sighed, pulling the hood down so it rested around your shoulders. Kings Landing was always an enigma to you. How so many people who looked so different, sounded so different, could all co-exist in such small quarters, shoulder to shoulder with their companions. It seemed so squished together. Some liked it. Some didn’t. 

But it was different and that was certainly enough of an adventure, you were beginning to go mad counting all the tiles on the floor.

The sounds of laughter, anger and drunkenness filled the narrow streets. It was a warm evening so the majority of people were at their local alehouses, either making friends or enemies, it didn’t matter. You smiled as some of the ladies inside one alehouse were dancing, hand in hand with cups of ale in the other. It was spilling all over the floor, but it did not seem like they cared.

With a visible uncertainty that told everyone around you that you did not know what you were doing, you pushed through to one particular alehouse, smiling at the bartender. He was burly and well built, his mouth tight in a thin line, showing no warmth.

“What can I get ya?” he asked in the accent you’ve come to know as one the commoners.

With an attempt to lighten the air, you give him a smile, albeit an anxious one and take a seat at the bar.

“Just an ale, please” you say, trying to take the nervousness out of your voice. He raises an eyebrow to you, but pours a cup anyway, sliding it across the wetted bar counter to land in your hands. 

The bartender braces the counter with his large arms, “I’ve never seen ya around these parts”

It catches you off guard a little when he tries to engage.

“I’m just passing through” you smile, taking a sip and wincing slightly at the bitter taste it leaves behind in your mouth. It coats your mouth differently compared to the dornish wines you’re used to.

His gaze flits to the wedding ring on your hand, staring for a few seconds before you clasp your other hand over it. 

“Well keep your wits about you” he says, turning away to serve someone else. 

You’re not quite sure how to take what he’s just said on board. So you simply turn to watch the rest of the patrons, enjoying the way they stumble over one another, laughing without a care in the world. The music is absolutely blaring and the man on the drums almost makes the very floors vibrate as he plays, and the man who sings has such a feminine voice it’s beautiful. You smile and clap along to the beat of the music, taking a sip of the ale every now and then. 

What a life these people lead. 

And it dawns on you why you are here. Because your husband no longer seems interested in you. And the clouds descend on your heart, dulling the shine that came out briefly when you watched these commoners go about their lives. 

“Why the sad face, darlin’?”

A man materialises beside you and you jump back at his closeness. He smells of ale, but then again, so does everyone else you supposed. He had a drunken smile and could not have been older than thirty. Trying to not be impolite, you give a wry smile.

“I am fine, sir”

He props his ale on the bar, offering you a large hand, “dance with me?” he slurs.

If it’s possible, you press yourself further against the bar, trying to make it clear with your body language that the answer is no. 

“Oh, no thank you” 

As men do, drunk or not, he ignores you and pulls you up to your feet by your arm with an unusually firm grip. At first, you think how untoward it is for a man of his station to put his hands so forcibly on you. But you remembered where you were and who these people thought you were and quickly pushed the initial discomfort aside. In an attempt to still be polite, you quietly refuse him,

“I am fine, sir, please” you say, but  to your dismay, he carries on and pulls you close to him.

“Don’t be like that, have fun!”

As fun as it was to watch, now you’re just getting annoyed, so you push against his chest, “Get off me” you try and say it forcefully, but it’s quiet.

He starts dancing, pulling your body flush with his. And a flash of red anger envelops you, your hands flat against his chest. But before you can, the door to the alehouse bursts open. Everyone seems to look over in sync, eyes landing on the figure who envelops the doorway with his form. The silhouette is visible even in the low light, how it bounces off his silver hair around his shoulders. And if anyone had any doubt, his eyepatch is firmly in place over his left eye, proving to everyone that it was indeed Aemond Targaryen.

He pokes his cheek with his tongue in annoyance as his eye lands on you. Using the man’s temporary shock at seeing the Prince to your advantage, you push him away, facing your husband face on, your face pink with anger. Ever the silent man, he doesn’t say anything for a moment and secures his gaze on the other man, who seems like he’s about to shit himself. 

Aemond takes a few steps before he is standing tall before the man, his own gaze is averted, wide-eyed as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Give me one good reason” Aemond draws his sword, “why I should not cut you down where you stand” he says it lowly and you simply watch, wondering how far he will go to protect his pride. His wife.

“My Prince…I-I” the man starts, shaking where he stands. Briefly you look over to the bartender, who raises his eyebrows at you, as if to say you’re in for it. 

“Answer me” Aemond hisses, his good eye trained at him.

“Aemond please..” you reach forward for his arm but he shrugs you off. For a second it squeezes your heart, but you realise that he is so deep in rage, it almost seems like he hasn’t heard you.

“You dare touch my wife in such a way” he says lowly. The man’s eyes widen and his pupils shake, and for a moment he looks back at you.

“Don’t look at her” he warns, gripping the sword tightly, “Look at me” 

You look over them both to see the man has a large wet patch in front of his trousers, having soiled himself in fear of his own death. Shaking your head, you try again.

“Aemond” you say louder this time. And it seems to work, you’re on his good side, so all he has to do is turn slightly to meet your gaze. With your hand around his forearm, you shake your head, “Don’t”

The man falls to his knees before the prince, pleading his case, “Thank you, my lady! Please, my Prince, I did not realise!” his words are hurried and slurred. Aemond almost grimaces at the display and ponders the situation for a moment. And you can see the muscle in his jaw twitch, until he hums and turns away. He grips the fabric at your back to force you in front of him, almost tripping you over as he pulls you out of the alehouse.

The walk back to the passageways that connect the rooms of the Red Keep is quiet but quick, but it feels like a lifetime. No sooner has he pushed you through the door that leads to your marital chambers than you are babbling frantically.

“Aemond, I’m sorry, I tried to push him away but-”

“Take off your dress” he says bluntly. And it’s so calm it catches you off guard. His eye is staring blankly at you while he takes off his cloak.

“Aemond, wh-”

“Did you not hear me? Take off your fucking dress” he repeats.

The ice in his words makes your heart stutter a little. You’ve only seen this side of Aemond a handful of times in your short marriage, at least intimately anyway and the tone of his voice and the way he orders you makes a warm sensation settle in your belly, tugging below your belly button. Your limbs begin to tremble, both with anticipation and a little fear, this you cannot lie to yourself about.

You just stand there, shocked at his words and frozen in place when he walks up to you, invading your space with his wide and tall form. 

“A-aemond, what-”

His face is stern when he speaks.

“You want to act like a slut, you’ll be treated like a slut” 

He turns you around, body flush against your back and all but rips the cloak off your shoulders. There are no pre-emptive kisses, no warm touches of adoration. You just look at him and see pure, unadulterated lust. A desire, not only to take you as he sees fit, but to put you in your place for what you’d done. His words should offend you, but they only serve to increase that need between your thighs, which you push together for some friction.

He moves to the dress, the one he’d ordered for you to remove and rips it down the seam at the back, the threads make a scraping sound as they’re pulled apart roughly. His assault on the fabric continues as he pushes it over your bare hips, your body reacting to the cold air that hits your already wet cunt.

“Pathetic” he spits as he grips your hair, tugging slightly on them at the crown. He pulls you up and you whine out as it hurts at first, but almost instantly contributes to the wetness between your legs, “Does my pathetic little wife want to be punished?” he asks lowly.

For a second, you wonder if it’s a strange question for him to ask, but then you realise he’s giving you an out if you need it. If you feel uncomfortable. And he stands still at your back, waiting for the answer.

Swallowing dryly, you breathe, “Yes…”

You swear you feel him tense up behind him, as if he’s thinking of all the ways he might punish you. And it is here that you’re aware of his length, hot and hard against your soft backside. The anticipation flutters in your stomach.

“Yes what”

Oh Gods, you think. Anxiety wracks your body.

“Yes, my prince”

“Good”

His flaming touch disappears from your bare skin for a moment, moving to the buttons of his tunic, undoing them with alarming calmness. 

“Lay on the bed. Don’t make me ask twice”

Not one to poke an already angry dragon, you obey. Sitting in the middle of the bed, with your legs pushed together you look up to watch your husband. His eye never leaves you and it shocks you just how stoic he is right now with the clear bulge underneath his breeches. Most of the time, he would make love to you slowly, lovingly. Only on the off chance would he indulge in primal carnal desires, asking you to call him ‘my prince’ and denying you your peak when he’d deemed you too greedy.

He shrugged his tunic off his shoulders and disposed of his underneath, allowing his pale chest exposure to the slightly cold air of your chambers.

“Spread your legs for me”

You swallow dryly at his instruction, the lack of emotion in them and in his eye sends a bolt of humiliation straight to core, and you feel yourself get shamefully wet, as if you already had not been.

Leaning back on your elbows, taking a few breaths to calm your nerves, your ankles splay out, revealing what lies between those pretty thighs for your husband to shamefully observe. The shameful warmth in your belly makes you want to shut your eyes, to spare yourself the judgement of Aemond’s gaze, but you know just as well he will punish you for that too if you do.

He calmly undoes the laces to his breeches, almost sighing in relief when his cock, hard and desperate for attention, springs free of their confines. He uses his hand to give it one or two pumps, and it prods against his stomach with the force of how hard it is. His eye is focussed entirely on your cunt and cunt alone, standing there. And you feel yourself staring too much as his pretty cock, the tip pink and weeping now that he’s allowed himself to touch it briefly.

“Do you see that?” he asks, “Do you see what you do to me?” he says,

And you hope to all the Gods that it’s rhetorical, because you barely heard what he said, too busy imagining all the ways he would impale you.

Even though he’s naked and clearly desperate for any touch, he stalks over to the bed with shocking control. His hands wrap around your ankles and pull, dragging your legs over the bed and planting them on either side of his thighs. You yelp in surprise at the sudden action and the feeling of your legs touching his bare thighs is enough to send another gush of arousal through you.

You know just as well to be quiet until he speaks directly, and definitely not to touch yourself. That part is reserved for him.

“Remind me of our word, wife” he almost spits that word, as if all he saw before him was a petulant whore. 

“Dracarys”

He merely nods, widening his legs so as to widen your own, giving himself a good view of your achingly wet cunt before him. Both of his hands move to grip your thighs, leaving red marks in their wake that now feel like they’re the most dangerous thing about him. He almost kneads the flesh in his calloused palms, watching the way your breath hitches when his fingers graze that delicate space between your legs and hips. 

“You vex me to no end” he says and you feel the goosebumps on your arms at the tone of voice.

“I apologise, husband-”

“Oh I will have my apology” he muses, “When I want it”

A shudder envelops your body when his long, slender fingers run up the puffy folds of your cunt, slipping them between the lips there to brush against the wettened pearl hidden beneath. The sheer sound it makes is embarrassing enough, but the way he barely even touches that little bundle of nerves and the reaction you give, is the most embarrassing thing about it all.

Knowing not to touch him, your fists clench the bedsheets at your sides. Aemond chuckles,

“Is this how sensitive my little wife is?” he muses, his fingers collecting the wetness there that was a pure result of his unkind words to you. And when one finger prods at the slick hole of your entrance, you gasp. “Maybe I should punish you more often…if you are as wet as this before I’ve barely even touched you” 

Two fingers circle the entrance, the pads of his fingers now entirely slick with your arousal, while his thumb rubs lazy circles at your clit. And you wonder for a moment, how exactly this is punishment. But it’s far too early to be thinking like that.

“I wonder what sounds my pretty little whore can make” he murmurs as he prods two fingers inside you only barely, making your eyes shut tight, but he doesn’t move them further than that. 

“Open your eyes” 

Pink at the cheeks with sheer humiliation, you do as he says without another word to see his other hand is stroking his cock at a languid pace. You almost whimper, it should be you touching him like that…not himself. 

Rewarding you briefly, he tucks two of his fingers as deep as they will go inside your waiting heat, grinning widely at the sound it makes. All breath seems to be stolen from your lungs when his fingers expertly brush against that rough spot within you and it takes all your strength to merely keep your eyes open to look up at him. Gods he looks so happy with himself right now. Knowing all your spots. 

But you never thought he’d use that information like this.

It was kind of…thrilling.

The combination of his words, the deep humiliation and his roughened nature, you feel your peak approaching embarrassingly fast. Your breath shudders in your chest and hands fist more of the bedsheets, needing somewhere to place this feeling. And Aemond seems more than willing right now to let you indulge in the euphoric feeling, your climax hurtling towards you at an alarming pace.

As soon as the thought enters your head, his fingers are gone and you jolt with a squeal when he delivers a firm smack straight to your cunt. Without meaning to, you whimper, both at the loss of his thick fingers tucked within you and also at the burning desire for him to do what he’d just done again.

Your brows furrow as you look up at him, his smirk now long gone, replaced with that same flat and stoic expression from earlier

“It wouldn’t be much of a punishment if I let you peak, now would it?” 

Oh.

So that was his plan.

A flash of fear runs across your face, but most of it is the frustration of not knowing exactly how he intends to toy with you further.

He raises his fingers to your mouth, prodding at your lips, chuckling darkly at the confused expression you wear on your face, “Go on, clean up the mess you made”

You suck on the two digits he offers you, not only tasting the essence of your own heat, but covering them with your spit, hoping that your effort right now in obeying him will prove beneficial to you later. If he was feeling generous, that is.

In this moment, with that cruel, dark look in his eye, you honestly were not sure.

“Good…” his tone is almost soft here, appreciating the way your tongue glides over his fingers. 

For a moment it makes you feel safe.

Aemond pulls his fingers from your mouth, reaching up with his other hand to pull his eyepatch off. You had been married long enough for you to have seen it before, but even now, it still renders you speechless every time you see it. The way it glimmers against the flames of the hearth, sitting comfortably in his empty eye socket. You often thought it beautiful, even before being wed to him. 

But now, as he discards it to the floor and looks down at you, it almost takes on a gaze of its own. And it only strengthens that anticipation deep within your gut.

The fingers, now wet with your spit, run over your slick folds again, now sensitive from the denied release. 

“So wet still…” he whispers, “...I did not know I had such a needy whore for a wife” 

You moan out loud at how mean he’s being right now, coupled with the intense burning touch. 

“Aemond…please…” you breathe. You wouldn’t have realised your slip up until he gives another wet smack to your pussy once again. Another jolt of pleasure runs through you, making your thighs tremble with desire and he seems pleased when you make a surprised sound.

He reaches down and runs his thick shaft against your slit, collecting the wetness that has pooled there since his torture on your body. Your chest is wracked with heavy breaths, wishing that he’d just break and fuck you already. But if Aemond was anything, he was patient. He was more than happy to wait if it meant you were a whining, moaning mess beneath him. The fat head of his cock barely sinks beneath your swollen lips, kissing against your clit as he brushes it up which only serves to make your body jolt once again.

“Hm…” goes the deep rumble in his chest, “...I don’t think that’s what I told you to call me…”

“Please…I’m sorry, my prince…” you’re just begging at this point, the previous resolve you did have is now dwindling quickly.

“See? It’s not hard is it?”

He uses his cock to torture your core further, dipping the head of it between your lips to prod against your readied entrance, ready and willing to accept his length. But he pulls it away once again, only to repeat the motions, chuckling at the effect it has on you.

“What do you want, wife?” 

Your face is pink and desperate, and you so badly want to tell him to just fuck you senseless right now. Play along, just play along…you think. Surely he can’t hold back forever.

“I want you inside me…” you manage between ragged breaths as he keeps dipping his cock against your hole.

“Beg for it”

You let out a frustrated whine when his thumb simply rests on your clit, not moving an inch. 

“Come on, beg for it” he grins widely. He looks so pleased with himself you want to make a comment on it, but your body just wants him so deep inside you you can’t think straight.

“Please…my prince…please fuck me…” you can feel the frustration hot on your cheeks, bubbling up into tears glazing your eyes. 

It’s too much. So much so that you think if he doesn’t thrust deep inside and move his thumb against your clit, you might just die.

“Such foul language, princess” 

He gives his shaft a few more strokes, letting the bright red tip, aching to be buried inside your wet, waiting cunt, breach your entrance just slightly.

You can feel the relief, it’s so close, all he has to do is push forward…

“Eyes on me now” he instructs lowly.

Your mouth falls open, and a sigh of relief empties your lungs when he slowly sheathes himself within you. He is eerily calm and collected, a stark contrast to how you are holding back at this very moment. The sheer sound of your arousal enveloping him seems to make him smile, until he is fully seated to the hilt, the tip kissing your cervix.

You do as you are told, eyes on him the entire time, eyes glassy in relief at the feeling of just being completely full of him. He’s always been one for seeing his wife is satisfied, and so seeing the look on your face, his eyes glimmer in pride.

To your surprise, he starts a pace, albeit slow, but a pace nonetheless. Only quiet breathy sounds are heard from your mouth, and you think (stupidly) that you are safe. You start to indulge in the feeling of his erection continuously sinking into you, rocking your hips slightly against him to increase the pace somewhat. 

And you are embarrassingly close. The ache of the previous denied release never fully went away, and it creeps up from the depths to fizzle at the surface once more, just aching for speed, for roughness, for anything but this torture. You feel every vein, every stroke, every angle of his hips, and it only makes you want more.

And then he stops and jolts you back when he presses his thumb forcefully against your clit, but not enough to truly hurt.

“Say the words” he orders, his tone flat and unforgiving.

Surely the Aemond you know is caring, loving even, is still there…right?

“Say the words, and I might let you peak tonight” 

You swallow, stilling your hips as much as it pains you. The force of holding back makes your thighs tremble, evident in the low light of the room.

“…my prince?...” 

His large, calloused hand wraps around your neck, shocking you in the most arousing way possible. His cock is inside you to the hilt and this should definitely not be turning you on as much as it is, and yet you feel another gush of your essence coat your thighs, betraying how you really feel. His fingers curl around it so effortlessly, and he only squeezes a little. He is so calculated in his movements, it’s almost frightening.

“Don’t give me ‘my prince’” he mocks, “I want your apology. Now”

Without even thinking, the pain of him not moving and stilling his hips too great, tears prick at your eyes as you babble an apology,

“I am sorry, husband, I truly am! I was foolish to go out on my own. Forgive me” 

His fingers curl around your neck just that tiny bit more and he has that wolfish grin on his face once more, clearly enjoying the way he is able to bring you to this pathetic little mess of a wife he must see you as now.

“Yes, it was foolish” he says, so nonchalantly, as if he isn’t fully inside you right at this moment, “I thought my wife was an intelligent woman. And yet here she is mewling and crying with her husband’s cock inside of her, begging to be forgiven”

You swallow around his hand in nervousness, seeing the way his iris is blown so wide with lust he almost does not look human at all. Perhaps they were right. When they say Targaryens are closer to gods than men. Because here, using you for his own cruel means, it is both gorgeous and terrifying, as Gods should be.

Tears prick at your eyes and you worry that if you blink they will fall. All you can focus on is his hand around your neck, every vein in his cock pulsing with desire deep inside you, and your walls squeezing him to try and ease him back into fucking you.

In a quiet breathy voice, you mewl, “husband…please…”

He chuckles when he sees how you are holding your pretty tears back, “Why are you crying, hm? Do I need to punish you again?” he smirks, “I could just stay like this…”

“No, no…please…” 

“Then tell me what you want, wife” he sneers,

You finally allow yourself to blink and the tears stream down your cheeks. 

“I want you…to fuck me…husband…” you say between breaths. 

His tongue pokes at his cheek, as if he’d been waiting all day to hear that.

Aemond pushes your body back further onto the bed, his own knees coming to rest on it, and you whimper, his cock shoved only briefly further into you, kissing your cervix. It provides a little relief.

And your husband smiles widely as he takes your hips in both hands and brings them to rest against his waist. And he’s not moved yet, but purely the change of angle makes the head of his cock kiss against that rough patch within.

Smirking, he starts at a slow pace once more, and you cry at the relief of it. It’s slow, not at all the quick, brutal pace you need, but it’s something.

He all but laughs at your blissed out expression, taking in the glassy, glazed over look in your eyes. 

“Who am I to deny my little wife?” he says.

And every nerve is your body is on fire when his thumbs dig into your hips and he finally just fucks you, in the way he knows you always like to be fucked. Your body goes slack as his hips snap against yours and the only sound in the room is the erotic slap of your bodies against each other. Every now and then Aemond curses under his breath at the force of which your walls clamp down on him.

All the teasing he’d done had done little to quell that impending release that you so desperately needed, and you could feel it form painfully in your stomach, wound up so tight and fit to burst.

“Gods…Aemond…” you breathe. 

He presses one of his palms on your stomach, to feel the presence of himself there within you. Your body reacts on its own, bucking up into him as it pushes that sweet spot against his cock. He leans over, still keeping up that brutal pace and you can feel his hair against your chest, his breath on your neck.

His teeth graze over the delicate skin where he once has his entire hand choking you, “Fuck…your cunt feels amazing…” he whispers against you, “...I know you are close…”

A whimper teases its way out of your throat. Fuck, he can read your body like a book. Knows it far too well.

Knowing he is right, he presses harder against your stomach, squeezing you around his cock inside you as he pistons mercilessly into your cunt, the lewd sound of your arousal only aiding your peak. And it’s the mere whisper of a touch of his thumb across your throbbing clit that drives you over the edge.

“Fuck…” you breathe as your body grows rigid, hands still fisted hard within the sheets. Your muscles tremble and your cunt clenches around him, to which he lets out an uncharacteristically loud moan straight into your ear. 

And you expect him to follow suit, but he simply keeps fucking you through it, intent to prolong this little death.

“Aem..nd…I can’t..” you beg. 

Your first orgasm is barely gone before your stomach winds painfully again and he chuckles again, deeply and low against your body. In a rather sweet gesture, he leaves open-mouthed kisses against your neck and jaw, a stark contrast to the sweet torture he is performing against your sex.

“You can…give me another and I will fuck my seed into you…”

Your eyes screw shut. And there’s not enough words to describe the utter destruction your body feels it is going under, and you feel yourself fall apart more and more with each erotic slap of his balls against you.

“I’ve got you princess…that’s it…let go…”

Finally, your hands fly up from the sheets to clamour at his skin, needing to touch him all over. It’s a mess. His mouth fights against yours, biting at your swollen lower lip to draw the faintest bit of blood. All the while his cock is impaling your cunt at breakneck speed, chasing his release while yours just builds and builds…

Your fingers dig into his arms painfully as your second climax rolls over you. It’s loud and immense and you swear for a moment you are lost to the world, the only thing grounding you being the sound of Aemond’s low grunts as he chases his own release.

He gives several rough, deep thrusts, making sure to shove his seed as deep inside you as it will go before he finally stills above you, rested on his forearms either side of your head.

After what feels like a lifetime, feeling his cock continue to twitch within you, you crack open your eyes. You’ll never tire of seeing him like this. Fucked out with his hair damp against his temples, the muscles of his body contracting as he breathes heavily. 

Idly, your fingers draw circles on his back. And it’s so soft and gentle that he shudders a little, picking himself up to look down at you. There he is. The husband you know and love.

You brush the back of your fingers against his face, the marred side. And his sapphire eye glints back at you.

“I am sorry, wife” he says suddenly. 

Your movements cease, looking at him questioningly. But you do not question it.

“I have neglected you these past weeks” he confesses, as if being able to read you so well, “it has been unconsciously done…but it is no excuse.

I am sorry”

You’re a bit…stunned? If anything. 

Aemond had always been proud. Proud of his heritage. Proud of his abilities. His talents. 

He had never been one to admit his faults. 

So for a moment his words hang in the air, until you find your voice again.

“Aemond…” you say, reaching up to his face. He sighs into your touch, “...I believe we have both been foolish. I am sorry also, for the anxiety I must have caused you”

He shakes his head softly.

“I only wished to get a reaction from you” you say, “But I am truly sorry for worrying you”

He huffs at that, looking down briefly to where you are still joined, “Perhaps you should do that more often” he jokes, and you swat his shoulder playfully.

His kiss is tender and he leans down, “shall we make up for lost time, Princess?” he asks.

You cock your head playfully as his hands glide over your torso to slide over your breast, squeezing gently. 

“I’ll have you full of my heirs by daybreak” he growls.

You giggle at that, bringing him in for another kiss, “I look forward to it, my prince”

[iwaasfairy]

┌─ “ ! „ ROGUE

tw. incest, spit, dom/sub stuff, reader is a textbook brat, size kink, i think i mention tummy bulge once, manhandling, jealousy, virginity, aemond is mean but pussy wipped, tiny lil bit of breeding and wifing up wordcount. 7.2k

a/n. local anime blog goes rogue and writes hotd smut. yes i know okay just look away if you only like anime boys, we will get back to out usually scheduled program soon i swear i sweaarrrrrr dont judge me i have such a fat crush, i sWear i am only doing it to stay sane iT iS MY CALLING ♡

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

The heavy cover of smoke and dusty sage circles up in slow rounds towards the ceiling, like a flock of vultures. Candles burn low in the heavy air of the room, and the long curtains allow just enough fresh air into the room for the scent not to be stifling. Aemond assesses the whole of his room for a few breaths as the chambermaid softly slips out without another word, and pulls the heavy door to a clicked close behind her. Like a fleeing animal, he muses, unclasping and placing his sword upon his desk. The girl has always fled his company as fast as a mouse in a trap. Not like he’s ever done her wrong. Not like how he knows his older brother continues to do.

A small puff of annoyance comes out of his mouth as he starts to peel back some of the layers of his daywear, and drops them over the back of the chair.

Oh well, at least he’s alone.

His room is cast in a soft, golden glow that melts every want for pretense into the floor. Slowly dripping off him like wax, it seems to reveal a bit more of himself with each heavy drop. He only really notices how tired he is of spending time at court when the time comes to abandon it for the evening. Exhausting, ‘s what it is. The mastering of every trade is the lesser of the evils, but the constant ass-sucking, the looks, the reading of the room— he has no want for it. The Queen assures this is the life of a prince. He protests that it’s a simple lie to play at royalty. And no one gets to mark their own vision correct. No one gets to grab the upper hand. Because that’s the life of a prince.

Aemond finishes undressing most of the heavy, leather garb for a looser fit. Then moves to sit into the chair beside his bed, as always, and lets his eye fall to the sets of books on the desk. Few of them are untouched. For an acquiring of knowledge that is purely showy at best, because he is only a second son. A downright shame. He rolls the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth for a few moments, and instead pours the can of wine, holding onto the cup loosely, with slow sips. If only to have something to do.

The humming of the choir down in the bell tower reaches all the way up to his room, and gives the night an awfully dreary feeling, reminding of winter, of death, of the sniveling of people in the sept and those praying in the darkness. Not that he minds, or cares much— but he knows the sound well. Knows how it is the sign for Aegon to double the size of his own drink, the time for Heleana’s maid to start getting their children ready for the night, the moment his mother the Queen finally stops fretting for long enough to enjoy a moment of peace. And for you… He knows it’s a sound that makes you anxious, reminded that you’re alone for the next hours to come. And he supposes that makes the repeating, melodic chants the sign that he’s about to have company any second too, and for that he guesses he’s grateful.

Grateful for the warning, or for the company, he’s not quite sure. He swishes the burgundy liquid around the cup until he hears the familiar click of the door, and the heavy knock. “Come,” he doesn’t look up from the drink, instead perching it onto his lip.

“Her majesty the Princess, my Prince.” The guard doesn’t usher you inside as much as you waltz in, low dress falling every so softly over your frame as the man spares just a few looks and nods, retreats and closes the door back behind him without another word. Curt, quite unlike the older man. Aemond can only guess you’ve been at this for long enough now for the guard to have made peace with the fact that the Prince doesn’t care. And that whether or not he accepts, you’ll enter anyway.

“You shouldn’t walk around the palace after dark,” your brother says, taking a sip of the wine before his eye ends up falling onto you without wanting to. “You’re the first person to blame when people start spinning rumors.”

“I don’t care about the opinions of ladies in waiting or the small council. I am not the Queen,” you simply reply, pulling your dress up to sit down on his bed beside him, knocking knees. “If you’re worried about rumors, you should hear what they say about you, big brother.” You’re not a bold person, but somehow, when it comes to him… every smart remark is able to fall from you like it’s a game. It amuses Aegon to no end, and even dares bring a smile to your mother’s face from time to time. Any of them expecting an outburst, to be sure, a fiery bite back or a quick smack to the back of your skull. And if you were another of his siblings, he supposes his family would be right. But somehow… it doesn’t bother him as much when it’s you.

Still not enough to have him silenced, though. His lip lifts into a grimace. “Enlighten me.”

“I won’t.”

Your feet are bare on the stone floor and your untied hair sways softly with each movement, and like this you sit by his side late at night, as you’ve taken to doing ever since half of your family moved back to Dragonstone. You’ve always gotten along better with people, were able to ignore your grudges better. An admirable trait, if not a weak one. He searches for something to say back to your resolute refusal, but fails. And lets out a sharp breath, glaring.

Whatever is going on in your tepid, little mind, you slowly place your feet upon his thighs, and shuffle a little closer. And his hands follow to come grab your ankles, half to keep you steady, but the other half in warning. It is a fact of your family that everything exists in pairs. Your mother and Sire for one, your eldest brother and his sister the future Queen… and you seem to have taken that to mean that you and Aemond exist in a pair too.

Always shoving past his barriers like it’s your birthright, with those big, searching eyes and a dopey, genuine smile that seems to belong more to a story book than the stern darkness that is expected of your family. A part of him wants to hate you for it. For being so callous when the rest of them are struggling to stay afloat. Unburdened by responsibilities, or haunted by dramatics. He could tell you he hates you too, but that wouldn’t do him much good. Not with you.

Still trapped by his grip, you stretch your hands to his face and place them to his cheeks, and he groans. “Take your hands off of me.” The irony of your soft skin playing beneath his fingers doesn’t go lost on him. “If I wrestle you to the floor and belt your little ass, you won’t be able to go crying to the Queen for it. I’m warning you.” You don’t listen, or care, before your hands slide to the back of his head and start slowly unbuckling the clasp of his eyepatch.

“Your eye is hurting again, isn’t it? You always get difficult when the chambermaids don’t clear out the smoke.”

He squeezes his hands harder around your little ankles. “You’re not a Maester, don’t speak of things like you know them,” he snaps back, only to move his hands to support your bottom when you push closer and press to slide into his lap for better access. Settling so comfortably against him, he doesn’t move his hands. “Shouldn’t you be learning your rhymes and asking the septa for some hot blankies instead of fussing over me-”

“-If you didn’t make your own little sister fuss over you, maybe I could.” You stubbornly peel the patch away to reveal the brightly glistening stone in the candle light, casting blue flickers all over the room. But he’s too busy looking at you to notice, ignoring the way your weight is pressed upon his lap. He has to ignore it. You tuck the pink little sliver of your tongue between your teeth as you let out a nasally breath, and your lashes cast dark, little shadows into the depths of your eyes. Sure enough, he can feel the relief the second you take a wet towel from the jar to the side and press it to the irritated skin, scar pulling and sore.

You’re awfully gentle with it. With him.

“I told you to take your fucking hands off of me,” he repeats, softer this time, watching as you still and he titls his head back to lean atop the chair, and helping you up onto your knees on his thighs. This way you’re fully above him, and with better access to his face, and you stay so very quiet. Unflinching. You suck your lip into your mouth for a second before releasing it, and then slowly start wiping again.

“You shouldn’t speak to me that way.” If you make a sport out of prodding, he makes a sport out of making blows hit.

“I am your big brother, I’ll speak to you as I wish. And I wish you to know what an insolent little cunt you are.” It’s out before he stops to think about it, and you instantly let him know it lands. By slipping off of his lap with a huff and tossing the rag onto the table, while accidentally knocking over the cup and spilling it over the table. You don’t stop to see the damage you cause as you stomp toward the exit, and he’s up and pulling at your dress before you can get far.

“Get off of me, Aemond,” you screech as he wraps long arms around your waist and you let your entire weight hang into them, squirming to get out. “You’re so annoying! Agh-uhh—Seven Hells!”

He can’t help the grin that slips on as he clenches his jaw, and doubles down. Because that’s what he does. You know it, and he knows it— and you go round in circles. “I could tell your septa you’re a misbehaved brat.”

“You’re a gross pervert, you—Ugh, f- You get your dirty hands off of me.” You spew the words like hot venom in his face when you make it halfway out of his grip and dig your nails into his arm and go to bite at his hand, before he manhandles you to the cold floor and bars you from moving under his hard grip. “Ae- Aemond! You’re the worst!” One arm almost pressing onto your throat, and the other over the soft of your stomach, as he takes a few breaths. Your own equally winded, as you start blinking like crazy to avoid the onslaught of tears that is to follow. “Aemond, let go.”

“Pervert?” he raises his brows now that you’ve stopped struggling, and gives you a look that reads ‘really?’ as underlying question clear as day. One you’re not inclined to answer, because you bite your bottom lip as glare at him as a drop rolls down your temple. You’re hot in the cheeks, hair a mess with the struggle, and your body feels ever so small under him now. Reminds him that he’s been told you’re too small to defend yourself by his mother, his father, and even their uninvolved craven of a brother. But you sure don’t act like it. Even if they are right.

“Just get off of me, you’re heavy.” And there it is. When he invades too far and too aggressively, and you stop pushing back to win it, it’s suddenly like it's a matter of life and death in your mind. When you declare the game is no longer to be won, there’s not a single move that’ll sate you. The signs are easy to read. The way you avert your eyes from him is one of them, and the crinkle between your brows as you stare resolutely at the door like you’re hoping a guard will just burst in to save you. When he doesn’t move quickly enough, you change your tune. “Will you please get off of me? I want to go to bed.”

Aemond lets out a sound between a laugh and a huff, and rights himself a little, but keeps hold of your shoulders pressed to the floor. Making him feel bad is another of those magical traits you have, that he hates about you. Leave it up to his youngest sibling to make his stomach feel heavy and empty, like he hasn’t eaten in days. A hungry beast declaring war at seeing you this way. “Hate me again, do you?” he asks without much fire, and your eyes go hard, and mouth a thin line.

“All you want to do is try to hurt me,” you hiss back when his fingers creep up to wipe the silvery line of tears along your cheek, brushing hair away from your face and taking you in as you are. Before you finally look at him again as the hall outside the door stays quiet. You’ve gone through this same song and dance too many times, cried wolf a bit too often. The guards don’t want to risk disturbing him with that temper, he knows they whisper it behind his back.

But it’s of no difference to you, because if looks could kill, you’d have one brother less by now. You manage to worm your arm out of his grip to wipe your own eyes again, before lowering your tone. “If you hate me so much, feel free to kill me sooner rather than later.” As if he’d let just anyone do what you do. As if he’d be so close to someone he hates. He has only you. Still your chest rises and falls with a heavy motion. “At least I wouldn’t have to marry some ugly, old lord if you did.”

In moments like these, he remembers. You’re a burning wildfire with enough fuel to light up an entire city; and you have no intention of doing any less than the rest of them. But stupid. And ignorant. He gets up and takes his heavy body off of you to see the mark where his arm presses so hard into your collarbones, already starting to bruise. “You’re an idiot,” he simply says, and gets up from the floor and up from you. You stare as he does, but keep your mouth shut. And Aemond swears to himself and averts his eye from you to readjust his pants, with suddenly more interest in the canopy of the bed than the soft, warm body of his little sister. “Get out.”

You get up from the floor with slow movements, too slow for his liking, and he walks back over to grab your arm and hoist you up onto your feet as you cling onto his tunic. But though he wants to keep you as far as he can away from his sanity in moments like these, he doesn’t resist when you linger so close he can count your lashes, and feel your puffs of air on his lips. He keeps your dress sleeve fisted into his hand as you stand up onto your toes and pull his shoulders more down to your level, until you can nearly brush your noses and you press a kiss to his lips. Soft and warm, it makes his heart knot and roll around in his chest, and makes your little hands squeeze around his shoulders. “Aemond…”

He dips again, and connects that smart mouth of yours to his without second thought. Another long kiss is met by a soft rumble of his chest, and he is halfway to leaning into you further when you drop back onto your heels. Leaving his mouth tingling with heat. “Ser Arryc is waiting for me to return to my chambers.” You fix your dress and wait for him to slowly peel his fingers out of the fabric, before sucking hard on your bottom lip as you turn about here and there in sudden nerves. “Well, good eve.”

And then he’s left alone for the night, with the memory of your body pressed under him, withering, fighting, crying. And no one to plead him to stop as he twitches in his pants.

+

As younger siblings dare do, you have an intrinsic ability to set his nerves on end. Born and bred for it even, he’d dare say, as he lets his gaze trail after you. The dragonpit is no place for one of your disposition, and though perhaps the same could be said about Helaena, there’s a few cards laid differently between you both. Youngest sibling, and having grown up without any dragon to speak of. Blame the lack of eggs to distribute to the last of Viserys’ children. Helaena also doesn’t possess the uncanny and endlessly bothering capacity to make his blood sour in his veins with a simple look.

His older sister doesn’t really bestow a care to any of you, while you— care about being loving way too much. He can feel his brows start to pull almost distractingly as you prance around with wide eyes and flit about next in and out of the covered hall. Sunfyre is the current object of your affections, and Aegon’s glittering smirk as he watches you coo and bathe him in compliments has his hands tightening around the handle of his sword where it hangs against his side. “She’ll soon fetch a handsome collection of suitors, don’t you think?” his mother asks innocently, distractedly, as he juts out his lips in slight annoyance. She’s gone from distant and sheltering, to exceedingly fretful these last few years.

Aemond hums a vague noise, but doesn’t bother to look away from your soft shape set against the big beast— and how you shine up like a penny at his oldest brother with compliments. He clicks his tongue, and his mother distantly continues from his side. Out of all the people for you to fawn over… all the beasts to be impressed by— he attempts to focus on the conversation aimed at him, but glares around the field instead. At the guards who feel a bit too comfortable casting glances your way, or a brave squire taking a bit too fond a notice. Every second of it makes his jaw set tighter. “Your grandfather the Hand would rather see her married off sooner than later but— Oh, Aegon,” his mother suddenly speaks with a slight worry.

You’re climbing onto the dragon. No, Aegon -the fool- is making you climb up, putting his grimy hands under your bottom and just about heaving you towards the saddle himself.

“Aegon, stop that,” his mother tries again, starting to make her way down the stage as the eldest turns to look at them both, “your sister can’t be up there by herself. She’ll get hurt-”

“-I’ll get her.” For once he’s glad for his mother’s ever present concern, and hurries past to walk up to you. You, with your hair sun kissed in the evening light, and your cheeks and lips full of mirth as you glance over at your mother first, and then him. His brother’s staring up your dress by the time you’re standing fully on his shoulders, and doesn’t even bother to wipe the grin off his face, tongue peeking out in full enjoyment— Aemond doesn’t have time for this absolute mockery. “Get down,” is all he has to say, for your pretty, flushed face full of excitement to blank. You suck your bottom lip into your mouth as you stare back at him for a few seconds… before slowly starting to slide back toward him.

“Oh, Aemond, don’t be a bother—”

His hand is wrung in his older brother’s tunic before he has time to blink, glaring absolute venom his way, nostrils flaring. Alicent calls for him from a distance, but the plea goes unheeded. The fabrics of your dress are halfway obstructing Aegon’s face as you try to get down, but there’s still plenty of room for a dagger to be fit somewhere into it, a thought rings; one he banishes with some fight. Instead he simply reaches a hand for you to grab, and motions you to get down already. You jump and wobble upon landing, and he grabs your wrist tight when you try to run off. But he still hasn’t stopped glaring at Aegon, to his own surprise, chest rising and falling a bit too quickly to be normal. “You try that again-”

“-and you’ll what, little brother?”

“Don’t fight,” you quickly quip in, tugging softly on his pinky as Aemond’s mouth corners tug up, and he squeezes the fabric tight enough around his own brother’s neck to hurt. He leans in, ignoring your pulling and begging to really tower over Aegon. And Sunfyre gets restless beside them, scaring you even more. “Aemond, please. No harm was done.”

Aegon’s face turns a harsh ruddy color with each passing second, and Aemond’s never enjoyed a sight quite so much. “Shall we see how you do without your eyes, brother?” He releases all at once, just in time enough for their mother to miss how he steps back and gives you a look to keep your lips glued shut. If Aegon wants to tell, he’s at least smart enough to keep quiet, for now. The woman looks between the three of you in worry. But he has no intention of explaining. He couldn’t, really. The absolute blinding rage dies down enough for him to suck the sourness off his tongue and take your hand better, lacing fingers. “I’ll take her back to the keep.”

The Red Keep has never felt smaller as you don’t say anything until you get all the way to your chambers, staring resolutely at the floor. And though his mood hasn’t changed, there’s part — parts of him, that want you to just look his way like you usually do too much of. Your guard is quick to open your door, but stares a little too long when he lingers. “You may go see upon the King, Ser,” he says curtly, and before he can care enough to watch the man leave, closes your door behind you both. “Are you an absolute imbecile, that you’d let Aegon disrespect you in front of everyone?”

“It wasn’t anything to get upset over, he wasn’t hurting me!” you bite back as you do, making him crowd you against the door.

“Oh, no,” he rolls his eye, “he was only about to do much worse later!” You stay pressed between his body and the door as you stare up at him and hold your hands to his chest, both of you breathing hard. But you don’t back down, don’t roll over and apologize. And that bothers him. It shouldn’t, and yet… “Hah,” the sound of it is hard and sharp as he lifts your hands above your head in place with his own. Your lips are a puffy, flushed color, and eyes so focused on him that it momentarily distracts him. Before the feeling of you against him comes back full force, as always. Try as he might, he can’t escape you. “You like that sort of perversion, then?”

“I don’t know what kind of perversion you speak of.” You’re whispering now, long lashes spread over the haunting appearance of you below him. Swallowing hard, chest rising and falling. Hell, the way you look is entirely deviant, but he still leans in despite knowing better. You smell faintly of dragon, but the majority of it is still that soft, sweet innocence that drives him to grab at your chin and force your face to his. And your free hand reaches for his cheek, cold fingers brushing his skin. Your lips brush his as he allows himself to sink just a little lower, letting you moan into his mouth. “Aemond… big brother, please.”

“What do you think you’re playing at?” He lets the soft kisses be placed onto his lips in between the words, resolve growing weaker by the second. How did he get here? And why? Aemond isn’t like Aegon, so why does the sight of you all soft and needy below him have him so hot in the face. Heat burning all along his neck, chest, down to his… cock. He knows very well your poor mother would riot at his taking of your virtue. Because unlike Aegon, she knows he knows better. But you press your mouth against him again, and let your soft, little tongue push against the crack of his mouth with another moan— all while arching against him.

“Haven’t you thought about it?” He’s only half aware his hand is grabbing a handful of your ass and pulling you up against his hips as your lips make those little noises against his, lifting you so you can wrap your legs around his glutes. The pressure of your body grinding up against his is entirely wanton, your eyes glossy and lips even glossier. “Taking me to wife?”

“You’re set to marry a lord—”

“I want to marry you. Don’t you want to marry me too? Have me abide by your side, call me ‘yours’?” Your hands slide into his hair, pulling at the hair at the base of his skull just enough to have his tongue push back into a kiss and take the warmth of your mouth as his own. Hotly, with a demanding rumble of his chest you’re kissed- the sweetness of your mouth and warm, squirming tongue against his. It’s intoxicating, setting every hair on his body upright. He grabs your cheeks to keep you in place even when you try to pull back, kissing longer, deeper— like he could die in it. He probably could.

When you’re allowed to pull back you roll your hips against him with a slight smile, and pant against his mouth. “Isn’t that why you love laying on top of me?” His breathing ceases automatically, chest tightening a little more. All he ever hoped was never to hear it out loud. Don’t breathe life into it and it won’t exist, right? See no evil. Your little smile grows a little more as you kiss him again, and he doesn’t pull away, though he should. Your daring tongue moves down his jaw to his neck instead, licking along his pulse as you push. Can’t help but stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, right, a family trait? “Doesn’t that get your cock hard, big brother?”

He takes a stuttered breath as he turns and you cling onto him, walking over to the bed to lay you down and place his large hand over your mouth. “Shut. Up.” You lick the inside of his hand, and he hisses before grabbing your thigh instead, tight enough for your pretty little face to turn into a grimace, and you pull his hair a little harder. Doesn’t matter. He’s nose to nose with you, his own little sister, the one who was always so fond of him it was annoying as sin— as every bit of pretense evaporates by the second. “Do you even know what you’re talking about when you say that?”

“I know what Aegon taught me,” you breathe back against his lips, and it’s this -not any of the other stuff, though that should have done it too- that has his blood turning green with jealousy and has him shutting you up with a kiss, hands sliding up your body over the tight bodice. You’re burning underneath him, lifting your back from the mattress as he crawls further up the bed and over you. You’re so flimsy and small beneath him that it should be laughable. All it does is make his cock so much harder in his pants, as your noises ring above the smacking of mouths and tongues and teeth. Your little fingers press into his shoulders hard and needy. “Mhm-Ae-mond.”

He pulls at the clothing under his hands until you squeak and it rips, one of the too-many layers you’re wearing dropping to the side. He pulls back to stare at you and the way you’re biting your lip, eyes flicking from him to his pants. His cock is chubbed up against the fabric as much as it will allow, and starting to get too tight for his liking, but as you reach out a hand, he smacks it away. Instead he slides a hand under your head to pull your hair and you make a little noise of displeasure, until he leans back in. “When you talk like that it makes me want to smack you around. You understand that?” You whine into the silence, but don’t fight back as he makes your head nod. “You know what I am?”

“B-big brother-”

“Then treat me like it. Open your mouth.” For a few seconds and deep breaths through your nose, you seem to debate it, but whatever you see in his eye eventually has you obliging. He collects a good glob of spit and has it land onto your tongue, and you cry out something unintelligible— but let him slide his thumb into the wet mess of your tongue as your lips get even shinier with all the wetness. Before he can say anything though, you wrap your lips around his digit and whimper. It’s a little too disarming, and his cock twitches hard in his pants. Balls heavy and length straining against the confines. He lets out a little breath, before pulling back out of your suckling mouth to grab himself through his pants. “Shit.”

Your voice sounds so much more high pitched and girly when you speak again, a strange sort of mockery of him over top of you, but it works. Fuck, if it doesn’t. “Please, please, please, big brother.” You whine his name and press tens of little kisses to his mouth, he feels how his balls pull against his body at the display. You get impatient though, start pulling the top half of your dress down to reveal your shoulders and then, with another little noise, your tits. He’s ahead of you though, pulling you down more and leaning in to lock his mouth around your puffy nipple to suck hard, have you curling off the bed with pitiful whimpers. “Big brother, mh-ah- big- br-brother.”

He starts working the drawstrings of his trousers to get them down as quickly as possible too, moving to the other tit and taking as much of it into his mouth to lave his tongue all over it. You sound almost beside yourself with pleasure, kneading at his shoulders and neck like you’re losing your clouded, little mind for him. He gets out of his pants enough to kick them off the rest of the way and lay his much larger body on top of you, back to your face to kiss you with slow, deeper kisses. Then he pulls back, for only a moment of true emotion, to grab your blushy cheeks between his fingers and stare. “Are you still…”

You go limp, and embarrassed and flushed with heat all at once, and squeeze his hips between your thighs like it’s meant to hurt. All it does is push your covered cunt against his rock hard cock and make him take a sharper breath. “Of course I am-” you bite out though, digging your nails into his shoulders a bit harder like you’re just wanting him to keep going. “What- that not good enough for you?”

But he’s quick to shake his head, and press a few spare kisses along your ear, finally being able to let out a little grin at your flustering. “You’ll let me take your maidenhood?” You’re back to whining his name in that overly girly, pouty voice; and he sucks at the shell of your ear for long enough to have you shivering below him. Your little breaths and noises are too fucking cute. And the way you’re pawing at your dress to get it up your body is even cuter. “Beg big brother Aemond to have you. Take you.”

“Just do it already,” you mumble though, and your eyes tear up at the corners.

So fucking cute. He shrugs the eyepatch off too, half for comfort, half at the grabbing of your hands. And pulls back just in time to see how much it pains you to admit it out loud, and rubs his fingers over your wet, pebbled nipples while your eyes flutter and your hands go open and closed at the feeling. He keeps one hand busy by unlacing part of your dress, as the other pinches each nipple until you suck your lip into your mouth and can’t stand it anymore. “Please, big brother? ‘Mond, please-uhh. Please, please do it? W-want you to.”

His lips curl up again at your admission, as he takes you in a few more seconds, grinds his center against your thigh while he’s at it. His cock is leaking enough pre to make a wet spot on his undergarments, red head twitching every few seconds. If he’ll wait any longer he might explode— until you finally give up and wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back close to you in total embarrassment. “I saved myself for my big broth-errr—” you whine like a child, burying your face into his neck, “so please! Only wanted my big brother to- I swear. Only love my Aemond.”

This way you don’t see— just what it does. This way you don’t notice it has him hook, line and sinker, and he grunts out loud as he has to grab the base of his cock tight not to shoot hot ropes of cum all over your thighs. He lets you press your tits into him as he shudders over you, and you make a little noise as he suddenly yanks the dress down your body, over your thighs and kicks it aside. “Off, get this off…” You open your teary eyes to see him plant another kiss onto your face, down your neck and to your tits as your chest heaves against him. Your panties are absolutely soaked, and he’d make a crude comment about it if he was any more lucid— but…

He can’t possibly think about anything but sliding his heavy cock inside your little cunt. “Fuck, fuck… you want to fuck me?” His fingers slide over the wet patch as your mouth cracks open a sliver, before peeling them off you with impatient yanks. You nod wildly into it in response, and let him press another kiss onto your mouth to tangle your wet, squirming little tongue with his. It’s vile, the way he thinks about fucking you like this. But it’s all that overtakes him, rutting his leaking cock against that wet little slit. And his fingers have to push in a little to make it halfway into your wet pussy, softly scissoring you apart as your mouth opens more. “You’re dripping all over my hand,” he breathes into your mouth, and you close your eyes and pull your lips into a tight little line.

“‘M sorry.”

“You imbecile.” The dry, non-humoured chuckle is unexpected even to him, as he pulls his wet fingers from between your legs to slip them straight into his mouth and his eye rolls into the back of his skull with a low groan. His fingers go back to rub at that wet slit, as you moan and whine his name like it’s a prayer. His cock bobs heavily between his legs while he fingers you in the heat of the shared bed, and you mumble noises against his skin.

“Aemond, Aemo-ngh.. big, you’re— r-big.” You’re panting, and shivering as his fingers slide in and out and get wetness to drip all the way to your ass, all over the inside of your thighs. Not even to talk about the pride burning along his neck at the way you’re clinging to him like you mean it. Your cunt stretches each time he moves them in and out and spreads them apart, staring at the way your little pussy clenches around his thick, long fingers with each pump. “Big brother—”

“Like that?”

“Mhm-” you’re nodding like a madman, and thighs shaking a little, but your tears are still glistening at the corners of your eyes, “I- f-feels good, bu-but you’re- going so- deep.” He doesn’t tell you that what you’ll be fitting in there in a few seconds will be much bigger, and only lets you drench the bed and wait for you to push back into his hand for that wet ‘pap, pap, pap’ sound and his palm can rub over your little nub. The sapphire in his eye socket makes obnoxious flickers on the walls, that only seem to cheer him on. Not for nothing, watching his baby sister cream all over his fingers like you are. “O-oh,” you say after a while, allowing him to curl his fingers all the way into you and your spongey, perfect spot to make your lower body curl so needily. “I… feel weird, Ae— feels- good- hng.”

Your little pussy is so wet everything’s glossy and needy, and his two fingers can finally slide in and out without much more resistance; though your noises would hardly convince him otherwise. Mewling and whimpering like you’re going to cry any second— it has him rock hard and so fucking sensitive. “I need you to keep that little cunt open for me, okay?” He presses the words into your mouth before rubbing his fingers over your puffy, needy clit; and you make to wrap your thighs around his glutes to keep him right to you— not that he’d go anywhere. “‘ll put it in. Have my cock filling my little sister up.”

He pats his cock against your clit a few times, before nodding at it. “Keep your thighs open, come on.” He doesn’t wait up for you to act as he pushes the leaking tip against your pretty, clenching hole and leans over you to nose at your neck, grabbing at your perky, pretty tits to pebble up your nipples more with each swipe, before kissing you again. He can’t help it, can’t get enough of your moans into his mouth, filling up the room. He pushes in, the slowest he can bare as your hot fucking pussy envelops his cockhead and you moan and whine. “Oh, dear g— goin’ to fuck my little sister for real,” he breathes back, too much to keep it in.

“Ah, ah, ah— Aemond- Aw, oh-hmn- ah.” Your desperate little noises are impossible. Sliding in deeper with each breath, over filling that tiny pouch of your tummy like he was always meant to be inside it. His arms strain not to fuck right into you hard and fast with the way you’re wiggling and curling against him, slick a soft pink when he pulls back to thrust in deeper. “Big bro—ther,” you whine it long and needy, as it has him sliding into you until he bumps up against the walls of your tight fucking cunt. So tight it’s making his balls pull up, entire body so hot it’s almost unbearable. Your one Targaryen claim to heritage. His little sister.

“Love you, big brother, l-love you.”

“Ugh, shit, you’re so tiny. So tight, hot— and wet,” he’s rambling to himself more than to you as he rocks himself into that spongy spot in you, watching your body try to take all of him in. Your eyes are a little lidded, glistening and so pretty and desperate as he pulls back and into you again, hitting your cervix once more. You shudder, and he can’t help but press onto your tummy to make the fit even tighter. It’s too much. Your clenching walls around his big, hard cock— that tight, wet little cunt clinging onto him each time he pulls back, your face as he takes you. “You’re only mine,” he hisses, “only mine, you understand? Gon’ make you my wife and make you carry my heirs. Waiting to give your maidenhood away to the better brother, right?”

“Hng, yes- yes, yes! Please!” You kiss him first, before grinding hard against him and pulling at his hand. “Aemond, Aem— b- I feel- weird-” you admit, smacking your lips and desperately curling your toes against his glutes. “Big bro-ther-agh-h—”

He can’t possibly stop now, frown instantly digging into his brows as you cling to him. He doesn’t bother to even pretend to care as his cock kisses your pussy walls and his white pubic hair rubs over your overly sensitive nub, but you keep on whining for him. “Weird how?” He pulls his face up from your neck only to watch how your cheeks are flushed and your eyes flick all over his face, your tongue jutting out. And suddenly, it doesn’t take you explaining for him to press his rough thumb to your clit and rub rapid circles into it, for you to start going all tense. “This? You want to come for me like a good, little whore?”

You can’t speak. Only clench your eyes shut as he keeps rubbing- and grabs your face with his free hand. “Look at me. Look at me as you get to come on big brother’s cock.” You physically can’t open your eyes through your tears, but he demands it anyway, and watches as you go a bit cross-eyed at the perfect pressure. Your cunny clenches so hard around his cock it hurts, but he doesn’t stop his hips and the loud sound of skin meeting skin. “No one loves you like I do,” he says it like a prayer, whispering into the silence as your mouth drops open and you let out some broken noises, “no one.”

And you desperately claw at his back and tangle your fingers into his hair to pull, your legs tightening around his thighs to get his steady, brutal pace to slow down even a little— but nothing stops your orgasm from crashing over you with a pitched squeak of his name, and your body shuddering so hard beneath him the bed creaks with the motion. Each hard bottoming out in your small cunt having you jerking and moaning a string of unintelligible explicites into his mouth, before he kisses you long and deep. Your tongue can barely do anything except take what he gives, until he fucks you through your orgasm and his balls are so, so hot, his cock twitching every few breaths.

You look perfect as you come down and let him fuck into you even more, pussy like a vice around his too-big-for-you cock. It’s a miracle really, it didn’t happen sooner. Two of a whole. As always, you take and he gives, as is your role in the family.

All Rights Reserved © IWAASFAIRY 2022. Works are exclusive to this Tumblr.

[fruitmins]

For You | yoongi

➭ summary: Yoongi is the son of a big business man and is now the CEO of the million dollar company so naturally he grew up distant and stern. But suddenly, his attitude changes when he meets you, a local kind hearted stripper that catches his curiosity. He finds himself lost in your smile and warm spirit, despite him being the opposite. But he’s willing to let down his walls for you..

➭genre: oneshot, strangers to lovers, stripper reader, slowburn-ish, fluff

➭warnings: mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence & blood, tsundere-ish tbh, didnt check the spelling, yoongi is stalker-ish but that’s ok, daddy issues

➭note: don’t ask me why this takes place in winter💀 senior year of high school + writers block + I’m lazy. i like half of this and i hate half of this. omg yoongi going to the military I’m gonna cry & throw a fit

Yoongi put his cold hands in his pockets, small snowflakes falling from the sky as he stepped out of the dirty and vulgar parking lot. He ignored all of the horny thugs who were making out with hookers outside as he headed to the dimly lit building.

SEASAW

The word was lit on top of the building and for some unknown reason, Yoongi had been drawn to it for weeks. He knew there were better clubs than this one, and he’d most likely be seen and on some headline by the time he stepped in the door but tonight, he didn’t care.

His mind went back to the fight he had with his dad on the phone as he stepped through the door, some terribly made whiskey in mind.

A breeze washed over him as the door closed with a loud thud, it was at least a little warmer than the cold air outside. Yoongi glanced around taking in the symphony of multicolored lights illuminated the air, casting a vibrant palette across the dance floor. The room throbbed with an infectious energy, resonating with the beat of the music that reverberated through every corner.

Soon, his eyes found the bar, a couple of nicely dressed men sat at the stools. Without another thought, Yoongi strutted to a seat, leaving an empty space to separate himself and another man.

“Whiskey.” He said in a deep raspy voice despite how the woman working was already in the middle of making another drink.

“Yoongi!” A older sounding man suddenly called out of him, making his head turn to the man on the stool next to him. He recognized the man as one of his dad’s friend.

Perfect. He scoffed to himself, hoping his drink would came faster.

“Now what are you doing in a bar like this?” The man asked with a scratchy laugh, hitting his shoulder.

Yoongi tried to let out a small chuckle that ends up sounding dry. “Same as you.” He spoke, turning back to the bar when he hears the bartender loudly slam his drink on the counter.

He goes to take a large swig as the old man continues to chat and laugh with him, his reeking odor hitting his face as he turns to look back at him.

Behind the old man, Yoongi notices the dance floor. Bodies moved in sync with the rhythm, twisting and gyrating, surrendering themselves to the intoxicating melodies. But one soul figure seemed to catch everyone’s attention on stage.

Slowly, he started to tune out the annoying old man the more closely he watched. But unlike the other men in the bar, he watched with curiosity rather than lust. Your movements were elegant and graceful, your tight crop top and glittery skirt making every sway of your body seen.

Your hands played in your hair and caressed your body as your body moved, painting a mysterious story about you with help of the music. Your eyes closed and a bright warm smile on your face as if no one else was there.

Despite dancing in a shabby club probably to make ends meet, you were dancing as if this was your long time dream.

“Her?” The old man’s itchy voice suddenly came back to him, pointing to you on the stage. “That’s Y/N. She’s kinda a favorite here.” He said and this made Yoongi even more intrigued.

“Has she worked here long?” Yoongi asked glancing back at the old man as he nodded. “Almost a full year.” He said and everyone clapped and whistled as you suddenly came down from the stage with a warm smile.

Yoongi just hummed before quickly finishing his drink before paying the bartender and leaving, deciding to dismiss the thought of talking to you.

But at weird hours of the day Yoongi would think about you, so every time he happened to pass the club he went in and watched you perform.

This happened for weeks. He never said a word to you, he never went further than the bar. Until one day when you had stepped off the stage, looking cheerful as usual, only to be met with two men meeting you half way.

Yoongi watched, his blood starting to boil as the man surrounded you, complimenting you and touching your hair. It didn’t take them long before they got more physical, grabbing your arm to stop you from walking away as they started to trail closer to you so that their body touched yours.

Yoongi can see the panic and fear settle in your face before his vision was blocked by the taller men.

Without thinking, Yoongi practically sprung up from the stool, furious as he made his way over to where the men had circled you.

“Move.” He said, his voice deep and hoarse as the two men slowly turned around to face Yoongi.

“Mind your business, hot shot.” One man spoke, obviously trying to spook Yoongi which only wanted to make him laugh.

“I’m not going to waste my breath telling you again.” Yoongi said simply, remaining calm as he watched the two turn irritated.

“You wanna get jumped punk?” The man said, raising his voice as he stepped closer to Yoongi.

Instantly and without warning, Yoongi’s right arm swung in the air. His already clenched knuckles that were in his coat pocket suddenly flew out and connected to the guys face, all of his pent up angry unleashing.

Before anyone can react, he punched him a second time, this one making him stumble to the ground with a yell of pain.

The other man quickly backed away with his hands in the air, “I don’t even know that guy.” The man claimed before quickly rushing off.

Yoongi looked up from the ground where the other man was laid, his nose now bleeding heavily as Yoongi stepped over the body, ignoring his groans when he did so.

“You alright?” Yoongi spoke, his expression softening as he meets your eyes. His eyes glazed around your face as he inspected you, trying not to get lost in your gorgeous and unique features as he looked for any sign that they had touched you.

“I’m fine.” You muttered back, out of breath from shock as you looked at the man on the group and then up at him with wide eyes.

“Thank you.” You say with a polite bow, taking a moment to collect yourself before a small smile appears on your face.

“What?” Yoongi asked, curious on why you were suddenly smiling and chuckling despite everything.

“Well, I was wondering when you were going to come talk to me.” You say with a teasing smile only making Yoongi more confused. As if reading his expression you chuckle. “You think I haven’t noticed you always coming in here and watching me?”

Yoongi bit the inside of his cheek, shrugging lightly as he looked away. “I don’t care if you noticed or not.” He spoke in a defensive tone, harsher than intended. He saw the smile on your face drop slightly in disappointment and he bit the inside of his cheek harder out of frustration. He didn’t want to be responsible for a frown on your face when you always wore a smile.

Wordlessly, Yoongi took out his wallet, taking out three hundred dollar bills and holding his hand out for her to take.

Your eyes widen in shock, chuckling nervously as you shake your head, denying it. “Why..?” You start to question, getting a little suspicious.

“For the inconvenience, and all the dances I’ve watched without tipping.” Yoongi states with a serious expression, trying to cover up any other intentions he might of had.

“You just have that much on you at all times? That’s risky.” You respond, still hesitant to take the money. Yoongi lets a smile crack at the irony, “I’ve been watching you for weeks and that’s what your worried about?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you want a favor in return or something?” You ask him, still skeptical as Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I guess we’ll never know if you don’t take the money.”

With a sigh, he watches as you slowly take the money out of his hands and put it in your pocket. “Thank you.” You mumble as he turns around and heads for the door. “Wait!” You call for him in confusion, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him as he turns around slightly.

“What’s the favor?” You ask in confusion but Yoongi just looks at you before continuing to walk out without a word.

It doesn’t take Yoongi long to wonder back into the club days after that. Despite the weird exchange it only made him want to get to know you more. But something in him grew colder when he walked in the club only to see you not onstage. Usually around this time you had already started and had a small crowd of men watching you.

“Whiskey.” He ordered in a lower tone as he sat down, tapping impatiently on the counter as he waited. “This was stupid.” He mumbled to himself, ashamed of how he had gotten caught up with this stripper and was just about ready to leave it all behind.

“Min Yoongi! You’re back!” He heard your familiar voice right next to him, causing his head to turn to the side in confusion.

“What are you doing here?” He asked his finger slowly stopping as he looked at you, sat next him in the bar.

“Aren’t you going to ask how I know your name?” You reply instead, wiggling your eyebrows playfully. “I assumed you already knew.” Yoongi spoke calmly, lightly shrugging even.

“Cocky much?” You reply, jokingly rolling your eyes with a smile. “How did you find out, if not the internet?” Yoongi asked curiously, as the bartender slams his whiskey on the counter.

“Well when the son and CEO of a million dollar company starts to take notice to the best employee in the club, word gets around.” You reply with a slight grin and Yoongi can’t help but chuckle a little.

“Cocky much?” He echos your words as he sips on his whiskey and this only widens your grin further. Yoongi stares into your smile, feeling a weight being lifted off his shoulders when he realizes it’s been a while since he actually genuinely smiled for once.

When he finishes his drink he takes out his wallet and pays for the bad alcohol before taking out another three hundred and handing it to you, not waiting for you to take it this time.

“This has to be your way of flirting with me.” You mumble in disbelief as you stare at the bills before reluctantly shoving it in your skirt.

Yoongi scoffed, shaking his head in disagreement. “I don’t have time to flirt.” He mumbled firmly while looking at his empty glass.

“You have time to come here.” You differed causing him to bite the inside of his cheek, standing up and dusting himself off. “Wait that didn’t mean leave!” You state quickly getting up with him and Yoongi can’t help but glance at the sudden look of displeasure and sadness on your face as your hand brushes against his as you attempt to stop him.

“I..actually like having you here. You make me feel safe.” You mumble sheepishly as Yoongi stood there, completely frozen as he took in your words. How had he, of all people, made you feel safe? In a run down place like this?

“Then your standers are low.” He said in a low voice, a hint of playfulness in his tone as you look back up at him, snickering at his comment.

“You say that, but under that frown and sharp eyes is a warm hearted gentleman.” You speak causing him to look away from you, not wanting to take your words seriously. He didn’t want to show any signs of vulnerability, he’d never be ready for anything heavy.

“You don’t believe me?” You challenged him, seeing his silence and he heard the heard an underlying tone in your voice when you asked. “If I asked you to walk me to my car, you’d hundred percent do it.”

Yoongi scoffed and rolled his eyes at you, but quickly knew not to didn’t deny it. “See! You would.” You grinned at his sour expression, knowing you were right.

“Whatever, do you want to be walked to your car or not?” He asked trying to dismiss the fact all together. He had never seen himself in a situation like this, feeling embarrassed and maybe bubbly.

You laughed at the question but nodded, grabbing your nearby coat that was filled with stains as you attempted to squeeze your shoulders in the coat.

Yoongi rolled his eyes, walking in front of you as he leaded the two of you out of the door and to your car. Yoongi sighed as he looked at the state of it, effortlessly taking out his wallet and starting to count some bills.

“If you’re going to give me more money don’t bother.” You quickly said as the two of you made it to your car, stepping in front to him and holding onto his hand so he would stop rummaging through his wallet.

“I don’t need it, I’m fine!” You tried to convince him and he simply raised an eyebrow at you, before going back to counting, taking out a couple hundreds as he did so.

“Then consider it flirting.” He mumbled in a flat tone, taking out five hundreds and getting ready to hand it to you.

As he looked back up from his wallet he felt something soft touch the corner of his lips, eyes widening in shock when he realizes how close you were to him and before he could stop it, you had planted a gentle kiss on the corner of his lips.

Your lips lingered on his skin for a couple seconds before finally pulling away from him, taking a step back.

“Come back tomorrow, okay?” You say with a warm smile, practically glowing in front of him as you spoke to him in a soft low tone.

Silently, Yoongi watched you chuckle at his reaction before getting into your car and slowly driving off, his heart thumping as he watched your car drive off onto the road.

He slowly started to move again when your car was far away enough that it was out of view, as if snapping him out of a trance.

Yoongi could feel himself getting lighter, warmer. He could feel his muscles relax as he took his hands out of his coat pocket.

[maidflowery]

Fortified Wager ♧♧♧ 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 3

♦︎♦︎ Aventurine x Reader ♦︎♦︎ 𝕀𝕝𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕

🄱🄰🄲🄺 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ ２】

𝕋𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕗 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕥

𝗨𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗰𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗹𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻, 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲, 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹 𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲. 𝗥𝗲𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘅 𝗴𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗱 𝗴𝗮𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗶𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗿—𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗿. 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗻, 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗰𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸. 𝗣𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗹𝗲, 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲, 𝗻𝗮𝘃𝘆—𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺.

╔══ ≪ ♥♥♥ ≫ ══╗

Aventurine's reign of terror on Primavera ended after his 8th victory.

After that, he no longer showed up daily, but instead two or thrice a week, usually on the weekend—probably to the staff’s relief.

Since Aventurine had become somewhat of a local sensation, this change threw many into confusion, and many rumors began circulating.

Some said that he was just bored, while others believed that there was something deeper going on behind the scenes. Word went around that someone threatened to expose him for foul play, or that he was almost robbed on the way home.

Despite being there to witness his 8th victory, you couldn’t say much because you dashed home after trying wagyu steak for the first time in your entire life.

In your defense, you were afraid that Aventurine would withdraw the offer after seeing everyone dining literally like kings.

Ah, weeks later, I can still taste the tenderness of the meat and the sweet savory sauce...

But honestly, work probably just got busy or something, considering he worked at such a high-profile company.

Personally, the weekends were literally your only days off, so no complaints there.

...No, if anything, you were immensely grateful to him!

🂡 🂠 🂣 🂠

“—I’m late!!”

You were running with all your might.

Before anything else, no, you weren’t running late to work. In fact, you just got off one.

That day was Saturday, so there was no class. Even during the weekend, sometimes you had a shift to cover, and today was the example.

Growl.

You hadn’t had dinner yet, so your stomach was rumbling. You'd also be lying if you said you weren't tired. However, you were smiling from ear to ear.

As for where you were headed to, it was none other than the fanciest nightclub that countryside town had to offer. Yes, Primavera.

The nightclub's dazzling entrance stood before you. Neon lights in vibrant hues of pink, blue, and green illuminated the facade, casting a pulsating glow onto the surrounding pavement. The door itself was flanked by towering LED screens displaying animated graphics and the club's logo. A velvet rope, guarded by impeccably dressed bouncers, marked the entrance, while a red carpet invited guests to step into the glamorous world beyond.

You casually strode inside, making your way through the flashy hallway. The walls were adorned with large, abstract artworks bathed in soft, ambient lighting that shifted subtly in color, creating a sophisticated atmosphere. Mirrored panels lined one side of the hallway, reflecting glimpses of the stylishly dressed patrons passing by.

It didn’t take long for you to find the main dance floor.

Including the first time your friends invited you out, it was the fifth time you had been there this month.

And no, it wasn’t because you were suddenly promoted to a CEO or something.

Upon arriving, you immediately shot a glance at the bar section of the venue.

“Nice! I made it in time!”

As usual, the smoking hot blond gambler was playing poker against his opponent at the table reserved for them, surrounded by a large crowd. From the looks of it, the game had been going on for some time.

Aventurine was probably smiling as usual. As for his opponent, you really couldn’t make out his expression from here, but your condolences.

Having made sure that you hadn’t missed the highlight of that night, you went to look for a staff member.

Despite the flashing lights, you could easily find them due to their fancy uniforms. A few were standing nearby with polite smiles etched to their faces.

"The menu, please!" You asked like you owned the place.

When they heard that, their expressions twitched, but you pretended not to notice. None of them moved, though. Did they not hear you or something?

Just as you were about to repeat your order, something slid in front of you. A sleek, large book bound in black leather. It was the menu.

You turned around and saw a bluish-haired young man holding out the menu to you.

This guy...!

When you saw his face, you had to do a double take.

Generally speaking, the youth was good-looking. He was lean and slender, without any excess weight anywhere. His posture was firm and elegant, while each of his movement was graceful. His slicked-back hair, coupled with the tuxedo, made him look like a real-life European butler. As a side note, he was short.

What’s with those dead fish eyes...!?

Yes, the first thing that caught your eyes was his hollow, bleak gaze. It reminded you of the saying, “If you stare at the abyss, the abyss stares back.”

But soon, you were also reminded that it was rude to stare.

“T-thanks.”

You were about to receive the menu when the butler(?) suddenly retracted his hand.

What?

You looked up at him again, feeling both confused and shocked.

You were stunned by what you saw—the butler(?) was outright scowling at you! Not to mention, it was a look of pure contempt and disdain!

What the hell is that about?!

Then, as if it was just a lie, he reverted back to his expressionless face.

As you were reeling from what had just happened, you heard him say in the most fed-up tone.

“...It’s you.”

“Excuse me??”

You tried to reach for the menu again, but the butler(?) swiftly evaded your hand. It happened twice, and then thrice, so it sure as hell ain’t a coincidence. He was pissing you off.

What’s with this guy?!

Thus, your battle with the annoying butler(?) began.

“Is this how you treat a customer?! Shame on you! This is coming from someone who also works in the service industry!”

In the middle of the fight, you tried to assert your customer rights. You had managed to grab a hold of the menu and was trying to seize it from him.

In response, the butler(?) scoffed. "Ha. A customer would pay for their order. Do that, and I’ll release this.”

“As far as I recall, all of my meals have been paid!” You shot back in retaliation.

Technically, they were—just not out of your own pocket.

The butler(?) smirked. "Uh-huh. Are you banking on that gambler winning and treating everyone again?"

He took advantage of the timing to pull the menu so hard, you almost toppled over, but you held on.

Damn! This guy is so slim! Where does all this strength come from?!

You used a low and wide stance for better stability, and grip the menu firmly with both hands!

“Well, it’s happened the last four times, so what’s stopping him from doing just that this time!?”

Slow and steady were the keys; you managed to pull back the menu inch by inch.

Amidst the altercation, his colleagues entered your vision. They still didn’t budge.

Are you just going to pretend nothing happened? Okay then.

“Who knows? I heard that his opponent is especially tough tonight. A top global poker player.”

“Yes, but I’m sure he’ll win anyway!”

“Then have the decency to place your order when he actually does!”

“Does it matter?! Either way, I’m getting my food!”

“Of course it does! Who would be so shameless as to order without any intention of paying?! Even daring to ask for the menu in advance! The sheer audacity!”

After enjoying a lavish meal totally free of charge four times, dare you say that you had gotten a bit... bolder? With Aventurine around, even a beggar could be a chooser!

Then, as you engaged in a tug-of-war with the butler(?) over the menu, the crowd that had filled the room all the way to the entrance suddenly erupted in cheers.

“As expected of Aventurine!!”

“Aventurine, you’re so amazing!!”

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Victory!"

"We love you Aventurine!”

"Our champion!"

"Well done!"

"Incredible!"

—Followed by a cheerful, carefree voice as if the owner hadn’t just won millions by just sitting around and twirling cards.

“Well, well, I see that everyone is as lively as ever. As always, I really appreciate it. The tab’s on me!”

Even louder cheers ensued, and at the same time, you realized that the menu had eased into your hands. However, the butler(?) hadn’t completely let go.

You turned to look at him and shot him the nastiest grin you could muster.

“Heh.”

The butler(?) still wouldn’t let go! Also, that disdainful scowl was back! It was on full display this time!

How persistent!

Just as you were prepared to start round two of tug of war, a much friendlier, yet hesitant voice could be heard.

“C’mon now, Marius. That’s not how you should treat a customer.”

Damn right!

After frequenting this place, you’d become quite familiar to some of the staff and patrons, so you recognized the voice right away.

“Bartender!” You turned around with glee.

An older man with wavy ginger hair tied in a ponytail had come over. He was clad in a classy business vest and pure white shirt. In his hands was a tray with an iced colorful beverage.

He was Teo, the one and only bartender of Primavera! 

Yes, the same guy who stopped you from bringing their cocktail glass home the first time you went here! 

On top of that, he was also good-looking!

However, a voice much colder than the icy drink the bartender was carrying interrupted your reunion.

“I see it as nipping the problem in the bud. You’ll be thanking me later when you have one less entitled beggar to deal with.”

“Excuse me?!?!”

Keep in mind that you and the butler(?), Marius, were still in the middle of a tug of war.

In response, Teo smiled as if troubled. “You’re being too harsh. Besides, we’re the ones who advertised free meals if Aventurine wins the game. Doing so and not making good on our words would be false advertising.”

Teo seemed accustomed to Marius' antics and coaxed him like an older brother, with patience as vast as the ocean.

“Tsk. Emphasize on the word ‘if.’”

At last, Marius relented. Finally, the menu was yours!

Marius was about to turn on his heels and leave, but not before shooting you one last menacing glance.

“Let’s see how long his luck will last, shall we?” He scoffed; his lips twisting into a sardonic grin.

He left with those words.

All right, that’s it—!

You’ve had enough!

“I want to speak to the manager!”

You demanded Teo, who stood there looking uneasy.

Then, he awkwardly replied.

“You... kind of already did, just now.”

🂥 🂠 🂧 🂠

You stood in front of the bar, placing an order for your meal. After waiting in the queue, your turn finally arrived. By the way, Aventurine was nowhere to be seen.

The one who took it was, of course, Teo.

“—Cheer up. You were about to order this, yes? I especially prepared it for you.”

During this hard time, only Teo and his angelic smile were there to nurse your bruised ego. Compared to that guy from earlier, Marius, the difference was like heaven and hell.

You stared at the tray he was carrying earlier.

Whenever you went to Primavera, you’d make sure to order different food, but your drink would remain the same no matter what.

“Here, a glass of ‘Lazuli Bells.’”

A vibrantly-colored drink consisting of three layers. The purple upper layer was a concoction made of grape punch and some flower extract. The second layer, which was cyan-colored, was made of fizzy bubblegum soda. The third layer, the thickest and darkest one, was pure blueberry syrup. The sweet and floral fragrance blended well with the refreshing fruity flavor.

There was no alcohol content because Teo had tweaked it for you, who were a light drinker. Now, you can enjoy it without worry. How thoughtful and considerate of him.

“Thank you. You don’t have to do this, really.”

You shyly received the drink from him. The vibrant green mint leaf bobbled on top as you did so.

Teo smiled earnestly. “On top of increasing the flower extract, I also added a dash of raspberry and a spoonful of honey to the grape punch this time. Do let me know your thoughts!”

“I’ll be sure to!”

That was the least you could do. The guy seemed to sincerely enjoy his work.

You took the glass of drink to your usual spot.

🂡 🂠 🂣 🂠

Previously, you mentioned that after your frequent visit, you had become acquainted with the staff and patrons of Primavera.

In reality, there were only two of them. One staff, and one patron. No, of course Marius wasn’t included. The staff being Teo, as for the patron...

Your usual spot was located at the farthest corner of the bar section. After the Aventurine fever, everyone was scrambling to get a front seat to witness the star of the night. Hence, it could be said to be the worst seat ever.

At the very least, you weren’t alone.

At your usual spot, sat a girl wearing a hooded, hand-knitted poncho. The entirety of her outfit had a neutral color palette, blending in with the crowd. Due to how the hood was drawn to her face, only a glimpse of her navy-blue hair could be seen from time to time.

From the moment you first laid eyes on her, you could feel a spirit of camaraderie.

—Ah, this girl also doesn’t want to stand out like I am!

You were the somewhat introverted and quiet girl at the class. Usually, you’d spend your weekend playing games at your dorm. As such, you didn’t want anybody to notice that you went there instead, all by yourself.

“Hey!”

You called out, and the girl turned to you.

The face underneath the hood was, to put it simply, so f*cking gorgeous! So much so that you still gasped whenever you saw her to this day.

A pair of round sapphire eyes. A fine, delicate nose bridge. Tiny, doll-like lips.

When she saw you, she smiled.

Once again, you were reminded of what it meant “to light up the room.”

—Damn! Be still, my rapidly beating heart!

You had to clutch your chest.

Staring into her eyes was akin to stargazing. Whenever she smiled, it felt like witnessing the radiant night sky, lit by a multitude of stars across the universe.

How can someone this beautiful exist!?

It shouldn’t be strange for a place as elite as Primavera to be filled with gorgeous-looking people, yet you still couldn’t get used to it.

“...I thought you’d never come. O-oh! I mean nothing by that. I’ve just been waiting, that's all, no offense...”

The girl panicked, covering her mouth with both hands. Even her gesture had a languorous beauty to it.

“None taken, Celine.”

You reassured the panicking girl and took a seat next to her. Soon, you noticed the thing on top of her lap.

“Another embroidery?” “—Lazuli Bells?”

Apparently, Celine also noticed the drink you were holding.

The two of you had always sat together since you first met her during your second visit. And like you said, you always ordered the same drink. So, it would make sense for Celine to recognize it.

At a glance, it looked like an average multicolored drink that any restaurant would serve, though. You didn’t remember ever mentioning the name to her.

“Yes, that’s right! Does Celine know this as well? I heard that it’s infused with Primavera’s home-grown special flower! If I recall correctly, the name is—”

“—Lazurite. I can smell it from here... It’s subtle, with a faint hint of sweetness that isn’t too overpowering...”

Celine had a serene look on her face, as if she was reminiscing about her fondest memories. She lowered her gaze, her long eyelashes fluttering like a pair of butterfly wings, and brushed aside a lock of hair that fell to her face. 

Once again, you had to clutch your chest.

“La-lazurite, yes, sounds like an ore, doesn’t it?”

Celine chuckled at your comment. It didn’t seem to be her first time hearing it.

“Hehe, actually...” She showed you the embroidery hoop, which was about the size of her palm. “You’ll know once you see the actual flower.”

“Wow! Celine, this is so amazing!”

Depicted in that pure white fabric was a stalk of azure flower in full bloom, surrounded by a bunch of bell-shaped buds, woven meticulously by hands. Calling it “azure” may not be precise, seeing as some petals were either blue or purple.

"The flower is purple during the day but partially turns blue at night, just like the twilight sky. The petals also reflect the light. Once, there was a vast field filled with only lazurite flowers. It was as if there were two starry skies—both in the sky and on the ground."

Hence, "lazurite"—the combination of "lazuli" and "meteorite." Flowers that blossomed and illuminated the entire field, making it seem like the starlit skies.

As Celine explained, you could tell that she was whisked away by the sweet memories of the flowers.

“That sounds really wonderful. I wish I could see them, too. Do they exist in this town?”

You asked because you only moved here for college.

Celine reverted to her usual subdued smile. In that particular moment, she seemed a bit sad, somehow.

"Sorry... I didn’t mean to raise your hopes, I mean, you can, but it definitely won’t be easy...”

“Huh? Why did something happen to them?”

“No, no... They just aren’t widely available anymore. Right now, on this entire planet, the flower can only be found in Primavera, probably...”

“HUH?!”

You were so shocked, you almost dropped your drink. Right, your drink. Your eyes slowly and abruptly landed on the multicolored drink in your hand.

What have you been putting into your mouth?!?!

Besides, Celine seemed to be fond of those flowers. Did that mean all these past weeks, right in front of her, you...

“S-sorry! I didn’t mean to surprise you...!” Celine was in panic mode again.

“Does that mean I’ve been drinking the world’s rarest flower?! Oh my god!!”

“No! Despite how it may sound, the flower isn’t rare or anything! Please, don’t let me spoil your drink!”

“I’ve been contributing to their extinction, Celine!!”

“Like I said, it isn’t like that—!”

After some back and forth, you found out that when she said "can only be found in Primavera," she meant they had a bunch of greenhouses filled with just lazurite flowers and had been tending to them religiously.

“Phew.”

After that had been resolved, you sat next to your friend, enjoying your drink.

“...Amazing. This drink never ceases to amaze me. It’s as if flowers are blooming in my mouth.”

Meanwhile, Celine was busy tending to her own “flowers.” On top of the blank white cloth confined within a plain wooden hoop, was a mirror to another realm. Like a magic wand, her needle made countless tiny, blue-purple blossoms grow in that meadow. Once she had envisioned her next piece, there was no talking to her for the next few minutes.

...Honestly, from the first time you saw her, you thought that a cozier, more relaxing place would suit her more. For example, a European-style café. But who were you to judge?

Besides, she did mention that she came from an old-fashioned family, so she seldom visited this kind of place.

As you savored your drink, you held up your glass towards the ceiling. The ice cubes clinked as the beads of condensation trickled to your hand.

Within your glass, the lights coming from the multitude of chandeliers seemed to dilute into one, swirling, expanding, undulating...

At the same time, the triple layers—purple, blue, and navy—grew sharper in color.

Before you knew the name and the lore behind it, you just thought that the drink looked nice.

You were enraptured by the colors, and before you knew it, you got lost in them.

Finally, it became your favorite color combination.

‘Lazuli Bells,’ huh...

After learning and seeing the embroidery of the flower, you could see what the multicolored drink was supposed to resemble.

Don’t get me wrong, the flower is nice and all, but...

“—Today is your lucky day!”

Today, Celine was the one who broke you out of your reverie. Usually, it was the other way around.

“...Sorry, did you say something?”

Celine seemed excited about something, so much so that her embroidery was left unattended.

"I forgot to mention this before, but tonight, Aventurine will be facing two opponents! Right now, he’s taking a small break, but you will see him again soon!”

“Huh?! S-so what...?!”

Your first response was to deny it.

“Hehe. I intended for it to be a surprise, but I can’t stand seeing you looking so sad.”

“Who’s sad?! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

You weren’t sad. Not at all. In fact, happiness began to spread in your chest as you desperately feigned ignorance.

Then, as Celine giggled, the one and only man himself, Aventurine, entered your view.

For a second, your heart stopped beating.

Amidst the clamoring of crowds, the blond gambler made his way towards his designated spot.

For a second, you were disappointed that he stopped there, so far away from your usual spot.

Then, as he stood in front of his seat, Aventurine reached for his glossy top hat, adorned with a single peacock feather.

...Hat’s off.

After tracing the brim of his hat, Aventurine lightly removed it, letting it droop on his fingertips.

A single flap of his cloak.

Just as you predicted, he used his other hand to eloquently swish the tail of his coat.

Cross one leg.

Lastly, as he sat down, he placed one long leg on top of the other, leaning his arm against the premium couch.

Inwardly, you smiled in satisfaction. After watching him numerous times, you had that introductory gesture of his memorized.

Afterwards, Aventurine engaged in a conversation with his second opponent that night, paying no heed to anything else. From your seat, you could barely make out his profile, with the crowd and mass media swarming around.

...How strange.

The first time you saw him, he was right behind you, so much so that it took one simple greeting to direct his attention to you.

Yet, knowing that you would never be brave enough to take that one simple step, you could only swallow your bitterness.

Unconsciously, you held up your drink again, this time lower than before, around the same level as your face.

Reflected within that convex glass, the blond gambler seemed a bit bigger—an inch closer.

Then, instead of his reflection, you focused on the colorful layers of the drink.

Purple, blue, navy—each turning a deeper shade under the light, just like his eyes when he turned around to look at you the day you first met him.

╚══════╝

🄾🄽🅆🄰🅁🄳 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ　４】

[monstersandmaw]

Laces for a Lady - 18th century poly shifter romance (Part one, sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 

Well folks, here it is. You said you were interested, so I hope it meets expectations! Here's part one for you, of a multi part story. If you want to kno wmore about it, you can find some more info here, as well as a little 'mood board'.

Content: sfw, the daughter of a country gentleman from Sussex relocates to a sleepy fishing village in Cornwall in order to become the paid companion of a young widow, and meets some of the locals on her arrival. Wordcount: 3972

Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark - Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk. Laces for a lady; letters for a spy, Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by! ~ from ‘A Smugglers’ Song’, Rudyard Kipling (1906)

In the cool, lavender light of a late spring dawn, a gaff-rigged cutter drew into the sheltering arms of a small bay at high tide, and quietly dropped anchor. As if the soft splash had awoken him, a cockerel spluttered to life in a farmyard somewhere inland, but most of the villagers were already up and awake and steering their small, secret fleet of boats out from the golden crescent of sand beneath the cliffs to meet the waiting ship fresh from Roscoff.

Beneath the waves, where churning kelp moored itself in unyielding handfuls to the ancient granite of the sea floor, a long, serpentine shadow snaked between the stalks, and the currents of the coastline subtly shifted. Any revenue men trying to sail along the coast from Fowey to catch the smugglers would have found the wind and tide set dead against them, and in the subtle wake that wafted from the mottled, eel-like tail as it passed unseen, the waters of the secluded inlet calmed beneath the keels of the scurrying fishing boats. The drag of the oars through the waves lessened, and muscles already tired from heaving and hefting goods up the cliff moved a fraction easier for the unexpected boon.

Between them over the next hour, the gathered men and women shifted their haul of half anker barrels and dozens of crates and boxes of goods ashore. The small kegs of rich, French cognac would fetch a pretty price all across Cornwall, and along with the liquor came smaller luxuries like lace and silk, and bundles of tobacco and spiced tea, all meticulously wrapped in oil cloth to keep the sea and the salt and the water out.

And when the speedy, slender ship was riding noticeably higher in the water, the locals simply melted away into the countryside like so many mice from a late summer granary before the excise men even knew the ship from Guernsey had visited the cove at all.

Fifteen miles away, as the sun breached the horizon and cast its first rays of warmth along bellies of fleecy clouds and the flanks of blossoming hedgerows below, a stagecoach lurched and rumbled westwards along potholed roads, and a young woman stared out of the grimy window as the horses carried her into a new chapter of her life.

After leapfrogging some two hundred miles or so along the staging stations that dotted the South Coast, with nothing but a small trunk of her belongings and a thrice-read, dog-eared novel for company, Eleanor Bywater was more than ready to see the back of that infernal stagecoach. Had it not been for the small but inconveniently bulky travelling case sitting at her feet, she might have hired a horse and ridden from the last staging inn at Plymouth to reach the secluded fishing village of Polgarrack, but given that the trunk held all her worldly belongings, she had not been quite desperate enough to escape the discomfort of hard seats and poor suspension to abandon it.

Bouncing along in the nearly-empty stagecoach, she studiously tried to ignore the older woman sitting opposite her. She’d stared intently at Nel since they'd left Plymouth behind that morning, and her scrutiny had begun to make that last twenty mile stretch feel much, much longer.

Finally, after jouncing over a pothole deep enough to start prospecting for copper ore at the bottom, Nel gasped and then raised her eyes to meet the woman’s openly curious stare. She found sympathy for her own discomfort, and a small degree of kindly amusement too. 

“Where are you headed, miss?” the stranger asked after Nel raised the hint of an eyebrow at her as the silence stretched.

“Polgarrack.”

At that, the woman’s grey eyes narrowed in confusion. “Now what takes a young miss like you to an old fishing village like Polgarrack?”

She looked to be in her fifties, though a life beside the harsh sea had weathered her features somewhat, and her wiry grey hair was covered by a simple linen cap. Her dress was dark and plain, though there was a hint of tired lace around the neck and cuffs. Her hands had the tough, reddened look of someone who scrubbed pots and salted fish, while Nel’s own hands were smooth and soft, if a little ink stained from sending a letter to her friend before leaving the inn that morning.

Nel laughed quietly and shrugged. “There’s no mystery to it,” she said. “I am to be employed as a companion to the widowed Lady Penrose at Heath Top House. I am expected there this afternoon.”

Given that only ladies of relatively high social standing themselves tended to become a ‘lady’s companion’, the older woman made a hasty re-evaluation of her fellow traveller, and her already ruddy cheeks flushed a darker shade as she cleared her throat and looked away.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” she said. “We don’t get many new faces in Polgarrack, is all. I didn’t mean to pry or cause offence with my questions.”

“No harm in a little curiosity,” Nel said, trying to put the stranger at ease to avoid any further awkwardness between them on the remainder of their journey. “I take it you’re from Polgarrack yourself then?”

“Oh, born and raised, miss,” she chortled. She eyed the forest green redingote Nel wore, with its rather masculine high collar, wide lapels and small, gold pocket watch dangling on a chain, and the contrasting sage green skirts beneath, and no doubt made one or two judgements of her own about the young lady. “And yourself? You don’t sound as though you’re from these parts at all, if I may be so bold.”

Nel smiled. “I’ve come from Sussex.”

The woman’s watery, grey-blue eyes widened almost comically and she gasped. “’at's a bloody long way, miss! And all on your own?” She shook her head but remembered herself and mumbled, “Begging your pardon.”

“You’re right,” Nel sighed, letting her gaze slide to the window to watch the countryside roll past in a blur of salt-bleached grass and vibrant yellow gorse flowers. “It is a bloody long way.” And her spine and backside felt every lump and bump and lurch of the stagecoaches from Sussex to Cornwall. With a warmer smile, she turned back to the woman. “My name is Eleanor, but most people call me Nel.”

“Agatha,” she replied with a grandmotherly smile of her own for the young woman. “But everyone calls me Aggie. My husband, Martin, is the village carter and smith, and we’ve got four boys, all of them either fishermen or miners. They all married too, so I’ve got nine grandchildren, if you can believe it!”

Nel offered Aggie her congratulations and another little smile, and then ventured to ask, “Will you tell me a bit about the place? I should like to know more about it, since it is to be my home for the foreseeable future.”

Aggie brightened even more and shuffled her plain, dark skirts, giving a wince and a grunt as the coach lurched over a pothole and the driver cursed audibly above them. Settled, if not entirely comfortable, she began.

“Well, see now. Folks has been fishing these waters for time out of mind. Pilchards is our mainstay, o’course, but the folks over St. Austell way mine clay, and obviously there’s copper and tin mines all over in the north of Cornwall. Mining here is as old as fishing, but it’s starting to dry up here and there now, o’course.”

She barely paused to draw breath before barrelling on, and Nel sat and listened while the older woman talked.

“Now, your Lady Penrose married into the Penrose family — see, she’s from Bath herself originally, though I can’t rightly remember what her family name was, but…” Nel let Agatha's potted history of the fishing and mining community wash over her, paying just enough attention to make polite sounds at the right pauses, but the discomfort of the journey and a decided lack of sleep was beginning to wear her attention span down to a single, fraying thread.

After two hours in the swaying, rolling coach, she felt woozy and weak-stomached, but with Aggie’s near-constant chatter, she at least had a better understanding of the politics of the little village than she’d ever have gained in six months on her own. She’d also learned why Aggie had been in Plymouth, since most folks never had any reason to travel further than the bounds of their own parish. Agatha’s sister’s husband had apparently been killed in the American Revolutionary War some ten years earlier, and since the widow’s health wasn’t the best these days, Aggie made the trip along the coast when she could to see her and take care of her.

Nel’s ticket took her as far as Whitcross, a desolate intersection of paler roads on a clifftop overlooking the tightly-nestled fishing port below, and away across the heather and tufted grass of the heath, she could just see an old manor house in the distance, flanked by tall copper beeches and ash trees. It looked slightly further away than she had anticipated, and she glanced apprehensively down at the travelling trunk at her feet.

Still, she was aching for fresh air and to be free of the sickening motion of the carriage, so she took the driver’s hand and allowed him to guide her safely down onto the hard-packed surface of the road before he lifted her case down for her as well.

From inside, Aggie peered out and scowled disapprovingly. “Now just you wait a moment,” she barked at the driver, who cocked an eyebrow but did pause. “Did they not send someone for you, dearie?” she asked Nel, still leaning out of the doorway and peering about like a disgruntled badger, and using the endearment freely. Apparently, two hours of talking non-stop at Nel had removed any pretence of formality or sense of social distance. Nel might as well have been adopted into Aggie Carter’s family as a niece by that point, and she couldn’t help but smile at the warmth it conjured in her chest.

“I… I never thought that far through,” she admitted, with her hand atop her bonnet as the wind gusted up from the sea below, soaring delightedly over the edge of the cliff and racing on inland as if to continue the momentum of the great rolling breakers that foamed and thundered against the shore. The coachman glanced at his pocket watch and groused something about a schedule that was almost immediately lost to the next inward gust.

“No, no, dearie,” the old woman scoffed. “No, you must come into the village. It’s far too far to go all by yourself, and with that case as well. Here, let me —”

“I can manage the case, I assure you,” Nel said with a gentle smile as Aggie half-toppled, half-leaned out of the coach to pick up the case. “How far is it to the house?”

“Two miles up that hill yonder,” Agatha said, pointing with one gnarled and arthritic finger towards the house on the rise to the north. “Come to the Lantern, and we’ll have one of the lads take you up once you’ve caught your breath.” The Lantern, as Nel now knew thanks to Aggie’s detailed prattling, was the inn at the centre of the village, right on the water near the harbour.

She had been about to protest, but with a sigh, she simply nodded. The constant journeying and jolting had worn her down more than she cared to admit, and while she wasn’t the kind of wallflower she’d met any number of times in London during the Season, a life led mostly indoors with few opportunities for physical activity had not prepared her for a two mile walk in heavy, too-fine clothes, carrying an unwieldy case in gusty conditions. Her family had been invited a number of times to Goodwood House to walk the large park there, and she had frequently ridden a rather spirited mare through the parkland of Lavington Hall with her dear friend William, so she was not entirely unused to the great outdoors, but she did have to admit that her experiences had been rather more curated and sanitised than the wild expanse of heathland visible on all sides of the stagecoach from Whitcross.

“You’re kind, Agatha,” she said, and let the woman heft her case into the otherwise empty coach.

The thing about a tiny village was that an outsider stood out a mile, and a young lady in her mid twenties and dressed in impractical, rich green clothes, stood out like a beacon in a dark night. Everyone turned to watch her as she disembarked from the coach. At home, she had barely garnered a look from anyone. Being the centre of everyone’s curiosity there was novel and, in a word, horrifying.

She almost blurted aloud that one would think she was a revenue man come inspecting for smuggled goods, but she bit it back just in time. Cornwall’s so-called ‘free trade’ and smuggling rackets were absolutely none of her concern as an outsider, infamous though they may be, and it would do her no good to start sticking her nose where it did not belong.

The Lantern was a half-timbered, two-storey building that faced the walled harbour. Its painted sign was peeling and sun-bleached, and it squawked something dreadful as it swung back and forth in the squalling wind. Mullioned windows glinted and shimmered, though the small, diamond panes were caked with a haze of salt spray, and alongside the inn, a hand-cart rumbled down from a narrow side alley towards the harbour beyond, where fishing boats bobbed on their mooring lines at the lapping high tide.

Agatha pushed open the black-painted door but came to an abrupt halt as someone appeared to be leaving the inn at the exact same moment, and nearly barrelled into her and Nel.

“Oh, excuse me,” came a young man’s hoarse tenor, and he stepped aside within the inn’s small porch to allow the two women to enter before he left.

Nel noted briefly that he wore well-made but plain clothes, and carried a hefty looking cane in his left hand, upon which he leaned while he waited for them to pass. He was pale and thin, his undyed linen shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders, and his light brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck into a horsetail. The moment he met her eye, he inhaled in surprise and almost immediately looked away, his large, dark brown eyes turning shy and uncertain. “M’lady,” he mumbled without looking up.

She didn’t have time to correct him and tell him she had no such title, because the moment she had stepped inside, he was off out into the day beyond, limping markedly on his right leg as he went.

Nel turned back to find Agatha waiting for her, watching. “That there was young Edmund Nancarrow,” she supplied as Nel caught up with her. “Local lad. Lots of Nancarrows in this area,” she chuckled. “Can’t move for tripping over a Nancarrow. He was a shy, skittish thing even before he went off to war in the Colonies and came back with a bad leg,” she added. “But he’s a sweetheart if ever I saw one. Tailor’s ’prentice he is now.”

At that, Nel just nodded. Something in her ached when she realised she probably wouldn’t have much to do with the folk from the village once she was ensconced up at Heath Top House, and she half wised she could. They already sounded far more interesting than the Lady Winnifred Penrose, with whom Nel had only exchanged a short flurry of letters before becoming formally engaged as her ‘companion’. 

Still, an unmarried woman of Nel’s age and social standing was considered almost past her prime, and given that the few marriage proposals she had received had faded into the mists of her very early adulthood, she had had to find another respectable way to support herself. Hence, Heath Top House.

Aggie bustled her into the main room of the pub, and their arrival caused a flurry of activity that drew the eyes of a good few patrons. 

Seated at the wooden bar inside, hunched over a pewter tankard, sat a tall, bulky man in his late-thirties or early forties, with long, thick, dark grey hair shot through with a shimmer of silver white. He had it tied back off his face in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck and as he turned to regard Nel’s arrival, she met unusually deep green eyes surrounded by a web of crows’ feet lines in a tanned, weathered face. His scowl was dark and full of suspicion, but even the storm clouds in his expression couldn’t mask the fact that he was handsome, in a rugged, rough-hewn kind of way.

When she saw where Nel’s attention had snagged, Aggie let out a little gasp and snatched her by the upper arm to steer her towards an empty table in a bay window, about as far from the wooden bar where the man still sat and glared at them as it was possible to be. 

“And that’s Locryn Trevethan,” Aggie hissed as she saw Nel settled into a seat. “Can’t say as I’ve seen him in here more than a handful of times this year though. He’s usually out on the water. Lives alone in an old stone cottage round the bay from here, up at Pilchard Sands. You’d probably best be giving him a wide berth, miss. Not that he should give you any trouble, mind,” she amended carefully, “But he’s not for the likes of you to go mingling with.”

Nel smiled at the protective tone in the older woman’s voice, and nodded once.

With her warning given, Aggie raised her voice and called over to the old man behind the bar. “’ere, Tom! This young lady needs a ride up to Heath Top. You think you can arrange that for her?”

The stoop-shouldered, white-haired man nodded and knuckled his forehead at Nel across the space. “Not the finest, but we got a cart.”

“If you have a horse, I could ride,” she said, trying to be helpful.

“Ain’t got a saddle for a lady,” he said regretfully.

Memories of galloping through the leafy trees of Lavington Hall’s parkland with William flashed across her mind and she suppressed a smile. She certainly hadn’t ridden the grey mare side-saddle while keeping up with her childhood friend, and although it had been a year or so since she’d sat astride a horse instead of side-saddle, she thought she could manage well enough. “I know how to ride a man’s saddle,” she said, “But I do have a travel case I’d need to send someone back for.”

“I could get one of the lads to bring that up for you after,” said Tom, “But it’s almost as much effort to hitch up a cart as it is to tack up a horse for riding, ma’am.”

“Whatever is the least trouble for you will do fine,” she said, and the stoic, weather-beaten old man’s red cheeks darkened and he ducked his head.

While Tom left to sort out transportation to the house, Aggie flapped about getting some refreshments for Nel, leaving her to wait at the table alone.

In the wake of the hubbub and pother Agatha left behind her, Nel took a long, deep breath looked around to find Locryn Trevethan still staring across the room at her. Taken aback by his directness and the intensity of his glare, she tried to smile, but his expression remained thunderous beneath strong, dark brows, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed.

In a face turned to leather by the sun and sea-wind, wide cheekbones and a heavy brow framed his piercingly green eyes. Never mind that marked crow’s feet around his eyes that made him look like he would rather have been laughing; the contrast between the dark, hostile glower and the soft laughter lines unnerved her and made her feel off-balance, as though her stranger’s presence in their local pub had unknowingly raised the ire of a usually gentle man. 

He had a short, neatly-trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard around full lips that were currently turned down at the corners and which bore a silver-pink scar across the middle. Despite the warm day, he wore a fisherman’s dense, woollen sweater, and when she risked another look back at him, she found him still frowning openly across the bar at her.

Nel didn’t relax until Aggie returned, at which point the man snapped abruptly out of his trance, slammed a coin down on the bar, and strode from the pub on long legs that were thick as tree trucks at the thigh. The door bounced back off the plasterwork in his wake and his boots rang on the flagstones outside.

“Not one to welcome strangers, I take it,” Nel muttered, and downed half of the cheap, watered-down wine that Agatha had set on the table for her.

“Oh don’t you pay him no mind, miss,” Aggie scoffed, settling herself down into the seat opposite her like a brooding hen and glaring at the pub door. “He don’t seem to like no one in Polgarrack save for sweet Ned Nancarrow, strangely enough. Then again, I ain’t met no one who’s taken a disliking to sweet Ned. Now, Tom will have the horse and cart ready for you in just a moment, but you just take your time and recover after your journey.”

Nel, who had felt ten times better the moment she’d taken her first proper lungful of sea air on stepping out of the swaying stagecoach, looked across the table into the older woman’s face and found a mother’s kindness and compassion in her wrinkled face, and something twisted in her gut. “You’re very kind,” she whispered, unable to muster anything more. “Thank you.”

She chuckled. “You know, and don’t you take this amiss, but you remind me of my niece a little, though she’s a little younger than you.”

Nel’s eyebrows twitched in wry amusement, and Agatha blushed at the impropriety of her words. Nel didn’t get the chance to reassure her because Tom shuffled back in and told her the cart was ready for her.

She laid a coin on the table for the wine and stood, following the innkeep out into the yard and clambering up with her case into the back of the cart. It was hardly a very dignified mode of transport for someone of her station, and when Tom said as much while they rumbled out of the inn’s yard, Nel just laughed and said she didn’t mind.

“Anything is better than that awful rolling stagecoach,” she beamed, and swung her legs back and forth like a child off the back of the cart bed while Tom clucked his tongue at the horse to hurry up.

As they trundled up the narrow, cobbled street from the harbour, they passed Edmund Nancarrow standing outside a tailor’s shop, talking with the beast of a man from the bar. Both men looked up and watched her pass like she was some kind of rare spectacle.

In a way, she supposed she was. 

Still, she smiled at them despite her nerves, and Edmund knuckled a non-existent cap at her with a shy smile, while Locryn just glared.

She sighed and wondered what this next chapter in her life would bring.

___

Next chapter ->

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[justbelievinginmagic]

ariadne's thread ⎯ pt. 1: a deal, a deal, a deal!!

pairing(s): hyunjin x fem!reader series summary: when tempted by an intoxicating offer by hyunjin the goblin king of the underground, you fight against him to find your own sense of self once more while in his labyrinth. glimpse: she said the words - "i wish . . . i wish the goblin king would save me." what is said has been said. nothing can take back a wish except for even more powerful magic - a fae deal. warnings/tags: inspired by the 1986' movie Labyrinth, follows majority of the movie's plot points with lore divergence, 3rd person POV, use of Y/N, pg-13 themes with no explicit smut, world building!!, strong language, suggestive language, faerie lore!!, tension, enemies to lovers, unequal power dynamics, manipulation, faerie glamour, implied kidnapping, blonde, long hair hyunjin being a beautiful faerie king. word count: 4.7k -> next chapter series masterlist

Y/N was floating through life with no goal in sight. Except to wander home to her small childhood bedroom after college courses and her job at the local supermarket to read her books. Vanilla-scented and yellow-tinted pages felt like heaven under her fingertips as she fell into her books’ world day after day.

Pages of books kept her company for many years – as the world spun past. Fantasy worlds that were pretty and dangerous and wild and dreamy. Worlds where the heroine wins and the damsel finds her true love. Admittedly, she wished for it. Wished for something far away – someone to twirl her into their arms and keep her safe and sound. Fantastical but safe. A place to be herself while someone loved her. Instead of facing the world, invisible as she greets the next customer and walks the halls of a university as another face of the hundred-person class and returns home as the adult daughter locked up in her bedroom.

Never did she imagine it’d happen – late at night, on a rain-soaked Sunday. Her family was away from home, and Y/N left alone in the darkness of her childhood home. It hadn’t bothered her. Not as long as she had her books.

There was a clatter of rain against the doors of her balcony. Her eyes flashed away from her book to look over at them. A rickety branch scratched at a door like an old witch’s finger prodding at the glass, casting an eerie shadow onto her carpeted floor. It was frightening in the orange-yellow light of the slowly-dying incandescent fluorescent lights of her childhood room. The ancient lights aching to be replaced painted the room in a sunset nostalgia most days, but, tonight, it was painted her bedroom in a grimy film of age. Everything felt eerie and old and off.

The wallpaper, a fading pink and white with soft bears painted by the baseboards, rotted into a yellow tinged thing. Her bed was a hand-me-down full bed of fluffy duvets and old laced comforters with her bed posts holding a long sagging canopy of white tulle she insisted upon a tween.  She had always favored the fantastical and soft and, despite aging, she had to admit she forgot how long ago it had been when she had chosen the sets of softened bedding and moth-eaten tulle.

Her knick-knacks were of the same theme, gentle and girly of old childhood memories she couldn’t bear to toss aside even in her young adult age. Beloved stuffed animals (some that were soft to the touch while others had hardened scratchy fur from sitting collecting dust on long forgotten shelves), sparkling shimmering water globes (of places she had never been), paint-chipped jewelry boxes on a creaking overfull vanity (the wooden boxes were full of costume bracelets, rings, and necklaces of theatre days long passed), crafts and hobbies piled in a plastic bin in the corner (from bracelet making tools to dried-out paints and moth-eaten yarn balls), and old piles of high school notebooks peaking out from underneath her bed skirt (something she kept in the phantom fear that she may need them for college courses.) College courses that she felt empty when attending. Everything felt fleeting yet not. It felt stupid and overwhelming and – she wished things could be easier.

Easier like diving into her books. With her favorite book in her grasp, the yellow old book crinkling in her hands, she sighed as she whispered to it.

“If I could be any place but here…” she hummed. “I don’t want to work tomorrow – especially with the rain.” A deep sigh escaped her. “I wish…”

There was a pause in her words as she settled back into comfortable pillows. The rustling of her sheets disguising a murmured ‘she’s going to say the words’ from under her bed, from her closet.

“I wish the Goblin King would save me – steal me away to be his and only his.”

It wasn’t said in agony to a lucky penny or in plea besides a wishing well. She had simply laughed a little laugh as she curled up in her bed, hugging the book closer to her face as she read on. It was almost her favorite part – the royal ball!

Now, wishes don’t care for rhyme or even sincerity. (Both were lacking from her plea.) However, it was the perfect time for a wish to be granted - the words have been spoken at the stroke of midnight on the highest of full moons on the first day of spring.

There is a shatter somewhere; the branches of the tree outside her window scraaattcching the glass with a shriek. The wind made the house tremble and rumble as energy flooded the air, tangible enough it made her eyes look up, before with a snap - the lights switch off.

A crash of lightning and a roar of thunder clashed louder than ever. There was no settling silence of electronics and fridges and fans. No, the world growled as the storm grew. Until in a whirl of sparkling shimmer star dust and a burst of cold storm air, the balcony doors flung open to reveal a man. No, not an ordinary man. He was far too ethereal to be a normal man. (The idea of it being a robber didn’t even flicker through her mind. Though, the possibility of this being a dream did.)

The soft chimes of bell rang in her ears as he took a step into the room. He was near glowing like an angel, haloed by some shimmering light. Blonde hair that tickled the back of his neck in long strands fluttered in the storm wind. Dark thick brows pursed, partially hidden by strands of his golden hair that framed his angular face, and striking blue eyes lazily stared at her from within the dark shadows of his brow. Poutful raspberry-kissed lips that smirked at her. Gilded chains hung around his lean neck, displaying his collarbones with a sharpness. Elaborate piercings decorated both of his curved elf-like ears; all gold chained, red jeweled, and shimmering from the distant amber streetlight.

He wore fine tailored dark clothes as if he were part of the night storm himself; leathered pants that gleamed in the light, a lacy sort of shirt that curved tightly over rounded muscles and sinewy tendons and shadowed by a heavy cloak made of oil-slick dark feathers. Darker than night and covered in that sparkly dust that had brought him into her bedroom. His hands were adorned in many rings and one hand that had twists of dark silver that formed a sort of claw, covering his knuckles and fingertips like a gauntlet. He had tawny-tan skin that glowed from the nearby streetlights, with an unnatural. . . gloss of sparkle. As if his skin was made of crushed starlight.

Beautiful. . . tempting. . . frighteningly ethereal.

He stole her breath away and he knew it as he stared at her. The look in his eyes… it was like nothing  she’d ever seen in someone’s gaze towards her before. Dark and broody and yet something sharply cutting in his eyes. It wasn’t adoration. It wasn’t jealous or anger or frustration. Magnetic. Possession, yearning, power. He was powerful. He demanded attention, no – he demanded her attention. His head tilted as he looked on at her. Her gaze trickled down the fine tendons of his neck to realize he hadn’t taken a breath since entering – his chest did not rise or fall as he stared on at her with dark storm eyes. Her legs curled closer to her chest as the old book tumbled from her grasp, falling to the floor. Forgotten.

He didn’t move and, for a moment, she didn’t either. Her heart rushed in her head like the ocean; the rhythm a calling drum to his ears. She took a shuddering breath as she spoke.

“You’re him . . . aren’t you?” Y/N breathed. Realizing, he felt familiar. Not in the sense that she had seen him before– she’d remember someone so handsome. But rather it was like déjà vu. A familiarity with someone you’ve never seen before. But she had read of him over and over and over. He wasn’t what she pictured but maybe it was because she couldn’t imagine someone so hauntingly striking. She scrambled from her bed, almost tripping over the plentiful blankets and comforters.

“You’re the Goblin King.” she clarified.

That was the only explanation. He wore no crown, but she realized he didn’t need it. The power that radiated from him felt tangible like static before a lightning strike. She had read about him in her storybooks for years – folklore of faerie and the Underground something that had always intrigued her but. . . she had never thought it real. Not in reality. It was just a fantasy. A dream that she had wished upon many times before.

He didn’t smile at her, but his petaled lips twitched. His lips were so beautiful and soft looking (she wanted to kiss them, dedicate herself to making the soft flesh swollen and red from nips and kisses. She needed to. She had to.) The thought made her eyes widen in surprise at herself. Swallowing, she blinked glancing away from him.

He smiled then, the curve of his lips forming a sneer of sorts as he watched her with his engulfing eyes.

“Why are you here?” she queried out, hand reaching for the bedpost of her bed for support as she raised her gaze again.

Red-cheeked, she tried to maintain his hypnotic gaze. Was this a dream? She saw a man appear out of nowhere, so, maybe it was. She had been reading more romance books recently. . .

“Think closely, Y/N,” the fae finally spoke, voice low.

It felt like it shook her bones despite its strange gentility compared to the storm that still roared behind him.

Think closely. . .

She had been reading his book but… she had…

“I wished for you,” Y/N queried.

It wasn’t quite a question but it felt… not enough. How could a simple wish of him come true? If that was the case, wouldn’t fae be stealing women and men left and right? She had said those words before over the years (especially as a child)… so why now??

“I’ve come for you; to save you, dear thing,” he agreed.

“It was – I’m sor- I didn’t think you were real,” Y/N babbled, brows pursed almost painfully so.

“I am, just for you,” he replied as his hand rose to flick with grandiose. The balcony doors tumbled shut with a slam.

Silence. Darkness.. Just him and her…

“I don’t mean to be rude but—I can’t really, uh, go with you?” she said, still wrapped around her bed post.

His brows crinkled into a furrow beautifully like a Greek statue. Brows of agony and despair, beautiful despite its emotion. But just like a marble statue, his darkened blue eyes were inhuman. Like obsidian glass or a creature’s eyes, reflective and eerie. Angered. Betrayed even. Before they rose to meet yours once more. And like a façade, his eyes gleamed with light, sparkling and enchanting sea blue rather than the crashing waves before.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” he tempted instead, stepping closer into the room. Closer to her.  

His smile was one of sweet temptation, almost candy-sweet with his soft lips and pearly teeth, as he prowled closer. A part of her wished that if fae stories were true that other tall tales – such as the vampiric tale of the supernatural being unable to enter one’s home without permission – were true too. A chill climbed up her back as he inched closer to her.

(Little did Y/N know that she had given him permission. Not, just now with her conversation, her wish, but when she read her little Labyrinth book ‘til it was worn soft and yellowed from the oils of her fingertips. Devotion and curiosity were all the fae needed to make a link.)

He lifted something up between them – something that he hadn’t had in his hands before. An orb of some sort. Crystalline and faintly glowing in the moonlight that poured into the room. The metallic-claws that decorated his fingers in rows of rings didn’t graze the thing nor did they reflect in the perfectly clear orb. The man’s hand wasn’t visible through it either– like he was a ghost or a vampire in a mirror. A perfect bubble of gleaming light, crystalline and shining with chromatic aberrations. Her ears rung as she looked at it.

“What is that?” she queried carefully, stepping away from the safety of the bedpost to get a closer look.

“It’s a crystal – nothing more,” his voice was low as thunder, rumbling and grumbling like a tiger’s purr as she watched him.

With grace, the orb danced upon his hand, rolling this way and that with the fae never dropping the thing. It didn’t even look difficult for him. Y/N kept her gaze on the crystal for a moment, getting dizzy as he continued to shift it over his hand like it was a boat fighting the tides.

“But –” he tossed the crystal up.

Y/N followed the orb’s trajectory only to be spooked when there was a presence behind her rather than in front of her. The King – through some sort of magic – was beside her, a hand outstretched to catch the orb right beside her face. Y/N startled jumping away a bit, into his chest. She felt caged in by him. His proximity was frightening tempting.

When she breathed in, his smell engulfed her; there was something ancient in his scent. Not like old perfume but something like earthly old. He smelled of fire-smoke, damp moss after a rainshower, something deeper like rosemary or thyme, and something sweet like. . . honey? She wanted to lean back into it, rub her face into his neck like a cat would preen against their owner. She wanted to decipher each scent, find its earthly copy and make a cologne just so she’d never leave its whirlwind of comfort.

Instead, she froze against his cold form.

She knew the Goblin King in her books was tricky - fae often were. There were a handful of types – from those who stole away women from their husbands, to those who caused mischief, and to those who would serve but at a price. It was easy enough to read, not easy to live. She couldn’t tell why she felt this way – sure, he was handsome but… she had control. She wasn’t some teenager. The fact she kept falling into these daydreams of him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him – it scared her. Not knowing where the faerie traps were and how to evade them was scary for her.

The Goblin King smiled; cold snow-sky eyes met crinkled before he raised the crystal up to her eye level.

“But, if you turn it this way,” his hand tilted the orb, as did her head as if she were a puppet on a string, “look into it; it will show you your dreams.”

There was a beat as a hand rose to rest on her hip, cold as ice through her white long-sleeved shirt.

“I’ve seen them.” He whispered tauntingly.

Y/N did not look into the orb. Her eyes remained locked on his. His cruel eyes. How could he have such a sweet smile, and yet the deep blue sea of his eyes felt bottomless, cold and dark?

“But this is not a gift for an ordinary girl.” He chided, tilting his head to lean closer to her. “Who works a job at the store and lives trapped in her childhood home.”

It was cruel – a cruel reminder of the words that those around her all say. How she is stuck in time, stuck in her hometown, stuck, stuck, stuck. Ordinary girl, ordinary town, ordinary job. Nothing like the faerie in front of her.

There was a snicker in her room, and her head whipped around to look about the dark space. It was empty.

He yanked his hand away from her, drawing her attention to him once more. Her eyes steeled at his words, and the king’s smirk grew. He hummed a melody, familiar and distant. It was almost a pleased tone before he stepped in front of her once more. He was taller than her – especially when she saw he wore heeled boots.

“Do you want it?” he offered, the orb held out once more.

The words were said almost kindly. Knowing if she took it, it’d be taking an apple from a serpent.

“It’s tempting. . . but what is the catch?” she finally said, swallowing as she looked at the crystal once more.

His smile was sharp then, and she saw fangs then.

“Your loyalty, your belief, you.” He listed. “You. Everything from you. Your mortality will be mine and you’ll never see this place again, these people again, this dwelling again.”

There was a tenderness to his face as he continued. “I’ll save you, sweet thing. You can live in your dreams with me – beyond this realm.”

“No.”

It was an easy answer. No. She would not devote herself to someone so wholly. A fae of a man especially. Y/N read all the fairy tales out there – all the romance novels and stories of love, deceit, devotion, and betrayal. This would take and take and take. She could see her future – a shell of herself. Hell, she had seen it in the moments of delusion tonight where she wanted nothing but him.

“Don’t defy me.” he warned, so gently. Almost helpfully.  

Defy. This was not being saved. This was no prince riding on a stallion and climbing to her balcony to steal her away. No. . . no, this man was no savior. She had read the fairytale he was from – read it from cover to cover more than she could count. The Goblin King – cruel as he is merciful - will grant your wish for a price.

“I do not want to be saved then. I take back my wish.”

“What is said has been said,” he stated with a chuckle.

He was laughing at her. In fact, she heard a chitter in her room like a guffaw behind her bed skirt. Her head whipped around to look.

The corner of her duvet swayed in the wind. Nothing was out of the ordinary again.

“I don’t care – I say no.” she claimed, glancing back him.

“The words have been spoken,” he claimed again as he bent down to whisper to her.

“You’re no match for me, Y/N. I will treat you well, little thing.”

Thing. It ached of ownership. Of possession rather than protection or freedom.

“I don’t want to be your thing.”

“You should’ve thought of that before making such a wish. What do I gain in saving you otherwise, hm?” he retorted, as if explaining something to a child. “I want you – or another human for my trouble.”

No way! She’d never sacrifice someone for a wish! Her eyes widened at the very thought before her brows furrowed. What could she do? What could she do?

“What if we made a deal?” She fought back.

Her question made a crack of thunder rumble the house like an electric field. It buzzed and hummed… or maybe it wasn’t thunder at all, but voices. She heard them then. Chittering and chattering. Low hums of interest and the haunting chants of “a deal, a deal, a deal!!” Little voices, squeaky and animalistic chant in excitement. It was then she finally saw a goblin’s head from within her closet. One and then another and another. Too many as if her room was nothing but a zoo to the creatures. A crowded room of voyeurs, an unknown audience to her and the King’s dispute.

Long limbed apparitions clung to her white and pink walls with spindly hands. A monstrous thing under her bed with glowing eyes heaved a rumble, the bed skirt fluttering. A winged creature on her tulled canopy swayed with the buzzing excitement of a cicada. Little things peering out at her with wings and horns and fangs and yellowed eyes and radioactive red pupils.  

It was a thing out of nightmares. She yelped a bit, eyes widening in fear.

There was a tsk from the King, and the creatures disappeared into their hiding spots in a rush and a huff. Like they were playing hide and seek. Her room looked normal again but she could feel their pupils trained on her back now. Her gaze settled back onto the Goblin King. Annoyance lingered on the corner of his mouth, the pouty thing twitching faintly before he asked: “You’d like to make a deal instead of seeing your dreams come true?”

A faerie deal never meant anything good. But neither was losing herself for a man, no, a creature of another world with far too many secrets as shown by the creatures prowling under her bed and in her wardrobe.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. Any way to have this wish be forgotten.”

The King sneered. The flash of emotion so quick she almost didn’t spot it.

He was insulted by this human. How dare she be so outlandish… special but if she so wished to be rebellious. He’d give her a challenge fit for such insult.

“A faerie deal is serious matter, Y/N.” He warned before, with an air of nonchalance, he moved aside.

Circling her once more like she was nothing but a soon-to-be carcass and him a vulture bird.

“The terms shall be this. If you can defeat my labyrinth and reach my true throne in the castle beyond the Goblin City within 13 hours, you will no longer be mine; my claim will be relinquished. Your will shall be your own once more. You will be a human.”

He said the final words like they were sickly – he couldn’t imagine wanting a human life when high fae have everything. (But she wouldn’t be a high fae, would she? No, a human became a changeling if caught or stolen away. And that was different.)

 Y/N had no choice but to agree. She had read faerie tales. Humans and faeries didn’t mix – they weren’t meant to. If she followed her wish, if she went with him, she really feared what would become of herself. The idea of forever as someone’s is only good when there is trust. And she couldn’t trust him. A stranger, a king of magnetic power, a faerie. Someone who wished to own her for his own gain. Not out of affection or respect.

“And if you do not succeed,” he continued on with a laugh at the tips of his words. (The goblins echoed him with chortles that crawled up her spine.) “You are mine – as promised by the power of the Wish. All of you. Soul, mind, and form.”

He was behind her again, his words soft in her hair as he brushed it aside observingly. His fingers chilled her throat; his touch felt icy cold.

“Do you agree, Y/N? If you break this contract by your own will or demise,” It was formally said as he placed his hands on her shoulders. Caging her in his arms as she heard the hum of anticipation from the ghouls and goblins in her room. “You shall be mine.”

She didn’t hesitate even as her form shuddered. “I agree.” Y/N said.

There was a change in the wind outside; a flash of lightning blinded her as a deal was struck.

“Pity,” he murmured, low in his throat as he let go of her.

As he passed her, she saw the world in front of her melt away in a wash of watercolor blurs. No longer was she in her childhood bedroom with the comfort of her novels and objects. No, now it was a desert. An orange-purple atmosphere like a distant fire roared over the sea of sand. Rolling sand dunes tumbled towards a grand darkened maze. The Labyrinth. A twisting series of winding paths that seemed endless, all leading to a far-in-the-distance castle. It looked impossible. Dead-ends galore and sections that seemed to be completely unrelated to one another. 13 hours. How was she to get through this in less than a day! A clash of despair rattled her bones – especially when a damp chill danced over her skin. A suffocating heaviness was in the air, as well as the realization, she was underground. Dust and dirt and old air from centuries past lingered.

Looking up, there was no sky, no stars, nor moon above but a darkened cave ceiling full of stalactites and in some cases large sky lights – or cracks in the ground. These cracks let spots of sunlight in, shining over the desert sea in pools of light. Where there was no sunshine pouring down on the maze, there was a haunting golden glow from roaring fire pits high above the maze in watch-out points and floating candles she noted. Squinting her eyes, she could make out thousands of candles decorating the rocky labyrinth. It made everything look orange-red hazy. Shadows cast into the maze making it look even more confusing.

In each of these sunspots away from the Labyrinth, there were different things flourishing outside the maze she noticed– some sunspots were home to a jungle of vegetation; others were conveniently where rain-water ponds appeared; most had small huts and communities.  

She and the Goblin King were in one of those sky lights’ brightness now, sunshine cascading over the pair of them. Half dead foliage and trees curled up from the barren sand, with long tendrils of rotting vines and branches twisting out. The bark and rockwork, despite its dead nature had the same type of glimmer to them as the fae man. It sparkled in the sunlight like someone dropped glitter on it. Magic thrived here – even in the dead and inanimate.

The King looked out of place in such a desolate land – his desolate land. Something beautiful around such emptiness and darkness. His form seemed to glow in the natural light, especially when shadowed by such darkness in the Underground, but Y/N’s gaze focused on the daunting path ahead instead of his angelic beauty.

How could he be so beautiful? It was unnatural.

Her eyes tried to map out a path, only to find no true path to the distant grand castle. The world seemed to curve and prevent her from following a straight line to the grand dark castle. It seemed hopeless. Surely there was a way to plot a way onwards, but the Labyrinth didn’t deal in kindnesses it seemed.

“Turn back,” his voice startled her as he encouraged from her side. “While you still can, my dear Runner.”

Biting her lip, she swallowed as she looked between him and his castle.

“It doesn’t look that far,” she commented, her back turning to him.

(Bravado.)

The King lurched forward, his own back bending to be beside her ear once more.

“It’s further than you think,” he taunted, almost sing-song in tune. “And time is short.”

With a flick of his hand, a grand clock appeared floating in mid-air. She startled, jolting back. Her back settling into his broad chest. His smirk was in her hair as a metal claw-tipped hand steadied her.

The clock – the grand clock of the Underground - was haunting as it was magical. It was a golden shade of wood and its clockface made of intricately ornate stained glass. Its numbers were curled and elegant, counting from 1 to 13. As of now, it was at the top of the 13th hour.

“13 hours, as promised,” he cooed. “13 hours and, then, you are mine, dear Y/N.”

And in an icy rush of wind and soft chimes in the air, her hair was pushed forward, blowing into her eyes, and his form, once lurking over her shoulder, was gone.

“Such a pity I must wait for you,” his voice hummed in the cold.

Then, Y/N, the Labyrinth Runner, was alone in a different realm she heard of in storybooks, but, unlike her many books, she didn’t know how the story would end.

[bits-and-babs]

🗝️

Commander Mills as an explorer/treasure Hunter/guide/expedition leader/bounty Hunter/whatever from a bygone era. Please and thank you :)

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐒 — 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒

TreasureHunter!Mills x Goddess!reader

summary: Mills is enchanted to meet you after stumbling across your temple in his journey to find treasure. He's desperate for a way to pay his daughter's medical bills and agrees to pay upfront for taking the golden offerings.

word count: 2k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, suspense, inference of threat, dub-con ((? (seduction through enchantment))) cumming untouched, fully clothed, grinding, forced worship, cumming in pants. Wanted to try something new for this one and really enjoyed writing it!!!

➛ mills masterlist | main masterlist | taglist

Rabid breaths heave from Mills’ chest as he hauls himself over the sheer cliff face. The chalky surface crumbles beneath his hands, the rope he had managed to throw and hook over a stone pillar holding the weight of his body. Adrenaline skitters up his spine as though he’s touched a live wire, every hair on his arms standing on end despite the baking heat of the setting sun at his back.

Buckling his leg over the edge of the drop, Mills pushes on the heel of his boot to pull himself over and away from the death drop below. He wheezes heavily, clasping at his chest with his palm, checking his heart is still throbbing despite how it practically slams up against his ribs. His blood rushes in his ears as he rests his head back on the dusty floor, staring up at the stalactites that hang menacingly from the cave roof. They remind him of the daggers of the local people who had threatened him for trespassing into their lands, and he lets out an incredulous laugh, eyelids slipping shut as exhaustion kicks in.

This entire journey had been treacherous from the very beginning, almost cursed. Mills must have somehow cracked every mirror in his general vicinity, receiving a perpetually multiplied seven years of bad luck. The plane had come down from the sky; he’d been attacked by a particularly overzealous tiger on his way through the jungle, kidnapped by local tribes– if he was fair, he could understand why they were enraged by his presence. But, of course, Mills couldn’t exactly claim he wouldn’t pounce on trespassers in his home, either. Regardless, peril had held a blade to his throat the whole journey, and if he hadn’t been at the mouth of the very temple he had been in search of, he would have turned on his heel and headed straight back home to the sanctuary of his bed.

Over the gasping breaths rattling his lungs and the whistling of the wind through the stone caves, Mills swears he can hear a voice. Sweet words whisper softly in his ear, the sensation of breath tickling his ear, causing a chill to run across his dusty skin.

It has been so long since someone graced my halls.

Lurching upright suddenly, Mills scans his eyes over his surroundings, taking in the pillars that held up the gargantuan temple carved into the rockface to his left. Despite what he could only assume was centuries of isolation, lost to time, the temple still holds a golden, flickering glow of torchlight. Flames dance from the wall brackets built into the stone, the miniature blazes casting a dancing orange hue across the floor.

“Hello?” He calls, his voice ricocheting off the walls. Mills speaks, and the same word repeatedly returns his address; Hello, hello, hello?

Stumbling to his feet and discarding the rope he had clung to as a lifeline. Brushing his hands over his hips, he feels for the handle of his gun in his holster, gripping the weapon tightly as he wanders into the temple, eyes scanning the walls. Ancient inscriptions decorate the walls, chiselled into the face of the brickwork with rudimentary tools. Mills could just about make out certain words, names for goddesses, warnings of dange-

I have missed the company of others.

The disembodied voice in his ear causes Mills to jump suddenly, eyes wide and panicked as he spins on his heel, searching the shadows for the source of the noise. Besides the rushing wind outside that brushes loose strands of hair from his face and the quiet skittering of small stones disrupted by his footsteps, he cannot hear anything more. He’s almost sure that he’s imagining things, that he may have unwittingly bashed his head off the side of the cliff on his ascent– until he spots you standing in the middle of the large open prayer room.

States of the old gods surround you, enshrined in ivory marble amongst the golden sandstone. You wear draping cloth, something akin to a toga, and it sways in the breeze that sweeps your hair from your cheeks. It takes his breath away, your ethereal beauty, his lips parting as he gazes at your enchanting face.

“Ah- Excuse me,” Mills addresses you cautiously, an inexplicable nervousness settling in the pit of his stomach. You are almost too beautiful to look at, the awe fixing in his bones and aching.

“Apologies are nonessential,”you smile politely at him, sandals silent as they walk along the textured surface of the ground. Mills gawps as he watches you almost float towards him, your eyes scanning over the length of his being. Is this a fever dream?

“Might I ask that you state your business?” You query him, and Mills’ hairs stand on end, that nervous energy turning his stomach over. He feels jittery, as though his instincts tell him his survival depends on how he answers your question.

“I- I have been ordered here in search of precious metals.” Mills chooses to offer a half-truth. Treasures were an honest response, yes. But no one had sent him here— no one but desperation.

“In order to pay for your ailing daughter’s remedy?” You hum softly in that voice as soft as silk. Mills’ heart twists, and he might have noted that he never mentioned Nevine if it weren’t for the stinging of tears in his eyes at the mere mention of her. He hadn’t seen her in many moon cycles, persistent on his journey in hopes of finding enough treasures to save her from the disease ravaging her body.

You nod, approaching Mills ever so slowly. Something in the very back of his mind, a whisper of instinct, warns him to retreat from you, but as your hand lifts to cross the small space between you both, he yearns to know what it would feel like to be comforted by you.

“I understand your pain, dear one. The agony and suffering of our children is a painful weight to carry,” Delicate fingers brush up the bare skin of his forearm slowly, the touch itself soothing and easing some of the emotional pain that grips his mind and blurs his vision. “There is bounty here that may ease that burden.”

Relief lurches up Mills’ throat in a sudden sigh of relief. It sounds a lot like a sob, emotions coming so easily to the usually steeled hunter in your presence. It’s almost startling to Mills how the tears spill down in cheeks so quickly, even with the overwhelming consolation.

“I just request something in recompense,” you whisper, your breath brushing across his cheekbone and warming his skin like a summer breeze. He melts into your affections as you continue to stroke at his bare skin despite his better judgement, body seemingly craving the solace it finds in your connection. “Something that may atone for the loss of my most prized possessions…”

“Name it,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy as he watches your eyes alight with mischief, the glow in them not unlike the flames that light the surrounding room. “I’ll do anything for you..”

The words sounded odd coming from his lips, not quite what he had meant to say. Mills opens his mouth to correct himself; ‘for my daughter’. But, instead, a gasp of pleasure pushes past his chapped lips. Your eyes scan across the pinch in his brow as Mills’ body throbs with an overwhelming sense of bliss, his jaw falling slack as you gently tuck strands of his ebony hair behind his ear.

“What is-” He chokes out, leaning slightly into your touch despite his internal drive to push away. Instead, the very atoms of his being pull towards you, fear and ecstasy twisting in the pit of his abdomen as you hold his gaze, your perfect brow arching in query.

“Is?” You urge him to continue, but Mills’ mouth fails to form around the words- or do they dissipate in his mind before they even fully form? He has lost the ability to speak entirely, eyes rolling back as arousal flits from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. His cock strains against the seam of his trousers, twitching and pulsing.

“I do enjoy how delicate people are,” You whisper to him, voice as soft as cotton, “You break apart with my touch, burst at the seams at my command.”

Mills’ knees buckle beneath him at the sound of your mirthful chuckle, moaning pathetically at how the seam of his trousers’ crotch presses against his throbbing balls. Already his cock is weeping precum through the tan fabric, leaving a dark, wet stain.

“Mhmm,” you smile to yourself, lifting the skirts of your toga as you bend at the knees, balancing on the balls of your feet. Mills, grinding his hips against the fabric of his trousers, looks up at you. His eyes are stinging with tears, the immense arousal. “Is it pleasurable? Does it engulf you, that heavenly feeling?”

He wants to shout stop, wants to beg you to release him from the enchantment you seem to have cast upon him, but instead, his head tilts forward in a nod, body seemingly working against his mind and prostrating before you in an act of worship. He can feel your eyes on the back of his head and can practically sense your prideful smirk as the pleasure grows significantly.

“Ohh–” Mills whimpers and it’s pathetic. Almost like a wail, the sound bounces off the smooth walls, a dissipating melody of his own whinings. He tries to spread his legs wider, hoping it will relieve some of the building pressure, but his hips have a mind of their own and begin to rock against the inseam that lays flat against his cock. The friction itself causes a gut-wrenching groan to burst past his lips.

“You may give it to it,” he hears you advise from above, “This is your reparation, the promised payment for my treasure.”

All at once, his arousal surges, and Mills finally releases any and all reservations. It floods his body, the almost unbearable bliss that rocks through every nerve. He can’t help but fall victim to the burn and the sting. He has no doubt he looks utterly pitiful at your feet, hips rocking against the air and body trembling as his balls pull up tight.

“That’s it,” you whisper, silky smooth voice running down his spine, pooling in the pit of his stomach and poisoning his sensibility, “That is perfect.”

And it is, God, it is. Mills is entirely pliant as the darkness takes hold of his mind. It seeps in, creeping into his consciousness and chasing out the light. As his cock drools and his hips pick up their pace against the tightness of his pants, his eyes roll back into his skull. Oblivion swallows him whole, blissful pleasure utterly obliterating his cognizance. It’s an inferno, blackening his insides and charring his skin with a devastating heat as he cums in his pants.

When the obscurity releases him, there is no sense of self or mindfulness. Instead, he’s completely detached, his body trembling and alight with enormous sensation, and his mind inundated by you. You, only you. Your pretty fingers clutch his chin, and you stare adoringly down at him as you push his hair out of his face again.

“You are a treasure, yourself, my dear,” you whisper to him, shaking your head as you pout slightly, “I can’t find it in myself to release you.”

In himself, Mills also can’t find it in himself to leave. He couldn’t remember why he had entered these hallowed halls. Had he even come from the outside? As far as he could recall, he had always been here, on his knees before you in worship.

And that’s where he intended to stay. Anything else would be sacrilegious. He wouldn’t dare defy his Goddess in such a way.

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[crookedfivefingers]

Of Great Consequence

Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones; Martha Jones/Giacomo Casanova Rating: Explicit Chapters: 2/5 Tags: Romance, jealousy, friends to lovers, smut, angst with a happy ending

Co-written with @pax-in-paradoxo 💜

Note: AU where the Master arc never took place and Martha has continued traveling with the Doctor for over a year post-1969. This is just one take on how their dynamic might have evolved, given time+bonding+healing!

Read our first chapter below (or on Ao3)

In mid-1700s Italy, the Doctor and Martha arrive in Venice for the Feast of the Ascension. During their trip, they temporarily wind up separated, which is how Martha eventually finds herself in the company of an irresistible, if hauntingly familiar stranger… One who can't seem to take his eyes off of her.

"Feeling that I was born for the sex opposite of mine, I have always loved it and done all that I could to make myself loved by it."

-ɢɪᴀᴄᴏᴍᴏ ᴄᴀꜱᴀɴᴏᴠᴀ

22nd of May, 1755

As the sun rises over Venice, the city awakens, its buildings in shades of eggshell and rust bathed in the gentle warmth of late spring. Dozens of charming, arched bridges connect the narrow streets, their graceful curves casting shadows on the rippling waters of the canals beneath.

In an alley as old as Venice itself, the TARDIS materializes early, settling between a weathered brick wall and one of smooth stone. With a creak, the door swings open, and the Doctor and his companion step out into the cool Venetian morning, matching grins spreading across their faces as a gust of salty air greets them.

They’ve timed their arrival perfectly—forty days after Easter, just in time for the Feast of the Ascension. The morning promises plenty of pomp and ceremony, but the solemn rituals will soon give way to a lively afternoon as the streets fill with people ready to drink, dine, and dance.

Martha knows she and the Doctor will spend hours slipping in and out of crowds, perusing countless open-air markets, and laughing as they feast from one square to the next—blending seamlessly with the locals. 

Which is precisely why they’ve dressed up.

(And they look brilliant, if she should say so.)

Predictably, finding costumes for their trip had been her idea, as it almost always was. What was unexpected, however, was how the Doctor hadn’t put up a lick of fuss, enthusiastically tagging along to the wardrobe while declaring his intent to track down something ‘tastefully lavish, with an appropriate amount of aristocratic flair’.

After fifteen minutes, he’d finally emerged from behind the paper-paneled screen dressed in a long, silken frock coat in forest green, complete with tails, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp white linen shirt. His scandalously tight breeches, made from the same Chinese silk, clung to his knees, where polished black boots hugged his slender calves.

Once Martha had taken a moment to ogle the Doctor’s (frankly bloody gorgeous) ensemble, she’d helped straighten the tails of his coat with shaking hands, her eyes lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary on his bum before hastily averting her gaze to the floor. 

Eager for a distraction from her pulse thundering in her ears, she’d moved on to rifle aimlessly through the racks of clothes, shuffling past poodle skirts and flapper dresses (amongst other more questionable things) before finally settling on an extravagant gown in a complementary shade of sage green. While soft waves of frilly lace drifted from her bust to waist, the snug, corseted bodice highlighted her natural hourglass figure, further accentuated by a fluffy petticoat that had seemed easier to slip on than a bulky crinoline cage.

A pair of wedge sandals, way more comfortable than they had any right to be, gave her a bit of extra height, stopping her dress from dragging on the ground. Even with the boost, she wasn’t quite eye-level with the Doctor, but she was definitely closer to his face than usual when he pulled her in for a hug (one he offered right after helping her with the lace ties crisscrossing down her back).

She hates to admit it, but moments like that—the dressing up together, color coordinating, the simple intimacy of helping each other with the trickier bits—always get to her. Despite her struggle to suppress those feelings, things often felt juuuust dangerously close enough to the edge of that line to give her faint, fleeting little flickers of hope (however deluded they may be).

Martha’s a bright girl, though. Too smart, if she’s being honest, to be so swept up by a bloke with a smart haircut and a well-fitting kit.

(And a bloody time and space machine with the means to show her the vast wonders of the universe, but that's [mostly] beside the point.)

She’s painfully aware that, no matter what she may feel in the moment, the air between them remains at its same static constant: perhaps a shade or two shy of ‘questionably’ platonic at times; but ultimately safe, and—more importantly—consistent enough to adhere to the boundaries of just-friendship.

The Doctor is merely her mate–and nothing more.

Her mate who, on the first day they met, provoked such an undercurrent of sexual tension that his eventual rejection was akin to a polar plunge. 

Her mate who, even now, occasionally seems to let his fingers hover too long over buttons and fastens as he helps her dress.

But all the same, still only her mate.

To give herself some credit, she’s long since learned to extinguish any hope as soon as it sparks up, as the Doctor is nothing if not masterful at sidestepping anything that could be misconstrued for ambiguity. The man’s gotten so good at that particular dance that such faux pas and slip-ups rarely happen at all anymore.

Well… Save for those fleeting moments when she catches a glimpse of… something— something dark, raw, and unmistakably hungry—that she almost doesn’t dare to name. It’s usually in the aftermath of a day when her intellect’s really had the opportunity to shine, or right after they’ve both cheated death once again. It’s subtle, almost too subtle, but it lingers just long enough to leave her wondering if she’s imagining things or not.

Back when they first started traveling together, there had been a good stretch where any time the Doctor caught her eyes on him, he’d glance away wistfully—back when she was certain his real thoughts were almost always trained on another woman; rather, a woman’s ghost.

Martha would have even put money on it, were she pressed.

That feels like a lifetime ago now. She knows those wounds haven’t simply disappeared, but they don’t hang over them like a dark cloud anymore. Getting to this point had been no small effort, but now, he could talk about his former companion without it bringing up that familiar awkward tension between them.

Over time, Martha’s learned to keep her jealousy to herself (she’s gotten much better at suppressing it in general), the Doctor’s learned to stop comparing the two of them, and lo and behold, the whole Rose thing gradually became less taboo—leaving a mutual understanding that once felt impossible. 

Those ‘glimpses’ of his have changed shape, as well. 

These days when she catches him looking, instead of breaking off to stare into the middle distance like he once did, he won’t even look away… More often than not, he’ll just smile at her.

But that’s all it is, of course—a smile. 

She’s come to accept that the Doctor’s fond looks are probably nothing more than signs of friendly affection. After all, in the more than two years they’ve been best mates, they’ve been practically inseparable, traveling and living together nearly the entire time. It would be odd—and maybe even more confusing or frustrating—if the Doctor didn’t have some level of admiration for her.

But that certainly doesn’t mean he fancies her.

By way of petty illustration, at no point has he seemed to notice the fact that her tits look bloody fantastic, the fitted bodice of the gown doing absolute wonders to lift and separate her breasts. The rounded beauties are pressed up and together just so–and she’s already contemplating buying a push-up bra the next time she stops home.

But it’s fine that the Doctor is, for all intents and purposes, blind to this part of her. She’s had enough time to learn to expect as much, so she embraces her look privately, enjoying the little self-esteem boost. ‘No use in pining for approval’, she thinks as they stand together in their little alleyway—she knows she looks absolutely shaggable.

Within seconds of stepping outside the TARDIS, almost as soon as they’ve registered the smell of the sea, something else becomes apparent: the song of distant church bells.

The Doctor’s smile immediately downshifts into a grimace.

“Late?” Martha asks with a playful smirk, knowing it’s rare for them to be on time for anything (and certain she can’t remember the last occasion they were).

“Wellll…” Reaching back, he ruffles his hair with his free hand, looking from one end of the alley to the next—undoubtedly trying to puzzle out which route might be quicker. “I’d say we’re not so much ‘late’ as ‘fashionably behind schedule’. Could’ve used more time to get dressed before landing, but”—he grins with a hint of mischief, squeezing her hand— “no matter. Allons-y!”

Then it’s all weaving through alleys, dodging broken carts, and hopping over a series of quaint little bridges as they move at a brisk pace (the best Martha can manage in her shoes) as the Doctor leads the way.

Wherever the hell they’re going.

Panting, Martha calls out, “Couldn’t we just have, y’know… gotten back in the TARDIS? Landed a bit… closer?”

The Doctor scoffs. “And what, miss all these lovely little spots? What sort of Venetian spirit is that?” Turning a corner, they come face to face with another bridge—this one made of red bricks and wrought iron. “This way, you’re getting the proper tour, Martha Jones. The alleys, the bridges”—they both look down to see a long, black boat being rowed beneath them by a man in tight trousers—”the gondolas; this is what Venice is all about!”

“Sure, yep.” Martha’s almost certain he’s just too proud to admit he’s once again screwed up the landing. “Just saying, you’d better remember where we parked,” she adds as they step off the other side of the bridge, turning down the path to their left to slip into a space so narrow, they’ve got to shuffle through it sideways. “Don’t fancy getting lost in all this once it’s dark out.”

Another scoff as the Doctor looks back with a halfhearted glare. “C’mon, Martha. Give us some credit—I know exactly where we are.” His expression twists into a crooked grin. “Got a built-in GPS, me.”

“Riiight, ‘course you do.” They finally pop out the other side—and thank god, it’s a fairly wide street they step onto this time; she can even see the Grand Canal through an arch over the path in the distance—bless. “Suppose I’ll just pretend I can’t remember the ‘Forest of Dreams’ turning out to be the ‘River of Leg-Sucking Frogs’.”

“Oiii, it’s not my fault the TARDIS landed us on the wrong side of the continent!” He clears his throat, reaching (presumably) to straighten a tie that isn’t there, then (presumably) pretending he’d meant to touch his waistcoat. “She was feeling fickle, is all.”

“And the night you timey-wimey-detected us straight into the worst part of London?”

“I had a hunch!”

“That ‘hunch’ nearly lost me my good coat!”

“‘Nearly’ being the operative word.” 

“Or breakfast at Tiffany’s?” She meets his gaze pointedly, an eyebrow arched high. “Suppose that was due to a ‘fickle TARDIS’ as well?”

The Doctor’s face falls. “Erm—”

“‘It’s about intuition and imagination, Martha,” she gives her best impression, pressing her hand into the center of her chest. “It’s about feeling your way through the Vortex— oh, wait, hold on—sorry, you’re at the bottom of a swamp!”

With a heavy sigh, the Doctor scrubs all five fingers down his face, head tipping back dramatically. “How many more apologies before you stop dragging that one up? And, must I remind you—we did make it to Tiffany’s eventually. Softest, flakiest croissants in the universe, remember?” He catches her eyes with a pleased smirk. “And your lovely yellow frock?”

Martha cuts her gaze away from him as her cheeks grow hot, pretending to be entranced by a stone archway leading into another footpath marked Ponte de la Guerra. 

She hardly expected him to acknowledge it, but yes, of course, she remembers what happened after she’d recovered from the swamp incident.

As if she could ever forget.

The Doctor had ambushed her early that morning (Afternoon? Evening? What even was time on the TARDIS?), interrupting her slow shuffle to the galley to search for caffeine by thrusting a canary-yellow halter dress (the ‘color of nobility’) into her hands, confidently declaring that he’d promised her a date.

Frock didn’t do it justice, though. In Martha’s mind, a frock was one of Matron Redfern’s crisply starched pinafores, a young schoolgirl’s uniform, maybe the frumpy sort of thing a grandmother would wear to faff about the house. The elegant, tea-length cocktail dress the Doctor had hand-chosen for her was slinky and sexy–nothing of the sort. 

She’d stood in her bedroom, letting the fabric slip between her fingers as she stared in disbelief at the mirror. The shimmering yellow silk garment fit like a glove, accentuating every dip and swell of her figure. The halter neckline showcased plenty of bare skin, exposing her arms and the graceful curve of her spine, while the bodice cinched just right, emphasizing her waist before flowing sensually to mid-calf.

She’d turned slightly, admiring how the fabric clung to her hips before flaring out just enough to allow for movement. Tied snugly at the neck, the dress uplifted her bust, offering more than a glimpse of décolletage. The yellow hue was bold; vibrant; a color that demanded attention—exactly the sort of thing she wouldn’t normally pick for herself. 

But… it worked. It worked so bloody well that she couldn’t help but wonder if the Doctor had pictured exactly what she’d look like in it when he’d made his choice.

Had he anticipated how the soft sheen of the silk would highlight the warm undertones of her skin? Or the fitted cups of the bodice would perfectly cradle her breasts? Martha had bit her lip, trying to push those thoughts aside, but the question lingered in her mind like an itch in the brain. 

Had the Doctor imagined her like this, standing in the place where she undressed, feeling both vulnerable and powerful, the dress skimming her thighs as she shifted from foot to foot?

Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t. But as she’d stood there, the dress fitting her like a second skin, she’d felt that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a reason he’d picked it. 

And then, she’d had an existential crisis wondering if he’d tolerate her absence long enough for her to nip into the ensuite and slather her legs in depilatory cream. You didn’t present someone with a sexy cocktail dress and invite them on a breakfast date if pillowy-soft pastries were the only thing on your mind.

No, she hadn’t forgotten the overly decadent and posh meal they’d had on Arkon, where the days were only three hours long and they ate a single sumptuous meal (breakfast) a day.

Or the stroll they took along the pier to watch the two suns set over a glittering sea, the Doctor’s hand finding hers as the last flicker of light disappeared over the horizon.

By the time they’d made their way back to the TARDIS, she would have nearly convinced herself she’d dreamt it all, if not for the effervescent rush of endorphins that had flooded her bloodstream, accompanied by an anticipatory giddiness she couldn’t even try to suppress. And why would she? After all, the Doctor had looked at her—at Martha Jones, the woman who had recently confessed her love to his human self—and handed her a dress he’d picked himself by hand, telling her they had a date. She’d been so certain something was about to happen between them that her bones had nearly burned with it.

And yet, there had been no long, lingering embrace at the end of the night; no handsy walk back to her bedroom. No giggles between soft, shy kisses against a door jamb as eager mouths became acquainted. Certainly, there’d been no trail of discarded clothing leading to where they’d stumbled into bed, his lips at her neck, his breath hot and shuddering beneath her ear as he moved inside of her.

God, how bloody embarrassing that she’d even dared to imagine 1/10th of that.

No—when they returned, all the Doctor had done was throw them into the Vortex, stare at his monitor, and bid her adieu with little more than a flick of his wrist–like they hadn’t spent the entire day doing stuff that would qualify as romantic couple’s stuff were they, in fact, a couple.

And that had been the night Martha stopped hoping.

“I’m just saying,” she adds, forcing some lightness and mirth into her tone, wanting to move past any further discussion of Arkon or Tiffany’s or nearly dying in a swamp. “Would be a nice change of pace to be able to find the TARDIS sometime this century–”

Quite abruptly, an arm is shoved in front of her, the Doctor forcing both of them to a stop when the melodic strains of a softly sung hymn travel through the open calle.

Two cream-colored buildings towered directly ahead, divided by a wide alley and connected by a stone arch. Through this space, flanked by ceremonial guards, a procession of men dressed in their finest red, white, and golden robes solemnly marches past. The soft glow of candles illuminates their path; the rich scent of incense wafts from smoking silver censers carried by two men trailing the end of the line. 

Not far behind, a sea of well-dressed Venetians follows, their voices lifted in joyful harmony. Some carry their own candles, flames flickering gently in the breeze; others bear golden-tasseled banners that sway elegantly with the rhythm of their steps, adding to the grandeur of the spectacle.

“Guessing that’s it, then?” Martha glances up to stare at his profile. “The procession?”

“Indeed,” the Doctor murmurs, moving his arm from in front of her to tug at his ear instead. “Erm. Martha?”

“Yes?”

“I, erm. Hadn’t realized you were still cross about that.”

“Cross?” Tilting her head slowly, she wrinkles her brow, puzzling through their conversation. “About what?”

“The swamp.”

Affection swells in her chest as she notes the sincerity in his eyes, and almost as quickly, her heart sinks with shame.

…Why had she felt the need to bring it up again? 

Plenty of times since then, he’s mucked up the landing—any number of which were far less serious… Those examples would’ve been far more fitting for the light, playful nature of the conversation they’ve been having.

With a growing sense of horror, she realizes what she’s done. She might not have been outright nasty, but it’s the same pattern that haunted their first year of traveling together—the same insecurity disguised as something else. This time, she’d just buried it deeper.

Sure, she hadn’t meant to do it—and it’d been tossed up in words that, on the surface, had nothing to do with jealousy or Rose or anything resembling rejection—but reflecting on it now, Martha knows better.

And the Doctor had misinterpreted that bitterness as resentment for having nearly cost her her life.

Of course she knew he hadn’t meant to land them on the wrong planet that morning! She can’t begin to imagine the guilt he must have felt when his casual misstep nearly got her killed, landing her unconscious and in hospital. 

Even worse: it hadn’t been the only near-death experience during that particular trip; it was just the only one that’d involved her and her alone.

When all was said and done, their breakfast ‘date’ had merely been his way of making it up to her in style, and while she thought she’d come to terms with that by now, somehow she still dared to feel a private tinge of annoyance more than a year later.

Moreover, brilliant as the Doctor is, he must’ve realized on some level that he’d gone a bit further than intended with the blurring of lines that day. That was probably why he was so closed off when they’d returned home that night; probably why he never used the ‘D’ word to describe an outing ever again, even in the aftermath of any of their subsequent near-death experiences (of which they’d had several). 

Bringing up that trip again—knowing how traumatic it was for him as well—feels cheap and uncouth, especially when she’d only done it to poke fun at his piloting skills. As much as she’d like to pretend it was all in good humor, the slight flicker of anxiety in his eyes tells her it came out more honestly than she intended.

What sort of a mate does that make her?

Excluding family, the Doctor is the most important person in her life. They don’t need to be anything more than friends—really, they don’t. His platonic love carries a weight and warmth that puts any of the fleeting, half-cocked romances she’s had back on Earth to shame. 

But still, there’s something about the way he holds her after a near miss that feels more intimate than sex ever could. Arms tight around her, like he’s afraid he’ll drift away if he lets go. She doesn’t care how cliche it sounds–it feels like their souls are tangled together in those moments, a connection far deeper than physical attraction. That has to count for something.

And God, does it ever. Of course it does.

Besides, she knows she’s the most important person in his life, too—at least for now. And that’s been true for a long time. They’re best mates, absolutely brilliant together. What matters is that they’ve got each other, and that’s more than enough.

(If the cost to see the universe at the Doctor’s side is a bit of hopeless pining with a dollop of unrequited love, she figures it’s well worth the price of admission.)

So, desperate to call upon some levity, Martha grins, giving his shoulder a light shove. “Oh, don’t be daft—‘course I’m not. I’m only pulling your leg!”

The Doctor pauses, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Right,” he says in a tone that makes it painfully obvious he doesn’t quite believe her. He glances away for a moment before looking back at her, his smile now more deliberate. “Okay, then.” Reaching into a hidden pocket in his coat, he points towards the crowd with his chin, his eyes searching her face for reassurance. “Off we go?”

Once equipped with red candles set in fancy silver holders—courtesy of the Doctor’s ever-handy, if baffling, trans-dimensional pockets—they quietly slip around a corner and fall into step with the procession. Their entrance goes largely unnoticed, a testament to the Doctor’s knack for blending in when it happens to suit him.

Strangely enough, although no words are spoken, she notices several men sizing the Doctor up as they merge into the crowd. One grins, another glares with a deliberate intensity, and an elderly woman even blows him a little kiss. Witnessing all of it straight away, a nagging suspicion grows in Martha’s mind that some of these people have met him before. It stirs a different kind of jealousy within her—a quiet, unsettling thought that maybe the Doctor has spent many Ascension Days walking these same steps, perhaps even with the same familiar faces by his side. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken her somewhere he’d gone before ( with Rose, a nagging voice helpfully adds), and she shoves that thought back down deep before it has a chance to get its hooks into her. She’s come too far, putting her jealousy of the other woman to bed, to backslide now.

It’s also worth noting that the Doctor’s a tragically handsome bloke whose presence radiates power and confidence, so it’s only natural that he’d draw such reactions (just as he has countless times before). As usual, he seems blissfully unaware, his eyes fixed on their gorgeous surroundings as if no one else exists.

Martha decides she’s overthinking it.

For the next twenty-five minutes, she makes a valiant effort to mouth along to unfamiliar Latin hymns as the Doctor, ever the show-off, sings every word perfectly (of course). The path winds around some of the most attractive architecture and quaint little canals she’s ever had the privilege of laying her eyes upon, and her attention admittedly strays a bit from the religious procession to the many balconies, alleys, and storefronts, peeking surreptitiously into windows and alcoves to try and imagine the sort of life one might have in 1700’s Venice.

Nothing compares to the site that awaits them, however, as they soon round a corner to find themselves in a massive open square, gazing in awe at the main facade of St. Mark’s Basilica.

From every angle, the building offers a breathtaking display of paintings, statues, and shimmering glass mosaics, every nook and cranny packed with religious art and iconography. Intricate carvings, hand-crafted from patterned marble, showcase colorful imaginings of the lives of Jesus, Mary, and the namesake of the holy church.

Five towering white domes crown the structure, their elegant curves adorned with lines of elaborate gold filigree that climb toward the lanterns nested above. Massive grand entryways— ’portals’, the Doctor calls them—usher the crowd into the cathedral’s stunning interior, and Martha finds herself dizzy as she tips her head back, staring in awe at the impossibly tall, hand-painted ceilings. 

Her heart soars. 

She’s seen so much with the Doctor, but this? This is something else entirely. It’s breathtaking. The basilica’s intricate details, the vibrant colors—it’s all so beautifully human; all crafted by hand right here on Earth. It’s a masterpiece come to life around her, and she can’t help but feel awed by it; she’s never been particularly religious, but it’s easy to see how people might come here to feel closer to whatever universal threads connect all humans—be that God or nature or whatever.

A hand pressed between her shoulder blades guides her back to the present, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment as Martha realizes she’s wandered away from the main procession. With a sheepish smile, she looks over, fully prepared to be quietly reprimanded—but…

To her surprise, when she meets the Doctor’s deep, brown stare, she sees only fondness there; perhaps a touch of pride. It sends warmth through her chest in a slow surge, and she smiles, the warmth only spreading further as he beams right back at her.

It occurs to her then: it must bring him immense joy to do this; to see human marvels like St. Mark’s through the eyes of another. For all she knows, he’s been to Venice a thousand times, but this is her very first. She can’t really blame him for wanting to relive it all, vicariously experiencing the first time wonder of seeing it through her eyes.

This time, when they slip back into the procession, Martha doesn’t even pay attention to anyone else in the crowd.

In the nave, Mass commences as soon as every pew is filled, hundreds of soft prayers echoing through the cathedral. Amid wishes for health, prosperity, and joy, blessings are bestowed upon Venice and the sea, creating an atmosphere so rich with unity that Martha finds herself overcome with emotion. As the next round of hymns swells around them, tears well up in her eyes.

Sometime later, after following the throng out to a large pier on the Grand Canal, the Doctor and Martha watch as Francesco Loredan—the Doge, or highest-ranking official of Venice—and his clergymen board an elaborate spectacle known as the Bucentaur. It’s a glorified barge, really; a long, flashy vessel with gilded walls and a red, curved roof; one practically sinking beneath the weight of opulent finery affixed from bow to stern.

Propelled by the strength of over a hundred oarsmen, the ship sails off surrounded by dozens of black gondolas and a hodgepodge of private vessels of varying sizes. The crowds cheer in celebration from the harbor, thousands of spectators waving their scarves and ascots as the Doctor tells Martha about the final event of the ceremony: the Marriage of the Sea.

“It’s meant to symbolize the significance of the Adriatic Sea to the city Venice,” he says quietly, his voice warm and close with intoxicating proximity. “They’ll have their rituals out there”—he lifts an arm to point east, his voice growing even smoother, deeper—“in those deep, aquamarine waters near the island of Lido. Then, as they hold a golden ring over the sea, they’ll say a few words to honor their tradition.”

“W-What,” Martha lifts a fist to her mouth, coughing to cover up the evidence of little sparks shivering through her, “what words are those, then?”

“Desponsamus te, mare, in signum veri perpetuique dominii.”

Good god. The Doctor murmuring Latin into her ear is the last thing she needs right now, and she pins her lips together, eyes focused on the departing ship as its shape grows smaller and smaller.

“Well?”

She jumps slightly, looking up at him with both eyebrows raised, as though he’s only just materialized at an inconvenient moment for her to be observed. “Mm?”

“I said, ‘Don’t you want to know what it means’?” He smirks then, and while Martha would have once thought it was a flirtatious gesture, she knows him well enough by now to recognize when he’s just being a smug git.

“Isn’t the, erm, TARDIS supposed to translate all that?” she asks, sounding slightly more breathless than she’d have liked. Certain the sun is highlighting the flush to her cheeks, she turns her head towards the water again, breaking off eye contact to focus on the excitement of the crowd.

“Wellll.” For some ungodly reason, the Doctor leans in even closer. “Not if I’m trying to be very, very impressive.”

Swallowing thickly, she takes a subtle (but no less deliberate) step in the opposite direction. “Never thought I’d see the day you admitted to having to ‘try’,” she quips, crossing her arms, her eyes once again pinned to the gilded barge. “But since you’re dying to tell me—”

“We wed thee, sea, as a sign of true and everlasting dominion.”

Martha scrunches her nose as she finally turns her eyes up to his, then she’s the one to smirk. “Gotta say, that sounded a lot prettier in Latin.”

“As most things do,” the Doctor sighs almost wistfully. Standing up straight, he offers his arm, smiling brightly. “So, Martha Jones—over and onward?”

Feeling the balance has been restored between them, she grins, slipping her arm through his as they turn towards the steady retreat of the crowd. “Lead the way.”

[she-wolf09231982]

Chapter 2- Stuck With Me

Summary: After the German bomb run on Bastogne, the locals and American soldiers there that were able, helped piece back together what they could of the town. Medical personnel that had survived still tended to the wounded however they could with whatever supplies they had left. A deserted upper class family home that survived the bombing was temporarily designated as the new aid station until further notice. Although he was internally grieving the loss of Renée and Anna, Eugene steadily pushes through the chaos to provide aid to his fellow Easy members at a moment’s notice. Saria, on the other hand, wasn’t as resilient.  

A/N: OC/Rosaria Marie Leone (leh-OHN), EugeneRoeX!FemMedic, WW2, Post D-Day, She/Her Pronouns, Military Terminology, Band of Brothers References, Boondock Saints ‘ll Duce’ Prayer Reference, Mentions of Weaponry, Smoking, Mentions of death, Blood, Graphic Gore, Medical Terminology, Italian and French with English translations

*These stories may not fall entirely in accordance with the TV series timeline. I do not know the real soldiers the actors portray in this series, so please understand I show no disrespect. Some or most of historical events and character interactions in my fanfics are fabricated purely for the sake of the enjoyment of fiction*

Story takes towards the end of Episode 6-Bastogne and beginning of Episode 7- The Breaking Point

~~~~~~~ 

January 3, 1945

Easy Company was still holding the line outside Bastogne in the Ardennes Forest, enduring the cold, the hunger, and the lack of supplies. Not to mention the incompetence and constant absence of their current commanding officer, LT Dike, was mitigating any progress to push through Foy.  

The new aid station was set up in a deserted lavish multilevel family home. While the few nurses and local volunteers buzzed from room to room tending to patients, Saria sat in the parlor tearing bed sheets into strips to use as bandages and dressings.  

Suddenly, a litter was clumsily carried through the front door with Eugene following behind them. Upon hearing them enter, she rushed over to assist. 

“What do we got here?” Saria asked. 

“Gunshot wound to the right thigh, but-” Gene began. 

Saria began hastily assessing the wound on the exposed thigh area. 

“Saria-” Gene drummed. 

“Looks like the femoral artery’s been severed-” Saria muttered to herself thinking out loud, not listening to Eugene. 

“Saria,” Gene bellowed. 

“Che cosa!? (What!?)” Saria replied sharply in Italian, looking at him expectantly. 

“It ain’t gonna do any good.” he said pensively. 

Saria cocked her head as she furrowed her eyebrows at him, waiting for him to elaborate. 

“Il est mort. (He’s dead).” Gene clarified in French. 

Saria stared at him, absorbing the information until it finally clicked. She looked at the soldier’s lifeless, pale face. She dropped her eyes to the floor, allowing a defeated sigh to leave her lips. 

“Guess it was silly of me to think every soldier you bring here would still be alive.” she said quietly. 

Eugene only blinked, keeping his attention on her. 

Saria shook her head to reset her thoughts. 

“Take him to the garden house out back so Chaplain Maloney can say a prayer over him.” Saria instructed, lazily gesturing to the hall leading to the back door of the house before walking into the kitchen. 

“Yes, ma’am.” the two men replied as they carried the perished soldier down the main hallway towards the rear of the house. 

Eugene waited in the foyer, glancing down the hall to make sure the stretcher made it out the back door before proceeding to the kitchen.

He leaned against the doorway waiting as Saria faced the cast iron wood-burning stove. She raised a kettle from the trivet (stove surface) and poured hot water into a teacup. 

“What was his name?” Saria queried sipping her beverage with her back remaining to Eugene. 

He cleared his throat, “Hoobler. Don Hoobler. Accidently shot himself with a Lugar he got off a German he picked off.” he dejectedly explained. 

He saw her disappointedly shake her head, well aware she was contemplating the irony behind a soldier recklessly losing his life because of a foolish ‘trophy’ like a German Lugar. 

“Comment as-tu été? (How have you been?)” Gene’s usual gravelly baritone voice carried over the room to her. 

Saria remained quiet at first as she tried to piece together a response that wouldn’t raise concern. 

“Keeping busy,” she replied plainly. “Et toi? (And you?)”  

“Same.”  

“Tea?” Saria offered after a long pause. 

“No thanks.” Eugene declined kindly. 

“We have coffee.” she extended as she looked over her shoulder. 

A faint smile graced Eugene’s face.  

“Coffee would be nice, merci.” he professed as he crossed the threshold to sit at a two-seater kitchen table. 

Saria occupied herself preparing the coffee grounds and coffee press. Eugene surveyed her bustling around the kitchen, trying to get a feel for how his friend really was feeling since she was being very vague and evasive. He noticed she seemed to be very adamant about keeping her back to him. But he sat there waiting patiently while she kept herself busy with the coffee. 

Saria placed the packed coffee press onto the stove trivet, then stood by the counter where the kitchen window viewed out to the garden. Her eyes coincidently caught Chaplain Maloney walking into the garden cottage. She quickly averted her eyes to her hands fiddling with a spoon on the countertop. 

Eugene observed her carefully, his heart progressively filling with concern. 

“There’s another chair here,” he pointed out, but she didn’t budge.  

“Asseyez-vous et parlez avec moi, mon ami (Sit and talk with me, my friend).” he beseeched. 

Saria audibly sighed. Eugene got up and walked to the other chair sliding it out from under the table, inviting her to have a seat. 

“S'il te plaît? (Please?)” he gently implored with a feeble smile. 

She looked at the chair, then at Eugene. She sauntered to the table and lowered herself onto the chair as he pushed it under her. He walked over to the counter, grabbed a teacup, then went to the stove to pour himself fresh coffee from the press. 

He turned slowly towards Saria as he took his first sip. She sat gaping at the floor, lost in her thoughts. His soul ached for his mourning companion. 

“Saria-” Gene began, but she remained stoic, only closing her eyes so she didn’t have to look at him.  

He walked to her, placed the cup on the table then squatted in front of her to look her in the face. 

“Rosaria,” he asserted sternly, refusing to let her avoid him any longer. “-regardez-moi. S'il te plaît. (-look at me. Please).” 

Saria met Eugene’s troubled expression with empty bloodshot eyes, as they began to gloss over, filling to the brim with tears until droplets started to cascade down her cheeks. He studied her face for a few seconds longer, searching for any inkling of hope. He found none. 

“My French is getting rusty...” she whispered as her voice cracked from choking down the urge to sob. 

Eugene’s eyebrows drew inward, shaking his head trying to comprehend why she said what she said.

“I haven’t-” she struggled to continue as she repeatedly blinked hoping to keep the tears from spilling over anymore, “-I haven’t been practicing my French. I’m losing everything she taught me.”  

She hung her head, ashamed she had possibly dishonored Renée’s memory by forgetting the French she worked so diligently on with her. 

Gene nodded, “I see,” he discerned compassionately, now realizing where the root of Saria’s pain was coming from. 

He searched within himself for the comforting words he could say to console her, but even he was still in a state of lament over Renée’s death.  

He looked back at Saria, “So, everything I had said to you in French since I got here-”  

Saria looked at him hesitantly, waiting for him to finish. 

“How much of it did you catch?” he questioned with a impish smirk gradually appearing on his face.

Saria forced out another long exhale, “Enough for you to get me in the chair, I suppose.” she fleetingly jested. 

Eugene chuckled, which prompted Saria to briefly giggle as well. Eugene returned to his chair to finish the rest of his coffee. After a minute or so of subdued laughter, there was a deafening hush in the room as they sat in silence together. 

“Honestly, I haven’t been practicing my French because I’ve been waiting to practice with someone I'm comfortable with.” Saria proclaimed. 

“Yeah?” Gene returned genuinely intrigued. 

“Mmhm,” she replied. “Could you-” 

Eugene raised his eyebrows waiting for her to finish. 

“Pourriez-vous...um...” Saria attempted to rephrase her question in the little French she could remember. “-m'aider... avec mon français ? S'il te plaît? (Could you...um...help me... with my French? Please?)”  

Eugene’s smile widened as he leaned forward, sliding his arms across the table with his palms open, inviting her hands to hold his. Saria obliged, bringing her hands up from her lap, placing them in his.  

“Bien sûr. (Of course).” he responded as he affectionately caressed her knuckles with his thumbs. 

Saria smiled awkwardly, pushing down the heightened feeling of butterflies in her stomach. 

~~~~~~~ 

January 4, 1945 

“Bonjour, Rosaria.” a warm familiar voice greeted. 

Saria emerged from behind the bar to see Eugene standing under the oak archway leading into the parlor. 

“Eugène! Je suis tellement content de vous voir! (Eugene! So glad to see you)!” Saria exclaimed. 

Eugene revered at her as she met him under the archway. 

“What?’ she asked with a playful look of skepticism.  

“Your French. C'est déjà bien mieux. (It’s already much better).” he commended. 

“Oh-” Saria’s breath hitched, “-merci à toi (-thanks to you).”  

“De rien, mon ami (You’re welcome, my friend).”  

Eugene leaned against the oak pillar of the arch while Saria self-consciously rocked back and forth on her feet with her hands folded tightly behind her back. 

“Renée would be proud.” Eugene stated, raising his eyes to Saria’s. 

Saria drew in a deep breath when her eyes met his. He couldn’t help but adoringly gaze upon her while a soft smile stretched across his face. 

“Hm,” Saria hummed, “-yeah.”  

She forced a meager smile then looked at the floor. 

“So, I got some news,” Gene declared, “They’re trying to push into Foy in a couple of days.” 

Saria cast him a look of panic, “You’re leaving?” she asked, trying to suppress the concern in her voice. 

“That’s the plan.” he replied plainly. 

Saria’s eyes darted around the room while her heart rate steadily increased.  

“But-” she began. 

Eugene stared at her, waiting for her to continue her sentence. Words failed her as she stood there in front of him with her eyebrow’s furrowed and the worry lines intensifying in her forehead. 

“But?” Eugene pushed. 

Saria refocused on him, “You can’t leave me here. Alone.” 

“You won’t be alone, mon ami.” he assured. 

“Comment ça? (How so?)” she retorted raising an eyebrow at him. 

Eugene chuckled, “You have all these people here that work with you, the locals-” 

“Please don't.” Saria interjected. 

“Don’t what?”  

“Don’t list off other people for me as if you’re expendable.” she mandated. 

He curiously cocked his head at her.  

“Because you’re irreplaceable to me.” she confessed without hesitation. 

Saria was a wreck under the surface. Racing thoughts of losing the only best friend she had left, let alone what she just admitted, had her chest painfully heaving from anxiety. Gene watched her meander to the nearest lounge chair to sit before she passed out. 

He snickered to himself before he strolled over to her. He briefly stood over her, then squatted next to her chair resting his elbow on the armrest. He weaved his fingers between hers, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze while his thumb tenderly kneaded over hers. 

“I don't like it anymore than you do, mon cher (my dear),” he began, “-but this is why we’re here. It’s what we gotta do.” 

“I know.” she grumbled looking down at their hands intertwined on her lap. 

“Please come see me before you go?” she said as she looked up at him imploringly. 

“Bien sûr ma chère (Of course, my dear).” he promised.  

~~~~~~~

January 5, 1945 

Eugene unfortunately didn’t have time to visit Saria before advancing deeper into Bois Jacques woods right outside of Foy.  

“TAKE COVER!” Sgt Carwood Lipton yelled out to Easy Company. 

German artillery fired onto Easy Company from the town as Easy soldiers scattered to the nearest foxholes to take cover. Blasts coming from all directions causing trees to fall and dirt to fly made it difficult for the men to navigate safe passages to their holes. 

After a brief break from German attacks, Sgt Bill Guarnere answered the pleas for help from a wounded Joe Toye after an explosion took his right leg off. While Guarnere did his best to drag Toye back to safety, another German shell made contact near them during the second wave of attacks, severely wounding Guarnere’s leg as well. 

After the chaos settled, the Commanding Officer, LT Buck Compton, staggered over to Toye and Guarnere lying motionless on the ground. As he approached, the aftershock rendered him speechless, leaving him unable to find his voice at first to call for help. 

“MEDIC!” he finally managed to cry out. 

Doc Roe came hoofing through, landing on his knees next to Toye getting to work on what was left of his leg. Off to the side was Guarnere leaning against a tree. 

“Just hang tight, Bill, I’ll get to ya as soon as I’m done with Toye over 'ere.” Gene told Guarnere as he quickly packed Toye’s thigh with dressing to absorb the blood. 

“Do whatchya gotta do, Doc.” Bill replied. 

Just then, another medic appeared at Guarnere’s side, already getting a tourniquet out. Gene caught sight of the new guy, unaware there was another medic available to Easy Company. This man worked briskly, effortlessly placing the tourniquet and swiftly dashing sulfur then wrapping the wound with bandages to stop the bleeding.  

“Hey, buddy, when you’re done over there can you help me with this?” Gene requested. 

Nothing prepared him for what happened next. A voice of a woman responded. 

“Be right there, pal.”  

Gene looked over at her, perplexed that this was in fact a woman working out here next to him. As he continued handling Toye, she scampered over to him kneeling at his side. 

“What do you need me to do?”  

He looked up to see it was Saria. He stared at her in utter disbelief, almost forgetting he was caring for Toye. 

“Saria? What the hell are ya doin' out here!?” Gene asked shocked, but mostly perturbed. 

“I’ll explain later, tell me what you need me to do.” Saria countered urgently. 

“Hold this.” Gene begrudgingly instructed her to hold Toye’s thigh up so he could use both hands to wrap. 

Two men rushed in with a stretcher. 

“Bill, you go first.” 

“Whatever you say, Doc.” Bill replied. 

“Over here. Take this man.” Gene ordered pointing at Guarnere. 

~~~~~~~ 

January 7, 1945 

There was hardly a chance for Eugene to sit and revisit why Saria was there after they prepared Toye for transport. The next few days the 506th had cleared the West and East side of the woods, which temporarily allowed little resistance from the Germans. 

Saria sat in the foxhole she dug for herself, restocking her carrier bag. Eugene peered over the edge to look in. 

“Rosaria.” He greeted her dryly. 

 She looked up at him, “Well hi, Eugene.” she chirped. 

He jumped into the foxhole landing on both feet then sat in the dirt next to her. 

“Mind telling me how the hell you ended up out here?” he suggested in a parent-like tone. 

“I was reassigned to Easy Company per the request of LT Dike. Before his final leave of absence, that is." she explained. 

“LT Dike? He was never around. How would anyone get his signature to approve your orders to get assigned to us if nobody could ever find him?” Gene rationalized. 

Saria revealed a mischievous grin, “Nobody can confirm nor deny that my orders are legit if the CO is never available to say otherwise.”  

Eugene wasn’t amused, “You forged orders to get assigned to Easy Company??”  

Saria looked at her boots. 

“Pourquoi?? (Why??)” 

“Eugene, I couldn’t stay in Bastogne any longer. It only reminds me of Renée and Anna. Then you were going to leave, so-” she trailed off, not really knowing what else to say. 

Eugene released a frustrated huff, shaking his head disapprovingly. 

“Tu vas être ma mort (You’re going to be the death of me).” he growled to himself. 

Saria did her best to push back a snicker, knowing Gene was genuinely disappointed with her for committing such an act of dishonesty. When a scoff escaped through her nose, he shot her an exasperated side-eye.

"You think this is ok? Rosaria, it’s dangerous out here.” his tone low and disgruntled.

“Eugene, please spare me the lecture. You don’t think I’ve seen how dangerous it can get out here? I’ve seen more wounded men than I can count at that church that came from out here. I know it’s no walk in the park.” she proclaimed. 

He forced another annoyed breath, then rubbed his tired eyes with his forefinger and thumb. 

“You’re stuck with me, now-“ 

“Yeah, you got that right.” Gene retorted. 

“-so there’s no use in arguing about it. Don’t act like you’re not glad to have me here. You guys needed another medic anyway-” 

“That wasn’t for you to decide!” Gene snapped with resentment behind his eyes. 

Saria looked away from him, unable to stomach how angry her best friend was with her. Eugene ran his hand roughly through his hair, immediately regretting raising his voice to her. He shifted to face her. 

“I am glad to have you here,” he started, “-but you don’t understand that you out here with me is a distraction.” 

Saria looked back at him inquisitively. 

He shifted again, “If the Germans rain hell on us again, and they will, I’m gonna be worryin’ more about you the whole time.” he explained. 

Saria’s eyes dropped to the ground beneath her heels, feeling ashamed she hadn’t considered his perspective. 

“Ya get what I mean, Mon cher?” he asked her softly, tilting his head to glimpse into her eyes. 

“Oui.” she uttered as she shivered from the cold. 

Eugene looked her over, “Venez ici (Come here).” he directed as he scooted closer to her, snaking his arm across her shoulders to pull her into him. 

Saria rested her cheek on his chest, nestling into him as he pulled a wool blanket over them.  

“Good?” he questioned. 

Saria nodded, “Grazie, Eugenio (Thank you, Eugene).” She said in Italian before drifting off to sleep.

Eugene pulled her in tighter, daring to kiss the top of her head before whispering a prayer over her: 

“Je te compterai parmi mes brebis préférées et tu auras la protection de tous les anges du ciel (I will count thee among my favoured sheep, and you shall have the protection of all the Angels in Heaven)…

…with all my heart.” 

~~~~~~~

[esouliie]

epitome of art | immortal she.

(ballerina!natasha x reader)

summary | You had known her before she was the Black Widow…when she was just Natalia… the ballerina who had stolen your heart.

notes | here is part 1 of epitome of art. i was going to post this tomorrow but was feeling generous. also, count how many times i use ‘gaze’. without further ado, leave a like, comment & reblog. enjoy! :)

word count | 2.4K

You first hear about her in the local newspaper.

Carelessly flicking through the print before being greeted by an overwhelming ripple of colour. An entire page dedicated to the infamous Alianova Ballet Company of Russia. The company was the most well-known in Europe. There was no high-profile event where they didn’t perform or weren’t invited.

Like most ballet companies, there were more women than men. They all stood tall in a line upon a stage, clad in their tutus. Each and every face was more beautiful than the last as your gaze scans over the large photograph.

However, her gracious features draw your attention. Her eyes were the blue-green of mountain lakes, with tones that could share tales of sky and evergreen giants. Her braided hair sunk past her shoulders and fell to her waist. as she stood at the end next to a blonde woman, shorter than her by no more than two inches. Both smiled gracefully as their hands folded over one another.

You didn’t think much of it for a moment, gliding over the words beneath the two, but you can't seem to help yourself and your gaze returns to the photograph.

Natalia Romanova -The Prima Ballerina of Russia.

--

A week later, you find yourself outside the theatre hosting Alianova Company’s Swan Lake. The front of the building is lit from within, casting a soft glow over the massive posters hung from nearby. You had never before seen a ballet. Despite all of the other girls in your classes growing up, you never had a ballet phase, preferring to play soccer and volleyball instead.

Inside was just as magnificent. Plush royal blue velvet covers every surface - all the seats, the floors, the stage curtains - matched in grandeur by gold trim and soft lighting around the tiers. The ceiling above you is arched and golden, with lights glistening around the dome. As you gaze around the theatre in awe, you notice people fill their seats from either side of you. Within a few minutes, the lights dim and the orchestra begins to play.

It was nothing like you expected, all flawless grace and long lines. Having never danced before, you were enthralled by the dancers' elegant movements, the fluidity of their limbs and the powerful leaps across the stage. The dancers possessed the ability to morph time and defy gravity it seems.

Thirty minutes easily slip by before four swans take the stage. You lean forward in your seat, glancing over the balcony for a wider view. The ballerinas move in unison, their arms crossed over one another. Their light pink tutus, illuminated in a swirl of rainbow hues, bounce as their ribbon-tied ankles push their body fluently off the ground.

As wonderful as all the performers were, something about Natalia captures your attention the most.

Despite the fact that the dance is one of synchronism, your eyes follow only her. From your high seat, she dances as if it were the only way her body knew how to speak, flowing in graceful arcs, limbs in constant motion, telling a story in a way that speech alone could never achieve.

Bewitched, you fail to register the other swans join the stage.

An anomaly- a prince- glides towards the redhead.

Except for a stray curl that tumbles delicately over his brow, his short, dark hair remains in place. His emotive eyes were the colour of a cloudless sky seen through a broken prison wall, of a perfect raindrop on a blue poppy, of a river racing to join the great ocean.

The audience vibrates as the performance transitions to a duet between Natalia and the prince. She floats through the air and twirls effortlessly in a serenity the audience craves. The prince summons his strength as he lifts her above his head. The dance between them exudes intimacy, a tug-of-war between the two lovers. Strings of classical music speak to parts of the brain that predate language, stirring the deepest part of the soul.

The music thickens.

Their sensuality entwines before bursting into the most vibrant colours. The strings eventually fade and the curtains close as he runs off stage and she collapses gracefully into herself.

Time seems to lose you as the audience’s eruption breaks you free from a trance. The curtain moves to reveal the cast running onto the stage. Natalia will be back to accept her much deserved adulation. All the swans await with grace before the prince and the swan appear.

The audience grows louder as waves of roses were thrown at the ballerina, narrowly missing her as they landed at the front of the stage. Her stoic demeanour had vanished, and she was smiling freely. You can tell by the scarlet flush on her cheeks and the heaving of her chest.

She was the epitome of art.

You couldn’t help but clap and add to uproar. She graces you with a few more seconds in her presence before she leads the dancers off the stage. The curtains close for the final time tonight and you exhale a deep breath you weren't aware you were. Subtle tears fall from your lashes, the salt greeting the smile upon your lips.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Your seated neighbour innocently asks, having stood up to put her long coat on.

“Yeah.” You answer in a daze. Memories of the night replaying through your mind. Anything to see the Prima again.

The woman smirks, her palm finding perch on your forearm. “Natalia manages to leave everyone stunned. It’s her superpower as Russia’s Prima Ballerina.”

You had only just noticed the woman’s Russian accent. Whipping your heard in her direction, you spot blonde curls- the colour oddly familiar - disappear into the crowd leaving the auditorium.

The Russian Prima. Natalia Romanova.

No wonder her dance provoked such immeasurable feelings you’d never felt before. You ached for the ballerina; to feel the ripples of hard muscle beneath her soft skin, to trail your lips over the vast expanse of her ivory skin, to weave your fingers through her red curls and pull, pull, pull.

You burned for Natalia.

That was the last time you saw her.

---

Years later, after graduating college with high honours, you land an interview to intern for Tony Stark – the infamous Iron Man – at SHIELD. Working for them meant you’d be in close proximity with the Avengers. Not that you pay them much attention, Iron Man was the only hero you needed.

The philanthropist was your idol. Being a tech-nerd yourself, you had looked up to him since you could remember, and when you heard about this incredible opportunity, you knew you had to take it.

There were no specifications for the job. For all you knew, you would be made his personal assistant, and you’d accept without hesitation.

The day comes sooner than you'd like, but you're prepared. Your bedroom walls are covered in disorderly piles of notes and post-it notes containing rehearsed interview responses. You wanted this more than anything. Even as you stood in front of the mirror, pulling on a tailor-fitted, slimming skirt suit you had purchased specifically for this interview, new answers continued unabated.

You looked good. Really good.

With curls that conceal your chest, your fingers fluff at your roots before sweeping the tresses over your shoulders. You were nothing if not keenly aware of your appearance and its impact on others. 

SHIELD was a large organisation, and while intelligence was favoured, image could always be used to one's advantage, particularly when dealing with men. You'd learned from previous interviews with large corporations that there was very little to lose and a lot to gain by flaunting your appeal.

It's not so much what patriarchy does to you but rather what it can do for you.

You left an hour before the interview starts, easily participating city traffic at this time in the morning. You were lucky enough to hail a cab right outside your apartment complex. You shift nervously in the back of the car, reviewing some last-minute information on Earth's greatest heroes.

Normal looking faces stare back at you, with simple information written underneath.

Product of War.

Billionaire.

Scientist.

Norse God.

Archer.

What you found most intriguing was one of the heroes didn’t have a photo. An agent known as The Black Widow had the littlest information.

No background history, no accolades, no picture.

Just a name.

The anonymity of this individual perplexes you, but as the taxi turned onto Park Avenue, the sight of Stark Tower in the distance snaps you back to reality.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, you weave your way through the throngs of people toward the revolving glass. Having practiced walking in heels - something you had never worn until you started job hunting - you manage to make it in one piece. The inside was nothing like the hectic streets of 7am New York.

As you approach the only desk on the open floor, your heels click loudly, drawing the attention of the elderly lady behind it.  

“Good morning, I’m here for a meeting with Mr Stark.”

“What’s the name?” The woman asks.

“Y/N L/N.”

“Oh yes, our newest intern.” She beams.

"Hopefully." You laugh politely, not wanting to jinx your chance before even meeting your potential boss. You should never count your chickens before the eggs hatch... or something along those lines.

“Right, Mr Stark is expecting you.” She places the phone back in its holder.

Since when did she call-?

The receptionist gestures to the lift on the right. “Top floor. You won’t miss it.”

The rumble of business men entering the building startles the silence. You rush towards the lift, not wanting to share it with anyone.

The ride was nothing short of terrifying. Constantly on edge someone was going to step in and you’d have to engage in small talk, or the fact that the Tony Stark was awaiting your arrival.

Fortunately, no one called for the elevator, and you were on the top floor in no time. The doors slide open to reveal a woman with long blonde hair. She introduces herself as Pepper – Stark’s personal assistant - and she’s been instructed to lead you towards his office.

No other words are exchanged between you both. The door to the office creeps into view. Excitedly, you’re already opening it before remembering to knock.

“Come in.” A voice bellows from within, and you’re forced to take a deep breath before proceeding.

“Oh, it’s you!” You cheeks immediately warm under the man’s gaze. Pepper entering behind you forces you deeper into the spacious room, and the door click shuts.

No turning back now.

Tony Stark rises, working his way towards you, his hand already extended for you to take.

You grasp it confidently. “It’s such an honour to meet you, sir. I’m such a huge fan of your work. I know everything about you.”

You fumbled. Practice composure flew straight out the window in the first minute. You shouldn't be surprised if passers-by noticed your flushed cheeks from down there.

Mr Stark’s laugh puts an end to your self - deprecation as he pats your hand, which is still grasped in his. “That’s good to know.”

He doesn't let go. His other hand presenting the the white sofa across from his large mahogany desk. It’s you that ends the contact.

The sofa feels like silk underneath your fingertips. It most likely costs more than your entire apartment. He returns to his chair and gives you a knowing look. He must have flustered woman fawning over him every day. You look around the room, avoiding eye contact. Pepper was now nowhere to be seen.

“I see you’ve just graduated. Bachelors in Computer Science. MIT.” He reads aloud from your resume.

Getting into MIT, was no small feat. You had worked your ass off throughout high school and even gave away all your free time to volunteer at your local soup kitchen. No doubt you struggled immensely, putting your mental health on the back burner for years, but you persevered and were proud of your accomplishments thus far.

"Well, I can't think of anyone more perfect. You've got it, kid.” Those words leave you breathless. Your lungs refusing to take in oxygen.

You couldn't have gotten the internship that easily. All that time, spent on perfecting your answers to impress the billionaire, was for naught.

“W-what? You don’t even want to ask any questions…? Why am I interested in the internship…? What do I want to do in the future…? What makes me think I'm a good fit for SHIELD?"

Stark snorts and leans back, his heels resting on the desk. The man was clearly amused to have left you so dumbstruck. “No, I know everything I need to.”

The words barely register, the goosebumps having frozen your body stiff, your palms rooted to plush sofa. Your eyes sting as you take in more light than usual.

He sighs, shuffling in his seat. "However, I'm sorry to admit that the internship isn't exactly what you anticipated.”

Confusion is written across your face, and your brow wrinkles as panic fills your chest. Your heartbeat running too fast for your body to keep up with.

If the internship with Stark wasn’t what you applied for then what did you apply for? Too many thoughts race through your mind, each one making less and less sense.

“You won’t be working for me.” He clarifies.

Your mind goes quiet.

He reaches for a desk button. “Pepper, call her in.”

The distant ding of the elevator, accompanied by slow footfalls, reaches your ears. The other door, positioned to the right of Mr Stark’s desk, opens and a tall woman glides through. Red hair cascades in a heavy braid over her shoulder, obstructing her face from your view. Well- muscled arms and legs clad in a leather suit carry her towards Stark.

“Red.” He acknowledges her before nodding his head towards you.

She spins in your direction.

Blue-green.

Heavy braid.

You were lost for words, unable to turn away.

Once again, time is lost to you. How similar it is to water; both can pass slowly, a single drop at a time, even freeze, or rush by without notice.

Her gaze sweeps over you, her face expressionless as she reads you. Her body so still, so poised, that you're not sure if she's breathing. Full red lips sit in contrast to her fair skin. Her eyes remain as stone. Pain seeps thought the cracks. They're blue-green, but not as bright as you remember.

Still, she’s as beautiful as the first time you saw her.

Natalia Romanova.

“Instead, you'll be working for Red over here, and I'm guessing from your expression that you have no clue who she is.”

Russia’s Prima Ballerina.

“She’s the Black Widow.”

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹ ⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ

taglist: @vancityfire13 @inluvwithfictionalwomen @jestercat28 @truthindreams @me-uglypretty @karmasgxrl

[justalovelyblackgf]

Movie Nights + Tickle Fights

fandom: smallville (2001-2011)

pairing: clark kent x black!chloe sullivan

casting: tom welling and kelly rowland

contains: lots of words, fluff, romance, mutual pining, a bit of shyness, established relationship, chloe is a bit stubborn, playful banter, a bit of a makeout session, brief descriptions of gore and blood.

taglist: @rosiestalez @afrowrites @afrogirl3005

@yugiohio

summary: ever since they were in middle school, clark and chloe would have a movie night every other weekend at her place. this is the first one they’ve had since they became an official couple and chloe suggests they watch a horror movie tonight. clark is apprehensive because each time they’ve tried to watch one in the past, chloe would be too scared to finish it and won’t go to sleep. chloe ain’t no punk, so she makes a wager with her boyfriend.

the amber glow of the lamps that sat on the tables on either side of the long, cushioned sofa lit up the sullivan’s living room to set the exact ambience that chloe was going for. the soles of her bare feet made a soft, yet fervent patting sound on the hardwood floors as she paced back and forth to make sure everything was in its right place and that she was prepared with the necessities that her and her anticipated company would have everything they need for the night. she began to conjour up a mental checklist of the final details: collections of dvds? check. several cartons tubs of ice cream purchased on dad’s credit card? check. warm and cozy blankets with pillows that are the right amount of fluff for cuddling? check.

chloe stopped her pacing to observe her figure in the living room mirror. the grey tank top she adorned exposed a bit of her waist and was met with a pair of white sweat pants. it wasn’t like he hadn’t had a glimpse of her bronze colored skin before considering it was part of her signature look in the daily rotation of outfits she owned. as she was adjusting the paisley patterned bandana that was secured on top of her black cherry highlighted bob that was perfectly curled at the ends, her stomach tingled with a rush of anxiety, but elation. this company she was expecting wasn’t just any company. this was clark kent. her best friend since the 7th grade and currently her first, serious relationship.

oh, no. this wasn’t just some casual, testing–the– waters type of connection. chloe and clark were locked in for real this time. no games, no ultimatum with smallville’s local sweetheart, it was just a real bond that got stronger no matter how much the circumstances tried to sever it. clark and chloe made the choice to be with each other and there was no regrets by either of them. the best part about this friendship turned budding romance was that this was someone she truly knew and truly loved. clark kent was her first, real, love since their youth. first loves can either be blissful or painful. trust and believe that chloe sullivan has experienced both at such an intensity. the source of bliss was just clark being…clark! the type of boy you bring home to mama well—dad in her case. his benevolence, humility, intelligence, charisma, empathy, and loyalty. not to mention that clark was fine as hell! there are some cuties here and there at their school, but chloe believed that clark was too handsome to be from this planet. he usually kept to himself, but whether he knew it or not the girls were checking for the 6’3 raven haired, aqua eyed male always strolling in his signature flannel, jeans, and boots combo–and chloe was no different. these things alone gave her something than butterflies and she learned to put more trust in him despite his…quirks.

now, even though they were tight for a good minute they definitely had some disagreements over the years about issues like the torch, clark’s weird secrecy, her natural nosiness as a journalist, clark not getting his priorities together when it came down between chloe and lana lang, his stubbornness and the type of guys she’s seeing that clark warns her about like she was his girl (he was right sometimes). sometimes these arguments would get so heated, one of them would cross a line to the point where they wouldn’t cross paths at school, that was the worst part. they eventually apologize, hug it out, and keep keepin’ on. even in the middle of a fight, when it really came to it, they were still down for each other!

they’ve always had movie nights over the years, but it was just a friendly kickback where they crack jokes, binge on junk food, and watch an R-rated movie from the secret stash when they knew they were just 13. that was very much platonic–until now. in a way, it was sort of like a first date, most couples would probably prefer a fancy restaurant, a picnic or night out in metropolis, but as along as chloe had clark by her side, she didn’t care where they were. she’s not tripping because they just started making things exclusive between them, so they’ll get there soon. she couldn’t help, but let a wide smile spread as her face heated up at thought of him.

speaking of her boyfriend. as if on cue, chloe’s train of thought came to halt when she heard the high pitched ring of the doorbell. her eyes shifted to the ticking clock on the wall that clearly read 8:00 PM on the dot. she shook her head to bring herself back to planet earth before taking a deep breath and power walking to the door. she elevated her bare heels off the floor to peer through the peephole because you’ll never know who’s really there until you check. she lovingly sighed with relief as her boyfriend’s tall frame came into the view of the circular looking glass he looked like his hands were tucked behind his back. chloe assumed it was just the rest of the snacks that clark agreed to pick up for the evening. the smile on her face doesn’t leave her glossed lips as she took the opportunity to unlock and turn the doorknob to the right before she finally removed the barrier that stands between them.

“hey, hey!” she greeted him, flashing a smile. her voice in her head register due to her excitement yet her nerves wrestling in her stomach. she swallowed it down and took a step back, so that he could enter through the door. “come on in! you’re right on time and i see that you’ve come bearing gifts?” she quipped, crossing her arms and leaning a bit to the left to peak at what was concealed behind his back. clark chuckled and flashed his own award winning smile. his cheeks tinted a light pink before he replied, “hey! i’m glad because i thought i was too early. oh, yeah! i stopped by the store and got some of our favorite toxic waste.” one of his arms came from behind to reveal two plastic bags filled with snacks and sodas for both of them to enjoy. “i used all my savings to make we had enough to last us through the night and i got you these…”

chloe’s brown eyes gazed down at the bouquet of pink peony tulips that were beautifully arranged and by judging of the vibrant, blush hue of the petals, they were obviously home grown and well taken care of before being delicately packaged. her pupils dilated at the bouquet as he set the bags down on a nearby table to take a step closer to her, the tulips the only thing in between them. she felt the temperature of her face rise again. her gleaming smile meeting clark’s before shifting her eyes to the flowers in his large hand. “clark i—thank you so much! you know you didn’t have to—“ he cut her sentence short. “no, chlo, i wanted to. i’ve realized that this is the first time we’ve spent time alone since we’ve made things official and even though it’s not on a big, fancy date, i wanted to show you that this night is special to me just as it is to you, so that’s why i wanted to show up with more than just the usual teeth-rotting junk.” they briefly laugh before he resumes speaking, “so with a lot of help from my mom, we grew these fresh on the farm and she said they represent ‘a perfect love and a new beginning’ chloe, i want this new beginning for us to start on the right foot. we’ve definitely had our share of differences in the past, but you’re someone i can always count on especially considering my—flaws and that’s why i want—no, need to stay by your side.” his proclamation was then cut short when chloe fills in the gap between them by embracing her arms around his torso, her head nuzzling securely on his chest. clark doesn’t hesitate as his own arms find their place around her upper body, bringing her in closer. his chin rested atop of her head, he can still inhale the familiar scent of blue magic hair dress moisturizer she uses daily through the bandana.

“and i thought i could talk, but it seems i’ve truly met my match.” she murmured, listening to the sweet music of his heartbeat. “clark, i don’t care where we are or what we’re doing, i just want it to be with you and that’s more than enough for me.” she lifted her head to catch her gaze with his. her right hand slithering out from behind his back to delicately touch his beautifully sculpted jaw, the pad of her thumb slowly moving back and forth across his skin as she took a second to admire the contrast of their respective skin tones complimenting each other. “this love here will be imperfect. any love is, but there’s no one else i’d rather do it with.” she finally spoke before her toes aid in lifting her face up closer to his, placing a soft, yet lingering kiss on his cheek and looked back to see that the boy’s face had matched the rosy hue of the flowers he’d given her. not only that, a bit of her glittering lip gloss left an imprint.

she lets out a laugh and wipes the residue off with her thumb. “my bad, clark! but, seriously this means so much to me. thank you again.” she momentarily breaks the embrace and takes a step back to retrieve the flowers, butterflies emerging in her abdomen as their hands meet again to make the exchange. chloe takes a few seconds to truly admire the gift of the farm boy, bringing the flowers to her nose to take in their scent. “you and miss martha really put in that work, huh? they look amazing!” he admires her as she fawns over the flowers.

“you look amazing.” he chimed in. a smirk rising as he watched her take a pause. damn, that farm boy charm will always work in his favor. that compliment almost caused her brain to completely malfunction. chloe playfully rolls her eyes, a cheesy grin playing on her face as she walks to find an empty vase to fill with water before putting the flowers in. if this boy is saying this while i’m just in a tank and sweats, imagine if—girl, you better stop. she shuts down her inner voice before she responds, “aw, i appreciate it, boo! but flattery doesn’t get you off the hook from popcorn duty. you know where to find everything. i’m in charge of picking out the movie, so get to it!” playfully, she tapped him on the arm and picked up the bags of the other snacks, bringing them to the coffee table set before the sofa. clark snickered, shaking his head. yep, that’s my chloe.

he nodded, accepting the task and made his way to the kitchen. he rummaged around in the sullivan’s pantry to retrieve one of the many packages of jiffy pop. he took a quick glance behind him to find chloe herself searching meticulously for a film to watch. he noticed how she furrowed her brows with focus as she read the titles and descriptions from front to back. her face scrunching up in disapproval before putting the vhs back in its rightful place. she was definitely preoccupied enough for clark to turn his head back to the raw, packaged corn kernels that were sitting atop the stove. his pupils focused on the object for a few seconds as the heat started to radiate. the foil began to expand wider the longer he stared. after about a minute and a half, clark, feeling accomplished at how much of a handle he’s got on his newfound ability, decided that the popcorn was prepared to perfection. he poured the snack into a large bowl for the couple to share. he sauntered in the living room as his enhanced hearing picked up on sounds of the mumblings of his girlfriend.

“no…no… ha, yes! got it.” chloe beamed triumphantly, holding the tape with her back to clark.

“it sounds like you’ve struck gold, so i’m guessing you’ve finally chosen what we’re watching tonight?” he questioned placing the popcorn down on the coffee table before making his way in her direction to stand behind her. his towering height made it possible to see the title cover of the film she carried. his eyebrows furrow before one of them raises.

“you want to watch ‘scream’ ? chlo’, i’m not sure that’s a good idea.” clark advises with a reluctant expression, placing his palm on her shoulder.

“what? why not, clark? i didn’t want to put on something cheesy. it’s been a minute since we’ve seen a good scary movie, you know. you’re not scared are you?” she seemed puzzled that this boy who has faced individuals that fit the criteria of her “wall of weird” at the “torch” would be frightened of a slasher film until he replied, “it’s not me that i’m worried about. it’s you. i remember when we were 12, you wanted us to watch ‘a nightmare on elm street’ and when it was over, you begged me to stay up all night with you watching ‘blues clues’, so you wouldn’t get nightmares and we haven’t watched a horror movie ever since. i didn’t really mind back then, but that really worried me.”

chole dismissed his plea before turning her body to his, still looking down at the tape.

“mmcht! c’mon, clark. that was like what—almost 4 years ago? for one, i’m grown…ish! for two, i ain’t no punk because the way things are set up in smallville, i’ve faced worse than fine ass psychotics playing dress up and stabbing horny teens. you really don’t think i can handle it?” she challenged. a gaze of intrigue played in her eyes and she crossed one arm across her exposed stomach as her hand fidgeted with the tape.

“it’s not that i don’t think you can handle it, chloe. maybe you chose it because—“ he took a beat of pause, licking his lips before taking one inch closer to his girlfriend and adjusting his knee to meet her height and utter softly in her ear. “it’s just an excuse to get closer to me. the more i think about it, the more i think how adorable it is!”he stood back up to his previous position, cheekily grinning at chloe’s “pissed” reaction. a hearty, but dry faux chuckle leaves her lips.

“oh, ho ho. so you think i’m trying to get right? don’t get too hot, now. watch me sit through this movie without flinching. matter of fact, i’ll bet you twenty dollars and a week of free lattes from the talon that i can watch this movie and sleep like a baby. all. night. long.” she sized him up (the best she knew how) and pointed on his very toned chest. lord, help me. this was the wrong time to start getting flustered right now.

“come on, chloe i don’t think—“

“what, kent? you scared? you know there’s something in it for you if you so happen to win. tell me what you want.”

he froze upon seeing her face this close. a teasing glint playing in those deep pools of brown. her perfectly arched brow raising above the other as a smirk formed on her naturally lined lips. the shine of her lip gloss still hasn’t diminished from that kiss she laid on his crimson face earlier. clark wondered just how much—how much more would it take to get all that glittering substance removed from her lips? this was a challenge that he was willing to take on. only if she’s down for it of course, clark wouldn’t do anything that she wasn’t comfortable with and vice versa. he reciprocated the smirk to match her energy before responding,

“that’s for me to know and for you to find out. as a journalist, it shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

she snickered, shaking her head. typical clark. always playing “the man of mystery” all too well.

“it’s a bet. you better get that allowance ready to blow on your girl’s caffeine addiction.” she says before taking a step back and holding out her hand to shake.

“all i can say is may the best one win.” clark humbly utters giving her hand a firm, kent handshake to finalize the deal. he won’t say it, but he’s got this in the bag. he takes it upon himself to let chloe find her position on the sofa while he inserts the tape into the vcr. after pressing the “play” button, he returns to comfortably take a seat next to where chloe’s sitting with the bowl of popcorn on her lap for both of them indulge in. he places one arm along the back of the couch behind her shoulders and the other, reaching for the buttery snack.

the film opens as drew barrymore’s “casey” is conversing on the phone with the deep voice of an unknown man who calls her by mistake, but he wants to keep talking. there is some mild flirting between the two and he’s asking her questions such as what her favorite scary movie is and if she has a boyfriend. things then take a turn when he reveals that he’s been watching her the whole time that they’ve been on the phone. as the scene heightens with suspense as the girl is locking doors, constantly looking over her shoulders, and aggressively threatens to call the police on this creep, chloe absentmindedly scoots an inch closer to clark as she watches, not knowing that he’s glancing at her through his peripheral vision. his heightened sense of hearing picking up the sound of the silent gulp run down her throat and heart rate increase in tempo by the time they watch the cloaked figure run through the house looking for his next victim after he guts the battered and bloodied football player from the inside out with a hunting knife. with each minute of the scene proceeding, she just got a little bit closer to the point her forearm was touching the side of his torso. with her this close, it sounds like her heart was going to leap from her chest! clark was now starting to get concerned, so he taps her should and leans in to whisper in her ear.

“hey, are you okay? we can just drop the bet and watch something else, chloe. i want to make sure that both of us have a good time tonight,okay?” he peers his baby blues to her brown with the gentleman-like sincerity that martha and jonathan definitely raised him with. the hand that was behind her shoulders came slowly in contact with her skin to bring her in closer and reassuringly caress her forearm. chloe knew that clark’s eye contact had better communication than his mouth sometimes, so she knew he was really looking out for her. a smile that was growing on her face as her affection, gratitude, and respect grew for him. ugh—what a man. it’s just those little things that he does that’s always a reminder to her of “why him?” why not him? god, if it wasn’t so soon she would just blurt out those three little words, but there was another three she had to confess to end this wager—forfeiting. she took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak before she was interrupted by a shrill sound,

“clark, i—“

“RRRRRIIIIIIINGGGG!”

her head turns quickly to the spiral, corded landline hanging on the wall in between the kitchen and living room, waiting for her to accept the call. she then turns to clark, “let me get that real quick. pause the movie till i get back?” clark gives her nod, removing his arm from around her, and pressing the “pause” button on the remote. she rises from the sofa and trudges towards the phone, inwardly groaning at whoever the hell who may calling to interrupt this moment with her boyfriend. her reaches to pick up the receiver and puts it to her ear and gives the customary “hello?” to the caller. clark sits patiently as his ears pick up on the conversation to make sure everything’s alright.

“oh, hey dad!”

that’s right! her father, gabe, was spending the weekend in metropolis for a deal he needed to close on for the plant. he continued to listen.

“nothing, just having a movie night with clark. you know, like when we were kids?…. yeah, yeah we’ll make sure to clean up! is everything alright in metropolis? … that’s what’s up! i’m glad to hear that…no. no, dad—we are not doing that! lalalala! i can’t hear you! … seriously we just started dating, so no….yes, sir. i’ll tell him you said ‘hi.’ okay, we will…i love you, too. bye, daddy!”

she hurriedly hangs up the phone feeling mortified at her father’s forwardness. as she walks back she proceeds dish the details of the conversation. the highlight of it was that gabe suggested they’d “use protection” just in case because he was a “teenager once and he refuses to see her end up like so and so’s daughter”, earning a flustered laugh from each other.

the laughing died down. chloe cleared her throat to resume her previous sentence in a low voice as the heat of embarrassment hit her face.

“you, win clark…”

now matter how quiet the volume of her voice, clark heard it loud and clear. now, it was time to put his plan in action. with a mischievous grin he leaned in for her to repeat the sentence.

“i’m sorry? i don’t think i heard you that first time you’re gonna have to speak up, chlo’. “

she grumbles, “i said you win, clark.”

“i still can’t hear you, sweetheart. i guess you leave me no choice…” he teases, the pitch of his voice lowers as he draws his body closer to her on the sofa much like a crouching predator about to pounce on its prey. clark’s large hands were aiming to hover each side of her waist. chloe chuckles as the nerves of excitement yet anticipation shoot through her veins while she scoots herself backwards to create distance. a hint of playful fear curves on her full lips. she moves so far back that her spine falls against the cushion. clark’s smirking face now hovering over his giggling girlfriend still trying to play that stubborn act he knows too well.

“chloe sullivan, i’ll give you one last chance to admit your defeat out loud or else, you’ll have to suffer the consequences!” he states not daring to keep his eyes of her own, a sound of determination in his tone.

“clark kent, if you don’t back up! now, i know you heard me. just what the hell are you do—no, no! d-don’t! ah haha haha! stop!” chloe squeals after clark swiftly dives forward rapidly moving his digits along her waist. her body squirming to escape from his grip. it was futile! as the laughter takes over her system, her body gets weaker under his touch. chloe’s contagious symphony of laughter didn’t take long for clark’s own chortles to harmonize. his pearly canines are exposed as his ears and heart are captivated by the pure tone of their happiness. his fingers take a pause.

“come on, chloe! repeat what you said!” he teasingly declares.

“n-no, you’ve heard me! i s-swear, clark! hahaha! she stubbornly squeaked out when she felt his fingers resume their attack on the tender area of her ribs. her sounds increasing in volume when he proceeded to apply a bit of pressure to her skin. the more stubborn she is, the more relentless he gets. during their friendship, he was kind of used to chloe bossing him around like an unpaid intern while she held down “the torch”. proofreading and editing articles, doing research, getting her coffee, you name it. clark knew it was about time to get his lick back! his fingers don’t stop at her ribs before they start they ascend to the sides of her neck. that’s exactly what got her. “stop— i can’t! p-please, clark! i’ll say it, haha! you win, clark, you win! i got scared!”

clark ceases his movements before his hands fall on either side of chloe’s neck as her voice diminishes. the couple has a stare down as the room is now filled with labored breathing as their chests rapidly heave, rising and falling until they reach the steady rhythm. clark breaks the silence.

“say it again.” he urges softly. his arched raven toned brows raise slightly, his oceanic gaze softens against her dark amber. the corners of his lips curving into a victorious smile of a bonafide winner.

“you win.” she confesses in a volume clear enough to accept her defeat, but the steady beat of her heart raced the longer she peered into his eyes. her own pupils wielding affection at the satisfied grin plastered across his face. a sense of playfulness washed over her as she knew he was eating up his opportunity at having the upper hand this time. whether one be victorious or defeated, clark and chloe would still find that common bliss between each other and for each other. it was now chloe’s turn to break the silence.

“now what was that prize you wanted so badly that it was worth hiding, hm?” she inquires, quirking her brow.

ready?

his pupils briefly focus to the lingering coat of shine on her lips. he gulps, licking his own nervously before taking a breath and a leap of courage.

aim.

“i’d like the pleasure of taking off your lip gloss —only if that’s okay with you, of course. it’s no pressure.” his face moves in closer as his right thumb inches to the side of her jawline to caress her sun-adored skin. his eyes shift from hers to her awaiting mouth again. the touch alone sends a surge of electric warmth through the young couple.

at first, his phrase left her puzzled. what does he mean by that? is there something wrong with my lip—oh. ooooh! you got that one, clark. the heat seeped into face as realization settled in after she mentally put the together the pieces within seconds. girl, what the hell are you waiting for!? give that boy what what you’ve been wanting to give him for years!

her conscience finally breaking out of her train of thought before she finally gives him the answer to cease the suspense once for all.

“yeah, clark. go for it!” she whispers softly, titling her face up a bit forward to meet him halfway.

fire.

like a moth to a flame, clark’s lips immediately drew to chloe’s completely closing the gap between them. they begin with one gentle and lingering kiss to get an initial feel for each other’s touch on a new level. it’s exhilarating! before they knew, they only crave for more. with each kiss, their tempo increases as their own unique rhythm sets the stage for their dance. clark’s hands find their place at the sides of chloe’s jaw to bring her face up closer against his as her fingers entrap themselves in the dark jungle of his curls. with the gentlest of motions, his palms descend from her jaw to her shoulders finally reaching their desired destination to the center of her spine. clark carefully applies to signal her to sit upright. chloe reads the signal clearly and follows his lead, their chests centimeters from each other when clark sits himself up against the couch, his hands sliding to the small of her back. chloe adjusts her knees against the side of each his legs, her arms encircling his broad, muscular shoulders.

a hum vibrates from chloe’s chest as she decides to take initiative by softly tugging clark’s now swollen, plush bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it to itself original position. clark intends to match that same energy. he tilts her face in the opposite direction to slither his tongue to intimately mingle with hers, chloe whimpers in both surprise and approval of his forwardness. they continue to get lost within each other for another minute before they release to take a pause of realization of what’s going on between them. the lovers slowly bring their foreheads to connect, silently communicating their affection without ceasing their eye contact, and content smiles curving on their swollen lips. once their breathing is steady, they realize that tonight’s activities took a toll on their bodies. they take a second to stretch themselves from their previous position before clark lays on his side bringing chloe to lay in the (literal) shield of his chest, wrapping his arms around her figure once she’s comfortably nuzzling her face close enough to indulge in the sound of his heartbeat, allowing her eyes to doze away for the night. clark lays a final kiss upon the top of her silk wrapped scalp as his kryptonian senses tune in to her own heartbeat before his own slumber follows suit.

[51faces]

From Shadows to Shining Moments

Kim Bora (SuA) x Female Reader

One late afternoon, sunlight filtered through the tall windows of Dreamcatcher's practice room, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor. SuA sat alone on a bench, her gaze fixed on the mirror in front of her, but her mind was far from the routine practice she had been so dedicated to. The announcement from the company had come just hours ago: Siyeon, her best friend and cherished groupmate, was taking a hiatus due to severe stress and exhaustion.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional distant sound of a passing car. SuA’s heart felt heavy with a mix of guilt and frustration. She had always considered herself to be in tune with her members' needs, but this time, the signs had eluded her. The pang of guilt settled in her chest like a stone. She replayed conversations and interactions in her mind, searching for clues she might have missed.

Her phone buzzed on the bench beside her, snapping her out of her thoughts. It was a message from the company, reminding her of the upcoming schedule changes due to Siyeon's absence. SuA sighed, her shoulders slumping. She felt like she was being crushed under the weight of responsibilities and emotions that she couldn’t seem to manage. 

With a sense of frustration, she stood up and paced the room. The usual energizing atmosphere of the studio now felt stifling, the walls pressing in on her as if they were closing in with every step. SuA needed a distraction, something to take her mind off the turmoil that was consuming her.

She grabbed her bag and decided to visit a local art supply store. Art had been her new sanctuary, a place where she could express emotions that words couldn’t quite capture. Maybe losing herself in the world of sketches and colors would offer some respite from the relentless anxiety she was feeling.

As she walked out of the studio and into the crisp evening air, SuA hoped that immersing herself in drawing might help her process her feelings. She found herself walking faster than usual, driven by an urgency to escape her own mind and the suffocating silence of the practice room. The art supply store was only a short drive away, but it felt like a journey toward a semblance of normalcy.

The store was a cozy haven, filled with shelves of colorful materials and bathed in the warm glow of overhead lights. The gentle instrumental music playing in the background added to the store’s serene atmosphere. The smell of fresh paper and paint hung in the air, offering a sense of calm.

SuA entered the store, the soft chime of the bell signaling her arrival. She paused for a moment to take in the comforting environment, hoping that the act of picking out new supplies would provide a temporary escape from the turmoil she felt over Siyeon’s hiatus.

She wandered through the aisles, her mind preoccupied. As she reached for a set of high-quality graphite pencils, she accidentally bumped into a display of sketchbooks. The resulting clatter drew the attention of Y/N, a young woman who was arranging some supplies behind the counter.

Y/N looked up from her work, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Oh, are you alright?” she asked, her voice warm and friendly. She moved toward SuA to assist, her smile never wavering.

SuA, slightly taken aback, glanced at Y/N with a mix of surprise and irritation. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit clumsy,” she replied tersely, trying to brush off the incident.

Y/N, unfazed by SuA’s curt tone, continued to approach with a helpful demeanor. “No worries. If you need any recommendations or help finding something, just let me know. I’m Y/N, by the way.” she says pointing at her name tag

SuA gave a small, non-committal nod, her gaze returning to the pencils she had initially been interested in. “Just looking for some supplies,” she said, her voice lacking warmth.

Y/N’s cheerful persistence remained undiminished. “I can totally help with that! We have a great selection of sketchbooks and pencils. Are you working on a particular project or just stocking up?”

SuA, feeling a bit of her frustration softened despite herself, replied, “Just stocking up. It’s been a long day.”

Y/N picked up on the subtle hint of weariness in SuA’s voice. “I hear you. Art can be a good way to unwind, though. Sometimes it’s nice to just focus on creating and forget about everything else for a while.”

SuA glanced at Y/N, surprised by her genuine empathy. Despite the store’s calming atmosphere, she found it hard to fully relax. She continued to browse, trying to ignore the fact that Y/N’s friendly demeanor was starting to chip away at her emotional walls.

As Y/N continued to assist other customers, she made sure to periodically check on SuA, offering helpful tips and engaging in brief conversations about different art supplies. Though SuA tried to maintain her distance, Y/N’s unwavering kindness began to create a small, unexpected sense of comfort.

The interaction was brief but left a mark on SuA. The warmth of Y/N’s presence, though initially met with resistance, began to offer a glimmer of solace amidst her turbulent emotions.

The days had passed, each blending into the next, with moments of quiet reflection and subtle healing. The late afternoon sun now cast a serene glow over the art supply store, a stark contrast to the storm SuA had weathered. Y/N moved with practiced ease, arranging a fresh shipment of sketchbooks on the shelves, her movements rhythmic and calm.

As she placed the last sketchbook on the display, the soft chime of the doorbell broke the stillness of the store. Y/N glanced up, expecting another routine visit. Instead, she saw SuA standing in the doorway.

The warm light filtering through the windows caught on her tired features, highlighting the vulnerability that had become part of her recent days. Y/N’s heart ached at the sight, recognizing the depth of the struggle that lingered behind the idols weary eyes.

Y/N greeted her with a warm smile. “Hey, It’s nice to see you. Are you looking for more supplies today?”

SuA returned a faint, tired smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, just picking up a few things. I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

Noticing the strain in SuA’s voice and the weariness in her posture, Y/N gently extended her offer. “If you need any help finding something or just want to talk, I’m here. Sometimes, talking can be a good distraction.”

SuA hesitated, her eyes scanning the art supplies but not really focusing on them. Finally, she sighed deeply, a sound filled with heaviness. “Actually, I could use someone to talk to. It’s been… really tough lately.”

Y/N led SuA to a quieter corner of the store, away from the usual traffic. As they stood by a shelf lined with art materials, Y/N spoke softly, “I’m here to listen. What’s been going on?”

SuA’s composure began to crack as she spoke, her voice trembling. “My friend, is taking a break from work. She’s been struggling with stress and exhaustion, and it’s been taking a toll on me, I feel like I’ve failed her. I should have been more aware, more supportive.”

Y/N listened with empathy, her heart aching for SuA. “It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of responsibility. It’s hard when you feel like you haven’t done enough for someone you care about.”

SuA’s eyes filled with tears as she continued, her voice breaking. “I’ve always been the mood maker at my job, the one who lifts everyone’s spirits. I feel like I’m supposed to be strong and keep everyone positive, but now… now I’m the one who feels like I’m falling apart. It makes me feel like I’ve lost my value as a person. If I can’t even support my friend when she needs me the most, then what good am I?”

Her voice trembled with raw emotion, and Y/N gently placed a comforting hand on her arm. “You’ve been doing your best, and that’s all anyone can ask for. Sometimes, even when we try hard to help, we can’t control everything. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed and to admit that you’re struggling.”

SuA looked at Y/N, her face a mixture of sadness and relief. “I feel so guilty for not being able to handle everything. I’ve always been the one everyone relies on, It’s hard to accept that I can’t always be the strong one.”

Y/N’s voice was soft but reassuring. “It’s important to remember that you’re human, too. You have limits, and it’s okay to acknowledge that. Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean you’re failing anyone. It means you’re being honest about what you can handle.”

SuA’s tears finally spilled over, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “Thank you for listening. I didn’t expect to break down like this, especially not to someone I barely know. But it helps to have someone who’s willing to listen and understand.”

Y/N smiled gently, her eyes full of understanding. “Sometimes, just sharing what you’re going through can make a huge difference. I’m glad I could be here for you. If you ever need to talk more or just need a distraction, don’t hesitate to come by.”

As Y/N rang up SuA’s supplies, the atmosphere between them felt lighter, though SuA still carried the weight of her struggles. SuA offered a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks, Y/N. I really needed this. It feels like a weight has been lifted, even if just a little. I'm SuA by the way, I should have mentioned it sooner, I'm also an idol”

Y/N chuckles, "Ah that's why you look so familiar, I've probably seen you on TV or something, Thank you for trusting me with that information."

She watched SuA leave, feeling a deep sense of fulfillment. The connection they had made, even in such a brief encounter, was significant. Y/N was glad to have offered some comfort and understanding during SuA’s difficult time.

A few weeks had passed since SuA’s last visit to the art supply store. The rain had been replaced by crisp autumn air, and the store had a fresh, vibrant feel with seasonal displays. Y/N was busy arranging new canvases when the doorbell chimed, signaling SuA’s arrival.

Y/N looked up and smiled warmly. “Hey, SuA! It’s good to see you again. How have you been?”

SuA returned the smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hi, Y/N. I’ve been okay. Just… trying to manage. I came by for some more supplies and, well, I guess I could use a bit of company.”

Y/N guided SuA to the art supplies, noting the tiredness in her eyes and the way her shoulders seemed to carry a heavy burden. “Of course. Feel free to take your time. If you want to talk, I’m here.”

As they walked through the aisles, SuA seemed to be seeking a moment of normalcy amidst her ongoing struggles. Y/N watched her with concern, sensing that SuA was wrestling with something deeper.

SuA finally picked out a few items, her hands lingering on a set of pastels. “I’ve been performing and doing interviews without Siyeon, and it’s been really hard. It feels like a part of me is missing.”

Y/N listened intently, giving SuA the space to share her feelings. “I can imagine how difficult that must be. Siyeon must have been such an important part of your performances and interviews. How are you managing without her?”

SuA’s gaze was distant as she spoke. “It’s not just the performances or interviews; it’s the little things too. The inside jokes, the shared glances that we used to have. It’s like a void that nothing can fill. When we’re on stage or in interviews, it feels like a piece of me is left behind.”

Y/N nodded, trying to empathize with SuA’s experience. “It must be incredibly tough to navigate those moments without her support. It’s hard when someone who understands you so well isn’t there by your side.”

SuA sighed deeply, her frustration evident. “I feel like I’m constantly putting on a brave face, but it’s exhausting. The fans expect us to be the same as always, but behind the scenes, it feels like everything is falling apart. I’m trying to hold it together, but it’s hard to ignore the emptiness.”

Y/N reached out, placing a reassuring hand on SuA’s arm. “It’s okay to acknowledge that it’s hard. You don’t have to be perfect all the time, and it’s understandable to feel a sense of loss when someone so important isn’t there.”

SuA’s eyes welled up with tears, her vulnerability surfacing. “I’ve been trying to stay strong for the group and for the fans, but inside, I’m struggling. I miss the comfort and support that Siyeon brought into my life. It’s like I’m performing half of myself.”

Y/N gave SuA a comforting smile. “It’s important to take care of yourself too. It’s okay to grieve the changes and feel the loss. Your emotions are valid, and expressing them is a great start to heal.”

SuA’s shoulders relaxed slightly as she absorbed Y/N’s words. “Thank you for understanding. It’s hard to find someone who really listens and gets what I’m going through. Talking with you helps me see that I’m not alone in this.”

Y/N’s voice was gentle but encouraging. “I’m glad I can be here for you. My door will always be open, feel free to come by. You don’t have to face this alone.”

SuA nodded, her expression softening. “I really appreciate your support. It means more than you know.”

As SuA prepared to leave, Y/N felt a renewed sense of connection. The bond they had forged was deeper, and Y/N was grateful for the opportunity to offer comfort and understanding during SuA’s challenging time.

With a final smile and a promise to stay in touch, SuA left the store, feeling a bit lighter. Y/N watched her go, hoping that their conversation had made a meaningful difference.

Raindrops beat steadily against the window, creating a soothing rhythm that contrasted with the warmth inside the store. SuA stepped in, her rain-drenched coat clinging to her, and the gentle jingle of the doorbell marked her arrival. Y/N glanced up from behind the counter, her eyes lighting up at the sight of SuA.

“Hi, SuA,” Y/N greeted with a smile. “It’s really coming down out there. What brings you in today?”

SuA attempted to sound casual, though the anxiety in her voice betrayed her. “Just needed to pick up some art supplies. I’ve run low on a few things and thought I’d get them now.”

Y/N nodded, setting aside her tasks to help. “Sure thing. Let me get that for you.”

As Y/N gathered the requested items, SuA watched the rain streaming down the window, feeling a mix of nervousness and determination. She wasn’t really here for the supplies; she was here to see Y/N. The past few conversations they had made SuA realize just how much she had come to rely on their interactions for comfort and distraction from her mounting stress.

Once Y/N had prepared the supplies, she offered, “We still have some time before closing. How about a cup of tea? It’s been a quiet day, and it might be nice to relax for a bit.”

SuA smiled faintly, feeling a flicker of hope. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

They moved to the small kitchenette, the aroma of brewing tea mingling with the sound of rain. As they sat together, the warm tea in their hands, SuA felt a rising tide of emotions. The cozy ambiance of the store was a stark contrast to the turmoil she was feeling inside.

“You know,” SuA began hesitantly, “I’ve been feeling a lot of things lately, and talking with you has become one of the few things that helps me deal with everything.”

Y/N’s eyes softened. “I’m glad to hear that. Sometimes just having someone to talk to makes a big difference.”

SuA took a deep breath, her heart pounding. “It’s more than just talking. I didn’t realize how much I’d come to look forward to our time together. It’s been comforting, but it’s also made me realize something more...”

Y/N leaned in, her heart racing as she hoped that SuA's words would reveal something she had been longing to hear. “What is it?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with a mixture of anticipation and hope.

SuA’s voice wavered, and she looked away, unable to find the right words. “I... I don’t know how to say this. I’m normally good at expressing my feelings, but when it comes to you, it’s different. I’ve been feeling something more, but I can’t...”

Before she could finish, SuA felt overwhelmed. Her emotions were swirling, and she felt like she was on the verge of breaking down. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now.”

With that, she hurried out of the store, the rain soaking her through as she dashed into the stormy night. Y/N was left standing in the kitchenette, her heart racing and her mind reeling from the abrupt end to their conversation.

As Y/N prepared to close up the shop, she noticed the rain outside had intensified. She was finishing up her tasks when she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find SuA, drenched and holding her art book. The sight was both surprising and heart-wrenching.

“SuA?” Y/N called out, her concern evident. “What are you doing here?”

SuA, shivering from the cold and wet, stepped inside. “I had to come back,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve been thinking about what I wanted to say, and I realized I needed to be honest.”

Y/N led her to the counter, quickly grabbing a towel to help dry her off. SuA took a deep breath, her emotions laid bare.

“I’m usually good at talking to people,” SuA began, her voice steadying. “But with you, it’s different. I didn’t want to admit it, but I’ve been struggling with how to express my feelings. I think I’ve developed feelings for you—feelings that go beyond just friendship.”

She opened her art book, revealing a sketch she had made earlier. It was a drawing of the two of them, their figures intertwined with delicate lines and soft shades, a visual representation of the bond she felt.

“This drawing,” SuA said softly, “is my way of showing how much you mean to me. It’s not just about the art. It’s about how you’ve come to occupy such a special place in my life, and how much I care about you.”

Y/N looked at the drawing, her heart swelling with emotion. “SuA, this is beautiful. I’m really touched.”

SuA took Y/N’s hand in hers, her eyes filled with sincerity. “I know it’s been confusing, we've only talked a handful of times but I wanted you to know how much you’ve come to mean to me. I hope we can find a way to navigate this together.”

Y/N smiled, her own feelings mirroring SuA’s. “I’m glad you came back and shared this with me because, I feel the same about you.

Y/N and SuA walked side by side, their hands brushing gently against each other as they left the store. The rain poured down heavily, soaking their clothes and making their skin cling to the fabric. Yet, despite the chill of the downpour, they felt warm inside, comforted by the closeness they shared and the warmth in their hearts.

The lights dimmed, and the roar of the crowd surged like a wave. As the opening notes of their first song filled the venue, SuA stood center stage, her heart pounding with exhilaration. The moment was more than just a performance; it was a celebration of perseverance, friendship, and a return to something deeply cherished. Siyeon had finally returned.

SuA’s movements were filled with a vibrant energy, her passion shining through every step. Her smile was radiant, and her voice carried the strength of someone who had overcome obstacles and rediscovered her joy in performing. The stage lights illuminated her with a warm glow, and the connection she shared with the other members was palpable.

In the front row, Y/N watched with a mixture of pride and awe. As SuA danced and sang with renewed vigor, Y/N’s eyes sparkled with admiration and her heart swelled seeing SuA so alive on stage. The bond they had forged was significant, though the nature of their relationship remained somewhat veiled.

As the concert reached its peak, SuA’s gaze swept over the crowd. Amidst the sea of fans, her eyes caught sight of a poster being held up. The poster depicted an intricate, beautifully detailed drawing of the seven Dreamcatcher members, capturing their essence and the vibrant energy of the group. The drawing was stunning, and SuA was struck by the familiarity of the style.

She followed the line of the poster to its source, and a smile slowly spread across her face as she recognized the person holding it. There, in the front row, stood Y/N, holding the poster proudly. The drawing was Y/N’s work, a testament to their shared journey and a visual echo of the connection they had.

During a brief pause in the performance, SuA’s eyes met Y/N’s across the crowd. The recognition and silent communication between them spoke volumes but remained subtle and open to interpretation. SuA’s smile widened, and a wave of emotion surged through her. The support and love from Y/N had been a constant source of strength, though the nature of their relationship was left to the imagination of the audience.

As the adrenaline of the concert faded, the energy backstage remained electric. Amid the buzz, SuA and Y/N found themselves tucked away in a quiet corner. The distant hum of staff moving equipment and fans screaming from outside the venue created a backdrop to their own world, one where everything else melted away.

SuA’s eyes locked onto Y/N's, her gaze soft but filled with an intensity that sent Y/N's heart racing. There was a tenderness there, but also something deeper—an affection that had grown over the weeks they spent together, a longing neither of them had dared to voice aloud. SuA’s lips parted slightly as if she were about to say something, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she simply smiled, the kind of smile that could break a thousand hearts.

"I can't wait any longer," SuA murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, almost drowned out by the distant sounds of the post-concert chaos.

Y/N’s breath hitched, unsure whether SuA’s words were meant for her to hear. But before she could respond, SuA took a step closer, closing the already minimal distance between them. The next thing Y/N knew, SuA leaned in, her warm breath brushing against Y/N's skin. And then, their lips met.

It was a soft, tentative kiss at first, both of them testing the waters, as if asking for permission without words. But as the seconds passed, the kiss deepened, becoming a sweet, heartfelt affirmation of everything they had shared—every late-night conversation, every stolen glance, every moment they had secretly cherished.

The world seemed to fall away entirely, leaving only the two of them wrapped in the glow of this long-awaited moment. SuA’s hand gently cupped Y/N's face, her thumb brushing softly against her cheek. Y/N responded, her fingers curling into the fabric of SuA’s jacket, pulling her just a little closer.

But just as they pulled apart, breathless and wide-eyed from the kiss, the door to the backstage room swung open with a loud creak.

"Oh," a voice gasped.

Both of them whipped their heads around, startled, to find the rest of Dreamcatcher standing frozen in the doorway. JiU was the first to react, her eyes widening comically as she took in the sight of SuA and Y/N standing so close, their faces still flushed from the kiss. Siyeon blinked, visibly confused, while Handong’s gaze shifted back and forth between SuA and Y/N, trying to process the scene. Gahyun’s jaw dropped open, and Yoohyeon exchanged a wide-eyed look with Dami.

“Uh… what’s happening here?” Yoohyeon finally blurted out, breaking the stunned silence, her voice filled with disbelief and curiosity.

SuA’s face turned crimson, her embarrassment as palpable as the tension hanging in the air. But beneath the blush was a flicker of resolve. She inhaled sharply, steeling herself for what was about to come.

"This isn’t how I planned to tell you all,” she began, her voice trembling slightly but growing stronger with every word, “but since you’re here…”

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest. She shot SuA a glance, silently asking if she was sure. SuA gave a small, reassuring nod before turning back to her bandmates.

"Everyone,” she said, her voice clear and firm now, “I’d like you to meet Y/N. She’s... she’s my girlfriend."

The room fell into a momentary silence as the members absorbed the information. JiU was the first to break it, her surprise melting into a wide grin. “SuA, seriously? You’ve had a girlfriend this whole time, and you didn’t tell us?” She let out a playful huff but then immediately stepped forward to embrace SuA. “I’m so happy for you.”

Siyeon, recovering from her shock, smirked. “You’re sneaky, SuA. I didn’t think you could keep a secret like this.” She crossed her arms but the warmth in her eyes was unmistakable. “But if Y/N makes you happy, that’s all that matters.”

Handong stepped closer, her smile soft and genuine. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N,” she said warmly. “We’re happy for both of you.”

Gahyun, still a little dazed, finally spoke up, her voice full of excitement. “This is amazing! I had no idea, but… you two are so cute together!” She giggled, her joy contagious.

Yoohyeon grinned widely, nudging SuA with her elbow. “You really surprised us! But to be fair I kind of had an idea you had someone”

Dami, who had been quietly observing, gave Y/N a small, genuine smile. She stepped forward and extended her hand. “Hi, Y/N. I’m Dami. Welcome to our little family.”

Y/N smiled shyly, shaking her hand, appreciating the warmth in Dami's gesture. “Thank you… it's really nice to meet all of you.”

The group exchanged supportive glances before JiU spoke again, her tone serious yet gentle. “SuA, this is your life. Whether you want to keep this between us or tell the world, we’ll stand by you. You don’t have to decide now, but just know we’ve got your back no matter what.”

SuA’s eyes glossed over with emotion as she took in her members’ words, the overwhelming sense of support filling her heart. “Thank you… all of you,” she whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. She turned to Y/N, her hand squeezing hers tightly. “I don’t know what I want yet, but it means the world to me to know that whatever I decide, you’re all here.”

Siyeon stepped forward, placing a hand on SuA’s shoulder. “We’re your family. And Y/N’s part of that family now too. Whatever you choose, we’ll help you through it.”

Y/N, touched by the girls' support, smiled shyly. “Thank you… really. I wasn’t sure how this would go, but… I’m so glad you’re all okay with it.”

Gahyun beamed, practically bouncing on her toes. “Okay with it? We’re excited! You’re one of us now, Y/N.”

Handong laughed softly. “No pressure though. Just take your time.”

SuA chuckled, the tension finally melting away completely. She turned to Y/N with a loving gaze, her heart swelling with warmth. “I don’t know what the future holds,” SuA whispered, her eyes never leaving Y/N’s. “But whatever happens, I’m glad we’re in this together.”

Y/N smiled, her eyes reflecting the depth of her feelings. “I’m excited for whatever comes next.

Later that evening, as they walked back to their cars, SuA paused and took Y/N’s hand in hers, gazing up at the starlit sky. “No matter where we go from here, we’ve made it through so much together,” SuA said softly. “And that gives me so much hope for the future.”

Y/N squeezed SuA’s hand, her heart brimming with love and hope. “I feel the same way,” she replied, her voice filled with warmth. “I’ve never felt so supported and understood. Thank you for letting me be a part of your world.”

SuA smiled, her eyes shining with a mix of relief and affection. “I want to thank you too, Y/N. When we first met, you were my comfort when I needed it most. Your kindness and understanding helped me through some of my toughest moments. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at SuA’s words. “I’m just glad I could be there for you. You’ve given me so much in return—love, friendship, and a place where I truly belong.”

SuA leaned in, resting her forehead against Y/N’s. “We’ve come so far together,” she murmured. “And whatever comes next, we’ll face it together, with the same strength and love that got us here.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes closing as she savored the closeness. “Together,” she agreed softly.

The sound of distant laughter and the soft hum of the city around them created a comforting backdrop as SuA and Y/N stood in their own little bubble of happiness. The challenges and uncertainties of the future seemed distant and manageable, overshadowed by the love and support that surrounded them.

As they finally parted, a sense of peace settled between them. They both knew that no matter how the world changed, their bond would remain a source of strength and joy. 

With their hearts intertwined SuA and Y/N walked towards their future with confidence and hope. The night air was crisp and refreshing, a promise of new beginnings and endless possibilities.

As they approached their car, SuA turned to Y/N, a playful smile on her lips. “So, how about we celebrate tonight? We can get some food, just the two of us.”

Y/N laughed, the sound full of happiness and anticipation. “That sounds perfect. I’d love that.”

With their hands clasped together, they headed off into the night, ready to embrace the next chapter of their lives with each other by their side. The future was uncertain, but they faced it with a heart full of love and a sense of belonging that made every challenge seem conquerable.

[sunkeeperxiv]

FFXIV Write 09 - Lend an Ear

Timeline/spoilers: Dawntrail level 97 quests (zone 5, immediately after the 97 dungeon, not yet to the second hub).

Sometimes, the usual condolences don't seem sufficient.

Daca’li searched the valley below him, squinting to shield his eyes from the continual flashes of lightning in the skies above. It was hard enough searching for Erenville in the darkness already without bright lights making his eyes close up.

They had been exploring the wasted landscape, trying to find any sign of life or habitation - excepting the colossal metal walls, or the ravenous predators - and had turned around at one point to find Erenville was missing. He had said nothing, made no sound, and there was no sign of a struggle: the man was an experienced gleaner and, by rights, should have known their surroundings well. Erenville was no fighter, true, but there was still little reason, Daca’li thought, to be truly worried about him. Something still coiled in his gut, though, and kept him from lifting his gaze from the valley floor.

He spotted something in the next lightning flash: the glint of metal on a narrow road far below. A silvery glint, not this black and purple oddity towering over them to the west. He knelt down, trying to see better, only turning an ear when Wuk Lamat spoke behind him.

“We should split up and search in all directions,” she was saying. “We have to find him.” He spotted another splash of brightness - the shirt Erenville wore under his coat was that color. He was moving away from them, down a pass between two plateaus that might, at one point, have sheltered a road.

“Separating ourselves in these circumstances would not be wise,” Krile countered. “We are in an unfamiliar landscape - a perilous one at that. We’ll be better off searching together.” Unfamiliar to them, but not to Erenville. It hadn’t been once, at least. The small shape below him disappeared behind the rocks. Any attempt to follow had to be made now.

Daca’li stood, taking in a full view of the landscape as he did. The thing that was coiled in Daca’li’s gut uncoiled just enough for recognition, and for an instant, the sky was lit with flames instead of lightning, the darkened cliffs replaced with white, frozen hills.

The memory was gone with a flick of his ears, but the feeling remained. Sympathy. “I see where he went,” Daca’li called back to the others. “I’ll bring him back. You take shelter here.”

“I just said—“ Krile began, but Daca’li cut her off.

“He knows the landscape and nothin’ here is a danger to me. I can track him faster on me own.” Without waiting for an answer, he began following the rocky slope down the side of the plateau, making his way to the valley floor faster than they could follow.

Following the path through the cliffs led him to a village — what had once been a village. Houses made of stone and clay sat abandoned, shells of the homes they had been. That they were still recognizable despite the local climate’s onslaught was a testament to the care with which they had once been built.

Not all houses prove so sturdy. Daca’li shook the thought from his mind and cast his eye to the ground. Fresh footprints led through the town, meandering from side to side but carving a path toward one particular building, taller than the rest.

He found Erenville on the roof, looking out over what was left of the settlement. He didn’t turn to greet Daca’li, but neither did he run away. Daca’li didn’t waste any energy either hiding his presence or making it known: Erenville wouldn’t have missed his approach. He either silently welcomed Daca’li’s company or was resigned to his presence. Daca’li walked up beside him and surveyed the road below, desolate and abandoned.

“This was your village.” It didn’t come out as a question, whether he had intended it as one or not. “What was it called?”

“It was. Tesh’pyani.” Erenville shook his head. “I do not understand how this is possible. Only a few years ago, it was—” He fell silent.

“Tesh’pyani,” Daca’li repeated. The word sat strangely in his mouth, but it had rolled easily off Erenville’s tongue. No other words were coming easily to him, either, but he looked at Erenville’s blank expression and knew if words were going to come, they had to be from him.

Lightning flashed and turned the landscape white once more. Just for an instant. What was there that could be said?

“Have you ever been to Coerthas?” was what came out of his mouth. It at least managed to get Erenville to look at him, suspicion, disbelief and curiosity warring for control of his expression.

“I have, on the Forum’s instruction,” he answered eventually. “To collect specimens capable of weathering the extreme conditions there.”

“That was after the Calamity, then,” Daca’li said, leaning his chin against the low wall in front of them. It was an uncomfortable height for him, but was perfectly matched for Erenville’s stature. “You didn’t see it before.”

A sort of recognition came over Erenville’s face, and he turned back to overlook the town. “I— no. I didn’t have the opportunity.”

“It was beautiful,” Daca’li answered. “In its way. Thick with trees in places, rolling green hills in others. We spent night after night explorin’ the forests, and when you looked out on the hills you’d see the little crags of rock pokin’ up out of the grass. In spring they were all covered in flowers, and the ground was almost soft enough to sleep on.” He could still feel it underfoot. He never would again.

Erenville seemed lost in thought for a moment, long enough to make Daca’li consider leaving his apologies and slinking away. Finally, though, he did speak, his voice soft. “I’m sorry I never got to see it.” Daca’li looked up at the cliffs overlooking the village and imagined how the light would have hit the village at dawn and sunset, night and day separated right in the middle of the road. Had the rocks been red here, like in Shaaloani, or had the changing light only loaned them that color?

The sky was overcast now, the cliffs blackened and scarred by lightning. When light came, it hit everything all at once, harsh and sudden and brief. Shadows moved toward them from the break in the cliffs. Of course they hadn’t been content to stay and wait. Erenville’s head turned ever so slightly - he noticed them as well - but he didn’t wave them down, or move to descend from the roof. Daca’li followed suit, curling his tail around him. They'd find them soon enough.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, and let the silence linger, punctuated only by the rumble of thunder.