#There’s so much going on in this drawing

[imaginespazzi]

Everything Changes (They Stay the Same)

A series of stolen moments of peace in between a chaotic week

(In which an unreliable writer is really trying to beat the retirement allegations)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: 30 google-doc pages of pure fluff with hints of angst and hurt/comfort if you squint really hard

Words: 14.5K (we're soooo back)

TW: Swearing, drinking, alludes to sexual content.

A/N: Hi my lovelies :) Two fics in less than 48 hours? Who woulda ever thunk it? I can't lie this is so all over the place and we are all gonna ignore that I was trying to do a moment a day, and then fully forgot a day and I'm not abouta go back a month (because it's been a month since natty and the draft which is what this fic is technically about) to figure out which two days I accidentally blended into one. But this is fiction! So it doesn't really matter! Anyways, I got bored editing about 80% of the way in but I will eventually go back and fix the typos so feel free to make me aware of them. As always, live reactions are much appreciated so let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see in the future. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves <3

April 6th 11:26 p.m.

Azzi will never admit it out loud -will never let it become the recipient of her teammates’ jovial teasing or something her girlfriend can flash that cocky smirk of hers about- but she’s kind of a little bit obsessed with staring at Paige. 

She always has been. 

Since she was fourteen and she’d spotted this lanky white girl getting up shots before the official tryouts for the U16 USA basketball team started. And Azzi had been mesmerized by the effortless concentration that had been present of Paige’s face, never deterred by when the ball would occasionally rim out. She’d stood by the doorway, watching -staring- much longer than necessary until one of the other girls had rushed past her, accidentally bumping her shoulder and shaking her out of her reverie. That’s the first time Paige had caught her gaze and she hadn’t made much of it then but Azzi’s slowly realized since, that there’s just something about the blond that draws her eyes towards her like a magnet, like everything else surrounding her is just a hazy blur and Paige is the only thing in focus. 

And tonight, it feels almost impossible to tear her eyes away from Paige. 

Because tonight Paige looks radiant, like the reason it’s dark outside is only because the sun itself is in the middle of this room, laughing her heart out with one arm casually slung around KK’s shoulder, bottle of champagne nursed in her left hand and that goddamn net still hung around her neck. She’s basked in the glow that comes from finally being unshackled from the chains of pressure and expectations and that dreaded fear of being the  greatest UConn player without a title that Paige had only ever voiced out loud with her head burrowed in the crevice between Azzi’s neck and shoulder. 

Tonight, all of that -all of the tired dark circles underneath her beautiful blue eyes and the frown lines that had once been present right under where her new national champion hat covers her forehead- is gone. 

Because tonight, Paige Bueckers is finally a national champion. 

And god, does the happiness that comes with that look so fucking great on her. 

“You’re staring,” Kaitlyn whispers from where she’s sitting next to Azzi on the couch, the two of them and Caroline perched on a loveseat that has the perfect view of their other more rambunctious teammates. 

And maybe it’s the alcohol coursing through her veins, or that stupid all-consuming feeling of love for her girlfriend that’s been overwhelming Azzi since the buzzer rang out at the end of the national championship game, but she doesn’t deny it. 

“That damn net looks ridiculous on her,” Azzi quips, trying to maintain some sort of dignity but there’s an underlying fondness to her tone that she can’t quite seem to mask; she isn’t really trying to hide it either.  

“She’s never taking it off,” Caroline says with a slight shake of her head, “she’s gonna wear it forever. It’s gonna be the third wheel in your relationship.”

“She deserves it,” Azzi's eyes soften, her gaze still locked on her girlfriend who’s now posing for the most ridiculous pictures with KK, Aubrey and their practice players, “she’s earned the right to never take it off.”

Kaitlyn lets out a teasing low whistle, nudging Azzi’s shoulder, “can’t believe Paige is the only one who gets the simp allegations when this is how you behave.”

“They’re as bad as each other,” Caroline supplies helpfully, holding up her red solo cup as she winks at Azzi, “I swear it’s gotten worse over time too.”

“It has not,” Azzi protests. 

Caroline snorts, “see Az, that would be more believable if you could at least look at me while saying it instead of being too busy ogling your girlfriend.”

A rose-colored blush begins to spread across Azzi’s cheeks as both Kaitlyn and Caroline cackle with laughter at what the latter had just pointed out. Because it’s true. She still hasn’t looked away. 

She can’t. 

And as if on cue, Paige turns around at that exact moment, just in time to catch the color fully seeping into Azzi’s cheeks. The blonde’s smirk is gradual, first just a quirk at the edge of her lips before stretching across the entirety of her face as she raises her eyebrow in question at Azzi. The younger girl bites her lip, her stomach swooping when she notices the way Paige’s eyes linger on the small action. She watches keenly as the blonde begins to saunter towards her -long, confident strides that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as they are- and her body seems to lean forward in anticipation on its own accord. 

Azzi feels her breath hitch when Paige finally reaches her, one hand clutching the armrest as she towers over Azzi, leaning down just enough so their faces are levelled.

“You staring at me?” she asks with a lazy smile, her speech coming out slightly slurred. 

“You’re imagining things,” Azzi whispers, sporting her own half-grin as she blinks coquettishly up at the older girl. 

“Oh yeah?” Paige drawls out slowly before she’s tugging Azzi off the sofa, a pleased expression on her face when the brunette comes into her arms easily. Her hands settle on either side of Azzi’s hips as the younger girl interlocks her own hand behind Paige’s neck, her fingers playing with the net, “coulda sworn I felt your eyes on me.”

Azzi shrugs impishly, “must’ve been someone else.”

“Nah, can’t have been,” Paige shakes her head, “I know when it’s you looking at me. No one else looks at me like that.”

“And how do I look at you?” Azzi breathes out, stepping closer to her girlfriend so their chests are pressed against each other and they can feel the warmth radiating off of each other's bodies. 

“Like you love me,” Paige says softly, “I look at you the exact same way.”

Azzi’s heart flutters, the sincerity in the blonde’s voice quelling any chance of a smart retort as she reaches up to brush her lips lightly against Paige’s, “I do love you. Like a lot, a lot.’

Paige’s arms tighten around her waist as she presses their foreheads together, “I love you more. Like more than a lot, a lot.”

They stay like that for a moment, cocooned in each other's arms. The constantly moving world seems to still for a second, like it’s pausing just for the two of them to be able to catch their breaths before everything changes. 

But Azzi isn’t quite ready to think about that -about how today is the end of something and next week will be the beginning of something different- not yet. 

She just wants to think about now, about the girl in her arms and the dream that they’d once dreamed of together -laying side by side in a bed that was too small for two people while feeling emotions that were too big for how young they’d been- and how after years and years, plagued by uncertainty and adversity, they’d finally made that dream come true.

“I like your new necklace,” Azzi says finally, her voice low, just for the two of them to hear as she twists her fingers through the net draped around the older girl’s neck. 

Paige grins like a toddler who’s just been given their favorite candy, “yeah well, my favorite person won it for me.”

“It was a team effort,” Azzi says bashfully, quickly catching onto the meaning behind the older girl's words.

“Yeah but you were MOP baby,” Paige nudges their noses together, “my outstanding player.”

Azzi chuckles, “pretty sure the M stands for most actually.”

“Don’t care,” Paige shrugs cavalierly, “you’re still mine. There’s no one else I would’ve rather done this with- no one else I could’ve done this with, you know that right?”

“Yeah baby, yeah I do,” Azzi whispers, looping her arms back around Paige’s neck as it all seems to come rushing back to her, the gravity of what they’d achieved making her feel almost weightless in her girlfriend’s embrace, “we really did it Paige. We won. We fucking won the damn thing.”

Paige laughs breathlessly as she steals a kiss from Azzi’s lips, “yeah we did baby. Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, national fucking champions. Together. Just like it was always meant to be.” 

April 7th 10:31 a.m.

Everything is too fucking loud. 

Paige clutches her head in her hands as the sound of her teammates screaming reverberates around the plane cabin. Normally, she’d be joining into the cacophony, if not at the forefront of it, but clearly she’s all cacophony-ed out after last night. Honestly, she’d known that the last two shots of vodka were pushing it a little but it had been four in the morning and when Diana Taurasi was encouraging you to throw back a shot, you didn’t really have the option to say no. And so Paige hadn’t said no. 

Now, as the world around her spins and her headache feels like it’s threatening to send her to an early grave, Paige wishes she’d said no, wishes she’d followed her sensible, responsible girlfriend to bed at a much more reasonable time like two a.m. instead of getting carried away in the still ongoing celebration and drinking herself into a killer hangover. 

Speaking of her girlfriend, Paige frowns as she glances at the seats next to her. The middle seat is occupied by the national championship trophy and don’t get her wrong, Paige loves that trophy and everything it stands for very much but it has to be said that it’s neither as soft nor as cuddly as Azzi and it definitely doesn’t smell as nice or feel as warm. 

She pouts harder when Kaitlyn slips into the aisle seat, feeling even more nauseous when she notices the bottle of champagne in the other girl's hand. Normally Paige is a very polite and kind person; normally she doesn’t just let those clingy intrusive thoughts of hers slip through her lips when she’s feeling just a little bit too needy for her girlfriend. But clearly today isn’t normal and before she can stop herself, Paige finds herself practically glaring at her innocent teammate. 

“Why are you sitting there?” she asks grumpily, “where’s Azzi?”

“Sheesh Bueckers, you’re rude when you’re hungover,” Kaitlyn gives her an unamused look. 

“I’m not hungover,” Paige lies adamantly, earning her an expected eyeroll. 

“And I’m not the smartest person on this team,” Kaitlyn says sarcastically, before tilting her head towards the girl walking up the aisle, “and relax Bueckers, I’m not stealing your girlfriend’s seat. Just wanted to have a little fun first.”

She continues to speak, something about taking a swig of champagne on live but Paige isn’t listening anymore, too entranced by the sight of her girlfriend as if it’s been years instead of minutes since she’d last seen Azzi. The younger girl is dressed in her typical UConn tracksuit, still sporting gameday braids that are getting a little loose under the blue cap on her head. Her eyes droop a little with residual tiredness but her smile -god that fucking smile, Paige thinks she’s not much of a writer but she could write sonnets about that smile- more than makes up for it as she flashes it too teammates and staff alike while making her way towards Paige and Kaitlyn. 

“Hi,” Azzi says softly, coming to a halt right in front of their seat, her eyes twinkling at Paige. 

“Hey baby,” Paige replies with a dopey grin, her head already feeling that much lighter at having her girlfriend near her. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Kaitlyn groans, looking rather disgusted -although there’s that typical underlying fondness to it that all of Paige and Azzi’s teammates seem to have around them- at the heart eyes her two friends are making at each other, “can y’all do that after I’ve gotten my championship video please?”

Azzi tears away her gaze first, holding her palm out for Kaitlyn to place her phone in, “alright, alright, how do you wanna do this Kait?”

Paige zones out for the rest of the conversation, bringing her cup of coffee closer to her face, inhaling the scent of it as she watches Azzi film Kaitlyn. There’s that goofy little smile on her girlfriend’s face as she videos their friend on live, her eyes sparkling with joy. It makes Paige’s heart ache in the best way possible because this -after everything she’s been through, everything they’ve been through- is what Azzi deserves. 

There aren’t enough words on this planet to describe just how incredibly proud of her girlfriend, Paige is. She knows that, last week in Spokane had been hard on Azzi, that she’d retreated too far into her own head after missed shot, after missed shot, even though she’d been impactful in other ways. But Azzi -true to the resilience bracelet dangling on her wrist- had pulled herself out of it. And it had been thrilling for Paige to be on the court with her this weekend as she’d risen like a phoenix from the ashes of her own self-doubt, to win them -to win Paige- the most important game of their season.

“And cut,” Azzi says dramatically as she ends the live and Paige re-focuses to see Kaitlyn’s face all scrunched up from the fact that the rather expensive champagne hadn’t gone down quite as smoothly this morning as it had last night. 

“You good?” Paige snickers snarkily as Kaitlyn glares at her, coughing to regain her composure. 

“Watch it Bueckers or maybe I won’t move for Azzi to sit here,” the transfer student says with a pointed look. 

“You wouldn’t because then I’d just whine your ear off about how much I miss her,” Paige smirks, pleased when it elicits that little laugh out of Azzi that she’s so in love with. 

Kaitlyn shakes her head in mock irritation as she slowly pulls herself out of the seat.

“You’re right, that does sound like torture. Be good kids,” she pats Azzi on the shoulder as she starts to make her way to a different seat, “keep your hands to yourself, don’t forget there’s other people on the plane.”

“No promises,” Paige calls out after her, a triumphant grin on her face as Azzi takes her rightful place in the seat next to the trophy. 

Azzi giggles as she buckles her seatbelt, leaning over the armrest so she can rub her thumb against her girlfriend’s cheek, “how’s your head doing? Better from this morning?”

Paige sighs dramatically, melting into the soft touch, “I still feel like I’m fucking dying,” she admits, “I’m never drinking again.”

“Oh of course not,” Azzi snorts, “not like you’ve ever said that before.”

“Hey you never know, I might actually mean it this time,” Paige defends herself half-heartedly but they both know it’s not true, not when there’s already a plan in motion for the team to party at Teds tonight after the championship rally at Gampel. 

“Whatever you say baby,” Azzi concedes gently, before she reaches down to her bag, unclipping her unicorn neck pillow to hand over to Paige, “here, it’ll make it more comfortable for you to get a nap in.”

The older girl frowns as she takes it, “I wanted to use your shoulder.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed babe, but there’s kinda something in between us,” Azzi says amusedly as she points at the national championship trophy that’s occupying the middle seat in between them. 

“Can’t believe I worked so hard for this, just for it to cockblock me,” Paige grumbles under her breath as she fastens the neck pillows around her shoulder, before holding her hand out to Azzi, “can you at least hold my hand?”

Azzi hesitates, “I was hoping to get some work done.”

“Baby please,” Paige whines, jutting her lower lip out at her girlfriend as she grabs Azzi’s hand and intertwines their fingers together, “just till I fall asleep? You know I can’t fall asleep without holding you.”

A little spark of sadness flashes in Azzi’s eyes -something like you’ll have to learn to fall asleep without me soon that Paige isn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet- but it’s gone as quick as it came and instead the younger girl squeezes her hand. 

“Okay, fine,” she relents, “go to sleep baby. I’m right here.”

And everything is still really fucking loud, but as she drifts off into a much-needed nap, Paige thinks that having Azzi next to her -her presence as steady and solid as it was when they’d first been on a plane together almost eight years ago- feels a lot like a moment of quiet in the chaos. 

April 8th 8:24 p.m.

Azzi isn’t sure if her skin is prickling from the vibration of the music echoing around the area, the tipsiness -elicited from a mix of alcohol and general elation- that hasn’t fully left her body in the last 48 hours, or simply the warmth of Paige’s fingers tapping to the beat against her exposed waist. The heat radiating from her girlfriend’s chest, pressed firmly against her back as they alternate between actually dancing and half-heartedly swaying to the songs, encompasses her entire body in the kind of comfort that Azzi has only ever really felt from being wrapped in Paige’s arms. 

“You having fun baby?” Paige’s breath is hot against her ear and Azzi shivers involuntarily, as she hums contentedly in response. 

“This is nice,” she says after a beat, shrinking further back into the safe haven of her girlfriend’s embrace, “I’ve missed this.”

Paige rests her chin against Azzi’s shoulder, taking advantage of the fact that they’re shrouded in only the dim glow reflecting off of the stage lights, as she nods in agreement, “me too. It’s been a while huh?”

“Yeah, it has,” Azzi concedes, letting her eyes close as she enjoys the serenity of good music and even better company. 

It really has been a rather long time since the two of them had gotten to simply exist like this, carefree and unburdened. The last few weeks -really ever since Christmas- their entire focus had been on basketball and winning the National Championship. And as much as the pressure to do so, had been the kind that had ultimately created a diamond, it had still come with it’s challenges. They’d been so immersed in the game -all of their time spent on the basketball court alone, together or with the team- that it feels like it’s been years since they’ve had a moment like this, a moment where, instead of being Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, UConn superstars, they could just be Paige and Azzi, two twenty-something year olds who were truly, deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with each other. 

And then the thought hits Azzi. 

That she doesn’t quite know when they’ll get a moment like this again. 

Tomorrow, the championship media tour would start and then the draft and then- 

Well Azzi isn’t quite ready to confront what comes after the draft. Not yet. 

For now all she knows is that their schedules for the next couple of days are both filled to the brim with the expected TV appearances and brand and sponsorship photoshoots woven in between those commitments. She knows that they’ll be in the same city, together for a lot of it and she knows that in all the awaiting chaos, they’ll still find a way to steal a second of peace to be with each other. Just like they always have. But Azzi also knows that it still won’t be quite the same as this moment right here. Because this moment still feels like the before. 

The before, where Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd are still teammates separated by a mere staircase and all they have to do is say the word, for the other to come running. 

Tomorrow, they’ll start the inbetween. 

And then the after-

Azzi shakes her head -not wanting to dwell on that before she absolutely has to- as she shifts in Paige’s arms to turn her body around to face her girlfriend, hands instinctively locking around the older girl’s neck. She lets her gaze trickle down Paige’s face, taking in the way the older girl’s cerulean blue eyes sparkle with a ferocity stronger than the stars as she observes Azzi right back, the way even in the dark she can tell that Paige’s cheeks are flushed with that slight bashful pink color they only ever become when it’s the brunette who’s making her blush, the way the edges of the blonde’s lips are upturned sightly, like they’re just waiting for her to give them a reason to burst into that beautiful, dazzling, larger-than-life just for you smile of Paige’s that Azzi has been in love with longer than she’ll ever admit it. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, her voice loud enough only for Azzi to hear as her thumbs rub circles against either side of the brunette’s bare waist. 

“I’m observing,” Azzi corrects, “memorizing.”

Paige curls an eyebrow at that, “you scared you’re gonna forget me?”

It’s a joke, but there’s a hint of insecurity hidden in her tone, in the way her hands instinctively grip Azzi’s waist a little tighter, like she’s trying to anchor them together before the winds of change can blow either of them away.

“I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” Azzi admits, her vulnerability accidentally slipping through the cracks before she can glue them shut, “not when you’re a part of me.”

And there it is. That smile. It blooms like a beautiful flower on Paige’s lips, the vines of it growing through her entire face until you can see them in the crinkles of her eyes. Even in the obsidian of the concert lighting, Paige glows like a shooting star that's headed straight for Azzi’s heart. And Azzi, welcomes the crash, welcomes the way it makes her chest hurt, makes it hard to breath in the best way possible. 

“Damn Fudd,” Paige whistles lowly, “you got lines.”

Azzi laughs, throwing her head back the way she only ever really does when it’s elicited by Paige, “I mean I gotta keep up with the ultimate rizzler somehow don’t I?”

They giggle quietly into each other’s space, the two of them lost in their own world, blissfully unaware of what's happening on stage or the quiet eye-rolls they've definitely been getting from their teammates around them. 

“You’re the biggest part of me,” Paige says after a beat, whispering it like it’s a secret confession only meant for Azzi’s ears, “you always have been, you always will be.”

Azzi doesn't say anything, she doesn’t need to. Instead she takes advantage of the dark and presses her lips against Paige’s. It’s chaste and delicate but it’s everything. 

It always is. It always will be. 

April 9th 1:47 p.m. 

The text lights up her phone screen when Paige needs it the most. 

She’s currently being fitted for her Jimmy Fallon appearance, waves of exhaustion radiating off her body even though it’s barely afternoon as she fights the urge to fall asleep while the makeup artist retouches up her face. Hectic days are no stranger to Paige, and she’s learned the importance of napping in cars between shoots, but that doesn’t mean the tiredness just magically goes away. Especially when she knows the next couple of days ahead of her are going to be filled with the same frantic rush. And it’s not that Paige isn’t thankful for it -not like she doesn’t know that, all of this is a privilege is a reward for all her hard work- but sometimes it all just feels too fast, like the pages are being turned in a frenzy before she can even finish reading them. 

She just wants it all to slow down, just for a second, just so she can catch the raindrops of her life before they fall and fade as they hit the ground. 

And somehow, as Paige unlocks her phone to look at the mirror selfie of Azzi in Cane’s uniform -tongue out, fingers thrown up in a peace sign- it almost -almost- feels like it does. 

They’ve been texting back and forth pretty much all day, and by all day, she really does mean since 4 a.m. which is when -after getting back close to midnight last night- Paige had, had to begrudgingly leave the warmth of her girlfriend snuggled into her chest, to get to New York in time for her way, way, too early morning interview. And of course Azzi, despite being just as tired, had woken up with her, had groggily gone through the checklist of things Paige needed to take with her, had given her a freshly brushed minty kiss right before she’d gotten on the car, and had been on facetime -although she had nearly dozed off a couple of times- almost the entire car ride, just to keep the blonde company until she reached Manhattan when they’d switch back to texting. 

But then there had been a slight lull in conversation, Paige becoming busy in the rush of her day and Azzi slowly beginning her own. And now, as if she’d sensed her girlfriend’s restlessness, could feel her spiraling into that trepid sense of overwhelmedness, Azzi had resumed it, just when Paige needed it the most, needed her anchor, the most. 

A: would you still love me if i said i was deciding to quite basketball to work at cane’s?

P: depends

would you give me free tenders?

Az: wow

so you’re saying your love is conditional?

P: i’m saying i’d love you just a little bit more if you gave me free chicken tenders 

i mean cane’s and my hot ass girlfriend, that’s the dream right?

A: that’s the dream? 

P: that’s the dream!

A: you’re a weirdo bueckers 

P: and yet you love me (don’t say debatable) 

so who’s really the weird one here? 

A: still you babe, still, definitely you 

P: oof definitely

that hurt baby 

A: you’ll survive 

P: only if you kiss it better 

i miss you by the way

if you even care 

A: it’s been like six hours 

P: oh so you don’t miss me?

cool cool cool cool COOL 

A: you’re so dramatic jfc 

P: oh OKAY 

a girl can’t even be sad about the fact that her girlfriend 

THE WOMAN SHE LOVES 

doesn’t even give a fuck that she’s DYING without her 

A: like i said 

so dramatic 

P: right right right so you hate me

got it.

A: oooooh fullstop and everything damn 

P: i’m not talking to you anymore BYE 

A: wait no

P: yes 

A: babyyyyyy

come backkkkk 

PAIGEEEEEEEEEEE

i’m sorryyyyy

you’re not dramatic 

you’re very not dramatic 

you’re very undramatic 

like the least dramatic person ever actually

and i miss you too

AND I LOVE YOU 

P: wow fudd

you’re like desperate for my attention or something huh? 

A: OH FUCK YOU 

P: i know YOU want to baby

Paige is grinning like a fool as she waits for Azzi to reply to that, a smile so bright she thinks there’s probably astronauts in space who are being blinded by it right now. She can’t help it. The knots of tension in her body are beginning to unravel, replaced by threads of a serene calmness that seems to have stitched itself to her skin just by talking to her girlfriend. Her person. Her happy place. 

A: skipping over that…

you doing okay? 

It’s in text form, but there’s still an underlying tone to it -a i know you’re not quite fine- that’s an acknowledgement of Azzi being in tune with Paige’s feelings and both an opening for her to talk about it now or a promise to be there to listen to her later. That’s the thing about having been with someone for years; Azzi knows Paige, she can read her -even from miles and miles away- like she’s the top line of a snellen chart at the optometrist’s office. And even years later, the knowledge of that simple fact makes Paige’s heart flutter with the feeling of being loved. 

P: i will be when you get here tonight 

A: i’ll be there soon baby

gonna set out for nyc as soon as my shift is over lol

can’t wait to see you 

P: work hard baby!

can’t wait for you to bring me tenders!

A: ....oh okay! 

i see what’s really important to you 

P: hey you know i love cane’s 

A: and here i thought you loved ME

P: i do 

just maybe a little less than my chicken tendies

A: fine 

then maybe i love you a little less than crinkle cut fries

P: aww you love me?

A: occasionally…

P: good enough for me! 

Paige catches herself smiling in the mirror, that enamored, goofy, grin that stretches her whole face, wiping away the traces of a frown that had once inhabited the same space. It’s still all a little -maybe even a lot- overwhelming, but she has a lifejacket now. Azzi won’t let her drown. 

P: hey az

A: yeah? 

P: thanks for checking in baby 

A: always baby 

P: i love you 

more than chicken tenders 

A: i love you too 

more than crinkle-cut fries 

April 10th 5:37 p.m.

The door to the hotel room creaks open and that familiar scent of Valentino whafts through the air, settling like the comfort of a worn out binkie against Azzi’s senses. She smushes her dorky grin into the pillow her face is already buried in, suddenly feeling a little more awake than she had just a couple seconds ago. After a multitude of media appearances, Azzi had returned back to their shared hotel room, only about twenty or so minutes ago, with a drained social battery and the cardinal urge to be nestled in her girlfriend’s strong arms. Considering said girlfriend hadn’t been back yet then, she’d settled for a hoodie that smelled like her and pillows that, while not as sturdy as Paige’s biceps, were soft enough to band-aid the ache for a little while. 

But now Paige is back. 

And Azzi doesn’t have to settle. 

She lifts her head to say as much, when -before the words can leave her mouth- the bed dips and suddenly there’s a warm weight being pressed against her back, slightly calloused hands finding their way under her body and then under her hoodie till they’re sprawled against her stomach. 

“Hi,” Paige whispers softly, her breath ticking against Azzi’s skin as she leaves a lingering kiss against the nape of the brunette’s neck, before burying her face in her shoulder as they let out matching contented sighs. 

“Hey,” the brunette whispers back, turning her face slightly just so she can give Paige a quick peck on her cheek. 

Azzi’s eyes close involuntarily as she lets herself be consumed by all things Paige, the essence of her girlfriend’s existence seeping into her veins and being pumped into her heart, like it’s the only thing keeping the most important organ in body alive. It used to terrify Azzi sometimes, this all-consuming love she knows she has only for Paige. She’d been so young when she’d first realized it, realized that missing and wanting and needing her best friend that fucking much couldn’t possibly be platonic. And god had that scared her. 

Because loving someone meant living with the fear of losing them too. 

But that doesn’t scare Azzi anymore. Not when she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that this -the two of them and this little life their slowly beginning to build brick by brick- isn’t something she’ll ever lose.

This, the two of them, it’s a forever kind of thing.

“How was your day?” Paige murmurs against Azzi’s ear, fingers tracing delicate patterns against her taut stomach. 

“Exhausting,” Azzi replies, eyes still closed, “but nice. It’s a victory tour. Can’t really complain. How about you? How was your shoot?”

“Same ol’ same ol’. Nothing new. The camera loved me as always,” Paige’s cocky smirk prickles against Azzi’s skin and the younger girl shakes her head even though she’s just as confident that the pictures would in fact turn out perfect and that, Azzi would likely have to hide them in that secret little folder in her phone that’s filled to the brim with her favorite Paige photoshoot shots (and that she occasionally flicks through when she misses her girlfriend just a tad bit too much). 

“Or maybe it’s the hangover still making you delusional,” Azzi teases. 

Paige groans, pushing herself even further into her girlfriend if that’s even possible, clearly being bombarded with memories of the cruel headache she’d had to endure this morning, “please don’t remind me. Why’d you even let me drink last night?”

Azzi snorts into her pillow, “let you? Babe, since when have I ever been able to stop you from drinking? In fact, I’m pretty sure I did try last night after your third one and what did you do? You said, nah baby it’s just one more drink i’ll be fine,” she mocks, her mind flashing to her tipsy girlfriend last night who’d flashed that dopey grin at her while downing another shot she swore wouldn’t affect her the next morning. Azzi knew better. She always did. 

“What was I supposed to say when Alicia fucking Keys was handing me another drink Az?” Paige defends, “you don’t say no to Alicia fucking Keys.”

“I said no to Alicia fucking Keys just fine,” Azzi points out. 

“Yeah that’s cause you’re Azzi goddamn Fudd,” Paige presses a smile into the brunette’s shoulder, “you’re like the princess. The princess can say no to anyone.”

“Shut up,” Azzi grumbles, but her cheeks are stained red as she bites back her own grin at the pet name. 

They drift into a comfortable silence, their hearts beating in sync as their breathing starts to slow down a little, both of them on the precipice of sleep. It’s been nonstop since the championship -a different grind to what they’d been doing in-season but a grind nonetheless- and exhaustion rolls off of both of their bodies in waves. But right now, wrapped up in each other with every part of their bodies touching, it feels a little bit like they’re recharging, feeding off of each other’s strength before they go back out into the real world. 

“What if I skip this dinner thing and we order takeout and watch Frozen while we cuddle in bed?” Paige says after a beat, her tone wistful as Azzi lets out a soft laugh, her mind fluttering with memories of countless nights spent doing exactly that, 

She twists her body underneath Paige, so that they’re chest to chest and she can finally see her girlfriend’s face. And god, it’s been eight years she’s known Paige, almost eight years she’s been in love with her, but Azzi swears the blonde -with that fully toothed smile she claims as her own and sky blue eyes that look at her like they can see into her soul- still takes her breath away every single time she looks at her. She feels tongue-tied, this syrupy sweet feeling congesting her chest as she loops her arms around Paige’s neck, tugging her girlfriend closer so she can meld their lips together, lazy and slow and perfect. 

“So is that yes?” Paige mumbles against Azzi’s mouth, “I’ll even have room service bring us an ice-cream sundae.”

The brunette chuckles, her thumb caressing the older girl’s cheek as she shakes her head, “the ice-cream almost convinced me but unfortunately not baby. I have plans.”

Paige pouts, raising an eyebrow in mock offense, as she lifts herself off of Azzi just enough to be able to see her properly, “you have plans? With who?”

“Oh you know, just this cute girl who’s really funny,” Azzi teases, her eyes gleaming with mirth as Paige narrows her own. 

“What girl?” she asks, the possessive glint in her irises sparkling like sun rays hitting the surface of a tranquil blue ocean. 

“Just this girl,” Azzi says cavalierly, “but she’s amazing. Think I’m gonna wear that pink tank top-”

“Like hell you are,” Paige cuts her off, her voice gruff as she scowls down at Azzi, “pick something else. That’s my favorite top on you. No one else needs to see you out in it.”

“I know it is,” Azzi smirks, and then, deciding she’s done enough to elicit that jealous side of her girlfriend -who's still glaring at nothing in particular- that she finds rather insanely attractive, she figures she probably should put Paige out of her misery, “but KK said pink looks good on me so…”

Paige stares at her, mouth opening and closing as she processes Azzi’s world before she lets out a loud groan and buries her face in her girlfriend’s chest. 

“Oh fuck you,” she curses as Azzi trembles with laughter, her hands rubbing up and down the blonde’s back. 

“KK’s gonna die when I tell her about this.”

“Azzi no! Don’t you dare,” Paige whines, “don’t you care about your girlfriend’s dignity at all?”

“What dignity- OW did you just fucking bite me?” Azzi’s joking tone turns shrill as she feels her girlfriend nip sharply at her collarbone. 

Paige smirks lazily into her girlfriend’s skin, tongue darting out to soothe the patch of red forming on it like an artist putting on the finishing touches to their craft, “you’ve never seemed to mind that before.”

Azzi’s breath hitches, irritation melting into something completely different as Paige continues to press open-mouthed kisses to her neck. 

“Paige,” she breathes out and it’s meant to be a warning -a plea for her to stop- but it sounds like anything but. 

“My offer still stands baby,” Paige murmurs, “I don’t gotta go and you don’t gotta leave. We can just stay here. Together. Doing this.”

It takes all of Azzi’s willpower to not succumb to the sultry lilt in her girlfriend’s voice, to not let their bodies tangle into the sheets and let the night pass them by. She places her hands firmly on either side of Paige’s head, coaxing the blonde’s face away from her skin -both of them sighing in disappointment at the loss of contact- so they’re face to face agan. 

“You gotta go baby,” she says softly, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Paige’s ear, “it’s part of taking the next step, part of entering your new world.”

“I know,” Paige bites her lip, hesitating as she looks down at Azzi with a newfound vulnerability, a hidden crack in her confident exterior that only the brunette has ever been privy to, “I’m scared,” she confesses, “it’s gonna feel too real once I’m in there with all the vets and draftees.”

“Oh Paige,” Azzi whispers, her touch gentle and soothing as she runs index finger down Paige’s face, “it is real. This is real. Your dreams are coming true baby.”

“I know, I just-” Paige pauses as she leans her face into Azzi’s hand, melting into the familiarity of it, “it’s all gonna be different soon. That’s scary as fuck.”

Azzi nods in understanding, “yeah it is. But you’ve got this Paige. I know you do. And,” she nuzzles her nose against her girlfriends, “you’ve got me. That’s not gonna be different. Not now, not ever.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

April 12th 11:32 p.m.

Horsebarn hill smells like newly mowed grass and fresh spring flowers that have just started to bloom. The  gentle April breeze -like whispers of all the stories that have been told here- curdles around Paige as she sits criss-cross on a checkered pink blanket, one arm wrapped firmly around Azzi’s shoulder, the other nursing a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Her teammates are scattered across the grass on their own blankets, some with matching drinks, others with a late night snack. Their chatter mingles with the distant chirping of cicadas creating a soothing lullaby that almost threatens to put Paige -with the frantic rush of her past few days- to sleep. 

But she doesn’t dare let her eyes close, wanting to savor every single second before nightfall turns into daybreak and a moment turns into a memory. 

This is her team. Her family. 

And tonight is the last night that they will get like this, to be in this place -a familar space they’ve visited countless times, a space where they’ve woven threads of themselves into the grass that grows here- as individual pieces who belong together in the same puzzle before three of them -her, Aubrey and Kaitlyn- scatter to fit into a different jigsaw. 

A new start. 

Instinctively, Paige pulls Azzi closer to her, breathing in that familiar soft scent of the brunette’s lavender deodorant mixed with the coconut-y aroma of her body wash, that settles her nerves like a peace serum. Azzi doesn’t say anything -still laughing at KK and Ice who are doing some sort of dramatic reenactment of Aubrey and her new cheerleader girlfriend’s first date- but she shifts just enough to press her temple against Paige’s chin, a simple reminder that she’s here, ready to be whatever the blonde needs her to be. 

“That is not what happened,” Aubrey’s indignant voice carries out through the hill, much to the amusement of her teammates who all burst out into laughter, the sound like wind chimes ringing throughout a mountain, “y’all weren’t even there.”

“We didn’t have to be,” KK defends, her eyes shining with her patented mirth, “we know you Aubs.”

“It does sound like something you’d do Aubrey,” Carol says contemplatively, barely able to conceal her own smirk as she pats her friend comfortingly on the back

“CAROL,” Aubrey shrieks in betrayal, scooching away with a dramatic hand on her heart, “I cannot believe YOU would do this to me?”

“I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Caroline says solemnly, inciting another round of giggles from the group of girls as Aubrey shakes her head in exasperation. 

Paige thinks she’s a little bit in love with this moment, in the mundaneness of it that feels like any other night spent with her teammates and yet there’s still something about it -about these people that have loved her just as much through the losses as they have thought the big wins- that feels inexplicably special. Perhaps that’s just the bond forged by working towards and winning a championship together. Because it's certain that all of them will win more than just this -that’s who they are, winners at their core- but not like this, not this group, not all together, not as comets in the same once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower.

“Alright, alright enough bickering,” Paige’s voice sweeps over her team, still as commanding as over, their leader, “even though let’s be real Aubs, that definitely sounds like something you’d do.”

“I hate all of you,” Aubrey grunts. 

“Yeah, yeah we love you too,” Paige sends her oldest teammate a quick wink before turning her focus to the rest of them, “y’all we should do something. Something fun.”

Ice raises a skeptical eyebrow, “we are doing something. We’re eating and drinking and pissing Aubrey off. Sounds like hell of a fun night to me.”

Paige rolls her eyes, “no Isuneh, I mean like something special. We’re fucking National Champions we guys. We should do something to celebrate.”

“We did celebrate. Or were you so drunk that you don’t even remember that?” Sarah deadpans much to the amusement of their teammates and this time Paige finds herself the victim of the group’s shrill laughter as her youngest teammate goes on to mimic her intoxicated antics from the night they’d won the championship. 

“Baby,” the blonde whines like she’s been backstabbed when she feels Azzi’s body -still securely plush against her own- shake with her girlfriend’s own giggles, “you laughing at me too?”

“No, no, of course not. I would never,” Azzi says soothingly, turning her head slightly so she can kiss away the pout on Paige’s lips. 

“Oh my god get a fucking room,�� Jana yells when the kiss inevitably goes from chaste to something deeper and the two of them break away reluctantly, still grinning at each other like the cheesy lovesick idiots they’ve never shied away from admitting they are. 

“We have one,” Azzi replies, shrugging as she settles back into Paige’s chest, a coy smirk on her face directed towards Paige’s roomates, “and you should know I plan to use it tonight, so either get headphones or get the fuck out of the apartment. Just saying.”

Paige snorts into her girlfriend’s hair as Jana scrunches her nose in disgust, pretending to puke into the grass and Allie lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing her temples like a teenager who’s tired of their parent’s high jinks. 

“Why is it always us?” Jana complains, “why don’t you ever traumatize your roommates instead.”

“Absolutely not,” Ice puts her hands up in surrender, “I already lived through that last year,” she shudders at the memory, “they owe me compensation for that shit not a replay.”

“Oh please,” Aubrey says cavalierly, sitting with her hands splayed on the ground behind her back, “y’all think this is bad? Y’all don’t even know what we had to live through when Azzi first got here and these two were still being absolute dumbasses. I don’t remember what was louder. The fighting or the fucking.”

“And the fighting always lead to fucking,” Caroline commiserates before a contemplative expression overtakes her features, “or was it the other way round?”

“Shut up,” Paige grumbles, a red blush forming from the base of her neck to the tip of her ears as she hides her face against Azzi’s curls, “we were not that bad.”

“No we definitely were,” Azzi’s voice is steady, despite her own face being the same embarrassed shade as her girlfriend’s, as she gives Paige’s hand -wrapped around her waist- a gentle squeeze, “but we figured it out,” her eyes are soft as she turns around in the older girl’s arms to look at the blonde, “we always do.”

Paige brushes their lips together before pressing her forehead against the brunette’s, “always.”

And she’s dimly aware of her teammate’s making gagging sounds in the background, can practically feel the eye-rolls and thoughts of the two of you are sickening vibrating off of them but Paige doesn’t care. Because underneath it all is a fondness -perhaps even admiration- that none of the girls can really hide because no one is a bigger supporter of the Paige and Azzi story than the teammates that had lived through every chapter of it with them. 

“Alright enough,” it’s KK who eventually pulls them apart, her hand curling around Paige’s bicep to pull her back, eyes almost rolling to the back of her head when she notices the frown on the blonde’s face, “oh my lord, y’all don’t get tired of each other?”

“Nope,” Paige and Azzi replying in sync, glancing dopily at each other because, it’s been seven years of their lives being intertwined, four years of living in each other’s skin -so interwoven that it was hard to tell where Azzi began and where Paige ended- and yet, Paige thinks if there were more hours in the day, she’d still spend every single extra second as a chance to fall a little bit more in love Azzi. 

“Y’all are hopeless,” KK informs them (they don’t deny it) before she looks expectantly at Paige, “anyways P-boogs, you were saying something about celebrating?”

“Isn’t that what the parade tomorrow is for?” Ashlynn asks quizzically. 

“Yeah but that- that’s for everybody. The fans, the local media, all of them,” Paige replies earnestly, “we should do something for us- something just us. One last time.”

“Do your fangirls know their ultimate rizzler is such a sap P?” Ayanna teases but there’s wistfulness to her tone, one that reflects in the eyes of all of the girls as that last bittersweet phrase settles in the air, “what did you have in mind?”

Paige grins, “y’all see that tree over there,” she points to the large willow tree a couple meters away, one that looks out over the school like a protector; it’s the team somehow always ends up close to whenever they make their way up to Horsebarn hill, “I wanna carve our names into it. Something that’ll last forever.”

Ice lets out an amused snort, “trust you to come up with the most clichéd idea ever Bueckers. What are we in some feel-good 90’s teenage comedy movie?”

“Oooh I’d be the funny one,” KK supplies proudly, “like that one supporting character everyone remembers more than the main ones.”

“I think that’s the annoying one,” Ice mutters under her breath causing KK to glare at her. 

"You’d be a forgettable extra Isuneh,” the shorter girl hisses, “not even one of the ones with lines. Matter of fact, your name wouldn’t even be on the goddamn tree.”

“And someone would scratch your name off. So guess we’d both be off the fucking tree Kamorea,” Ice retorts immediately, crossing her arms over her chest as the two of them revert to their default of being in a state of constant bickering. 

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Caroline says, her voice as authoritative as ever as she fixes Ice and KK with her best warning motherly gaze before rising to her feet, “okay everyone go find yourself a sharp stick so we can carry out Paige’s clichéd idea.”

“Hey,” Paige pouts, “it’s not that cliché.”

“It definitely is,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes like it pains her to have to go along with this but the way she lights up when she finds a little twig with whetted edges -perfect for etching her mark into a tree- tells a different story. 

“I think it's a sweet baby,” Azzi whispers softly as she gently stands up, reaching out a hand to pull Paige up with her, “very cute, very you.”

“Yeah?” Paige nudges her girlfriend’s shoulder, their intertwined hands swinging between them as the two of them make their way towards the tree, picking up their own sticks along the way, “so sweet that you’ll carve your name next to mine?”

Azzi laughs, the sound of it pure and uninhibited  as it echoes through the night, “where else would my name go?”

Paige practically beams at her girlfriend’s answer as the two of them join the rest of their teammates by the tree, the group of girls gathering under the willows as they each take turns etching their signatures into the bark. They have their phones out as flashlights, illuminating the area just enough for whoever’s turn it is to be able to see what they’re marking out. And Paige thinks that if at this moment, anyone were to look up at the hill from the path at the bottom, it would look a little bit like the stars had fallen from the night sky so that a constellation could congregate on top of the hill. 

She’s the last person to carve her name onto the tree and Paige sucks in a sharp breath, eyes glossing over the names of the rest of her teammates -her found family- before she inches forward, finding Azzi’s name amidst the rest and with a smile -one filled with the memories of everything she’s achieved and the building excitement of everything else she will- Paige signs her name right next to her girlfriend’s, right underneath the National Champions 2025 - we fucking did it!

April 13th 9:47 p.m.

Azzi’s sitting on the bed, head perched against the headboard, legs criss-crossed as she types away at her phone, texting Mackenzie about the photoshoot she has tomorrow morning. Her eyebrows are knitted in concentration, tongue poking out of her lips occasionally as she goes over the details with a friend, meticulous planning how the rest of the day would go. She’s so caught up in her focus that it takes her a while to realize she's being stared at. 

And when she does finally look up, there’s Paige -standing in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail as she leans against the door to their en-suite bathroom- staring at her like Azzi’s the moon and Paige has scoured the entire night sky just to find that luminescence again. It’s how Paige has always looked at her, with an intensity that feels all-consuming -like the blonde is memorizing every single inch of her and hiding the snapshot of it away in a treasure chest, locked by a key that only she has. Azzi feels her breath catch in her throat as Paige’s gaze stays locked on her -unwavering and steady- with that patented just for Azzi smile curling against the corner of her lips. 

“I missed you,” Paige says finally, after a moment of them just staring at each other. 

Azzi lets out a quiet chuckle, “you were in the bathroom for a solid ten minutes. How could you have possibly missed me?”

“I miss you every second you’re not with me,” it’s one of those corny lines Paige has used on her a million times -one she’d normally roll her eyes at and make a quip at about her girlfriend being clingy-  but there’s an underlying tone to it tonight that makes Azzi sit up just a little bit straighter. 

“Paige,” Azzi says softly, shifting her body slightly, ready to reach out for her girlfriend, but the blonde shakes her head 

“I miss you every time you leave, every time we’re apart. Doesn’t matter if it’s for a couple seconds or minutes or hours or days or-” Paige swallows as she cuts herself off, her breathing uneven as she continues as Azzi feels her heart start to ache at where this is going, “it started when you left Minnesota that first summer we met. And I remember- I remember after I’d left you at the airport- it felt- it felt like something was missing. And all I could think about the entire car ride home is when you’d land and when I could facetime you again. Just so I could hear your voice and see your face, even if it was through a screen that time.”

“I didn’t even wait till I got home,” Azzi reminisces, letting out a watery giggle as flashback of a much younger version of her -an antsy fourteen year old who didn’t quite understand why she was already so desperate to call her new friend that she’d just seen a mere few hours ago- invades her mind, “I called you as soon as we got in the taxi. God I almost hung up when you didn’t pick up on the first ring.”

“I thought I was dreaming,” Paige admits, “I’d been staring at my phone the whole time waiting for you to call and then when you did, I fucking dropped it.”

“You were a dork,” Azzi teases, “still are.”

“You love it,” Paige smirks cockily before her expression softens, her throat scratchy as she continues, “I don’t know how we did it sometimes. All that distance. Seeing each other for a couple weeks here and there and then being apart for months. It killed me, you know that? Every single time we had to say goodbye? I fucking hated it.”

“I missed you as soon as you walked away each time,” Azzi confesses in a whisper, looking down at the mattress so Paige won’t see her eyes threatening to overflow with the tears that are brimming at her water line

And she can feel it -all of those emotions she’d kept at bay over the last few weeks, all of those realizations she’d refused to let herself have just yet, all of those fears and worries that she’d pushed away to deal with after- everything rushing up all at once, banging at the barricades of their cages as they yell to be let out, to be dealt with. Because there isn’t much time left. After tomorrow, after the draft, everything would start changing. And Azzi can’t change that. 

The silence around them is thick with tension, Paige’s eyes on Azzi and Azzi still staring down at the linen, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the comforter. She almost feels selfish for feeling this way; for not being stronger for Paige, for her girlfriend whose life would change a lot more than Azzi’s would. It’s Paige who’s going to have to move to a new city and leave this old life of hers behind, Paige who’s going to have to integrate into a different team in a much harder league, Paige who’s going to have all eyes on her as she embarks on a new journey. 

And Azzi knows, despite the façade of complete confidence that Paige puts up, that her girlfriend is still human and that humans get scared. She wants to be Paige’s anchor, her shield and she has been -has let herself burn in her own trepidation so she can protect her girlfriend from the fire of doubt- but tonight, everything feels too fucking hot. Azzi can feel her resolve crumbling and when she finally looks up, when she finally lets Paige catch a glimpse of her face -red with tears free-falling- she knows her girlfriend can feel it too. 

“I’m scared Paige,” Azzi whispers and they both know what she means, “everything’s gonna change.”

“Oh baby,” Paige’s tone is gentle yet wrecked as she almost trips over her own face to get to Azzi, immediately cupping the brunette’s face in between her hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Azzi’s voice comes out trembling -barely above a whisper- as she lets herself melt into her girlfriend’s touch. 

“God baby no,” Paige soothes, her thumbs brushing away the fast-falling drops rolling down the brunette’s cheeks, “why are you apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t want- fuck Paige- baby it’s the night before the best day of your life and I’m ruining it,” Azzi sobs; now that she’s let the tears out, it’s like they refuse to stop. 

“No you’re not,” Paige corrects her immediately, her tone leaving no room for argument, “you could never ruin anything for me baby. Just you being here, it makes it-,” she gives Azzi a wobbly smirk, “it makes tonight un-ruin-able or something.”

And in spite of the heaviness pinching at her ribs, Azzi finds herself letting out a watery chuckle, “I don’t think that’s a word.”

“It so is,” Paige says assertively, pulling Azzi onto her lap so that the younger girl is straddling her hips, her head instinctively burrowing itself into the safe space in the crevice between the blonde’s neck and shoulder as they breathe together in synch with each other’s heartbeat

A beat passes before Azzi speaks again, the vulnerability leaking through her voice despite it being muffled by Paige’s skin, “this is gonna be really fucking hard isn’t it?”

Paige’s arms instinctively tighten around the brunette, her hands that had been playing with her curls stilling as her body goes rigid under Azzi. It’s a thought that both of them have had -their eyes have even said it each other in the moments where the inevitability of their future had been to hard to ignore- but neither of them had, had the courage to actually say it out loud yet, to give that thought the wing to fly into the air and hang between them like a sword of reality waiting to cut through their mirage of wilful ignorance. 

But the sword has been unsheathed now. And the mirage has disappeared. 

“Yeah it is,” Paige says finally, her fingers slipping under Azzi’s shirt to caress her back, like she’s trying to soothe her girlfriend and keep herself sane just by being able to touch her, “it is scary and it is- it’s gonna be really fucking hard.”

Azzi whimpers, trying to push herself further into her girlfriend’s embrace, almost like she’s trying to sew them together by their skin with a thread that no force in the world could unbind. 

“But baby listen,” Paige coaxes Azzi’s face out of her chest, her thumbs resting on the younger girl’s jawling as she looks at her with that gentle gaze she reserves solely for her girlfriend, “no matter what- no matter how scary or hard it is- we’re gonna get through this. I know we are. Because you and me Az? We’re unbreakable- we’re un-ruin-able.”

Azzi lets out a wobbly laugh as she presses her forehead against the blonde’s, eyes closing instinctively as she breathes in the clean, calming, scent of Paige’s lavender body wash, “just cause you keep using it, doesn’t mean it’s suddenly gonna become a word, you know that right?”

“Yeah but it got you to smile twice so I’mma keep using it over and over again,” Paige shrugs, her nose nuzzling against Azzi’s. 

“You’re such a cornball Bueckers,” Azzi announces with a somewhat dramatic eye roll before she’s falling back into the pillows, tugging her girlfriend with her so she’s lying on her back, with Paige hovering right over her, cerulean blue eyes gleaming with love and promise as she smiles down at Azzi. 

“But here you are anyways,” Paige whispers as she presses her lips languidly to Azzi’s forehead, before moving down to her cheeks, then to her lips, “loving me,” she bites the lower one softly before moving onto Azzi’s neck and her collarbone, “wanting me,” her lips drift lower, gently lifting her shirt so she can leave a trail of delicate kisses starting at rib cage and then continuing down, a teasing smirk on her face, “needing me.”

“Paige,” Azzi moans, her fingers curling against the sheet as Paige settles between her legs, hands toying with the waistband of her sleep shorts as she looks expectantly up at the brunette. 

“What do you want, baby?” Paige asks, looking at Azzi like she’s already drunk off of her. 

“I want it slow,” Azzi says quietly, reaching a hand down to brush away a strand of unruly blonde hair, “I want you to make it last.”

“Whatever you want Az,” Paige promises, rising back up so she can pull Azzi into a searing hot kiss, “I’ll give you whatever you want baby.”

And she does. 

It’s slow and steady and perfect. They make love like they could make it last forever, like they have all the time in the world, like tonight won’t change into tomorrow unless they want it to. And when they finally fall apart, wrapped so tightly in each other arms, grounded by the feeling of being each other’s anchor, it feels like a vow; a vow to be un-ruin-able. 

April 14th 3:47 p.m.

Paige’s knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since she’d taken her seat on the hair and make-up chair. She’s acutely away of everything going on around her, of Haley’s curling iron putting the finishing touches on her hair, of Brittany making sure all of the pieces for her outfit change later on in the night are ready to be transported, of teammates -past and present- walking in and out of the room with praises of how good she looks and how proud they are of her. And Paige is thankful for all of them -is almost a little overwhelmed with how her village has come out to support her- but she can’t pretend that she’s not counting down the moments till her hair and make-up are done, till she can jump out of this chair and run down the hallway to her girlfriend. 

Beyond the quiet moment they’d shared when they’d woken up -at a far too early hour- this morning and a quick glimpse of each other before they’d been whisked away to get ready for the night, she hasn’t seen Azzi nearly enough today. They’d texted of course, like they always did when they were apart for longer than a minute. But no amount of messages back and forth could replace the exhilaration that came with actually being together, that came with being able to see her and touch her and feel her. 

God Paige is so fucking gone, has been since she was fifteen and she’d walked into the gym to see the most perfect arc on a three-point shot that she’d ever seen. And then her gaze had landed on the girl who’d taken the jumpshot. 

That was it. 

The moment Paige’s life had been permanently altered. 

And now that girl, the girl with the perfect jump shot but an even more perfect soul, was going to be by her side on the biggest night of her life so far, just like she had been for every milestone -every moment, big or small, happy or sad- since they’d met. 

Paige remembers when they’d first talked about being drafted and playing the W. Back then, it had felt like a dream, attainable but something that was still years and years away. But still, she’d been adamant, if not cocky, that she’d be a high first-round pick and Azzi -even though she’d started with a sarcastic quip and a teasing joke about you? nah Bueckers, you’d be lucky if you go late second round-had said with absolute certainty, her eyes sparkling with an emotion Paige couldn't quite decipher, that she was going to go number one overall.

And it had caught Paige off-guard, that fluttering in her stomach as her chest had expanded with pride. It wasn’t the first time someone had complimented her, wasn’t even the first time someone had said she’d go number one but there was a certain conviction in Azzi's voice that made Paige feel like she really believed it, believed in her. 

That belief was going to pay off tonight.

And Azzi -just like she’d promised, when they were just two girls lying on a blanket under the stars, pinkies brushing together as they’d talked about their future- would be right there to watch it happen. 

“Are we done yet?” Paige asks impatiently, looking imploringly at her entourage through the mirror. 

“Why?” Hayley’s eyes twinkle with mirth as she spritzes copious amounts setting spray against Paige’s hair, making the blond wheeze, “you have somewhere you need to be Bueckers?”

“Me? No. I got nothing to do,” Paige denies, “but Brittany has another client she has to go see I think and like you know, we shouldn’t keep her from doing that right Britt?”

Her stylist raises an amused eyebrow, “no one’s keeping me from seeing my other client Paige. In fact, you’re basically done and I’ve got your second look read to go, so I think I’m gonna go over and see her I think,” Brittany smirks as she walks towards the makeup chair, winking at Hayley, “but since you have nowhere to be yet, how about we do a little-”

“NO,” Paige shrinks back, a crimson blush creeping up her neck and overriding the artificial one at how loud her protest had come out, “I mean um- I already look great I think and you guys uh- you guys have worked so hard. We wouldn’t wanna ruin that by adding more and um- doing too much or something.”

Brittany laughs at her client’s rambling, shaking her head fondly at Paige’s familiar antiques as she comes to stand in front of the girl, “you’re a horrible liar.”

“I know,” Paige admits with a slight pout, “I just- I wanna see her.”

“She wants to see you too,” Brittany whispers like it’s a secret as she hands over her phone and Paige’s eyes light up when she sees her girlfriend’s name above a series of texts. 

Azzi: heyyyyyyy auntie B 

          just wondering how everything’s going over there?

          if you’re almost done?

          are you coming over soon? 

Paige laughs, a warm sensation wrapping itself around her heart at the desperation that mirrors her own, reflected in the texts. She can practically picture her girlfriend, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip as she’d likely overthought what to send to their stylist. 

“Y’all are just as bad as each other,” Brittany says, “but come on lovebird, let’s reunite you with your other half and put us all out of our misery.”

Paige grins like a child who’s just been told they’re being taken to disney world, standing up from her make-up chair so quickly that it makes her stumble a little bit, much to the entertainment of all the people around her. She catches a glance of herself, the finished product, in the mirror and can’t help the slightly arrogant smirk that crosses her face. 

She looks good. 

Fashion hadn’t initially been one of Paige’s passions but perhaps that was more because she wasn’t aware of what fashion could be for her before. She’d never understood the hype of the overly feminine dresses and jewelry her mother seemed to want her to wear but she’d done it with a smile until dressing herself like that had started to feel more like a punishment than an indulgence. And it hadn’t been until she’d started venturing into the more ambiguous style, into something that felt more her, that Paige had really begun to understand just how much she enjoyed dabbling in fashion, just how much she could use it as a venture to express herself, as a way to fall back in love with herself for who she is. 

By the time they make the short walk to Azzi’s dressing room, Paige’s palms are sweating. She feels like a highschooler who’s waiting to see their prom date. Ironic, because Paige hated every second of the day leading up to Azzi’s prom night, annoyed at the idea of someone else taking her girl as their date. Still, she’d played her part as a dutiful best friend, driving Azzi around to get her nails done, laughing with her as she'd gotten her hair and make-up done, taking candid pictures of her when she wasn’t looking and a couple more when she was. But every second had felt like torture, like a ticking timebomb waiting to explode the moment Azzi’d date had shown up at the Fudd’s doorstep. It wasn’t until Azzi had stepped into  his car -turning around to wave up at Paige with an uncertain smile- and the blonde had watched it drive away from the window of the guestroom, that she’d finally broken down. 

But then Azzi had come back early, a thousand and one excuses on her lips of why she’d skipped out on the after party, none of which really made sense but neither of her parents, and definitely not Paige herself, had called her out on it. And she hadn’t said the truth out loud that night -just gotten out of her dress and curled into bed next to Paige, putting on Love and Basketball for the hundredth time- but it had been enough, enough for Paige to know that it wasn’t all in her head, that Azzi felt the electricity that hummed between them too. 

The sweet scent of a citrus-y perfume engulfs her sense as Paige pushes open the door to her girlfriend’s room. She doesn’t quite recognize it, isn’t the one that Azzi normally uses, but something about it matches the brunette’s aura. Paige’s eyes scan the room, throwing the peace sign up at Amari who’s perched lazily on the bed and giving polite nods to the glam squad who are bustling around the space. She scrunches her face at not immediately catching sight of her girlfriend, her impatience catching up to her, until she hears it. 

Azzi’s voice. 

Coming from the direction of the bathroom; her tone carefree and light as she talks to who Paige assumes is Mackenzie. She hears the shutter of a camera, a quick work it girl, followed by her girlfriend’s familiar giggles and Paige feels her heart beat start to slow down, that calm she only feels when Azzi’s near her starting to seep through her skin like a the perfect hit of indica settling her frazzled nerves. 

“Baby,” she calls out, blushing at the fact that she can hear the sappy smile in her own voice, “c’mere. I wanna see you.”

On the bed Amari pretends to gag, “still as gross as ever I see.”

Paige flips her off, shifting her weight from side to side as she waits for Azzi to come out of the bathroom, desperate feeling like too mild a term to describe how badly she wants to see the brunette. 

And when she does- 

Fuck. 

It’s like they forget how to breathe at the same time, the world fading away as the two of them stare at each other, eyes wide, mouth parted, that same how did I get so fucking lucky expression written over both of their faces. And the thing is, Paige swears Azzi is the most gorgeous thing she’s laid her eyes on every day, thinks she’s the prettiest girl in the world even when she’s in nothing but that one old Georgetown shirt and her shorts covered in red hearts, with no makeup on. But tonight? 

God, tonight, Azzi is ethereal. 

Like nothing Paige has ever seen before. 

Like an angel fallen from heaven that was so gorgeous, she’d been banished by Aphrodite herself. 

Paige had seen the black dress on Azzi during her fittings, had already been enamored by the low cut neckline and the way the material went sheer at the bottom. But still, nothing could have prepared her for this final look. For the hair, wavy in a way Paige has never seen it before, the makeup that makes Azzi’s doe eyes pop and enunciates the plumpness of her lips, the minimal jewelry that enhances the entire outfit and makes Azzi look expensive. 

And Paige can’t tell if she’s floating or flying or falling, but she knows the ground has been snatched from underneath her in the best way possible. 

“Paige,” Azzi recovers first and Paige blinks -still dumbfounded- as her girlfriend glides across the room towards her and she’s struck with the fact that Azzi looks just as mesmerized as she does. 

“You look-” the brunette swallows, her hands moving like she doesn’t know where she wants to put them before they finally settle on the lapels of the older girl’s blazer, “fuck baby you look beautiful.”

“Me?” Paige finally finds her voice, her own hand moving to wrap around Azzi’s waist as she pulls her girlfriend closer, eyes still roaming all over her body, “baby have you fucking seen yourself.”

Azzi lowers her eyes bashfully, a soft pink color gracing her cheeks, “you like it?”

“No,” Paige says without hesitation, causing her girlfriend to look back up at her in confusion, “I hate it. I hate that you’re wearing it tonight. I hate that everyone else is gonna get to see you like this,” she continues possessively, eliciting a laugh from Azzi, “you look so fucking perfect baby, everyone’s gonna fall in love with you. I’m gonna end up in jail or something by the end of the night.”

“How do you think I feel,” Azzi bites back, pressing herself closer to Paige, “they’re already in love with you and then you’re gonna show up like that? I’ll be right there in jail with you at that point.”

“So what I’m hearing is that we should just stay here for the rest of the night? Just you and me and nobody else,” Paige smirks crookedly, “I mean I’mma get drafted even if I don't show up right?” 

Azzi shakes her head, tangling her fingers in the black cross chain dangling down the valley of her girlfriend’s chest, “tempting but no,” her eyes shine with pride, “I wanna watch your dreams come true tonight. I wanna hear your name called. I wanna see you walk on that stage and get handed that jersey. And I- I wanna be the one clapping the loudest when it all happens.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be anybody else,” Paige whispers, her voice trembling as she tightens her grip around Azzi’s waist, “you know that right baby? That I wouldn’t wanna live out any of my dreams with anybody else but you?”

“I know, me too,” Azzi nods, gently tapping their foreheads together, “I’m so proud of you P. So proud. And I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you more,” Paige says, somehow managing to press their bodies even closer together, “thank you for being here. Not just tonight. For all of it. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“Always,” Azzi breathes out, “I’m always gonna be here. No matter what.”

It’s a promise Azzi intends to keep and a promise Paige plans on holding her to, forever. 

April 15th 5:35 a.m. 

Their hotel room is quiet now, the last of their friends having drunkenly departed to their respective rooms. The high of the night still lingers in the air, echoes of the cacophony that had surrounded them since they’d woken up this morning still ringing in their ears. The room is a mess to say the least, remnants of drunk shenanigans woven into the couch and carpet. It’s the scene of the after-after party that had only involved the people closest to them, a not-so-quiet affair that had happened rather spontaneously after the Nike event had ended and their little circle -none of them particular sober- had agreed to reconvene in Paige and Azzi’s room instead. Champagne had flowed, the music had been loud and the chatter had been practically incoherent. 

But God, had it been fun. 

The perfect celebration of a monumentally perfect night. 

And now it was just the two of them, tired, aching bodies lying side by side -Paige, with her eyes closed, on her back, one arm wrapped around Azzi’s who’s curled against her chest, the other propped under her head- as they finally get a moment to themselves. Neither of them have changed, but at some point Paige’s white shirt had ended up wrapped around Azzi’s body, leaving the blonde in nothing but her white camisole now. Azzi doesn’t remember how exactly that had happened but she’s not complaining, not when she’s now engulfed by the scent of all things Paige and she has a first-class view of her girlfriend’s toned arms. 

“So,” she begins quietly, her voice scratchy and hoarse from the occurrences of the night, “when are we going shopping for a cowboy hat and cowboy boots?”

Paige laughs, a deep belly rumble that Azzi’s can feel from where her fingers are splayed over the blonde’s stomach, “as soon as we get to Dallas baby.”

We. 

Azzi hides a smile into Paige’s chest at that. She likes when her girlfriend speaks about them like that, like the package deal they have been since they were fifteen years old. Her eyes flicker across the room to the Dallas Wings hat that’s perched on the mirror, a relic of what’s to come and the thrill of what had happened tonight. Everyone had known this was what was going to happen since December, a foregone conclusion but that hadn’t made the moment any less special. Not when Azzi has been waiting for it -praying on it even before she’d truly discovered her faith- since the first time Paige had confided in her -with uncharacteristic quiet vulnerability- that she hoped one day she’d go number one in the draft. 

And tonight, that had finally come to fruition. 

There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe how proud of Paige, Azzi is. She’s never doubted this moment would come, never doubted that this would be another mountain her girlfriend would conquer, but she knows -better than anyone- that the climb to the top had been riddled with obstacles. Hurdle after hurdle, Azzi had watched Paige jump over them all, maintaining a smile for the crowds but letting herself crumble in the brunette’s arms behind the scenes. And Azzi had held her, whispered reassurances into her ears until the blonde was fast asleep with tear-tracked cheeks and her own arms had hurt from holding Paige. But the idea of letting go had never once crossed Azzi’s mind. Instead she’d held her girlfriend a little tighter, had made herself stronger, so that whatever burden Paige was carrying, Azzi would always be there to make it lighter. 

Now here Paige is, a national champion, the #1 draft pick, a person who’d dared to dream despite it all, and the dreams had finally become a reality. 

And as she observes her girlfriend, eyes closed in peace with the smile of someone who’s really and truly happy, Azzi thinks no one deserved this more. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, eyelids still pressed shut as she brushes her hand up and down Azzi’s arm. 

The brunette bites her lip, only a little embarrassed at having been caught out, “I’m allowed to. You’re mine.”

“Oh?” Paige cracks open one eye, her lips stretching into that familiar arrogant smirk, “feeling a little possessive are we Az?”

“It’s the alcohol,” Azzi justifies with a grin, reaching up to steal a quick kiss from her girlfriend’s lips, “it makes me say the craziest things.”

Paige hums cavalierly before pulling Azzi fully on top of her, both eyes now open as she grins lazily up at the girl in her arms and it’s uncertain if the intoxication gleaming in them is from the ample amount of liquor coursing through her bloodstream or just the sheer amount of love she feels for her girlfriend.

“I like when you say crazy things,” she says softly, her thumb caressing the brunette’s cheeks, “especially things like that.”

“Like what?” Azzi breathes out. 

Paige’s tongue traces her bottom lip and Azzi finds herself following every movement, “like when you call me yours.”

“You are mine,” Azzi repeats, “and I’m yours.”

“I know,” Paige whispers as she brushes away a loose strand that had slipped out of the dark-haired girl’s bun, “and now the world knows it too.”

“You think so?” Azzi asks softly, a thrill inching up her spine at the idea of them officially being an open secret. 

“They should,” Paige snorts, “at least anybody with brain cells. I bet you, when I scroll through social media tomorrow morning, we’re gonna be all over it.”

Tonight hadn’t been a planned coming-out or anything; it wasn’t like they were trying to announce their relationship to the world. But they’d known what it would look like, what assumptions would be drawn from Azzi sitting pretty at Paige’s table, from her being the first person Paige hugged. They’d been acutely aware that this would firmly cross them over the threshold of being primarily known as best friends to people -as in the general public and not just a certain subsection of the internet who had already caught on long ago- questioning if there was more there. 

But that hadn’t been why they’d done this, albeit Azzi will admit that she likes the idea of being less hidden and the slightly possessive part of her enjoys the idea of people knowing, or at least speculating, that Paige is taken.  They’d done this because they deserved this moment together. They deserved to love each other out loud in the biggest of moment of Paige’s life, without fear, without inhibition, without giving a flying fuck about what anybody else would say. 

“Tonight was pretty amazing huh?” Paige says after a second, awe and tired blending into one smooth, low, cadence. 

Azzi doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches the girl underneath her, memorizing the marvel in her eyes, the joy that outlines every inch of her face. She presses a hand against Paige’s chest, exactly over where she knows her heart is, letting herself feel the rhythmic vibration of her pulse, like it’s the beat to her favorite song that she could listen to over and over again. 

“Was it everything you’d ever hoped for?” she asks finally. 

Paige chortles, “it was better.”

“I’m glad. You deserved it baby,” Azzi smiles, pressing her lips to Paige’s, letting it deepen for a second before she pulls away and rests her head against the older girl’s chest. 

“I can’t wait to do this again next year,” Paige says slowly, her hands rubbing up and down Azzi’s back as her words come out slightly slurred,“my turn to clap the loudest when you get picked number one.”

Azzi lets out a sleepy giggle, “alright hold on babe, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Nah,” Paige shakes her head, arms tightening their hold on the girl in her arms, “I already know.”

“Okay baby,” Azzi whispers, her eyes beginning to droop, powerless to the exhaustion shrouding every inch of her body, “can’t wait,” she yawns, burrowing herself further into her girlfriend’s warm embrace, “I love you. Good night P.”

“Good night Azzi,” Paige echoes back, reaching over the younger girl’s to turn the lights over, "love you more baby."

And as she slowly begins to succumb to the wiles of sleep, Azzi can’t help but think about how everything had changed tonight. They were going to spend a couple more days in New York, then a few more in Connecticut -maximizing their time together- before Paige would head off to Dallas, off to her new life. Azzi would follow her eventually, of course she would. But not forever, not to stay. 

Summers have always belonged to them. Since they’d met that fateful summer, they’d spend every single one together, attached at the hip. In the beginning, when they were still kids and less aware of how they felt, they’d still been apart for a few weeks but the last few summers? They’d barely been apart for a few days. But this summer would be different. Paige will be playing, traveling, learning the ropes of her new life and Azzi knows she needs to use this summer to get her prepared to do the same next year. Everything has changed. 

“Hey Az,” Paige whispers in the dark, her voice hesitant like she’s not sure if she say the next part, “next year when you get drafted, do you think- do you think maybe I could kiss you?”

Azzi hides her smile in the older girl’s chest. And she thinks everything has changed, but perhaps nothing has. 

Because she’s still Azzi, and Paige is still Paige, and the two of them are still the same, still them, still just two girls, desperately in love with each other, dreaming of their future together. 

“Yeah,” she answers finally, pressing a quick kiss against the side of Paige’s neck, “I think I’d like that.”

[jobean12-blog]

Midnight Confessions

Light SPOILERS ahead!!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: A late night gives you the opportunity to flirt with Bucky and the next night he comes right back for more.

Author's Note: There are some Thunderbolts spoilers here- none really story related so much but more character driven. So reader BEWARE :D I had fun writing all the ridiculous dialogue in the beginning and it's a bit chaotic but I hope it makes you smile! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: fun and fluff, flirtiness, tension, sweetness

You set the timer and place it on the counter, leaning back with a sigh. While it seems everyone else in the tower is asleep, you’re as wide awake as the bustling city below. This is the second batch of cookies you’ve made this week, but no one seems to be complaining.

After contemplating something on the TV you decide instead to read, hoping it will make you sleepy.

No such luck and just as you’re starting the next chapter you see a dark shadow at the entrance of the kitchen, you’re body stiffening.

“It’s just me doll.”

At the sound of Bucky’s voice, you instantly relax.

“Jeez you’re quiet,” you whisper.

He chuckles lightly and steps into the kitchen. His hair is slightly mussed as if he’s been running a hand through it and his tee shirt clings to the broad lines of his chest and toned biceps. With a hard swallow you let your eyes drop lower, to the way his pants sit low on his waist but still hug his thighs.

“Can’t sleep?” you squeak out, dragging your gaze back to his face.

He shakes his head no and moves closer, revealing a surprise. The guinea pig Yelena rescued from the lab sits atop his left shoulder, tucked close to his neck and partially hidden by his hair.

You sit up with a gasp and rush over to him, cooing quietly and without a word plucking the piglet from his shoulder.

“What are you doing up?” you ask the guinea pig in a sweet voice.

“I probably should have let him sleep but as soon as I made noise he started squeakin’.”

You look up at Bucky and notice his soft expression as he watches you with the guinea pig.

“It’s a boy?” you ask.

“Actually, I don’t know,” he replies.

“Hmm,” you say as you pet it’s soft fur. “I bet it’s a girl.”

“That works too,” he smiles. “Are you making cookies?”

“I am…they should be out…,” and you walk over to the timer, “in three minutes.”

“Great doll. I could use a snack!” He slowly rubs his stomach as he stretches, revealing the dark trail of hair that disappears enticingly into his sweats.

The guinea pig squeaks and draws your attention away before he catches you staring.

“She needs a name,” you state as you cradle her in your arm.

Bucky is silent for a moment before he blurts out, “Cookie.”

“That’s cute,” you giggle, “but I think you’re just hungry.”

He doesn’t disagree and keeps thinking.

“She’s brown and white so…BACON!”

You stop petting the piglet and narrow your eyes at Bucky.

He holds his hands up in surrender, but you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Are you going to wash the dishes?”

Bob’s voice is so low you almost don’t hear it but Bucky spins around at the sound.

“Bob!” both you and Bucky exclaim.

“What’s going on in here?” Bob asks as he looks between you and Bucky.

“We can’t sleep, and I made cookies,” you explain.

“And we’re trying to give the guinea pig a name,” Bucky adds.

“Ok,” Bob says. “I’m going to wash the dishes.”

“Do you want help?” you ask him. “I can dry the bowls.”

“Sure,” Bob says.

You hand the guinea pig back to Bucky. “Don’t get comfy. I want her back when I’m done.”

“Anything you want doll,” he says with a wink.

“How about Piglet?” Bob chimes from the sink.

“Like in Winnie the Pooh?” you ask as you slide up next to him and take the first bowl to dry it.

“Yeah…she’s kinda tiny…,” Bob says.

“So, you think she’s a girl too!” you say happily. “Bucky was calling it a he.”

“Not because I don’t think it could be a girl…I just…said he first.”

“It’s a girl,” Yelena says as she walks in.

“See! I knew it!” you sing song.

“What is going on here?” Yelena asks.

“None of us could sleep,” Bob answers. “So, we’re making cookies, washing dishes and naming the guinea pig.”

“Are the cookies ready yet?” Yelena asks, eyeing the oven.

“Just about,” you answer.

“Bob suggested Piglet…but I like Bacon,” Bucky says to fill Yelena in.

“Of course you would say Bacon,” she tsks. “I like Piglet.”

“Do I smell cookies?”

Walker strides in and heads straight for the oven.

“HEY Walker,” you whisper shout. “They’ll be out in a minute.”

He stops and plops himself down on a stool at the island with a huff.

“Why didn’t anyone invite me to the party?” he says.

“Because you’re an asshole,” but you and Yelena chime simultaneously but not without a smile pulling at each of your mouths.

“Can I least have some cookies,” Walker asks.

“Of course,” you tell him.

“Why don’t you name the pig, Hamlet,” Walker adds.

Everyone is quiet for a minute and tries to hide their smiles. “Actually, that’s cute,” you say, “but we’ve decided it’s a girl so maybe something…more…girly.”

Walker rests his chin in his hands but remains silent.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Ava says, appearing from the other side of the wall.

Bob startles at the sink and Walker rolls his eyes.

“No one can sleep, we are about to eat cookies, and we need a name for our girl guinea pig,” Yelena sums up quickly before opening the oven just as the timer dings.

“Pipsqueak,” Ava says flatly.

Yelena smiles. “I like that. She does squeak…a lot.”

“But she’s brave,” Bob says. “She survived the lab. I wouldn’t call her a pipsqueak.”

“But Piglet is scared of everything isn’t he?” Bucky muses. “So that wouldn’t work either.”

“Oh,” Bob sighs. “Yeah, he is.”

“Still like Bacon,” Bucky mumbles to himself.

“WHO SAID BACON?” Alexei booms when he walks in. “We eat?”

Yelena hangs her head with a sigh and Ava rolls her eyes.

“No bacon,” Bucky says sadly. “But we have cookies.”

“Hm, that will do,” Alexei says as he walks over to Yelena and pulls out the hot tray with his hand.

“You should let them cool,” you say to Alexei as he goes to grab for one.

“No, no…I like them all gooey and melted and messy…” He pops half the cookie in his mouth and hums happily.

Bucky slides over; the guinea pig nestled in the crook of his metal arm as he grabs for a cookie.

Walker reaches over the island to grab his own.

“They’re still hot guys!” you scold but give up with a sigh when half the tray is gone in under a minute. “You better grab one,” you whisper to Bob.

He turns from the sink and wipes his hand, reaching for a cookie and placing it on a napkin near him. “I’ll let mine cool,” he says with a small smile.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence and lots of mumbled praises over the cookies, you ask, “so what are we naming the guinea pig?”

Alexei yells out, “ALEXEI!”

Everyone answers with a determined, “NO!”

Alexei deflates and takes another cookie.

“So far we ruled out all the suggestions,” you say, leaning back on the counter next to Bucky.

Without prompting he hands you the guinea pig. You gently hold her up and look her over.

“I have so many ideas but none of them seem to fit,” you huff.

“All mine are related to food,” Bucky shrugs.

“I still like Alexei,” Alexei grumbles.

“Hamlet isn’t girly enough,” Walker says.

“Piglet and Pipsqueak make her sound too timid,” Ava adds.

Finally, Yelena says, “what about Nat?”

All eyes turn to her, soft with unspoken words.

“That’s perfect,” you say quietly and everyone agrees.

Once the few remaining cookies are packed away and the kitchen is clean you walk over to Bucky who’s leaning against the wall, Nat once again cradled against his chest in the crook of his metal arm.

“She likes that spot,” you say quietly as you gently stroke her back.

“Yeah, maybe because it’s cool,” he says and then softly touches her nose as it twitches.

You watch him for a moment, so sweet and gentle with the little furball.

“You’re so cute,” you say softly.

“She is right,” Bucky agrees.

“She meant you super soldier,” Alexei chuckles from behind you. “Not pig.”

“She’s a guinea pig Dad,” Yelena dead pans.

Alexei waves his had dismissively. “All same.”

Your eyes meet Bucky’s, and you see the tops of his cheeks, just above all the dark stubble lining them, turn light pink.

“You meant little Nat right?” he asks.

“She definitely meant the guinea pig,” Walker says with a yawn as he walks by. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

Ava follows close behind him. “Me too. And she meant you Barnes.”

Alexei slaps Bucky hard on the back, jostling Nat in his arms and Bucky glares.

“Oh. Right, sorry,” Alexei mumbles then smiles wide. “She thinks you are cute.”

He walks away rubbing his stomach.

Only Yelena and Bob remain, Yelena with a smirk lifting her lips and Bob with wide eyes.

Your eyes stay on Bucky, and you lean in closer, still petting Nat. “No. I meant you. You’re really cute. Especially with her. It’s sweet.”

“She said he’s cute,” Bob whispers to Yelena who’s full on smiling now.

“Da,” Yelena nods, grabbing Bob’s arm to pull him down the hall.

“Does she like him?” Bob asks as he passes by you and Bucky.

Yelena laughs but doesn’t answer and keeps tugging him away.

The two of you are now alone and you watch Bucky’s gaze quickly drop to your lips before he says a quiet, “thanks.”

“Hope you can get some sleep,” you tell him then kiss his cheek. “Night.”

“Night, doll,” he whispers as he watches you walk to your room.

The next night when you’re still awake after midnight you head to the common room but when you don’t see a sign of anyone else you decide to go watch a movie until you fall asleep. The light knock on your door an hour later surprises you and when you open it to find Bucky on the other side you’re even more surprised.

“I didn’t wake you did I doll?” he asks in a rush.

“No, don’t worry. I was watching a movie.”

“I thought I saw light under the door so I figured you might still be up.”

“Did you want more cookies? The leftovers are in the cabinet.”

“Actually…Alexei ate them all. I checked…”

You snort laugh and grab Bucky’s hand, pulling him through the doorway.

“Of course he did,” you say as you plop down on the small couch.

Bucky follows and then stands there as if he’s unsure what to do next.

“You can sit,” you tell him.

He does.

“Are you watching The Goonies?”

“I am!” you say excitedly. “I’m so glad you’ve seen it.”

“Classic 80s.”

“Exactly,” you agree.

You settle back into the cushions and let your shoulder brush his. As the movie continues your body relaxes against him and he lifts his arm to rest it along the back of the couch. His fingers brush your shoulder and when he feels your skin pebble beneath his touch he does it again. Your breath catches in your throat and you audibly swallow.

The movie ends and you’re still pressed against him, his arm now circling your shoulders as his fingertips ghost over your skin.

“That’s one of my favorites,” you say and turn to meet his eyes.

“Mine too,” he whispers, curling his fingers around your arm so you turn your body into his.

His eyes wander over your face, their soft reverence only sharpened when they stop on your lips.

“Doll…I…”

Whatever he wants to say is lost in the moment and he presses his mouth to yours, softly at first, but when you slide your fingers into his hair and tug him closer, he hums low in his chest and deepens it, parting your lips.

His knuckles skim down your arm before splaying at your back and pulling you into his lap. His hand slips under your shirt, every caress of his fingertips slow and teasing as if he’s savoring every moment and committing it to memory. His kisses are sweet and languid and the hair lining his face scratches the soft column of your neck as his lips trail downward to your hammering pulse.

A deep and satisfied hum rumbles through his chest and you press yourself closer, feeling the hard lines of his muscle beneath his shirt.

“Bucky,” you whimper.

He lifts his head to stare at you, his breathing fast. His metal thumb lifts to trace your swollen bottom lip before he slides it behind your neck and brings your lips back to his, nibbling the same spot then soothing it with his tongue.

You moan into his mouth and the sound snaps what little control he’s holding on to and suddenly you’re flipped to your back, your wrists in his metal hand and pinned above your head. His eyes teasingly trail over your body, and you go pliant in his hold, your legs falling open as he settles between them.

He leans down, dipping his head to run his nose along your neck, breathing you in before his lips are on yours again.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, his hand releasing your wrists and sliding lower to stroke your curves. “I knew you would be.”

“You’ve thought about it?” you ask as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, licking his lips. “I came over here with the intention to ask you out on a date…”

“Is this not…?”

He cuts you off. “This is exactly what I want…you’re what I want. I’m just…trying to be a gentleman.”

Your lips form an O shape, and he kisses you again.

“I’ll go on a date with you Bucky,” you murmur between kisses.

“Good, that’s good,” he says, his warm hands continuing their exploration of your body while his lips trail down your neck.

You arch into him and slide your hands from his hair down his back, scraping lightly with your nails.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

When his eyes lift to yours he wears a pained expression.

“A gentleman,” he repeats.

“Right. A date,” you say.

“Fuck,” he mutters again but doesn’t move an inch.

You stare at each other, the tension building in the small space between you before he dips his head and kisses you again. His lips find the spot just below your ear and he whispers, “if you don’t tell me to go now…”

“I don’t want you to go Bucky. I want you to stay. I want you.”

[bruisedboys]

bob reynolds x thunderbolt!reader (post thunderbolts, no spoilers!)

The first time you kiss Bob Reynolds, it’s over a box of pizza and a half-finished card game. He’s not expecting it. Neither are you, really.

It’s only a short kiss, but he’s blinking fast as you pull away, lips parted and a deep red blush crawling up his neck. You notice he leans forward a bit, following you as you pull back, probably without realising. It’s so cute, you have to stop yourself from kissing him again.

“Wh—why’d you do that?” He asks, dazed.

You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. I like you,” you say softly.

To be honest, something just took over you. You’ve finally got a moment alone with him, when usually you’re surrounded by your team of vigilantes who don’t seem to understand the concept of privacy. And he looked so lovely, sitting there laughing at your terrible joke, and pretending like he wasn’t totally letting you win the card game on purpose. He’s been so sweet to you since you met, and you’ve liked him for just as long.

Bob stutters, “You… like me?”

You nod earnestly. “Yeah, Bob. You couldn’t tell?”

Bob shakes his head vehemently, his mouth shut tight like he doesn’t know what to say, or can’t say what he wants to say. You smile at him, feeling fond all over, your limbs heavy with it.

“I thought I made it obvious,” you say.

You really tried. From the moment you realised you liked him you tried flirting, but he’d get so red in the face you’d feel bad and have to force yourself to dial it down for his sake. You’re pretty sure everybody but Bob himself knows how you feel about him, including Alexei, who’s usually about as oblivious as a teaspoon. In the end you settled on just being friends, but clearly, you couldn’t settle for long.

Bob just blinks at you. “I… I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

You have to laugh. You’ve got no idea why he’s apologising, but he tends to do that a lot. He’s working on it.

“S’nothing to be sorry for,” you tell him, shaking your head. “But I really do like you.”

Bob gazes at you, something unameable in the way he looks at you. It makes you nervous, stirs a soft buzzing in your chest like a honey bee.

He leans forward an inch like he can’t help it. You feel much the same. The closer he gets, the less you seem to be able to think straight.

When he finally speaks again, it’s with utmost sincerity.

“I like you, too,” he says. His hand moves to touch your forearm, warm and gentle, and you go very still. You think he might kiss you again. You want him to kiss you again.

“Yeah?” You find yourself moving towards him, his touch drawing you in, the two of you a pair of magnets unable to stay apart. His fingers drag up the length of your forearm and he nods.

“Yes.” His hand cups around your elbow, so gentle it aches. He swallows, then says, “Will you kiss me again?”

You don’t have to be asked twice.

[bloomseishiro]

Hi! Can I request some BLLK drabbles (with whichever BLLK characters you like) where the boys see the reader in tight clothes for the first time? Like, the reader usually wears baggy clothing or stuff that hides their curves/body figure, so it’s a total surprise! It doesn’t have to be a dress—tight shorts and crop tops work too!

Anyways, I love you and your fics! You’re doing amazing, hunny! 💕 Keep doing what you’re doing—your stories make me smile and feel the thrill!! 💓🩷💗

what a surprise — he sees you in tight clothes for the first time

౨ৎ ft. nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, itoshi rin

a/n. THANK YOU SWEET ANON FOR THE REQUEST!! i had sm fun writing this and ur kind words def made my day ^-^ i chose the three characters i’m most comfy with heh one day i will expand!! >.>

contents. fluff, pre-relationship, timeskip/pro soccer player bllk boys, reader wears a tight dress for rin and nagi’s + crop top/short shorts for sae’s, these are suggestive so rated 16+ pls ! 

NAGI SEISHIRO

Nagi isn’t one to go to parties often. But this one was for Reo’s birthday and you were begging him to go. 

He thought it would be less of a hassle to simply agree with you and make an appearance. Besides, he could always bring his phone and hide in the corner of the room, if needed. 

But when Nagi sees the dress you’re wearing to the party, he decides maybe agreeing to come wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

“Does this dress make my butt look big?” you ask from his room, popping your head out of the doorframe. 

The two of you are getting ready at Nagi’s apartment, mainly so he can’t flake at the last minute, and he had stepped out earlier to give you privacy while changing. 

At your question, Nagi looks around lazily before his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The dress on your body is short and tight, leaving nothing to the imagination when it comes to the shape of your waist and hips. 

Nagi swallows with uncertainty. It’s different from your usual attire, that much even he could recognize. 

“Yes,” he manages to answer your question honestly. 

You beam as if that's just the response you’re looking for. “Great! I was going to wear my usual clothes, but Reo said we should dress nice since his family invited some celebrities.”

Nagi nods in acknowledgment. “Your dress is nice. But your usual clothes are nice, too.”

Hiding a giggle, you tug the dress down so it covers more of your thighs. Nagi can’t help but notice how shiny and supple your skin looks there. 

“Do you like one more than the other?” you ask playfully. 

He shakes his head hesitantly and he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I like…both.”

“I’ll make sure to mix it up sometimes, then.”

ITOSHI SAE

Sae isn’t a saint. He’s never claimed nor pretended to be. While his focus has always been on soccer, he wasn’t one to turn down one night stands so long as they were conveniently timed for him. 

All that to say, he’s seen plenty of minimally-clad bodies before. But he’s never felt the dryness in his throat that he does now. All from seeing you in those denim booty shorts and cropped baby tee. 

Of course, the ridiculous shirt has, “Make Men Cry” written across your chest, only accentuating the curves you normally kept hidden even more. You may very well be able to reach that goal if you keep walking around like that. 

His face is neutral; only Sae himself feels the slight clench of his jaw as his eyes trail across your figure. 

“Do I look bad?” you blurt hesitantly, tugging at the hem of your shirt that landed just above your belly-button. Your fidgeting only serves to draw more attention to the exposed, soft skin on your stomach. 

Sae blinks slowly. “No. Who said that?”

“No one, but you just keep staring at me…” 

“Not because you look bad,” he corrects. “It’s because you look hot.”

“You think?” you ask shyly, peering up at him through your lashes. “My friend and I went on a shopping spree and I wanted to change up my wardrobe. Just sometimes, at least.”

Sae makes a mental note to thank your friend. “Well, if you need more clothes, you can use my card.”

“I’ll make sure to get more of these cropped tops. Since you seem to like it so much,” you tease.

“For whatever reason, only on you.”

ITOSHI RIN

Awestruck doesn’t begin to describe how Rin feels when he sees you in a silk dress that gracefully falls against all your curves. 

Galas are a pain, a stupid event he would skip if not for his PR team’s incessant prodding, but at least he managed to drag you along with him for this one. 

He didn’t, however, actually expect you to dress the part. He would’ve been fine if you had shown up in the oversized shirts and baggy pants you typically wore, but he was completely caught off guard at the sight of you now.

“Can you help me tighten the back?” you ask bashfully, turning around to reveal the almost-backless dress that held itself together by a few measly strings. “I don’t want it to fall off at the gala…”

Rin’s ears heat up and he mentally slaps himself for picturing that. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You aren’t one to wear revealing clothes often, and this is the most skin he’s seen since he ever met you. His fingers ghost the back of your spine as he fastens the strings into a little bow. His fingers jerk as he skims the softness of your skin and he clears his throat to distract himself. 

“Is this good?” he asks hoarsely. 

You tug at the straps to make sure it’s secure and nod brightly. “Yep! Thanks, Rin. Do you need help with anything? I can tie your tie in return!”

Panicked, he shakes his head and quickly fastens his tie himself. It’s the fastest Rin has ever gotten it done. Once finished, he catches you staring at him with a funny look. 

“You’re acting silly,” you say, sticking your tongue out.

“Sorry. I know. I’m just not used to you looking like that.”

Your gaze meets the floor as you shuffle your weight from foot to foot. “Is it weird?”

“It’s unfamiliar. But you look…” he trails off, cheeks a bright pink. “You look really pretty.”

You blink in surprise and an equally embarrassed look graces your features. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Not that you’re not always pretty. Just…it’s different.”

“Yeah,” you repeat, giggling through the shyness. “Well, if you want to see me like this more often, I guess you have to invite me as your plus one to more of these events.”

“Do you want to attend more of these with me?” asks Rin in surprise. 

“Not particularly,” you admit and Rin scoffs. “But maybe it’s worth it to see your cute reactions.”

His face heats up once more. “Shut up.” 

You laugh at him, placing your hand on your hips and only drawing more attention to your curves. Maybe Rin doesn’t hate galas, after all.

[moonstruckme]

Hey Mae! I hope your spring has started off well. Idk if this will make sense, but based off recent circumstances in my life I was just kind of thinking about an idea.. what about a reader with a chronic illness and no one outside in her circle of friends really “gets it” and all she goes through bc they’re not home with her and don’t see her everyday (the flares of pain and weakness and fatigue, the medications, self infections, infusions, appointments, tests, not being able to work or do things for yourself or hang out when you want or live a “normal life” and all the fomo) and they don’t see how hard it is both physically and emotionally. And it really gets to her but the guys do see that and they’re supportive and encouraging when she’s having a hard time with it all. Maybe it’s an especially bad week and things build up and they can tell she’s not doing good and how they handle it. It could be regularly poly!marauders or emt!marauders with their medical pov.

Thank you for requesting angel! Hope your spring/sprummer is going well too <33

cw: reader has unspecified chronic illness that flares painfully, discompassionate/ignorant interactions regarding this, joking about murder

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 933 words

Pain is a lonely thing. This is a truth you know so well you think its flavor is in your bone marrow. Take Remus—you know he gets terrible headaches. You can know this, you can watch his face tighten with the agony of them, you could spend an entire afternoon listening to him describe them to you, but you will still never be able to approximate what they feel like for him. He’s isolated in his experience, and so are you. On your worse days, no one can truly understand you. 

But your boyfriends come the closest. 

Your head is in Remus’ lap on your bed, while Sirius lays next to you and James runs a bath in the next room. On the bedside table is a half gone glass of water, downed with the pills you’d needed upon waking this morning. The boys aren’t making a big deal of it all; it’s as much a part of their day as it is yours. 

“What’s happening in your head?” Sirius asks, prompting you to glance up from your phone. 

“Hm?”

He pouts, drawing a short line over your eyebrow with his thumb. “You’re making this awful pouting face.” 

“Am I really?” 

“No.” He cracks a smile. “I can just tell something’s off. Penny for your thoughts?” 

Wordlessly, you pass him your phone. Remus leans over, and Sirius tilts the screen so they can both read the texts you’ve been exchanging with your coworkers. Remus finishes first. He sits back with a disapproving humming noise just before Sirius sets down your phone. 

“Right,” Sirius says, cooly, “so, shall we kill them?” 

You push air out through your nose. “No.” 

“I’d be very generous. Even let them pick between drowning and assassination.” 

“If you were drowning them,” muses Remus, “would it not still be assassination?” 

“Who are we drowning?” James asks as he comes in, wiping his wet hands on his legs. 

Sirius picks up your phone again, reading off, “Stewart and Liz.” 

“Excellent.” James gives his thighs a decisive pat as he sits by your feet on the bed. “What’d they do?” 

“They’re upset she’s not going to the cinema anymore,” Remus explains. 

James’ eyebrows flick up. “Right. I mean, yes, we’re all upset when she’s not with us.” You turn your face into Remus’ thigh bashfully. Sirius snickers, teasing you with a finger under your chin. “But surely they’ll get on just like the rest of us, won’t they?” 

“They don’t seem to grasp why she can’t go,” says Remus, his voice gentling some. He’s hit the nail on the head, and yet it’s a softening of the truth. Your coworkers—the ones around your age, who’ve decided together that you’d like to be friends and have set up a group chat in pursuit of this—have gone from teasing you about your rainchecks to growing plainly frustrated with them. They get that you have bad days with your illness, but they don’t get it. They think you’re avoiding them. When you texted a few minutes ago that you couldn’t make it to the cinema later today, Liz had asked, If you’re going to sit around at home, can’t you sit around in the cinema instead? It’s not like it takes that much more. and Stewart had said, Guess this means you’ll be wanting me to take your shift tomorrow, right? 

“I’m in favor of killing them, by the way,” Remus says offhandedly. 

That surprises a real laugh out of you. It’s short, and the way your shoulders hitch hurts, but it nevertheless makes you feel a tiny bit better. 

Sirius presses a careful kiss beside your eye. “S’exactly what I’m saying,” he mumbles happily. 

“I do wish I could go,” you sigh. 

“Angel,” says James, “you don’t have to justify it to us. We know.”

“You can’t control the narrative other people have in their heads.” Remus’ hand lands on the curve of your neck, warm and grounding. “You can try to explain it to them after you’re feeling better, if you want to, but if they decide not to believe you then that’s their problem.” 

Sirius makes a huff of agreement. “Bunch of fucking twats.” 

“Those are my friends,” you argue half-heartedly. 

“Not for long, they’re not.” 

“Hey.” A pillow sails through the air, missing you by a few inches but hitting Sirius right on the side of his head. James’ voice rings with triumph. “She gets to make the kill orders, shit-stirrer.” 

“I’ll stir your shit—” 

“Or,” Remus suggest peaceably, “the bathwater probably won’t stay warm forever.” 

“Oh, yeah.” James looks to you. “Do you still feel up to that, lovely?” 

You weigh things for a moment, but ultimately you nod. 

“That’s our girl.” Sirius presses a kiss between your brows as James stands. “Don’t give those twats another thought, sweetness. You’ll do better without the stress.” 

“Alright, let’s go.” James claps his hands. You take a breath, setting your hands on the mattress in preparation of lifting yourself up, but he stops you with a touch to your shoulder. “Not like that,” he says, reaching over Sirius to slip his arms beneath you. Without any more effort on your part you’re in the air, grounded by your boyfriend’s warm, firm chest. 

You try not to sound too relieved as you sigh, resting your head in the curve of his neck. 

Remus says, sounding amused, “Sweet how you thought he was going to let you walk to the bath by yourself.” “Sweet?” Sirius scoffs. “Insulting, more like. Babe, we’ve just finished discussing how everyone underestimates your bad days. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

[bernardsbendystraws]

ೃ࿔*:･ Snow .ᐟ Reader x FWB.ᐟ Matt

Matt cums with a confession.

⚠︎ smut, angst, fluff, p n v, unprotected sex, creampie, praise kink, missionary, confessions, crying, and more

[ Can be standalone. Previous - P1 P2 P3 ] → au masterlist

It's been a little over a week—a week since Matt called you out for being obvious about wanting more—a week since he had told you to 'take your time' because there was no rush. Having you around was enough for him, but he's getting impatient.

Every single detail has taken a toll on him. It’s all the things he’s been wanting—you've been holding his hand, kissing him, being more vulnerable.

The energy exchanged between you two has been intimate in so many ways, and he loves that, but he knows you. Matt is aware of details you ignore about yourself. It’s sad, but it’s true. He knows you fall into routines.

It’s not that you wouldn’t have the guts to confess your feelings towards Matt, it’s the fact that you couldn't admit it to yourself.

You had grown so comfortable in the pattern of being friends with benefits, change seemed too daunting for your mind to admit the change of heart to yourself. Hence why Matt called you out. He knew how you felt to a certain extent, but he was aware that he’d have to make you realize it—he’d have to break the routine. 

Over the past eight days, you’ve fallen into a different pattern. There’s been no progress, no ‘talk,' you’ve let yourself sink into some sort of habit with him—and it’s not bad, but it’s not gonna be enough in the long run. He can't keep letting you do this—he can't keep doing this to himself.

Matt swore he’d talk to you about it today. He planned on keeping peaceful front while confronting you with the information, but then he saw the look in your eyes—the look of pure desire. 

“Fuckkk!” you cry out, your moans echoing through his room as he pummels you into the mattress with each harsh thrust. It’s so good. Your mind is numb, everything around you fading into small bites of electricity poking along your skin as you focus on him—the way he’s making you melt.

“Yeah? Makin’ my girl feel soooo good? I—shit, baby, you—you’re tighten—” 

His words are cut off by a loud hiss pursing through his lips. His elbows dig further into the mattress on either side of your head, his pace faltering for a second as your nails dig into his shoulder blades. 

It fucking stings—it hurts so good. 

Every time you claw harder, he’s reassured that you’re absolutely gone in pleasure, and that’s enough to make his balls feel impossibly tight, the lower part of his abdomen tensing as he tries to bite his lip in order to hold off his own release. 

He doesn’t want to be overly sensitive when you finally cum. He wants to be able to drink in as much as possible, focus on every sound and every twitch of your face as you finish. He can’t do that if he cums first—but he needs you to get there faster. 

“C’mon,” he drags his hand down, sliding it through your folds to collect some of the damp slick before gliding the pads of his fingers to your puffy clit. “-theeere we go,” he coos, mocking your facial expression as a strangled cry leaves your lips. 

It’s perfect. You’re clenching around him impossibly tighter, your nails digging and scratching into his biceps as you gasp for air, your hips bucking upward to meet his thrusts. His bottom lip is pulsing between his teeth, his hungry gaze trapped on your face.

“Matt—fuck, I—’m—” 

Your mouth draws open into a wide circle. Matt feels a bead of sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate on anything besides how perfect you're squeezing his cock. 

“I know, baby, I know, just—fuck, c’mon, you got it,” he praises, biting back a groan as he feels your walls pulse around his length, a silent scream ending with an intoxicating cry as your thighs quiver and tense beneath him. 

“Can I—ne–eed to cum—inside—is that—”

Matt doesn’t finish the question. Your legs swarm around him, your heels digging into his back as you make him completely bottom out inside of you. Tears are welling in the corners of your eyes, the feeling of his warm cum flooding deep into you making you gasp as your hands curl into his hair. 

“-cumming—god—fuck! So good, so fuckin’ good,” he rambles, his hips stilling and his body going rigid as the wave of bliss crashes down on him, clouding his every sense, “-love you—Love you so…so much, baby.” 

Your eyes bulge from your face. The gasps of air getting greedier as you comprehend his words. 

“So pretty—love you so much, my perfect, perfect girl,” he coos, his hips slowing to a stop as he kisses along your neck, "-love my pretty baby, fuck—'m so lucky, look at you..."

There’s no way it was just words—not with the way he said it—not with the way he repeated it.

Matt doesn’t even realize what he said. His mind is too consumed with pleasure, his body still floating off the high as he lets his words echo without a second thought. You can tell he’s unaware by the way he just collapses on you, caressing up and down your sides as he lays gentle kisses along your chest. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, breathing heavy as he nuzzles his face in between your breasts. 

A couple seconds pass by. Usually, you comb your fingers into his hair and you both try to catch your breath—but you're deathly still, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as you feel the words calling through your mind with an astounding echo. 

“Baby?” he asks, looking up with confused eyes as he slowly removes his dick from inside of you, careful to go slow. Your back arches from the sensation, your eyes glossing over as his eyes finally meet yours. “-hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, his gaze wandering across your face as his brows settle closer together with confusion. 

“I—you…” stumbling and stuttering over your words, you let out a deep huff of air, “-you…you love me?”

Matt’s forehead wrinkles, his eyes frantically searching your face as he lets the faint memory of his words click in his head. He said it. He confessed he loved you and he didn’t even realize it. Maybe it's because he's said it so many times to you in his dreams—or maybe it's because he can't hide his feelings anymore, not when they're so consuming.

“I….” his lips open and shut, his mouth suddenly feeling dry as he tries to swallow, “-I do.” he admits. 

The announcement makes your heart pummel against your chest, your eyes still bulging, your eyelashes feeling heavy as you try to keep your gaze on him. You can feel the emotions leaking through the way he’s looking at you—you can feel every single hair on your body stiffen as you suddenly analyze how raw everything seems. 

“You do?” you question, your eyes softening as Matt nods affirmatively. He may not have meant to say it, but he wasn’t gonna deny the truth—even if it meant breaking the routine. 

The fear in your face is apparent. Matt lets his hands caress up and down your sides, his face falling with a slight tinge of sadness as he licks over his lips. “I…I didn’t want to say it yet, but I do mean it—I…I really mean it. And—,” his breath halts, the feeling of your hands combing through his hair making his shoulders feel less tense. “-and I know this changes things, I know that scares you, but…but I’m not gonna lie to you. It’s how I feel. I really….I love you. I do.”

He loves you. Even though you’ve been an utter mess, so much of his heart is devoted to you. It’s reassuring, like a small piece of a puzzle that makes everything finally seem clear—like a breath of fresh air that allows you to see what you truly want.

You’re enough. The way you are right now in this moment is okay. Every anxious thought that made you wanna hold back is finally disappearing, leaving a clean slate for you to just think.

He loves you as you are. It doesn't matter that you struggle with some forms of intimacy, you're enough. Being at your worst doesn't have to stop anything. The heartbreak, the catastrophe of emotions—none of it had to make you put your life on hold.

You can't wait for things to be perfect to allow yourself to be happy.

Your breath falters, your hands slightly shaky as you caress through his slightly damp hair. The rushing sensation—it’s not fear that you feel, it’s excitement. When you’re scared you always wanna run—but right now all you wanna do is stay. All you want is to memorize the way he’s looking at you, keep this feeling forever. 

“Matt,” you breathe, your throat tightening as you try to ignore the burning sensation in your chest, “-I…I want you. I want this, I…I want everything.” 

He bites on his tongue, trying to confirm he’s awake as his teeth clench into the muscle. The sharp sting makes his eyes water, not from the pain, but from the fact that this is real—this is happening, it’s all falling into place even if it’s messy and uncoordinated. 

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that?” he asks, his voice uneven as he tries to fight the urge to cry. Matt nuzzles his face back into your chest, hugging his arms underneath your back and pulling you flush against him. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but that’s not the feeling either of you are focusing on. 

“Matt,” you laugh, hugging your arms around his head as you feel your face grow warm, your waterline flooding with tears as you hear the unmistakable sound of his own sniffles followed by a warm tear gliding onto the skin of your chest. 

You’ve always been scared of change, you’ve always been so anxious at the thought of a different routine—but you’re not scared right now, not enough to make you want to bolt out of his arms or his bed. 

The silence in the room accompanied by soft sniffles makes you well aware of the fond feeling crawling over your skin. You feel the words chant in your head, the echo of his own proclamation making your heart pulse with a feeling of excitement. It’s the type of thrill that makes you sure, a feeling so pure that it consumes any lingering fears with determination.

You’re in love. 

A/N: @chrisbratt333 and @sturnsblogs and @httpssturns and @weirdothatwritess are all jumping and ik it. (Ily) also might write an alternative ending for my angst feens ✨

·˚ ༘ ʚ 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒊𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒔, 𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒆 𖧧

꒰ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ๑ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ๑ 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ꒱

[youthguk]

Black Ribbon Bride ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

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

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

wc: 18k

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

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

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

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

One week ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jeon Jungkook—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook’s hand twitches at your waist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" His expression darkens dangerously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know you are."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must have lost your mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watched. Always watched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes find yours across the chaos.

And smiles like the devil has just been entertained.

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

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

"You selfish, arrogant, fucking idiot-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warmth.

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

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

Protection wrapped in silence. Devotion dressed in designer suits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jungkook," you breathe, voice trembling.

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

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

“Shit. You’re already this wet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…a little bit loved.

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

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

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

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

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

And you stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

there’s a second and final part already finished and available exclusively here (if you have any issues with it - message me directly, not anon pls)

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

[whumpster-fire]

#another thing to add on that I learned recently#is that heavier bows#had so much force in them#that they required thicker heavier arrows#otherwise normal arrows would just shatter from the forces involved

IIRC underweight arrows are also less efficient and can cause damage to the bow.

Hopefully I'm not butchering the physics here too much and OP or someone else who knows more about archery than me can correct me if I'm wrong on this:

A bow is basically a very well optimized leaf spring. Potential energy is stored by elastic deformation of the bow as it's drawn back and its limbs flex, with the amount of stored energy depending on the bow's draw weight, draw distance, and how the draw force actually varies with how far it's drawn back (the draw force curve). The naive approximation would be assuming draw force starts at zero and varies linearly with draw distance, which would imply a stored energy of 1/2 * Max Draw Force * Draw Distance: for a 120lb @28" bow, this would be around 140 ft*lb (about 190 Joules). However, in reality bows aren't linear: some of this is presumably due to the behavior of the bow itself under load, and the fact that you're pulling on a string with the angle of the string tension changing as it's drawn. From what I can find a typical force draw curve for a recurve bow looks something like this, so the stored energy is a bit higher than the "pretend it's a tension spring and apply Hooke's Law" approximation would suggest.

When an arrow is released, that potential energy is, ideally, all converted into kinetic energy. This includes the arrow's kinetic energy, but the bow's limbs also have mass and are moving, so those have kinetic energy as well. Also, the arrow's shaft is a spring too, so some energy ends up being turned into elastic (hopefully) deformation of the arrow shaft as it buckles. I'm guessing with a perfectly optimized system you want the arrow to spring back to straight right as it's released from the string, so more of the arrow-flexing energy gets put back into accelerating the arrow, making it fly faster and not vibrate as severely.

The relationship between how fast the arrow's moving and how fast the bow's moving at the end of the stroke is fixed based on the design of the bow, which means the relationship between the bow limbs' kinetic energy and the arrow's is dependent on the relative mass of the arrow and the bow (excluding any recovered energy from springback of the arrow). This means for the same bow, a lighter arrow will go faster, but a larger proportion of the stored energy will go into accelerating the bow instead of the arrow.

An excessively light arrow may be insufficiently stiff and deform to its failure point under the forces of a shot: if the shaft is wood or carbon fiber this will most likely mean that when it breaks it will suddenly release all the energy that went into elastically deforming the shaft and the pieces will spring back, throwing sharp splinters in unpredictable ways at high speeds.

But also the lighter the arrow is, the more energy the bow itself needs to dissipate after the arrow is released, which puts higher stresses on the bow. To the limit of shooting something with zero mass (dry firing) which can definitely break things.

There's also an optimal mass of arrow for effective range: too heavy and the arrow is so slow it's hard to aim, but the lighter it is the more rapidly the arrow loses energy to aerodynamic drag.

Different bow designs also probably perform differently for lighter vs heavier arrows: I'd guess the lighter the bow is for its draw weight, especially at the tips of the limbs, the lighter an arrow it can safely shoot. I know modern compound bows, due to some combination of composite materials and their moving parts making their mechanical advantage vary in a different way, can shoot lightweight carbon fiber arrows at extremely high speeds, but that doesn't necessarily mean shooting that same arrow out of a traditional bow of the same draw weight is safe for the bow.

Theoretically could you construct a stiff but very light arrow with pre-industrial-revolution materials and techniques that would be strong enough to withstand being shot from a high draw weight military bow but too light for those bows to safely shoot?

E.g. shaving hardwood really, really thin so it was flexible in the cross grain direction and then wrapping laminated layers of that around a cork core with the grain parallel to the shaft? Or a square shaft with thicker bits of wood glued to a core? Or a large enough bamboo shaft? I'd say a balsa core instead of cork but that wouldn't have been available in pre-Columbian-Exchange Eurasia.

Let’s compare some different weights of bow!

As always, you can find more stuff here

[4linos]

the stranger you loved 2.

lee minho x fem!reader

synopsis: you don’t know him anymore. but minho knows you, every laugh, every tear, every promise. and he’s not giving up.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, memory loss, emotional manipulation, mentions of family rejection.

wc: 11,879

[part 1]

He had been alone in his thoughts for too long.

Minho sat in the dim corner of the hospital corridor where the light flickered just a little too much, that familiar, sterile hum filling his ears. His hoodie was damp from where he’d wiped his face. His eyes ached. His heart ached more. Time had stopped having any shape or meaning, just hours of cold air, the occasional footsteps echoing off linoleum, and the unbearable weight of not being able to fix anything.

He couldn’t keep sitting there. Couldn’t stay in the silence, with the ache growing heavier by the minute. Eventually, he stood, slowly, stiffly and made his way back to your hospital room. He just needed to see you again, maybe even talk to you from the doorway. Nothing intense. Nothing that would make things worse. Just presence. Just proof that he was still here.

But as he neared your room, one of the nurses, one he vaguely recognized from the night shift stepped in front of him, hands gentle but firm.

“Mr. Lee,” she said softly, “I’m really sorry, but… we’re asking you not to go in right now.”

Minho blinked. At first, he thought he’d misheard. “What?”

The nurse glanced over her shoulder, toward your room, then turned back, her expression apologetic. “The doctor spoke with Y/N not long after you left. She was… visibly shaken. Scared, confused. Her vitals spiked. She was overwhelmed. We think it’s best to give her a little space while she adjusts.”

Minho stared at her like the words didn’t quite make sense. His eyebrows slowly drew together, a disbelieving scoff slipping from his lips. “I’m not some random guy off the street,” he said, voice rising just enough to draw a few glances. “I stayed by her side all night. I didn’t leave the room once. Not when the monitors beeped, not when the nurses came in, not even when you told me visiting hours were over. You all saw me there. You know that.”

The nurse’s expression didn’t waver, but her voice softened. “I do. We all saw it. And I know how much you care. But she doesn’t remember that, Minho. Right now, from her perspective… she’s waking up in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. Her memory is fractured. And when she saw your face, when you reacted so emotionally, it startled her. She’s not in a place yet where she can process all of that safely.”

Minho exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He could feel the sting behind his eyes again, and he fought it, hard. He wasn’t angry at the nurse. Not really. But he didn’t know where else to aim the pain inside him. The grief. The helplessness. Because how was it fair? He had held your hand through the night. Had whispered to you about the little bakery you loved, your favorite songs, how you always pretended not to cry at sad movies but always did anyway. He had begged you to wake up.

And you had.

Only now, he wasn’t allowed near you.

“I just want to see her,” he said again, quieter now. “I won’t upset her. I’ll stay back. I won’t even speak if that’s what you want. Just let me be there. Please.”

The nurse looked torn. She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I’ll talk to the doctor. Maybe tomorrow, after some rest and evaluation, we can try again. But tonight... she needs calm. The brain needs quiet to begin the healing process. For now, just, trust us, okay?”

Minho didn’t answer. He nodded stiffly, backing away from the door like it burned him.

But in his chest, he could feel the unraveling.

He returned to that same quiet hallway, but this time it felt colder. Lonelier. He leaned against the wall, staring at the pale floor tiles like they might give him something clarity, answers, maybe just a way to stay grounded when everything he knew was crumbling.

He was still here.

Still your Minho.

But you didn’t remember that.

And now… you weren’t ready to see him.

Even love, deep, steady, desperate love wasn’t enough right now.

And that was a kind of heartbreak he never knew existed.

-

Minho had barely slept.

The coffee in his hand was lukewarm now, even though he’d just bought it minutes ago. He hadn’t tasted it. He didn’t care. The bitter steam curling from the cup only reminded him of the night before, hours of pacing cold hallways, of sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs, of whispering to your unconscious body like it might tether you back to him.

And then the morning came, and with it, the nurse’s gentle insistence that he stay back. That his presence had made you worse. That for now, it was better if you didn’t see him at all.

He hadn't fought them again. Not this time. Not after seeing the look in your eyes, the way you'd flinched at his touch. The quiet, scared voice asking him to leave.

But it didn’t stop the ache that settled into his chest like a second heartbeat, pulsing with every second that passed without you remembering him.

He was just coming back from the hospital lobby, a paper cup in one hand and his phone in the other, the screen still black. No messages. No calls. Not that he was expecting any. The only message he wanted was your voice, saying his name like you remembered. Like you loved him again.

He turned the corner, heading back toward the ICU, when he saw him.

Jay.

At first, Minho froze, unsure if he was imagining it. It had been so long since he'd seen that face, longer still since he’d thought of him. But there he was, standing stiffly at the nurse’s desk, dressed too neatly for a hospital visit, his dark hair styled like he was coming from somewhere important.

Minho’s blood ran cold.

Jay.

What the hell is he doing here?

He watched, heart pounding, as Jay leaned in toward the nurse with an overly concerned expression on his face. Like he belonged there. Like he had the right.

“Hi,” Jay said, glancing at the nameplate clipped to her scrubs, “I’m a friend of Y/N’s. I heard about the accident—I just need to know what room she’s in, and what happened. Please. I need to see her.”

The nurse gave him a quick look of polite skepticism, as she should. But before she could say anything, Minho was already moving, hot coffee sloshing in his cup as his steps quickened across the hallway floor.

“Hey,” Minho snapped, his voice sharp, tense with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jay turned slowly, his mouth pulling into a tight, false smile. “Minho.”

Minho stood toe to toe with him now, hands clenched, posture rigid. He didn’t want to cause a scene, not here, not in the hallway of the ICU, but he couldn’t stop the fire rising in his chest. “You don’t belong here.”

“I came to check on Y/N,” Jay said smoothly, unbothered. “Someone had to.”

That was it.

Minho’s jaw locked. “Don’t act like you care.”

“I do care,” Jay countered. “Not that you’d know anything about being a real friend.”

The insult was barely veiled, and Minho flinched like he'd been struck. But it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, not from him.

Because Jay wasn’t just anyone.

He was the friend you used to be inseparable from, the one you trusted with everything, until Minho came along. And from the moment Jay realized how serious the two of you were becoming, he’d tried everything he could to sabotage it. The comments. The rumors. The passive-aggressive texts. That one night he cornered you after practice and told you Minho would never love you the way you deserved, that he was cold, manipulative, temporary.

Jay never liked Minho. Never even pretended to. And when you chose Minho anyway, when you distanced yourself from Jay and made it clear where your heart was, he turned bitter. He stopped pretending. Started treating Minho like the enemy.

And now here he was.

Minho stepped forward, voice low, teeth clenched. “You think showing up now makes up for what you did? You weren’t there when she needed support. You weren’t there when she was hurting. You disappeared the second she chose me, and now you want to show up like some concerned guardian?”

“She doesn’t remember you, does she?” Jay asked, his tone light but the venom unmistakable. “So maybe this is the universe giving her a second chance.”

Minho’s hands curled into fists. He saw red for a moment pure, unfiltered rage bubbling just under his skin.

The nurse intervened then, stepping between them before things could go further. “Hey, please. This is a hospital.”

Minho turned to her, still breathing hard. “You can’t let him see her. He’s not family. He’s not—he’s not anything to her anymore.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

The words stung more than Minho expected. The truth was, right now… he wasn’t sure how to answer. Because to you, in your broken, half-lit memories, he was nothing. A stranger. An unfamiliar face who cried too easily and begged too hard.

The nurse looked between the two men, clearly uncomfortable. “I can’t make decisions based on history I don’t know. If the patient recognizes Mr. Jay, and she’s comfortable with it, we allow visitors. But for now, we’re trying to avoid overwhelming her.”

She turned back to Jay. “You may go in, but keep it short. And speak gently. She’s still very fragile.”

Minho opened his mouth to protest, but it was already too late.

Jay was walking past him, heading for your room with confident strides, as if he had every right in the world to be there. As if he hadn’t tried to pull you away from Minho every chance he got.

And the worst part? Minho couldn’t follow.

He stood there in the hallway, helpless, his fists clenched and his heart in his throat. The nurse gave him an apologetic glance before walking away.

Minho was left standing alone again.

Another locked door. Another piece of you slipping further from his grasp.

And now he was in there with you.

He didn’t know if you’d recognize Jay. If your mind had pulled him back while leaving Minho behind. If you’d smile for him. Laugh. If Jay would take advantage of the blank slate that the accident had given you.

But Minho knew one thing with unbearable certainty.

He’d spent the night holding your hand, whispering his love into the dark like a prayer.

And now he was being replaced again by the one person who had always wanted to take you away.

The nurses and doctors kept saying you were getting better.

They said it like it was a fact, like a milestone you had clearly reached "You’ll be out of here in no time," they smiled, charts in hand, voices warm with optimism. "Your vitals are strong, and your cognition is improving every day. Just keep resting, okay?"

But the truth was, you didn’t feel better.

You felt like you were drowning.

Not in pain exactly, though your head still throbbed sometimes and your body felt stiff in ways that made simple movements difficult, but in confusion. In the aching, suffocating emptiness where your memories used to be. People told you things: names, stories, reassurances. Faces came and went, some that sparked a flicker of recognition, most that didn’t. The world around you looked familiar, but distant like trying to peer through fogged glass at a life that had once been yours.

You tried so hard.

You spent hours straining your mind, pushing yourself to remember anything. A moment. A voice. A laugh. A feeling. You stared at photos, flipped through magazines, even listened to music they said you used to love. But it was all blank. All white noise.

So when the nurses brought you a puzzle and suggested you work on it to pass the time, you agreed because at least it gave your hands something to do. Something to focus on besides the panic always threatening to creep in at the edges of your silence.

You were bent over the little tray table, trying to find the right edge piece, when the door creaked open behind you.

At first, you didn’t look up. You assumed it was another nurse with more encouraging platitudes or another round of gentle cognitive tests. But then you heard his voice.

Soft. Careful. Familiar.

“Hey...”

You turned slowly, and your eyes landed on a tall figure standing awkwardly just inside the room, his hand still resting on the door handle like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve come in. He looked nervous. His smile was small, but his eyes were filled with something else, something harder to define.

And something in you stirred.

You stared at him.

His face... it was like a name on the tip of your tongue. Like a dream you’d half forgotten the second you woke up. It pulled at something deep inside you, something quiet and buried.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said, shifting his weight. “I just... I heard about what happened, and I had to see you.”

Your heart picked up speed.

There was something about the way he said it. Something real. Something that rang true in a way nothing else had since you woke up in this hospital bed.

You blinked fast, overwhelmed.

“Do I... do I know you?” you asked quietly, the words cracking on their way out.

The boy stepped forward slowly, eyes flicking toward the puzzle pieces, then back to your face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “You do. Or... you did. I’m Jay.”

And then it hit you.

Like a rush of cold air after being underwater too long.

Jay.

You knew that name. You knew him.

It wasn’t everything not a full memory, not even close, but it was a spark. A sliver of light through the fog. You remembered the way he laughed, the way he talked too fast when he was excited. You remembered late nights and long walks, sitting on sidewalks and laughing at dumb things only the two of you found funny.

Your breath caught.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it was coming. Your hand reached up to cover your mouth as a sob built in your throat.

Jay’s face softened immediately, and before you could speak, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you gently, careful not to hurt you.

And you let him.

You let yourself sink into that hug, into the one familiar feeling you'd had in days. Your fingers clutched at the back of his shirt as you tried to ground yourself in the warmth of his embrace, your body shaking from emotion you didn’t have words for.

He didn’t say anything. He just held you. And for a brief, flickering second, the ache in your chest eased. You weren’t drowning anymore. Not in that moment.

He remembered you.
And, finally you remembered something.

-

Jay stayed with you for a long time.

Longer than any of the doctors or nurses expected, longer than any other visitor had. And you didn’t mind. In fact, for the first time since waking up in that sterile white room, you felt… okay. Not good, exactly. Not whole. But safe. Familiar. Like the world around you had finally cracked open just a little bit and let in a beam of warmth.

He sat in the chair beside your bed, his body slouched like he’d done it a hundred times before. He looked around like he hated the hospital, called it “soulless,” said it didn’t suit someone like you and you laughed at that. It was a genuine laugh. Small, but real. You didn’t even realize how long it had been since you’d felt one rise naturally from your chest.

Jay began to tell you stories. Small, scattered things. Fleeting moments from your childhood, things he said the two of you used to joke about. He mentioned how you used to dare each other to jump into freezing water at the lake near your old neighborhood. How you used to call his mom “Mom #2” and how she always made your favorite pancakes with too many chocolate chips. He told you about a time you’d both skipped school and gone to a matinee movie, just the two of you, stuffing your pockets with snacks and swearing the popcorn had never tasted better.

You didn’t remember the details, not really, but the way he told them made you believe they were true. Made you feel like somewhere, deep down, maybe those memories were still there. You smiled as he spoke, sometimes even laughed softly, and each time you did, he smiled wider. Like he was proud of himself. Like helping you feel something again meant something to him too.

Then, after a pause, his tone changed.

He hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the hallway outside. He leaned forward, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say. His voice lowered, gentled, but carried a certain edge beneath the softness.

He started talking about Minho.

“You might not remember him,” Jay said slowly, “but… maybe that’s for the best.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the name. Minho. It tugged at something in your chest, nothing solid, but not nothing either.

“He’s not who you think,” Jay continued. “Everyone acts like you two were some kind of perfect couple, but I was there. I saw what it was really like. He was bad news. Controlling. Jealous. He made you change cut people off, stop doing things you loved. You stopped talking to me because of him. Said he didn’t like the way I ‘got in the middle.’”

You blinked, the confusion settling heavy over your features.

“I’m not saying this to upset you,” he added, eyes searching yours. “I just want you to be careful. If you don’t remember him, don’t let anyone rush you into something you don’t feel. Don’t let them convince you of a version of the past that wasn’t real.”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared down at your hands, now limp in your lap. The warmth you’d felt earlier had started to drain away, replaced by a fog of doubt. Who was Minho to you, really? What did you forget?

Jay noticed your silence. He reached out and gently touched your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, giving your fingers a soft squeeze. “I didn’t mean to drop all that on you. I just… I care about you. I always have.”

And when he stood to leave, hours later, after the sun had shifted across the room and the nurses had come in twice to check your vitals, you felt a panic rise in your chest. You didn’t want him to go.

You didn’t want to be alone again.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” you asked, your voice small.

His eyes softened, but he shook his head. “I want to. I do. But they said visiting hours are over. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

And for some reason, that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes again. He stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and said gently, “Try to rest. Don’t think too much. Just take it one day at a time.”

You nodded.

But once he was gone, and the door clicked shut behind him, the room suddenly felt colder. And quieter. And your thoughts, once briefly still, began to race again.

Who was Minho?

And why did Jay’s words make something in your heart feel uneasy?

Minho was going crazy.

Not in the dramatic, exaggerated way people throw that word around. He was unraveling in real time, second by second, thread by thread, as the hands of the clock moved painfully slow.

It had been exactly three hours since Jay walked into your hospital room. Minho knew because he’d been counting. Watching the time tick by on the faded wall clock above the nurses’ station like it was mocking him. Every minute that passed with Jay in your room and not him made something deep inside his chest tighten.

He’d tried everything.

First, he asked the nurses calmly if he could go in, just for a moment. They said no. Said they’d been advised to limit your visitors for your “emotional recovery.” He reminded them, again that he wasn’t just anyone. That he’d been there every day since the accident. That he’d slept in those hard plastic chairs outside your room. That he’d sat by your bedside, talking to you even when you couldn’t respond. That he loved you.

They gave him tight smiles. Apologetic, tired ones. “We understand, Mr. Lee, but she needs time. She was very distressed last time. We’re following doctor’s orders.”

He didn’t yell. Not at first. He just clenched his jaw and walked away, pacing the hallway like a man trying to out-walk his own panic. But every so often, he returned. Softened. Pleaded. Asked a different nurse. Asked again. Just one of them to please, please check in on you, just make sure you were okay. That Jay wasn’t saying anything that might confuse or hurt you.

At some point, after the third nurse, the fourth, maybe the fifth, they stopped pretending to care. They brushed him off with distracted nods or curt reassurances. One even told him to go get some fresh air, that “hovering wasn’t helping anyone.”

He almost laughed at that. Hovering? He wanted to scream.

And then finally, finally, Jay emerged.

The door to your room swung open, and Minho’s heart immediately surged with hope. Maybe he could go in now. Maybe you were asking for him. Maybe you remembered.

But then he saw him.

Jay stepped into the hallway like he owned the place, his hands casually tucked in his coat pockets, that same smug, self-satisfied look on his face that Minho had hated since the very first time they met. The glint in his eye, the cocky tilt of his head, it was like he was silently daring Minho to say something. Like he wanted a reaction.

Minho stood frozen. His fists clenched so tight at his sides his knuckles turned white. His jaw locked. He could feel every part of his body screaming at him to move, to do something, to grab him, shove him against the wall, demand to know what he said to you. Because he knew Jay. Knew the games he played. Knew how good he was at twisting the truth, planting seeds of doubt.

He also knew how much Jay had always hated him.

Jay had never made a secret of it. From the very start, he’d done everything he could to tear the two of you apart. Told you Minho was bad for you. Controlling. Dangerous. Said things behind Minho’s back, things he couldn’t prove but could feel were poisoning you slowly. He'd always smiled to your face but looked at Minho like he was a threat. And now, with you vulnerable, confused, unable to remember, he finally had the chance to rewrite history. To plant his own version of the past in your head.

Minho could see it in the way Jay looked at him now. Like he’d won.

Jay gave a small, mocking nod as he walked past, brushing just close enough to Minho’s shoulder that it could’ve been an accident, but wasn’t. And Minho… Minho had to dig his nails into his palm to keep from doing something reckless. Something he’d regret.

He didn’t care what the nurses said anymore.

He needed to see you. Needed to look into your eyes and hear your voice. To remind you of the truth, your truth and not whatever lies Jay had just spent three hours feeding you.

Minho waited until Jay disappeared down the hallway before moving.

He lingered just out of view behind the corner of the hallway, where the nurses wouldn’t notice him, where the monitors wouldn’t give away his presence. He was done being brushed off, done being treated like he was some stranger hovering around a patient who didn’t want him. Because he knew the truth, he wasn’t a stranger. He was yours.

He had spent every day since the accident aching to be by your side. But for hours now, he had paced, waited, begged just for a chance to see you. And now, Jay was finally gone. The coast was clear. The nurses were distracted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, your door stood slightly open. Like fate had finally cracked a window in the thick, suffocating wall that had kept him out.

He moved quickly, quietly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he swore it echoed through the floor.

As he stepped into the room, the soft click of the door closing behind him made you look up from a puzzle on your tray.

The moment your eyes landed on him, something shifted.

Minho froze.

You were staring at him, not with recognition, not with warmth, but with the same look you’d had the first time you saw him after waking up: confusion. Hesitation. That faint edge of alarm. It hit him like a punch to the chest. He didn’t even get a word out before he saw your hand move not toward him, but toward the red call button clipped to the side of your bed.

His instincts kicked in. He stepped forward quickly and reached out, not to hurt, not to scare, just to stop you. His hand gently covered yours, just before your finger could press it.

"Please," he breathed out, his voice cracking already. “Just… please. Just give me a minute. One minute. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stared at him, your lips parted but no words coming out. Your hand under his didn’t move, but you didn’t pull away either. You were trying to place him, he could see it in your eyes. Like your brain was flipping through the pages of a book that had been burned halfway through, trying to find a sentence that made sense.

He pulled his hand back, slowly. Raised both palms, like he was surrendering.

“I know you don’t remember me,” he said softly. “I know I’m just some… stranger in your eyes. I get it. I saw it the second you looked at me. But I’m not a stranger. I’m not.”

You were still silent. He didn’t even know if you were hearing him, really hearing him, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming out now. They’d been bottled up for too long.

“I’m Minho,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m the guy who’s been here every day. I’ve been sitting outside that door since the day they brought you here. I slept in that chair—” he gestured to the hard plastic seat by your bed “—because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone. Not even for a second.”

Your expression didn’t change, and that broke him a little more.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

His throat tightened, and he looked down, trying to blink back the sting in his eyes, but it was no use. The tears came. Quiet, helpless tears. The kind that didn’t come from just sadness, but from fear. Fear that you were slipping through his fingers. That he’d already lost you, not to death, but to forgetting.

“I don’t know what Jay said to you,” he said, barely able to speak through the lump in his throat, “but whatever it was… whatever he told you… it’s not the whole story. Please don’t let him be the one to define us.”

You watched him. Still silent. Still unsure. Your eyes were softening, but you didn’t speak, and he didn’t push you.

“I just want a chance,” he murmured. “To help you remember. To remind you who we were. Who we are. Even if you never remember, even if it takes forever, I’ll be here.”

He let the silence settle then, stepping back just enough to give you space, but close enough that you could still feel the weight of his presence. His heart was in his hands now, and all he could do was wait.

When you didn’t respond, didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even blink for what felt like an eternity, Minho felt something inside him shatter.

He had come in here, heart in his hands, stripped raw with desperation and grief, hoping that something in you would remember him. Hoping your silence meant your mind was turning over something familiar, that maybe, maybe some part of you was starting to click into place.

But you just… stared.

Like he was nobody. Like he hadn’t spent years building a life with you. Like he hadn’t held you on the nights you couldn’t sleep, memorized the rhythms of your laugh, or traced every line of your face a thousand times. You stared at him like he was just another person in a room full of machines and white walls.

And he couldn’t take it.

He wiped at his cheeks roughly, turning away so you wouldn’t see the full force of it, the way his face twisted as he tried to swallow the hurt. He muttered something under his breath, barely audible but bitter. A curse word. Anger at himself, at the situation, at fate for putting the person he loved most in front of him only to make her forget who he even was.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” he said, voice flat now, hollowed out by pain. “Maybe you’re better off without me if you really don’t see anything left. If Jay already got in your head, maybe I was stupid to think—”

He turned, hand reaching for the doorknob. He was about to walk out, to disappear the way everyone seemed to want him to.

But then, your voice cut through the quiet.

“Wait.”

It was soft. Hesitant. But enough.

He froze mid-step, his fingers resting against the cool metal of the door handle, shoulders rigid as he slowly turned back around to face you.

You looked nervous. Your eyes flickered between his and your own hands, which were now fidgeting with the edge of the blanket in your lap. You swallowed before speaking again, voice still unsure but steadier.

“Jay… he told me things. About you. About us.”

Minho stayed still, his gaze locked on you, not daring to interrupt.

“He said…” you hesitated, trying to remember the exact words, “that we were together. But that you weren’t good for me. That we were toxic. He said you… made me feel small. That you made me cry a lot. That I changed when I was with you, and not in a good way.”

You looked at him now, not with confusion, but something else. Something bordering on hurt. Vulnerability.

“I don’t remember those things,” you said. “But I don’t remember not feeling that way either. So how do I know what’s true?”

Minho’s jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t lash out. He didn’t defend himself with rage or denial. Instead, he just looked down, breathing through his nose, composing himself before speaking.

You continued, quieter now. “I want to believe you. I really do. But right now… I believe Jay. Because he’s the only one who’s reminded me of anything. He made me laugh. He told me stories I could almost remember. And you… you just make me feel confused. Scared.”

Minho winced like you’d hit him, but still he didn’t walk away.

Then, you said the words that changed everything.

“So prove him wrong.”

The room went still again, but this time it was charged. Like the air had shifted.

Your voice steadied with the weight of your decision. “If everything he said is a lie, then prove it. Prove to me that I wasn’t wrong to love you. Prove that I didn’t make a mistake.”

Minho stared at you for a long time. His heart still ached, but now there was something else, something sparking behind his eyes. A flicker of hope.

He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.

“I will,” he said, voice thick but firm. “Whatever it takes. I’ll remind you of every good thing. Every moment that mattered. And I’ll do it without pushing, without rushing. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. But I won’t stop until you see the truth.”

His expression softened. “Because I know what we had. And I know what kind of man I am when I’m with you. That’s what I’m going to show you.”

You nodded, unsure of what you were agreeing to, but willing to let him try.

And for the first time since everything changed, there was a thread, thin, fragile, but real connecting the two of you again.

The morning sun filtered gently through the half-closed blinds of your hospital room, casting soft gold streaks across the floor. You had barely slept, your mind buzzing from the night before, Minho’s visit, his tears, his voice as he pleaded for you to remember him, to trust him. Something about the way he looked at you had stayed with you long after he left. It felt too intense to be fake. Too familiar to be made up.

Still, when Jay showed up early, carrying a takeout tray of warm breakfast and that easy, familiar smile of his, you felt the same uneasiness. He looked like a piece of a memory you couldn’t quite reach but almost could. The way he greeted you, cheerful, teasing, like you’d just seen him yesterday, felt grounding. It made the confusion from the night before quiet down a bit.

“I brought your favorite,” he said, holding up the tray with a dramatic grin as he set it down on your tray table. “Okay, well, at least what I think used to be your favorite. I might be wrong. But I’m also usually right.”

You smiled small, but genuine and he noticed, clearly pleased with himself. He helped you unwrap the meal, cutting pieces where you struggled, holding your water cup steady. It wasn’t the most graceful moment, but he filled the quiet with light jokes and soft reassurances. You laughed once, softly. He smiled wider.

Then, between bites, you spoke.

“Minho came by last night.”

Jay’s hands stilled.

You didn’t notice right away. You were focused on your fork, pushing around a piece of fruit.

“He just… showed up. The nurses didn’t know he came in. He said he loves me.”

The silence between you and Jay stretched suddenly. When you finally glanced up, his face had changed. He was no longer smiling.

Jay set the cup in his hand down slowly, his eyes scanning yours as if trying to read how deeply you meant what you were saying. “He said he loves you?”

You nodded. “I don’t remember everything. I still don’t. But something about the way he said it… felt real.”

Jay leaned back slightly, his mouth tightening into a line. His voice dropped, no longer as playful as it had been just moments ago.

“I told you, he’s not what he says he is,” he said. “Minho might look convincing, but he’s good at that. That’s the problem.”

You furrowed your brow, unsure.

“He said he’d prove it,” you murmured. “That he’d show me what we had.”

Jay sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. “I didn’t want to do this unless I had to,” he said, unlocking the screen, “but I can’t sit here and let him manipulate you again. Not after everything I watched him put you through.”

You watched as he tapped a few times on the screen before turning it toward you.

There were screenshots, texts. They looked like messages from Minho. Angry words, frustration, accusations. “You never listen to me,” one said. Another: “I’m not doing this anymore, you're impossible.”

You stared at them, trying to make sense of the harsh tone. You didn’t know enough to understand the context, but it felt like something. Like a warning. Maybe Jay had been right.

Then he showed you a photo. You weren’t in it, but it was of Minho, arms around another girl at what looked like a party, dim lighting and loud energy caught in the background. Jay didn’t even explain it; he just let it sit there between you.

“You still want to believe he’s the kind of person who’ll prove anything?” he asked softly, but there was an edge under it. “He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself.”

Your stomach churned. You didn’t know if the texts were real. You didn’t know if that girl in the picture was just a friend. But Jay sounded so sure. And you didn’t remember anything to fight what he was saying. All you had were emotions, and right now, they were tangled and contradicting.

You looked down, quietly.

Jay noticed, leaning forward a little. “I’m not trying to control what you do. But I’m your friend. I care about you. I’ve always been the one who told you the truth, even when it hurt.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to say.

Outside your room, the hallway stirred faintly with movement. Unseen by you or Jay, Minho had arrived, earlier than expected, just like he promised himself. And he had heard just enough to stop him cold in his tracks.

-

Minho stood frozen just outside the doorway, the hospital corridor quiet around him except for the low hum of distant monitors and footsteps. He hadn’t expected Jay to be there again, hadn’t expected that.

He had arrived early, just like he told himself he would, carrying a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Inside were pieces of your shared life: polaroid photos from your first trip together, a worn hoodie he knew you used to steal from him when you couldn’t sleep, a playlist he'd burned onto an old CD because you once said you missed mixtapes. He was ready. He had come here to remind you who he was, who you both were.

But now, as he stood just out of view and listened to Jay’s voice, quiet but sharp, digging into your uncertainty, Minho felt his stomach turn.

"He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself."

Minho’s fingers clenched around the strap of the duffel bag.

Jay’s voice dripped with conviction, too confident, too rehearsed. And the worst part was, you weren’t arguing. You weren’t correcting him. You weren’t defending Minho at all. You were silent.

That silence did something to him.

Minho could feel the heat rising in his chest, shame, frustration, fear, all wrapped tight together. His jaw tensed, his throat burning. He wanted to burst in, tell you Jay was lying, that he had twisted every story, poisoned everything good between you. But he knew how that would look. Sound. Emotional, desperate, unstable. Exactly how Jay wanted him to look.

He backed away from the door, slowly. His breath was uneven, and he could feel his hands shaking as he tried to keep himself calm. This wasn’t just about you not remembering him anymore. This was about someone else rewriting the memories you did still have. Someone you used to trust. Jay wasn’t just some ex-friend trying to help. He was rewriting history while Minho had to wait behind locked doors.

The weight of that was unbearable.

Minho turned and walked away from the door before either of you could see him, his mind racing, pulse hammering in his ears. He made it to the end of the hall and leaned heavily against the wall, his bag sliding off his shoulder.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a breath that shook too hard to hide. You didn’t even look at him like you once had. You were starting to look at Jay that way instead.

He hated him. He hated him for being in that room. For sounding so sure. For smiling while you forgot everything Minho had fought to build with you.

But more than anything, Minho was terrified, terrified that this time, Jay might actually succeed in taking you away.

-

Minho couldn’t back down.

His chest burned with every step as he marched back toward your room, the echoes of Jay’s voice bouncing off the walls of his skull like static he couldn’t shut off. His hands were fists, white-knuckled, the strap of the duffel now hanging loose at his side, forgotten. He didn’t even remember dropping it.

All he could think about was you sitting there, looking at Jay like he was someone you could trust. Like he was the one who had stayed, who had held your hand during sleepless nights, who had loved you through every breakdown, every high and low. Like he was the one who knew how you liked your coffee, how you couldn’t fall asleep unless someone rubbed your back in slow circles. Like he was the one who had never left you, not once.

The door was cracked open.

He didn’t hesitate.

He pushed it open so hard it hit the wall with a thud.

Both you and Jay jumped, startled and before Jay could even rise to his feet, Minho was on him.

He stormed in like a wave breaking through a dam, grabbing Jay by the front of his hoodie and yanking him up so hard his chair scraped backward across the linoleum. Jay stumbled straight into Minho’s chest, caught in the grip of hands that had been trembling just seconds earlier.

“You’re done talking to her,” Minho growled, voice low and shaking with barely contained fury. “You’re done lying to her.”

Jay didn’t react the way Minho thought he would. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t shout. Instead, his lips curled faintly, not into a full smile, but just enough. Enough for Minho to see it. Just enough to feel sick.

Then, with the theatrical subtlety of someone who had rehearsed this very moment, Jay turned his face toward you. His expression shifted instantly eyes wide, breath shallow, voice trembling with false vulnerability.

“See what I mean?” Jay said, loud enough for you to hear. “This is what I’m talking about. This is how he is. You think I’m making it up? Look at him.”

Minho froze.

His eyes snapped to you. You were sitting up in bed, the half-eaten breakfast tray still beside you. You were staring at him, not scared exactly, but unsure. Shaken. Like someone who had just watched two parts of their fractured life slam together with no warning.

Minho’s grip loosened.

His hands fell away from Jay’s hoodie, and Jay took a dramatic step back, brushing himself off with an exaggerated tremble in his fingers. His eyes never left you, like he was waiting for you to flinch or speak or believe.

But it was Minho who looked devastated.

His chest was rising and falling too fast now, not from rage but from panic. His whole expression crumpled in front of you like a paper burned at the edges. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t come in here to make things worse. He had come to fight for you, but not like this.

He turned to you fully now, his voice cracking when he spoke.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I just… I heard him, and I lost it. I lost you, and now he’s trying to take what little I have left.”

He looked so different then, no longer the angry, storming version of himself that had burst through the door. He looked like a man barely holding it together. Like someone who had spent every second loving you, only to be shut out when you needed love the most.

And yet, he didn’t step closer. He didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, waiting for you to decide what you believed.

Jay didn’t wait a second.

The moment Minho stepped back, just far enough for the tension to hang, thick and bitter in the air Jay straightened himself up, smoothing out his hoodie like it had actually been disturbed. His smirk had vanished again, replaced once more by that carefully measured, concerned expression he knew worked on people. The same one he used on teachers when he was younger, on your parents when he wanted their trust, on you now that he had your attention again.

He gave a subtle glance your way soft, comforting, almost protective. Like Minho was the threat and he was the shield.

Then he moved, stepping slightly in front of you not too obviously, just enough to make it seem like instinct. Like reflex. Like he was trying to keep you safe.

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made Minho look even more volatile in comparison.

“This is exactly what I was trying to explain to you,” Jay said, shaking his head like he hated being right. “You don’t remember what he’s like when he gets like this. You never liked seeing him angry, remember? I told you he was bad for you.”

He turned to you fully now, crouching down just enough so he could meet your eyes on the same level. His tone softened even more.

“I know it’s confusing,” he said, carefully, like he was walking you through a lie he’d practiced a hundred times. “Everything’s messed up in your head right now. I get it. But you have to trust what you feel. That sick feeling in your gut when he stormed in? That means something.”

Minho opened his mouth to speak, but Jay didn’t give him the chance.

“I’m not trying to turn you against him,” Jay said quickly, eyes still on you. “I’m just reminding you what’s real. You were scared of him once. I was there. I saw it. He wasn’t good to you. Not really.”

That last part hit Minho like a slap, his fists clenched again, not to strike, but to hold back the scream in his throat. He wanted to yell that it was a lie, that you were never afraid of him, that everything Jay was saying was calculated, twisted, wrong.

But Jay’s trap was already set. Calm versus chaos. Friend versus partner. His words against Minho’s silence.

And Jay, he didn’t need to win the whole war. Just this one moment. Just enough to plant the seed of doubt.

So he placed a hand gently over yours on the blanket. Softly. Casually. And looked you straight in the eye.

“I’m just trying to protect you,” he said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And Minho watched you, watched your face, your eyes, your hands under Jay’s as if he could still find the version of you that remembered.

Because Jay hadn’t won. Not yet. Not completely.

Minho stood there with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his other hand gripped tightly around the strap like it was the only thing holding him together.

He hadn’t come back that morning expecting a perfect reunion, he wasn’t that naive, but he hadn’t expected this either. Jay, already in your room like he belonged there. Jay, sitting at your side, feeding you bites of breakfast like it was normal. Jay, looking at him with that smug little grin barely hidden beneath faux concern. Like he’d already won.

Minho couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t watch someone else fill the space he’d been fighting to stay in. He’d spent the whole night digging through old things photos, playlists, that sweatshirt you always stole, things he thought might help trigger your memory, things he’d wanted to bring to you. To help you remember them. Remember him.

But instead, all he could do was stand there and watch Jay plant more lies in your mind. And you, you didn’t even know they were lies. You were just trying to survive inside your own confusion.

He lowered his head, letting his hand fall from the strap. He felt heavy. Tired in a way he hadn't even let himself admit until now.

“I’m going,” Minho muttered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He didn’t look at you. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

You looked up, surprised. You hadn’t expected him to give up, not so suddenly, not when it was clear how much this meant to him. Jay didn’t say anything at first, just leaned back in the chair with a sigh, already satisfied.

“You should let him go,” Jay finally said under his breath, just loud enough for the silence to catch it. “He’s already done enough.”

Minho stiffened, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t yell. He turned toward the door with heavy steps, his hand brushing against the knob.

That’s when you said it.

“Min.”

Just one word. Just that nickname. Small, almost unsure, but the second it passed your lips, it was like the entire room stopped breathing.

Minho froze.

Slowly, he turned his head, not all the way, just enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes wide, almost disbelieving.

You saw it on his face immediately. Shock. Pain. Hope. All of it tangled together like a wound trying to heal too fast.

You didn’t even mean to say it. It had just slipped out, like it had been waiting quietly in the back of your mind for the right moment to rise. You didn’t remember everything. But something about the way he looked when he stood there, his shoulders hunched, that duffel bag barely clinging to him, his voice cracking, something about it broke your heart in a way that felt familiar.

Jay stiffened. His jaw clenched.

Minho turned fully now, his eyes locked on you. “What did you just say?”

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. “Min…”

It felt real in your mouth. Natural. Like it always had been.

Minho took one slow step back into the room. His duffel bag slipped off his shoulder and hit the floor with a soft thud.His eyes were glassy, his breathing unsteady.

“You used to call me that,” he whispered. “You used to call me Min. Everyday.”

Jay stood abruptly, suddenly aware that the atmosphere had shifted. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said quickly. “It’s just a nickname—”

“Shut up,” Minho snapped, not even looking at him. His eyes stayed on you.

“I didn’t think you remembered anything,” he said, voice barely holding together. “But maybe… maybe something's coming back.”

Your heart beat faster. You didn’t know why you said it, but now that you had, you didn’t want to take it back.

And Minho saw it. That flicker of recognition. The sliver of light trying to break through the dark.

It started like a whisper in the back of your mind.

As soon as the word “Min” left your mouth and you saw the way his eyes lit up, wet, wide, desperate, you felt something inside you shift. Something warm and painful and real. It didn’t come in a rush, didn’t hit you like a bolt of lightning the way people said memory sometimes did. It was softer than that. Like the faint flicker of a candle in a pitch-dark room. A glow you hadn’t seen in so long you forgot it was even there.

Minho took a careful step toward you, his expression so gentle, as if any wrong move might scare the moment away. Jay was saying something beside you, probably trying to pull your attention back, but you didn’t hear it. You were looking at Minho.

“I… I think I remember something,” you whispered, more to yourself than to anyone else. You swallowed, and your hands gripped the edge of your blanket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “It was raining. And I didn’t have anywhere to go. My family, my mom said I couldn’t come back. She locked the door. Jay told me it was my fault, that I ruined everything, and I, I didn’t know where else to go. I felt so stupid.”

Minho’s breath caught in his throat. You could see the way his body tensed at your words. He knew exactly what you were remembering.

“I was soaking wet,” you continued. “It was late. I called you… we hadn’t even been together that long. I don’t even know why I called. I just—something told me you’d answer. You told me to come over, and when I did, you were already waiting outside. You didn’t say anything when you saw me. You just… held me.”

The memory unfolded like a fragile piece of paper being smoothed out. You remembered the warmth of his arms. The scent of his hoodie. The way he kept brushing your wet hair out of your face, even though you were shivering and crying too hard to even speak. And then later, curled up on the old pull-out couch in his apartment, when you finally managed to get the words out, how he’d looked at you.

And said, “You don’t have to earn love. Not here. Not with me.”

“I remember,” you said again, your voice cracking. “You gave me dry clothes and made tea even though you didn’t know how. You burned the first batch.”

Minho let out a short, broken laugh. He was already wiping his eyes before you even finished speaking.

“I did,” he said, voice thick. “I left the bag in for twenty minutes. You still drank it.”

“Because I didn’t want to be rude.”

“No, it’s because you were trying not to cry again.”

Your bottom lip trembled, and you didn’t even realize when a tear slipped down your cheek.

Then Minho suddenly knelt down and set his duffel bag on the chair beside your bed. He unzipped it with a hand that was shaking now for a different reason. He rummaged through it for a few seconds before he pulled something out, a crumpled gray hoodie.

Your eyes widened. You knew that hoodie. Your fingers itched just looking at it.

“I kept it,” Minho said, his voice soft. “You used to wear it every night for the first few weeks you stayed with me. Even after we moved in together. I found it in the bottom of your drawer. It still smells like you. I brought it… just in case.”

You reached out for it, your hand hesitant at first, but then firmer, more certain. When your fingers touched the worn fabric, another memory sparked, curling into yourself in the corner of his couch, that same hoodie swallowing your frame, while Minho sat beside you, holding your hand and talking you through your breathing.

Minho saw the recognition in your face and gently helped you hold the hoodie in your lap. He crouched beside the bed, both hands resting on the mattress as he looked up at you.

“I didn’t just take you in,” he said quietly. “I wanted you there. You didn’t ruin anything. You saved me too. And I’ve been trying to hold on to you ever since.”

Behind you, Jay shifted in his seat, but neither of you looked at him. His presence seemed to fade as the moment between you and Minho deepened.

“You really said that?” you asked, tears streaming now.

Minho nodded, his own eyes just as glassy. “Every word.”

And even though your mind still felt like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, one thing suddenly became very clear: Minho hadn’t just been someone you loved.

He was home.

Jay shifted in the corner of the room, his chair scraping faintly against the hospital floor, the sound sharp in the silence that had settled after you finished speaking to Minho. His eyes flicked from your tear-streaked face to the hoodie in your lap, then to Minho’s crouched form beside your bed. You could see the way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His whole body screamed discomfort not guilt, not regret, but defensiveness. Like a man losing control over a story he’d worked hard to rewrite.

He stood up.

“You can’t seriously believe all that,” Jay said, voice low but pointed. “It’s been months. You’ve been through a trauma. Your memory isn’t reliable. You don’t even know if what you’re remembering is—”

“Stop.”

Your voice cut through the room sharper than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. Jay flinched slightly, blinking like he couldn’t believe you’d raise your voice at him. You sat up a little straighter, hoodie still gripped in your lap, and looked directly at him, really looked. For the first time in days, something in your gaze felt solid. Anchored.

Jay’s mouth opened like he wanted to interrupt, but you kept going.

“I remember when everything fell apart. When my mom told me to leave. When I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. You were the first person I called.”

You paused, swallowing.

The image of yourself standing outside his apartment door came rushing back with more clarity than you were ready for, the rain slamming down so hard it felt like it was trying to punch through your skin. The thunder, the way your phone screen had gone blurry from the water, how your fingers had started to go numb from the cold.

“I called you. I begged you to let me stay for just one night. You answered the door, saw me standing there soaking wet, and you looked me in the eye and told me I’d made my choice.”

Jay’s face paled, but he didn’t speak.

“You said, ‘You wanted Minho so bad? Go ask him for help.’ And then you shut the door.”

Minho, still crouched beside your bed, slowly turned his head toward Jay with a look that was anything but forgiving.

Jay’s lips parted again, trying to find something to say, but you weren’t done.

“You let me stand in the pouring rain,” you said, voice cracking just a little at the edges now. “You knew I had nowhere else to go. And you punished me for being with someone who actually cared about me.”

Jay's expression flickered, his smugness cracked for the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed. And all he could muster was a weak, “That’s not how it happened.”

“It is how it happened,” you replied, without hesitation. “And the fact that you came here, pretending like I could trust you after that… that you twisted everything just so I’d forget him…”

You shook your head slowly.

“You don’t get to play savior, Jay. Not after abandoning me when I needed you the most.”

Silence fell heavy between the three of you. Jay looked like he wanted to argue, to find a thread to pull so the truth would unravel again, but there were none left. You had your piece. The memory, fractured though it had been, was real. You felt it in your chest like a bruise that had finally begun to heal.

Minho didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His hand quietly found yours on the bed, and you let it. No hesitation this time.

Jay stood there for a long moment, eyes bouncing between you both, before he scoffed under his breath,, more out of disbelief than anger and turned toward the door.

You didn’t stop him.

For the first time since the accident, Minho felt like he could breathe.

It wasn’t just a metaphor, his lungs physically expanded with the deepest breath he’d taken in days, maybe weeks. His shoulders, always tense lately like they were holding up the weight of the entire world, finally relaxed, even if only slightly. There was a softness in your expression that hadn’t been there before, a quiet kind of trust peeking through the fog of confusion and hurt. And for him, that was everything.

He exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief, as if he had been holding that breath in ever since you forgot him. Ever since you looked into his eyes in that hospital room and saw a stranger.

But now, the faint curve of your lips, the gentle smile you gave him told him that maybe, just maybe, you were beginning to see him again. Not just as a person, but as your person.

You tilted your head toward him, voice soft, curious. “What else did you bring?”

Minho’s eyes lit up.

He immediately reached for the worn black duffel bag he had placed beside your hospital bed, he’d been dragging it around since the night he left to gather everything he could find that might help you remember. His fingers moved gently, reverently, like he was handling something sacred as he lifted it onto your lap, careful not to jostle you too much.

“This,” he said, unzipping it, “is basically our entire life in a bag.”

He opened it fully, revealing a chaotic but heartfelt assortment of items: Polaroids, little keepsakes, your favorite hoodie of his (the one you used to steal every other week), and even a coffee mug that had a tiny chip on the rim, something you always teased him for never replacing.

He pulled out the first photo, its edges slightly curled. It was a candid one, taken at the beach on your first trip together. You were mid-laugh, wind tangling your hair, Minho’s arm looped lazily around your waist. He handed it to you, watching carefully for your reaction.

“I took this one the day you said the sea always made you feel like you belonged to something bigger,” he murmured. “We got sunburned that day because we forgot sunscreen. I remember you yelled at me for it and then made me rub aloe vera on your back like twenty times.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, and his heart swelled.

One by one, he pulled out more, A charm bracelet with a single initial, M, you had bought it at a market and insisted on wearing it every day, even though the chain was barely holding together. Your shared apartment’s spare key, taped to a sticky note with your handwriting on it: “Don’t lose this, dummy.” And then finally, a notebook. Minho opened it and flipped to the dog-eared pages.

“This was your dream journal,” he said quietly. “You used to wake me up at like 2 AM just to write down the weird dreams you had. Sometimes they were scary, sometimes they made no sense, but you never wanted to forget them. You said they meant something. That all dreams do.”

You took the notebook slowly, running your fingers over the cover like it was a relic from another life. And in a way, it was.

“You kept all this?” you whispered.

“I kept everything,” he said. “Even the smallest things. Because you never know what will mean something later. What might bring you back.”

For a long time, you didn’t say anything. You just looked through the contents of the duffel bag, piece by piece, and with each item, something in your face softened. The fog hadn’t cleared completely, but there were pockets of clarity now, glimpses of the life you’d had, the love that still waited patiently for you to remember it.

Minho didn’t rush you. He just sat beside your bed, one hand loosely holding yours, hope flickering steadily in his chest now.

He had brought your life back to you. And this time, you didn’t push it away.

Minho stayed with you the entire time, watching with quiet devotion as you sifted through the pieces of the life you had forgotten.

Each item was a breadcrumb leading you somewhere deeper, somewhere softer, toward a version of yourself that still felt far away but not impossible to reach. You didn’t rush. You turned every photo gently in your hands, paused over every note, reread every little caption or scribbled doodle. You could feel the weight of them, not just the physical weight, but the emotional one. These weren’t just things. They were echoes. Proof of something real.

And Minho never said a word. He didn’t press you or try to force anything. He just stayed.

Eventually, the silence settled around you both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that felt like safety, the kind that could only exist between two people who didn’t need to fill every space with words. His head had slowly tipped back against the chair, his arms folded loosely across his chest, legs stretched out in front of him. His breathing had gone soft and steady, and you glanced at him through the corner of your eye.

He’d fallen asleep.

You stared at him for a long while, taking him in again, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks, the slight crease between his brows that made it seem like he never fully relaxed, not even in sleep. There was a gentleness to him in that moment that tugged at something in your chest. You had this strange feeling like you’d seen him sleep like this before.

And then it hit you.

The memory didn’t return like lightning. It came in quietly, softly, almost like a dream.

You remembered a night, not too long after you’d first moved in with him. It had been raining. You were sitting on the floor in his bedroom, your knees pulled to your chest, trying to keep yourself from falling apart. The reality of what had happened, being kicked out by the people you once called family, losing your home, your stability had hit you like a tidal wave. You remembered how you had been trying so hard to stay strong for days. But that night, you broke.

And Minho… Minho didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to tell you that it would all be okay. He didn’t offer platitudes or promises he couldn’t keep. Instead, he’d knelt down beside you and just… held you.

He’d pulled a hoodie over your head, one of his, because you were shivering. He wrapped you in his arms like a fortress and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

And you had cried in his arms that night, not because you were weak, but because you were finally safe enough to fall apart.

The memory washed over you like warmth, like light breaking through after weeks of storm.

You looked back down at the things in your lap, and your fingers found the exact hoodie from that night, the one he had wrapped around you like a second skin. You held it against your chest, letting yourself feel every layer of the moment return. The rain. The ache. His voice.

And for the first time since the accident, the memory didn’t feel like a puzzle piece struggling to fit. It felt like something that had always been there. You had just forgotten where to look.

You turned back to Minho, still sleeping in the chair beside you, and whispered so quietly that only the stillness could hear:

“I remember.”

Minho stirred awake slowly, his body stiff from sleeping upright in the hospital chair, neck craned slightly to the side. He blinked a few times, disoriented, until his eyes adjusted to the soft morning light spilling in through the blinds. The rustling of the blanket over your legs caught his attention, and when he looked up fully, his breath caught.

You were watching him.

There was something different in your expression this time gentler, steadier. Your eyes weren’t clouded by confusion or hesitation. They were clearer, like something inside had clicked into place, even if just partially.

“Hey,” he said groggily, straightening up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

You shook your head and gave him a small, knowing smile. “It’s okay. You were here.”

That alone made his chest tighten. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, searching your face like he was still afraid it might disappear.

Then you spoke again quietly, but firmly. “Minho… I remember.”

His heart stopped.

You saw the way his entire body froze, his mouth parted like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly. Before he could ask, before he could even breathe, you continued.

“I remembered that night,” you said softly, your fingers running along the edge of the hoodie in your lap, the one he’d given you all that time ago. “That night I stayed with you. After everything happened with my family… with Jay.”

His throat bobbed, overwhelmed.

“I remembered the rain. I remembered standing outside Jay’s place soaked and scared, calling him and him hanging up on me. And I remembered you, Minho. You opened the door to your apartment and didn’t even ask me why I was there. You just… pulled me inside and told me I wasn’t alone.”

Minho’s hands curled into fists in his lap. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to not break down right then and there.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as I woke up this morning,” you added, voice faltering, “but Jay got here first. And I— I didn’t want to say anything with him in the room. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust him. So… I waited. I pretended I didn’t remember. Because I wanted to say it to you. First.”

Minho let out a choked sound, like something between a laugh and a sob. “You remembered,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “You remembered.”

You reached out and took his hand, your grip still tentative, still cautious, but it was yours. And it was real.

“My memories are still… fuzzy,” you admitted, “like I’m walking through fog. But I remember you. I remember how you made me feel. Safe. Seen. Loved.”

Tears welled up in Minho’s eyes again, but this time he didn’t look away. He let them fall, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against your joined hands. “That’s all I need,” he whispered. “I’ll remind you of the rest. No rush. Just… let me stay. Let me be here.”

You smiled, heart aching with something so full it nearly brought you to tears. “I never wanted you to go. Even when I didn’t remember, some part of me missed you.”

Minho lifted his head, looking at you with awe, like you were a miracle he still couldn’t quite believe had returned. “You came back to me,” he whispered.

“No,” you corrected gently. “You never left me.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that there were still gaps in your memory or questions left unanswered. What mattered was that the one person who had held you through the darkness was still here, steady as ever, ready to walk you home, one step at a time.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

a/n: ending was a little rushed i’m sorry 🙃. “jay” is someone i made up, not an idol 👍

[permanent taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

[TSYL taglist @ari-hwanggg]

[seymour-the-house-is-on-fire]

PLZ PLZ PLZ PLZ DRAW MORE OF MARILYN MONROE MR. RING-A-DING HE'S SO DAMN PRETTY AND I FEEL LIKE MY HEAD IS GONNA EXPLODE I'M PRAAAAAAAYING ON MY KNEES RIGHT NOW

There you go! I know this isn't much cause I got a lot of work to do. Probably going to make more when I'll have the time

[starleska]

if anyone is in doubt that Mr. Ring-A-Ding | Lux Imperator has made it as a Tumblr Sexyman: i have never, ever in my life, in over a decade of being on this godforsaken site, seen such a proliferation of OC/self-insert creation specifically for the purposes of shipping with a character in such a short space of time 😳💖 i was there when Undertale was released and the love for Sans went nuclear. i was there when Welcome Home blew up and Wally Darling got every possible variant under the sun. but i'm telling you: i've never seen so much selfship and OC x Canon made so very quickly for a new character before!!! it's so sweet and i love every single one!!! 😭💖💖💖

[dailynnt]

NO MERCY

𖥔 Summary: You are a strong and intelligent, a princess of a mafia clan who has been fighting for years against Jungkook, a dangerous and powerful enemy. Your enmity is mixed with tension and mutual desire. After you ruin an important deal for him, Jungkook kidnaps you to settle the score. An emotional confrontation erupts between you, where the power play borders on a dangerous attraction. But you both know that the first one to give in is the loser.

𖥔 Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

𖥔 Age restrictions: 18+

𖥔 Size: one shot (7.6 k words)

𖥔 Tags: enemies to lovers, mafia au, domJungkook/subReader, stockholm syndrome, dark romance, kidnapping, emotional tension, obsession, possessive behaviour, dangerous love, protectiveness, forced proximity, broken characters, betrayal, manipulation, slow burn, angst with a hint of love, toxic romance, redemption arc, intense connection, forbidden feelings, survival, rough tenderness, detailed smut, sex, unprotected sex, table sex, mirror sex, possessiveness, defiance

𖥔 From author: Hello dear Army 💜 I wrote a new story in the style of the mafia au, which as you know I love very much 🖤 I came up with this story while writing chapter 14 “One night…” (this is how it happens when in the middle of the creative process a scene for a separate story appears in my head) and I decided to write it. I really hope you like it 🥺 A big request for those who will read and at some point you don't like my fanfic, or it seems illogical, not interesting or too fictional - just pass by. Respect the effort, time and resources I have spent for those people who will really appreciate my efforts. I sincerely thank EVERYONE who likes this fic, and EVERYONE who likes my work, I appreciate each of you for the weight of gold 🥺😭❤️‍🔥

𖥔 Dedication: I want to dedicate this work to you my BIGGEST LOVE @curse-of-art 🖤 For your support, endless love, faith in me, in the love of my version of JK 🤭 I love you with all my big heart ❤️‍🔥

𖥔 Warning: This story contains dark themes that may be triggering for some readers like table sex, mirror sex, possessiveness, defiance/bratty behavior, stockholm syndrome, and kidnapping. Please read with caution. If you are under 18, please refrain from reading this story. Also, English is not my first language, so you may notice some grammar mistakes or awkward sentence structures. I appreciate your understanding and kindness 🙂‍↕️

You have never asked for mercy. And you certainly weren't going to beg for it now.

Some time ago, you woke up and realized that you were in a dimly lit hotel room. It seemed to be a presidential suite, and you probably knew who it belonged to.

You were sitting tied to a chair, your hands tied behind your back, and a sneer playing on your lips. You knew who was coming. You knew this meeting was inevitable.

Jungkook entered the room quietly, but you felt him before you saw him. His presence was like an impending storm, like an electric shock in the air before a thunderstorm.

"Well, finally." You looked up at him when he came into view. "I was getting tired of waiting for you."

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a palm covered in tattoo ink that peeked out from under the sleeve of his shirt colour of night.

You knew that most of the drawings were hidden under his clothes. Once you could only see his tattoos up to his elbow, and you always wondered how they ended.

You remember how the tiger lily on the inside of his arm caught your attention the most - delicate, but as bold as he was. It was his birth flower, a symbol of pride, nobility, and strength hidden behind a reserved expression.

His light colored hair was slicked back carelessly, and above his ear it was shaved, so you could see that his hair color was actually black. This hairstyle emphasized his sharp features and jaw that could cut through the tension in the air. The black earrings in his ears glittered with every movement.

"You made a mistake, Y/N." He was approaching like lava, slowly burning everything in his path. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you had to behave with dignity.

"Really? From my side, it looked like a perfectly planned trap." You said, hinting at the reason you were here. You smiled at the corner of your mouth. You didn't want to show this man how he affected you.

He crouched down in front of you. He smelled of cold freshness after a shower, mixed with something more personal - the tart scent of leather and spices.

There was a slight hint of bergamot in his scent, subtly mixed with the smell of black tea and a little wood, something deep and rich. There was also a faint trace of musk, the kind that made the skin react as if it had just been touched.

This scent was not intrusive, but dangerous in its restraint, just like him. It was the kind of scent that would stay on your pillow, on your fingers, on the inside of your wrist if you let it get close enough.

"And who is trapped now?" he asked. You smiled as you looked into his black eyes.

"Caught doesn’t mean defeated." You say and see his gaze boring into your lips. Your breathing instantly became uncontrollable.

You've always played this game. You made him lose control. He made you feel your body burning with anger. You wanted to break him, he wanted to conquer you.

But predators don't subdue. They either win or die.

You remember the moment when everything went wrong. You were sitting in the VIP lounge of the club, waiting for your sister to celebrate your brilliant victory. The deal that Jungkook wanted so badly was now yours. That's when the door slammed open, and they came for you.

Everything happened in a flash. People in black suits easily dealt with your bodyguards. They grabbed you, clamped your mouth, tied your hands, and in a few minutes you were sitting in a car. Without a word. Without the right to choose. And only then did you realize...

Jungkook is angry. Really angry. And then the prick in your neck and the darkness.

He stared at you for a long time, too long. Jungkook towered over you before he spoke. His voice was low and steady, but it vibrated with a dangerous note that sent a chill down your spine.

"You have no idea how much trouble you've caused me." His voice sounded calm, but it was seeping with menace.

You just tilted your head slightly, playfully, with a self-assurance that irritated him.

"If you're talking about how I took the deal with the Japanese partners away from you, I was expecting more fireworks, to be honest."

Something dark flashed in his eyes, something you'd seen many times before - rage hidden beneath an icy mask of control.

You and Jungkook had never been friends. You had known each other for years, but you had always been on opposite sides of the war.

You were the princess of the “Violet Dragons” clan. Your parents were the leaders of the clan, so from childhood, you knew what the world of shadows was and how to survive in it.

Your family controlled part of the city’s illegal business — casinos, underground clubs, and exclusive weapons trade.

You grew up smart, cunning, and ruthless, just like your parents, who unfortunately became victims of mafia conflicts.

You possessed that dangerous beauty that made men forget you could destroy them with a smile on your lips.

You remember well when Jungkook appeared. It was when your uncle took over the clan and you became his right-hand man.

He saw your potential, trusted your sharp mind and strategic thinking. In the mafia world, a woman could not officially lead, but she could guide. And you did it brilliantly. You became an integral part of the top of your family's clan. You planned. You acted. You played the game.

And Jungkook... He immediately established himself as a strong player. He didn't just enter the business, he took full control of it. His name quickly became the law. His word was a verdict. No one worked in this city without his permission. Those who wanted to stay alive bowed their heads to him.

But not you.

You never bowed your head.

Even though your uncle wanted to cooperate with Jungkook, you were against it. You saw him as a threat. Not a partner.

Instead of submitting to his sudden and overwhelming power, you fought for your place, taking away his contracts, disrupting his deals. You've been fighting this war for years - over people, over money, over power.

But something more than just hatred has been burning between you all along.

Your gazes lingered longer than they should have. Your conversations were always too intense, too provocative.

Your bodies were always too close when you met at formal events.

You knew he wanted you.

He knew you wanted him.

But neither of you could allow it.

Because as soon as someone submits, this game is over.

But here you are. You're tied up in his hands. Completely at his mercy. Jungkook looks at your face and for a moment he thinks that everything you did was on purpose. In order to be here with him, giving him the opportunity to destroy you.

"You think you're here because you blew my deal?" Jungkook grabbed the arms of the chair, squeezing them so hard that his fingers turned white. His face came closer to yours. "It's not the business, Y/N. It's you. You crossed the line." He growled. You tried to remain indifferent, but somewhere deep inside you, something trembled.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, putting on a dramatic tone. His smile was dangerous. He had seen you play too many times.

"You know what I mean. Last night, your little performance..." He explains. Before you could answer, he abruptly lifted you up with the chair, leaning forward so that your faces were almost level. His breath touched your lips.

"You made a fool of me. In front of everyone. My credibility has been undermined... You're overplay, princess." He sounded threatening, dangerous.

"This is business, Jungkook." You said, using his words, the ones he said to you every time he took a good deal or partner from under your nose. You sounded mocking, but he shook his head.

"No, princess. It was a game you played with me without thinking about the consequences."

You were silent, not knowing what to say. The smile that was on your face a moment ago disappeared. Of course, you knew that sooner or later he would realize that the deal that had been broken was your doing, but so soon?

He turned away, sat you back down, and walked a few steps away. He took off his jacket, then his watch. He threw it on the edge of the huge sofa. You watched his movements and could feel the tension between you growing.

You couldn't let him do anything to you. You had to get out of here. You had to save yourself. So while he wasn't looking, you tried to untie the rope. You were trained to do that. The world of the mafia required you to be strong and able to defend yourself.

Jungkook turned to face you and started to roll up his sleeves. The tattoos caught your attention, and he noticed it. But why was he rolling up his sleeves? Was he preparing to torture you? Or did he have something else in mind?

"I was standing two meters away. And I was looking into your eyes." he laughed softly, almost hysterically, not believing that you could pull off such a scam, "The same ones that are looking at me so brazenly now." His voice surprisingly sounded silky, dangerously soft.

You froze. The events of the previous evening flashed through your mind, the moment you stole the deal he'd been working on for two years from under his nose.

Jungkook had been negotiating hard with Kaizen Securities, a Japanese corporation that would have given him monopoly control of one of the largest illegal arms supply channels in Seoul. This deal was supposed to raise his status to the level of "untouchable" among all other players.

Since you had a long-standing rivalry with Jungkook, you planted a spy in his clan, who worked successfully for three years. You followed the negotiation process, which Minhyuk reported to you, carefully studying all the details.

You decided to do the following: let Jungkook almost finish the job, and then take back what was yours from the beginning. What your family lost when Jungkook arrived in the criminal arena.

Your last move was on the day the contract was signed. You used a fake identity, the name Hanako Shimada, and introduced yourself as an assistant to one of the Japanese directors, specializing in translation, negotiation, and legal support.

You arrived at the hotel where the meeting was taking place with the delegation, bribing the real assistant, who was "suddenly" hospitalized. You thought out your image to the smallest detail, so that it had nothing to do with your usual style, so that Jungkook would not recognize you.

You were dressed in a white business suit, with lenses, makeup, hairstyle, gait, even your voice slightly altered. You spoke flawless Japanese (because you lived in Japan until you were 16). Your accent was perfect. You played the role of an official - restrained, without a hint of your characteristic audacity.

You looked convincing to the last detail. Who would have suspected?

"I heard your voice." His voice darkened with each word. "Heard you translate every phrase, calmly, dryly, perfectly. Saw you hiding in a white suit and pretending to be someone else."

You were so confident and competent in your performance that he saw you as just another functional "gray mouse" and missed the punch right under his ribs. And now that he's already caught you, when he looks at you, he remembers everything - your gait, your eyes, the slight tilt of your head, the subtle smile - everything was right there in front of him, and he didn't see it.

He rolled up his sleeves and approached again, towering over you. Jungkook looked at you with his black eyes piercingly.

"You set me up, and I don't understand how I couldn't see you play, not recognize you..."

You looked at him silently. Your heart was beating somewhere in your throat, but your face was impeccably calm. He had just admitted that you had defeated him. That you hadn't just taken the contract - you had misled him so that he didn't recognize you from a few meters away.

You couldn't contain your triumph. You slowly raised an eyebrow and with a slight smile, said.

"It turns out I'm a really good actress."

You changed the terms of the deal behind Jungkook's back, telling the Japanese that he would not provide security guarantees. Posing as a trustee of a fictitious investor, you offered better terms: higher profits and security. The Japanese believed you and signed the contract right in his presence.

How sweet it was to see him humiliated in front of the Japanese, because he didn't recognize the manipulation and lost a lucrative contract.

Jungkook's eyes narrowed, his jaw twitched, but you continued, quietly, as if afraid to break the silence.

"And you, Jungkook, have become overconfident. You used to always see everything..."

His eyes darted between yours, sliding down to your lips, then to your neck, then to your thigh, which was visible through the long slit in your dress. You could almost physically feel his gaze touching your body.

His eyes returned to you.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No," you answered evenly. "I'm just reminding you who's had the upper hand in this game from the beginning."

You paused, still fumbling with the rope, and then said with poisonous tenderness.

"What did you think? That you could play on my turf for years, promise the Japanese control of the port my family has owned since my father's time, and I would keep quiet?"

His pupils dilated.

"You knew about the port?"

"I knew everything. Even which of your men had been leaking information to the Japanese." You were silent for a moment, savoring his defeat, and then spoke. "I won fair and square, Jungkook. I took what was rightfully mine."

"Fair?" He laughed, but there was nothing merry about it. "You played dirty. You lied, you bribed people, you made my partners change his mind." He runs his eyes over your face and almost can't control himself. Your self-confidence in your victory has made him angry.

You lift your chin proudly.

"So what? This is our world, isn't it? A world where the strongest take what they want by any means necessary." You argument. Jungkook leans in so that your lips almost touch.

"Yes, but the difference is that I'm stronger. And now you will play by my rules." His fingers touched your face, and you held your breath.

"And what are these rules?" You asked. Jungkook smiled, slowly, predatory.

"I'll show you. But first you have to understand one thing..." His fingers closed on your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his dark eyes.

"Because of your stunt, you are now at my mercy. And believe me, you will not be spared." He almost whispered it to you. You felt his breath on your lips. Your heart beat faster.

His fingers slid down and stopped at your throat. He didn't squeeze, he just touched, making you feel how close the edge was. His gaze slowly moved down, studying you, as if he was already deciding how you should obey him.

Jungkook suddenly turned away, held you with a cold gaze, and then walked away. You continued your struggle with the rope. A little more and you would be free.

He walked over to the table where there was a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He wasn’t in a hurry. He poured it slowly and turned to you, taking a sip. He liked knowing that this time, you wouldn’t run away. He didn't take his eyes off you. You didn't take your eyes off him.

Jungkook sat down on the sofa, drinking a honey-colored liquid. He sating across from you, looking at you calmly, as if he had won the battle in the end.

"I never thought I'd see you in such a helpless situation." His voice was low, savoring every word. He took another sip without hiding his smile. You clenched your jaw, not letting yourself show the fear that was still present, even though you tried to hide it deep inside.

"Enjoying?" You asked ironically, but your eyes were full of anger.

Jungkook twirled his glass in his hands and smiled, slowly, too confidently.

"You know what's the most interesting thing?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I could have put a stop to your antics a long time ago."

You snorted. The laugh came easily from your plump lips.

"You could have tamed me much sooner? But you only did it when I made a fool of you?" You said through your laughter.

Jungkook didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, calmly, without taking his eyes off you, and there was something frightening in that look. Not brute aggression, but cold calculation. He enjoyed your resistance, knew that you would fight to the last - and that was what amused him.

"No. I was just wondering how far you could go. And now you've made your choice, princess." He finally said, twirling the glass in his fingers. "You played with fire, not realizing it could burn you." Jungkook took a sip of alcohol. He tasted the honeyed flavor, and smiled at the corner of his lips.

"Tell me honestly, you didn't think I was going to ignore this trick of yours like all the times before, did you? Let you play with me as you please?"

You lifted your chin sharply, even now not letting him see your weakness.

"You want to break me just because I defeated you?" you challenged. "Then you're much weaker than you look."

Something much darker flashed in his eyes. He put the glass on the nightstand, stood up and came closer.

"Do you think you've defeated me?" Jungkook repeated quietly, leaning in once more so that your faces were almost touching.

He always violated your personal space. He liked to keep you close, so close that you didn't have time to collect your thoughts.

"If it was really a victory, then why are you here - tied up, without any control over the situation, instead of celebrating your success?" his voice dropped to a velvety whisper, and every word penetrated your skin.

You pressed your lips together.

"You know it well. I'm not afraid of you, Jungkook," you said firmly.

He smiled, his eyes sliding over your face, and he straightened up. He liked to look down on you. His imagination painted scenes of you kneeling perfectly before him, and he looked down on you the same way. Something in his middle caught fire at the thought of your mouth on his cock.

But he calmed himself as quickly as he could and walked around you, standing behind you. You stopped untying the rope and clasped your hands together so he wouldn't see that it was loose.

Jungkook leaned down to your ear and said.

"This is good," he whispered. "Because fear is chaos. And I need order."

His fingers touched your neck, and you flinched. At his touch.

He slowly touched the collar of your dress, letting the fabric slip slightly off your shoulder. Your skin burned where his fingers had left a mark.

"It's time to teach you something really important."

"Ha-ha, teach? What can you teach me?" you asked with undisguised interest.

"Submission," Jungkook replied. The word came out of his mouth as easily as a breath. But there was power in it. A power that was frightening. "Submission." He repeated it almost gently, stroking your collarbone with his fingertips. "It's something you haven't known yet, but I'll take care of it." You felt indignation rising inside you.

"You're doing this again?" You said as if it were boring. "I'll never be yours, Jungkook." He smiled in a way that made you feel hot.

"Oh, don't you get it yet?" His voice was almost playful, but there was a metallic tinge of control in the deep timbre. "You are already mine, princess."

Jungkook was in front of you again. His hand grabbed your chin sharply, forcing you to look him straight in the eye.

"Every fight between us, every moment when you woke up and thought about me, hating it... It all meant only one thing. You've always belonged to me."

Your breathing became heavier. And this time... you really felt that you were starting to suffocate, not just from fear. But also from confusing feelings that you shouldn't have felt.

He was taking over. He control a situation as a usual. But you hadn't lost yet.

All your emotions rushed out - and it was at that moment that you managed to escape. The rope slipped from your hands, and you hit him sharply, creating space for escape. His reaction was instantaneous, but you were already flying toward the door, half out of breath, consumed by a single desire-freedom.

Your hand almost touched the handle when Jungkook's fingers grabbed your wrist. You turned around, trying to strike, but he easily dodged. Your next move, a kick, was blocked.

In a second, you were pinned against a cold wall. Jungkook forced your arms behind your back, squeezing them to prevent you from breaking free. His body was pressed against you, and you could feel the warmth of his chest pressing against your back. His crotch was touching your buttocks, and your legs were locked with his.

"Want a fight?" he laughed low, touching your ear. You were both breathing heavily.

"Let go of me and I'll kick your ass in seconds Jeon," you said angrily. You suddenly felt his cock resting on your buttocks. He was aroused by your little fight.

"I think we'd better take this passion elsewhere," Jungkook said seductively, and he pressed in closer so you could feel the hardness of his cock even better. It was only then that you noticed a throbbing between your legs. And moisture was leaking onto your underwear. It was foolish not to admit that his proximity excited you as much as it excited him.

"You'll never have me, you bastard," you said, in defiance of your feelings.

Jungkook turned you around in one confident motion, still holding you so you couldn't hurt him. He smiled when he saw your hateful gaze. But you're pretending. He knows you want him.

"Oh, I can have you anytime. But you want it too, don't you princess?" he said, licking his lower lip. You stare at his lips, mesmerized. Fuck. You want to kiss him.

Jungkook finally let go of your hands, confident that you wouldn't fight anymore. He ran his fingers along your figure, lowering his hands to your hips. He slid his hand under your dress and squeezed your skin lightly. His touch was confident, almost possessive. Your hands rested on his chest, as if trying to push him, but your fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt.

"You're shaking, Y/N." He spoke softly, his voice hoarse and hot, seeping into your mind, making your heart beat even faster than before.

"You overestimate your influence over me." You tried to sound confident, but your voice trembled treacherously. "I will never play by your rules."

"But tonight you will," he lifted you by the hips, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist, and carried you to the table behind him. You felt the cold surface against your skin and only then realized how hot you were from what was happening between you.

Jungkook was breathing heavily, barely able to control himself. He suddenly smiled, pressing you tighter to his aroused cock.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll break you." He was serious. His lips barely touched your neck, taking his time, leaving no marks, just burning you with his hot breath. You could feel his palms resting steadily on your buttocks, his fingers flesh squeezing to remind you that the power was his.

"Why don't you push me away, princess?" He whispered it right next to your ear, his voice breaking into hot pulses that ran through your entire body.

Your fingers clenched into fists. You should have resisted. You should have told him it was a game, that he wouldn't make you submit. But when his lips finally touched your neck, when his hot lips sucked in your tender skin, leaving marks, you lost the ability to think.

"You've been playing strong for so long that you've forgotten what it's like to just give in." He said when he had left enough hickeys on your neck. His voice was quiet, but it filled the entire space between you.

You didn't like the feeling of being under his control. But what you didn't like even more was how much you wanted it. You squeezed his shirt, as if balancing the desire to push him away and pull him closer.

"Tell me I'm wrong..." His lips stopped right next to yours. You met his gaze. Full of lust, full of power to conquer.

"I..." You paused, inhaled. Your pride dissolved, burned under that look. "...I hate you."

Jungkook smiled.

"Little liar."

His lips finally covered yours, sharply, all-consuming, so that you forgot how to breathe. It was an invasion. A struggle.

You squeezed his shoulders, trying to hold back - but your lips responded. At first it was a protest. Then it was an explosion. The kiss became deeper, hotter, as if you were both surrendering to all the emotions that had been building up for so long and burning from the inside.

His tongue penetrated you without asking for permission, just like everything else he did. And you... didn't stop him. Because you wanted it too. You wanted it.

He tore the zipper of your dress open and it gathered at your hips. The sight of your perfectly taut breasts, erect nipples, and goosebumps made Jungkook want more. He uncontrollably took one of your breasts in his hands and squeezed it. His wet tongue circled around your bud, tasting the pleasant taste of your nipples.

You were moaning above his head, just from his caresses, so what would you sound like when he entered you? When he fills you to the brim?

"Feel that?" His voice was husky, heavy with desire. You didn't know what he was asking specifically, whether it was his hard cock resting against your needy pussy or his power over you. But you felt it all. His strength. His desire. His complete control over your every move. "You've always belonged to me." He whispered it right next to your ear, breaking into a hot breath.

His hands, which had been under your dress, boldly reached for your underwear. He stopped, his lips still touching yours.

"Are you finally admitting it, princess?"

Silence. Only your breaths. The pulse in your temples. Hot air, saturated with tension. But you didn't say anything. Are you really losing this war that has lasted so long?

His hand moved your underwear to the side. Your body shuddered as he ran his fingers between the damp folds, easily finding a spot that made you sigh softly.

Jungkook smiled triumphantly. He massaged your clit, with slow, blissful strokes. When he plunged a finger into your passage, you grabbed his free hand, squeezing it.

"So wet... Fuck, you're just dripping onto my fingers, baby." He whispered. In between kissing your neck, your jaw, your breasts. He wanted to explore every inch of your body with his lips.

Jungkook added another finger to your passage and fucked you with it. He created a friction that made you want to feel something more.

"I want to hear that…Tell me I won." He demanded. His voice was full of power, he knew you belonged to him completely.

You opened your eyes and met his gaze, heavy and piercing. And you had to surrender. You had to admit it. You belonged to him completely and utterly. You wanted to be his. You fucking wanted this man to fuck you.

"You win, Kook. I'm yours." You whispered. He stretched you, plunged into every cell of your body, took you over, made you forget where you were, who you were, and why you'd ever tried to resist.

His movements became deeper, more confident. And you couldn't fight anymore-your hands reached for the buttons of his shirt, and you pulled them open randomly, wanting to tear them off.

Jungkook slipped his fingers out of your passage and helped you undress him. In the dim light of the suite, his body was so hot and sexy. His skin was perfect, every muscle as if carved by God himself.

You gulped in a breath, as your eyes touched his torso. Elastic, well-defined chest, broad shoulders. His abs, like marble, consisted of perfect lines that stretched down, right to the place where your imagination was already drawing the most daring images.

Your fingers reached for his body, sliding over his hot skin. Now you knew what his tattoos looked like, the ones that were always hidden behind his clothes.

There was ink that seemed to come to life under your touch. First, you noticed the words "Rather be dead than cool" tattooed in italics on his forearm, a phrase that perfectly matched his personality: bold, unrestrained, living to the fullest.

Above, on his wrist, was a delicate drawing of a tiger and a lotus, symbolizing strength and purity - a contrast similar to his own.

And on his shoulder was a large black flower, and your palm slid over it, gently, almost reverently.

You barely had time to enjoy the sight of it when Jungkook pulled off your dress and then simply tore open your thin black lace thong. You gasped, not expecting such behavior from Jungkook, but it seemed he was losing patience.

He had a sly smile on his face. His eyes never left yours, hungry, dark, and without mercy.

"You know, princess... Now that you're mine, I'm going to make sure you can never forget this moment."

He knelt between your legs. His gaze slid down to your center and he licked his lips like a predator who had finally gotten his prey.

His tongue slid over your folds, gently at first, exploring, making you arch with pleasure, and then deeper, harder, rhythmically, until your moans became shameless. His hands held your hips tightly, not letting you escape, not letting you even think about resisting. He worked his tongue as if he could drive you crazy with it alone, and damn it, he did.

Your stomach was in a knot, wave after wave passing through your body, making you squirm and gasp. You grabbed his hair, trying to hold back, but...

"Fuck..." you cursed, barely recognizing your own voice.

He lifted his head, his lips glistening with your wetness. He flicked his tongue across his lower lip, tasting you. His chest heaved rhythmically, He was on the verge, just like you.

"I can't wait any longer," he said hoarsely and stood up, shedding the rest of his clothes. His cock was hard, tense, ready for you.

You didn't look away. It was perfect. Big. Erect. And all yours.

He pulled you closer to the edge of the table, supporting you under your buttocks, and ran his head between your folds. Just teasing. Just playing.

"Tell me again. Who do you belong to?"

You clutched his forearm, your nails digging into his skin, your body trembling with anticipation.

"You... Jungkook. I belong to you."

"Good girl."

You thought Jungkook was going to take you right now. He was teasing you with those movements of his cock on your clit, but he didn't come in. You weren't expecting it when he pulled back and pulled you to the floor. Your buttocks were resting on the table, and in a moment Jungkook turned you around, bending you over the table.

Your breasts were on the table, your hands resting on the perfectly polished surface. Your hot breath left condensation.

Jungkook came up behind you, pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, and thrust. You felt him penetrate. He had barely plunged into you when you screamed in pain. He stopped when he felt you were in pain. You were tighty, he could feel it as he stretched you.

"How long since you had sex?" he asked in a low voice. You pressed your fingers tighter to the table, so that they turned white. Jungkook moved back and forth, as if breaking through an invisible barrier.

"It's been a long time," you breathed out, but your voice sounded sharp, like the thorns on a beautiful rose. Jungkook smiled, still moving lightly at the entrance. He stroked your thighs, soothing you.

"When was the last time?" he asked. You raised your eyebrows, why was he asking? You should talk less and act more. Even though you were in pain, you needed him inside.

"What the hell does it matter, just come in," you couldn't stand it. You heard Jungkook's guttural laugh. And then his hand was right in front of your eyes. He leaned down and touched your cheek with his lips.

"You're not supposed to be a virgin, are you?" his voice vibrated against your skin, making you tremble inside. His cock was still in your passage, but not fully penetrating.

"Don't even dream about being my first, I had sex before you," you said indignantly. You turned your head a few centimeters. You saw Jungkook's lips and it was at that moment that you felt him enter you completely. It was not very sharp, but you screamed.

Jungkook plunged into you until his hips felt yours. His balls touched your pussy and he froze, still leaning over you. You were breathing hard and fast, feeling pain, but it was being replaced by the pleasure of being filled with his cock.

"You're such a tight princess that even if you did have sex, that idiot had a small cock." he laughed again. "Who was that?" he moved his hips and you bit your lip to keep from screaming again. "Your assistant Dongmin, or was it In-guk, that piece of shit who was always hanging around you?"

Jungkook moved his hips slowly but deeply. He was careful, and you could tell he didn't want to hurt you. His breath was hot, burning your skin, spreading over it in a stormy wave.

"That was Taehyung," you said. Jungkook froze. You smiled because you knew it would surprise him.

"Taehyung?" he repeated quietly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. His voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper, and his gaze-though you couldn't see it-was probably as dark as a night storm.

His fingers tightened around your hips, and his breath came in shorter bursts. But instead of getting angry or pulling away, he slowly, almost painfully, moved inside you again, sinking deeper.

"I didn't know he had a small one..." Jungkook said it with a sneer, but you didn't laugh, because Taehyung didn't have a small one. Maybe a little smaller than Jungkook's. "Why... he?" he said hoarsely, as if he wasn't asking, but trying to understand.

You smiled out loud, a little cheekily.

"We had a common project, common interests, spent a lot of time together...and it happened." you said, holding back moans of pleasure.

Jungkook entered you, deeper and longer each time. His movements were slow but full of power. Jungkook felt a stab of jealousy that Taehyung was touching you. He saw the pleasure on your beautiful face, heard your moans... Before Jungkook did. That made he’s movements chaos.

Your fingers slid along the steamy surface of the table, looking for support. Your whole body merged with his in a rhythm that seemed endless.

Jungkook lowered himself, leaning even closer, almost completely covering your body with his.

His lips touched your neck, burning with every word he spoke:

"Shared interests?" he whispered, moving his hips so that you cried out again. "I wonder if he liked the way you squirmed under him too..."

You turned your head as sharply as your posture allowed and met his gaze defiantly:

"What, are you jealous?" you exhaled, trembling from the new thrust. "Maybe you're afraid he was better?"

His whole body tensed. In the next moment, Jungkook straightened behind you and abruptly, but not violently, withdrew from you almost completely... and then plunged in again, deeply, to the very core.

You screamed, clutching the edge of the table.

"Say it again," his voice was low, dark as thunder in the night, "and I make you forget who Taehyung, Dongmin, In-guk, and everyone else who ever dared to touch you is."

His hips pressed firmly against your buttocks again, and his hands were no longer gentle, but strong, saying: "now you are mine."

And you felt it - with every cell.

His fingers slid to your clit, stimulating you to unbearable sensations. He knew how to touch you, how to hold you to make you moan louder for him.

Your sounds filled the room. He picked up the pace, but didn't lose control. Your back pressed against his chest as he lifted you without leaving you. You could feel his heart - it was beating furiously, almost in unison with yours.

"From this night — you only mine," he said. You couldn't even imagine how much he liked the sound of that, "you should remember how you looked when I fucked you for the first time, so you never forget who was the best in you..."

With that, he pulled out of you. You felt your passage hurt. Your pussy was swollen and throbbing unbearably. You tried to normalize your breathing when you felt Jungkook grab you, throwing you over his shoulder. Your bodies touched again, raising the temperature of each other. His hand was on your bare buttocks.

"Oh my God, what are you doing?" you said in agony in front of his buttocks. He couldn't help himself and slapped your ass.

"Going to show you how amazing you are when my cock is deep inside you," he said playfully.

Jungkook carried you into the bedroom. It was dark, but not completely. The lights of the city at night illuminated it barely, but it was enough to see what you needed to see.

You saw Jungkook carry you past the big bed and set you on your feet. In front of a mirror.

You looked at your reflection and saw a girl who was naked, with marks on her neck and chest. She was disheveled with swollen lips.

Jungkook hugged you close. You saw his face and sly smile in the mirror. His big palm touched your stomach.

"Just look how beautiful you are," he said in your ear, not taking his eyes off yours in the mirror, "how beautiful you are when you give yourself to me," he whispered, squeezing you more closer. His lips barely touched your skin, but your body was already on fire from this touch. You looked in the mirror and couldn't recognize yourself.

He grabbed your jaw and turned you around, kissing you. His tongue went into your mouth as if he was the master. Your tongues intertwined, wrestling just like you had all those years before. Finally, he bit your lower lip and let you go.

Jungkook led you to the mirror and you reflexively grabbed the frame. You let him dive into you again. This time he went in less painfully but still deeply, keeping his gaze on your reflection.

"Don't look away," his voice was warm but commanding, "I want you to see what I'm doing to you. So that every time you think back to this night, you will remember yourself like this. Mine."

His hips started moving again, gradually speeding up. His arms held you tightly, one cupping your breasts, the other sliding down between your legs. He touched you gently and hard at the same time, mixing pleasure with fierce passion exists.

You were trembling, and every movement of his body made you forget how to breathe.

"So who's fucking you so good, huh princess?" he hissed, staring at your mirror reflection.

You didn't answer, just exhaled his name, shuddering at his fingers on your clit.

"You…" you hardly breathe, "You Jungkook..."

You held back moans from the intense stimulation, the feel of his big cock inside you. And Jungkook didn't like it.

"Louder," he grunted. "I want to enjoying your scream."

You listened to him. You couldn't hold back any longer. Your loud moans, almost screams, filled the entire space around you. They were intertwined with the sounds of your bodies hitting each other, and they were almost sinful.

His cock moving inside you, hot, hard, ruthless. And your whole body merged with him in this rhythm - wild, honest, real. As if he knew no mercy.

He pulled your hair to the side and kissed your neck.

"I'm going to cherish this moment in your memories, because this is just the beginning of our fun adventure."

You let go of all your feelings as your orgasm hit you like a storm. Your body arched in his arms, the last, loudest moan burst from your chest, and your mind exploded with white light.

Jungkook hit you hard a few more times and came out of you. He came on your ass with a hoarse, low growl.

He put his wet forehead against your back, which was covered with a thin layer of sweat.

Your breaths merged into one, your hearts were beating furiously. His arms did not let go, his body did not move away. All you could feel was the weight of his cock on your buttocks and his warm, thick cum dripping down your legs.

You moved, forcing Jungkook to pull away. His cum dripped down your legs, dripped onto the floor, but neither of you seemed to care.

You turned around to face him. Jungkook was still breathing deeply, but he had a satisfied smile on his lips. You smiled too, but slyly, playfully.

"So…it happened," you said first. Jungkook pulled you to him. His lips covered yours, completely. Absorbing you, just as he had done with your body. With your soul. Having enjoyed your lips enough, he broke the kiss. You slowly opened your eyes. They were sparkling.

"It happened, princess, are you satisfied?" he asked, carefully studying your expression.

"Do I have to tell you the truth? Or can I tease you?" you asked playfully. His fingers on your waist squeezed your skin tighter.

"Only tell the truth... because if you lie to me again, or deceive me... you will not receive my mercy, anymore" he warned in a soft voice not without a touch of menace.

"It sounds like a another challenge..." you said, "but if tell honest, I'm really satisfied," you kissed him on the lips, a short touch, and when you pulled away a few centimeters, seeing his eyes closed, you whispered, "you fucked me so good."

Jungkook opened his eyes when he heard your words, but you had already disappeared. He saw you hurriedly walked towards the bedroom door.

"I need to take a shower," you threw over your shoulder and disappeared behind the door.

When you got out of the shower, you didn't find Jungkook. You heard the sound of water coming from the other bathroom and knew this was your chance to run away from him. You put on the dress that was lying on the floor in the living room, but you sewed up your thong because Jungkook had torn it.

You grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote him a short message. You signed it with a kiss and the first letter of your name.

You grabbed key card, opened the door of hotel room and left without being stopped.

Jungkook took a quick shower, replaying your sex in his head. He was excited and happy that you would finally be his. The way you moaned and screamed his name made his mind go wild. And he was going to get even more from you.

Jungkook walked into the living room and heard silence. He became alert, looking around for you because you weren't in the bedroom.

His eyes fell on the white paper left on the table. Nowhere to be seen was your burgundy dress, which he had taken off you somewhere around here. Jungkook laughed as he walked over to the table. Did you really run away and leave a note?

He held the white piece of paper between his two fingers, skimming the contents.

"You still didn't catch me, but I'll be more careful than today. I'm looking forward to your hunt for me. What will be our next meeting? I'm sure you're already waiting for it.

P.S. Thanks for the show anyway, guy with the dark eyes.

Y/N 💋"

Jungkook clenched the piece of paper into a fist. And then he laughed. He sat down on the couch with his head on the back of the couch and looked at the ceiling.

You run away again. You had outsmarted him again. Again made his thoughts boil with the possibility of knowing a way to get you. He closed his eyes tiredly, but a smile played on his lips was predatory.

"No mercy now, Princess. The darkness pulls you under before you know it..." was the sound in his head.

[axonthegoat]

Saw the Rit pf lust outfit @beautysnake designed for their lamb, I loved that design and it fit pretty well with my own lamb so i decided to draw them in it. I decided to go with his short hairstyle since i felt one of his longer ones would obscure the spine too much

[ghoulishhx]

love your work, you write frankie so well it always has a tear run down my leg 🤭💖

i saw you post the smut prompt list. how about frankie with number 8, however you’d like to have it happen

thank you 💖💖💖

8.) open your legs for me baby, i wanna see you

aa thank you for your kind words!! i've been working on this on and off throughout the day so if seems weird or paced odd, i do apologise. once again im VERY self conscious (what's new) but like i need this and i need him

18+ MDNI !!

My Masterlist!

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Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: semi-public sex, oral (f!recieving), one night stand type vibes, unprotected pinv sex (wrap it before you tap it), dom!frank, use of restraints, creampie, dirty talk, praise, mutual pining, choking

Wordcount: 2.3k

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✦ strangers

You don’t usually make the habit of fucking strangers you’ve known for one conversation, in the dingy bathroom of the dive bar you chose to drown your sorrows in, but fuck it. Tonight you’ve earned it, earned a well needed distraction.

You don’t know what came over you, deciding to take the gruff man, who bought you a rum and coke, by the hand and dragging him with you into the small tiled room and locking the door shut behind you both. This is the same man who minutes ago was listening to you venting about your fucked family issues, your stuck up boss who loves to put you through hell. He offered you nods of mutual understanding and a lingering hand on yours, the warmth of his large calloused fingers tracing small comforting circles across your knuckles made your breath hitch. Before you know it, you’re whispering you need him in his ear and gesturing to the bathroom behind him. 

You tell yourself it’s his eyes that drew you in, those dark chocolate eyes baring directly into your soul, mixed emotions swirled within the colours of his iris’, drawing you in and subconsciously telling you he gets it, gets you. You find solace in the little to no communication. 

“Oh, what’s your name by the way?” you softly speak into his ear as you enter the bathroom together.

“Huh? Oh, yeah it’s uh, it’s Frank.” he looks at you inquisitively, wondering why you chose this moment to finally ask him. You pick up on this and answer his question before he can even ask.

“Just wanna know what to scream when you make me cum.” you bite your lower lip, this newfound confidence is definitely the booze talking, you go to look away as you feel embarrassed blush travel up your neck however you’re brought back to earth with the sound of a dark chuckle that comes from Frank’s mouth.

“That right? Well ya can’t be too loud darlin’, don’t wanna get caught now do we?”

The realisation of the riskiness of the situation floods your panties with arousal as he pushes you against the door, lifting your thigh from behind and wrapping it around his waist as he tastes the inside of your mouth with his tongue. You moan into his mouth, his own subduing the noises and capturing them as he bites down on your lower lip softly, before softening the sting with his tongue. The kiss you share is nothing short of desperate, passionate, raw. It’s as if he needed this just as much as you, needing to release whatever pent up emotions he has kept locked within himself for god knows how long. 

You trail down your hands down his button up shirt, prying the fabric apart with shaky hands as quickly as you can, needing to see him, feel him. The groan Frank makes when you run your nails down his now exposed chest makes you clench around nothing, feeling the firm muscles beneath the pads of your fingers as your nails softly scratch at him makes his jaw tick, his mouth moving to your neck as he bites down, sucking purple bruises into the sensitive skin below your ear before softening the sting with his tongue. He curses as your hand lands on his bulge, straining against the confines of his jeans and he cannot help but buck his hips into your touch, neediness for any amount of friction he can get taking over him.

“Y'so fuckin’ gorgeous doll” he mumbles into your ear as he lifts you effortlessly, you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you over to the counter below the dirty, graffiti coated mirror. Frank continues the relentless assault of kisses along your neck, trailing his lips down your exposed chest, your tits perfectly accentuated by the tight black dress you decided to wear tonight. His tongue travels between the valley of your chest as he reaches down and lifts your dress up above your hips, his hands gripping at the meat of your thighs, thumbs dangerously close to where you need him most as you arch your back into his touch, craving more. 

“Open your legs f’me baby, I wanna see ya..” 

Frank groans as you comply with his request, exposing your soaked panties. He reaches out and brushes his digit along the stain of arousal in your underwear, lowly whistling under his breath as you shudder at his touch. “Shit, girl.. all f'me? Fuckin’ soaked doll, lemme take care of it for ya, yeah?”

With any other lover, you'd usually make them work for it, beg for you, but your desperation possesses you as you wildly nod, throbbing around nothing as you move your hips closer to him. 

“Use y'words sweet girl,” Frank teases as he flashes you a shit eating grin, fully aware of the effect he has over you as he crouches down, his eyes now level with your cunt. “Want me to taste ya, hmm? Make ya feel good?”

“Fuck.. please. Please taste me Frank, I need yo-” your begs are cut off as he latches his lips around your clit through your panties. The fabric rubs deliciously across your swollen bud as he pulls it further up you, your folds peaking around the edges as more slick coats your underwear. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you throw your head back onto the glass behind you, not hard enough to cause damage. He chuckles at your body's reactions and peels the garment from your soaked core, shoving your panties in his back jean pocket before he feasts on you properly. 

You can't help but grind yourself into his face as best you can, wrapping your fingers in his hair and tugging before he removes your hands and pins them down by your side, disallowing any movements. You whine, trying to escape the vice grip he has on your wrists, itching to touch him, feel him with your fingers as he devours you. 

Frank moans into your entrance, licking stripes up your pussy to your clit before trailing back down and fucking you on his tongue. He feels his cock twitch as your walls clench around him, already making his boxers damp with precum. 

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet, babydoll. Could stay between y'legs forever.” The words echo through your body, the vibrations of his words making you buck into his touch. Your clit rubs deliciously along his large nose, the sensation reeling you closer and closer to your much needed release. 

“Frank- don't stop pleasepleaseplease.. I-I'm so close..” you whimper, biting down on your lip. Only now he lets go of your hands, allowing you to wrap yourself in his curls, grounding you as your orgasm threatens to spill. 

“Yeah? Let go doll, cum f'me. Lemme have it girl, thaaaat’s it pretty girl, make a mess of m'face.” his consent for you to let go allows you to do just that. Your whines fill the room along with chants of his name with strings of curse words as you gush all over his nose and mouth. Frank swallows every drop up gratefully, humming into your core as his pace continues its relentless speed, lapping up your folds like it’s the last meal he will ever have. His pace only falters when you squirm beneath him and physically pull his face from your core, the overstimulation overwhelming you.

Frank slowly stands, eyes never leaving yours for a second as he begins to unbuckle his belt. Without thinking you thrust your wrists towards him,

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he darkly chuckles, accepting your request and wrapping the leather around you, pulling the belt tight before raising it above your head, pushing your hands against the glass. “Be a doll and keep ‘em there, yeah?” You nod as he pushes his thumb between your lips, you instantly swirl your tongue around his digit. He groans at the view, firmly tapping your cheek with his free fingers. “Attagirl, tell me if it’s too tight, alright?”

Frank removes his hands from you and unbuttons his jeans, unzipping them so they rest across his thighs along with his boxers. Your breath hitches as your eyes land on his cock, thick, long and leaking before you. Frank can’t help but smirk at your fascination with his cock, and as if he read your mind once more.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, it’ll fit. I’ll make it fit.” you blush at his dirty words, jaw going slack as he begins pushing himself into your entrance. 

“That‘s it girl, tight stretch, attagirl takin’ it so well,” he coos as he guides his length inside of you, your whines like music to his ears before he captures them in his mouth, placing wet kisses across your already kiss-swollen lips, nibbling on your lower lip as he pushes himself fully inside of you. Frank sighs with pleasure as he fills you to the hilt, his pubic bone resting on your spent clit.

His hands rest on your hips as he begins thrusting slowly in and out of you, fully removing himself from your entrance before thrusting himself back inside fully once more. The repetitive motion makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, already cock drunk from him and how he feels.

“M-more, please Frank.. Faster.. Need you” you whimper between broken sobs as his pace quickens, just as passionate as before, just faster. Frank’s lips trail across your chest, using his teeth to pull your dress down further to expose your chest to the cool of the bathroom. Your nipples instantly harden with the change of temperature and Frank can’t help but wrap his lips around the pebbled bud, sucking harshly before nibbling and soothing the sting. Your back arches into his touch, slightly regretting wanting him to bound you with his belt, you’d give anything to feel him, run your hands through his hair, leave scratches along his back to make sure he remembers this night just as much as you will. 

“Still so fuckin’ tight babygirl, feel so good like ya were made f’me.” he grunts into your body, hands resting on your ass now as he harshly grips at the flesh bruisingly, sure to leave purple marks that will no douby turn you on whenever you see them. The familiar coil twists in your stomach, hyper aware that another orgasm was approaching and fast. “Ya gonna cum, huh? Feel ya clenchin’ me, that’s it doll give it t’me. Make a mess of my cock.” 

Within seconds your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, impossibly stronger than the one before. Frank’s hand wraps around your throat, squeezing slightly only to elevate the sensation as you shudder in his hold. His name is moaned between broken sobs, fulfilling the promise you told him prior about screaming his name. Neither of you care about the noise anymore, so lost in each other and the pleasure it’s not even a thought anymore. Frank’s grunts increase, you know he’s close as he groans, resting his sweaty forehead on yours. You can’t stop yourself from bringing your arms down from the glass, placing each one on each shoulder as you trap him closer to you, craving him. He doesn’t seem to mind your defiance and allows you to pull him closer into your lips, instantly plunging his tongue into your mouth.

“Cum inside me, please Frank. Wanna feel you for days.” you whine into his mouth as you wrap your tongue around his own. One, two, three more thrusts and he’s spilling himself inside of you, painting your walls white with his hot, sticky release. 

Frank moans into your mouth, wrapping his arms around the small of your back and resting his hands on your ass once again as he pulls you as close to him as humanly possible, trailing kisses along your jawline as he emptied himself inside of you. You let out a soft giggle into his ear, the realisation of what just happens making you quiver. He joins you in a hearty chuckle as he reaches up and pulls your arms from around his neck and places them back into your lap before removing the belt bounding you, wrapping it around his jeans once more.

You whimper as he unsheathes himself from you, the loss of his length inside of you makes you hiss as you feel the stretch of where he once was. After tucking himself back into his pants, you place your hands back on his shoulders as you play with the stray curls of his slightly overgrown hair as he lifts you from the sink onto wobbly knees, catching you before you topple over onto the ground.

“Want ya to know, uh, I don't do that very often.” he begins, arm still wrapped around your waist as he places a kiss on the top of your head, smirking into your hair.

‘Me either,” you chuckle as you turn to face him. “Don’t know what came over me, asking you to come in here and, uhm, do that..”

“Year? Well I’m glad ya did sweetheart.” he hums as he pulls you into his chest. “But next time, when I tell ya to keep y’arms there, listen to me.”

“Next time?” you tilt your head up and rest it on his chest.

“Yeah next time, if that’s something you’d want..?”

“Yeah it is.. I’d like that very much.”

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: once again, pleaseee lemme know if you liked this. struggling a lot rn with my confidence with writing lmao. sorry to be so annoying and ask a lot

my inbox is open!

[princesssmars]

dry humping with abby aka car sex 2.0

nsfw, fxf smut. dry humping, boob stuff, scratching and pulling. just quick and freaky.

wc : 1.100

“yeah, just like that baby, fuck- show me how much you want it.”

look, you didn't start the day thinking you'd be dry humping your girlfriend into the driver's seat of her car until you were both breathless, but sometimes things like this just happen.

it was no fault of either of yours, anyway. you were equally dedicated to your studies as you were to each other, even holding hour-long study dates every thrusday that you'd yet to miss in months. but with finals just around the corner, both of you were strung thin, barely having the time to greet each other on the phone, let alone spend some quality time together.

so, of course, that had both of you very pent up. you were both studious, yes, but that didn't mean you didn't rock each other's worlds on the frequent occasion. but for the past three weeks, all you've gotten were rushed moments in the dead of night with your moans shared over a phone, hands aching with the force of your thrusts, and hearts aching at the shared sadness of not having your girlfriend there to soothe the ache for you.

so the second you finish your last final, you truly didn't have only sex on the brain when you told abby to pick you up afterwards, ready to spend the rest of the evening in the comfort of her bed and arms as you caught up over everything else that had happened in your lives recently.

but after stopping for some quick dinner and snacks at a store, you can't pretend to ignore how her large hand rests on your thigh, fingers inching higher and higher the closer she gets to her apartment. all it takes is a flutter of your lashes and a throaty moan before the blonde covers your entire cunt through your panties with her hand. and all it takes is a whimper and a buck of your hips before her other hand is roughly serving the steering wheel, finding an empty parking lot and parking the car near the back, away from the streets and any prying eyes that could witness what was going to happen.

it's rough and fast how she grabs you, unbuckling your seat belt for you and literally picking you up from underneath your thighs and dropping you in her lap, cutting off your surprised cackle with her lips crashing into yours.

“abs, fuck, abby-”

“i know, baby, god, i missed you-” she groans into your mouth, a large palm coming up to the back of your neck, pushing and gripping like she mesh the two of you together is she tries hard enough. it's not like you're any better, hands in a similar position on her bare shoulders and scratching at the freckled skin to draw more whines from her throat.

it's not even a few minutes before the sloppy make-out session isn't enough for you anymore, desperation taking hold as your hips start to grind down into hers, the friction of your jeans pushing into your clit sending pleasurable shocks throughout your entire body. abbys hand travels from your neck down to your chest, squeezing your breast through your shirt while her other hand anchors itself on your hip for leverage as she grinds herself up and into you.

seeing abby below you, writhing and panting as her head drops back onto the seat, adorable blue eyes lidded as they stare up at you on top of her only makes you feel hotter, hands rushing down to tear off your shirt to alleviate the heat and so that she can fully grasp your tits in her hand.

“god, you wanted this to happen, huh?” abby breathes, voice light as she takes notice of your very braless chest.

“says the one about to cum in her pants, ohhhh-” your rebuttal is cut off with a drawn out moan traveling up and out of your throat, head tilting back when abby’s mouth wraps around one of your nipples and starts to bite.

she always reacted when you talked back to her.

it's almost like a challenge to see who can bring the other over faster, with abby continuing her sucking and biting on your chest as you continue to scratch at her arms and pull at her hair. it's when her palm sneaks its way down to your behind and squeezes before giving it a harsh smack that you realize you're close to release, deciding some near-orgasm rambles are just going to have to do the job.

“abby, abby, feels s’ good, you make me feel so fucking good-”

“yeah? you like that, beautiful?” her voice is strained, hips bucking at an angle that you know feels just right on her oh so sensitive clit, her freckles barely visible with the intensity of her flush.

“yeah. missed you, missed your talking, your kisses, your fingers…”

“ohh, shit, nghh- baby…”

using the last bit of un-fucked out intelligence you have left, you wrap a hand around her wrist and yank her hand up to your mouth, keeping eye contact as you envelop two of her thick fingers into your mouth.

“missed having you inside me, absy.”

your shared orgasms are a quick sequence of intense events, abby’s moaning combined with her fingers thrusting deeper into your mouth triggering your own muffled cries as you use that last bit of energy to keep humping until you’re thoroughly satisfied.

when it ends, you're left lying on her chest, bodies at a slightly odd angle as she pushes the seat back as far as she can to make space for you without removing her skin from touching yours. after a minute of catching your breaths, you look up at her with your chin rested on her chest.

“guess we were a little pent up, huh?”

she laughs, a breathy and sweet sound that makes your heart flutter in your chest. “yeah, guess you could say that. someone seemed to enjoy it, though.”

“oh please, my throat is still sore because someone got a little too excited at the end there.”

“oh yeah?”

you don't get a chance to respond before you're somehow being lifted and placed in the backseat of the car, abby’s frame placed above you as her hands rest on either side of your head.

“then it’d only make sense if i made some other parts of your sore then, yeah?”

[akindaflora]

Lovers Competition

Genre: ABSOLUTE TOOTH HURTING FLUFF

Pairing: Hyunjin x Reader; Established relationship

Quick Sum: Its bed time and Hyunjin been nothing but a lover boy ready to prove how much he loves you and your full of giggles at this love sick man you get to call yours.

warning: Absolutely the most cheesiest thing I have ever written! If you wish to keep the delulu away, please avoid this story, but if you like the pain go ahead I warned you. One curse word used.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

"We should go to bed, Hyune," your voice soft as a whisper, and even if your eyes were heavily blinking slowly, his were locked onto yours from above. His hand brushed your cheek as he bent over from his side of the bed, a small content smile on his face. To be so lucky, he thought to himself.

Snuggled in bed, the blanket surrounding you both. Helping to hide the bustling world and soften the warmth of love that spread in both of you, the soft touches of his hands as he traced your face, your eyelids, the shape of your nose, and the outline of your lips.

"Mmmm, but I can’t miss another moment," he groaned, letting a feathered kiss at the tip of your nose.

You laughed lately, Hyunjin has been whining that he was missing moments with you whenever he had to do basic, normal things. When he sleeps, he misses you; when he has to do work, he would rather be wrapped in your arms.

He even went on asking the most ridiculous thing you've heard spill from his soft lips. "Would you be cool with me asking an Etsy witch to shrink you so I could carry you in my front pocket all day," He asked, sipping coffee with you in a coffee shop, but when he thought about how he would realistically kiss you, he gave up on the idea. Proclaiming it was back to the drawing board. And lately, he couldn't stop kissing you.

Like he was doing now. Soft pecks that felt like whispers of warmth, his hand deepening into your hair as he pulled closer than he already was.

He pulled back, "I can’t get enough of you," another kiss following to your lips. A giggled, leaving yours.

"Say you can’t get enough of me," he said, begging with his eyes and tracing your face as a blush settled in your cheeks. Your eyes glimmer with adoration for this man who found new ways to say I love you. This kind of love wasn’t challenging but came with a sense of dedication. And while he has been a love-sick dork, you couldn't help but feel giggly about the entire thing. Finding you wanted the same thing. Always going back to him.

"If the world were to run out of oxygen I’d find your lips to breathe into one last time," You said quietly as your own hand rushed to his cheek. Pulling him in for a demonstration of your love back.

He gasped into the kiss, quickly pulling back. Just slightly leaving, enough so he could see your eyes as you stared back into him.

"If all the stars from the sky were to disappear and I never saw another star, I'd just look into your eyes and fall deeper into your universe." This time, he kissed you softly, sighing as your lips brushed into a slow tide wave of affection.

You pulled back, "If a witch turned you into a flower, I'd ask to be the soil so I could hold you up."

He laughed, "That’s ridiculous, baby." You couldn't help but giggle back.

"If sanity is to never love you, then I deserve to be the most ridiculous insane person ever just to get a glimpse of your vision." You were riddled with laughter. He began to kiss the areas of your face like a madman.

"Long as I can be ridiculous with you," You said in between giggles. "We’re such idiots," you said, still giggling at your little love competition.

"True, but we’re in love and I think we're allowed to be dumb," he said quietly with a permanent smile that seemed to show up since you, too, had been together. "Being with you is like spring every year, and I’d never want it to stop," a small contented smile framed your face as you looked up at him. God, you were in love with this man, and then a yawn left your lips. He cooed at the way your eyes fluttered and the tears that began to swell.

"Me neither, Jinnie, but I must contest, baby, I need sleep. Hold me until morning so I can see your beauty at first rise," You said dramatically as you pulled him into you. He fell into the nook of your neck, arms wrapping around your waist as you pulled the covers higher. The soft, cozy warmth was spreading as you both pulled into each other.

"Fuck, I love when you get poetic with me," He said into your neck, kissing your neck and then your check before going back to laying on your chest.

"Goodnight my love," He said softly as you sighed softly rubbing at his back as sleep began to make your eyes heavy. With the last bit of energy you had left, you kissed his head, "Sweet dreams, my love," you said softly.

But as you both were about to fall into a deep REM, a loud sound of finally was heard from Changbin's room. You were both laughing, not realizing you had kept him from his slumber as well.

"Ya don't be jealous, Binnie," Hyunjin yelled, kissing your lips quickly before finally, you were both able to fall into sleep.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

AN/ Ahhhhh this might actually be the cutest fucking thing I have ever wrote in my life. With my stories around Chan I can't help but to want to write a relationship around balance and how each other compliments each other but when it comes to Hyunjin its so easy to write stories of complete devotion and love in a way that almost feels like a fantasy. And I really hope you love this cheesy fluff it warmed my heart and made me desire a love like this even more.

Y✿Y✿