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glossdebut · 22 days ago

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PRICE OF FAME | MYG ★ 01

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SERIES SUMMARY: You were about ready to give up, your career nowhere near what you dreamed it’d be when you started at eighteen, bright-eyed and naive. Reality for you these past few years has consisted of pouting at a camera, ignoring whispers of your name at company events, and ensuring that the stupid, tiny designer purses they keep forcing on you can at least carry a flask. But now, you’re helping a friend in need. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you’re doing something worthwhile with your life. Too bad Min Yoongi, the newest thorn in your side, seems insistent on stopping you.

✧ SERIES TAGS: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fake/pretend relationship (not main couple), rockstar!yoongi, model!reader, guitarist yoongi, singer jungkook, bassist taehyung, drummer jimin, manager namjoon, yoongi & maknae line are in a rock band, reader & seokjin are best friends, yoongi & hoseok are best friends (sope duo ftw), yoongi has a tongue piercing, reader is a brat

✧ CHAPTER WARNINGS: recreational drinking, yoongi is an asshole (see series masterlist for series warnings)

✧ CHAPTER WORDCOUNT: 6.1k words

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: NEW ERA NEW ERA NEW ERA! whew!!! i’m excited for this one! this is going to be a loooong ride, so buckle up and enjoy! please note the slow burn tag on this one, because i’m not joking around with it. trust me, it’s going to hurt me just as much as it hurts you.

a HUGE thank you to tanni @yooniivrse for continuing to beta read for me <3 your commentary never fails to make me laugh and your edits save my life.

P.S. everything i know about the korean music industry is informed by my years as a kpop fan. i don’t know much about the rock scene there, so expect inaccuracies galore going forward. i do my due diligence where i can, but that can only help so much.

CH. 01: ALL YOU PEOPLE ARE VAMPIRES!

You aren’t entirely sure when you stopped feeling at home in places like this. There has to be some kind of defining event, some kind of indicator of The Before and The After, but every time you try and figure it out you come up short.

In The Before, not all that long ago, you would be scrounging for the bus fare rattling around in your pockets to get to a place like this as soon as you punched out from your shift at the Speedy Mart.

During your short stint in college, your friends didn’t understand your obsession. Music venues, to them, were fun for a weekend’s night out. The thrill of flashing a fake ID, of flirting with the musicians after their set, of getting said musicians to buy them drinks—it was a satisfying rebellion, a fun story to tell people at school and hide from their parents.

But you were there every day, even after classes and graveyard shifts under fluorescent lights, always racing to the nearest show without even changing out of your polo. It was never a rebellion to you. The lights, the thumping bass, the secondhand smoke—it made every nerve ending in your body light up.

You were born in this smoke, as far as you’re concerned.

Maybe it’s different now because it’s work to be here. But what isn’t work, these days? Your life is micromanaged down to the minutiae—the meals you eat, the products you use in your hair, your goddamn piss breaks. There’s no clocking out for you, no gasp of relief that comes after. Such is life for one of Seoul’s many playthings.

Even in the dead of winter, your stylist, Hyerin, has you in a dress that begs to be pulled down every five minutes like clockwork.

You learned a long time ago to bite your tongue on matters like this. The brands you work for pay you for the exposure you give them, after all. The chill that settles in your bones from the ten steps you take from your paid car to the venue door will be well worth it next time you count the zeroes in your bank account. At least, that’s what Hyerin told you as she pushed you out of the car and into the cold.

Wasteland looks the same as it did the very first night you ever stepped foot inside. Same red, glowing guitar sign above the entrance. Same shitty overpriced drinks. Same sticky floors. It’s nice that some things never change even when you do.

You’ve never been on the balcony, though. You’ve gotta hand it to Jeongguk—he’s really pulling out all the stops. To your knowledge, the balcony is normally reserved for VIPs. Close friends and family of the band, other celebrities, lucky and well-connected fans. Significant others. You suppose you fall under more than one of those categories now.

The crowd gathered on this side of the stage buzzes incessantly around you, waiting for the set to start. The excitement is palpable, and you understand why. It’s the very last show of Burn The Stage’s very first world tour following the release of their third studio album, and they’re ending it here: in Seoul. At Wasteland no less, the venue that housed the show that got them signed in the first place. Of course people are excited.

If you were the same person you were in The Before, you would be, too.

Instead, as the stage lights go down and the crowd roars around you, you down the rest of your drink and pray it’ll do its job and calm your fidgeting. For a split second, the thought that maybe you shouldn’t be drunk tonight passes through your brain, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. Your hopes of making a good first impression were squandered as soon as Hyerin zipped up your dress.

Besides, it’s not as if Jeongguk picked you for your shining reputation. More like the opposite.

With a flash of lights and a cacophony of sound, Burn The Stage launches into their first song on the setlist. The crowd roars around you, but you’re not here as a fan, so you try to remember everything Jeongguk taught you in preparation for tonight.

If you weren’t already close, most everything there is to learn about Jeon Jeongguk himself could easily be found with a simple Naver search.

Not only is Jeongguk the lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist of Burn The Stage, but he’s also the de facto face of the band, and he couldn’t be better suited for the job. He’s beautiful. Like, seriously beautiful. Well-built and knows it, sings songs about love and sex and anger with the sweetest voice known to man, covered in tattoos and piercings that eommas everywhere pretend to disapprove of when they’re actually ogling just as much as their daughters. He’s a teenage girl’s wet dream, and with that comes hordes of them using the deductive skills of the NIS to figure out the last time he took a shit. Very little in his life is a secret, whether he likes it or not.

The rest of the band, in turn, gets the luxury of a little bit of mystery.

Park Jimin, the drummer, and Kim Taehyung, the bassist. Jeongguk’s best friends in the world. You’ve met them both in passing before, at industry events here and there, and they both seemed nice enough.

Jimin has a bit of a reputation for being temperamental, angry, but the way Jeongguk describes him paints him as something gentle. Childhood friends who’ve known each other since scraped knees and runny noses.

It’s public knowledge that Jimin wanted to be a dancer, before this—that when he was in college, he suffered an injury that ended his dancing career before it even started. One moment he was one of the most promising ballet students in Seoul, and the next he was retired at nineteen. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but every time the band is interviewed the question is inevitably asked. Do you have any regrets? You’ve watched the videos, seen the way he shakes with anger even as he answers with a saccharine smile. You have a feeling getting along with Jimin won’t pose any challenges for you. You know a thing or two about regrets.

Taehyung is a bit harder to figure out, but not in any way that sparks concern. He’s just an interesting guy that way.

He was the last to join the band, the first to answer a ‘BASS PLAYER NEEDED’ ad posted around the city. Apparently, he was so good that they didn’t feel the need to call anyone else.

He lives in his own world, does his own thing. Posts very artistic photo dumps on his Instagram with concerningly cryptic captions. He’s quiet when he’s around people he doesn’t know, but when he’s put in a room with Jimin and Jeongguk he becomes the loudest person there. He’s kind, caring, always seems to know the right thing to say even if it’s delivered in the strangest manner possible.

Jimin and Taehyung won’t cause any problems for you. Jeongguk assured you that they’d be easy to win over, that as long as Jeongguk likes you, you’re in with them.

The real wild card is the guitarist. Min Yoongi.

According to Jeongguk, Burn The Stage wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for Yoongi. When the band formed, they were just dumb kids with a shared dream, but Yoongi was the one to set it all in motion.

When they didn’t have anywhere to practice, Yoongi convinced the ajumma he worked for to let him cram as much equipment as he could fit into a tiny noraebang room. When venues wouldn’t book them without the guarantee that they would draw a crowd, Yoongi burned hundreds of CDs and stood on the streets of Hongdae begging people to listen. When shady entertainment companies started offering them laughable contracts, Yoongi found Namjoon and somehow convinced him to manage them for dirt cheap. When they finally got an offer worth taking, Yoongi made them mull it over for as long as they possibly could. Weigh the pros and cons and decide if it was what they really wanted.

If Jeongguk is the face of the band, Yoongi is the heart. Unfortunately for you, this particular heart is very well-guarded.

Yoongi takes his privacy seriously. He refuses to answer interview questions he deems too personal, he doesn’t use social media. When asked why, his answer is always that he wants the music to speak for him.

Because that’s another thing: every single song that Burn The Stage has ever released has been penned by Yoongi. To his credit, it’s kind of what they’re known for. His lyrics have a raw honesty to them that’s gotten the band into trouble more than once.

You finally tune into the show that’s unfolded below you, the words spilling from Jeongguk’s lips loud and clear in your ears now that you’re paying attention.

Well, I ain't got no dollar signs in my eyes That might be a surprise but it's true Said, "I'm not like you and I don't want your advice Or your praise or to move in the ways you do and I never will" 'Cause all you people are vampires And all your stories are stale And though you pretend to stand by us I know you're certain we'll fail

It’s rock music. It’s polarizing, controversial, edgy. Biting the hand that feeds them—especially in the eyes of the executives lining the band’s pockets, you’re sure. And yet everyone eats it up.

Still, Yoongi wouldn’t get away with half of it if he wasn’t attractive, you’re sure of it.

Because he is. Attractive. They all are, and he’s no exception. He checks all of the boxes annoyingly well. The long hair, the signature smirk, the little silver barbell on a tongue that he seems all too happy to flash at a moment’s notice. Too bad he seems like one of those pretentious, tortured artist types that take themselves way too seriously. That’s never done it for you.

Jeongguk is the one singing Yoongi’s words, and he might as well be Korea’s sweetheart—if it weren’t for all the tattoos. He conveys the message of Yoongi’s songs exactly as intended, but he doesn’t have to act like an egotistical gatekeeper to do it.

Maybe it’s a preference on your part. You’ve always had a thing for sweetness.

★ ★ ★

After the concert, you’re ushered off of the balcony by one of the band’s security guards. It’s the same guy who escorted you up when you arrived, and you note to yourself that he’s very polite. Eunwoo, according to his nametag.

It tracks, given Burn The Stage’s reputation for making sure the women at their concerts feel comfortable in the crowd. You’ve heard stories about them stopping mid-song to have handsy men kicked out, and it’s nice to know their commitment extends to the people they employ for themselves.

Eunwoo offers you his hand palm-up as you descend down the balcony stairs, and you take it with a grateful smile. You’re feeling wobbly in these shoes, and the drinks you’ve downed since your arrival aren’t helping matters. Even with the assistance, you still feel like a baby giraffe as you step down, but thanks to Eunwoo, you don’t eat shit.

Eunwoo dutifully guides you backstage, to a grimy, graffitied hallway housing the dressing rooms for Wasteland’s talent of the night. Jeongguk waits outside of one of them, guzzling down a bottle of water as a female staff member dabs sweat off of his forehead with a pristine white towel. She’s only there for a moment before slipping back through the dressing room door. Finally noticing your approach, Jeongguk turns his head and grins at you, and you feel your nerves ebb away instantly. He’s good at that.

As you get closer to Jeongguk, you turn to smile and nod at Eunwoo in thanks. He smiles back politely, wordlessly falling back to give you some privacy.

“Daaaamn, YN-ah,” Jeongguk says, whistling lowly as you reach him. “You’re going to cause a bloodbath in there.” He nods his head towards the dressing room door, and you roll your eyes despite the heat building in your cheeks.

“I know, I know,” you say, smoothing your hands over your dress. “It’s not exactly a meet-the-family outfit, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“Nah, it’s cool. You look hot,” he says, grabbing your hand and making you do a spin, forcing a surprised laugh out of you as you try not to trip over yourself. Jeongguk keeps you steady, though, with a hand on your shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say, although you’re sure your face gives away how terrified you are of what awaits you on the other side of the door. “Maybe you should’ve picked an actress for this, though.”

“I trust you,” he says softly, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s not too late to back out, though. I’ll understand…”

You believe him, of course. Those doe eyes don’t lie, and even so, he’s already told you over and over how bad he feels for asking this of you. But you don’t want to back out. Jeongguk has given you so much since you’ve met—it’s only right to try and repay him for it.

“I want to do this,” you assure him, reaching up to squeeze his hand on your shoulder. “I’m just worried I won’t be able to pull it off.”

“You will,” Jeongguk says, smiling down at you warmly. “Don’t sweat it too much, okay? We’ve got this. It’s not like I have to pretend to like you.”

Right. You wish Jeongguk’s words did what they were meant to and instilled some kind of confidence in you, but what they actually do is make your chest ache uncomfortably. Pull yourself together, you think. Now’s not the time.

You smile good-naturedly, hoping Jeongguk doesn’t notice the way it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Let’s get this over with,” you mumble.

“That’s the spirit!” he laughs, sliding the hand on your shoulder around to the other one so his arm is slung around you. You hate the way your heart flutters, despite the fact that you’d prepared for this. Dumb bitch.

Jeongguk cracks the dressing room door open just enough to ensure that all of the men inside are decent, and then he’s guiding you inside, your hands flying down to smooth your dress over again, just in case.

The dressing room is bustling with more people than you expected, people you recognize from the balcony and staff alike. There’s a fast-paced rock song playing over a bluetooth speaker, almost loud enough to drown out the chatter.

Everyone seems to be in celebration mode after the last show of the tour. There’s a large sheet cake on a cart in the middle of the room emblazoned with the band members’ faces in frosting, plastic champagne flutes littered around the room in varying states of fullness. Judging by the bottle in his hand and the way staff members wipe at his face fussily, it seems like Taehyung took the liberty of pouring champagne over his head to cool off.

You’re used to having lots of eyes on you—it comes with the job—but something about the way Jeongguk’s bandmates immediately stop what they’re doing and take notice of your presence startles you, puts you on edge.

“Jeonggukie! You missed the cake,” Jimin calls, standing up from where he sat on the couch. He holds out a slice of the sheet cake to Jeongguk, tilting his head at you as he approaches. “Where do I know you from?”

Jeongguk removes his arm from your shoulders to take the plate, snorting at the image of his decapitated cake-head staring up at him. “Hyungs,” he says, grabbing a plastic fork and digging into the slice. “This is YLN YN.”

“Oh, we’ve met before! The model, right?” Taehyung pipes up from where he’s still being wiped down, and you nod politely. “I saw your Innisfree campaign last month. I couldn’t remember whether your skin was really that nice in person.”

You watch as he extricates himself from the staff, ignoring their protests as he walks away from them.

Taehyung gets close to you, close enough to inspect your pores like he clearly intends to, and you fight the urge to instantly recoil. Jeongguk seems too busy stuffing his face with cake to interfere, and you want to make a good first impression. So much for your personal bubble.

“It is,” he says, nodding sagely to himself.

“Th-thank you?” you stammer. Beside you, Jeongguk finally tunes back in.

“Jeez, hyung,” he says around a mouthful of cake. He chews for a moment, swallowing thickly before continuing. “Let her breathe.”

“Sorry,” Taehyung says sheepishly, backing out of your personal space, and you let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaking your head.

“It’s fine,” you say, mustering a polite smile.

You note that despite his initial (albeit subtle) acknowledgement of your existence when you walked in the door, Yoongi now seems entirely disinterested in interacting with you. He hasn’t moved from where he’s planted on the couch, focused intently on strumming his guitar. How he can even hear what he’s playing over the noise is beyond you. It’s not even plugged into an amp.

You’d be a little annoyed that he hasn’t even bothered to greet you, but you reason that he must be pretty worn out from all of the fanfare surrounding the show tonight. Introvert recognizes introvert. You try not to take it personally.

“Do you know Jeongguk-ah well?” Jimin asks, drawing your attention back to him. His eyes bounce between you and his bandmate. He seems to be putting the pieces together, so you glance at Jeongguk, wordlessly passing the question his way.

Thankfully, Jeongguk seems to get the hint. He tosses his plate in the nearest trash can before sliding over to you again, his arm slipping around your waist easily, betraying nothing.

“Hyungs,” he starts, glancing at you and nodding once. Let the show begin. “YN-ah is actually, um… my girlfriend.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi sit up. That got his attention, it seems.

A hush falls over the room, even the eyes of the staff members within earshot widening in response to Jeongguk’s announcement. Oh shit, you think. Please let this go well.

“Since when?” Taehyung asks, curiosity piqued. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t seem upset by the new information. At least, not as far as you can tell.

“Well, um,” Jeongguk starts, tonguing nervously at his lip ring. He pulls you closer so you’re practically curled against his chest now, and you silently pray that the way you’re looking at him reads as sweet and not like you’re about to jump out of your skin. “It’s actually been a few months now… Since right before the tour, actually.”

“Right before the tour?” Jimin asks, his brow furrowing in obvious confusion. “So you’ve been doing long distance?”

Jeongguk glances at you, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, it was bad timing on my part,” he says, his eyes fixed on yours. Damn. If he didn’t have such great pipes, you’d say he should’ve gone into acting. He’s male lead material. “I just couldn’t leave without telling her how I felt.”

You wish that you could do or say literally anything useful instead of just clinging to Jeongguk’s side like a barnacle. This is supposed to be a joint effort, but you feel frozen in place, unable to find your voice. It’s a good thing Jeongguk seems to be pulling it off all on his own.

“So cute,” Taehyung coos, bumping his shoulder against Jimin’s conspiratorially. “Our Jeonggukie’s all grown up and in love.”

“He’s always been a romantic,” Jimin joins in, miming at wiping fake tears as if he’s a proud parent. He reaches out and grabs your hands, startling you. “Please take care of him.”

“Hyuuuungs,” Jeongguk whines, tearing his arm away from you to whack Jimin and Taehyung on their heads simultaneously. “You’re going to scare her away!”

“Doubtful,” Yoongi says from where he’s still seated on the couch. Oh, so he does speak. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice all night. It’s low, raspier in person than in the videos you’ve seen online. His words are directed at Jeongguk, but when you turn your head to look at him you find that his gaze is fixed on you. Your pulse spikes at the discovery. “I don’t think anything could scare her away from you, Guk-ah.”

The words themselves are innocuous, even supportive, but something about the way he says them makes your gut twist. Nobody else seems put off by it, but you can tell something’s not right. You have to say something, to open your mouth and speak. You have to pull this off, for Jeongguk.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, forcing a smile. You manage to tear your gaze away from Yoongi, looking back at Jeongguk. He’s grinning down at you, and it’s real, even if the pretense of it isn’t. Your smile becomes a little less forced in return.

★ ★ ★

Jimin and Taehyung are insistent that you stick around and celebrate for a while, so you do. You end up enjoying yourself, despite the weird moment with Yoongi.

Jimin and Taehyung are fun to be around, just like Jeongguk said they would be, although conversation between the three of them becomes a little hard for you to follow sometimes. They just talk so fast.

They ask you questions about your job, your friends, your family. They also tease Jeongguk relentlessly in front of you and seem all too thrilled to find out that you’re their noona. You find it surprising how easily you open up to them, but it just… happens. Just like it did with Jeongguk when you first met.

You relax enough to convince yourself that your perceived pointed nature of Yoongi’s words earlier was all in your head. Surely, he couldn’t have a problem with you when he doesn’t even know you. Jeongguk told you himself that Yoongi’s a quiet guy. Maybe that was his own way of telling you he approves of you. He hasn’t said or done anything since to make you think otherwise. Granted, he hasn’t said or done anything, period.

Once he arrives, you meet Namjoon, Burn The Stage’s manager. Jeongguk told you a little bit about him, but it was mostly just thinly-veiled thirsting. Now you see why.

He clarifies right off the bat that he already knows who you are, which saves you the anxiety of having to go through the whole routine again, and then he apologizes for being late.

“I was talking to reporters. I wanted the guys to be able to celebrate without having to do any interviews,” he explains as he shakes your hand with a dimpled smile. Damn. Yeah, you don’t blame Jeongguk one bit.

After a while, the champagne catches up with you and you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

The staff member that was dabbing Jeongguk’s sweat earlier—Minji, you learn—directs you out of the dressing room and to the nearest women’s bathroom further down the hallway.

You try to make it as quick as possible, much tipsier than you thought and all the more unstable in these shoes because of it. After one last check of your hair and makeup in the mirror, you make your exit, focusing down at your feet as you go.

Unfortunately, you run headfirst into someone’s chest in the process. Hands come up to grab your elbows, steadying you before you fall flat on your face. For a second, you think maybe Minji had been waiting to escort you back to the dressing room, but these are not a woman’s hands holding you up. Wait a second, you think. You definitely saw these ring-clad fingers displayed on a huge screen earlier. Strumming at a guitar, perhaps?

In a moment of amazing mental clarity on your part considering the state you’re in, you realize that these are Min Yoongi’s hands, and your head snaps up to look up at him.

“Yoongi-ssi! I’m so sorry!” You quickly right yourself to the best of your ability, pressing your hand to the wall next to you for support.

Once he’s sure you can hold yourself up without his help, Yoongi instantly retracts his hands, crossing his arms over his chest. “I should’ve been looking where I was going,” you add, doing your best to bow in apology without losing your balance again.

Yoongi tilts his head at you as if he’s assessing you, his gaze inscrutable. Man, for a lyricist this guy isn’t big on words. You’re just about to politely say goodbye and head back to the dressing room when he finally speaks.

“I’ve spent the past hour trying to figure out what your angle could possibly be, but I’m coming up short.”

Um. What?

“Huh?” you manage, blinking at Yoongi like he’s suddenly grown a second head.

“It’s not like your career’s in any trouble. Nobody thinks you're Korea’s angel or anything, but your shit reputation hasn’t stopped you from getting brand deals,” Yoongi continues, scoffing to himself. “Are you just bored? Is this what you do to amuse yourself?”

Uh oh. He knows. He knows for sure, and even worse, he thinks that you’re the mastermind.

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, forcing your voice to remain level. You don’t even try to defend your reputation. It’s not like he’s wrong.

“Right,” Yoongi says, leaning in a little closer, like he’s about to tell you a secret. “Well, a word of advice. If you want people to buy that you’re really in love with Jeongguk, you could try to look less like you’re going to throw up when he touches you.”

FUCK. You thought you pulled it off. You thought you pulled it off, and now here’s Jeongguk’s goddamn hero telling you point-blank that you didn’t. You wrack your brain trying to think of anything you could possibly say to defend yourself, to get this guy off your ass, because this cannot be your fault. You’d never forgive yourself.

“I—”

“Or,” Yoongi starts, cutting you off. “You could just cut the bullshit and leave Jeongguk alone.” He pauses, rubbing his chin as if he’s pretending to think about it and then nodding once. “Yeah, let’s go with that one.”

Jesus Christ he’s a piece of work. You feel your fists clench at your sides, your nails digging painfully into your palms. You just got your nails done, and there’s a strong possibility you’ll draw blood, but it’s all you can do not to strangle this asshole right here and leave Burn The Stage without a guitarist.

“Yoongi-ssi,” you say, your words dripping with fake politeness. Fuck this guy, actually. “I don’t know what I’ve done to give you such a bad impression of me, but I assure you that Jeongguk and I are very much in love.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t buy it?” Yoongi asks, voice tinged with impatience. “You may have everyone else in that room fooled, but not me, and if you hurt Jeongguk I can guarantee it won’t end well for you.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you snap. “Again, I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done to make you think so poorly of me, but I meant what I said in there. I’m not going anywhere.”

You need to remove yourself from this interaction right now before you do something stupid like burst into tears. You take the opportunity to push past Yoongi before he gets a chance to say anything else, making sure to essentially shoulder check him in the process because again, fuck this guy.

You stalk down the hallway, feeling much more sober now. It’s as if all of the alcohol got forcibly drained from your system in the face of total fucking disaster, and you’re honestly thankful for it, because the last thing you need is this asshole seeing you actually fall.

For a moment, you’re fooled into thinking you’d successfully ended the conversation, but of course he needs the last word.

“I know more about you than you think, dollface.”

Dollface? The fuck?

You chance a glance behind you and you immediately regret it. Yoongi leans against the wall where you left him, an amused smirk spread over his face, and the sight immediately fills you with dread, a type of primal panic you haven’t felt in four years flooding your senses.

He doesn’t… He couldn’t know about that. There’s no possible way. Jeongguk doesn’t even know about that. Nobody does, because you’ve done everything in your meager power to keep it that way.

You whip your head back around to face front, your heels clacking on the crusty linoleum beneath them as you continue down the hallway. Don’t look back, you think. He doesn’t know.

You’re thankful that you brought your bag with you to the bathroom, because you’re very much not in the mood for a party now. Once you’re safely outside, you call your car and send a text to Jeongguk explaining your sudden escape. You felt sick, you tell him.

It’s not like it’s a lie.

Yoongi loves being on stage.

Over the past few years, there’s been a noticeable change in his demeanor. He’s become passive, apathetic to the normal day-to-day that comes with being a celebrity. Nothing really wows him anymore.

He remembers the way he reacted to the accommodations the band received when they first got signed. He was way too scared to ask for things at first, but the label gave it all to him anyway.

For instance, Yoongi’s always been particular about his stationery. The first time he filled a notebook after getting signed, he didn’t even think to consider it a company expense. Why would he? He was fully capable of buying his own shit, even if he had to save up for it. Sure, every time he had to write a lyric down on the back of a receipt his eye would twitch, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before.

But the label guys noticed. Before he even had a chance to buy his next batch of notebooks and pens, he was sat down in a spacious meeting room and asked point-blank what he needed. When Yoongi gave them specifics—Leuchtturm 1917 unlined hardcover pocket journals and a fuckton of Uni-Ball Jetstream Premier pens—they didn’t even bat an eye. When he—rightfully—warned them that he might strangle someone if he’s handed a gel pen instead of a ballpoint, they just assured him that wouldn’t happen.

Ever since then, there’s been an endless supply of exactly what he needs, always within reach. He’s still grateful for that, of course, because he goes through those fuckers fast. But it’s just a fact of his life now. It’s not special to get his fucking Leuchtturms anymore, not when he could douse his entire supply with gasoline and burn it on a whim and still have a fresh one in his hand within mere minutes.

And it’s not just journals and pens.

Namjoon is the band’s representative. Yoongi picked him personally long before there was any contract, or even hope for one, and if everything were to go to shit tomorrow, Namjoon would still be there. But after the single from their second album charted on the Billboard Hot 100, a label-equivalent to Namjoon was hired, as if anybody could ever be equivalent to Namjoon. Park Hyunseok. Park Hyunseok, whose sole duty is to buzz around Yoongi and his bandmates like a pesky fly and “make sure they’re happy.” They quite literally want for nothing.

Yoongi remembers when his skin used to buzz with the emotions simmering just under the surface. He was fiery in his youth, pissed off and ready to prove a point. He felt everything strongly, fully.

Not so much these days. Anger is only marketable for so long, or so he’s been told.

For the past year, Yoongi’s felt numb to the world. And he’s dealt with it, of course. That’s what he does. The album did great, the tour sold out, the boys are happy. That’s really all that matters. He just doesn’t know how he’s going to write another fucking album if he’s got nothing to write about anymore.

Still, he loves being on stage. There’s nothing like it. It never gets old, never gets boring. He still hasn’t gotten used to the feeling of stepping onstage and feeling a crowd scream his name, scream his lyrics right back at him. Lyrics to songs that he wrote in his shoebox apartment when he was eighteen and it felt like nobody gave a fuck about him. Funny how things change.

Nobody can take that feeling away from him, even if they’ve taken all the other ones.

It’s been a good night. It feels good to be back in Seoul after being away for months, feels even better to be on this particular stage again. Yoongi always feels keyed up after a good show, itching to do something with all of the energy thrumming through his body, and tonight is no different. He’s almost giddy with the opportunity to celebrate this tour with his bandmates and Namjoon and then go home and crash. Home. Fuck, it’s a good night. He has a hot date with his king size bed.

But then you.

It’s been years since you’ve even been a thought in Yoongi’s brain, and he liked it that way. Unfortunately, it’s apparently true what they say: all good things must come to an end.

Yoongi sees right through you. He's met so many of your type in his life that even if he hadn’t met you before he would’ve been able to sniff you out the second you walked backstage. Users. Social climbers. The bored and braindead looking for their next toy. The exact kind of person he’s been trying to protect Jeongguk from this whole time, and now you’re on his arm.

And whatever, a hookup is one thing. Yoongi frankly doesn’t give a fuck where Jeongguk decides to stick his dick. The less he knows the better on that front. But a relationship? No, it isn’t real. Yoongi knows that much. Maybe it is for Jeongguk, but not for you. He's never even heard Jeongguk, hopeless romantic extraordinaire, talk about you.

Jeongguk introduces you as his girlfriend, and suddenly it’s like Yoongi’s watching a car crash in slow motion. He prays that he’s not alone, that Jimin and Taehyung have caught on to your piss-poor acting skills—seriously, you look like you’re about to pass out—but it looks like Yoongi’s entirely alone on this one. You have them wrapped around your little finger with minimal effort. He has a feeling that comes as naturally to you as breathing.

Of course, Yoongi has the added displeasure of having met you before, way back when. When you had the chance to be somebody, before you pissed it away, to what? To pout in front of a camera for a living? He thought he’d run out of ways to be wrong about you four years ago, but clearly you just can’t help yourself.

And of course you don’t remember him. Why would you?

Yoongi knows Jeongguk better than anybody. He also knows that thing people say about teenagers is true. If you tell them not to do something, they’ll only want to do it more. Jeongguk may be a grown man now, but he’s stubborn as fuck, and he never grew out of that. If he goes to Jeongguk and flat-out tells him that his girlfriend is a piece of human garbage, Jeongguk will only date her harder.

He tries to control the infection at the source by confronting you directly, but it’s clear the fire that he thought you lacked is, in fact, there, if only to piss Yoongi off.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say.

Okay.

If that’s how you want to play, Yoongi can fucking play. He’s going to make you wish you’d left Jeongguk alone when he gave you the chance.

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kissitbttr · 11 months ago

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a very tiny fic of frat!miguel pining on cheerleader!y/n in college. might expand, we’ll see ;)

fucking. frat parties, man,

you hate it. despise it even. what’s so good about them anyway other than the fact watching dumb boys in snapbacks making a fool of themselves with drinking games?

definitely not your scene, but unluckily for you—it has always been your friends favorite thing to look forward to,

“you need to cut yourself some slack babe. this party will do you good! i promise!”

rolling your eyes, you slip on one of your favorite heels before glaring at her. “doubt it but thanks for the positivity”

“maybe todd will be there and you guys will catch up?”

“like hell we will” you scoff, walking towards the dressing table to pamper yourself,

“that shit is history, he’s a fucking dead man”

a certified douche bag, that’s what todd is. dated him in sophomore year and the relationship went for about six months before calling it quits because he had his tongue down some other girl’s throat and he had the nerve to blame it on you,

you were pretty much done with men at that point,

“she’s right” one of your friends, gloria points out. “you guys forgot what that asshole did to her, hm?”

“but” one girl steps in. “people change, right?”

you and gloria exchange looks, biting back a mocking smile at how innocent and naive the girl sounds. however, you shake your head at gloria, telling her to hold it in.

“yeah, sure” you shrug at her question, busying yourself with makeups as the other girls from behind you continue with their chatting,

“what about miguel? that tall sexy one”

your hand freezes at the name, as a collective of ooh’s and dreamy sighs fall upon your ears. yet you dismiss it anyway,

“and what about him?”

lyla, the pixie haired cut girl chimes in. “wasn’t he the one who blew you a kiss during the football game? you know, when you were cheering”

it was the championship game, one after finals had ended. you and your cheerleading team were on the sidelines doing the stunts. one of the duties of being one was to cheer for your home team. being extra perky and all smiley,

he scored another touchdown within the last ten seconds, in which the crowd had erupted into loud cheers. this man sure got some speed on his feet,

you clapped your poms poms together, jumping in excitement while yelling out his jersey number. the rest of the girls are doing the same thing, some even louder than others. leading the crowd to loudly chant his last name,

miguel took his helmet off, smiling proudly at the full audience while bumping his chest with his fist. then his eyes landed on you, smile going wider as he watched you cheer for his team,

then he did it. blew you a kiss as he waved. mouthing a ‘that one’s for you’ before winking, in which you only rolled your eyes at the respond. you truly had no time entertaining another heartbreaker on campus.

that man maybe devilishly handsome and charming, but he also shared some highly disturbing amounts of girls in his dorm,

or so you have heard.

his friend jogged towards him, clasping his hand around miguel’s shoulder,

“new girlfriend, o’hara? or looking for a quick fuck?”

if it was any other circumstances, he’d punch him for saying that about you. but he was far too entranced by your beauty to actually give a shit. instead he smiled, eyes refused sto leave yours as he watched your body move.

“girlfriend. working on it, compá”

his voice is confident. almost like he’s sure that you’ll be his. and you will

miguel finds you to be far more intriguing than the rest. beautiful, top of the class, fucking funny too. ever since he had exchanged a couple words with you during one the class you both shared, you pretty much occupy his mind from there.

and he had watched you punch one of the guys at his party one time so safe to say you’re the reason why his dick is hard for the rest of the night

“not only that. he touched down and said it was for you, didn’t he?! ugh! i am so freaking jealous!”

it’s almost funny how hopeless romantic most of your friends are. i mean sure, you are too, who isn’t? but you would argue that if it wasn’t coming from miguel, those girls probably won’t be swooning like right now,

“you both are overreacting. he was just in the heat of the moment.”

“nuh uh” gloria shakes her head in disagreement, scoffing with a small smirk. “she’s right, that boy wants you. he wants you bad. like ‘24/7 deep dick inside your pussy and won’t let you walk straight after fucking’ wants you”

“a very… vivid detail, gloria…” you widen your eyes with a laugh while the other girls agree. “but okay”

“how do you even know that?”

“beck said so” she shrugs, making you look at her with a deadpan expression. “what? me and him went back to fucking, don’t judge me!”

a snort escapes your lips, tugging the lipgloss back out of your makeup pouch before unscrewing the tube,

“he’s like a total player, no? i don’t think i could get together with a man who sticks his dick into any hole”

“that’s not true. they’re just rumors”

“yeah, wasn’t dana the only girl he had ever dated?”

“no that was xina. dana fucked his brother”

“what?!”

“isn’t it the other way around?”

“i’ve never seen him with girls that often. your opinion could be wrong y/n”

you brush it off and let the girls gossip in the back. whether it’s true or not, staying away would probably better. after todd, you don’t think you can afford another heartbreak.

fucking. men

the party had started a few hours ago, and it’s packed. a lot of students come and start filling up the house, the sound of asap rocky’s ‘frat rules’ booming through the speakers.

it’s not even close to midnight but miguel already spot a few kids getting drunk and throwing up in the backyard making him winces in disgust. he has told a few of his friends to keep an eye for broken furnitures but he doubts any of them listen,

they’re far too busy exchanging saliva with some of the girls from the sorority,

“yo o’hara! beer pong later! you’re on my team!”

peter, one of his frat brothers yells. miguel looks over his shoulder to see him standing by the pong table with the others, he has his arm around a red haired girl’s shoulder.

miguel flashes a smile, head shaking as he fixes himself a beer from the keg. “count me out, parker. go find other team player”

“oh boo! you’re no fun these days, o’hara! don’t tell me you’re standing by to see if she’s coming?”

“wait, miguel’s crushing on someone?” the red haired asks

“i told you babe, it’s the girl from cheerleading team”

miguel doesn’t respond, because peter is right. he has been scanning over the room, pacing back to back to see if you’re here yet. a disappointment sigh leaves his mouth each time he fails to find you,

his frat brothers think he’s gone crazy. because why would he get himself so worked up over one girl when there’s dozens of others lining up to get dicked down by him? pretty ones even,

but that’s the thing, miguel doesn’t find hooking up to be something that needs to be praised for. why would he pat himself on the back for screwing half of the sorority sisters? or bet on who gets to be the lucky bastard to get into the quiet girl’s panties?

gross. that’s for sure. but it seems that his brothers think otherwise. he has no say in that, obviously. to each their own.

“she’s coming, dude. chill. you’ve been eyeing the goddamn door non-stop” beck chuckles, sipping on his beer can

he ignores him, clicking the tongue against his teeth. “you told gloria, right? to bring her here?”

“i did. so stop worrying. enjoy for a bit”

beck leaves him with that, not before bumping miguel’s shoulder lightly with his fist, leaving miguel with his brows furrowed and lip in a small pout,

‘where are you?’ he thinks,

“hey miguel”

a feminine voice pulls him out of the trance, in which he quirks an eyebrow and notices a short haired girl appears by his side, dragging her long manicured nails down his bicep,

“not interested” he shoots her a quick glare before averting his gaze back towards the door,

the girl pouts, taking the bold move by resting her temple against his shoulder in which he shakes her off causing her to gasp,

“the fuck o’hara?!”

“i told you. not interested. beat it” he downs his red solo cup before scrunching it, licking his lips. “go find another guy to bang”

she huffs at that, stomping her feet like a child like her parents refuses to give her candy,

“i mean it. move, i am not—“

“y/n! gloria! you two made it!”

that does it for him. soon as he hears your name falls from beck’s mouth, his gaze never moves quicker. seeing his frat brother by the entrance, greeting gloria with a kiss and you’re standing by gloria’s side with a small smile,

oh god, you.

who looks absolutely breathtaking tonight. adorned in a pretty pink dress that hugs your curves in the right way, your makeup is light and he’s thankful for that. long thick hair fall against your back, leaving your shoulders exposed,

simple yet look so expensive,

miguel pays no mind to the girl besides him, simply just walking away. he doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the people who congratulates him on the win as he strides closer to you,

“y/n y/l/n… what a sight for sore eyes it is to see you, muñeca”

a familiar voice saying your name makes your head turn, seeing who it is. the head of fraternity. miguel o’hara,

he has his arms crossed, causing his biceps to bulge a bit, making him look bigger than he already is. you eye the outfit he has on. a black muscle tank and grey sweatpants. chocolate hair tucked into a bright red snapback that he props on backwards,

he shoots you a flirty smirk, walking a little bit closer just enough to create a small gap between the two of you,

“miguel o’hara” you speak his name, faking a smile. “surprised to see you still sticking around here. i thought you’d be by your room already, pleasuring another girl”

he winces playfully, hand over his heart pretending to be hurt. “ouch, muñeca” a small chuckles leaves his mouth as he watches you roll your eyes, “always with the horrible assumptions. care to play nice this time?”

you glance at him with a scoff. “we both know that’s a fact. you always leave with a girl, don’t you?” you question, eyebrows furrowing as you tilt your head to the side,

he hums, scanning the room before looking back at you. “false. but i’ll let you believe what you want to believe, muñeca.”

you try to guess if he’s being sarcastic with it or actually telling the truth, and you swear it’s the latter. however, you refuse to fall for it,

“what do you want, o’hara?” you sigh, sipping on the beer gloria had offered earlier,

with a chuckle, he leans against the nearest wall, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. “is it a crime for me to talk to a pretty girl i have a crush on? is there any written policies about that?”

your heart flutters when he calls you pretty. not to mention, a crush?

yeah okay, you do find him extremely attractive and sexy. like, really really sexy. guilty as charged. but who doesn’t think so? his dashing smile and seemingly soft hair do make you a little bit crazy. he’s a total heartthrob on campus.

not only is he the vice captain of the football team but he’s one smart student. passes every class, rarely get a score below B’s. no wonder why teachers are chasing his ass for him to tutor some of the students.

and if that’s not enough, you know how much he loves to spend his time volunteering at local organizations, doing food kits for donations even providing a cost-free child care around the community,

he’s almost—too good to be true.

“i’m flattered, truly. but flirting won’t get you anywhere, mr.” you wag your finger side to side,

“seriously?”

“seriously”

“wow” he breathes out a sigh, faking a disappointment. “i got to try harder than that then”

a giggle leaves your mouth, head shaking. “my advice? stop trying, o’hara”

“i can’t do that, muñeca”

you tilt your head to the side,. “and why’s that?”

“i just told you”

“hm. surely there are other girls out there, o’hara”

“i don’t want them”

“persistent aren’t you?”

“kind of” he casually shrugs. “why, you don’t like it?”

“quite the opposite”

“and why is that entertaining to you?” he asks with a smirk,

“i like seeing men desperate. i like seeing them beg for something they know they can’t have” you bite down onto your lower lip. your respond is not meant to be flirty, but more of like a playful statement.

yet somehow, it triggers something in him. something good.

his eyes flicker down to your mouth, puffing out a deep breath. “shit, you’re making it harder for me now” he mumbles, tongue sticking out to wet down his lip,

“harder to what exactly?”

“to not want you” he replies bluntly, tone changes into a serious one. but it doesn’t come off as a lust or desperation,

your smile falters a little when you realize how serious he becomes. swallowing a lump on your throat, fingers digging into the skin of your arms. eyes are now onto his, and you don’t quite get why it feels so difficult to just look away,

“miguel i—“

“shit, i ruined it, didn’t i? eres un idiota” he curses himself with a grunt shaking his head. hands on his hips “sorry, i’m just— fuck you look so good right now muñeca and there’s like a million things going through my mind when i look at you—“

“miguel—“

“obviously i’m not going to tell you because it’s pg-13 all up in here” he points at his head. “and i don’t want to scare you—“

“miguel—“

“but i went past puberty so i’m not some kind of horny teenager that—“

“miguel! jesus, shut up!” you finally exclaim, and that does it for him. his movements stop when he hears you yell out his name,

clearing your throat, you regain your posture before setting the beer down on the nearest table,

“listen i—i just don’t know what to say after that” you begin with a nervous laugh, tucking a loose hair behind your ear. “you have a crush on me?”

his bushy brows dip into a frown. “didn’t i make it clear these past few weeks?”

“huh?”

“i brought you lunch, let you borrowed my favorite pen during class, i even asked your number through gloria but she didn’t want to give it to me” his shoulders slouch in disappointment. “i’ve had a crush on you since— I don’t know, too long. you’re a tough woman to please, muñeca. i give you that”

“that’s only one time! how am i supposed to know that you weren’t just looking to hook up?”

“ay dios mio! if i wanted to just have sex with you, i would try to get closer with you during a party! which is… technically what i’m doing right now but— that’s not the point!” he groans, rubbing his hands all over his face in frustrations,

“you seriously didn’t notice the signs?!”

“those weren’t fucking signs, dumbass. try to do more than being subtle, why don’t you?!”

“well it’s hard when you keep dodging me and rolling your eyes everytime i talk to you!”

“how can i?! when you slept with like half of the sorority girls on campus?!”

“how many times do i have to tell you that what you hear is not true? i don’t know where you got that from but i can assure you that i haven’t fucked anyone in months! and the idea of hooking up with random girls doesn’t sound appealing to me! want some prove? ask my brothers about that, go on! or ask beck, he’ll tell you the truth. that man is prone to never lying”

you go quiet. face softening a little,

“wait… then what about the girls i saw you walking with after a party?”

“to walk them safely to their cars or their dorm room. that’s it” he explains, watching the surprised look on your face.

“now.. how do you see me?”

you feel terrible for believing all those rumors first before actually knowing it’s confirmed or not. you are taught to never ever judge a book by its cover and you just did,

fuck you’re a terrible person,

“oh..” you mutter softly. “shit—i’m so sorry miguel, I didn’t know”

“it’s fine, don’t worry about it”

“what? no! i was acting like a complete bitch! ugh fuuuuck” you whine, stomping your heel on the ground as miguel watches in amusement,

��you’re adorable’ he wanted to say,

“i feel terrible—no, i am actually” you grumble, “how can i make it up to you?”

a bright smile spreads across his face. “allow me to get to know you throughout the night? no funny business i promise”

his eyes are glinting with hope when he looks at you, feeling nervous that you might reject him but he’s not letting you see that,

you mirror his expression, feeling your cheeks warm by his question. “miguel—i’d love to but… no offense, i kinda didn’t want to go to your party in the first place, i only went because gloria asked me to and uhm.. i don’t know if i wanted to stay, actually—it’s not because of you but mainly because my social battery had died even before i got here”

“we don’t have to stay—we can go out. we’ll pick a place and go or you can pick, i’m down with whatever”

with wide eyes, you reply “what?”

“yeah. there’s a good diner i always go to when i’m craving for a good burger or a shawarma truck down the street. they don’t have tables and everything but we can order and eat in my car.”

“unless you have better options, it’s cool” he adds

you try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach but it’s hard not to when he’s being extremely… attentive?

my god, is this actually miguel o’hara? the man who’s painted to be heartless and a player?

“mig- this is your party. you can’t just leave” you softly laugh. “we can catch up another time, i hate to be—“

“it’s fine, muñeca. this party is good as it can be without me. besides” he reaches into his pocket to grab his keys,

“i’d like to spend time with you.. is that… okay?”

he’s being careful with his words, because he doesn’t want to scare you off or come off desperate. the last thing he needed was to have you feel repulsed by him,

you give him with a soft smile, looking up at his ruby eyes with your pretty doe ones and from then on, miguel is absolutely sure that he’s in. so fucking in that he knows there is no way out,

it’s not like he wants it any other way

“that’s okay”

i was going to make her super mean and bitchy but i figured i’d use that for some other time,

also please tell me this doesn’t sucked. i hate for this one to flop because i might start to fall in love with these pairings

feel free to send your ideas and thoughts about these two

(i might actually write one where they both meet the first time)

#there’s going to be more i promise!!#miguel o’hara blurbs #miguel o’hara drabbles #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o'hara #frat!miguel

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siddyyyyyyyy · 3 months ago

Text

Small Cuts

Jason Todd x Reader

wc: 1.7 K summary: Red Hood saves you from the chaos, being scared shitless warnings: standard Gotham violence, description of minor injuries, (panic attack), slight angst/comfort, established relationship a/n: for my loyal Red Hood fans (you know who you are), here's a special drabble I came up with while looking through my notes. have fun (divider)

Jason quickly dodges another punch, putting a bullet between the muggers eyes. Yes, Bruce said no guns and killing, but he isn‘t Bruce. He doesn‘t care, these shits need to go down, they did that themselves by doing wrongs. It seems that Dick managed to escort as many civilians as possible from the mall, getting back to his brother to fight by his side. He knows Bane is a powerful guy, but his small army seems to be quite strong too. It‘s annoying him, he probably has a broken rib by now, and the cuts along his body sting, it getting more difficult to fight against the remaining soldiers.

A scarily familiar, shrill scream sounds amidst the chaos, his breath hitching under his mask. He really hopes it‘s not the person he thinks it is. With a quick punch to the other‘s head, he can search for who screamed, already cursing Dick for not clearing the floor properly. It seems like he is on autopilot, remembering you telling him about going on a quick shop to the mall, see if there is anything new. That same mall he is fighting criminals in right now.

He finally spots you, trapped between the wall and a huge shelf that crashed against it, you being in between it. There is just enough space for you to fit in, but not enough to crawl out of it on your own. Besides, you‘ve never looked so terrified before, not even able to breath properly in your panicked state.

Without sharing another glance, he runs up to you and pushes the shelf away from the wall, grunting at how heavy it is. Now that the huge weight is off, you intake a deep breath, close to hyperventilating again. You can‘t even register who is in front of you or that you are free again.

Jason really wants to just let the medics from outside take care of you, but he can‘t. He carefully scoops you up, holding your head close against him, as he hurries away from the fighting scene, patting your back softly with his other hand. Meanwhile, you can barely register that you aren‘t crushed between the wall anymore, but in someone‘s arms, taking you away.

»S- Lady, you‘re alright! I‘m bringing you to safety, you‘re gonna be okay.«

The slightly distorted voice attempts to calm you down, doing little to actually make you stop from panicking. Jason cursed himself inwardly as he almost slipped, having to keep his secret identity from you while still outside, being close to giving up and patching you up right here; call you his favourite nicknames and petnames. It‘s not like he doesn‘t trust you, no, he would do anything for you because you‘d do anything for him. He still sometimes cries himself to sleep, thinking he doesn‘t deserve you. Now, he is close to crying again, but not because of that. His world is injured, because he wasn‘t careful enough. He should‘ve been the one escorting civilians, maybe he would have spotted you sooner.

With quick strides, Jason finally sets you down onto his couch. These are the rare moments he is glad he lives close to the mall, being still dead-concerned about you.

Your knee is badly scraped, a couple of dark bruises littering on your exposed skin, small cuts across your face.Oh, your pretty face. It‘s all his fault.

As if on instinct, he gets his med kit and kneels down in front of the couch, craddling your face in his hands. Now safe in his apartment, he doesn‘t care about his secret identity being revealed to you, he just wants to make this better.

»Darling, I‘m here, don‘t you worry, okay? It‘s me, Jason. Jay-jay.«

Before you can respond, he takes off his helmet and discards it to the floor, cleaning your small scrapes around his face carefully. His fingers barely touch your skin, the wet rug gently cleaning the little blood off of your forehead and cheeks, his own face looking way worse than yours.

Gasping, you finally take in his face and feel a rush of worry again. Leaning up, you cup his cheek, seeing his black eye and cut across his chin. He looks absolutely done, yet he is still on his knees, cleaning at your own wounds.

He is immediately alerted, searching your face for any sign of pain or discomfort. He doesn‘t seem to realise he is injured as well.

»W-what is it? Did I hurt you?« What is that question? Of course he hurt you, he should‘ve been there way sooner.

Taking a deep breath, you try to use your voice; being still shaken up and weak.

»Your fucking eye...« Jason frowns even more at your weak voice, huffing out and leaning you back down on your back. He bites down on his inner cheek harshly, trying to focus and work on your injuries as best as possible. Your eyes stay on his face, silently observing him as you finally start to breath more normally.

Your light scrapes sting as he cleans them up, putting small bandages over them.

»Don‘t they need you?« You croak out quietly again, whincing lightly as he cleans your scraped knee, the wet cloth becoming bloody.

»They can handle it. I need you to be safe first.« Jason mutters back, feeling guilty and bad for causing you more pain while patching you up. It hurts more but you bear through, leaning up on your elbows to see how bad your knee is. You grimace lightly, hissing at the familiar sting while he cleans your wound.

Jason doesn‘t glance to your face anymore, completely focussed on taking care of you. He carefully wraps a bandage around your knee, lifting it up a little on the couch. His fingertips barely graze your skin, his touch even more gentle than usual. Your body is still trembling from the adrenaline, slumping back on the couch with a heavy sigh. It all comes to your senses.

Jason is Red Hood. He just saved you from that terror attack in the mall. Seems to be in a worse shape than you and still patches you up as gentle as possible. He left his team behind just to take you to safety.

»Take off your shirt, need to see the bruises.«

His voice snaps you out of your slow procession of events, humming lightly in thought before carefully pulling off your shirt. It hurts to move your arms up, feeling a painful stretch around your right side. He helps you take it off, eyes quickly scanning over your big bruise around your ribs. It looks even worse now, a darker bruise evident against your right side. He wants to punch himself, he never meant to hurt you.

It‘s not even his fault. He was just fighting, not having been in charge for escorting civilians. Maybe he shouldn‘t feel guilty, he knows better than blaming himself for something that he didn‘t do. But it‘s just unfair, he could‘ve made it less worse if he only put an eye out and saw you and—

»Jason! Your nose is bleeding.«

You finally managed to pull him out of his thoughts, not knowing what to do. Jason quickly stands up again and gets the bathroom, leaning over the sink to get his nose clean and make it stop bleeding. Rushing over, you limp the way to Jason and get to his side, trying to see in what shape he is right now.

»I‘m fine, why are you standing? Get down- sit down, darling, you don‘t need to do anything.«

»I am not sitting down, you need to sit down, you‘re literally bleeding.« You argue back, trying to lead him to the bedroom.

»I‘m not sitting down, I need to get you safe— «

»I am safe.« You reassure him, seeing his hands tremble, eyes seem unfocused. Nothing really seems to help him calm down, grabbing his shoulders and forcing eye-contact.

After some more attempts of coaxing him into the bedroom, you can finally take care of him. He stands in front of the bed as you sit in front of him, patching up the few gashes along his torso.

Jason watches you the whole time, running his hand through some strands of hair occasionally. Yes, it does hurt as you bandage him up, but all he can focus on is you at the moment. Whole and safe, taking care of him finally.

He doesn‘t deserve you.

But he won‘t ever trade you for anyone else.

You don‘t need to talk once you get him all patched up and clean, both of you acting automatically once everything falls back to normal.

Jason crawls back in bed with you like this morning, carefully wrapping his arms around you, no matter how much it hurts his own body. Both tangled up in each other, comforting the other with sweet and grounding words. You are both safe now.

The small conversation paused, letting a comfortable silence fall over the room. After a few moments you speak up again, atmosphere getting lighter.

»I was dating the Red Hood all the time? For two years?«

He groans lightly, looking down at you in his arms.

»I‘m sorry, I… couldn‘t really tell you. But I wanted to, I really did.«

Jason apologises, his guilty expression pulling at your heart again.

»Wait, no, I‘m not mad. It‘s just… a nice surprise? I don‘t know, but I will buy endless Red Hood merch from now on. If you like it or not.«

You tell him with a small smile, making him pause before rolling his eyes. Of course. There‘s no way you would react badly. Especially after saving you.

a/n: WOW! really hoped you enjoyed it, i'm excited to hear your thoughts about it!!

← MASTERLIST

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tacticaldiary · 1 year ago

Note

Reader joining 141 for a mission and Simon is not having it and is pissed at price for calling them and all of the other guys are confused about why ghost is so upset till they find out reader is his wife after the mission

Maybe reader got hurt and ghost goes off on price

The Price Of A Secret

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive-"

"This is different." He grits out.

"And why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the table. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

A/N: It's 2:45am and I have no energy to proofread caution advised-

Masterlist

The moment the picture of the intelligence officer joining them flashes on the screen, Ghost puts his foot down.

"She's not coming."

Everyone in the room pauses, Price staring at Ghost mid sentence. It's the usual 141, and then it's her. Sitting there with a mildly frustrated look, refusing to look at him because she should have known he'd try to pull some shit like this.

"Why not?" Price folds his arm, narrowing his eyes. "Is there an issue, Lieutenant?"

She was supposed to work from the inside, drawing out data and cracking through defences that they then passed on to people like the 141. An integral part of the process of running the whole task force, but not once was she involved in hands-on field work.

It's not that she's incompetent. No, not at all. Ghost would have his head bit off if he even remotely implied that because it simply isn't true. She got the top scores in almost every part of her training exercises, and yet she chose the intelligence part of the military to serve in. His wife was as competent as they got.

His wife.

"This is a covert operation, the fewer people the better." That's what he goes with. Not because his heart picks up at the thought of her being anywhere near what they deal with every day.

"I won't have the range I need to retrieve the data from their servers if I'm not close to them." She speaks up, and their eyes meet from across the room.

His determined, hers resolute.

Sometimes he really hated that she was so fucking stubborn. It had been the same stubbornness that cracked down the iron grip he'd had on the walls in his mind and around his heart, but if that stubbornness was what got her killed Simon would give up this joy in a heartbeat.

He'd do it for her if it meant she kept on living.

"This isn't up for discussion, Ghost." Price states, "She's part of this operation on my authority."

"Price-"

"End of discussion. You settle whatever you have going on outside this room." And fuck, he can't refute a direct order like that, can he?

Ghost sees her release a long exhale, and he knows he won't share such a relief until this damn operation was over and done with.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her body is so limp it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.

Ghost grips her so tight it's as if he himself is the only thing tethering her soul to her body, boots thumping hard against the muddy ground as they retreat back to their extraction point, data successfully retrieved.

Successfully, not smoothly.

The plan was simple. They'd flank the building while she camped out near the edge of the woods, retrieving the intel they needed. A couple of fuckers slipped out of the building and went straight for her.

Ghost's stomach turns when he remembers how he found the scene. She wasn't answering through her comms, but he knew he wasn't able to leave his position until the building was secure.

Waiting felt like an eternity, he could feel Soap send troubled glances in his direction at the way Ghost was unusually silent and more brutal than.

When the building was finally secure, they'd gone to reunite with her position and found three men dead, bloody seeping into the ground in a crimson mess. The last one standing hovered over her unconscious form, over his wife with a knife raised ready to slit her thought.

The only thought Ghost had as he ripped the man away with his hands was that he was going to take the one good thing in his life away, and he would not let that happen. Not her. Not like this.

"Bleeding wound to the head, unconscious but still breathing!" Gaz called out while Ghost shoved the man's own knife into his throat. Tossing the gurgling body aside like a ragdoll, he's immediately by her side, assessing before carefully lifting her up in his arms.

It's the most emotion Ghost has ever expressed in front of the others, but he couldn't give a fuck about the looks or the questions right now. Her heartbeat against him settled him the slightest bit with the reassurance that she was alive.

Angry does not begin to describe what itches under Ghost's skin as they scramble into their exfil airship.

"Medic!" He barks the second they lift off. Setting her down, he brushes the bloody strands of her hair away from her face.

Despite the urge to stay by her side, the medic gingerly requests for him to take a step back so he could work. Ghost obliges but his eyes never leave her face.

He's painfully aware of his wedding ring pressing against his chest, strung onto a chain long enough to be tucked under his uniform. A matching one to her own.

Nobody speaks.

Perhaps they recognise the anger washing off of Ghost in waves, because if they'd just bloody listened to him, she wouldn't be laying there with a head wound.

The atmosphere is heavy and sombre. Even Soap keeps his mouth shut, too confused by the outward, uncharacteristic way Ghost was acting to make fun of it.

It's only when the medic announces she's stable that the suffocating knot in Ghost's chest loosens. There's audible relief from everyone in the place.

"Bloody hell." Price breathes, and something in Ghost snaps.

"I told you to dismiss her from the op." He says coldly, turning to the man.

"We got what we needed, son." He sighs, deep and tired, and part of Ghost understands that this was their life. But he's too worked up to care.

"At a fucking cost."

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive, that's all that matters. Nothing permanent, yeah?" He glances at the medic, who confirms with a nod before slipping away.

"This is different." Ghost grits out.

"Why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the metallic walls. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

How long had it taken for Ghost-...no, for Simon to let someone crack open his defences until he was coaxed out and allowed himself to love again? Four years they've been married, and four years he's kept it a secret.

It's not that he doesn't trust his team. He trusts them with his life, would lay his own down for Johnny, Gaz, and Price any day.

But this? This was bigger than him, she was the most precious thing that had ever happened to him, and the safest way to preserve that was the keep it on a need-to-know basis.

She'd agreed with him, of course. In that soft, patient way she always has with him. She'd seen the paranoia in him, recognised that he needed this one thing for himself, and she'd been more than happy to oblige.

What was outside validation about her relationship worth when she got to crawl into his arms at the end of the day? Be granted the pleasure that comes with being loved by someone as protective, intelligent, and sharp as Simon Riley? She adores all of him, even the jagged pieces that cut into her from time to time, because he's always there to take care of her afterwards.

"She's my wife." He repeats quieter, sitting back down. Exhaustion lines the slope of his shoulder's dark circles well present under his mask.

"You're married." Soap is the first to speak, incredulously. "You? Ghost? You're married?" His eyes flicker down to Ghost's left hand, and then to Gaz and Price who look equally as surprised. "I mean, congratulations?" He trails off, knowing it's not really the situation to celebrate.

"Thanks." A tired, small voice has everyone's attention back onto the figure on the bed. Ghost is on his feet in moments, by her bedside. "It'll be five years in...what, a month?" She cracks an eye open, giving Simon a tired, smile.

"Two months." He corrects with a mutter, and Johnny looks like he might just collapse. "Sitrep?"

"We're not on the field anymore." She groans, pushing herself to sit up. Ghost's hands fly to her immediately, helping her sit up. At his blank, insistent stare, she relents with a deep sigh. "My head's killing me but other than that just a few scrapes and bruises." Her hand travels down to grab his at her shoulder, squeezing briefly.

"I'm alright." Her voice turns into something soft and reassuring, and it's only then that a quiet, shuddering breath comes out of Simon's lungs. "I think I'll sit to working from the inside though." She jokes weakly. "Leave the dirtier work to you brutes."

It lightens the mood as intended, eliciting a snort from Gaz. "Yes, ma'am."

He'd make sure she got checked out properly when they landed, but for now he takes his place sitting beside her. The others fall into a hushed conversation after a while, but he makes no move to join them.

A warm hand intertwines with his, hidden beneath the bulk of their combined gear.

"I'm alright, Simon." She mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear.

Simon squeezes her hand in response. "Fucking hell, love." He breathes.

And it's enough to convey everything he's thinking. Humming, she tips her head against his shoulder and lets her eyes slip shut. The warmth of his body, even through the tang of copper is enough of a familiar comfort to drain the tension from her body.

She's fast asleep against his shoulder a minute later, and the devil himself couldn't make Simon move lest he wake her now.

He wasn't a publicly affectionate person by any means...but he trusted his team enough for this right now.

Letting his own head press against the metal wall behind them, his eyes shift to meet Price's. A softer, knowing look from the Captain is all he needs to hook his chin over her head and turn his attention outside the small window.

And if he counts her breathing while she sleeps for his own peace of mind? Well, that's no one's business but his.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(10/09/2023)

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sleepymarimo · 1 year ago

Note

I have this head cannon that I’ve been thinking of for awhile and just had to share with you.

Imagine y/n growing up with zoro in the village and she’s a couple years younger than him and called him zoozoo once, but he kinda liked it so he let her keep calling him that.

Fast forward to them running into each other at a random market while he’s out shopping with sanji and sanji hears her call him zoozoo. Once they leave, sanji makes fun of him by calling him zoozoo and Zoro just pulls one of his swords and looks him dead in there while saying, “call me that again and I’ll cut your tongue off. Only one person can ever call me that and it’s not you.”

𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.

summary: read above! pairing: zoro x fem!reader cw: none! mostly fluff, perhaps a bit bittersweet an: hi anon!! i just had to write this bc it was too cute :) also pris try not to write something under 1k words challenge go!! ugh i need to tone it down fr... anyway, enjoy some fluff and thank the anon for their sweet hc.. also im going for a new theme soooo... wc: 2k

you were like a little fly, always buzzing around him.

technically, it was kuina that you clung to, but it might as well have been him, too.

every duel and training session, you were there. you'd clap your hands and cheer on kuina, the girl you'd come to see as an older sister of sorts. "get him kookoo!" came your chant, a toothy grin on your face as you watched the green-haired boy lose his temper once again. "y'can't beat kookoo, zoro!"

even as he barks at you to shut up, you can't help but grin. you know that you'll be scrambling to get him bandages later and you know that he'll refuse your help, all while kuina laughed in the background. this was the dynamic, the camaraderie you had all shared. kuina, zoro and you.

then it all came to an abrupt halt.

kuina's death hit everyone hard. you were inconsolable, missing her so dearly that it made your heart hurt. not knowing what else to do, you turn to the green haired boy who was the closest thing you had to her.

the two of you stand at her grave, one of your tiny hands balled into the fabric of his shirt as if he'd disappear at any moment. your free hand rubs at your tender cheeks, red and swollen from the tears you'd been shedding. "i-i miss-s her, zoozoo."

he fights back the tears in his own eyes as he keeps his gaze locked on the stone slab in front of him. this whole body is still as he utilizes as much of his willpower as possible. he's enraged. he's in mourning. he doesn't quite know how to cope in any way that isn't fighting.

your new nickname for him doesn't go unnoticed- a play on the same one you used to call kuina. he takes it with pride, not bothering to correct you.

he grabs your hand and roughly tugs you along to the training area. there was no way in hell that he'd give up, so he was going to drag you with him.

years later.

same scene, different atmosphere.

the two of you are in front of her grave, paying her respect. zoro is leaving yo- the island. he's leaving the island to fulfill his promise, to make a name for himself and become the greatest swordsman. of course you're wishing him the best, hell, you know that he's going to do it, but still, it stings a tad.

first your beloved kookoo, and now...

"zoozoo..." your arms cross and you sigh, trying to remain cheery and playful but unable to hide the concern in your tone. "y'feeling ready?"

he isn't fazed by the nickname, not when you've been calling him that for years. raising a brow and giving you an almost incredulous expression, he answers your question. "doesn't matter if i'm ready or not, i ain't gonna be the greatest swordsman if i stay here."

the two of you start the walk to the docks, a small ship ready for him. you're side by side, shoulders brushing against one another every now and then. he doesn't put any distance between the two of you. why would he? at that point in time, though he'd never admit it, you were probably the person he'd trusted most.

the silence isn't uncomfortable by any means, but there is a tension of sorts that you try your best to ignore.

when you get to the boat, you take a breath to keep cool and calm. but you're so, so bad at it. maybe a few years ago you could've gotten away with it, but zoro had grown so damn perceptive that it wasn't even funny.

"b-bye zoozoo." you nod with a shaky smile, struggling and failing to keep a straight tone as tears prick your eyes. your hands are behind your back and zoro has no doubt that they're clasped together in a bid to prevent yourself from grabbing him.

he rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue in exasperation. "y'such a pain in the ass." one of his arms slings around your shoulders and begrudgingly brings you into his chest. of course he made sure no one else was around as he did so, opting to look off toward the sea instead of down at your teary face. "i'll be fine. grow up, will ya?"

your hands unclasp and you cling to his shirt, small laughs mixing with your sniffles. "shut-t up, zoozoo."

he doesn't say anything, but if you'd quit being a crybaby for two seconds you'd notice how his grip tightened on his wado ichimonji, his knuckles whitening. the swordsman is determined to do this, but hell, even he'd be lying if he said that this didn't... well, suck.

soon after, the two of you say your final goodbyes.

he catches sight of your smile as the waves took him away, and he has to turn around. his focus is on the horizon, ending the chapter of his life that had you in it.

you're damn persistent though, like a little fly. he can't help but smirk at your words, yelled and carried by the wind.

"you're gonna be the best damn swordsman ever, zoozoo!"

such memories only come to the swordsman when he's had enough booze. when he looks at the moon and the ship is quiet except for the sound of creaking wood and crashing waves.

the thousand sunny had been docked on this island for around a day. it was a nice place, lively and sporting a plethora of shops with goods ranging from tropical fruits to exotic spices.

zoro curses when he swears he passes by the same stall for the hundredth time. "damn cook, always gettin' lost..." he grumbles, not acknowledging his notorious tendency to lose his way.

before he could take another step, he freezes at the sound of a voice that he'd only heard when he was dreaming or completely shit-faced.

"zoozoo?"

the way he turns around is almost mechanical. at this stage of his life, things like this didn't really pull a reaction from him. hell, he hadn't felt this way since he'd ran into that marine in loguetown. it was like seeing a ghost, but you're not one by any means.

he says your name, the sound almost foreign on his lips.

then he straightens up, his rational self catching up to him. you. here. in the new world?

one of his large hands makes a grab at your wrist, pulling you to an alleyway where the two of you could have some more privacy.

he has too many questions, too many thoughts and he'd be damned if he said it, but too many feelings, too. his tone is unintentionally gruff when he speaks, presenting as irritated to mask the protective urges simmering beneath the surface. "what the hell are you doin' here, huh?" you're still like a damn fly...

you take a moment to assess him, his new scars and his physique and everything. it's not like you hadn't seen him... but you're not going to admit to him that a few of his wanted posters are very much in your possession.

he still seems to be as brash as ever. headstrong and bull-headed and caring, in his own blunt way. it's not like you expected him to change much, but still, it's a relief to hear him speak to you as if you hadn't seen him in years. "well i wasn't gonna stay there either!" you defend, stubbornly crossing your arms.

that sparks a conversation about what you've been up to. he's always been alright with just letting you chatter away, but he makes sure to pay extra attention to what you tell him. your goals, your plans and where you'll be going. damn you, making this harder for him by not staying at shimotsuki village.

he's proud though, he really is.

as you continue to speak, he finds his focus directed on your expression and body language. now that the shock has worn off, he gets a closer look at you. your fingers twitch lightly, your arms snuggly crossed over your chest as if you were holding yourself together.

he remembers you being rather comfortable and relaxed around him, only growing restless when you were struggling to hold down the torrents of emotion that you were prone to feeling.

the last time he saw you like this was when he left, when you were too prideful to reach out and...

something about your little mannerisms is comforting in itself, like you haven't changed. a small wave of nostalgia crashes into the stone walls he's constructed around his heart these past few years.

you're still that teary eyed kid clinging to him like a remora, and he's damn sure that that won't ever change. you can hide it all you want, but unfortunately, he knows you.

you're good, but he's better.

"oi, c'mere, you damn crybaby." he huffs, expertly masking his satisfaction as he slings an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his chest. a smirk tugs at his lips as he looks down on you, hell, he even wraps his other arm around you too. "thought i told ya to grow up, dumbass."

your arms wrap around him and you hide your sniffle with a scoff. "yeah, and i think i told you to shut up, zoozoo." you instinctively hold him a bit tighter. "bet you didn't miss all this crybaby stuff."

oh, if you knew how wrong you were.

the moment is cut short when an exasperated yell fills the air. "oi, marimo, what the hell are you doing with a gorgeous woman!"

zoro's grip tightens on you for a split second before he releases you with a growl, his expression morphing into one of annoyance. he turns around to face the blond, hand reaching for his blade. "mind your damn business, cook! i'll cut you up like a-"

they bicker for a few minutes while you watch on in confusion, before the cook tells him that there are marines on the island. the blond, not wanting the swordsman to get lost again, firmly grips his arm and tugs him along.

zoro's gaze flickers back to yours, hardened and glinting with determination. yet, beneath that, you can see the underlying emotion.

it makes you smile, and even as he's being tugged away, you give him a big grin letting him know that you'll be okay. a smile that says you believe in him and that you know he'll be the greatest swordsman this world has ever seen. most importantly, it tells him that you'll be there waiting for him when it's all done.

your lips part and you yell out. "bye, zoozoo!"

it's a while later when zoro and sanji finally quit their running, the thousand sunny go just up ahead in the distance.

"tch, can't believe a beautiful woman like her would want anything to do with a brute like you." sanji huffs, clearly envious and annoyed as he pulls out a cigarette and lighter.

zoro's scowl deepens, not quite up for discussing any sort of feelings with the cook. "shut the hell up, curly brows." he says, his eye subtly sneaking a final glance at the town. "it's not like that."

sanji breathes out a large puff of smoke, his form relaxing somewhat. "yeah, yeah... sure. whatever you say, zoozoo."

the air changes, going almost still as sanji finds himself looking down at a blade being held to his neck. zoro holds his sword up to the cook, glaring at him with a murderous intent.

they've had their fair share of fights, never actually meaning to harm one another, but zoro makes it clear that this subject is not up for debate. “call me that again and i’ll cut your tongue off." he growls, inching the blade a little closer. "only one person can ever call me that, and it’s not you.”

#roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #zoro fluff #one piece fluff

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taegularities · 6 months ago

Text

candles & flames: air | jjk (m)

bonus chapter I: air

Summary: Voices over the grapevine murmur that somebody has been yearning for you who certainly shouldn't. Jungkook is agitated to the core – reacts immediately until something far sweeter overshadows the envy and turns his and your life upside down.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: established relationship, royal!au; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: so much okay let's see; jk is jealousss, mention of a dead parent, daddy issues, pregnancy, birth (no details), kissing, insecurities that are resolved, worries and tears, somebody faints :'), 19th century culture/beliefs/society, short mention of the struggles after birth, a guest appearance!, and a cute baby 💕 jk loves the kiddo so much that his affection makes him cry; explicit sexual content: making out, muchhh teasing, fondling, biting, he loveees her tiddies, oral (f. receiving), he touches himself/masturbation, manhandling, soft dom!koo, big dick!koo, he threatens to tie her up lol, "fck me like you hate me", both hard and soft s/x moments, love spanks, delaying of orgasm, hair pulling, he's roughhhh, fingering, multiple orgasms; pls spot the lil references to the other parts hehe 😁 ➳ wc: 24.4k yay! ➳ a/n: hi hi hiiii. it's been literal months, but we're here again and sharing another piece of our soul. hope y'all like this one, whether you've just arrived here or been here for a while. love you all and as always, let me know what you think!! 🤍 ➳ a/n2: this is a bonus chapter for my mini-series candles & flames. reading the rest of the story helps!! find the mpost below <3

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

The quiet hysteria starts with a whisper.

It echoes off the walls that Friday afternoon, seemingly insignificant at first. Most of the whispers are — a cacophony of hisses and sharp tones and hushed nodding.

Uttered between members of the staff, Jungkook catches the conversation coincidentally. He never means to eavesdrop, but these accidental occurrences have revealed one or two things to him before.

Like, what they ate for dinner last night. Or how their sons had learned to read. Jungkook would laugh at stories about neighbours, pout at tragedies of lost family members. But what he hears today is worth neither of those reactions; just mild yet growing confusion.

He wouldn’t have registered a word if he’d left his office a minute later. Wouldn’t have known if he’d opted for his meal thirty seconds earlier.

No. He had to step out now. Cross paths with the staff in this very moment as if it was supposed to happen, coming to a stand in the hallway, mind instantly whirling and eyebrows furrowed.

The two women, startled by the sudden appearance, freeze at their spot a couple feet from Jungkook’s body. They stare at him as though met with a ghost, eyes trailing from his uncurling fist to the Lord’s unmatchable face — puzzled at the moment.

Abandoning curiosity and the hint of amusement, sudden respect spreads over their countenances, and once they have made sense of the situation, they straighten their backs. Bow a little. One of them a little deeper than the other.

Their eyes are as wide as his; the scene couldn’t be more comedic in the afternoon sun shining through the wide window. Three baffled figures fighting the awkwardness; growing by the second until one of them murmurs, “Lord Jeon.”

Her tone is timid, as if she fears he might’ve heard — which he did, alright. But they don’t dare make an attempt at asking about it, perhaps finally realising that things like these aren’t really their business.

So they only nod again, waiting for the man to react in kind, and then rush past him and down the hall. Jungkook isn’t stupid, though — he knows they won’t stop talking.

And he could confront them. Call them back and demand an explanation, lay out every word he just heard and analyse it with what they know. But he doesn’t. He lets them approach the end of the hallway, turning left at the end of it just a few seconds later.

His body’s balanced weight shifts to his left leg, and he puts both his hands on his hips, curling his lower lip inward and tracing it with his tongue. He knows better than to believe rumours mumbled in the gardens or halls of this place.

Maybe it’d be foolish to overthink just yet. Guess he’ll need to ask you yourself.

But he can’t help but replay the conversation in his mind, gaze wandering out of the window and to the blue sky above. He soaks in the summer, lowers his eyebrows, appetite forgotten as he simply voices—

“Huh.”

Existing in this world with you as the love of his life isn’t easy.

There’s magic to how you move. To the way you slip under the blanket with that enchanting smile. To how you reach for the back of your head, undoing the bow.

For a moment, he can’t keep his eyes from the locks that fall over your shoulder; how you sigh in relief as your scalp finally breathes. And when you lean against the bed frame, pulling your legs up and knees close to you, book in hand, you look endlessly cosy.

Warm and inviting, soft hands holding the novel. Your side profile is tender, lips always a perfect curve. Your mouth moves with the words you read, and you smile whenever a description delights you.

You always live in a dream. You are one, too.

Loving you isn’t easy because you’re a constant source of healthy insanity. Of the burning in his chest, the odd feeling in his stomach, and the yearning in his fingers.

But especially tonight, you evoke something he only ever experiences with you. He did it when he saw you dancing with somebody else two years ago. And feels a sliver of it whenever he catches men staring at you at gatherings.

The emotion boils green inside of him, and somehow, you’ve managed to elicit it more than once. He could swear he never knew of it before he met you. You’re truly a spell; only right now, he wishes he felt something else.

You shut the book suddenly, keeping a finger where you stopped, and look up into his eyes without a warning. He flinches just a little, as if awakening from a dream, and you laugh.

“Will you speak what’s on your mind or just keep staring?” you ask; the tilt of your head is sickeningly sweet.

He improvises — nods towards the novel and wonders, “What is it about?”

“Oh,” you look down, holding it up, “secret affairs. Princess to be betrothed is in love with someone else.”

The situation lacks so much humour that he can’t help but find it funny. He suppresses the sarcastic smirk and the shake of his head, keeping the facade upright as he admits, “That is very brave of the author to thematise.”

Your eyes narrow a little, drenched in confusion. “Well, I mean. A lot of them are. But it’s just words on pages. How many secret affairs do you think happen in actual life?”

More than you’d know. Jungkook has seen enough to understand that lovers often reunite in shadows; or that they betray loved ones when the world goes quiet.

You believe in people, though. You romanticise the world. Assume that cruelty is rare, and that most human beings strive for loyalty and flawlessness.

But he doesn’t say any of it; only shifts closer to your optimistic, angelic warmth, craving your scent. He says, “We were the opposite, weren’t we? Made everyone think we were in love when we still despised each other.”

You cock an eyebrow; he instantly regrets his words, realising how harsh they truly sounded. You might be gentle, but you can be just as fierce, too — so he prepares for some scolding, lips parted.

But you only puff out a breath, freeing the finger trapped between the pages, and put the book aside. Then, you say, “I still despise you.”

Jungkook stares, pausing for a moment, and you let him ogle for another second before you laugh. You grab the still hand on his thigh, lifting it to your lips and press the feather lightest of kisses against its back.

You keep the palm against your cheek, inquiring carefully, “Is something troubling you?”

“No,” he immediately shoots, “no. I just wanted to ask about your novel.”

“Just about the novel?”

“Mhm. Yes.”

“Hmm. Well, yes, that one,” you grace it another glance, “it’s good. A typical story about a royal princess mingling with the stable boy and rejecting the prince.”

Jungkook nods, but you think his pupils widen. Is he imagining a scenario of his own? Not enjoying the storyline? Perhaps.

Because he states, “Disloyalty is quite something. I would,” he pauses, blowing a raspberry, “die if I was the prince.”

He emphasises die with all his tongue’s strength; you huff at the dramatics of the moment, puzzled by the sudden shift in mood. In truth, this is not such an unusual behaviour.

Because more often than not, Jungkook displays interest in your little hobbies. Novels render you sentimental, and you’ve pulled him into the whirling storm of emotions that those stories made you feel before.

Like,

“They won’t accept him because he’s an artist?”

“So he decides to leave instead of fighting for her?”

“Alright, tell me about the first time he tells her he loves her.”

He’ll lean forward, turn to his side, eyes wide, indulging in the narrative. Mirroring your emotions, a sucker for tales and sentiments, albeit barely ever picking up a book voluntarily.

Just today. Today something seems off. The issue he has with the feelings prevalent in the book seem to reach far deeper — to a personal level, it seems.

You start slowly and patiently, shaking your head once before you say, “But you won’t die. I chose my prince wisely, and I do not care for our stable boys,” you pause, lifting a finger with a laugh, “wait. In such a way, I mean. They are actually very kind.”

Jungkook doesn’t appreciate your joke — your suspicion grows. Although he does turn to the side again, elbow digging into the pillow, body closer to yours.

“What about lords?”

Huh. What?

You echo your thoughts, “What?” You wait for only a moment before the space between his eyebrows morphs into a crease, and you mimic the expression. “Alright. Now you’re not making sense anymore.”

It takes another second or two for his drying eyes to blink. The movement is slow, a little frustrated; he looks to his hands. Then up to you; to the wall behind you and back to you.

Then, his Adam’s apple bops, swallowing thickly before he finally reveals, “The maids were talking about some neighbouring man. Lord Jeong or something. Would you happen to know him?”

Jeong?

Hm…

You think for a moment.

Of course you know him. The town isn’t too far from yours, and the people around here never speak ill of him. In fact, one of your cooks was just praising him a couple weeks ago as you dined without Jungkook during his busy working hours.

The cook kept you company for most of the time, speaking of his pre-Jeon adventures in other towns, with other lords.

You hum before you respond, “I know of a Jeong Yuno. But I have never spoken to him.”

The sigh of relief that Jungkook heaves is immediate. You stare bewildered.

“Good,” he answers, “they were just…”

He scratches his scalp before the hand drops to the mattress with a dull thump. For a distracted moment, he smoothens the already flat baby blue surface, drifting from his original thought.

The light tug at the sheet creates new wrinkles; you watch intently, relaxed and calm. Only, you aren’t sure he feels the same way. Especially when his fingertips shift to the back of your hand, a ghost touch looming over your thumb.

He must have thought about this a lot.

“They were saying that a lord was spreading rumours about how he used to want you and would still not hesitate if you could be his.”

Oh.

“That’s… not a proper thing to announce for a lord,” you sympathise, gaining an instant nod, enhanced by the round, big, brown eyes.

“Yes. It is not. A very outrageous statement to give about a married lady anyway.”

“Mhm…”

You are in full agreement that the words shouldn’t have fallen out of a presumably respected man of the country. Someone as loved and cherished by a community shouldn’t comment on a married couple, even less on the wife of a well-known man.

Jungkook’s father was celebrated around towns and villages — the head of the capital.

It’s just that in this case — you can imagine what occurred. The lord in question relishes a far lesser known reputation than Jungkook. If it’s who you imagine it to be, he must be reigning over a tiny village now.

You remember that back when you knew him, he was still young, uninterested in his parents’ legacy; seems he has made it far. Though, it seems he hasn’t quite understood the responsibilities that come with royalship.

Shit.

Jungkook notices your fog-shrouded gaze; you probably haven’t blinked in a while. He touches and taps your wrist, pulling back your attention, possibly still tense as he asks, “What?”

When you look at him, he resembles a curious, frightened puppy, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He’s pouting, waiting for an answer, lips parted. He lifts his head off the propped up hand, alerted, and repeats—

“What?”

Waving his concerns off would do nothing, right? You swore to always be transparent — and this issue isn’t big enough to be postponed. In fact, it might only grow if you do choose to stuff it in a chamber.

“You are not talking about Jeong,” you explain, carefully wrapping your fingers around his, “but Jung. Jung Hoseok.”

The curtain of relief falls and gives way to a dark, gloomy night. You know he expected this conversation to be over, for his misunderstanding to turn out as just this. But there’s more behind the maids’ whispers — and he hates it.

“Who?” he asks.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you feel displeased with it.”

“Why would I feel displeased?” Jungkook prods, slowly sitting up. “Is there a reason to?”

Absolutely not. But you also know your husband isn’t the most patient of men when it comes to envy and poison green feelings alike. You still remember the night you confronted his uncle — slivers of jealousy found their way through him even then.

“No,” you admit, “but it is absurd, and I knew you would react like this.”

“Like what? I am calm.”

That he is.

At least the rapid breathing, the voice gaining on pitch, the manner in which he squeezes your hand — they indicate a form of calm unknown to you, alright.

“Jungkook…” you mumble, wiping over the back of his hand with your thumb, trying to calm the grip.

You move on the bed, butt bumping against your book and nearly knocking it to the ground. Tired from the day, you grunt as you get on your knees, watching him follow your body before you finally straddle him.

Jungkook gets into a proper position, heaving himself up until his back is pressed to the bed’s railing. He holds onto your waist to keep your balance, and you shift properly onto his lap.

Once stabilised, your hands hurry to his face, squishing his cheeks just a little as you speak, “I shall make you wiser then?”

“You shall stop teasing me.”

The fiery eyes could throw daggers at you on any other day, but the pout he talks through just makes him look… sweet. Thick eyebrows kiss, and he pulls at one of your hands to lighten the cradling grip around his face.

You angle your head, fond of the soft care, albeit hiding behind an insecurity. There’s flattery in the way his mind created a nonexistent rival — at least, he thinks you’re worth the worship.

You surrender when he blinks, letting out an exasperated breath, “Alright. Remember when I told you I have only fallen in love very few times?”

“At the orphanage.”

His answer shoots out of him as if scripted, and you dare a subtle chuckle. Your thumb brushes against his lips and the mole underneath them; you think that despite his agitation, the gesture soothes his soul.

“Jung Hoseok was one of those people,” you say.

A few buttons of his linen shirt are open, so you see his sun kissed chest heave at the admission. You move a hand down to touch the sculpted skin, warm and immediately comforting under your touch.

“He was the only other Lord I ever dared to mess with, but he wasn’t too important back then yet. And Hoseok… he caught me at a time when I was not yet ready for bigger commitments. Despite my feelings for him.”

Jungkook’s eyes are glistening. Helplessly observing your every move and expression, lost for words as he digests yours. There’s an ego in men that you haven’t understood just yet; fragile at times.

So this piece of information must be activating a thorough thought process in him.

It’s odd. How those once roaming around town are usually the ones affected the most when they actually fall in love. Protective and dedicated to an exceptional degree.

Maybe, however, because his escapades never meant anything at all. And you… You put your heart in someone’s hands once.

“What happened?” Jungkook wonders, puppy stare intact.

You don’t think there’s more to tell — or more for him to know. But a curious mind is a curious mind.

So you tell him, “He wanted more right away. Dedication, marriage, for me to leave my house. And,” you shrug, uncomfortable with memories of a past lover; you want to keep loving and touching your current one, “I couldn’t.”

You’re not sure whether his nerves are calming at all; but you’re satisfied and relieved when he lifts a palm to the small of your back, gaze warm. You keep playing with the collar of the soft linen.

“And now I am happy I didn’t. In hindsight, we were so incredibly different. I mean, people are different, but… we didn’t match at all.”

“Were you…” His voice is so unbearably quiet. So sweet and lovely; the cocky boy from years ago has a delicate heart, and you want it pressed to yours. “Ready when I asked you to marry me?”

Ready? In fact, your skin was tingling with joy; every moment of the day.

You soothe his worries, “I would not be here if I hadn’t been. This,” you raise your fingers to his cheek again, brushing his face with their back, “you. I won’t ever want more. You’re all the dreams I’ve ever dreamt.”

Are you referring to nightly images conjured by a dreamy mind? When you’re fast asleep, barely ever tossing beside him? Because as far as he’s concerned, you follow him even into his daydreams, in your presence and in your absence.

If he told you now, he fears you’d dissipate; you’re a soul with its head in the clouds, and you’ve always appreciated a gesture of romance here and there.

You’re a force of nature, and someone to be desired greatly.

But.

Perhaps that’s what’s troubling him the most right now. And it never has before. He knows you’re captivating, and he’s proud that somebody loves him who’s easy to love, but this time… this time the whispers prevail, and they do something odd to his mind.

He matches your smile, giving into the relief you bring; yet, distressed by his own intrusive thoughts and memories of conversations he’s gathered, he can’t help but let his gaze fall. It floats over your bare neck and clavicles and then drops further to your lap.

A hand on his neck, you opt for a question — he knows by the way you suck in a soft breath, knows every of your motions and their meanings. But before your inquiry tumbles out, he murmurs, “They were saying he wants you back.”

And the worst thing is that you don’t hesitate, immediately nodding. “I heard about it. I uh… the other day I went down to the village and one of them told me her sister was part of the staff over in his town. And they heard others in his mansion say it, apparently.”

Jungkook doesn’t like the ugly, searing hot feeling spreading beneath his chest. It differs entirely from anger or disgust; pure fire burning up his insides and extending to his head.

That you talked about the still rather yearning lord with somebody else isn’t Jungkook’s favourite thought, admittedly. Worse even when you proceed, “He’s unmarried, I’ve heard.”

But what could you do with what you heard? Do you even care?

Jungkook swallows the balls of flames until the vexing sensation burns in his stomach, nearly afraid to ask, “What do you think of that?”

He shouldn’t be, though. Because you’ve proved time and time again who you stand with — yet, it feels like a wanted relief when you, with absolute certainty unmatched, assure, “Nothing. How could that affect my life? I’m here, with you.”

“I…” Jungkook tilts his head, and when he stares back up to you again, you could swear a piece of your heart detaches itself from the rest. Shoots right into his chest. “Am I being stupid?”

And how could it not if the man of your dreams, yours in this and the next lives, usually so composed, wordlessly declares you his kryptonite every single day?

Your eyebrows furrow slightly in unending adoration and worship, and you sigh, touching his cheek, wishing there was a far superior way to showcase affection and love of such tender sort.

“A little,” you admit.

“But… you’ll forgive me for it?”

“Nothing to forgive you for.” You match the tilting motion of his head, but in the opposite direction. You blink slowly. “Except maybe for the fact that you provide so much love without giving much of it to yourself.”

When he downs the knot in his throat again, it feels and looks different. Not the insecure envy from before, but rather a truth spiking his heart.

“…Darling,” he whispers, “why?”

“You know as well as I know that you trust me. That’s not why you’re afraid, right? It’s because you don’t trust yourself.” You remove a strand of dark tresses off his forehead. “We’ll change that.”

You don’t judge him for it, huh? You could. In truth, you could absolutely distance yourself from such an unwanted trait, but you don’t. Combatting it seems easier to you.

Yet, he can’t find a better answer than, “I’m sorry.”

Your husband is a jealous man, but he’s also a fragile man. You’re not allowed to leave him; not because you regard it as a duty to serve as his remedy. But because you made a vow to love him regardless, regardless of fate’s cruelty.

And.

You want to show him what you see through your eyes; what he doesn’t notice through the looking glass.

“Thank you for forgiving me, though?” he then speaks, forming it as a question rather than a statement; though he finds himself pretty soon. “Albeit, I have to say, if you hadn’t, I would’ve found ways for you to do it either wa—”

His promise is broken by your yelp when he presses you in, tickling your waist. He grits his teeth, cuteness aggression kicking in when you call his name, holding onto his face. Your nose inches close to his as he squeezes your hip.

Eyes closing before they open again and he says, “I will never let you go. Never. And let nobody ever have you but me.”

“Aren’t we a little more obsessed tonight?” you jest, watching him shrug his shoulders. “But. I would be mad if you did.”

“My princess…”

There’s something about the breathy tone, filled with growing desire, a not too subtle hint to how the night will inevitably evolve.

It’s insane, how the breathing stagnates when you’re in love; crazy at just the prospect of lips touching.

And once they do, your lungs dry out right away, and you lean back, slowly losing your grip. But he holds you and holds you tighter, eyes aflame with sheer willpower, and then holds you so tight, it hurts…

The kiss is breathtaking, in the truest sense of the word. Goosebumps covering all your flesh, you raise your shoulders, hands in his hair as his wander along the lines of your body. He moves just a little underneath you, but you feel the change so obviously.

Harder, stirring, hot and heavy. And you enhance the effect, continuing the sloppy kisses until he, impatiently, breaks away from the kiss with a quiet moan and opts for your neck.

The break between the change, he uses to focus on his hands. Raises your dress at light-speed, brushing his palms over the curves of your ass. And he doesn’t take too long before he’s snuck his digits further in this complicated position, winding his arm to find your aching heat.

You move forward a little, helping out, so his limb can wrap around you easier, digits floating to the hole. But your decision distracts him; you laugh.

“It’s amusing to you, yes? Having your tits in my face,” he teases, as shameless as ever when he bites and misses your nipple by an inch over your gown.

The free hand pushes the clothing down, freeing one side, reluctant to practise restraint when swollen lips engulf your hard nipple. You whimper immediately as his teeth gently nibble at the nerves, and you tighten your grip around him, head falling back.

“Cannot say it’s not,” you admit, unconsciously toying with the hair in the nape of his neck until you start pulling, barely noticing. He does, however, gasping with a mouthful of your tits. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, an indicator that he doesn’t care; that he enjoys the pleasurable pain if it’s you inflicting it in a moment like this. As a masochist and a pet at times, you won’t disagree.

But you don’t hold the power for too long when he continues with his intentions, finger pressing against your pussy, desperately longing for the garment to disappear. Wanting to sink into you with all his might.

But… endurance. Patience.

You nearly suffocate him in your tits as he caresses your cunt, and then your ass again, only managing to resurface to say, “Pretty girl… weren’t you tired?”

“I was,” you tug at him, wanting him much, much closer, “make me more.”

“More tired?”

“So I sleep better tonight.”

“Sweetheart… you will. I promise you.”

It’s vows like these that stir the last stage of lust in you, so unbridled that it leaks out of each of your pores. You want his trousers off, want them to magically disappear. But sorcery doesn’t exist, and your wish will be impossible to fulfil in this position.

And he notices, reads your thoughts as if floating above your head. “Lift your body?” he kindly demands, holding you for a second until you’re inches over his crotch. He uses the moment to lower his clothing along with the underwear, suddenly half bare.

Oh so bare…

When you look down, you’re met with protruding veins, a length twitching slightly, wanting to lay against his stomach. And you don’t hesitate as you lower yourself again, dragging your clothed pussy over the hardness so recklessly—

But the harsh material of your clothes rubs him wrong, literally, and he whimpers. Should you do it again? You fucking love it when he whines and writhes… but not in such a way.

You don’t want to hurt him. So you oblige. Stop when he digs his nails into your waist, ordering, “Get off, so I can—”

You don’t know what for, but you can imagine, and the thousand possible pictures are more than enough for you to lift yourself off immediately. Carefully, you move away, expecting for him to let you know how to continue, but instead…

Within the blink of an eye, you find yourself flat on your back, flipped over and caged in. Only rising again when he aids you in doing so, just the upper body, just a little. To remove your dress, pulling it over your head and stuffing it in a corner.

You swear the time passes in slow-motion, yet simultaneously paces faster than usual. Because it’s a leisurely blur when you see him discard the last piece of your bed-attire. But a rush when he bares his golden chest and back, laying next to you and starting to kiss your tummy.

It’s so funny because…

You sigh. Nevermind.

You put your attention solely on how he kisses his way down, still next to you, further down until you only see his back and his mane, and somewhere far beneath, hands caressing your thighs. Then spreading them. And then, working up… up towards…

“You’re defeating me today…” you happily conclude, not one to reject a night with him winding under you, but also not one to decline… whatever he’s doing right now.

“You are very welcome.”

Cheeky jerk. You’d snort and roll your eyes if you had the energy and power to. Although, the latter does not stay absent after all, even if the roll of your eyes occurs backwards, mouth open when he parts your folds and touches your swollen nub.

Gauging your reaction, he throws a stare back, just briefly and quickly. He barely flinches when you pierce his skin with your nails, scratching him, biting your lower lip with desperation in your pupils.

And it’s enough for him. Boosts his keenness. You see it in his smirk, and see the desire, the devotion, the appetite in his lost eyes.

He cocks an eyebrow at you, never bothered by your frequent love-wounds, yet sly when he warns, referring to your nails, “Stop it. I will tie you up if you keep going.”

Is that… a threat or a promise? You’re tempted to test him.

But for now, you wish to indulge further in what he’s initiating, and if you said something right now or provoked him into a pace of change, you’d lose the moment. So you remain still. Or, as much as you manage to.

Not quite when he moves over you, turning the back towards you once more, and—

Is that… oh. No doubt that he just spat right onto your clit, wet, warm and enhancing your greed. And then the damned finger. Touching your thighs as if to tease you, advancing to your cunt slowly, as opposed to the ball of frustration building in your chest and tummy.

“Could you move that up?” you mutter, barely registering how nonsensical you might sound.

But Jungkook knows you inside out, and reads your words as well as your body. Uses the knowledge to torture you some more, sneaking to your folds before he finally touches them, but doesn’t dig in.

Okay…

“Why?” you ask, not expecting an answer. “I’ve been good these days.”

“You’ve been great,” Jungkook retorts, tugging at one of your nether lips as if busying himself, “but I’m just kidding. Who am I to deny you anything?”

“In this situation? Perfectly Jeon Jungkook…”

The unsteady breathing accompanying your statement adds to the comedic aspect of the moment, and he doesn’t hold back when he laughs. Only briefly stopping when he leans down, delivering a chaste kiss to your aching bud.

And then he does the unforgivable, and lifts himself up. Away from you. Entirely.

“What—”

“It’s alright,” he ensures, nodding as if to make it believable for himself, “I am right here. See?”

He crawls — crawls! — towards you, very briefly until he reaches your lips, kissing you with the same filthy mouth that touched your intimate part just a moment ago. His mouth moves against yours just a little, then retracts and then comes back for another shorter kiss.

“Want me to do it?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Tie you up?” The constant head tilts are killing you, not well for your heart or mind. Even less combined with the sickly sweet smile, so awfully in love. “You didn’t reject the idea and,” another kiss to the corner of your lips, “you’re being so terribly cooperative tonight.”

He says it as if it’s news to him. As if you’re not true-blue every second of the day.

Jerk wants things spelled out to him. Waits as he plays with a lock, face hovering inches from yours, and the tip of his tongue so visibly touching the spot behind his front teeth.

As you refuse to answer, however, solely for the purpose to gauge what he might do next, he chuckles quietly, inhaling before he says, “Alright. Different idea, then.”

He gets back on his knees, straightening his upper body for a mere moment only before he opens your legs. Positions himself between them. Distances himself from you before finally getting into the desired stance. Stomach-down, hands touching your thighs, parting them with his mouth close to you.

It takes everything in you to not shut your limbs again when the warm breath mingles with your sloppy centre; and you already feel wasted when his tongue darts out. Opens up your pussy a little. Tickles you so lightly.

“Put your hands over your head,” he uses the pause for, haphazardly gesturing into your general direction with his chin, “no touching allowed. And if you endure until I’ve tasted you till the end, I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

The image his words conjure is mesmerising. Yet, you don’t know if that’s the outcome you’re wishing for, or rather the absolute opposite, submitting to him and letting yourself go entirely for his pleasure.

There is no time to think. Your mind isn’t capable of thoughts at all.

Of course not, not if he attaches his mouth to your cunt, wrapping gorgeously soft and swollen lips around your equally soft and swollen ones. He kisses your pussy, drawing back with a smooching sound.

Goes in again, repeats. Then, slowly, adds his tongue. Swirls it around your clit, making your right leg twitch, your body react. A strong hand holds your thigh down, breath falling against you so hotly; the sensation is unlike anything else.

You don’t know how he does it; but you don’t just feel the tickling, endlessly lustful phenomenon where he causes it, but across your body. On your warm skin, in your stomach, in your chest.

You’re light-headed when his tongue flicks over your clit again, and then moves back to your hole; you curl in your toes. For the first time after a long while, you think this won’t take very long.

Digging your nails into your palms, you wet your lower lip with your tongue, uttering, “I’m almost there…”

“Mhm,” he muses with his mouth still licking you up, spreading the warm feeling all over. Then detaches himself to say, “I thought so. I can hear it.”

Knows you too well…

You recognise that he wants to take his time. Your pleasure is his sole purpose, fully focused on your reactions, your sounds, your winding body. But as the two of you deduced, you’re closer to the end than ever.

He kisses your thigh, provides little love-bites, tongue tasting your skin before he dives back in. Breathing in and out through his nose, he buries himself in you, bringing a thumb under his tongue and pushing in just a bit, but not entirely.

At the same time, his other thumb shifts its attention to rolling over your clit. Apparently, he trusts you enough now to not pin your legs to the mattress anymore, doesn’t expect you to give in and touch him, even if you want to. The way you’re holding yourself back, seeking your pleasure and obeying his orders floods pride and immeasurable greed through him.

As he French kisses you thoroughly, you notice when he smiles against your pussy. Even laughs a bit in amusement. Your body moves and lifts when his light but calculated touch toys with your nerves; he follows the insane writhing, glued to you.

And then he pushes a finger inside, pumps a couple times; moves his tongue to your clit. It’s crazy. Crazy. The saliva dripping off his chin when he eats you up, so diligent and powerful, executing this as perfectly as ever.

But it’s neither of these things that make you topple off the edge; not just the fingers or his tongue or how worryingly good he is at this.

But the damn eye contact at the end.

The immediate connection between you, the way he wants to see you, understand your reactions, but simultaneously keep going.

And all that knowledge helps you feel it all over. The contractions coming in waves; the pleasure radiating to every other part of your body. The sense of warmth and tingling experience.

Shit, and the euphoria. The profound relaxation while perceiving the increased heart rate at the same time; your glowing skin and the sweat.

And once you’re done, throat dry from not speaking, only yelling, you breathe, “That was… quick.”

“I am sorry,” he responds, still exhaling against you; you still feel the waves inside your cunt, so it’s hard to listen. “I needed to let my frustration out somewhere.”

You half-roll your eyes, as much as manageable.

“But in exchange… I’ll hold my promise and let you do anything,” he repeats, rubbing your leg and then your sides softly. Slowly moves up to you until his length presses against your heat and his lips align with your mouth. “Can I just first…”

“Love,” you interrupt, “you don’t need to. You don’t need to hold your promise, because I don’t want you to. Not tonight.”

“What?”

“I want you to let it all out,” you confess, ”claim me.”

Because frankly, you see it in his eyes. That he wants to release the beast, too. Of course ready for your ministrations, but yearning to wreck you so desperately. Already in the headspace, affected from the moment he licked you dry and wetter.

“I promised,” he tries, but you shake your head, still breathing stagnantly.

“I… So I… May I?” he still inquires permission, stuttering, so gentle, polite and tormented. “Goodness. I might die.”

You chuckle at the hyperbole, though the sound comes out weak as you still breathe through your craze. As you stare up at him, you think you recognise pure anguish reflecting in his gaze, made visible by the candlelight. Eyebrows kissing, mouth open.

You feel similar, so you’re not one to turn down the plea.

“Yes, but… I mean it. You don’t need to submit entirely. I want you to do what you want to do.”

Because that’s when he’s the most authentic. And because the statement never poses a risk with Jungkook. Any other man might forsake you, but you could say such a thing a thousand times; even as he seeks his own pleasure, he won’t forget about yours.

And unleash all desperation on you simultaneously.

You want this. You want this.

“Fret not,” he assures, “I will. I am not neglecting either of us.”

Lining himself up, he sits up properly, starting a languid movement of the head of his length up and down your pussy. He means to tease you just a bit longer, wanting to test your reaction to the thickness rubbing between your folds.

But you see the surprise in his face when his cock threatens to slip in the moment it reaches your hole, even though there is no reason for his bafflement. Doesn’t he know what he does to you?

“Oh…” he murmurs, trying again, once again watching just a few inches disappear inside you before he pulls back. “That is… nice.”

In, then out again. Once more, in. Once more, out.

Then a tap of his heavy cock against your pelvis, stroking it in the process for further hardness, and you observe. Fully undisturbed and entirely amazed by what you’re seeing. Every single time.

You let him touch himself, and then close your eyes to listen to his sounds. But he soon leans into you again, whispering to keep them open, and when you do, he uses the proximity to kiss you again.

Harder this time. Moaning as he jerks himself off. A second longer until he brings it back to your pussy, and you raise your back off the mattress a little when he pushes the head in. Whimpering into the kiss, never having him back away.

You grip his shoulders for safety, trying not to go insane, and right before he parts from you, he nods. Asking, “Yes?”

“Please.”

“Shall I?”

“Please start.”

“Start… if you want me to fuck you numb, I will. Right until your mind is vacant of everything else. Will fuck all of me into you. Yes?” You take a shaky breath, barely nodding, but he sees and laughs quietly. “I need every lord to know to keep their hands off just by the way you walk.”

The nod turns into a shake of your head, and as he presses in further, you try to whisper, “That would be… incredibly scandalous, my love.”

“Oh? What difference does it make? The entire house always knows when I do these things with you.”

“Do they—”

“The staff always whispers. And they pay extra attention to you. Always lurking and trying to see if something changes about you. I’ve heard them, you know?”

Oh… oh, you know what he means. Of course you do. Perhaps you’re not the only one dreaming of a blooming future with him, of seeds being planted and growing into this family of yours.

The entire place must be waiting for the announcement to arrive one day.

Right…

“Then…” you start, interrupting yourself to press your lips together, muffling your moan when you feel him bottom out. “Then do not hold back now either. I want you to.”

“To hold myself back?”

“No.”

“Want what then, darling?”

“To fuck my mind numb of thoughts. And my legs of any feeling.”

Abruptly, he pulls out. Then, all of a sudden in again, all at once. You’re cross-eyed when you moan, and he more or less falls onto you as you pull him in, resisting the urge to bite into his shoulder as he nuzzles your neck.

A hand settles under your knee, raising one leg over his waist, starting to move. Messily, he licks and kisses your neck, continuing at your jawline, and then down to your clavicles. Fucks you lovingly enough to light a fire in you.

His hanging strands tickle your skin, damp from the sweat much like his forehead. His greedy sounds are crazy against your collarbones, and then decrease in volume when his lips wrap around your nipple once again.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters.

“Mhh…”

“This is not enough, is it?” No, it isn’t. He barely needs to speak on for you to momentarily shake your head, but he does, and it adds to your madness. “Not enough to disable straight walking…”

“Yes. No, yes—”

You mewl embarrassingly when he slides his cock out again; you see so much more of him outside of you than fucking necessary.

And God. God, you hate it when he presumably accidentally retracts it fully. Silently complaining, you sigh with worried eyebrows, but he finds his way back to you easily. It’d be odd if he didn’t. You suck him in effortlessly.

And he seems to enjoy it. Seems to seek an end to his goal, still keeping his previous question in mind, and then—

Your thighs quiver when he pushes in with all his power, all at once and as deeply as physically possible, and your eyes shut so hard that they hurt.

“Would you look at these tits…” you hear him say, forcing yourself to look at him again, fluttering your eyelids open.

And as sassily as your foggy brain allows, you respond, “I am looking, as well.”

At small, brown, constantly hard nipples. You want to touch them, kiss and bite them. Want to destroy him as much as he’s intending to destroy you. But you can barely move.

How could you if this time, when he returns to his ministrations, he turns entirely, irrevocably, positively merciless.

He gently falls forwards, holding you as he did before, but this time, when he hammers into you, the entire bed shakes. You raise your arm over your head, holding onto the railing for a second, inspecting how far away your head remains from it.

But Jungkook is attentive, and you only notice a second later that his palm is covering your head, keeping it from bumping against the railing. So you remove your hands from it, letting it glide over his smooth back again, sweat-covered and hot now.

He’s a monster, this man. Or perhaps, you make him a monster. You want to believe you’re the sole reason he forgets the universe like this; pounds into you, causing your body to move up and down the mattress, just because you’re the weakest spot he has.

Of course you are. Of course.

So obvious when he confesses for the millionth time, “I love you.” Muffled, but clearer when he moves to look at you, expression beyond words as he repeats, “I love you so much.”

“And I you, my love.”

Strange. So strange how you never would’ve imagined yourself saying such a thing just a few years ago. How you avoided him, took a different path than him, never voluntarily meeting his eyes.

The words floating between you urge him to slow down for the moment; he attempts to take you in, to memorise you. Lets his eyes flit from your mouth over your nose to your pupils. Touches your cheek.

And the slower pace allows you to speak a bit more properly, even though you can’t help but feel distracted when he drops his head some to peck your skin.

“It… it has not been more than two years, has it? When we still despised each other.”

His kiss burns scars into your shoulder, hotter than hellfire. A raspy voice murmurs, “The world changes in mysterious ways.”

“Mmmh—”

It does. So does your mind. Because why is it that the most utterly sweet romance births the wildest of desires?

“And… Maybe that is what you need to unleash tonight, Kook. Perhaps I need it, too—” You shudder when he hums. His digits are still restless on your face, sliding up and down; not knowing what to caress. “What if you fucked me like you still hated me?”

“I… would that… You want that? I cannot even act as if I hate you, though.”

“Try it. I want you to.”

Jungkook remains speechless for too long, still comprehending your words, clearly torn between adhering to your wishes and worshipping you with the same adoration as you give out.

But as you so faintly mouth a hushed Please, you diffuse something in his brain. Inexplicably, because the rush of sensations, while never absent, feels new each time he touches you.

Perhaps that’s why he never gets enough of you; you hang a new star onto the sky every day, a new moon every night. Alternating every moment and refusing to leave a single one bland.

He’d be damned if he didn’t give the same excitement back to you.

Pushing his body up, he kneels above you, slipping out of you bit by bit as he grips your left knee. He shifts your limb, changing the position until you’re laying sideways, somewhat twisted.

You see the fleeting glimpse of pride as he slides back home and you mewl, soon squinting your eyes shut because shit — whatever you were doing before doesn’t compare to the tightness the shift allows. How your legs are nearly closed, allowing for much more friction.

You’re wrapped around him so fucking well, reminiscent of old key-to-its-lock-metaphors; and he feels infinitely closer to you. Possibly having a harder time than you, even.

The drag of his cock is endless as he begins, still too gentle, but effective enough. Your hands seek a place to hold onto, immediately opting for his leg; but he doesn’t seem to dig the idea as much.

“Let go,” he orders, not quite waiting for you to oblige before he’s captured your arm harshly and removed your touch, pinning it to your hip. “Same as before. No touching or I’ll stop—” The thrust he delivers isn’t quick, but relentless and hard; deep to the hilt. “—this. I don’t care if you cry or complain then.”

Shit…

He’s started. And he’s playing the act well. In your drowsy idiocy, you can’t help but wonder how the two of you would’ve fared if you’d turned your hate into lust much earlier. If you hadn’t used the time to despise each other, but transform it into this kind of energy.

Of course it is stupid to retort to such fantasies. Back then, you were disgusted by his personality, irritated by the way the two of you treated each other. There would’ve been no scenario in which he would’ve landed balls-deep in you.

But fuck, does the image prompt something in you.

You don’t bother for an answer, reckoning that the quiver of your lower lip might suffice, but… seemingly, not for him. Because he presses into your wrist harder before moving it to your back.

Yelping, you nearly stuff your face in the pillow, not entirely realising his next moves until you open your eyes again. See his mouth floating right over your ear. So close to you, pushing your damp hair back, whispering ominously, “Are you not fucking hearing me? Do you not understand?”

“I…” Goddamn it. Is he gritting his teeth? Playing his aggression so well? Or does it derive from the sheer lust he can’t contain? “I hear you. I understand.”

“What did I say?”

“No touching.”

The fingers stroking your strands back are more tender than his words, rewarding you with caresses as he continues just a tad softer, “Was that so difficult?”

He leaves you with another squeeze of your tits, moving his knees on the mattress to draw closer to your body. To bury himself further into you, leaving no spot untouched. And then, perfectly in character, claims, “Looking as pathetic as years ago, aren’t you? Probably dreamed of fucking me then, too.”

Wow—

Regarding the assignment with absolute diligence, it seems.

Even more cruel when he slips out of you so casually, so easily, despite adjusting to the position a mere moment ago. For a good purpose, however — because his digits replace his rock hard, soaked cock not soon after, testing the situation with languidly slow pumps.

They feel so different from his length; so… inadequate. You desire so much more. Back to where you were a minute ago. It’s… so hard not to touch him.

But if you begged for it now, would he give in? Or rather hold onto your previous idea?

You can try.

“Kook…” you whisper carefully, albeit immediately noticing how his breathing overshadows the word. You attempt again, “Kook.” This time, he hears. “Please. Need more? Please.”

“Asking for mercy all of a sudden… you cannot be serious.”

“I…”

“You’re lucky I do, too, you see? Need more.” Firmly, he lets a heavy hand fall to your ass, moving it up before your surprised squeal leaves you, and pushes at your back; your body flat on your stomach. “Or you’d long be sprawled over my lap.”

One of your dangerous traits is that you’re constantly tempted to test him. To act out, to follow his little warnings. Then again, he already provides enough; already at a hundred percent.

Like now, when he returns with the intent to wear you out. Wrecking you from the moment his cock intrudes again, falling in so smoothly that it’s almost embarrassing.

He starts right away. Pants a couple seconds later, matching your squeaks, probably delighted by your desperation as you hold, nearly rip the sheets.

Tired, he leans in, chest closer to your back, and uses the nape of your neck as leverage to move easier. Wrapping a hand around it, pressing you down, hearing you whine and sniffle against the pillow.

You cannot recall the last time he fucked you this brutally. Snapping against your ass, letting all of the massiveness he sports disappear inside you. You don’t know what surprises you more — his stamina or the fact that you can take him this well at all.

But even Jeon Jungkook has his limits. You hear the approaching end in the way he sounds, breathing irregular and words incoherent. How broken his sounds are, high-pitched and absolutely unhinged. How his thrusts are slower now, indicative of his fatigue.

You know he’s close. But when he doesn’t slow down but stops altogether, you know he doesn’t want to be.

Refusing the orgasm, he pulls out for the nth time, much, much to your chagrin. With a dry throat, perspiring skin and droopy eyes, he delivers a harmless smack to your ass, and says, “Get up. Your turn to work on this.”

And with that, he means making himself comfortable against the back of the bed; letting the muscles of his arms bulge when he lifts them; using both hands to card through his hair, bringing some order into his messy mane.

Then, watching as you sit up, crawling on all fours and nearing his awaiting body.

Your gaze falls to his lap right away as you inch closer. To the shiny, wet member, secured in his fist, moving in it just a little, so as not to explode prematurely. Reserving it for you, and you only.

Such a giant. Towering. Thick enough for you to once again wonder if you can truly fit this inside you. Jungkook is gifted in every way.

And it’s not just the package he’s so proudly touching right now; it’s all of him. The golden skin, the thick thighs, the firm chest and the moles across his body. How his plush lips part further, the more your warmth nears.

Ready for you when you don’t take a seat right away but instead, steer straight towards his mouth, seeking a kiss you so hopelessly need. And for a second, he falls weak to your actions.

Only, until he suddenly yanks you back by your hair, probably reluctantly because…

Even now, his face draws to yours like a magnet, wanting more. Resisting. Extending the misery.

“Sit down,” he instructs, hitting your hanging tits. “Now.”

You do.

You do as quickly as you can; even rolling back your eyes, throwing back your head, unconsciously submitting to the reflex of gripping his shoulders. Bad idea — because he snatches your wrists, working to bring your arms behind your back again. Away from his body.

“Without this. Start.”

You try. You drag your pussy along his cock, up and then back down again; give yourself time to actually take in every little bit of him and how he makes you feel. The muscles of your legs and upper body are in full swing, exhausting your capacities.

But you’ll admit that it’s hard; not because your limbs have turned as wobbly as is usual with this beast, but because you’re awfully out of balance.

As he holds you captive, you’re struggling with the stance, even when he pulls your chest to his, melting the two of you. You don’t voice the difficulty yet, keen on observing his reactions; enduring the tremble of your body.

“So incredibly cooperative,” he repeats, “we make a strong pair, don’t we?”

Tease. Tease. Taking advantage of how much you crave praise.

You cannot pinpoint whether you’re coveting his appetite particularly strongly these days, or whether he’s just now awoken desires unknown to you so far — but his advances leave you salivating. Make you hunger for more.

Odd how you didn’t know you’d enjoy it if he gripped a patch of your hair as he is now, shaking your head, face close enough to you to repeatedly graze his lips against yours. Or that you could tighten around him like this the moment his fingers dig into your cheeks, holding you like an enemy.

“Mmmmh, you are pretty,” he hums, delivering two light slaps to your cheek. He hisses when he feels you constrict again, trapping his cock between your drenched walls, only able to whisper multiple fucked-out, “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

His fitful breathing doesn’t allow for much interruption of his air flow; his chest is heaving and he seems far more spent than he did in the beginning. But he’s never ready to stop or wave the white flag.

Still succumbing to said hurdles when his lips dash forward, instantly blending his taste with yours as his tongue snakes around yours. His lips move against yours with ferocity and determination. Teeth bite your lower lip softly, giving his aggression a soft outlet.

And it seems to you that he might not pull his claws in again tonight, unleashing all the savage fierceness his lust and envy combine into. Perhaps this will turn into the most ruthless night just yet.

But you’re wrong.

And for once tonight, you don’t mind the 180 turn.

Because the moment he surfaces from the kiss to catch his breath, you use the pause to whisper his name. With a gentle shudder, kissing eyebrows and half-open eyes, you bring your forehead to his, and all of a sudden, he lets you go.

You don’t understand why until you look at him again. Blinking innocently, still not touching him properly, but carefully bringing your fingertips to his legs. The crease between your eyebrows vanishes, allowing them to rise, and you echo, “Kookie…?”

That’s all it takes. You might be hallucinating, but you think you see something in him break. Something shifting back into place, as if he’s going through a change, returning to himself after separating from his mind for a bit.

And he slows down. The dizzying brutality of his pounding leaving you drooling turns into something friendlier. A welcome alteration but…

The change in pace surprises you. Not even inspecting his expressions helps you understand what he might be thinking, what he might be intending to do next. He’s unpredictable in moments like these.

He might turn the tides. Or he might return to his demonic self.

What you don’t realise is how your eyes affect his thumping heart so badly; how you emanate sweetness with all of your being, and how you make this played aggression nearly impossible.

Rendered hypnotised, he understands that’s enough for tonight. This isn’t the true nature the two of you share. What was it again in simple, human words, never enough to describe the celestial feeling within?

In love. Devoted. Ready to do anything. And so, so beautiful.

Jungkook cradles your face, gently massaging the back of your head. His thumb touches your cheek as if you’re fragile, careful to keep you together now and forever. You’re tenderness personified; the object of all his desires.

The definition of a treasure to be protected. And you are—

“You’re the kind of person to kill for.” His warmth breathes into your face when his lips ghost in front of yours, words sugary when he admits, “I cannot do this like I hate you. Because I don’t.”

…If there is one thing aside from you that your husband will remain loyal to forever, it’s his feelings. Not only towards you, but everything he regards the world with.

He always claims he hid most of himself before he met you, but you’re convinced he never stopped being the person he is. That he was merely believing in what others wanted him to believe.

That’s all.

Even now, as his touch falls to the small of your back, he refuses to deny the fondness and care that has grown in his heart, right around your name sheltered in there.

You swallow thickly, touching his waist, and shake your head, “Then don’t. Do it just how you mean it.”

He nods, bringing his fingers back to yours and lifting them as he asks, “Would you like to touch me again?”

“Will you let me?”

A kind laugh meets your curious, yet genuine question. He places your hands on his shoulder, jesting, “Imagine… having the power over you to decide whether to let you or not.”

Bringing his own fingers to your ass, he moves you a bit, and with that, his hardness inside you. “I love it when you are desperate like this, my love. But.” You moan when he urges you to move. “So am I.”

“Jungkook… I’m yours. You can do whatever you want.”

“I can, right? And— in return, I can be whatever you need me to be, too.”

Yours — that’s all. All of him.

The arms you finally touch, up to his shoulders, neck and jaw. The soft lips he’s kept parted ever since you started. The mole on his nose, under his mouth, near his jawline. The kiss he shares with you and the hands clamping at your body.

How he fucks you with a passion you’re certain is reserved for nobody in this world but you. You’re selfish like this; you don’t believe anybody loves like that.

It’s all yours; that’s what you need him to be.

You murmur his name repeatedly, and he pecks your neck dryly. Your sounds change as you near the end, feeling a bubbling sensation in your stomach pleading to be released. Impatiently, you lean back, planting your hands to the mattress, face towards the ceiling.

Jungkook uses the position to latch onto your nipples, fucking you harder now, even if not with the same craze as before. He knows your body; he knows it so well. So you’re not surprised, yet gasping when he brings a finger to your clit, hitting and touching the right stops over and over and over again.

Your body winds on top of him as the chaos inside you unfolds, your shoulders sinking, eyes in the back of your head, upper body so fucking weak. And as he massages circles onto your clit, never rough, and murmurs against your jaw, you lose your mind.

“You’re my love. Gorgeous, beautiful sweetheart. I want to see… this every night.”

Doesn’t he know he will all his life? Doesn’t he know you’ve surrendered every piece of you to him?

Fuck. Fuck—

The knot uncoils the moment he utters the last word, voice dulcet and hazy, so loving and breathy. Your arms give out, threatening to let your body fall, and you rush to find an anchor in his shoulders, holding him, embracing him within a second.

Without a single thought ahead, you blurt, “I’ll— I’ll never want anyone but you. Never.”

“You’re all I know, baby,” he responds in kind, holding you the same, a confession between each kiss to your neck, “I love you. D-did you know? I love you. Love you. Love you so much.”

And God, do you love him.

The waves crashing over you are metres-high, and they’re drowning you ocean-deep. Why does this feel new and crushing every single time? He’s helped you experience this a hundred times. Nobody ever has before.

But you never get used to this. Not to how hard your pussy tightens and loosens over and over again, how your body becomes weightless, needing to be kept upright. How your stomach feels much more free, like you’ve gone through an epiphany.

The world sparkles. You feel ridiculous, alone in your head with these thoughts, but you’re above clouds, and the stars sparkle. What the hell…

“H-how much?” you ask, gripping his black hair, dizzy.

“You cannot ask me. I have no fucking idea,” he curses, “I wish I could measure it, you see? Wish I could show you better. Tell you. Write it in a book.”

You’re fond of books; but he doesn’t know there’s no need for him to create a story, because he’s one himself. Isn’t he? A chapter after another.

He lifts your face from his shoulder, making you look at him. Pushes your hair back, his stare fond. Crashes his lips against yours again before it’s his turn to let go.

Affected by your contractions, he moans against your cheek, closing his eyes before he’s shooting all that he kept back into you. Hot, wet and sticky, loads of it, requiring multiple pumps until he’s drained.

Then, falls back against the railing with you in tow, hiding in your chest as you keep him close to your heart. You touch his tresses, caressing his scalp, matching his breathing until your bodies wind down.

It takes endless minutes in each other’s arms until the burning sensation all over your skin diminishes.

The room has grown darker now, candles burned halfway through. When you allow yourself a glimpse of him, the shadows are dancing across his features, hiding half his face. The light is so faint where it hits him, a gorgeous weak golden that still doesn’t do his own teint justice.

You can’t believe you get to keep this for a lifetime. That this is the very being you have the honour to wake up next to every single morning. That you’re the only one holding his heart, and that he’s the only one matching your soul.

Is this what it means to share everything with someone? To indulge in something far greater than love.

Which… reminds you…

“Jungkook,” you call, and he hums quietly, smiling through it. Eyelids falling, he listens as you ask, “Kook, do you think I feel— or look different?”

There’s a pause in your hushed conversation, a rise of eyebrows. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d sound a lot more concerned, you reckon. Immediately question your thoughts.

Instead, he sounds weaker, yet confused when he mutters, “…Why?”

“Do I?”

Another break in thought. This time to take you in. To lean in just a little, regard you carefully, to let his eyes drag over your being to detect the change you speak of.

But maybe…

“I think you were quieter these days. In thoughts? I assumed it was the Jung thing. But,” he eventually says, “responsibilities didn’t allow me to be around much either. Did I… miss something?”

Were you quieter? Possibly.

Saying you were trapped in your thoughts is an understatement; if he’s figured something out without being around, it’s this much. The utter truth, a successful deduction. But was it the Hoseok rumours?

You can’t yet say for sure. So you choose to not say anything at all.

Only, “That might be it.”

“Other than that, however…” he speaks, moving with a grunt. The hands on your hips are gentle as they instruct you to get up; and unbothered by the seed soon flowing out, he urges you to your back, face soon levitating above you. “You’re still the same.”

A creature of habit, he wipes the drying locks out of your face, kissing the tip of your nose. You’re almost entirely sure that you look like a proper mess — but it’s impossible to not believe him when he claims, “Still the same beautiful woman I fell in love with two years ago.” Another kiss to your eyelid. “Stunning darling.”

“Are you still in love with me the same?”

“No,” he immediately blurts, and if you didn’t know him so well, you’d panic, “of course never the same. Always a little more.”

“Mmmh. And I love you.” You touch the smooth surface of his back, drawing figures over the defined muscles. “So. Does this prove that I wouldn’t run away with some lord?”

He puts on the act of a thinker, purposely teasing you until you hit his bicep. Then, “Yes. But does it prove you won’t run away with a stable boy?”

“…I hate you, Jeon Jungkook.”

The laugh he emits is genuine, so different from the troubled voice you heard less than an hour ago. His old jesting self, he refers to your awkward idea before, mentioning, “I know. You surely got that across tonight. And oh, how you kept looking at me. Pure hatre—”

“Shut up. I gave myself to you tonight or you would’ve begged and whimpered—”

“Oh? How so? Tied me up, hm?” he mocks, fingers cautiously following the veins of your arms before he’s caught your wrists again. He lifts them over your head, trapping you again. “Like this?”

You laugh as his lips trace your neck, the tickling sensation not quite the same as the lust spreading before. Helplessly, you surrender, begging, “Alright. Okay. I apologise for saying that! If you keep going, I will be crawling tomorrow.”

“Is that so bad? Not having to tend to so many things?”

“You’d make it worth it, I’m certain.”

He lets you go the very next moment, sighing before he asks, “Do you feel alright? I was worried about going overboard.”

“No, I am more than alright. Dog-tired but… this was perfect. I am a little happy you got jealous. Do you feel better, too?”

“I feel extraordinarily well.” He keeps his mouth open, pondering on saying more, but as you see his mind whir, you reckon another thought has replaced his previous statement. “I was not jealous. Merely worried.”

“…You yourself have said you are a jealous man.”

“Have you got any evidence? I thought so.” Another snicker in a joyous night, setting the mood for your dreams. “But. You are loved by many, and I admire you for that. And objectively I know I will always love you the most, but… it’s scary.”

“Ah… what is, Kook?”

“Knowing that somebody might want to overtake me. To try better or make you reconsider.”

“They couldn’t. I do not have to tell you… you know me and you know I will be here.”

“Good. I know,” he assures, countless infinitesimal sparkles of yearning in his eyes. They glow even in the shadows of candlelight, even without flames. “I really want this with you.”

“What is that?”

“…Everything.”

Everything.

His thoughts are a repetition of your own. A confession of a forever. Which is why you understand so well what he means, not a single explanation necessary. Because you want it all, too.

Of all the facts existing in your realm and universe, this remains one that you could never doubt. And you’re trying to provide him with the same amount of everything, as well. You are.

Which is why the thought of disappointing him is so unbearable for the time being.

So for now, you’d rather avoid it by keeping your mouth shut just for a little longer.

For all the longing touches revealed last night, Jungkook was certain he’d meet a glowing face the next morning. Sparkly, familiar eyes, taking in all hallways despite already knowing them so well, pointing out a new detail each time as you love to do.

For all the affection revealed last night, he was sure he’d eliminated all doubts and sorrows, every piece of thought and afterthought left of the conversation about other lords and past love.

In such a sense, he finds himself cheerful in his office the following day, enduring the staff’s playful ridicules. Grateful about the comfortable atmosphere, the lightness of the morning. His humour runs off the charts and he catches himself snickering about his own jokes.

You left him bright at least. Hopeful and joyful, with a heart filled with so much love and craze that is barely comprehensible for a mortal mind.

When you stroll into his office with your hands folded, his dark gems glitter, lights dancing in his pupils. He didn’t see much of you yet, despite from the tiny moment he left you sleeping in bed, kissing your shoulder and removing the lock off your face.

Tending to his duties, only torn away from you when he was urged to do so.

“Good morning,” you say in your sweetest voice, so small and soft.

And he hears the alteration in your words, so vastly different from last night. But your eyes look somewhat swollen, sleep still apparent in them, so it’s easy to give into the first instinct and blame a short night for your fatigue.

“Good morning, my love,” he responds, silencing as he nears your body, tenderly aligning your fingers and raising yours to his mouth.

As he kisses every knuckle, you ask, “Working so early?”

“Did not choose to,” he murmurs in between pecks. He concludes the gesture with rubbing a thumb ever-so-gently against the back of your hand before he leads your palm to his face. “I can come back to you any moment, though.”

You smile, but the blinking of your eyes is slow, and your reserved stance grows. He finds it odd when you hesitate, but you’re faster than him when you speak, “No, no. I didn’t want to disturb you, please do what you need to do.”

“Then… keep me company?”

“I will, but later, yes? I was thinking of a brief outing.”

It’s not unusual for you to seek fresh air or promenade along a nearby waterfront. Ever since you left town, you’ve grown even fonder of nature. The blossoming flowers, the sun, the summer rain and the rainbows afterwards match your energy.

But your usual light is missing; you don’t look quite downcast, but moreso worried about something. Your chest rises a bit too hard when you breathe in, and the nerves burn hotter when he asks, “Where to?”

“Just nearby. Picking flowers.”

Maybe he’s thinking about it too hard. Maybe you’re honestly just drowsy and opting for the crisp air, hoping for it to clear your mind. And maybe your demeanour will have changed by the time you return.

Might at least just be worth the wait, right?

So he doesn’t intervene with your thoughts, merely nodding. He leans into your tender palm, still resting on his warm cheek, and presses a careful kiss into it, as though a mistake could make you run away.

“Sure,” he concurs at last, “rush back to me. And show me the flowers you collect, alright?”

Which you don’t really oblige to, keeping a safe distance from his yearning, worried heart for an hour or two.

It becomes increasingly difficult to focus on work with you away; inquiring about you doesn’t do much, because how could the staff within these walls know more than he does? Would you confide in them but not in him?

Are you afraid of something?

When the attention drifts off his work eventually and his gaze keeps switching to the view out the window, to a path that you might be walking, he plummets into his chair. Waits. Fiddling.

“Dojoon,” he calls, immediately met with a guard outside the room, speaking to the stiff, polite form, “has my wife returned yet? Have you seen Aza around?”

Denying his lord’s questions, Dojoon shakes his head, causing Jungkook’s chest to deflate, and informs him that no, he has neither noticed the presence of you nor of your chaperone.

Fitting, a timing so appropriate, because the guard has only nearly finished his sentence and increased Jungkook’s concerns when footsteps echo through the hallway outside. Jungkook cranes his neck momentarily, hoping for an end to his perturbation.

And at last, some deity seems to have heard his prayers, even if, in hindsight, he knows he’ll probably have nothing to worry about. You’ve been away for longer, albeit usually announcing your departure more cheerily and with less uncertainty.

Which, to his pleasure, doesn’t torture your expressions as much anymore as you finally enter the room. The hands are still folded, a shawl wrapped around your back and gracefully falling over your arms.

You’re always so pretty; so stunning that he nearly forgets the issue on hand.

That your folded fingers don’t carry anything.

Which is not too suspicious, it shouldn’t be. You might have handed the flowers to somebody, might have hastened back into his room without thinking of his prior request.

But his paranoid mind has been wreaking havoc lately, and he hates, hates, hates it — yet, can’t stop it.

So he despises the feeling in his chest when he asks, “Where are the flowers?”

“I…” you unfold your hands, inspecting your fingers as if you forgot they were vacant of said bloom. “Staff took them.”

Of course. That’s the most logical option, one he considered. So why…

He inches closer to you, nodding towards Dojoon and signalling for him to leave. As the guard exits right away, Jungkook lightly touches a strand of your hair, tucking it back as he so gently wonders, “Where did you go, baby?”

“Just out for a while. I told you before.”

“But…” You swallow as he talks, nervous about something and suddenly fidgeting with your way too warm cashmere shawl. Only looking up when he breaks his barriers and asks, “What’s the matter?”

“What?”

“I do not know. You tell me. What’s the matter? Is it because of something we said last night? Or because of…”

There. He said it. Stupid unease that might prove wrong and oh-so-utterly and truly stupid soon.

Of course he’s had this in his mind. But somehow, he’s started to wonder… do you feel okay? Are you ill?

“What?” you echo, shaking your head. “No. What are you saying—”

“Something must be bothering you, I reckon, and you…”

“No, I think I just,” you start, pausing, tonguing your cheek until you turn your body a little. Almost facing the door. “I probably only need more rest. I feel tired and you wore me out so much, you see—”

It’s meant as a joke, and he’s sure he even recognises a smile — but the mood won’t allow for otherwise very welcome jests. Before you can even reach for the door handle, he places a flat hand on the surface of the door, ensuring that Dojoon didn’t leave it ajar even a tiny gap.

Half caged in, you look at him in disbelief, lips slightly parted as you say, “Won’t you let me go out?”

“Talk to me, sweetheart.” The genuine distress in his expression hurts you; just because you’re so fearful of disappointing him, or putting him under more anxiety. No reason, no reason. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You want to. It’s just — he’s been forlorn before. You’ve seen his lows and seen the reasons for it. Waded through parts of his pain with him. The news you want to deliver are merry and colossal, but you don’t know if he’s ready.

And fuck. You’re taking too long to answer, aren’t you?

You are. You see it in his eyes. How they start to burn, how frustration grows so apparent in them. Never replacing the care and worries, but certainly furrowing his eyebrows the way he often does when irritated.

“What’s troubling you?” he tries again, keeping himself from snarling. “Where did you go? Did you… did you see him somewhere? I apologise if I said or did something wrong last night. If I hurt you.”

Keeping himself from snapping. Because your eyes are so big, and your stare so innocent and you look so concerned for him rather than for yourself, and… and…

Other than every reason in this universe, he can’t bear to be mad at you.

“Hm?” he voices.

“No,” you finally reveal, “it’s not him at all.”

“I know… Of course I know. But what is it?”

You blow out air. “I am…”

“Yes,” he interjects when your pause proves longer than a moment, “are you ill? Oh goodness, this is nerve-wracking. I think I might fai—”

“Jungkook,” you interrupt, both hands dashing to his arms. He’s out of breath, unfiltered craze in his eyes, as if expecting the worst. So you free him of his misery, taking a deep breath, and then, outrightly, reveal, “I’m expecting.”

…The world stills.

You hear it and you feel it; are certain that all movement has ceased, that the birds have halted mid-flight. That the wind has ebbed down. That the people down in the village have frozen in whatever state they were in before.

Selfishly, you believe that the centre of the world has shifted from the sun to right where you’re standing, right where the love of your life has paused. Where he’s looking at you and you only, barely blinking, out of words, lungs as dry as yours.

“My lo—” you start at the same time as he mumbles, “What?”

So you speak on, “I have not been bleeding. I went to consult the doctor and—”

“Outside? Where?” he asks, the memory and logic in his mind so disrupted that he finds himself in a state of utter bafflement and insanity. “Why didn’t you go to the mansion’s—”

“He went to his family for the week. Do you remember?”

“Right… right. What did you… You just went?”

You nod. “Spoke to him about all the things I have been experiencing and he’s certain those are all signs for me expecting… it seems.”

“…You didn’t tell me.”

“Because I wasn’t sure. And I… I know how much this scares you, so I didn’t want to stir chaos in case it turned out to be nothing.”

Which is a truth you weren’t sure you’d be able to spell out. Jungkook has wanted children; he has mentioned it on several occasions. But ever since you fathomed his deepest fears, laying in a fatherless past and a sorrowful childhood, you’ve been careful.

He’s affected. He always has been. And perhaps you’ll see glimpses of those very worries the more your pregnancy advances; let’s see.

For now, however, they don’t seem to roam his mind.

Instead, he shakes his head, hints of an expression creeping onto his face that you know too well. The first sign of approaching tears; of a swelling heart. Of love growing so fondly and fast that it overflows.

Every single tongue-tied reaction gathers in eventual words when he summarises, “I barely know what to say.” And right there it is; underneath his eye, on the apple of his cheek. One single tear. And with it, a breaking voice. “I do not know what to say.”

But he knows what to do. And what he does is tilt his head, sighing into the stuffy air of the office, not bothering to wipe away the tears — and you can’t either as he grips your hands. Smushes them in his. Calls forth your own liquid affection, blurring your vision.

And then you’re pulled off your spot, crushed in a long-overdue embrace. Before you know it, you’re safely secured in his arms, one a snake around your body, the other hand holding the back of your head as if you could disappear.

He hides his lips in your hair, still not able to put his thoughts into words. But he cries silently against you, leftover panic subsiding and giving way to raw sentiments.

“Jung— kook—” you hiccup, and he shakes his head, possibly keeping you from sobbing; yet, not faring better. “I apologise for— for keeping it from y—”

“No. No, you…” he takes a deep breath, and you know without looking that he’s closing his eyes. Putting his chin on top of your head. “You’re the only one who’s ever cared like this. And shielded me like this. How do you care so much? No, I know. Because I do, too…”

His words turn into a murmur, and he swallows a syllable or two, but it doesn’t matter. You hear his heart, and it speaks volumes without him needing to.

You could cry all your life. And you could love all your life.

“So,” he adds, “we are finally growing, yes? You and I and another. The only another we need, right? Fuck the rest of the world.”

You nod against his chest with a broken laugh, palms wandering further up from the small of his back, and you try to hold him as tight as he’s holding you.

There is no need for words and confessions anymore. There is no need for anything at all; just this very thing. And this very touch. These tender sounds of your sobs, ongoing until they turn into a light and quiet mingling of smiles and tear-filled laughter.

“I promise to you,” Jungkook finally says after a minute, his voice calmer, steadier, “I will do anything. Everything.”

Pause. Waiting to collect his thoughts. All those of lords and kings knocked out within a moment.

And then—

“I will do so much better.”

Over the course of the one year you have spent within the same walls as your husband, you haven’t just learned how to share the same home but the same habits, too.

Some are deliberate — reading the Friday newspaper together in the morning; craving eggs on Saturdays; taking walks to wind down from the week on Sundays. They have become a reflex; unspoken activities you indulge in without the other pointing them out anymore.

Others developed accidentally — like, unconsciously counting the windows you pass in the long hallways, because you caught him doing it before. Or, not being able to sleep well unless you have bid each other a good night. Or — in such a case, seeking each other out once the other side of the bed feels too cold.

It’s not rare for Jungkook, who’s still learning to handle responsibilities, to overwork himself deep into the night. At times, you find him at the edge of the bed, still reading a document. On other days, you tap blindly along the walls of the mansion, meeting him in the library.

Tonight, it’s neither.

The place looks eerie, somewhat haunted in the dark. Still adjusting to the darkness, you stroll from room to room idly, trying to make out a light, or a shadow, a sighting of the man you woke up without.

It must be late; or incredibly early. You can’t say when he awoke and skulked off; the sky is still pitch black outside, but sunrise might break in soon.

A few minutes later, akin to an eternity, you finally push the unlocked door to the study, lit by faint flames. Jungkook flinches when it squeaks open and you step in with featherlight steps. He nearly throws the book into the air, catching it as it threatens to slide off his knee.

The gentle heart only calms once it recognises you, taking a deep, shuddering breath in. He isn’t angry; rather delighted to see your figure standing in the dark, in a long, white nightgown and big, worried eyes.

As much as he’s able to perceive from his spot, you look relieved, fingers fiddling, and he doesn’t think he could love anybody more than you, ever. Not when you’re here steering towards your goal, obviously having scoured the mansion to find him.

“You’re so light on your feet, love,” he faux-complains, tutting, “thought you were a ghost.”

“Oh. A pretty ghost?”

“One I’d let haunt me any day.”

You let out a gentle laugh, stepping closer until you’re towering over him, “They say one glows when with child.”

“If you glow any more, then…” he whispers as you take a careful seat on his lap, simultaneously securing you there with an arm and covering his eyes. Charading being blinded by the light.

How dramatic.

Shaking your head, you take a look down to his fingers, following his touch until you’ve opened the shut book to the page his thumb serves as a bookmark for. The cover isn’t particularly telling, a mere title on it too small to read.

The chapter he was reading is an advanced one, the page starting in the middle of an ongoing sentence. but as most stories beloved to dreamy poets go, kindness prevailed in the end.

You don’t ask for the content right away; rather, you wonder, “Jungkook, why are you still up? And here of all places.”

The golden candlelight highlights the fatigue in his eyes — but it makes his heart-stirring smile evident, too. A note of pride resonates in his voice as he lifts the book, holding it towards you as if that doesn’t worsen the lighting drastically.

“It has lullabies and bedtime stories,” he says. You lean in, staring at the right page, and recognise colourful, faded illustrations. “Father used to read them to me. I remember how they shaped me, so I— I wanted to practice, too.”

No matter how many arrows Cupid shoots into your heart, Jungkook always seems to outdo the beneficent god. He’s diligent in watering and growing the affection in you. Tending to your heart — just like that, effortlessly.

Despite your tired mind, your emotions are on overdrive; because of your tired mind, you, in the tone of a statement, repeat, “You were preparing.”

“Is that odd?” he immediately blurts, a little too loud for the room. When you shake your head in denial, he nods in comfort. “I was afraid I was doing too much. This book helped. There is another one on parenting, but,” he reaches for his desk with a groan, putting another, smaller piece on top of the other one, “but I feel like this advice is a given. Look.”

He flips through the pages, halting at one that outlines tips and tricks in imperatives. The first you lay eyes on is already one that proves his point, odd as you read aloud, "An affectionate household works wonders upon a young mind. Remember to, uh— cultivate a serene and harmonious family atmosphere!"

“Fair enough, is it not?” Jungkook jests, shutting the book again.

The smile he flashes, the one you never hesitate to join is a peculiar one. Utterly sweet, undeniably handsome; yet, strange, considering the history the two of you share.

You wonder once again.

When did he become this tender? The boy you knew, smirking so slyly, evil words shot towards you in a group of fellow pals — none of the damaging energy remains today. Today… sitting on this very lap, going into raptures.

Carrying his child.

Then again, people change, but never thoroughly. A basic foundation, the core that one is made of always healthily and steadily remains. Jungkook’s traits, the ones you have learned to love and cherish, were always part of him.

He just needed an outlet. Somebody to practise them on; a lifelong companion to pour the softness onto.

And things never end there. No, they go on and on, a flood of sparkly emotions. Like, when he gets into a more casual conversation now, never quite realising that his little statements are pulling you above clouds.

”I asked some of the staff about their experience with their children. Did you know some of them have young toddlers themselves?”

”Mihee gave me a list of things to be careful about once birth comes around. It sounds painful, darling. You can do it, right?”

”You can. I’ll be there, too. You can certainly do it better than I will, possibly.”

He tells you he has been working a little less these days; having struggles forming a clear thought. Informs you about his spontaneous and perhaps too early decision of planting a tree just for the child. Explains to you how to not hold a baby, the information courtesy of Mihee.

And then, he kisses your forehead, sucking in a breath as if shivering. He adjusts for a moment, never pushing you off his lap, and then eventually, quietly, admits, “It is so frightening, as well, though, isn’t it?”

“Hm?”

“This… this whole thing.” You gaze at him with gentle worry, suspecting what’s to come, but he misinterprets it for doubt. “I am not anyhow indicating that I don’t want this. Not at all. I wouldn’t want it with anyone but you.”

You nod understandingly, clarifying that you never assumed such. But he continues, “Still, I can’t help but wonder how well I will do.”

You could tell him that it’s a valid and often occurring worry. That no parent-to-be will ever dive into this with full confidence and a pure lack of insecurities. But you know why he’s saying this.

Not everyone has a dead father. Not everyone deals with an abusive household growing up. And not everyone was fed with doubts and deep-rooted issues that provoke such hesitant thoughts.

“Is that why you are reading books on parenting, my love?” you inquire, speaking slowly.

“I would guess so,” he answers, “I want to be there. I’d hate it if I had to leave… you never know what might happen, you know? Or maybe, if I was here, yet tried too hard and then failed in the process—”

“First of all,” you interrupt, “do not make me imagine a life without you. Second of all… we are thinking about it in such a theory. I reckon that… once you hold someone in your arms,” you put your head onto his, keeping him close, the free hand seeking his, “it feels more natural. Love happens naturally.”

“Does it? I have never been a father before.”

You chuckle, “So I hope! But. What was it like to love me? A process? Progress? Were you scared of loving me?”

“I was.” The answer is unexpected. Then again, it’s not. Certainly rapid, though. “You’re an unstoppable force. Of course it is scary to love you. What if one messes up? That’s nothing that can be forgiven.”

“You always speak too highly of me.”

“I am not blinded. I see it clearly and I mean every word. Loving you was frightening, but it developed…” He removes his touch from your fingers, instead tracing up the skin of your arm until his digits skim your elbow; echoing, “Naturally.”

“Mmmh. And does it ever feel like you’re trying too hard?”

“No. You’re right, it doesn’t. It just happens.”

“So,” you whisper, “who’s to say this will be different? And to tell you a secret: You’re doing so amazing loving me. If you can give this one the same amount as you give me, we will be fine.”

He hums, nodding instantly. This must boost his confidence.

He’d be a fool to ever doubt the sentiments he houses for you. He knows he loves you well, because he regards you as worth it. Because he vowed to provide to you what you deserve; the intensity of that adoration will never be subject to confusion.

“I will share another secret with you,” you clear your throat, shifting. “Can you imagine how terrifying it can be for a woman to leave home after so long? How, considering the role of the woman, the thought of living with a man can be intimidating?”

Jungkook’s head sinks in thought. Big eyes fixate on a random spot and a plump, rosy lower lip curls outward, pouting. Another hum before he does a head tilt and confesses, “I haven’t thought about it yet. But… if I had a daughter and she left, I would be scared to death for her well-being.”

“Yes. And she would be, as well. It can be difficult. But to tell you something… Despite my fears and the adjustments I needed to make here, I didn’t fear for my well-being. I knew you’d take good care of me.”

You swallow, sighing when he leans in, lips close to your chest, “And if this is what you consider your nature, Jungkook… Then I do not think you have to worry about anything.”

“Hmmm. This makes so much sense. You are such a bright woman, did you know?” he says, rubbing your arm, then your back. Buries his face in your breasts; his voice vibrates against you as he speaks, “You are everything good. And incredibly smart.”

That’s what he’s saying. The true feelings run much deeper than that; you understand.

The sudden affection that washes over one on the best days. When it overwhelms the senses and dips the air in vibrant shades of pink. Feelings of invincibility and eternal happiness.

Yet, hard, or even impossible, to grasp into appropriate sentences. What Jungkook is doing is merely spitting the most harmless of his love confessions, because his true thoughts cannot be constellated into actual words.

“I love you. I do love you. So, so much,” he mutters, scattered kisses between words a habit now, “and I want to take care of you forever. I will bring you tea. And carry you to bed. I will even cook for you, I do not care about the intensity of effort…”

He’s said that before — delivering whatever you crave, whenever you crave it. To your surprise, the royal you thought spoiled previously has a knack for bringing delicious creations to the table. You know because he gets bored sometimes. Takes some work off the staff’s overworked shoulders.

“Speaking of,” he soon inquires, just as you foresaw, “are you hungry? Are you eating well? We should sneak into the kitchen.”

You shake your head immediately, telling him that eating before sleep does not do well to the stomach. Tell him that it is far too late to hide in the corners of the mansion the way you hid around town when engaged.

That now, it might be much easier to stroll back into your room. Slip under the covers. Smile and talk and drift into sleep.

And you promise that you’re already well fed as long as he fills you with the care your dreamy youth would always read about.

But the clouds you float above dissipate and drop your body into a fall, from heaven to absolute hell.

You’re not sure what you expected from this entire affair; perhaps you should’ve known that carrying and leading a full human being into the world wouldn’t occur so blissfully as the pregnancy itself was. And yes — compared to this, the pregnancy was a bed of roses, no matter how often you whined.

Damn the society around you. The only knowledge you had of this moment came from the few books Jungkook brought you every now and then, his gentle warnings that this might hurt, and the brief conversations you had with your mother about the existence of people.

One or two comments from your doctor here and there.

Oh, it will be all good!

But that’s it, isn’t it? Women do not get informed properly; you do not fully understand the concept of such things until they finally roll around.

And the day you wake up once again with the highest expectations, you finally speak those hopes into existence. As you walk up the stairs shortly after dinner, you feel a liquid drain your legs; confused until your stomach so agonisingly twists.

A punch to your guts.

The moment it happens, your heartbeat accelerates, its sound echoing in your ears — for the very first second, you fear the worst. Did something go wrong? Is something bad happening?

But it doesn’t seem the case, because the tumult around you suggests otherwise entirely: the royal mansion breaks into an immediate excited bustle. You don’t know how they do it, but word spreads like a wildfire.

As soon as the world starts spinning and you let out one or two groans, slowly turning into yelps of pain, you’re escorted to the empty bedroom. Barely minutes later, you’re accompanied by the doctor residing in your mansion these days.

Jungkook’s doing.

Ordered the physician Sang and the midwife Yumi — yes, both — to spend their days here because this is the time they predicted for the baby to arrive at. Nine months… plus, minus a couple days.

The skies have darkened and the seasons changed. It’s colder now, but you feel hot, tortured by your body temperature as staff members drape more blankets over your body, comfortable pillows under you, water and cloths beside you.

And among the blurring faces you perceive under the growing pain, you don’t see his.

Not now; not a couple minutes later; not even more than half an hour has passed. Have they not informed him? He went out for a stroll, but he couldn’t have gone this far.

Your pleas were whispers before, asking for him, yet somewhat ignored, as if you never uttered them at all. So when the light contractions turn moderate, threatening to worsen over time, you raise your voice, “Where’s my husband?! Are you being serious? Get him o—”

“Lady Jeon,” Yumi calmly starts; your possibly irritated mind perceives the probably neutral tone as condescending, and as such, your title makes you internally cringe. “We cannot.”

“What?”

“Husbands aren’t allowed at childbirth. But—”

“What?!” you repeat, rage redirected from the pain to the person only trying to help. You’ll feel guilty later, you know. “This is his child, too. He’s a goddamn part of th—”

The blunt curses are unlike you, and your brain understands; they understand, too, because they have seen and appreciated your true nature for the past few days. Maybe that’s why they don’t take your outbursts too personally; or maybe because they have done this before.

And you know, you know that whatever bond you share with Jungkook, you probably can’t breach society’s rules and the things it deems inappropriate. You weren’t aware that he wasn’t allowed in here; the books didn’t teach you that.

But you should’ve known.

“The Lord will be with you the moment this is over,” Sang promises, preparing whatever he needs to. You’re barely looking, only praying to the ceiling. “He won’t miss a moment with his child. Now, listen to what I say.”

You do. You are.

It just gets so hard with time; the pauses between the contractions seem to shorten and then they vanish. The intensity grows, each time a little more than before; and every other minute, you’re sure you’ve reached the peak, but you never have.

Then, everything starts spinning, your skin soaked in sweat and the little one moving inside, your vision blurring… have hours passed already?

You don’t know. You don’t care — you want this to be over.

But the warm liquid between your thighs, the urge to push, along with the midwife’s words and reassurances, indicate that you’re almost there.

And that’s when it happens. Not the end of it all. Not the appearance of whoever you’ve been anticipating for so long.

But the aggressive thump at the door, repeated and rapid. It hurls your heart from your chest into your throat, your breathing a little more arhythmic than before and you nearly cannot imagine who might be provoking chaos so close to the end.

Then again, could it truly be such a surprise?

Because when the door opens a slit, a familiar face peeking, something in you stirs so hard that you nearly jump into a standing position, pain be damned. Adrenaline rushes through you as a hand pushes you back again; you must’ve risen a couple inches, calling a name.

“You can at least tell me how she is,” Jungkook’s shaky voice inquires near the door, louder than he probably intends. His words are filled with anxiety, and you know he cried before. “I deserve to know.”

Sang hesitates; even in such an advanced state, you still hear his composed words, as calm as he’s been taught to be. “She’s been bleeding a little. We are, however, taking care of it.”

“…What is a little?”

“Bleeding is a common occurrence. It’s just…” The man clearly leans in, because you hear him a bit worse now, yet well enough to understand why your thighs feel so oddly wet and warm, and you so weak. “Somewhat more than it should be. But she’s nearly done, so it’ll be—”

“No,” Jungkook resists, “this is unspeakably stupid.”

Not the man speaking to him, and not anything about what you’re going through, what so many women a day must be going through.

But the distance — you know. And when you move your head towards the open door, meeting his eyes at just the right moment, almost hidden behind Sang’s figure, they widen. Once again, you know why.

Because he’s snapped.

“Jungkook—” you murmur, and it’s enough.

With a combination of impatient aggression and respectful care for the physician, he pushes past the arm blocking the entry to his own bedroom. Someone in the room catches onto Jungkook’s sleeve, but he shakes it off without ever averting his gaze from you.

Yumi follows her responsibilities without a moment of hesitation, nearly leaning over your body as she warns somewhat shyly even, “You are not allowed to be here, I apologise, but…”

But her message is sharply cut in the air before it even reaches Jungkook, because he finally breaks eye contact with you, instead redirecting the flaming pupils towards her.

You don’t see much else than the bottom of his jaw, but you’ve seen the stare before.

When he manages a business that irritates him. When he gets into a rare but bad argument with you. You saw it when he met his teasing friends again, way after your engagement, ready to mock you. And when he faced the idiocy his uncle committed.

Intimidated, Yumi leans back, nodding just once, probably accepting that should whatever myth about childbirth come to life, it’d be your problem. But Jungkook has always been careful; doesn’t believe in the warnings of infections and other unspeakable things that apparently occur when the husband joins the birthing process.

“You are almost ready to push. Just a bit more,” she informs you instead, taking her place at the end of the bed, taking a glimpse under the blanket over your legs.

You feel it, too. Your body is telling you to.

“This is so stupid,” Jungkook repeats, taking a seat on the chair shoved behind him. His hands seek out yours, clutching it immediately. “Hours of waiting and hoping you’re alright? Incredibly dumb, isn’t it?”

“I know,” you say, faintly nodding, only noticing how much you’re crying when he wipes away a stray tear, “I told them. It’s taking so long, Jungkook…”

“Yes, I figured it might, but… but,” he starts, waterline shimmering, bangs already damp — where did he run from to you? “It will be over and so worth it.”

“Read it in… a book?” He nods, and you chuckle as much as possible. “You’ve been reading so much.”

“More than ever! I have never read so many books before, you know?” He sniffles. “And still nothing prepared me. Do you know what happened, darling?”

He’s fighting tears until he can’t. A single one rolls down his cheek and over his mouth, his smile remaining intact, even if somewhat damaged by the profuse emotions. His lower lip trembles like yours.

You’re in no mindset to answer, but his voice, his words, his touch soothe your heart. Lessen the pain, even though in reality and in theory, they don’t.

How does any woman do this without her beloved?

“Two hours in, and I fainted.”

Immediately, your eyes shoot open, your fingers squeezing his, but before you can utter your worries, he shakes his head and continues, “They kept me in there and guarded me like a child. I was scheming how to escape… climbing out the window.”

He smiles when you laugh again, sniffling again, and concludes, “Then they told me they had heard you were struggling and that you were screaming more often. And the room was so hot, as well — it is winter, for Heaven’s sake! And I just…”

Shaking his head, he emphasises the embarrassment of the moment, aware that you cannot talk much, but guiding you through it nevertheless. Speaking his mouth wound, “You’re the one doing this. I did nothing.”

“You did,” you manage, “it is not the same, but you were there.”

“I was there. But you’re doing this, yet I fainted. I would’ve been with you so much earli—”

His soft conversation is soon interrupted when you scream again, your chin quivering, head thrown back when another excruciating contraction catapults you almost into unconsciousness.

Somebody wipes the sweat off your hot forehead for the millionth time, and finally, finally, you feel something happening.

But Jungkook can’t contain his concerns, an observer who can’t feel any of this, only seeing the love of his life sobbing, yelling, squeezing her eyes shut until they hurt. You hear him ask, “What?”

“Just… blood,” Yumi’s voice answers at the same moment as another pair of hands start massaging your stomach for whatever reason, “just…”

“Is that bad?” Jungkook wants to know, out of breath.

“It’s not great, but it won’t be fatal.”

“What? Is she…” He stops for a second, and you see him looking at you through half-lidded eyes, then back at the headless body, covered by the blanket, “God. Then do something!”

You rub a thumb over the back of his hand, fully breathless, already feeling veins pop as you push. And once more. Then say, “It’s alright. It…it will be alright.”

“I should be telling you that! Is that why they mock men? Huh?” He looks back and forth, and you want to laugh, barely managing to listen as you focus on the pushes. You hear his words faintly, but they help. “I am guessing you are feeling it quite a bit as opposed to me, yes?”

You’re crying harder when you shut your eyes again, back arching, yelling out sarcastic words, “No! N–not feeling a thing!”

Your upper body is killing you. The pressure is unbearable, the sensation burning. Through it all, as you near the finishing line, wishing to skip these minutes, he keeps encouraging, “This is so amazing. Just a little more. Almost… almost do—”

The last word is swallowed, quiet, barely spoken. Maybe because his voice is breaking, too. But maybe, because it’s interrupted by another, much shriller cry of change. Entering a world so new is surely scary.

Somebody knows it even better than you, because the first ever sounds of the baby once it finally emerges heal and break your heart. How can that be? You haven’t even touched it yet.

Then, how are you already caught by such an… odd feeling? Floating somewhere between reality and a dream, not quite realising that you’re actually hearing the crying. Isn’t a child just what you were a while ago, too?

You remember the moment you first met Jungkook so vividly. In the rain, attempting to soothe his sorrows, trying to figure out what misery had ambushed the disconsolate boy.

You were a child back then, too. That wasn’t long ago, was it? Are you really married to the same being now, sharing your all with yet another existence that is yelling away in this very room?

Overwhelmed by someone you only felt and cherished through your own skin, without ever touching, without ever speaking to it?

“Is it… a girl or a boy?” you want to know.

Jungkook takes a stand, leaving your hand for just a moment, but Yumi and the rest are busy tending to the bloody and fresh child. Wrapping it in a blanket. Holding it carefully. Cutting off the umbilical cord — a relatively young term Jungkook told you about.

“It’s… a girl, Lady Jeon.”

A girl.

Oh God. The father’s beauty. The mother’s wit. A lion-heart and a strong-willed mind. If the two of you are combined, that’s what comes out, doesn’t it?

And all of her, all of what she is is yours. And you’re hers.

Jungkook doesn’t get to inch too close to his flesh and blood, because Yumi turns away; you’re too tired to be angry, albeit a little relieved when she lets you know extra gently, “We’ll just clean her up and get her back to you immediately. You can hold her then.”

You let your arms sink, and Jungkook comes rushing back to you. Instead of grabbing your hand again, he places a palm to your forehead, wiping at it, moving back the hair. The calming gesture helps you wind down, even though you’re nowhere close to being yourself again.

The aftermath of the pain remains, but you’re eternally grateful for the end of the contractions. For the ceasing of your screams. For the temperature coming down, your breathing calming just gradually.

And for—

“Thank you, my love,” you mutter absent-mindedly, noticing when his movements slow down. You’re so dizzy. “For being with me through all this nevertheless. I do not know how they expected me to do it without you.”

“Well… they did not know I read all those books. I mean, you heard it. I’m more or less a certified royal midwife now.”

You can’t help but let out an unexpected snicker, still too exhausted to open both eyes. You crack one of them a split apart, teasing, “My midwife fainted.”

“We have bad days, too. No?”

You hear the actual midwife’s voice jest something in agreement, widening your smile, and state, “Then. In that case, you need to redeem yourself, yes? How— about a crown for our baby?”

When you look at him properly, you see new tears emerge. He’s trying his best not to cry — but with you so close, alive and courageous, and a child weeping away a couple feet from your bed… how could he hold back?

“Well, I was thinking of a nightdress with a tiny crown print. A real crown might be a bit much, don’t you think?”

The counter-jest is already forming on your tongue, something about toys and humility and joy combined into some type of coherent sentence. But as Yumi turns towards you, holding the vulnerable, now calmer baby in her arms so carefully, you lose track of your thoughts.

Even from afar, you hear the tiny sounds. Noises of comfort, remainders of the crying. You see a miniscule hand with petite fingers curling and uncurling before they disappear close to her face, hidden behind the blanket.

You can’t see much more from down here on the bed, sinking into the mattress. You attempt to get up a little, but you still feel faint, taking it step by step until someone from the staff rushes to your side. Helps you sit up.

In that time, Jungkook has already taken upon the offer to hold her first, his stance unbearably and sweetly cautious. As if he’s holding freshly crafted glass. No… much more careful than that.

He draws a breath in, and you see the furrowed eyebrows. The shine in his eyes. How he looks at her with utter, pure, unfiltered, raw affection until he can’t bear it anymore. Averts his gaze for just a second to blink the tears out of his eyes, trying not to let them fall on her face.

His lips remain parted, focusing on breathing, cradling her. You see the knotted ball of a dozen emotions in his stare, each string made of a different sentiment.

Like a fierce protective instinct, surging through him as it does through you. Awe and wonder, marvelling at her delicate features. And a smile, a little laugh, an obvious sign of endless elation. Speechlessness.

Without words, he says—

I’ll keep you safe.

You’re so perfect.

I would die for you.

All summarised in a quiet, “I can’t believe it.”

He’s close to you, and you reach out to him, touching his knee softly with a palm, rubbing until he looks at you. Shooting a curious look, he shakes his head, barely any reason behind, before he says, “She’s curled up. Touching her face.”

“Is she… looking at you?”

“Barely opening her eyes. Just a slit, and… it’s all dark pupils and nothing else, you know? But…” His next breath is shaky, his upper body trembling; the baby with him. You wait patiently, expecting anything but what he says next. “She’s even prettier than you.”

“Shut up,” you immediately blurt, laughter mixed with relief. It’s hard to speak; there’s a clump in your throat. “Yet… it’s so easy to believe you.”

“See?”

He leans in, moving naturally, gracefully, and you widen your arms, ready to welcome her in the first embrace, and once she settles and you get comfortable and lean back again, you realise—

He’s so right.

The slight crack she opened her eyes to. And the small tongue darting out every now and then. A hand on her face, arms close to her body, as if guarding herself. No weight on your arms at all; cheeks that remind you of some fluffy pastry.

You don’t know her yet, but you already know her name. You haven’t spoken to her, but you’ve already internalised the shrill voice. And the face is new to you, but you do already treasure it.

Does she feel the same? It’s crazy… This is crazy.

In theory, you know most newborn babies look similar. You know they sound the same and act the same. You’re aware that they need to be cleaned thoroughly, and that they need to grow into more than this little bundle in your arms.

But, perhaps as a mother, you can’t deny how gorgeous she is.

You already know — already pronounce her the diamond of every season and every year to come.

They say that love opens your eyes to new colours. Unlocks a path to brighter sunrises and clearer nights. They say in every second of loving somebody another star is hung into the sky, shedding more light onto the world.

There’s utter truth to these fairytales and supper anecdotes; but they never quite mention how draining a life as a mother can be, too.

That it’d be torture to your once bright mind; that you’d wake up in pain and beg for sleep and never quite receive it. That you’d realise how mean your mind could be to you after experiencing such heart-shattering worship the moment you saw her first.

The nights are difficult, but Jungkook exerts an effort equal to yours. You’re grateful when he takes a few days off as needed. Constantly shows his appreciation for your hard work and refuses to let you do this alone.

And you both agreed. You want the nanny to interfere as little as possible; want to keep the child’s attention glued to you for the most part, but with a balance that allows her to never shy away from other people, either.

Like, when your and Jungkook’s family visited a while ago; not once did you feel like she couldn’t handle a moment without you. Was switched from one hold to another, moving towards whoever was ready to provide affection.

She’s a social butterfly. Doesn’t fear strangers. But you still help her familiarise herself with you, independent from a nanny who’d enable more of your time to yourself, but less time with your baby.

And neither you nor Jungkook urges for that distance.

It’s never easy.

You’ve cried more often than your fingers can count, on your last legs as you wept into Jungkook’s clothes. Feeling a palm wiping at your tears a dozen times. Motherhood always sounded so gorgeous, but it hurts, too.

Then again…

See, then again, it’s easy to circle back to the metaphor of the sun and the stars, the fresh start to your life that cannot be replaced by any other experience. A million little moments that wrap you into your own bubble. The three of you and nobody else.

They render each of those troubles worthless; you cherish them with an unspeakable vigour, aiding yourself as your exhaustion fades once faced with warm, sunlit afternoons as today’s.

Jungkook offered to watch over her as you wallowed in the breeze and the walk you desired for so long. It’s been too long since you enjoyed the miles outside; steep hills and green fields, accompanied by the sound of birds you yet need to study.

Then down to the village, then another stroll back up again. You sought out tranquil moments, escaping your chores. But when you come back, nothing compares to the sight that meets you.

Damn all these walks.

Because only a fool could resist such an image of your husband lying on your bed, on his back and with his legs crossed, head facing sideways and away from the window. Away from the descending sun. Suhana sprawled right on his upper body. Cheek above his heartbeat, her fingers on Jungkook’s sharp jaw.

A pocket-sized hand holding him close to her.

His proportionally large palms rest on her back and under her little butt, both of them dozing peacefully. She moves with him as his chest rises, but she looks so undeniably at peace — as if there’s no better heaven. And mouth open, like no thunder could wake her.

Suhana’s bangs have grown longer now, hair covering some of the nape of her neck and her forehead. Her lips are rosy; the same shape as his. Even if reluctantly, you have to admit that she looks a lot like him.

You act offended when people remind you of that. Because you vehemently claim you want to see more of yourself in her, and Jungkook always calms you with the forecast that she’ll grow up to be as beautiful as you.

Something he thoroughly fears, however, judging the world’s intentions.

But you must also confess that seeing two pieces of the same gentle soul makes you feel lucky.

You drape your shawl over the chair at the large, wooden desk and step closer to the royal bed. Rest your legs from the excessive walk, laying down right beside him — facing him directly.

Gently, you reach out and graze the apple of his cheek; soon repeating the action with his miniature version before you tuck your hand under your temple. Then, you wait.

She doesn’t stir — as expected. But the tickling touch you left along his face elicits a sigh out of him before he lets out a small sound. Voices something like a harmless groan, along with a quiet smack of his lips that reveals the tiny dimples at the corners of his mouth, and a barely-there crease between his eyebrows.

His hand slides over her mini-body as a protective reaction, an immediate reflex. His eyes flutter open so slowly, just a slit; and when they do, you’re not the first thing he sees. Because they drift straight to her, ensuring that she’s still right where he left her and alright.

And only once he’s gathered that she’s still asleep, he blinks into your direction. They also say that priorities change with a child, no matter the amount of love for the partner; and you can’t blame anybody for this.

He smiles when he realises your presence, only lightly nudging you with his elbow. You move closer as he deduces, “You’re back. Was it…” Loving yawn. “Was it long enough for us to fall asleep?”

“It seems so. What were you two doing?”

“Talking.” Of course. Not an absurd answer by now at all. You nod. “She was explaining to me the existence of the pillow and the sun. Pointing at them. I was listening.”

Jungkook doesn’t ever describe her curiosity as exploration. To him, she’s talking, conversing. Your heart swells as you ask, “Ohhh, yes? What else?”

“I made her toy talk and she liked it, I reckon. Giggled so much that she fell off my lap once.”

The fantasy of the moment makes you break into laughter; you have a handful of questions. Did she get hurt? Did she keep laughing as she fell? Was she out of breath as much as you are when you observe her shenanigans?

You quiet down when she moves, fingers curling in. Shushing yourself and grimacing, you shift your attention back to your husband, taking in his freshly awoken expression before you state, “Your eyes are so swollen, though. And your face is dry.”

As if liquid dried on it.

Attentive assumption, because Jungkook instantly discloses, “Uh… I might’ve cried a bit.”

Oh? Oh no. Not him, too—

You wonder, “Why did you cry, my love?”

“Because she was crying…”

“What? Why?”

“Mmmh…. She’s always touching her face, you know?” You do know. You keep her from squishing her cheeks all the time. “I think she poked her eyes at some point and I mean… it didn’t hurt her at all.” Of course not; you make sure to keep her nails trimmed. “But it was a new sensation for her and her baby brain must’ve thought it hurt. So she started crying.”

“Oh no… and then you cried, as well, huh?”

You reach out to him, clearing his right eye and temple as you swipe away the strands of hair. By now, your language and manner of talking are mixing; you feel the same protective instinct towards both.

He sighs before he continues, “The parenting books said not to. I was supposed to stay calm, so she doesn’t interpret the situation as worse than it was. But I hate seeing her sad. So stupid.”

The position doesn’t allow him to shake his head properly, so he settles with a slow blink of his eyes. Then, he says, “But that made her stop. Look how hard she’s sleeping now. So deceiving!”

“Oh, baby…”

You don’t know what it is; maybe the permanent, lingering, overwhelming fact that this dream is actually your reality. That the three of you are alive and together and undoubtedly part of each other.

Whatever it is, it looks as though he is about to cry again.

“She is so feisty. Reminds me of you,” he whispers. “Right?”

He’s not talking to you, but to her — because she’s opened her eyes and he noticed before you even saw it.

Upon hearing his voice, she moves. Tiny fists stretch out, and she starts kicking slowly against Jungkook’s stomach. Her body winds restlessly, put off by his reaction just for a second when she hits against his body again and he utters, “Owwwh!”

And then, shamelessly, she yawns.

Coos and gurgles, croaks and caws. The sounds are small and high-pitched, sweet and tender. Curious wonder rests in her eyes as they crack open entirely, adjusting to her surroundings and you suddenly being here when you weren’t before. Not that she remembers.

And…

God, your heart jumps out of your chest, bloody and beating.

Because the very moment she sees you, she smiles in joy. She so often does. Sometimes, as you walk over to her crib at night, shining the candlelight into the space between you, she smiles with barely open eyes, too.

She squeals a little, reaching out for you, and you bring her fingers to your face for a fleeting moment before she retracts them again with a tired giggle. But when she registers her father’s breath, his voice sounding against her ear, she stops again.

Cuddling back in. Right where she wants to be.

No matter how much she loves you, she will never feel the same towards anybody in this world as she does for him.

He settles his hands on her more firmly, and then sits up with an encouraging, “Aaaand, here we go. Let’s take a look at you.”

He stares at her as he holds her in front of him, and she laughs again, seemingly amused by floating, held by two strong hands. Meaty legs kick in the air until he seats her down between the two of you with a shielding hand on her back.

She can’t fully sit on her own yet, but she always tries. Doesn’t wiggle too much anymore, though. Hits the mattress with her palms playfully.

“I swear… I will die for her,” Jungkook proclaims, moving until he meets her eyes. She looks up in a sudden movement, snickering again when he tickles her a little. Then, he repeats through gritted teeth, “Do you know, hm? I will die for you, I will!”

Before you know it — probably even before she, with her limited attention span, knows it — she’s back at playing. Then, another shift to you; a touch to your cheek. Leaning in, almost falling onto you when you scrunch your nose and kiss the air, communicating with her silently.

As her body attacks your face, an open, amused mouth drooling onto your cheek, you protest. Sitting up, you help her into your lap, and she has the audacity to yawn again.

With a shake of your head, you declare, “Sometimes you act spoiled, alright. Haven’t acted up yet, but I think we should probably feed you now, shouldn’t we?”

“Probably before she starts crying again,” Jungkook agrees.

“Can’t have that. Or you will, as well.”

“Ha-ha. But you know what, I might as well. It was insane.” He tuts, cocking an eyebrow as you prepare to bare your chest. “But if that’s what being with this tiny little thing means, I’ll take it,” leaning in, he returns to his talk with her, “alright? Listen up.”

Somehow, she does. No matter what he says, he manages to flood happiness through her, because she coos again, inhales sharply as she perks up her ears, “I’m serious. I’ll die for you, but only if you do not grow up. Stay like this, yes?”

“Stop it. I need her to grow into a woman like me and save the world.”

“Is that right? She can’t even say Dada yet. Give her some time.”

“Or Mama.”

“Yes. But you know as well as I do what word she’ll start out with.”

Standard banter between parents, you assume. You wouldn’t want it any other way. You prepare for a counter-tease, but then you fare better. “Of course. Something distinguished and eloquent like crown princess, probably.”

Jungkook blows a raspberry, and when tiny Hana mimics the action, spitting in the process, he roars with laughter. His usual child-like, sugary sweet titter, head thrown back and a hand under his chest.

This right here.

This is worth the pain, you think. Despite the hurdles, you think you’ve settled in this job, understood its responsibilities and set goals that will probably enable the life you desire.

Nothing can break this. Right?

As if diving into your thoughts or seeing them floating at the surface of your eyes, Jungkook reaches out, placing a warm palm on your neck. You look into his eyes, half his face dark as he covers the sun falling in from behind him.

If she wasn’t still on your lap, you’d jump into his, cuddle in and stay like this until the hot ball outside sets and rises again. But instead, you keep staring until he says, “We’re doing well. Really, really well.”

You are.

You have made yourself at home with the most tender of men, have gained luxuries and a noble style of living, still sporting a kind and generous heart. Yet, you’ve never been prouder of yourself.

“We are. And you are! See?” you agree cheerfully, touching his knee briefly. “You were so worried. And now— I’m losing her to you. God, just look at this—”

Her eyes must have followed your hand when it caressed his knee a moment ago. Because she crawls out of your lap, squeaking in joy as she targets his. Climbing it until he helps her up and settles in the way you wished to do just a minute ago.

“Mmmh. I guess I’m great at this, yes,” Jungkook concurs, “seems that bad traits aren’t learned after all, hm?”

The environment might be crucial in many cases, but if one inhabits a strong heart and a solid will, nothing can sway you.

Your chest feels as warm as the weather; your mind is as fresh as the breeze. And staring at his set of cheeks as flushed as the roses planted outside, you can’t help but be flooded with inexplicable magic.

You tell him, “You got into this role very easily. And I’m happy you’re happy.”

And he, the effortlessly fitting, second part of your soul, answers without a moment of hesitation and doubt—

“You make it easy to be.”

The bright, opulent room you enter floods back bittersweet memories in soaring waves.

It has been a while since you attended a noble ball like this. They’re cosier where you live. Smaller, the names less known; differing rigorously from events in the main city, in the capital, in the centre of your country.

Your seethingly beloved lorddom where you now reside has a humble and warm note to it; but no matter how thoroughly you might seek quiet peace, it will never bring the same nostalgia your former home does. Where you grew up.

Where you come from. And where Jungkook comes from. That one connection, indicating where the two of you started; your family; the crowds. This is all your life, playing out right in front of you.

As two of the most noted royals entering the hall, all eyes flicker to the two of you. Their gazes are brilliant and their attire posh. His brother, the host of the night, invited the best of the town; or rather, his wife did.

It’s wedding season again, which means that courting and heartache, confusion and intrigue will come back in all the glory you remember. Even now, you see a sliver of all the drama already.

Because no matter where you look, somebody is whispering. Somebody is eyeing another. Mustering the courage to dance with the object of their affection, or hatching a plan how to go down as the most desired of the year.

And from an outsider’s perspective, it’s fun to watch. In hindsight, you wonder if the crowd noticed the tension between Jungkook and you all that time ago; if they tittle-tattled about you, making up rumours or silent bets on what might transpire between you.

They probably did. You don’t recall much of the reactions as much as you do the touches, gazes, the butterflies his existence brought along.

And just as well, you remember the time before — when you’d hide behind your sister as she sought out a partner. Never did you think that the two of you would come out of the season with a beloved like the ones you now cherish.

And never did you think it would be the man who’d stand near those very pillars you’re now passing, a mere boy, keeping his eyes on you, but never saying anything particularly nice or productive.

It was events like these that you attended with him after he posed the question that changed the two of you.

“Let me court you.”

Sleepless nights. Rainy evenings. Swirling on dancefloors, bonding at orphanages, teasing in carriages. Locked rooms, secret conversations, broken hearts. Unexpected secrets and reunions.

Was that your life within a few months?

When people grow bored or notice the indecency of staring, they drift back to their old conversations. Jungkook and you conclude your entry, soon moving to the side. Fearing upcoming talks with people curious about the two of you.

You sigh as you listen to the strings, stress dropping off your shoulders as you say, “I love Hana so much, but… it’s so nice being here with you again.”

“It is,” he agrees, though hesitating, mouth open as if to add something. And then he does, “I do miss her, though.”

You laugh. Of course. “I know you do. I bet she does, too.”

Of course.

She could barely contain herself from babbling constant Dadadadas before you left. And yes, she said it before she learned to pronounce Mama. An insult, considering that you were the one who tended to swollen feet and a weight hanging off your tummy. Building to the moment she’d call for you.

But no! A daddy’s girl through and through. Then again, you are, too.

You do adore her to pieces, as well, but… it’d be a lie if you said you didn’t look forward to a night without a single obligation. Thankfully, the nanny took it upon herself to take care of Suhana tonight, so you are free to roam.

Despite, she’s already two years old now.

She’s been articulating herself clearer these days, so it’s gotten a little — a little! — easier to explain things to her now. She didn’t whine much when you told her you’d be out for a bit, but come back soon.

She must be asleep already anyway. And you hope you can keep your husband’s yearning in bay, too. You understand; it’s hard to leave. Especially as she stood ogling at you before you bid her good night, muttering a teeny tiny, “So pretty,” to you as you presented your gown.

“Mine?” she uttered.

You squinted, puzzled; you spoke her language, but couldn’t decipher this just yet. “…Yours?”

To explain, she nodded, making you understand when she patted her chest with a flat palm. Eyebrows cocking, you voiced, “Ohhhh. Hmmm. Darling, shall we go tomorrow and get you a pretty new dress for the summer?”

She was unspeakably delighted.

“Do you want to dance?” Jungkook asks, a hand already lifting.

For a while, you’d rather watch. It’s custom to dance, but… you’d rather observe the world from a different point of view, see what they used to see. Besides, you don’t enjoy Galop as much, and that’s what the piano is pulling out of the guests right now.

“You want to exhaust yourself already?” you laugh as he shrugs his shoulders. “Hmm. Am I allowed to decline?”

“Well…” he starts, lightly gripping your wrist, thumb touching it sweetly. “Do you have a card that you need to fill?”

“If you were courting me, yes. But I’m already shackled to you, and can’t escape even if I wanted to.”

“Ahhh,” he draws closer, mouth inches from your ears. Acting as if forwarding gossip, but only driving you insane in reality. “So you want to escape?”

“Something’s telling me I should try and see what you’ll do.”

“I mean, go ahead. Not opposed to going full-courti—”

Your laughter overshadows his last syllable, and you push his chest away, careful not to risk a scandal after coming out here after so long. He’s unabashed and would kiss you right here, if you let him.

So you move away, still giggling, and the moment your eyes lift to the guests, you silence. Right there, among the faces, you recognise one in the distance that had long dimmed in your memory.

You haven’t seen him in such a long time. And you didn’t expect it to happen today, either.

The man must have noticed the presence of a direct stare, because he soon looks into your direction at the very same moment. Squints his eyes, the smile adorning his mouth dropping as he spots you and understands who you are. Eyebrows raise. Features always expressive.

You want to grab Jungkook’s arm and flit away, but the man excuses himself from the conversation, idly strolling towards you and not leaving a way to escape anymore.

“Oh shit,” you quietly curse, and Jungkook hears, alarmed instantly.

He widens his doe eyes, so sweet as he looks at you, fingers coming up to pinch your chin as he asks, “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yes. Certainly, just—”

“Oh… I won’t ask if it’s you because I know it is.”

The smooth greetings are accompanied by a surprised call of your name, and when you look back at the person matching the voice, your expressions move to kindness. You don’t want to appear awkward, and you don’t, but you wonder what Jungkook might be thinking.

Smiling, too, as you observe. But this one’s definitely awkward, the friendly kind that can’t do anything else but wait until the question marks have cleared up for him. Right there in his eyes until you enlighten him.

“It has been ages,” the man in front of you chimes.

“It has been. Years!”

You turn to Jungkook, an introduction sitting on your tongue, but he beats you to it. Still weirdly smiling, as amiable as ever, he asks, “Do you know each other?”

And the man, heart-shaped lips rising back to a smile, apologises immediately, “Ah, yes, yes, yes. My manners. I am Lord Jung. Jung Hoseok.”

He bows, missing the way Jungkook’s mouth parts, eyes blinking nearly unimpressed until— his features become defined all of a sudden, jaw far sharper than usual. Akin to a razor.

He’s not liking this.

“Ah,” Jungkook mutters, returning to the sociable expression that households drill into their children for years. “I am Jeon Jungkook.”

If anybody knew him as well as you do, they’d realise much sooner than later that he’d rather switch the situation with an easier one. But you can’t say any of it yet. You only listen as your past flame says, “You settled so well.”

Of course he knows. You guess after the craze over two years ago, he soon found out what the truth really held. You only reply, “I did.”

“Married life suits you!”

“Thank you, Hoseok! What about you, have you—”

“Oh, actually I—”

He seems much more cheerful about this than you imagined. Then again, what did you think? His life has probably changed now and the sentiments his heart once tended to evaporated. Everyone moves on at some point.

And he sounds genuinely happy for you.

But that’s not how Jungkook seems to perceive it. Because to your chagrin, he interrupts the man facing you, and you immediately hold your breath, already preparing a couple warning words when he starts—

“It is rude of me, but may I perhaps interrupt?” Hoseok silences upon Jungkook’s words, listening attentively, and you ready yourself for more teeth-grinding. “I apologise for being so impudent and straight-forward, but… this is uncomfortable to me because—”

“Jungkook—” you cut, trying to save the situation.

“I know, I just do not wish to let feelings out on anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Hmm…

“Uncomfortable?” Hoseok repeats, watching Jungkook’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows. Ponders over the words hanging in the air, and when none of the two of you speak on, Hoseok finally understands. “Oh! Ohhhh…”

He snaps a finger, and you resist the urge to slap your face. You know you’ll laugh about it in a couple hours; in truth, you don’t care if it might get odd for you because in all pure honesty, the situation has the potential to turn into comedy gold.

But Jungkook has an envious fibre; one to occur rarely, but when it does, he doesn’t hide it. To him, you’re the most striking creature to exist; in his opinion, everybody should be in love with you.

Yet, the thought of you with someone who he might consider better than him is unbearable.

For a second, you consider lifting your frock and storming to the entrance, or a room upstairs and to squish Jungkook’s cheeks between your palms. To make crystal clear who your heart thumps for, to bring back the confidence he’s built in the marriage with you.

But you restrain yourself when Hoseok speaks, “I understand. Back then, I actually hoped to see you at some point because I know what you are talking about.”

Jungkook reacts, “You are?”

“I think so. Is it not about the shenanigans people crafted a few years ago?”

Two and a half years now, to be exact.

“Yes, I apologise,” you chime in, “they shouldn’t have spoken about you or your personal feelings. But I thought you knew I had married and—”

“No, I,” he says, flushing, raising a hand in objection, “I— this is what I wanted to explain, so the two of you never find yourselves despising me.”

Oh god.

“The thing is that,” he hesitates. If you didn’t know his heart better, you’d assume he’s teasing you. But he scratches his temple, scrambling for words. “One of my staff came to my mansion with me as we settled there. He lived in this town before as well. Like you and I did.”

He looks to the side as if he could find that friend here, but then soon lets his eyes drift over you and Jungkook again, continuing, “He had heard stories about… what we used to be.”

“Right,” you add.

“He asked me about it. And my best guess is that somebody must have heard and interpreted that I was still yearning for those sentiments. But I wasn’t. I had a secret fiancée for the longest. I never told anyone until the wedding day neared. So…”

It takes a moment. Then another.

You think back to the reactions each of you had two years ago; how it spread throughout the mansion and spawned chaos in your bedroom. In any good or bad way, and yet.

And when realisation finally trickles in, a big of course ghosting through your minds, Jungkook and you both voice a simultaneous, “Oh.”

You should’ve known. Then again, didn’t you? Didn’t both of you doubt the truth behind the rumours, yet believing what a collective of people said? You guess, once more than one person claims a thing, it becomes more plausible.

No matter that it never was.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” Hoseok emphasises, “it’s not how I felt. Certainly not. I just never thought you’d believe it, or,” God, how stupid, “as a happy married woman, care. So I never bothered reaching out. We both have our homes, right?”

His fingers touch almost shyly, another smile flashing to defuse the situation. You’ll definitely laugh about this later. But right now, you only feel heat in your face, desiring to chase your staff throughout the mansion until they tire out.

Damn it.

“We did. We do.” You put an ashamed hand to your stomach. That feels funny. Weird. “I actually have a daughter now.”

Good change to lighten the moment. You shoot Jungkook a look; his cheeks are as flushed as you expected. But Hoseok does well in playing along, latching onto the new topic effortlessly and naturally.

“Oh, you do? I have a son as well. Maybe yours and he could be friends.” You nod as he talks, grateful for his kindness. “Another’s on the way for us, and Soo swears she can feel it’s a girl this time.”

“That’s so lovely, Hoseok,” is all you need to say. You might not feel towards him as you used to. Whatever flame the two of you ignited all that time ago has long been extinguished, but you always wish the best for him. “That is honestly so lovely. I’m happy for you.”

One single nod, smile reaching his eyes. Then, no more beating around the bush, the end of the conversation already overdue when he says, “Enjoy the night. Don’t ever trust anyone but your own eyes and ears, yes?”

“Yes… you as well, Lord Jung.”

And then he walks away. Leaves the two of you in silence.

Lips tight, eyes on the ground, nearly dissociating until you nod. Then you raise your lips. And then laugh. Chuckling with a shaking head and a hand lifting hand. Touching your hot forehead as you say, “I feel stupid.”

“And I feel stupid…” Jungkook finally speaks, his first words after a while.

“Did we really argue about this years ago?”

“Well, before you reprimand me, I need to defend myself and remind you that the argument worked for us that night, not against us. Did Suhana come from it or what?”

“Do the math, Jungkook! I told you about the pregnancy already a day after. Suspected it that night, too.” You giggle again, amused by his dumbfounded expression. “You know what? Maybe I could use that dance now.”

“Ah? Thought the lady would be rejecting me tonight. That would’ve robbed much of my honour.”

“Shut up, you envious fool. Either you’ll come and sway with me or I’ll never let you forget it.”

“You won’t. Either way.”

You don’t respond with much other than another beam and an accepting palm in his. You don’t need to.

In the end, Hoseok didn’t make a difference. Guess you would’ve lived either way, just the way you are, content and in love and eternally blissful to all obstacles. The evil of the word and sorrow fear you, not vice versa.

Because it’s him. It’s you.

And her. The three of you; three pieces of the same heart.

Or perhaps— perhaps it’s you who’s doing the math all wrong.

yoooo!! it took a while, but we're finally back. as summer and vacation near, i will have a lot more time to write again, so sit tight and look forward to more content, like entertainer and cmi (ofc these two, as well). i really really hope you liked it. some parts were written under a bad migraine and exhaustion, but i hope i could still deliver the emotions well.

and love you all!! thank you for still being here with me :') and stay healthy and happy, don't overwork yourself! hopefully this one could serve as a bit of relaxation. if you liked it, don't forget to let me know as always, no matter if you just arrived here or have been here for some time. and like, reblog, comment as well! you knowww how much i cherish all the words ever sent hehe <3

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts smut #jeongguk smut #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagines #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook series

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mrsshabana · 2 months ago

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𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅!𝐆𝐘𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎 ⛧ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary Everyone told stories of his kind, but you chose to ignore them. You got so used to how tame your werewolf boyfriend acted around you that you forgot how dangerous he is. But when a full moon rises, his instincts become undeniable, and you quickly learn what he's truly capable of. ꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, 18+ MDNI, hunter/prey, size difference, forbidden romance ꒦꒷‧₊ Note 1.3k words

༺ Art ༻

⇢ Chapter two ⇢ Chapter three ⇢ Kinktober Masterlist

This is unusual behavior for your boyfriend. You haven't heard from him in days.

It's only been a couple of weeks that you've officially been his partner, but enough time has gone by that you feel like you know him enough to know this isn't normal.

Maybe that's just how werewolves are? You've never gotten close to a monster before, let alone a species that has a reputation for being dangerous to humans. But you never cared, you started having feelings for Gyutaro after the first time you met him. Everyone talks about how dangerous his kind is. But how could you resist those big fluffy ears, yellow golden eyes, and a mouth full of sharp teeth?

He may look like a big scary wolf, but around you, he acts like a golden retriever. Always so sweet and happy to be in your presence. All you have to do is walk into the room and his tail starts wagging.

He just can't help himself, you were the first person that didn't treat him like an outcast.

As Gyutaro got older he started to realize that he was destined to be alone. The chances of him finding a mate within his species were slim to none. A female would never accept him as a suitable partner due to his appearance. The spots on his face and body were something that no one was willing to pass on in their bloodline. It seemed like a silly concept to you, but for werewolves, these things are very important.

So when Gyutaro started having feelings for you he was more than happy to give your relationship a shot regardless of you being a human.

You never felt accepted by other humans, and he never felt accepted by other wolves. So when the two of you met it was like you finally found someone that understood you. However, both of you knew that your relationship was forbidden and would never be accepted, so you'd meet in secret.

He usually hangs out around your house after midnight, waiting for you so the two of you can disappear into the woods. Or at the very least, if the two of you aren't able to spend time together, he'll leave little gifts at your doorstep. Wildflowers, shiny rocks, or even the occasional dead rodent.

But it's been days since you've seen him or received any of his unusual gifts. It's like he just disappeared.

And now you're left a worried mess. He's never gone so long without speaking to you, it makes you think that maybe something happened to him.

In a last-ditch effort to find him, you search in the woods behind your house. Knowing that he loves running around and exploring there, it's the only place you might be able to find him at this time of night.

"Gyutaro!" you call out as you walk through the forest.

As you go deeper, you begin to hear what sounds like howling.

"That must be him!" you gasp, running towards the sound.

Once you get closer the howling stops and he picks up on your scent. Yellow eyes look back at you from within the trees.

"Gyu!" you smile and run towards him, "I was so worried about you!"

But he says nothing and just stares at you with wide eyes - panting like a stressed animal.

"Wh-what's going on...?" you say as you look at the strange scene before you.

Gyutaro has a chain attached to his collar and is tied to a large tree. It's sad to see him chained up like some kind of pet.

You can't tell if someone did this to him or if he did it to himself. There's no sign of anyone else, but you can't imagine why he would chain himself to a tree like that.

You reach out your hand and he immediately lunges forward with barred fangs. Looking like a feral stray as he snaps at you. But the chain chokes him, preventing him from getting to you.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" you mutter as your eyes begin to water.

Never have you seen him behave this way towards you. He's usually so gentle and sweet, you would have thought he wasn't capable of showing violence. However, at the end of the day, you know what he is and you should never forget what he's capable of.

And that's when you notice it. The full moon peeking from above the trees. How could you have been so naive?

Gyutaro must've chained himself up to protect you, knowing that he'd go feral on a full moon... and who knows what he may do to you.

Your stomach drops and your blood runs cold. Looking down at Gyutaro as he snarls and claws at the dirt, trying to get to you. You don't want to imagine what he will do to you if he breaks loose. He has a wild look in his eye, unlike anything you've ever seen before and it strikes fear into you.

You can hear the metal of the chain bending, it will snap any moment now.

You don't have any time to think about your boyfriend, this thing is no longer your boyfriend. For all you know, he could kill you if he gets loose.

Run. Run. Run. That's all you can think about as your fight or flight response kicks in. And you're sprinting deeper into the forest before you even realize it.

The branches cutting your skin as you run through the trees don't even bother you. You just need to get away from him.

After running what you consider to be a good distance, you look back to see that Gyutaro is gone and the chain lies snapped on the ground.

"Shit," you curse under your breath, realizing the danger that you're in. You have no other option but to keep running, and running, and running until you can't feel your feet anymore and your lungs burn.

A twig snaps, and you instantly turn to see those beautiful yellow eyes looking back at you. Stalking you like prey.

It only makes things worse when you run, causing his hunting instincts to kick in even more. In his eyes he no longer sees his girlfriend, all he sees is prey.

You cry and sob as he chases you, knowing that it won't be long until he catches up to you. And you're right, he quickly pounces on you. Trapping you beneath his large muscular body, looking down at you with hunger in his eyes. The size difference alone is enough to make you freeze with fear. It never dawned on you just how much larger he is than you. And as you lay there helplessly pinned beneath him you realize just how terrifying a seven-foot-tall werewolf can be.

"G-Gyutaro, please!" you sob, "It's me, Y/N! I'm your girlfriend, remember?" You desperately try to remind him of who you are, make him remember that he would never hurt his precious girlfriend.

But he doesn't remember, and even if he did he wouldn't care. Because the full moon makes him go feral and blindly follow his instincts.

From this angle, he no longer looks like your boyfriend. He looks like a monster. The monster that everyone said he was, but you never listened. Maybe if you did you wouldn't be in this situation right now.

Drool drips down his chin as he snarls, showing off his mouth full of razor-sharp teeth that could easily wrap around your pretty little neck. He breathes heavily, panting as the fur on the back of his neck stands on end. He looks like he wants to devour you, but he doesn't.

For a moment you're confused. But then you see it.

The erection between his legs - so painfully hard that it's ripping the seams of his pants.

You thought that he wanted to eat you, but you were wrong. He wants to breed you.

#gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyuutarou #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro x y/n #gyuutarou x reader #gyutaro smut #gyutaro fanart #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader #kny smut #demon slayer smut #kinktober #kinktober 2024

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yanmuffins · 8 months ago

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SAFETY IN IGNORANCE.

Yandere! Prince! Gojo X fem! Isekai! Maid! Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve been transmigrated to the world of an otome game, taking the place of one of Prince Satoru's personal attendants, a measly side character with no name or relevance to the story.

As it turns out, life in the castle isn't so bad, and the certainty of food and shelter is welcome when finding a way home isn't ever guaranteed. Besides, your boss isn't as insufferable as you thought he would be. It could be worse. Isn't it nice, knowing you're safe?

WORD COUNT: 7.4k words (��)

CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS: NONCON (no intercourse), somnophilia, mentions of past s/a, mild yandere behavior (if you squint?), mild derealization, AU setting.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: please be aware my writing is quite rusty!! this is the first piece of writing that i finish IN YEARS and it's a fucking jjk darkfic. sigh. writing smutty scenes is also so awkward lmao, forgive me if it sucks severely. at least i hope you enjoy this little fucked up fic in have cooked up. it's hot and ready to be consumed! (๑>؂•̀๑)

-> MINORS DNI !

“TALES OF SPELLBINDING LOVE is a visual novel that takes place in a fantastical setting, where you can find your happily ever after with the character of your choice.”

It's been years – in this world, at least – but you still remember every word skimmed with dry, irritated eyes, as you stared at a bright screen, surrounded by the darkness of your own bedroom. It was another restless night among many, spent watching YouTube videos and reading pirated manga in questionable website, sipping on valerian tea.

So, like any other night, your adblocker dutifully served its purpose, shielding your browser from annoying, abusive, virulent ads.

Except for one.

“Enter the enchanting world of TALES OF SPELLBINDING LOVE through SARA, a kind-hearted peasant, as she meets all sorts of swoon-worthy suitors!”

You should have closed the page, sketchy as it was, but it had piqued your interest. It was a Friday night. You were sleepless. It was past midnight, tossing and turning in bed had done little to welcome slumber. Your home was tidy and organized from insomniac hours from nights before. You were bored.

“Play with a cast of handsome men, make the right choices and uncover exciting secret routes...”

Nothing about the web design told you the game was anything but a harmless dating simulator for an adult audience. Maybe it was the pastel color-scheme, with soft pinks, yellows, blues, purples and greens, or the elegant cursive font and colorful flowers adorning the page. In fact, other than the initial synopsis, there wasn't much to look at. No content warnings, nothing about the capture targets or the heroine you were supposed to be playing as, not even the usual information on how many endings or CGs you could get.

At the bottom of the page, “ENTER.” and “LEAVE?” buttons waited for a decision.

Maybe... you could give it a try? Hopefully it would entertain you until your eyelids finally grew heavy, allowing you to drift off before sunshine seeped through your window signaling dawn had arrived.

You clicked “ENTER.”.

... And here you are now, mending Prince Satoru's shirt before another hunting trip.

It's been ten years since you've come to this world. Your own body replaced that of a nameless background character with no narrative purpose, allowing you to exist as yourself in this entirely alien reality. You're not sure how much time has passed in your original world, whether you've been dead for a decade or simply unconscious for a couple of minutes, and you haven't gotten any closer to finding out.

You sigh, weary, looking down at the flax linen shirt laid over your lap, needle in hand. Simple, at first glance, a bit worn, but a nice piece of garment not everyone could afford to have in their wardrobe. One of its puffed sleeves now torn at the shoulder lining, an unfortunate result of it being caught by a tree branch during horse-riding. Nothing you couldn’t fix, however, skilled as you’d become over the years.

Ten years in this world.

Ten years working as Prince Satoru’s personal maid.

You got rewarded for that.

The luxurious pearl necklace that became a part of your distinguished blue uniform, accompanied by a gold pendant encrusted with gemstones shaped like the Gojo’s family crest. It was an honor given to faithful, dutiful servants to the crown, closest to the royal family.

Satoru and you were both eighteen when you’d first presented yourself as his new personal maid. This body, undoubtedly yours, seemed to have aged down a few years, most likely to match the age of your predecessor. They had, apparently, been working hard to better their lot in life, aiming for an often-vacant position at the prince’s small circle of personal attendants. You inherited the skills they’d nurtured, bettering them along the years, allowing you to secure your spot as long as you have.

That, and Prince Satoru Gojo’s character trivia really came in handy an absurd number of times.

There were worse fates out there, especially for a transmigrated person like you. Sure, maybe life as a privileged noblewoman would have been ideal, even more useful in searching for a way home, but being a personal servant to Prince Satoru, as… Eccentric as he was, gave you advantages compared to other peasants, even other castle servants. Plenty of food, fine fabrics, individual accommodations, not having to exhaust yourself scrubbing floors all day or sweating by the heat of the kitchen fires – besides, the Gojo heir wasn’t quite as terrible a boss once you got used to him.

You remember finding his route in-game quite boring, full of cliché tropes and little to no conflict. He was also kind of an overbearing asshole the entire time, unlikability salvaged only by his elven good looks.

But nothing could have prepared you to the otherworldly beauty he posed standing right in front of you, in the flesh, for the first time, glacial orbs eyeing you up and down. You admitted to yourself – although begrudgingly, as he was your least favorite character among the ones you’d played – that Satoru Gojo was as handsome as they come and had every right to be smug about it.

Smiling to yourself, you put aside the needle and thread to hold up the shirt with one hand, gently tracing over the repaired sleeve with the other. You tug at it to test its resistance, nodding absentmindedly when its stays in place. It’s good as new, just in time for his hunting trip. You get up, taking a moment to adjust your skirts and straighten your white linen apron and coif, neatly folding the shirt and draping it over your arm. According to your pocket watch, his attendants should be waking him up at any minute now.

You grab the doorknob, wondering when you’d become so accustomed to this life.

And then you’re heading towards the prince’s chambers.

Gojo’s head snaps in your direction as soon as he hears the door creak open, a lazy smile gracing his features. You bow to him, respectfully averting your eyes as an attendant removes his undertunic to reveal his naked form.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

He doesn’t regard you immediately, arms raised as William, one of his attendants, quickly fetches the shirt from your arm and slips it over his head. It’s a morning ritual familiar to you by now, efficient movements shared between all three blue-clad servants in the room to make sure the prince will be properly dressed for his daily affairs.

Kai, your other colleague, hands you a black leather surcoat. It’s undoubtedly fit for royalty, handcrafted by the best tailor in the land; buttons of silver, western dragons embroidered on each side of its chest, facing each other, with gold thread some miller’s daughter had spun from straw – or so you’d heard. You feel his gaze upon you as you button up the overgarment, knowing exactly what he expects.

Gojo steps back when you’re done, doing a slow spin to show off his outfit.

“What flattery does this little doll have for me today?” He asks, “Do I look dashing?”

“Yes, my lord Prince, as always.” You respond, with a courtly nod of your head.

“What about my hair?”

“Soft like the finest silk in the land, fairer than the first snow of the season, Your Highness.”

“What about my lips?”

“Tender and pink like freshly bloomed petunias in springtime, Your Highness.”

“And my eyes? And my eyes?” Gojo goads you on, a boyish excitement to his voice, his face coming a bit too close for comfort as if pleading to look up at him.

Playfully, your eyes meet his, granting his unspoken wish, holding his gaze for nothing more than a few seconds, a simpering smile as you speak.

“So strikingly blue it would put a midday sky in a summer’s day to shame, Your Highness.”

He releases an exaggerated sigh before grabbing your face with both hands, squishing your cheeks – his touchiness hardly phased you anymore; harmless, albeit pestering –, head slightly cocked to the side and a pout on his lips.

“You tease.”

Kai, newer to the group, shoots an alarmed look towards William, who merely shrugs him off.

And just as quickly he releases you, storming out the door as you and your colleagues follow after him, hurrying along the hallway steps behind him like ducklings after their mother.

Gojo Satoru is exactly seven minutes late to meet his guests. Not his servant’s fault at all, of that, you are sure. You had checked your pocket watch while walking through the castle hallways, confirming he would be on time to meet his guests at the open area of the stables – that was, of course, before all the meaningless detours he took along the way. You’re not sure if he does it on purpose.

William had his weaponry arranged, waiting at the hands of a servant, while Kai had personally spoken to the Marshal to have his Highness’ horse ready, both having woken up earlier than usual to make the proper arrangements.

Naturally, they would follow him to the hunting trip, as part of his entourage, while you stayed behind and made sure all was perfect for their return.

Your arrangements included waking up as early as the kitchen staff, the sun barely peeking through the horizon, to revise the ingredients you’d requested in advance with the head cook, so a kitchen maid could go and fetch them from the forest or the market. You’d love to be able to traverse the markets or the woods freely, exploring, meeting new people, finding out new things about this world that could potentially lead to a way home — but alas, being a personal attendant to the prince meant tasks such as picking herbs at the woods or buying strawberries from a merchant were, per your colleague’s words, below you.

It's a nice day out. A faint breeze caresses your skin, cool enough to be refreshing, and the skies are clear and blue with not a cloud to be seen. The autumn sun shines gently upon the earth, sparing of its overbearing heat. Your presence isn’t exactly necessary, but Gojo has made a habit of you seeing him off and you wouldn’t miss an opportunity to be outside.

“Fashionably late as always, Satoru.” His grace, Geto Suguru, is the first one to speak up.

A swoon-worthy duke, with a storyline much too… disconcerting… for your taste. Though the number of times you’d spoken to Geto could be counted on your fingers, being in his presence still put you on edge. Not that he had ever done anything to you, but you’d accidentally met his eyes countless times, caught him staring at you with a gaze so invasive it made you feel like a criminal awaiting judgement.

“Late? Treason. A prince is always on time, Suguru.” Gojo replies with a nonchalant shrug, “You were the ones here early!”

Awaiting his arrival were a group of familiar young men. Most you had seen in-game through the extensive selection of capture targets, coming to meet them in-person over the years due to their ties with the prince. You had played some of their routes, but with the exception of Megumi – Gojo’s protégé – you hadn’t a reason to talk to them, merely exchanging a word or two or none at all when in their presence.

“Finally.”

Nanami Kento looks mildly inconvenienced as he speaks, tone flat, arms crossed over his broad chest and a visible scowl creasing his features. He was a retired knight, born a peasant, presently a Baron; a personal favorite of yours. You couldn’t help but steal a glance or two whenever he was around. You remember kicking your feet up in the air during his playthrough. Sometimes you still do.

Next to him stood Prince Yuji Itadori, too entertained by his own horse as he fed him a carrot. You have faint memories of playing his route, although you don’t remember finishing it. He was a sweetheart, from what you knew, periodically visiting from a neighboring kingdom to learn from Nanami and Satoru and cultivate friendly diplomatic relations. You’d cracked your head trying to recollect bits and pieces of his story, unsuccessfully. You had a pesky feeling it was relevant.

Fushiguro Megumi was last. Broody lost prince, currently hidden under Prince Satoru’s protection – you hadn’t played his route, but he was a constant side character in Gojo’s. He was still a child when you met him, shortly after Gojo brought him into the castle.

When Megumi notices you, there’s a smile; faint, barely noticeable, and he waves. You respond with a brief curtsy.

“Can we go?” Yuji protests, interrupting some petty squabble between Satoru and Suguru, “I hear there’s a huge wild boar running around causing ruckus around the village, I want to catch it!”

Mounted on his white steed, Gojo is a cliché as old as time; a trotting reminder of your being in a world that isn't your own. The anodyne sight of him looking down on you, pink lips softly curving upwards to gift you a kind smile as the sun shines from behind him is almost identical to one of the game’s CG’S. It shouldn’t – you’ve grown used to him, to living inside this game, material as your own world – but for a moment, and just a moment, the sight of a whimsical prince on a white horse wiggles an uncomfortable, yet familiar feeling of surrealness, unreality into your mind, making your stomach churn.

You ignore it. Mentally sweep it under the carpet of your subconscious. This is nothing new. You can spiral into an existential crisis over the absurd condition of your circumstances later, when you’re lying sleepless in bed staring at the ceiling.

You’ve run out valerian root, anyway.

“I am obliged to be away for an entire day!” He whines, words punctuated by dramatic sullenness to his body language.

You step closer to him, taking a respectful bow before offering him a pair of neatly-wrapped sunglasses, which he takes – a distinctive feature of his character.

“So, you must, Your Highness. Go, and may the mother of good luck be with you.”

Satoru extends an arm toward you, presenting his hand. You kiss it – your own lips touching soft, pristine skin; a needed reminded he was a person, made of flesh that could be touched and not pixels limited to a screen.

From your peripheral, Kai elbows William as discreetly as he can.

You return to the prince’s sleeping quarters immediately after their departure. Overseeing the chambermaids, you watch them change the bedding for a fresh set, correcting the pair on your favored arrangement of pillows, fussing as they dust around the priceless ornaments around the chamber, amiably warning them to be careful.

When they’re done, you move onwards to the kitchen.

There are people watching you as you march through the hallways. Spying little peepers full of envy or admiration, or both, and you know what they’re looking at – the telltale blue fabric of your dress, a color so inaccessible to many, and the necklace you bear from years of service. Despite your own wishes, it makes you an intimidating figure, as if you’re an extension of royalty. Being a personal attendant to the prince meant upholding that image, keeping yourself unapproachable, discouraged from socializing and making merry with anyone but servants considered to be on your level.

Still, you greet the kitchen staff with a smile, trying to be as cordial as you possibly can. You know all of them by name, from the head cook to the scullery maid, all exceptionally busy for tonight’s private feast. It’s not your job to review the selection of dishes to be served, but you do so anyway, even if superficially, reminding them to provide a non-alcoholic beverage for the prince. Attentively, you listen to the head cook as he showcases the ingredients for the pastries you requested, assuring of their quality.

It's a bit of a hollow feeling when you leave the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, knowing the rest of your day will be spent alone. Without Gojo, there’s nothing much to do. Without William and Kai, your social circle has been just about reduced to zero.

But you do know where you’ll be spending all of those long, unending hours.

Being a personal servant to Prince Satoru gave you advantages. Privileges, if you will.

When he asked you what you would like for your latest birthday, you made quite a bold request. It’s the newest addition to the key bunch hanging from your waist – full, unbridled access to the royal library. The thought of having an entire day to search through never-ending shelves, making notes and finding books that could possibly lead to finding a way home cheers you up a bit.

“Are you fornicating with the prince?”

You nearly choke on your drink when the question abruptly comes out of Kai’s mouth, unable to speak from the utter shock. William is at his side, chewing on a chicken leg, and can only stare wide-eyed at his colleague’s bluntness. It’s been a while since the hunting party returned, clear blue skies fading into shades of orange adorned by heavy, rumbling clouds. Outside, tree branches sway to the force of the wind, preparing to welcome a starless night of rain and cold. Gathered at the table on Prince Satoru’s solar room, the three of you were having dinner to replenish your energy before the feast while Gojo entertained his guests.

It was usually a casual moment to decompress. Not tonight, Kai had decided.

“What– No!” You retort, scandalized, “What could have given you that impression?!”

“What hasn’t given me that impression, you mean.”

“Kai–” William tries to interject, but you’re quicker to rejoinder.

“I am not… fornicating with anyone, especially not prince Satoru. There’s nothing like that between us. That’s… How he is. You’re just not used to him yet.”

“But–”

“I think we’re better off cutting this topic of conversation here.” William interrupts, slightest bit of panic in his voice, eager to deflect conflict, “I know you’re still adapting to your new position, Kai, and that’s why I’m sure (Y/N) will be kind enough to let this slide.”

William looks at you expectantly, almost pleading, and you scoff before crossing your arms over your chest. The mere notion seems ridiculous – you, doing the deed of darkness with one of the game’s capture targets, destined to fall in love with the heroine regardless of whether she decided to pursue him or not? It would be a disaster waiting to happen. You were nothing if not a professional, serving your boss to the best of your power, and all of Satoru’s affections stemmed from his own outlandish personality. That was all. Your dynamic could be less than orthodox, but it was platonic in its nature.

“Come now, we can’t afford not to get along. Kai, apologize to (Y/N). I have worked alongside her for ten long years, and if she says she’s not engaging in improper acts with the prince, then she’s not.”

Kai silently looks between the both of you, finally letting out a defeated sigh.

“It’s a reasonable question, seeing you two…” He insists, shifting uncomfortably on his seat, “But I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“It’s fine, I guess. No one has ever insinuated that before.”

“Not to your face, doll.” Kai shrugs, nonchalant.

You want to snap back at him, but in comes the realization that he’s not wrong. Perhaps it was living within your bubble, mostly limited to your coworkers and your boss, had made you clueless to people outside and what gossip ran about you. William and Benji, Kai’s predecessor, had accompanied you in serving Gojo for a decade; neither of them would ever dare question your relationship with the prince or the harmless liberties involved; they were accustomed to it. And, well, you were accustomed to the point you thought everyone else saw it as you did: normal. The sudden realization that not all would find Prince Satoru’s affections towards you something ordinary was a staggering concept in your mind – but it was so simple. So obvious.

Then again, it never occurred you to ask…

“Do you think it’s weird, William? Be honest.”

“I have no opinion of anything, ever.” William stated, crossing over his heart with his right hand, “But now that you mention it, Benji did confide in me, shortly before he was relieved from service. Said something about ‘inappropriate displays of affection towards a heedless maiden’, I believe?”

“Oh. Benji never said anything like that to me.”

“He wouldn’t. Between you and me, he had a soft spot for you, so I do believe that statement was a little biased.”

On your face, an expression of utter confusion. You never noticed any signs of Benji liking you romantically, but then again, you apparently don’t notice much around you. The chicken seems to have lost its taste when you bite into it, mind too preoccupied with the conversation you just had. Not that there’s any use reminiscing about Benji – the man having been released from service only a month prior, after prince Satoru arranged him a marriage to a marquis’ daughter.

Now that you think of it, he didn’t seem too pleased about the match. Or about leaving.

The stone-walled bathroom smelled of fresh flowers and citrus. Sliced oranges and grapefruits, calendulas, sunflowers, rose petals, mint leaves, forget-me-nots, floating in the steaming hot water that filled the circular, wooden bathtub. Night has long since arrived, and even with the shutters of the only window in the room closed you can still hear the heavy rain pouring against glass and the rattling of wood caused by unrelenting wind.

Despite that, the candles illuminating the room, as well as the small fire burning underneath a boiling pot of water, kept the room pleasantly warm.

On the other side of the door, William and Kai undress the prince. All had retired to their respective bedchambers by now, and it’s not long before the pair of attendants are dismissed for the night. Gojo is already disrobing by the time he enters the bathroom, excitedly blabbering about the hunting trip as he plops the velvet garment onto your waiting hands, stepping into the warm embrace of the thoughtfully drawn bath. Suddenly, the ceiling becomes particularly interesting.

He lets out a long, satisfied sigh.

“… Not that I’m complaining about tonight’s banquet, though. I’m just a bit disappointed, you know? All the fuss people were making over a silly boar, and it made a passable meal at best…”

You hang the robe. From a tray placed beside the fireplace you select a pink macaron, feeding it to him before you start to work a soapy sponge along his skin. It had been a deeply embarrassing experience at first, aiding him in his baths; with time, however, like many other things, it had faded into normalcy. Nothing but work, is what you tell yourself when you elevate one of his sinewy legs with your hand, sponge inching closer and closer to his groin. You steal a quick glance at him, half-listening to his words, seeing Gojo laid back, unashamed by your ministrations, playing with the petals of a soggy sunflower.

“Ah– Megumi! His aim is getting better. He’s gotten really good at shooting with a bow and arrow…”

You wash the soap off your hands when you’re finished with his body. You feed him a small tart, topped with vanilla cream, strawberries, and blueberries. Still, he prattles on, words muffled by his munching,

“… mmph… And Suguru is still being weird about that wife of his… Something-something ‘she’s different from before’ and refused to elaborate…”

He quiets down a bit once you retrieve a warm compress, placing it over his eyes, fingers moving to either side of his temples to massage them with gentle circular motions. He relishes a bit on the relief it brings after a day straining his eyes. As he relaxes further under your touch, you let your mind wander, recounting the frustratingly slow progress with your research.

Even with access to the great royal library, the sheer number of books on varying topics was discouraging enough to tempt an emotional breakdown. You scoured through shelves, gathering a collection of sorcerer biographies, spell books, history books, encyclopedias – anything that could hold the subtlest bit of information regarding transmigration. And still… Nothing. Your eyes still felt a bit dry, a lingering headache from reading within the ill-illuminated library. All you had at this point were your own theories – and that wasn’t saying much.

If only you could leave the castle for a bit. A frightening thought, of course, as you could count on a single hand the number of times you had seen the world beyond the castle walls, never straying too far from the place you now called home. All of those occasions you had been following Prince Satoru on some of his trips, mostly diplomatic, with no freedom to walk around and talk to people as you pleased.

Perhaps a vacation was all you needed. Your “parents” lived not too far, if you remembered correctly, on one of the neighboring villages subservient to the Gojo crown. A favored place for merchants to gather, fairly populated, maybe if you tried investigating–

“(Y/N)?? (Y/N)??” Gojo’s fingers are snapping in front of your face, his eyes still covered by the compress, “Are you listening to me?”

“Oh! I’m sorry, Your Highness. I think my mind just wandered for a bit…” You apologize, hurriedly forgoing his temples in favor of washing his hair, “What was it?”

He remains oddly silent as you pick up a smaller bucket of ambient-temperature water, delicately wetting his hair. You weren’t giving mere empty flattery earlier in the day; running your hands through his hair truly felt like touching the finest of silk.

“You know…” He starts, “I notice your mind tends to wander a lot, especially these days...”

There’s an edge to his tone, one you rarely hear him use.

“Your eyes seem to wander an awful lot, too, lately.”

Another pause. There's no silence in the room, just an uncomfortable absence of words; You hear the fire crackling. You hear the water boiling and bubbling, thinking for a moment you should check the temperature of his bath to see if it needs to be warmed. You hear the muffled sound of rain against glass. You hear wooden shutters rattling. There's a strange shift about the air, and you're confused, unsure of what he could mean.

He answers your unspoken question before the words have a chance to leave your mouth.

“I saw you stealing those little glances at Nanami.”

You stand, bucket in hands, mouth agape – embarrassment. The heat of complete embarrassment that overtakes you feels like cold water poured down on your body. Your hands feel a little weak as you quickly try to regain your composure, looking away from Gojo despite knowing his eyes aren’t on you.

Fiddling with the hem of your apron, you try to find your words.

“When… When did you–” You stammer, “How…”

“Ah-ha! So, you plead guilty. That’s soooo shameless, flower.”

The familiar playfulness in his tone brings back a bit of confidence. Still, there’s something about it you can’t quite place; for a moment, you think there’s a bark to it, bitterness. Perhaps it’s something unpleasant about his day that he’s hung up about, increased by you not listening to him. He’s just teasing, you conclude, trying to vent whatever annoyance peeved him by picking on you.

You massage Prince Satoru’s scalp with shampoo – or the closest thing they had to it, in this world – hoping to placate his abrupt change in mood. Maybe you’ll hand-feed him another macaron.

“I was just… Looking.” You offer, cautiously, unsure if any explanation would make it better or worse for yourself, “There’s no harm in looking. Lord Nanami was admirable as a knight, and he’s handsome…”

Worse, if the crease between his eyebrows is anything to go by.

“… But not nearly as handsome as you, my prince.”

That seems to appease Gojo who, with a petty harrumph, relaxed into your touch again. Appealing to his ego always seemed to get you out of trouble. You’d never thought to be grateful for his petulant grouching, but it's music to your ears compared to the spitefulness from a few moments ago.

“I just find it vexing. Why would you ever bat those little eyelashes at Nanamin when you have the Morgan le Fay of men right in front of you to admire?”

“There’s no need for jealousy, Your Highness.”

You were just a humble fangirl admiring your bias, after all. You weren’t made of stone.

“At the stables. During the banquet. Would you like to have a portrait of Nanamin, so you can gawk at him when he’s not here, too?”

You rinse his scalp, running your hands through locks of his hair.

“I am so very sorry, my prince. Speaking of... Uh... Speaking of banquets! I hear there will be a ball."

It's a poor attempt to change the subject, and you can only give Satoru a sheepish, almost apologetic smile when he raises one side of the compress to acknowledge it as such, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow at you.

There will be a ball. In a month, to be exact. You know that not just from the growing agitation within the castle, or the coming and going of unfamiliar faces hired for temporary work, but because you had been counting the days for this very event ever since you realized this was the ball that kickstarts the main story, taking place towards the end of the prologue. It meant the heroine would finally show up.

You're not sure what it will mean for you.

“Sure, a ball...” He says, “My old folks said they would invite all the eligible maidens across the land because they want me to find a wife.”

“I'm sure you’re not too psyched about this...”

Prince Satoru vehemently nods in agreement.

“... But who knows? Give it a chance, you might just meet the love of your life there.”

“Pfft– Right, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“And why not?

“Well, what if I already met the love of my life?”

Then that would be some pretty weird timing, Your Highness. Prince Satoru wasn’t supposed to meet the heroine until a few days before the ball takes place, in a beautiful clearing out in the countryside, where they’ll share a lovely meet-cute after he nearly tramples her with his horse.

“Alright…” You spouted, unsure, “Why not bring her to the ball, Your Highness?”

“She’ll be there.”

His rosy lips curve into a conspiratory smirk, mostly to himself, blissfully unaware of the can of worms he just opened inside your mind. Had he already met the heroine? But it was way too early! It couldn’t be– or could it? You’ll have to check the makeshift calendar on your notebook. The timeline you wrote down, as well. There has to be some sort of plot hole you’re missing, or maybe the events have been thrown out of place for some reason.

“But you’re right, maybe a ball won’t be so bad. They said any eligible maiden across the land, rich or poor, of high or low birth. It’s an opportunity!” He announced, the last word said with enough enthusiasm to make you jump.

Once again, you don’t have the time to ask what he means– or to avert your gaze as he abruptly steps out of the bath, getting an eyeful of his bare ass against your will. You pat him dry with a towel as he helps himself to the tray of tarts and macarons. He extends both arms when he’s done so you can slip on the velvet, deep blue robe back on his body. Another towel is wrapped around his head.

The robe keeps him warm as he sits on a chair, waiting for you to come and finalize his night routine. You stay behind in the bathroom, emptying the bathtub, turning out the fire, disposing of the unused boiling water since Prince Satoru had decided to cut his bath short tonight.

When you close the door behind you, the smell of flowers and citrus is still in the air, stuck to his skin. You hum a tune as you brush his hair, its strands like gossamer, offering no resistance to the bristles.

“(Y/N).”

Gojo lifts up his head, not a hint of playfulness in his face or his tone.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

And yet his eyes are soft as they burn into yours, as if thinking, evaluating.

“Who, in this land, is the fairest of all?”

Every time he asks you this, you wonder if there was some dialogue you missed in the game. Nevertheless, the blatant reference makes you want to laugh; with him, though, the answer is always the same. There is no one to overshadow his beauty, objective, obfuscating, infuriatingly incontestable, and he knows that– you know that.

“You alone, my prince, are the fairest of all.”

If you were anyone else, you’d swoon at the smile he graces you with.

“By the way, I have something for you.”

There is a small box on the table he’s seated by, simple, with a golden latch, inconspicuous enough to only catch your attention when Gojo slides it closer, opening it to reveal an assortment of herbs tied together with a string.

“Since you ran out of valerian root…”

There wasn’t a single herb you could recognize, at least not with the dim candlelight. Despite this, you were pretty certain there was no valerian in that box.

“How did you know, Your Highness?”

“Those eyebags under your eyes, I know you haven’t been sleeping well.” He says, matter-of-factly, “Some old hag passed by the hunting lodge today, selling all sorts of things. Said this was a potent mixture of herbs for those with sleeping problems. It’s all safe, I’ve had the royal apothecary check it.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, retrieving the box and holding against your chest. You hope it knocks you right out. Heavens know you need it, after today.

“This is so generous, Your Highness… I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need.”

He latches the box closed.

“Just have a deep, dreamless sleep for me.”

It was the very witching time of night, and the castle lay silent. Darkness reigned in its corridors, desolate and cold, broken only by flashes of lighting tearing through stygian skies.

Take pity, take pity on one who is sick of love.

Fire dances at the top of a candle, threatening to vanish at any moment, as one living soul treads through slate flooring, airy footsteps growing closer to your chamber door.

Satoru feels guilt twisting inside his stomach, that nauseating feeling of contrition before consummation. It doesn’t stop him, it never did – he isn’t delusional as to think his actions are without sin, but at least he knows he isn’t fully without a conscience. And yet, what is the point of guilt, overridden by excitement, conquered by overwhelming love, as he turns the key to your bedchamber, to defile you once again?

Defile, Satoru thinks to himself, is such an ugly word.

Your door doesn’t creak when opened. A simple spell to ward off prying ears, lest he has to replace another servant; Satoru had come to learn how thin those walls could be, sensitized to the littlest of noises in the dead of night.

He locks the door behind him, placing the candlestick holder on your bedside table.

There’s not much to see in the darkness, except for your pliable, sleeping form. You don’t feel the weight of your mattress shifting, so deep in slumber, as Satoru sits by the edge of your bed with the familiarity of a husband; and he likes to pretend, too, that these late-night rendezvous have an amorous twist to them. Isn’t it romantic, to be visited by a paramour so secretive you’re neither awake nor aware to receive?

What is he, if not a dedicated, twitterpated, infatuated princely lover sneaking through the hallways of his own castle to meet his beautiful dove, his golden trinket, his falcon’s eye–

But he isn’t delusional as to think his actions are without sin.

Satoru knows there’s nothing appealing about exploiting your vulnerabilities. If you were to ever find out, if you were to open your little eyes at this very second to see him stripping of his undertunic, the lovely relationship you’d built would crumble in a matter of seconds. It would break his heart into a million pieces, to see the horrified look of realization upon your face. And he feels the burning of guilt at the back of his mind, easy to dismiss, as his hands roam your body, past your clocked stockings of cotton and up your white shift.

He would hate to hurt you.

Which is why you’ll never find out. Your relationship can bloom into something far more precious that way, and soon he won’t need these nightly visits to fulfill the base needs you ignite in him. He often dreams of your wedding night, with you awake, receptive to his embrace, and then he’ll finally cross the one line he hasn’t dared to trespass all these years.

The shift is carefully slipped off your body. His cock is dribbling with pre-cum, twitching at the sight of your hardening nipples. He bedews one digit with his saliva as he lays by your side, spreading your legs just enough to slip one hand between to stroke your clit, peppering your breast and neck with kisses, nibbles, and nips.

Your body is more than accustomed to his touch by now – and for a moment, he wonders if you’ll be confused on your wedding night when, just like now, your folds grow wet with so little stimulation. Soon he hears the change in your breathing as it becomes heavier, increasingly ragged, little whines starting to come out of your lips.

Still, you don’t wake.

Not even as he slides a finger inside your soaked entrance.

It’s tight, temptingly tight, torturingly tight, but Satoru has enough self-control not to push himself through your folds. Not tonight. He can wait, he will wait until, eventually, you’ll be awake and willing to take his cock. He takes comfort knowing that day is not too far.

Satoru sits between your legs to rub his cock as he fingers you, biting his lip as not to let a wanton groan out.

"Fuck..."

It's not very regal to swear. He's never done so in front of you.

His voice is already strained, not above a whisper, when he sits up, settling between your legs to rub his cock with one of your limp hands. There are two fingers inside you now, Satoru biting his lip as to repress a moan stuck in his throat. He hates having to keep quiet, but the walls are thin, and it would be a lot more trouble than it's worth to deal with nosy neighbors.

Satoru isn't alarmed when you stir, eyebrows knitted slightly as he kneaded your clit with his thumb. It's not a sign you're waking up.

His fingers are coated in viscid, clear juices, thrusting in and out of your pussy with practiced ease. He can barely keep them inside when you tighten up, little tremors running through your body as you cum with a strangled whimper.

Satoru forgoes your hand in favor of positioning himself on between your folds, using your wetness to rub his length along your pussy, prodding at your clit with each upward motion. He’s lying atop you now, muscled chest glued to yours, gently suckling on your neck and muffling his low, guttural groans on your skin. His hips move at a controlled pace, refraining himself from how rough he wants to be with you – he’s still hung up about Nanami, after all ��, feeling his own orgasm approach.

Your bed doesn’t creak, either.

He thinks of finally being enveloped by your insides, how your velvety walls would choke his cock when he made you cum. How your lips would touch his and you’d kiss, really kiss, how your body would respond to his touch when awake. What faces would you make for him? Would you look away, embarrassed, throw your arms around him and hold him tightly to you? He was dying to see you, to fill your womb as he looked deep into your open eyes.

Satoru Gojo isn’t delusional as to think his actions are without sin.

He’s delusional to a fault. And as much as he feels bad for you, for his horrible acts of debauchery against your unresponsive body – and all other perversions along the way – there’s hardly any guilt when he grips his cock with a tight fist, tugging at his length as spurts of pearly-white cum land on your bare stomach. His chest heaves, breath labored, half-lidded blue eyes staring at his handiwork with a dopey smile on his face.

Lightning illuminates the room, followed by thunder rumbling so deeply across the earth he swears he feels the walls shake. Candlelight flickers.

He cleans you up, not a trace of arousal to be found when he’s done, shift slipped back onto your body. For a moment, he sits at the edge of your bed again, leaning back on his arms. How he would love to wake up with you between his arms – but alas, you’d be much alarmed to see him by your side when morning comes.

He dresses himself, not before placing a chaste kiss goodnight on your forehead.

A ball, he ponders, that ought to be fun.

And as he leaves, candlestick holder in hand, locking the door behind him, there’s no guilt badgering his mind – only dresses. A selection of skirts and frills fluttering about, an appointment with the best seamstress in the kingdom; Satoru wonders which design he’ll choose for you to wear at the ball, smiling smugly to himself as he skips down the hallway, back to his chambers.

You wake with a startle, groggy, disoriented.

Resting in its usual spot at your bedside table, your trusty pocket watch indicates you’ve woken up a little over fifteen minutes later than you’re supposed to – Not too bad of a delay, which eases your initial panic. You’ll have to hurry up a bit when getting ready, but at least you won’t be late for work.

The herbs have worked a little too well, you conclude – gifted you dreamless sleep, devoid of interruptions, knocking you out barely an hour after drinking the tea you brewed. Although you had yet to fully wake up, there was newfound motivation to get on with your day after a much-needed good night’s sleep.

You make a mental note to properly thank Prince Satoru again. It was unexpectedly considerate of him to notice.

A shiver runs down your body as fresh air enters through your bedchamber window, caressing your face with its gelid touch. You see movement downstairs, servants and knights who have begun their day earlier than you. Beyond castle walls you saw the city, merchants coming and going through dirt roads among trees painted in breathtaking yellows, oranges and reds, its fallen leaves scattered over green grass. In the distance, you see neighboring villages and castles so far they nearly fade into the horizon. The sun is out again, blue skies adorned by white, fluffy clouds.

The faint, comforting smell of freshly baked bread hits your nostrils.

You should get ready– you don’t want to be late, of course. But there is time for a quick look in the mirror, to check if your exhaustion-induced eyebags have been minimized, even if ever-so-slightly. It’s only then that you notice, attention diverted from the area around your eyes, three small, faint red spots on your neck and collarbone.

You touch them, briefly wondering where they could possibly have come from; but you don’t have the time to dwell on it for more than a few seconds, your neck will be covered regardless. One last look at the mysterious marks and you shrug, brushing them off. It’s nothing to worry about, anyway.

Must have been a bedbug.

#tw noncon #tw somno #tw somnophilia #tw yandere #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere gojo #yandere gojo satoru #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere gojo x reader #yandere gojo x you #yandere jjk x reader #cw yandere #dark fic

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