#one direction x coast to coast

[sceletaflores]

GIVE IT TO HER LIKE A MAN!

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｡𖦹°‧➵ pair: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ wc: 5.1k

｡𖦹°‧➵ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, no ellie, joel’s pov, swearing, age gap (52/23), semi-public sex (more of a semi-public ALMOST over the pants handjob?), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, spit kink, degradation, pussy spanking, creampie, fucking in your childhood bedroom RAAAHHH, one (1) single line about joel wanting to slap you, one (1) single use of the word daddy, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ nat’s note: hi babies! i'm back! did you miss me? cause i missed you and oh em gee i'm so excited to be rejoining the party. this actually wasn't what i planned on posting but the angsty joel fic is kicking my ass so hard that i had to take a break from it. i just needed to word vomit some raunchy, freak-nasty porn to cleanse my palate! i don’t normally go for the dbf trope but it's just so joel i couldn't not dip my feet in these waters. it's also more like dad's-close-but-distant-acquaintance-joel because in my head that man has little to no friends honestly. hope you love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel gives the best graduation gifts...

Joel isn’t the type to get invited to these kinds of things.

Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.

The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.

“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers. 

He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.

What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.

And Christ, did you look smug about it.

It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.

He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.

It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.

You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.

Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.

Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.

It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.

“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”

There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.

Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”

Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.

“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

That was all it took.

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.

Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.

Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.

You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.

It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain. 

The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.

Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.

And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.

Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.

The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke. 

Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”

You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.

The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.

Joel is too damn old for this.

“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”

Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.

This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.

He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.

A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.

“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”

Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”

Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.

‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach. 

Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”

You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”

Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”

Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.

Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.

It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now. 

But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Christ, you’re trying to kill him.

Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”

Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager. 

“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”

Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule’s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.

Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.

“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”

Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”

The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.

Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”

You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.

You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.

“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”

It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.

He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.

“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.

Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.

“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”

It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.

“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.

“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”

That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.

He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.

Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.

Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.

"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."

You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.

Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.

It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.

He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”

You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.

Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”

Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.

Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.

He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.

“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”

Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.

Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.

Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.

“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”

You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”

Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.

It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.

Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”

Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.

Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”

The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.

Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”

You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.

“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”

You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.

“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”

The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.

“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”

“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”

His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.

Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”

With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.

Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.

When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”

You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”

Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[lilithslittleworld]

New To This

A/N: I made a poll a few weeks ago about wanting to write a new smut with several different scenarios/characters with a winner of "Jacob Black x Reader"!

I initially wanted to write a really steamy, sexy scene but it ended up evolving into a steamy but also loving/fluffy sex scene! *i feel like this is werewolf Jacob meets cute, pre-wolf Jacob* I hope you all enjoy ;)

(PS: Nessie does not and will not exist in this fanfic, aka you and Jacob will live happily ever after. Also both of you are 18 or above ).

Summary: A few weeks after Bella and Edward's wedding, Jacob teaches you how to cliff dive. You're sure you could teach him a few things too...

The wind howled viciously, sending your hair flying in every direction and shivers that racked your body. You stepped closer to the cliff's edge, peering slightly over to catch a glimpse of the angry waves below.

Jacob stood behind you, his arms crossed over his bare chest as he scowled at you. "This is a terrible idea," he huffed, his dark eyebrows pinching in worry.

Jacob never wore shirts, or at least that's what it seemed like. "It was your idea," you reminded him. Jacob glared at you in response but took a step forward.

"You're really going to do this, aren't you?" he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. It was a silly question to ask, since you both knew the answer.

"You better believe it," you grinned back at him. You pulled off your thick coat, leaving it folded on a rock beside Jacob's truck. You two would have to come back up for both sooner or later and the idea of being weighed down by a water-soaked winter coat didn't sound ideal. Your boots came off as well, for good measure.

The cold made your hands sting, turning your knuckles an angry red as you stood in your thin, long sleeved shirt, jeans, and socks. Jacob on the other hand, stood comfortably, despite lacking a shirt and in shorts.

"H-how are you not freezing?" you asked incredulously, your teeth chattering, "It's the middle of December!"

"I'm just a little hotter than most," Jacob winked at you, holding out a hand. "Ready whenever you are."

You rolled your eyes at him but brought your hand to his. You couldn't help but notice how much bigger they were, most of Jacob was anyway. They were also exceptionally warm just as you had expected. Maybe he did run warmer than the rest of people...

"Okay," you breathed, as Jacob guided you both to the cliff's edge, the waters below you lapped furiously at the rocky coast, "On the count of three. One, two, th-"

And suddenly you were falling. You screamed at Jacob for not having respected the countdown but it was useless, the fall was short and the wind howled even louder as you plummeted into the cold, dark water.

Your body sank like a stone, the weight pulling you down deeper into the frigid water. You thrashed your arms, desperate to make it to the surface once again. Thousands of little ice-like knives sank into your skin with every movement. You wondered how Jacob was handling the cold. But there were more important things to think about now. You were running out of air.

Now only a few feet from the surface, you felt a strong arm pulling you up towards it at an incredible speed. Your head broke through the surface, your mouth opening automatically to gasp the free air greedily. As your panic started to ebb, your sight began to unblur slowly, taking in your surroundings and the breathless boy before you.

"Y/N!" Jacob gasped, partially due to the little stunt he'd pulled with the jump, having swam around to find you, and worry. "Can you hear me?"

You nodded quickly, taking into account how clogged your ears were. "I'm good," you croaked, followed by a tamer fit of coughing.

Jacob wrapped a protective arm around you, dragging you along with him as his legs and free arm paddled you both towards the shore. You protested at first until it became clear that you were unable to swim that distance and that Jacob would never let you go.

"That was fun," you noted cheerfully, as the ocean floor below you began to rise enough for Jacob to stand. It would take you a little longer to reach.

"Yeah, well it's never happening again," he scoffed, wading out of the shallow water, "You could've died." You watched as little water droplets dripped from his short hair down his toned back and shoulders, secretly hoping swimming with him would happen again soon.

It was no secret that you were attracted to Jacob. Besides, he rarely hid the fact that he was interested in you as well. You two had met at Bella Swan's wedding. It wasn't a great introduction, to say the least, but it eventually blossomed into whatever this was. Jacob was always honest about what he felt but he had never made any grandiose confessions or even really specified what you were to him, apart from a girl he liked. He was careful around you.

Jacob's voice interrupted your thoughts and so did the cold. "You're going to freeze to death if you stay in there," he called out, a hint of superiority in his voice.

"Stupid fireboy," you muttered under your breath, as you dragged your nearly numb legs forward. He was right. Your fingers had started to turn blue and you became aware of how little of your body you could feel.

"What was that?" he grinned, amused at your suddenly cranky mood.

"Oh, I know you heard me," you hissed, swatting his arms away as he tried to pull you into them. "Stupid supersonic hearing."

Jacob laughed, clearly still thrilled. "Come here," he said, scooping you into his arms. You were so grateful for the warmth that radiated from his skin that you said nothing as he carried you across the woods.

"I could teach you thing too, you know," you said sullenly, watching the little beach disappear from your sight.

"I'm sure you could," he replied, "But no one's teaching anyone anything until you're out of these wet clothes and showered."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. Was he intending to shower with you? You had never done more than makeout with this boy but the idea of him in a shower with you sent your pulse overboard.

Neither of you said anything else until Jacob's house. You had never really been inside before. Any ideas you had of it were based on the little you had been able to see when you peeked through the front door, waiting for Jacob in other occasions. Now, you stepped through the doorframe, taking in the small but cozy house.

Jacob walked you towards a little wooden door. "My room," he noted quietly, scratching his neck embarrassed, as you peered inside. It had a twin bed, a wooden desk, and a handful of tiny, wooden sculptures. On his bedframe, right above his pillow, hung a delicate dreamcatcher.

How many times had you imagined his room? Now you were in it, your past daydreams and fantasies coming to life.

"Do you want to shower first?" Jacob asked, pulling out a clean towel from the bathroom closet. Oh.

"Sure," you said, hoping he wouldn't pick up on the slight disappointment that dripped in your voice. This was, after all, the first time in his house, he wasn't going to rush into anything just because you were here.

Showering brought back the humanness in you that had been lost to the cold. Your skin returned to its normal feel, slightly tingly from the warm water and you could now feel every inch of yourself. You lathered yourself up in soap, scrubbing extra in all the places that might be the slightest bit smelly. You washed your hair too, getting rid of any sand or seaweed that had found its way there.

You wrapped yourself in the large towel that Jacob had given you, grateful that it covered you almost entirely. With the edge of the towel, you wiped away a circle on the foggy mirror. You looked almost the same as you had this morning, which was a relief.

Jacob sat on his bed, fiddling with his hands as you tiptoed into his room.

"You can go," you said softly. Jacob looked up at you. You could tell he was trying his hardest to keep his eyes on yours. A hint of blush spread along his face, as his eyes made their way down from your mouth to your neck and finally landing on your collarbones.

Jacob stood up quickly, pulling pieces of clothing from his drawers. "Cool," he smiled at you, "Don't go anywhere."

Jacob's room felt cozy, even with just you in it. Your hands unfolded the lumps of cloth he had laid out for you: one oversized t-shirt and a pair of what seemed to be old boxer shorts. You pulled them on gratefully, now really feeling warm and cleaned up. They smelled like Jacob, a scent that sent your heart into an excited flutter.

The sound of running water sent an excited shiver down your spine. You had imagined Jacob showering so many times on your own, taking your time to really focus on what he did in there. If only you could see him now. The idea of Jacob naked now, made your breath hitch in the back of your throat.

The silence broke your train of thought. Jacob would be back in his room in just minutes and here you were, fantasizing and hyperventilating over him. You sat down on the edge of his bed, making an effort to take deep breaths, an attempt to look as normal as possible. You sat awkwardly on the corner of his bed, trying hard not to be suggestive or the opposite of that.

Jacob walked in, his hair still damp and holding the tightly wrapped towel around his hips. Your eyes made their way to where his towel met his bare skin, your imagination wild. Seeing him now was so different to all the other times, this time there was almost nothing between you except a little towel, ironically.

"Enjoying the view?" Jacob's voice pierced the deafening silence but his playful tone didn't match his eyes. His deep, dark eyes burned into your own, a want behind them that was almost palpable. You felt your face growing warm at his words but there was not an ounce of regret in you.

"I think you're wearing far too much clothes," you answered boldly, an answer he seemed to enjoy as you watched a smile creep onto his lips.

"You're one to talk," he chuckled, turning away from you as he searched for his next change of clothes.

"I think that's an easy problem to solve," you said softly, pulling off the boxers you wore and tossing them over to him. Jacob caught them easily, pulling them on quickly before dropping the towel.

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. He was getting dressed, not undressed. You felt stupid now, feeling significantly naked despite the dress-like shirt that covered you.

Jacob seemed to pick up on your puzzled expression. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, exhaling before he spoke. "I've never done this."

It actually came as a great surprise that Jacob was a virgin. You had expected him to be fairly experienced, given his attitude and the obvious physical attractiveness. Now you were thrown off your game.

"I-I really thought you had," you confessed, "A few times actually."

Jacob shook his head, his eyes still trained intently on the floor. "Never really got the chance," he said softly.

A pang hit your heart. Jacob seemed truly embarrassed and almost hurt. It had never been your intention to make him feel bad about the matter. You knew something had hurt him far before your had come along. You didn't know much about his past attachment to Bella Swan but you were sure that she wasn't a person that had brought him much joy during that time.

"It's okay, Jake," you assured him gently, "I was just curious but it doesn't matter."

Jacob brought his gaze up to you, his eyes soft. "I'd like to try but I don't want to hurt you, Y/N."

"You won't hurt me, Jake," you replied, walking over to him before reaching your hand out to his. He took your hand in his, the warmth of his skin spreading all over you.

You pulled him towards you, your eyes never leaving his. "You have to promise me that you'll tell me if I hurt you," Jacob said earnestly, his grip on your hand tightening faintly.

"I trust you," you whispered, wrapping an arm around his neck, placing your other hand on the side of his face.

Jacob leaned his face against your hand momentarily before taking your face in his hands, pressing his lips softly against yours. It was no surprise that his lips were just as warm as the rest of him. A shiver ran down your back as you kissed him back, your lips moving gently against his. Your hands found their way to his hair, running your fingers through it. Jacob groaned, pulling you closer to him, his breath quickening. Soon, every bit of you was touching him, every inch of skin against him. You could feel the little droplets of sweat beading on your forehead and running down your back from the heat of his body.

The need for him gnawed at you, the flutters in your stomach grew as Jacob took you into his arms, your legs straddling his hips. A ripple of pleasure went through you as you made contact with his hardened length, barely concealed by the boxers you'd thrown at him earlier. Jacob walked you over to his bed, his strong arms holding you up against him, his lips never leaving yours. He laid you down slowly, placing a steady hand against the mattress on either side of your body.

You brought you lips back to his eagerly, hoping he wouldn't be as careful with you anymore. You knew you weren't going to get anywhere as long as Jacob tiptoed around you. You were going to set the pace. Your kisses deepened as you ran your fingertips lightly down his neck towards his chest, Jacob's breathless sighs mixing with yours as you touched him. Your fingers trailed down along his chest, making their way towards the edge of his boxers. You could feel Jacob's stomach quivering as you brought your touch closer to him. You wanted so badly to feel him trembling beneath your hands.

You dipped a finger under the band of his boxers. He felt so much warmer than anywhere else. You wanted to feel that heat everywhere. Jacob's breath hitched when your hand came in contact with him, so hard and hot on your fingertips. Instinctually, you wrapped your hand around his throbbing length, not surprised its size. He was so big. You brought your gaze back up to Jacob, who now had his eyes shut tightly and eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. You watched him as you gave him lazy, long strokes, practically drooling at the noises that came out of his mouth. He looked so beautiful, so lost in your touch, his muscular arms beginning to shake as he kept himself propped up above you. A finger rubbed softly against his already wet tip brought a strangled moan out from Jacob. Your strokes became quicker, mesmerized at the feeling of him growing harder in your hand.

Jacob slowly began to come undone above you, his whole body shaking as he held himself up above you still. "Please," was all he could coherently plead. And you loved it. Seeing this vulnerability in Jacob was something you were not expecting and it only made you want him more. Your strokes returned to the slower pace you had started with, knowing he was just minutes away from cumming.

Jacob opened his desire-filled eyes as your hands came to a stop. You pushed him back gently, your hands on his muscular chest, until he was sitting on his knees. You propped yourself up on your elbows, pulling his shirt off of you, as Jacob watched you with wide eyes. Now fully exposed before him, excitement coursed through your veins. Jerking him off had made the heat pool between your legs almost impossible to ignore. You were desperate for any sort of release and you were going to get it.

You laid yourself back on the bed, Jacob still kneeled at the foot of it, his eyes trained on you, running up and down your naked body. Slowly, you ran a hand down your chest, pausing to squeeze your boobs before trailing your fingers down your stomach. Your legs parted, knowing very well what view Jacob would have from where he sat. And you began.

After years of knowing your body, touching yourself was simple and well known. Your fingers brushed your clit lightly, gasping at the shock that ran through you. The circles started slowly, pacing yourself as the tightness in your stomach began to build. You lost yourself in the pleasure, not holding back the moans that sprang from your lips. You knew very well Jacob too, was touching himself. You could hear it. The noises of his slick hand running up and down his length, mixed with his soft groans and breaths.

You opened your eyes to the vision of Jacob touching himself, his eyes dripping with lust as he watched you do the same to yourself, the veins on his arms bulging from the movement.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked slyly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

"You," he panted, his chest rising and falling as he responded.

"Mmmm," you breathed, "What about me?"

"About touching you. Tasting you. Being inside of you and making you feel so good," he said, his deep voice strained as he tried to contain himself.

"I want you to," was all you said.

Jacob was back on top of you in the blink of an eye. He was everywhere. Kissing, touching, and licking every inch of you. He felt like the sun, spreading a delicious warmth all over you. His mouth was on your stomach, parting your legs with his arms before trailing down to your inner thighs. You wanted him so badly and he knew.

His mouth found your clit, giving it a light lick as your eyes rolled back, gripping his hair tightly. You moaned as you felt Jacob's tongue drawing circles, your hips bucking involuntarily seeking more.

"Mmm," Jacob hummed, sending vibrations through your core as he did. You were so close.

"Wait," you breathed, your mind foggy from the pleasure. Jacob looked up at you, his expression slightly worried.

"Is everything okay?" he whispered, his mouth still wet from you.

"Kiss me," you commanded, pulling him to you eagerly. Your lips met in a frantic effort, tasting the sweet, slightly salty taste of yourself on his lips. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his, moaning softly at the feeling of his hardened dick against your bare stomach.

Jacob rolled over onto his back, his hands on your hips as you now straddled him. Your hips moved automatically against his, brushing your clit against his cock, your wetness dripping onto it.

"God," Jacob groaned, his fingers digging into your hips as he guided your movements to an even quicker pace. "So hot."

"I need you," you breathed, throwing your head back as you neared your orgasm again, "Inside of me."

Something snapped inside of Jacob as you moaned those words. His hands fumbled to find a condom on tiny nightstand beside his bed, wasting no time in pulling it down his cock. You lifted your hips as he positioned himself below you before pulling you down for another kiss.

"Are you sure about this?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours as his thumb stroked your cheek.

"I am," you replied, kissing him gently.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered against your lips. Your heart leaped.

"I love you too, Jake," you sighed back.

You lowered yourself onto him slowly, taking time to adjust to his size, listening to Jacob gasp as you took more of him in. He stretched you perfectly, the tip of his dick hitting your G-spot as you started to tentatively bounce up and down him. As you sped up, Jacob's hands found your boobs, taking them into his mouth as you moaned his name, his hands snaking their way down your back.

"Jake," you moaned, as his tongue swirled around your hardened nipple.

"Tell me," he groaned, "Tell me how good I make you feel."

"So good," you panted as Jacob's lips found your neck, biting your soft skin gently.

"That's it," he pleaded, "Ride me just like that. Please, Y/N."

Your hips were moving at an incredible speed, bringing you so close to the edge. You could feel Jacob's cock twitching inside of you, signaling his approaching orgasm.

"I'm gonna cum," you whined, no longer worried about what you said or how. All you could think about was Jacob.

"Mmmm, cum all over me," he breathed, his fingers gripping your ass tightly as he made you ride him even faster. It was all too much. Jacob inside of you, Jacob groaning your name, his breathless pleads, the heat of his body. Your orgasm shook through you, you threw your head back and cried out in pleasure. Your sight even blurred momentarily. Jacob's orgasm quickly followed your own, your name falling from his lips repeatedly as he buried himself deep inside you one last time.

It took you both a few minutes to catch your breaths, entangled in a sweaty mess as you did. Jacob stroked your hair softly and you traced imaginary swirls along his chest.

"So," you began, "you love me?"

Jacob laughed, his whole body shaking and ultimately shaking you as well. "Of course I do, Y/N."

You shrugged. "You'd never mentioned it."

"Well, my past love confession didn't go too well," he sighed, "Which I know is unfair to you but I wanted to use those words carefully this time, especially with someone as special as you."

"I understand," you smiled, propping your head on your hands to meet Jacob's gaze, "It's just nice to hear is all."

"It's nice to say," he said, his smile reaching all the way up to his eyes.

"Hmmm," you said thoughtfully, "Are you going to tell your dad?"

"Got nothing to hide," he winked at you, "I'll tell all of Forks if I have to."

"Jake!" you squealed, though you knew he truly would. Jacob was the showing off type.

"Kidding," he said, poking you in the side, "Unless..."

"Knowing you, you'll probably call the local radio or put up posters," you rolled your eyes at the idea of either of those happening, "Why don't we go cliff diving again tomorrow?"

Jacob's smile tugged even harder at the corner of his lips. "I've got an even better idea. Something you taught me today."

-----------

A/N: honestly I didn't know how to end this oneshot I'm so sorry it's a little meh :/ but I really loved writing Jacob x Reader sm I might turn it into a oneshot series!!!

[obxsummer]

P4L // JJ Maybank

pairing: jj maybank x reader

summary: aka the season 4 ending the audience and pogues deserved.

warnings: S4P2 SPOILERS

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--

Morocco was proving to be one hell of a challenge for all of you. Every corner had more of your friends pulling off to play defense or act as a distraction. Pope, Kiara, and Cleo had left in an attempt to hold off the mercenary crew, leaving you, JJ, and Rafe to finish the mission and find the crown.

With Rafe out on the option to climb, JJ had volunteered which left you all in the current situation. JJ was trying to pull himself up on the stone statue as wind and sand whipped at your faces. 

“Be careful!” You yelled up to him, hoping your voice wouldn’t get carried away before it reached him.

You’d been so heartbroken for JJ over the past few weeks - from losing Poguelandia, finding out Luke wasn’t his dad, all the shit with the gold and Enduro… you could really use a win. JJ deserved a win more than anything. 

“Shit, here they come,” Rafe spoke up as he caught sight of the mercenaries who were catching up. “Stay here! I’ll go down and buy us some time.”

“Rafe, no!” You tried to ignore the pit of fear in your stomach but it was grabbing you tighter than you had ever felt before. “They’ll kill you!”

Rafe shook his head. “I’m a killer too! Got nothing to lose!”

Your face contorted into an odd expression at his response before you let him go and turned your attention back to JJ. He was getting closer and closer to the top but you knew he had no clue what to look for.

“JJ, hurry!” You coughed around the sand in your throat and walked closer to see him better.

After a moment, you could hear him cheer in excitement. “Yeah, baby! We did it!”

You tucked your head down as a particularly strong blast nearly knocked you off your feet. You could barely make out his figure in the storm around you as he stumbled his way toward you. “JJ! We gotta get out of here!”

 “I’m good, I’m good!” He reassured as he got closer. “I’m great, actually.��

He shifted the scarf around his neck to reveal the crown, the Blue Crown, that you guys had risked your lives to get here in search of. 

“Oh my God,” You gasped before cheering in excitement. “Do you know what this means?”

JJ pulled the headwrap off to see you better, his hands moving the crown closer so you could hold it yourself. “We’re getting it back. We’re getting our home back.”

The celebrating was cut short as JJ caught sight of something behind you before shoving the show of you out of the way. A gunshot rang out seconds later, warning enough that the two of you needed to keep moving. 

“Go, go, go. I’ve got ya!” JJ’s hand wrapped itself into yours as he took the lead, weaving the two of you through tunnels and structures before you could even blink. The storm was starting to die down, the wind and sand slowing as you guys moved deeper into the town. 

Your run was cut short as JJ slammed on the brakes and you ran into his back. “J?” You asked, confused before you caught sight of the person in front of him.

Chandler Groff had caused JJ so much pain in the few weeks your group had come to know him. From disowning him as a baby, to almost killing him, and the constant manipulation, you were beginning to wonder if Luke was the lesser of the two evils. Life had been so unkind to JJ and you refused to let this man take anything else from him. 

Groff gave the two of you a wicked smile. His knife gleamed against the sunshine, the reflection coasting your eyes as you realized you were defenseless. He moved the blade closer in your direction. “You know what I want.”

JJ’s grip on your hand tightened. There’s a lot of things he would do if you weren’t here, but you were, and that meant you were his top priority.

“And if we don’t?” You tilted your head, mockingly. It was two against one here, even if he had a shitty knife.

“Then I’ll kill you both and leave your friends to find you in bits and pieces.”

You squeezed JJ’s hand twice, a silent signal that you were ready if he was. “Yeah, not happening.”

The two of you moved in tandem, your leg kicking up to knock the knife from his grip and JJ pouncing forward to pin his so-called father against the stone wall with an aggressiveness you hadn’t seen before. 

Groff groaned as his head slammed into the rough surface, eyes struggling to refocus. JJ leaned closer, his forearm pressing against the man’s throat harder. “Don’t you ever threaten her again, ya hear me?”

When Groff didn’t answer, JJ applied more force, relishing in the way the man groaned in pain. “You’ll regret ever crossing me.”

JJ wasn’t risking it and pulled back before slamming Chandler’s head back, effectively knocking the man unconscious. “Hard pass,” The blond teen spat, giving the man a hefty punch to the head to drive his point home. 

“You okay?” You asked quietly as JJ stared at the form of the man who he was beginning to trust. 

He twitched at the question before taking a deep breath. “Yeah, yeah.” His hand reached back to you, waiting for you to grab on. “Let’s go find our friends and get the hell out of here, yeah?”

You took his offer, kissing him softly before nodding in agreement. “Let’s do it.”

And the two of you ran off, leaving Chandler Groff to bleed out on his own, taking the karma he deserved with him to the grave. You had a treasure to celebrate.

--

a/n: fuck u obx writers and goodbye.

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[ktownshizzle]

Watermelon & Suga | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x plus size female!reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: idol!au, Fluff, Smut, Drama, Whirlwind romance, Love at “second” sight

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Inspired by the events of Dday Phuket Vlog, Yoongi meets you, the island girl of his dreams, and now he can’t stop thinking about you.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Dday rockstar Yoongi, I love this MC I think she a baddie, writing might feel a little too indulgent at times, A world with no language barriers, A relevant time skip, check the dates. Sex on a boat, public sex/slight exhibitionism kink, unprotected sex (be safe!), oral (m&f), spanking, fingering, squirting (in that order lol), slight degradation and dirty talk but MC likes it, sweet pet names, tell me if I missed anything, but yeah… sex on a boat and then some, Yoongi is down atrociously bad for our curvy queen and is desperate to worship her and validate her <3

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10k!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Finally!!! Worked on this for months ever since some of y’all plagued me with Phuket vlog Yoongi as honeymoon hubby material and I couldn’t stop the fantasy from unfolding. It did take me a while to bang this out (I blame the Nerds), sorry. Nonetheless I hope y’all enjoy this lil slice of paradise. 💜 Thank you Aqua for betareading.

🗓️ June 2023 - 📍Phuket, Thailand

The air smells like salt and sunlight, a mix you’ve grown so accustomed to that it no longer feels special. Just another Tuesday workday on the Andaman Sea. 

It’s nice and calm out today, barely a ripple on the surface. There’s a light breeze from the southwest, nothing too exciting, just enough to keep things cool. No storm on the radar, and the water's warm enough for a good snorkelling sesh. Basically, a perfect day to fall in love (with the sea).

Your usual clients are giddy tourists, high on Tiger beer and oyster omelets. But today seems quieter, more chill somehow, even though your group today is unlike your typical clientele. Today, you were asked to sign an NDA.

The rest of the group has boarded already. Some seven men and women that comprise a group of musicians currently in town for their concert tour. Now, you’re just waiting for the last member to join. The VIP, apparently.

So who’s the diva? 

Well, after 15 minutes, he finally decides to grace you with his presence. 

“Min Yoongi?” you call tentatively.

He nods, barely glancing up as he steps onto the boat. A quick bow, respectful but distracted. You direct him to a seat near the stern, his cologne lingering in the air as he passes you.

To be fair, he’s not flashy, no monogram logos in sight, no jewelry, or any other loud proclamations of being the proverbial shit. Dressed in a black and white shirt with a plain black rash guard and shorts, a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes, he could’ve been mistaken for anyone. But there seems to be a deliberate nature in how he moves, careful and understated, like he’s trying to avoid notice but not entirely succeeding. 

Swag can’t be faked, even if he did walk a little bit like your grandpa. Those New Balance slides? Yeah, you’ve seen it in your halbeoji’s home.

You turn to speak with Soomchai from the coast guard—a moderately cranky but well-meaning old man who’s been doing this for decades. He scratches at his scalp through his faded fisherman’s hat as you hand him the passenger manifest.

“You’re staring too hard,” he quips, licking the pad of his index before flipping the pages.

Huh? “I’m not.” You say.

“So they’re famous, eh?” he reviews the names on the clipboard, surreptitiously glancing over your shoulder.

You look behind you, half of them are already asleep, half basically on their phones.

“One of them, yeah. You know BTS?”

His face remains unchanged as he counts the passengers. “I don’t and I don’t trust the lot of them. Want me to accompany you?”

“Loong Soomchai,” you smile at the man who has taken you under his wing since you moved here last year. “Chill. Besides, I have a black belt in taekwondo, if you already forgot. I can easily toss them overboard, then they’ll really be your problem.”

“Aish,” he waves a dismissive hand at you. “I’m on line 3. Stay safe.”

“Roger, that,” you speak into your hand-held radio, your voice blaring on the receiver tucked into the older man’s cargo shorts. 

Soomchai’s slouched frame disappears as the boat pulls away from the dock. You brace your legs and adjust your stance. The boat shifts beneath you—but you don’t. Learning how to move with the water, how to balance your weight just right, was something that came with time.

Before you officially start the tour, you check your rash guard, snug across your chest, and smooth down the high-waisted swim shorts that you are wearing. You’re quite happy with your fashion choice today. It made you feel like a Bond girl—but curvier, tougher, more badass.

Usually, you would take a moment to observe your audience, make eye contact and exchange smiles to open the communication. Your VIP, though, sits with his arms resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on the water as though it holds answers to questions only he knows. You wonder if he’s the type to make small talk or if he’d prefer you stayed silent. 

Still, it’s your job to guide, to narrate, to fill the spaces between the silence and the sea. You start with the usual pleasantries and introductions, your go-to joke to break the ice, and you’re off. 

“If you look to the right,” you gesture, “you’ll see Koh Tapu. You may have heard of it as James Bond Island, because a scene from The Man with the Golden Gun was filmed there.”

A polite murmur rises from the other guests. Some snap photos. Min Yoongi doesn’t look up.

You let the silence stretch, wondering if you should say more. It’s not often you get guests like him—someone who seems so unbothered, yet weighed down at the same time. 

It isn’t until you glance back at him again that you realize he’s watching you now, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his cap. Caught, you quickly look away, focusing instead on the shimmering turquoise of the water.

“How many times have you done this tour before?”

The question surprises you. You’re not sure if you should be offended, but you answer swiftly anyway. “Hundreds of times,” you admit with a shrug. “But the sea changes every day. It’s never exactly the same.”

You smile at him, genuine. “I imagine it’s a bit like your concerts. You practice it a thousand times, but it's still different in every show, every city, every audience… Makes things interesting.”

Something in your words seems to resonate with him. He leans back slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “I get that,” he says softly, more to himself than to you.

After that, you noticed Yoongi’s guard begin to lower. He’d nod occasionally at your explanations, even ask a question here and there—about the history of a limestone karst or the kinds of fish they might see while snorkeling. His voice was quiet, with a faint rasp from overuse that made him clear his throat now and then.

“You know this fish?” Yoongi asks, holding out his phone to show you a screenshot.

“Wow, that’s beautiful…” you lean forward slightly.

He coughs a bit, scratching the back of his neck as he leans back. “Yeah, uh, they said it’s native to these parts.”

“I’m not familiar,” you squint. “Can you send me the photo? I can ask one of the other guides—I’m still no expert on marine life, I fear.”

There’s a pause. He gives you a look you can’t quite read, brows slightly raised, lips pressed in something not quite a smile. But it’s not disapproving either. Just... 

Oh shit. You just asked for his number. Or to exchange Kakao. Same thing. You basically asked to link up.

Such an idiot. A flush creeps up your neck. Stupid, stupid girl. You weren’t thinking. God, he probably thinks you’re trying to pull a fast one on him—playing the helpful guide when really, you just wanted an excuse. 

People don’t just ask for Yoongi’s number. Of course not. Unless they’re someone. You hope he doesn’t file a complaint after this.

You straighten, your voice a little brighter, a bit too eager to salvage what’s left of your professionalism. “But, um, actually, no need. We’ll see a ton of species later when we get near the caverns. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for that one.”

“Mmh.” He nods. You can’t quite tell if it’s thoughtful or distracted by your word vomit.

But as you turn to walk across the deck, you can feel his eyes burning holes on your back. Low on your back. Maybe lower even.

Should you look? Maybe you’re just imagining it. 

You chance a quick glance. And your eyes meet his. Looking at you with an interesting glint. His lips lift slightly. You tilt your head, curious. Pulse racing. Giddy.

Okay, maybe your job is safe after all. But your heart? Eh.

When you serve them a plate of watermelon slices, the group’s energy shifts. One of them jokes about how they should’ve brought soju, while another eagerly reaches for a piece, groaning in satisfaction the moment he tastes it.

You place the tray in front of Yoongi, and he immediately plucks a slice. He bites into it, and for the first time all morning, you see a full-blown smile—pretty enamals and pink gums on show.

“Good?” you asked, unable to stop your own grin from forming.

He nodded, wiping his thumb along the corner of his mouth. “It’s perfect.”

“What’s your favorite fruit?” you throw out a neutral question as you struggle to ignore the stray liquid he’s trying to chase down with his tongue. 

“Tangerines,” he replies. “The ones from Jeju Island are the best. Have you ever been?”

“No, unfortunately.”

There was a beat of silence before he adds, almost to himself, “But this… this is nice.”

He pushes the plate towards you. “You should have one.”

“Ah, maybe later.”

“Don’t be shy,” the plate moves another inch closer. You pick up a slice, mumbling a thanks.

Sugar fills your mouth as you sink your teeth on the watermelon, juice dribbling on the side of your lip which you immediately catch with your tongue.

Unlike you though, he’s watching. Openly. Shamelessly. The way his eyes dart from your mouth to your eyes is not lost on you and you can’t help but feel excitement pooling in your belly.

“Sweet.” you remark, before sucking the juice from your thumb. Baiting him.

He smirks, “Looks like it.”

“You always flirt using fruit?”

“You’re the one licking your lips.”

You grin.

As a tour guide, you’re used to the art of the harmless flirt. It comes with the job—tourists with sun-soaked nerves and too much vacation confidence, tossing compliments like loose change. You’ve learned how to play along just enough, to keep things light, fun. A wink here, a tease there. Part of the act. People like feeling charming, and you don’t mind giving them the illusion.

But this feels different.

Right now, it’s just you, the sea, and this idol watching you like he’s the one mesmerized.

And maybe it shouldn’t matter, the way his gaze lingers—not over the places you’ve been taught to hide, but the ones you’ve learned to own. The dip of your waist. The curve of your hip where your swim shorts sit snug. 

There’s something about being looked at like this—not with hunger or pity, but with curiosity, appreciation, even. And it makes you want to keep his gaze a little longer.

‘Cause you know who he is. You’d recognized the name when you saw it on the manifest and when you signed the documents. He’s an idol. Part of Bangtan Fuckin’ Sonyeondan. A man with a carefully manicured image, a life guarded by rabid fans, dissected by media men with too many opinions, surrounded by sexy, slender women.

You’d think men like him don’t get to have ‘normal’ moments like this. They don’t make casual conversations about fish or share food with a rando. But here he is, acting like this is real. And god, why does it feel like it might be?

Honestly, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re not the only one who knows the art of the harmless flirt. Maybe he’s not even that interested.

But you’re gonna play along. See where this goes. At least for now.

Later, after anchoring in a secluded cove, you bring out the snorkeling gear. Most of your guests dive in with ease, their laughter echoing as they race toward the reef. Yoongi lingers on the boat, fiddling with the straps of his mask.

“Need help?” you ask, stepping closer.

He looks up, sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”

You laugh softly. “A little. Here, let me.”

He hands you the mask, watching as you adjust the straps. His gaze feels heavier now, like it’s searching for something beyond the simple act of fixing the gear.

You’re used to people skimming past you with their eyes, but when Yoongi looks, you feel like your skin is on fire. His gaze dips, just for a second, on the spot where the zipper of your top sits against your boobs. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t smirk—probably thinks he’s being sly. But you’re on to him. 

“You’ve done this before, right?” you check, eyes teasing, as you pass the mask back to him.

He shrugs. “A long time ago. I’m out of practice.”

“Good thing I’m here.” You flash him a reassuring smile and step into the water, gesturing for him to follow.

You surface and nod. He hesitates only briefly before jumping in—but his foot slips slightly on the boat’s edge, and he lands with an ungraceful splash and shriek that echoes across the cove. You can’t stop the laugh that bursts out.

“Grand entrance,” you say, grinning as he surfaces with a shy expression.

“Glad I could entertain you,” he mutters, pushing his wet hair back, and if that isn’t one of the sexiest actions you’ve ever seen done by any human being. God.

“Here.” You take a chance to reach for his hand, and to your mild surprise and relief, he takes it. “Just relax. The water will do most of the work.”

He follows your lead, his fingers tightening slightly around yours as you float together. The reef comes into view below, vibrant and teeming with life. You glance at him, his face half-hidden by the snorkel mask, and find him watching you instead of the reef.

“You’re missing the best part,” you pull your hand away, pointing toward the colorful fish darting between the coral.

“Am I?”

You take your mask off only to roll your eyes. “Are you always this smooth?”

He pulls the mouthpiece out just enough to smirk at you. “Only when it works.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escapes you. 

“Admit it,” he says, leaning closer, his voice low. “You’re having fun.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you start wading away, gesturing towards the reef. “Come on. The fish are much better company.”

Back on the boat, the atmosphere is lighter. Yoongi is more relaxed now, his earlier distance replaced by a quiet warmth. As you steer toward the island for lunch, you feel his gaze on you again.

When you glance over, he doesn’t look away this time.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he says, though his lips twitch into an understated smile.

At the island, the group disembarks for lunch, their excitement palpable. Yoongi lingers by the railing, his gaze flickering between you and the others.

“Come with us,” he says, his voice low enough that the others don’t hear.

You shake your head, smiling apologetically. “I can’t. Protocol.”

He looks as though he wants to argue, because he seems like the type that gets everything he wants, but resignedly nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you echo, though you’re not sure if you believe it.

While they eat, you stay behind on the boat, finishing your own lunch, which one of the island ahjummas hands you as soon as you dock. There’s still some leftover watermelon, so you have it for dessert. It’s sweeter than any you have had all summer, but not sweet enough to distract you from the thought spinning in your head: Did the Min Yoongi really just invite you to join their group for lunch?

He was probably just being polite. Right? But then why did he stare at your lips for ten whole seconds when you were exploring the caves?

Fuck. You really need to get Lasik because your eyes cannot be trusted. Maybe a psychiatric evaluation too, while you’re at it.

Who are you kidding? At this point you can only afford the oh-so ahjumma-chic wide-brim hat so your lone brain cell is not fried by the sun.

BUT. Why does it feel like you had a connection?

Him with his kind eyes and that sexy smile. You’re so fucked.

Shaking your head, you grab a beer from the cooler and chug it, the cold brew doing its damnednest to wash down your delusions. For a moment, the only sound is from waves against the boat’s hull.

But then, footsteps.

You glance over your shoulder.

Yoongi is walking into the shaded area of the boat, pushing damp strands of hair with his beautiful fingers.

“Hey,” you say, clocking that he’s coming in alone. Your pulse races.

“Hi.”

“Craving more watermelon?” you ask, smiling as you gesture to the plate.

He leans against the table, his gaze steady, but there’s something else there. “I was,” he says, his voice softer now, “but I think I’m craving something else.”

Your breath stutters. The plate in your hand feels heavier. The tips of his fingers brushes along the edge of the table as he walks closer, and closer.

“There’s, uh, more delicacies on the island,” you try to use your tour guide voice, but you’re faltering. “Thailand has, umm, over 1,000 species of fruit, you know…”

“Mmm.” A faint smirk touches his lips, but his eyes are fixed on you. He’s literally in front of you now, so close that the air is sucked out of your lungs. You notice every macro detail—the faint streaks of sunscreen on his cheek, the fine grains of sand clinging to his hair, the way his scent is a mix of the sun and the ocean and his own musk. And those lips. Goddamn those lips.

“What is it that you like?” you ask, your voice small and shy as he studies you, too.

“I think I prefer,” he murmurs, before leaning in. “This.”

His kiss sparks upon contact against your mouth. His lips are a little chapped, but still soft. A hand slips around the back of your neck, guiding you closer until your lips part, and his tongue slides in. There’s not one second of hesitation, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You angle your head and kiss him back, a little messy, a little breathless. It’s not the kind of kiss meant for daylight, not while you’re at work, not something that belongs on a boat in open water, but fuck if it ain’t so goddamn good you forget where the hell you are.

His other hand settles on your middle, firm, squeezing against your soft waist. You’re keenly aware of every place your bodies meet—your chest against his damp shirt, your thigh brushing his leg, the faint heat radiating off his skin in the humid air.

You’ve never done this. Nope. Not while working. Not with guests, especially. But Yoongi doesn’t feel like a guest anymore. Doesn’t feel like a fantasy or a celebrity or whatever version of himself the world thinks he is.

He doesn’t feel new–like someone you just met. It sounds crazy that you connected on a level that doesn’t quite match the short amount of time since you’ve exchanged names. You can’t even correct your actions at this point. Not when he tastes like coconut and you’re slipping farther away from clarity.

Your hands move on instinct, sliding up under his shirt, fingers tangling in the sticky strands at the nape of his neck. “Yoongi…” His name escapes you like a plea, like you’re already wrecked—and maybe you are.

His tongue strokes yours, and it’s incredibly filthy how he’s sucking it into his mouth like he wants to own it. Own you. You moan. Your knees weaken. Your brain empties. The only thing you can feel is him—his mouth, his breath, the growing pressure of his body against yours.

Fingers are slipping under the hem of your shorts, gripping you behind with no hesitation.

“This ass,” he mutters, then smacks, and the sound cracks in the air. Your breath catches, a gasp hitching from your throat as slickness floods your bikini bottoms.

“Shit–somebody might see us,”

“Nah, nobody else is gonna come here,” he pauses, smirks. “Except you, twice. Then, me.”

The confidence. “Oh my God.”

“We ‘bout to break protocol.” He squeezes your ass again, groaning into your neck. “You want this?” he rasps. His lips latch onto your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe. “Come…”

You grab his hand and lead him toward the hatch, pulling it open and motioning for him to climb down. He does without question, dropping to the lower deck with a soft thud.

You grip the ladder, descending slowly, legs already shaky with anticipation. But before you can hit the floor, his hands are on your thick thighs, firm. Squeezes once.

“Stop,” he commands. “Face me.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, turning to face him as you grip the edge of the floor deck which is now at your eye level.

“What are you—?”

“You keep an eye out,” he says, voice low and dark with intent. “I'm just gonna eat you out real quick.”

Your breath catches—shocked, aroused, completely undone.

He curls his fingers into your waistband, tugging your shorts and bikini bottoms down in one smooth motion. A gust of humid air brushes your exposed skin as your knees nearly give out.

But you don’t get a second to process, because his mouth is already on you, making out with your pussy lips. His tongue licks a long, hot stripe through your folds, and your nearly fucking cum right there.

The metal ladder is cool against your ass as you struggle for balance. Your grip tightens on the deck, knuckles almost white. His hand slides up to part your thighs just a little more, anchoring you open for him. You feel his hot breath, before his tongue dives back in—savoring, circling, sucking.

You panic—just briefly. You spent hours in the ocean. You probably taste like—

“Mmm,” he hums against you, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. His grip on your thigh is a bit harsh as if he could read your mind that you wanted to squirm out of his grasp. 

There is something so incredibly arousing about feeling him, but not seeing him. Hearing him, but not touching him. As if the sensations are heightened. Every feeling more palpable because of sense deprivation.

Next thing you know his fingers are teasing your entrance, collecting the slick from your pussy.

You feel a wet tap against the side of your mouth and words aren't needed as you suck his digits in. You’re drunk of your own taste and heady scent, the feel of his bony knuckles massaging your tongue tipping you closer to the edge.

But then his fingers are gone and you almost want to bite it down but then he slides it into your cunt and Christ alive. 

He is moving in and out of you so shallowly, just knuckle-deep, the pads of his fingers barely scraping your inner walls. You move your arms to grip the ladder behind you, giving you the leverage to rock forward, coaxing it inner, deeper.

Fuck is he laughing right now?!

You halt your movements as you hear a throaty chuckle from underneath you.

“Why’d you stop,” he teases, kissing up the softness on the inside of your thighs.

“Hook your thigh over my shoulder,” he mumbles against your soaked heat, voice low and so filthy it makes your whole body tense.

You do as he says. Your leg lifts shakily, your body is burning with the exertion but his hand is already there, steadying you, guiding you, draping it over the curve of his shoulder like you don’t weigh nothing.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, just before his tongue dives back in.

It’s messier now. His fingers pump deeper, faster, the pace almost punishing as they curl inside you, finding that spongey spot that makes your thighs seize. His tongue flicks over your clit in short, relentless strokes, matching the rhythm of his fingers.

You cry out—loud, desperate, your hand gripping the ladder like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. Your hips jerk, trying to escape, but he growls and tightens his hold, tongue moving even faster.

“Fuck, Yoongi—I’m gonna—”

And then it hits. A blinding, body-shaking orgasm that tears through you so violently your vision goes white. You scream as your legs almost gives out, but his arm braces your hips as you fuckin’ squirt, soaking his chin, his neck, the tops of his shoulders.

He lets out a surprised, delighted laugh, breath hot and sticky as he looks up at you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes glazed, chin glistening. “You squirted all over me, you dirty girl.”

You whimper, half-mortified, half-high, your body still twitching. “Sorry…” you squeak.

His tongue darts out to taste the corner of his mouth, and he grins—smirks, really. Completely pleased with himself. “Don’t. Sexiest thing I’ve seen in a while.”

You’re trembling so hard you can barely stay upright, your leg slipping from his shoulder. He catches it, presses a final kiss to your inner thigh, then plants your foot down on a step. 

“Come here. Be careful,” he says, voice gentler now. He guides you by the waist, helping you down the last few steps until your feet hit the floor.

Your body collapses into his chest on instinct, and he chuckles again, arms wrapping around your middle.

“You okay?” he asks softly, nose nudging yours.

You nod, breath still catching in your throat. “More than okay.”

He pulls back just enough to flash that lazy grin. “Good. ’Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

He spins you back around, pressing you against the ladder. You gasp as his hand flattens between your shoulder blades, your palms bracing the handles above you as his hips roll into yours from behind—slow and grinding, just to let you feel what he’s working with.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice low, gravel edged with need, his hard cock moulding itself against your plush ass cheeks.

You push your hips back into him. “Yes. God, yes.”

There’s a frantic shuffle of clothes, from his end, his swim trunks dropped and kicked away, and then… He slides in with one rapid thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your mouth drops open, lungs pierced, your breath knocked right out of you.

“Fuck—shit,” you choke, forehead pressing against your arm.

“F-fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on your hips. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts to move, hips snapping forward sharply. Each thrust drives you against the ladder, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny space, the scent of the ocean mixing with the thick heat of your bodies.

Yoongi rocks against you desperately like he’s been holding back all damn day. Like he’s finally been let off the leash. Mercifully he slows down, but he is pulling you up by your hair so your back is resting against his chest. 

“Yoongi,” you say his name breathlessly, and he releases his ponytail grip as you struggle to stay upright. He licks the skin by your ear, whispering dirty things you’ve never heard of in your entire life, twitches against your walls.

“You like that, huh, you little slut?” 

Fuck. You didn’t expect to like the name so much. An involuntary clench of your pussy and you know he got the idea. It’s not just the name, but it’s the way he is literally manhandling you, fulfilling all your small girl fantasies.

“Mmh.”

“Yeah, you love it.” His fingers find the zipper of your rash guard top sliding it down just enough for his large hands to slip inside and grab a fistful of your breasts.

“Your tits are so soft, shit. Wan’ suck on them so bad.” He growls.

“Want it,” you mewl, pushing your chest forward for him to grasp.

“I bet you do, huh. Maybe later, if you’re a good girl I can suck on these. Make you cum just licking at your nipples—want that?”

“Uh-huh, please,” You sound so whiny, fucking back into him as he fondles and tugs and pulls at your sensitive nubs.

“Spit,” he instructs, his palm out. “Let’s get these nice and slick.”

A wet glob from your mouth lands on his palm and he slaps it against your tits. You whimper at the sting, but it’s quickly relieved by the soft massage against your breasts.

“Feel good?”

“So good. Ah–” your words are cut off as he folds you again to his liking.

Yoongi fucks like he is used to being watched, but right now? There’s no audience. No stage. Just you, bent over, body shuddering with every thrust, moaning like you don’t care who hears it.

Your hands scramble for grip, nails digging into your own skin as his rhythm gets rougher. His fingers trail up your spine, tracing the dip at the small of your back before curling into your hair and yanking just hard enough to make you gasp as he continues to rail you from behind.

“Harder, please, Yoongi…”

“So desperate,” he pants, breathing hot against your neck. “So fucking good like this. You feel—” a groan breaks his sentence, “—so goddamn perfect. A pretty little— cocksleeve just for me.”

You’re trembling now, thighs shaking as pleasure coils low and tight in your belly. You feel everything—his cock, thick, hot, hitting just right with every snap of his hips and your body is unraveling fast.

“Ahhh. Right there, fuckin there. That’s it…” You glance over your shoulder, and fuck he’s so fucking hot and he’s fucking you so good and…

“You gonna come for me again?” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs. “Shit. Give it to me, you dirty fuckin’ girl.”

You cry out as your orgasm slams into you, body clenching tight around his cock, eyes squeezing shut as white heat galvanizes every nerve. Yoongi curses behind you, hips stuttering once, twice—and then he’s coming too, spilling deep inside you with a growl that sounds more animal than human.

You both stay there, shaking and sticky and utterly breathless. The only sound is the ocean lapping against the hull and your heart pounding in your ears.

Yoongi’s hand doesn’t leave your waist, his fingers sink against your soft skin a bit firmer, though somehow gentler, too. Then, his lips press once, twice, thrice, softly, against your shoulder blades. You don’t understand what’s happening. It feels intimate, too intimate.

“Umm…” 

“Is there a bathroom here?”

“A tiny one, yeah. Over there.”

You wince as he pulls his cock out, walls pulsing once as if you wanna keep him inside you if you can. 

“C’mon,” he taps your ass playfully, lightening up the moment. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

By the time the group is back on the boat, skin sun-warmed and bellies full from lunch, the mood is mellow. No one makes any comment as to why you and Yoongi are already on the boat, or why you both have different tops on. You’re slightly relieved. But it also makes questions swirl in your brain that you don’t really want answers to. You shove it in the recesses of your mind and focus on getting back to work. You’re still on duty after all. 

You check on the other guests, making small talk about the yummy lunch spread. You know they had grilled squid, pad thai, mango sticky rice… like every other group you’ve toured, and it’s always a dopamine rush to see everyone so satisfied.

Someone puts on music through a Bluetooth speaker, the kind of acoustic guitar track that feels like the end of a movie. The boat sways gently as it begins to head back toward the mainland.

You pretend not to notice when Yoongi lingers near the bow, waiting until the others have found their seats before sliding into the open spot beside you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits close enough that your arms brush when the boat dips slightly with the tide.

You glance at him once. Twice. On the third time, you catch him already looking at you.

Neither of you smiles. He just reaches for the beer you hand him and takes a long sip, throat bobbing.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s in limbo. Like neither of you wants to name what happened, not while you’re still in it. Still riding the aftershocks of something way too fucking good to put into words.

At one point, he rests his arm along the back of the bench behind you. His fingers graze your shoulder. And you know it’s not by accident.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for a stray towel. Not by accident, either.

The sun dips lower as the coastline comes into view, and a knot begins to form in your chest. The same one he must feel, if the way his hand keeps tightening around his bottle is any sign.

Eventually, the boat eases into the dock. The group starts gathering their things—bags, towels, sun hats, laughter loud again as people gear up to head back to city life.

You move to help untie the mooring lines, and when you return to the deck, he’s standing by the edge, a small bag slung over one arm.

The others are already walking off. Bowing to you and thanking you for the tour. He’s the last one to leave just as he was the first to arrive.

“This is where I’m supposed to say thank you for the tour,” he murmurs, eyes still on the sea.

You nod. “This is where I say, come back anytime.”

He turns to you then. And for a second, the tiredness in his eyes softens.

“Will you be here, if I come back?”

You don’t answer right away. Just offer a small smile. “Maybe.”

He nods like that’s fair. Steps forward like he might hug you, or say something more. Maybe he considered it. But instead, he slips past you with a final glance.

The dock creaks under his steps. He doesn’t look back.

You watch him walk away until he disappears into the crowd.

Your chest aches with something unnameable.

You know how this goes. Men like him probably have groupies all the time, in every tour stop. You were Phuket. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

At least, you tell yourself, he was a really good fuck and you finished twice, which is more generous than any other one night stand or quickie you’ve had. A great story to tell your future grandkids that you once fucked a very famous idol. Okay, maybe not your grandkids. Maybe not a story to tell, actually. (You signed an NDA!) But something to shove in your heart, let every ventricle lock it tight there. But the taste of him is still on your lips, and the way your heart stutters in your chest says otherwise, like the memory is already struggling to be freed.

You’ve just stepped out of the shower when the knock comes. You freeze.

It’s late—well past when anyone should be dropping by. You don’t get visitors out here. Not unannounced. Not at this hour. Wrapped in your towel, you tiptoe barefoot to the door, heart thudding.

Another knock. Slower this time. Softer.

You squint through the peephole and nearly forget how to breathe.

It’s him.

Yoongi.

You open the door, towel clutched tight, words lodged in your throat.

It’s really him. Hood pulled low. 

His eyes sweep over your form, too. Wet, barely covered… but he recovers enough to explain what is going on. 

“I know this is crazy,” he says, before you can even speak. “But I had to see you again.”

He stands there, blinking at you under the harsh hallway lighting in your apartment building, like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door in his face.

“How did you even—?”

“I went back to the pier. Found the old guy? Practically begged him. And he gave me your address.” He exhales, shaking his head with a laugh. “I think he only did it because he felt sorry for me.”

You’re still standing there, stunned, the scent of body wash clinging to your skin.

“Can I come in?” he asks, quieter now. Like he’s unsure of the answer. “You’re in your towel.”

You nod, even though you’re still in shock, stepping aside. You adjust the towel on your chest. 

“Make yourself at home. Let me just put clothes on.”

Yoongi slips off his shoes and steps into your little house like he’s done it a hundred times before.

He looks around. It’s nothing special—worn tile floors, mismatched furniture, an abandoned oatmeal bar on the coffee table—but he doesn’t look disappointed. He looks like he’s breathing for the first time all day.

You grab a shirt and sleep shorts, quickly changing in the bedroom. When you return, he’s leaning against your kitchen counter, eyes scanning the fridge magnets, the little details of your life like they mean something.

You glance up at the clock, 8:30 p.m.

“I was gonna eat ramen,” you say, trying to play it cool.

His lips twitch. “You got enough for two?”

You both end up cooking together. He cuts vegetables with a precision that is completely uncalled for for a cheap pack of instant noodles. You make a comment and he huffs his chest with pride, his knife skills now in full show as he chops the onions in record speed. 

You laugh at how he makes a face and complains about being in tears afterwards.

The kitchen fills with steam and the smell of broth. You sit on the counter while it simmers, beers in hand. He stands in front of you, and your legs part instinctively, letting him through. Like he belongs there.

It’s oddly domestic. Ridiculously comfortable. Why? You still don’t get it.

You’re talking about nothing—favorite childhood snacks, weird airport food, your least favorite sea creatures—when the silence slips in between you.

He’s watching you now, the way you laugh, the way you push your hair behind your ear. His beer forgotten on the table.

You meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, but unlike in the boat, they’re not unreadable. In fact, they’re very much readable and you don’t hesitate to call him out for it. 

“You’re gonna kiss me again, aren’t you?” you raise a brow.

“Been thinking about it since you opened the door in that towel.”

So he does. 

He kisses you slower this time. More careful. Not rushed, not frantic like it was in the boat. He cradles the back of your neck, the other slides beneath your shirt to rest against your waist.

You’re kissing each other like you’re trying to remember. Like you’re trying to make it last. His mouth moves with so much purpose, almost like he’s writing over the hurried, hungry moment from before and replacing it with this—reverence, sureness, clarity.

When he pulls away to breathe, you whisper, “This is crazy.”

He nods. “I know…”

At least you can agree on that.

Later, he’s between your thighs on the couch, and this time, he doesn’t tear at your shorts like he’s chasing a high. This time, he touches you with all the time in the world, so you feel it all. When he slides your shorts down, he pauses, eyes locked on your center, pupils blown.

“I wanted this before,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “But I didn’t take my time. I didn’t show you.”

“Show me what?” you ask, breathless.

He presses another kiss to your other thigh, then another, closer and closer to your mound. 

“That you deserve to be worshipped,” he says. He drags his tongue along your puffy folds, slow and tender. You arch into his mouth with a gasp, already so close just from kissing in the kitchen. But maybe it’s also the rasp of his voice, and the refreshing honesty, the way he seems to be convinced that you were special.

So this isn’t like the boat. You, suspended against the ladder. It’s not messy or wild. It’s not just lust, or tension exploding in secret.

This is something else. You, suspended in a different reality. Yoongi, telling a different story with his mouth.

He eats you out with care, overwriting that animalistic fuck at sea. His hands cradle your supple thighs as he buries his face deeper. His tongue works in slow, deliberate circles, building towards your peak. 

“Watch…” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear between breaths. He puts his index and middle fingers in his mouth, dragging it across his sinful tongue. Teases it against your hole before pushing it in agonizingly slow, relishing the way your body is writhing in pleasure.

When he pushes the length all the way in, you fist the cushions. “Yoongi—oh god—”

His mouth envelops your clit in a gentle suction as his fingers go in and out of you. 

“Ahh, so close…”

He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking again, voice breaking on his name, thighs trembling on either side of his face.

He stays between them even after. Kissing. Calming. Worshiping.

You’re still breathless when he pulls back, lips slick, hair mussed, cheeks flushed with heat and pride. He looks up at you like he’s just done something holy—and maybe he has.

You’re still dazed by the time he pulls back, lips glossy, hair wild from all your pulling but his eyes, soft, focused completely on you. He rises slowly, kissing your stomach, bunching up the fabric as he goes, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel a little embarrassed like you sometimes do, with every cover that’s shed, every piece of you revealed, because he is treating you with the kind of reverence you’ve never felt before. Blind to the flaws, he’s not about to leave any part of you untouched by the pink petals of his lips, helping you out of your cotton tee.

When his face meets yours again, you’re already reaching for him, pulling him close, needing his mouth, his breath, the low rasp of his voice in your ear. You’re so high on this feeling. Of being wanted–no–worshipped, for who you are. He kisses you like a man obsessed, hands sliding under your thighs as he coaxes you onto him, settling you over the hardness pressed tight beneath his sweats.

You’re straddling him now, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side, your body still trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you. And then—you pause.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

The reality of it creeps in and your saboteur whispers the insecurities you’ve worked so hard to hide. You’re heavier than him. Curvier, fuller. And even though he just made you fall apart on his tongue, there’s a flicker of doubt when you feel your weight settle onto him.

He notices instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs like he knows, threading his fingers on your hair to pull you towards him, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. His other hand grip your hips, sliding back to your ass where he gives it a soft squeeze. “Don’t do that.”

“I just…” you look away, voice small. “You sure you’re comfortable?”

He lets out the softest fucking laugh, breath hot against your throat. “Baby, sit on me.”

His grip tightens, pulling your hips flush against him. You feel all of him—thick and very solid right against your slit and you can’t help the moan that escapes you, mixing with his own with the slightest friction.

You whine when he thrusts up just once, just enough to make your clit drag against the bulge in his boxers.

“Shit. You’re so sexy…” he breathes, hands sliding from your hips to your thighs, then your asscheeks, cupping them with both palms. “You feel what you’re doing to me right now?”

You nod, dazed, as you roll your hips, slow and testing. He groans like it’s killing him—in the best way.

“Wanna see you ride me… wanna feel you come on my cock. You think you can take it?”

“Shit, yeah…” You respond with a shameless grind. 

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he smiles, ogling your tits, the way they jiggle for him.

“Yeah?”

He licks his bottom lip, nodding.

“Off,” you gesture to his clothes, his tee tossed haphazardly on the floor. You lift your hips slightly to give him room to shimmy his bottoms down. 

His cock flops against his tummy, heavy and reddened. Your mouth wants it too but your hands are already guiding him to your slick entrance on its own accord like it knows better. You finally sink down onto him and his head drops back against the couch, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck. You feel like heaven.”

You gasp, reveling in the fullness of him, the stretch. You ride him slowly at first. Letting him feel all of you. Letting him watch.

And he does. Watches the way your body moves over his, the way your breasts bounce with every roll, the way you take him so deep he can barely speak.

“Look at you,” he pants, hands moving everywhere—your waist, your ass, your thighs, back to your breasts. 

“Shit…” he pants, eyes moving to where you’re riding him. “You’re so fuckin’ hot… fuckin’ perfect.”

He palms your breasts, groaning low in his throat. “Can’t get enough of these.”

He leans forward, licking the valley of your chest before closing his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. Your walls flutter around him in response, and he lets out a low, wrecked groan, before smacking your ass.

“Fuck!”

“Bounce for me, baby,” he gruffs hungrily against your skin, and he delivers another spank. “Come on…”

You do—riding him harder, feeling him twitch inside you. His mouth stays latched, teeth grazing sensitive skin. He’s relentless, filthy, utterly focused on unraveling you. 

When he finally pulls back, he finds your mouth again, devouring your moans between kisses as you both hurtle toward the edge.

“Gonna cum, Yoongi—” you gasp.

“With me, baby,” he pants. “Fuckin’ cum with me.”

He bucks into you harder, faster, harsher and finally you cum together—this time with his name sobbed into his neck—he holds you there, pulsing inside you as he paints your walls white, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say, things you ache to hear.

His head is fully tipped back on the couch, breathing heavy, body a little glossy from his sweat and yours. The aftermath clings to your skin, but the fire hasn’t burned out. Not even close. You’re not done.

He worshipped you, called you a goddess. But, aren’t you his dirty girl? His slut? And when he looks like the hottest man alive—

He looks up when you shift beside him, his brows pulling just slightly. “Wait. What’re you—”

You don’t answer. Just move lower, letting your hands glide down his chest. His abs twitch under your palms. 

“I wanna taste you,” you whisper. “Suck you dry….”

He groans—low and hoarse—as you move between his legs, your mouth ghosting over the crease of his thigh. He spreads them automatically, lazy and loose, cock already half-hard and still wet with your juices. A drop of cum beads at the tip, glistening.

“Shit,” he breathes, pushing a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum in amusement, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock—slow and soft, just enough to make him twitch. Then again. Firmer this time. And when you wrap your lips around the head and suck, you feel the ripple it sends through his entire body.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he hisses. 

You take your time. Lap him up, your cum and his combined.  Lick up the length of him again, then back down to the base, tongue swirling as he expands in your mouth. The weight of him is perfect against your tongue, the way his girth stretches your lips obscene but delicious.

His hand finds the back of your head, not forcing—just resting there. “God, baby… that dirty mouth…”

You bob your head, eyes flicking up to meet his. He looks fucking ruined already, jaw slack, stomach trembling with every flick of your tongue. You clench your throat against his tip and feel him jolt. You love the way his body reacts, the little tremors in his thighs, the tension in his neck.

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Just like that—fuck, you’re acting like a real slut right now.”

Yes, fuck. You choke involuntarily, swallowing against his tip. He groans, lips lining up into a smirk. You take him deeper, popping him off first to admire your handiwork, cock swollen and red. Let spit drip down your chin. Let your throat work around him as your hand pumps what you can’t take. You can feel him losing it—his moans getting louder, filthier, raspier. He swears under his breath, head thrown back against the pillows.

“Shit, shit—I’m gonna cum,” he warns, eyes fluttering open to find yours again. “Swallow for me, baby. Be my good fuckin—fuuuuck—”

You take him in faster, tongue firmly pressed against that vein as you slide up and down keeping your lips vacuum sealed, and finally—

He comes with a choked-off groan, hips jerking, both hands tangled in your hair now as his cock pulses on your tongue. You take it all. Every filthy, salty, slimy drop. You swallow without breaking eye contact. Brandish your tongue with pride.

He blinks down at you, stars in his eyes as he releases the grip on your scalp to move to your chin. “Shit. You’re unreal.”

You smile. 

You wish this was real.

Somehow he convinces you to move to the bed so he can clean you up. He emerges from your tiny toilet with a warm washcloth, damping it against your leaking cunt.

“C’mere,” he lays on his side, gesturing you to move into him. Alarm bells sound in your head but you can’t bring yourself to stay away when your lips are already towards each other like magnets.

Yoongi’s hand is splayed across your lower back, fingers idly tracing soft, lazy shapes into your skin. His other arm is tucked behind his head, smug and relaxed and still looking thoroughly fucked out.

The night goes on like that. You kiss, cuddle. Talk about small things—more favorites, random things—the suspicious little mole by his arm, scary things—his upcoming military service. And you share with him your own—favorites, why you sleep with an alien plushie, your uncertain future with your job and the economy going to shit.

Hours after, your heart is unrecognizable, suddenly morphing into the shape of someone you just met. It should feel wrong. You’re still not sure why it doesn’t.

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else, I fear,” he says, voice rough, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

Go away, butterflies! You snort into his shoulder. “Pshh don’t lie.”

“Why would I do that?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him. “Okay.”

There’s a beat of silence—comfortable, but loaded. His thumb still circles lazily over your spine.

“You should give me your number.”

You consider him for just a moment. But decide to shake your head. Not because you wanna see him sweat, but because you resolve not to. 

His brow shoots up to his forehead like he didn’t expect that response.

“If you’re still thinking about me after two years…” you say, not quite looking at him, “Then find me. Just like you did today.”

He huffs, repeating his request. “Or you could just give me your number.”

You meet his gaze now, seriousness in your eyes. “I’m not gonna do that.”

“Why? You were hustling me for it in the boat…” he teases with a sly grin.

“Shut up, I just wanted to help you find your fish.”

He pokes his tongue in the inside of his cheek, still waiting on you, deciphering that look.

“Look. I don’t want to wait around for your text or your call. I’m not that girl.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “I mean, you won’t have to. I do plan to call. And I’m a pretty good texter, actually.”

You roll your eyes, tracing a slow line over his chest with your fingertip. “Be for real. You look like the type who won’t charge their phone for days.”

He gasps dramatically. “You’re… super wrong. And I have a fucking cool library of cat memes. You’ll be missing out.”

“I think I’ll live.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

There’s a moment. He tilts his head toward you, so adorable, so boyfriend, like you’re an old couple bickering about something mundane, like who’s gonna check the front door if it’s locked. Certainly not a conversation that basically dictated if you will ever see each other again. 

Then before you know it, you jut your lip, unable to stop yourself from acting cutely.

“Kiss me?”

He grins, cat-like. “I’ll do you one better. I can also give you tongue.”

You groan. “God, you’re cringe. You sure you have fans?”

“A fucking lot of em.” He hovers above you, his inky bangs tickling your forehead. “Shut up and take it.”

Tongue teasing against the seam of your lips, he kisses you breathless for the hundredth time tonight. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, deepening it just enough, with a lot of tongue, as promised.

It’s that feeling.

You could stay here forever.

And that’s the problem.

For now, you let it be what it is. Just a moment where your body fits perfectly against his, your laugh harmonizes with his, and it feels like—just maybe—you were really meant to find each other in the middle of the sea.

You’re both hovering by the door, breaking every rule in the one night stand playbook. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this..

But it fucking does.

He’s dressed the same way he came in last night—cap tugged low over damp hair that smells faintly of your shampoo. You’re in your oversized T-shirt and sleep shorts, bare feet brushing the cold floor. It makes the contrast feel starker somehow—him stepping back into the world, you still rooted in this little bubble of what the night became.

“You think we'll see each other again?” he mumbles, leaning his shoulder beside the door. It’s a quiet question, almost tossed out like it’s nothing.

“You’re you,” you say simply. “You have the world in your hands. It really just depends on one thing.”

His brows lift, a flicker of interest breaking through the fatigue in his face. “And what’s that?”

“How bad you want this.”

That makes him pause.

His eyes dip down your body like he can’t help it. Then his teeth sink into his bottom lip. 

“Don’t make this harder,” he huffs.

“I’m not,” you whisper back. “I’m just being honest.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely audible.

You shrug, trying for casual even though your chest feels like it’s about to collapse. “But you have to.”

And that’s all there is to it.

He turns, opens the door.

But he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. He stands there, hoodie sleeves too long around his hands, looking back at you one last time.

His gaze doesn’t wander. It lands right on your face, and stays.

“Maybe next time,” he says, just like he did in the island.

You nod, barely. “Maybe.” You try a small smile.

He hesitates for a second more. Tries that small smile to mirror your own.

Then he leaves. And this time, it’s goodbye.

The door closes with a soft click, and the room is too quiet all over again, everything intact like he was never even there. Except he left with maybe just a tiny piece of you and replaced it with a bit of sparkle that you don’t notice immediately until you step back in your room.

That morning, you fire off a text to Soomchai asking why he gave a stranger your address and demand he send you a generous portion of his seafood pad thai as a peace offering. He obliges.

🗓️ June 2025 -📍 Phuket, Thailand

Life goes on. You didn’t have much choice in that.

The tours picked up again after the rainy season, but not in the way they used to. Fewer tourists, more locals. The occasional influencer. You learned to smile a little brighter. Talk a little faster.

But when things got tight—and God, they got tight—you picked up a second job teaching English online. What started as survival became something sustainable. Eventually, something yours. Your own business, your own pace, your own students across time zones who asked if Thailand really was that beautiful. You always smiled when they did. You tell them how sugary sweet the watermelons are.

And then there was the bracelet.

The one Yoongi left on the nightstand without a word. Understated but expensive in a way you only noticed when you turned it over in your hand and saw the brand pressed into the clasp. You kept it for months. Until the rent was due and the electricity bill was on its last notice and your fridge was nothing but leftover rice, soy sauce packets, and a bottle of beer.

The pawnshop paid you enough to stay afloat for four months.

And then last week—after months of hard work, after finding your footing again, you walked back into that same pawnshop and bought it back. The bracelet. 

Not that he’d ever come looking for it. But it felt right having it again. Like you were reclaiming something. Maybe not him, but you.

You think of Yoongi sometimes. Not in the hopeful, aching, delulu way you used to.

He’s no longer in headlines. Gone stone cold on socials. Even ARMY wants to do a recon mission to find him. But he’s doing his bid to serve his country so the absence must have been necessary for him. At least you hope so.

You play his music when you’re cooking, or on the rare evenings you chill on your balcony with a cold one and the humid breeze and his husky voice and the sweet piano melody lulls you to sleep.

It wasn’t clear then, but it is now. He simply was a blip on your timeline. An unforgettable 24 hours that changed the pace of your heartbeat. And you don’t hold it against him anymore.

If anything, he reminds you of your favorite line from one of his songs: “Future’s gonna be okay.”

And deep down, you really believe that.

It was one of those nights. Adele was blaring through your bluetooth speaker. And you’re out singing the shit outta her in the kitchen, lyrics be damned, crooning in your frilly little apron with a wooden spatula being used as your mic.

“Never mind I’ll find, someone like youuuuu…

I wish nothing but the best for youuuuuuu toooooo

Bla bla bla I bet I remember what you said

La la la sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead…”

It’s probably the onions but you’re now crying and it feels phenomenal and oddly cathartic.

Your phone chimes with a text.

Soomchai: Hey. Sorry I know it’s late. Stopping by to drop off dessert.

Strange, but okay. Everyone likes a freebie. Especially when it’s sugar.

You’re rinsing dishes when the doorbell comes.

You wipe your hands, heart racing for a reason you can’t name. You open the door.

And he’s there.

Not Soomchai.

Min Yoongi.

Wearing a hoodie just like when you last saw him. His hair is a bit shorter, face slightly more gaunt and just as guarded. There’s a weariness behind his eyes—one you recognize instantly.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t step forward.

Says one thing as you struggle to regulate the thumping of your heart.

“Dessert?”

You stand there, barefoot and blinking at him, stunned into silence. You want to ask why now. You want to ask what changed. But instead, you step aside. Quietly. 

He walks in, a plastic bag with dessert in tow. Takes off his shoes. Looks around like the space is familiar and foreign all at once.

And then—

“I tried to forget you,” he says, voice a bit raw. “Turns out I can’t.”

You swallow hard, emotion clawing up your throat.

“Me too,” you say softly, lifting your wrist so he can see the glimmer of his bracelet. You haven't removed it since you got it back.

He nods, walking closer. He hesitates just long enough to make your pulse quicken.

You stare at him, waiting.

“Wanna try this again,” he says. “If you still want to.”

You don’t answer right away. You just step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in the warm cotton of his hoodie. He exhales, slow and shaky, like he wasn’t sure you'd say yes. How could you not? He walks in with a pretty face, and even prettier words.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed you too,” he replies.

And that night, he proves how much.

“Butterflyfish,” you whisper.

“Hm?” His voice is drowsy, the sound vibrating softly against your forehead.

You tilt your head back, just enough to glance up at him—but his eyes are already closed, lids heavy, expression peaceful in that half-dream state right before sleep.

“The fish you were looking for,” you say quietly. “Back then.”

There’s a small pause. A breath. Then a soft, sleepy grunt of remembrance.

“Ah.”

His arms tighten around you, warm and sure, like he’s tethering himself to this moment. To you.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You feel it more than hear it��his lips brushing your hair, the words settling between your ribs.

“For helping me find what I was looking for.”

The End :)

A/N: … and now we know deez fish. 🤭

I hope this story was like a brief vacay in the tropics just like in Yoongi’s vlog, and made you feel like you were there in the moment with him. 

Well—tell me what you think! Favorite parts? Please leave me a note and reblog if you enjoyed this story! 🙏🏼😘

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human. xo

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[lieslab]

Right now, I wish you were here with me

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Han X gn reader

Summary: After an argument, your boyfriend assumes you left for good.

Genre: Comfort/hurt

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Honestly, I really wanted to write more for this request, but every time I tried to write certain scenes, I felt so sad. I think we've all seen clips of Han when he's not feeling the best and that makes me want to cry. It turns out, I feel like a horrible person when I try to write sad Han. I'm afraid this is as good as you're going to get until I figure out how to wrangle my emotions 🥲 (I am so sorry)

_ _ _

Tucked between the ventricles of Han’s heart, he always feared losing you. Without you, there would be no him. When he fell in love, it happened so quickly. So fast, he didn’t know how to live without you. He wasn’t just fond of you, it was much deeper than that. Nobody would know him without knowing you. 

Last night’s argument shattered his heart. The two of you were exhausted in your own different ways. At the company building, he’d been dancing his heart out and recording like crazy. On the other hand, you had been staying over later and later for work. Not because you wanted to, but because your boss requested you to work some overtime. 

Exhausted and tired, neither of you felt good lately. The time shared between the two of you, it became limited. Date nights fell away. The space the two of you carved out for one another, it became harder and harder to keep. 

Meals for two shifted into meals for one. You ate cold leftovers at your job. Han grabbed something warm from the building’s canteen. Meals were eaten between tasks and with bleary eyes. Hung heads. Pulled muscles. It never ended. 

When you arrived home, both of you were exhausted. Housework felt overwhelming. It all spiraled out of control. Bodies ached. Brown eye bags morphed into a plum purple. Love between the two of you started to become secondary. 

It’s not that you hated Han Jisung and he didn’t hate you. Life was much more difficult when life tugged you in two different directions. Instead of making your relationship work properly, the two of you were barely coasting along. 

Your days off consisted of housework. Sometimes Han was called back into the studio for one reason, or another. Occasionally, your boss called and seeked your input on something back in the office. 

So where did the two of you find time for each other outside of that? You still loved one another. Your hands reached out in the middle of your hazy sleep. You grabbed the fabric of his shirt in the darkened room. 

After getting up from the bathroom, Han would grab your waist and tug you back in his arms, right where you belonged. His head tucked into your neck, the warmth of his breath would lull your half-asleep self back into a blissful sleep. Two bodies in harmony, but the love sprinkled between the two of you became few and far between. 

It came to a boiling point the previous night. You asked Han something. A grumbling and grumpy mess, he mumbled a response. You were already at your wits end and when he didn’t respond properly, you snapped. He angrily yelled back. Between the two of you, it rolled into something unbearable. 

Both of you separated and seeped in your own hurt. The argument tore through the elephant in the room. Maybe things were falling apart and it wasn’t meant to be. Two different people, two different directions, and if you couldn’t fix it now, you’d never be able to fix it again. 

You fell asleep first. Exhausted and curled up on the far side of the bed, Han thought he might cry. Your arms tucked around your body and you curled into yourself, clearly hurt and upset by his words from earlier. 

It stung his heart. He didn’t mean to take his anger out on you. You didn’t mean to buck heads from your exhaustion. Two people at their wits end, it didn’t bode together well. 

He cautiously slipped into the bed. He stared at you for a brief moment, longingly wanting to grab you from behind and tug you to his chest, but he didn’t. The idea of tugging you close to him and you pulling away half-asleep, he couldn’t stand it. 

Instead, he shifted around and faced the closet. His back to you, neither of you looked at the other. He sniffled and pawed at his nose with the back of his hand. Maybe tomorrow, the two of you could talk and try again. 

~ ~ ~ 

The previous evening’s argument drifted away from the haze clinging to his brain. Han reached out with shut eyes, trying to find your body and pull you closer to him. When his arm met an empty bed and cold blankets, his eyes groggily opened. “Baby?” He croaked. 

You didn’t respond. Your side of the bed sat with tangled blankets and an imprint in your pillow. Worried, he got up and glanced over at the shared bathroom. The door sat open and the room laid in darkness. 

“Babe?” He shoved himself up and sauntered out into the living room. From the halls, the living room, and the kitchen, you weren’t there.

He panicked, calling your name louder. Your usual shoes weren’t beside his. His heart hammered in his chest and he rushed back into the bedroom. With a shaky hand, he searched everywhere on your dresser. Your car keys and wallet were gone. 

You were gone and his heart burst. 

~ ~ ~ 

As you worked, you checked your phone like usual. You couldn’t help it. You were used to sneaking and responding to Han’s messages, but they never showed up. You frowned, worried that he was still upset about last night’s argument. You never met a word of it, but as time went on and he didn’t text, your worry grew stronger. 

When you could leave, you packed your stuff up quickly and hurried home. You shoved the key in the lock and twisted, trying to get inside as quickly as possible. You kicked off your shoes, nearly tripping over them in the process. 

“Jisung?” Your voice echoed throughout the living room. The TV stayed off. The kitchen didn’t buzz with the gurgle of the rice cooker. Everything felt too still. “Jisung?” 

You rushed to your shared bedroom. Your heart bloomed with worry and you shoved the door open. A human-sized ball laid with multiple blue blankets covered over their body. “Han?” 

You hurried over, grabbing the blankets and yanking them off. Beneath them, your boyfriend’s teary eyes met yours. “Why did you do that?” 

“What?” 

“Why did you leave me? I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get upset. Please don’t break up with me.” His bottom lip trembled and it broke your heart. 

“Leave you?” You reached out, gently brushing away a fallen tear. “Baby, I’m not going to leave you. I forgot to leave you a note this morning. I was late for work and left in a rush.” 

“Huh?” 

“I must not have sent you the text earlier. I swore I texted you. I waited for a text from you all day, but you never sent me anything.” 

“I-I thought you were mad at me because of last night.” 

Your face fell and guilt sunk your heart. Strands of your hair shook as you shook your head. “No! No! No! I’m so sorry. I swear, I’m not leaving you. Last night was stupid. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset over something so petty. I’m sorry.” 

“You're not mad at me?” 

“No. I can never be mad at you for long. You’re my biggest weakness. I thought you knew that.” You sank to your knees, so you were even with his face near the mattress. “You’ll always be a weak point for me.” 

“I thought I fucked us up forever.” 

“I’m really sorry. I’ll do better, so this won’t happen again. I shouldn’t have started a fight last night. It was so pointless.” You leaned forward, letting your lips press against the warmth of his forehead. 

His eyes fluttered shut. Love swaddled him once more. He reached out and gently grabbed your upper arm. “Lay with me?” 

You pulled away and shoved yourself onto the bed with a knee. You flopped over his body and laid beside him. He shifted, rolling over so he could face you. Your limbs tangled over one another and you gripped him tight. His faint sniffles cut through the hum of the ceiling fan. 

No matter how exhausted and tired you were, you could never give these little moments up; not even if you tried. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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[kysstar]

SALT ON YOUR CROWN | CHAPTER ONE : : PLAN GONE SOUTH

pairing : : pirate!kim hongjoong x princess!reader

series synopsis : : a pirate crew kidnaps the wrong girl—princess instead of merchant’s daughter. she offers gold for hiding, not ransom. captain hongjoong agrees, reluctantly. she’s fire on his ship, danger to his rules. one month aboard may ruin them both.

genre : : pirate au, enemies to lovers, slow burn, captor x captive (kinda?)

chapter warnings : : mentions of death, marriage talk, a little bit of violence

word count : : 3.8k

[series masterlist]

—“Merchant’s daughter,” Hongjoong said, kicking his boots up on the table, eyes flicking between the crew. “In and out. No blood, no mess, no drama.”

“Boring,” Wooyoung drawled, already peeling an orange he’d stolen off some dock vendor. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun doesn’t pay,” Seonghwa replied smoothly from where he leaned against the map wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Gold does.”

Yunho snorted. “I’ll take boring if it means a warm meal and dry socks for a week.”

The ship creaked beneath them, anchored just far enough off the coast to stay unnoticed. Moonlight cut across the war table, highlighting inked maps, a list of docking schedules, and a crude sketch of the merchant’s estate. The target: Hyeon Jisoo, daughter of the East Trade Baron. Young, pampered, used to saying yes and hearing nothing but yes in return.

Easy snatch. Quiet ransom. No one dies.

“We hit the estate during the shift change. Guards rotate at midnight,” Yeosang said, tapping a finger on the paper. His tone was flat, focused. “North entrance is least guarded. Servants come and go there. We wear house colors, sneak in quiet.”

“And sneak out quieter,” Mingi added, chewing the end of a pencil. “You sure the girl’s worth it?”

“She’s worth a vault of it,” Jongho replied, arms folded, steady as ever. “Her father’s been flaunting coin for years. Time someone took a slice.”

Hongjoong nodded. “We don’t need the whole vault. Just a taste. We hold her for a week, send the note, get paid. Then we drop her off at some quiet beach with her fancy shoes and let her cry into silk.”

The crew chuckled. Except Seonghwa, who just gave Hongjoong a look. “You sure this won’t cause waves?”

“We don’t need to cause waves, Hwa. We need to disappear before the tide turns.”

A beat of silence, and then Hongjoong leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“Wooyoung, Yeosang, San—you’re in.”

San perked up immediately. “Finally.”

“Why me?” Yeosang asked, not protesting, just curious.

“You’re quiet. You don’t get cocky. You think.”

“What about me?” Wooyoung grinned, teeth flashing.

“You never think, but people like your face.” Hongjoong smirked. “You’ll charm the guards, flash a coin, ask for directions to the wine cellar. Get their attention somewhere else.”

“And San?”

“Muscle,” Hongjoong said simply. “And backup when charm fails.”

San beamed like he’d just been knighted. Wooyoung rolled his eyes.

“You’ve got until nightfall to prep. Masks, clothes, weapons—discreet ones,” Seonghwa added, side-eyeing Mingi who already looked too excited.

Hongjoong stood. “Remember: we want the merchant’s daughter. Not a scene, not a body count.”

“Easy job,” San repeated.

Hongjoong didn’t smile. “There’s no such thing.”

—"You can't be serious."

Your voice cuts through the chamber like a blade. The silence that follows is heavy, strained. Across the room, your mother’s expression is tight, and your father doesn’t even look at you—he simply stares at the glass of wine in his hand as though it might answer for him.

But you’re already walking forward, heat in your chest, voice rising. “Prince Chanwoo? You expect me to marry him?”

“He is a respected ruler,” your mother says sharply, lips thinning. “And this marriage secures peace.”

“Peace built on fear,” you shoot back. “You know what happened to his last two wives—queens, not common girls. They couldn’t bear him sons and ended up hanging from the palace walls.”

“Rumors,” your father says finally. “You’d do well not to repeat them.”

“They’re not rumors.” You take a step closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. “They're warnings.”

"Enough," your mother snaps. "You will not raise your voice to your father. You will do your duty."

“Duty?” you echo, bitterness curling around the word. “Is that what you call throwing me to a man who smiles like a snake and kills his wives in secret?”

“He won’t hurt you,” your father says, though he sounds tired rather than convinced. “You are different. You are royal.”

“So were they,” you say coldly.

“I won't do it.” The finality in your voice cracks through the air like thunder. “I won’t marry him.”

“You will,” your father says, rising to his feet now, towering with the weight of the crown behind him. “You will marry him and protect this kingdom.”

“I would rather be stolen by pirates,” you snap. “At least they don’t hide their knives behind crowns.”

“Enough!” Your mother slams her hand on the table, trembling with fury. “You are acting like a child—”

“You are treating me like property!”

That’s when you hear him—your brother’s voice, sharp and steady as ever. “She’s right.”

Taeyang steps into the hall, standing beside you with his chin high and his eyes locked on your parents. “She’s not a bargaining chip. And Chanwoo—he’s dangerous. We all know it.”

“Taeyang, stay out of this,” your father warns.

“I won’t,” he says, and there’s steel beneath his calm. “If she dies in that castle, it’ll be your names they chant in the streets.”

Your father glares. “She is a princess. She will marry where we decide.”

You stare at him, your blood turning to ice. “No. You may hold the crown—but you don’t own me.”

Then you turn and walk away. The corridor is quiet compared to the storm you just left behind. You don’t stop until you reach your chambers, heart pounding. Two maids rush forward, startled, but you say nothing, only sit at the vanity, fists clenched in your lap.

Moments later, Taeyang steps in. “You shouldn’t have said that,” he says, but his voice is soft.

“I meant every word.” Your voice cracks. The maids begin brushing your hair in silence, knowing better than to interrupt. “They’re sending me to die, brother.”

He sighs and crouches beside you, watching your reflection in the mirror. “I’ll talk to them again. There has to be a way out.”

“There isn’t,” you say quietly. “Father’s made up his mind. You know how he is.”

Taeyang presses his lips into a line. He does know.

“I just need to get out,” you murmur. “Clear my head. Jisoo’s hosting a small gathering. Nothing grand. I’ll go there.”

He nods. “You should. But take guards.”

You smile weakly. “Always the responsible one.”

Taeyang chuckles and ruffles your hair, undoing the maid’s hard work. She huffs under her breath, but you laugh.

“You’re the only reason I haven’t lost my mind,” you tell him.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t burn down the palace.”

—Jisoo greets you with a grin the second you step into the courtyard. The space is warm with low lantern light, scattered laughter drifting between stone columns and silk curtains. A few familiar faces linger near the fountain, sipping wine and speaking in hushed tones.

“You made it,” she says, linking her arm through yours without waiting. “I was beginning to think your parents had locked you in the west tower.”

“They nearly did,” you mutter, earning a snort from her.

You walk slowly beside her, the fabric of your gown brushing against the tiled floor. It’s a deep wine-red, cinched at the waist. Your hair is twisted up, pinned with pearls, and the only pieces of jewelry you're wearing are a few rings and a ruby necklace.

Jisoo pulls you toward a small table tucked beneath a tree blooming with night jasmine. “Sit. Eat something. Complain. I’m here for all of it.”

—The party hummed with low music and soft conversation, the kind that filled spaces with comfort and masked intentions. No one noticed the three new arrivals—why would they? They looked the part. Rich silks, clean boots, smiles just wide enough to be trusted. They moved through the crowd like shadows dipped in gold.

Wooyoung was already flirting with a girl by the fountain, wine glass in hand, his coat perfectly tailored, his grin sharper than any blade he carried.

“I give it five minutes before someone offers him a marriage proposal,” Yeosang muttered under his breath, leaning against a column, eyes scanning every window, every guard, every possible exit.

San adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, the only one of the three who actually looked uncomfortable in noblewear. He tugged at the collar, eyes flicking to the second floor balcony.

“She’s supposed to be up there. Third door on the left. Servants say she doesn’t like parties. Stays out of sight.”

“Relatable,” Yeosang said.

San snorted. “Let’s move before someone recognizes you from a wanted poster.”

They slipped away from the light, Wooyoung breaking off with a wink and a whispered promise he had no intention of keeping. They met near the staircase.

“North wing,” Yeosang murmured. “Rooms upstairs. One of them has to be hers.”

“She’s not out here,” San added. “I’ve checked twice.”

“Then she’s inside,” Wooyoung said. “Let’s move before some duke starts trying to make small talk again.”

They split off again, slipping into the villa like they belonged. Servants didn’t stop them. Nobles glanced and looked away. No one questioned three handsome men in fine clothing.

—The window is open. You’re leaning against the frame, one hand curled around the stem of a half-empty wine glass, the other clutching a small tin of sweets you swiped from the kitchens when no one was looking. The air is easier to breathe out here—cool night breeze brushing your skin, jasmine blooming somewhere below. Inside, the party still hums, low and dull, like voices through thick velvet.

Jisoo had gone to fetch something—probably more wine, or maybe the pearl hair comb she’d been gushing about earlier. You told her you’d wait. You weren’t expecting her to take this long.

You take a slow sip, eyes drifting toward the stars, when something shifts behind you.

It’s small. A breath, maybe. A whisper of movement. But it pulls every nerve in your body taut.

You turn—and that’s the last thing you manage to do.

There’s a blur of movement and a sharp crack of air. Pain blossoms behind your eyes, sudden and white-hot, and the world spins. You don’t even have time to scream.

Yeosang lunges forward just in time to catch you before your head hits the floor. His arms close around your waist, steadying the dead weight of your body with a grunt as he eases you down gently.

“Shit,” he mutters, checking your pulse, brushing your hair away from your face. You’re breathing—shallow and even—but your brow is already furrowed like you’re dreaming something terrible.

“She moved,” San says, still braced like he’s expecting a second wave. “Could’ve called for help.”

“You didn’t have to hit her that hard,” Wooyoung snaps, pulling a thick cloak from his pack and kneeling beside the two of them. “She’s half your size. Are you trying to kill the ransom?”

“She’ll wake up,” San mutters, avoiding Wooyoung’s glare.

“That’s not the point—”

“Enough,” Yeosang says quietly. He’s still watching your face, frowning slightly. “Are you sure this is the girl?”

Wooyoung shrugs, already pulling the cloak over your dress to hide the deep crimson silk. “Matches the description. Right place, right time. Rich, young, pretty.”

Yeosang doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flick down to the details—the way your hair’s been pinned, the rings on your fingers, the kind of fabric that shimmers when it moves. It doesn’t scream ‘merchant’s daughter.’ It screams something else. Something heavier. Costlier.

“She’s dressed too fine,” he says, low.

“It’s a party,” Wooyoung replies, tying the cloak. “Baron’s daughter wants to peacock, so she does. Doesn’t change the job.”

Yeosang hesitates, then nods slowly. “Let’s just move before anyone notices she’s missing.”

San’s already at the door, checking the hallway. “Clear.”

“Good. Grab her,” Wooyoung says, rising to his feet. “And this time, maybe don’t knock anyone else unconscious unless they swing first.”

Yeosang scoops you up, careful but fast, adjusting his grip so your head rests against his shoulder. You don’t stir. Just a soft, pained sound, barely audible.

They disappear into the night without another word.

—Below deck, the room was dim and swaying with the gentle lull of the sea. Lanterns swung from beams overhead, casting low golden arcs across the ship’s worn interior. The air was thick with salt, wood, and the faint trace of dried blood that clung no matter how often they scrubbed.

You were still unconscious—tied to a chair with thick rope, wrists bound, head slumped slightly to the side. Your cloak had fallen open during the rush, revealing a flash of silk beneath. The only sound from you was the slow, steady rhythm of breathing.

The crew gathered in a loose half-circle around you, talking low among themselves.

“She went down faster than I thought,” San said, arms crossed. “Didn’t even make a sound.”

Wooyoung leaned against a crate, clearly pleased with himself. “I told you she was the one. Clean job, no fuss.”

Mingi crouched beside the chair, eyeing you curiously. “Looks... a little different than I expected.”

“Maybe she’s just dressed nice for the party,” Jongho offered.

“Merchant’s kids always look expensive,” Yunho muttered, but there was a faint line between his brows now. He wasn’t entirely convinced.

Footsteps echoed from above—the unmistakable sound of boots against the stairs.

Seonghwa descended first, cool and composed as always. Behind him came Hongjoong, coat swinging behind him, hair wind-tossed from the deck. He looked tired, but alert. Captain mode.

“Let’s see the prize, then,” Seonghwa said, stepping into the lantern light.

Wooyoung straightened up. “Got her clean,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t even have to chase her.”

Seonghwa gave a short nod, eyes flicking over your form, scanning for any signs of resistance or damage.

Hongjoong approached slowly, gaze narrowing. “Nice work,” he said absently, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth. “Maybe you aren’t as useless as you look, Woo.”

Then he crouched down in front of you. The smirk faded.

His eyes locked on the necklace around your neck—a thin, delicate chain of gold, holding a ruby the size of a tear. His hand moved before he spoke, fingers brushing the pendant gently, almost thoughtfully. He held it for a beat, then let it go, and reached up instead to tilt your chin toward him.

Your head lolled slightly. The light caught your face full on now—cheekbones, long lashes, the faintest frown still resting in your unconscious expression.

San stepped forward slightly. “Captain? Something wrong?”

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away. He just stared at your face for a long, heavy moment. Then, slowly, he stood.

His sigh was sharp, tired, edged with frustration. His voice, though, was calm. Too calm.

“What necklace,” he said, “is she wearing?”

Seonghwa stepped in and bent down, lifting the ruby gently with two fingers. His breath hitched. “Ruby,” he said under his breath.

The air shifted. Wooyoung glanced at Yeosang, eyes widening.

“Ruby,” Hongjoong echoed, with a dry chuckle. He ran a hand through his hair and turned toward the wall. “And who wears rubies?”

The silence stretched. Jongho, voice quieter than usual, answered. “The royal family.”

There was a pause—half a heartbeat—and then Hongjoong slammed a vase off the nearby shelf. It shattered against the wood with a crack that echoed through the whole hull, sending pieces scattering across the floor.

“You three idiots,” Hongjoong seethed, not yelling, just loud enough to cut. “You kidnapped a member of the royal family!”

No one spoke. They all knew better.

There were times on this ship when you joked, when you laughed at your captain’s strange moods, when you nudged at the line for fun. This wasn’t one of them.

This was where you zipped your mouth and hoped the storm passed.

Hongjoong’s boots hit the wooden floor hard as he stomped up the steps, the tension in his shoulders visible even from behind. Seonghwa followed a pace behind, hands folded neatly behind his back, expression unreadable. One by one, the rest of the crew moved after them, heads lowered, glances thrown, but no one speaking just yet.

They spilled out onto the main deck where the moon hung fat over the sea, and the wind tugged at their coats and hair like the ocean itself was eavesdropping.

Wooyoung was the first to speak, tentatively. “Couldn’t we just ask for ransom?” he said, voice lighter than it should’ve been. “She’s a princess. They’ll pay more than we could ever dream of.”

Seonghwa scoffed, loud and short. “They wouldn’t send gold, Wooyoung. They’d send ships. And soldiers. And cannons with our names carved into the damn balls.”

“She’s not just a royal,” Yeosang muttered, glancing out at the dark horizon. “She’s the kind of royal they hang people for touching. All eight of us, strung up before we make landfall.”

“So we dump her,” Mingi said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Right now. Overboard. Cut our losses, vanish before the tide turns.”

“And when they find her body floating?” Jongho asked, frowning. “You think they’ll just shrug and say ‘oh well’?”

“I say we drop her back where we got her,” Jongho added, voice low. “Slip her back into the courtyard and pretend we never saw her.”

“We knocked her out and dragged her across a harbor,” San cut in. “You think no one noticed the princess is missing by now? Going back would be suicide.”

The group fell into silence. Hongjoong stood near the helm, staring into the night like it might offer him something he could work with. A way out. But all it gave him was the sound of ropes snapping against sails and his own rising pulse.

He hated royals. Hated everything about them. Their smug faces, their soft hands, their twisted power disguised as charm. And now one of them was tied to a chair on his ship.

His lips curled back in frustration. And then—noise. Muffled at first, then louder. A scuff. A thud. The creak of ropes moving when they shouldn’t be, from below deck.

Hongjoong groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Great,” he muttered. “Our princess is awake.”

He didn’t turn around. Just waved a hand lazily over his shoulder. “Get her. Before she breaks something.”

Yunho and Mingi immediately moved, boots thudding as they headed down the steps and into the dim lower deck.

They reached the room where they left you. The chair was empty, only thing on it were ropes and the cloak.

“Mingi—” Yunho started.

But Mingi had already turned—just in time to catch the heel of your foot directly to his face. He staggered back with a grunt, blood blooming from his nose.

You bolted through the narrow corridor, gown bunched in your fists, heels clacking like gunshots against the floorboards. The ship was a maze of doors and passageways, and you had no idea where you were or where the exit was—but forward was better than trapped.

Your breath came in sharp bursts, the ache in your head dulling with every rush of adrenaline. Panic clawed at your throat, but you pushed it down. Run now. Breathe later.

One second you were turning a corner, and the next you were being yanked back into a chest, a cold ring of metal pressing hard against your temple. Your body froze instantly.

“Make a move, princess,” a voice hissed against your ear. Low. Dangerous. Calm in the way that promised nothing good. “And, I’ll blow your brains out.”

Hongjoong’s arm stayed locked across your ribs, anchoring you against him with unshakable grip. The cold kiss of the gun never left your temple. Not even when he raised his voice, directing it toward the deck where his crew had gathered like guilty schoolboys caught in a mistake no one dared name yet.

“Because someone had their heads up their asses,” Hongjoong said, voice steady but biting, “we kidnapped the wrong girl.”

No one moved. Not a single shift of boot or breath.

“I don’t want a stuck-up royal bleeding on my ship,” he continued, tone razor-sharp. “So we’re going to sail close to shore, drop her off at her golden palace, and pretend this never happened. She won’t say a word. Right, princess?”

Your breath caught. Your mouth parted. He wasn’t bluffing. He didn’t even glance at you when he said it—he’d already decided.

The idea of returning tightened something in your throat. The palace gates flashing before your eyes. Your mother’s pinched look. Your father’s barely-concealed disgust. The stiff silence they would demand while attendants wiped blood from your brow and powdered the bruises under your eyes.

And then the ceremony. The binding. Prince Chanwoo.

You saw his face in your mind, that soft practiced smile that never reached his eyes, that always left your skin cold. You saw the last queens, portraits now—painted high and pale, hidden in shadowed corners of the palace where no one spoke their names.

No.

Your body twisted suddenly in Hongjoong’s grip. “You can’t send me back.”

That made him look at you. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “What did you say?”

“Don’t send me back,” you said again, louder this time. “Keep me here. I’ll pay you. Whatever you want—just name your price.”

He shoved you then—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to turn you—pinning you against the gunwale. The sea roared below, black and endless. You looked down and your breath hitched. One wrong move and you’d be part of it.

“What game are you playing?” he growled.

You lifted your chin. “I’ll pay anything. Just let me stay on this ship. Keep me away from the kingdom.”

There was a beat of silence, long and heavy. Then, he tilted his head, lips curling with dry amusement. “And why would a princess want to stay with a bunch of pirates?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him. Neither of you moved. Somewhere above, the crew waited, pretending they weren’t listening. The ship creaked, low and slow. Every second felt like it dragged along the edge of a blade.

Finally, Hongjoong pulled back. He stepped away from you in one smooth, practiced motion. But his eyes never left your face.

You reached for your hand, pulling off the ring you’d worn since you were sixteen. Thick-banded gold, three flawless diamonds, wrapped in a loop of white-gold filigree. A gift from the Queen Mother. Worth more than most small ships.

You held it out. Hongjoong went to take it—but you pulled it back an inch.

“This,” you said clearly, “is the price. For not telling anyone who I am. For letting me stay.”

The air shifted. Again. The crew watched, quiet and stunned. The fire behind Hongjoong's eyes flared again. A long pause. His hand curled into a fist.

Then he closed his eyes. “Fine,” The word landed like a stone.

You placed the ring in his palm. He turned it in his fingers, inspecting it with a slow, careful look, like it might burn him. Then that familiar twist of his mouth returned, cynical and sharp. He gave you a shallow, sarcastic bow.

“Welcome aboard, princess.”

© kysstar

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[cheriladycl01]

Hi Friends! - Daniel Ricciardo x CastMember! Reader

Plot: Daniel, Lando, Max and Oscar decide to take a trip to Disney World

You'd worked at disney pretty much since you left school. It was the only way for you to afford your fees in University and was the most felixible work in Orlando.

You worked in the Battu area currently but you'd originally worked in the British Pavilion in Epcot as a Cultural Exchange, but once life seemed to become a little more steady in Orlando you moved to Hollywood Studios but just in the Star Wars section, a true passion of yours.

You got to dress like a rebel everyday and walk round with Chewy, Rey and the other face characters and got to make guests experiences much more fun than they were. A lot of your interactions were the same, mostly with younger guests who asked you questions about the world and where you came from which you had a line of easy answers, but today had been a very imprompt heavy day.

First, because of an accident near the First Order area, Kylo Ren and two storm troopers were forced to walk through your designated area, meaning you and Rey had to act like you were hiding from him. Many of the guests around you got involved talking to the troopers to distract them while you and Rey managed to escape.

Your lunch break consided of a location special, a Ronto Wrap and Tattooine Sunset which you didn't have everyday but it was a nice treat everynow and then.

"Hey Y/N!" Your manager smiles at you and you grin, wiping the sauce from around your mouth before gesturing her to take a seat opposite you.

"How are you Linda?" you ask kindly taking a sip of your drink waiting for her response.

"Mmmm, todays a good day, and i hear it is for you to. I came to let you know guests are speaking really highly about you today and are coming forward with a lor of compliments and so we wanted you to help with a VIP Party coming in later on today" she explains and you take a look at her with wide eyes.

"Wait who is it?" you ask, shaking your head wondering why this had been sprung on you so last minute.

"You'll know them when you see them sweetheart! Usual meeting place and the guide will meet you there but you've just got to be your usual Batuuian self and they'll love it. Take them on the rides, have interactions and all that!!" she grins before running of, leaving you and the sauce currently spilling out of your wrap and onto the plate.

As directed you waited for them at the entrance to appear, greating guests as they came in welcoming them to Batuu. That's when you saw a group, four guys, two women, a child and two of your colleagues.

You knew who they were straight away, Formula One Drivers... one of them a current world champion in his difficult sport.

"Bright Suns, Travellers!" you greet in your typical Battuian way.

"Hello" Max smiles pushing the young girl foreward.

"Oh woah, a young padawan! Pleasure to meet you!" you stick your hand out and she grins, avoiding the hand and pulling you into a hug. You grin, hugging her back crouching down to her height.

She lets go and you stand back up smiling.

"Welcome to Batuu, have we been before?" you ask around the group, all shaking their head.

"Excellent first time travellers are always exciting to show around the spire. But ..." you pause looking around to 'see if the coast was clear'. "There has been some activity in Batuu recently that is dangerous so, are you all ready for an adventure?" you ask and they all nod.

"Mmmmm what side are you aligned with?" you ask the general group, only for Lando to scoff.

"This one travelled to the dark side long ago... and the little one, shes easily persuaded by his antics. Me on the otherhand im good as gold" Lando jokes making you gasp taking a dramatic step back from Max and Penelope.

"NOOOOOOOO!" the little girl cries jumping forward.

"I'm good i promise! Were here to help, right mummy?" she asks and the lady nods a smile on his face.

"And you?" you ask looking at the older man, long nose and lots of curls and facial hair.

"Mmmm, im as sweet as a peach!" Daniel grins and you nod.

"Well, now that i know your alignment is with the resistance, i require your help. Come with me, Rey awaits!" you exclaim, making them follow you over to the first ride of the day rise off the resistance.

Everytime the cast members with them described something about the location you'd chip in with a personal story of your time on Battuu.

You get through the rock caves through the lightening lane. You show them the hologram of Rey before you help them 'escape' onto the pod. The other guests around would be excited seeing as a cast member was here to make this experience different.

As the pod gets pulled to the First Order ship you start panicking and giving everyone intructions.

"You, youngling! You're on the front lines when those doors open okay?" you point out the random kid in front of the door before turning around to the person closest to the pilot.

"And you, watch that data, track it!" you tell them and they nod officially.

"And the handsome man, over there in the back" you point to Daniel who rolls his eyes and laughs.

"You're my muscle okay?" you tell him and he nods coming to stand next to you.

"Are we all ready, we act like we're hostages but we will get help i promise! Poe and Finn will come for us!" you nod and they all agree with a yes maam.

The doors open and one of your frist order colleagues opens the door, trying to conceal the shock on his face.

"Y/N ... Fancy seeing you here upon the first order ship ... again ..." he monotones making you grin stepping out the ride first.

"Ahhh ya missed me right Charlie, paperwork for these guys is dragging. We should get a drink on Canto Bight some time talk through our ...differences" you grin and he shakes his head keepin ga stern face on.

"Get in line! You rebel scum!" he says.

"Going the same place as the last time yeah? Okay guys follow me!" you say having everyone follow you. You pull up infront of the stationary stormtroopers that are there just for show.

"Get a load of these guys, stiff as bricks" you joke shaking your head before walking off. Penelope grabs your hand and you stop to look down at her.

"Are you scared?" you ask her and she nods. You nod back and keep her close to you as you all que. You see many of the workers, who interact with you and the group much to Lando and Daniel's amusement.

You make your way into the containment unit and await to be saved. Your colleagues great you and you get into the seat next to Daniel in the back row to give the others a better experience at the front. The ride continues as you escape the first order and land back on Batuu.

"Argh boy am i thankfuk that we made it back here all okay!" you say with a little jig as you bring them out.

"So what do you guys do for a living in your own world?" you ask wondering what they'll say.

"We all race against each other in really fast transports" Max explains cocking his head to the side wondering if he'd used the right wording.

"Ohhhh! That's so interesting, we have something similar here called pod racing! I bet you guys would be grand at that!" you smile.

"Hmmm whose hungry i feel like our adventuring so far means we need to feed ourselves" you ask and they all nod happy to get out of the Floridian Summer Sun.

You guys get to the Falcon and you ask if they want to go for a ride to show their skills off.

"You mean we can drive it?" Daniel asks, playing along.

"Well fly it. I think Hanzo asked for my help earlier ... lets go!" you take them forward. Obviously once they got there all four drivers wanted to be pilot and were split into two groups.

Daniel and Max on one team, Lando and Oscar on the other. Lily and Penelope begged to join the McLaren duo. Kelly and you were pushed in with Max and Daniel and the rest was put on autopilot.

"I'm going to show you how to really drive space girl" Daniel grins making you roll your eyes and get ready to press the info for the engineer seats.

"Max pull up!" Daniel cries.

"I am, you need to go left!" he cries flicking his arm up at the screen.

"Please Travellers, keep clear heads" you say trying your hardest to stay in character.

Once your came up, you took the boys and Lily to Oga's cantina, while Kelly took P off to get her some merch that she'd seen on the way in.

"Cheers to a good day!" he calls out.

"Sagrona" you smile, cheersing in one of the many languages of Star Wars.

"You're like really into this" Daniel asks looking over you with a smirk.

"Mmmm i love Battuu it's like my home" you nod and he nods back.

"And say would a space girl ike yourself be free after you've saved the galaxy or whatever it you do here on Batuu?" he smiles and you shake your head.

"Mmmm yeah i might be... depends on the galaxy!" you grin and with that he took a sip of his drink smiling at you.

It was a great day, but you couldn't help but feel gutted when Daniel left.

You really wanted to spend more time with him as the witty banter you'd shared this afternoon felt like the two of you had connected, but you thought as you had watched him play around with P in the dark, wielding lightsabers you'd given them to mess about with for photos that maybe you had a chance despite his celebrity status.

However, the instagram comment on your post had you squealing.

y/user

Liked by danielricciardo, lando and maxverstappen1

y/user: Had so much fun showing these travellers around today!

Tagged 9 People

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danielricciardo: Still hoping for that drink space girl. Thanks for everything! ✌🏻❤️

-> y/user: no way! Hello hi, I’m freaking out rn!

-> lando: light reaction no work 👋🏼

lando: was lots of fun! Will have to show us around again! Maybe we can build a saber next time! 🫶🏼

kellypiquet: P had so much fun she will not stop talking about you! Thank you for keeping the magic!

-> maxverstappen1: Thank you Y/N!!!

Instagram Story Caption:

Showed the best Travellers around here today! 🇬🇧🇦🇺🇦🇺🇳🇱

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[gurugirl]

crime boss!harry x law student!reader

New series out now on Patreon!

Series Summary: Y/n's a fresh face in London, attending law school to get her barrister's license. Harry's the man who runs a successful criminal enterprise, part of the city's dark and secretive underworld. The Life is everything to him until he meets Y/n. This is the story of how they met and how their worlds are both turned upside down when they can't seem to stay away from one another.

. .

… one of the biggest crime syndicates in London. The leader of the Styles Family organization was arrested in the exclusive neighborhood of Kensington in front of dozens of residents this morning. Locals are asking what this means for their businesses and for their privacy…

Chapter 1 Teaser | the meet cute

Hushed whispers all around had her glancing in every direction as a pair of luxurious black oxfords draped in tailored black slacks stepped in front of her. Arching her neck to look up, she noted a custom three-piece suit filled out by a tall, powerfully lean body, and as she slid her sight up to his face, she was taken by the man's features more than anything. He resonated power and danger, and she couldn't stop staring. Overdressed for a house party, yes, but magnificent and male and gorgeous? Also yes. A resounding yes.

He sank into a graceful crouch until they were at eye-level. Y/n was momentarily stunned, unmoving, unblinking… His eyes captured her gaze, and his brows cinched together as a scorching intrigue washed over his expression. His magnetism seemed to expand the longer she stared into his jade-green eyes, and the levity of his apparent importance weighed down on her. She didn't know who he was, but she knew he was someone valuable.

Shifting, she tried to blink and look away, but her balance was lost. He quickly reached to steady her, big hands holding her by her bare arms so she didn't fall flat to her ass.

"Are you okay?" His voice was deep and smooth, with a rasp that instantly had her stomach wound in knots. It was evident that he was a man to whom people listened. The kind you didn't say no to.

Blinking, she nodded and finally freed her gaze from his as she looked down at his designer ensemble. All black. The shirt, the tie, the vest, the suit. He looked dangerous. He looked divine.

When he was sure she was steady, he let go of her arms and reached for her things that had fallen from her bag, scooping a handful of items up. She noted he had thick, expensive-looking rings on his fingers and wore a nice watch on his wrist. Pushing her purse toward her, he dropped a few things into it and looked over her school ID before passing it to her.

Taking her purse and ID, they stood simultaneously. He smiled at her as if unaffected while she was reeling inside from the interaction. She mimicked his smile in response, still having not uttered a word to the man yet.

His eyes were hard to look away from. She felt drawn, as if a rope had bound her waist, and he was slowly, imperceptibly pulling it toward himself.

"You sure you're alright?" His sight coasted down over her dress, freeing her eyes once again from his provocative gaze. Her brain lolled back into gear as she licked her lips that had suddenly gone dry.

Nodding, she finally spoke, "I'm fine. Just clumsy."

It was the way he ran his tongue over his lips slowly, or it was the dimple when his smile grew lopsided, or it was his green eyes melding with hers that had her heart skittering and skewing her equilibrium.

Her face heated when he touched her again, the tips of his fingers pressing into the top of her arm, moving her to the side like he owned her. She had the sense that he did, though. That he might own everything and everyone in that room they stood in.

Removing his fingertips from her arm, he held his hand toward her. "I'm Harry."

"Harry…" She watched his pink lips part the slightest as she spoke his name back to him, placing her hand into his, and immediately, sex came to mind. Primal, sheet-gripping, filthy sex. Blinking her thoughts away, she smiled. "I'm Y/n."

She let him guide their handshake before he slid his palm away. "Yes. Y/n who's enrolled in UCL. What's your major?"

"Yeah… How did you know?"

He laughed softly; even his laugh exuded influence and control. "Your school ID."

"Right. Yes. The one you handed to me because it fell out of my purse." She shook her head and let her eyes line up with his again. She felt silly for letting a man reduce her brain to mush like that. She was too intelligent to be acting like that, and yet there she was melting repeatedly at just a glance of his eyes. "I'm working toward getting a barrister's license. Going for my LLB."

He nodded. "Law. Smart girl. And where are you from, Y/n? Clearly, you're not a local."

She puffed out a breathy laugh and blinked her eyes. "I'm from the U.S. Just moved to London a little over a month ago, actually."

"And how's London treating you so far?" He tucked his hands away into his front pockets as he stared down at her. There was something about him that had all her senses stimulated. One part of her was ringing a bell of warning, telling her to run in the opposite direction. But another part of her was too enthralled to break their contact just yet. Besides, she had the feeling that if she had run, he'd chase her down and make her regret that choice.

"It's been pretty good. I haven't seen a whole lot yet. Mostly just getting myself situated, and now that school's in, I'm kind of busy."

"I can only imagine how much work must go into that course of study. It's good you've made time to have a little fun tonight. Fun is important. Who are you here with?"

"My roommate Victoria and her boyfriend, Nicholas. He said that this party was for his boss. I'm just tagging along."

He did it again, licked his lips as he kept his eyes pinned to hers. She swallowed to wet her throat. Maybe it was the air in the room drying everything out so that they had to keep licking their lips. "Are you drinking anything?"

"No. I've got to study tomorrow. Big test on Monday."

A red-headed guy suddenly approached. "Boss, congratulations. I know the circumstances with your dad might be—"

"Consider your audience right now, Ben," Harry cut off the young man before he could finish his sentence, looking at Y/n and then back at the man he'd called Ben.

Realization covered Ben's face as he glanced at Y/n and nodded. "Sorry. You're right. Wasn't thinking. Um…"

"We'll catch up tomorrow afternoon," Harry said.

Ben smiled at Y/n and gave her a brief nod before he walked off, and she turned her attention back to Harry. "So, you're the boss?"

"I am." The satisfied smile on his face shouldn't have been as attractive as it was. Y/n wasn't usually into overly confident men with big egos, but there was something about Harry that told her he could back it all up. He'd earned that ego.

"No wonder you're dressed so fancy." She grinned.

"Everyone here is dressed nicely."

Y/n gestured at him. "But not this nice. You're…" She trailed off, not knowing exactly how to finish her sentence.

"I'm what?" He grinned.

You're gorgeous, and your suit fits like you were standing naked in front of angels as they draped fine fabric over your strong frame and customized every tailored inch.

"Just… you're dressed a lot nicer than everyone here is all. Like, a lot more formal."

And she wouldn't mention it, but she had picked up something between Ben and Harry in their brief exchange. There was a secret, or at least there was something Harry didn't want Y/n to know as he'd cut the guy off from finishing what he was saying. She realized she was an outsider, but it did have her curious. Though with Harry, she wouldn't push. He didn't seem like the type to be an open book or who would appreciate a cross-examination. Which only made him that much more intriguing. A man with secrets. And power. The boss.

"Either you're telling me I have good taste or that I'm too stuffy. Hopefully, the former."

A soft laugh bubbled from her mouth as she blinked and looked down at his shoes again. "I would say you have great taste." She looked back up at him. "You don't seem stuffy."

Not stuffy, no. But dangerous, perhaps.

He nodded as he dragged his irises over her dress again. To her, the dress she had on was quite nice. It hadn't been a cheap thing at all, but standing there next to Harry, she was put to shame by how sharply he was dressed. Then again, he was putting everyone in that room to shame.

"Thank you. I like to think I have good taste. And not just in clothing."

She lifted her brows and felt her pulse thrumming in her throat. He could have been referring to his good taste in cars, art, movies, music… but the way his pupils caressed her skin, she became abundantly aware that this man would be getting whatever he wanted, even if that meant her.

She breathed a laugh out of her nose at her ridiculous internal dialogue. Wishful thinking. There was no way someone like Harry was interested in someone like her. She looked around to disengage and ground herself. She was letting her thoughts get away from her.

Y/n noticed how some of the guests were watching them. Eyes lingered on him and then on her briefly. Where before Harry had approached, no one gave her a second glance, now curious gazes tarried between them and just like that, her existence was being analyzed by strangers.

Even with the unwanted attention, her focus was on the tall, important man next to her. He was so elegant and enticing, but just under the surface, there was something severe… something ruinous. Whatever it was, he wasn't bothered to hide the vicious parts of himself completely. And maybe that was on purpose. A warning to anyone that might cross him that there was more than meets the eye. The way the alpha predator makes it known to other predators that he is not one to be fucked with.

. .

If drama, angst, and heavy action are your thing, you might enjoy this new series! xoxo

[v1si0n]

DIVINE TIMING💫 (L.DH)

SUMMARY: you confessed to your longtime crush, donghyuck, back in high school because you figured you guys would never see each other again. you begin to question your faith in the universe when you run into him on a rainy tuesday night, and you start seeing him every day after.

GENRE: smau (some written parts), college student! hyuck x fem! reader, ????? to lovers, fluff, probably some angst but not heavy bc i’m sensitive, humor, lowkey she fell first but he fell harder trope, hyuck is a jealous little lad

WARNINGS: profanity, sexual and death jokes, mentions of reader being insecure, mentions of stalking, mentions of alcohol consumption

PLAYLIST: thinkin bout you by frank ocean, the spins by mac miller, intro (end of the world) by ariana grande, snooze (acoustic) by sza ft justin bieber , diana by one direction, midnight pretenders by tomoko aran

NOTES: hi !! idk why i chose a smau to be my first post but here it is🙁❤️ this is my first au of any kind on here so i hope yall love reading it as much as i enjoy writing !!

STATUS: completed :)

（＾＿＾）☆（＾＿＾）☆（＾＿＾）☆（＾＿＾）☆

profiles (1): y/n’s crew🤍

profiles (2): hyuck’s crew🖤

intro: canon event or just trauma🥸

ch. 1: night shifts and feet…pics?

ch. 2: #freeyn

ch. 3: severe hallucinations or…?

ch. 4: call the coast guards.

ch. 5: goodnight streaks

ch. 6: me when i LIE

ch. 7: CHAT CLIP THAT !!!!

ch. 8: not to alarm anyone

ch. 9: i spy an attention whore…

ch. 10: i have this friend

ch. 11: the proof and the pudding

ch. 12: spin the bottle

ch. 13: lol lmao

ch. 14: i loveee smart emo boys

ch. 15: sassy man apocalypse

ch. 16: jaemin’s spirit guides

ch. 17: jisung and his inability to read the room

ch. 18: what the fuck is y/nhyuck

ch. 19: potato tomato bro

ch. 20: sir cuntington and his squires

ch. 21: hyucks personal issue

ch. 22: y/nhyuckism

ch. 23: …no guillotine

ch. 24: chenle, the wordsmith

ch. 25: hyuck support group

epilogue: happy grad!

[eclipixels]

Sink

Rafayel x Reader

Content: You can't swim, unbeknownst to Rafayel

[2,132 words]

      You never learned how to swim. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to, you just… never did. Somehow, life had just happened, and the skill had never made it onto your list of priorities. Honestly, you were still surprised they let you pass the hunter's exam without it. In hindsight, maybe that should’ve been a red flag.

      What you definitely never expected was to end up dating a Lemurian, whose entire thing was swimming.It had never been a problem before.

      Until now.

      Rafayel had asked you to come with him to one of the small islands off the coast to collect some protocores for his art. At first, you refused, because the last time you agreed to “help” him, you almost died of a headahe caused by yours truly.

      But then he begged.

      And begged.

      And kept begging, his voice slipping into that smug-yet-somehow-irresistible drawl, all while he leaned in close, violet hair brushing against your skin, glowing eyes locked onto yours like he knew you were about to cave.

      And you did.

      Like an idiot.

      And now here you are.

      "Rafayel, is the boat supposed to be filling up with water?" You let out a nervous laugh, watching with growing horror as the canoe sloshed and rocked beneath you, an alarming amount of seawater sloshing in.

      Rafayel, lounging at the other end of the boat like he wasn’t about to sink into the abyss, barely spared the situation a glance.

      "Hm?" He flicked his glowing gaze toward the rising water, then shrugged. "No."

      Your heart stopped.

      "What?" you screeched, gripping the sides of the canoe with white-knuckled panic. "Rafayel, we are literally sinking! Do something!"

      Before he could answer with some careless remark, a rough tide surged against the boat.

      And just like that, the ocean yeeted you both overboard.

      One moment, you were panicking about the water in the boat, and the next, there was no boat at all, just open sea and the horrifying realization that you were now in it.

      You hit the water with a spectacular splash, flailing like a terrified cat thrown into a bathtub. Saltwater rushed up your nose, your limbs twisted in every direction, and for a horrifying second, you had no idea which way was up.

      You never thought your life would end like this, kicking, screaming, and flailing like some sort of demented fish out of water. Except, in this case, you were very much in the water, and very much drowning. Meanwhile, your so-called boyfriend, the ever-unbothered Lemurian prince, stood just a few feet away, knee-deep in the surf, watching your impending demise with all the urgency of a man leisurely deciding what to order for dinner.

      "Rafayel!" you shrieked, voice cracking with desperation as you inhaled a mouthful of saltwater. You choked, sputtering, arms thrashing wildly against the relentless pull of the waves. “I’m dying!”

      Rafayel, in all his infuriating, otherworldly grace, simply tilted his head to the side. His lilac hair fluttered in the sea breeze, glowing bioluminescent markings pulsing faintly along his skin like he had all the time in the world. He regarded you with the same curiosity one might reserve for watching a particularly dumb bird fly into a glass window.

      “Huh,” he mused.

      Huh? The fuck he mean ‘huh’?

      You barely had time to process the sheer audacity of this man before another wave crashed over you, momentarily pulling you under. You surfaced with a spluttering gasp, panic sinking its claws into your chest as you flailed harder. Your limbs felt like dead weight, dragging you down with every second.

      "Help me!” you howled, arms slapping at the water in a way that probably made you look more like a malfunctioning wind-up toy than a person fighting for her life.

      A small, amused smile tugged at his lips, the only betrayal of whatever amusement he was clearly getting out of this. But did he move? No. No, he did not. Instead, he just let out a long, drawn-out sigh—as if you were the inconvenience here. As if your very real, very valid fear of imminent death by drowning was nothing more than an overblown inconvenience to his otherwise peaceful day.

      “You’re making this harder than it has to be, Y/N,” he drawled, finally, finally stepping forward with the air of someone being forced to deal with a particularly persistent child. Then, without even a hint of effort, he reached out, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean out of the water.

      Like. A. Toddler.

      Your arms and legs dangled uselessly for a moment, saltwater dripping from your clothes as you gaped at him in pure, seething betrayal.

      "Oh, now you help," you snapped, regaining your senses enough to latch onto him like a drowning cat, your nails digging into his back with intent.

      “I could have died, Rafayel! Drowned! Gone forever! And what were you doing?” You narrowed your eyes, rage bubbling hotter than the embarrassment coursing through you. “Watching? Enjoying my suffering?”

      Rafayel blinked at you, expression unreadable as his glowing gaze met yours. Then, with the audacity of a man who has never once suffered the consequences of his own actions, he simply said—

      “You should’ve just swum.”

      You stared at him, dumbfounded.

      A moment of silence passed.

      Then, deadpan, voice flat as the calm sea beneath him, you spat, "I can’t swim, you fish brained sea-rat."

      His lips quirked slightly, his expression almost, but not quite, apologetic.

      "That's unfortunate," he murmured, the words dripping with so much faux sympathy that you seriously considered just launching yourself back into the ocean to die out of sheer spite.

      Before you could fully unleash the absolute onslaught of rage simmering within you, the kind of rage only born from near-death experiences and insufferably attractive boyfriends, Rafayel did the most unfair thing imaginable.

      He kissed you.

      Your brain short-circuited.

      One moment, you were poised to yell, to fight, to maybe sink your teeth into his stupidly perfect flesh in revenge, and the next? His lips were on yours, warm and infuriatingly soft, pressing against yours with an ease that suggested he’d been planning this from the start.

      Your entire thought process derailed, skidding off the metaphorical road and crashing straight into the ocean floor.

      You were kissing a prince. A literal sea god. Your fingers twitched against his neck, your breath caught somewhere in your throat, your heart hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to swim away on its own. You barely had time to process the weight of the moment before—

      Splash!

      You hit the water.

      Again.

      "RAFA—BLURBGLH—" You barely got half his name out before you were swallowed whole by the ocean, sinking like an actual rock.

      The moment you resurfaced, coughing, sputtering, and gasping for air, your first thought was murder. You were going to kill him.

      You were—

      Wait.

      You furrowed your brows, blinking through the salty sting in your eyes but there was no salty sting. Something was… off.

      Why weren’t you… drowning?

      Your lungs felt fine. No burning, no struggle, no desperate gasps for air. You instinctively sucked in a breath, expecting to choke, to cough, to die.

      But instead—

      Holy hell.

      You could breathe.

      Underwater.

      Before you could even begin to process the absolute insanity of what was happening, before you could come to terms with the fact that you were somehow breathing underwater, something cold and unfamiliar wrapped around your leg.

      Instant, unfiltered terror shot through you like a bolt of lightning.

      You shrieked, not that it did much good underwater, as bubbles exploded from your mouth in a frantic, garbled mess. Your limbs flailed wildly, your body twisting in every direction, every primal instinct screaming at you to fight before some monstrous sea creature dragged you into the abyss, never to be seen again.

      But then, through the chaos of your own panic, you saw him.

      Rafayel.

      Floating effortlessly below you, utterly unbothered, shoulders shaking as if he was holding back the world's most obnoxious laugh. His bioluminescent markings pulsed with a soft glow, casting eerie, shifting light through the water. His long, violet hair drifted around him like a silk curtain, shimmering in the dim ocean light. And there, wrapped around your leg was his stupid hand.

      This fish-brained, sadistic menace had deliberately scared you for fun.

      You narrowed your eyes so hard you were surprised the water pressure didn’t crush your skull.

      Fury ignited in your chest as you kicked at him, your foot landing against his arm. Not hard enough to actually hurt, but definitely hard enough to make it very clear that you were out for blood.

      “I hate you!” you yelled, or at least, you tried to, but since you were underwater, it mostly just came out as a series of distorted bubbles and aggressive body language.

      Rafayel didn’t even have the decency to look guilty.

      Instead, he grinned, sharp teeth flashing as he tugged you closer, effortlessly dragging you through the water like you weighed nothing.

      "You love me," he said, smug and self-assured, as if the fact was as unchangeable as the tides.

      Your glare burned with the force of a thousand dying stars.

      And yet, despite everything, despite the sheer audacity of this infuriating sea prince, despite the fact that he had literally let you think you were drowning, despite the overwhelming urge to slap him with a wet fish, you couldn’t deny it.

      You did love him.

      Even if he was, without a doubt, the most insufferable, smug, irritatingly beautiful menace to ever exist.

      "Did you seriously think I’d let you die?" Rafayel's voice was calm, but there was something else beneath it. Something ancient, certain. "I've been waiting over a century for you to return to me."

      You barely processed his words as you clung to him, hands fisting into the smooth, iridescent skin of his back. Your whole body was trembling, but whether it was from the cold, the fear, or the sheer insanity of this entire situation, you didn’t know.

      "What?" Your voice trembled. He always said weird, cryptic things like that, but he never explained them. Normally, you would’ve pressed him for answers, but right now, you had bigger concerns. Like, for example, the very real possibility of being crushed by the pressure of the deep sea.

      It was dark down here.

      Rafayel had told you before that life in the deepest depths of the sea had no light. Experiencing it was horrifying.

      You couldn’t see anything.

      The darkness was suffocating, pressing in on all sides like a living thing. You had no sense of direction, no way of knowing what lurked just beyond your reach.

      "How am I able to breathe underwater?" You finally managed to ask.

      Rafayel chuckled, the sound low and amused. "Shouldn’t you know the answer to that, Cutie? You bought that book on understanding Lemurians."

      Your mind raced. That stupid textbook. The one written by a human who had clearly never met an actual Lemurian in their life. Half of the book had been filled with biases and misinformation.

      You shook your head, frustrated. "That book was useless."

      Rafayel came to a stop in front of you. His glowing eyes studied you for a moment before he smiled.

      "Kissing a Lemurian allows you to breathe underwater for a bit," he admitted.

      You stared at him. "Oh."

      That was all you could say. Oh.

      Because what else was there to say? Rafayel had literally shoved you into the ocean with zero context and expected you to just figure it out. You had been drowning and his solution had been to just make out with you instead of, oh, you know, telling you beforehand.

      You opened your mouth, fully prepared to chew him out, but then another shiver wracked your body. "I’m cold. I can’t see."

      Rafayel hummed, and before you could react, he wrapped himself around your waist and pulled you close. You barely had time to gasp before warmth began to seep into your skin. His body heat flared, an obvious sign that he was using his Evol, and within seconds, the chill was melting away.

      Then, in one smooth motion, he raised his hand.

    �� A flame flickered to life in his palm, glowing a warm, golden-orange. It burned underwater, as if the ocean itself bent to his will. Now that you could see, it wasn’t so bad. It looked kind of beautiful. The fire danced and crackled in defiance of the deep, illuminating his sharp features and casting flickering shadows against his violet hair.

      He looked otherworldly.

      Dangerous. Beautiful. Entirely not human.

      And yet, somehow, despite everything, despite the fact that you were in the darkest, deepest part of the ocean with a smug, possibly unhinged sea prince, you felt safe.

[aurumalatus]

𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 2.1k

genre/warnings. princess!reader, knight!kinich, slight enemies to lovers (not really, they just argue but idk the term for that tbh LOL), pixelprincess!au

summary.

ever since he became your personal guard, you've found kinich to be a royal pain in your ass. you've always assumed he felt the same, until the night of your matching ball. now, you're not sure what this burning in your chest means after all.

author's note. this is a drabble as part of a universe that i'm calling pixelprincess (knight!kinich x princess!reader). i don't really have a full fic planned for this or anything, i just have a bunch of small headcanons about them and i love aus so feel free to scream about them with me HAHA. thank you for reading! reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

If there’s one thing you can definitively say about Kinich, it’s that he’s not stupid.

Honestly, you could say a lot of things. You’ve heard the rumors just like everyone else, about the fearsome Captain of the Guard who passed training within a single day. They whisper that he holds a dragon’s power in his heart, a fact that strikes fear into any nation that dares encroach upon your territory. His reputation precedes him, and he’s somewhat of a mystery to the general public—most of them envision him as a hero, the key to the nation’s defense.

If there’s another thing you can definitively say about Kinich, it’s that sometimes, you wish he was stupid.

The castle always feels larger during the summer, when the sunlight bathes the interior with gold and the halls bustle with movement during the day. Guards and aides rush in every direction, though none of them seem to spare a glance in your direction; there’s simply far too much to pay attention to today.

The maids are replacing the vases with fresh flora, Brilliant Chrysanthemums and Saurian Claw Succulents that make the room seem brighter, discussing which configuration looks the best. You know them all, of course; growing up within the castle meant that these women had practically raised you. Even as an adult, it’s hard to escape them when they feel like pinching your cheeks and reminiscing on old times.

Sensing the coast is clear, you crack the door open another millimeter, carefully slipping into the hall and blending in with the crowd. The maids, luckily, don’t notice, still fussing over petals and stems. You’d calculated this time exactly—right now, the guard patrol should be across the castle, checking the entrances before the ball tonight. If your information wasn’t wrong, then you should have just enough time to make it to the servants’ passages, and then out to the garden—

“Oh?”

The familiar voice makes you murmur some choice curse words under your breath. Of course, the dark-haired man in front of you is always several steps ahead of everyone. He’s leaning against the stone wall, looking entirely too pleased with himself, as if he knows something you don’t.

“Princess,” Kinich greets, bowing his head despite how you wave him off—you’ve never been one for formalities. “What are you doing here?”

“Just taking a walk.”

You move at a brisk pace past him, but Kinich is faster—he always is, the annoying bastard. Before you can turn the corner, there’s the blade of a greatsword blocking your path. No matter how much you see it, you’re always surprised by the size of the damn thing—you’re shocked he can even lift it as it is. A half-smirk rests on his lips when you gasp.

“Taking a walk away from your lessons? I do believe your teacher’s room is in the opposite direction.”

The annoying thing about Kinich is that he truly knows everything, including your schedules. He’s thorough to a near fault, though you suppose that that’s exactly the kind of person who would be fit for Captain of the Guard. Still, you duck under his sword, unwilling to make eye contact.

“Lessons are tomorrow. I have other plans today.”

Kinich falls into step beside you, and the halls are suddenly clear of people—the crowd parts before you, a stubborn rock among a rushing river. You’re unsure if it’s due to your status, or due to your temper—it’s a well-known fact in the castle that Kinich can get you wound up quite quickly.

“And what might these other plans be?” 

He always has too many damn questions, you think. Silently, you curse your father for assigning him to you. A series of attempts on your life last year had made him paranoid, and he’d been quick to promote the strongest knight as your personal guard. Back then, you’d been fooled just like everyone else into thinking that Kinich was some kind of serious, straight-laced hero. Instead, you’d since discovered that he was seriously annoying.

“Can I guess?” he asks, deftly dodging past the maids carrying bundles of tablecloths and the waiters carrying sky-high stacks of platters. 

“No, you can’t. In fact, you can’t even ask. I should have you executed for that.”

Kinich raises a brow, amused. “The Queen would never let that happen.”

And, unfortunately, he’s correct. Your mother absolutely adores Kinich as if he were her own son, and it irritates you to no end—especially when she heavy-handedly suggests that you make him your groom. The door to the back stairwell falls into view, so you break into a jog as you reach the end of the hall, but he’s right on your heel.

If I can just make it to the stairs…

Kinich steps in front of you again, not allowing you an inch further, and you nearly scream in frustration.

“If I didn’t know any better—”

You scoff. “And you, in fact, don’t know anything—”

“—I would say that you’re trying to avoid going to the ball.”

And, once again, you wish that just once Kinich would let something fly over his head.

Utterly defeated, you collapse into one of the plush chairs nearby, fanning your face. Kinich stands over you, a bit tense, as if he thinks you’re going to try to run again. You won’t; at this point, you’re too tired.

“So what if I am?” you finally admit. “You always complain about them anyway. I find it a little unfair that you’re allowed to and I’m not.”

As great as he is at his job as a guard, Kinich isn’t so great at facing the public, despite how popular he is among them (particularly the women). Whenever he can, he avoids social events like the plague, often volunteering to run perimeter duty as a precaution rather than attending with you. You, unfortunately, don’t have that luxury.

Kinich sighs, resting his weight on his sword. “I don’t complain, it’s just annoying when everyone is so loud and—”

You snap your fingers, interrupting and pointing at him accusingly. “You hear that? What you were just doing? That’s called complaining.”

Realizing he was caught in the act, Kinich rolls his eyes. “How very profound of you. If you put that much effort into your escape routes, maybe you would’ve made it this time.”

Your gaze narrows. “How about I stick a profound fist up your a—”

“Kinich? Is that you?”

The booming voice makes you both straighten up instantly. Kinich smoothly sheaths his sword, saluting to the king as he makes his way down the hall. You’re far less graceful about it, gathering up your skirts messily and quickly curtseying to your father. 

“Your Highness,” you both echo.

If your father notices the tension between the two of you, he doesn’t say so; he looks as jolly as always, even more so because of the event today. He’s the social type, a trait you unfortunately did not inherit.

“Just the two people I was hoping to see,” he laughs, a full-bodied sound that booms from his chest. “I’m glad that the two of you get along so well.”

To your irritation, Kinich smirks, while you offer your father a thin-lipped smile.

“Of course,” you lie, sneakily jabbing your guard in the ribs. He coughs. “We get along like a house on fire.”

“That’s good,” your father says, nodding encouragingly. “You’ll both do well later tonight then.”

Your heart drops at the thought of attending the event. You know how long your parents have been planning this, and how long they’ve been practically begging you to find a companion. It’s all a long-winded scheme to find you a princely partner, and not one that you particularly appreciate—a great majority of the princes you’ve met are far too full of themselves. You truly have no interest in any of them.

Kinich, however, pointedly clears his throat at your father’s wording.

“Both of us?” he asks, enunciating slowly. “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

You perk up in interest—that detail had been lost on you.

“I invited several princes from neighboring nations today,” your father says, eyeing you with a pitying stare. You try not to feel offended. “I want my daughter to find someone suitable for her, no matter who that may be. Still, I was hoping you could attend with her this time? I know it’s not your favorite, but I would feel uncomfortable with her being around so many strangers alone.”

Kinich’s smirk falters, and he suddenly falls still. You wonder if he’s irritated by the prospect of attending the ball at your side. 

(Distantly, you wonder why the thought of that makes you feel a bit ill.)

The silence grows awkward, and you rock on your heels, searching for something to say. Your guard looks a bit lost for words, likely because he wasn’t prepared for so much social interaction today. You can’t really blame him—if you were in his shoes, you wouldn’t be thrilled either.

“Actually, Your Highness, that won’t be necessary.”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull at Kinich’s reply, but you hurry to control your expression, unwilling to give anything away to your father. The king raises a brow.

“And why is that?” he asks.

Kinich gnaws on his lip, an action that is wholly unlike him—you don’t think you’ve ever seen him appear nervous about anything in his life. Still, he meets your father’s gaze head on, coughs once, then says:

“The princess isn’t feeling well. I think it’d be best if she didn’t attend the ball today.”

He nudges your foot just as your father’s gaze drifts to you, and you thank your lucky stars that you did inherit your mother’s dramatics. You throw a hand over your forehead, fanning yourself aggressively.

“Since this morning,” you explain, looking as pitiful as possible, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Thank the archons Kinich was here, otherwise I might’ve fainted earlier.”

And you really do feel guilty when your father’s eyes well up with tears of worry.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he cries, then turns to one of his aides in a panic. “Call the doctor! Have him attend to her immediately. And announce that she’ll be absent from our festivities tonight.”

You force yourself to hide your smile at his announcement. Your eyes flicker over to Kinich, but for once, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit amused—in fact, he still looks troubled. Your father fusses over you for a bit longer, asking a series of questions about what you’d eaten and who you’d been in contact with. You answer as honestly as you can—the least you can do—and then he directs Kinich to escort you back to your room.

The hallway seems to empty out quickly after that display, and then it’s just you and your guard. For some reason, he seems to avoid your eyes. He doesn’t speak, merely offering you his arm, and after a moment, you take it. 

“So, what changed your mind?” you ask, unwilling to let him sit in silence. He looks displeased by your question, but answers anyway.

“Nothing,” he says, expression blank, “I just didn’t think you should go to the ball tonight.”

The tips of his ears are flushed red, you note. Liar. 

Still, Kinich keeps countless secrets that you’re sure you’ll never know, and you suppose it doesn’t really matter why he decided to let you off the hook tonight. Really, you’re just grateful you’ll get to sleep peacefully with no stinking princes breathing down your neck. The thought makes you smile as you finally reach your bedroom door.

“Well, what a shame it is,” you sigh sarcastically, turning the knob, “I could’ve been dancing the night away with the love of my life. Now I might never meet him.”

The corner of Kinich’s lip twitches.

“As if,” he replies gruffly, a touch too fast. “You wouldn’t like any of them anyway. They’re not nearly capable of handling you.”

Your eyes narrow, irritated by the implication. “And you are?”

He raises a brow in response. “Aren’t I?”

It comes out uncharacteristically soft. A switch seems to flip in the room, and you suddenly start feeling sick for real—it’s too hot, too quiet. Kinich’s stare weighs on you heavily, and you get lost in the depth of it. You freeze where you are, bedroom door half-open, and you can almost pick out the meaning in his words when he turns away, clearing his throat.

“Goodnight, princess,” he murmurs over his shoulder. “Sweet dreams, and…get well soon.”

He makes his exit without another word, and you wonder if he’s still working tonight. Is he still going to guard the ball? The perimeter? What if one of the other princesses takes a liking to him—

You huff, deciding you don’t care and slamming the door shut. The ball is bound to be a drag, and you find Kinich annoying, you think as you fall into bed. You’re happy about this arrangement. Overjoyed, even.

Yes, you find Kinich very annoying.

…Don’t you?

[pierregazly]

so in love ꨄ charles leclerc

charles leclerc x f!reader

warnings: 18+ only, p in v - no protection, charles is in love, charles doesn't shut up when he's horny [1008 words]

request: 🌶 Could you write prompt 17 with Charles Leclerc, please [17. “What’s wrong?  Why’d you stop?”  “Nothing’s wrong.  I just wanted to take a second to admire how beautiful you are.”]

The smell of sex wafted throughout the room. The fan running above your bodies did little to erase the sheen of sweat that had begun glittering across yours and Charles’ bodies. The sounds of skin against skin, grunts into the open air, it was intoxicating, it was all you could focus on.

Charles was insatiable. Had been since his win. All he could think about, all he wanted, was to feel himself pressed against you, inside of you. By all means, you were his favourite drug. He had practically begged you to let him bend you over in his driver’s room after the race. Then barely even gave you any time to recuperate once you were in his car, on the way back to the hotel. 

His hands had only left you to drive, and even then, one was still running up your leg, dangerously close to where your own body was yearning for him, practically soaking through your clothes because of the teasing movements of his hands.

His body craved yours more than it craved anything. But his mind, his heart? They just simply craved you. The way you smiled up at him from below the podium, the way you were always the first person on his brain when he woke up, and the last thing he thought about before he went to sleep. He craved everything about you, everything about your relationship. You were all he wanted.

It’s what always made things so much more intimate with him. The way he loved you transcended into his every action. It didn’t matter if the night was supposed to be about him, Charles always found a way to turn it around to make it about you.

Just like tonight.

His nose was pressed into the junction between your neck and shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin. Soft moans fell from your lips when you felt his teeth scratch against the sensitive skin of your neck, an inevitable mark forming from his actions.

Charles’ hips rutted against yours gently, his hardened member stretching your wet heat deliciously. You could feel him mumbling into your neck, his warm breath coasting across your skin, prompting goosebumps to jump to the surface as a shiver wracked throughout your body.

“So fuckin’ perfect, f’me. So beautiful, merde. Takin’ me so well. God, so incredible. Wish we could stay like this forever,” he groaned. 

He was practically delirious as he mumbled words into your neck, soft whimpers falling from your lips as he pressed his hips deeper into yours, hitting spots inside of you that had you crying out for him.

Pulling himself up and onto his elbows, his eyes locking on yours. Looking up at him questioningly as his lower body halted its ministrations. 

“What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?”

Shaking his head at you, he used one arm to hold himself up as he ran a thumb down the side of your cheek, across your lips, down your neck. You couldn’t contain the goosebumps that continued to litter your skin from his actions.

“Nothing’s wrong.  I just wanted to take a second to admire how beautiful you are.”

Your cheeks instantly heated, the adoration so evident in his eyes as he smiled softly down at you.

“Oh, Cha… hush,” you giggled, slapping at his shoulder. He leaned down to press his lips to yours, his hand now delicately holding your cheek.

Pulling away from you, he flopped over onto his back, tugging on your hand as he directed for you to climb on top of him. He loved watching you ride him, loved watching as you threw your head back in pleasure, or when you would grasp his thighs, your unrelenting grip always causing his hips to stutter in pleasure.

To put it simply, he loved just being able to look at you. Loved being able to make eye contact with you, being able to connect your fingers. Loved being able to see how much you loved him, in the most intimate form.

You did as he directed, climbing on top of him and sinking down on his cock. The stretch caused your eyes to close in pleasure, tipping your head back as a small sigh left your lips. Charles’ own sounds of pleasure mixed with yours, his hands instantly gripping onto your waist as he pulled you down harder.

“Fuckin’ love watching you ride me, merde,” he swore.

His thumb pressed against the hood of your clit, rubbing against the sensitive nub as you whimpered at his actions. The mixture of him rubbing your clit alongside the feeling of him stretching you out pushed you to move your hips faster, craving the feeling that was slowly beginning in the pit of your stomach. 

You could feel the pleasure growing, Charles’ fingers never leaving your clit as he guided your hips with his unoccupied hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, the way your hips moved, the way your head was tipped back; revealing the darkened marks he had littered against your neck earlier in the night. A small smirk grew on his lips when he realized you were getting close, his own orgasm creeping up on him.

The sounds you were making increased, your hips stuttering against his.

“Gonna cum f’me, pretty? Gonna soak my cock? Wanna cum with you, baby. Wanna fill up this pretty pussy,” he practically cooed his words, bucking his hips upwards so his cock hit the spot inside of you that had you crying out for him.

Your upper body snapped forward as your hands hit his shoulder. Charles’ own hips stuttered as he began to empty himself inside of you, continuing to rub his fingers against your clit, guiding you through your own moment of pleasure.

Slapping his hand away, you allowed your body to drop lightly onto his, attempting to regain your breath. Charles wrapped his now-free hands around your back, pressing his lips against your cheek in a soft kiss.

“Je t’aime, mon cœur,” he whispered.

“Je t’aime aussi, mon amour.”

i don't know what to say!!! but what i want to say isn't appropriate!!! hope y'all enjoy this

[moonstruckme]

remus x touch starved! reader ❤

i want him to hug me so badly 😭

<3

Me toooooooo! Unsure if this was a request but thanks for sending and potentially for requesting haha <3

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 707 words

Remus’ foot is touching yours. It’s incidental, thoughtless. You’re sitting on opposite sides of the couch, facing each other as you both read your books, only you’re not reading anymore because all of your attention has been stolen by the way your boyfriend’s foot is lightly pressing yours into the back cushion. The slightness of the contact, the smallness of it, it isn’t nearly enough, and yet you don’t think you could take any more. 

The other side of the couch seems a thousand miles away. 

“You alright?” Remus asks. You look up to find him studying you over the top of his book. 

“Mhm. Why?” 

“You just seem like you might be cold.” You look at him bemusedly, and he nods to the blanket around your shoulders. “You’ve wrapped yourself up fairly tightly there.” 

You look down. You’re holding the blanket closed with a near vice-like grip, cocooning yourself in warm snugness. 

“Oh.” You ease your grasp on it. “Sorry, I didn’t even notice.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Remus replies easily, sitting forward and clasping a hand around your ankle. “Should I go turn the heater up?” 

Every nerve in your being has directed its attention to your ankle, your boyfriend’s fingers braceleting it loosely, casually. One finger moving slowly up and down as though to placate you. Your chest aches terribly. 

Some of it must show on your face, because Remus frowns. “What is it?” 

“What?” 

“You look upset.” He leans forward, his touch coasting up to your knee. His frown deepens. “Sweetheart, what's wrong?” 

“Nothing.” You close your eyes, feeling silly. Shake your head. “Sorry, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“It’s really stupid.” 

Remus shushes you admonishingly. “I doubt that. Will you tell me?” 

“It’s just…” You push out a breath, not quite able to look at him. “It is, it’s silly. I feel like I miss you, but you’re right here.” 

Remus gives you a contemplative look, his lips downturnt. You almost want to laugh just so he’ll take you less seriously. You feel far too exposed. 

“That doesn’t sound silly,” he says after a moment. “I think…I know what you mean, sometimes. Maybe there’s something we’re missing.” 

“Like what?” you ask helplessly. 

He considers you. “Could we have a hug?”  

Now you do laugh. “Yeah,” you say, though you don’t move. “Of course, whenever you want.” 

“Whenever you want, too,” Remus reminds you. He takes the initiative, setting his book down and moving across the couch toward you. 

His arms come around you almost tentatively, one hand moving across your back while the other settles itself between your shoulder blades. You give a little shiver at the contact, and he strengthens his hold, your own fingers bunching in the material of his jumper. That ache in your chest begins to feel like a sort of fracturing. 

“I might cry,” you warn him wobbily. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Remus’ surprised chuckle jostles the first couple of tears out of you. “Oh, sweetheart.” He palms the back of your head. “I’ll try not to, but are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yeah.” You clutch him tightly. “This helps.” 

“Okay,” he says softly. 

Remus lets you cry it out. He holds you, shuffles closer on the couch, presses his lips to the top of your head. When you’re done and you pull away to press a salty kiss to the corner of his lips, he picks up your fallen blanket and draws it around the both of you. 

Your legs are all tangled together, bent knees and coarse hairs and the jut of an ankle bone into your hip. Remus looks into your eyes with a steady fondness. 

“Do you feel any better?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you answer honestly. “Sorry, thank you.” 

“Why are you always sorry?” There’s a bit of teasing in his voice now, softened by the brush of his lips against your nose. “You can always ask for hugs, you know. You should.” 

“Okay.” 

“I want you to.” 

“Okay.” Your face feels warm, but you feel a thousand times lighter. “I will.” 

“Good.” He gives you a little smile. “Can we do another now?” 

“Remus,” you smile back at him, “I’m really fine.” 

“I believe you. This one’s for me.”

[natlovesls2]

Gobble Gobble

Oscar Piastri x American Fem!Reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: minimal swearing, mentions of alcohol no use of y/n, pretend this makes sense

*ੈ✩‧₊˚word count: 1.7k

*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary: Oscar experiences that absolute shit show that can be Thanksgiving or Oscar's first Thanksgiving with your family

︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵

Your family had begged you to invite Oscar to the annual Thanksgiving dinner and, with hesitance, you did. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to join in the celebration, rather you knew that your family could be much, especially during the holidays. But wasn’t that the case for every family? It was like the holiday season brought a weird tension. 

Oscar looked at the front of the home you had grown up in, letting out a nervous breath as you reached to open the small gate that separated you from the yard. “Are you ready?”

He gave you a nervous laugh, “As ready as I can be.” You had warned him, multiple times, about your family's antics. From the nosy aunts, who would undoubtedly interrogate him all night, to the loose-lipped brother. He wasn’t sure if they like him or even tolerate him, but he knew what to expect– or at least he thought so. 

“They’ll love you, trust me” you said, opening the gate and taking a small step into the front yard. Oscar smiled at you, liking the confidence you had in his ability to make a good first impression. 

“I trust you,” he gave you a small nod, his eyes flickering down to your lips, moving to stand closer to you. 

The moment was interrupted by the noise of the front door being swung open, your mom standing below it with a wide smile. She called out to you, walking down the steps of the porch to envelope you in a tight hug. Your mom held you for a moment before turning her attention to Oscar, smiling at him and giving him an equally tight hug. “You must be Oscar, it's so good to finally meet you,” she said, pulling away from him, “We’re still cooking up a storm, so I’d recommend staying out of the kitchen, but make yourself at home– because, well, you are home,” she said, urging you inside before retreating into the kitchen to resume cooking. 

You led Oscar into the house, taking off your coats and placing them on the coat rack. The house smelled like all sorts of food and baked goods, it was evident that you all would be eating a great deal. He stopped at the hallway, his eyes scanning the walls and the pictures that decorated them. “She likes you,” you told him, taking a hold of his hand. 

 Oscar took in every family photo, smiling, his gaze lingering at the ones from your childhood, “you think so?” he asked, turning to face you, his hand squeezing your own. 

“Mmhm, absolutely.”

He smiled at you, taking a step closer, his eyes flickering down to your lips. Oscar glanced around, as if he were a child about to steal a cookie from a cookie jar, deciding the coast was clear he wrapped his hands around your hips. His lips found yours, his hands slipping under your sweater and gently squeezing at your skin. Your lips tasted like the lipgloss you had applied earlier, a taste that Oscar had grown to love in the months you had been dating. He deepened the kiss, a hand coming up to tangle in your hair. 

“I am definitely going to gouge my eyes out,” said a voice you found all too familiar, causing you to jump away from Oscar.

Oscar turned to look at the direction in which the voice came, noticing a man leaning against the doorframe that led to the living room. Your brother stood there, a smirk on his face, he looked similar to you besides a few small differences in features. “What the hell is your problem?” you whispered harshly, glaring at your brother as you straightened yourself up. 

Your brother smiled at Oscar, extending his hand out as a greeting, “You two need to be aware of your surroundings” he said as Oscar shook his hand. 

“You need to stop being such a creep,” you quipped. 

“A creep, me?” your brother asked, holding back a smile, “says the girl who just a second ago had her boyfriends tongue shoved down her throat like a fucking vacuum.”

Oscar bit back a laugh, clearly amused by the situation, almost enjoying the way in which your face filled with embarrassment. You hadn’t lied when you said your brother said anything and everything that came to his mind. “How much is she paying you?” your brother asked Oscar, continuing to tease you. 

He turned to look at you, expecting you to lash out at your brother but found you only shaking your head at him. “No payment,” Oscar said, “It's all voluntary.”

is“Oh just piss off,” you said, playfully shoving your brother aside. He smiled at that, finding it amusing that you were more vocal against him while Oscar was around. Your brother prepared himself to speak again before being cut off, “Mooom! He’s bothering us!” you called for your mom, who yelled at your brother from the kitchen. 

He glared at you, flicking you off, “You’re such a baby, can’t handle shit,” he grumbled, leaving you and Oscar alone again.

“He's so annoying.”

Oscar smiled at you as you returned to his side, clearly still annoyed by your brother's behaviour, “He loves you, that's why he annoys you so much. It's a brother thing.” His eyes lingered on your lips, clearly wanting to continue your earlier actions but scared that another family member would magically materialize. 

“Sure he does, come on, I want you to meet my dad,” you said, reaching for Oscar's hand again, giving it a small squeeze of reassurance. 

“Lead the way.”

You led him down the hall to the living room, where your father would undoubtedly be watching a game of football. As you approached, your father glanced over his shoulder from the couch to get a look at you, noticing your intertwined hands. 

“Hey,” you greeted, pulling Oscar along to sit on the couch opposite of your dad, who greeted you with a soft ‘Hey’ and nod before turning his attention back to the game. “Who's winning?” you asked. Your dad grumbled, it was obvious that the team your family rooted for was losing, although your dad held out the hope that they’d make a comeback. He looked at Oscar for some time, trying to make an opinion of him. “This is Oscar,” you said, introducing him to your dad. 

He smiled at Oscar, extending his hand out for him to shake, “Yeah, I know who he is,” he says, his eyes returning to intently watch the television, “you always look like you’re desperately trying to cover up your stressed attitude on the TV.”

You let out a small laugh at that, causing Oscar to smile, “I suppose I do look rather tense from time to time,” he responded. 

Your dad takes another look at Oscar, “Make her cry and I’ll break your kneecaps,” he says with a smile, making it obvious that his threat was empty. Oscar let out a laugh, nodding at your dads words. It was clear that Oscar wasn’t the first to be given such warnings. 

“He's just messing with you– he wouldn't hurt a fly,” you assure Oscar, playfully glaring at your dad, a smile painting itself on your own face. Your dad chuckled, it was obvious that your dad was only joking around with him. 

“He likes you,” I whisper to Oscar.

You sit with your dad for a while, only half paying attention to the game before the doorbell rang. The sound of new voices filling the house as your relatives arrived for dinner. Your dad shook his head, letting out a sigh, “Let the chaos begin.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You sat at a long table filled to the brim with different Thanksgiving foods. A turkey sat in the middle, surrounded by the usual sides like mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. It was like those stereotypical Thanksgiving dinners you see in movies. Oscar was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the simultaneous talking and smells. 

“So, when's the wedding?” one of your aunts, Victoria was her name– she was the most nosy of them, asked expectantly. 

Poor Oscar nearly choked on the mouthful of turkey he had been eating, the sudden question taking him by complete surprise. He looked down at you with wide eyes, pleading you to answer before he said the wrong thing. 

“We haven’t really discussed that– I mean, we’ve only been dating for so long,” you responded. She raised an eyebrow at you and Oscar, amused by the way in which you had avoided truthfully answering her question. It was almost as if she wasn’t too convinced by your answer. 

“Leave them alone,” your mom said, attempting to jump to your defense. 

“Please,” you whispered, eyes glued to your plate as you moved the contents around with your fork, your hunger seeming to have abandoned you as the questioning began.

“I’m only teasing,” your aunt gave a small wave, clearly unphased by your moms words, “Do you want children?”

Oscar took a sip of his wine, attempting to keep cool after that very personal question. He could feel your eyes on him, and he reached down to hold onto your hand. “Children?” he said with a nervous laugh, “We haven’t really talked about that either,” he said, looking down at his plate to avoid eye contact. 

“But surely you must have an opinion of your own,” your aunt added. 

He took another sip of his wine, silently hoping they’d find someone else to interrogate, “I mean, yeah,” he started, playing with your fingers as if to distract himself, “Yes, I’d want kids… just not anytime soon– we’re still so young,” he looked at you warmly, a small smile appearing on his lips as he answered. 

“Oh he's perfect,” your grandma said from beside your mom, smiling widely at Oscar. Her comment made both of your parents smile, seemingly agreeing with what she had said, it was clear that Oscar had made a good first impression. He smiled at you, his smile growing as you kissed his cheek as your family finally moved on to their next victim. 

Dinner continued with more questioning, your family left you and Oscar alone for the most part, and more eating. Afterwards you all gathered in the living room to watch whatever Christmas movie had been picked that year. And as you rested your head on Oscar's shoulder, he felt as if he could get used to Thanksgiving with your family– no matter how intrusive their questions may be.

︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵

*ੈ✩‧₊˚Note: This is in no way me condoning the myth of the first thanksgiving. And it is important to acknowledge the atrocities committed against the indigenous people since the arrival of the English. please ignore the spelling or grammar mistakes, I've got to go make mac and cheese– peace out and happy turkey day to anyone who feasts on this day.

[vunblr]

Tangled (#9)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: 8.7k

note: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event Kinky Bingo. The Prompt is Monster Fucking. Card number KB-014.

Previous Chapter

In the days that followed their kiss on the beach, something shifted. She kept returning to her usual spot near the rocks, sitting with her yarn and humming as if nothing had changed, but the air between them was different. Bucky lingered now. At first, he hovered at a distance, half-submerged, watching with those sharp, unreadable eyes. But as the hours passed, he grew bolder. Every time.

Sometimes he’d curl a single limb around her ankle as she worked, or stroke the back of her hand when she reached for something. Other times, he'd join fully beside her on the rocks, glistening in the sun, with his tattooed arm propping him up behind her like he’d always belonged there. The conversation flowed naturally between them, hesitant at first, then deeper. She asked questions about his kind. He listened to her stories about life before the coast. They learned from each other in fragments.

But it was mating season. And he was trying -really trying- not to crowd her, not to rush. Still, when she leaned back into him, when her thigh brushed his hip, his tentacles would stir without permission. At first, they only wrapped loosely around her waist or leg, but soon they started to roam, mapping the shape of her calves, her arms, the line of her back. He was always watching her face, always waiting to see if she'd pull away. She never did.

She let him explore. She started to touch him back, too. Tentative at first, but curious. They were becoming a slow, simmering thing. It wasn’t just instinct or heat. It was her choosing him, again and again.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and cast long golden streaks across the shore, something shifted again. They were lounging in their usual place, with her back to his chest, and his limbs lazily cradling her body like he couldn't help but touch her, because he couldn’t. They’d been speaking in soft tones, his voice low and gravelly near her ear, threading sweet nothings into her skin between slow kisses to her shoulder and jaw.

But then, one venturing limb strayed. A slow, absent-minded movement at first, but it grazed the damp fabric of her underwear, an area he’d deliberately avoided. He’d known touching her there would be different. Too much. He could already smell her arousal when she was near, taste it in the air. But direct contact? It sent a violent rush of sensations through his body, like being plunged into a current he couldn’t fight. Her warmth soaked into his cups, and he froze against her, with his lips parted, and his breath suddenly shallow.

He stopped mid-whisper, clenching his fingers on her waist as his whole body tensed behind her. Her scent and taste, so much stronger now, filled his head like salt and honey and heat. And then she moved. Just a little. A subtle shift. Her thighs parted ever so slightly, angling her hips toward the limb still resting where it shouldn't be.

The invitation was quiet and devastating.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His body moved before he had the chance to reason with it. His limbs tightened around her like a trap of velvet and steel, pulling her flush against him. Another tendril snaked low, slipping beneath the edge of her damp underwear with unerring precision, seeking the heat of her skin. The contact was electric. Her breath hitched, and she curled her fingers around the limb at her waist, not to push him away, not guiding him either. But her thighs stayed parted, and her body pliant in his hold.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest as his lips found the side of her neck, open-mouthed and burning. He didn’t kiss so much as taste, drag his teeth along her pulse like a warning. His cups latched on tender skin, drawing slow, coaxing pulls, tasting her salt, her sun-warmed scent, the spike in her heartbeat that was desire, not fear.

He was unraveling.

His kind didn’t go slow. Didn’t take care. Not like this. And yet here he was, trembling with restraint and still failing, still losing control.

He pinned her. One arm around her middle, another limb curling over her thigh to hold her open, his slick skin pulsing against her core. The tip of a tentacle pressed forward again, slow and reverent. Her breath came out ragged. One more second and-

No.

With a strained, frustrated hiss, he tore himself away. Every limb uncoiled at once, releasing her like she burned him. He dropped low, twisting to the surf with a wild motion, and was gone, vanishing into the sea like a dark shape slipping between waves.

She sat up slowly, dazed, with her skin marked with the memory of his touch, and her chest rising and falling in a shaky rhythm. The place where he had held her felt suddenly empty, and her body was left thrumming with unfinished need.

She stayed there on the rocks long after he vanished into the sea. Her skin still tingled where he’d held her, where his cups had tasted, where his breath had scorched the base of her neck. It hadn’t frightened her, his strength, the way his instincts had flared. If anything, it had stirred something deep and primal, a mirrored longing in her own blood. But he had pulled back. For her. For his word. And though her body ached with the echo of what almost was, her chest ached more with understanding. He feared what he could do to her. And yet… she wasn’t afraid.

----

The next day, she finished up orders. Packed, labeled, and stacked the boxes that had to go out before the week was over. Her fingers worked purposefully, but her mind wandered to the shore. To him. To the way he almost lost control, to the moment they said “another day” they would speak.

Today was another day. And frankly, she was tired of circling the edges of something that had already been decided.

So when the tide began its slow afternoon retreat, and the sky shifted to the soft golds of the early evening, she made a decision. She grabbed a snack, tucked a bottle of water into her pack -and, why pretend?- stuffed a small blanket inside too. Just in case.

She changed into a dress that hit just above the knees, a breezy thing that left her legs free and bare to the touch of the wind… or curious tendrils. Her cheeks warmed just at the thought.

Then, before heading out, she paused by the shelf near the window and picked up the bracelet she’d made months ago. A simple band, crocheted leather strips, with one of the flat, spiraled conches he had gifted her woven into the center. She hadn’t worn it before. Not yet.

She tied it around her wrist and stared at her reflection for a moment. Then she smiled -a little foolish, a little excited- and stepped out into the sea breeze.

----

She didn’t even bother to sit in her usual spot by the rocks. Her mind was too loud, and her body too restless. The moment she arrived, she walked straight to the mouth of the cave with a hammering heart, and her eyes adjusting to the softened light streaming down from the stone chimneys above the place.

“Bucky?” she called, once. Then again.

His voice came from behind her, low and calm. “Didn’t expect you. You weren’t on your rock earlier.”

She spun with a startled yelp, clutching her chest. “You almost killed me.”

He only snorted, and his eyes glinted with mild amusement as he rolled them at her. He leaned back against the damp rock wall, resting his arms behind him, with his body half-floating in the pool. Tendrils swayed lazily with the motion of the water, catching the scattered light like ribbons of ink.

“Had things to do,” she said, trying to slow her heartbeat. “I don’t hunt my food, remember? I have to work to go buy it.”

He quirked a brow, with something unreadable flickering in his gaze as he watched her approach. She moved toward him slowly and sat on one of the dryer rocks near the pool’s edge, tucking her legs beside her.

“I came to talk,” she announced.

“You always talk,” he deadpanned.

“Ha ha. Very funny,” she rolled her eyes, but smiled. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded, slowly, with a guarded expression. “Yeah. I do.” He was about to bring up what happened the day before, but his eyes flicked to her wrist and lingered there. His gaze locked on the bracelet, on the spiral of the conch he'd given her long ago. Woven now with care into leather and worn like something meant to stay.

He didn’t say anything at first, but she watched how the tension subtly shifted across his chest. One of his tendrils stilled mid-motion in the water, then curled inward, like it was thinking.

“You made that,” he finally said, quiet and almost disbelieving.

“Yeah,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Months ago, actually. I just… didn’t wear it until now.”

His gaze dragged back up to hers, slower this time. There was something raw in the look he gave her, like that simple gesture had undone some tightly wound thing inside him.

“I noticed,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “It suits you.”

And then, a little quieter, like it escaped before he could stop it: “You kept it.”

“How couldn’t I?” she said, almost like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her fingers grazed the bracelet. “You gifted it to me.”

Something shifted in him. She saw it. His chest expanded with a silent inhale, and a swirl of pride flickered behind his gaze. Subtle, but unmistakable. That she’d kept it. That she wore it, out in the open, where others could see. She hadn’t just accepted the token; she’d chosen to display it, to carry him with her.

He wetted his lips unconsciously, and without a word, began gliding toward her. The water cradled his body in flowing movements, as his limbs trailed behind like dark ribbons. When he reached the edge of the rock she sat on, he braced himself against it, folding his arms along the rim and resting his weight there. Close, but not quite touching.

His tendrils twitched beneath the surface, brushing the stone, aching to reach for her. But he held back.

“So… yesterday,” she began, her voice was a bit tentative as she smoothed her hands over the front of her dress. “We- well, you know.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You yielded to me.”

She huffed a laugh. “Is that what you call it? I wasn’t exactly resisting, you know.”

“It is what it’s called,” he replied with a hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Even when the female is willing and courts us first, she resists before the final moment. It’s… instinct.”

She blinked. “Why resist?”

“Because,” he said simply, “even if we carry the mark of aptitude, they still need to test our strength. To see for themselves what we’re capable of. Whether we’re worthy of strong offspring.”

There was no shame in his tone. No pride either, just fact.

She frowned as she tried to imagine it. “So there’s violence involved?”

“Some,” he admitted. “Until they yield. Until they accept.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, shaking her head. “No offense, but that doesn’t sound very… nice.”

He shrugged one shoulder, water rippling with the motion. “Nature isn’t always nice.”

She blinked, processing that with wide eyes. “That’s… intense.”

His eyes didn’t leave her face. “It’s instinct. But we’re not only instinct.” His voice dropped a little. “Not always.”

Her hand found the edge of her dress again, smoothing the fabric over her thigh. “So… when I accepted, it wasn’t the same. I didn’t resist. I didn’t fight you.”

“No,” he said, with a slowness that bordered on reverent. “You considered me apt.”

He didn’t say what that meant to him, but she could see it. In the way his pupils dilated, in the subtle way his shoulders dropped, in tension bleeding out of his body, in the small movement of a tendril that came close to her foot, hovering there, trembling slightly, before withdrawing again.

“You’re not… disappointed by that?” she asked, quieter now.

He leaned in closer, resting his chin on his crossed arms, as the water lapped softly against the stone between them. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you’d fought me,” he said, honest and firm. “I wouldn’t have wanted to. You’re human, not like the females of my kind. If you’d resisted… it would be because you weren’t interested. And that you chose me…” He exhaled through his nose. “It means more.”

There was a moment of silence between them, charged and delicate. Then she smiled softly, leaning a little closer, just enough that her knee brushed his arm.

“Good,” she said in barely above a whisper. “Because I meant it.”

He sighed deeply, and the sound echoed faintly off the damp stone walls of the cave. One hand raked through his hair, slicking his damp strands back as he gathered himself. The water beaded along his skin, catching the fading light in the cave.

“I…” he started in a low voice. “I’ve been drawn to you since the autumn days. Since you first started coming here. It has nothing to do with what’s happening to me now.”

Her chest felt lighter with something close to relief. Without thinking, she reached out to take his hand, but he shook his head gently, stopping her.

“Please don’t touch me. Not until we talk.” His voice cracked just a little, betraying the strain. “It’s not easy for me.”

She curled her fingers back into her lap, nodding slowly. “Alright.”

His shoulders relaxed just barely at her understanding.

“I want to try what you do. What your kind does for bonding, to last, to share things. It’s not something purely sexual.” His gaze lifted to hers, raw and hungry and full of intent. “Still, I desire you. I want to mate with you. To make you mine, and no one else’s.”

Of all the confessions she might’ve expected, it wasn’t that, at least not said like that. With that kind of depth. Warmth bloomed in her chest, fierce and radiant, and she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.

But then, his expression shifted.

“But…” he looked away. “I won’t trick you. You deserve to know what I am. What I’ve done.”

She nodded slowly, leaning forward without thinking, as if her body was reaching to understand before her mind could catch up.

“About... eighty winters ago,” he began, in a low voice, almost guttural, “far away from here, I was captured. Tricked by a human man who pretended to be my friend.”

His expression went somber, and he pressed his lips into a thin line. Her breath stilled.

“I was... naïve back then. Trusting. I thought the stories they told us -to stay away from the land, from humans- were exaggerations. I believed we somehow could coexist.” He paused and clenched his jaw. “Until we couldn’t.”

His eyes darkened with memory. “One night, I came to see him... and what I found was a group of men waiting for me. They overwhelmed me. Weakened me with harpoons and bound me. Then they dragged me into a ship like some cursed trophy.”

She drew in a sharp breath, horrified, but she didn’t interrupt, pressing her fingers hard into the stone beneath her instead.

“I was probed. Studied like a thing. And I was awake for it.” His voice cracked there, but he pushed on. “They... broke me. Rearranged me. Then... they used magic -something ancient, dark- to twist my mind. To bend my will.”

His voice was hollow now, haunted.

It was the first time she’d heard of magic being real. But she couldn’t question it, not when he sat there before her, a real and breathing myth, scarred from things she couldn't even begin to imagine.

“That’s... terribly painful and hard-”

“I’ve killed people.” His voice snapped through the air like a whip, silencing her.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Countless men,” he went on, looking not at her, but through her. “And... my kind too. I was made to fight. To hunt. To destroy. And I did.”

He swallowed, and the motion looked thick and pained. “That is why I was attacked. Because of what I did, because I was one of them for too long.” He didn’t move. Didn’t look at her. Just waited. Braced himself.

And she -heart pounding, emotions torn between anguish, fury, and an ache she couldn’t name- still didn’t back away.

"How... how did you get free?" she murmured, her voice barely more than breath.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the silence stretched before he answered. “Spent twenty winters under their control. Until a friend man-hunted me and cut me loose.”

Her brows furrowed. “A friend?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, and his fingers clenched slightly on the edge of the rock. “I told you that my kind doesn’t bond. We’re proud, isolated. Weakness is despised. But... Steve and I were together since we were pups.”

He finally looked at her. “He was so small. So weak. Couldn’t have survived those first independent years on his own. And I... I don’t know. I couldn’t just leave him. It felt wrong. So I stayed with him.”

Her chest clenched at the image of a young Bucky, already protective, already different.

“We stuck together most of the time. He got stronger. Better. There was a witch involved in that,” he added with a flicker of disdain, “but it wasn’t my business. He didn’t ask for my opinion anyway, hot-headed as he was.”

She gave him a soft, understanding smile. “And... where is this friend now?”

He hesitated. The word friend seemed to sting.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “He mated a human woman. Chose to live among them.”

Something brittle and old bled into his tone.

“I was hurt. Felt betrayed. After what they did to me, what they made me become... he chose to be with a landwalker. Right after freeing me.”

His jaw tensed, and his lips curled slightly in frustration. “I was thankful. But angry, too. So angry.” he admitted. "I distanced myself from him, the only one who gave a shit to bring me back and not just put me down. But the feeling of betrayal was stronger. I was... broken. In more than one sense."

Her heart twisted at his confession. So much pain, layered over time like the rings of a wounded tree. She knelt down at the edge of the pool, and reached out without hesitation. Screw the warning from earlier.

"Who could blame you for that?” she murmured, folding her arms around his damp shoulders. “You suffered too much. You can rationalize it now, but at the time... you were raw.”

He stiffened under her touch, and every muscle in his back went tense. But he didn’t pull away.

She pressed her cheek to the crown of his head, and his breath hitched once against his crossed arms, his face still hidden from her. He stayed like that, tense, quiet.

Then slowly, as if it took a great effort, as if some part of him was still waiting to be punished for being vulnerable, his other limbs responded. Tentacles slithered up around her waist and lower back, coiling loosely, cautiously. Not to hold her in place, not to restrain, but to seek. To self-soothe.

He didn’t speak again. Just let himself be enveloped by her arms. Let himself rest, for a moment, in the warmth of someone who didn’t flinch.

Eventually, he found his voice. “Now you know what I did. You can turn back. Leave. Despise me, if you want. It wasn’t fair to let you be with me without the truth.”

She didn’t flinch or loosen her arms from around him.

“Why would I despise you?” she asked softly, pulling back just enough to see him. “Look at me. Hey,” her hand brushed the damp strands of hair from his temple, coaxing him gently, “let me see your pretty eyes.”

He scoffed -more out of habit than defiance- but he lifted his head anyway, meeting her gaze with a reluctant flicker. There was a storm behind his irises, old and violent, but he let her see it.

She cradled his face, grazing his cheeks with her thumbs.

“You were a victim,” she said firmly. “They made you do things you wouldn’t have done if you’d had a choice. I do not think less of you because of what you told me.”

Her voice wavered, but her eyes didn’t. “If anything… it takes courage. To carry it. To speak it. And to tell me, give me the choice to know something you could’ve easily hidden forever? That’s not something a coward does. That’s someone who respects me. Someone I… care about.”

His breath caught, and his tentacles shifted slightly around her, like they were trying to pull back, but couldn’t quite let go.

“I know you think you’re too broken to be wanted,” she murmured. “But you’re not. Not to me. I don’t see a monster when I look at you, Bucky. I see someone who survived. Someone who protects. Someone who still knows how to care.”

He blinked slowly, as if her words took a second longer to reach his mind through all the layers of shame and pain. The weight behind his gaze didn’t lift, but it softened.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against his. “I still want you. That hasn’t changed.”

His arms didn’t move, still crossed tightly over the edge of the rock, but one of his tendrils coiled slowly up her spine, tentative in its touch. “…You’re not scared of me,” he said at last, barely more than a whisper.

“I’m not,” she answered. “I trust you.”

He closed his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders bled out by degrees. Then, in a voice edged with something old and bitter, he said, “There were moments I thought I’d never speak again. Never be seen again. But then you came here… and sat on that rock every day like I was just an equal in a cave and not a thing swimming in shadows.”

His lashes lifted, and his eyes searched her face. Then, with a slow breath, he pushed himself upright.

Water slid down from his torso in long, smooth rivulets, and his damp hair clung to his temples and neck as he turned and eased himself onto the flat rock beside her. He moved slowly, like he didn’t want to spook her, though his limbs remained loosely coiled around her hips and lower back, more by instinct than intent now. A tactile confirmation she was still close, and still his, even if only in this fragile, flickering moment.

Before he could speak -before he could thank her or tell her what she’d just given him- she leaned back slightly.

Just enough.

Her teeth caught her lower lip, and holding his gaze with purpose, she tilted her head, baring her throat in invitation.

A heartbeat passed.

His pupils dilated instantly, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply, sharply, drawn forward by the sudden clarity of her scent, wanting, open.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“…You’re doing that on purpose,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint.

She didn’t look away. “Yes.”

His tendrils twitched, curling tighter for a breath before easing again, their grips were gentle but possessive.

“I said I wouldn’t rush you,” he murmured, with his eyes locked on her exposed neck “but… you're making it very hard.”

His hand finally reached for her, slowly, brushing the hair from her shoulder as he leaned in -not to touch with his mouth, not yet- but to breathe her in again, filling himself with her essence.

Bucky inhaled again, and his eyes fluttered half-closed as her scent bloomed around him. Then came his teeth' soft, sharp click, an unconscious sound of instinct and want.

He drew back just enough to meet her gaze with a hooded and serious expression.

And then -slowly- he turned his head and lifted his chin, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat to her. The tendons shifted beneath his damp skin, and the pulse was faintly visible just beneath the surface. She moved without hesitation.

Leaning in, she mirrored his gesture, lifting her chin and echoing what he'd just done. Her lips hovered near his jaw, not quite touching, but her intention was unmistakable. Her acceptance was not passive.

Bucky’s eyes burned with heat, his entire body was tense with desire and control, the coils of his limbs flexing around her waist, her thighs.

And then, her hand rose.

She didn’t go for his face or chest. She reached instead for his arm, brushing her fingertips over the intricate tattoos swirling across it. The marks were dark and sinuous, almost alive under the dim light, telling a story she had yet to learn. Her touch was reverent, following the curves and lines with slow, deliberate pressure, circling her thumb over a spiraled sigil inked with a star in its center.

Bucky stiffened, and a tremor coursed through his limbs.

“You know what you’re doing,” he wanted to confirm, his voice thick and low.

“I do,” she whispered, eyes never leaving his. Her touch slid further over his marked skin, splaying her fingers over the spiraling designs, warmly and sure.

He pressed closer, clenching his arms around her, with his chest nearly brushing hers now. One of his tendrils curled behind her knee, not yet demanding, just present.

“Then you know what comes next,” he murmured.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she breathed. “And I want this. I want you.”

He groaned low in his throat, and the sound vibrated against her cheek, as his mouth found hers in the next breath with no hesitation, no tentative brush of lips. And his limbs -no longer restrained- finally explored her as they had longed to. Tendrils slid beneath the hem of her dress, curling around her thighs with reverent pressure, mapping every inch of skin.

She gasped into the kiss, gripping his shoulders as his touch coaxed a tremble from her legs.

Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to speak against her mouth, his breath hot and uneven. “This attire is... conveniently made,” he muttered, brushing the edge of the fabric with a smirk in his tone.

She huffed a soft laugh. “How perceptive of you,” she teased, grazing his lips as she spoke.

His grin was a flash of white teeth, brief and crooked, before he captured her mouth again, rougher now, more claiming.

The tendrils on her thighs caressed with unhurried confidence, coaxing her knees further apart as one traced the sensitive inside of her leg. Another curled around her waist, pulling her flush against the firm plane of his body.

Everything about him enveloped her: his heat, his scent, his voice, low and gruff in the moments their lips parted for air. One of his hands braced against the stone, the other cradled the back of her head, and still, his limbs kept moving, pulling reactions from her that made his pupils blow wide with hunger.

“Say it again,” he breathed into the curve of her neck. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” she repeated, without a shred of doubt.

His limbs moved with growing confidence now, sure in their purpose. Two of them slid higher underneath her dress, teasing along the hem of her undergarments, while others coiled around her waist and shoulders, holding her gently but firmly in place.

She shivered against him, not from fear, but anticipation.

Another tendril, slick and warm, brushed up her spine beneath the dress, making her arch with a gasp. He used the movement to pull the fabric upward. The dress peeled away, gathered slowly above her hips, then over her head as one limb coaxed her arms up while another tugged the garment free.

He pulled back just far enough to look at her bare before him with nothing but the bracelet on her wrist and a flimsy cloth over her sex. His pupils were blown wide, and his chest rose in shallow pants as he took her in.

“I dreamed of this,” he confessed, in a hoarse voice, “Of you. Like this.”

She touched the edge of his jaw, brushing the corner of his mouth with her thumb. “Then don’t wait. I’m right here.”

That undid him.

Tendrils slid down her sides, curving to trace the lines of her waist and her thighs. One hooked beneath the last scrap of fabric between them and tugged slowly -teasingly- down, baring her completely to him, and for a beat, he just looked. She was breathing heavily beneath the curl of his limbs, and when his gaze fell to her chest, he stilled completely.

Slowly, as though touching something sacred, one of his limbs rose and coiled gently beneath her breast, lifting the soft weight into his grasp. It filled his grip in a way that made his throat tighten, and awe and hunger tangled inside his chest. His other limb followed, mirroring the shape, reverently wrapping around it, cups pulsing softly against her skin as they explored the warmth and texture.

She gasped when he touched her nipples -sensitive, already peaked- and his entire body responded to the sound. One of the cups latched gently, suckling with a subtle, exploratory pull.

Her eyes flew open. “It feels like you’re… like your mouth is sucking on it,” she moaned, breath catching on the words.

He plucked at the stiffened peak again with more intention this time, watching, feeling her react, seeing how her body arched into his grasp, how her scent sharpened with each motion. His pulse thudded in his ears, and his limbs were trembling with restraint as her thighs shifted and parted beneath him.

When he slid a limb down to test between them, it came away wet, soaked in her desire. Her taste, carried in the fluid that filled his cups, made him reel. He groaned low in his throat, a raw, unguarded sound.

Then, bolder, he plucked the other nipple between his cups as her moans spilled freely.

Her lips parted on a sigh, and her eyelids fluttered low when his tentacle returned to that place between her legs, rubbing with slow, deliberate pressure against the sensitive folds. The slick heat, and when his cups grazed a small, firm nub tucked just above her entrance, her body jolted like he’d struck lightning beneath her skin.

She wanted to touch him back, show him what she felt, drag her fingers down his body, trace the hard line of his jaw, kiss the shell of his ear, but she couldn’t. He was everywhere. Beneath her, around her, holding her firm with strength that somehow managed to be gentle. Each movement, each probing touch, each curious flick of his suckers pulled another soft moan from her lips.

The cups latched on instinct, closing over that pearl-like flesh, tugging gently, then more insistently with each pass. Her reaction nearly unraveled him. She arched, shuddered in his grasp, her thighs trembled around his limbs. She grabbed his forearms with a desperate grip, as if she might fall apart without him holding her, though he never would’ve let her.

Hard, quick gasps poured from her lips with every pull of his cups. Her hips twitched before she could stop them, trying to follow the source of that delicious tugging pressure, and he felt it all, through the taste in his mouth, the grip of her fingers, the slickness against his limbs.

He tilted his head, puzzled, fascinated. “What is that?” he asked, lifting her slightly with his limbs to get a clearer look at the glistening bundle of nerves nestled between the soft folds of her sex.

She groaned, covering her face with both hands. It was far too late to be shy, but the gesture was instinctive. “That’s… that’s my clit,” she mumbled from behind her fingers.

He blinked. “What is its purpose?” His voice was curious, gentle even, as his fingers replaced the cups and stroked it carefully.

She flinched,  “Um- it’s… it’s for pleasure. Just pleasure,” she managed to say, as her hips chase the contact without her control.

His breath hitched. That concept -just pleasure- made him freeze in awe. “We… don’t have anything like this,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Everything we have… it serves a function. This… this is only for you?”

She nodded, slowly lowering her hands from her face to meet his gaze. “Yeah. It’s sensitive. It… feels good when touched.”

His pupils were wide, blown with wonder and something much darker. “Then I want to learn everything about it.”

Before she could answer, he eased her back onto the mossy, softened stone beside the water. The cool air kissed her bare skin, and he was right there, around her again, his limbs braced to either side, one still coiled beneath her back, another curling around her calf. The others, she couldn’t keep track anymore. One was wrapped gently around her breast, another smoothing over her waist, her hip, her belly, and lower.

He kissed her thigh without warning.

"Just like a clam", he commented as he spread her lower lips with his thumbs, "a clam and its precious pearl."

"Never thought about it like that" she chuckled, but was interrupted by a moan when he circled her clit with his lips and sucked, tracing his tongue along her slit after satisfying his curiousness.

Then he had an idea. He leaned back and lifted her, almost sitting her on the cradle of his tentacles, and grasped the back of her neck, tilting her head up to make her look at him. Then, one of his limbs slide back between her legs to nestle on her mound, and used a cup to suckle at her clit intently.

"Oh my god" her voice trembled as her hips ground shamelessly against his appendage.

His gaze was dark, enjoying every shift of her blissful expression for the pleasure he was giving her. He. No other.

"I'm- don't stop" she whined, and he tilted his head again.

"You what, mate?" he asked, still having her by the neck, forcing her to look at him through hooded eyes.

"I'm going to cum" she breathed.

He touched one of his canines with his tongue and then clicked his teeth. The words were foreign to him, but he understood their meaning. "Show me then. Show me what I do to you," he murmured, going further, sliding the tip of his tendril inside her wet heat in tandem as the cups kept suckling on her. Her body tensed, and her lips parted in a silent scream as the orgasm hit her, clenching around his limb, clawing his shoulders, arching her back in an impossible angle as the wave of pleasure made her tremble under his touch.

Her head lolled forward, resting on his shoulder, and her breath came in soft, broken bursts against his damp skin as her body slowly relaxed in his grasp. His tentacles cradled her like something precious, but they were twitching now, with restraint, with want.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, heavy and shaky. He pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a moment as if centering himself.

"I pleased you," he murmured, low and hoarse, his voice vibrating against her skin. “You came apart in my arms. Let me see it, feel it. You gave that to me.”

His hand, large and warm, settled at the small of her back. The limbs encircling her shifted with less grace and more urgency now, tightening slightly, drawing her closer.

"My body…" he started, pausing, jaw clenching as if trying to hold himself back one last time. His gaze flicked down to where their bodies pressed together, then up to meet her eyes, dark and searching. "I need to mate with you, now. I’ve waited, held back, but- It hurts to keep it inside.”

One of his limbs slid slowly along her spine, not to tease but to soothe, to keep her present. “You said yes. You chose me. And now my whole body is calling to answer that choice.”

From the haze of pleasure still coursing through her body, she blinked slowly, registering the slight tremble in his voice, in his hold. She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb across the high arc of his cheekbone.

“It hurts… to keep it inside?” she asked softly, almost wondering.

He nuzzled faintly into her palm, like the simple touch soothed something primal. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he admitted, a little gravel in his voice now. “So I held it in.”

“Oh.” Her brows drew in gently. “Oh, you mean your… okay. So, it’s inside you?”

“Yes,” he nodded slowly, pupils blown wide and locked on her. “It… grows when I’m aroused, like a human male’s. But it’s concealed. Normally, one just…” he hesitated, then made a gesture, vague but suggestive, like something unfurling. “Just let it out. But-”

“You didn’t want to scare me,” she finished for him.

He gave a barely-there nod.

There was a pause.

“Should I?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper now. “Be scared?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “It shouldn’t hurt,” he answered honestly. “I think. But it’s… different. Not like what you’ve known or seen.”

She smiled, small and sure. “You’re not like what I’ve known or seen either,” she said, tracing her fingers along his skin. “But that didn’t stop me from choosing you.”

He made that low sound again, a rumble that seemed to rise from the depths of his chest and echoed softly off the cave walls, vibrating through the water between them. His grip on her softened, but tension still prevailed in his body like a storm barely held back.

And then… something shifted.

Just beneath the sculpted lines of his abdomen, down the center of his Adonis belt, she saw a movement, a hidden seam parting with organic grace. It unfurled with a subtle flex, almost like how some mollusks opened under sunlight. And then, without warning, there it was.

He had wanted to reveal it slowly. To give her time. But his restraint had burned to cinders the moment she told him she trusted him. That she wanted him. The moment she climaxed in his arms. There was no holding back now, not with the fire coursing through his veins and her scent heavy on his skin.

She stared, with her lips slightly parted. It wasn’t grotesque or monstrous. Just… different. The same black and blue patterns of his limbs trailed over the shaft, the surface gleaming faintly like polished shell and velvet. Not exactly human, not exactly beast. Thick and ridged in places, with a subtle pulse that told her he was very much alive with want.

Definitely not in the small category. But it wasn’t disheartening. In fact, it sparked something else entirely.

She bit her lip. “Can I touch it?”

He didn’t speak. Just clenched his jaw, and a muscle twitched near his temple. But he nodded once, deliberately, with his eyes fixed on her every move like a predator.

Her hand reached forward, slow but sure, grazing the ridged surface with her fingertips. It twitched in response, and so did he, every muscle in his body going tense as if her touch sent lightning down his spine.

“God,” she whispered, brushing down its length, marveling at its weight and heat. “You really were holding back.” She stated, looking at him while giving a tentative squeeze.

He didn’t smile. Not this time.

“Is it… of your liking?” The question came low, strained, like it cost him something to ask. He wasn’t just teasing or fishing for praise. He was uncertain, genuinely. And she could tell that wasn’t something that happened often. He’d spent a life being feared or desired, and now… he was asking her, the one person he trusted, if this part of him -this exposed, vulnerable part- was acceptable.

Her eyes dropped again to the hard, pulsing length that stood rigid between them, black and blue like his limbs, ridged in a way no human man could ever be. She could see why he’d worry.

It was definitely different. But it wasn’t frightening. Not to her. She didn’t stop touching him. Her fingers explored gently, tracing the contours, watching the way his breath hitched and his jaw clenched tighter. The ridges, texture, and subtle shift in her palm were unfamiliar, but not frightening. Actually… it reminded her of a night, long ago, giggling tipsy with a friend, scrolling through some ridiculously NSFW novelty site and stopping on a selection of fantasy dildos. Some textured like tentacles, some curved or ridged. Some of them… kind of hot.

And this one? Real. Warm. Alive.

“I think it's beautiful. You are beautiful. I find it-” She hesitated, then bit her lip and met his eyes again, trying -and failing- to wrap her hand gently around him. “I wonder how it would feel inside me.”

His pupils dilated instantly, the ocean-blue swallowed in black. His tentacles shifted around her hips, drawing her in unconsciously, as if her words triggered a primal response in him he could no longer suppress. His throat worked around a groan, and one of his hands came up to cradle her cheek with reverent care.

“You want to find out?” he asked, with a low, wrecked voice, barely holding control.

She didn’t answer, not with words. She leaned into his hand, brushing her lips over the rough pad of his thumb before kissing the center of his palm. That was enough. That was more than enough.

And then he moved.

His limbs shifted, cradling her body, circling her waist and her thighs. She gasped softly, and her hands instinctively flew to his shoulders for balance, but there was no real danger of falling. He was everywhere. Beneath her, around her, holding her like she was already part of him.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, like a vow, even as his pupils stayed blown wide. “Unless you ask me not to.”

He spread her legs farther, and his mating shaft brushed up the soft skin of her inner thigh before guiding himself with his hand, rubbing against her slick and probing at her entrance. She whimpered as he stretched her with his engorged tip, and he froze, staring at her face for a sign that she wanted him to back off. Maybe his limb wasn’t enough to prepare her for what was coming.

Her eyes fluttered open when he stopped moving. “Please, don’t stop.” She pleaded.

So he didn’t, instead pushing all his length inside her, feeling something in the process he had no parallel for. Mating with his kind had been nothing like this, maybe because she was smaller in size. He retreated and pushed again, and again, as her fingers clawed at his arms and her moans and whimpers grew more frantic. This time, he had no doubts about the sounds she was making, especially since she whispered the words deeper, and more as he pushed into her.

Her hips swayed with his thrusts, and she already felt another orgasm building embarrassingly fast. He kept tugging at her clit and nipples like sucking kisses, at compass with his cock that stretched her deliciously with every drag. His limbs clenched around her body, creeping across her skin, and leaving little marks in their wake. It was an indescribable feeling that was so erotic that she couldn’t speak, beyond begging him in barely coherent words not to stop.

He pulled her closer to his body so her chest was against his, so she grasped one of his shoulders more firmly and leaned forward to kiss and lick the strong column of his neck, and he moaned. She decided she wanted to hear that again, so she nipped softly at his pulse point, which resulted in another moan and a harder thrust that made her cry out.

Suction cups kissed her trembling inner thighs, adding to the overwhelming sensations, and more of them stroked over her waist. One wandering limb prodded at the tight hole next to where his mating shaft pumped inside her. She shivered as he explored, not making any move to stop him until he pressed too deeply inside. He stopped as soon as he felt her tense, and moved away to trail light suction kisses up her back instead.

She nipped at his neck again, a teasing bite just below his ear, and the sound he made in response was feral. A low, guttural growl that vibrated through his chest and straight into her pussy. His fingers tangled in her hair in a possessive fist, tugging her head gently but firmly to the side, baring her neck.

Then his mouth was there, hot and open over her pulse, where it thundered beneath the skin. He licked once, slow and deliberate, before closing his teeth over the spot in warning. His breath was ragged, lips brushing her skin as he spoke.

“Want to mark me, mate?” he asked, voice thick and raw.

The way he said mate spiked her desire.

“Because I want to mark you. I’m going to mark you, so everyone knows-” he changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting deeper inside her, making her scream, “that you are taken, and only respond to me.” Her moans and whimpers echoed inside the cave, and the wet sound of her body being obscenely ravaged filled their ears.

Then he bit her.

Not hard. Not cruelly. His canines extended just enough to sink into the flesh where her neck met her shoulder, right at the place where instinct screamed and trust made her melt.

The pain was barely there, more like pressure followed by a dizzying, radiant burst of pleasure that licked through every nerve ending of her body. Her breath caught in her throat. Her thighs clenched instinctively. A moan escaped her lips before she could stop it, digging her fingers into his back as her body tightened hard and rhythmically on his cock. The feeling of her pulsing heat dragging him deeper and deeper like heartbeats, and the taste of her marked flesh against his mouth, was overwhelming. He thrusted one last time inside her and followed her climax, pouring his hot, thick load deep inside her in pulsing waves. The sensation of her inner walls milking him, coaxing out every last drop of his seed, sent him into a frenzy of post-orgasmic bliss.

He stayed there, buried as far as he could go inside her, with his softening cock plugging all his sperm within her body. His mouth kept latched onto her neck like he was branding her with something more than teeth.  

With a gentle lift, he carefully extracted his cock from her still-clenching heat, and a small river of seed followed suit. He watched, captivated, as it copiously dribbled down her thighs. His body still trembled with aftershocks, but his voice was a low, satisfied growl.

“You wear me now,” he mumbled, flicking his tongue out to taste the spot on her neck once more. “No one will come near you. Not with this on you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, resting her cheek against the broad expanse of his chest. “No one, hm?” she murmured, tracing her fingers idly along the edge of his collarbone. “Are you referring to your kind?”

The muscles beneath her shifted. His grip around her waist clenched just enough to make her gasp softly, and a hiss escaped through his teeth, sharp and instinctive.

“No one.” His voice left no room for ambiguity.

She tilted her head to look at him, eyes still heavy-lidded with afterglow, but her tone had a teasing lilt. “So mating season made you more possessive.”

His eyes flicked to hers, and something flashed in them. Acknowledgment, maybe, or the faintest trace of guilt. He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Not when every part of him was still vibrating with the primal satisfaction of claiming her, of feeling her body still warm and pliant against him, filled with him, marked by him.

“But you understand I have to socialize in my world, don’t you?” she added, softer now, one hand reaching up to brush back his damp hair from his brow.

He tensed again. Subtly, but she felt it. Something primal in him bristled at the thought, the very idea of her walking around among others, vulnerable in a place where he couldn’t always be with her.

But he also knew. Knew she wasn’t his to keep in some cave or tidepool. Knew that what they shared only worked because it was chosen, not forced.

He drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, and pressed his forehead to hers. His voice, when it came, was roughened by restraint. “I know. I don’t like it... but I know.”

She smiled then, warm and open, and he focused on that. On her scent clinging to his skin. On the mark, pulsing gently at her neck. On the heat of her body, still pressed to him.

----

He was perched semi-upright against the cave wall, half-sitting, half-reclining with her settled between his limbs. Her back was pressed to his chest, and his arms and tendrils draped around her like he was still afraid she might drift away. The blanket she’d pulled from her backpack was now wrapped loosely around them. His limbs hadn’t ceased their attention; even in the calm, they continued exploring, fondling lazily her thighs, trailing over her hips, giving little affectionate tugs with the suction cups that made her shiver from time to time.

Twilight had crept in almost unnoticed. The deeper parts of the cave were cloaked in shadow now, and the ocean outside was a distant hush of sound against the stone.

“The tide will start rising in a couple of hours,” she murmured, finding his fingers with her own and squeezing gently. “I already can’t see a thing… you’ll probably have to guide me out or I’ll land on my ass four times before reaching the exit.” she tried to joke.

He tensed behind her, and she could feel it, not just in the way his chest rose with a sharp breath, but in the shift of the limbs tensed around her. Her words, so casually spoken, reminded him of something he hadn’t wanted to think about. That eventually… she would leave. That their perfect little moment, suspended in warmth and skin and breath, would end.

A low sigh escaped his lips, and with a subtle flick of his wrist, six soft blue orbs rose into the air, like glowing will-o’-the-wisps. They hovered above and around them, casting a gentle illumination over the cave walls, their skin, and their closeness.

She gasped, and her eyes widened at the soft lights flickering to life. “You didn’t tell me you could do that.”

“You never asked,” he said with dry amusement.

She gave him a look. “You can do more magic, then?”

He shook his head slightly. “No. We all can- more or less. It’s not magic. It’s a hunting trick for the depths. To lure prey.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, still marveling.

“And dangerous,” he countered softly.

She rolled her eyes, then turned her face up slightly to press her cheek to his jaw. “Doesn’t make it less beautiful.”

He hummed, low in his throat. One of his limbs slid lazily along her leg beneath the blanket, his suction cups giving a gentle tug against her skin like he couldn’t bear to let her forget him, not even for a second. “Dangerous things are often the most captivating,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to her shoulder where his mark now pulsed faintly. “You proved that.” She tilted her head back slightly to glance up at him, and despite the low light, she caught the glimmer in his eyes, not just desire this time, but something warmer.

The orbs pulsed softly, casting shadows along the walls, and the tide sang its distant lullaby. The real world was creeping back in, but for a moment longer, they stayed in their own.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998@helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian

[fligniuz]

pleasure doing business with you

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you’re a broke college student in a pinch. but not to worry; you’ve found someone willing to help.

word count: 14k (sorry?😭) • part of a spoonful of sugar (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @mrs-cactus69 , @mashkatzi , @straw8berry , @bean-is-reading (comment to be added)

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; sugar daddy AU; some OCs; unironic use of the word “brunch”; ⚠️DADDY KINK⚠️; luigi calls U “princess”; praise; oral (m! + f! receiving); some spanking

notes : hi ok i’m so excited to post this pls let me know if U like this and want me to post more of Him because i have more sugar daddy ideas💚💚

In your defense, you’re broke as hell.

That’s a blunt way of putting it. To be more direct: you are a twenty-something college student barely scraping by on financial aid and tips from your opening shift at Hilton’s Cityscape, on top of the typical, abysmal, average salary of a bartender. You live in a somewhat cheap apartment at 1 Powell Street with your cat, Butters; you sleep on a stiff mattress and survive off the local Panda Express and suffer through the chilly nights—hell will freeze over before your landlord fixes the AC. You go to class and your shifts and barely get your bills paid each month, not unlike most of the nation, and you try. You try to smile and enjoy and appreciate what you have, even if it’s next to nothing.

The good news? You’re hot.

Not because of the shitty AC. You’re hot in the colloquial sense. You were blessed with all the features other women your age pray for, a natural beauty—something quite normal to see in San Francisco, but you have something rare to offer, too: a personality. You’ve got the looks and the brains. You are what people who are too polite would call “conventionally attractive”. You’ve got it going on. You are it.

So, what do hot women who are strapped for cash in San Francisco do? 

They go to Red Velvet on Bryant Street, of course.

What the fuck is Red Velvet? is exactly what you ask Sheri when she thinks out loud to you at 3:36 one afternoon.

Sheri looks at you like you’ve grown two heads.

“Red Velvet,” she starts, “is the hottest bar for sugar daddies in SF. It’s always overflowing with guys who have too much money than they know what to do with—big tech CEOs and bankers and those types.”

“Right,” you nod, listening attentively. “So you think I should pick up a sugar daddy.”

“Well…” Sheri swipes the rag she’s holding over another glass swiftly. “I think you should pick up a sugar daddy safely.”

“Have you had one before?” you ask.

Sheri is your favorite co-worker. She’s older than you, closer to her fifties, and she is nothing if not an adventurous woman. You’ve heard many a stories of bad sex and strange men, collected over her years of hopping around the West Coast—a wonderful distraction from the equally strange men that often find themselves visiting your place of employment.

“A sugar daddy?” She laughs, grabs another glass from the dirty dish rack. “Honey, I was far too busy for that in my heydays. But a few of my girlfriends dabble in that space.”

You lean forward with your chin in your hand. “Do they like it?”

“I know a friend who’s got an arrangement with some politician from Washington,” Sheri says. “She hasn’t paid for anything in two years. I always see her wearing the gaudiest shit—fur coats and Balenciaga and shiny jewelry. She’s happy. Real happy.”

You smile to yourself.

“Sometimes,” she adds, “he lets her take some of us out to dinner with her. And, not to sound prissy, but the whole ‘fine dining’ thing? Just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What?” You furrow your brows. “What don’t you like about it?”

“The portions are just too damn small!” she exclaims, face holding genuine resentment as she speaks—you’ve always appreciated her expressiveness. “The staff is always nice, but there’s just not enough food, if you ask me.”

That makes sense. Sheri loves her food. You do too, honestly.

“You think a sugar daddy would take me to McDonald’s?” you joke, giggling at her snort.

She shrugs it off—but you could find out.

That’s exactly what you decide to do one Saturday night, waltzing up to Red Velvet in the best dress you own: a flattering jade green with ribbing around the torso and a tight fit on the hips. To be completely transparent, you are nervous; you’re quite used to male attention, used to handling it with grace and respect for yourself, but this spot is an entirely new environment with entirely new patrons. You don’t know what to expect. You have an idea of what a sugar daddy is, what he looks like and how he acts and dresses and speaks, but it’s quite different to encounter one in the wild. People only ever do this kind of thing online, you think.

You scan the scene. There are mostly men of varying, typically older age, but there are some women, too, mainly concentrated at the bar to your left. Eye candy. Probably not regulars. You conclude that this must be your best bet, and so you grab a seat at the far end, looking over the menu and deciding on something simple: a gin and tonic.

And for a while, you enjoy it in a comfortable silence, sipping and appreciating the scenery, the ostentatious decor and dim lighting and cursive signage. It’s definitely the kind of bar that rich guys would frequent, more specifically sugar daddies, if the guests in attendance weren’t proof enough.

But your expectations are firmly challenged when you are approached by your first man of the night.

Well, not quite approached. Rather, he comes up to order, and you are at the bar—so naturally, your eyes meet and your paths cross. You survey your catch and quickly find that he is different; most of the men at Red Velvet are fifties-to-sixties, not particularly attractive (definitely not without its silver foxes, though!), typically already accompanied by a woman. This man, though…He catches your eye. He’s young, perhaps even close to your age, and he’s fit, and he’s fine. He is fine as a motherfucker, indeed. At first you peg him as a Montgomery Street type, maybe a stock trade guy—but despite his current location, ordering a drink at this high-end sugar daddy outfit, this man looks unconstrained; put together but certainly not flashy. His suit is as simple as his choice of beverage—a banana daiquiri—and the first words he utters to you are modest but direct:

“You’re wearing green.”

That you are. 

You turn to him, face kind but slightly puzzled. “Yup. Green.”

He explains: “Forgive my candor. Green is my favorite color—I never see women as pretty as you wearing it, though.” 

Oh, so he’s slick.

“I’m flattered,” you say with a smile. “Thank you.”

Looking him in the eye, you can get a much better picture of this man, even in the low light of the bar. His hair is curly, wild, begging for hands to touch and pet and pull, and his eyebrows are just as sharp as his jawline and the bridge of his nose. He’s clean-shaven, for the most part, but a neat five o’clock shadow is growing in on his jaw and under his chin; you imagine, briefly, how that stubble might feel against your lips, your neck, your—

“May I ask what brings you here?” he inquires. “It’s not often this place is blessed with such beauty.”

Man, he’s persistent, isn’t he? You tuck your hair behind your ear and rest your chin on top of your clasped hands.

“Are you here often?” you ask. It’s best to scope out any danger before you get down to business—as a young woman, you learned that the hard way. This guy could be a creeper, for all you know, picking up girls at niche bars and taking them home to chop up or god knows what.

He grins, traces the rim of his glass. “How’d you think I could point out a newbie so easily?”

You smile back.

“Do you live in the area?” he asks.

You definitely don’t. Bryant Street is twenty minutes out from the lofts at Powell. You’re starting to wonder if maybe newcomers aren’t welcome at Red Velvet; perhaps this man didn’t come to flirt. Perhaps he’s sniffing you out, keeping the turf safe from intrusion.

“Close enough,” you lie. “I work in the area.”

It isn’t that crazy of a fib—Cityscape is only an eight minute drive from here.

“Well, where do you work?”

Fuck. Fuck. Might as well stick to reality as much as you can, right? 

“I bartend at Ernest,” you say, sipping your drink. Ernest is more of a fine dining establishment than a bar, but it’s on Bryant—albeit further down the street—so it works. Sheri has mentioned grabbing drinks there before. It surprises you that you even remembered Ernest exists.

He nods, seemingly trusting. “Is it a nice place? I’ve never been, but some of my buddies have.”

You shrug. “It pays. You get pretty tired of all the sexual harassment after a while, though.”

He laughs—a soft but warm chuckle, his dimpled smile practically reaching his ears.

You’ve always liked being able to make men laugh. It helps quite a lot when they’re this handsome.

“What about you?” you ask. “Do you work around here?”

“In the city,” he answers simply. “I do data for TrueCar. Not very special.”

Ah. You’ve heard of it in passing, probably online, but you don’t know much beneath the surface. Admittedly, it does sound pretty boring. You imagine cars have to be involved, which is a bit surprising—car salesman is a certain type, and this guy is not it. Data must mean he’s either a statistics or computer science major, which aren’t the most promising career paths as far as money goes—but he is in California, which might mean he got lucky.

“And how is that working out for you?” you ask, stirring your gin and tonic.

“It pays,” he says, mirroring you. “No sexual harassment, fortunately for me. I’m very sorry about yours.”

You wave a hand and laugh. “I’m quite used to it at this point.”

Right then your eyes meet. And for what feels like forever the two of you just stare at each other, smiles bright on your faces, chemistry rippling between the bar stools that keep you apart. The tension isn’t thick—it’s palpable. You’d need more than a knife to cut through it.

“Can I be honest?” you pipe up. As if you didn’t lie to this man about your job just a few minutes ago.

He nods. “I like honesty.”

You sip your cocktail. Swallow. Breathe. Then:

“I’ve been in a tight spot with money, recently,” you explain. “A friend told me about this place, that I could maybe find someone to help me out here, so I came looking for…”

How do you put this?

“I came looking for an arrangement.”

His smile spreads across his teeth slowly, but its flame casts bright light throughout the bar—as if you are a speck of an ant on the ground, scorched by the mirror he holds.

“I knew you were here for a reason,” he remarks.

Yeah. You’re quite obvious, aren’t you?

“I feel like maybe I should apologize,” you mutter, shoulders sulking. Suddenly you feel quite shy.

“You shouldn’t,” he assures you. “Can I ask for your name?”

So you tell him, meekly. And then:

“Well,” he starts, echoing you; you make a mental note of how good your name sounds in his mouth. “I’m Luigi. I think I could help you with that money problem you have, and—if you don’t mind my saying—I’d be quite eager to.”

This Luigi guy is nothing if not blunt.

“So…” He reaches back and snatches his phone from a pocket, leaning toward you. “I’m gonna ask for your number. If you want to make one of these arrangements you speak of, you can call me anytime you like. How’s that sound?”

He’s handing you his phone now, screen already open to an empty contact page. You accept it hesitantly.

“You want me to call you?”

Luigi nods. “I want you to have time to think it over. If you change your mind, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

That makes your heart flutter a little. He’s sweet for a stranger.

You hand your completed contact to him with a smile, and he sends you a text so his number is easily accessible. 

“I think you’ll be hearing from me,” you say, emboldened.

He grins as he stands from his seat. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” Then he adds: “No pressure.”

Just like that, he’s paying his tab, and the next moment he’s gone. 

There are several thoughts swirling through your mind right now. But one thing you are sure of is that Sheri was right: Red Velvet is the spot.

“You’re telling me you found a daddy your first time there?”

Sheri looks flummoxed.

You tighten your apron and smirk. “I mean, I don’t know for sure if he’s looking for that.”

“He implied it,” she counters.

“Nothing is set in stone,” you say, popping the chewing gum in your mouth. A flood of tangerine works your tastebuds. “I’m supposed to call him to figure out our arrangement.”

“What’s he like?” Sheri asks. She turns toward the cash register.

Where to start? You hardly even know him and yet you could probably run your mouth for a solid hour about just his appearance, his honeyed voice, his sharp features.

“He’s cute,” you say simply. “Young. Kinda tall. Curly hair. I think he’s Italian, or something.”

“Italian?” She looks over her shoulder at you, quirks an eyebrow.

“His name is Luigi,” you enunciate. “You gonna tell me that’s not Italian?”

Someone at the bar orders a Galileo Highball. You pull a bottle of Hendrick’s from the shelf.

As you pour, she asks, “he got a brother?”

“Very funny,” you say, not laughing. “I don’t know. They say Italians like big families. I’d bet his is no different.”

You slide the finished cocktail toward your patron with a small smile, and Sheri comes up behind you, holding her own drink—probably Macallan, if she’s the same Sheri you know.

“What did I tell you about drinking on the job?” You shoot her a glance; half disapproving, half amused.

“It’s a slow night, mom.” She gives you a light shove on the shoulder, bangles clinking. “Tell me more about your beau.”

“I think he’s a nerd,” you offer. “He mentioned being a data scientist, or something. He works at TrueCar.”

“What is that?” Sheri narrows her thin eyebrows at you.

“They sell cars,” you shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me if he has money.”

She takes a swig from her glass. “Well, does he?”

“You said Red Velvet is where all the rich guys are, and that’s where he was at, so I don’t know, Sheri, you tell me.”

“That’s what I heard!” She raises her arms defensively. “Did he tell you how much he makes?”

Your eyes stiffen. “I think that would’ve been rude to ask.”

“It’s not rude if he’s gonna be your sugar daddy.”

She has a point.

You should probably find out.

One Tuesday afternoon before work you decide that a call is indeed in order—something to settle your nerves, fraught with anticipation since the night you met Luigi. His number is accordingly labeled with his name in your phone and it is not hard to find among your texts. Your hesitation only lasts a few seconds before you press the call button.

A familiar modest tone is quick to answer.

“Hello?”

Fuck. Fuck. You hadn’t quite thought out the rest of this.

“Luigi, hi! This is—”

“From Red Velvet,” he interjects. You’ve been recognized by voice alone. “Hi, there.”

He sounds busy. Men always sound busy. 

“Is this a bad time?” you ask.

“Not at all,” he assures you. “I’m on lunch. Happy to hear from you.”

How does this kind of thing normally come together? You’ve never taken the 101 on sugar dating, and there’s certainly not a handbook—not one that you’ve heard of, anyway. Maybe you should’ve done a little more research. 

You clear your throat. “So. I’ve been considering, um…The arrangement thing.”

His voice rumbles on the other end. “Mhm?”

“I think…I wanna try it. With you.”

It sounds like he chuckles. Then: “Is that so?”

Man, he’s not helping your nerves at all.

Swallowing thickly, you ask, “…is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Luigi says, voice warm. “I offered, silly.”

Why is it that the overwhelming urge to explain yourself always comes on the strongest with silence?

“I’m kinda nervous,” you preface. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and you’re really nice, so if I sound awkward or like I’m being an idiot, I promise it’s not on purpose—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts. You can practically hear the smile on his face. “It’s okay. I understand. I’m gonna walk you through it, okay?”

You nod like he can see you. “Okay.”

The noise in the background starts to quiet down as Luigi speaks:

“We’ll meet up to discuss everything first, lay out the rules and your pay and all that,” he starts. “Somewhere public. Nothing has to happen yet. Just for us to make a plan and get to know each other a little more.”

It’s comforting, how he goes out of his way to ensure that you feel safe. Meeting in an open, people-filled space seems like something you should be suggesting, rather than him. It’s sweet. Makes you feel a little woozy—in more places than one.

“You like brunch?” he asks. “I’ll get you some brunch if you want. I know a spot.”

Brunch. The word alone makes your face scrunch up. He’s cute. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

“Are you sure? We can go somewhere else. Whatever you want.”

“Brunch sounds good,” you concur. “I’m not picky.”

“Okay. Good deal.” You hear what sounds like a door closing. “Are you free this weekend?”

I can be, you don’t say. “You bet.”

“Saturday?” he pitches.

“Sure.”

“How’s eleven?”

A bit early—you like sleeping in! But you’ll do it for this gorgeous man.

At your agreement, he bookends the conversation:

“Alright. We’re gonna meet at the Wooden Spoon, on Market Street. At eleven. On Saturday. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” you affirm. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday. It repeats in your head like a mantra. What will you wear? What time should you wake up? Should you eat a little bit before, so you don’t have to go wild in front of him? Not important. Not right now.

Your mind wanders further, because you allow it: do you deserve this? Are you worthy of a wealthy man’s spoils, of finer things, of something you believed you’d never once know the luxury of having? Not a day in your life did you imagine you’d wind up with this, on the phone with someone in a tax bracket you’re miles and miles behind, someone so humble and yet so blessed by whoever counsels the elite class up in heaven (or hell, more likely). These opportunities are one in a million, and you’ve found yourself lucky enough to draw the eyes of a willing devotee—you should be proud. You should be arrogant, bragging, full of yourself, flaunting the kind of ego you’ve managed to avoid for the twenty-ish years you’ve been on this planet. You just feel guilty. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday.

Luigi shows up not a minute after eleven o’ clock.

You’re already there. You made the effort to show up early—thirty minutes early, exact—wearing your favorite blouse, the one with little dragonflies printed all over, nails painted and lips glossed. You smell like a bakery and you look even more delicious. Yes. You feel ready.

At least, you do until he walks in.

Because he looks great. Even for a little brunch date, he’s glowing—practically a walking fucking Caravaggio painting. His baby blue button-down compliments his olive skin perfectly, collarbone peeking out from under almost sheer linen, and when you look closely enough…A thin, silver chain snakes around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt. 

Fuck. You want it in between your teeth.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You’re almost speechless as he takes a seat across from you. Man, you really should have prepared yourself more for this.

“Hi,” you greet, meekly.

“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

“Not at all,” you lie. He doesn’t need to know how much time you spent sitting in this very chair, worrying about this very moment. All at your own accord.

“Good,” Luigi says, nodding. Good that you weren’t waiting long. Good that you’re here, with him. He adds: “I’m glad to see you again.”

You attempt a smile. “I promise I am, too, I’m just—”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “Very.”

He taps his fingers over the menu laying on the table invitingly. “Let’s get some food in you. That’ll calm your nerves.”

So you look it over, ponder your options: avocado toast, smoothie bowls, fried chicken, patty melt…It all sounds really good when you haven’t eaten since your drunk lunch yesterday (which, to no one’s surprise, was similarly marred by your anxiety). You know one thing: some fresh squeezed orange juice sounds fucking bomb right now. Eventually you decide some scrambled eggs and buttermilk pancakes sound nice, too. 

Luigi gets the avocado toast. Not what you were expecting.

“I felt like you’d be a bacon guy,” you say as the waitress waltzes off.

He shrugs, grins a little. “I don’t eat meat.”

Okay. So, you weren’t expecting that, either, but your next question is: How the fuck do you get that broad with no meat? You decide that’s an inappropriate question for brunch—table it for later. Later. You like the sound of a later.

“So, you work at Ernest, right?” he asks, sipping his tea. 

Oh. Fuck. You forgot about that.

Fuck.

“I should probably tell you this now,” you start, voice shakier than you anticipate. “I, um—I lied. To you. About my job.”

His face doesn’t change much—Luigi just furrows an eyebrow at you. “Did you?”

“I know, I know, I’m really sorry!” By this point you can’t even remember why you lied to him—not after he’s taken this much caution in ensuring your comfort. “When I met you I had never been in the area before, and I was trying to play it safe, so I lied about where I work and I’m so so sorry—”

“Sweetheart,” Luigi interjects, placing his big, warm hands over yours. “I get it. Take a breath for me. Okay?”

He’s smiling a little, but only in amusement at how quickly you work yourself up. Over nothing. Per usual.

You breathe. “You’re not mad?”

“Not at all,” he says, shaking his head. “I understand why you’d want to keep that to yourself at first. You barely know me.”

Oh. Oh, wow. This is the very first time you’ve met a man who isn’t personally offended by your apprehension, and you’re starting to wonder if this one in particular is just a living fever dream, something you conjured up half asleep and yearning, something angelic. Something too good for you.

“I want to know you,” you utter.

“Okay. Fresh start.” He (gently, so, so gently) slaps his hands onto the table for emphasis. “Pretend Red Velvet didn’t even happen. Where do you work?”

“Cityscape,” you say, “at the Hilton in Union Square. Honest this time.”

“I believe you,” he nods, smiling. “Is that a bar?”

You nod with him. “I work opening shifts with my friend Sheri. She’s the one who told me about Red Velvet.”

“So, what you said about the sexual harassment must’ve been true.”

You almost choke on your mouthful of OJ. “Yeah. That part was true.”

While the two of you wait for your orders Luigi asks you some basic questions: how old you are, where you’re from, if you’re in school, what major, etc etc. You spend some time talking about college; you learn that Luigi is a much more impressive man than you would’ve guessed at first glance, a man with not one, but two degrees, each in computer engineering—turns out your intuition is pretty good! There’s also a background in some ultra nerd frat. That you wouldn’t have guessed. He’s halfway through a story about the night of his hazing when the hostess brings your plates out, sets them down on the table, aromatic and steaming.

You were already feeling less on edge—but the scrambled eggs certainly help.

“So…” Luigi starts after a bite of toast. “Do you want to get down to the nitty gritty?”

You blink. “You mean money stuff?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Money stuff.”

Another bite. A sip of tea. Then:

“I like to start with paying per meet,” he says. “I figured I’d base your pay off of how much you’re needing, though. Do you have an idea of what that might be?”

“Hmm,” you hum, forking some eggs into your mouth. “Let’s see. Rent is $3,300, on top of utilities. My aid covers most of my bills for school, so that’s not a problem right now. I just need to keep a roof over my head.”

“How much are you making a month?” he asks.

“Uhh…” You rack your brain. How much do you make? “About $2,000ish?”

“And how often would you be able to meet me?”

You grin. “I can be all yours on the weekends.”

Luigi looks like he’s crunching some numbers in his head. You decide to crunch on a pancake while he works that out.

“What if we did $1,000 to meet each weekend?”

Jesus. Christ.

“$1,000?” you repeat.

“Yeah. $1,000.”

You consider it. If you’re meeting with him every weekend, for $1,000 each time…That’s $4,000 in an average month. On top of your regular salary. Much more than you typically make. More than your rent costs. More than living costs at your current rate, maybe, probably. It’s a good deal. It’s a damn good deal.

“That’s—” you stutter. “That’s a lot.”

He smiles, softly. “For you it is.”

Meaning…It’s not for him?

“Do you like the sound of that?” he asks.

Well, yeah. It’s money. Money always sounds good. But you can’t shake the feeling:

“Are you sure that’s…like…okay? With you?” 

“I think it’s fair,” he says, nodding. “If you’re only making $2,000 a month, $1,000 each weekend should be enough to keep you on your feet.” 

Not really what you were asking.

“But…” he continues.

But?

“We can wean off of that, eventually.”

Wean off. Like you’re a kitten on wet food.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He takes a bite of his toast, then speaks:

“After a while, if you still like how this is going, we can start you on an allowance.” Luigi pops a berry into his mouth, leans back in his chair. “I’m thinking $4,000 a month, give or take. We can adjust that if you need.”

Oh? Oh. Oh, okay.

$4,000 a month. To fuck and go on dates with the sexiest thing on two legs you’ve ever looked at. To sacrifice (a word that is doing some serious heavy lifting) your weekends for dick and some good food. To be able to take care of yourself, for once—and not just that, but to have all the fancy things you dreamed of having as a girl: clothes, jewelry, books, shoes, cosmetics, stuff, just stuff to have. The kind of consumption only a lucky few are entitled to enjoy. And there are future implications, too: eventually, once you graduate, you’ll have some loans to pay off, perhaps another degree to pursue. A new car to drive. Your very own home to live in.

$4,000 a month. $1,000 per meet.

“I’m in,” you nod.

Luigi raises his eyebrows, smiles slightly. “You’re in?”

“Yeah. I like what you’re laying out.”

His smile is wider now, dimples defined in the creases of his face. “Okay. That’s all I want to hear.”

You shovel some eggs into your mouth and watch, completely unsubtle, as he adjusts his shirt on his shoulders, the veins lining his arms flexing. 

Can’t you get to the sugar part now? You don’t even need a bed. You could find some space in your car, certainly. 

“So,” he pipes up, “I think next we should lay down some ground rules.”

“Rules?” you iterate. 

“Nothing crazy,” he assures you.

“Like…Boundaries.”

“Exactly!” With that Luigi finishes the last of his avocado toast. “I only have four.”

“Hit me,” you tell him.

He claps his hands together over his plate for effect. 

“Okay. First off: be open with me. If you want something, ask for it. If you need something, tell me. Unfortunately, I can’t read your mind, so I appreciate bluntness.”

Bluntness. You can do that. Tending bar throughout your college years has taught you strength in that regard. Nodding, you down the rest of your OJ.

“I also need you to never be afraid of saying ‘no’ to me,” he says next. “Again, not a mind reader. Please let me know if you’re uncomfortable or unsatisfied or anything like that. This isn’t just for me—I would never want you to feel obligated to do something you don’t want to do anymore.”

“Sure,” you agree. “That’s easy for me.”

“Good.” He smiles warmly.

Third: “This can end any time you want. No questions asked. That goes for me, too, but I mean it mostly for you.”

What if you don’t want it to end?

“Okay,” you nod. “Any time?”

“Any time.”

You just hope he doesn’t change his mind about this whole thing.

“That being said, though…” he continues.

Oh?

Luigi extends his pointer finger outward as he continues. “I only ask that you be exclusive to me.”

Ah. This must be his fourth rule.

“Exclusive?”

He nods. “No dates, no one-night stands, no boyfriends or girlfriends. I want to be the sole provider in your life.”

So he’s a possessive type, too. You suppose it makes sense. Men don’t like to share their toys.

“Well,” you perk up, “am I going to be disappointed?”

The smug motherfucker smirks. “I don’t like to overstate my abilities, but I think you’ll be plenty satisfied.”

Plenty satisfied. You realize now that you don’t really need to fuck him to feel that way.

He adds: “I’m an earnest lover.”

Getting laid earnestly, every weekend, for $1,000. All to earn a whopping $4,000 a month, if he likes you enough. 

You’ve done worse for less—and none of it involved a sexy Italian.

“I’ll need some proof,” you say, “but I think I’m down for that.”

“I’d be happy to prove it to you this weekend.”

Well, that was fast.

You quirk a brow. “Yeah?”

And then he leans in close to you, speaking barely above a whisper: “If you can be good, that is.”

Oh. Oh. 

He’s doing this. He’s doing this at noon on a Saturday, in public. At brunch.

You graze your foot over his from under the table, gliding up, inching into his pant leg. Teasing. “If I’m good, what’s in store for me?”

Luigi smirks as the waitress makes her way toward your seat with the check—for him to pay, of course. “I’ll text you the details. Sound good to you?”

You smile back. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

He decides to walk you to your car, standing close, but not too close for comfort. There is an easy space between the two of you as you make your way to the parking lot on Sanchez Street, right behind the Wooden Spoon.

“I didn’t get to ask,” he perks up. “Do you have any rules?”

You certainly didn’t prepare any.

“Umm…” you trail off, giggling. “I didn’t make a list or anything.”

“You don’t need a list,” he says, smiling back at you. “Are there any boundaries you want to set?”

There are some obvious, more sugar related things you want cemented: condoms every date, no reverse cowgirl, probably no nudes, for the time being. But right now you’re just happy to be seen beside such a handsome man. All of the “nitty gritty”, in his words, can wait until later.

“I can’t think of anything,” you answer. “Just that I want respect and…Well, compensation.”

Luigi winks. “You’ll get that. Promise.”

You reach your car and pause, turn on your heels to face him.

His hands are in his pockets, curls rustling in the early spring wind. “So…”

“So?”

“This weekend, right?” he asks. “I’ll hit you up, probably Friday.”

“Okay,” you agree. “This weekend.”

Then, he asks: “Do you have any rules against kissing?”

You grin and blush like a little girl. “Nope. Definitely not.”

So he steps close, lingering just slightly as his hands meet your hips—and then he kisses you, sweetly and smoothly. You pull him ever closer to you by the chain on his neck and sigh against his mouth. He tastes like Earl Grey.

When he pulls away he flashes you a warm smile. 

“I think I’m gonna have to build a time machine,” he says, “so I can skip ahead to this weekend.”

You laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Luigi doesn’t get that time machine built, but the weekend comes faster than you expect.

The first text you receive on Friday is quite surprising:

Luigi : Can I get ur address so my driver knows where to pick you up?

Driver? He’s sending a fucking chauffeur for you?

The next two texts he sends you once he has what he needs are straightforward:

Luigi : OK She’ll be there like 8:30 so be ready for her

Also we’ll be in a hotel after so maybe bring anything else you’ll need for tn

At that you put together a quick overnight bag: a change of comfy clothes and an outfit for the day after, toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, a pack of wet wipes, some hair ties. Some courage you definitely don’t have—not right now, at least. 

You’re nervous.

But you’re not going to think about that, because you’ve got a date to get ready for. You’ve got a dress to put on—the very dress you met him in—makeup to do and dinner to eat…And, of course, dick to take. Luigi didn’t really give you pointers on how to look, so you pick your accessories carefully, settling for a plain silver necklace and some studs to match. Your shoes are simple: black heels, with a glossy finish that you’ve managed to not scuff up somehow.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. 8:19. When he said 8:30, did he mean on the dot? Doesn’t matter—every second counts. You feed Butters and fill his water bowl; take a shot of Grey Goose for encouragement; unpack your overnight bag to brush your teeth twice, then pack it again. If you were a smoker you’d need a cig right about now.

And then, at 8:27, your phone buzzes:

Luigi : She’s there

Grey Mitsubishi

No backing out now.

Sure enough, a grey Mitsubishi Lancer sits parked on Cyril Magnin Street just outside your window. With your bag slung over your shoulder you make your way down to the lobby, heart pounding behind your ribcage. 

The driver of this Lancer, as you soon find out, is…

“Cheyenne,” she says, extending a hand to you. Her fingers are decorated with rings of all shapes and colors, including a few with gemstones cemented in their center. She is cold to the touch, but her smile is inviting, dark, black-lined eyes staring into every layer of your aura.

As she turns the key in the ignition, you clear your throat.

“How do you know Luigi?” you ask.

At that moment, “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy blasts from her speakers at 75% volume. You immediately wince at the loud assault to your eardrums.

“Shit, shit! Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Her fingers are fumbling with the dial instantly. “Bad habit, I know, I’m so sorry—”

You laugh, heart still pounding. “I’m fine. Just startled me. I like your taste.”

Cheyenne begins to pull off onto the street with an uncertain smile. 

“So, how do you know Luigi?” you try again.

“Oh, college,” she says. “We used to shoot the shit in Calculus II.”

“Was he any good?” you ask. “At calculus?”

“Luigi is good at just about everything,” Cheyenne says. “Well, except talking to girls. I’m still not sure how he bagged you.”

You snort. “He seemed like he knew what he was doing.”

“Trust me, he didn’t.” You pass by the Panda Express that saves you from cooking dinner most nights as Cheyenne makes her way towards…Wherever you’re going. “He called me and crashed out over the phone the night he met you. He cried because, and I quote, ‘she’s so fine it makes me sick to my stomach.’ I think he was drunk.”

The image of that is quite precious, indeed. You giggle. “That’s sweet.”

“Sweet as pie,” she agrees. “He’s got integrity. Very driven. I’m not just saying it. I’ve seen that dude help blackout drunk girls to their dorms because some guys were creeping on them.”

He certainly doesn’t fit your usual stereotype of “privileged white frat rat from the suburbs”, doesn’t give off a fuckboy vibe that you’ve been able to pick up on. No cocky posturing. No fake interest. Luigi is different. Laid back. Responsible. Tender hearted.

“And,” Cheyenne adds, “he was my wingman for a good while.”

“Wingman?”

“He helped me sneak into parties so I could get with sorority girls,” she clarifies. “I wouldn’t have met my girlfriend if it weren’t for him.”

How gallant. Luigi Mangione: Friend to Lesbians. “Ah. I see.”

Now you can see why Cheyenne seems to be so comfortable with Luigi; their bond is clearly interwoven with the safety he’s provided her throughout their friendship, likely a stark contrast to her Ivy League atmosphere. He’s probably the only male friend she’s ever had that’s never pitched the “I like someone and you know her very well” conversation—you’re still waiting to meet that unicorn.

“What do you do?” Cheyenne asks.

You assume she means job-wise. “I bartend at Cityscape, but I’m in school full-time.”

“Oh, nice!” she says, nodding. “Where at?”

As she turns onto Fifth Street, you tell her—your university, your major, how your classes are going, all the rage around campus. Cheyenne listens intently, drumming her painted nails against the steering wheel in time with the radio. By the time you’re finished complaining about the difficulties of your required second language credit, the two of you are making your way down Harrison.

“What about you?” you ask. “You look like you do something really badass. Like archery, or witchcraft.”

“I wish!” she laughs. “I’m a marine biologist. Right now I’m at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.”

“Oh, nice! You live down there?”

Cheyenne scratches her neck. “Sort of. I’m a bit of a couch hopper. Rent is brutal in Cali, so I jump between my friends’ places.”

You shrug in understanding. “Totally get it. I almost ended up on a boat with some of my dorm mates before I found my place.”

She snorts at that. Cute. You like Luigi’s friend.

The rest of the ride goes smoothly; Cheyenne’s Lancer speeds down the 280 as you overlook San Francisco, its heaving waters and cloudy skies. Occasionally she asks if you’d like to pick a song, but you decide you’re quite alright with her aux control, so you decline and leave it up to her. When she makes a sharp turn onto 25th Street, you start to understand where this might be going—perhaps Luigi knows a nice place right by the Bay.

Your destination is either what looks to be an apartment complex or a storied building squished next to it. Cheyenne directs you to the spot on the left, the taller of the two.

“He should be waiting for you up at the very top,” she explains before you get out of the car. “There’s an elevator to your right once you walk in. If you press 13 it should take you to the roof.”

The roof? Okay. This is weird.

You thank Cheyenne and carefully make your way inside, surveying the lobby. You realize now that this is somewhat of an office space, with several businesses leasing a spot in the building; you find a directory hanging on the wall by the elevator Cheyenne mentioned. On the thirteenth floor is something called “Ive’s”, and it is indeed at the very top. You step inside the elevator and observe the clock built in above the rows of buttons; its face reads 8:01. Nobody set this one back for Daylight Savings.

The building must be old, what with how the elevator rattles as it ascends to the thirteenth floor, and you thoroughly do not expect what’s waiting in front of you: the doors open to a beautiful rooftop terrace, with moody lights strung over tables and a perfect overlook of the Bay as a backdrop. And waiting by the bar is Luigi, hands clasped in front of his pelvis, standing tall and clearly alert. His eyes widen when he spots you emerging from the elevator.

“You made it!” he exclaims. “I was worried Cheyenne might confuse you.”

“Nah, I got here fine,” you say, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”

He leans in for a hug that you gladly return, whispering into your ear, “that it is.”

Luigi’s embrace is the warmest you’ve ever felt. It’s like walking into a heated pool; your body recalibrates in response to his touch, thoroughly lit alive by the mere presence of this man and his gentle ways. He holds you still for quite a while, maybe a minute, and when he pulls back his smile is bright and dimpled, only sweetened by his blush. You take the chance to look over his suit; he dons a paisley-print purple tie and a jacket with blue suede lining the inside. Prim with just a hint of fun. You would not have expected paisley.

“Shall we?” he says, offering a hand. 

With your fingers interlaced, he leads you to a table at the far edge of the rooftop, and you start to realize now that, as a matter of fact, none of these tables are occupied—nor are they set, aside from the one he’s currently guiding you toward. There isn’t a single soul at Ive’s besides you and Luigi.

“What is this place?” you ask.

He grins. “It’s called Ive’s, if that’s what you’re asking, but if you want to know what’s up…”

At that Luigi moves to pull out your chair for you. “I’m tight with the owner,” he continues as you take your seat. “I got him to clear out the place just for tonight, so we could have somewhere all to ourselves.”

He’s nothing if not a pro at blowing you away. Your guilt at even accepting his generosity flows at full force, stunning you where you sit as Luigi settles down opposite you.

“You did all of this for me?” you ask.

He shrugs flippantly, still smiling. “Ive owed me a favor.”

From…somewhere, your host for the night emerges, holding two menus and cheesing at the both of you from under a thick handlebar mustache. The first order of business:

“What are you folks drinking tonight?”

The cocktail menu excites you—lots of vodka and gin, and there’s an entire section dedicated to rosé—but after some deliberation with the waiter, you decide on a Rooftop Mojito as a fitting welcome to your date. Luigi is not a complicated drinker, because he orders the same exact thing he ordered at Red Velvet: banana daiquiri with a slice of lime. The host prances off and leaves the two of you alone.

“Sooo,” you perk up, “you said you do data stuff for TrueCar, right?”

He winces. “If we’re going to talk about me, let’s not make it about my job. I promise it’s really boring. Last thing I want to do is make this date a snoozefest.”

You scoff. “I don’t think you could manage that.”

“What, boring you? I’ll bet I could.”

With a shake of your head, you say, “not when you look like you were blessed by Venus at birth.”

Luigi chuckles at that, nose flushing rosy pink. “Well, that’s flattering. I think you’re a more apt example of that description, though.”

“Just accept the compliment,” you chide playfully. “What if I have other questions that aren’t about your job?”

“Hit me.”

Well, shit. Maybe you should’ve made a list.

“How old are you?” you settle on eventually. Not a bad inquiry, you think. He’s quite young for a sugar daddy.

“Twenty six,” he answers. “Twenty seven in May.”

A Taurus. You consider it: loyal. Stubborn. Diligent. Possessive. Truly a toss-up—any of these qualities could spell both good and bad news for you. One thing you know for sure is that Luigi’s greatest strength is one quite common for Taurus men—he is entirely irresistible.

“And you’re from San Francisco, right?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Maryland. Baltimore.”

He really looks more Italian than anything. 

“County,” he adds. “Not the city.”

There’s a Baltimore county?

“I see,” you nod. “I’m assuming Baltimore-the-county has a much different environment than Baltimore-the-city.”

“Very different,” he confirms. “What about you? Are you from San Francisco?”

“Nope,” you answer. “I moved here for college.”

That sparks a quick conversation about your home state and whether or not Luigi’s visited. As you wrap up a memorable story about the corner store you frequented in your childhood, your waiter returns to the table with your drinks, quickly retrieving his notepad and pen from his pocket.

If cocktails were hard, the food is even harder to choose from. The entire list of appetizers sounds pretty good to you, and you could go for at least three of the sandwiches—but alas, you narrow down your options to the tomato soup with a grilled cheese and a Caesar salad on the side. Meat-Free Luigi goes with the veggie poke bowl and some French onion dip with house-made chips, even though he looks like he could absolutely kill some chicken wings. Whatever. 

Sipping from your mojito, you ask, “so, no TrueCar talk—what do you do outside of that?”

“A lot of reading,” he says. You could’ve guessed that. “And I like to stay active.”

Yeah, no shit. With shoulders like that?

Luigi likes Bertrand Russell and going on hikes and he can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute, which isn’t hard to imagine, what with those long, dexterous fingers. He wants to see every continent on the planet at least once. You ask him if he likes traveling solo or with friends and he tells you he makes do with both. His face lights up like never before as he describes a drunk night of catching crabs in Cabo San Lucas. You ask him to tell you his favorite destination he’s ever been to, and he says, “right here, with you.”

He’s perfect. There is truly no better word for it.

As the two of you wait for the food to come you jump from topic to topic: favorite movies, the best music for a long drive, politics, least favorite movies. The backdrop of the San Francisco Bay mellows the mood, with the waves chopping and seagulls wailing in the far distance, the moonlight shining bright against the water. You both down your drinks within twenty minutes and you eventually move on to the basket of bread rolls at the center of the table, paying no mind to the passage of time; it’s simply you and him by the Bay, with a romantic scene and some good liquor to keep you busy as the cooks work their magic.

“What made you want to spend your money on this?” you ask over a nibble of bread.

He tilts his head quizzically. “Dinner with you?”

Swallowing, you clarify, “the sugar thing.”

Apparently Luigi needs a moment to ponder that one. He rests his chin on his fists and looks up to the darkened sky as if to signify to you that he’s thinking. 

“Sometimes I get in my head about not doing something more productive with my money,” he says. “There isn’t enough for people who need more. The best I can do is pitch in when the opportunity presents itself.”

“So…” You chew another piece of buttery bread roll. “It’s like charity.”

He grimaces. “That just makes it sound twisted.”

“I’m fucking with you,” you say, smiling.

You feel his foot nudge yours under the table.

“It’s rude to fuck with your date,” he quips, smiling bashfully.

“Is it?” you retort. “What are our plans for tonight, then?”

With that he leans forward, extends one of those long arms across the table and grabs your chin, gentle but firm. Looks into your eyes. 

“Don’t make me hard at dinner,” he murmurs lowly. “That’s rude.”

Wow. Wow. This man is truly the peak of duplexity.

As Luigi settles back into his chair, leaving you blushing and achy between your thighs, the host and his magnificent mustache return with your food.

And oh, man. Luigi told you that Ive’s is a family owned restaurant, one that truly values its customers—and the mouth-watering smell only serves to prove that. Rickety elevator and somewhat hidden location be damned; Ive’s is a fucking Ritz-Carlton compared to what any fine dining establishment could ever provide. The portions are hearty and, with how long they took to prepare, your chefs of the night have clearly gone out of their way to make the best possible dish for you and your date. You feel like Gordon Ramsey with your mental commentary: the grilled cheese is stunning, with sharp cheddar and fuckin’ muenster—the most underrated cheese, in your book—stacked between crispy, pillowy artisan bread, toasted to perfection. And dunked in the tomato soup? A glorious pair. You even taste hints of cream and basil among the natural sweetness. It’s rich, flavorful, and, most importantly, delicious. 

Halfway through your Caesar salad, Luigi poses a question for you:

“What about you?”

You pause, mull over it through a bite of lettuce and croutons. “What about me?”

“What brought you here? With me?” he elaborates.

Desperation? Envy? Loneliness? It could be all three, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. The truest answer, though, is quite simple:

“I didn’t have much growing up,” you start. “I’ve always been hand-in-hand with the poverty line, pretty much since the day I was born, and it’s only through scholarships and awards I worked my ass off for that I’m able to go to school in the city.”

You remember: nights spent breaking yourself apart for a steady GPA and perfect attendance, typing away and rubbing at the tension held under your pulsing temples. College in America is a bit like gambling—place your bet, and if you play your cards just right, it’s easy to get lucky. The problem is that some people are dealt a shit hand, and nobody is giving away their cards for free.

“I never got gifted with generational wealth or blessings from my bougie ancestors,” you continue, tossing your salad back-and-forth with your fork. “I never got the chance to do things I dreamed of doing as a girl. My parents struggled for as long as I can remember—and I guess, after a while, you get pretty tired of it. You start to want safer ground to land your feet on.”

Luigi nods, listening closely.

“I guess it just felt like the best option, the most doable,” you say. “I realized once I made it to college that I couldn’t take care of myself on my own. And I felt like, after all I’d done to even afford my tuition, I could really use not just the extra help, but…Everything else that comes with it. Stability. Comfort. You know?”

He smiles softly. “Everyone deserves nice things.”

A seagull whines in the distant Bay. The air smells like sea salt and sweet, sweet magnetism.

You twist the handle of your fork uncertainly. “Do you think I deserve it?”

“You deserve someone who wants to put in the work,” he answers, cupping his warm hands over yours.

“Have I found him?” you ask.

Leaning forward, he plants a kiss on the back of your hand. “I’d say so.”

Grinning, you suggest, “I think we should get the bill.”

Luigi raises a brow playfully. “No dessert?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need it. Not tonight.”

Cheyenne and her Lancer await outside of Ive’s, still carrying your bag in the backseat. When you and Luigi approach, you can hear My Chemical Romance blasting even through her rolled-up windows. She startles when she first sees the both of you, then settles and smiles shyly, tinkering with the volume dial for what must be the gazillionth time tonight.

“Hey, kids,” she greets as you file into her car. “How was dinner?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t make me feel like the troubled son of a middle-aged mother going through a divorce,” Luigi jokes with a sigh, buckling his seatbelt. He turns to you and winks.

Cheyenne whips around, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Divorced? Middle-aged? Fuuuuuck you. We’re the same age, dick.”

“Physically,” Luigi says.

“If you didn’t have a lady with you I’d make you walk,” she barks, pulling back the gearshift. “You didn’t switch hotels on me, right?”

“Nope,” he answers, popping the p.

The hotel in question is just a few miles past Mission Bay, exactly a twelve minute drive from Ive’s. The Palace is an elegant, almost industrial building smashed between parking garages that, from the looks of the entrance, seems to be hiding a ravishing interior. Luigi opens your door for you and helps you out of the car, hand gently grasping yours.

He offers a two finger salute with his free hand, standing tall. “Thanks, Chey. I really appreciate it.”

Cheyenne mirrors him. “Don’t mention it. Nice meeting you,” she says, gesturing toward where you stand next to Luigi. 

You nod, smiling brightly and waving goodbye. “Thanks again!”

Luigi waits and watches to make sure that Cheyenne pulls off safely before he’s guiding you to the massive front doors of The Palace, past the lobby, through the high-ceiling hallways toward the elevator. It’s like something from a Wes Anderson film. When the fanciest you’ve seen is your local Hampton Inn, something like this is truly breathtaking. Your heels click against the marble of the floor as you walk with Luigi, stunned by each new chandelier you count on the ceiling. The two of you pass patrons sat in the common area, sipping from glasses of champagne or mugs of coffee and chatting amongst themselves—you imagine about fucking over the poor and hungry. What else do the horrifically rich discuss?

But god, they have taste. 

“This place is gorgeous,” you murmur to him as the two of you wait for the elevator to reach the ground floor. “Have you stayed here before?”

“Just once,” he says, still holding your hand. “You like it?”

“I do.”

He smirks. Squeezes your fingers lightly. “You haven’t even seen our room yet.”

And, much to your awe, he was right—it’s not just a room, it’s a suite. Luigi stands by and watches with subtle pride as you tour your surroundings: king bed, beautiful view of outside The Palace, separate lounge area with a variety of seating options, and a bathroom fit for a Victoria’s Secret model. There are even two white bathrobes hanging on the wall opposite the gigantic mirror. They gave you robes! You want to fall to your knees and cry with joy. You emerge from the bathroom and, to Luigi’s surprise, immediately tackle him in a hug, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you chime, swaying him back-and-forth. “I’m so happy I could die.”

“Don’t die,” he chuckles, smoothing his hand over your lower back. “I’m happy you’re happy.”

You squeal with joy when he presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek and slowly lets you go.

“Oh,” he continues, reaching up to swipe something from the top of the dresser you’re stood next to. “And this is for you.”

Luigi hands you a plain white envelope, scrawled with your name. Cute. You can only imagine what must be inside. Carefully, you tear open the seal and pull out…

A Hallmark card. In curly font, the front reads, “If EVERYBODY had a NIECE as terrific as YOU, it wouldn’t be any BIG DEAL.” When you open it, the inside loudly remarks, “BUT THEY DON’T, SO IT IS! Hope your birthday is as terrific as YOU!”

The money is inside. Obviously.

You try not to shriek with laughter.

“I felt like it would be rude to just give you an envelope with money, but I didn’t really know what to do with the card…?” he interjects, as if he’s trying to defend himself.

“The card is a nice touch,” you agree, failing to bite back your smile. “Are we roleplaying or something?”

He cringes in anguish. “Jesus. I’m an uncle already. I don’t need to roleplay.”

As you giggle, your thumb brushes over the cash.

“You can count it, if you want,” he adds.

It feels a little callous, but you do, since he seems unbothered. There’s a $100 bill, then another, then another—ten in total. $1,000. In cash. All yours. And it’s real.

This is real. Really happening. Real money, real man, real room. Suite. Goddamn.

“Okay,” you breathe, nodding. The bills are spread out in your hands, a sight you’d only ever dreamed of before. “Okay.”

Carefully, you stuff the cash back into the card neatly, tucking it back inside of the envelope to put in your bag, which you leave next to Luigi’s by the dresser. 

“All good?” he asks.

You smirk coyly. “All good.”

“Do you mind if I kiss you now?”

You have to swallow your giggle—Luigi is almost polite to a fault, so much so that it feels silly to maintain it when he’s about to fuck you (and when he’s paying you for it, no less). So you decide to answer his question directly, physically, threading your fingers in his curls and bringing your lips to his, slow and smooth. He grunts in surprise but is quick to return the kiss; his hands caress your upper back, thumb toying at the zipper of your dress and then sliding lower, gripping your hips. The way his mouth moves against yours is leisurely but intentioned, deliberate, confident. He is certainly not new to this.

“Luigi,” you breathe against his lips, and you try to steal another kiss, but he pulls away.

He tuts, a little tsk tsk. “Is that what you call me?”

Oh. Oh. Right. He never laid his cards out on the table that clearly, but you suppose it makes sense for this to be part of your arrangement.

“Sorry, Daddy,” you murmur, face burning.

You’re certainly not mad about it. You could get used to this.

“That’s better,” Luigi whispers. “That’s much better.”

He kisses you again, harder this time. Now his hands are on your ass, alternating between groping you with greed and gliding back up to your hips; when his tongue grazes yours you let your mouth fall open for him, head lolling, and he brings up one hand to tangle his fingers in your hair and keep your lips connected to his. Having your hands in his curls after countless nights of fantasizing feels almost surreal—this whole situation just feels like the porno of your dreams playing out in front of you, right down to the exquisite location, the gorgeous man, and the events leading up to now. Having sex with other guys your age has never felt like this before.

When your calves hit the small sofa in front of the bed you decide to sit down, pulling Luigi closer to you by his paisley tie so as to not lose his kisses. He leans over you, big hands sliding up your thighs, past the hem of your dress, feeling the warmth of the flesh on your hips beneath his palms—you realize then that there are quite a few pillows in your way, and so you push them off. Luigi huffs a laugh.

His mouth moves down, over your throat, mesmerizing you effortlessly. And his hands move up, slowly but surely, tracing the outline of your body in your dress, admiring the way the green satin hugs your curves; this particular shade makes your skin tone shine, he thinks.

“I do really love this dress,” he says into your cleavage, pressing absentminded kisses here and there. “Looks so pretty on you.”

Further he goes. Cupping your breasts, feeling around. Gliding north, to your back. A palm drifts up. Fingers dance over your zipper.

“Can I take it off?” he asks, soft against your ear.

You nod. His face sinks in disapproval.

Seizing your chin between his thumb and fingers, he chides, “answer me when I ask you a question.”

“Yes, yes,” you insist. “Yes, Daddy, I’m sorry.”

Luigi grins. “That’s okay, sweet girl,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

His lithe fingers begin to work your zipper down, down, down, the sound of it echoing in your ears, until you can feel silver resting against your coccyx. Then he helps you slip each strap off of your shoulders, peeling the dress down your torso and your hips, and you laugh lightly when he guides you backward to tug it down your legs. With your heels still on the movement is a bit clunky, but Luigi pays the hiccups no mind. Cheyenne was quite serious about him being driven.

You’re wearing a plain pink set—not very extravagant, but still the most elegant you own. There are frilly edges and a little bow on the front of the panties, girlish and angelic details. You hope he won’t be disappointed in your lack of fancy lingerie. Perhaps some of the cash he’s paid you could go towards something nicer, more intricate—an investment for him, a treat for you.

His hands scan over your body, admiring, beholding.

“What a pretty sight,” he purrs, face flaunting a Cheshire Cat-esque smile. “Did you wear this just for me?”

You shrug, grinning, flushing madly. “It’s the best I’ve got.”

“It’s perfect,” Luigi says. “Absolutely perfect. You look radiant.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you mutter.

And then he steps back, gets onto his feet, hands moving upward. 

“Why don’t you take that off for me?” he asks. Then there’s that killer smile. “Not that I don’t love it on you. Just makes my job a bit easier.”

You grin.

As he starts to undo his tie you reach behind yourself to open the clasp of your bra, heart pounding as your chest is slowly revealed to him. Luigi is learning that you follow orders well. You move with leisure so as to even the playing field; by the time he’s wearing only his slacks, belt, and black crew socks, you’re working your panties down your thighs, arching your curves every which way to put on a show for him. You sigh at the sound of metal clinking, fabric shuffling.

When your hands reach for the strap of your left heel, he stops you:

“Leave those on,” Luigi commands.

You smirk, enlightened. “You got a thing for girls in high heels?”

“I’ve got a thing for you, pretty lady.”

As he pulls his trousers down to reveal tight black briefs and an impressive imprint he steps closer. You look up toward him expectantly, batting your eyelashes.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” he coos, stroking your hair.

Normally you’re not the biggest fan of this—but you feel graced by god himself to have been given this specific opportunity. So you peel down the edges of his boxers until his cock is springing free, balls heavy and tip leaking, and Luigi blesses you with a delicious groan when you wrap a hand around his shaft and begin to pump him in your tight fist. You almost need both your hands just to stroke him off. It’s ridiculous. He sucks in a breath above you, sharp and rushed, eyes fluttering shut and lips pressed together.

And then you stick out your tongue and lick a slow stripe all the way up the length of his cock, ending with a pronunciated gesture against his frenulum. Luigi balls your hair into a fist; the defined muscles of his stomach are pulled taut, and you glide a hand up through the thick thatch of hair on his pelvis, up further, over his faint happy trail, and when you feel his belly flexing under your palm you moan against him. Your mouth comes to wrap around the first few inches of him, lips sucked in and cheeks hollowed. Two big, warm hands cup your face.

“My god, you’re beautiful,” Luigi breathes. His thumb traces the outline of your cheekbone, tucking stray hair behind your ear. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look with your mouth full?”

You moan around his cock, pull off of him momentarily to answer: “Only you.”

“Could be a pornstar with that fuckin’ body,” he groans—his hands apply the slightest pressure to your head as you take him again. “Fuck, you’d have ‘em lined up for miles, just waiting for a chance.”

His dick begins to press into your throat and you accept him happily. As you set the pace, bobbing your head up and down, Luigi angles his hips forward, and you subdue your gag reflex by digging your fingernails into his thighs.

He compresses his lips again, draws in a deep breath when you take him to the hilt. “But you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”

The feminist in you wants to lecture him about the complexities of women in sex work, but you figure that’d be a bit of a turn off. And besides, when you tongue at his balls with his cock still lodged down your throat he makes a heavenly sound, something straight out of your wet dreams, something deep and rocky but still so vulnerable. You love it. You need more of that yesterday.

Luigi swears under his breath as you pull off of him, switching to licking around the fat head of his cock and stroking the length untouched by your tongue. The pre beading at his slit tastes sweet, sort of pungent, but not at all unpleasant—you assume you’ve got his diet to thank for that. He groans and shivers and goosebumps rise on his tan skin, prickling underneath your palms. You wrap your lips around the tip of his length, forming a tight suction—as you suck him your hand continues a steady back-and-forth over his dick, your spit creating an effortless glide. 

And then you start twisting, as gently as possible, and every bone in his body melts inside of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunts, head thrown back. You can see sweat glistening on the column of his throat. “That’s a good girl. That’s a good fucking girl.”

You try to replicate the same feeling on his cockhead with your hand as you move to his balls, sucking each into your mouth, swirling your tongue, all while your beaming eyes stare up at him.

“Such a princess,” he murmurs. “Who taught you how to suck dick like this?”

You flash him a toothy grin. “You jealous?”

He moans loud when you guide your flat, wet tongue over his tip again, paying extra attention to the underside of his cock, the thin vein stretching down the length of it. Your fist continues its ministrations on his shaft all the while; stroking, twisting, squeezing, much to the delight of Luigi. As you lick your mouth moves lower, taking inch by inch, tongue still swirling to the best of your abilities—and even when it fails to circle his girth you sweep it side-to-side against his dick, your jaw slowly accepting the intrusion. 

With his cock in your throat again you repeat the swaying of your head, bobbing slowly at first and picking up the pace as his sounds intensify. You hope to god that the walls of The Palace aren’t remarkably thin—the wet noises of your mouth moving are ringing loud in your ears, only bested by Luigi’s groans and whines above you. His hips start to meet your movements, thrusting up just slightly, and when you accidentally gag on his dick he moans loud. He fists your hair and growls, your nose buried in his bush, coconut and sandalwood filling your senses. 

“Oh, Christ, yes,” he mumbles. “All of it, baby, take all of it…”

You drag your lips up his length and bring your hand back to work, tugging and twisting like before as your mouth works his cockhead. Only for a moment, though, because Luigi quickly guides you further down, until his heavy dick is fully seated on your tongue, probing your throat again. Your hand finds his balls instead, squeezing softly—you can feel them drawing up in your palm.

He sighs deeply, exhilarated. “Gonna make Daddy come in this pretty little mouth, sweetheart.”

You’ve never tasted a vegetarian’s sperm before. There’s a first time for everything, truly.

With a few more pumps of your head and some added action with your tongue Luigi is gasping and coming in your mouth, hips bucking with fervor. You don’t plan on swallowing, initially, but he tastes quite nice compared to other guys you’ve had—so before you pull off of him you gulp him down without much thought, making a show of opening your mouth to display its relative emptiness. 

Luigi leans down slightly to kiss you. Unexpected, considering the circumstances—re: his jizz in your mouth about five seconds ago—but you’re not complaining. And you realize then that Luigi was hiding something under his suit: he’s wearing the chain, the very same one you’ve been daydreaming about seeing against his perfect olive skin again. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it earlier. You can’t help but tug on it as his mouth moves with yours.

“How’d you know I love this?” you ask against his lips, smiling.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. Shrugs. “You were grabbing at it the first time I kissed you. You’re not very subtle.”

You run your finger along the rough edges of the necklace as you lick inside his mouth; but eventually it becomes difficult to resist his gorgeous curls, so your hands trail, scratching at his scalp and tugging the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Then he kneels. You offer a curious whine.

“It would be rude of me to not return the favor, princess,” Luigi says, spreading your thighs apart and guiding your legs over his broad shoulders.

Wow. 

Long fingers brush against your cunt. He’s spreading something else, too, exploring and relishing in how reactive you are to his touch. 

“Oh, my,” he murmurs. “You’re so wet. Were you having fun, baby?”

The whine that leaves you is apalling. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He plants a kiss to the back of your knee, glides further, down your thigh. “You’re such a gift. I’m a lucky, lucky man.”

Two of his fingers part your lips so that all of you is exposed to him. He begins with one flat lick from hole to clit, grinding the tip of his tongue against your fluttering cunt and sweeping it side-to-side. You cry out. It’s been a long time since you found a guy this enthusiastic about eating pussy, and you’re starting to feel immensely glad that Luigi isn’t showcasing himself online—any girl could have this, and because of one chance night, you are the one that gets to indulge in his greedy mouth. Before the insecurity can come flooding back to you he sucks your clit between his lips, slowly pulling away with a resounding pop.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re really spoiling me, sweetheart.”

You’re spoiling him? Yeah. Because that makes sense.

Nothing needs to make sense, though; not when he licks up the length of your pussy again, steadying your body by wrapping his other hand around your thigh, and good god, the span of his fingers nearly covers the entire width. You could probably come just from looking at that. First his tongue circles the hood of your clit, just barely avoiding where you want him the most, and then he moves to teasing you with the pointed tip of it, flicking back and forth. It’s heaven. You’ve never had a man pay this kind of attention to your satisfaction, and you love that Luigi seems to be quite avid about your enjoyment of his efforts—every so often he’ll groan with hunger into your cunt, squeezing your supple thighs.

“Oh—” you whine, hips stuttering. “Oh, fuck, Luigi…”

And then he stops. You make a sound that can only be described as a shrill grunt, raising your head to peek at him between your legs. Luigi’s brows are set straight, eyes unamused.

Oh. Right.

“Daddy,” you plead. “I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.”

His wicked smile returns, then, and he gives your thigh a careful smack. “Atta girl.”

That perfect tongue returns, sliding up through your slick and lingering at your hole, pressing in just slightly. Your cunt is open entirely to him and he can reach every crevice of you, swirling and parting your folds, curling up to collect your arousal as it seeps from you. You’re starting to think that Luigi may not even have to pay you in cash from now on—he can simply compensate with this eager mouth of his. For a moment he takes your clit between his lips and sucks hard again, creating a pulsing sensation with the suction of his mouth that has your thighs trembling and forces sounds from you that would frankly terrify you in any other context.

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “you have the most perfect pussy, baby. Could taste you all day.”

Then he’s diving back in, hardly giving you any room to breathe—it’s just a never ending barrage of all the magic that his mouth can do, his dirty talk and the skillful work of his tongue. This time around he tenses that talented appendage and slots it inside of you, withdraws, and licks up the length of your slit, then repeats the gesture a second time, and then a third—and by the fourth time the tips of his fingers are teasing your entrance, silently asking for permission to explore.

“Please,” you whine, bucking your hips.

So Luigi licks up and collects your clit in his mouth, sucking as he eases his middle finger into your cunt. He hardly gives you time to adjust before he’s curling it, working that spongy spot inside of you with precision, and you cry out, squirming under his intensive ministrations. All the while his lips squeeze your firm clit, almost massaging it, his tongue making a special appearance every so often to stroke the sides of you.

“Fuck,” you sob. “More, please, more.”

He slides a second finger inside of you. Then a third. What really makes it special is the fact that the stretch of his fingers can’t possibly compare to his dick.

By now the build-up of your orgasm has begun to peak, coiling like hot wires in your stomach; you’re squirming ceaselessly on the couch, jittering all over, your fingers buried in Luigi’s thick curls as his fingers work inside of you. His other hand snakes around your thighs and presses against your abdomen, pinning you down so as to minimize your movements. Your thighs shoot up and frame his head, locking him in.

“I’m coming,” you warn, “I’m gonna come.”

Momentarily his mouth leaves your pussy to groan, “you’re doing so good, princess. Show Daddy how you come for him.”

And when his lips return to your clit, a deep hum vibrating in his throat and through your body, you’re coming hard on his face, gripping his hair roughly and rocking your hips against his mouth. Luigi returns your satisfaction tenfold; he moans and smiles against your cunt as he guides you through your climax, whispering fluff to you that you don’t quite comprehend through the rush.

“Such a good girl, sweetheart,” he’s saying when you come to, the ceiling almost spinning before your eyes. 

You lean up on your elbows and offer a dazed grin. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, meeting your lips in a deep kiss. “It’s a treasure to get my mouth on you, sweet girl. I’ve been dreaming of it.”

His tongue tastes like your cunt. You moan into his mouth as you suck on it, fisting his tight curls in your hand. 

“Would you mind terribly if I fucked you now?” Luigi asks when he pulls away, still smiling sweetly.

You kiss him again. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

At that he stands to retrieve a condom from his wallet, dick swinging shamelessly as he moves. Christ. You’re no better than a man.

He catches you staring, notices your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Like what you see?”

Flushing, you giggle. “I’m sorry. It’s kinda hard not to.”

Tearing open the packet, he orders with a smile: “Turn around and bend over on the bed.”

You’re obeying before the words are even out of his mouth. You sink your knees into the soft cushion of the sofa as you lean down onto the bed in front of you, back arched. Your soft ass and your sticky pussy are in perfect view for him, and he whistles lowly as you feel him approaching from behind.

“Look at that,” he remarks, spreading you with the same hands that can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute. “Fucking dripping wet. And all for me.”

He drags a fingertip through your slick, which is soon replaced by the head of his cock, swiping back-and-forth against your clit. You shudder at the smooth motion of it, at the way his hands knead your asscheeks.

“So gorgeous,” Luigi says as he presses inside of you.

The stretch knocks all the wind out of your lungs, and the sound you make is intense, pained, absolutely obscene. By the time he’s sheathed every inch in your cunt you’re gripping the bedsheets and squealing, praying to no one in particular that the rooms opposite each side of yours are unoccupied.

“There we go,” he murmurs, stroking your lower back. “Let it all out, sweetheart. How does that feel?”

“It—” You cut yourself off with a groan. “It’s so big.”

“Shh,” he whispers—his hand is now combing through your hair. “I know, baby, I know. Look at you, taking it so well.”

You don’t even know how to breathe again when he pulls his hips back and slowly presses inside of you once more. And then once more. And when Luigi starts to find his rhythm all you can do is blink away your tears and fall face-forward into the bed, your pathetic sounds muffled by the sheets, and he seems to return your enthusiasm—he groans, head thrown back and eyes lidded.

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” he praises. “You can handle it, can’t you, princess?”

Weakly, you nod and offer a whimper. His hand comes down hard on your ass.

“What did I tell you about answering me?” Luigi spits, voice gruff.

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you whine, leaning back up on your elbows. “I can take it, I can.”

He squeezes your rear. “Arch your back for me.”

So you do, easily, and he’s quick to pick up the pace, slamming into you with no regard for anything that isn’t his cock pistoning inside of your warm, slick pussy. The man is relentless, tugging at your hair and panting beautifully; he’s pounding so deep that you swear you can feel the pressure of it in your chest, and you’re so wet that you’re almost worried you’ll leave behind a mess so horrific the janitors of The Palace will need therapeutic compensation for their shift tonight. 

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, “oh, fuck…”

It’s all too much and yet you can’t not want more. You’re working your hips back-and-forth in time with his thrusts, the soft globes of your round ass meeting his pelvis with a noise that is unbearably obvious. The stretch of his cock is unforgiving. Merciless.

With a fistful of your hair, Luigi grunts, “that’s it, baby, there you go. Fuck me back.”

But you’re breaking out a sweat, lip tucked between your teeth. “I can’t—oh, fuck, please…”

“Shh,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on you. “Just rub that little clit and let me do all the work, okay?”

Your fingers swiftly find the slicked bundle of nerves between your thighs and stroke in circles, moving furiously. He’s got both hands planted firmly on your hips, thighs and arms tensing as he hunches over you, fucking into you like a madman, his dick brushing into every sweet spot deep inside of you. If you focus hard enough you can feel his silver chain swinging over your back.

Luigi makes a noise that sounds strangled and involuntary.

“Baby,” he says, “fuck, you’re tight. ‘M not gonna last much longer.”

You nod desperately, hand moving to meet his where it’s clasped over your hip. The fingers of your free hand speed up, slathering your arousal over your clit as Luigi slap-slap-slaps his hips into yours.

He wasn’t lying. It only takes a few more minutes of his vicious pounding for the both of you to come undone; you’re up first, jittering and falling flat into the bed as your toes curl and your cunt grips him like you never want to let go, and that’s all Luigi needs to meet you halfway, thrusts stuttering and slowing to a stop as you milk him. His chest is heaving and his Adam’s apple bobs as he catches his breath, his hand gently caressing your back.

“God,” he mutters as he pulls out of you. “You’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”

You’re sat up in bed, the sheets splayed over your naked body as the shower runs in the distance. By now it’s past midnight, the city only lit up by street lights and the brights of passing cars. As you watch the world pass by through the windows of your suite, you fork through a plate of chocolate mousse cake, specially made by The Palace’s chefs. The bite that fills your mouth is heavenly; it’s rich and fluffy, the icing creamy and the texture smooth. Something sweet to make up for your lack of dessert this evening.

The water turns off. Halfway through your slice of cake fresh from room service, Luigi emerges from the shower, curls wet and skin sheen with warm droplets as he tucks in the towel wrapped snugly around his waist. He smiles at you when you spot him.

“What do you think?” he asks.

You blink. “About my cake?”

He chuckles. “About tonight.”

Now you understand: he wants feedback. Wants to live up to his promises. 

“I’m an earnest lover.” 

Setting your cake and fork on the nightstand, you approach him—and he sighs happily when you wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a hug, your bare breasts pressed flush to his pecs.

Into his ear, you whisper: “I think you’re the very best Daddy I could ever ask for.”

Luigi smiles devilishly.