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rafey-baby · 2 months ago

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forbidden fruit

Once upon a time there was a princess and a hunter...

snow white!reader x hunter!rafe

c/w: mentions of violence, her being naive & sheltered, him being slightly suggestive? also if it’s not obvious this is *loosely* based on the story of snow white, 18+ mdni!

wc: 3k

ahh the first part is here xx

series masterlist

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“Do you have a favorite flower?”

The quietness that follows makes her wonder if the brooding man alongside her had heard her question at all.

She’s not entirely certain why the queen had been so adamant that this grumpy huntsman was to accompany her on this peculiar evening walk, when she’s never even uttered a word to him before— doesn’t even know his name.

When she’d asked why they had to go so suddenly and after the sunset had already colored the skyline with its cherry tinge, he’d merely muttered something along the lines of ‘following Her Majesty’s orders’.

She’s well aware of her stepmother’s disdain for her, never quite understanding why her father had married such a cold woman to begin with. However, it has never been in her wishes to upset her any further than she apparently does by simply existing, which is why she’d quietly agreed without much resistance— even if the request had seemed rather strange to her.

“Uh…I dunno, they all sort of look the same to me, Your Highness,” the sudden rumble interrupts her thoughts.

“Oh,” she’s slightly taken aback by the gravel in his tone, offering him her own answer nonetheless. “I love daisies.”

“Right,” he mumbles out; mind apparently lost somewhere else entirely as he keeps leading her deeper and deeper into the grim, bleak woods. With every step she takes, the leafy trees begin to turn into something impending, sinister— their slender branches beginning to resemble bony fingers, merely waiting for the right moment to latch onto her and claw at her arms.

Therefore, she’d much rather hear his voice instead of this daunting lull in their conversation (if she could even call it that). Unfortunately, what she’s gathered from their brief interactions so far, is that the preferred topic of discussion for a man— a hunter like him, is silence.

And that’s something the murky forest around them is already far too generously presenting her with; this late into the day not even the bluebirds chirp their delightful melodies to make the eerily serene atmosphere of this prolonged journey of theirs a little less dreadful.

“What’s, um, what’s your name?” she attempts to have him speak some more.

“Rafe,” he merely offers her a fleeting glance; as if it’s the most tedious thing in the world to even utter out his own name to her.

Rafe.

Upon further observation of the rugged lines of his face, she decides it suits him. What doesn’t suit him, however, is the ever-present scowl staining his (rather handsome) features. It’s almost as if something is tormenting him, acidic, putrid on his tongue.

“Is something wrong?” she questions next, him being vague on purpose not exactly soothing her concerns regarding this entirely too ominous trip.

They’ve been strolling along some path he apparently has in his mind for quite some time now, at this point nearly reaching the very core of the vast forest that surrounds the entirety of the kingdom.

“Everything’s fine,” his tone is gruff— a heavy palm on the small of her back nudging her forward when she momentarily halts her movements.

“Do we have to go so far? M’getting cold,” she complains because even if the palace hasn’t felt like home ever since her dear father’s passing, she wants nothing more now than to return to the thermal fireplace and silky sheets in her bedchamber.

All of a sudden, the snapping of a branch somewhere close causes her to flinch.

In tandem, they both turn towards the noise as it transforms into foreboding rustling of leaves and something akin to footfall against the muddy ground; forcing a shiver to crawl under her skin.

She’s beginning to prepare herself to face some gruesome monster when out of the blue, the smallest white-tailed deer she’s ever laid her eyes upon, pokes its head from behind a tree trunk.

She gasps in adoration; tiptoeing closer to the trembling animal before crouching down.

“Hello there. Why are you here all by yourself?” she asks with a tender coo, mindfully reaching a hand out to pet its ruffled head.

Seemingly liking her, it takes a careful step towards her in a moment of bravery; teddy bear eyes curious.

“Well, aren’t you adorable? I wish I had something for you to eat but I don’t,” she croons out as it nestles its slobbery nose into the hollow of her hand, when all at once, its button eyes dilate and its fleecy ears lift up in alarm.

“Wha—” she doesn’t have the time to finish her sentence before it’s hurriedly scrambling away from her and disappearing into the viridescent foliage in the blink of an eye.

She looks over her shoulder to locate the source of such horror, coming face-to-face with a gleaming blade and Rafe’s threatening eyes fixed on her suddenly immobile form.

“What are you—” her words wither away on her frightened tongue when he abruptly brings the hunting knife to her throat— terror wrapping around her like yarn, tautening around her organs and making her helpless heart thump against her ribcage in a state of hysteria.

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, alright? I promise I’ll make it quick,” he sounds determined, her unnerved eyes round out.

“Rafe, you don’t— you don’t have to do this,” she manages out before she feels the harsh edge cut into her delicate skin just the slightest bit— a droplet of crimson trickling down her neck and towards her heaving chest.

His gaze tracks the rivulet as it dribbles down all the way into her cleavage; leaving a scarlet trail to stain her skin in its wake as her pounding head begins to spin.

She sits there on the forest floor, unmoving and unable to properly suck in air through her lungs as trepidation slithers itself into the crevices of her bones; merging into her marrow and turning her limbs into icebound liquid.

“You think I want to?” he mutters out through his teeth.

“I— I don’t understand...why are you doing this?” she squeaks out when he squeezes the handle in his fist— seemingly torn between two alternatives yanking him into separate directions, their claws scraping at both of his arms.

“Cause the queen wants your heart on a platter n’ I’m supposed to be doin’ what Her Majesty tells me to, yeah?” he spits out the title as if it’s rotten; as if it’s tasted acrid in his mouth for a long while now.

“My heart? Why would she want my heart?” she asks with something akin to hurt in her voice; not realizing her stepmother’s hatred towards her branched as far as wanting her dead.

“Cause she’s lost her fuckin’ mind,” he huffs out; still tightly gripping onto the weapon. “...but then you look at me with those fuckin’ eyes and how am I— how am I supposed to…kill that?” he rambles more to himself than her, making her brows knit together even further.

“You don’t— you don’t have to, you can let me go and I’ll— I’ll hide in the forest,” she suggests, voice wavering.

“And freeze to death?” he scoffs.

“I thought you wanted me dead?” she sounds disconcerted.

“I don’t want you dead!” his volume is as clamorous as thunder, frustrated.

“But you’re holding a knife to my throat?” her voice trembles; the frigid steel still imprinting her skin.

“Yeah, cause I’m supposed to fuckin’ kill you, alright?”

“I…I don’t understand,” her tone is a muted whisper and at last, he loosens his hold on the knife— a faint thud echoing in the space between them as it hits the soil covered in moss.

Then, he’s shaking his head, seemingly exasperated with the girl before him. “Talkin’ to fuckin’ deers n’ shit. I mean, who the hell does that?”

“I…I do? They’re my friends, why wouldn’t I talk to them?” she bats her lashes at him, seemingly confused out her innocent little mind.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he lets out bitter scoff. “Now tell me, what am I supposed to do with you, hm?”

“You’re not going to…” she swallows the rest of the words— too vile, brutal for her to say out loud.

“Since you’re makin’ it so fuckin’ hard, no,” he lets out a displeased breath before presenting his palm for her to hold onto.

“Get up,” he orders, nearly glaring at her.

“Oh, um, thank you,” she blinks up at his frowning countenance, gingerly grasping onto his much bigger hand and letting him lift her up with ease.

“Right, uh, why don’t we get you somewhere warm, yeah? You must be freezin’ only wearin’ that dress,” he clears his throat when he notices a tremor rattling through her in tandem with a frosty breeze sweeping past them.

Taken aback by his sudden concern over her well-being, she merely stands there with a blank expression before he flits his eyes over to hers; seemingly expecting a response.

“Oh, um...I think— I think I saw a cottage on our way here,” hesitation tinges her suggestion.

“You did? Where?”

“It was, um…” she pads along the faint traces of their original route she had sidetracked from in order to greet the baby deer— his heavy footsteps following close behind.

“There,” she points her index finger towards a small hut partly hidden away behind old, lush trees.

When they step onto the threshold, she softly knocks on the mahogany door decorated with intricate swirls and designs embedded into the wood.

“Hello? Would it be possible if we could come in to warm up a little bit? It’s terribly cold out here,” she politely asks.

However, they’re not granted any sort of a reply.

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Rafe notes as he peers through the windows into the unlit interior, before trying his luck and pushing down the handle.

To both of their surprise, the door is unlocked.

“Rafe! We can’t just break into someone’s home,” she scolds him with wide eyes.

“S’not breakin’ in if the door’s open,” he merely shrugs before cautiously stepping inside— having to duck his head since the roof is hanging far too low for his tall figure.

He looks around the compact space, as if to make sure they truly are alone, before glancing over his shoulder at her still tentative form shivering in the doorway. “What are you waitin’ for? Come in. Unless you wanna get sick standin’ out there?”

She feels guilt eat away at her soul when she gingerly steps inside the cozy cabin, feeling far too much like an intruder, even if Rafe doesn’t seem all that bothered by entering a complete stranger’s place of residence without permission.

“Shit, why are these chairs so small?” he complains when the wooden stool creaks under his weigh; threatening to crack as he lights up some candles he found— the walls soon bathing under the burnt-orange flames.

“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” she suggests meekly.

“S’not like we have options to choose from,” he points out; stretching his big arms over his head in an attempt to get comfortable.

“You’re right...I’m sure whoever lives here will understand we needed a place to stay, right?” she tries to convince herself in hopes of brushing her worries under the rug.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Let’s see if they have anything to eat around here,” he dismisses her as he stands tall on his feet once more, before he’s opening and closing the cabinets and cupboards in a search for food.

“Why do they have so many fuckin’ apples in here?” he mindlessly questions when he sees a pile of the red fruit hiding behind one door.

“Oh, I could make you an apple pie?”

He turns to look at her beaming with that sudden grand idea of hers.

“Uh, m’not sure if that’s…”

“Do you not like them?” she sounds nearly concerned, as if not liking apple pies should be considered a crime in the fairytale world inside her skull.

“Nah, I do, I just— shouldn’t we be comin’ up with some plan to keep you safe n’ shit? And not bakin’ pies. We don’t really have all the time in the world before the queen finds out you’re alive,” he mutters out.

“Well, I don’t know about you but I can’t think with an empty stomach. And, um, it would also be a thank you for you sparing my life,” she timidly looks up at him.

He clears his throat at that, seemingly surprised by her sentimentality; feeling unworthy of the gratitude she’s so willingly offering him. “Right, yeah, uh, alright. Well, you do that and I’ll go get us some firewood or somethin’, yeah?”

“That sounds perfect,” she smiles.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Later, when he returns to the cottage, the saccharine smell of oven-baked apples instantaneously whirls around him— holding him in a cinnamon-scented embrace and dragging a grumble from his stomach.

“Oh, you’re back just in time!” she exclaims as she sets down two porcelain plates for them.

“I might’ve went a little overboard with the cinnamon but I hope you don’t mind?” she asks while cutting through the steaming pie that’s making him practically drool.

“Uh, nah, I…love cinnamon,” he murmurs, not sure why he just said that since he doesn’t particularly even like cinnamon. However, he’s certain that nothing that smells like that could possibly taste bad.

“Really? Me too!”

He thinks this is the first time he’s seen her eyes glitter in that way; as if he’s just single-handedly hung the moon or professed his undying love for her. It makes something unfamiliar poke at his insides— scratching at his organs and begging to be let out. However, he decides not to pay it any mind as he sits down on the kitchen chair that’s still entirely too tiny for him.

“Do you like it?” she asks with her gaze glued to his expression when he takes his first bite. She hasn’t even touched her own slice; opting to stare at him instead and momentarily, he wonders why she’s so eager to please him.

“This might just be the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” he can’t help but groan out loud in response to the luscious flavors practically melting on his tongue.

She swallows at that, mind seemingly stuck somewhere else entirely before she softly clears her throat. “You, um, you think so?”

“Uh huh,” he hums out with delight before shoving another forkful of softened apple pieces and golden-brown crust into his mouth— a smirk soon blossoming on his face when he catches on to the double entendre of his mindless compliment that apparently turned her all shy.

“Someone’s got a dirty mind,” he chuckles, mocking her.

“I…” she opens and then closes her mouth like a goldfish. “I do not—”

“Alright, you caught me. Second best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” he decides to toy with this sweet little princess some more, for some reason wants to see her all flustered; in some crooked way enjoys having an effect on her.

“Um, right…yeah,” she stumbles over her words; eyes flickering towards her plate as she finally digs into her own portion.

He’s all too preoccupied grinning at the way she’s avoiding his gaze when out of the blue, the sight of a bed peeking through the slightly ajar bedroom door catches his attention.

And it’s not so much the piece of furniture that halts his chewing and makes a crease form between his brows, but more so the size of it. It forces his feet to move on their own accord to the room where he’s met with six more beds— just as minuscule as the first one.

At that, he wonders if he really was so caught up with the princess that his brain couldn’t fit the very clear pieces together any earlier.

“Oh shit, I think I know these guys n’ I don’t think they’ll be too happy to see me here when they get back,” he mutters while padding back towards the kitchen.

“What do you mean?” concern paints over her features.

“Nah, nothin’ just…uh, they don’t like me very much, so we gotta leave. I mean, they probably won’t mind you bein’ here all that much. They’re probably real friendly if you don’t piss them off like I have,” he scratches at the back of his head. “What did you do?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Uh, I have this cabin for when I’m hunting, but s’not very close. Think we should be safe there for tonight though. Unless you wanna stay here?”

“No, I wanna go with you. I— I don’t want to stay here alone,” she’s quick to answer.

“You sure?” he raises his brows.

She nods.

“Yeah? S’probably gonna be a few hours on foot. Think you can walk for that long in the woods, princess?” he asks next, his cadence turning into something playful.

“Of course I can. I have two healthy legs,” she sounds almost offended.

“I can see that,” an entertained smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re not scared of the dark either?” he adds, almost as if testing her.

“Of course not,” she lies through her teeth— eliciting a humored chuckle from him.

“Mm. Could’ve sworn you were getting a little jumpy on our way here, but must’ve imagined it, right?” he drawls out, eyes narrowing in a challenge.

“Yeah…” she doesn’t give in, a smile beginning to pull at her lips to match his own; neither of them seeming to mind when something feather-light takes the place of the once leaden ambience between them.

Momentarily, she wonders why she’d never talked to this strangely captivating hunter before— his blue velvet eyes nearly entrancing, compelling her into an incantation she seems to unconsciously gravitate towards.

However, the spell is soon broken when he takes a step closer, leaning over towards the table to blow off the flickering blaze of the candles— a dusky obscurity dancing around them once more.

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fanaticalthings · 7 months ago

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Most children, once they've grown up and moved out, sometimes come back to visit their parents to use their house as a sort of personal grocery store

And with Bruce being a literal billionaire whose house is always stocked with food and supplies, the batkids (that aren't living in the manor) definitely visit just for the purpose of taking shit for themselves.

---

For Dick, it's just small things, food and maybe some utensils. Bruce is barely in the kitchen so he never notices dishes go missing, and there are like 10 other children in his house so literally any one of the younger kids could've stolen food in the middle of the night, so he doesn't bat an eye at all.

Babs probably steals Bruce's hardware or his tools from the batcave. Sometimes, if she's nice, she'll leave a note.

Steph probably takes shit that no one will notice at the time but will absolutely be annoyed about when they need said thing. Stapler, soap bars, the microwave plate, etc...(Taking after Jason, she steals the hub caps off the batmobile's tires)

However, for Jason, once his relationship with Bruce is somewhat decent, of course he's gonna be petty and start stealing the more expensive shit in the manor for his apartment. Jason's microwave is broken? The next day, the cave's self-made and enhanced microwave made by Bruce for convenience is just gone.

Jason's feeling a coffee maker for his place? The one in Bruce's study disappears, too.

---

At first, Bruce thinks he's just sleep deprived, but then much bigger things start to go missing, like the whole TV and couch set in the living room. He assumes the younger kids are just playing pranks on him (sounds like something Stephanie would do) but then Bruce notices that the thief deliberately avoids stealing things from the kitchen, which is where Alfred is most of the time, and suddenly Bruce has an irritated clue on who the culprit is.

At first, he doesn't say anything, until one day he comes back, tired from a patrol, and is about to log in all the info on the computer only to realize his batchair is gone. That's when he texts Jason a blunt "If you really need things for your place, you can just ask me. I'll buy them for you." (As if Jason himself isn't loaded from his totally legal activities)

---

So now Jason's pettiness levels increase tenfold, and oh, wouldn't you look at it, his bike needs some new tires, and he knows a great place to get some more.

One night, Bruce is just blearily getting up for a late night snack, only to see Damian scamper away with a...lamp? So Bruce immediately follows him into the foyer only to see ALL of his kids (sans the ones not living in the manor), trying to haul two arm chairs out the window, and they just stop dead silent to stare at him until someone whispers a nervous "Crap"

Bruce doesn't even have any energy to fight, he just pinches his nose and is all "What is the meaning of this" in his tired dad voice. And Duke meekly responds with "we wanted more chairs at Jason's place"

And suddenly it all makes sense. Not once did Bruce wonder how the HELL Jason managed to lug a whole 60in TV and a full couch set on his own in one night. Of course, he had accomplices. Bruce just turns right around and goes right the hell back to his room to sleep. He'll deal with this in the morning.

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phantomrose96 · 8 days ago

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Before the Birds Sing

Christophe wakes on the morning of April 7th for the 273rd time.

It is 7:03, as it almost always is, and it is the snooze-delayed alarm that wakes him, as it almost always does. Christophe knows the pattern of bird song before they chirp, and he knows the exact cadence of cars that hum by on the street before they even crawl around the corner. Christophe listens to it, and he dawdles on his phone.

There is no practical reason to check his phone. He knows of course that it is 7:03 and he knows it’s 67 degrees outside—sunny—35% humidity—and he knows the contents of the 2 texts he received overnight. But Christophe makes motions with no practical reason. He does it to not upset anyone who, if paying close attention, could take issue with him knowing things before he’s learned them.

Christophe stows his phone into his pajama pocket at 7:06 and goes downstairs, which is the optimal time to go downstairs. Any earlier and Madeline’s pot of coffee would still be brewing, and she’d offer him first-cup with a touch of resentment over him getting first cup of the pot she’d been brewing. But if he refuses it would be a Thing, and Christophe hates starting a Thing.

But it is 7:06, and Madeline is starting to empty the dishwasher, steaming cup of coffee perched on the counter beside the sink. Christophe says, “Morning” and kisses her head and pours his own cup.

“Morning,” Madeline answers. Her hair is not damp anymore, but it could be in the two cases Christophe woke at 6:45. He hadn’t yet figured out what caused that. He’d never been able to recreate it on purpose.

“Oh,” Madeline always says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe sometimes answers. Because the sometimes when he sounds too neutral makes Madeline’s mouth tighten with worry. And the sometimes when he’s too enthusiastic makes Madeline stiff like she’s confused. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki,” which is Madeline’s mom’s new dog, and is the optimal answer to give about her mom coming over for dinner.

“He’s gotten so big,” Madeline says with a smile.

This is optimal because Boki is an easy topic to interrupt when Beatrice from across the street slams into Christophe’s car.

“Christ!” Madeline reacts to the SLAM-RRCH, WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP of collision and car alarm and woo woo woo of Bucky from the downstairs unit.

(“Hush, Bucky,” Peter from the downstairs unit says muffled.) Christophe is in the stairwell, heading out the door. (Peter is making hashbrowns. Christophe stopped at his door one morning, for no real reason. During the mid-100s of his loop, Christophe tried a few things “just because.”) So he thinks about the hashbrowns abandoned on the stove while Peter pulls Bucky away from the door. Christophe goes outside to Beatrice with her hands on her head.

“I didn’t see it!” Beatrice always says while Christophe opens the door. There is lipstick smeared from lip to hairline straight across her cheek. She wears an expression like she’s run over someone’s child.

Christophe goes through the motions of looking at his car, which is always identically dented in the fender, with the same red paint tucked in its scratches. “Hey hey, these things happen. Do you have your insurance information? We just need to call our insurances, and they’ll sort it out.”

This is the optimal answer. Beatrice calms down, as she takes comfort in being given actionable direction. Christophe knows a lot about Beatrice, who he’d never met before today. She has three sons: Jimmy who knows a mechanic from college, Kevin who is an insurance adjustor, but for a life insurance company, and Mikey, who is Beatrice’s favorite as most of the time, he’s the one she calls.

“Yes, yes okay. It’s in the glove box—yes, Mikey, yes that’s—the guy is here, his car. Mikey, I should get my insurance information, right? Yes,” Beatrice says into her earpiece. Christophe thinks to ask her what Mikey does for a living, but there’s no reason to detract today’s path, which so far is optimal.

Beatrice scuttles away, opening her passenger door and half leaning out of it while she finds her papers. There is no good way to prevent Beatrice from hitting his car—as it turns out, no one believes you if you preemptively try to tell them not to hit your car. And getting his own car out of the way doesn’t quite work. Getting to it in time requires cutting Madeline short on her question about her mother. And the interruption makes Madeline upset.

If he can figure out how the 6:45 wake-up loop works, maybe Christophe could move his car first, then talk to Madeline, then Beatrice wouldn’t hit his car—but it would be a lot of pressure, to get that lucky, and then try to do the whole day after that perfectly, lest he just wake up all over again, 7:03, hearing the birds before they chirp.

“This, I think. It’s this paper?” Beatrice asks.

“Yes yes, see this number? You’ll need to call that one.” Christophe just needs to be understanding, but firm. And not say anything like, “Sorry, maybe my car was too far out of the driveway!” because that will make Beatrice purse her lips and nod and say “Yeah, actually I think your car was too far out.”

Beatrice asks—maybe to Christophe, and maybe to Mikey—how long this whole thing with insurance will take. Christophe tells Beatrice insurance should handle it quickly. He’s not sure if that’s true. He’s never made it to tomorrow.

…

Christophe’s shoulders ease down a fraction once Beatrice is out of sight. The rest of the morning is easier. Madeline only needs to be told “Don’t worry, insurance is handling it.” And there’s no real wrong way to shower, and no real wrong way to get dressed. And as long as he avoids Summer Street on the way to work (someone hit a fire hydrant there) then there’s not many wrong ways to get to work.

Christophe reads all unread emails, which are memorized at this point. He accepts Frankie’s invite to grab lunch together in the cafeteria. He doesn’t start anything important while counting the minutes to 9:43. 9:43 comes, and their boss Bruce calls Christophe, and Frankie, and Arnold into his office.

Bruce wears the same olive shirt every day with the same unmatching plum tie—except for one day when he wore an orange tie. He orders everyone to sit the way he always does. And he gives the same rant, which Christophe puts on a face of surprise for, while Bruce reads out the scathing customer email received overnight over a massively delayed shipment. Bruce’s hand flies around in a rage, and there is a different watch on today.

The watch is unusual. It’s silver. Not the normal gold one, and kind of thinner. Christophe wonders why it’s different. Christophe wonders about the little things that are capable of changing, and whether that means Peter isn’t always cooking hashbrowns, or if one of these days Beatrice simply won’t hit his car.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

Christophe snaps from his thoughts about watches, experiencing the emotion of surprise for the first time in many days.

“If they’d gotten us the right shipping address from the start, we wouldn’t need to be jumping through all these hoops and taking the blame to fix their fuck-up.”

Bruce’s little eyes get about as big as they can on his red face, and Christophe immediately feels his ribcage drop down to his feet.

He’d given the optimal response… to offer to Frankie in the office space later, when Frankie would be sitting crouched and staring at his knees with an expression like he didn’t want to be staring at his knees. This is Frankie’s client, and every time today happens, Frankie shoulders the most blame. And it makes Frankie feel a little better when Christophe directs the blame back onto them.

Bruce’s answer, optimally, is, “It’s an oversight, you’re absolutely correct. I know our team can get this sorted out today. And we’ll craft an apology email to them immediately.”

“Mahone did you just say the word… ‘fuck-up’, to me?”

Bruce is having an affair. Christophe doesn’t technically know this today. But he does if he tries proactively to enter Bruce’s office and read the (quite positive) response email to his apology, and only if he times this between 1:19pm and 1:21pm. Maria from accounting is under the desk for reasons that cannot be explained away. He actually needs to come in at about 1:30pm to read the email, which Bruce will nod to and give a firm clap of approval to Christophe’s shoulder.

“Sorry, I completely misspoke. I meant to say ‘our’ fuck-up, and…” Christophe trails off, tired. He is long-since tired of finding brand new optimal paths off untrodden conversations. He is quickly losing the motivation to try. This is clearly unsalvageable.

Bruce has a wife and a 9-year-old daughter.

“Sorry, we'll try that again,” Christophe says, under the gawking stares of Frankie and Arnold.

“No, you don’t get to try that again, Mahone. Not to me,” Bruce says. “You can pack your desk and get out of here.”

Christophe does not pack his desk.

It is 7:03 am. Christophe hears the note of each bird before it chirps.

…

“Oh,” Madeline always says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe sometimes answers again. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki.”

“He’s gotten so big,” Madeline says with a smile. SLAM-RRCH “Christ!” WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP woo woo woo.

“I’ve got it,” Christophe says. He opens their unit door and rounds the stairs. (“Bucky, hush.”) He thinks about hashbrowns.

Bruce’s watch is gold again today.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

“It’s an oversight, you’re absolutely correct. I know our team can get this sorted out today. And we’ll craft an apology email to them immediately.”

Christophe is dismissed along with Frankie and Arnold, who bow lower than him and walk like they have tails tucked up. Christophe opens the door back into their office space, and Frankie takes his seat, staring at his knees with an expression like he doesn’t want to be staring at his knees.

Christophe squeezes a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. Performatively, he looks over his own shoulder, like he’s checking to ensure Bruce hasn’t followed. Bruce never does. “If they’d gotten us the right shipping address from the start, we wouldn’t need to be jumping through all these hoops and taking the blame to fix their fuck-up.”

Frankie straightens a little, until he only a little bit resembles a shrimp. He smiles a little at Christophe.

Christophe takes his own seat, and he begins crafting the optimal client apology email.

…

Christophe pulls into the grocery store parking lot. He has a text message open from Madeline, performatively.

“Hey, sorry I don’t think I can make the fish tonight. There’s not enough for three people. Can you pick these up on your way home? We can just do a taco night.”

Sometimes Madeline says this aloud to him in the morning, if he comes down at 7:03 and if he doesn’t turn the conversation to Boki. It’s more convenient to have the list as a text message, though it functionally stopped mattering after about the 10th loop when he’d memorized the ingredients.

Christophe’s path through the grocery store is optimized. Though that is another thing that functionally does not matter. It makes no true difference if he doubles back for the avocados, or combs the spice aisle twice, or even if he stands blankly in the produce section thinking about car insurance or workplace affairs. The grocery store doesn’t really count for anything. As long as he delivers the one good joke to the cashier, it’s a success.

“A lotta avocados,” Amanda with the nose piercing says. That her name is Amanda and that she has a nose-piercing are technically the only things Christophe knows about her today. But on other todays, he’s asked her about family and about school. She has three sisters and three cats. She goes to community college. She’s a Scorpio. There is a faint scar on the middle knuckle of her right hand.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of trying out avocado therapy.”

She gives him a quirked eyebrow. He waits a beat.

“Just start smashing them until I’m better or until I have guacamole, whichever comes first.”

Amanda snorts, and she scans the last item. It’s NOT even that funny. But he said the avocado therapy thing one loop for no real reason and, somehow, it was a hit. He’s tweaked the delivery just a bit, until it felt optimal.

Christophe folds himself back into the car with the avocados and the cilantro and the lime and the onion and the chips. He turns the car on, and the radio crackles to life with Sexyback on the throwback channel. He lets it play in its entirety before moving the car out of park. It’s easier than counting the minutes needed before he’s allowed to arrive home without Madeline remarking that he got home from the grocery store “really fast.” It’s also why optimizing the avocadoes doesn’t matter. Getting home from the grocery store too fast is weird, and Christophe optimally does not do anything weird today.

Lucinda is already in the kitchen when Christophe arrives home, smelling faintly of cloves, which Christophe figured out on about the 50th loop. She is parked on the barstool overlooking the island counter, hawkishly observing the bowls of cheese and sour cream and tomatoes and shredded lettuce.

“Ah, he’s back. Finally,” Lucinda says, and there’s never any real avoiding that. Even when Christophe comes home weirdly early, he’s come home late. “You should be helping Madeline prep. Not me.”

Lucinda takes the whisky glass with the one spherical ice cube and re-parks herself at the kitchen table. Christophe unpacks the guacamole ingredients, and he does not ask about Boki yet, because Boki needs to be the second topic tonight.

Christophe makes guacamole with the exactly ripe avocados, and the exact right proportions of lime and salt and onion—it is, if he’s honest, not enough onion—but it is optimized for Lucinda, who stopped criticizing his guacamole after about the 100th loop.

He uses the bowl Madeline likes and dumps in the chips that Madeline likes too. He offers her a single chip while she’s still frying the ground beef, and she takes it with a secret little smile. He gives her a secret little smile in return, which is enough to somehow say Lucinda is a mutual nuisance, but not enough to suggest he hates her.

The taco ingredient bowls all come to the table one by one. Lucinda is slopping a pile of guacamole onto her plate with the guacamole ladle. “Ethel’s cancer is back. Poor girl. Lopped off both her breasts already. What more can you do?”

“Oh no… Mom, that’s horrible,” Madeline says. She’s stopped mid-taco-bite, brow scrunched in worry. “When did she find out?”

“Today. She doesn’t wanna do chemo again. Poor girl. Probably on her way out at this point.”

Christophe knows from other todays that Ethel is 87. She’s a gardening friend of Lucinda. She used to be a world-class chef, when being both a woman and respected in the restaurant world was unheard of. She has 14 great-grandchildren. She’s taken a boat across the Atlantic Ocean. She beat cancer at age 75. She is probably going to die to it this time.

This is not the first time Christophe has thought about the fact that, as long as today is April 7th, Ethel will never die of cancer. He’s thought about all the people who would have died in the months after April 7th who, in some way, are still alive. And if or when the loop breaks, everyone who dies on April 7th does not get to wake up tomorrow.

But these are the sort of thoughts Christophe has had in depth since the very early days of his loop. He thinks, by and large, he’s settled on the answer that, for every person who doesn’t die today, there is someone else denied being born tomorrow. And whoever he’s holding to life today is offset by someone else who should get to live tomorrow.

There are people out there who are living the worst day of their lives every single day for the last 273 days, and there are, statistically, just as many people living the best day of their life every single day.

As Christophe figures it, this loop is morally neutral. And if he wakes up on April 8th tomorrow, there is no one he’s doomed, and there is no one he’s saved.

When there is nothing more to be said about Ethel, Christophe asks about Boki. Lucinda lights up, and she fumbles for her phone, squinting at its screen. “I have pictures. Oh I have so many pictures.” Lucinda turns the phone to Christophe. He sweeps until the 19th photo, and pauses there.

“What sort of feeder is this? It looks fancy. Nothing like what Pickle had when I was growing up.” It’s just an automatic feeder, but Lucinda loves the suggestion that it’s fancy. She explains it as if Christophe is learning about electronics for the first time, and it pads time.

Christophe has made sure to clear his plate while Lucinda talks. He does not reach for seconds on anything. He needs a clear path to excuse himself from the table, because he knows what Lucinda will bring up next, like he knows the bird notes before they sing.

“I did want to tell you something else, Madeline. And I didn’t want to just ‘text’ it to you, okay? I need you to see my face so you know I’m upset too and so you don’t accuse me of mean and hateful things.”

Christophe has no reaction. He sees the confusion, and the fear taking over Madeline’s face.

“John and I are getting a divorce.”

Madeline’s face is fully white. “Mom, no…”

John is not Madeline’s biological father. Her bio dad left when she was three. Christophe shouldn’t even know his name, but he blundered in comforting her one of these loops and she spat it like a curse.

There is John instead. John who came into Madeline’s life when she was four and treated her like his daughter ever since. John who married Madeline’s mother a year later and who’d been Madeline’s dad ever since. John, who had no blood tie nor name tie to Madeline, and who is about to lose his legal tie as well.

“Mom, you said you were doing therapy,” Madeline always says, whenever Christophe gets this far.

“I am! And I’ve realized that I deserve better than what John is doing to me.”

“Better than John? You deserve better than John, Mom?”

“Madeline this is MY life. Do not do this thing you do where you try to make it ALL about how hurt you are.”

The optimal thing for Christophe to say is nothing, he thinks. The optimal thing to do right now is nothing, he thinks. He guesses, as best he can guess. He doesn’t always get this far. He hasn’t had the chance to try as many things as he’s been able to try with Beatrice, and Bruce, and Amanda. But when he has tried to speak, it doesn’t work. Maybe, optimally, Christophe shouldn’t be here, but Lucinda forces it every time.

He lets Madeline speak. He lets Lucinda respond. He fades into a wallflower, until Madeline slams her chair back and throws her napkin down and says, “I think you should go home, Mom.” He lets her storm into the living room, and he gives a performative glance to Lucinda. She’s not really his concern anymore. Lucinda always leaves right after this.

Christophe stands at the doorway of the living room, which has gone dark since the sun set. Madeline is sobbing quietly on the couch, one pillow pulled into her lap. Christophe can’t see it, but she always has it. He knows it’s there.

He enters, and he sits on the couch with her, and he holds her gently.

He does not know the optimal thing to say.

He’s tried many things. But he says things that are insensitive, or too sensitive, or too optimistic, or too pessimistic. He says things that he has no business saying. He says hollow things. He says things that are too mean to Lucinda, or too apologetic to John.

So every day, he tries to say something new.

The darkness is resting on Christophe’s eyes. He’s staring into the darkness of the livingroom. There are plates of tacos in the dining room. There is unfinished guacamole going brown in Madeline’s favorite bowl.

“That won’t be us,” Christophe says, for the first time.

The pattern of Madeline’s crying breaks. He holds his breath, filing away yet another wrong response, when Madeline reaches her arms out and wraps him tight. She’s crying into her shoulder, but the tensing of her fingers against his ribs is so tender.

“I won’t ever do that to you,” she says into his work shirt. “I love you. Thank you for being here. Thank you. I love you.”

He rubs her back, and his heart is beating faster than it’s beat in 100 loops.

“I love you too,” he says, and it’s optimal.

…

Christophe washes plates. He packs away leftovers. He listens to the shhhh of the kitchen faucet nozzle as it blasts the sink basin and gurgles away down the drain.

The cicadas chirp outside. He doesn’t know this rhythm.

Christophe showers. He gets in bed. Madeline hugs his arm. He stares at the ceiling, and it is 9:00pm for the first time in the last 274 days.

… ... ...

274 days ago, Christophe woke up on April 7th for the first time .

He checked his phone. He read the text from his mom asking for money, and he read the text from his dad telling him to ignore his mom. He checked the weather. He got out of bed and carried himself down the stairs at 7:03.

Madeline was standing at the counter, hunched over a coffee pot huffing fragrant steam up to the ceiling. She caught him from the corner of her eye, and with a sort of veiled resentment Christophe recognized, she poured the first cup and handed it to him.

“My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?”

“Why?” Christophe answered, the word bubbling from the knee-jerk disdain pulling down on his rib cage. Madeline poured the second cup of coffee for herself. “We had her over last week.”

“I don’t know. But she wants to come over,” Madeline answered defensively. She pulled open the dishwasher, stacking plates with a clack, clack, clack.

“We don’t have enough fish.”

“We can just make tacos.”

“We had tacos last week.”

“Fine,” Madeline said, turning back around and leaving the dishwasher half-unloaded. “I’ll tell her no.”

“Come on,” Christophe said. “Don’t say that like I’m being unreasonable.”

“No no, I’ll just tell her no.”

“She’s just… a lot. Come on.”

“You don’t think I know that? I grew up with her.”

“Don’t talk like I’m the bad guy here.”

“Oh, you learned her favorite sentence.”

Christophe’s hands tensed against the hot porcelain of his mug. He had too many words that wanted to pour of out his lips. “You think you’re the only one who grew up with a difficult mom?” “You don’t see me subjecting YOU to MY mom.” “What about maybe a ‘Thank you, Honey, for putting up with my Mom who we both know is a lot.’”

None of those made it into the air. His whole line of thought was ground to a sudden halt by the SLAM-RRCH outside.

“Christ!” Maddie exclaimed, words drowned under the WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP woo woo woo.

Christophe moved with momentum, with adrenaline. He slammed open their unit door and rounded the hall with bare feet (“Hush, Bucky.”)

Outside, some woman was standing just outside her car, lipstick smeared across her cheek and holding her hands against either side of her head.

“What did you DO?” Christophe snapped, all but shoving her out of the way while his heart raced and he investigated the dent in his fender.

“I don’t know!! I didn’t see it! I didn’t see it!” the woman echoed in hysterics. She blinked tears that smeared down her mascara. “Let me call Mikey! He’ll know what to do!”

“Don’t call anyone, Christ. I have to leave for work soon! Just get your insurance documents out of your car, …Fucking Christ.”

The woman stood motionless. She’d been shocked quiet, but still blubbered mutely while the tears fell from her mascara. Great. Great. Another person making Christophe into the bad guy. He rubbed his finger over the red paint scratched into his fender, and he let out a noise that got Bucky barking again.

…

Christophe took his seat at the office, slinking in fifteen minutes late with the mantra-like hope that Bruce hadn’t seen him come in late. It wasn’t his fault his idiot neighbor had scraped his car. It wasn’t his fault that Summer Street was backed up all the way to Oak Road, which he’d screamed himself hoarse about in the car, leaning on his horn all the while.

“Your mom can come over for dinner. It’s fine,” Christophe texted to Madeline. He entertained the hope that it didn’t come across passive-aggressive, but he also couldn’t find the will to include a heart-emoji or an “I love you” that might have softened the tone.

“Okay. Thanks,” she answered.

Christophe’s blood boiled all over. He read emails and re-read them, again and again, because their contents would not stick in his mind.

“Mahone, Charles, Kim, my office. Now.”

Christophe snapped upright, heart stirred to a frenzy for the too-many’th time today. The ice trickle down his spine said “Fuck, you are in trouble for getting in late.” But the inclusion of Frankie and Arnold did not make sense for that. The realization sat like a brick in his stomach while he rose, and met eyes with Frankie and Arnold, and followed Bruce into his office.

Bruce was wearing an ugly olive green shirt with an uglier plum tie when he closed the office door behind them all, and his face was an even uglier scarlet.

“Can any of you three… fucking explain to me, why this email was in my inbox this morning?” Bruce shifted into theatrics, reading each scathing note with a pizzazz solely for the purpose of getting under Christophe’s skin, Christophe was sure. Arnold and Frankie seemed to wince in unison with each lunge Bruce made, but Christophe refused to break posture.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

“You should ask Kim,” Christophe said. Frankie winced again, and it made Christophe madder the way his mind likened Frankie to a scolded dog. “He was the one handling the client.”

“No, I am asking you, Mahone. This is your team. Do not make excuses and do not shift blame. That’s what a weak man does.”

(“Then explain what exactly you’re doing right now.”) Christophe thought to himself. But he did not say it out loud, because he too was a scolded dog.

…

Christophe muttered a curse through each blocking cart and each clueless shopper blocking his path. He got avocadoes, and later doubled-back for the onion, and then doubled-back again for the limes. The chips were in the wrong aisle, because some stupid fucking store manager had decided to move everything again. Christophe forgot the jalapenos.

“Ah, he’s back. Finally,” Madeline’s mother Lucinda said the moment Christophe opened the front door. She leered over her glass of whisky, which immediately set fire to Christophe’s ever-simmering disdain for her.

“I came from work, Lucinda. Because I have a job,” Christophe bit back.

“You people always have excuses,” and it is one ‘you people’ too many, so Christophe set the grocery bag down and disappeared into the living room to throw himself on the couch.

“Mom do not speak to him that way,” Madeline said.

“Well did you see the way he talked to me? Called me jobless.”

“Mom, we’re not doing this.”

“You always want to make me the bad guy.”

Twenty minutes passed, with the living room growing dark around Christophe while he seethed into his phone. He marinated in his spite. There was no reason to make him share a room with Lucinda, in his own apartment. It was his, after all. Madeline moved into his apartment.

Soft footsteps broke his train of thought. Someone stood blocking the bit of light leaking in from the dining room.

“Christophe, hey… That was really out of line of my mom. Sorry.”

“You think?” Christophe answered.

“She’s miserable, and she needs to make everyone else miserable.”

“She does not ‘need’ to. She chooses to. And you let her.”

“I don’t ‘let’ her, Christophe. Don’t make her actions my fault.”

“Her being here is your fault.”

“She…” Madeline breathed hard out of her nose, and she lowered her voice. “She insisted on it. Absolutely insisted.”

“My mom insists I send her money. I just don’t.”

“It’s different.”

Christophe let out a little snort. He let the silence linger.

“…Look, I’ll say thank you once she’s gone, okay. A really really big thank you. I’ll make you any dinner you want this weekend, as a thank you. Okay? Because… she’s a lot. I know she’s a lot. So… thank you.”

The anger boiling in Christophe ebbed a fraction, and he almost resented this more, because this whole day was so much easier if he let himself fester in it.

…

“Ethel’s cancer is back. Poor girl. Lopped off both her breasts already. What more can you do?”

“Oh no… Mom, that’s horrible.”

Christophe dipped his chips in the guacamole without jalapeno. He did his best to avoid looking at Lucinda without making it obvious he was avoiding her. He tuned in only long enough to hear ‘cancer’, and tuned back out when he was sure Ethel was no one he knew.

Ethel as a topic stuck. Lucinda seemed to revel in it, in that way she loved, to bring up something horrific and make it everyone else’s burden to indulge her on it. It sickened Christophe, the way she seemed to light up at every opportunity to tell you something horrible.

“Ethel has honestly made me realize something. And it’s that life is short. And one day you’re gonna wake up with breast cancer, thinking to yourself, ‘Why’d I waste all this life?’” Lucinda stuffed another bite of taco in her face. Through her food she spoke. “So I wanted to tell you this myself, Maddie. And I didn’t want to just ‘text’ it to you, okay? I need you to see my face so you know I’m upset too and so you don’t accuse me of mean and hateful things.”

Christophe stiffened, angry before he even knew what he was angry about, just certain of the fact that Lucinda was about to make something worse for him than it already was.

“John and I are getting a divorce.”

Madeline’s face was fully white. “Mom, no… Mom, you said you were doing therapy.”

“I am! And I’ve realized that I deserve better than what John is doing to me.”

“Better than John? You deserve better than John, Mom?”

“Madeline this is MY life. Do not do this thing you do where you try to make it ALL about how hurt you are.”

“Shut up! Jesus fucking Christ!” Christophe slammed his fork down. “Is this all you do? Show up to make everyone miserable? Come here to make Madeline cry?”

“Christophe, don’t," Madeline whispered.

“She’s a miserable fucking bat and she’s doing this to cause drama. What a happy day for John to finally be fucking rid of you!!” Christophe turned to Lucinda, his eyes wild, and he broke into emphatic applause. And each clap was for his mom. For his dad. For the woman who hit his car. For Bruce. For the morning traffic. For the brainless idiot blocking the limes in the grocery store. “YAY JOHN! YAY JOHN! FREE OF HIS FUCKING SHACKLES!! HOORAY JOHN!!”

And in front of him, Lucinda crumbled. Into sobs. Into hysterics that seized her whole body and shook it. Blubbering, to the point of wailing. She kicked her chair back, and on unsteady feet she rounded out of the dining room.

“Mom! Mom, come back. Christophe did NOT mean that.” Madeline gave him one scathing look before disappearing after her mother, the front door to the unit opening and clicking shut. Feet on the stairs. Below them, Bucky bellowed woo woo woo.

And then it was quiet.

And then Christophe was alone.

With all the makings of tacos scattered around him, with guacamole going brown in a too-small bowl, Christophe was entirely alone.

Alone, he sat. Alone, he thought. Alone, his righteous anger slipped away from him like the tide. He felt naked and cold as it left him. He felt his cheeks burn. He felt his own self-loathing nestle into the shape of where his anger used to be.

He spat a curse. He spat another. He stood. He kicked a chair. He shoved the table, unseating one glass of water which toppled and spilled its stream in a ppttititktikt to the floor. He grabbed his head like the woman who hit his car, and he dropped to a hunch.

And when staying like this felt unreasonable, Christophe unfolded himself. He rubbed his eyes. He stacked dishes, and popped Tupperware containers, and scrubbed down the counter, and set the dishwasher to its 4-hour delay.

He showered. He got in bed alone. He stewed on every kind of apology he thought of texting Madeline, but his pride burned against each one. He stewed until his phone buzzed, and some sick part of him held the hope that maybe it was an apology from Madeline.

“I don’t think this is the relationship I want. I’ll be by tomorrow morning to get my things.”

“…Fuck.” Christophe slammed his phone down. “Fuck!” He grabbed his phone back and he sat up, and with all the force he could muster he pitched it against the hardwood floor. Its case exploded off, screen shattering to magnificent spiderwebs. Tinkling bits of glass and plastic scattered unseen across the floor.

Christophe was breathing hard. He was seized by the absolute sheer unfairness of everything. He wanted a do over. He wanted a different today. He wanted one more chance to not let everything go to absolute shit.

Christophe woke up on April 7th for the second time.

… ... ...

It is 9:10pm on the 274th day of April 7th, and Madeline has fallen asleep against Christophe’s arm.

And this is optimal, surely.

He’d said the right thing. Hadn’t made it about Madeline’s parents or his own. Was it always that simple? That she wanted assurance she wasn’t going to end up like John. “That won’t be us.” That was all?

Christophe should be happy.

He did it right, finally.

This is the escape criteria, surely.

Well, "surely" is a silly word for Christophe to use. As if the criteria were ever a mystery. As is he himself hadn't been activating the loop every single time.

April 7th would last exactly as long as he decided to make it last. That had been the case since his very first loop.

He's found "optimal." He has a reason, finally, to stop activating the loop. He can stop making today perfect. He can let tomorrow be April 8th, for the first time.

And it is about time, isn’t it? To let those babies be born. To let those people die. To let the people having the worst day of their lives and the best day of their lives finally move on to just another day.

He’s been feeling guilty about it lately, every time he feels the day hasn’t been optimal, and he made the choice to activate that power that sprung up like a wellspring inside him while he’d screamed and smashed his phone on the ground.

Tomorrow is April 8th.

Tomorrow everything moves forward.

Christophe’s palms are clammy.

He thinks about waking up at a time he doesn’t know tomorrow. He thinks about birds singing to a tune he cannot already hear like a rehearsal in his head.

He thinks of everything Madeline might say, and he grows colder at the idea he won’t know what to say back.

He thinks about starting fresh, with a whole unoptimized day ahead of him.

It makes him cold. With Madeline snugged tight against him, Christophe feels so cold.

…

Christophe wakes up the next morning to an empty bed. He checks his phone, checks his text messages, checks the weather. He gets out of bed, and he heads down the stairs to the smell of brewed coffee.

“Morning,” he says, planting a kiss on Madeline’s head. She looks up from the dishwasher long enough to give him a “Morning,” back. Christophe pours his own cup of coffee.

“Oh,” Madeline says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe answers warmly, feeling like he’s fallen in love with life all over. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki.”

#writing #original writing #Before the Birds Sing #new short story idea :)

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danikamariewrites · 1 month ago

Text

Punches & Apologies

Batboys x reader

Notes: this was a commission fic that I forgot to post lol. Buckle up bc she’s a long one with lots of Az angst

Warnings: angst, training accident

Heavy pants and the rush of your blood fill your ears. You are exhausted. Your body begging you to stop. The muscles in your arms and legs screaming and pulsing, never being pushed to this extent before.

Azriel is pushing you as punishment for your latest mission to the Continent. You made a mistake, a miscalculation. One that got an emissary killed and put you within death’s grasp.

But that does not give Azriel an excuse to push you like he has never made a mistake before.

Cauldron, your mates must be feeling your pain. At least Cassian is. You’ve been sending everything to him down the bond in the hopes he stops Azriel.

Slipping to take a knee on purpose, Azriel brings the practice sword to rest against your throat. His nostrils flared as his breathing turned heavy, angry that you would blatantly yield instead of fighting until the end like you were taught.

You just stare at each other for a moment that seems to go on for an eternity. Cassian clears his throat but you two just keep staring each other down. “I think that’s enough for today.” His voice is strained, telling you Cassian was certainly feeling the echoes of your pain.

“No,” Azriel said tensely. “We keep going.” He draws back the practice sword, stepping back to pace in front of your still kneeling form. You screw your eyes shut, putting all of your effort on slowing your heart rate.

“Azriel, I don't think it’s wise to continue. Take a break and cool off.” Cassian gives Azriel a glare reserved for his soldiers. “No.” Azriel replied shortly. His piercing gaze never leaving you. “Get up.” He commands.

“Az, please,” You beg. “Up now, or I’m suspending you from missions indefinitely.” Your eyes widen at his threat. Cassian opens his mouth to interject but you hold your hand out to him, rising from your spot on the mat.

If Azriel wanted your all, fine. You’re done pulling punches. Throwing your practice sword aside you ball your fists. A wave of anger rushing through you, motivating you to beat the ever-loving-shit out of your mate. “Let's go then.” You bite out. “No weapons? Fine.” Azriel says smugly.

The two of you square up, circling each other slowly as you assess the other’s weak spots. You were determined to land the first punch. Not wasting any more time you launch yourself at Azriel with your fist pulled back. Letting your fist fly straight for his nose, Azriel dodges you, dipping to your right.

You stumble, quickly regaining your balance, whipping around to face him. A nasty scowl contorting your features. Azriel throws a series of punches that you duck under. Your arms raised in front of your face for protection.

Between punches you pop up, landing two quick jabs to his ribs. There wasn’t much behind the punches, but enough that you could put some distance between you. Over Azriel’s shoulder you could see Cassian standing rigid, his hands behind his back. A torn look pulling at his rugged face.

Part of Cassian roars to put a stop to this before someone gets hurt. The other part of him whispers that this is between you and Azriel. That you two need to work this out so the anger doesn’t follow you around.

When Cassian focuses again the two of you are getting more and more violent. Punches getting faster and faster.

You can tell Azriel is getting even more frustrated with you. By continuously dodging him you aren’t truly facing off against him. His pace picks up so fast you can feel the wind from his punches. You go to step left, thinking Azriel was going to throw his right hand. It was too late for you to notice the change. Azriel throws a left hook, his fist connecting with your jaw. A loud crack stunning the three of you.

You let gravity pull you down to the mat. Laying flat on your back, tense and in shock waiting for the adrenaline rush to wear off so you would feel the pain. There was a slight ringing in your ears along with Azriel and Cassian’s screaming match that you tuned out.

Looking at the sky you focused on the clouds passing by. Their different shapes and how soft they seemed. Anything to get your mind off the pain that would be taking over any second.

“Rhys,” you whispered in your mind, “Rhys…the training ring…” Even in your mind your voice was weak. When you focused you saw soft violet eyes staring down at you. “Hi darling.” Rhys says softly. “Rhys?” Your voice cracks as pain has your mouth snapping shut. Tears sting your eyes as you try to breathe through your nose to stay calm.

“Hey, hey it’s ok.” Rhys coos. He softly runs the tips of his fingers against the blooming bruise on your face. You whimper at his touch. Rhys winces at your pain, feeling your distress through the bond. You can still hear Cassian and Azriel arguing. “QUIET!” Rhys’s voice booms through the training room. The pair immediately fall silent. The severity of what has happened settled over them.

Rhys carefully scoops you into his arms. As he heads for the entrance to the house he yells at Cassian and Azriel, “Do not disturb me or her for the rest of the day. I will deal with both of you later.” Rhys’s tone left no room for argument. The Illyrians bowed their heads murmuring “Yes High Lord” in unison.

Trying to focus on anything but the pain you look at the hallway Rhys is walking. The floor is lined with an ornate carpet. The walls are covered in old paintings you’re sure his father collected, along with vintage sconces giving off a soft glow of fae light.

That’s when you realize he’s taking you to his personal wing. Rooms Rhys has rarely used in the last few years since the bond snapped.

You make a small noise to get his attention. Unable to move your mouth in fear of something in your jaw popping. You push yourself further into his chest. Focusing on the feel of Rhys under you.

Gently laying you on the large four poster bed Rhys hesitantly lets you go. “I will be right back.” He says, disappearing in a wisp of black swirls.

You knew he would be back soon. That Rhys wouldn’t leave you to suffer alone. To ease your anxiety you use the technique Cass taught you. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one you can taste.

There wasn’t much you could do for a few of the numbers, but what you could do caught your attention immediately. It’s been so long since you’ve visited Rhysand’s personal wing of the House of Wind. Longer since you’ve spent the night here.

Looking around the room you noticed the paintings – his favorites from his father’s collection – the curtains half drawn for the balcony doors, a blanket Rhys would always wrap you in hanging off the end of the bed. The canopy on the bed has changed from thick, velvet black fabric to a gauzy, airy white fabric you would see in the Summer Court. Lastly, you notice how brightly lit the room is.

You feel the softness of the comforter under your fingers. You had thought it would feel scratchy or dusty from not being used. But that wouldn’t be like Rhys to let anything in this massive house seem unused.

You can feel your training leathers clinging to your skin from sweat. Feel the heaviness of your boots pulling at your ankles.

Before you can move to unlace them Rhys reappears with Madja by his side. The old healer was fuming, her eyes going wide as she spotted the bruise on the side of your face. Rhys must have told her about training.

“I swear to the Cauldron,” Madja mutters. Striding over to you she plops her bag down on the bed, her gentle hands softly cup your jaw. Rhys stands behind her. Anxiously biting at his nails as he watches the glow from her hands.

Madja straightens, her lips pulled into a frown as she thinks. “It’s not broken or fractured, thank the Mother. But the bruising inside and out will cause you pain for a few days.” You nod at her assessment. Placing her hands on you again you hold back a new wave of tears as Madja healed what she could.

You didn’t pay attention to her when going over what tonics to take and when. Rhys was clinging to her every word for the both of you. You were too busy thinking about how Azriel pushed you so hard that you ended up hurt.

When Rhys came back from escorting Madja to the city he helped you out of your leathers and into a hot bath.

An hour later you were back in bed with Rhys holding you to his chest, an ice pack resting against your jaw to help with the swelling. Tears silently stream down your cheeks as Rhys smoothes down your hair to help calm you.

“Do you want to stay here or in your own room?” He asked, finally breaking the silence. Sniffling your answer, “Here.”

“Ok,” Rhys presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’ll stay with me, right?” You hold his shirt in a death grip. Praying Rhys won’t leave you alone. “Of course, darling.” You let out a shaky exhale in relief. You weren’t ready to face Cassian and Azriel. Staying in Rhys’s wing ensured that. They wouldn’t dare enter his personal wing for fear of being punished by their High Lord.

For a week you stayed curled up in Rhys’s old bed. He opted for working in his smaller study next to the bedroom while you recovered. Though the bruising went down and the pain went away you couldn’t bring yourself to do any of your daily activities. Your failed mission and fight with Azriel depressing you too much, along with the absence of two of your mates. That was your choice though.

You weren’t ready to face them. Still angry at both of them. Angry at Cassian for not stepping in. Angry at Azriel for thinking he could push until he gets his way.

Once you were able to actually chew your food, you thought maybe it was time to leave bed. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a few more days?” Rhys asked. He wrapped you tightly in his arms, resting his cheek on the top of your head.

“Yes, Rhys. I’ll go back to High Lady duties, but I’m not training for now. I don’t particularly want to be around Cass and Az.” You huff. Just thinking about them makes you angry. Rhys leans away from you, holding you by your shoulders. “I know darling. They do feel guilty and are beside themselves.” Rhys frowns.

You knew they were. You could feel them through the bond, Azriel the least. You knew he must have built a wall of steel around his heart. Cauldron, he must be a ghost of himself right now.

After a few days of being back in the usual parts of the house you seek out Cassian. Finding him in the dining room you sit across from him. Cass pauses eating, shocked to see you. You send him a reassuring smile along with a pulse of love down the bond.

“It’s good to see you sweetheart.” He breaks out into a wide grin, reaching across the table to hold your hands. “Hi Cass,” is all you can manage. Overwhelmed by the happiness you’re feeling through the bond to see him again. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Better,” you answer honestly. “The pain is gone but the bruising is still there a little.” You turn your head to give Cassian a better view of the yellowing skin. His fists clench and his face contorts in anger.

“I should’ve stopped him myself. Az was in his own head and I knew it,” Cassian says more to himself tha you. It seems like this is the first time he is truly admitting his thoughts outloud. “Cass,” you say gently, “It isn’t your fault. This is between me and Azriel.”

“I’m sorry.” He chokes out, silver lining his eyes. You quickly round the table, placing yourself in his lap. You wipe away a stray tear, kissing his nose. “Cass, I’ve forgiven you.” Cassian pulls you into his chest, hugging you and sending all his love down the bond. It was almost too much. You felt like your chest was going to explode.

As the days pass and your temper cools, you find yourself craving to have all three of your mates by your side again. Rhys and Cass were keeping you company. You’re back to your old routine, but still sitting out of morning training. You felt like a piece of you was missing.

You had only seen Azriel in passing once. And the male couldn’t even look at you. Your heart clenched at the lack of recognition. You tried to reach out to his end of the bond but you were quickly met with an impenetrable wall of shadows.

Azriel had taken to spending his days in his office, throwing himself fully into his work, and sleeping in his own room.

Packing for your trip to the Winter Court you called Rhys and Cassian into your bedroom. You give them a sweet smile as you fold your clothes, putting them in your bag. “I have a request for while I’m gone.”

“What’s that, darling?” Rhys’s smooth voice sends a shiver down your spine. He presses his chest to your back, hooking a finger under your chin to tilt your head back to look at him. You give him a knowing smirk and swat his hand away. “I’m trying to be serious Rhys.” The High Lord holds his hands up in surrender. “What do you need from us?” Cassian asks earnestly.

You stand straighter, eyes hardening. “I want you two to bring Azriel out of this dark spot. He’s hurting and I don’t think he’ll talk to me until he knows you two have forgiven him.”

They suck in a breath, giving each other a look that tells you neither are sure Az will talk. A long moment of silence passes before they look back at you.

“We will.” Rhys hesitantly agrees. “Do you forgive him though?” Cassian asks with a sad expression. You nod slowly. “I do. And I need you two to forgive him.” They agree to your request, promising to make things better.

Azriel watched from his balcony as you and Mor winnow away. It had pained him to stay away from you. He couldn’t bring himself to face you.

His stomach has been in constant knots. Azriel hasn’t eaten a proper meal in a week thanks to the incident with you. If he didn’t talk to you soon the guilt was going to kill him.

Azriel hadn’t slept properly either. The purple bags under his eyes were painful proof. Every time Azriel closes his eyes he sees the shock set in from the punch. He feels your jaw bone cracking under his fist. He sees you laying on your back, stunned from what your mate had done.

Azriel is your mate. One of three males that is supposed to protect you. Not cause you harm.

A knock at the door pulls him from his morbid thoughts. Opening the door Rhys stands there giving him a tentative smile. Azriel bows his head slightly before looking back at him.

Rhys clears his throat. “I know the last week has been tough, so I thought we could have a night, just the three of us.”

Azriel tenses at the thought of being around Cassian. His murderous eyes flash in his mind along with calloused hands grabbing him, wanting to throttle him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rhys.”

Rhys holds in a sigh, annoyed that Azriel doesn’t see the peace offering he’s trying to make. “Az, look at me,” he hooks a finger under the taller Illyrians chin, “You can’t avoid us, or y/n for that matter, forever. Please, come have dinner with us. We miss you.”

Azriel gives in, nodding in defeat. Rhys grabs the Shadowsinger’s hand, pulling him to the dinning room. Az tenses when he sees Cassian in his usual seat. Taking his place across from the General, Azriel keeps his gaze glued to him. His shadows ready to protect Azriel at any sign of a threat.

Cassian gives him a reassuring smile, “It’s good to see you, Az.” All Azriel can do is nod. A lump growing in his throat. He reigns in his emotion, keeping them behind the wall he’s built up.

Rhys flicks his wrist, making platters of food appear. “Eat up. I made sure the cooks made everyones favorite.”

The trio falls into an awkward silence. Only the clatter of cutlery against porcelain filling the cavernous room. Cassian breaks the silence, trying to naturally clear his throat. “So…” he drawls, “How was everyone’s day?”

He and Rhys fall into easy conversation with Azriel following along to avoid being consumed by his emotions. When Azriel eventually gets roped into the conversation he’s his typical quiet self.

Moving to the sitting room after the meal Azriel opens up more. Becoming his usual self around Rhys and Cass. Once the whiskey comes out the trio are back to their usual banter. Like there hasn’t been a huge rift keeping them isolated from one another.

Rhys sets his crystal glass down on the side tabel. Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, he levels Azriel with an interogative look. “Not to ruin the evening, but we do need to talk.” Azriel freezes, that lump returning to his throat making it harder to breathe.

He knew this was coming. They needed to discuss it at some point. Az nods, urging Rhys to continue. “We know what happened, but we want to know what was going on with you.” Rhys says gently, not wanting to drill Azriel.

Azriel swallows hard, screwing his eyes shut to keep tears at bay. All calming techniques from years of training leaving his mind, losing all control on his emotions. Something Azriel isn’t known for. Grappling for words he finally finds his voice.

“What happened on the Continent stuck with me. It wasn’t a typical slip up, you didn’t see her. I thought we were going to lose her. And I wouldn’t have been able to come home and face the two of you if that happened. I thought when we got home things would be better and everything would fine.”

Tears escaped his tightly closed eyes.

A heavy, comforting hand rests on the middle of Azriel’s back. Opening his eyes he finds Cassian giving him a pained, sympathetic look. Something in Cassian’s soft hazel eyes broke Azriel. His tears started falling faster as he attempted to blink them away. Rhys rested a hand on his knee, telling him to let it out.

“Stepping back into training with her I knew I had to teach her how to avoid an accident like that again. I needed to know she could keep up if push came to shove. So I pushed and Gods do I regret it. I got so mad that she wasn’t taking it seriously and Cass you should’ve stopped me.” Azriel anguished. “I got mad and I punched, hard. I hear it all the time. I see her laying there when I close my eyes. I can’t…just,” Azriel breaks down, dropping his face into his scarred hands. Heartbreaking sobs rip from his lips as he leans into Cassians side.

The males cry with him. Feeling Azriel’s guilt and turmoil through the bond.

When Az calms down he looks to the males for guidance. Rhys moves to the couch from his usual armchair, pressing a long kiss to Azriel’s forehead. “Talk to her. Y/n desperately wants to see you too. Being away from you has pained her as much as it has you.” Rhys whispers.

Two days later, with a chill you can’t seem to shake, you return home from the Winter Court. You bid Mor goodnight in foyer and head to your bedroom. Pushing the door open you find Azriel sitting on the edge of your bed, his head down as he nervously pulls at his finger nails.

“Azzie,” you say, hopeful that he truly is here and not an image your very tired mind made up. Leaving your bag on the bench at the end of your bed, you rush over to your mate, holding his face in your still cold hands. “I’ve missed you,” you whisper.

Az leans into your touch, covering your hands with his own. You’ve missed his touch. Those rough, loving hands holding you tight to his chest. “I’m sorry,” his voice breaks, silver lining his eyes. The wall keeping his emotions from you fianlly breaks. Letting you feel everything he’s kept to himself.

“I’m so sorry. I should have stopped when you and Cass told me to. I shouldn’t have let my anger and fear get the best of me. I am so sorry, my love. So sorry.”Azriel’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you to stand between his thighs. You let him hold you, wrapping your arms around his neck.

The two of you cried and clung to each other for what felt like an eternity.

Azriel pulls away, holding you by your waist. You wipe away his lingering tears. “I forgive you, Azriel. Promise me that if something like this happens again you won’t let it build. We’ll talk first before we let our feelings get the better of us. Because I don’t know what will happen is there’s another incident like this.”

“I will, I swear it. And i’m going to make this up to you for the rest of our lives.” Azriel’s tone is a strict promise to you. “As long as you don’t push me in training anymore we’re ok.” You joke with him. Azriel’s face stays serious, not a smirk in sight. “Never again.”

He stands from the bed pulling you into sweet embrace, tucking your head under his chin. “If you’re up for it I want to take you to dinner tomorrow night. Just me and you,” he asks, hopeful. You squeeze Azriel tighter, “I’d love that Azzie.”

Unwrapping yourself from Azriel you look up at him with big, tear filled eyes. Batting your lashes at him. Azriel looked at you with hazel eyes full of nothing but love. He cups your jaw, running his fingers over the spot where the bruise from his punch once was. “How are you feeling? I dove right into my apology I didn’t even ask.”

“I’m good. The pain is gone, so is the bruise on the inside.” Azriel’s eyes widened. He didn’t get a full update from Rhys when Madja had healed you. “But it’s ok,” you assure him quickly. Azriel pulls you against his chest again, kissing the top of your head. You giggle lightly at his action.

You pull away again, going to your closet to change for bed. It’s been a long day and you could leave unpacking until tomorrow. Right now you wanted to sleep with Azriel by your side. It had been two long weeks without him.

Coming back to your room you find Az sitting back on your bed awkwardly. You climb onto the mattress, crawling up behind him. You rest your chin on his shoulder, “Will you stay in here tonight? I don’t want to be without you.”

Without a word Azriel shoots up, stripping his leathers from his body. He pulls the covers back waiting for you to settle in next to him.

You quickly snuggle into his side, resting your head on his bare chest. Azriel pulls the covers up around your shoulders tight to keep you warm. You gently pull his face down to meet your lips in a sweet kiss. “Goodnight Azzy. I love you, so much baby.”

Azriel cradles your head, letting out a small hum. “I love you too, sweetheart. More than you know.”

545 notes · View notes

iwaasfairy · 9 months ago

Text

┌─ “ ! „ HEARTBEAT

tw. pseudocest, noncon, possessiveness, grooming?, age gap, blood, murder, a lot of trauma bonding

wordcount. 6k

a/n. thank yoUUUU rhi for betaing you are my favorite as alwaysssss I love you soooo much ♡♡

okkotsu yuuta x fem!reader

Blood is splattered on the ground of the dirty alley, and there’s another heavy thump when his kick once again lands on the kid’s skull and he moans in pain. He calls him a kid in his head because he’s got that shit-faced little attitude, and now an ugly gap where his front teeth used to sit, but he should be old enough to know better. As a couple passes by the narrow street, he shields things from view a little, before using the long edge of his sheathed sword to push the dumb, bloody face to the side. Because his eyes are starting to look like two overripe tomatoes from the impact, he couches down before the sandy brunet.

“You know what this is about?” Yuuta’s voice is hoarse. He hadn’t really noticed it before, but it’s been a busy week cleaning up your messes. Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t mind. If anything, it makes him feel sort of useful. You’re good and kind and don’t get into trouble on purpose — which is why he’s here late at night making sure things get handled. Niisan’s got it, after all. He doesn’t bother to clear his voice. “Hey.”

“Take my cash,” the young man below him now whistles through the missing teeth, teary eyes darting around as he pats his hand all over himself to look for a wallet.

Yuuta scoffs. “I don’t want your money. If I did, you think I’d waste my time beating your face in like you had it coming?” The anxious, almost nervous lilt to his own voice doesn’t escape him. If you could see him now, you’d probably say that he was enjoying this too much - and while he is, the idea of this getting back to you doesn’t escape his mind. It won’t though, logically speaking. The kid probably wouldn’t be able to see straight for a couple hours, and you will never find out. “I want to know why you’re hanging around Rika’s kid sister.”

“Kid? W- I don’t know any Rika!” He yelps when he tries to lift his head and gets the handle of the weapon hit hard onto the bridge of his nose again, adding more blood to the mess that’s running all over the bottom of his face. Yuuta really can’t see it, lifting his top lip in slight disgust. Handsome, where? Just as much as this boy isn’t really a kid anymore, neither are you. But you’re younger, and deserving of protection — is it really so bad he wants to imagine you as his baby sister for a bit longer before you start trying to escape from under his wings?

Not that you’re going to go anywhere.

“I don’t know a Rika,” the blond whines again now, hiding his face into his hands to drool and hiccup against the cold floor.

“Orimoto Rika, has a kid sister.” Yuuta bites back, patience running really thin.

“O-I- I kn- oh, we’re in the same uni prep class!” He gets up to close his eyes and focus all his attention on not just kicking against his skull until the answers fall out. He knows that, how else would he even know to ask? The head damage takes it a few seconds to make the guy continue, sniffling. “We’re friends- or- my friend knew her. I liked her so we hung out a few times.” Yuuta’s hand is cold around the worn handle.

He takes a slow breath, watches the cloud of air as he lets it out. The promise ring glints in the light of the street, and it’s all familiarity and instinct that makes him brush his thumb over it. “Were you serious with her? Or did you tell her whatever so you could fuck her? Hm? Did you fuck my little sister?” The brunet snivels and whines under him when his foot lands back right before his face, demanding attention.

“I won’t talk to her anymore, I swear! I swear I w-won’t even - it’ll be like I never existed. Please.” The pitiful whining he’s doing, groveling like a dog below him - sort of reminds him of a younger him. Someone who didn’t have a purpose yet, and was scared of everything for it. The heavy weight of the ring clings to his hand when he lifts it to unsheath the katana, seeming to wrap a comforting palm around his own. If he could, he'd tangle fingers with her.

“P-please, let me go home! I didn’t do- I wouldn’t touch your s-sister, I didn’t know.”

“I hate guys who aren’t serious with her.” He clicks his tongue, and has to spit out the nasty taste that this entire situation leaves on his tongue. The weight of the sword is barely an inconvenience when both hands wrap around the handle properly. He’s doing this for Rika and him. Always. “She deserves so much better.” A mean flash of possession crosses his thoughts - how no one except him will ever be good enough. But he pushes it back, because that has nothing to do with why he’s doing this. Nothing.

“Yuuta~” Her voice haunts when he closes his eyes.

He’s in the sandpit of the Children’s hospital, rocking back and forth softly on the edge of it as he waits. The sun makes the sand nice and toasty, it warms his feet when he plants them down. “Yuuta!” It’s instinctive, when he looks up at the familiar voice. Rika’s hair travels in a perfect arc behind her when she runs to make it catch the light like a halo. Pretty blue dress making the shine of her hair even brighter, cheeks rosy, and her eyes glittering diamonds when they find his and she crashes down next to him. Her scraped knee is proof that it’s too hard, but he can’t help but smile when her cheek touches his arm on the landing.

Something hits the floor with a loud thump.

Yuuta turns over his shoulder to watch. There’s a smaller child that’s chin down on the earth behind them two, thick crocodile tears threatening to spill when Rika gasps. “Rika neechan~ Wait.” You pout, straightening up quicker than you should to reach your hands out to her. The girl hurries over to dust your cheeks off and drag you along behind her. It’s such a nice day out, Yuuta’s sweater is just thick enough to make his entire body warm. He stares at your face a little too long, before glancing between you two.

You’re still rounder than she is, but it’s undeniably eerie. “Your sister?” He asks softly, and Rika grins wide. She gently maneuvers you by the hand to sit next to her, then pulls you into a hug.

Her lips are pretty pink when she licks them. “This is Yuuta. Say ‘hi Yuuta’.” You parrot your sister obediently, as she waves your hand around at him. “Me and Yuuta are going to get married. So you should be very nice to him, okay?” Her sweet cheeks are the exact same as yours, long lashes and big, knowing eyes that always have him staring. You just look absentmindedly at the grass when Rika holds you into her side, but nod.

He smiles softly when your big eyes find his again. And Rika giggles. “And she’s gonna be your sister one day, so you gotta protect her well. We’re gonna be one happy family, promise?” She extends her arm to hold out a pinky finger at him. “That’s what I want.”

His fingers are pressing indents into your arm. It’s unusual. Yuuta’s always gentle, he’s soft and cares, but today his hand is screwed almost protectively tight around your upper arm, and you can’t say that you hate the feeling. Maybe childishly, you want him to squeeze even harder - so you’ll have no reason to get out.

You don’t come here a lot. Not since the accident tore open the painful scarred memory of it, but even before then, it wasn’t exactly your favorite place. It’s at Yuuta’s gentle prompting that you even managed to dress, and now walk however slowly between the low stone walls. The rain taps impatiently on the umbrella above, as the older boy casts you a careful glance. Then slowly bends to sit on his ankles, and grabs your hand ever so softly, meeting your eyes. His hands, though big enough to dwarf yours now, are almost velvety when they clasp around yours. It feels like he’s exponentially grown, while you’ve stayed pretty much the same.

Partly the illness. Mostly the age.

“Think you can go on?” he softly asks, kind eyes sympathetically regarding you. Like he’s making a judgment call about whether to turn back after all - debating the long walk back to the hospital. “I’ll be right here with you.”

“You’ve already gone before, haven’t you?” Your voice sounds a bit accusatory, a bit pouty too. Can’t be helped. Yuuta could be a living saint and you’d still find it hard. He clearly doesn’t take it to heart, because he smiles. His one hand then moves up to ruffle your hair.

“It’s still hard for me too, though,” his lips quirk up in an almost smile, but you can tell he doesn’t mean it. It’s sort of comforting to know that even someone like him feels it. Of course he would. Your neesan was family, but Yuuta probably knew her better than you ever could. He was beside her when she got out the two times, and was waiting when she had to get re-admitted. He was there when she got hit— there’s a comforting brush of your cheek when he stands back up and the umbrella gets so much higher. Yuuta blinks. “Come. I think you can do it.”

Your chubby cheeks flood with warmth, as you take his fingers into your hands with a nod. “Okay.”

It’s like this that you wind up at the headstone, stepping through dredged earth that’s been walked on too much. It seems to cling to the bottoms of your shoes with intent - you squeeze Yuuta nii’s hand tighter at the sight of the family grave. It now holds three of your kin in a warm embrace under the several bouquets of wilting flowers, and however morbidly, you think that maybe you’ll be joining soon. You’re young, but it’s not lost on you when the nurses send each other pitying looks.

“Is this where neesan’s buried?” Your voice sounds pinched and small, and sort of pathetic. You imagine Yuuta nii cried when he came to the funeral, but he wouldn’t have whined. You’re whining. You don’t want Yuuta to get fed up with you. Not when he’s the last semblance of ‘family’ you have left. After a while of staring blankly at the stone, he nods, and turns over his shoulder to smile at you again, pulling you a little closer to him. Your arms loop around his waist, staring down at the pretty whites that shake under the rain. “Is this where I’ll be buried when I die?”

He freezes. You feel bad about the double take he does when his spine goes more straight, rigid limbs dropping by his side as a deep, uncomfortable breath makes its way out. Your hands wring together instead.

However long it takes for him to unlock his limbs is however long you breathe through your tears as they well up stubbornly along your lash line, before your head is pulled to his ribs into an embrace. He swallows back emotion himself. “That’s not- I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise. I promise.”

“I’m sick-”

“No.” His eyes glint with something silvery when he takes your face between both hands and lets your childishness wash over him, clenching his jaw. “What happened to Rika was an accident- I- I couldn’t do anything then. But nothing’s going to happen to you as long as I’m here. I need- you to believe me.”

You don’t flinch when he uses your cheek to turn your face his way, but the urge still sits. His eyes study your face too intently, like he’s looking for something he can’t quite find. “I promised that I’d be a niichan that protects you.”

Rain splatters into a million glistening flecks as it meets the headstone.

“Okay,” you say.

It isn’t lost on you that his jaw is set too tight as he drags you back by the hand towards his bike, fist clenched around the umbrella. He breathes a tiny, ‘Later, Rika’ before turning on his heel. You don’t manage the same. Your voice gets stuck in your throat, even when he helps you up onto the bike rack in the back, pulling your face into his chest too tight- squeezes you to mold against him. He smells nice for a teen boy. The kiss he leaves on your crown is gentle, and leaves a soft warmth on your skin — You doubt it is really meant for you.

The door pushes open as you’re putting clips into your bangs, tongue trapped between your teeth. You cast Yuuta a glance through the mirror when he lingers at the door, and try to smile. “I’m almost ready.” You’re no longer too keen on fighting, the longer the silent treatment drags on. After a while of watching you with his arms crossed over his chest — he walks over to your bed to plop himself down and lets himself fall backward.

“I’m sorry,” the noiret sighs at nothing in particular, as you put on a necklace and after debating for a second, some perfume. The noise makes Yuuta look, studying you when you turn. It’s easy to forget sometimes that Yuuta didn’t have to stay with you, and he sure as hell didn’t have to give up a lot of his youth to take care of you like he does. Like your other family refuses to do when all the cards are on the table. He catches your stare. “You know I love you. I… worry when you’re not right here where I can see you. We stick together.”

“I know.” Your smile only barely makes your lips move, but you do mean it. You just wish realizations like this didn’t always have to come at the cost of fighting. “For what it’s worth, I’ll probably always forgive you.” You try to laugh, and brush your hair out of your eyes a final time before grabbing your bag. “I’m only going to be out for a few hours, max.”

Yuuta frowns when he sits up. His dark hair is brushed out of his face, damp and soft from the shower. “You’re still going?”

You blank. “Yeah, Himari and Shota are waiting for me. We’re going to see a movie.” He only has to let his eyes travel over your body and clothing once, for you to read what he’s thinking. You yank the edge of your skirt a bit lower, and pull your shoulders up. “What, what?! I can’t go out looking like this? It’s basically the same length as my uniform, what’s wrong with that?!”

“I didn’t say anything,” he breathes back, empty eyes regarding you with a static sort of- indifference, you guess.

“You don’t have to, niichan! God!” You turn to walk out the room, but Yuuta grabs your wrist when you pass by the bed. Sat down like he is, eyes tracing you like a lion- Yuuta no longer looks like the boy that used to draw stars on the ceiling of your hospital room for your amusement. Your cheeks heat when he basically glares straight at you for your attitude, and mulls the answer around in his mouth. Your anger subsides as you take a breath. This is the guy who makes you fresh apple juice in the morning, and calls you up between shifts. Because he cares. He just cares.

“Can I please go, Yuuta nii?”

After a few seconds, he clicks his tongue, staring at the edge of your skirt before tugging at it too, barely hiding a frown you can see dig between his brows. “You know I don’t like that Shota kid?”

Your lips jut out. “Yeah…” It’s getting awfully close to time to leave. You take a step back just to get his hands away from you. It’s distracting, and this is your brother you’re dealing with. “But he’s really nice. He started high school already but he used to be in my class the last three years, so… so you don’t have to worry. He knows I can’t do everything because I’m sick and he says—”

“Yeah, I’m sure he says everything you want to hear… You’re smarter than this. You don’t actually believe that.”

“He’s my friend.” A friend that makes your heart beat a bit faster when he smiles at you, but what’s it to him? “He doesn’t lie.”

Yuuta grimaces when you stare him down. “Don’t tell me about teenage boys, I used to be one.” He bristles before sitting up straighter, and though he’s technically below you, you still feel his energy tower as those big, dark eyes stay on your face. “Are you really ‘going to see a movie’? Or are you just going to sit in a boy’s room all night while I’m worried sick-”

You’re about ready to walk out, but his fingers are still looped around your wrist. “We are going to the movies! Himari and I! Just because a boy is there- ugh! Niichan, don’t make it weird!” The heat burns higher on your cheeks when you ball your fists, ignoring the pressure behind your eyes. This is so embarrassing. “I want to go.”

It’s quiet for much too long, making goosebumps appear all over your exposed skin. Then he breathes. “Come here.” His voice has more of an edge than it used to. You used to like the way your name fell from his lips. You’re not so sure you do anymore. Instead of storming out and forgetting all about him, you stare back at the sharpness in his eyes. When he pats his lap with familiarity, you jerk a brow. But you sit. His breath brushes along your neck too softly where he’s seated. It tickles on the way down.

It almost feels like… like he could wrap his hands around your neck and squeeze until you stopped struggling.

Yuuta nii wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

Fingers come to your necklace, undoing it, and it drops into your lap on the pretty, blue skirt. It’s suddenly much too cold in the room, and you resist the urge to wrap your arms around yourself. It’s fine. You’re fine. Yuuta is family.

Still the untouched skin of your neck feels too exposed.

If he notices your rigid posture, he doesn’t bother fixing it. Just reaches, then pushes your head forward. The childishly familiar pink, bedazzled heart he holds up instead glints, swaying from where you left it on your side table for the night. “You get back at 9,” his lower voice sounds, “or else I’m driving out to wherever you are and dragging you back to my car.” When you don’t say anything in response, he brushes away your hair from your shoulders.

“Yuuta nii,” you start, clamming up when he drapes the dainty thing around your throat and does the closure for you. “I wasn’t going to wear that one tonight.” You don’t always want to wear whatever Rika left behind until infinity.

“I think you will,” he breathes back, and kisses your exposed shoulder. It’s less sweet, more something to punctuate his statement. If he wasn’t so familiar and soft, you’d immediately fight against the way his strong arms wind around your waist to anchor you in his lap. “Just wear it.” His hands stay against your skin, long after he’s finished. Too long, and after seconds of sitting in the tense silence, you jerk up off his lap to grab your discarded bag from the floor. The other necklace drops to the carpet somewhere, but you don’t care.

“Fine,” you bring out tightly, before giving him a last look. Your bottom lip trembles a slight bit, so you suck it into your mouth to make it stop. And tears sting at the corners despite yourself. “Later, then.”

“Tell Himari that niichan says hello. It’s been so long since she’s been here.” He gets up from your bed too, and you resist the urge to rush out the room before him when he steps around you. You can’t fight the feeling that somehow… you were just caught in your lie. Your phone beeps in your bag, as Yuuta nii disappears around the corner. Shota, probably.

Blood. The door creaks, swings against the wind.

Dead.

You hope he’s dead. Blood pools at the center of the showers, sinks down the drain too slowly. It sticks to the pretty porcelain tiles of the old school locker room before the water gurgles it down.

They’re dead.

You don’t have to question it before it’s confirmed. Before the heavy, silver cleaver is lodged into the side of the already ruined skull. All of them. All of the boys of the soccer team seem to be present, though you don’t want to try and count. Counting makes it real. This shouldn’t be. The heavy thump makes way for a gross squelch when he yanks the metal out, and keeps the body down with his foot.

The spatters on his face are still wet. You can’t help the way your voice comes out when you breathe in deep and try to keep the tears from spilling over. The cleaver’s red and sticky and so is his hand, up to his forearm, his forehead from wiping his hair away. All of it, ruined.

“Y-yuuta nii?”

The metal door of the locker slams closed with the wind and hits you in the back, sending you skittering forward a few steps before you force the air out of your lungs with a stuttered pant.

With a soft smile, he turns over his shoulder. “Shhh.” The blood’s crusted under his nails when he presses a finger to his lips, then waves you closer. “Help niichan out?” His eyes glint over, before his smile goes a little wider, and he whips the blood off the weapon onto the ground. “S’ your fault I had to do this after all. We can clean up together. Hm?”

Your breathing is so shallow that you can feel your heartbeat in between your ears. You aren’t sure why you nod. The guilt tastes bitter on the way down.

Rika was dead on impact. She didn’t have a chance, even after she fought so vehemently against what took your mom. You know that. Even if she didn’t get struck by misfortune then, she might’ve not lived past her teens.

Yuuta doesn’t seem to know. He also doesn't seem to consider the same for you either— letting you toy with the edge of his shirt where you’re curled into him in your too-small bed. The hospital wants you back for another check-up.

It’s true that you’ve already outlived your sister, but that doesn’t mean it’ll last forever. Yuuta nii doesn’t want to hear it. As he brushes your hair with his fingers, you scratch the arm where the IV’s always get attached with an absent minded pout. Until Yuuta notices, pouting down at you. “Are you still feeling dizzy? I can make you some green tea if you’ll let go of me for a few minutes. Lots of honey like you like.” You quickly shake your head.

To him this is final, the worst you’ll ever get, and in reality that’s probably not the case. You don’t tell him though. His deep eyes stay on you a little too long. “What’s wrong?”

Sometimes you wake up and can’t open your eyes past a blurry sliver, your head tight enough to make your skull feel like it’s caving in. Times where you have to clasp your stomach painfully tight to hold yourself together — stumbling in tears into Yuuta’s room. Like you’ll disintegrate in his arms unless you lock him around yourself. This isn’t as bad, but you still feel bad.

Feverish and cold all at once, achy where your stomach goes up and down. You can’t mention the possibility of having to go back into urgent care without aniiki spiraling, so you keep your mouth shut. “I don’t like green tea,” you guiltily admit instead, and stare up at him when he holds a few knuckles to your head, studying you.

His expression scrutinizes you a little tighter, before he pets over your crown. He presses a soft kiss onto your lips. It’s Rika that loved it, you want to say, but for some reason you can’t make the words come out. He sighs, slightly put out, but then nods. “If you’re feeling better later, maybe you can help Yuuta nii with the curry. Okay?”

“Mhm,” you smile up at him, and you can see how the muscles in his jaw unclench.

His soft hands cup your face intently, staring down at you too intently. It starts sweet, until the feeling of his breath dust over your face and you watch as he flicks his eyes all over you. “You look so much like her. I can tell now that you’re getting older though,” his thumb smoothes over your soft cheek. “We should see if there’s something in Rika’s stuff you can still wear.”

“Won’t be able to fit it anymore, niichan.” Your voice comes out apologetic, though you don’t know why.

“Hm. You might be right.” His look goes more distant before he pulls you closer. Legs tangled, arms loosely looped around you. “You’re still smaller than me though. Luckily.” He takes a deep breath, before nuzzling his nose into your crown to breathe long and deep. His warm hands trail over yours before squeezing. “I love you, you know that? Always will.”

You stare at the wall of mementos past Yuuta’s shoulder. Suffocatingly cram packed. Her pictures. Her music poster. Her pre-teen bottle of perfume you wear only on special occasions. Your hands stop toying with the edge of his shirt to brush instead along his forearm until you meet something that isn’t skin. Yuuta’s quiet, but his breathing is slightly pinched— you don’t mean to.

You glance between you two to the plastic your finger hooks onto. The bracelet she made in the hospital care ward for Yuuta that he still wears despite the fact that the color has long peeled off of the cheap beads. “You loved neesan, right?” Your lashes almost brush when you look back at him, watch him trap his tongue between his teeth for a moment as pink sits on his cheeks. His hand wraps around yours to tangle fingers.

“I… did.”

He swallows. “She made the hospital seem a little less lonely.” The mementos seem to stare at you from across the room as he speaks, and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach refuses to fade. If anything, it gets more painful. Tighter. “We’re going to be together forever though. And I,” he squeezes your hand, voice fading to barely a whisper, “I love you. Love you so much.”

There's a cold slid over your fingers when he moves. You allow him to slip off the band, gently, and almost as if he wants to give it to you without you noticing, his fingers slide the cursed thing onto your hand instead. His smile is gentle, makes those dark eyes look a little less pressing. “When you’re cleared from going back to the hospital, we can find me a matching one. We still have to get married, right?”

The room feels cold.

“... Okay.”

“Let’s kiss?”

It’s too late to be early when the shared bed gets crowded over on your side. “St- I’m going to sleep, Yuuta nii. Stop.” You don’t open your eyes to the touch, definitely not to the gentle brush of his fingers over your lips when he gets too close. Always too close- it’s suffocating. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Don’t be like that.” He sounds happy. He always sounds like that when it has to do with you, and it doesn’t take long for your eyes to flutter open when the thumb instead pushes into your mouth. “If we get married, this will be normal. Don’t pull back.” He pushes onto your tongue to make you hold it in your mouth all heavy and tasting of him, then leans in to push his forehead to yours. Deep, possessive eyes pinning you in place.

“You don’t want to?” It almost sounds mocking. You know you brought this on yourself. You asked to go home early, you asked to invite friends. Maybe this is payback the way big brothers give it. There’s tears that spring up anyway when his other hand slips under your shirt and he squeezes your soft belly. As the spit he wipes on your lips gets kissed away by an impatient sigh. “I’ve wanted to for such a long time. You wouldn’t ask me to wait more.”

“Yuuta nii. We’re siblings, aren’t we?” The ring glitters. Your hand is clenched into the front of his shirt as warm hands grab down your body— hands you love. Hands you trusted.

“Of course we are. That’s why I’m doing this, silly girl.” Hands that push your underwear down your round hips despite you fighting to keep them up. He giggles when you burn with embarrassment, before pressing kisses to your temple. “I love you. I love you, I love you. Who better to kiss you than big brother?” You shake your head, try to push- he doesn’t budge. Just keeps your body in place under his with his weight.

“G-get off of me, Yuuta! Stop being so weird!” You cry, pushing until he grabs your wrist and forces it down beside your head. He’s still smiling though, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like you’re still a child acting out. It’s that which makes you squirm more, and the glare digs into your forehead when he gets on top of you. “Stop~ I don’t want to kiss.”

Instead he laces his fingers with your ring hand, as the other patiently flutters down to rub over your pussy. You don’t want to. You don’t. Yuuta just smiles when he tilts his head to regard you, and squeezes your fingers a little tighter. “Rika-chan asked me to take care of you. Don’t get so mad.”

It’s getting cooler and cooler and cooler the longer he stands. Pressed in the corner of the sterile, greenish blue atmosphere with white sheets draped over your body. He takes a long, deep breath until the nurse finishes up with the checks, taking freshly drawn blood away in a vial. “You’re the guardian?”

The red stands out against your complexion as your restless sleep drifts deeper— he shifts in his seat to lace his hands together. “Her big brother, yes.”

She doesn’t bother to pretend to care when tapping her clipboard, gives a distracted smile. “The doctor will be here within the next hour, okay? Please wait here until then.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Yuuta’s quick not to let the smile quirk up onto his mouth when she’s already walking out before he finishes. As soon as the door falls into lock he gets up from the uncomfortable chair to kneel by your bedside and grasp your hand.

Soft. Small.

He hates to admit that he could spend hours here by your side; but the truth is the truth. He could, and he has. And he will, until it is no longer necessary.

Yuuta kisses your hand with a gentle smile, feeling your heartbeat thump under his lips. You mumble, he swears he can hear his name. “I’m here. Niichan’s here.” He smiles a little more when the soft fingers wrap back around his hand and he watches your expression relax even in your sleep. He can’t help it, the soft thumping against his cheek makes his entire body warm.

You’re so alive, and so close- every cell in his body yearns to be beside you. He kisses the area between your thumb and pointer in an attempt to soothe the feeling of biting down entirely. Instead he clasps your hand with two of his before standing up. “You would have loved Rika.” His mouth tingles. “She would’ve hated you- but you would have loved her. I think she would have been a bit jealous though.”

He dips to press a soft kiss onto your lips, humming softly when your warm breath dusts over his cheeks. “You’re so cute.” A few years ago, you would’ve had visitors waiting for you. “I know you were looking forward to graduation, but I’m still here for you.” He places his hands on both sides of your face to hover over you instead of pulling back, can’t keep himself from it.

“You don’t want to leave your niichan, right?” It’s not your fault that everyone else wants you to move on. He’ll take you just as you are. He has to force himself to pull back before he kisses you again, so you don’t wake just yet. You will. And you’ll cry into his chest about missing your precious graduation, and about being stuck here again, just when you were getting better. He never much wanted you in uni anyway.

From his space sat on the edge of your bed, he can easily see how the blanket squirms. How the motion curls and wiggles until he easily pulls the sheet down your chest, then your stomach.

Two beady eyes stare up at him as he brings his face a little closer. The fly head is still clinging to your stomach, hasn’t moved from where he left it. By now it’s become an accessory every few months. It’s not strong enough to kill you— just barely enough to keep you believing you’re still sick, and that’s all he really needs. You need his care, need him. He resists the urge to pick the thing up at least until he can take you back home.

Instead he nudges it up a little higher, so he can place his palm onto your belly to stroke gentle circles in its place, feeling the heat through the gown. He can feel your heart bounce all the way down your body, it’s so cute. When the little fodder curse crawls onto your chest, lids shooting open as you gasp. “Yuuta nii-” Your eyes are lined red, and as soon as they find him you start bawling.

More than happy to let him hike you up from the bed and into his arms, where you bury your face into his neck. Your hiccups are so cute. It’s easy to kiss them quiet when you don’t have enough breath to ask him to stop. He’s sure this time he could slip his tongue into your mouth and you wouldn’t say a thing.

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #okkotsu yuuta #yuuta x reader #jjk yuuta #yuuta smut #tw.pseudocest #tw.grooming #tw.noncon #tw.yandere #tw.dark content #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu yuuta

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pucksandpower · 10 months ago

Text

Fashionably Challenged

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: you and Max may not exactly be the paddock’s most stylish couple, but you wouldn’t want it any other way

You wake up to the sound of Max rummaging through the closet of your shared hotel suite. Rolling over, you see him laying out two matching outfits — the Red Bull Racing team polos, skinny jeans, and sneakers you’ve grown accustomed to over the years.

One set for him, one set for you.

“Morning, liefje,” he says, catching your gaze. “I have our outfits for the day ready to go.”

You smile sleepily. “Thanks, babe. You know me too well.”

Max grins as he walks over and climbs back into bed, throwing an arm around you. “Of course I do. Can’t have my girlfriend showing up to races looking anything less than perfect.”

You laugh and playfully shove him. “Oh shut up. You know I’d show up in a potato sack if I could.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he says with mock seriousness. “I would never let you embarrass me like that.”

“Embarrass you?” You scoff. “Please, like you even notice what I’m wearing half the time. You’re just as bad as me when it comes to fashion.”

Max opens his mouth to protest but then shuts it, shrugging in admission. “Okay, fair point. But that’s why I always get you the same thing I’m wearing. So there’s no way we can mess it up.”

You consider this for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We make a pretty fashionably challenged couple.”

“The most fashionably challenged,” he agrees with a laugh. He pauses, gaze growing serious. “But I like it that way. I like that we match.”

Warmth blooms in your chest. “Me too.”

The morning passes quickly as you get ready for the race. True to form, you both pull on the matching outfits without a second thought. As you’re walking out to the car, Max stops you.

“Wait,” he says, taking your hand and turning you to face him. He looks you up and down appraisingly. “You look perfect, just like always.”

You can’t help but beam at the compliment. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

He grins. “Not nearly enough.”

“Well I do,” you say, leaning in to kiss him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, schatje,” Max murmurs against your lips. “Now let’s go kick some ass today.”

The race goes well, Max taking the checkered flag to the roar of the crowds. As you’re waiting to congratulate him, a podcaster approaches you with a microphone.

“Hi there,” she says brightly. “I’m Lottie from The Racing Line. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple quick questions?”

“Oh, um, sure,” you’re a bit caught off guard.

“Great! So first off, you and Max always seem to be wearing matching outfits to the races. Is that something you two purposely coordinate as a cute couple thing?”

You feel your cheeks flush slightly. “Oh no, not at all actually. The truth is neither of us have much fashion sense at all. So Max just gets me the female version of whatever he’s wearing to make it easy.”

The podcaster looks disappointed. “Oh, I see. So it’s not some adorable couple tradition then?”

“Well, I mean, I guess in a way it kind of is?” You say quickly, feeling guilty. “Neither of us are really into fashion, so we end up matching by default anyway. I think it’s sweet that we always end up coordinating without even trying because we’re just so in sync.”

She perks up at that. “Aww, okay, I can see that! So even though it’s not on purpose, you’ve made your own cute little tradition out of it just by being so aligned. That’s really romantic.”

You nod, smiling softly. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Well thank you so much for your time,” she shakes your hand. “And congratulations to Max on another win!”

“Thank you,” you reply as she walks away.

A few minutes later Max emerges, helmet under his arm and face lit up in that way you love. You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Congratulations baby, you were amazing out there as always.”

“Thank you, schatje,” he says, squeezing you close. He pauses, smile turning teasing. “Did you enjoy chatting with that podcaster earlier?”

You pull back, eyes narrowing. “You saw that, did you?”

He chuckles. “Of course I did. I always notice you.”

“Well then you also saw me have to completely backtrack and come up with some sappy story for why we match when she thought it was a cutesy couple thing,” you say dryly.

Max shrugs. “It kind of is though, isn’t it? Maybe not on purpose, but it’s become our thing.”

“I guess you’re right,” you admit. “I told her it was romantic how in sync we are, always coordinating outfits without even trying.”

“Hmm, I like that,” he says, grinning. “We really are pretty in sync, aren’t we? Two fashionably hopeless peas in a pod.”

You laugh. “That we are.” You look at him fondly. “But I love our way better than being one of those obnoxiously coordinated couples.”

“Me too,” he agrees. “Though I will admit ...” His gaze grows more serious. “Part of the reason I like matching is because it makes me happy to walk around wearing the same thing as you. Like we’re a unit, you know?”

Your heart skips a beat at the soft vulnerability in his voice. “Max Verstappen, you big old romantic,” you tease gently.

He shrugs but you can see the pleased look in his eyes. Sudden understanding washes over you.

“Wait a minute … is that why you got me the same outfit the first time? Not just because you thought it would be easier, but because you wanted us to match?”

Max stays silent for a moment before breaking into a sheepish grin. “You caught me.”

“Oh my god!” You shove his shoulder playfully. “You big sap!”

“What can I say? I like having my girl on my arm looking like the power couple we are,” Max says, pulling you close again. “Fashionably challenged or not.”

“If only everyone out there making you out to be the villain could see the cuddly teddy bear you really are. I absolutely love it,” you murmur, stretching up to kiss him. You can feel him smile against your lips.

As you break apart, Max squeezes your hand. “Come on, let’s go celebrate. In new matching outfits, of course.”

You pretend to roll your eyes exaggeratingly but allow him to lead you towards the exit, your hands intertwined. You truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

You and Max are curled up on the couch in your hotel room, his arm draped around you as you lean into his side. It’s a rare quiet moment between races and you’re savoring the feeling of Max’s fingers gently carding through your hair.

“Hey Max?” You say after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” He hums in response, not looking away from the football match on the TV.

“I got an interesting offer today.”

That piques his interest and he turns his head to look at you. “Oh yeah? What kind of offer?”

You take a deep breath before answering. “A sponsorship deal, actually. From Oscar de la Renta.”

Max raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Wow, that’s … really great, liefje. I’m so happy for you.”

But something in his tone makes you frown slightly. “Are you though? You don’t sound that excited.”

He gives you a half smile. “No, no, I am! That’s a huge opportunity for your career and image. Having that kind of sponsorship deal is amazing.”

“But?” You prod knowingly.

Max lets out a breath, smile fading. “But I guess part of me is a little disappointed and maybe … worried?”

“About what?”

“Well,” he shifts uncomfortably. “I like being the one who picks out your outfits for the races. Our little unintentional matching tradition has kind of become my thing, you know? I’m worried if you get sponsored by some big designer brand you won’t wear the outfits I pick out anymore. That we won’t match.”

His tone is carefully casual but you can hear the undercurrent of vulnerability. Your heart clenches in your chest.

“Oh Max ...” you murmur, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You really like our matching outfits that much?”

He averts his eyes but nods. “Yeah. I know it sounds silly, but I just … I like how in sync we are. How happy it makes me feel when we show up to the races looking like a real team. Like we’re truly partners in everything. I don’t want to lose that.”

The softness in his voice breaks your heart a little. You take his hand and give it a squeeze.

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” you tell him gently. “Because I never would have accepted that offer anyway.”

Max blinks in surprise. “You wouldn’t?”

You shake your head. “Not a chance. First of all, they were pressuring me to only wear very high-end stuff, none of which really feels like my personal style. But more importantly ...” You lean in closer, maintaining eye contact. “They don’t have a men’s collection. So they couldn’t sponsor you too.”

Realization lights up his gaze. “Oh ...” he says softly.

You nod. “Exactly. I told them thanks but no thanks. Because no designer wardrobe is worth giving up what we have.”

Max looks stunned. “You … you turned them down? Just to keep matching with me?”

“Of course I did,” you say affectionately, poking his chest. “I would never give that up. How could I say yes to some fancy sponsorship that meant not having my fashionably challenged other half by my side, both looking like total goofballs in the one outfit the world thinks makes up the entirety of our closet?”

A slow smile spreads across his face and he pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “God, I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “So much.”

You relax into his embrace, overwhelmed by the rush of affection. “I love you too,” you whisper. You pull back slightly to look at him. “Did you really think I’d give up matching with you over that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, looking a little sheepish. “I guess a small part of me was worried maybe you’d be tempted by the glamor and exposure of being a designer brand ambassador.”

“You know me better than that,” you affirm. “Our matching looks are too special to me. I adore everything about our little tradition — the fact that it started because neither of us cares about fashion, to you always picking out my outfits, and how happy it makes both of us to show up to races coordinating with each other.”

You take Max’s hand, intertwining your fingers. “Don’t you see, my love? It’s not really about the clothes at all, it’s about us. About how perfectly aligned we are in this little part of our lives. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Max’s eyes have gone suspiciously bright, his free hand reaching up to cradle your face. “But liefje … you could have had any designer clothing you wanted.” His voice is thick with emotion. “You turned that down … for me?”

Unable to find the words, you just nod, blinking back your own tears.

“I can’t believe it,” Max breathes out shakily. “You never cease to amaze me.”

You offer him a watery smile. “Well believe it, my love. Because there’s nothing in the world more precious to me than you and our bond. I wouldn’t sacrifice that for anything.”

A single tear escapes to trail down Max’s cheek and you quickly brush it away with your thumb. Seeming at a loss for words, he pulls you into a fierce hug, tucking your head under his chin as you settle into his embrace.

“I love you,” he finally whispers into your hair. “So damn much.”

“I love you too.” You pepper kisses along his neck and jaw until you reach his lips, capturing them in a deep, slow kiss that tries to convey every unspoken word of devotion and adoration.

When you finally break apart, Max gazes at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

“God, you really are perfect,” he murmurs, running a hand reverently through your hair. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“No,” you shake your head with a soft smile. “I’m the lucky one. To have someone who loves me so fiercely, someone I love just as much in return.”

Max lets out a watery chuckle. “I think we’re both the lucky ones then.”

You settle back against his chest as he wraps his arms securely around you. For a while neither of you speaks, lost in your own thoughts as you simply bask in each other’s presence. You let your eyes drift shut as Max’s fingers resume their gentle motions through your hair.

Eventually you break the silence.

“You know we’re going to have to get even cuter matching outfits now to make up for it,” you murmur teasingly.

Max’s chest rumbles with laughter against your cheek. “Deal. Anything you want, schatje. I’ll make sure we’re the most adorable fashionably challenged couple at every single race from now on.”

You smile at the warmth and conviction in his voice. “No one could ever call us uncoordinated.”

“Never,” Max affirms, dropping a soft kiss to the top of your head. “We’re perfectly matched in every way that matters.”

You sigh contentedly as you snuggle further into his embrace. In that moment, you know he’s absolutely right. You couldn’t imagine a better match than your Max.

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seungfl0wer · 3 months ago

Text

*𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆*

Pairing: Jisung x Reader (Fem)

Genre: Angst -> Smut/Fluff

Warnings: Meanie Jisung, Hint of a Panic attack, Make up sex basically, Shower Sex, Use of Princess, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, sorry for any mistakes or missing warnings!

Find The Request Here

-🖤

You never minded going to these “meetings” with your boyfriend but he was always so bad at either telling you the right time or even mentioning it. You just got out of the shower putting on your clothes checking the time. You still had an hour to get ready. After getting dressed you sat down to do your make up. A few minutes passed before your boyfriend flung the door open. He looked irritated already. “Seriously? You’re still not ready!” He said with gritted teeth.

“You said we didn’t have to be there till 8:30” you said looking at him a bit confused.

“No I told you this morning it was changed we have to be there at 8! Which it’s already- oh look at that 7:50!” He hissed.

“I’m sorry Ji I’m almost done and we-“ he cut you off.

“You always fucking do this! I’m late to fucking everything because of you! You know how annoying that is!” He yelled.

You gulped a little feeling bad “I’ll just finish in the car then..” you said softly taking the few things you needed.

“You know it doesn’t even fucking matter! Either way we are gonna be late! All because the princess can’t manage her fucking time like an actual adult!” He yelled.

Jisung wasn’t like this normally however things have been stressing him out and to be fair you did make them late a lot. Not on purpose of course. You felt tears pricking at your eyes hanging your head as you walked towards the door. As much as you wanted to argue it wasn’t worth it right now. Not when he was already upset and then having to go meet higher up people. You slunk in the passenger seat as he got in. You finished up your make up fast only having to do a few small things. Jisung didn’t say much not until he got a call from someone.

You could tell he was getting more irritated as the call went on. After hanging up you didn’t say anything afraid of making him more upset. “Fucking great! The big manager is asking for me and I’m not even fucking there!” He said gripping the steering wheel. “You know next time I’m just not gonna bring you! It’s so irritating that I can never be there when I’m supposed to!”

“I’m sorry” you said in almost a whisper.

“Yeah well sorry doesn’t always fix everything!” He said his voice low.

When you finally got there he all but left without you. You walked up trying to put a smile on. Waving at his friends before making your way towards them. The night went on and it seemed to be fine. You were just sitting there in your head. “You alright?” A familiar voice asked.

“I’m fine” you said softly.

There was so many people there and with how the night started you were already feeling anxious. As the place filled with more and more you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You always had a problem with crowds jisung normally would stay with you to make it better but he hasn’t even come to check on you. He hasn’t even looked in your direction making you feel even worse. Your chest started to tighten feeling like you were gonna throw up almost. You got up legs becoming a bit wobbly. You made your way to the bathroom. Before getting into a stall you could feel the tear falling.

You were shaking trying your hardest to catch your breath. You leaned back in the stall wanting nothing more than to crawl in bed and just cry. You cried, chest heaving body shaking. You tried pulling yourself together trying to calm yourself down. When you finally calmed down enough you made your way out trying to fix your make up enough that it wasn’t noticeable. When you slinked back to your seat jisung was actually sitting there. “Where have you been?” He asked.

“I- I was in the bathroom” you said voice still a bit shaky.

He looked over your face he could see how red your eyes were. How puffy they were and knew you had been crying. “You alright?” He asked his voice a bit softer.

“How uhm- how was meeting the bigger guy” you asked avoiding his question.

“Oh uhm good, he was excited to meet me. Said he has been looking into having me move up in the branch.” He said still looking over your face.

“That’s great ji” you said with a half smile.

“Babe seriously are you-“ he started to say before getting cut off.

“Jisung! I found you!” A smiley boy said walking towards you.

“Hey lix” Jisung said smiling back.

“Hey come here Lisa from the higher ups wants to talk to you!” He said waving him to come with.

Jisung looked at you his eyes worrying looking over you. He knew you hated this stuff just as much as he did. He knew you hated being left alone but with more whining from the other boy to hurry he reluctantly got up. While he was talking to the women he kept his eye on you. He could see how shaky your hands were, how you kept wiping your eyes but smiled. You were trying your best to keep it in. Chan had came back to you handing you a drink. “You good?” He asked as he handed it to you. You only nodded taking the drink. You fiddled with the water bouncing your leg nerves just eating away at you.

When jisung found his way back to you once more sitting closer to you. He laid his hand on your leg leaning in to talk to you. “Princess are you alright?”

“Ji- can you not call me that anymore?” You said lip shaking a bit.

“What princess? You love when I call you that?” He said a bit confused.

“Yeah.. I did.. I just.. please don’t anymore” you said your words coming out in almost a choke.

“Oh- okay..” he said his words trailing off he leaned back in his seat brain going a mile a minute.

You didn’t talk anymore just sitting there waiting to go home. Jisung got up a few more times each time keeping his eyes on you. His heart was breaking ‘god I’m such an asshole, I can’t believe I got so upset with them today’ he said to himself. When he finally made his way back to you once more he extended his hand to you “ready to go?” He asked. You nodded getting up not taking his hand though. You made your way through the people jisung right behind you.

He opened the door for you getting in his side. Neither of you said anything for a while. However the silence was eating at him. When he did sneak a peak at you his heart completely crumbled. Your lip was quivering, a small tear falling before you quickly wiped it away. You were so close to the door body almost turned away from him. “Hey you wanna stop at the ice cream shop you like?” He said with a small smile.

You shook your head “n-no I just wanna go home” you said softly.

Man did he really fuck up, you never said no to ice cream. When you got home you quickly walked in, going straight for your room. You hopped back in the shower, something that always made you feel better. You leaned your back against the wall feeling the warm water against your skin. You couldn’t help it, you started to bawl. Tears just pouring as you ugly cried. Sobbing loudly, jisung who was outside the door felt horrible.

It was his fault. Is all he kept saying “I need to fix this.” He said softly before coming into the bathroom. He stripped himself of his clothes slowly getting in with you. You didn’t even hear him only when you felt his arms wrapped around you making you jump didn’t notice. “I’m so sorry” he said softly holding onto you tightly.

“I’m sorry I ruin everything- I- I I’m sorry I make us late and make you mad I’m-“ you choked out crying somehow harder.

Jisung rubbed your back hushing you “no I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said what I said. I was being a complete asshole. And then I kept leaving you knowing you hate crowds. Baby I’m so fucking sorry. You didn’t deserve that” he said tilting your head up to look at him.

“Princess-“ he started to say before stopping himself. “Y/n I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry I’m such a dick” he said.

“I know you’re stressed and I shouldn’t have added more to it..” you said softly.

“That’s not an excuse to treat you like I did..” he said “is- is the reason you don’t want me to call you princess because of what I said?” He asked.

When you slowly nodded he felt tears of his own prick at his eyes. “Please I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to make it sound so bad. You are my princess. I wanna always treat you like one because you’re the love of my life.” He said.

“You can call me it just.. don’t use it against me..” you said.

“Never again” he said eyes looking into yours. “You know I didn’t even tell you how beautiful you looked today” he said leaning in his lips ghostly at yours. “My beautiful princess, I love you so much. Let me fix this yeah? Let me show you how much I love you” he said before kissing you.

One hand coming up to cup your face the other laying softly at your hips. He kissed you passionately. Tongue gliding against your lips asking for entrance. You happily let him in tongues tangling with one another. His hand on your hip making its way to your core. His fingers gliding up and down your folds rubbing against your clit. When you arched into his touch he slowly pushed his fingers into you. The kiss slowly becoming sloppier as you moaned against his lips. Your hands wondered down his body touching to tip of his cock making him jump a bit.

His fingers moved faster in you, you matching his pace as you moved your hand up and down his shaft. You were both moaning into the kiss but when he finally pulled away you attached yourself to his neck. Kissing it softly nipping at his sensitive spots. Both of you moaning and groaning as you felt your high quickly coming. He could feel your walls tightening around his fingers and to your dismay he pulled away. When you whined he couldn’t help but chuckle a small bit. “M’sorry princess, but I need to be inside you before I cum” he said taking your leg to put around him.

His cock sliding up and down your folds before pushing into you desperately. He held onto you tightly eyes fluttering open and shut. You attached your lips back to his neck sucking marks all over it. He let his hand wonder down to your clit once more rubbing it ever so perfectly. “I love you y/n, I love you so much my beautiful princess- ah I’m- m’sorry for being a jerk” he said with a long groan.

His thrusts were becoming harsher more sloppy as your walls were pulling him in even more. “I love you to Ji” you croaked out. The way he was moving, the way his fingers move perfectly against your clit and the mix of the hot water was bringing you fast to your orgasm. “My princess, my everything-“ he stammered out. He nudged you making you look at him before he crashed his lips into yours. The kiss was full of need, sloppy with teeth accidentally hitting.

“M’so close princess” he whined.

“Me- me too” you said.

With a few more thrusts hitting your g hard you were cumming. Your walls clenching tightly around him as you came hard. With just one more thrust he was cumming himself choking out as he did one more “I love you” as his cum filled you full. He held onto you tightly peppering kisses to your shoulder.

When you both finally caught your breath he leaned his forehead against yours “I’m sorry, I really am. If I’m ever being like that again please hit me” he said making you chuckle.

“I’ll try and be better at my times too” you said with a smile. “But hey Ji” you said that smile growing.

“Mm?” He hummed.

“Can we still.. go get ice cream?” You said with a little giggle.

“Of course anything for my princess, we gotta actually shower though.” He said.

“Okee then we get ice cream?”

“Yes, then we get ice cream”

The drive to the ice cream was nice Jisung hand intertwined with yours just jamming out to music. He got you the biggest ice cream. While eating the ice cream you looked at the stars making him smile “all those pretty stars up there could never compare to my beautiful princess” he said before kissing you lovingly.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

Taglist: @satosugu4l @do-you-remember-summer-127 @xines16 @minh0scat @troublemaker02 @tr-mha-fan @lunearta @velvetmoonlght @minghaosimp @ldysmfrst @felixleftchickennugget

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taxitransfersrugby · 5 months ago

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Airport taxi Service - airporttransfersrugby

#Welcome to airporttransfersrugby taxi service #We offer premium well-maintained vehicles in rugby city #we available 24*7 for your service #you just need to call or text us #we will at the right time so you never be late for any purpose.#cats of tumblr

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scuderiahalf · 3 months ago

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(almost) one year with you — c.sainz

pairing. carlos sainz x strategist!norris!fem!reader

summary. your boyfriend is usually so intelligent. when he makes one of the stupidest decisions of his life to break up with you, his best friend (and your idiot brother) decides to take matters into his own hands. 4.3k, 18+

warnings. breakups = makeup sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, reader is kind of a bitch but carlos is into it

masterlist.

"I'm going to kick the door open."

"Please, do not do that," Carlos says from behind you.

"You think I can't?"

Smartly, Carlos chooses not to voice any further opinions.

You kick the door, more out of frustration than an actual attempt to break it open.

"I'm going to murder you when I get out of here, Lando!" you shout against the door, not really caring if your idiot brother has hung around to hear the very real threat.

You may not actually kill him (you're still debating it) but you will definitely hit him. At least five times. Maybe more. And he's not getting any of your late-night stress-baked cookies for several months. Asshole.

You kick the door again, harder. The wood bends near the bottom from the impact, rattling in the doorframe but otherwise unmoving. Your groan turns into a yell of frustration, punctuated by you hitting the still closed door with both hands. You seriously cannot believe Lando would do this.

"Are you finished?"

Carlos sounds almost amused.

If he hadn't been literally thrown into the room by not just Lando but Max and Alex as well, you might think he's in on this whole scheme. Instead, you just glare at him, irritated that he's so calm while you're both being held against your will.

"Is being made to be near me that horrible?" Carlos says.

"Oh, fuck off."

"You are acting as if they will not have to let us out eventually."

"How long is that going to take? Huh? I don't want to be locked in here for hours. It's actually FUCKING RIDICULOUS!"

You're shouting at the door again, hoping your dumbass brother and his stupid fucking friends can hear.

They all better be prepared for the consequences. There's no one better at holding a grudge than you.

You never should have trusted Lando when he had insisted you come to Charles Leclerc’s dumb yacht party. He never wants to be seen in public with you much less all but beg you to attend a party with all his friends who are so much cooler than you because he's an F1 driver and all his friends are, too, and you're just a strategist.

(You never thought that being a trackside strategist at Scuderia Ferrari would be preceded by "just" as though it isn't an impressive feat but with a brother like Lando Norris, nothing you do ever really seems to measure up. You're the reason Lando ever got into racing or F1 in the first place. So really, this is your own fault.)

You give up harassing the door (it locks from the inside so there must be something blocking it in the hallway) and start searching the room for another way out. It's a bedroom, and you're choosing to assume that it just happened to be the easiest place to trap you both and not a purposeful nudge to something untoward. Lando isn't that crude. You think.

After this little stunt, you don't think he deserves the benefit of the doubt.

You start checking all the drawers to see if there's anything useful. You don't actually know what you're looking for. Maybe like a fire axe or a hand saw so you can brute force your way out of here.

"We could talk," Carlos proposes.

"And give Lando what he wants? No, thank you."

"You are so proud. Can we not talk this out?"

"What's there to talk out, Carlos? You dumped me, remember?"

That shuts him up.

You refuse to look at him. Even with your back to him as you search through a completely empty dresser, you can feel the look on his face. Full lips pouting, big brown cow eyes all sad and pitiful. You'd fold like a cheap suit if you saw his pretty eyes right now and you're trying really hard to stay strong and hang onto your anger so you won't give in.

There's nothing in any of the dresser drawers. The nightstands are fruitless, too. The wardrobe houses only empty hangers, and not even the cheap wire ones that could be bent into something useful like a weapon to kill yourself with if things get any more tense in this tiny room.

"I regret it," he says.

You close the wardrobe with a heavy breath.

"I regretted it as soon as I said we should end it."

"Cry me a river, Sainz. Build a bridge. Get over it. You don't get to call me ‘nothing but a distraction’ then tell me you regret it and expect me to forgive you just like that—fuck this. I'm going to swim to shore."

You yank the balcony door open and climb up onto one of the chairs so you can get over the railing.

"Y/N!" Carlos curses in Spanish, scrambles after you and gets an arm around you before you can actually step up onto the railing. "What are you doing?!"

"I just said! I'm going to swim to shore. Let me go!"

Carlos picks you up like a purse dog and carries you back into the room. He stands in front of the balcony door after setting you down, blocking your only escape route.

"You cannot swim to shore. We are miles out of sea!"

"If it gets me out of this room, I'd do it!"

"Can you not just talk to me?"

"No!"

"Why?!"

"Because I don't want to!"

"What are you afraid is to happen?"

"I don't have to explain myself. Especially not to you."

So, you don't explain yourself. You walk over to the couch and take a seat, arms and legs crossed, looking anywhere but at Carlos.

You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to that first date with Carlos last year. You know what you were signing up for. You knew all the judgement would be on you if/when you decided to go public. You knew Ferrari would have many things to say about your relationship, and they did, when you told them earlier in the season before it could potentially get ugly with a reveal from unsasvory sources.

You knew all of that and you went for it, anyway, because could you even call yourself a Norris if you didn't go after what you wanted? You knew what being with Carlos would bring but apparently, you were the only one.

After eleven amazing months together, Carlos got cold feet. You don't know how else to describe it. You had told your family after three months; he'd told his after just one. Everyone was happy for you. Your family loves Carlos, and the Sainz clan accepted you with open arms. You were so happy.

But as your relationship pushed a year, Carlos said you needed to talk, called you a distraction, subsequently hazardous for his line of work, and ended things.

Did you call him an emotionally stunted manchild before storming out of the cafe he asked to meet at? If you did, he surely deserved it.

A few weeks after that, you're where you are now, locked in a bedroom on a yacht while a party rages on several floors above. Carlos says he regrets breaking up with you, that he wanted to take back everything he said, but he already said it and that's how things are now.

You'll not be the girl he comes crawling back to whenever it's convenient for him. If going steady is a hazard for work, then an off again-on again situationship is definitely not OSHA-compliant. You refuse to lower yourself to being a doormat that Carlos wipes his feet on whenever he feels he has the time.

After a while of standing guard at the balcony door, Carlos makes a move to sit on the couch with you.

"No," you say.

He halts midstep.

"You can sit on the bed."

Slowly, as though giving you a chance to change your mind, Carlos sulks over to the bed and sits.

He's moving to Williams next year. He has only a handful of races left in rosso corsa. He doesn't know you're sitting on a job offer that could have you following him, a promotion to head strategist at the Oxfordshire team that you can't believe you're actually debating because of your standing with a man.

You've told no one of Williams's proposition. So, you really don't know why you open your mouth to tell Carlos of all people.

"Williams wants me as their head strategist."

He looks up, eyes bright, surprised but excited for you. "What? That is amazing."

"Yeah, I know it is," you say, glaring at him again. "I haven't accepted yet, though."

Carlos is quiet, then carefully says, "Because of me?"

"No," you say because it's just ridiculous for that to be the reason you're holding up contract negotiations, "Yes, because of you. Obviously. I don't want you thinking I'm following you. I'm not. I'm pursuing my career. So, I know that changes you being all regretful. I just want to clarify things before you hear about it from someone else.”

“Why would it change how I feel?”

“Because we’ll still be coworkers next season.”

“That changes it? What does it change?”

Carlos' accent (hot as fuck) and the way he doesn't always say things 100% correct (cute as fuck) are misleading for his actual understanding of the English language. So, you're really not sure what he's getting confused over.

He's leaving. You were supposed to be staying. No longer working together meant no distractions for him until you would meet up at a hotel after a shitty quali and he would fuck the shit out of you. Or something like that.

It'd feel good in the moment but you don't want him for just sex. You don't want casual. You don't want to be a convenient, low-maintenance, not-quite-official girlfriend. You won't do it. No matter how pretty he is.

And his plan to get you back was ruined now that you'd be moving to Williams for next season, anyway.

“I’d not be a distraction if I was staying at Ferrari. Now, we’ll both still be on the same team. Not convenient for you to still be in a toxic work environment, huh? So, you can cut the crap.”

“That has nothing to do with my regret."

"I won't be a casual fuck buddy who you can't stand to be around when it doesn't work for you."

"I never said that!"

He seems genuinely hurt by your implication but you won't fall for it, won't let it deter you.

"It's kind of implied. You know with the whole 'I have to focus on my driving' thing. Like, what the fuck were you doing for the rest of the time we were together? Nothing changed and you suddenly decided it was too much, then you want me back but I ruined that for you. You'll be seeing me next year, too, so don't even bother with the whole regret speech or whatever."

"I—," Carlos starts, then says nothing.

He can't seem to find the words.

"What? Nothing to say? You wanted to talk. Talk."

"If I am in a team with you or not," he says, slow, calculated, "It does not change that I regret what I said."

Carlos takes a second to think before continuing. That's where you two differ.

Carlos has always been incredibly intelligent. You knew he was gorgeous before you had ever met in person but his mind made him appeal even more to you when you first started working trackside last season. Long, intellectual conversations preceded him asking you out after his masterclass in Singapore.

You nearly started foaming at the mouth when he said "it's on purpose" to keeping your brother within DRS to hold off Mercedes. You were ready to jump his bones right then and there in the middle of the team celebration when he asked you to dinner before you flew back to England.

But he was a gentleman. (He didn't fuck you until after your second date, but it was a close thing that first night when you leaned over the center console to kiss him. You'd have ridden him right there in the front seat of that rental car if your idiot brother hadn't chosen then to walk by and make a scene. Kind of a mood killer.)

The two of you both found fascination in the other's way of thinking, Carlos' smooth logic and your chaotic brilliance. He is all thought and few words while you talk and talk until you find your solution.

You always found beauty in the contrast. You balance each other. Simultaneously alike and disimilar. He is someone you saw yourself building a life with. After nearly a year together, those are the kinds of thoughts you start to have about a partner.

"So, you regret it," you gather, "But do you still think I'm a distraction?"

"Of course, you are a distraction. I am in love with you. There is nothing more distracting than that."

You laugh, disbelieving. "You're in love with me but I'm distracting and you can't be with me? Why? Because you love racing more?"

"I was scared. I was stupid. I am stupid. I am."

"Self deprecation won't do you any favors. But, yeah, you are stupid. You're not making any sense."

"I was scared. You were everything I could think of. I thought I could not find a balance between you and racing. But without you, it is even worse. I want you as a distraction. I know that because I have lost you.”

“You haven’t,” you say before your brain even knows what you’re doing. “Not entirely, yet. Maybe… You’re not allowed to do this again. Ever.”

And you’re crying. Of course.

Carlos is at your side in record time, kneeling in front of you, taking immediate advantage of the crack in your defenses. “Never.”

“You can’t do shit like this. You can’t push me aside like I don’t matter. You can’t call me a distraction.”

“You are a distraction. In the best way.”

Unimpressed and wiping your tears, you say, “Wow. You’re such a poet.”

Carlos laughs thickly. “I love you.”

“Ugh, fuck off.”

You’re still wiping at your face. You didn’t cry when Carlos called it quits, refused to let him have any sort of hold over you when he pushed you aside but now, you’re crying. It’s in relief but you still feel your face getting hot from the embarrassment of it.

He knocks your hands aside to cup your cheeks. “You are the love of my life. I will do whatever it takes to fix what I broke.”

“S’not broken. Just bent. Or whatever the saying is. I don’t fucking care—just kiss me.”

Carlos’ “yes, ma’am” is muffled against your lips.

It’s only been three weeks (three and a half but who’s counting) since he last kissed you but it feels like an eternity.

It’s salty from your tears and wet, also from the tears but more from the way you let his tongue into your mouth after probably not enough time has passed. You don’t care. You just want him.

“I love you," you break the kiss to say. "Don't leave me."

"I won't."

"Say it back."

"I love you. I love you I love you I love you."

His words jumble between English and Spanish as he kisses down your body.

Your breath catches as he pulls your hips further down the cushion you're sat on. Stupid F1 driver muscles. You want to sink your teeth into his bicep, make him walk around with the bruise, a reminder of who he belongs to.

He slips his fingers into the waistband of your pants, looks up for permission. You lift your hips. You've missed what his big brown eyes look like when they're all dark with want.

He pulls your pants and underwear down and tosses them aside, tugging you even closer to the edge of the couch. Your legs part. He puts your knees on his shoulders then finally pushes his face between your thighs.

You let your head fall back as you sigh, probably sounding ridiculous but he's always been good at this.

He had you ride his face one time. He practically had to beg to get you to agree. There was a lot of him gripping onto you, arms wrapped around your thighs and hips to force you to stay in place. He'd kept you there until you couldn't stay upright or fight against his hold, coaxing multiple orgasms out of you with just his mouth.

Then, he'd fucked you until you came for a fifth time. (You tell a guy one time about how your last partner hadn't the patience to get more than one orgasm out of you, and he makes it his life's mission to get three or more every time you go at it. How terrible for you. Ha.)

He eats you out like a man starving, like he has something to prove. To be fair, he does but he's not going to be entirely back in your good graces just because he's helping you get off for the first time in three and a half weeks. This is just extra credit.

One of his hands finds yours. He tangles your fingers and holds your hand as he involves his free fingers in slipping past your entrance. You open up for him with obscene ease, legs falling apart even further.

He fucks you with a single finger slow, slow, slow while his tongue licks languidly at your clit.

"Carlos," you whine his name.

You don't need all the pleasure you already know he's more than capable of giving you. You just need to get off already.

"I will get you there, hermosa," he promises with a kiss to your inner thigh.

"Get there faster; I don't want my idiot brother thinking better of his insane plan and letting us out while you're nose-deep in my cunt."

Carlos huffs a laugh. You can feel the air against where you're wet. It makes you squirm.

Usually, Carlos would tell you to stay still and be patient but seems to think better of it this time. You would probably still do as he says, circumstance regardless, but he doesn't need to know that. He just presses his lips back to your pussy.

He sucks on the hardened little bundle of nerves at the joint of your labia just how he knows will make you go limp and needy. He pushes a second then a third finger into you, the stretch just that much more than you can manage with your own, smaller digits.

You could've gotten it with the neglected dildo that lives somewhere mostly forgotten in your closet. There was something that felt so final about bringing out the toy you haven't needed since that second date. Thankfully, you still don't need it. You should consider just pitching it, at this point.

You push your hand through Carlos' hair, brushing the ridiculously perfect locks off his forehead so you can watch his stupid, beautiful face as he goes down on you.

"You're so pretty like this, baby," you praise.

His dark eyes flicker up to you, exhaling against your exposed cunt and shifting his knees on the floor.

You're sure if he had a hand free, he'd be palming himself over his pants. He gets off on you getting off and praise goes straight to his dick. You've got this fantasy of making him come completely untouched but you might need to do actual research on that before it becomes a reality.

He sticks his tongue down with his fingers, lapping at your hole and spitting your wetness onto your clit just because it's hot. Like the way he's slobbering over you isn't enough to make the glide of his tongue over your clit smooth and delectable.

"Come on, baby. Don't tease. Not now."

Carlos makes this little displeased noise in the back on his throat.

Quickies aren't really in Carlos' sexual vocabulary. He occasionally likes it as rough and fast as the next dick-haver but he's more of a spread you open and make love to you for hours at a time kind of guy.

He took you to a secluded little cabana in Mallorca for a week during summer break specifically so you two could spend days on end doing nothing but loving on each other. Then, he took you to meet his family and you had to pretend like you hadn't spent the majority of the week prior with their golden child's dick or fingers or tongue inside of you.

Currently, you're just wanting to find relief without Lando or some other F1 driver walking in on you first.

"Carlos, baby—please."

Carlos likes when you play nice. When you're so desperate for it that your bossy exterior goes away. You tell yourself that you exploit this because your unending pride doesn't like the alternative that you really just are that desperate for it.

He finally starts to finger bang you properly. Combine that with the obscene slurping sounds he's making against your clit and the lack of action for nearly a month and no one could really blame you for not taking long to hit your high.

Heat curls and explodes in your gut and up your spine, back arching, lungs gasping, Carlos' name falling from your mouth as your thighs try to close around his head. He gets his elbows up to hold your legs open. His fingers keep fucking you through your orgasm. He pulls his other hand free of your grip to massage your clit with his thumb, kissing your thighs, pubes, stomach.

He captures your lips in a kiss while you're still riding it out. It's intense and leg-shaking after so long without, emotion-driven, which is the best kind but not worth it after knowing what the fear of losing him is like. You can hardly kiss him back, face pulled in pleausre, moans spilling past your lips that Carlos swallows unburdened.

You tuck your face into his shoulder as he drags it out just to the precipice of overstimulation. You tug him into you, arms around his shoulders, fingers tugging the hair at the base of his skull. He lets his fingers rest inside of you, rests that thumb against your clit so he can hold you back with one arm, at least.

You just breathe for a moment, composing yourself where he can't see your face. The worst may be over but the level of trust you'd built over months together would not be so easily reinstated. He'd have to work hard for that, much harder than a sinlge mind-blowing orgasm.

"Don't leave me," you say in a whisper. "You can't, okay?"

"I won't."

"Promise."

"I promise I will not leave you again. I am the most dumb man if I lose you another time. I will deserve it, then."

"Be smart, then. Like I know you have the capacity to be."

Carlos pulls his fingers out. He catches your shiver, still wrapped up in his one arm. He kisses your cheek before finding something to clean his hands with. You've pulled your pants back on when he's finished.

"Likelihood someone heard us?" you prompt.

"Heard you, you mean?"

You kick at him as he comes back over to you. "Watch it."

He tucks you against his side once he's sat. "Scale?"

"One to a hundred."

"90, at least."

You smack his chest. "Dick."

"You are very loud, mi amor. You talk so much, and you make such pretty noises."

"Don't insult me immediately after I've forgiven you."

You've not drawn away from him at all. In fact, you've tucked your feet up on the couch to curl into him fully.

Carlos knows this. He presses a kiss to your temple.

"I love you. I am sorry I am so stupid."

"I guess I've just got to have enough brains and beauty for the both of us."

"You have always."

You hide your smile in his chest. He holds your thigh when you put your legs across his lap. Now you've got him back, you want to be as close as physically possible. Whoever first said they want to be inside their partner's skin really gets it.

George Russell ends up getting sent to let you two out. Evidently, your brother fled the scene of the crime once the yacht returned to port in the early hours of the morning. He dumped the chore of opening Pandora's box on an innocnet bystander.

"I am so sorry—"

"Oh, clever," you say when you spot the poor Brit, "He sends an uninvolved party to let me out like I couldn't track him anywhere in the world. I've his trainer's phone number and Jon likes me more than him. I am going to beat his skinny little muppet ass. When I find him—"

You trip over the tangle of chairs that had been used to barricade the bedroom door from the outside.

Carlos catches your elbow.

"Amor, it is late," he says. "Sleep, first, hm?"

You relax into his hold a bit, a silent concession. It'll be easier to murder your little brother after a good night's sleep, anyway.

"So, are you two...?" George trails off.

You cut him a glare.

"Nothing. Never mind. Apologies."

He speeds around the two of you and off the boat.

"The 2019 rookies are all terrified of you."

"Good."

Carlos laughs. "I am excited to see what Alex is like with you next year."

You smile.

Next year, you'll still be working with Carlos. It'll be at a different team, a midfielder at best but at least Carlos will still be on the grid. He'll still find increasingly laughable excuses to be in engineering just to see you. He'll still come home to you, the same that you'll come home to him.

A future with Carlos is still in the cards. He'll be damned if he messes it up again, you know that much.

1K notes · View notes

hannieehaee · 1 year ago

Text

18+ / mdi

content: fwb!mingyu, pussydrunk!mingyu, horny!mingyu (he's just horny as shit guys), smut, f reader, penetrative sex, based off the picture above ofc, etc.

wc: 985

masterlist

you had known mingyu for a few months now. you'd originally met at some frat party that your friend vernon had invited you to. you attended with no specific purpose in mind. you thought maybe you'd mingle a bit, have some drinks with some friends, and then dip. however, your plans were promptly ruined by the six-foot tall boy with the pretty smile who kept eyeing you all night as he leaned against the wall, nursing a drink while making eyes at you.

that was the first night you ended up in mingyu's bed. at a first glance you imagined he'd be good at sex. you'd been right. somewhat. he was insane. not only did he have an insane libido, but he was insatiable for you. he managed to pull orgasm after orgasm out of you. what surprised you most, however, was how he never ran out of orgasms to give you in return. you'd heard of guys with short refractory periods, but mingyu was an anomaly. that night, he had kept you up for hours, causing you to arrive late to next morning's lecture (not that you were complaining).

the second time you met mingyu was quickly after, as you'd bumped into him at a football game two days after. it was almost comical. the way in which you met eyes and knew exactly what the other was thinking. without needing to exchange any words, you ended up back at mingyu's dorm, with your legs thrown over his shoulders as he viciously fucked you into the bed, muttering words such as "you're all mine. pussy's all for me, isn't it baby?", or "pretty fuckin' thing with an even prettier pussy, fuck. n so fuckin' soft too," or your favorite, "shit. best pussy ive ever had. gunna keep it for myself. that okay, baby? gunna give it to me, arent you, pretty?"

the man not only knew how to fuck, but he knew how to make you swoon. you needed no convincing to keep ending up in mingyu's bed day after day. unfortunately for the both of you, you were nothing more than a measly college student; a slave to the deadlines your professors imposed on you. even if you wanted to spend every minute of every living moment in mingyu's bed, you had common sense. which meant you had to prioritize your education.

you and mingyu had fucked consistently for about a month. that is, until midterm season arrived. like any reasonable person, this was time for you to hibernate in your room and cram, all while ignoring any outside distractions. your family, friends, any medical emergencies, and even mingyu's dick would have to wait for this stressful time in your life to end.

you assumed that this wouldve been the case for mingyu too, knowing he was in some of the same courses as you. which is why his most recent message threw you off guard, making you laugh at the absurdity.

from: mingu 🤤:

i'm legit gonna kill myself if we dont fuck again

you'd only been depraving mingyu of sex for a little over a week. was he that insatiable? okay, you had to admit, that was a huge ego boost (and a bit of a turn on). you were now faced with two choices. be a responsible adult and put your education first, or get your hole fucked and stuffed by the big hunk who was threatening lethal action against himself if he didnt feel your warmth around him as soon as humanly possible.

you didnt have to be asked twice.

giggling to yourself, you picked up your phone and angled it upwards, pulling down your shirt enough to display your bare tits and captured a quick picture, typing him a quick message to rile him up a little more.

from you:

want this ? ;)

*picture attachment*

after hitting send, you sat back down for a bit, uselessly putting your phone down as you heard a chime in response almost immediately.

from mingu 🤤:

fuck you

i'll be there in ten

giddy, you readied yourself a bit for his arrival, knowing his dorm rooms were not too far away from yours.

only eight minutes later and you were answering the door to a very frustrated mingyu, barging into your room and immediately pushing you up against the door, taking advantage of your gasp to shove his tongue in your mouth.

"you think you're funny, dont you, baby?", he rasped, "gonna fuck the funny out of you."

he quickly undressed you and carried you over to your couch, taking his own clothes off in the process. he bent you over and put you on your hands and knees, slapping your ass once before entering you without warning.

"fuck," he breathed out in relief, "how could you keep this pretty pussy away from me for so long, baby? wanted me to chase after you? i'll fucking do it," he fucked you harder with every word he uttered.

"g-gyu."

"i'll fuckin' move in to your dorm if that means i can have this pretty fuckin' pussy wrapped around me every night, shit," his words were getting to you, causing you to wrap tighter around him.

"g-gunna give it to you every day, pretty. will you let me do that? huh? stuff this pretty pussy every day. so pretty n warm for me ..."

you both reached your completion soon after, spending yourselves out after one round for the first time since knowing each other.

"baby ... never fucking pull that shit again, i swear to god. next time you ghost me like that, i'm breaking down the door, do you understand?", his words were lighthearted in nature, but the concept of mingyu being so pussydrunk he needed to have you day after day excited you beyond belief.

"yes, sir," you purred, preparing yourself for an afternoon of zero studying.

n/a: not proofread <//3

#seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen #svt fanfic #seventeen smut #svt #svt smut #svt x reader #seventeen imagine #seventeen oneshot #mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #mingyu imagine #mingyu oneshot #mingyu fanfic

2K notes · View notes

lovelyspring7 · 17 days ago

Text

White Pearl | Yandere JJK x Reader

Summary: You’ve been working as a str1pper for a month until billionaire Jeon Jungkook suddenly takes an interest in you, actually maybe too much of an interest…

Word count: 7,6k

Genre: Yandere, sugar daddy au

Pairing: CEO Sugar daddy Jungkook x str1pper sugar baby reader, short mentions of Cha Eunwoo & Jung Jaehyun.

Warnings: Yandere, stalking, obsessive behaviour, kidnapping, abuse of power, fight scene, non consensual touching, mentions of a dead father.

Disclaimer: This type of content is not suitable for all audiences and I do not condone any of the presented behaviours. This is purely for entertainment and fictional purposes and I don’t think any BTS member would act like this.

Authors note: Okay I’m really proud of how this turned out! I really hope you enjoy reading it! Don’t be a silent reader, show some support and feedback!☺️💜

Read Part 2 Here | Read Part 3 Here

In three days, Jeon Jungkook will become the heir of his deceased father’s successful real estate company. Jungkooks fate was written from the moment he was born, it was only a matter of time before it happened. The old man had it coming, drinking aged scotch and smoking the finest Cuban cigars since he could remember.

Jungkook has never been close with his parents. He despised them. His parents wanted nothing to do with him, his only purpose was to take over his father’s company, and Jungkook knew that. That’s why he wasted no time trying to get closer to his parents. It was no use. They made that very clear when they sent 7-year-old Jungkook to a prestigious boarding school with other rich snobs.

Although, being an only child, rich and privileged. All he had to do was to snap his fingers and he’d get what he wanted almost immediately.

The newest expensive car? Check.

Private jets? Check.

Luxury real estate? Check.

You could say he had it all, at least the materialistic stuff.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Jeon,” Eunwoo said with his usual charm, offering a polite nod to Jungkook’s mother.

She barely reacted, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, Eunwoo. Jungkook’s inside.” Her voice was light, devoid of grief. Eunwoo nodded before he entered the study, Jaehyun trailing behind.

“Hey, Kook,” Jaehyun said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

Jungkook didn’t look up. Instead, he swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “I’m fine.”

“Your mom seems fine too,” Jaehyun added, his voice tinged with disbelief. He perched on the edge of the desk, glancing at Eunwoo.

“So,” Eunwoo began, leaning casually against the wall. “How much did you inherit, exactly?”

Jungkook smirked. “A lot.”

Jaehyun grinned. “Lucky bastard. Hey, how about we grab a drink? Celebrate your, uh, newfound wealth.”

“Sure,” Eunwoo added, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Or we could check out that new club. You know, the one with the strippers? Rumor has it they’ll do anything for the right price.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously suggesting we hit a strip club the same day as my father’s funeral?”

Jaehyun shrugged. “Excess was his thing, wasn’t it? You’re just keeping tradition alive.”

The comment shouldn’t have amused Jungkook, but it did. He pushed himself up from the chair, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “You’re both idiots.”

“But we’re your idiots,” Jaehyun said with a wink, throwing an arm around Eunwoo as they headed for the door. “Be there by eleven. And bring cash! Lots of it!”

﹉﹉﹉

“You’re late,” Bora called, not even looking up as she leaned toward the mirror, expertly reapplying her cherry-red lipstick. The fluorescent lights of the dressing room buzzed softly overhead.

“Yeah, I had to submit an assignment early today,” you replied, shrugging off your jacket and pulling your hair back. The soreness in your shoulders hadn’t left since your morning shift at the café.

Bora glanced at you in the mirror, her eyebrows raising as she watched you strip down to your work attire, a sparkling two-piece that felt far too bold against your skin. “Girl, you’re gonna burn yourself out at this rate. You know that, right?”

You shrugged, forcing a smile as you strapped on your pink glitter heels. “Gotta pay rent somehow.”

It has been a month since you started working at Black Pearl Club. When the bartender job didn’t pan out, stripping felt like your only option. Temporary, you’d told yourself. Just until you graduate, just until you get out of debt. But every time you caught your reflection in the dressing room mirror, the weight of it all made your stomach turn.

“Okay, well, hurry up. It’s getting crazy out there,” Bora said, as she fluffed her hair. “All the big spenders are here tonight.”

“Just give me five minutes,” you replied, swiping on mascara.

Before Bora could respond, her eyes widened, and she let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh. My. God.”

“What?” you asked, startled, almost smudging your makeup.

“It’s freaking Jeon Jungkook,” she hissed, peeking through the cracked door. Her voice was breathless with excitement, like she’d just spotted a celebrity, which, apparently, she had.

“Who?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Bora whipped her head around to gape at you. “You can’t be serious. Jeon Jungkook. The heir to Jeon Real Estate? Rich, sexy, and way too powerful for his own good?”

Your blank expression didn’t change, so she sighed dramatically. “Never mind. Just know he’s loaded. And he brought Cha Eunwoo and Jung Jaehyun with him. Jackpot.”

She tugged her top down a little lower, adjusted her already perfect hair, and shot you a wink. “Don’t wait too long, or the girls will snatch them up. But not before I do.” With that, she was gone, strutting confidently out the door.

You rolled your eyes playfully, muttering to yourself. “Wow. The power of Bora.”

Taking one last glance at your reflection, you squared your shoulders and stepped out onto the floor. The music hit you immediately, a deep, pulsing rhythm that matched the sway of bodies on the dimly lit stage. You moved cautiously, still new to this world and its unspoken rules. You weren’t like Bora or the other dancers, who walked with easy confidence, drawing men like moths to a flame. No, you stayed in the background, lingering by tables, feeding shots to customers, even helping to clean up spilled drinks.

The pole? That was for the pros. You didn’t dare try it on nights like this.

“Hey,” a voice called out, cutting through the music. It was low, smooth, with just a hint of amusement.

You turned, and your stomach dropped when you saw him. His dark eyes glinted under the club’s shifting neon lights, framed by long lashes that softened the sharp angles of his face. Tattoos peeked out from the sleeves of his tailored blazer, and a silver chain glinted against his silk shirt. He looked like he didn’t belong here, like he owned the place.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

“How’d you end up here?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. His smirk was small, almost playful, but there was something in his gaze that made you uneasy. “You don’t look like the type.”

You crossed your arms, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Listen, sir, I don’t know what kind of weird roleplay you’re into, but I’m not interested.”

He laughed softly, the sound rich and low. “Wait, hold on,” he said, stepping in front of you before you could turn away. “I’ll pay you a thousand bucks just to sit on my lap.”

You blinked, startled by the casual audacity. “A thousand? For just that?”

“Exactly that, Princess,” he said, holding out his hand. His confidence was infuriating, but something about it also intrigued you. Against your better judgment, you took his hand.

He led you to a private VIP room, the scent of leather and faint cologne trailing after him. The room was as luxurious as you’d imagined, matt black walls, plush velvet furniture, and crimson LED lights casting everything in a sultry glow. A strip pole stood in the center, glinting under the chandelier above.

No wonder it cost a fortune to reserve, you thought. He sank into a chair, pulling you onto his lap with a fluid motion that left you unsteady. One hand rested lightly on your thigh, the other brushing against your waist as if it belonged there. You hesitated, unsure of where to place your own hands, before finally draping them around his neck.

For the first time, you took him in fully. His face was almost unreal, sharp jawline, perfectly shaped lips, and those dark, doe-like eyes that seemed to pierce through you.

“You’re staring,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

“Shut up,” you muttered, looking away. “It’s not that impressive.”

He laughed again, soft and deep, sending a shiver down your spine. “So, what’s your story?” he asked, his tone casual.

“What do you think?” you replied, your voice tight. “Student debt, rent, crappy part-time jobs. Same story, different girl.”

He tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “No,” he said finally. “You’re different.”

“Right,” you scoffed. “Let me guess, I’m not like other girls?”

“You’re more of a white pearl,” he said, his voice softer now. “Innocent. Beautiful. Out of place.”

Your breath caught as he tilted your chin up, his fingers brushing against your skin. “You don’t belong here.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“I watched you, you know,” he continued, his eyes never leaving yours. “The whole time. You’re not cut out for this.”

You swallowed hard, heat rising in your cheeks. “What do you want from me?”

“A chance,” he said simply. “To show you something better.”

You blinked, “Show me something better?” you repeated, a flicker of disbelif in your voice. “What does that even mean?”

His lips curved into a small smile, one that didn’t offer answers but promises. “It means you shouldn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

His hand, warm and deliberate, slid slightly higher on your thigh. The touch was slow, too slow. His thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of your outfit, and you froze, unsure of what to do.

Your breath got a bit faster, and he noticed.

“Easy now,” he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue like silk. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, your voice steadier than you felt. But your hands, still resting on his shoulders, betrayed you with their light tremble.

“Are you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. His other hand drifted up, brushing against your waist as if testing your boundaries. His gaze pinned you in place, dark and unreadable. “You’re tense.”

“You don’t exactly make it easy to relax,” you shot back, trying to mask your nerves with sarcasm.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “Fair enough,” he said, his thumb continuing its slow, rhythmic strokes against your thigh. “But I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

You didn’t respond, unsure how to answer without giving too much away. The truth was, his touch wasn’t unwelcome, but it was overwhelming, like he was peeling back layers you weren’t ready to expose.

“Let me guess,” he said, his voice dropping a notch. “You’ve been fighting to stay afloat. Juggling school, work, life. And this place? It’s just survival, isn’t it?”

You stiffened, his words cutting too close to the truth. “You don’t know anything about me,” you said, but your voice lacked its intended bite.

His smile deepened, his fingers pausing for a moment before resuming their soft, hypnotic movements. “I know enough,” he said, his tone almost gentle. “Enough to see you’re not like the others.”

His words hung between you, heavy and undeniable. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, as his hand slid up just an inch more. It wasn’t invasive, it wasn’t even inappropriate, but the intent behind it was unmistakable. He was testing you, seeing how far you’d let him go.

“You’re bold,” you said, trying to regain control of the situation, though your voice betrayed your unease. “Does this whole act usually work for you?”

He laughed again, soft and rich, his head tilting back slightly. “It’s not an act,” he said, his gaze snapping back to yours, sharp and unwavering. “I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, your heart thudding painfully in your chest.

His hand on your waist tightened slightly, anchoring you in place. “You.”

The single word sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you were certain he could feel it. His confidence, his touch, the way he looked at you, it was all too much, too consuming. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or stay exactly where you were.

“You don’t even know me,” you said, but the words came out softer than you intended, almost a whisper.

“I will,” he replied simply, his voice steady, as if the answer was obvious. “If you let me.”

The weight of his words pressed against you, leaving no room for pretense. He wasn’t asking for permission. He was laying a claim, one you weren’t sure you could fight.

“I can’t,” you said finally, shaking your head. “This… whatever this is, it’s not me.”

His smile didn’t falter. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “You don’t have to decide now,” he murmured. “But I’ll make you an offer.”

“What kind of offer?” you asked in a quiet voice.

“Be my escort,” he said, his tone calm and measured, as though he were offering you a business deal. His thumb pressed a little harder into your thigh, the heat of his hand impossible to ignore. “Not the kind you’re thinking,” he added when your eyes widened. “Think of it like a sugar baby. Parties, events, dinners. No strings attached, just company.”

You swallowed, your mind racing. The word sugar baby sounded ridiculous, almost laughable, but the way he said it made it sound like a lifeline, a way out of this mess you called life.

“I’ll pay you well,” he continued, his fingers giving a soft squeeze to your thigh for emphasis. “Up to a couple thousands of dollars an hour.”

Your breath caught, and his smirk returned, knowing he had your attention now.

“You don’t even know me,” you said again, your voice weaker this time.

“But I want to,” he replied, leaning back against the chair as if he had all the time in the world. “So, what do you say, Princess? Ready to let me take care of you?”

You stared at him, your mind a whirl of doubt, disbelief, and something far more dangerous: temptation.

“What’s the catch?” you asked, still skeptical. Your voice was steady, but your fingers tightened around the edge of your outfit.

His smile curved slowly, his confidence as unshakable as the air of control that seemed to follow him. “No catch,” he said, his tone light, but his eyes sharp. “You show up when I need you, and I’ll make sure you never have to worry about rent or student loans again.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you said, your voice softer now, though you fought to keep your composure. “Why me?”

His smirk widened, and for a moment, his gaze flicked over you, “Because you’re different,” he said finally, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you. “You don’t belong in a place like this.”

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. His words felt like a challenge.

“I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head. “This… it feels like a bad idea.”

He leaned forward, closing the small distance between you. His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, his fingers pressing just enough to keep you close to him. “Sometimes the best ideas start out feeling wrong,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “Let me prove it to you.”

His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back to your eyes, and the air between you seemed to crackle with tension. You hated how easily he seemed to unravel you, how your body betrayed you with every shallow breath and unsteady heartbeat.

“Okay,” you said finally, the word slipping out before you could stop it. “But I’m not doing anything I’m uncomfortable with. No strings, remember?”

“No strings,” his voice echoed. It was steady, composed, and carried an air of finality. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out a sleek silver pen and a small leather checkbook. The movement was precise, deliberate, like everything else about him.

He flipped it open, his gaze flicking to you briefly before he began to write. “I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow,” he said, his voice a soft command. The sound sent a faint shiver down your spine. “We’ll go over the details.”

The scratch of the pen against the paper, each stroke deliberate as he signed his name with a flourish. He tore the check free, and held it out to you.

You hesitated before taking it, your fingers brushing against his, a spark that lingered even as you looked down at the paper in your hand.

One thousand dollars.

The number stared back at you, bold and undeniable, written in his confident hand. Below it, his signature sprawled across the bottom with an elegance that felt almost intimidating. It was real.

“You don’t waste time, do you?” you said, your voice faint as your fingers tightened around the check.

He leaned back against the chair, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I never do,” he replied smoothly. His eyes dipped to your hand, watching the way you held the check as though it might slip through your fingers. “Consider it a gesture of good faith. A down payment.”

You glanced back at him, your breath catching when his gaze met yours, dark, intense, and filled with something you couldn’t quite name. His hand slid to your thigh one last time, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. The touch was almost teasing.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Princess,” he said, his voice low and velvety.

Before you could respond, he stood, easing you off his lap with a care that felt almost... tender. He straightened his suit jacket, adjusting the cuffs with the kind of precision that only added to his air of control. As he glanced back at you, his faint smile deepened.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said simply, and then he was gone, disappearing through the door with a confidence that left no room for doubt.

You sat there for a moment, the check clutched tightly in your hand, the air in the room still heavy with his scent. You unfolded the check again, your eyes scanning it absentmindedly, until they caught on the name at the bottom.

Jeon Jungkook.

Your breath caught. No way.

Your mind raced, torn between disbelief and temptation.

Was this your way out, or a mistake?

The check felt heavy in your hand, a stark reminder of the offer he’d made. His touch still lingered on your skin, his words replaying in your mind. Dangerous. Tempting.

And maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk.

﹉﹉﹉

You had just finished your lecture and were ready to head back to your apartment, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Between work and school, the weight of your schedule felt suffocating. You rubbed your eyes in a futile attempt to shake off the sleepiness, your vision adjusting just in time to spot a sleek black Bugatti pulling into the campus parking lot.

The sight stopped you in your tracks.

The driver’s door opened smoothly, and out stepped Jeon Jungkook.

He looked different today, less polished but somehow more striking. Gone was the formal suit from last night, replaced by a black silk blouse that glinted faintly in the sunlight, tucked neatly into tailored trousers. The silver chain around his neck caught the light, matching the glint of his piercings. Even casual, he radiated a confidence that turned heads.

Your stomach twisted as he walked up the stairs toward you, his steps purposeful and deliberate. He greeted you with a smile, his undeniable charm radiating effortlessly.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice smooth.

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “How did you know where I go to school?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “I have my ways.”

The evasiveness of his answer annoyed you, but before you could press him further, he extended his hand, the second time this week he’d done so, with the same quiet authority. Reluctantly, you placed your hand in his, his touch warm and firm.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

“And I won’t,” he replied, his smirk deepening as he led you toward the car.

You felt the weight of curious stares from other students as you walked across the lot. Jungkook didn’t seem to notice, or care. For once, though, their judgment didn’t faze you. You felt… safe.

He opened the passenger door for you, his hand brushing lightly against the small of your back as he helped you in. The gesture was brief but lingered in your thoughts as he closed the door behind you and moved to the driver’s seat.

The ride was quiet, save for the faint hum of the radio. You stared out the window, unsure if the silence between you was comforting or unsettling. Every so often, you could feel his eyes flick toward you, but he said nothing, his focus mostly on the road.

The tension in your chest grew as the car slowed in front of a towering building that looked more like something out of a movie than reality. Glass windows stretched skyward, gleaming against the sunlight, and the sheer size of it left you momentarily speechless.

“Where are we?” you finally asked, your voice quieter than you intended.

“My place,” Jungkook replied, parking the car. He exited swiftly, circling to your side to open your door before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Come on,” he said, his hand outstretched once more.

You took it, allowing him to guide you to the entrance. He typed in a code at the door, his movements smooth and practiced, and the lock clicked open with a quiet beep.

When the door to his penthouse swung open, you couldn’t suppress your reaction. The space was massive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city skyline. The minimalist decor was luxurious without being ostentatious, each piece of furniture carefully chosen to complement the space.

“Like what you see so far?” he asked, amusement dancing in his voice as he placed his hand lightly on your back, guiding you toward a sleek office space.

You nodded, unable to find the right words. The room smelled faintly of leather and something vanilla, a scent you were beginning to associate with him.

He gestured for you to sit across from his desk. “So, where were we, Princess?” he said, pulling out a file from the desk drawer.

“You said there were rules,” you reminded him as you ignored the nickname, your voice sharper now as the reality of the situation set in.

“Right,” Jungkook said, pulling out a sheet of paper and sliding it across the desk toward you. “They’re simple. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Your eyes scanned the document, your eyebrows furrowing as you read:

Rule 1: Until the contract expires, you’ll be living with Jeon Jungkook.

Your head snapped up. “What?!”

“Hm? What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his expression calm.

“I can’t live here!” you said, your voice rising. “I have an apartment. And it’s too far from school. And my jobs-”

“About that,” he interrupted, his tone still infuriatingly calm. “You no longer work there. I emailed both the café and the club this morning. You quit.”

Your jaw dropped. “You did what?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you keep working those jobs, did you?” he asked, his tone patronizing. “It would be too stressful. And besides, you have a chauffeur now.”

The audacity of it left you speechless. He had completely upended your life without so much as asking. You wanted to scream at him, but all you could manage was a strangled, “This is insane.”

“You’re welcome,” Jungkook said, his smirk returning.

You forced yourself to breathe, scanning the rest of the document.

Rule 2: Jungkook will pick out your clothing.

“Seriously?” you asked, glaring at him. “You’re not dressing me like a doll.”

“It’s not about that,” he replied, his tone soothing. “I just want to make sure you look the part. Trust me, Princess, you’ll thank me later.”

Rule 3: Always let Jungkook know where you are at all times.

Your eyes narrowed. “This is overkill.”

Jungkook shrugged, unbothered. “I like to stay informed.”

You set the paper down, exhaling sharply. “These rules are insane.”

“But they’re necessary,” he countered smoothly. “Do you agree?”

After reading through all three rules, you hesitated, the weight of the agreement settling on your chest. They were restrictive, sure, but not impossible. And when you considered what he was offering in return, the decision became easier than you’d anticipated. You picked up the pen and signed your name at the bottom with a steady hand, ignoring the way Jungkook’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and satisfied.

“Good girl,” he murmured, taking the papers back and setting them aside.

He then gave you a tour of the penthouse, which was as stunning as the first time you’d seen it. Every corner of the space exuded wealth, from the marble floors to the sleek furniture, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the rooms in natural light. When your belongings arrived later that evening, you unpacked in silence, settling into what would now be your home.

As you folded the last of your clothes into a drawer, Jungkook had casually mentioned a party tomorrow night- a celebration for him taking over his late father’s company. The weight of his words hung in the air, but you didn’t press further. It wasn’t your place, after all.

Now, you found yourself seated at the expansive dining table, the two of you at opposite ends. The food before you was nothing short of perfection, a feast prepared by a professional chef that tasted like nothing you’d ever eaten before. Each bite melted on your tongue, and despite your best efforts to maintain composure, you devoured most of your plate.

As the meal wound down, you glanced up at Jungkook. His posture was relaxed, a glass of red wine cradled in his hand, but there was a distance in his eyes. Taking a steadying breath, you decided to break the silence.

“I overheard that your father passed away,” you said cautiously, offering a faint smile. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been tough.”

The shift in his expression was immediate. His jaw tightened, his wine glass frozen halfway to his lips. For a moment, he simply stared at you, his dark eyes cold and unreadable. When he finally took a sip, his movements were slow.

“Don’t be,” he said, his tone void of emotion. “The old man had it coming.”

The bluntness of his words left you momentarily stunned. You searched his face for any trace of vulnerability, but there was none, only a hardened edge that hinted at years of resentment. He cleared his throat, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

“We should get ready for bed,” he said, his voice clipped as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

Sensing the finality in his tone, you nodded and rose from your seat, understanding more in his silence than in his words. Whatever relationship he’d had with his father, it wasn’t one he cared to revisit. You almost felt sorry for him, but the thought quickly passed as you excused yourself to your room.

The warm spray of the shower was a welcome relief after the long day. You let the water cascade over your skin, washing away the lingering tension from the dinner conversation. Wrapping yourself in a plush towel, you moved to the bathroom mirror, quickly brushing through your damp hair and applying a bit of moisturizer.

By the time you changed into a loose-fitting t-shirt and shorts, the exhaustion had fully set in. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you grabbed the hairdryer and began to run it through your strands, letting the rhythmic hum fill the quiet space.

“Princess, may I come in?” Jungkook’s voice broke through the sound of your hairdryer.

You turned it off and called back, “Yeah, it’s fine. Come in!”

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, holding a large gift box wrapped with a pristine white ribbon. “I brought you something,” he said simply, placing the box on the dresser.

Your curiosity piqued, and you moved to open it, your fingers carefully pulling at the ribbon. Inside was the most stunning red dress you’d ever seen, its silky fabric gleaming under the soft light. You couldn’t help the way your lips parted in awe.

“I’m guessing you like it,” Jungkook said, amusement lacing his tone.

“I love it,” you admitted, running your fingers lightly over the fabric.

“There’s more,” he added, his excitement barely contained. He pulled out a smaller jewelry box, opening it to reveal a simple yet breathtaking white pearl necklace.

Before you could say anything, Jungkook stepped closer, gently taking the necklace from the box. His hands found your waist, guiding you toward the mirror. “Hold still,” he murmured, his voice soft.

He brushed your hair aside, his fingers grazing the nape of your neck as he fastened the clasp. You watched his reflection in the mirror, the intensity in his eyes as he focused on the task. When he finished, he didn’t move away. Instead, he stood behind you, his hands still resting lightly on your waist.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

Your throat tightened, a flush rising to your cheeks as you struggled to find your voice. “We should… we should go to bed,” you said, your words barely above a whisper.

Jungkook held your gaze in the mirror for a moment longer before he stepped back, his hands falling away reluctantly. “You’re right,” he said quietly. His lips curved into a faint, almost embarrassed smile. “Tell me if you need anything.”

With that, he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

You stood there for a long moment, your hand lightly brushing the necklace at your throat. The weight of it was unfamiliar, it felt like more than just jewelry.

﹉﹉﹉

Weeks had passed, and your new life with Jungkook had become almost... comfortable. He kept his word, sending more money than you’d ever expected, along with daily gifts that seemed to grow more extravagant. Designer clothes, jewelry, and things you never even dreamed of owning appeared in your room like clockwork.

Surprisingly, Jungkook’s manner had softened since the night you met. The sharp edges of his arrogance dulled ever so slightly, replaced by a quiet attentiveness that caught you off guard. He showed up at your campus during breaks to take you to lunch, ensuring you ate properly. He complimented you often, his words effortlessly slipping into your mind and settling there. His attention was unrelenting, and his affection, though subtle, began to feel natural, even comforting.

The nights you spent together weren’t spent in the dazzling chaos of parties, but in the quiet intimacy of his penthouse. You’d sit on the couch, sharing popcorn as black-and-white movies played in the background. He’d tease you for your poor choice in films, only to get drawn in himself. Mornings when he’d make you breakfast with your favorite tea, prepared just the way you liked it. For someone so commanding, Jungkook had an unexpectedly gentle side, one he reserved just for you.

One evening, after a long day of classes, you arrived at the penthouse to find another gift waiting on your bed. Your heart quickened as you unwrapped it, the soft rustle of tissue paper revealing a breathtaking gown in deep emerald green. The fabric shimmered under the room’s soft lighting, the design simple yet undeniably elegant. Beneath it lay a small white card, his handwriting precise and elegant:

Wear this tonight, Beautiful. Be ready by 7.

– Love, Jungkook

You traced the words with your finger, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Slipping into the dress, you paused in front of the mirror, taking in your reflection. The way the fabric hugged your curves, the way it made you feel, it was transformative. Still, a flicker of doubt crept in. What does he see in me? you wondered. Why me?

The soft knock at your door broke your thoughts. “Come in,” you called, sitting on the bed as you searched for the perfect heels.

Jungkook stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that made your skin tingle. He moved toward you, crouching gracefully as he took the shoes from your hands. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice low.

Kneeling before you, he gently slipped one heel onto your foot, then the other, his touch careful, almost reverent. His dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Perfect.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as he stood and offered his hand. “Come on, baby,” he said, his voice softening. “I have a surprise.”

﹉﹉﹉

The car ride was quiet, Jungkook’s hand resting possessively on your thigh as he drove. His thumb traced idle patterns against your skin, the touch soothing. You didn’t question where you were going, he liked his secrets, and you’d learned to trust them, even if they left you on edge.

When the car finally pulled up outside a towering glass building, you frowned slightly. The opulence of the place was undeniable, but it only heightened the unease twisting in your stomach. Sensing your hesitation, Jungkook appeared at your side, offering his arm. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his lips brushing close to your ear. “You’re with me.”

Inside, the restaurant was just as grand as the exterior promised, the air thick with the scent of truffles and candle wax. Jungkook guided you through the space with practiced ease, every head in the room turning to watch as the two of you passed.

“This is beautiful,” you admitted as you reached the table, glancing up at him. “Thank you, Jungkook.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he replied smoothly, his hand briefly brushing against yours as you sat down. “Expect more of these in the future, Princess.”

Before you could respond, the waiter appeared, a young man with a practiced smile. “Welcome to Jungsik,” he said. “I’ll be taking your order tonight.” He turned to you, his smile widening. “And may I say, you look stunning this evening.”

You forced a polite smile, glancing at Jungkook out of the corner of your eye. His jaw tightened slightly, his grip on the edge of the table subtle but telling.

“Thank you, could I please-”

“Wait,” the waiter interrupted, his expression shifting to one of surprise. “Sorry, but… you look familiar. Have we met before?”

Your heart sank as panic bubbled in your chest. “I-I don’t think so,” you stammered, but he wasn’t convinced.

“No, I’m sure of it!” he said, snapping his fingers. “Black Pearl Club! You’re one of the-”

The sound of Jungkook’s chair scraping against the floor silenced the waiter instantly. His expression darkened, and before you could stop him, he grabbed the man by the collar, his knuckles white with fury. “Say another word,” Jungkook growled, his voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

“Jungkook, stop!” you pleaded, your voice trembling as you grabbed his arm. “Please, let him go.”

He turned to you, his breathing heavy, his eyes wild. For a moment, it felt like he didn’t see you at all. Slowly, he released the waiter, who stumbled back, his face pale. “We’re leaving,” Jungkook grabbed your wrist as you left the restaurant, his grip firm but not painful, yet. His jaw was clenched, his movements brisk and purposeful. You struggled to keep up with his long strides, the cool night air biting against your skin as you stepped outside.

“Jungkook, stop!” you protested, trying to pull your arm free. “You’re overreacting!”

“Overreacting?” he hissed, spinning around to face you. The intensity in his dark eyes made your breath hitch. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened in there? What they could’ve said? To me? To you?”

“They’re just words!” you snapped, yanking your arm again. He didn’t let go.

“Words ruin reputations,” he shot back, his voice low and dangerous. “And yours is tied to mine now. Do you understand that?”

You glared at him, your chest heaving as frustration and confusion clashed within you. “I didn’t ask for this! For any of it!”

“And yet, here you are,” Jungkook growled, dragging you toward his car. “Now, get in.”

You planted your feet, resisting his pull. “No. Not until you calm down and stop talking to me like I’m a child.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might lose his composure entirely. Instead, he took a step closer, his presence suffocating, his voice dropping to a sharp, cutting whisper. “Don’t test me, Princess.”

You glared back, defiant. “Or what? You’ll drag me into the car?”

His lips curved into a smile that was anything but kind. “If that’s what it takes.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he added, “And if I do, I’ll make damn sure you stay there. Buckled in. Understand?”

Your pulse raced, his words infuriating. You wanted to fight, to shout back, but his dominance was overwhelming, leaving you feeling trapped. He straightened, his eyes locked on yours.

“Now,” he said, his voice cold but steady. “Get. In. The. Car.”

You hesitated, your gaze darting between him and the sleek black vehicle parked at the curb. Every nerve in your body screamed to defy him, but the sheer authority in his voice made you falter.

“Last chance,” he warned, stepping even closer. “Do it yourself, or I’ll do it for you.”

The challenge in his tone sent a shiver down your spine, and reluctantly, you moved toward the car. Jungkook opened the passenger door with a sharp motion, watching as you climbed in with slow, deliberate steps.

Before you could react, he leaned over, buckling your seatbelt himself. The closeness was suffocating, his movements rough but controlled. “See? That wasn’t so hard,” he murmured, his voice thick with sarcasm as he pulled back and slammed the door shut.

He rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Without a word, he started the engine, his jaw tight as his hands gripped the steering wheel.

The silence was deafening as he pulled out onto the road, the weight of his anger hanging over you like a storm waiting to break. You turned your gaze to the window, your reflection staring back at you, but you could feel his eyes flick toward you every so often, sharp and assessing.

It was going to be a long ride.

﹉﹉﹉

The car slowed to a stop, and you realized you’d arrived at his penthouse. Jungkook threw the gear into park with more force than necessary before turning to you, his gaze hard and unreadable.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly, stepping out of the car, waiting for you.

You hesitated, the thought of following him back in didn’t feel right. But as the cold night air seeped into the car, you realized you didn’t have much of a choice. Steeling yourself, you stepped out, your legs feeling unsteady beneath you.

Jungkook was waiting by the elevator, his expression unreadable but his eyes never leaving you. The tension between you felt like a live wire, crackling with energy that threatened to snap.

Inside the elevator, the silence was unbearable. Jungkook stood close, too close, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. The soft hum of the elevator only seemed to amplify the pounding of your heart.

As the doors slid open, you stepped into the penthouse, the familiarity of the space doing little to ease the unease gnawing at your chest. Jungkook didn’t say a word as he shrugged off his blazer, tossing it onto the back of the couch before running a hand through his hair.

“Jungkook,” you tried again, your voice softer now. “We need to talk.”

“Not tonight,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“But-”

“Not tonight,” he repeated, turning to face you. His expression softened just slightly, but the intensity in his eyes remained. “You need to rest, Princess. We’ll talk tomorrow, hm?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the weariness in his voice stopped you. Not knowing what to say and still shaken by the night’s events, you only nodded, your voice caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.

After finishing your bedtime routine, you sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in the softness of your pajamas, wishing the night had ended differently. The image of Jungkook’s rage at the restaurant replayed in your mind like a haunting echo. Despite everything, a part of you wanted to check on him, to ensure he was at least calmer. Quietly, you tiptoed across the cold tile floor, your heart thundering in your chest as you approached the slightly ajar door to his office.

“...Yes, Son Jiho. At Jungsik restaurant. Take care of it. I want him gone for good,” Jungkook’s voice cut through the silence, low and sharp like a blade.

Your breath caught in your throat as you peeked inside. He was seated at his desk, his phone pressed to his ear. His jaw was tense, his expression unreadable except for the cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. As he ended the call, he let out a low chuckle, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk.

You froze. Every muscle in your body tensed as the weight of his words sank in. Gone for good. The realization hit you like a cold wave, leaving your chest tight and your heart racing.

You stumbled backward, your movements slow and careful to avoid drawing his attention. Once back in your room, panic seized you. Your hands trembled as you grabbed your old backpack, throwing in clothes and essentials as quickly as possible. You couldn’t stay. Not after what you’d heard.

Changing into something practical, you peeked out of your bedroom door. The penthouse was shrouded in darkness, the silence unnervingly heavy. You tiptoed to the front door, holding your breath as you reached for the keypad. But when you typed in the code, the door didn’t budge.

Frowning, you tried again, only to be met with the same result. A sinking dread spread through you.

“Princess?”

His voice sliced through the darkness, sending a chill down your spine. Slowly, you turned to find Jungkook standing a few feet away, his figure partially illuminated by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the windows.

“Where are you off to so late at night?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with an unsettling edge as he began walking toward you.

Your mind raced for an excuse. “I-I forgot my book at the library,” you stammered, forcing a casual tone. “I need it.”

Jungkook’s gaze darkened, his steps deliberate. “Oh, really?” he murmured, his voice dropping. “So you didn’t happen to overhear me in the office earlier?”

Your stomach dropped. He knows.

Panic bubbled up as he closed the distance between you, his presence heavy. He stopped just inches away, his frame towering over you as he leaned in slightly.

“W-what happened to him?” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

Jungkook’s hand came up to your cheek, his touch deceptively gentle as his thumb brushed over your skin. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that, baby,” he cooed, his voice soft yet chilling. His dark eyes locked onto yours. “But if you really must know... he’s in a better place now.”

The smirk on his lips sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but his presence pinned you in place.

“Enough about him,” Jungkook continued, his tone shifting to something almost affectionate. “You weren’t planning on leaving me, now were you?”

You swallowed hard, your head shaking in silent denial. “No,” you whispered, the lie barely audible.

Relief softened his expression as he exhaled, his hand moving to cradle your face. “My good girl wouldn’t leave me.” His lips curled into a possessive smile. “Not that you could, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice cracking.

He tilted his head, his smile widening. “From the moment you signed that contract, you’ve belonged to me,” he said simply, his voice both calm and dominant.

Your heart skipped a beat as you took a step back, but his grip tightened, keeping you in place. “What? No, Jungkook, I-”

“I’m the only one who can look after you!” he snapped, his frustration boiling to the surface. “I was the only one who helped you when no one else did. You need me.”

His voice rose, but he quickly paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “All you need to know,” he said, his voice eerily calm now, “is that you’re mine. I’m never letting you go, and the sooner you accept that, the better it will be for you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you nodded slowly, too afraid to argue. “I... I understand,” you choked out.

Jungkook’s features softened, a pleased smile spreading across his face. “There’s my good girl,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You must be tired huh,” he said, frowning, his tone gentler now, though his grip remained firm.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go to our room and get ready for the night.”

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