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arabellasleopardcoat · 8 months

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Capital (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

Warnings: Mature language, sexual thoughts, canon typical violence.

Requested: Yes! But since I am particular about my aesthetic, I didn't answer there. Jealousy + arranged marriage. Brought to you by the seven deadly sins.

Gluttony /ˈɡlʌtəni/

the habit of eating and drinking too much.

Claw Island is as good as getting vanished from the court. You know it. Your Lord husband knows it. Even the tenants know it. Why else would the King order your marriage to Daemon Targaryen?

It was not as much of a punishment as the King had hoped. The Celtigars are a prestigious family, one of the few left with Valyrian blood. While not ones to flaunt their riches or seek for great power, you led a luxurious lifestyle.

The finest wines. Myrish rugs. The newest books. And of course, the riches from the surrounding sea. Beautiful pearls, a fleet that, while small, sailed with speed. The best foods.

The small island was your perfect little world, sequestered away from the troubles of the mainland. What else could a person long for, when they lived in a paradise? Claw Island had it all. Miles and miles of tempestuous sea, soft sands and gorgeous wildlife not seen anywhere else. Humble, but good people. Natural riches enough to last a lifetime.

But as of late, your breathtaking lands did nothing to bring you peace. Sometimes, in truth, as you walked along the shoreline, you wished for a tremendous sea wave to swallow you whole.

It would be better than this. Among the crabs, the sea life and wreckage of old ships, you would feel at ease. At home, even. And finally, finally untroubled. But things were not as you wanted them to be. With your Lord Father at court, someone had to mind the island. And no one knew the lands as you did.

You shuddered to think of something happening to you. In that case, the island, and its people, would go to your husband. Considering how much he hated it here, Prince Daemon would make a poor ruler.

You glare. He glares right back. Remembering your manners, you serve him a cut of spider crab seared in butter. The meal is rich and decadent, a show of the best Claw Island has to offer.

“Crab, Lady Wife?” Daemon raises both eyebrows. “Again?”

“What else does the Prince wish to eat?” You do your best effort at keeping your tone even. You try hard to not raise your voice at him, remembering the rumors about what happened to his last wife. So far, it seems to be working. Despite being older than you, the man behaves as a child. You have found he benefits from being managed as one, too.

Ever since you got married, he has been desperately trying to rile you up. The Prince always seemed to deflate when you refused to engage. He was clearly itching for a fight, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“You seem too willing to indulge in cannibalism for my tastes.” Daemon, in what he surely believed to be the absolute demonstration of cutting wit, smirks. You smile at him, sedate. You have heard enough remarks about crabs to last a lifetime. “It’s worrying.”

You could answer him. Perhaps make a mockery of his inability to perform in bed and the behavior of the female praying mantis. You do not. Instead, you force yourself to give him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry. I will ask the servants to bring you fish.” You took your napkin out of your lap and placed it on the table. Dutifully, you rang the bell to call for a servant.

“Again?” Daemon complained, sounding much like a petulant child. You smiled and went back to your seat. Your crab was getting cold, and it would most likely be by the time your husband’s fish was served. But good manners dictated you could not start eating without him. You resigned yourself to another night of eating a cold dinner.

“You should write to the King, my Prince. I would serve you venison, were it not for the fact that your dragon has nearly extincted the population here.” While you were by no means poor, feeding a dragon was an expense you didn’t care for, especially one so picky as Daemon’s was showing to be.

While a dragon was a marvelous creature, and having one guarding your lands was a great perk, it was also hard. Caraxes ate the same as five grown men in a day, if not more. He didn’t eat just anything you served him, either. Much like his owner, he was picky. He had come with dragon keepers, and needed to be built a shelter.

You had hoped that his serpentine appearance would mean that he would eat a lot in one sitting, then hibernate, but no such luck. Your island couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard you tried. Animals didn’t reproduce at the pace required.

“Of course, my Lady. Of course.” Daemon says, in a dismissive tone. It’s then, when a servant comes in with his fish.

Your crab is cold. Again. Daemon is not pleased with the fish, but seems wary of extending dinner even more. For once, he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is eaten silently. In your head, you make plans for tomorrow's meals. Perhaps oysters, served cold, will withstand the wait better. You finish dinner and settle down to read some before bed.

When the time comes for it, you close your book. Daemon departs with a cold kiss to your cheek. You go to your bed, just as cold and empty as the kiss was, and fall asleep.

It’s around the witch's hour when he comes back to you, getting into the bed next to you. He stinks of cheap perfumes and oils. As he pulls you closer, to be able to hide his face on your neck, you can feel the smell of sex and alcohol induced sweat. It comes from the clothes Daemon hasn’t even bothered to shed before getting in bed with you.

You don’t like him drunk. He gets sloppy. You do better when he hides his indiscretions, the proofs of your failure as a woman. As a wife. He seeks his pleasure from other bodies, never yours. With you, he is unable to perform to completion.

Perhaps the same happens to him with others, on nights like these. That thought soothes you, and it’s the only reason why you allow Daemon to seek comfort in your arms. Sometimes, he has nightmares. It’s expected then, too, that you are the one to soothe him back to sleep.

Shifting in his grip, you rub his back, gently. You card your other hand through the matted strands of blonde hair, as a mother would do to his child. In many ways, you guess he is one. You pity him, your husband. A man with a void so deep, not even all the vices in the world could fill it.

You are unable to fall back asleep. You lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you hear the rooster’s first crow, you roll out of bed. Sleep is not coming for you. Daemon, unperturbed in his slumber, only sprawls more. You tuck him in.

When you get to your vanity, you catch the servants leaving the correspondence for the day on it. She giggles when you point at the bed and the mess of clothes, gesturing for silence. It makes you feel better, that they think your husband comes from the pleasure houses straight into your arms for more than just cuddles.

One of the letters catches your eye. It’s written in the strange alphabet used for High Valyrian, bearing both the royal seal and the King’s name. You don’t mean to pry. In fact, you open it because you are worried your husband has upset his brother even more.

Marriage is like being tied to a ship. When the tides are good and the ship strong, you soar above the sea. But no one wants to be tied to a sinking ship. It’s that fear what leads you to heating a knife on your candle’s flame and lifting the seal.

You read as you brush your hair, unrushed. You know Daemon won’t be awake for at least six more hours. But the more you advance, skipping polite greeting, the more your stomach sinks, and you jump from sentence to sentence.

“And while I understand your dislike of Claw Island, it is a less harsh punishment than you deserve. Much you complained of wanting a Valyrian bride, and now the opportunity presents itself, ripe for the taking. Yet, you do not seem keen on it. Is it, again, the lack of a throne you find off-putting? Perhaps, the lack of a child bride you can manipulate? Your Lady Wife might not have purple eyes or silver hair, as you mention, but she is a maiden in the bloom of youth. Tales of her beauty have graced the court, shared among the eager mouths of her family and previous suitors. Both Lord Velaryon and Lord Mooton agree that the woman is a delight, well-mannered and easy on the eyes. She has impeccable breeding and education. I will not grant you the annulment. I will not allow you to go back to your whore.”

There is a coppery taste in your mouth. Blood, you realize. From biting your tongue so hard to avoid letting out a scream of rage. It feels like being stabbed, countless times. In your back, and in your heart. Betrayal and deep, hurtful sorrow.

What have you done to deserve this? To be blindsided so? You have stood firm through all the humiliations your husband puts you through. Never once reproaching the way he goes out after dinner and does not come back until sunrise. Never complaining of his audacity to search comfort in your arms when he is drunk and stinking of whores. Never once raising your voice at the insults to your people, your home, your family.

But for Daemon Targaryen, it wasn’t enough. You would never be enough. Childishly, when you had first heard of your betrothal to him, you had hoped for companionship, if not love. At least, you thought, you would have a friend. But you hadn’t been enough of a woman to keep him in your bed, you had not been enough of the blood of Old Valyria for him to give you children, and you had not been enough for him to stay married to you.

He took from you, and took from your island and from your family, and not once was he satisfied. Not once, he was sated. And now, Daemon has done the unspeakable. Not satisfied with making a mockery out of you, with his constant unfaithfulness, he seeks to ruin you further. It’s only King Viserys who protects you and your family from further embarrassment.

You have underestimated him, pitying him while he planned your demise. The ruin of your house. You have been sharing your bed with the enemy. The thought frightens you and fills you with anger at equal parts. What will happen, when the King dies and the awful Princess with whom your husband was so taken ascends? Will you be put to the sword, accused of an imaginary crime to get you out of the way? Treason, perhaps? Hands shaking in anger, you fold the letter and reseal it as carefully as you can.

That is the day you decide you will retreat into your shell, like any good crab. You will close yourself over, put up walls and keep him as far away as you can. And you will wait for the day to stab at his heels until his physique reflects exactly the useless kind of man he is inside.

One day, this man might kill you. You will have to make sure he does not get away with it.

Envy /ˈenvi/

the feeling of wanting to be in the same situation as somebody else; the feeling of wanting something that somebody else has.

It’s not often you are summoned to the court. But your father is about to be named Keeper of the Keys, a prestigious position often held by members of your house before being promoted to Master of Coin. The implication is clear. Soon, another Celtigar will be handling the finances of the Kingdom. It’s a ploy, to intertwine you further with the Royal Family. As soon as King Viserys dies, it will be your father who serves on Princess Rhaenyra’s council.

Hence, the need for a celebration. Traveling from Claw Island to King’s Landing is exhausting, especially considering that you do the journey by ship while your husband does so in his dragon. He seems overjoyed about it, but you can only think of how much the separate travel is costing your purses.

Daemon arrives early, because of course he does. Meanwhile, you spend your time preparing to put on the play of your life. You must be the most dutiful wife in the Seven Kingdoms, or else he might find a reason to get rid of you. Setting apart your most fashionable dresses, preparing gifts for the King and Queen and otherwise looking radiant.

Knowing Daemon, he is already whispering poison in his brother’s ear. You need to dazzle the King and the whole court, convince them you are not only an adequate wife but a perfect one. No stain must be perceived in your reputation.

You arrive punctually, just in time to prepare for the feast. It’s inside the Hall where you meet Daemon, and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, but affectionate, performed under the King’s approving look. You are radiant in your house’s colors, with subtle references to Targaryen’s ones.

The feast is torture. Viserys, Daemon and Rhaenyra are all seated at the same table. They get along wondrously, while you, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor are ignored despite being next to them.

The only thing that calms your heart is watching your father, sitting at the table of the Master of Coin.

“My Queen.” You say to her, hoping to curry favor. The Gods knew you needed as many allies as you could. “I brought you this.”

You take out a beautifully engraved rendition of the Prayers Book. It’s a gorgeous edition, with a gold finish. You hope that at least, if she doesn’t like it, she would think it is a gift to the babe she carries. It’s a thoughtful gift, the kind of thing you excel at.

“Oh, Lady Targaryen!” The Queen says, and takes it, admiring it in the light. Fortunately, she seems truly charmed by it. “It is the most wonderful thing!”

“I have one myself.” You tell her, as if you had not purchased it for exactly this moment. “When I heard you were from Oldtown, I couldn’t think of a better thing to bring.”

“It’s lovely.” Alicent says, as your husbands ignore both of you. Viserys and Daemon are too busy having their fun to care about what women are doing. “Will you join me in prayer tomorrow?”

“I would be delighted to.” It’s the first genuine smile you wear since your arrival. And it’s the first time that someone from the royal family smiles back.

You do attempts towards Rhaenyra and Laenor. They both ignore you, and so, you decide to keep strictly to conversing with Alicent. You decide to leave Viserys out of it, despite your gratitude to him because you would rather not look like much of a sycophant.

Your happiness at finally making a friend between your in-laws makes you oblivious to Daemon’s silence. During the whole dinner, he barely taunts you. None of the crab-based insults he so favors are present, either. That should have warned you. If you have learned something about your husband is that there is never a time when he is quiet.

He bides his time. The desserts are already served when Daemon delivers his greatest insult up to date. Some couples are even swaying to the rhythm of the music already, no matter if the tables have yet to be cleared.

“I wish to dance, I think.” Daemon says, getting up from his seat. You start to get up too, knowing you cannot refuse him, but he turns towards Rhaenyra. “A dance, niece?”

Rhaenyra preens under the attention and takes his hand. For a second, you stay frozen, hand falling uselessly by your side just when you were about to reach for him. You feel like you are being stabbed. Again.

The humiliation is so great you wish for some great disaster, perhaps one of the couples bumping against a table and overturning it, just to get the attention away from you. Half the hall has now seen you get rejected by your husband. In a celebration meant to honor your father, nonetheless.

You struggle to keep your face emotionless, curved into a polite little smile. You have made a fool of yourself. Hot tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Noticing your despair, Alicent places a hand on your arm, softly.

“Thank you, Lady Targaryen.” She exclaims, loudly. “With the babe getting bigger and bigger every day, I find it harder to stand. You are very thoughtful.”

Her rescue, as she stands and walks down the dais, helps you save face. Your smile turns more genuine.

“It’s but good breeding, my Queen.” You answer, just as loud. “What kind of noble could see a Lady of your station and not aid her?”

Alicent smiles, and she cradles her stomach.

“Indeed. Only a savage, I would think.” Her glance at her own husband is unmistakable. But Viserys is too busy watching Rhaenyra and Daemon dance to help his pregnant wife. His eyes never leave his brother and daughter, his expression twisted into one of annoyance.

Alicent makes her way towards a table where a few knights sit. Most of them are from Oldtown, and you cannot help but smile at her doing the rounds her husband so neglects. But her rescue, and quick exit, leave you in an uncomfortable position. King Viserys and Ser Laenor are engaged in conversation, including you only when they remember your presence, which means once every half an hour.

Without Queen Alicent, you have no conversation partner. The only thing you can do is watch. Daemon twirls around the room as if he were not a married man, taking every eligible bachelorette in the room for at least one dance. He is enchanting, pulling blushes left and right. He dances twice with Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon.

You play your part to perfection. Each time he glances your way, you give him an indulgent smile or a sweet tilt of your head. Even when he dances again with Rhaenyra, your expressions don't shift. Instead, you lift your cup to them and even find it in yourself to give a small clap.

It’s torture. It’s exhausting, having to play the devoted but never jealous wife, when he is doing his best to embarrass you. Finally, the King retires, but orders that the celebrations do not stop. You consider making your way towards your father, uncaring if leaving Laenor sitting on his own is rude.

Just as you are getting up, a knight, dressed in a fine green gambeson, steps in front of you. You look up at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

His voice is soft and eloquent, with the barest hint of an accent. His voice reminds you of someone, but you cannot quite place who.

“Lady Targaryen. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” You answer him, politely. Is he about to ask you for a dance? Is this a ploy for your husband to embarrass you further?

The knight smiles. He is tall and slender, very different from your husband, yet handsome just the same.

“If I had a wife as pretty as you, she wouldn’t be sitting here.” He compliments, and startles a laugh out of you. It has been months since the last time a man complimented you so. Before marrying, you had quite the suitors, but no one dared practice courtly love with the Rogue Prince’s wife. And your husband never once spoke to you kindly.

It’s a thrill, to feel wanted and appreciated again. You love having his eyes on you. It fills you with a forgotten kind of confidence. As the daughter of the man whose star in court is rising, as a beautiful woman and as the wife of a Prince, you deserve to be admired. It’s not your fault your husband can’t see it, you are desirable. People should be currying for your favor. You shouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a man whose only interest is his niece.

“Would she be on the dance floor?” You tease the knight, falling back into the practiced flirtations that had made you so popular before. You feel like you are glowing again.

The knight shakes his head, a hint of mischief appearing in his brown eyes.

“I would forbid her from leaving my chambers.”

At that, you laugh again, blushing. Despite how charming he is, you are still a married woman. You cannot give anyone reason to suspect or judge you, else Daemon might have basis to rid himself of you.

“I am not your wife.” You say, politely. The knight gasps, as if wounded, making you laugh again. You do not realize someone is glaring daggers at you, entranced as you are by him. “But perhaps a dance might suffice?”

The knight gives you a cheeky grin. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently.

As he leads you towards the dance floor, you barely notice Daemon looking disgruntled on the edge of it. You look over and see Rhenyra dancing with some tall and broad knight. He is probably jealous of him.

“You must give me your favor, for tomorrow's tournament. We are, after all, celebrating your family.” The knight says, making you focus back on him. His eyes are brown and kind, so soft. They remind you of someone, but once again, you can’t tell who.

“Ah, I see you are a tough negotiator.” You tease, your tone turning slightly more girlish. This time, it is the knight who laughs.

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.” The man winks, as he starts to twirl you around.

“I think, my lord, you have yourself a deal.” You grin.

It’s only when a Hightower knight approaches the stands the next day and offers you his lanze, you realize the mistake you have made.

Wrath /ræθ/

extreme anger.

Daemon can’t believe his ears. Out of nowhere, a sweet sound reaches him. It’s the sound of a Lady’s laughter, but something about it makes him turn his head.

Perhaps, the fact that the sound has managed to catch his attention at all, despite the loud music, chatter and other laughs. Perhaps it is that the sound is familiar to him. He doesn’t know what it is, but as the piece finishes, he steps aside and tries searching for the source.

It’s then he sees you. His wife. Glowing and laughing on that Hightower cunt’s arm. And no, it’s not Alicent he is referring to. Otto’s spawn seems to have a proclivity for you because this is the other one. The elder.

Gwayne. His hands all over you, a gentle touch to your lower back to guide you forward. And are your eyes brightening? For him? As you pass by Daemon, you barely spare him a glance. He manages to hear a piece of the conversation.

“Your favor, for tomorrow's tournament…” The man has the gall to ask, as if he could win you the flower crown! The nerve of that Hightower pup, to think himself able to win. It’s clear he doesn’t remember the last time he faced Daemon, and while he was already planning on entering, now he knows with absolute certainty he is competing. Gwayne Hightower seems to have forgotten his lesson. He needs to remember his place.

“… Tough negotiator…” Your cheerful voice answers. Probably telling him he has to win if you do so because you are Valyrian and proud like him. Surely, the idea of getting crowned Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you. You want a flower crown? Daemon will get you the damn thing.

When he was no more than a boy, his father used to have a particularly overzealous hound. Daemon had taken great delight in setting him free just when ladies were visiting. The dog loved sniffing beneath the ladies' skirts and humping their legs. The whole scene often ended up with Daemon getting yelled at, either by the ladies or their husbands. Now, as he looked at the proverbial dog humping his wife, Daemon understood why the ladies' husbands were so enraged.

He should cut his hands. Hightowers. No sense of shame at all, with their whorish ways. They were all the same. There went Alicent, throwing herself at Viserys when poor Aemma was not even in her pyre. There went Gwayne Hightower, placing his paws all over you and trying to charm you when Daemon was still in the room.

Couldn’t he tell you are his? It’s not that Daemon likes you, but it’s an affront to his honor. You are the wife of a Prince. The mere fact that a measly knight thought he could compare it’s outrageous. And the fact that he dared touch you! The nerve!

It’s Daemon who shares your bed, back in Claw Island. It’s Daemon you hold during the night, who pays for your silly little dresses. It’s for him you have clearly gotten all pretty today. How dare he, that Hightower fool.

He can’t have you. Gwayne Hightower is not allowed to just swoop in and try to steal his woman. You are meant to sleep by his side, be his solace. You are not the kind of woman for whom a simple knight would be enough. Just like him, you love the lush life. Could Gwayne Hightower buy you a dress like that? Could he use a dragon to protect your little island?

Daemon clutches at his cup so hard, he thinks he might bend the metal. You are his bride. He is the only one allowed to have you. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean someone else can.

Rhaenyra approaches him again, no doubt wanting another dance. But not even her allure, which is usually so hypnotizing to him, manages to get him out of his bad mood. He hates when other people touch what is his.

Daemon decides to retire for the night, before she can reach him. He needs to think. How he longs for your shared rooms back at Claw Island. At least that way, he wouldn’t spend the night tossing and turning, wondering if the Hightower cunt escorted you back to your rooms, and if so, at which hour.

Strange, isn’t it? Such a small act can cause such a big shift in perspective. So many months, he had spent thinking of Claw Island a prison, longing to be able to come back to court. Now, he sees it as it was. A shell made to protect the most valuable pearl the sea had produced.

Had Daemon known men at court would try to steal his bride, he would have never authorized this trip. Your father could have been named Hand, but you would have never stepped foot outside your castle if Daemon had known. You would not be taken with Gwayne Hightower if he had a say in it.

He had a plan. The knight would make a fool out of himself. Daemon just had to encourage him in the right direction.

Daemon is up and about as soon as the sun is. He strolls towards the space prepared for the tournament, armor in hand. He changes slowly, giving plenty of time for Gwayne Hightower to arrive.

The foolish knight does. So do you, sitting next to your father in the stands, all pretty and glowy under the sun. You wear a red gown that compliments not only your skin tone, but pays homage to both of your houses. After all, both House Targaryen and Celtigar have red on their coats of arms. A clear show that you were meant to be his, and his alone. What would you even look like, if you were married to a Hightower fool? Red and green would look hideous in a dress.

As the highest-ranking competitor, Daemon gets to make the first challenge. To no one’s surprise, he picks Gwayne Hightower.

Daemon waits with bated breath, already seated on his horse. Does the man dare? Oh, he dares! The Hightower cunt gallops towards the stands. You don’t rise, looking towards the Hightower whore. It’s then he realizes you must be truly innocent. You are either doubting the boldness of the man or are not aware of his house, and do not recognize him under the armor.

But as Gwayne Hightower reaches the stand, Daemon close on his heels, he takes off his helmet. You gasp.

The Hightower whore makes a move as if to get up. Her brother’s voice cuts her off.

“I was hoping to get a sign of your favor, my Lady.” The man says to you, and your eyes widen. You stand, shakily. You look at Daemon, then at the cunt, then at him, then back at the cunt. Daemon arches an eyebrow, visor lifted. “For you have already struck me with your beauty, and the fact that you cannot be mine. Allow me the consolation of placing a crown of flowers upon you, and soothe my wounded heart.”

You gasp at the bold declaration. Daemon has to admit it, the cunt has some nerve. Not only has he praised you in ways that are too bold even for a couple courting, but he has slighted Daemon in front of the whole court. He has made explicit mention of your marriage to him.

Viserys eyes him warily. Daemon scoffs. The distrust is unnecessary. Why would he slaughter the Hightower now, when he has the chance to plummet him into the ground without consequences in just a few minutes? Besides, it would be in bad taste, slaughtering the brother of his sister-in-law.

Your father urges you forward, with a forced laugh. You grasp one of the favors from your box, which has only two, and place it upon the Hightower’s lanze. The pretty ribbons sway in the wind. White and red from House Celtigar proudly displayed.

Daemon clears his throat, and presents his own lanze.

“How touching.”

You ignore him, as Rhaenyra approaches. Surely thinking how he will want to wear her favor, after his rejection of last night. Curse him, Daemon thinks. He should have danced with you. If he had known that up jumped son of a rat was going to try his luck, you would have not left Daemon’s arms the whole night.

“Thank you, niece. But today I fancy wearing my wife’s favor. For it would be a shame for her to be lacking her crown once her champion undoubtedly disappoints.” He loudly declares, uncaring if his niece’s face falls. Rhaenyra will get over it. But this has turned into a manhood competition. He can’t let Gwayne Hightower, of all people, win.

“Can I do that?” Daemon hears you whisper towards Viserys and his whore. “Can I have two champions fighting each other?”

Viserys, as if this is the most fun he has had in a while, answers cheerfully.

“Of course, my dear girl.” It probably is the most fun he has had in a while. Really. It must be very amusing to him, after hearing Daemon complain about you for months. Who would have known he would have to fight some Hightower for your attention? Laughable, really. A Prince groveling. “Double the chances for you to get the flower crown, is it not?”

“Of course.” Your father jumps in, clearly trying to prevent a scandal. “Go on, love. Give the other one to your husband. If more are needed, we will get more ribbons.”

You approach Daemon, pretty little favor on your delicate hands. You smile at him, pleasantly. But this close, he can tell you are shaken by the power play happening right in front of your eyes.

Daemon lowers his lanze as you stretch to place your ribbons. You give him a confused and hurt look. He stretches closer.

“Save that one.” Daemon says, as he places a hand on your hair and pulls out the red ribbon that holds it back. “I’m your husband, I get some privileges.”

His gesture makes you laugh. Daemon feels on top of the world. He gives a superior glance to the Hightower cunt, as if saying: Look at me, I do not need half your effort and get double the results.

Daemon is not so deluded as to think the laugh is more than half nervousness and half playing the part of the dutiful wife you are, but to Daemon is still a win. He can see why the other lords want you. With your hair loose, smiling and with your skin glowing from the sun, you are actually quite pretty.

He ties the ribbon around the pommel of the lanze.

“A kiss, for good luck?” Daemon knows he is pushing, but cannot help but be smug. His pretty wife gave him her hair ribbon to tie around his chosen weapon, for all the court to see. Smugness radiates out of his pores.

Without any expectation, the sweet peck you give him is even more of a delight. Even more sweet is the disgruntled look on Gwayne Hightower's face.

Safe to say, the man gets unseated so fast, it has to be the quickest defeat ever registered. The crunch he makes as he falls from his horse it’s the most satisfying sound Daemon has ever heard. The crowd gasps and cheers. The man does not get up.

That will teach him, he decides. Gwayne Higtwoer will never again even look your way. Daemon turns his horse back around, ready to face his next opponent, but it’s stopped by the pages.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower has requested to continue with the sword.” At that, his blood boils. He nearly jumps off his horse, discarding the lanze and unsheathing Dark Sister.

“What will it be, boy? First blood?” He saunters towards the man, and the sight of him this close only serves to anger him more. He shares Otto’s slender build, tall and slight. In Hightower armor, he even looks like him. Daemon is going to enjoy this.

“Why stop there?” The knight asks, hatefully. “Until one of us yields.”

“As you wish.” Daemon charges, forgoing his shield. He is just too angered for politeness. This is not jousting anymore, it’s his hate for Higtowers, and the fact that this man has tried to take something that’s his. He should have never looked your way. Never. And if it’s up to Daemon, perhaps he will leave the arena without the ability to repeat the feat.

The fight is quick and dirty, but even when he has disarmed and cornered him, Gwayne Higtower refuses to yield.

“What are you..?” Daemon asks, utterly confused because the little savage is grabbing Dark Sister with gauntled hands and pulling.

“Just as marriage is not an excuse for not loving…” He grins, teeth bared in a feral little grin, and Daemon lets go of his sword in surprise at the boldness of the fool. “No weapon is no excuse for yielding.”

He loses it, then. Later, he will only remember red. Daemon throws himself at him and starts punching him, until the asshole goes limp on his arms and has to be pulled away from him.

Only the fact that the Hightower fought back is what allows him to keep participating in the tournament, instead of being exiled again. The split lip and bleeding eyebrow do serve to build a case in his favor.

He wins the tournament without any opposition. With bloody hands, he places the flower crown on your head. Your horrified look is not as satisfactory as he would have thought.

Pride /praɪd/

the feeling that you are better or more important than other people.

Daemon manages to get a hold of you before you vacate the stands. You are trying to avoid the crowds, waiting patiently in your seat. He doesn’t allow it, urging you towards his chambers with a firm grip on your wrist.

Some other ladies titter and giggle, pointing towards the two of you. No doubt, they think he is about to ravish you. They are not wrong.

It’s not often Daemon feels desire for you. In truth, while you have a pretty mouth and a soft body, you do little for him. But today, you are enchanting. The flower crown still sits atop of your windswept hair, making you look like a forest nymph. There are a few red stains along your temple, left there by Daemon’s hands when he placed the crown on top of your hair.

Never has there been a woman more deserving of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. As you walk with him down the halls, he feels a smug sort of satisfaction. Here is the woman half the court wants, Daemon wants to scream. Here is my wife.

The feeling is not unfamiliar to him, but it is in relation to you. His possessive nature so far has only extended towards members of his house. The lust is new, too. Daemon has experimented it many times, but never towards whom he should.

As soon the door closes after you, he kisses you forcefully, only for you to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” You ask, as you spit out some of his blood. You are remarkably strong, having been able to push him while still in armor. But what shocks him the most is the fact that you did it at all. Months of marriage and you have done nothing but smile, regardless of what Daemon does.

“Shh, Lady Wife. Nothing unusual, I assure you.” He pulls you back in, kissing along your neck. This time, you push him even harder.

Daemon stumbles and blinks, hard. Are you rejecting him? He sits down on the bed and takes off his helmet. He has beaten the Hightower fool half to death and won you the silly flower crown. Why would you reject him?

“You prefer him, don't you?” That has to be the answer, surely. You must be having an affair with the cunt. Why else would you reject him? It’s not allowed. While Daemon is not particularly keen on forcing you, you are his wife. He has a right to your body, and you shouldn’t deny him. You know it. Never before have you refused him, due to the same reason. So this must be something else.

“What nonsense are you on, now?” You barely lift your eyes from your work, busy with pouring some water in a bowl and taking out clean linens. Efficiently, as if a seasoned healer, and not a soft lady from Claw Island, you rip them apart.

“Don’t play daft, wife.” Daemon reproaches, scowling. Your innocent act is starting to tire him. You can’t possibly believe him so dumb. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“If this is about Ser Gwayne…” You start and he feels the urge to scream. He can’t help but cut you off.

“Of course it is! Of course it is about that fucking Hightower.” Daemon’s voice goes high-pitched, imitating yours. “Ser, Ser.” He rolls his eyes. “How easily they hand titles now. Is every scum in this realm a knight?”

Your face doesn’t even twitch. That is one of the things about you that drive him to insanity. No matter what Daemon says, he never seems to get a reaction. It’s infuriating. You are all manners and dimples, even in the face of the most vile insults he throws your way. You either have no honor, letting him stomp all over you, or you think him right. Pathetic. Even the Bronze Bitch bit back.

His nostrils flare. Softly, you step between his parted legs and dab at the cut on his brow with a soaked linen. Ever dutiful.

“You do know adultery is a crime.” Daemon says, in a low, threatening tone. You give him a pleasant smile, squeezing water out of the cloth. It runs red and fast down your wrist.

“So is incest.” Your voice is far too cheerful for someone who just got accused of a crime that’s punishable by death if he so chooses. And not only that, but you have the nerve to threaten him.

“I am a Targaryen.” Daemon practically growls. You glare at him. He should be angry, but instead, his loins seem to heat up. Who can fault him? Any man would feel the urge to take you over and over, when faced with those eyes and those lashes.

Surely, after it, you would understand you were his and not Gwayne Hightower’s. It was not such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a lesser man would have trouble with it, but not Daemon. Give him ten minutes between your legs and you would be singing his praises.

“And I am a Celtigar.” His pause has allowed you enough time to form a retort. You press down on the cut on his brow with a viciousness that startles him. Daemon winces in pain. No getting distracted, he notes. Less you murder him when he is not paying attention. “To stifle the blood flow.” You explain, but Daemon can see the bloodlust in your eyes. You want him to hurt. The past few months have not gone in vain, it appears.

“Mine, you are mine.” He replies, gruffly.

You let go of the cloth, hands on your hips. Your mouth opens and closes, astonished.

“You don’t have any right to speak those words to me.” How he longs to grab you and show you exactly who is in charge. There you are, screaming! You! The woman who Daemon doubted knew how to make sounds louder than polite conversation. “Am I not the bride you never wanted? Your chain? Well then, sail free. Go!” You scream, and Daemon needs to pick his jaw off the floor because never has he seen you this angry.

Are you screaming at him? He feels the urge to pinch himself, to see if he is dreaming. But the way you are pointing your finger towards the door seems very real. Still a bit confused by the sudden personality change, Daemon does not obey.

It feels like a dream. Like stepping into a parallel world. The words that come out of his mouth are spoken by a stranger, and he can only watch as you turn more and more furious.

“No. Come here.” Daemon grabs at your gown, trying to pull you into him. He doesn’t really know what he is going to do if you budge. Place you in his lap and placate you with a kiss? He doesn’t get to find out. Grabbing you has clearly been the wrong move.

You slip out of his grip with a harsh jerk. Daemon is not as young as he used to be, but the sight makes his lust bubble up. You are alluring when angry, all passionate lines, and bloody temples. Valyrian, in a way you had never been before, with your darker coloring and soft manners. Yet, when mad? You are a conqueror goddess made flesh.

“No! I will not. I am not yours. We might be married but I will…” You stomp your foot at him, all angry little crab. For the first time, he sees fire in you.

Such a shame this is the moment you chose to grow a spine. He couldn’t understand where you had been all this time. So many months wasted with the meek little wife, when he could have had you instead.

Why had you decided to show you had a personality now, of all times? It was not fair, if it was for that Hightower cunt.

“Why Gwayne Hightower? Out of all the men on earth?” Daemon mutters, clearly not low enough because you answer him.

“This is not about Gwayne Hightower.” You glare, crown of flowers balancing precariously on top of your head. As you move, a few petals fall down. Angry little dryad that you are, you bat them away.

“If not, what is it about?”

“You!” You scream at him. It’s hateful, it's rage filled, it’s everything you are usually not. A true Valyrian goddess, letting mere mortals feel her might. Daemon would have enjoyed the display more if he wasn’t the mortal in question. “I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be looked at as someone who was desirable. Do you know how I have felt? Begging for scraps of attention, trying to make this work?”

“Wife…” He pleads because now there are tears in your eyes, and while Daemon doesn’t do begging, he doesn’t do comforting either.

“Do not call me that! Didn’t you petition for an annulment?” And how had you found out about that? While he had not been exactly secretive with his correspondence, he didn’t believe you to be proficient in High Valyrian. He has no time to ponder on it because you intend to go further. “Well, you are in luck! I will make my own request!”

“Viserys will not allow it.” Even if Daemon has to go beg him on his knees to not grant it, you are not annulling this marriage. Not when he is just starting to see the real you.

“Fine! Then I am going back to Claw Island. Stay here.” You scream, and you look so determined it scares him. For a second, he actually thinks you have the power to ban him from the island and force him to stay, giving you plenty of time to receive visitors. Male visitors, all surrounding you, courting you, as if he were already dead and not just exiled.

“Look. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” Daemon offers, in his most pleading tone. He has not apologized since… Gods. He barely remembers how to do it.

“You made me forget I deserved more than scraps.” You laugh at him, as his first apology to someone in more than ten years is the funniest joke existing. Then, enraged. “It will be a cold day in the Seven Hells, when I give you another chance.”

Hurt. He realizes, as you throw the flower crown at his feet and slam the door. Hurt. You are hurt, not angry. He has done the worst thing a man can do to a woman. Damage her pride.

Lust lʌst/

very strong sexual desire, especially when love is not involved.

Much to your dismay, every time you try to speak alone to the King, you are swiftly intercepted. If it’s not Corlys Velaryon asking you to help him pick a book in the library, it’s your Lord Father summoning you to his chambers. It seems like the whole palace is in it because even Princess Rhaenys asks you to stroll with her through the gardens when you lurk too close to Viserys’s chambers.

Daemon was smarter than you thought. He had taken to using your own weapons against you. The need to be polite kept you from rejecting all these new invitations, and so, you often ended up stuck an entire afternoon with nonsensical plans.

As time passes, your rage starts to subside. Much to your disgust, it morphs into shame. You cannot believe how you lost control in front of Daemon. Everything you have worked so hard on could vanish for a single afternoon pf foolishness.

You would rather not be his enemy. When the time comes for the two of you to go back to Claw Island, Gwayne Hightower is still bedridden, despite it already being days. Daemon is a dangerous man to cross.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. In fact, your husband has never been more attentive. With the talent of existing just at the right moment, Daemon appears at your side each time there is a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled.

“No one has ever seen him like this.” Queen Alicent marvels, as he watches him go fetch you a blanket in case the room is too cold for your liking. “Whatever you did to him…”

“Nothing, I assure you.” You answer, sternly. You don’t want her getting funny ideas, like that you are dabbling in witchery or the Seven knows what. It’s not something you can afford. Already balancing on a tightrope after the fight, any accusation could be your ruin. You do not trust Daemon’s change of heart. He is probably just biding his time.

Noticing something is amiss, Daemon comes back with the blanket, wrapping it around you. Alicent falls quiet.

Daemon stares at you, his hands lingering on your back more than necessary. He seems to be taking you in. His eyes fixate on your bosom a tad too long before you realize what he is doing, and you cover yourself more with the blanket.

Your cheeks heat up. You cough. Alicent’s brows raise.

“You are so beautiful, wife.” Daemon says, a bit dumbly.

“And you are a fool.” Your response is heated, and stupid, too. But you feel too embarrassed to care. Alicent is still sitting there, with a scandalized look on her face. Anyone would be ashamed to be the object of such obvious ogling, much less when they have never been exposed to it.

You are unused to this side of your husband. At most, when trying to consummate, Daemon would glance at you with disdain and proclaim it was all your fault. His eyes would never watch the heaving of your chest as you breathed, or the sway of your skirts when you walked. Were you superstitious, you would have thought him a man possessed.

Daemon laughs, either at your comment or your expression. It’s good, you suppose. At least he has not taken offense. You would have thought he would be angered, never one to suffer affronts to his pride without reacting.

“Your fool.” He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead, before walking away.

You stare at him. Alicent stares at you. Neither says anything. You are not sure what to make of it. It’s strange. It’s him now, who serves you dinner. The choicest cuts of meat, the sweetest of wines and meads, never asking for anything in exchange.

He has gotten unusually affectionate. Or possessive. Whatever it’s going through his mind, you don’t know. Daemon has never been open about his thoughts and feelings with you, unless they stem from displeasure.

Perhaps it’s a burst of boastfulness. He flaunts you, a hand on your waist, lower arm, whatever he can get away with. He is suddenly interested in the dresses you wear, commenting on them and gifting you new ones just because he thinks they would suit you. You do not miss the fact that the dresses are always in his house’s colors or styles he personally favors, with intricate needlework and embroidery.

It’s interesting. Once again, his testing of boundaries seems to come back. His hands are always playing with the curls at the nape of your neck, or the folds of your skirt. You have even caught him toying with the buttons of your bodice. It borders on the inappropriate.

“You are pushing it.” You say to him when his hands curls around yours as you dance. He is supposed to keep his hand extended for this step. He doesn’t seem to care. The other guests give him amused looks. No one is about to chide a Prince for his lovesick behavior towards his wife. Especially in a goodbye feast for the couple.

In truth, you are starting to think most of the fathers at court are relieved. If the Rogue Prince is chasing after his wife, then he is not chasing their daughters.

“Holding your hand is pushing it?” Daemon holds your hand more securely, as he makes you spin. This is another new and unexpected development. Now, he only dances with you. No heated looks at Rhaenyra, no longing glances towards Laena. You are not sure how you feel about it.

“It is. You are inconveniencing everyone.” You say, as he spins you again with a flourish. Despite wanting so badly to keep being cross with him, you cannot help but laugh with childish delight. What girl doesn’t want to be twirled around and made to feel special? “You are supposed to exchange partners.”

The balance of the dance has been thrown off by his refusal to let go of you. Any time there needs to be a switch, the couples flounder around the two of you. It’s childish on his part, but he seems unwilling to let you dance with another man.

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pushing it yet.” Daemon laughs, and pulls you in until your body is flush against his. It’s improper and probably not allowed. Scandalous, even. Yet again, no one is about to say anything.

Much less you, suddenly realizing that being pressed so close to Daemon is quite enjoyable. He smells surprisingly clean this evening. No trace of alcohol on his skin, or other women’s perfumes. Instead, he smells of the soap he usually favors and some sort of aromatic oil.

“Will you push further, then?” You raise your brows. It’s sort of amusing that Daemon is trying so hard. You would have not taken him for the seducing type, not when he had been so keen on dissolving your marriage.

“I will.” Daemon leans in, to whisper in your ear. His voice is low, thick with desire. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I want you. I burn for you. I need you in my bed, on top of me, under me, any way you will let me have you.”

You give a scandalized little gasp, softly hitting his shoulder. Daemon grins, pulling you in even more. The two of you are so close, you imagine you can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I’m not done.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. Daemon’s lips trail kisses towards your ear, teasingly blowing some air against it. “I want to spend the nights feasting between your thighs, on the valley of your breasts…”

“Stop it! We are in public.” You squeak, yet you look up at him like a flower searching for the sun. The attention he bestows on you is flattering, and you can't help but want to hear more.

“Do you want to hear a secret, wife? Every time you walk, I find myself lost in the sway of your hips. I want to drown on it. Drown on you. Until no trace of another remains, until the taste of your lips is the only thing I know.”

By this point, your skin feels so hot you worry you are about to combust. You gape at him. Not only has he dared to make a bold declaration, but he has done so in a room full of people.

You take a moment to gather yourself. Daemon could be bluffing for all you know, and so, you decide to match him. You brush your thumb against his cheekbone, feather-light.

“Then do it. No one is stopping you. Come to bed. Drown on me. Drink me, take me, ravish me.” You are trembling, and you only realize it when Daemon holds you tighter against him. You feel feverish, voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “Give me Valyrian sons, to hold my island when we are both gone.”

“No. No.” He says, against the curve of your neck, embraced much closer than the dance requires, making a spectacle. “I want them to have your smile and your eyes, and that infuriating curve of your shoulder. Give me daughters with your smart mouth, and your even temper. I want them to be proof of the love I had for you.”

You tremble more. Love. He really said… Oh, by the Seven.

“You are shaking.” Daemon kisses your brow. “Don’t. Unless it is from pleasure.”

Laughter rings in your ears. It's yours, but it feels foreign. You are too stunned to think clearly. Daemon tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Are you still there, Lady Wife?” He taps at your lower lip with his thumb. There is a teasing tilt to his smile, but his eyes are nervous. Vulnerable. Daemon was clearly not planning on confessing tonight. “Or have I broken you?”

“Prove it.” You say, still caught up on the love part. His declaration has sent your mind reeling, and shown you all of your latest interactions in a new light. You don’t know if Daemon knows what he is doing. He is a deeply passionate creature, much like his house’s sigil. Daemon doesn’t do infatuations, nor does he do dislikes. He loves or hates, and there is no in between.

“I will.” He promises, playing with a stray piece of hair that has fallen out of your up do. “Our whole lives. But perhaps I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You frown, puzzled. You even pull back from his embrace to be able to look at his face. What an odd thing to say. Despite it, you admire the utter shamelessness he has about it. Were it you the one accidentally confessing, you would be a bundle of nerves.

Daemon doesn’t even blush. Of course, there is the small fact that he believes himself to be the Seven’s gift to humankind. You suppose if you believed yourself to be irresistible, you wouldn’t be nervous either. Cockiness wasn’t something you thought did it for you, but it seemed like you were learning new things every day.

“You will see.” Daemon smiles. You let him keep his secret, figuring it can’t be anything that bad.

You discover what he means when you arrive at Claw Island. A dragon egg waits for you, the fireplace clearly modified in a hurry, judging by the new stones and bricks that were added to the hearth.

“Even if it never hatches, I want you to have it. For you are as Valyrian as we are, and I was a fool not to see it sooner. You are worthy. It should have been on your cradle as a child.”

Greed /ɡriːd/

a strong desire for more wealth, possessions, power, etc. than a person needs.

The way his eyes trail after you now, it’s quite unfamiliar. Not lust, nor disdain. Something entirely new. Heavier.

Your afternoons have been filled with new entertainment. You coo at the egg, holding it over the fire. Sometimes, Daemon kneels beside you and helps you hold it, making a game of it. How long before either of you gets burned? How long can you endure, hands so close to the fire, before you are yelping and giving it to him?

When you think he is not looking, you speak to it in High Valyrian, whispering soft promises of how loved him or her will be once it hatches. There is no doubt in your mind it will. Perhaps not in weeks, or even months. Yet, your heart tells you there will be a dragon before your life ends.

Every night, you place the egg in the bed next to you. On your side, you curl around it, trying to share your warmth. Daemon reaches forward, sometimes. When he thinks you are asleep, his hand will curl over your waist and touch the egg, pressing it more against your stomach. You wonder what he means by it.

Does he know what he is doing? The low lullabies he half sings, half mutters under his breath indicate a yes. The way his lips curl into a soft smile against your nape show a longing that’s very much not subconscious.

Just as a pot of boiling water, the egg hatches a night no one it’s looking at it. Both Daemon and you are curled in a love seat, engrossed in a book. He is reading something about the doom of Valyria, your legs over his lap. You are submerged in a text about a man’s travels around the Free Cities.

One of his hands is wrapped around your ankle, in the sweetest of chains. Each time he flips a page, he will brush it with his thumb, softly. While not unwelcome, it’s strange. You are not used to being comforted in the same way you did for him during the first months of marriage. While Daemon doesn’t expect any kind of retribution, you find yourself granting it anyway.

The domesticity is quickly broken, however, when a strange noise fills the halls of your home. At first, you are unable to hear it through the background noise, but if you strain your ears, you can just make it out. It’s a shrill cross between a bird’s chirps and someone crying.

“Daemon?” You close your book and stare at him. Unable to help it, you get a little sidetracked, watching his face. His mouth is pursed in concentration, the candlelight giving his features a golden glow. Despite him being several years older than you, you cannot help but find him terribly handsome. Age has only turned him more distinguished. You betted he was dashing when younger, but unlike his brother, he has aged like a fine wine.

Sensing your eyes on him, he gives you a lazy smile.

“Little wife.” His voice comes out in a pleased rumble at having caught you looking. Your face heats up. Daemon's eyes shift from yours, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You squirm under his gaze, trying to focus.

“Do you hear that?” You force yourself to utter.

“Hear what?” Daemon leans more towards you, his hand squeezing your knee. You give a small, delighted shiver. Good gods, what is it about him that gets you to turn into a puddle of want with the simplest touch?

“Some sort of animal crying.”

Daemon frowns. He tilts his head to the side, as if to listen better. You keep quiet, hoping to aid him. Then, his face breaks out in the biggest grin.

“It hatched! You amazing, wonderful woman.” He praises, pulling you into him. The hug is awkward, but it doesn’t last because you are too eager to see the baby dragon. Your dragon. You squirm out of his hold and rush out of the room, not even bothering to put on shoes, Daemon hot on your heels.

When you open the door to your chambers, you find the cutest thing ever. A baby dragon, slimy and confused, sits in the middle of his egg in the fireplace. It’s all big, dark eyes and long limbs, much like a baby horse. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach towards them.

“I do not…” Daemon tries to stop you, but the baby dragon climbs right up into your arms, curling close to your chest. Eager to touch it, you let it climb over your shoulder and nuzzle you, even if the sudden weight makes you stagger a little.

“That was really dangerous.” Your husband reprimands, trying to lift it away from you. The baby dragon snorts towards his direction, as if attempting to breathe fire. It only manages to give a cute little sneeze. Daemon glares.

“Aw, you are just like a baby.” You coo at the dragon, petting its head. Daemon looks even more disgruntled.

“Your dragon tried to burn me.” He complains.

“It’s a baby, husband. They don’t know any better.” You rub the scales on its back, soothingly. Unwilling to let go, you find yourself looking around your bedroom. “Let it stay here? Just for tonight.”

Daemon glares. You give him your biggest, most pleading eyes. He relents.

“Fine. But it’s not sleeping on the bed with us. And only for tonight.”

“Only for tonight.”

A month after, and the baby dragon is still sleeping in your bed. He has taken to laying between Daemon and you, leeching off your warmth. Daemon complains of having to sleep on the edge of the bed and his back being sore, but despite it, never once asks you to send the dragon outside with Caraxes.

The trouble starts, how not, with a trip to King’s Landing. This time, you ride with him, as a passenger to Caraxes, while the baby dragon follows. When Daemon lands, the dragon keepers fret around your baby, unsure of what to do with the unexpected visitor.

You command him to stay by your side, despite the protests of the dragon keepers. You are arguing and complaining and shielding your baby while Daemon only watches, amused.

Perhaps the commotion attracts more people, or someone calls for them, but you end up cornered as King Viserys makes his way to the dragon pit.

“What do we have here?” He asks, smiling at you. You give him a nervous look. Your dragon has gotten bigger, and so, you can not pick him up gracefully, but you usher him behind you regardless.

“Nothing, your grace.” You say, lacking your usual charm. You feel nervous about leaving the baby dragon on his own in the dragon pit. What if the other dragons don’t like him? What if he gets lonely?

With one hand, you reach for Daemon. His fingers meet yours halfway, squeezing reassuringly. More often than not, being a woman, your orders were not taken seriously. But if your husband gave an order, people would rush to obey. You hope he intercedes in your favor.

“Daemon, please.” You say, under your breath. “Don’t let them send him away. He will behave.”

“What do I gain, little wife?” He asks, interlocking your fingers together. Daemon gives his most charming grin to his brother, before pulling you into him. You go willingly, body lax and pliant for him. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“Please.” You turn to look at him, hoping to move him. This close, once again, you feel slightly distracted. Your husband smells so nice, and his hands feel so good around your waist, it’s no hardship at all. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Must you always arrive with such a ruckus?” Viserys frowns. Daemon gives him a small smile.

“You know me.” Slowly, he starts to lead you towards the Red Keep, a hand placed protectively on your lower back. The message is clear. Daemon wants you to make your dragon follow you. You don’t even need to order it because your baby, smart as it is, is already following. The dragon keepers step back, muttering unhappily.

“Is it going inside?” Viserys point at your dragon. Foolishly, you had been hoping he didn’t notice, and so, your stomach drops. But Daemon doesn’t falter, strolling confidently inside as if he owned the place.

“He will behave. As long as no one touches her.” Normally, you despise when people talk about you as if you are not there. Currently, though, you can only feel relief that your dragon is not getting sent to sleep outside in the cold. He is just too little for it.

Viserys walks you towards his private dining room. A blonde child runs around, playing. The Princess and Ser Laenor are already there. And Alicent is even more heavily pregnant than before.

“How have you been?” You ask Alicent, sitting next to her. You half expect to be left out of the conversation as you were a few months before, and so, choose to sit next to someone who has been kind to you. The baby dragon hops on your lap when you take your seat.

Alicent looks absolutely horrified.

“Good enough.” She speaks, blinking slowly. It’s clear she cannot believe her eyes. She stares at the dragon in a mix of awe and fear.

“He is harmless.” You explain, petting it as if it were a small dog and not a baby dragon. “Do you want to pet him?”

Alicent reaches forward with a trembling hand. The dragon sniffs her, and curls to sleep again.

“… And I was thinking of changing the layout of the hall, to make sure he fits…” You hear Daemon complain, and your ears immediately perk up. Is he talking about your baby?

“So you keep it inside?” Viserys asks, sounding disbelieving.

“I have never seen such a close bond.” Daemon boasts. He sounds as if he is proud of you, you realize. It makes something warm flutter in your stomach. No longer are you the wife he never wanted and tried to get rid of. “Damn thing sleeps on the bed with us. It’s better trained than a dog, seriously. We should have given Celtigars dragons a long time away.”

“Why not leave it outside?” From where you are seated, you can’t see his face, but you imagine by his tone, Viserys is smiling.

“She will riot. She loves him as her own son.” Daemon explains. You keep your eyes trained on the nervous Alicent, who has managed to lay her hand on top of your dragon’s head. She looks about to bolt.

“Isn’t he the nicest thing?” You say to Alicent, excited. “He thinks I am his mom, or something. Isn’t it great?”

Alicent does not look as impressed as you hoped for, but she gives you a kind smile. She seems willing to tolerate your eccentricities if for the sake of not having to make conversation with Rhaenyra.

“Very nice.” She compliments. “Pretty colors. Prince Daemon was very kind, giving it to you.”

“He is.” You smile, softly. “Although he complains all the time.”

Alicent shrugs. This time, both of you tune in the conversation between Daemon and Viserys.

“Perhaps, as you build him something outside, you can distract her with an actual baby.” Viserys says. Alicent looks torn at the comment, and you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the topic.

It’s not something you had thought about before. Well, you had. Never with him, though. As a girl, you dreamed of being a mother, and as a woman, Daemon and you had discussed the issue of heirs already. You had spoken about it during your last goodbye feast, in this same castle. But those words had been spoken in the height of passion, and neither of you had done anything about it.

“Trust me. Next time she holds a babe, it will be a proper human one.” Daemon says, and his hand finds yours over the table. You look up at him, meeting his purple eyes. He looks hungry. Starved, even.

You lower your eyes demurely. Viserys laughs. And Daemon, greedy as he is, lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Sloth /sləʊθ/

the bad habit of being lazy and unwilling to work.

The light filters in through the open curtains, giving the room a soft glow. Daemon’s face scrunches up, bothered by the sunlight in his eyes. He has tried to convince you to sleep with them drawn, but you are unwilling. To you, the best way to wake up is slowly, with the sun. Or so you say. He is not very convinced.

Daemon stretches. You reach for him in your sleep. He gives himself a moment to savor it, the fact that he can finally pull you closer. The dragon is finally gone from his bed, although he is no way near distracting you with a babe.

Dragons are not pets. Daemon had been taught that since the cradle, even before he had a dragon of his own. Their control over them was only an illusion, and so, they should be trusted but feared. He had lived by that rule, never once questioning it. Until you.

Watching you raise yours as if it were your own child had proven interesting. You lacked his education about them, but you made up for it by sheer enthusiasm. The fact that your dragon had not bitten your hand off yet or burned you to a crisp could only mean two things: You were some sort of forest nymph, or they were mistaken about their approach to dragons. He knew which one he thought was true.

How much was nature, and how much was nurture in their relationship with dragons? Trying to answer that question would occupy his entire lifetime. Daemon hoped that watching you gave him some insight. Even if he ended up discovering you were a nymph in disguise or some sort of goddess of the hunt. He wouldn’t regret it, fascinating as you were.

No matter how much food for thought you gave him, Daemon had been enjoying the joys of marriage. Perhaps, a little too much. Seeing you with the baby dragon had awoken some unexpected feelings. Targaryens were dragons, after all. When the time came, you would make a good mother. Not only were your instincts well-developed, but you seemed to thrive on having something to nurture.

Ah, the joys of domesticity. Daemon loves that you trust him enough now to allow him to witness you at your most fragile. Asleep and wearing a soft white night shift, you are deliciously innocent. Giving, too. You do not complain when his hands find your hips or when he pulls you flush against him. Nor do you move away when his face hides in your lovely locks, mussed with sleep.

Your expression is open and vulnerable in ways you are never when truly awake. Your eyes open just the tiniest sliver, before you hide your face on your pillow, rubbing against it like the sweetest kitten.

He adores you like this. Worships you, even. Obsessed with the curve of your hip, or the soft flesh above your womb. Daemon can’t help but rub it, hoping to manifest a child into existence without actually fucking you.

If he believed in such a thing, as so many fools in this realm did, Daemon would say this was the Seven Heavens. But he knew the truth. Just like you, who worshiped the Old Gods of Valyria, Daemon did too. How could he not when he had a tiny goddess sharing his bed?

Your nose scrunches up. You twitch. Worshiping a little nymph, now that was hard work. Especially when the nymph in question does her best to escape his personal worshiping time.

If Daemon could spend all day in bed, just like this, he would. He would trace your features with his mouth, peppering your face with soft kisses. He would feast on the soft curve of your neck, drink up all your sweet little noises. Trace a path down your soft limbs, draw nonsensical patterns on your stomach. But you are an energetic little thing, always jumping out of bed, no matter the pleasure he tempts you with.

Convincing you to stay is hard, but Daemon likes to think it’s an art he has perfected. It’s not a ritual, by any means. Each morning goes differently. Sometimes, you need to be kissed silly. Sometimes, you need to be gently worshiped and coaxed back to sleep. But his favorite mornings are the ones that go like this.

“I have to go check on the tenants, down by the shore. The rain season just started.” You complain, as he noses along your hairline. Suddenly, Daemon’s arms are empty. He opens his eyes to find you sitting up and pulling your robe over your night shift.

You look delectable in red. He should buy you more robes like that one. Especially because he is about to ruin it.

“Did you say at what hour you are going?” Daemon sits up as well, toying with the edge of your robe. You bat his hands away, playfully.

“No.” You are hurriedly standing up, perhaps knowing what comes next. Daemon grabs your robe, and pulls you back in, using all his strength.

No matter how much you try to keep your feet planted on the floor, you end up tumbling back into bed. You give a girlish shriek, a smile already forming on your face. You struggle, kicking the blankets off the bed.

“Come back here, you little minx.” He tugs you by the ankle, making you laugh. Your hair is sticking up in all directions and your chest heaves up and down with the exertion of putting up a fight.

Daemon secretly loves it. He would never tell you because you would be outraged, but he enjoys the idea of overpowering you. Perhaps, once you fully trust him, he could ask you to play like that. But for now, he takes what he can get.

“Or else what Lord husband?” You tease, still trying to escape him. More blankets and furs are sent flying off the bed. You give a mean little tug to his hair.

“That was it!” Daemon complains, and starts tickling you. The night shift rides tantalizingly up your hips, giving him an unintentional show. He feels his blood warming, arousal turning into a dull throb in his loins. Your legs kick wildly, you squirm on the bed, and your eyes fill with tears from laughing so much.

It’s only when your poor body can’t take it anymore, and you are crying from laughter that he stops. He thinks of how it would feel, to overwhelm you in a different context, make your body take and take until tears ran freely down your temples. A different sort of crown for his forest nymph, one made from her own silver tears. The visual is too much for him to take without giving himself away.

Daemon lies on top of you, smothering you with his weight. He licks a few stray drops of sweat from your neck, making you flay once again. There will be a day when play wrestling will turn into something much less sweet. That day, though, it’s not today.

“Get off!” You complain. “That’s disgusting.”

“I could eat you up.” He teases, nuzzling into your neck. It's the truth. Daemon loves the taste of your skin and your smell. If he thought he could get away with it, he would crawl between your thighs and feast on you. “You are delicious, wife.”

“Daemon.” You push lightly at him, trying to get up. Again. But your words lack their previous conviction. Daemon can tell he is getting to you. “It’s getting late.”

“The tenants can wait. Let us hide from the world a little longer.” He pleads, clinging to you. Under him, exhausted after the play wrestling, you go limp. He knows he has won then.

You spend the whole day in bed. The tenants end up being visited closer to sundown. Daemon does not regret it one bit.

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tteokdoroki · 7 months

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ೀ⋆OCT 8TH 2 FAST 2 FURIOUS ━━ yoichi isagi + overstimulation !

୨୧ — caution, you are now watching. yoichi isagi + overstimulation. if winning a street race means getting ravaged by your ex boyfriend over the hood of your car then… move bitch! get out the way! (5.6K)

୨୧ — rated r. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, characters aged up to 20s, street-racer!au, exes to lovers, toxic relationships, overstimulation, scratching, fingering, sweat kink, pain kink, food play (candy), dry humping, multiple/forced orgasms, oral sex (f!recieving), public sex, possesive sex, unprotected sex, street racer + fem!reader, ex boyfriend + street racer!yoichi isagi.

୨୧ — director’s note. slay! the third kinktober installment is here! i hope you guys like this one, isagi makes me so dizzy...i think he has the bes dirty talk!! enjoy mwah mwah! - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ✧

there’s something about street racing that just…gets you off.

you’ve always enjoyed its thrill, the way having control over the wheel makes you feel when you push yourself to top speeds. adrenaline becomes your new dopamine. like a drug injected straight into your veins — driving makes you feel high. more alive than anything.

the glamourous pink S2K that you drive is your lover, the unpredictable twists and turns of the race course — your best friend. you adore beating men at their own game and looking absolutely fucking stunning at the same time. though, what you love the most, is the thrill of chasing after yoichi isagi.

next to you — your on and off boyfriend, isagi, is probably the best street racer in town. an unpolished gem of untapped potential and a beast of a driver. though with a man like that, competitiveness between you both comes easy — like a third party in your own relationship. its been that way since you met, the two of you falling into the toxic cycle of, racing, winning fucking and breaking up.

and as bad as it sounds, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“you lose tonight, precious,” isagi wipes the grease from his knuckles with a rag as he approaches your car, cocking his head to the side with a smile so twisted it sends a pang of heat from your head to your core. together or not, he’s always had this effect on you — like a fog sweeping over your mind or the oceans waves pulling you under. “and we get back together.”

“boy, don’t you know i have a race to win?” leaning over the hood of your car, it’s your turn to tilt your head to the side — like a puppy dog, mocking him. your lashes flutter against your cheeks as you peer up at him, the pink of your tongue wrapping around finding a centre point for the bubblegum you’re blowing. it pops on its own. all the while, a flirtatious confidence seeps from your bones into the night air, luring isagi into your usual game of cat and mouse right before you’re due to race. “i don’t need any distractions, ‘ichi.”

you can’t help but revel in the way that he shudders upon hearing your name drip from his lips, like the finest and purest form of honey. out of all the girls he’s ever known, you’re the only one who gets him riled up like this without even trying — activating his raw instincts, that carnal desire he always has for you that he keeps locked away whenever you’re not together.

“baby,” crouching down to your height, isagi smirks as your predatory gaze follows his actions like a vixen in the night. “you know i’d never mess up a race of yours on purpose.” one of his elbows comes up to rest on your hood, the glittery vinyl stickers reflecting against the deep ocean blue in his eyes. your ex lets the weight of his head rest in his palm, a faux pout on his lips as he speaks to you. “how about it, wanna make a bet?”

you inch closer, close enough for isagi to catch a the whiff of strawberry candy in your breath over the thick sexual tension brewing between you both. “wha’do i get if i win?” you hum slyly, blowing another bubble into the face of your ex lover.

yoichi mirrors your movements, sliding closer to you so that he lick through your bubblegum, landing a breath’s width away from your sugar-coated and syrupy lips. “you win, ‘n i promise to leave you alone forever.” he rasps, pushing past the lustful tone lodged in his throat.

standing to your full height, you ruffle his midnight locks with a condescending air about it. “oh baby, you’re so silly.” the superlicious murder slips from between your perfectly glossed lips before you even think to stop it, accompanied by your light laughter. testing your man’s patience has always been your strong suit.

but before you have a chance to walk away, isagi hooks his fingers through your belt loops and tugs you flush against his tone frame — chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis. “what, you don’t like those terms?” he huffs. “i thought they were perfectly reasonable.

“it’s just that… it’s cute that you think winning me back works that way.” shaking your head, you fail to let isagi have the last word and finally manage to pull yourself from the tendrils of his grip before you become putty in his arms and a mess under his gaze — that twisted mix of annoyance and desire already turning within your stomach, oozing into your nether regions in the form of liquid lust.

“fuck me,” a breathless and playful chuckle resounds in isagi’s throat like a tune base boosted on the stereo, only interrupted by a slick statement that serves to frustrate you even more. “so you’re sayin’ you don’t miss playin’ with my joystick?” he calls out to you while you’re still in eyeshot of his cerulean orbs — the ones that track the sway of your hips as you walk away from him. isagi wants nothing more than to dig his fingertips into the fat at your waist, pull your hips over his hardening cock as blood pulses through it and make you eat those words.

but he also knows, and from experience, the more pissed off you are — the better you’ll race and the more you’ll want to fuck him later on.

“i’ll start missing it when you get the right set of tools.” you sing back, sending a wink his way as you hope into the driver's seat of your precious pink baby, shooing off the girls who’d helped you prep your S2K for the race. he watches as you wave to your competitors, buttering them up with your charm before you leave them in the dust.

and even though he has no right to be jealous — especially when you’re broken up like this, isagi can’t help but want admit to you how seeing you race makes him feel. like now — how you drive right up rin itoshi’s ass and curse at him to ‘bend over’. everything has sex crazed hormones rushing to his cock and his head gets a little dizzy like he’s been inhaling car fumes and diesel for too long. you fuck him up like no girl ever has before — he’s completely obssesed with you, the ups and downs and fall out of your messy relationship.

he wants you. feverishly, carnally, and in every way possible and as you pull up in first place after the race — isagi realises, it’s not the race that makes him feel alive.

it’s always going to be you.

“you’re so fuckin’ frustrating.”

the cash prize isn’t the only good thing about winning your races, it’s the way isagi lives to devour you whole afterwards.

dark ocean eyes drink in the way your back arches from the hood of your car and it’s cool metal surface — chasing isagi in the heated and humid air, while his hips rock against your cunt almost in tune with the music in the background. the tune of your celebrations. “am i?” you grin, wild and delirious and breathless. “it’s not my fault. thought i told you to quit chasin’ me, yoichi.”

you giggle, earning a delicious twitch of his dick between your panty-clad folds, spreading a delicious layer of arousal over his clothes. your rival racerpretends to ignore your antics, knowing that he’ll only get riled up and instead focuses on tugging down your flimsy tank top to reveal your sweat shined skin.

“you could never get rid of me, baby.” you’ve never been immune to the charm of isagi’s hypnotic voice paired with his teasing rows of pearly white teeth that coast over your flesh until goosebumps rise over its expanse. your ex has a way about him, a way that makes it hard for you to shut him out and easier for you to hold your breath and deprive it of the oxygen you need to think clearly.

to think about escaping this toxicity.

sloppy kisses to taste the salt on your skin turn to little bite marks, barely there whilst leaving a warm shine to your throat — the temperature proving to be a lustful contrast to the cold metal of your car. he licks and sucks at you possessively, even when other racers pass by and in the back of your mind you briefly recall bachira hollering at the two of you loudly.

just as you reach out to him and wave back, yoichi grabs your wrists in one rough palm and pins them above your head — chuckling into the trail of wet smooches he drags down to your tits, followed by a wild whine that resonates deep in his chest when his cockhead catches on your rock hard clit from behind the many barriers of your clothes. you huff at your newfound restriction.

a slow, cocky smile spreads over the film of isagi’s lips as if he’s remembered something about your body, that only he knows, in your time apart. how it anticipates and tingles while waiting for his every move, craves to be ravaged and torn apart by him. “focus on me, baby. don’t miss what’s most important to you.” he drawls, gentle notes of condensation slipping into his usually chipper voice. “me.”

lifting his head from your chest expectantly, being a gentleman and waiting for your consent to kiss. another laugh escapes him when you writhe desperately in yoichi’s grip and wrap your legs around his taut waist to drag him closer for the lip lock you deserve. your prize for being such a winner. he follows your lead, selfishly trapping your lower lip between his teeth before toppling into a hungry kiss — his devious tongue delving it’s way into your mouth to claim it’s every inch possessively. the more you kiss, the more it knocks the lollipop on your mouth about.

all the while, isagi never stops grinding against you — cockhead oozing precum over your cotton decorated pussy lips and budding clit, painting you in the early signs of his arousal. the heat in the air only carries the scent of your sex and mingled notes of diesel fuel — enough to make you dizzy and crave more friction from the street racer as he ruts between your thighs. you’re growing delicious, letting ecstasy trickle through your veins and onto the hood of your car while yoichi drags his cock through your silken slit over and over again until his clothes and his erection are dripping in your sweet juices.

“didnt plan ever plan on… on g-gettin’ rid of ya, pretty boy.” you say through thready breaths, using the strength in your thighs to squeeze isagi close. maybe it’s the adrenaline from your racing high or the fact that isagi cages you in against the car, using his free hand to pinch and pull at sensitive parts of you while he humps at your fluttering and sopping mound — whatever it is, you can feel an orgasm approaching faster than you can register.

tucking your lollipop into your cheek, you gaze up at isagi with glassy, angel eyes — your mouth open as you pant his praises like a common whore. “did you miss me? i know he did.” then, your eyes shoot down to the rough outline of his dick as it makes you shudder, sex clenching over the veins on his shaft while you practically ride your ex’s precum loaded tip. your dirty talk earns a hearty moan from isagi, his tongue rolling out of his mouth like a dog in rut while he laps at the sweat bearing on your collar bones and neck. “missed my cock so much.” you goad adoringly, a little sick and a little twisted.

your possession over him fills isagi’s body with concerning amounts of desire and only serves to make him feral — snapping his hips into you faster and harder. his blue eyes drown in an ocean of mirth as they hone in on the light bounce of your chest, his tongue drips in the taste of your light perspiration while he finds his voice over your salacious bump and grind.

“missed you too baby. missed my fuckin’ pussy,” yoichi grunts selfishly, breathing heavy against your skin and adding to your chorus of shared high pitched moans the closer you get. with one hard thrust, isagi has your unused little hole drooling and your head flying back onto the car’s hood, banging against the metal. the pain only fuels the expanding fire of desire burning bright in your lower tummy — raising the temperature between your bodies. “she’s so sensitive, guess you haven’t fucked anyone while i’ve been gone.”

his voices oozes condensation, messes with your mind and drags you under the control of your toxic and selfishly possessive ex. it’s like he lives for the the way your thighs quiver around his waist and give all your neediness away, you can’t hide anything from him. he puts your pleasure under a microscope.

“you’re gonna cum, aren’t you?” isagi grins evilly, letting go of your hands as he watches you tremble and spasm and twitch beneath him. rendered useless against the very car that got you to win your race.

he’s not wrong, however, for the knot that had been tightening up in your lower tummy begins to unravel too fast for your own liking. an orgasm crashes down on you like a heavy storm that’s escaped isagi’s deep blue eyes and he bucks into you monstrously through it all — hardly giving you a second to breath. your release pours out of you in a clear stream, your eyes disappearing into your skull and your shaky fingers into the roots of your ex’s hair as you tug on it to ground yourself.

it gets everywhere, seeps through your ex boyfriend’s clothes, splashes against your S2K and gathers in a pool beneath your shaky ass. yoichi coaches you through it with soft, loving praises as if you’d never been broken up. kisses that make your knees knock and breath hitch. you cum so fast, so hard and so soon that your lollipop rolls out from between your swollen spit slicked lips, but isagi is quick to grasp the sugary treat dragging it over your them and down your body.

he follows it’s sticky trail over your clothes, sucking its flavour from the planes of your skin. the sound of tearing fabric flies under the bustling crowd and revving engines — isagi having ripped off your shorts to expose your temperate, glistening mound to the night air and gleam of car headlights.

“h-holy shit, ichi! wait—!”

your nails sharply rake at the racer’s scalp in surprise, shocked at the warm-ish sensation of your lollipop pressing against your budding clit as it throbs between the slickness of your folds. “awh, is it sensitive? good.” he tuts down at you menacingly, his voice lowers scratching at the patch of your brain that controls your lustful drive. with the sweet treat still in his grasp, isagi rubs tight circles into your pleasure centre and grind to himself when your thighs instinctively jump apart to give him a better view of the even sweeter dessert between your thighs.

he knows you. inside and out.

knows what you even with how on-off your relationship is — as if he’s always been genetically programmed to make you feel good, get you that same high racing gives you. yoichi crouches, no longer standing over you so that he can get a whiff of your scent — the musk of your sex more dizzying than the fumes of gasoline throughout the track. “wanna taste you gorgeous, while you’re still cummin’ for me.” he groans, deep and hungry like he’s been waiting to eat a good fucking meal all day. “that okay?”

“please…fuckin’ hurry.” comes your impatient reply, bucking your hips up into the humid air as you chase the friction of the candy against your clit. you feel as though you’re seated right on the edge of another orgasm, inches away from crumbling off of the cliff of euphoria. “you’re so slow,” you heave again, head lolling to the side with your drool oozing onto the hood of your pretty pink car. “see you never learned how to use your…oh—! tools!”

your voice escapes you, shock intertwining with the electrical spark of desire running down the length of your spine to the heartbeat in your pussy. you’re surprised once more when isagi gently nudged the lollipop past your entrance to tease you — ripping it away when you gush like you’re about to cum.

sitting up and resting on your elbows, you glare down into mischievous blue eyes as he pops the candy into his mouth. “mother fucker.”

“alright, watch it.” the corner of isagi’s lips quirk up into a cocky smirk, enjoying how you writhe against cool metal in contrast to how hot your skin is to the touch. like a furnace, burning from the inside out.

“you said you wanted to taste me!” you whine, auffovating in the humidity and anticipation. you want him to touch you, but the ghost of kisses he presses along your inner thighs just aren’t enough.

“i didn’t say i was gonna eat you out though, pretty girl.” isagi whispers, pushing the lollipop into his cheek so he can focus on sucking an array of marks into the swell of your to leave his claim on you. the pointed edge of his teeth sink into the doughy flesh, imprinting a ring of bite marks in place as well. “dunno, don’t think you deserve it.”

he simply rolls his eyes in response, grunting as he spreads you even further — revealing the webs of cloudy slick that tie your shaky limbs together. yoichi drags a finger through your puffy pussy lips, it’s tip dragging on the silken strings of your arousal until he’s able to circle it over your clenching entrance.

you let out a defiant whimper, hips rising from your car while a trail of your sweet juices ruin the paint job on your car. “hate you.” comes your weak whisper, trapped in the lodges of your throat while isagi pressed further into your tight little hole and stretches you open.

“yeah whatever.” he grins lazily, warm breath fanning over your pulsating mound while his nose nudges your sensitive clit. “that’s why you keep coming back to me, precious.”

the sensation makes your hips buck up, chasing the delicious friction of your ex’s fingertips against your soaked ribbed walls as they ripple around him. but isagi lives to punish you, make you work for your pleasure or torture you with it for leaving him the dust each and every time. his free hand splays over your navel, pinning you to your own car as a second finger joins the first inside of you — instantly curling to bare down on your spongy g-spot.

the cry that escapes you is raw and powerful, louder than any engine in any model of car — serving to remind isagi of where you are, how on display you are for the hungry eyes of his competitors. he takes this as a chance to remind everyone of who you belong to. no matter how much of a hot shot racer you are, you’ll always belong right underneath yoichi isagi.

he does nothing to soothe your whimpers and cries, thrusting his fingers deep into your squelching pussy as it echoes into the parking lot in a sweet symphony with your moans. you drool into the seat his palm, thrash on the hood of your car and squeeze down on him with a grip so tight isagi fears that you’ll never let him go.

“you’re so tense, baby. relax for me,” the man mumbles darkly against your sex. “what’ll make you feel good? should i play with this cute little clit too?” pressing a loving and syrupy kiss to the pleasure nub, isagi moans at your arousal as it pearls on his eager lips. “oh i knew you’d like that. my girl always likes it when her man plays with this messy pussy.” spitting onto your cunt, a sick laugh rumbles in yoichi’s throat as he fucks the frothy mixture back into you, drinking in the way you whine and writhe about the place. all for him. “c’mon, louder baby. let the people hear how pretty you are. how good i’m making you feel.”

saliva coats your tongue, making difficult to breathe between the languid push and pull of isagi’s fingers as they stroke at your insides. he has you ruined, for any other man— sticky and sloppy between the thighs. the both of you know that only he can get you like this.

and the sick part about it all, is that you’re fucking enjoying it.

the thrill of being watched by your fellow racers makes you act up, has you crying and moaning a little louder than usual — putting on a show for your ex as you fall back into your toxic routine. those sweet salacious sounds spike higher and higher the closer you get, the more isagi sucks on your clit and scissors his fingers around to press up against sensitive spots along your gummy walls.

“that’s it pretty girl, give it to me. louder. good girl, good job.” he coos into you oh so condescending, face coated with a crude mix of spit and slick that glistens under the artificial light from the street lamps above. a blistering sense of pride lodges itself in yoichi’s chest when you scream his name, tugging on the roots of his hair once more. “you can do better than that, louder.”

“ohmygod—! yoichi!” you yelp sheepishly, throwing an arm over your heated face. though it’s not in shame, you can hardly bring yourself to feel embarrassed about gushing on your ex’s face in front of your fellow racers and racing crew. the pleasure he gives you has you too far gone, like a smoke screen over your hazy mind. “g-god i’m… y-yoichi i’m close!”

“yeah?” he laughs breathily, flicking his tongue over your budding clit, pulling the lollipop from the confines of his greedy mouth to slap it against your quivering pussy as well. “you gonna cum?” it’s far too soon, far too much for you to be reaching another orgasm. but there’s been a steady pressure bubbling up just below your navel, tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

you shake your head pathetically, the metal of your car creaking below your hips as you try to run from isagi’s fingers wildly pumping in and out of you. “c-can’t!”

“can’t? you don’t wanna, hm.” he sucks his teeth, the sound layering softly over the lewd slushy noises echoing from between your thighs. “too bad. i don’t care. cum for me, precious.”

its like your body has a mind of its own, wilfully ignoring the pain of overstimulation as you cum for isagi once more. milky white runs down your ex’s arms in a boiling hot stream, squirting from your abused and used sex. white spots blur the edges of your vision and you shake violently all throughout your second high, the stacks of ecstasy isagi had been building up within you coming crumbling down and leaving you suffocating in your own dust-cloud of lust.

the rest of your arousal burns a trail down your pudgy thighs like fuel that’s been set on fire, and you can’t even tell what’s up or down anymore. “c-cumming! ‘m…fuck, yoichi.” you scream, chest heaving, head rolling to the side— pressed against your car’s cool surface. “please, i can’t.”

“already? you were talking so big before your race now look at you. s’all too much… poor baby.” isagi works you through your orgasm, controlling your every twitch and every aftershock until you damn near pass out.

you’re almost too far gone to register the sound of rustling clothes and the feeling of your rival (and ex) pressing himself over you. but then he’s patting your cheek lovingly, drinking in your sweet and tired expression with big blue eyes full of adoration before slipping his lollipop into your drooling mouth to pacify you.

“‘ichi…” you bleat, exhausted.

“yeah, yeah. i know, precious. but i think we can manage one more, yeah?” he asks you softly, a little more tender than before as he kisses your forehead, licking up a bead of sweat that runs down it. no matter how many times you break up, he’ll always be good to you. always check in with you. make you cum as many times as you can manage while still making you see stars. “need to show all those fuckin’ losers who you belong to. need to make you mine again.”

weakly lifting your head, you notice the slight audience of racers you’ve gathered while letting isagi fuck you publicly. all the men you’ve beaten in races over time, staring at the way your man ravages you like the sight is a cool glass of water. it would be a lie to say that the feeling of being watched didn’t send another spark of lust shooting down your spine.

“one more?” you question him and pout around the lollipop that tastes like you, big bambi eyes blinking up at your ex boyfriend.

“one more.” yoichi confirms, pressing his forehead to yours in order to coax a kiss out of you. “don’t worry, you can take it.” there’s reassurance hidden in his lustful tone as he lines his drippy cock up with your ruined entrance (having pulled it out earlier). he pulses to life against you, the blood rushing through his shaft teeming with desire for you. isagi lets you sit up on your elbows so that you can watch him bully his cock past your fluttering entrance.

isagi’s eyes gloss over with debauchery while you swallow him down, brows creasing in the centre of his forehead when he bottoms out inside of you — both of your mouths hanging open in hot moans. only adding to the humid air. blindly, he fumbled for your pretty throat, squeezing it gently with each clench of your slippery walls around his aching shaft.

“you won’t break, baby.” he tells you, drawing his hips back from the snugness of your cunt to set a slow roll to his thrusts. the feeling makes you cry out, hoarse and needy before being soothed by isagi’s leaking tip pushing along every pleasure spot he knows by heart inside of you. “try a little harder for me.”

his words leave you breathless and dumbfounded, every logical thought and smart-ass retort having escaped you while isagi’s milky, bulbous tip churns up your insides. your sexes slot together perfectly, his girthy dick wrapped in gorgeous blue and green veins keeps you nice and full and reaches the spots you couldn’t dare to reach on your own. isagi hands over you, supporting his weight on one hand, with his lips a breath’s width away from your own.

the both of you are love drunk on the sex-crazed hormones buzzing in the hot air between you — particles of lust smashing together the more your bodies start to sync up and move together. yoichi devours you, takes parts of your body and claims them with his teeth and tongue and hand gently squeezing around your throat. he fucks you with vigour, so hard that your car shakes beneath your ministrations and you nearly lose the candy in your mouth once more.

you return the favour, clawing up and down isagi’s back while his dark hair tickles your forehead, cascades down to your neck as he kisses you wetly and laps over the salt on your skin. everything about you never fails to pull him back into your toxic cycle. where he loves you, fucks you and breaks you. a satisfied groan takes root in his chest like a sturdy tree at the taste of you, his hips still pumping into you at a rapid pace, painting you with thick layers of opaque white that cling to your swollen pussy lips and clit.

“you’re mine, f-forever. not gonna let… mhm.. anyone else touch you.” he slurs menacingly into the junction between your neck and shoulder, finally letting go of your throat so he can push your knees into your chest — forcing his heavy cock into your cunt as deep as it can go. “never gonna let you go again, precious. never gonna let you go without my cock this king again. you’re fuckin’ mine.”

“all fuckin’ yours,” you drawl back with a delirious smile, dizzy from the new angle. your pleasure mounts once more but with the addition of a spark of pain from the overstimulation. yoichi knows your limits, he knows how much his precious girl can take but delivers it in the best of ways — sinfully bucking down into you so hard that his heavy breeders balls smack rhythmically against the curve of your ass. he succumbs to the tight grip your iron hot core has on him, begging him to stay and to never leave you ever again.

you have one another in a choke hold, falling into a synced up and salacious bump and grind against the hood of your car. every time isagi ruts into you, you clench down, gushing on his dick and covering him (and your car) in an early release.

“that’s right baby,” isagi seethes through gritted teeth, blinded by white and the stars from up above as he gets closer and closer to his high. he can no longer stave it off for the benefit of overstimulating you, strung along by each twinge of pain he feels from your nails forming crescent moons in his shoulders and drawing blood. “say it like you mean it. scream my fuckin’ name for all these people, yeah? you want me. the only man who’ll ever make you feel this good.”

you will yourself to speak but barely have the chance to with the way isagi fucks you sensless. you choke on air, following your biological instinct to rut up into him, whilst you’re reminded all the reasons why your rival racerwill always be the only man for you. he fucks you like he’s never loved you, like a stranger he may hate but he moans and mewls against you like you’re the only person he’s ever loved.

isagi doesn’t care about the racing, or the money or the people watching him ruin your sluice sex over and over again.

he only cares about you.

“c’mon baby,” he goads, licking up your cheeky nastily. “you can do it, tell me how much you want me. how much you love me, precious.” each syllable that he purrs out shoots straight to the winding, orgasmic knots in your belly. making them tighten painfully. “god, you’re fuckin’ milking me.”

so you wrap both arms around isagi’s neck, yank at his hair, rip through the skin on his back with your nails (because you know how much he likes it when you hurt him) and say. “i need you, ‘ichi. y-you’re the only one i’ve ever wanted!”

and that’s all it takes, to give isagi that last burst of energy to make the both of you really feel it. after one, two, three more thrusts — you’re both sent flying over the edge in unison. “m-‘my precious baby, fuuck, all mine. gonna cum…you better cum for me.”thick waves of viscous white cum floods your puffy folds, whilst yoichi bites down hard on your neck to state his high pitched whines, fucking his seed deeper into you until he calms down.

you’re in no better condition, squirting so hard that you almost lose your grip on reality. a world of colours flash behind your darling eyes when you cum for the third and final time that night, static ringing in your ears alongside the sweet symphony of your ex boyfriend’s moans and the groaning metal from your car.

you’re sure the paint has been completely tainted with cum by now.

by the time you finally come to and stop spasming around isagi’s softening cock, he’s peeling your sweaty skin away from your car to coddle you in his chest — shielding you from the hungry eyes of your competitors. “keep your eyes to your fuckin’ selves.” he snarls with teeth bared, despite how gently he holds you.

“easy there tiger,” you sigh, snuggling against him as exhaustion settles into your fucked out bones. “i think they know who i belong to now.” grabbing at his neck, you pull isagi down for a sloppy kiss — mewling happily at the taste of sweat, sex and sugar on his tongue before passing him the lollipop once more. “guess the money wasn’t the only thing i won tonight.”

“you’re kinda sick, you know that?” he laughs in response, but before he can kiss you again — the racing crowd starts to scramble at the sound of police sirens.

still curled into your (ex? oh what the hell) boyfriend, you crack a tired smile. “looks like we gotta split, boy.”

“you comin’ back with me this time, precious?” a smooch is pressed into your hairline while isagi gathers you into his arms fast — bundling you into the passenger's seat since you’re clearly in no state to play get away driver. he doesn’t bother with your clothes.

“you know that you can’t get rid of me, baby.” you got the keys into the ignition in time for isagi to slip into the driver’s side — steering you away from the scene of the crime. “i’m yours forever, remember?”

he only chuckles at that, wild blue eyes reflecting the blue and red cop car lights as he looks to you while speeding away.

“god you drive me crazy, i love you. you fuckin’ maniac.”

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lovelykhaleesiii · 21 days

Note

Aegon is the best big brother to his sweet sister, who is in third trimester of pregnancy; not only does he help her relieve the feeling of her heavy breasts by sucking on her tits greedily like a babe, he sometimes helps the aching feeling between her legs by sticking his cock, tongue or fingers in her cunny

Such a good brother, especially when she’s not even his wife

Blood of my Blood.

PAIRING: Older!Brother!Aegon ii Targaryen x Little!Sister!Fem!Reader

WORDS: 1,715.

WARNINGS: incest to the max, implied affair [Aegon is the father of the child], age gap [reader is of mature/consensual age], lactation kink, pregnancy kink, slight reference to breeding kink, p in v sexual intercourse, possessive!Aegon, swearing.

A/N - now I NEVER write brother x sister tropes even in the ASOIAF universe just because it’s not really my cup of tea, but this ask sparked something very very feral in me. I might make a neice x uncle version of this or a Daddy Aeg x daughter!reader version.

credit to the owners of the images.

Curse the Gods who afflicted the journey of motherhood, for it could be such a gruelling thing... Heading into the final few moons of your first pregnancy, you had never felt such intense discomfort in your life. Your beloved mother, Queen Alicent, had informed you of such grievances, although with little empathy for her pregnancies had been quite embracing and facile. Your eldest sister, Helaena, having already given birth to a set of twins, now in the early stages of her current pregnancy with your elder brother, Aemond, could somewhat console you, becoming an anchor of support.

It was Aegon, your eldest of the siblings, that you seemed most attached to, for it was Aegon that granted you bliss in your pregnancy, more so than your absent husband, some delinquent lord of the Vale. You had argued your way with your mother, and batted your eyes to your father, begging you to stay in King's Landing, in familiar territory with the finest maesters at hand. More so, it was Aegon who had plotted with you this essential plan.

"Do you truly think that the maesters of the Vale and that imbecile you call husband will keep you safe and satisfied, dear sister? Not in the least... But I can."

Aegon's temptress of a tongue was convincing alone, although it had been his merciful gestures of chivalry that kept you sane and grounded. Easing your aches and pains of expecting, Aegon became your sole beacon of ease, like the formidable arms of a warrior and you, the damsel he heroically carries.

"Do they ache again, sweet sister?"

The softness in his husky, drowsy voice breaking the silence of the chamber, woke you whole from your half-hearted daze. You had both succumbed to slumber [often Aegon insisted that you remain closely by his side, even in bed] what felt like hours long ago, and yet through the ginger firelight, by the open window, night remained swallowing the sky.

"Mhmm-" You uneasily stir: weakly trying to muster enough strength to sit yourself upright: however, with the sheer, bulging mass of your grown belly you visibly struggled until Aegon's efforts of pulling you effortlessly upright ended your dilemma.

"Want me to help, princess?"

His calloused, thick hands began to rub small, soothing circles against your lower back, knowing the babe inside exerted much pressure on your lower spine: its weight growing more rigid with each passing month.

"You've helped me enough, Aegon. I mustn't ask more from you... If this state is any indication of me being a mother, consider me a terrible one," You defeatedly utter, one hand stretched from behind supporting your upright position, whilst the other softly caressed at the protruding temple of your clothed belly.

"Don't speak like that, Y/N, dearest. This is your first babe, you must understand your body is adjusting. Hel suffered a great deal with the twins also, and now, look at her... You are going to be a beautiful mother, indeed. I have no doubt...C'me here."

Lightly tapping at your exposed thigh, your night gown had been pulled up just below your way with all the commotion and movement. Obeying, Aegon summoned you onto his lap, shirtless he had entered the bed, however before you could even gather motion to straddle yourself atop: he'd managed to tear away his undergarments, leaving his exposed girth, reddened at the tip with excitement. Modestly covering himself with the sheer, ivory linen.

"Right now?" Your snappy tone vicious, however Aegon remained unfazed.

"Well, little sister, if I'm being quite frank it seems you've been dreaming quite vividly... Do you not hear the moans and pleas that escape your lips in sleep, crying out for me, begging... Want your elder to sate you, is it? Was that babe growing inside of you not enough, you wish me to spoil you some more, hmm?"

"A-Aeg- We shouldn't..." You meekly whimper, a surge of heat coursing through your face, certain your cheeks had grown scarlet with shame.

"All you had to do was ask."

His dark voice a low growl, like some concealed predator eager to ambush. Aegon's motions remained in contrast, tender and cautious, easing your delicate and sensitive frame over his wide, gelatinous thighs. A scorching sensational painfully heightened sent lightning bolts in waves throughout the entirety of your body, shuddering with excitement as your aching cunt eased itself over his pulsating cock. It had been a while since you had been intimate with Aegon like this, prior to the pregnancy in fact: the changes your body had undergone since were bracing and raw.

Feeling the tensity beneath and the heat as you began to bob ever so slowly and sensually over Aegon's tense, fat cock: feeling its hard tip hitting at your cervix [you had hoped rather than the babe]. Your tight walls overstretched, desperate to adjust to his girthy width, you swore to yourself it had never felt this stimulating ever before: every primal sense in your body, every fibre of your being resisting the urge to collapse into a faint against Aegon's soft chest, gripping onto the bare, pale skin of his broad shoulders for dear life.

"That's it, rūs [baby], doing so-so well. It hurts I know, but Daddy's gonna make you feel so much better. Keep going, princess."

Head rolling back in admiration, you felt the intensity from between your inner thighs beginning to lessen, a wetness pooling between, coating the friction to ease the motions. Your hands release their strong hold over him, as your eyes began to wonder over his body, you had immediately noticed the raw, reddened marks lashed across his ivory skin. To avoid any more damage, you guide your relaxed hands up towards Aegon's short strands.

Tugging and playfully pulling at the loose, platinum locks, whilst Aegon's face remained buried, eagerly lapping at your petal-like skin on the base of your neck. One strong arm snaked around your back, gripping you firmly by the neck providing some lumbar support, whilst the other strategically untied the knots of lace at the front of your night gown, exposing your voluptuously full tits. Hardened nipples raw and perky, even as Aegon teasingly flicked at your tit with this thumb, a grimace forming across his handsome face you felt against your skin: kneading the swollen, plump flesh with his palm, you instinctively squirmed and moaned with such debility.

"Seven Hells, you are so fucking full, dārilaros [princess]. This babe is going to be so spoiled. Such a good Mumma, already eager with milk for the bub... Could feed the an entire realm, Mumma."

"J-Just you A-Aeg. Only you get to taste this sweet m-milk before the babe. T-Tell me how good I taste," Stuttering whimpers mottled between mouthful of moans echoed between the dense walls of Aegon's royal chambers. His fat cock still buried and plunging itself deeply inside of you, penetrating against your already tainted and filled womb, Aegon's hand cupped at your breast from beneath. Lifting your tit upwards, latching his mouth tightly against its curvature peak.

"Mhmm- Keep going big boy... M-Making me feel s-so good, A-Aeg. H-Have your full."

The imminent relief your occupied tit began to succumb to, felt like a blissful dream. You felt your breath could finally release, not hitched against your throat from the sheer agony of feeling it was about to burst. The milk you intently sensed, lusciously pouring into Aegon's ravenous mouth, his plump, moist lips suckling at your skin, totally encompassing the nipple in its entirety. His teeth lightly gnawed at your flesh, however, it was a pleasant sensation nonetheless.

"So w-warm and fresh- Gonna f-fill me up so fucking much. P-Poor princess... The weight of these, the copious a-amount- I-I'm greedy for you. Sh-Should've fucked you earlier in your womanhood... Drenching your w-womb of my seed, till we fill the keep i-if need be. M-Mother would rather enjoy it."

Aegon, famished like a destitute of the realm, bathed his taste-buds of your milk from one breast and onto the other: regaining his breath between each as he felt inclined to credit your production. Descending his face down once more, he spared no further second wasting away, as he continued to fervently feed, like a man starved of pure water.

"Th-The el-eldest you may b-be, such a b-big baby y-you are. S-So needy for me, huh? A-Always needing t-to take me, m-make me yours. Every bit of me... Is devout t-to you, A-Aegon."

As if your breathless, sensual words had struck a chord in him, a man gone mad with a fever. His hold on you had tightened, his mouth suckled deeper, tugging at the flesh of your bosom, whilst his cock felt it had grown a size more inside of you. The wet mess coating between your inner thighs now glazed all over Aegon's plump lap, expressed no denial of his power over you, the purpose he gave to you. In theory and practice, you felt your body collapsing into a bliss, a shudder of ecstasy waved through your feeble body as you screamed for Aegon, a gush of your wetness coating all over his stiff cock buried inside. Only to be met with Aegon's mutual appreciation of your vulnerability and submission towards him.

"That's it, baby. Such a beautiful woman... Gevives [beauty]. You honour me with this holy act. You privilege me to your womb, your body and your life... Skorkydoso kostagon nyke mirre deny ao mirros? [How can I ever deny you anything?]."

Easing yourself off of Aegon, your limp, frail body tiresome and relieved of such exploits endured. Aegon knew better than to leave you to your own strength, as absent as it was: carrying you over towards your empty side of the bed, still laying you closely against his natural warmth.

"Continue to serve me, brother. And I shall pay it back 100 times over... And besides, if it had not been for your mischief many moons ago, I would not be in such a state. Although, I wouldn't have it any other way, Aegon... I love you."

"Avy jorrāelan [I love you], my dearest, sweet little sister. Continue as you are and I might have to fuck another babe in you once more to teach you a lesson or two."

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @zaldritzosrose

Aegon ii taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @jawline-of-steel @daughter-of-the-stars11 @bucknastysbabe @callsignwidow

credit for divider - @/saradika-graphics

585 notes · View notes

hoseokshobagi · 3 months

Text

† Reborn in Sin ⸸ | Sneak peak | PJM

† Reborn in Sin ⸸ sneak peak

✞PAIRING: demon!jimin x fem!reader

✞ 【SUMMARY】: for years jimin was your constant and loyal companion in the church, a shining example of humility and compassion. but when he was tragically taken from the world before he could experience life, his heart was filled with anger and resentment. and so, in a moment of weakness, he struck a deal with the devil, trading his soul for a second chance at life. but when he returned, he was no longer your kind and devoted boy you once knew.

✞ 『GENRE』: dark ✟ supernatural ✟ fantasy ✟ angst ✟ smut

✞ RATING: 18+ / minors do not interact

✞ WORD COUNT: loading...

✞ [WARNINGS/TAGS] : dead dove, dark, death, manipulation, corruption (kink?), church & religion, blasphemy & desecration, [oral(m) - not with reader, headpusher jimin, face fucking, spit play], dirty talk, humiliation, degradation, dubcon, public fingering, exhibitionism, sexual "nightmares" & hallucinations, mind games, jimin is the worst & the BIGGEST warning!!!!, oral(f), cunt drunk jimin, unprotected sex, rough sex, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, unrealistic amount of cum lmao, cum play, betrayal, mind break

✞ NOTE: hi beautiful people!!! this story was written for the @btsfests writing fest. actually this is the first time i publish my writing and omg ahcbdjs i'm so nervous while writing this note. i always wrote for myself and my closest friends but thanks to bts fests and their never ending encouraging words i decided to show off my writing. this little part is the reason why i started writing this whole story and i hope you'll like it just as much as i enjoyed writing every word. :] this demon jimin is the most cunty & selfish character i've written so far so yall better prepare yourselves ajfnsjxnsjs

english is not my native language, but despite that i'll write and communicate in english. please if you see an error in my writing or grammar lmk!! <3

my dearest beta read: @liveyun 🐢♡

COMING SOON

❗this is the darkest fic i've ever written so please read all the warnings before reading❗

The delicate chimes of the church bell echoed softly through the cavernous rafters, casting an unsettling shadow over Jimin’s mind. Like ghostly whispers emanating from the very walls and pillars of the church, the sounds seemed to taunt him. Whispering to him that he no longer belonged in this sacred space.

He couldn’t believe how he used to devour Father Seokjin’s every word, eagerly drinking up his sermons like it was the finest wine he ever tasted. In this very church, where he had spent countless hours sitting in the pews, Jimin felt like a stranger in the world he once called home.

He looked to his left and gazed upon the sweet, delicate flower — the very reason why he was there. Innocence shining in your eyes, your eyelashes fluttered like the softest butterfly wings. Sitting next to him with hands clasped tightly together in your lap, you looked as pure as new snow, listening to the mass.

Oh, how much he forced himself to resist the urge to reach out and ruin you right then and there. To feel the delicate petals of your innocence as they crumpled beneath his fingers. But he was going to do so slowly, savoring every moment of your fall from grace.

So, he grit his teeth and forced himself to endure the priest’s words and the choir’s music, at least, for a while.

Despite his best efforts, this place was as dull and lifeless as the stones that made up its walls. He spent half of his life trapped within these confines, he knew every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of light, every word and phrase of the Bible that was engraved in his mind, the product of countless wasted years.

Jimin raised a hand to his face, tracing each perfect curve of his newly manicured nails, scrutinizing them from every angle. He raised an eyebrow in anticipation, marveling at Hoseok’s handiwork.

He couldn’t wait to make another deal with the bastard later.

You noticed his attention was drifting and Jimin’s reverie was broken by a gentle tap on his shoulder, causing his thoughts to come crashing down around him like a house of cards. He turned to see your confused eyes peering up at him, your delicate lips murmuring a soft “pray”.

He couldn’t help but mentally roll his eyes. Oh, you were so annoying. He was going to make you pay for all the stress and frustration that he had to go through and endure because of you.

Jimin lowered his head and with a deep breath, closed his eyes, pretending as if he was lost in prayer, his mind far from it. Wandering anywhere but there.

As you finally turned back to offer your own prayers, he couldn’t resist and raised his eyes, glancing back at you.

And he was so fucked.

You were a sight to behold, more divine than the sacred paintings that adorned the walls of this church.

As your eyes drifted shut, your lashes like feathers of a sleeping bird, delicately brushed the curves of your eyes. The soft radiance of the lights danced upon your face, creating a tender veil of shadows that caressed your skin.

Your lips moved in silent devotion as you murmured in such sincerity, clutching the Holy Book tightly in your hands. And he swears, he could feel his dick twitch just at the sight.

You were so breakable, so vulnerable and so fucking beautiful.

Yeah, he was so fucked. So lost in you.

Park’s burning desires had been building to a crescendo in the last few days, a boiling point that seemed to threaten to engulf him whole. He felt like his longing for you was an aching fire that was on the verge of exploding. The mere sight of you at the church was a powerful trigger to him, fanning the flames for this fire.

And he thought it was ridiculous.

He couldn’t believe how he couldn’t control himself, his body yearning for yours, needing to stain the purity of your grace, to spread his sin all around your soul. To corrupt the sacredness of who you were with the foulness of who he had become.

He glanced around and took in the sights and sounds of the church, noticing that everyone was enraptured by the mass. Their focus was solely on the priest at the cathedral, their attention directed nowhere else.

With a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, he slipped closer to you and your sweet scent filled his nostrils; making him feel intoxicated. He knew exactly what he had to do; a little play won’t hurt anyone.

Jimin’s touch was like a gentle caress of a summer breeze, soft and tender, caressing your skin like the lightest of kisses. Your eyes flicked open, searching for the source of such unexpected warmth.

And there he was, with his legs crossed, - his gaze fixed on you with such intensity that always made your cheeks warm for some reason – one arm resting comfortably on his elbow on the church pew, the other continuing to idly play with the soft fabric of your long skirt.

You never wore anything revealing; preferring modesty over anything else, however this time, you felt utterly exposed as his eyes roamed over your form like that. Jimin always enjoyed this, stripping away your layers one by one, revealing the true you that lay beneath.

Slowly he drew near, his aura spreading like a thick mist, wrapping around you. The scent of his cologne swirled around as his body pressed against yours, his knee gently nudging yours. His warm breath brushed against your cheeks, like the caress of a dead night.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Keep praying." You looked at his hand, still playing with your skirt, unsure of what to say. Jimin’s voice was calm and soft, yet, there was something about his dark eyes that made you feel uneasy. Like he was biding his time, planning his next move.

It clearly made you uncomfortable, but you were too naive to say anything, too afraid to speak your mind, not to mention that you were sure Jimin would never do anything wrong, so you turned back again and closed your eyes to pray.

But what you didn’t know was that you were already entangled by the snake’s coils; Jimin waited for the moment when you would break. He was so curious, so eager to see just how far you would go, how much you would endure before you finally stepped up and told him to stop.

Would you wrench his hand away? Would you yell at him? Would you make a scene in the middle of the church? He knew you wouldn’t, knew you were just too gentle and too timid to disrespect your favorite little church.

And so, he kept pushing, pushing your boundaries and invading your personal space, inch by inch, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in the wake of his touch.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying desperately to break free from his touch, but he only tightened his grip, making your heart race with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.

"Jimin, can you please stop?" Oh, that was it. Your question was hardly above a whisper, as though afraid of you would be heard by those around you. The snake’s grip finally ensnared his delicate, little flower and he had no intention of stopping.

„Keep it down. You wouldn’t wanna disturb the praying souls now, would you?”

A devilish smirk played on his lips, eyes like black holes bearing down at you. His voice was like honey dripping from his lips; so soft and alluring. A stark contrast to the real meaning behind his words and actions. He continued to run his hand up your thigh, pushing your long skirt higher and higher until it was bunched around your waist.

"Jimin, st—" His other hand slithered around from the back of your neck, forcefully covering your mouth, silencing any words that wanted to escape your lips. Whatever you tried to say it came out muffled by his hand, leaving you feeling panicked and completely helpless.

You grasped at the material like a lifeline, desperate to pull it back down, but Jimin’s arm was like a steel barricade, preventing you from covering yourself. You felt trapped, your body burning with the shame of exposure.

"I said keep your mouth shut. We don’t want others to see you like this, do we?"

Your breath caught in your throat, unable to escape as the fear of being discovered and shamed in front of everyone took over. All you could do was fix your gaze on Jimin’s intense, brooding eyes, silently pleading for mercy with your own desperate ones. Ah, so pretty for him.

As you gazed into the depths of his dark eyes, the windows to his no longer existing a soul, you revealed a darkness that engulfed you, and you knew there was no escape.

You were at his mercy, and he had none.

Jimin’s pupils dilated at the sight, your skin was soft and flawless, causing a shiver to run down his spine as he gently touched you. The delicate fabric of your white panties teased him, giving him just a glimpse of what was hidden underneath.

With a playful twinkle in his eyes, he lazily played with the tiny, little, pink bow adorning the center of your panties. His actions were a clear taunt, a display of the control he had over you and your vulnerabilities.

It was clear you wanted to push him away, to scold him, yell at him, but he knew the fear of causing a scene in church held you back. You tried to glance around nervously, hoping no one would notice what was happening.

The world seemed to come to a standstill, the only thing that existed was the fast, thumping beat of your heart as Jimin’s hand slithered closer and closer to the place where it had no business being. You felt trapped, your body frozen, unable to break free as if you were held captive by a coiled serpent; its grip tightening with each struggle. The sound of your unsteady breaths filled the air, the only thing grounding you in reality, that, and the heat from his touch, because this serpent was crafted from the finest satin.

„Shh, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay, keep praying so God won’t mind, yeah?”

His words made you paralyzed, like a spell, breaking you down. Words like those should never have left the lips of the kind and caring Jimin that you thought you knew. Your mind was reeling with shock and pain, struggling to make sense of how someone you had trusted completely could suddenly become a stranger. Jimin’s actions were like a knife to your heart, a stab that pierced through the trust you had placed in him.

With the grace of a feather dancing on skin, Jimin traced his fingers over your clothed clit, making you tremble beneath his touch. A soft gasp escaped your lips, your eyes widening as you felt the weight of the moment sinking in.

And he chuckled softly, a low rumble that only you could hear, taking your response as a cue, he increased the pressure. His skilled fingers now applied a firm yet tender touch, coaxing your body to new heights of pleasure, and your body tingled in response, betraying you by a throbbing ache that grew stronger with every touch.

As the ripples of pleasure swirled within you, you tried to pull back, to resist the sin that was happening in the very place where you sought solace and salvation. The guilt gnawed at your soul, the snake’s venom that seeped into every crevice, tainting the flower’s beauty.

And yet, Jimin reveled in your pain, basking in the darkness of your suffering as he watched the guilt consume you whole. The venom of your remorse was a feast for his senses; the holy wine, the sweetest elixir to be savored with every devious sip.

"Look, what do we have in here." He pressed his thumb against the dark spot on your panties, causing you to shiver. For him, the sensations of your wetness seeping through the fabric was like an euphoric rush, the sweet nectar of his delicate flower, intoxicating and irresistible.

Heat spread across your cheeks, horror and shame washing over you at his words, you shook your head, tried to move, tried to tell him to stop, but you found yourself lost in his eyes, searching for any sign of the person you once knew. But all you saw was darkness, a void that seemed to swallow you whole.

"Deny it if you want, baby, but aren’t you a nasty girl? You’re fucking soaking."

And it was true. Your body felt like it was betraying you, and you were mortified. He ignited a fire within you that you couldn’t deny. A soft cry slipped from your lips, but you couldn’t bear to face him, knowing that you were powerless in his grasp.

You were unable to believe what was happening. As someone who had always followed the Catholic faith and held its teachings in high regard, there you were, in this sacred place, allowing something so forbidden to take place.

But as his fingers slipped under the fabric of your panties, your mind went blank. The back of Jimin’s hand clung to your sticky panties as his fingers found their way down to your folds, the feeling making him shiver.

„Fuck— you’re so wet, can’t wait to feel you around me.”

You squeezed your lips together under Jimin’s hand to keep from making any noise, your eyes squeezed shut, tears threatened to spill down your cheeks as his wet fingers continued to rub and spread your folds apart, smearing your sticky arousal all over your cunt.

„Shh, this won’t make you a sinner baby, it’s okay. You won’t mind just one finger inside, yeah?” His middle finger probed at your entrance, teasing it, making it wetter still, as he slowly pushed in.

„Y-yeah baby— just one finger?” He teased and removed his finger, making you clench around thin air, and Jimin swears, the feeling made him twitch inside his pants. Teasing you – or himself, it didn’t matter anymore – he plunged back in, tauntingly slow.

Jimin’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull, his hard dick pressing firmly against his pants, yearning for release. To him this is how true Paradise felt like, the feeling of your silk walls wrapped around his digit.

He was about to lose it.

He bottomed his finger out inside you, knuckle deep, until his small 13 tattoo on his wrist met with your lower abdomen.

But he craved more. Fuck, how much he wanted to slam you against the pew and spread your thighs wide open, stretching your pretty little pussy right out with his dick. And who could blame him with the way your cunt gripped on his one single digit like that, dripping wet and sinfully warm.

But he couldn’t— not now. And it made him crazy.

You sank into the pew, your body trembling as he started to move his finger, his other hand still covering your mouth to keep you quiet. Every part of you was on fire, your mind and body in a constant battle between desire and shame. You were supposed to stop him, to push him away, but all you could manage was tremble and it made your eyes water.

It was a mixture of remorse and the burning desire pounding between your thighs; something you had never experienced before and something you knew you shouldn’t have felt at all in this holy place. And more likely you should’ve never clenched harder around Jimin’s finger when you heard the small shudder in each breath he took.

"Ahh baby—" The faint, breathy little whimper shattered his voice. "fuck.. you’re so perfect… so f-fucking perfect."

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath shallow and ragged, mirroring the rhythm of his finger. With his warm breath tickling your ear, his whispered words were barely audible, but they still managed to send shivers down your spine.

"Ooh, h-how I wish to see this perfect fucking pussy."

Jimin couldn’t take his eyes off of you as he watched your face intently, committing every single feature and expression to his memory. The way your brows were furrowed in pleasure, the way you fought to keep your eyes open due to the sensitivity.

He couldn’t help but admire the way your chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, the way you tried to stifle your moans under his hand, and the way your juices flowed from your aching cunt.

You were a captivating sight, sinful and alluring, flesh heated and glistening with arousal, and he knew you couldn’t deny it even though you tried. Your trembling body and the slickness on his fingers were evidence of the truth.

He slowly added a second finger, stretching you open further and moving faster, his fingers stroking your sensitive spot, sending waves of pleasure through you. With every stroke, you felt your body weakening, and your thoughts began to succumb to the corrupting pleasure.

Despite your protests, your body responded eagerly, arching towards him in a desperate plea for more; seeking more of the exquisite pleasure he was giving you.

You never felt so conflicted in your entire life, your mind was a battlefield; torn between your beliefs and the undeniable pleasure that was now coursing through your veins. Every creak of the old wooden pews felt like a judgment, a cruel reminder that you were committing a sin that would send you to the depths of damnation.

But when Jimin serendipitously grazed your swollen clit with his thumb, your mind went blank. You’d lost it.

Your hips involuntarily jerked against his hand, unable to contain the overwhelming pleasure. You gritted your teeth, determined to keep your cries of ecstasy at bay, but it was a dead effort as you squirmed and moaned, muffled by his hand covering your mouth.

"Fuck— Don’t moan like that, you’re getting too loud, keep quiet."

But you couldn’t. It was as if your head was spinning, unable to focus on anything except the pleasure. The way he slid his fingers in and out of you, his thumb perfectly stimulating your clit, it was too much.

Despite your efforts, you couldn’t contain the small moans that escaped your lips. The church was now just a blur in the background, the stained glass windows casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the floor.

"Shit, baby, keep fucking quiet or do you want me to slip those fucking panties off and stuff them in your mouth, hm?" Jimin’s whispered words sent shivers down your spine, making you clasp around his fingers right back in.

"Y-yeah, you want that baby? My nasty girl, s-so good... so fucking perfect." He moved his fingers faster, his thumb circling deliciously on your clit, building up the pace for your climax, your body crying out for release. And oh, how he reveled in it, savoring every moment, every sensation as his little flower finally opened its petals to him.

"You’re so close, baby, f-fuck— just let go, let me take you there."

As Jimin’s fingers brought you closer and closer to the brink, you couldn’t help but give in, feeling all the guilt and shame wash away in the face of the intense pleasure you were feeling.

„Ooh, fuck— Y-yeah, baby, go on. Come all over my fucking fingers.”

Just as you were about to reach the peak, a sudden thud broke through the lustful haze. Your tear-filled eyes fluttered open and you glanced up to the top of the church’s gallery, where you saw the organ player, Mr. Min sprawled on the ground at the bottom of the stairs, amidst a sea of fallen notes.

In that moment, time seemed to stand still as your eyes met his, and you saw the shock and disbelief on his once serene face.

Your heart plummeted like a falling star, sinking into the depths of your stomach as you realized what you must look like to Mr. Min. Your cheeks burned with the heat of a thousand suns as you met his gaze, his face a canvas of flushed embarrassment, crushing you with shame and guilt.

For in the eyes of Mr. Min, you were no other, but a sinner caught in the act of sin in the house of the divine. And as the notes of the holy music lay scattered at his feet, you couldn’t help but wonder if they were a reflection of your shattered innocence.

Mr. Min quickly ascended the stairs to the organ, his emotions were in disarray, a tumultuous blend of arousal and embarrassment. With each step, he tried to push away the image of what he had just seen, but it lingered like a haunting melody in his mind.

His cheeks burned with shame, but he couldn’t help stealing a glance at you before he reached the top of the stairs, his feline eyes burning you whole.

Exposed and vulnerable, you were unable to look at the organ player in the eyes anymore. You closed your eyes tight in an attempt to block out the intensity of his gaze. But even with your eyes shut, you could feel his feline eyes looking down at you.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the image, Jimin’s skillful fingers never faltered to move inside you, your body feeling like it was exploding. A soft whimper escaped your lips, which got silenced by his firm grasp.

With each second you felt yourself surrendering to the overwhelming ecstasy.

As you teetered on the edge, ready to fall into the abyss of pleasure, you were suddenly jolted back to reality, finding yourself next to Jimin who was kneeling humbly on the wooden pew of the church, praying.

With eyes wide open, heated cheeks and heavy breathing you gazed at your own clasped hands on the pew.

Was this all in your head? How could you have let your mind wander to sinful desires in the sacred walls of the church?

Jimin’s innocent devotion to his God only amplified your own guilt, making you feel like a fallen angel in the presence of his pure soul.

Jimin couldn’t help but smirk, he bit the inside of his cheek, but it didn’t help hiding it. He moved his clasped hands toward his mouth to hide the devilish smirk that appeared on his lips.

For he knew the power he held over you, the power to seduce and corrupt your very being. And with each passing day he was one step closer to claiming your body and soul for his own.

And as you sat there, lost in a whirlwind of emotions, Jimin continued to pray, his facade of innocence masking the devilish intentions that lurked within.

#bts scenarios #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts imagines #jimin fanfic #jimin scenarios #jimin smut #jimin x reader #park jimin x reader #bts x reader #park jimin fanfic #btsfests #park jimin smut

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robintherobiner · 3 months

Text

Tim definitely accuses his siblings of homophobia for the stupidest things.

Dick: Oh Timmy, I'm sorry but Dami and I are going to the zoo in a couple minutes, so I cant hang out right now.

Tim: Oh okay, I see how it is. You dont want me to infect you with my gay cooties, huh?

Dick: What?! No, Tim, i swear-

Jason, beating the shit out of him: Stop breaking into my safe houses!

Tim: STOP BEING HOMOPHOBIC.

Jason: SHUT UP I'M NOT

Damian: Drake.

Tim: I've finally figured out why you refuse to accept i'm part of the family. It's because I have a boyfriend, isn't it?

Damian: You'e not special, Jon has one too. I am an ally of queer people, thats not why I hate you.

Tim: Ohhhhh, so you're using the 'i have gay friends' excuse, huh?

Bruce: Tim, lad, please go to bed. The batcomputer is not a comfortable place to nap.

Tim: This is biphobia at its finest.

Bruce: Ignoring the fact that i am also bisexual, me telling you to move has nothing to do with your sexual orientation.

Tim: The way i use a chair has EVERYTHING to do with my sexual orientation, Bruce!

#dc comics #dc universe #batman comics #tim drake #batfamily #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne

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messyhairedhazeleyeddude · 4 months

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┊┊ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. Aϝϝliƈƚiσɳ ┊┊ཻུ۪۪

彡 A Yandere!Gojo Satoru x Cursed!Male!Reader | SMUT 彡

＊ Contents ; Obsession, stalking, masturbation, masochism, kind of non-con sleep blowjob, rough sex, murder, handjobs, and worshipping.

＊ Dynamic ; Soft Yandere/Admirer to Lover

＊ Sexual Dynamic ; Sub!Gojo Satoru | Dom!Male!Reader

＊ P.O.V ; Third

＊ Age Range ; 18+ (This is younger Gojo by the way.)

＊ Music suggestion ;

┌──────── • ✧ • ────────┐

Satoru was a man of many. Intelligent, charming, unserious, and funny; he had no problem with meeting people outside and inside of school. Rather, he had quite a bit of friends, set up the day he was born with everything he needed for a social life. Handsome, strong, and labeled better than everyone else. That was him. And he knew this very well.

It was no secret that he took advantage of it. In his spare time, Gojo was known for hooking up with various women and men like it was some sort of fun game where he needed to collect as many bodies as he could. Just to be on top of the ‘Who’s most fuckable pyramid?’. It was his thing. He was number one. He needed to have everything. Just, because, he was Gojo Satoru.

Many spread the word on how he was in those behind-the-scenes exchanges, his fucking skills not short from all his other accomplishments, perfection at its finest. And one thing that was the most mentioned about the sorceror was how no one… NO ONE… could get him to fall for them. No matter how many times they gave him gifts, no matter how much they followed him, he never looked their way once after they got alone for a simple bang.

Instead, they’d be the ones to fall head over heels and never got over the rejection. That was his specialty. The reason why he gained a fan base. And he was flattered by it. Amused even. But, it never convinced him to get with any single one of them. That would never happen in a million years.

After many shunned attempts from his classmates, old friends, and one night stands to get with him on a relationship level, they assumed that Satoru was full-on Aromantic. That the man loved himself too much to get something like a crush. Or he was in a completely different world than them because of his power.

Those weren’t the real reasons as to why Gojo wasn’t interested in them, however. He just didn’t feel drawn to that vulnerability. How they were so easy to figure out with a simple look from him. Knowing everything like this was the biggest challenge for him. He was stuck, endlessly bored because all of his options were predictable, and not one of them entertaining enough. No threat. That’s how it was.

Until sophomore year of the Jujutsu college was when he came across someone out of the ordinary in the school hallway. He happened to be a new student, transferring from a completely different part of the world, and the amount of cursed energy leaking from his aura made the sorcerer stop in his tracks.

When the man turned to look down directly into Satoru’s eyes as he walked past him, it sent shockwaves through his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. For the first time in his life, he found somebody that he was unable to read.

At first, he was in denial about it. He couldn’t understand why one person would be different from the rest when it came to his perception. So, to figure it out, he began to follow the guy around.

Don’t ask why he didn’t approach him first, he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t. His heart would beat irregularly and he’d start to sweat, his entire chest and face heating up if they locked eyes at all. Maybe it was because his [E/C] orbs were intimidating or because he was extremely fucking good-looking. Maybe both. All he knew was that he never experienced it before and that was terrifying.

He started with small stares from afar, prop up near the places he would spot him and watch what he would do for several minutes. Waiting until he left to walk right behind him and see where else he would go.

So far, he was about as normal as anyone else in routine. He’d walk to his classes, do his work, and focus hard on his studies throughout lunch. Burying his nose in books upon books that the white-haired man would never pick up. Yet, what he found intriguing was his lack of interest in others.

The man didn’t socialize, ever. He would get up from his seats and tables whenever somebody would sit next to him. If they tried to talk to him, they were ignored like they were a wall. He’d ignore them, throw their notes to him in the trash, and any project he was assigned to was made for him to be alone. It was almost near impossible to grab a name. Thankfully, the system needed it to enroll and that was easy to get to.

Now, he knew that it was wrong of him to invade his personal space and illegal. But, Gojo had a severe problem with boundaries and it didn’t help that he could get away with it by teleporting. Also, he just didn’t care. A little curiosity never hurt him.

Eventually, he got to rummaging through the school records in the late hours of night, finding a file containing a name he didn’t recognize, ‘[L/N] [F/N]’. Pulling it out of its box, he opened it to check the picture and came face-to-face with a question mark box in place of it. His eyebrows furrowed and he scanned through the rest of what was listed about him.

The description of his features and classes were all there, things that he already knew, the basic stuff. But, this confirmed that [F/N] was his name and that’s all that mattered. Satoru was about to close the document and put it back before he glanced down at a small paragraph that read:

‘[L/N] is reserved to be under tight supervision and security conditions. He shall never be allowed to leave the city or Jujutsu without permission. If it falters, we will initiate our final plan.’

He narrowed his glowing blue eyes at the ominous writing, thumbing over the edges of the page while he thought to himself quietly, ‘I wonder… Is he as good as me?’ That idea crossed his mind and didn’t leave him alone. ‘Someone stronger than me… Is that possible?’ His fingers folded the paper back to where it belonged while trying to ignore himself, tucking it safely, and closing the drawer to make it look like nothing was tampered with. Then he turned around to get to heading out, not seeing the large figure looming in the shadows behind him.

It was by the time Gojo hopped out of the window he used to break into the room, that he realized [F/N] was plaguing every corner of his brain. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. Like his face was burned into his memory.

His gloomy, [E/C] eyes that bore a hole through him whenever he caught his attention. That sharp nose that gave him an edge, scrunched up at anyone that passed by. Plump, pouty lips that would frown as soon as he was being bothered. God, and that soft red tone resting in the middle of them, it made him think of the worst perverted things he could possibly come up with.

Satoru was tripping over his feet trying to get back to his dorm room, using the roofs of buildings, and traveling at a rate he could when dealing with a boner this bad.

Finally, right as he stumbled into his place, he began unbuckling his belt and sliding it off to throw it loosely onto the floor somewhere. He got most of his clothes off of him and left his boxers to be the last thing pulled off, his dick springing free and brushing over his lower stomach before he wrapped his slender hand around the base.

He played with his tip for a minute, beads of pre-cum sliding down and coating his fingers. Letting him cover his shaft the more he pumped. It was throbbing, blushing pink like cotton candy, and glistened in the moonlight of his room. And oddly enough, all of this was being done to a fantasy of sucking [F/N] off.

Gojo had never touched himself to someone individually before. Especially to someone he hadn’t hooked up with. And not in a way where they were on top or it wasn’t solely based on sex.

This was new to him and he was losing himself to it, badly. His hips thrusted upwards into his hand, the other one reaching up to his mouth so he could suck on his fingers and coat them with spit. Finishing getting them wet, he positioned two of them against his hole and slowly forced it inside.

He closed his eyes and imagined it was [F/N]’s, groaning at the abnormal feeling of being finger-fucked but enjoying it more than anything else. It barely took a couple of times of ramming them in before his cum began to spurt out in huge amounts. Decorating both his stomach and his hand in a stringy design.

After that night, Satoru came to a conclusion on how he felt about the [H/C]-haired man. This proved to be very, very frustrating.

The urge to see [F/N] was constant. It got so bad that he was leaving zero to little time for his friends, spending most of it on lingering near his newfound crush and drooling over any tiny thing he would do. And this went on for weeks.

Until one day, his obsession hit an all-time high. He was following him into the locker rooms like usual, having memorized this to be his routine whenever he was going to get ready for training. Although, to his disappointment, the guy would use his shirt and towel to cover himself when he changed. So he never even got a single peek.

But, today seemed to be different because [F/N] didn’t head toward his locker. He went in the direction of the showers, carrying a couple of items with him that looked like clothes and necessities. Excitement and nervousness rushed through Satoru. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was going to get to see the man in all of his glory.

To keep himself from being detected, he was suspended in the air near the ceiling in a sitting position, patiently watching him arrange the shampoo and conditioner bottles before gripping the hem of his black fitted shirt.

[F/N] stripped it off of him, going at a slow pace that was teasing the hell out of him. Gojo was on the edge of his seat as he took in every bit, biting his bottom lip when he got to his pants and slipped them off of his slim waist. His build was impressive and so was his stature, enough to make Satoru draw blood from how hard he was digging his teeth in.

It wasn’t surprising that the white-haired man went straight to unbuttoning his pants and pulling his hard-on into view. Watching how he washed his body and cleaned his hair, struggling to hold in his moans while getting off to the sight. He barely got past five minutes before he was cumming mid-air, the droplets landing in the corner and making a bit of noise, causing Gojo to abruptly rush out of there as soon as he saw him turning his head.

His back was pressed against the wall on the other side of the showers, his chest moving up and down, the butterflies in his stomach swarming. He reached down to tuck his dick back in and zip it up, glancing at his hands that were dirtied with his jizz. Satoru sighed, in disbelief at his own actions before he went for the nearby sinks to wash them off.

Just as he did that, the shower was turned off and out stepped [F/N] a minute later. He passed by him while he was drying his hands off, causing Gojo to tense. His beating heart hadn’t even calmed from what happened not too long ago, he couldn’t handle this. So, he spun around and bolted for the door faster than the two of them could speak.

A small smirk quirked up the side of the [H/C]-haired man’s mouth, his gaze drifting toward the disappearing back of him, smug with a glint in his eyes.

Eventually, days had passed and Satoru was still in the same routine with chasing around his crush everywhere. Except it spread to him casually visiting his place in the middle of night to spend the rest of it either watching him sleep or pleasing himself outside of his window.

There would be times where he would break in and take his things to use like boxers and lotion. But, he tried to make it unnoticeable. He cared about stealth. That was until one of those nights, [F/N] decided to wear nothing but underwear.

Gojo’s blue eyes were glued on his figure, feeling like it was his lucky day to get to see something as rare as this. He was used to him wearing tank tops and basketball shorts, a small peep of his waistband was the most action he’d get if the man happened to move. Getting too excited, he was already sliding his sweatpants to his knees, shoving a hand in to get to jerking off for the millionth time. He couldn’t get tired of it when it came to him.

But before Satoru started, he realized that the window had been cracked open slightly. It was left open. Open…

He stopped what he was doing to push the rest of it upward, climbing inside of the tidy room and shutting it right after. The warmth and the quiet atmosphere invited him in, making him almost feel at home. That wasn’t wrong considering he was found in this place daily, scouring and finding out any thing that he had in this room. Which wasn’t much. Only thing that he was interested in was the locked box under his bed. Though, he couldn’t bust it no matter how hard he tried.

Looking down at the peaceful, sleeping [F/N] made his mind wander to a darker side of lust, his orbs brightening like diamonds as he let his sweats drop to the floor along with his boxers. He stepped out of them and lifted himself using his ‘Infinity’, hovering over him and getting the real picture of their size difference.

Gojo steadied his breathing as best as he could while flicking his eyes over his boxers, peeling them off bit by bit. He had to be extremely slow, careful than ever. Because if he woke up, who knows what would happen to him? And that risky feeling was more than enough fuel for the sex-crazed man.

Once [F/N]’s dick was exposed, Satoru had expected to see it flaccid, but it was already halfway hard. ‘Hm? Is he having a wet dream?’ He came to that conclusion. His excitement worsening because of the assumption and ended in him jumping the gun. He lowered down to where his tip was, giving a small kitten lick and watching his expression to see what would happen.

He knew it was a terrible idea to do what he was planning on. But, he didn’t want to stop what he was doing either. Actually, the fantasy of him finding out was really hot to him. What would he do? Would he get upset? Degrade him a bit? He was sure he could get off to that too.

[F/N] furrowed his brows a little and a noise similar to a grunt came from him, letting Gojo have the clear to go further. He placed his entire tongue on it, swirling around the head of his dick at a medium pace, and tasting his salty pre-cum with a satisfied look on his face. God, how long had he wanted to do this? He couldn’t keep track. It wasn’t that long of a wait but to him, it was like he served decades in prison, being teased with the keys in the cell next to him.

More grunts slipped past [F/N]’s pretty lips, falling onto his ears, and encouraging him to take more into his mouth. He hollowed out his cheeks while bobbing his head up and down to give the finishing touch, pulling out his phone at some point to snap a thirty second video of what he was doing for safekeeping. Every sound of his was making his own cock leak with arousal, dripping onto his bed, and reminding him that he needed attention too.

He dropped the device to move his hand back down, stroking his shaft and playing with the slit on his tip, muffling his moans on [F/N] and getting dirtier with the blowjob. His spit was running down the sides of him, messy and spreading around his mouth. The bobbing turned into a circle motion and he progressively got faster and faster. Feeling his dick twitching once he deepthroated.

The [H/C]-haired man’s legs lifted slightly, bending his knees while he thrusted upward. His eyebrows completely knitted together and his noises only sounding more intense. He was nearing his end, Satoru could tell. And it was then that he popped his mouth off, gasping for air, making his other hand wrap around to jack him off at a speed so quick that there was no time lost.

He stuck out his tongue and pressed it right against the landing zone, an odd euphoric look to his eyes as he soaked in the moment like it was his biggest achievement yet. That was until he saw those [E/C] ones piercing right back at him, the color of them being replaced with a… glowing, dark purple? What?

In an instant, Gojo’s hair was swept through and grabbed into a fistful, lifted off of him and thrown into the wall next to them with a force strong enough to cause him to go through it. His eyes went wide, staring directly at the frightened face of one of his classmates who was awoken by the loud impact and flying drywall. Barely a second into the exchange of words through looks with the girl, he was yanked back into the room, and the men rolled together onto the ground.

[F/N]’s palm slapped across his mouth, digging his thumb and all of his fingers into both of Satoru’s cheeks; turning him around to face towards his chest so he could pin him down better. His other hand was locked tightly in a grip around his wrists, both of his knees underneath his legs, his usual cold stare replaced by rage. And what he was hoping earlier felt heard all of a sudden.

There, he got to meet his crush for the first time and have that closeness he’d been hoping to get. Or just a simple word back. Something. He craved for his attention so bad that he could threaten him and it’d still satisfy his desire.

Gojo’s surprise slowly shifted into a wide smile, his eyes having a crazier spark to them while he giggled, figuring out what [F/N] had done. It was a trap.

The sound of a concerned voice interrupted before he could speak, “Gojo-kun? Are you okay?” Satoru mentally sighed, his expression dropping to half-lidded annoyed glare. He heard a brief slip of a laugh from [F/N] and raised his brows in shock, thinking he was amused by his face until he felt something pushing against his lower body, entering right inside of his hole.

No, he wasn’t laughing at that. He was laughing because he was enjoying the fact he was going to be exposed. Satoru should’ve been turned off by that, but rather he was loving it himself. He didn’t know why. This was so unlike the upcoming head of the Gojo clan. Although, he lost it already once [F/N] buried most of his thick length inside of him. His soul looked like it was being possessed, a purple glazing over his blue eyes.

Thankfully, he was stretched out by his fingers previously because the width of his cock was big enough to still make it feel uncomfortable. His thrusts rough as soon as he got most of it in. He didn’t think it would hurt this much, feel this amazing too. The combining sensations fucking with his brain and making him melt into the powerful man’s hold.

[F/N] was inside of his head. Literally. He could hear him whispering things in there through his technique, “You’re mine, Six Eyes. All of that cursed energy… It’s mine now.” Mind manipulation. That was his technique. He figured it out.

No wonder he couldn’t understand what it was at first. It was one of the main attributes of the special grade cursed object, ‘[M/N]’s Needles’. That means that the small marks on his forehead weren’t birthmarks, it was needles, deep into his own skull.

A smirk grew on the side of [F/N]’s mouth when he saw the ‘Aha!’ look across Gojo’s face, an extremely low, nerve-wracking voice coming out of him as he leaned right next to the white-haired male’s ear to remind him, “You’re not winning anything. I think I’d like to take your offer up on making you my new fuck toy.”

Then the aggressive fucking from before turned into straight abuse on him, Satoru’s expression twinging through a mixture of exasperation and pure bliss. Locking eyes with the same girl he’d been stressing about when his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. She choked up and took a step back, watching her peer get destroyed. But not for much longer because she mysteriously got warped into space, disappearing from the room without any explanation.

Gojo peeked back at [F/N], psychotically smirking and letting out a string of loud, slutty moans and groans. Not holding back because he knew that nobody could stop them. Especially with such a strong curse at his side. Despite his knowledge on what he was doing to him, he also made sure he could take control of the situation too. And what that means is he formed a pact.

The young sorcerer leaned forward, summoning most of his strength to give him a kiss, struggling to keep his eyes open anyway. [F/N] didn’t kiss back, knowing what he was up to the second he heard the thought from Satoru. But, he kept insisting, pushing his lips harder and harder against his.

There was several attempts at rejecting him, but it didn’t matter. Even as [F/N] gripped his ass harshly with both hands, dug all of his nails in, and tore his bottom lip up more. He continued to plant the same kiss, going so far and desperate that he started making out with him. It didn’t matter if he responded to it because Satoru wasn’t just doing it out of tricking him into this pact. This was love. Twisted, fucked up, love.

[F/N] pulled away for the twelfth time, panting and surprised that he was holding on for this amount of time. By now, they’d be falling apart and passing out. And he had even switched it to his most effective position. Gojo’s back was pressed up on the wall, arched and his legs wrapped around his waist, struggling to hold on from him being quite tall. His hand was wrapped around his neck, squeezing hard to the point where he was coughing, making sure that he didn’t lift himself to kiss him anymore.

“Do you want to get yourself killed? Or do you want to cum and survive, asshole?” [F/N] spat, getting up to his face in a threatening manner. Satoru smiled back at him once again, managing to choke a sentence out, “I want both… please!” He was teasing him even in this situation. The grip on his soul never wavering yet he talked back. This pissed him the hell off.

Every ounce of his strength raged into Gojo immediately after that, the wall caving in on them, and the sheer volume of both of their techniques fighting one another in the midst of their exchange. His crystal blues spaced out and tilted up, staring off as he fell limp in [F/N]’s arms, his forehead pressing against his to give one last attempt.

The [E/C]-eyed man couldn’t resist the temptation. He didn’t know why. He didn’t think about it. He just did it. His lips smashed onto Satoru’s expecting him to be drained of anything that he could use against him. But, he was wrong. Dead wrong. If anything, the fate had been sealed right then and there from that action.

A knot was forming in [F/N]’s and his stomach as he panicked about the failure when feeling his power fade along with Gojo’s, the smile from before planting against his face right in the kiss they had. He tricked him into it. He fucking cheated.

So much anger was rammed into Satoru for the next few hours even after [F/N] and him finished at the same pace. His guts practically being filled with his seed over and over, then rapidly having it fucked in until it couldn’t escape. He paid him back for what he did. For ruining everything he had by tying a commitment to him he didn’t want. Although, for some reason, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Possibly looking forward to their time together.

|| Extra ||

Satoru weakly smiled at Geto and shook his head, answering his question on where he’s been the last couple of months with a soft sigh, “I’ve been getting around a lot. When you have this many fans, it’s hard to keep up.” The black-haired man looked at him, unamused; poking at his noodles. His baggy eyes seemed to be getting worse. Shoko chimed in a smart comment, “Is that why you’re getting hickeys now? You letting someone top you?”

Gojo froze and snapped his head at her, his serious face causing her to began laughing like crazy and exclaim out loud, “No way! So, it’s true! You are being bottom!” He raised his hands in the air at her and waved them around while denying it profusely, “You think someone can get one over me? Gojo! Satoru! Do you not know my name? What kind of crazy lady are you, huh?!”

They bickered back and forth until Geto split the two of them up and decided it was time for all of them to go their separate ways. He waved ‘Goodbye’ as he walked away, slipping his hands in both of his pockets before turning his head to look in an alleyway that he was barely about to pass. For a split second, he was sure he caught a glance of purple eyes peering back at him, but when he checked again; there was nothing.

He looked at the dark midsection of the buildings, waiting to see if something else would happen, and then walked on as soon as it appeared to be his mind playing tricks on him.

Little did he know, that later on in that same alleyway, after Shoko left Gojo alone. He was being fondled by the curse he now claims as his forever boyfriend and ‘fuck buddy’ who stood there, eavesdropping on him the entire day.

They switch roles in following each other. Happening to be [F/N]’s day. And they both couldn’t hold back the urge of wanting to fuck the shit out of the other all the time. Satoru never reluctant to letting the man have his way. And as he let the blue-eyed man finish from his hand, he dug his teeth into his shoulder blade, mentally shouting at him in his head, “Who’s on top again, pretty boy?! What did you say to them again?” His cum spurted everywhere onto the floor and his fingers, those eyes rolling back like usual while he muttered, “You, sir…. Only, you.”

#jjk smut #smut #smut prompts #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jjk x male reader #gojo x reader #gojo x male reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x male reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru is a bottom #yandere gojo #yandere gojo x reader #SoundCloud

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chateautae · 11 months

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to turn a bad thing good | jjk. II

➵ summary: jungkook’s drunken one night stand goes awry when he comes to learn not only is he being forced into an arranged marriage, but it’s to the very girl he abandoned that night—and things get a lot more complicated when you’re the best hookup he’s ever had.

➵ pairing: ceo!jungkook x law student!f. reader

➵ genre: series, arranged marriage!au, fwb!au (?), haters to lovers!au, smut, fluff, angst

➵ rating: 18+

➵ word count: 13k

➵ warnings: swearing, loads of angsty arguing aGAIN, sexual tension at its finest, depictions of anxiety and ptsd

➵ a/n: second chapter is hERE! thank you endlessly to everyone who waited for me despite completely disappearing 😭 life got crazy but i was always working on this second chapter, can’t wait until the third hehehehe. 🥺 pls forgive me for mistakes i did not have a beta bLEH. your feedback means the world to me <3

chapter two: “i’ll be in airplane mode”

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Jungkook is going to implode.

He’s currently showering, letting the therapeutic water beat down his body this morning as he nurses a nasty crook in his neck; courtesy of sleeping on the couch. But that’s not the worst of his problems, no, the worst of his problems is soundlessly slumbering in his bed outside.

You.

At this point, Jungkook has spaced out, palms flush against the shower wall as he depressively hangs his head. If he believed himself to be fucked before, he was deeply mistaken, because his situation has now plunged so deep into the ocean it could rival the Titanic.

When Jungkook was dragged out of bed with a horrible hangover and commanded to join his parents on this cruise last week for his marriage meeting, he at first, vehemently refused.

But after a demeaning scolding by his father, he was forced to agree. He seriously considered this matrimony then, anticipating a million possibilities besides you as his wife. He anticipated a too sweet, innocent girl, anticipated a spoiled brat or horrid witch or a woman so vapid he’d lose brain cells.

But he never anticipated you.

You, who reminds him of the sinful night he couldn’t vow to neglect. You, whose skin he couldn’t forget the softness of. You, whose lips beckoned visions of them all over his body. Seeing your face yesterday resurfaced such vivid memories in Jungkook’s head that he’s contemplating walking off the plank.

He remembers everything. The ghost of your whimpers caressing his ear, your trembling legs hooking around his torso, your heart vibrating through your chest against his own. Your hands in his hair, your hips melding into one, losing himself in the tight, warm fit of you. Your feverish kisses and explorative tongue and sexy brain, your pleasured face and blissful moans and sharp nails digging into his sweaty muscles as he fucked you harder.

He shivers, usually able to brush off the finer details of a hookup, but there’s one slight… slight issue with attempting to forget you—you were the best hookup Jungkook has ever had.

He’d never had sex that cosmically good. You were simply different, from the second he laid eyes on you to the moment he was sheathed inside your heat; you were so good he was sporting a hard-on right now, so good he’s been standing under this shower for 20 minutes not having a moved a muscle, so good he isn’t sure how he’ll control himself when he sees you this morning in your sexy sleepwear.

Call him fucking weird, but Jungkook has always had a weak spot for women’s sleepwear. He loved himself a naked woman, sure, but something about her lazy hairstyle, cute cotton shorts or pants paired with a tank top or babydoll or whatever the fuck else women wear to sleep that could get him solid as a rock.

If he already can’t forget your velvet walls fitting his cock like a glove, then he’s surely fucked when he lays eyes on you this morning.

But he’s also fucked because he needs to stop envisioning your bent body, needs to squash the image of your plum-coloured bodycon dress pooled at your torso, needs to forget the sight of your over-spilled, gorgeous breasts and sopping cunt and swollen lips begging him for more.

For the love of God, he needs to avoid anything that has to do with touching you, or staring at your lush mouth, or gazing into your alluring eyes and forgetting what the hell you two were even talking about.

He wishes this was just a dream. A long, eerily vivid, impossible dream he’ll wake up from. Or better yet, he wishes this was all a simulation, waiting for somebody to tell him he’s simply living in the Matrix. But Jungkook knows better; nobody is going to tell him he chose the blue pill; nobody is going to rip a cord out of his cranium; nobody is going to wake him up. He’s seriously doomed to see this marriage through, to take over his father’s company and have the lifestyle he’s cherished for so long ripped out of his grasp.

The pressure already felt unbearable, the idea of walking into his father’s office and knowing it would instead belong to him. His father had already arranged to announce the company’s inheritance by the end of next week, cursing Jungkook with a public ceremony that would slap an expiration date on his carefree life.

Jungkook cringes, grinding his teeth as the very idea irks his soul. He didn’t want to run a company, he didn’t want this responsibility; it’s far too demanding and disrupts his current flow. It’s not that he’s incapable, no, everyone has underestimated him his entire life and he liked it that way, loved relishing in the look on people's faces when he defied their expectations. But it’s like the axis of his world has shifted; he’s not only responsible for an entire company, but now responsible for a whole other fucking person.

You.

Jungkook seriously contemplates the idea of marriage, grimacing. He wasn’t all that good at relationships, hell, he can’t even remember the last time he dated someone. Hookups were much easier, whether they were one-night stands or entertaining a fuck buddy for a few months. It was low-maintenance, low-effort, only required a night of his time and not much else.

Marriage was a stretch, a long, long stretch for him, wondering how he’ll ever manage monogamy or sex with the same person… all the time.

But then again, being married to you? Jungkook can’t lie, the idea isn’t half bad. He didn’t have to worry about the sex part; your sexual chemistry was clearly tested and proven, so thick only a diamond could incise it. It was good, too good, actually, so no faults there. Marriage with the best hookup he’s ever had couldn’t be so bad, right?

If only you weren’t the very definition of a she-devil.

God, your attitude is nastier than you in bed. You’re all claws and teeth, cussing and shouting, feisty and daring. No grace, no elegance, not a subtle bone in your gorgeous body. Nothing is mild about you and Jungkook has a strong feeling you’d use any opportunity to shove him off this boat, even dust off your hands afterwards as if you’d just taken out the trash.

It’s wildly sexy to him, and he doesn’t understand why. Why does he find it hot when you’re quipping and snipping back at him? Why is he attracted to the way you scoff at him or grind your teeth or roll your eyes or make this cute angry face that’s equivalent to an explosive kitten?

Because yes, yes, you were an angry little kitten. You could deny it all you want, but something about your smaller stature and perfectly manicured nails and the way you hissed that was all cat-adjacent. Jungkook knew he was right—he’s secretly a genius—but was also fiercely attracted to the anger that boiled on your face when he called you a kitten.

Oh, does Jungkook already love making you mad.

He doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand why he’s so entertained by pissing you off or hearing you swear at him, but then again, he doesn’t really understand a damn thing about you.

He still hates the things you say about him, the way you assume and write him off as any other playboy to walk this Earth because it’s not that simple. Jungkook is much more complex than that and he won’t stand for anybody arbitrarily labeling him.

He doesn’t know much moving forward with this, but all he knows is that he’s royally, royally fucked, because as much as you want to forget about that toe-curling, delicious night, Jungkook’s having a difficult ass time—he’ll never be able to wipe his memory of the most satisfying night of his life.

The horrid sun bleeds into your room so vibrantly, you feel like transforming into Icarus and fighting the overrated star.

You groan as you wake, despising the constant rocking of the ship. Your motion sickness isn’t as vicious as Taeksu’s, but something about knowing you’re not on stable ground leaves your brain disorienting.

Yawning, your eyes clear to observe the room you’re in, wondering where your mother is, until you remember what happened yesterday.

Yesterday.

You feel like smashing a pillow over your head, disintegrating into the bed, clicking your ruby heels three times until you’re home, because there’s no way you’re in your future fiance’s room… in his bed.

The same bed he slept in the night previously, having only belonged to him for a night, but the evidence of him still fresh. It smells like him, and you despise how attracted you are to the subtly sweet yet strongly musky, almost woodsy scent of him—a calming scent. You didn’t even know if the man slept naked, or worse, perhaps entertained someone last night.

It’s not a far fetch, really. He didn’t get the label of a playboy overnight. Jungkook earned his reputation as a result of years of practicing his ways. You felt inclined to categorize him as a manwhore, but it didn’t feel that black and white with Jungkook. And truly, are you any different?

Perhaps you’re not as persistent with your hookups, but sex is sex, and as long as you respect the people you sleep with, so what if you often get laid? It’s how you and Jungkook met in the first place.

Still doesn’t cure the nausea crawling up your gullet at the possibility that he fucked another woman in this bed.

Weary but attuned to your environment now, your brain finally decides to focus on the other person that should be in this room; Mr. Jeon Jungkook. His absence makes you wary, but then again, you can tell he’s not a monster, feeling relief once you contemplate at least Jungkook isn’t depraved enough to do anything indecent.

You’re still in denial you even slept with the man, wondering what fresh hell you waltzed into. How could you have slept with the future heir of Jeon Entertainment and not known?

A swirl of pride fills your chest, detesting the feeling, but that doesn’t deny its existence. You happened to seduce a powerful man; of course you’re going to pat yourself on the back. Truly, sometimes a woman’s most lethal weapon can be her confidence.

Still, it doesn’t eradicate your predicament. Now you’re destined to marry the damn man? Jungkook can’t be keen on this marriage, he must’ve drank too much alcohol or smoked a wicked string of crack last night, because there’s nothing logical about your matrimony. And surely, as strict as your parents seem on the engagement, they have to stand down if both their children so vehemently reject it.

You’re hoping Jungkook woke up with a clearer head this morning, sighing.

Swimming in your questions of his absence, they’re answered when the door to the bathroom clicks open, and what emerges short circuits your brain. Steam curls around Jungkook as he extricates himself from the bathroom, in nothing but a fucking towel around his waist.

A very, very small towel.

Fuck the towel for being so small, because now you’re acutely aware of Jungkook’s size. For the love of Christ, his body is so deliciously thick you’re close to panting like a dog. His luscious, wavy locks of hair are soaked and tousled as he dries it with a towelette, catching the hint of his undercut—too sexy.

His honeyed-skin glistens with dampness, beads of water still stuck to him. You can’t help but remain glued to his physique, transfixed by his orgasmic masculinity, his powerful sex appeal—your gaze scavenges upwards.

Jungkook believed you’d still be asleep, clearly, because the shock once he meets your eyes is nearly comical. He freezes, wide-eyed, his own gaze suddenly leaving your face and traversing downwards. He lingers on your body, only half covered by the bed sheets, swallowing the image of your tank top and pajama shorts.

He visibly suppresses a reaction, still seemingly mesmerized by your sleepy state, and you’re utterly confused. He quickly tears his eyes away and clears his throat, reverting back to his condescending, smug grin. “Why are you staring, kitten? See something you like?”

That wakes you up. “Please, I was just wondering how self-satisfied you have to be to walk around nearly naked like that.”

“You’re in my room.”

The reminder nearly saws your dignity in half, regally tipping your chin. “Whatever, put all that,” you gesture in circles towards his body. “away.”

His lips curve widely, brows raised. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Forced to remember that night, you blanch, awkwardly acquiescing. “Actually, you were clothed that night. So no, I haven’t seen you without your clothes.”

Jungkook makes an expression of surprise, eyes distant as he recalls that night, too. He seems to remember that he in fact, was clothed, while you were the one close to completely naked—fuck. “You’re right, I didn’t remember that.”

You scoff, expecting him to have forgotten. Why would a night with you even be worth remembering to him? He’s slept with enough women to have experienced far better sex and a myriad of wildly kinky things, certainly you’re not up there on his list of most memorable nights.

A silence impregnates the air. Jungkook furrows his brows before he crosses the room to check his charging phone. He presses his towelette against his neck to dry, tongue toying with his lip ring as he scans notifications. The moment grants you the perfect opportunity to soak him in, utterly fascinated.

His muscles are undeniably impressive, but his general physique is what stuns you. His broad, dense shoulders and chest taper off into a thin, almost elegant waist, but expand out into robust hips and what you can only presume is a thick ass. The scarce hint of his thighs give you enough confirmation they’re bursting with muscle, and you, funny enough, were already aware of the instrument between his legs.

He’s more than well-endowed.

Nonetheless, what you’re most distracted by isn’t his unique build, but the tattoo sleeve sprawling up his arm. You caught a glimpse with his rolled up sleeves when he was pounding into you. But now, earning an exclusive view of the detailed ink spreading up to his shoulder is remarkably fascinating.

The most intriguing of all, though, is the large tattoo on the left side of his torso. You see leaves and branches of a tree, an almost ethereal depiction that dwindles down into a strong trunk that disappears behind his towel. You’re suddenly curious, wondering what the other half of the tree is but find your face heating, your ladybits throbbing at the idea that Jungkook has…

The motherfucker has a thigh tattoo—holy fuck. It’s a sizeable work of art too, beginning by the bottom left of his abs, past his hips, and onto his thigh.

For fuck’s sake, if that isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever encountered. If only you could remove that pesky towel and get a good—

“You know, if you want to look, you just have to ask.”

Stunned, your saliva halts in your throat when Jungkook catches you staring at what could be mistaken as his bulge. You meet his gaze, finding his thumbs hovering over his screen as he devilishly smirks at you. The heat in your face grows hotter, tossing him a dirty look. “Shut up, I want nothing to do with your nasty tattoos.”

A lop-sided grin plasters his face, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “You didn’t think they were nasty when we first met.”

“I was drunk,” you counter. “And it was dark, clearly I was blind.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, not buying it. He cuts the weird silence that ensues afterwards by jerking his head towards the bathroom, hanging his towel around his neck. “I moved your things, by the way. I roughly guessed what was inside by the size of the bags. Sorry if I misplaced anything. Didn’t wanna look into your things like that.”

Your brows climb up, taken aback by the gesture. The fact that he minded your privacy by not peeking into your belongings leaves your chest feeling oddly warm. You don’t like it, cringing at the sensation. “Wow, look at you being a nice person.”

Jungkook laughs. “I told you I’m not a bad person.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

You challenge his gaze once again, narrowing your eyes as he similarly clenches his jaw, staring back. You could practically feel the electricity buzzing between you two, a cartoon-ish crack of lightning blistering your already searing tension.

Nearly succumbing to the pull of him, you scoff, dropping your gaze. You shove your blanket off and steady on your feet, nabbing your phone. You flip around your tangled hair as you find a missed FaceTime call from Taeksu, kissing your teeth once you remember that timezones would be a bitch—not to mention how he’ll react to your news.

How are you going to tell your best friend you’re getting married? You’d left the Korean Penninsula a single, happily-fucking woman and would return as an engaged one. And to a stranger at that? It's flabbergasting, abrupt news, and your potential man obviously requires Taeksu’s approval—his opinion has always mattered to you. You’d crumble if Taeksu hated your future beau.

And Jungkook? For the love of fuck, you have no clue how Taeksu would react to Jungkook. The man embodies everything Taeksu hates about men, and you know you’re in for it when you break the news to him.

You carefully step towards the main area of your suite, focused on texting an apologetic message to your best friend when you notice how eerily quiet Jungkook’s become. You quirk a brow as you peer up, surprised by his state.

He’s staring. At you. Like, staring staring. Not the weird, creepy kind of leering, but the kind of staring that’s indicative of a lovestruck fool, dewy lips parted and eyes wide with fascination. He does that a lot, you think. He did it the first time you two ever met. Jungkook looks at things like they’re the most mesmerizing in the world, as though this is his first life and he’s soaking everything in.

It’s kind of cute. Wait, no, it isn’t cute, there isn’t anything remotely cute about this man. He’s a selfish bastard and you hate his guts.

Not cute.

You watch his gaze wander your body, and he lands on your chest—suddenly you’re acutely aware of your no bra and tight tank-top situation.

You frown. “Would you stop staring at my tits, please?”

Jungkook blinks, and then blinks again. He clears his throat and rips away his gaze, his face fresh with colour. You freeze—did he just get embarrassed?

He schools his expression, though, voice playful. “Sorry. Not my fault I remember them so vividly.”

Stiffening, you make a disgusted face at his obvious lie and march your way to your suitcase, ignoring him. You attempt to locate an outfit for the day to leave this room quicker, but alas, you’re not even aware of the itinerary today, having forgotten to ask your mother throughout the chaos yesterday.

“What are we doing today?” You ask curtly, not interested in a conversation with Jungkook.

“Your mother didn’t tell you?”

You give him a look that questions deserves, and Jungkook mollifies. “Our families are having brunch together. We’re meeting on the upper deck at 10. Get dressed and I’ll take you.”

“I don’t need you to escort me,” you scold him. “Don’t try to act like my fiancé, we’re not getting married.”

Jungkook’s expression twists with a snarl. “I’m gonna take you because you don’t know your way around the ship, genius. I’ve been on this ship since I was 7, you got on it yesterday.”

Oh. Okay, you contend that was stupid, but you’re starting to hate when Jungkook does humanly decent things because you don’t perceive him as humanly decent. He’s the object of your hatred and you’d love for things to remain that way—you can tell he’s bad news waiting to happen.

“Fine,” you bristle, “but don’t think you’ve changed my mind. I’m not saying yes to marrying you.”

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head at your impossibility. You send him a saccharine sweet smile with two equally vulgar middle fingers, disappearing into the bathroom and grinding your teeth so hard you give yourself a headache.

Walking up the deck is a slap in the face, because the view you earn reaching the top is inexplicably majestic. The sea beautifully glitters as the morning sun catches the surface, the waves rippling calmly. The temperature today is placid with some light wind, causing the skirt of your sundress to infrequently kiss your legs.

Enchantment overcomes you, so soothed by the wonders of the sea you barely hear your name being called. It’s only when a warm, large hand presses to the small of your back do you startle. Jolting, you peer behind you to find that Jungkook’s joined you at the top of the steps.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” He apologizes.

You swallow, controlling your hormones as his palm sears into your lower back. His touch was so careful, incredibly gentle, and suddenly you’re hating yourself for being so affection-deprived that you’re freaking out over a touch.

It already didn’t serve you well to remember that Jungkook participates in some form of fighting exercise, to remember that his hands are hardened by hard work and dedication, that they most likely have the ability to beat a man to death, but lay upon your skin with such gentleness.

You snuff out the warm feeling in your chest, replacing it with pure ice. “Maybe if you didn’t randomly touch me.”

He blanches, retreating his hand to instead scoff, looking away. You step forward with a side-glare in Jungkook’s direction, aiming to locate the table your two families are sitting at instead. You surf the crowds of other families dining away, only to be interrupted by the high-pitched squeals of a little girl hurtling in your direction.

You’re confused, wondering whose lost child could be running amok. You almost bend down to question her, but you’re smacked with surprise when you see the little girl isn’t charging towards you. She’s sprinting right at Jungkook, her eyes bright with excitement and her smile wider than the entire world as she squeals, “Jungkookie oppa!!”

You nearly choke, shock gluing your sandals to the ground. Oppa… oh God, he wasn’t kidding; Jungkook really does have a little sister, who gazes at him like he’s the most fabulous person to ever exist. Jungkook’s smile grows impossibly wide, too, lighting up his handsome features in an adorable way.

He holds open his arms for the little girl to jump into, Jungkook scrunching his nose with a giggle that reminds you of a bunny. The little girl giggles too as she soars into his embrace, Jungkook plucking her off the ground and spinning her around. He perches her on his hip as his voice lilts, lighter and airier.

“Mari! Good morning to you, did you sleep well?”

“Good morning! I did,” Mari nods big, her petite arms curling around Jungkook’s neck. “I had to sleep early because fairies need their beauty sleep, you know?”

Jungkook giggles, smoothing over the folds in her stunning pink outfit. Baby pink overalls with an iconic cream, chiffon blouse underneath, the tulle collar and sleeves to die for, all complemented by a pink bucket hat the same shade as her overalls. “Of course, but why would you need beauty sleep? You’re already the most beautiful.”

Mari shyly blushes, her stunning milky skin stained by rosy colour. She nuzzles into Jungkook’s neck, and it’s then her eyes land on you, widening with curiosity.

“Oppa, who is that?” She points at you, and Jungkook wraps his hand around hers, clicking his tongue.

“Mari, remember what I told you? It’s rude to point.” He softly reprimands her, meanwhile you’re still stuck on the image of a child perched on Jungkook’s hip and his humongous, tattooed hand engulfing her tiny one.

Cute… stupidly cute.

Jungkook’s apprehensive when he regards you, his eyes revealing uncertainty—it’s then you recall what his little sister asked him. Clearly he’s stuck on what to label you, telepathically searching for some confirmation.

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Mari pouts, but becomes animated again. “But daddy told me we’re meeting your girlfriend today. Is she your girlfriend? Do you love her?”

Jungkook freezes, coughing like an idiot as he stumbles on his words. “What? No, I don’t love her. I mean, I like her—but not really—wait, that’s wrong too. I don’t—”

“She’s your girlfriend and you don’t love her?” Mari interrogates her brother, and you force back a laugh as her adorable eyebrows furrow. “That’s bad, oppa! How could you not love your girlfriend? You’re so mean.”

Jungkook’s blushing now, his embarrassment too apparent to hide. He fumbles again with basic English, and now it’s truly too hard to hold it back. You laugh, brightly and unapologetically. Jungkook appears even more stuck now, struggling to survive. “Mari, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s—”

“His fiancée.” You interject, a warm smile spreading across your face. “I’m engaged to your older brother”

For a second, Mari doesn’t react, and you’re horrified that you’ve said the wrong thing; perhaps came off too invasive or pried into their special relationship, but Mari’s eyes then glitter, just like her older brother’s kind of do. Her radiant grin follows, “Oh my God! Am I finally gonna have an older sister? Does this mean I get an older sister?”

Her excitement fills your insides with sunshine, being bombarded by her cute questions and joyful screeching and animated clapping. Jungkook has to simmer her down with constant hushing before placing her on the deck, descending onto a knee before her.

“We’ll talk more later, okay? Now go sprout fairy wings and tell mom and dad that me and my… fiancée are here.” Jungkook momentarily hesitates before pinching Mari’s cheek. She nods big and a charming smile plasters Jungkook’s attractive face, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of his little sister’s head before she toddles off.

You eye Jungkook with a playful, quirked brow, arms crossed. He purses his lips with light-hearted embarrassment as he regains his full height, rubbing the back of his neck. “She likes pretending she’s a descendant of fairies sometimes.”

You can’t contain your chuckle, hiding it behind your palm. “Not really pretend when she’s as adorably tiny as a fairy, and cute.”

“She really is the cutest, huh?” Jungkook adds, and you can’t help but soften at the fondness in his eyes. It’s then you remember what Jungkook told you last night; that he was only going through with his parents' wishes for his sister. At first, you found it bullshit, but seeing the empirical evidence of their bond left you truly wondering what Jungkook’s parents are holding over his head.

Said man indicates you two should join your families, beginning to walk side-by-side together, his hands snug in his trouser pockets. He decided to wear a black pair with a black button up and blazer—he clearly loves black, and God, does it look sexy on him.

Shit.

“So… fiancée? I thought you were set on arguing away this marriage.”

Your gaze fixates on him, watching the ocean breeze leave its waves in his chocolate-coloured hair, lightly tossing it around. The sun also happens to exemplify his soft, incomparable beauty, and it’s now you realize the gorgeous mocha-brown of his rather kind eyes.

You catch yourself—you need to stop looking at this man, he’s too attractive for his own good. “I really wanted to, but the second your sister asked me who I was and said your father already told her… I realized that this marriage isn’t just about us. She got so excited thinking of me as her older sister that telling her that I’d only be a stranger soon… it felt wrong.”

It’s true. How would you feel if your little brother was elated to have an older brother like Jungkook, only for the man to claim that he’s nobody worth remembering? That he’d be a stranger? This entire situation was something kids didn’t need to understand, or else you’d be cruelly beating their concepts of love and marriage with a bat.

You suddenly despise your mother again; you realize this was all a tactic. She perfectly set this up so you couldn’t say no to this proposal—your father most likely knows, Jihoon probably understands a bare-bones version appropriate for a 12-year old, and your mother clearly allowed the Jeons to inform others of the match. Hell, the Jeons are literally paying for this entire luxurious vacation… how could you say no?

“So you’re agreeing… to marry me?” Jungkook sounds utterly displaced.

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t say that, just that I’m not opposed to being called your fiancée.”

Jungkook pouts, and your heart lurches at the way he pouts. Fuck. “How can you be okay with being labelled my fiancée but not marrying me? Engagement leads to marriage, you know.”

“Not all,” you counter with a shrug. “Just because you’re engaged doesn’t mean you have to marry. Technically, we can be engaged for a few years and not marry. The engagement then becomes legally null and void.”

“Oh God,” Jungkook drawls. “You’re such a lawyer.”

You smirk. “What can I say? Two lawyers raised me.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, becoming silent then. You realize in that silence that you two just had a normal, nice conversation—something about the idea both pleases and scares you.

“Ah, there they are! Our happy couple.”

Your attention is stolen by Jungkook’s father welcoming you both to the table, slightly irked to find that of course, everyone situated themselves so that you and Jungkook were forced to sit next to each other.

Quite honestly, you’d take that over sitting next to your mother, so you shut your mouth and comply. You supply everyone with warm greetings without really acknowledging your mother, allowing the mouth-watering, varietal smells of breakfast to become your distraction.

“Eggs are my favourite!”

Everyone at the table happily giggles at Mari’s comments throughout breakfast, adorably monologuing why every breakfast item is her favourite until she finds a new one to adore.

She always did that, always looked at the world with bright eyes and an exuberant smile and sometimes, Jungkook envied that. Envied that his little sister could remain oblivious to the working world, could live in ignorant bliss.

Could be free of the expectations he was burdened with.

Jungkook would never trade places with his little sister, however, because he’d much rather be the one with arrows in his back, protecting her from this cruel world. He’d much rather earn the brunt of his father’s anger or the disappointment of his mother or his family’s suffocating expectations than let Mari experience it.

So what if he was his parents’ emotional punching bag? The eldest? The firstborn son cursed with a decided life? As long as Mari was happy, then Jungkook was happy. It’s truly the only reason why he hasn’t abandoned this family yet, excommunicated himself or run way; he couldn’t allow those horrid responsibilities to fall on Mari’s shoulders.

Jungkook unconsciously grins as he watches her happily eat, humming her own little tune and floating in her unique world. She’d always been a little quirky, a little eccentric, but it was all part of her adorable charm, and Jungkook could never get enough of her.

Her curiosity was another object of his affection, but earlier, Mari’s curiosity nearly made him choke on his saliva.

Leave it to his little sister to ask you if you’re his girlfriend and whether he loves you or not. The embarrassment heated his face instantly, the words “girlfriend” and “love” completely foreign between you two. Jungkook was certain at the time you’d completely shut down his sister, so it was to his surprise you gorgeously smiled instead and introduced yourself as his fiancée.

Jungkook took a deep breath, relieved that you’d actually agreed to this match. Even if you spouted some bullshit about only being engaged but not marrying, it was enough for him. As long as Jungkook’s parents could see him in a committed relationship, he was okay.

That’s all this was for, anyway. His parents knew he’d never had a real relationship and that marriage would be enough to settle him down. They wanted him to grow up and stop being a child, and apparently marriage along with being handed over an entire company would do the trick.

Stupid shit, absolutely stupid shit.

“So, I’ve heard that our itinerary in the Maldives will be quite eventful.” Jungkook perks up as your mother begins some conversation. She appears beaming, though her eyes keep flitting towards her daughter; his very cool, aloof fiancée next to him.

Jungkook bristles when he remembers your relationship with her at the moment—he could practically taste the amount of animosity you had for her now.

He’d genuinely believed your reaction to your mother last night was over-the-top; surely not being told something couldn’t sting that badly. But now, he realizes just how awful it is. Brushing off the topic of your father after indicating he was sick meant that you have some sort of deep, special bond with your mother. Her ambush must’ve burned, and not informing you until after being dragged all the way to the meeting… that just adds insult to injury.

“Yes, we’ve got quite the trip planned for you ladies.” Jungkook’s mother merrily begins listing everything in store, causing him to nearly groan. He knew his parents were only pulling every rabbit out of the hat for this trip to buy your enthusiastic “yes”. The tactic was clear.

“Indeed,” Jungkook’s father pitches in, slicing into his sausage. “We just wanted to thank you two for joining us, and especially Y/N for being so kind to my son. I hear you’ve accepted his proposal.” Jungkook’s father smiles brightly at Mari, who shyly hides herself.

“Well,” Jungkook interjects, “I haven’t exactly proposed—“

“I didn’t ask you, son.” His father cuts him off—Jungkook has to bite back a derisive scoff.

Beside him, you hesitate, swallowing your fruits. “Y-yes, Mr. Jeon. How could I say no to your wonderful son? He’s quite the catch.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow, peering at you bewilderingly—just this morning you were spitting venom at him, what’s with your attitude shift? But then, he watches you nervously glance in Mari’s direction, and suddenly everything makes sense. You’re a lawyer’s daughter, and the internet taught him that you’re in law school; lies are probably your forté.

“Ah, I’m so glad to hear that.” Jungkook’s father heartily chuckles. “I know he may not be a man of the best reputation, so thank you for tolerating him.”

Of course, his father was going to pull some shit like this. He always had an outstanding ability—the power to dress condescension and belittling with pretty words.

Jungkook couldn’t help but scoff. “Says you.”

“I’m sorry,” his father fakely apologizes. “I didn’t catch that, son. What did you say?”

“Nothing, father.”

“That’s what I thought.” He snips, and Jungkook’s suddenly finding his bacon too salty. “But yes, I know my son is known for often partying and drinking, I will not hide that. His attitude is also quite deviant and insolent, though he is fierce in his passions. I hope that makes up for his many faults.”

Jungkook is now seriously contemplating tossing this plate at his father. He shouldn’t have expected anything less, obviously he would publicly trash him in front of everyone just to teach him a lesson. The table evidently grows a little awkward too, though his father carries on, completely unperturbed.

“He will be taking over my company, so you will be marrying the CEO of Jeon Entertainment, Y/N. I hope you and your mother will appreciate that. He may not be smart enough to run the company, but he will learn, even if he knows more about clubbing than he does about business.”

His father means it as a joke, laughing afterward, and some people grant him a polite chuckle. Jungkook doesn’t dare look up, afraid of the faces he’ll find; agreeing with your father, horrified by his lack of respect for him. So Jungkook eats, he eats because it’s calming, because it’s helping him bite his tongue and stopping him from ripping into his father.

“Of course, we’ve attempted to discipline him. You know us parents, always trying to do the best for our children. Even if they can be ungrateful and don’t understand that it’s for their betterment, it’s still crucial to help them grow up.” Jungkook’s father adds. “Isn’t that right, Jungkook?”

Jungkook grips his fork so hard he thinks he may dent it, gritting through a smile. “May I politely remind you I’m not a child anymore, father? I don’t need to be disciplined.”

“Mm, then I suggest you stop acting like one. Sometimes I cannot seem to tell you and Mari apart.”

Nostrils flaring and fists tightly clenched, Jungkook’s practicing self-control of the century right now. This is normal, Jungkook tells himself, a well-precedented occurrence. He’s learned how to control himself as a result, has learned how to tolerate his father’s bullshit and his exponential ability to insult him.

Jungkook’s mother picks up on the tension, redirecting like she always does. “W-well then, Y/L/N ladies, I can’t help but notice your youngest isn’t here. Where is he? We’re missing him terribly.”

Your mother immediately jumps in, covering her mouth as she chews. “Oh, yes. Jihoon had school and I didn’t want to interrupt his studies. He’s very particular about school, my youngest.”

“Oh wow!” Jungkook’s mother beams. “It seems we have a future scholar. Remind me of his age again?”

“He’s 12, and brilliant.” You add in beside Jungkook, who watches you gracefully handle conversing about your brother with his mother. It seems Jungkook was slightly mistaken before, maybe you could have some grace—it appears you don’t practice it with him, though.

“I see, is someone looking after him?” Jungkook’s mother queries.

“Yes, our housekeeper who has been with us for a very long time watches over him.” Your mother chimes.

“That’s lovely. Does your husband look after him as well?”

At that, you freeze beside him, and Jungkook’s acutely attuned now. In his Google search earlier, he couldn’t find anything substantial regarding what happened to your father. He only read vague articles about an incident that temporarily impacted his role at the family law firm.

But when you spoke of him, you mentioned sickness? Jungkook’s never been more confused.

“My husband is still… recovering.” Your mother hesitates with her wording, flitting towards you, who’s gone so stiff Jungkook’s certain you’re having an aneurysm. He glimpses in your direction, finding your complexion bleak, your eyes wide. He can practically see the turmoil in your mind, fighting to remain normal.

“The housekeeper is more than kind with Jihoon, so there’s no need. My husband can’t—“

“Mother.”

Everyone freezes when they hear your reprimanding tone. Your animosity is multiplied by tenfold, and Jungkook’s surprised to see your tightened jaw and clenched fists, eyes fierce with frustration.

And it’s all directed at your mother.

Said woman clears her throat, a sense of superiority tainting her persona. “Y/N, I believe we can talk about your father with our new family—“

“No.” You admonish, the absolute epitome of anger. But it’s not all angst, though; there’s a tangible amount of… sadness in your eyes. Deep, deep sorrow that appears to cloud your mind—Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow.

“You will not take that away from me, mom. Never.”

The table is stunned. Even Mari’s gone rigid, observing the interaction with slightly scared, alert eyes. Jungkook’s mother and father attempt to act as though they’re eating, but they’re both secretly invested. Jungkook’s food remains neglected, getting cold.

“I have not taken anything away from you,” your mother fortifies her tone. “They are things you were eventually going to have; I merely sped up the process. A process that should have been sped up long ago.”

Jungkook detects multiple layers to this conversation, evident by the dense tension that suffocates the atmosphere. You consequently light on fire beside him, replicating the nature of a pissed-off lioness “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

“I can say whatever I want,” your mother presses. “I am your mother, Y/N, and I am simply doing what’s best for you.”

“No, you only do what’s best for you.”

He’s surprised to hear your voice—did it just crack? It sounds heavy and miserable, and sitting beside you grants him an exclusive view to your state. Your trembling is concerning, and your nails are digging into your palms. You practically heave, eyes glossy. “Don’t tell me to move on, I will not simply move on.”

“You must,” Your mother insists, folding her arms. “It’s what your father would’ve wanted.”

“You don’t know what he would’ve wanted!”

Your volume shocks everyone, malice radiating off you in waves. Now, Jungkook’s alarmed. This is not the fireball of a woman he met. Where were your snarky remarks and unwavering confidence? Where was your bad bitch energy and ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude? You’re shaking like a goddamn leaf, breaths destabilized and eyes bright with dread, anxiety, panic.

Jungkook can’t watch this, his chest inexplicably sinking.

“Mother, father. I realize that I haven’t given Y/N a tour of the ship yet.” He suddenly interjects, lightening the tension with his chirpy tone. “It’d be a shame if she didn’t see it before we docked in Hong Kong for our flight. I should show her around, huh?” Jungkook reaches out his hand to rest upon your shoulder. He’s terrified you’ll flick it away, certain, actually, that you’d smack the shit out of him for randomly touching you again.

But Jungkook gains no response, and he’s incredibly relieved. He flickers towards you to find that you’ve entirely withdrawn from this brunch, eyes vacant. Your detachment feels incredibly off to Jungkook, whose empathy swirls against his will.

God-fucking-dammit.

“Yes, son. Why don’t you show Y/N around? The ship will belong to you and her one day, anyway.” Jungkook’s father adds on, and Jungkook fights the urge to gag.

“Yes, father.”

Jungkook politely smiles at the table before rising, again, daring to rest his hand on your shoulder. “Come with me, Y/N.”

He watches as your eyes shift towards him, empty and darker than an abyss. Confusion with a hint of concern washes through Jungkook, but he forces himself to snuff out the unusual feeling.

In front of him, you clear your throat before snapping an irate look at your mother. You shoot up from your seat, immediately stomping away. Jungkook respectfully bows to everyone before tagging along, hot on your trail.

You’re going to fucking implode.

Every organ in your body is going haywire and your chest feels like it’s on fire. Your head is filled with lead, charging away from that horrid brunch with every ounce of strength you can muster.

Anger is all you feel. Or Is it even anger? Truly? Is it rather the stress you endure because of your trauma? Is it the force of flashbacks attacking you? Is it the blood curdling in your veins when you’re urged to remember that horrifying night?

And the fact that it’s your own mother who forces you to feel this way, to feel so helpless, weak, like you’re drowning.

Why? Why can’t your mother ever let you heal in your own way? Why does she push and push and push you until you have no choice but to bend to her will? She has no right to speak about your father as if it doesn’t kill you, doesn’t have the right to override your feelings or spring things onto you without consulting you first.

She’s always done this. She may have been your confidant, forming an irrevocable bond full of unwavering support, but this was her one, fatal flaw; she was an emotionless woman.

Forged by Michelangelo himself, your mother has been an unfeeling statue for most of your life. She never entertained emotions. She found them tedious and merely operated as though life were a game and she was its master. She could never understand how humans let their emotions rule them. She was kind, yes, but has always been able to compartmentalize her feelings unlike any other, separate her mind and heart and excel at anything with incomparable efficiency.

She constantly wanted the same for you.

But you’re not a robot, you’re not unfeeling. You’re a sentient fucking being who’s been urged her entire life to simply move on from things—it’s not that simple for you, and she’s irritating you beyond what you can tolerate now.

Insisting you openly relay your family situation? Admonishing you in front of strangers? This marriage? Everything about her enrages you at this moment, but what happened earlier was the cherry on top—she’d seen first hand what happened to you because of your father, had seen the way you’d destroyed yourself and continued to suffer as a result.

Your mind brews in rage and self-loathing, transporting to that night… that horrid, horrid night—

You suddenly feel a strong hand clasp your bicep, and it’s their goddamn funeral. You grab their wrist with your opposite hand, swiftly spinning around before tugging your opponent towards you. The move is so basic to you it feels like breathing, the other individual now victim to your arm that sweeps around the front of their neck while your free one links with it from behind, choke-holding them.

“Holy fuck—” You hear a familiar voice struggle, catching a whiff of shea butter with a hint of cedarwood that indicates exactly who this is. You watch as Jungkook’s tattooed hand claps your arm to release him, and panic overrides you.

You immediately disengage, shocked. Jungkook stumbles out of your grasp and stares at you in bewilderment, rubbing his throat. “Jesus, Y/N… are you alright?”

You blink, then blink again. “I just… I just nearly choked you, and you’re asking if I’m alright?”

The man across from you merely clears his throat, fixing the clothes you minutely ruffled. “Clearly you only attacked me because you thought you were in danger.” He says, his round, shimmering eyes sweeping over you. “You okay?”

Something about his care annoys you in this moment; perhaps the fact that he does so despite nearly hurting him, or because you haven’t experienced someone else’s genuine concern in ages. “I’m-I’m fine.”

A silence passes, your arms folding over your chest as Jungkook merely stands, rubbing the back of his neck. You’re both situated on the side of the ship, overlooking the vast sea as the gawks of seagulls pierce your quietude. Your attention is held captive by the sea, Jungkook abandoning his stance to instead lean against the railing, forearms pressing into the metal.

He shoots you a curious look. “You gonna tell me how the hell you know an arm-drag rear naked choke?”

Your brows rise, slightly surprised. “You know the move I pulled on you?”

Jungkook nods. “That was an MMA move. Jiu Jitsu, to be specific. How did you know how to do that?”

You worry your bottom lip, oddly submitting to his questioning. “I did MMA for 8 years. My… dad took me.”

The memory of your first class washes over you like a tsunami. You could practically smell the air tinged with sweat, dry wood and old plastic mats. Could feel your first blossom of bruises, your muscles aching, your body slowly becoming accustomed to the movements. Could hear the sound of your instructor shouting, your friends giggling…

Your father cheering.

“For 8 years? That’s impressive.” Jungkook comments with a handsome grin, sucking you back into reality. “But damn, now I know you can actually kick my ass. I don’t like that.”

That produces a faint snort from you. “Just don’t give me a reason to.”

Jungkook lightly chuckles, and you’re left to stew again. Feelings of guilt, regret, and loathing still wad up inside you, suffocating your heart and restricting your lungs. It’s a chronic sensation that never goes away, constantly licking at your chest ever since that one day. You let out a loud exhalation, and then laugh, dryly and humourlessly.

“Why did I just tell you that?”

“Tell me what?”

“About my father… why did I tell you that? How am I not disgusted by your presence right now?” You contemplate, scoffing.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Listen, if you’re truly uncomfortable with my presence or talking about anything right now, then I’ll leave. Just say it outright”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why are you being nice to me?”

His eyebrows quirk, confused. “Because it’s the humanly decent thing to do? You literally looked like you were going to jump off the ship a couple minutes ago,” Jungkook then lifts his hands in surrender. “My bad for having a heart.”

You saccharinely grin. “Sorry, I was under the impression you didn’t have one after you abandoned me in my apartment.”

Jungkook faces you, his gaze heavy with frustration—he humourlessly huffs. “Fine, you know what? I don’t have a heart. In fact, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t haul yourself overboard because I still need someone to marry.”

You gape. “You fucking mongrel.”

Jungkook smirks. “You know what you need to do, Y/N? You need to stop assuming and accusing me of things because of that night.” He retorts. “Would serve your look a whole lot better.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?”

His lips curve sinfully. “Bitterness makes a woman age, kitten.”

You gasp, flaring with anger. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? An obnoxious, idiotic asshole.”

“Mmm, look at you talking dirty.” He hums, leaning his cheek into his palm. “I do have to say, though, I’m more into degrading than being the one degraded.”

Your mouth hangs open. “Wow, you’re a piece of fucking work.”

“Indeed,” Jungkook gloats. “Rumour has it the Mona Lisa is jealous of me.”

You half-laugh, half-scoff, losing all your patience. “Can you ever have a normal fucking conversation?”

“Where you’re concerned?” He raises his brows. “Absolutely not.”

You shake your head with a derisive chuckle, leaning over the railing as you look away, needing to collect your wits. He’s so utterly disorienting you’re experiencing sensory overload.

Jungkook sighs next to you, swallowing. “Listen, Y/N. Real talk is that you seriously need to stop assuming things about me. Get to know me before you start saying shit. Funny how you’re a lawyer but jump to conclusions about me without any evidence.”

“Fuck off.” You spit, scowling at him. “How can I see you as anything but an asshole when that’s all you ever are? And I’m not a lawyer yet, genius, I’m still only a student.”

“Same shit.” He claps back. “And it’s like I said before, you need to get to know me.”

You plaster on a fake smile, facing him. “That would be much easier if your face didn’t piss me off.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes, but a devilishly attractive smirk curves his lips, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “Oh yeah? You seemed to like it a whole lot when it was between your legs.”

Heat flares your cheeks. Memories of that night have already plagued you ever since he left, and you’re not up for a reminder when he’s here, so close, in front of you.

Smirking, eyeing you carefully… looking edible.

“Whatever.” You concede. “Why are you even here? Did you come only to be an asshole like usual?”

Jungkook sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I chased after you like an idiot because I simply wanted to be an asshole, Y/N.”

“Don’t get sarcastic,” you admonish him. “That’s all you’ve done the entire time you’ve been here.”

He pulls back his lapels to perch his hands on his hips, accentuating his gorgeous, tiny waist—fuck. “I came because you looked like you were on the verge of a panic attack, and I actually wanted to make sure you didn’t haul yourself overboard.”

You challenge him with an invigorating glare, but find his opposition lacking. Jungkook isn’t kidding, he seriously meant what he just said. You realize then that in a way, Jungkook is trying to… care about you. Even if he hides it behind his snarky remarks and quippy attitude, he technically granted you an out earlier from that brunch. Whatever prompted him to speak up during your argument with your mother and to follow you out here came from a genuine place in his heart.

You loosen up, tipping your chin. “Thank you, or whatever. But I’m not hauling myself overboard.”

He grins. “I don’t know about that, kitten; you seem small enough to get tipped over if we hit a wave.”

Mouth falling open, you lift a threatening hand. “You motherfucker—”

Jungkook laughs as he dodges you, his hands up in surrender, and it’s unfair how mesmerizing his laugh is. “Okay, okay. I take it back.” He concedes. “I think you’d only get tipped over if we made an abrupt turn.”

At that, you snarl wildly before shoving him away, an unexpected laugh and smile escaping you. Jungkook joins you, too, and suddenly, you can’t remember why you came out here.

You remember when you were 8, strapped to your seat with an iron-clad belt as you stared out the circular window with unprecedented eagerness.

Your excitement was unmatched, swinging your legs back and forth while contemplating the country you’d be visiting. You’d only ever seen photos of Finland in school, a surreal, encapsulating nation that swept you into a daydream. But a series of jerks and jolts tore you away from that dream, fear intoxicating your system as you looked at your mother in horror, begging for an answer.

Turbulence, she’d called it, and ever since then, you’ve been irrationally afraid of flying.

Even now, as you grip the edge of your seat and carefully breathe, you can feel the horror you felt back then pinning your body in place, limbs frozen with apprehension. Repeatedly, you steel your nerves, telling yourself over and over and again that it’s only a 7 hour flight, that you’ll be in the Maldives soon and that the likelihood of a plane crashing is extremely minimal.

Those thoughts still don’t deter your persistent terror.

It’s not until a hand in front of you smooths over your knee do your eyes wretch open. “Are you okay?”

You find Jungkook’s warm, chocolatey eyes gazing at you, his features softened with a detectable amount of concern. You suck in a breath, flickering towards the tattooed hand nestled over your skin, and every hormone in your body does a happy dance. You despise the feeling. This feeling of helplessness and inexplicable desire that bolsters through you every time Jungkook touches you; despise that it beckons memories of that night, of his hands sliding down your body and gripping you in sinful places.

For fuck’s sake, it’s just a touch, Y/N.

You swallow, wetting your lips with your tongue. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He queries, still not having moved his damn hand yet. Why does his inked hand look so sexy against your skin? “You don’t seem okay.”

Again, another swallow, remembering to focus on your breaths. “I don’t like flying.”

Jungkook’s brows curiously furrow at that, and it’s now you realize how much he speaks with his eyebrows. His lips also had the tendency to pout. Whether he was angry, upset, arguing, they puckered cutely to the point in which you could delude yourself into believing he’s someone cute, someone worth marrying.

Definitely not.

“You’re afraid of flying?”

“Yes,” you flatly answer. “What? It’s a completely normal thing.”

“No, it is.” Jungkook contends, pursing his lips. “I just didn’t expect…” He trails off, and suddenly you’re very curious about his next words.

“Didn’t expect what?”

“Didn’t expect for you to have a fear like that.” He replies, doe eyes boring into your soul. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, drawing your attention to his lip ring. What you wouldn’t give to feel it against your lips again.

“What about it?” You challenge. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging. “It’s just cute.”

You freeze, feeling your cheeks heat up. Infuriation consumes you however when you contemplate how juvenile such a reaction is; who cares if he thinks you’re cute. “Shut up.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “I like when you tell me to shut up.”

“Really?” You snort. “I thought you weren’t into being degraded.”

He scoffs, reclining back as he peers out the window, folding his hands over his abs. “Try listening to music, or napping. It helps with the nerves.”

Taken aback, you acquiesce, his advice oddly… comforting. “I’m not falling asleep with you in my vicinity.”

He sinfully smirks, doe eyes shifting to you. “Of course; why dream of me when you can see me in the flesh?”

Exhausted by him, you huff, tossing him a dirty look before snatching his blanket stuffed in his seat compartment. “Whatever; I’ll be in airplane mode.”

It’s a dumb gesture, but you hope it delivers a “fuck you” enough, cuddling into a sleepy ball behind it and gluing your eyes shut.

You swear you hear Jungkook chuckle, but convince yourself it’s in your head.

“For the love of fuck.”

You struggle to haul your suitcase across the last stretch of the corridor, hating yourself for packing so much. One of its wheel’s stupidly broke during the flight, and now you’re stuck shoving it across the floor.

The bell boy had already transported it up to your floor, but you insisted you could move it the last distance after watching him struggle, too. Goddamn you.

“Do you need help?” Jungkook’s voice filters in, nearly smacking your forehead over how he always seems to find you looking stupid.

“No, thank you.” You grin, but it’s forced and fake. Jungkook snorts, effortlessly gliding his things past you; a duffel bag perched over his shoulder as he wheels his suitcase.

“Suit yourself—pun intended.”

And he walks on, completely unbothered. You grit your teeth, knowing your instinctual habit of challenging Jungkook at every turn isn’t going to serve you well right now—you momentarily throw your pride to the wolves.

“Actually… actually! Wait!”

Jungkook halts, whirling around with a beautiful grin. “Yes, kitten?”

You narrow your eyes at the petname. “Could you help me?”

He smirks. “I’d be happy to.”

You watch as Jungkook walks a few meters down and opens a door, plopping his things inside the room—it must be his. He returns to you, his face far too smiley for your liking.

He’s up to something.

“Let me take that off your hands,” he cocks his head towards your suitcase, holding out his hand. You nestle the handle into his palm before Jungkook rips his hand away, tucking it behind his back.

“Actually, I think I need you to do something for me first.” The corner’s of Jungkook’s mouth evilly curve, and you resist the urge to slap him.

“Excuse me?”

“You should be familiar with quid pro quo, kitten.” He purrs. “Before I help you, can you do something for me?”

You roll your eyes at his use of the legal term. “And what the hell do you want from me?”

Jungkook suddenly advances on you, and you’re shocked by the action. You naturally falter back until you’re met by the wall behind you, his body pinning you to the surface. Jungkook’s smirk is unwavering, his eyes twirling with amusement as he fixates on yours.

You swear you see him flicker towards your lips, but he quickly abandons ship.

You feel the air sucked out of your lungs when Jungkook rests a hand against the wall by your head, leaning over. He towers you, and God, does his scent and warmth absolutely fuck with you.

“I want you to tell me that I’m handsome,” he demands, timbre deep and playful. “And that I’m the best fuck of your life.”

You choke. “Pardon-fucking-me?”

“You heard me,” Jungkook drags his tongue across his dewy, coral lips. “Tell me those things, and I’ll help you out.”

“Why do you need me to tell you those things? Are you mad?”

“Nope. Just an asshole, according to you.”

Your anger flares, grinding your teeth as you chew on a comeback, but it becomes stifled in your throat when Jungkook’s tongue starts fiddling with his lip ring. It seems like a habit he’s not even aware of, and you’re 100% certain it’s going to become your greatest weakness.

He leans in closer, and his warmth immediately leaves an impression within your very soul. His aura, his imposing presence burns you, the kind that’s an addictive heat, a drug you never want to give up.

“You’re missing braincells if you think I’m going to say that,” you spit back, eyes menacing as they cut into him, as if his impressive body shoved against yours isn’t reminding you of when he piston-fucked you. “I told you, you were a mistake.”

Jungkook’s eyes minutely change, as though he experienced a small pang, but he clears it away, replacing it with unflappable sensuality. “You won’t think that for long.”

Caught in an intoxicating stare with him, your body betrays you. His proximity is stirring old sensations inside you and you absolutely despite it; your pussy pulsing, your veins singing, your brain malfunctioning. This song and dance you two seem to do is something of another world, but it corrupts you all the time, detrimental to your mental health and yet the sweetest melody to every vessel in your body.

You are so incredibly fucked.

“Screw you, why can’t you just pick up the damn bag?”

Jungkook sexily chuckles. “Because it’s so much more fun seeing this look on your face.”

You attempt to school your expression, but it’s impossible in his presence. You fume, cheeks heating. “For the love of fuck, Jungkook, I’m not saying it.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not!”

Jungkook laughs, hearty and warm. “Do you really want to deny me right now, kitten? When I’m the only thing standing between you and finally relaxing in a hotel room after a 7-hour flight?”

“Fucking, oh my God.” You huff out, folding your arms over your chest. “Fine. You’re… handsome. And you’re the best… you’re the best…”

Jungkook dramatically cups his ear. “I’m the best what now, kitten?”

“Thebestfuofmylife.”

He leans in closer, amused eyes looking down at you. His timbre drops an octave, low and throaty. “Speak clearer, Y/N.”

“The best…” You can’t get yourself to say it, not when he’s so close you’re overheating, not when he’s giving you those eyes. “Oh fuck it, I’m not saying this.”

“Then do you want me to remind you of our night together again, kitten?” Jungkook’s entire demeanour suddenly changes. His voice is coated in lust as he wets his lips. “Want me to recall every depraved way I touched your body? I think I started at your waist, then I glided my hands up your stomach, then I gripped your hair and slid down your arms and cupped your—”

“Okay, fucking fine! You’re handsome and you’re the best fuck of my life! There!”

Jungkook’s grin is so wickedly satisfied you want to chokehold him again. He retracts his hand from the wall and nudges the bottom of your chin, bouncing his brows. “See? Told you you wouldn’t think of me as a mistake for long.”

You don’t even have time to react before Jungkook nabs your suitcase and effortlessly balances the three wheels, lugging it down the hall.

Exasperated, you clench your fists as you follow him.

“Where’s your room?”

Still whiplashed by earlier, you swallow away your mixed emotions. “Um, so actually… there's a problem with that.”

He glances over his shoulder. “What problem?”

“I’m sharing a room with my mom, and I really don’t want to.”

Jungkook turns, his brows furrowed. “Oh? Where are you staying then? Did you get your own room?”

This is embarrassing. How are you going to tell him that you tried, only to find out that every room was booked? There was no way you’d survive rooming with your mother, the Jeon’s were already occupied staying with Mari, which left only…

“I’m going to be staying with you.” You confidently assert, even if you shake with shame. You’re torn between being so overbearing he says yes, but also exercising basic manners. You’d be invading his space, and he has every right to say no…

“If… if you’ll have me.” You continue, nerves so nauseating you end up rambling. “I know it’s sudden and you hate my guys and we never agree on anything, but I have no other choice considering all the rooms are booked, and I think I might explode if I share a room with my mom. So I’m really sorry, but my room is your room, and I think it might stay like that for the rest of this trip because I’d much rather deal with you than my mother who’s quite frankly soured my mood and I may end up—“

“Hey, Y/N, it’s okay.” You find Jungkook chuckling, a fist covering his mouth. “Jheez, I didn’t know you ramble when you’re nervous. Guess the angry kitten can be cute sometimes.”

Opening and closing your mouth, Jungkook cuts you off before you can respond.

“Don’t worry, you’re good. After that brunch, I can understand not wanting to stay with your mother. Just know that staying with me means abiding by my rules.” He gorgeously smiles—you pout.

“What? Are you gonna be an idiot who requests I walk around with little to no clothing and utilize every opportunity to throw our night together back in my face?”

Jungkook’s features immediately twist with disgust, appalled. “Y/N, what kind of people do you hang out with? Who the fuck would do that?”

You simmer, ugly memories resurfacing. “Some people would.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes at you. “I would never use an intimate moment we shared against you. Maybe to tease you, yes, but never to disrespect you. I wouldn’t exploit the vulnerability and trust you once showed me like that.”

You blanch, stunned by his words. You can’t help but find what he said… incredibly hot, now flaming with shame. Maybe you really are assuming too many things about Jungkook, writing him off as every other shitty man that exists in this world when he’s far from that—fuck. “I’m sorry. I… didn’t mean to make an assumption about you. That was totally unfair of me.”

Jungkook purses his lip with a nod, breathing out before he jerks his head down the hall. “C’mon, let’s get to our room so we can freshen up.”

Silently, you comply, following after him as he hauls your suitcase, and suddenly you’re very aware of the thick muscles that strain against his shirt as he works. He’s so big, you think, but also has a big brain, kind of a big heart, too, and it’s these tiny things about him that are stupidly captivating you.

So captivated, in fact, that you forget about him using the pronoun ‘ours’.

Afer settling into his room, you’re both rearranging and situation your belongings until a familiar, soothing voice disrupts the silence.

“Ah, sweetheart, there you are. Would you mind taking your sister out for a while? Your father and I will be out with Y/N’s mother and I wouldn’t want her to be left alone at the hotel.” Jungkook’s mother elegantly waltzes into his room, her eyes lightning up upon finding you organizing your luggage.

“Oh, Y/N is here as well? Will you two be sharing a room?”

You exchange a look with Jungkook, who eases you with a nod and redirects to his mother. “Yes, mom. But considering you and dad didn’t bother sharing this entire arrangement with me, I won’t be sharing why she’s here, either.”

Jungkook’s mother pouts, and now you’re aware where Jungkook inherited his pout from. “Don’t be angry with me, sweetheart. This was your father’s idea, and you know how he is.”

Jungkook bristles then, sighing. “What were you saying about Mari?”

“Please stay with her? Or perhaps take her out, she’s been excited to see all the jewelry stores here. She did her research.”

You watch Jungkook smile fondly and it’s hard to look away—for fuck’s sake. “Of course she did.”

Jungkook’s mother smiles, too. “You may take Y/N with you as well; you two should go sight-seeing. The Maldives are beautiful.”

Jungkook nods, shifting those stupidly big, round eyes in your direction. He extends his hand, tilting his head. “Wanna go out with me?”

At first, his words smack you in the face. It was absolutely unnecessary for him to ask so pleasantly, as though he would respect whatever your answer was. The entire gesture floors you, swallowing before you meekly place it in Jungkook’s warm, large palm.

“Yes, I’ll come.”

“Okay, oppa, at what point does it look stupid to be wearing lots of necklaces? More than three or five?”

Jungkook can’t help but laugh at his sister’s question, holding his chin as he contemplates. “Hmm, honestly, if you’re the one wearing the necklaces then will it ever look stupid?”

Mari’s cheeks turn magnificently red, shyly grinning ear-to-ear. “Okay, whatever you say.”

Jungkook happily smiles in return before cupping Mari’s cheek, stroking his thumb across before watching her confidently march along.

You, Jungkook, and Mari had found a quaint street bazaar that instantly caught Mari’s eye, the current leader of your stroll through the vibrant, lively shops and stalls. Owners bustle about as they tend to their customers, proudly showcasing their creations and more. Whether it was food or clothes or jewelry, the burst of culture and the people’s community fascinated you.

“Is that how you’re so stupidly charming with other women?”

“What?”

Hiding your giggle, you scrutinize Jungkook. “You’re good at giving your sister compliments, I wonder where the talent comes from?”

Catching your drift, Jungkook snorts as he continues walking, keeping a subtle eye on his sister’s small steps in front of him. “Please, I simply adore the lovelier half of our species. Anything wrong with that?”

His clever choice of words makes you roll your eyes. You lace your fingers behind your back as you continue to leisurely stroll next to him. It’s not until you peer downwards do you see that Jungkook’s matched his steps with yours, clearly walking much slower than his usual pace.

Is he doing that for you? Or for his sister? Definitely his sister. “You’re good with her, you know.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow, glimpsing at you. “Come again?”

You snort, watching Mari’s bright eyes swallow up the world. “With your sister, you’re good with her. Your relationship is admirable.”

Jungkook suddenly appears flabbergasted, eyes popping wide open. “Wow, hold on a second.” He gestures before patting around for his phone, tugging it out of his pocket. “I need to record this date; Y/N Y/L/N just said something nice to me.”

You scoff at his exaggeration and impulsively punch him in the arm. You gasp once you register the force you used, palm cupped over your mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

Jungkook chuckles before hissing. “Watch it, kitten, or my little sister may end up tackling you for hitting me.”

Scoffing it off, you watch the youngest Jeon prance about as she scavenges the beautiful pieces of artwork before her. “You really mean the world to her, huh?”

“I hope so,” Jungkook shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets. “I was so excited when my parents told me they were having a kid. I’d been an only child for so long that I was over the moon when my sister was born.”

A sheet of warmth wraps itself around your chest, stunned by his transparency. It pleasantly shocks you to experience Jungkook’s openness; he doesn’t hide behind a mask nor manipulate his words and actions to achieve some toxic sense of accomplishment like everyone else in your world.

He’s just so… him, and his eyes sparkle with an abundance of genuineness.

“I can relate; sometimes I feel like my little brother is a gift, honestly.”

Jungkook vehemently nods. “One hundred percent. Some people find it exhausting but I love being an older sibling. Even if the burden is too much sometimes, I’m just glad I can be there for her. I can be her older brother, her best friend, her role model; I’m somebody to her, you know?”

Something in Jungkook’s honest tone makes you consider a myriad of thoughts—who knew he could actually exhibit down-to-Earth qualities? “Agreed. Even if my little brother is a little shit who’s obsessed with video games and space and meme culture, he’s too precious to me.”

Jungkook snickers. “No way, your little brother is into video games?”

“Very, you should hear the kid in lobbies. He’s that smart ass that roasts people so intelligently they can’t even make up good comebacks.” You hide a giggle as you recall the one time Jihoon accused another kid of being a “good little proletariat”, and you’d been genuinely confused about when the fuck he purused Marxism.

“I fucking love that.” Jungkook laughs. “I’ve been into gaming ever since I could sit up properly and press buttons; we’d probably get along.” Jungkook leans in closer as he dodges a group of tourists, his chest suddenly brushing your shoulder, and every hair follicle on your upper body freezes. You’re immediately submerged in his cologne, scarily fine with drowning in his masculine scent.

His careful eyes closely monitor his little sister, too, and something about his attentiveness causes your heart to spasm. “What about your sister? What’s she into?”

“She adores theater,” Jungkook replies, hyper fixating on the pair of men walking in front of you. He suddenly cups your waist, swiftly tugging you away from the rowdy men and into him. You gulp, his veiny hands snug around you as he leans down, lips brushing the crest of your ear. “Stay close, these streets are so crowded.”

Swallowing down an explosion of heat, you can’t even remember the conversation until he continues. “She was born for the spotlight; anything that has to do with music or singing or dancing, she loves. Especially music, she’s talented with the piano.”

Your eyes instantly light up. “Oh my God, she plays the piano? That’s amazing! I play—” You almost finish that sentence before rethinking it, a wave of sorrow washing over you. “I–um–I used to play the violin.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow, watching your face closely. “Used to? What happened?”

Holding his gaze suddenly feels suffocating, his scrutiny causing you to feel so small. He just can’t know all the baggage and trauma you come with, determined to seal it away.

You tear your eyes from him and instead find Mari fascinated by a basket of necklaces. Following your line of sight, Jungkook spots her as well and quickens his steps, cradling your hand. You nearly trip over yourself to match his speed.

You both find Mari waving at the pair of you, excitedly chirping. “Oppa! Oppa’s girlfriend! Look at this, I finally found a rose quartz necklace!”

Jungkook fondly smiles as he corrects his little sister, reminding her that you’re not his girlfriend, but his fianceé, and that you have a name she should respectfully use. She compliantly nods and continues on a long story concerning her search for a rose quartz stone, her face brighter than the sun as she rambles.

“You know, the rose quartz symbolizes love. It basically like, encourages love and trust and it’s so pretty and pink and I think it’s the prettiest stone ever! Don’t you think, Jungkookie oppa? Actually, if this is a stone about love, maybe you should give it to your fianceé.”

Jungkook blanches, and his expression invokes a laugh out of you, snickering behind your fist. Jungkook clears his throat, tonguing his lip ring, his hand still searing into the small of your back… again. “But it’s the only one left and you’ve been looking for so long, Mari. You should keep it.”

Mari frowns all of a sudden, crossing her little arms. “But you have to get your fianceé a gift, oppa. You haven’t even gotten her a ring yet, you’re so mean!”

Jungkook comically smacks his forehead, shaking his head as you giggle. “Okay, fine. How’s about this? I’ll get Y/N noona a stone necklace as a gift right now for being my fianceé. The sound good?”

“Yes!” Mari cheers, redirecting her attention to the other baskets at the jewelry stall in search of matching rose quartz earrings. Meanwhile, Jungkook awkwardly turns to you, sighing as he scrubs down the side of his face.

“Y/N,” he draws out, and something about your name on his tongue stupidly invigorates you. “Please don’t reject this gift, or my sister will scold me to death.”

Your mouth twitches as you contain your chuckles. “No worries, Mr. Jeon. Just don’t make it anything ugly.”

Nodding, Jungkook puffs out a breath as he begins scavenging the basket of stone necklaces, inspecting each one.

“Why don’t I choose so that it’s something I like?” You interject. “It would make it easier for you.”

“Um, no way.” Jungkook denies. “It’s not a gift if you choose it, now is it? No peeking.” He narrows his eyes at you before covering the table with his massive body, completely cutting you off from his selection process.

You roll your eyes as you decide to back off, watching Jungkook converse with the merchant. Your vision falls to Mari beside him, both siblings oddly moving with such similarity, it’s evident they’re brother and sister.

The only comical thing was how vastly different their sizes were; Mari, a dainty, fairy-like girl next to Jungkook; a male hunk of raw, thick muscle with dark tattoos and mischief entwined in his irises.

To your dismay, your mind drifts to flashes of Jungkook from that night; his husky voice, his tantilizing lip ring, his dewy, coral mouth inches from yours.

Jungkook suddenly swivels around in your direction, carrying a small pouch—his lips deviously curve. “Why’ve you got that dreamy look on your face, kitten?”

You groan loudly, shaking your head. “I was actually thinking about jumping you.”

“Itching to get on top of me, now are you?”

He playfully bounces his brows, irritation bubbling inside you. “Why are you looking at me like that, mongrel?”

He proudly puffs his chest. “Because, I chose the perfect gift.”

“Wanna tell me what it is?”

“Not yet,” his lips evilly curve. “Open it later.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you trying to kill me with suspense?”

Jungkook sexily cocks a brow. “Something tells me you’re very used to having things your way. Time to meet your match, kitten.”

You dead-pan. “You’re such a little shit.”

“A little shit that happens to be your fiancé.”

“Ugh,” you groan, massaging your temple. “Please don’t remind me.”

Jungkook tips his head back as he laughs, stepping into your personal space. “Oh, trust me, kitten. I’m never letting you forget.”

Smacking your forehead this time, you look to the Almighty above. “Oh dear God, please help me survive this man.”

With his shoulder’s shaking, Jungkook’s so caught up in laughing at you that he barely registers Mari tugging on his shirt, her tone grave.

“Oppa, hurry up! We’re gonna be late for the horses. I don’t wanna be late for the horses!!”

———

Your mouth is agape, practically glued to the floor as you stare, flabbergasted. “We’re gonna be riding horses?!”

Mari giggles as she bolts after a white stallion across the beach, beautifully sleek and quiet in her stance. Mari appears well-acquainted with the horse, the animal dipping its head to ease Mari’s reach in petting her. Her mother is just by her, also indulging in the animal’s wonder.

“Indeed, Y/N.” Jungkook’s father laughs as he approaches, watching his wife and daughter fondly before clapping Jungkook on the back. The volume of the slap indicates its force, causing Jungkook to minutely wincing—you’re not sure why it bothers you. “It’s a Jeon family tradition to go horseback-riding, isn’t it, son?”

You watch Jungkook fight back an eye roll. “Yes, dad.”

“Have you ever gone horseback-riding, Y/N?” His father asks.

“Never, Mr. Jeon.”

“Aish, what’s with the title?” His father’s chest rumbles with a laugh. “You’re my future daughter-in-law, Y/N. No need for such formalities.”

Avoiding the urge to reject him, you politely smile. “Of course, father.”

“No worries about not having ridden a horse. This is one of the things my son’s actually good at.” His father says with a shining grin, but the underlying insult rubs you horribly. Jungkook’s jaw ticks tightly, grinding his teeth.

You’ve never heard a parent speak about their own child in such a ghastly way. The entire brunch was shocking to you; you swear Jungkook’s father spent the majority of his time belittling Jungkook than he did eating. It irks you in an inexplicable way; especially the manner in which Jungkook seems used to the treatment.

It triggers slight empathy within you.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” You decide to say, unsure of why you defend Jungkook.

The smile that graces his dewy lips as a result sparks a sense of accomplishment, captivated when you meet his gaze. He’s as bright as the sun, and it’s now you notice that Jungkook has the cutest little mole right underneath his bottom lip.

How stupidly fucking cute.

“Well, Jungkook will be riding with you then, Y/N.” Jungkook’s father interrupts you two with a clearing of his throat. “You’ll be a Jeon soon, and it’s Jungkook’s responsibility to introduce you to our family traditions.”

You agree with him just so he can hear it, your curiosity shifting elsewhere. “Will my mother be joining us?”

“Ah, yes, she’s right—oh, there she is.” Jungkook’s father gestures towards a deep brown stallion your mother brushes the hair of, her vision surprisingly set on you.

Meeting her gaze still feels raw right now, immediately turning away with an awkward swallow. “Great, why don’t you set us up on your horse, Jungkook?”

Jungkook furrows his brow for only a second before stepping aside, gesturing the way. You send him a grateful smile and proceed. He leads you towards a horse so gorgeous, she could’ve been made from stardust. Her sleek coat of fur is so spotless that an iridescent reflection radiated off of her—almost an ethereal, silvery purple beauty.

Captivated, you gape, reaching out your hand. “Oh my God, Jungkook, is this your horse? She looks like she was made from frickin’ stardust!” You don’t even think, caressing your palm across the soft fur—you gasp once you consider your impulsivity. “Wait, I’m so sorry I didn’t ask before touching her.”

Jungkook tilts his head with a curious little laugh, stepping towards the horse’s saddle. “You know, you say sorry for things you really don’t need to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry—“ you get out before pursing your lips, hating yourself.

Jungkook giggles. “Her name’s actually Stardust ” He adds, reaching out his palm. “Come, pet her.”

Fitting your hand with his, Jungkook gently guides you to the sweet spot Stardust loves. You lightly stroke her, smiling widely once she whinnies. Jungkook watches you with something… warm in his eyes. You can’t quite place it, and when you meet his gaze, the hint of a grin on his lips nearly makes you believe he was watching with fondness.

How delusional of you.

“Let’s get on, yeah?” Jungkook asks. You send him a nod before he ensures the security of the saddle, adjusting it. The horse is ridiculously tall compared to you, awkwardly clearing your throat as you assess how exactly you’re getting onto the damn thing.

Large palms slip around your waist before you can act, jolting to find Jungkook gripping you. He hoists you up with little to no effort, a small yelp escaping you as you plop down on the horse's saddle. Jungkook easily mounts the horse too, settling in behind you.

This was a mistake. A big, fat mistake, because the second Jungkook shoves his thick, muscular frame against your back, every respectable part of you screams to unleash your inner whore. You didn’t realize how small you are compared to Jungkook, and when he connects his crotch against your ass, nothing is saving you.

Your breath hitches, swallowing away your raging hormones. His stupid cologne envelopes you, eyes nearly rolling back at his delicious scent. His arms cocoon you as he reaches for the horse’s rope. You’re doomed, you think, because his face now leans over your shoulder too, nearly cheek to cheek.

“Hold on,” he says in your ear—every joint in your body melts.

Jungkook thwacks the reigns and off you go, exclaiming when the shockwaves of each gallop hits you. You struggle to steady yourself as Jungkook masterfully guides the horse on the beach.

“Press your back into me,” he advises, his breath tantalizing to your skin. “Or you’ll end up with back pain and I’ll have to massage it out.”

Throwing a dirty look over your shoulder, you scooch a little further back, now completely flush with Jungkook’s broad chest. His warmth engulfs you first, the very presence of him behind burning into your spine. His hard arms around you only feed your delusions, the safety you felt with him a concoction of your sickest fantasies.

Jungkook protecting you? Sounds like the punchline of a joke.

“Does your dad always talk to you like that?”

“What?”

“Your dad,” you clarify, attempting to piece this query together before the idea of his sizable crotch buries a home in you. “Has he always spoken to you like that?”

Jungkook, surprisingly, laughs, but it’s a dark and dry one, entirely void of amusement. “Wow, you’ve only known me two days and you’ve already noticed.”

You remain quiet, letting the gears in his mind shift. You enjoy the breeze kissing your skin, the scent of the sea calming you.

“Yes, to answer your questions. He always speaks to me like that.” Jungkook bristles, his arms closing tighter around you. “Why do you ask?”

“Because…” You pause, shuffling through appropriate words.

“Because my dad patronizes the fuck out of me?”

You wince. “Yeah, that.”

Jungkook swallows hard enough that you hear it, followed by a tight, yet notable sigh. “Don’t worry about it. It’s normal.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not worried, asshat. It’s just an observation I made.”

Jungkook quirks a brow before scrutinizing you. “Really? You’re not worried about me? Your angry little kitten pout is giving you away.”

Scoffing, the back of your hand lightly hits his chest behind you. Jungkook exaggerates the pain and reacts as though it were a gunshot, causing you to thwack him again. “Fuck you, you self-absorbed bastard. It’s just unusual.”

Jungkook stifles a laugh before his chest stops rumbling, his shoulders rather drooping. His demeanour abruptly shifts, now harder than stone. “He’s been like that since the day I was born.”

You don’t mean to, but you peer up at Jungkook once you hear those words. The melancholic tone sounds nothing like the Jungkook you’ve met. Rambunctious, devil-may-care and oozing sarcasm—all those traits seem to have suddenly belonged to another person.

Having moved slightly up the horse during its gallops, you nestle your ass back in between his thunderous thighs. Your nipples harden once you’re flush against him again, his embrace still disorienting. “That’s… jarring.”

“Quite.” He contends. “But like I said, it’s normal. Once you hear it enough you get used to it.”

But you shouldn’t have to, you think. You’re unsure why, but something about this bothers you. “You shouldn’t have to get used to it, though. It’s not really fair.”

Jungkook pensively exhales as he shortens the reign, his vision zeroing on you. He inspects you carefully, tongue toying with his lip ring… again. “What about you? Does your mother always speak to you like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know what.” Jungkook knowingly eyes you. His scrutiny ignites something within you, those mocha-brown eyes swirling with curiosity, stirring up something in your chest. Fuck.

“She’s… a character.” You manage. “We’re complicated.”

“Wow,” Jungkook marvels. “So descriptive.”

Elbowing him, Jungkook feigns another exclamation of pain. You scoff it off while a stunning smile plasters onto his face, nearly blinding you. You opt to turn away and focus on the beauty of the ocean instead.

You didn’t notice when, but somewhere along the line you started leaning against Jungkook’s chest as though he were a seat. Unconsciously, you scooted back often, the momentum of the horses strolling sending you backwards.

Shuffling, your ass meets his crotch, and the mere contact spins a web of delicious fantasies in your head. You’re close to reprimanding yourself before you hear Jungkook stifle a sound behind you. Off your rocker, your effect on him excites you, daring to repeat the action.

Wiggling inconspicuously, you’re graciously met by an audible, forced puff of air through his nose.

Oh, now this is interesting.

With an evil grin on your face, you position yourself quite scandalously on the horse; hands gripping in front of you as you slightly lean forward, ass pressed tight against him. The action perfectly sets it up for Jungkook’s clothed cock to practically dry-fuck you, the sounds of Jungkook’s frustration evident behind you.

You peek over your shoulder, mischief swirling in your irises. “Hmm, this feels very familiar. I wonder why.”

Jungkook grits his teeth, purposefully tugging the reins for the horse to speed up, away from the rest of your families. His expression hardens with frustration when he regards you, clearing his throat. “Your ass is already wedged between my thighs, Y/N; stop moving.”

“Like what?” You feign oblivion, shuffling your ass so far back you’re nearly sitting on his cock. Jungkook lets out a low grunt, breathing through the arousal you no doubt spark in him. His once doe eyes darken, his jaw clenched tightly.

“You know what.” He grits, his large hand cupping your thigh and squeezing it. You slightly yelp, stupidly turned on by the action, only heightened when his lips brush your ear. “Funny how you chose this position; when I had you bent over and all you could do was moan my name.”

Shivers crawl along your spine, arousal swirling in your nether regions. You immediately straighten your back, but quickly remember the advantage you have. You shove your back flush against his front and push your arms together in front of you, emphasizing the cleavage he has a 4K view of. “Because I know you’re dying to do it again.”

Jungkook breathes out a laugh, curling his arm around your frame and tugging you so impossibly close, you could’ve been one body. “Sure you’re not speaking for yourself, kitten?”

You scoff. “Very; you’re the one with a hard dick.”

“And you’re the one with perky nipples.” He counters, his voice dropping an octave. “And I bet if I slipped inside your panties right now, I’d find you wetter than Lake Superior.”

Appalled, you smack his cradling arm with a gasp, causing Jungkook to erupt into hearty laughter. The sound is unfairly rich and sweet, confusing your hormones and brain and heart all at once.

“I’m surprised you even know what Lake Superior is.” You grumble, causing Jungkook to cock a brow.

“Trust me, kitten,” his dulcet cadence ignites you. “I’m full of surprises.”

Winded, you can’t help but scoff through a laugh as you give it up, knowing damn well there’s no end to challenging him.

“Dad, dad! Answer me!”

Your ears are blaring with an incessant buzzing, the taste of blood staining your tongue. A sharp pain is constantly jabbing your right wrist, unable to move it. Tears spill down your cheeks, horror seeping into every bone in your body.

“Dad, please, please! Just answer me!”

You stare at his figure next to you, unsure of his condition. Your world is entirely upside down, the very axis of your understanding flipped. Mirrored. As though you aren’t even in your own dimension, but in an alternate universe where this terrible, terrible thing is happening to you.

It can’t be real. It simply can’t. There is no way there’s a large piece of metal sticking out of your father’s chest cavity. There’s just no way.

“Dad, wake up. Wake up wake up wake up!” You wail, anger overcoming your body. Your dad is fine, he’s fine, so why isn’t he answering? Why do you hear sirens and the clambering of people? This isn’t real, this isn’t happening, and everything is going to be absolutely fine.

So you scream, you scream and you scream because you surmise it’s the only way out of this hell. Because screaming this loud is making you believe that you’ll wake up soon, that the litres of blood dripping out of your father are merely an illusion, that you’re simply dreaming.

“Daddy, dad! Open your eyes, open your eyes, please! PLEASE!”

“You’re fine, you’re fine!”

“Wake up, fucking WAKE UP!!”

A hazardous gasp wakes you, vomit nearly crawling up your esophagus. You bracket your throat as you resupply your lungs with oxygen, eyes stinging with tears.

Your heart thunders against your ribs, anxiety spinning a network of pain and agony within your chest. Your breathing is choppy, hyperventilating as the memories fire into your brain in rapid succession.

One plus one is two. Two plus two is four. Three plus three is six. Four plus four is eight. Five plus five is ten. Numbers are real, you are real, the bed underneath you is real, the duvet on your body is real.

The flashbacks in your head are not real.

You swipe away the tears that betray you, refusing to let your trauma take you, to hold you captive like it has for months now.

Your attention drifts to your pillow, blankly staring at it as you attempt to level your breathing. Swallowing, you feel exhausted, your mind recovering from the emotional abuse of that horrible nightmare.

Your head’s been frantic all day as it stupidly replayed traumatic flashbacks on a loop ever since your disastrous brunch. Your heart still pounds thinking about it, nestling your palm over your chest and rubbing to alleviate the stress.

Exhaling slowly, you force yourself to focus on the present, today’s events filtering into your headspace.

And for some fucking reason, the common denominator of your thoughts ends up being Jungkook.

Not the more pressing issues like your invasive mother or your malicious PTSD, but Jeon fucking Jungkook. You couldn’t forget what he said to you earlier today, your mind involuntarily brewing. ‘Trust me, kitten. I’m full of surprises.’

What other surprises could he have to offer? What more lies beneath Jungkook’s facade of easy-going sarcasm with a splash of ‘I’m-a-gigantic-asshole?’ Your dreary eyes shift over to the man across the room, his broad, muscly back bared to you as he sleeps soundlessly in his separate bed.

You’d battled every hormone in your body as you were forced to watch him get ready for bed earlier, your stupid cunt purring with need. You guess one of the many surprises Jungkook has to offer is that he’s meticulous about his routines; skincare, vitamins, even neatly folding his clothes.

His attitude crafted the misconception that he was a slob; a tornado of devil-may-care and unaccountability that always left a mess in his wake. Watching him was a slap in the face, reminding you that again, perhaps Jungkook was right.

You have to take the time to know him before making assumptions.

But making assumptions just felt safer. You’d spent your entire life making assumptions about people because it was simply easier to safe-guard yourself that way; expect the worst so you’re already prepared for when they eventually hurt you.

Yes, it’s unfair to the people you meet, but you’d rather do that than have your heart trampled over. It’s already gone through enough.

The image of Jungkook’s shirtless body flashes in your mind when it wanders, causing you to snap yourself out of it. You cast away your duvet and breathe out, anxiety still lingering within your body. Every vessel is starting to scream at you, begging for some form of relief from your constant turmoil.

Huffing out, you slide your chilly feet into your slippers and take off faster than you can breathe, desperate for some air. You shuffle around just enough to find the grand balcony at the end of your corridor, luxurious and happily empty.

Throwing open the doors, you take a long, steady breath, allowing fresh air to saturate your lungs, to cleanse your mind. Your distress begins to melt upon the sound of waves, focusing on the beautiful sights the Maldives has to offer.

Your arms swing over the railing as you allow yourself some peace, the blissful sounds of the lapping water and rustling trees transporting you to a place of tranquility, the breeze caressing your skin like an old friend comforting you.

It’s the most zen you’ve felt since embarking on this trip.

“Can’t sleep?”

You freeze at the characteristically steely voice, recognizing that cadence anywhere. What prompted your mother to approach you and speak to you normally is beyond you, focusing on the resort instead.

“Bidulgi, you can’t ignore me the rest of this trip.” She coos, her voice gaining volume—you shrink at the idea of her approaching you.

“Actually, I think I can.” You retort. “If you can ignore respecting me, I think I can ignore you.”

You hear your mother sigh, rolling your eyes in response. “Y/N, I had my reasons, alright? You know if I told you the truth behind this trip, you wouldn’t have agreed. And I couldn’t–”

“No, mom. You don’t know that. You don’t know that because you never even asked me, and that’s the shittiest part.” Your voice stupidly cracks, swallowing your emotions before they explode.

“Y/N, even if I did tell you I know you’d turn down the trip. You’re my daughter, I know you and I know you wouldn’t have budged.”

Your fists clench so hard you might cut yourself. “Even if I did or didn’t, you can’t just do this, mom.” You press. “You can’t walk around and dictate my life without consulting me first. You’ve done it my entire fucking life and I’m tired of it!”

“Watch your tone, dear. We can have a rational adult conversation ”

Your blood begins to boil, scoffing. “Oh please, there you go again; rejecting any emotions like they’re the damn plague. Well guess what, mom, I’m angry! And upset!”

“Be logical, Y/N.” Your mother admonishes. “What’s so upsetting about marrying a handsome, rich heir who’s set to become the CEO of one of Korea’s largest gaming companies? What is so horrible that you’re acting this way?”

“Because I don’t know him, mom.” You plead with her. “I barely know this man and you want me to, what, vow to be with him in sickness and in health? Till death do us part?”

“Yes, Y/N. Because I never want you to settle for less.” Your mother reasons, approaching you carefully. “I want your husband to be the best man possible, and I know the Jeons’ son can be that man. He’s powerful and will be able to provide for you and your future family.”

“Stop it, mom.” You grit, retreating from her in near disgust. “Why do you keep emphasizing his power and wealth? Why do you keep assuming those are things I even want?”

Your mother hesitates then, opening her mouth only to seal it shut. She seems to consider her words, redressing, rethinking them, and that’s when you uncover the truth.

She trips up on her words only when she’s hiding something. “God, there’s a fucking deal in this, isn’t there? You’re getting something out of marrying us?” Your tone heightens in disbelief, betrayal etched into your features.

Your mother winces, guilt seeping into her eyes. “Dear, please. You know what happened to your father has set back the firm. We’ve been trying to handle his clients but they’re dropping like flies without him. I needed to sign someone who could secure–”

“Jesus fucking Christ. So you gave away my hand in marriage for the Jeon’s to become your fucking clients?!”

“Y/N, I—“

“Wow,” you huff, dry laughs attacking you. “Un-fucking-believable. You’re actually unbelievable.”

“Y/N, please.” Your mother reaches out for your hand.

“No, mom.” You physically reject her, tears welling up in your eyes as you stare at a complete stranger. You feel like you don’t know this woman anymore; a shadow of one you used to know.

“The worst…” You choke, swallowing down your rampant emotion. “The worst part is that you could’ve just told me, mom. Could’ve looped me in and I would’ve helped you acquire clients anyway. But you always do this; you always operate on your own accord without anyone else’s input. And you know what, mom? I’m tired of it. Sick and tired.”

A weighty silence intensifies the air, suffocating you. Your mother’s disparaged expression causes you to look away, not allowing yourself to feel any remorse. She can’t deserve it, not after this, not after that brunch, and especially not after the accident…

“Dad would’ve never done this to me.” You softly remark, feeling your connection sever in that very moment—an irrevocable break. Sniffling, you carry yourself out of her vicinity, disappearing down the corridor you emerged from.

You shut the door using your back, breaths coming out of you like a raging storm. You clutch your hand to your chest, poorly attempting to level your racing heart.

Nothing calming crosses your mind, contempt, fury, utter anger tainting every ounce of you. You stomp over to your bed, ready to break out into a tantrum, but recalling that Jungkook lays fast asleep in the bed just a few feet from you.

The sight of him causes you to be more mindful of your emotions, plopping down on your bed and tossing the covers over yourself. You curl into a tight, unyielding ball, scrunching the duvet between your palms as tears silently escape your eyes; tired of your emotions, tired of your mother, tired of it all.

In your fit of tears, you end up fixating on a small dark grey box sitting on your night table, raking your brain for what it could be.

Curious, you reach out and sit up to inspect the box. You find the etching that indicates the shop you, Jungkook, and Mari visited earlier in the day, causing a small smile to paint your lips. Wiping your tears from your face, you life the lid of the box, remembering Jungkook specifically chose a stone necklace for you.

Unearthing the necklace, you find an amethyst at its center, the gorgeous purple stone gently shimmering under the moonlight. You bite back a smile, admiring its natural lustre.

You find a note under the necklace, remembering that Mari mentioned stones each having their own meaning. Turning over the small card, an appreciative smile spreads across your face as you peek over at Jungkook’s slumbering body, the meaning echoing in your mind.

‘Healing’.

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