warning: MDNI 18+!!, (?semi-) public sex, breeding, rough sex?, chasing, choking, unprotected sex, stalking, face holding, dacryphilia, daddy kink
A/N: listening to dollhouse while writing this btw 🎀
The idea had started as a joke. One careless comment while the two of you walked through the forest trails, hands intertwined.
“You know,” you start. “if you ever decided to become a serial killer, you’d be terrifying one.”
Dex glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“Why?”
“Because you’re weirdly good at sneaking up on people. But I think I would be able to run away from you.”
“Really? Want me to prove otherwise?” His expression didn’t change. The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You laughed anyway.
“Sure.” You say laughing but you obviously don’t mean it seriously. But apparently it was serious enough for Dex.
That was your first mistake. Dex stopped walking next to you, leaving your hand. You took another few steps before realizing he wasn’t beside you anymore.
Turning around, you found the trail empty. Dex no longer to be found, no movement no nothing.
A knot formed in your stomach.
“Dex?” You call out for him but he doesn’t answer. The forest suddenly felt much larger than it had a minute ago.
“Ha Ha. Very funny.” You rolled your eyes but still nothing.
Then, somewhere off to your right, a branch snapped. You spin toward the sound but there was no one. The undergrowth swayed slightly before becoming still again. Your pulse now kicking up.
“Dex? Come on, stop. You proved your point.”
A shadow moved between two trees ahead. Gone before you could focus on it. You started walking a little faster. Every instinct told you he was nearby. He is somewhere watching you and waiting.
You can’t see him, but somehow that made it worse. Because Dex isn’t the kind of person who rushed things. He observes, calculates and then makes a move. He probably enjoys how lost and slightly scared you look.
The forest seems full of him. Every rustle of leaves made your head turn. Every shifting shadow looked like a figure standing just out of sight.
Then you caught a glimpse of him, far off to your left. Motionless between the trees. His dark jacket blends into the shadows but his eyes are fixed on you. He is watching you.
The moment you looked directly at him, he stepped behind a tree and vanished.
“Hell no.” You immediately broke into a run. Panic escapes and you could swear you felt your adrenal glands release adrenaline into your bloodstream, triggering the fight-or-flight response.
The trail started to blur beneath your feet as you sprinted through the woods. For several seconds there was nothing behind you.
No footsteps. No sound. Nothing.
And maybe this should scare you because Dex is still not chasing you. He is letting you think you have a chance to escape him. He wants you to think that you can actually out-smart him.
But then you hear it, the unmistakable sound of someone moving fast through the tree.
You risk a glance over your shoulder and this was a big mistake. Because now you see him. And he doesn’t look like he’s struggling to keep up with you. Just gaining on you with terrifying ease. His focus only on you. The sight alone makes your heart beat even faster than before and you’re suddenly able to run faster than before.
Every obstacle, every root and fallen branch, seems invisible to him. He moves like he’d already predicted exactly where you were going.
“Dex!” The grin on his face is an answer enough.
You push yourself harder. The distance between you barely changed. Instead, the distance started shrinking.
You feel his presence before he touched you. In a rush of a moment, you feel his strong arms warp around your waist. You let out a yelp as he tackles you both into a patch of leaves. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs.
Before you could recover, Dex had already pinned you beneath him. His breathing steady despite the chase. You, on the other hand, were taking deep breaths.
“You really think you could run from me?” The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
You stared up at him, still trying to catch your breath. “You’re insane.”
“You ran.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Because you were stalking me through the woods like a psychopath.”
“I wasn’t stalking you baby. I was just observing you.” Dex replies while holding deep eye contact with you and you see how his eyes are filled with lust. His eyes undressing you and his mind creating unholy scenarios about you. His gaze flicked around the forest as if he was only just noticing.
Leaves clung to both of you. Your hair was a mess. There was probably dirt on your face and somehow he still looked completely focused on you. As if nothing else existed.
The energy from the chase had faded into something more intimate. Something that made your pulse race for entirely different reasons.
His gaze dropped to your lips and you’re trying so hard to stay focused. You’re trying do hard to push the naughty thoughts away because you’re still in the forest. Anyone could walk by and see you. But, fuck, you also need him so bad right now, you can’t wait until you’re back home.
“Dex.” you whispered. He didn’t answer.
Instead, he leans closer. Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted. Slow enough that the anticipation becomes almost unbearable.
His lips finally meet yours, it was gentle at first. But that doesn’t last long. Gentle never lasts that long with Dex.
The kiss turns into something passionate and intense, both of you trying to assert dominance. But you know damn well you won’t succeed. It’s impossible.
You smiled against the kiss, feeling him pause in brief confusion before he kissed you again. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek.
You open your mouth for him to enter push his tongue inside and make contact with your tongue. The kiss now turns into something messy, it sends heat traveling down your body.
Dex breaks away from the kiss and the only thing that still connects your lips with his is the saliva string between you.
His hungry eyes are still focused on you and his hands move towards your jeans. He unbuttons them slowly, ripping them off of you now along with your panties. He removes his jeans low enough only for his hard cock to spring free and slap against his lower stomach, pre cum already leaking from his tip.
Dex starts playing with your clit but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of pushing his fingers inside you. “Cmon baby. Already this wet for me, think you can do more than that hm?”
His fingers now picking up the speed as he rubs his two fingers against your clit. Your back aching now and you feel your needy pussy pulsing underneath you. You close your eyes at the feeling but that only causes Dex to harshly grab your face with the same fingers he used to rub your clit.
“Don’t you even dare to look away.” Dex warns you before pushing your face away. You do as he says and now watch him spread your legs wide open until he found the perfect position. Now, he’s standing just between your legs, pussy in the open for him and begging to feel his big veiny cock.
“It will only hurt for a second, take a deep breath baby.”
You do as he says and take a deep breath. In the meantime you feel his cock slowly entering your needy cunt, spreading your walls around him. You don’t dare to close your eyes.
He starts moving now, sending deep thrusts inside your wet pussy, hips grinding into you.
Eventually, you feel him picking up the speed. His thrusts become faster and rougher each time. You feel with each time he’s gliding into you how his tip is sweetly abusing your cervix.
Each time he catches you almost closing your eyes he would grab your face and force you to look at him roughly fucking you.
“Look at yourself. You’re doing so good baby.”
“Dex hmph-” You moan his name.
His veiny hands now release your face and instead finds their way around your throat. The view alone made his cock twitch inside you.
He pounds his hips into you. You let out a whine, digging you teeth into your lower lips.
“Such a pretty mess. Hmph- Taking my cock like a good fucking girl. Let me hear you baby.”
“Daddy-” You softly moan which causes Dex to laugh and shake his head. How do you plan on looking at your father’s face after calling Dex daddy on multiple occasion.
“Yeah? Does hmph Daddy’s cock make you struggle mh?”
And as if it wasn’t already overstimulating you, you feel his other free hand move down your body, fingers now simultaneously rubbing against your clit while he is still fucking you roughly. The feeling too overwhelming for you and you feel tears building in your eyes and a sob escapes from you.
“Awww why are you crying?” Dex mocks you with a smirk on his ridiculous handsome face. “Such a mess for me. Such a mess for Daddy.”
As hot tears fall down your eyes, you can feel Dex’s cock twitch inside you at the sight of you crying because of him. It turns him on seeing you with your mouth hang open, you being a crying mess, skin mapped with goosebumps and looking disheveled.
You start clenching around him now, squeezing around his cock which makes it a little harder for him to thrust. Dex whimpers at the feeling.
It starts getting harder for you once you feel yourself holding onto the edge. The urge to cum getting harder to ignore now.
“Please, I need to-” Dex cuts you off before you can finish your sentence.
“I know I know. Think you can hold it in a little longer? I’m almost there.”
“Please, Please Please Daddy let me-.”
“I said hold it in a little longer.” He warns you immediately, voice dangerously low. You cry quietly and shut up, not wanting to anger him again.
After a while, you feel his thrusts become sloppy and his cock starts twitching inside you again. A desperate, pulling ache now forming inside him and the feeling to shoot his hot cum inside your pussy grows louder.
“I’m gonna cum inside you yeah? Fill you up real good.”
It doesn’t take him long until he quivers with the release, painting your walls white with his warm cum. A few seconds later you feel the shockwaves of pleasure wash over you and you cum hard enough to force Dex slightly out of you.
He smiles to himself and pulls out of you, letting himself fall next to you. Both of you taking heavy breaths now.
The warm mixed cum slowly escaping from your pussy catches your attention and the feeling makes you feel a little dizzy.
Dex slowly lifts himself up before kissing your tears stained face, distracting you a little before he pushed the mixture of your releases up inside your pussy again with his two fingers. You gasp at the contact.
“Learned your lesson, baby? You can’t escape from me.”
@poindextersgirlforever @joolapopola @weallhaveadestiny @pearlvirag @angelz-twinstars @mskingbeann Finally finished writing this thanks to you guys xx 🫶🏻
' all the ways we say i love you '
wherein the men discover that being loved is not the same thing as appreciating it.
tw : established relationships, arguments, emotional neglect, taking their partner for granted, hurt/no comfort, the jjk men being profoundly stupid
a/n : thoughts and prayers to the boys. they're gonna need them.
LOVED THE LUFFY FIC *KICKS FEET LIKE A SCHOOL GIRL*
May a request a part 2? Where Luffy gets a tad bit overprotective and is like following her like a lost puppy. and Reader is have an existencial crisis because they realised their feelings for luffy.
Two lovesick idiots who are BLIND and the crew have tried EVERYTHING too give them sight.
Lots of love
-🌙
pairing: OPLA!Monkey D. Luffy x reader
genre: hurt/comfort, romance, adventure
summary: This is the part 2 for this fanfic TELL ME
a/n: Hii!Thank you for the request ♡
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The days following your recovery on Drum Island were both a blessing and a curse. While you were grateful to be alive and back among your crewmates, you found yourself in an entirely new predicament—one that had nothing to do with physical wounds but everything to do with the chaotic state of your heart.
Luffy had become your shadow.
It started subtly enough. On your first day back on the Going Merry, you'd woken up to find him sitting cross-legged outside your cabin door, chin in his hands, watching you sleep through the crack in the doorway.
"Luffy?" you'd mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Making sure you're still breathing," he'd replied matter-of-factly, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
You'd laughed it off then, but as the days passed, his vigilance only intensified. He followed you everywhere—to the kitchen for breakfast, to the deck for morning stretches, to the bathroom (until Sanji and Zoro physically restrained him). He insisted on helping you with the simplest tasks, like tying your shoes or climbing the rigging to adjust the sails, his rubber arms wrapping around your waist "just in case you feel dizzy."
The crew found it both amusing and exasperating.
"Captain, she's not made of glass," Nami sighed one afternoon as Luffy tried to spoon-feed you soup. "She's recovered."
"But she almost wasn't!" Luffy protested, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. "Kureha said she almost died. I can't let that happen again."
You appreciated his concern, truly. But his constant hovering was driving you to distraction—and not just because of the lack of personal space. Every time his fingers brushed yours, every time he threw an arm around your shoulders, every time he flashed that brilliant, unguarded grin in your direction, your heart did a complicated little flip that left you breathless and confused.
You were falling for your captain.
Hard.
The realization had hit you like a physical blow two nights ago, as you'd stood on the deck under the moonlight, watching him sleep in his hammock. His face, usually so animated and expressive, was peaceful in repose, his lips slightly parted, his hat resting on his chest rising and falling with each breath. And you'd thought: I almost lost this. I almost never saw this face again. And the sheer terror of that possibility had been followed by an even more terrifying certainty: you were in love with Monkey D. Luffy.
An idiot. A rubber-brained, meat-obsessed, emotionally clueless idiot who, despite all evidence to the contrary, somehow held your entire world in his hands.
"What's wrong with you?" Zoro asked one evening, finding you staring moodily at the horizon. "You've been sighing every five minutes for three days."
"Nothing," you mumbled, turning away so he couldn't see the flush on your cheeks. "Just thinking."
"About Luffy?" he guessed, his one good eye narrowing perceptively. "Because he's been thinking about you. Constantly. It's getting annoying."
You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. "Is it that obvious?"
"To everyone but him," Zoro confirmed with a snort. "Which is, frankly, impressive."
The crew had noticed. Of course they had. You and Luffy had always been close, but this was different. This was... something more. And while you weren't ready to admit it out loud, your behavior had changed. You found yourself seeking him out, your eyes automatically finding him in a crowd, your laughter coming a little easier when he was near.
And Luffy, for his part, seemed completely oblivious to the shift in your feelings. He was just... Luffy. Overprotective, clingy Luffy, who saw you as something precious that had almost broken and now needed constant supervision.
"You're being ridiculous," Nami told you later that night, as you helped her with navigation charts. "Just tell him how you feel."
"And say what?" you gestured wildly with your compass. "Hey, Captain, I know you're mostly interested in adventure and meat, but I've developed this inconvenient romantic attachment to you that's making it hard to breathe when you're near me?"
Nami blinked. "Well, when you put it like that..."
"Besides," you sighed, slumping against the navigation table. "He doesn't see me that way. I'm his crewmate, his friend, his responsibility. Not... not someone he'd want to kiss."
"You don't know that," Nami said gently. "Luffy's not complicated, but he's not simple either. He feels things deeply, even if he can't always put them into words."
You shook your head. "It's better this way. The crew is finally back to normal. I don't want to mess that up."
But as much as you tried to convince yourself, your heart refused to listen. Every time Luffy laughed, every time he reached for your hand "to make sure you don't fall," every time he looked at you with that fierce, protective light in his eyes, you fell a little deeper.
The breaking point came a week later, during a fierce storm that had the Going Merry tossed about like a toy in a bathtub. The waves crashed over the deck, the wind howled through the rigging, and rain fell in blinding sheets. You were helping secure the sails, your fingers numb and clumsy from the cold, when a particularly large wave sent the ship lurching violently to one side.
You lost your footing, sliding across the slick deck toward the railing. Before you could even process what was happening, Luffy was there, his body pressing yours against the mast as the ship righted itself. His arms wrapped around you, his face inches from yours, rain dripping from his hair onto your cheeks.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice tight with concern.
You couldn't speak. All you could do was stare at his lips, at the water droplets clinging to them, at the earnest worry in his eyes. And then, without thinking, without meaning to, you leaned in and kissed him.
It was brief, clumsy, and utterly perfect. His lips were warm and soft, tasting of salt and rain and something uniquely Luffy. For a moment, he kissed back, his arms tightening around you. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. He pulled back, his eyes wide with shock.
"Wow," he breathed, his expression unreadable.
And then he grinned. That wide, brilliant, Luffy-grin that made your heart do somersaults.
"Wow," he said again, and then he was kissing you back, properly this time, his lips moving against yours with an enthusiasm that was purely Luffy.
When you finally broke apart, both breathless and drenched, you couldn't help but laugh. The storm still raged around you, the crew still shouted orders, but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing in the circle of each other's arms.
"I've wanted to do that for a while," you admitted.
Luffy's grin widened. "Me too! I just didn't know how. And I was worried you'd get sick again if I distracted you."
You laughed, shaking your head. "Oh, Luffy."
"Does this mean you're not going to die anymore?" he asked, his expression suddenly serious.
"I'll do my best not to," you promised.
"Good," he said, nodding firmly. "Because I have a feeling kissing you is going to be my new favorite adventure."
And as he leaned in to kiss you again, you knew with absolute certainty that you were right where you were meant to be—caught in the storm, wrapped in the arms of your captain, your heart finally at peace.
The crew's reaction, when they finally noticed, was everything you could have expected and more.
"FINALLY!" Usopp shouted from across the deck, pumping his fist in the air. "I was wondering how long it would take you two!"
"Took them long enough," Zoro muttered from his spot by the helm, though he was smiling faintly.
Sanji swooned dramatically, hearts practically exploding from his eyes. "Oh, what a beautiful development! My dear navigator-slash-warrior and our esteemed captain! I must prepare a celebratory feast of love!"
Nami just shook her head, a fond smile playing on her lips. "About time," she said, and you knew she was talking about more than just the kiss.
As the storm began to subside, leaving behind a calm sea and a rainbow stretching across the horizon, Luffy took your hand, his fingers lacing with yours. His hat sat firmly on his head, but for the first time, it felt like you were the one wearing it—a symbol of his trust, his protection, and now, his heart.
"Hey," he said, his voice soft.
"Hey," you replied, squeezing his hand.
"Ready for the next adventure?" he asked, his eyes bright with excitement and something deeper, something that made your heart skip a beat.
"With you?" you smiled. "Always."
And as the Going Merry sailed toward the sunset, you knew that whatever came next, you'd face it together—no secrets, no fears, just love, laughter, and the endless promise of adventure.
May i please request a monkey d. Luffy (Live Action) where they get hurt or sick and dont tell anyone until they try finding nami a doctor (maybe they nearly fall when climbing the moutain) and when they come too Luffy gets like upset they didnt tell him because while his dream is to be king of the pirates he cant see it happening with reader?
Hope you are having a wonderful day
-🌙(is this is okay?)
pairing: OPLA!Monkey D. Luffy x reader
genre: hurt/comfort, romance, adventure
summary: Hiding a severe injury on Drum Island, the reader collapses while trying to find a doctor for Nami. An upset Luffy later confronts them, revealing that his dream of becoming Pirate King is impossible without them by his side.
word count: ~3.8k
c/w: graphic descriptions of injury and infection, fever-induced delirium, emotional distress, mentions of near-death experiences.
a/n: Hii! My first opla fanficc, I'm so happyy!! Thank you for the request ♡ (I love anons, I will add you on my anons list. Can't wait to hear more of your requests )
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The wind on Drum Island was a physical entity, a malevolent spirit that sought to burrow through your layers of clothing and freeze the very marrow in your bones. It howled a mournful tune across the jagged, unforgiving peaks of the Rockies, a sound that mirrored the growing despair in your heart. Each step was a monumental effort, a negotiation between your will to move forward and your body’s screaming demand to stop.
You were dying. You knew it with a certainty that was colder than the biting air.
It had started as a simple mistake, a moment of carelessness during a skirmish in a port town a week ago. A rival pirate crew, drunk and belligerent, had picked a fight. In the chaotic mess of flying fists and clashing steel, you’d taken a shard of broken bottle to your side. It was a deep, ugly gash, but at the time, it had seemed manageable. You’d cleaned it, wrapped it tightly with a strip of cloth, and pushed the throbbing pain to the back of your mind.
Nami was sick. That was the only thing that mattered. Her beautiful face was pale and drawn, her body wracked with a fever that made her tremble uncontrollably. She was the reason you were all on this frozen hell-hole of an island, the reason you were scaling this impossible mountain. Your own injury was a footnote, an inconvenience you refused to let become a liability.
"Almost there! I can see a castle!" Usopp’s voice, usually so full of bluster, was thin with relief and exhaustion.
You forced your head up, your vision swimming. Through the haze of your fever, you could see it: a fantastical, Dr. Seuss-like structure perched precariously on the highest peak. It looked like a dream, a mirage. Hope surged through you, a fragile, fleeting thing.
"Just a little further, Nami-san," Sanji panted, his ever-present cigarette clenched between his teeth as he struggled to keep pace.
Zoro was ahead, a stoic silhouette against the grey sky. Nami was slumped over his shoulder, unconscious and limp. He hadn't complained once, hadn't slowed his pace, his determination as unyielding as the mountain itself.
You tried to match his stride, to be just as strong. But your body was betraying you. The wound in your side was no longer just throbbing; it was a seething, molten core of agony. With every step, every breath, you could feel the infection spreading, a poison crawling through your veins. Your head pounded with a sickening rhythm, and the world tilted and swayed like the deck of the Going Merry in a storm. You were dizzy, so dizzy, and a cold sweat slicked your skin despite the freezing temperature.
You glanced down at your side. A dark, wet stain was spreading across your shirt, stark and terrifying against the muted colors of your clothes. You’d re-bandaged it this morning, using the last of your clean cloth, but it was already soaked through. The smell was faint but sickeningly sweet, the scent of decay.
No one had noticed. They were all focused on Nami. You were glad. You didn't want their pity or their concern. You were a member of the Straw Hat crew. You were strong. You would endure this.
The path grew steeper, the loose scree of the mountainside threatening to give way with every step. You reached out, your hand trembling, to grab a rock for support. Your fingers, numb and clumsy, closed around it. For a second, you felt stable. Then, the rock shifted.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. Your foot slipped, finding no purchase on the loose gravel. The world lurched violently, the sky and the ground trading places in a nauseating blur. You were falling. You were going to tumble back down the mountain, a broken, useless heap.
A gasp escaped your lips, a sound of pure terror.
And then, an arm, impossibly strong and yet strangely elastic, shot out and wrapped around your waist. It yanked you back with a force that knocked the air from your lungs and sent a fresh, blinding wave of pain from your side. You were slammed against a solid, warm body, your head spinning.
"Whoa there! You okay?"
Luffy’s voice was right beside your ear, his usual boisterous cheer replaced by a tight, concerned edge. He had you pinned securely against him, his rubbery grip an unbreakable cage. His other hand was anchored to a rocky outcrop above you, holding you both steady.
"Fine," you gasped, the word tasting like a lie. "Just... lost my footing."
You tried to push yourself upright, to prove you were okay. But your legs, your traitorous, useless legs, wouldn't cooperate. They gave out from under you, folding like paper. The world went black at the edges, the sounds of the wind and your crewmates' voices fading into a distant hum. The last thing you saw before the darkness finally swallowed you whole was Luffy’s face. His wide, carefree grin was gone, replaced by an expression you had never seen on him before: raw, unadulterated panic.
Consciousness returned slowly, like the tide coming in. The first thing you registered was a gentle, rhythmic rocking. The sea. You were on a ship. The second thing was the smell. It wasn't the familiar, comforting scent of salt, wood, and the sea, but the clean, sharp, antiseptic smell of a hospital.
You blinked your eyes open, expecting to see the wooden beams of the Going Merry's infirmary. Instead, you were staring at a clean, white ceiling. Soft, heavy blankets were tucked around you, and a cool, damp compress rested on your forehead. Your side ached, but it was a dull, distant throb, a clean pain that spoke of skilled medical attention. The searing fire was gone.
You tried to sit up, but a sharp, pulling sensation made you wince and fall back against the pillows with a soft groan.
A shadow fell over you. Luffy.
He was sitting in a chair beside your bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor. He wasn't bouncing his leg, wasn't fidgeting with his hat, wasn't chattering about meat or adventure. He was just... still. The stillness was more unnerving than any tantrum or outburst. It was wrong.
"Luffy?" you croaked, your throat dry and scratchy.
His head snapped up, and his eyes, normally so bright and full of life, were dark and turbulent. They swirled with an emotion you couldn't quite name—it was too complex to be just anger. It was a storm of fear, hurt, and something that looked terrifyingly like betrayal.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of its usual musical lilt.
"Yeah... thanks." You gestured vaguely at your bandaged side. "For... you know. Catching me."
He didn't smile. He didn't laugh it off. He just kept staring at you with that intense, unnerving focus. "How's Nami?" you asked, desperate to break the suffocating silence.
"She's fine," he said, his voice clipped. "The old witch doctor fixed her up. She's sleeping now."
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. "That's good. That's really good."
A heavy silence descended again, thick and uncomfortable. You could hear the wind howling outside, a lonely sound that matched the feeling growing in your chest. Luffy continued to watch you, his gaze unwavering.
"But you're not," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"I am now," you said, trying for a reassuring smile. It felt weak and brittle. "Thanks to you guys. And that doctor."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
The question was quiet, but it hit you with the force of a physical blow. You flinched, looking away from his piercing stare. You focused on a loose thread in the blanket, picking at it nervously. "It was nothing, Luffy. Just a scratch. It didn't matter. Nami was the one who needed help."
"A scratch?" He was on his feet in a single, fluid motion, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He started to pace the small space, his movements tight and agitated, like a caged animal. "A scratch? You passed out! You were bleeding all over the place! You were burning up! Kureha said if you'd been out there any longer, you would have died!"
"She... she did?" Your voice was small. You hadn't realized it was that bad. You'd thought you were just toughing it out, being strong.
"Don't you 'she did' me!" he snapped, his voice rising. He stopped pacing and glared at you, his fists clenched at his sides. "I saw it, you know. After you fell. When I picked you up. Your shirt was all red and stuck to your skin. It was... it was horrible." His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, his jaw tight.
Shame, hot and suffocating, burned in your chest. You hadn't just been hiding a minor injury. You'd been hiding a life-threatening one, and you'd done it right under their noses.
"You lied to me," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. He turned back to face you, and the raw hurt in his eyes was worse than any anger. "You looked me right in the eye and lied. I asked if you were okay, and you said you were fine."
"Luffy, I..." you started, but the words died in your throat. What could you say? That you were stupid? That you were arrogant enough to think you could handle a life-threatening infection on your own? That you were so terrified of being a burden that you were willing to die to avoid it?
"No!" he shouted, cutting you off. The sound echoed in the sterile room, making you flinch. "Don't you get it? I thought... for a second... when you fell... I thought I lost you." He took a shaky breath, the anger in his posture finally breaking, replaced by a profound, trembling vulnerability. He looked like a little boy who had just seen his whole world collapse.
"My dream is to be the King of the Pirates," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I'm gonna find the One Piece. It's what I've always wanted. But how am I supposed to do that without you?"
Your breath hitched. "What? Luffy, that's crazy. You'd be fine. You have Zoro, and Sanji, and Nami, and Usopp..."
"They're my crew, too!" he yelled, his voice echoing with a desperation that tore at your heart. "You're all my crew! Don't you get it? It's not just about me! It's about all of us! It's about us getting there, together!" He was in front of you in an instant, his hands gripping the metal rails of your bed, his face so close you could see the tears welling in his eyes, threatening to spill over.
"You're part of this!" he continued, his voice a fierce, passionate whisper. "You're part of my dream! You're... you're important! I can't be Pirate King if my crew isn't with me. I can't do it without you. I can't see it happening without you."
The dam broke. A single tear escaped your eye and traced a hot path down your cheek. You stared at him, truly seeing him for the first time since you woke up. This wasn't just your captain throwing a tantrum because he'd been kept in the dark. This was Luffy, your Luffy, laying his soul bare. He wasn't just talking about a title or a treasure. He was talking about his family. He was talking about you.
"Don't you ever, ever do that again," he demanded, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Don't you ever hide something like that from me. If you're hurt, you tell me. If you're sick, you tell me. If you're sad, you tell me! We're a crew. We fix things together. Even you. Especially you."
You couldn't speak. A sob caught in your throat, and more tears followed the first. You reached out with a trembling hand, placing it over his where it gripped the bedrail. His skin was warm, his grip tight.
"Okay," you whispered, the word barely audible. "Okay, Luffy. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He seemed to deflate, all the furious energy draining out of him in a rush. He slumped back into the chair, his head in his hands. For a long moment, the only sounds were your quiet sobs and the howl of the wind outside. Then, you heard a soft, shuddering sigh. He looked up, his face tear-streaked but calmer. A small, watery smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Good," he said softly. "Because I need you there when I'm king. Who else is gonna help me find the best meat on every island?"
You couldn't help but let out a watery laugh, the sound shaky but real. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, Captain."
His grin returned, wide and blinding and full of the light you thought you'd lost forever. He reached out and gently squeezed your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. In that moment, you knew with absolute certainty that you had been a fool. You hadn't been protecting the crew by hiding your injury; you had been endangering the very thing you were trying to protect: their future. Your future.
The next few days were a blur of quiet recovery and gentle care. Dr. Kureha, despite her gruff exterior and incessant demands for money, was a miracle worker. She changed your bandages with practiced efficiency, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
"You're lucky, girl," she grumbled on the second day, prodding the edges of the now-healing wound. "Another day, two at most, and that poison would've reached your heart. Your captain's right to be angry. Stupidity like that can get a whole crew killed."
You just nodded, too ashamed to argue. She was right, of course.
Luffy barely left your side. He was a constant, comforting presence. He didn't talk much about the mountain or your deception, but he made his feelings known in other ways. He'd appear with steaming bowls of soup from the castle kitchen, insisting you eat every drop. He'd try to braid your hair, getting his fingers hopelessly tangled until you were both laughing. He'd sit by your bed and tell you stories, his voice a low, soothing rumble that made you feel safe.
One afternoon, as you were starting to feel strong enough to sit up for more than a few minutes, the door to your room creaked open. It was Nami, wrapped in a thick blanket, looking pale but infinitely better than she had on the mountain.
"Hey," she said softly, a small, hesitant smile on her face.
"Hey, yourself," you replied, your own smile genuine. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I was hit by a giant, frozen snowball," she said, shuffling into the room and sinking into the chair Luffy had just vacated. "But Kureha says I'll be fine." Her gaze drifted to your side, to the thick bandage still taped to your skin. "I heard... about what happened."
You looked down at your hands, a fresh wave of shame washing over you. "Yeah."
"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, her voice gentle, not accusatory. "We would have helped you. We would have carried you. Anything."
"I know," you whispered, your throat tight. "I just... I didn't want to slow us down. You were so sick, Nami. That was all that mattered. I thought I could handle it."
She reached out and placed her hand over yours, her touch warm. "We're a crew," she said, echoing Luffy's words. "There is no 'slow us down.' There's only 'us.' If one of us is hurting, we all hurt. If one of us is falling, we all reach out to catch them. That's how this works. That's how we work."
Tears pricked at your eyes again. "I get it now," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "I really do."
She gave your hand a final squeeze before letting go. "Good. Because you scared us. You scared Luffy a lot." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "And you owe me big time for making me feel guilty while you were the one dying."
You laughed, a real, hearty laugh that didn't hurt your side. "Deal. I'll navigate us to the richest island I can find. My treat."
"Promise?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.
"Promise."
The day you were finally discharged was a celebration. The newly christened Tony Tony Chopper, the island's adorable and fiercely loyal doctor, fussed over you, making you promise to take it easy. Sanji prepared a feast fit for a king on the deck of the now-repaired Going Merry, declaring it a "Welcome Back to the Land of the Living" party in your honor.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and purple, you found yourself leaning against the railing, watching the island shrink behind you. The cold wind was gone, replaced by the gentle, salty breeze of the open sea. It felt like coming home.
A familiar weight settled on your head as Luffy’s straw hat was placed there, covering your hair like a protective blanket.
"Hey," he said, leaning against the railing beside you.
"Hey," you replied, tilting your head back to look at him. His grin was in place, his eyes bright with the reflection of the setting sun.
"You're wearing my hat," he observed.
"You put it there," you pointed out.
"I know," he said, his smile softening. "It looks good on you."
You stood in comfortable silence for a while, watching the waves. The pain in your side was a dull memory, a reminder of a lesson hard-learned.
"Luffy?" you said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you," you said. "For everything. For being angry, and for being scared, and for not giving up on me."
He turned to look at you, his expression serious for a moment. "I'd never give up on you," he said, his voice firm and absolute. "You're my nakama. I'd fight a hundred marine admirals for you. I'd climb a thousand mountains. I'd do anything."
He reached out and took your hand, his fingers lacing with yours. "But next time," he added, his usual goofy grin returning, "you have to promise to tell me if you get a boo-boo. Even a small one."
You laughed, squeezing his hand. "I promise. No more secrets."
He beamed, his grin so wide it seemed to take up his entire face. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting go, turning to face the vast, endless expanse of the ocean before you. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling with an unspoken joy, and then he did what he always did when he was truly, deeply happy: he stretched his arms out wide, as if to embrace the whole world.
"Alright!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the deck, loud enough to wake Chopper in the infirmary. "Let's get this party started! Sanji, where's the meat?!"
Sanji, who had been meticulously arranging a platter of seared steaks, immediately straightened up, a heart-shaped puff of smoke curling from his lips. "Right away, Captain! For my beautiful, recovered navigator, and for our strong-willed warrior who has returned to us, only the finest!"
Usopp, who was tinkering with something on the other side of the deck, looked up and grinned. "About time! I was about to start without you! I've got to tell you all about the amazing, death-defying feats I performed while you were all incapacitated! I single-handedly fought off a tribe of giant, carnivorous snow rabbits with nothing but my bare hands and a slingshot!"
Zoro, who was sleeping against the mast, cracked one eye open. "Liar. You were hiding behind a rock the whole time."
"Was not!" Usopp shot back, puffing out his chest.
You laughed, the sound light and free. It felt good. It felt right. This was your family. This chaotic, loud, loving group of misfits was your home. The thought of almost losing this, of almost leaving them behind because of your own foolish pride, sent a shiver down your spine. You pulled Luffy's hat down a little more firmly on your head, as if anchoring yourself to him, to this moment.
Luffy bounded over to the table, his eyes already glued to the mountain of food. He grabbed a whole leg of some roasted bird and took a massive bite, his cheeks puffing out. He looked over at you, his mouth full, and gestured with the leg for you to come join him.
You pushed yourself off the railing, your body still a little stiff but no longer weak. As you walked towards the table, you passed Nami, who was watching you with a soft, knowing smile.
"See?" she said quietly, just for you to hear. "This is much better than almost dying on a frozen mountain alone."
You nodded, your heart swelling with gratitude. "Yeah. It is."
You took a seat next to Luffy, who immediately shoved a plate piled high with food in front of you. "Eat!" he commanded, his mouth still full. "You're still too skinny!"
You rolled your eyes but picked up a fork, your appetite returning with a vengeance. The food was incredible, as always. Sanji had outdone himself. The flavors exploded on your tongue—savory meat, sweet roasted vegetables, fresh, warm bread. It was the taste of life, of celebration.
As you ate, you watched your crew. Zoro was now awake, polishing his swords with a contented grunt. Usopp was animatedly telling Chopper, who had woken up and joined the party, a wildly exaggerated version of their journey up the mountain. Sanji was fussing over Nami, making sure her cup was always full. And Luffy... Luffy was eating, laughing, and planning their next adventure, all at the same time.
He caught you watching him and paused, a piece of meat halfway to his mouth. He grinned, a genuine, unburdened grin that reached his eyes. He raised his piece of meat in a toast. You smiled back and raised your own fork, clinking it against his imaginary glass.
In that moment, under the vast, star-dusted sky, with the taste of Sanji's cooking on your tongue and the sound of your crew's laughter in your ears, you understood. Being strong wasn't about hiding your weaknesses. It wasn't about never falling. It was about knowing that when you fell, there would be hands there to catch you. It was about trusting them enough to let them.
You were a Straw Hat Pirate. And you wouldn't have it any other way. The future stretched out before you, a grand, uncertain, and thrilling adventure. And you would be there for all of it, right beside your captain, ready to face whatever came next. Together.
masterlist | tag list open. Comment or DM a 💀 to be added, 18+ only, age must be in bio.
Summary: You go to a bar Frank’s told you hundreds of times not to, and you find out what makes the place so dangerous. When you get home, Frank grills you about your decision—and suddenly you can’t breathe.
Warnings: this is heavy imo. Hurt, unresolved comfort, violence, yelling, panic attack/panic, mentions of drugs, prostitution, neo-nazis. both are in the wrong, mentions of reader’s vague past abuse, attempt of SA on reader (foul language, no graphic details, it doesn’t happen, NOT FRANK). Protective!Frank = unintentionally loud, angry, scared Frank. MDNI, reader is always 18+.
requested by anon
w/c: ~4k
song rec
Frank doesn’t ask you for much. When he does, it’s in your best interest. Boundaries to keep you safe.
So you aren’t why, tonight, you cross him. It isn’t intentional… you really don’t see the harm in it, walking into this bar with your friends. It’s just a bar. You’ve not heard anything of it other than your come and go friends—Tabitha and Johnny’s—incessant nagging to try out this hole in the wall. There’s thousands of them. Little bars, quirky dives.
Frank’s just… overprotective. That’s what you tell yourself, reasoning the bad decision against his unproven logic.
It didn’t start out this way. Your friends wanted to hit a few bars on the usual strip, so you did. It was fun. Laughs, drinks flowing, familiar camaraderie. But after those few places… you ended up… here. Exactly where Frank doesn’t want you. Where you promised you’d never go. And you find out why Frank made you swear this place off limits.
But maybe it’s the bartender with inked black eyes, surgically implanted horns on his head, and the repulsive black sun tattoo sprawling his neck handing you your drink with the snarl of a creature, not a man.
Or red light bleeding from the curtained room beyond the bathroom. The crowd of half-dressed prostitutes working a street siren’s magic to paying customers. Or the pimp that the tears open the curtain to bitch slap one of them for no reason other than lack of cashflow.
Two guys in the corner shake hands and blatantly exchange baggies of coke, cut with…?
Oh, god. No wonder Frank told you to never, ever come here.
And… no one blinks.
Bar stuffed to the brim with New York’s unfinest, the filth tacks onto your skin. You feel… dirty, just being here. Dirty, because you don’t belong. You’re not a vagabond or a prostitute or a pimp or someone that agrees with the iconology of a black sun…
You clutch your drink so hard the sweat squeaks on the glass. Death metal assaults the speakers in bloody shrieks. Red strobes batter your retinas to the point of a dull, gnawing headache. Your friends—Tabitha and Johnny—nudge you, laughing about the characters here, how insane is this?, how anything goes, and the cheap drinks and a guaranteed show when a game of pool goes awry.
You can’t hear over the music (if it can be called that). You can’t see through the haze of smoke, pot, cigarettes, the flashing lights. It smells rancid and you wonder if your goodness is eroding with it just by being here. Your friends being your ride, your begging to leave was shrugged off. Your discomfort, your nerves all disregarded for the sake of… fun? This isn’t fun. It’s sick and scary and not you.
Somewhere right after your first sip of your drink and the vulgarity of watching a suited man shove a prostitute’s face in a pile of coke and laugh about it, you excuse yourself from the bar, from your ‘friends’, leaving the drink behind. You need air, to see a world beyond this depravity.
Weaving through the crowd of leather vests and ill intentions, you pull your phone out as you head out the back door. The light flares blue over your face, a shaking thumb typing a text to the one person who’d never do this to you. Never leave you in a place like this, never shrug off your discomfort. The person that told you to never, ever go here. Frank.
You: Can you please come get me? Please don’t be mad. I’ll explain everything later.
With the address.
You pocket your phone and push outside. The cool breeze drags the scent of lit cigarettes and phlegmy laughter.
You don’t see the ten missed calls from Frank. Or the barrage of texts telling you to lock yourself in a bathroom stall ‘til he gets there.
The last one? The most important one.
Frankie: Whatever you do, princess, don’t fuckin go outside, you hear me? Bathroom. Pepper spray in your purse. And wait.
☠︎
You bound down the two steps, music muffled by the steel door closing behind you. Closing one door opens another. You hear it just as you take your first breath.
One that could be your last.
A low wolf-whistle from the shadows.
You startle, hands sinking deeper into your pockets. An instinctual step back, yet you bump into something solid.
A tongue clicks behind you, grimey breath on your ear. “D’awww, lookie here. This one’s puuuurdy.”
You jolt forward with a gasp, spinning to face him. A head skinned hairless, the nose of a pig, tattoos etched everywhere but his eyeballs.
“I’m- I’m leaving,” you state, a sharp bite to your tone. And you stamp forward, but— boof. Another solid body.
“Leaving so fast?” A second voice chides with a tut. Your eyes flash up to him. This second man—horrifying. Skin gnarled like someone’s dumped acid on him, leathery mouth stretched to show crack-black teeth. “No, no, noooo,” he sings. “Stay. Hang around me and my guys awhile… We’ll show you one hell of a time, baby. You like coke, huh? You got some coke. Get you nice and coked up and have a little fun with us, little fox.”
“NO!” You shout. “I’m leaving! Get- get your fucking hands off me!”
But they laugh at you. Push you around into each other, passing you like the piece of meat they see you as.
“Hey, boys!” The pig squeals over his shoulder. “Come look at the pretty pussy we got over here!”
Two more depart from the shadows, as though darkness breeds them. The third saunters with a bum leg, chain-link belt rattling pestilence with every step closer.
“Who gets to go first?” The fourth calls out. Through the bodies cramming you, you see him. Face full of meth craters, a greasy slick of hair over his head. His eyes, though… it’s looking at the devil himself. It’s sin. It’s evil because it understands innocence, right versus wrong, and chooses temptation.
“Don’t gotta go just one at a time,” the one with scarred skin hums with hunger.
You shove. Kick. Punch. Scratch. You fight against the cage of four men. And the fight is futile.
You cry—scream—for help. What you get is Frank.
An engine thunders through distance alleyways; the sound of pure reckoning.
You press back against the wall, brick biting your palms as you spit indignation. “You better- you better back the fuck off! My boyfriend’s coming—and he’s gonna be pissed!”
They laugh in your face. Spittle on your cheeks. Their breath hot and stale with beer. They laugh.
Tires screech rage over the streets. It’s a screaming symphony of: he’s coming, and blood will follow.
They won’t be laughing.
Their hands prod, crossing boundaries where your yells of no, stop, leave me alone! mean nothing. Your stomach. A brush at your thigh. The fine line down your neck. Your gut flips—their touch, the suffocation of retribution like iron in the air. You tremble. You wait. You taste imminent death in the air. Copper on your tongue. Bile in your throat. You jerk your head out of their hands. You’re prey. You’re their victim. How many victims before you? How many lived? And you should’ve listened to Frank.
One of them grabs the bottom hems of your shirt. Rips. One bottom button flies off, clattering down the sewage drain. One piece of innocence defiled with a promise of more to come.
You swing, battery ram your fists. But there’s too many. They’re bigger. Stronger. Drunker. And you? You should’ve listened to Frank.
As the pungency of the dumpster mingles with their breath on your skin; putrefying gases tell you time is running out.
The shriek of tires comes down this alley, a rubber skid charred on the asphalt.
A headlight.
The bike’s fucking mean as it barrels down the narrow road. Black plague tonnage; a beast of heavy chrome exhaust pipes flaring out from the sides.
And over that headlight? The first glimpse at destiny, the promise of what’s to come…? Something they all know. And fear.
The skull.
Its rider’s name is Death.
And Hell follows with him.
☠︎
The kick stand cuts a scrape over the ground. A shrill grate of metal as Frank stomps it down, walking off the motorcycle as it growls in idle.
His boots move the ground, an earthquake from the soles. Each step closer, each step unraveling his thin leash.
It razes up your spine, seeing this version of Frank.
Disgust solidifies Frank’s face as he storms forward, upper lip raised in a snarl, preserving his face as the personification of righteous fury. “Think you gotta right to fuckin’ touch her, huh?!” he sneers, voice lurching to a boom, the savagery of his physique backlit by the beam from the headlight.
The hands breaching your body snap off in startled curses. The men congregate together, forming a swaying wall to barricade their treat: you.
“It’s- it’s The Punisher—” Pig stutters.
“Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, go!” The gimp cries.
“Get your goddamn guns!” Greasy orders, fumbling for his shoved down the back of his pants. “He’s in our territory now.”
They scramble together in a frenzy, but Frank’s voice seizes them. That’s the power of Frank Castle.
“I asked you a fuckin’ question. When I ask somethin’, I want a goddamn answer. You fuckin’ deaf?” Frank roars, tearing a lead pipe one-handed from the wall without breaking stride.
Two feet of lead. Five pounds of blunt force. And Frank stops three feet short. Flips the pipe once. Tests the weight. Cements his fist to the end. The musculature of his shoulders knots. Nostrils flare, nose quivering undeterred ire. Becoming man in his truest form…
Violence’s overture.
Just one man. A pipe.
Four disgusting men standing between you two.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Franks grits while dark eyes clock his targets. Doesn’t wait for an answer—you gotta be. No choice right now. “Need you t’do somethin’ brave right now, hm?”
You peel yourself from the wall with gelatinous legs, safety disguised in his mere presence though you’re far out of reach yet. You nod little bursts, mouth dried shut.
“Walk ‘round,” Frank instructs, head canting to signal where. “Wait on the bike. C’mon, sweetheart. Now. Ain’t no one gonna move while you walk outta this.”
Silence in agreement. Silence in waiting.
Eyes darting between the men, Frank, your escape route of the motorcycle behind him, you dash a wide berth on your tiptoes. As you get within his reach, Frank extends the pipe around you. Uses it like a lead revolving door to guide you out.
Reaching the safety of the motorcycle, you throw a leg over it. Straddle the rumbling leather, fingers digging into the warm seat to placate the tremble wracking your spine. Over the dormant hostility of the bike, you can’t hear carnage coming to a crescendo.
☠︎
“How many times she say no, huh?” Frank asks, dragging the head of the pipe in jarring rakes over the asphalt beside him. “Do I wanna know?…Yeah. Yeah, think I do. ‘Cause how many times she said no’s how many I’ll take t’break your goddamn head open.”
“You’re- you’re just one man!” Greasy spits out, his gun rattling in the terror-lock of his hand. “There’s four of us, man, you’re fucking s-stupid for trying us like this!”
Frank wears solemnity. A vacancy in his expression known as acceptance. Acceptance in the mission, the nature of the beast, the necessity to make sure this won’t happen again.
“Yeah,” Frank says, raising the pipe. “One man they mistake for a goddamn army.”
☠︎
Skulls got a specific sound when they break. Yeah. Not like other bones.
Other bones splinter. Crack.
Skulls’re different. It’s a wet kinda crunch.
So when the lead pipe lashes down into Pig’s head—bone ‘n brain squelch. Yeah. Wet. Crumples the swiney fucker in a gushing heap.
Gimp charges Frank with a belligerent wail, leg dragging. S’fine. No problem. WHOOMP.
Frank slams the shaft of the pipe into his gut. Chain belt jingles. Gut blows got a dense, meaty sound, the choked punch of breath knocked out of ‘em as the guy stumbles back, clutchin’ his insides. Jams the jagged end through his chest like a fuckin’ kabob. Frank hauls the belt off. Winds the metal links around his neck. Takes the end of that chain… and hoists it over bar the sign. Pipe speared through his chest oozes blood. Chains seizure ‘til he stops movin’. Public hanging for all of ‘em to see.
From behind—raisin skin slings a heavy fist at Frank’s head.
Turning, Frank slips the punch. No thought, pure instinct. Instinct like this can’t be learned. It’s innate.
Frank snatches Raisin’s wrist. One sharp snap down. Crrallllck. Screams “NOOO, AHHH, NO NO NO—!” Bone raptures up from his skin. Sprays a fan of blood over Frank’s face.
“No?” Frank mocks. “Ain’t a word we know, ‘member?” Yanks him by the broken wrist… and grinds the bone down the brick wall ‘til it’s a bleeding nub. Makes for damn sure these hands won’t touch another woman again. Then? Then he uses his face like a goddamn sponge. Grates his skin over the prickled brick, peeling off tattered ribbons of flesh ‘til he can’t make another sound.
Greasy guy’s got the most sense. Runs. Frank’s never lost sight. Raisin’s body dropping at his feet, Frank goes for the holster on his hip.
“HEY!” Frank yells, the baritone of his voice an augury of the night. Raises his Beretta in a final send off.
Greasy trips a step. Doesn’t fall. Twists back to look as he runs for his goddamn life down the blackened alley. His last mistake.
“Ain’t no runnin’ from me.”
And one shot rings out.
Body falls.
Blood glugs from the hole between his eyes.
☠︎
Wind slices through the visor of your helmet as Frank tears down the streets of New York with you latched on his back. It cools your skin, but not the guilt turning over and over under your skin. Your arms wind around the tense width of his midsection, jittery fists bunched in the front of his shirt.
Streetlights blur much like the night.
Frank doesn’t reciprocate anything. A stoic wall in front of you radiating raw, humming anger.
You bury your helmeted face into his back, trying desperately to break the ice, to get his affection back, but there’s no give. No forgiveness. All you can do is sit here, behind him, and wait.
☠︎
song rec
In the apartment, you try to slink off for the bathroom. One sallow light tinks above the sink, as if it’s petrified to bring light to what you’ve brought home.
Try. You get two steps in, then—
“Where the hell you think you’re goin’?”
The smallest flicker of a wince in your shoulders. You stop right then and there. Fingers lace together, cold and clammy under rightful scrutiny. “…I wanna take my makeup off,” you say, so mousy it’s sour on your tongue. “Can I please go take my makeup off?”
“Ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til we talk,” Frank says in a low, grave tone. He posts up at the center island of the kitchen, palms flat and shoulders wide. The posturing of an animal asserting indisputable dominance.
You inch a half turn until you partially angle towards him. Your arms bunch around yourself, scared if you let go, your insides might spill out. You glance over at Frank and your stomach drops. Dried blood under his nails. Red-hot anger in the razor-sharp slant of his jaw. His eyes—dark and domineering—welded to you.
“Wanna tell me how the fuck you ended up there?” Frank asks, so low it’s venomous. “Ain’t where you said you were goin’. You forget I told you t’stay the fuck away from there, hm?”
“No, I didn’t mean to—”
“Then what?” he snips, words dragging harsher with each one. “Didn’t meant to, but you’re the one that walked in those fuckin’ doors, yeah?”
“No! Yes! I mean, yes! No, I did— I did, Frank, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry, that’s not what the evening was supposed to be!”
It’s not good enough.
Frank snaps.
“You’re smarter th’n that! C’mon. Get real. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, coulda found you dead ‘n the alley after those sick fucks did whatever the fuck they wanted. What I tell you ‘bout goin’ t’that bar, huh? What’d I tell you?” It’s a literal question, a demand for answers. “Fuck. Anything I ask ‘a you’s f’your own damn good.”
Coming down from the alcohol, heart working overtime, your feet inch together. Your shoulders curl in, forging a weak shield around yourself. “I just- I was with friends, I thought it’d be fine if I was with my friends. The plan wasn’t to go there, Tabitha and Johnny walked us there and I didn’t realize what it was until we got there! They- they were my ride, I couldn’t just—”
“You could. You call. I answer. Every fuckin’ time. See how that works? How fuckin’ easy that woulda been? Some fuckin’ friends lettin’ you go alone in a place like that.”
His justified anger, his disappointment—it’s palpable. Eats at you until your insides are mush, your worth ruptured in a few sentences. If only you would’ve listened. Why didn’t you listen? You had one simple task and it was to listen to Frank and you still didn’t do it.
Frank throws a hand up, frustrated with the lack of sense. Drags that hand down his face, then presses just his fingertips into the countertop. A repetitive jab of them on the granite—a demand—his brows hiked up to burn the severity of the look into you. “Your friends offer up an idea s’ dumb s’that? Shit. You sure you wanna be friends with ‘em? People hangin’ out there, huh, wanna be ‘round all that? They say somethin’ as stupid s’that, that’s when you say no. S’when you don’t go, you hear me? Don’t give a shit ‘f it’s someone’s dyin’ wish—you don’t go. Need some new goddamn friends.”
He’s- He’s mad. He’s mad at you. You did this. Your actions did this. If you just would’ve opened your mouth, said no, heeded his warnings, listened—your night could’ve looked grossly different.
Air clogs in your throat. Your pulse beats manic emergency, heart raging against your ribs. Breath tighter. Breath shorter. Oh my god, you can’t fucking breathe. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. Your throat jumps a frantic test. Air won’t move. Words freeze up on the back of your tongue.
“What ‘f I didn’t get t’you in time, hm? You think ‘bout that? Got all those brains, where was they t’night? You forget ‘em at home? Christ. Tryna understand this. Tryna understand where the hell your head was at.”
The floor sways under you. The room tilts. Lightheaded, heart pounding too fast, choking on your own pulse.
“Goddamn it, say somethin’!” The demand in his tone. The raise of his voice. “Use your words! Stand here all goddamn night ‘f I got to.”
Oh, it triggers the old, wounded parts of you… The parts you can’t heal. Parts you didn’t ask for when someone else—long ago—decided yelling meant you’d understand. You were just a kid. Yelling didn’t make you understand. It made you scared.
The back of your throat clicks a dry suck—no room for air. Your heart ramps to the point of danger. If you don’t calm it— oh my god, what if you don’t calm it? If it goes any faster, you might induce a heart attack. Oh my god… what if it’s already a heart attack? Your knees knock together in the wobble. Tears burn down your face, but you don’t feel them. No, you only feel the life-threatening pain twisting shards in your chest, your lungs scorching for air you can’t collect. When your crooked fingers claw at your throat, your bulging eyes red-rimmed as your vision swims, Frank stills.
A falter in his reprimand. A one second pause to calculate.
“B-baby—?” Frank tests.
“Frank— can’t- can’t—” a wheezy rasp sears down your throat; a noose of someone else’s making still strangling you.
Frank moves. He’s on your side in an instant, one big hand splayed and pressed over your chest, the other right on the other side of you, on your back. Squeezes you, compressions to breathe for you.
“Hey, hey, hey—” Frank rasps, all ire parched from his body. “C’mon, sweetheart, c’mon—“ His eyes bolt over your face, tracking the blanched terror as your breath drops to hyperventilations. “No, no, no. C’mon. Easy, sweetheart, easy. Control it, hm? In f’four. Ready? C’mon. Do it with me, baby girl. C’mon.”
With his hands packing you together, holding the shaking pieces, Frank demonstrates a loud, deep inhalation through his nose. For four seconds.
You jolt in place with the count of each second; a systemic failure wringing your body to catastrophe.
One—you could die.
Two—right here.
Three—because you didn’t say no.
Four—and there’s no room for a full breath, your chest stuffed with panic.
“Hold it f’four, sweetheart, c’mon. Hold.”
Four seconds have never felt so long. Or stupid. You go catatonic, face stuck in a gasp, fingers contorted around your throat.
When the corrective breathing doesn’t ease anything, Frank binds an arm around you to drag you along.
You ain’t got legs? He’ll be your legs.
Arms won’t work? He’s got two.
You’re making all kinds of noises that scare the shit out of him. Heaves, wheezes, hummed cries as you gasp for help. Frank rips open five drawers. Rummages the contents, shit clattering to the floor.
“Gum, sweetheart. Gum. Where’s th- the gum, huh? Mint. Get you that mint gum, hm?” Vocal panic of his own, dark eyes wet as he digs for one of your antidotes. Mint gum.
Finally—finally—Frank finds it. Big fingers fumble the pack open, tearing three sticks from the wrapper. Shoves them all in your mouth. More means it’ll work better, right?
“Chew, baby. Chew. C’mon, pretty girl. Yeah. Yeah, there she is. Atta girl.” Hand on your back, he uses the other to guide your chin. Help you chew.
The tang of spearmint explodes in your mouth. Forces salvia back into it. You chew, chew, chew. Masticate the wad, breaking out the potency of the flavor, swallowing it down to hose out the uncontrollable fire in your chest.
“Atta girl. Keep doin’ that, hm? You keep chewin’ f’me, alright? Lemme know you hear me, baby. Nod f’me.”
You do. It’s stiff and mechanical, his voice distanced by the nauseating pump of your heartbeat in your own ears.
“Alright. Good. Doin’ so good, baby. Gonna be jus’ fine, got my word. Ain’t nothin’ you can’t handle. Strong girl, you know that? Won’t let it get you.”
Your shoes drag squeals over the floor as Frank lugs you to the kitchen sink. He slaps on the water, tugs it to the coldest setting with a grunt. “Alright, here we go. Gimme your hands, sweetheart, you do that f’me? C’mere,” gently—so fucking gentle you’d cry if you felt it—he unwinds your hands from your neck.
Bracketing your hands with his, Frank dunks them under the shocking freeze of the running tap. Holds your hands open and under the rush, his thumbs on the tendons of your wrists.
Under his thumbs, your pulse’s in a crisis. Rapid fire on his calluses, each frenzied knock accelerating the rot in his gut.
But the water, the mint, the full-weight press of Frank’s chest into your back… it’s a remedy.
The water a rapid reset for your nervous system.
The mint gum forcing you into mobility, the crisp flavor a distraction.
And Frank’s weight? Deep pressure, heaviness severing the emergency alarms in your body.
Minutes go by. How many, you aren’t sure, but Frank’s there the entire time. Undivided attention and gravelly praise, his thumbs pushing gentle strokes from the veins in your wrists to the heel of your hands.
“You with me?” he asks, eyes closed with a pinched brow, his stubbled chin against your temple. “Talk f’me, princess. Gotta hear you. Gotta know you’re okay.”
Clear rills of snot down your nose, tears wiping tracks of makeup from your face, your lashes flutter back from the separation in your mind. “I- I, yeah. Here,” you croak, vocal cords afflicted yet.
“Thank god,” Frank breathes, mashing his nose against your head when he sticks a rough, relieved kiss to your temple. “There she is. There’s m’girl.“
Water drenches your arms, his, splatters to the floor at your feet with his as your shadow.
Chest stuttering, lungs cooperative, you take one big, full breath. Your lungs belong to you again. Frank’s heartbeat on your back, yours slows to match it. You’ll follow him. Anywhere, even the mechanics of your heart knows that.
“Yeah, there,” Frank murmurs. “Easy. Slow.”
“Frank, I–” you shift in place, throat closing with a well of tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Sh-sh,” Frank hushes. Blinks his eyes open, but keeps them low on your shoulder. “Ain’t doin’ that right now. All’s that matters is I got you.”
An appreciative hum crackles in your ribs. You nod. Okay. Not right now.
“Alright f’me to turn this off?”
You nod.
He does, hand lingering on the facet.
A weighted quiet now. Heavy with your mistake. Heavier with his regret.
The quiet plink… plink… plink of water dropping into the sink basin, remnants of the night; decisions water can’t make clean.
Side of his face pressed against yours, rough stubble to soft skin, Frank grabs the hand towel. Drapes it over your hands, squeezing them dry one by one.
“That happen ‘cause ‘a me?” he asks, thick with remorse.
“Not… you…” you whisper, licking salt from your upper lip as you watch his hands work on yours. “Just… your… tone. I don’t- I don’t like ye—”
“I know,” he softly interjects, eyes pinching shut for two seconds. “Yellin’. Got… too loud.” Thinks about saying he didn’t mean to, but that was the excuse he wouldn’t let you have earlier. “Shouldn’t’a got loud with you like that.”
“I get it—”
“No. Don’t gotta do that shit. F’give like that when I fucked up.” Hands dried, Frank sets the towel aside with unnecessary precaution. Like now he doesn’t trust himself not to make more ruin.
“Can we… can we just go to bed? I think I wanna go to bed. Forget about all this ‘til the morning,” you say, voice scratchy, all of your weight leaned back on Frank. “We can have a more constructive talk… in the morning. I just… I just really want you to hold me and touch me and tell me everything’s all right for tonight. Can we, please?”
Big arms band around your waist. Frank buries his face in the sweat-slick curve of your neck, breathing you in, seeking penance. “Yeah, sweetheart. Yeah. Can do that.”
“It’s… on hold,” you say, “until tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Frank sighs against your neck, fans warmth. Tightens his arms around you; an apology in its strength. “‘Til tomorrow.”
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◜ including ⠀! ⠀matt murdock. benjamin poindexter. frank castle.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀nsfw. minors dni. obsessive characters. fem reader. masterlist. english is not my first language.
matt murdock
you barely get him inside you before his hips jerk violently.
“fuck— oh god—” his voice cracks as he buries himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust. his whole body tenses, muscles locking up. you feel his cock twitch hard, then he’s cumming already, thick spurts flooding you in under a minute.
“shit— i’m sorry,” he gasps, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “i didn’t— i couldn’t hold it. you feel too good. too fucking wet and tight around me.”
he stays buried deep, still twitching, face flushed with shame and lingering pleasure. his guilt hits instantly. “i wanted to make you feel good first… i ruined it.” but even as he apologizes, his cock is already twitching back to life inside you. he rolls his hips slowly, pushing his cum deeper. “let me make it up to you. please. i’ll stay hard for you this time. i’ll eat you out first if you want— just don’t be mad.”
benjamin poindexter
dex is already shaking the second he pushes inside you.
his eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at your face like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. he manages maybe thirty seconds of frantic, shallow thrusts before his rhythm falls apart completely.
“f-fuck— wait— i c-can’t— i’m gonna— stop stop stop— p-please—” his voice cracks into a pathetic whimper. his hips stutter violently as he cums way too fast, spilling deep inside you with a broken sob. “no— no no no— i d-didn’t— i couldn’t stop—”
he freezes, still buried in you, but his face crumples. tears spill down his cheeks instantly. his hands grip your hips too tight, trembling.
“i’m sorry— i’m so f-fucking sorry— so s-sorry” he stutters, voice wrecked and cracking. “you feel t-too good. i disappointed you. i a-a-always disappoint you. i’m p-pathetic— i couldn’t even last a minute— p-please don’t hate me... please.”
real tears are running down his face now. he looks genuinely devastated, like he might spiral. his cock is still twitching inside you, not fully soft, but he’s too busy panicking to move.
“i’ll do b-better— i swear. l-let me stay inside. i’ll get hard a-again. i’ll make you c-cum first next time. just… please don’t push me away. i need you. i-i love you. i’m sorry i’m such a fuck up...”
he buries his face in your neck, crying quietly while his hips make tiny, desperate little movements, like he’s terrified you’ll leave him over this.
frank castle
frank grunts as he sinks into you, but he only gets a handful of deep thrusts before his control snaps.
“goddamn it—” he growls, voice strained. his hips jerk hard once, twice, then he’s cumming with a low, frustrated groan, flooding you in thick pulses. it’s over.
he stays buried deep, breathing heavily against your shoulder. “fuck. too fast.” he sounds pissed at himself more than anything. one big hand slides down to rub your clit roughly, trying to make up for it immediately.
“didn’t mean to bust that quick,” he mutters, voice rough. “pussy’s too fucking good tonight.” he doesn’t pull out. instead he starts grinding slow and deep, pushing his cum around inside you while his thumb works your clit.
“you gonna let me try again?” he asks, nipping at your neck. “i’ll last longer next round. i’ll fuck you right.” his free hand grips your thigh hard, you can feel his frustration. “ain’t stopping till you cum all over my cock like you deserve.”
Hiii could you write Dex with an insecure girlfriend? Like her mentality is so “He’s so handsome why is he with me” and stuff
Not hiding anymore
Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader
warning: insecure reader, fluff
The thought followed you everywhere these days. It slipped into your head whenever Dex’s hand settled at the small of your back, whenever women you don’t know glanced at him a second too long.
He was beautiful. His face, his body, fuck, everything about him was beautiful. The way his face harmonizes together. Just… everything!
And then there was you.
You had spent so much time convincing yourself that he would eventually realize he could do better that you had almost started treating it like a fact rather than a fear.
Dex noticed the change before you ever said a word. The way you looked away whenever someone complimented him. The way your pulse jumped whenever you caught the eyes of a stranger on him. Lust written all over their faces.
You were sitting together on the couch when he finally spoke.
“You’ve been avoiding my eye contacts.” The statement caught you off guard. It shouldn’t catch you off guard because you knew that he over analyzed everything.
“What?”
“You’ve been doing it for twelve days.”
“Twelve-” You blinked. Has it really been that long?
“Twelve.” There wasn’t even a hint of uncertainty in his voice. You stared at him for a moment before looking down at your hands. Dex waited until you said something but nothing followed. Eventually the words slipped out of your mouth.
“I don’t know.” A blant lie. You knew why you had been avoiding his eye contact for so long.
“You do.” You swallowed and look down, not wanting to meet his eyes. He knew that you know the reason for all this. And for a second he thought that he was the problem.
“It’s stupid.”
“I didn’t say it was.” Yeah thanks Dex…
His expression remained the same, silence stetching between you. Then quietly you admitted it.
“Sometimes I don’t understand why you’re with me.”
The room became so quiet, it felt uncomfortable. You immediately regretted saying it.
“It sounds ridiculous, I know, but you’re…” You laughed weakly. “Look at you, Dex.”
His eyebrows pulled together. You continued before you could stop yourself.
“You’re attractive and confident and people notice you everywhere we go and I just keep thinking one day you’re going to realize you settled for me and leave me.” You stop to take a deep breath before you continued. “Like maybe you just haven’t noticed yet that I am not the person you want to spend your time with.”
For a second, Dex simply stared. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“You think I haven’t noticed?”
“What?” You frowned but you’re not completely shocked.
“I know exactly what you look like.” His gaze stayed fixed on you. The bluntness of the response made your face heat immediately.
“Dex-” He cuts you off before you can say anything further.
“No.” His voice wasn’t harsh. Oh my, it was anything but harsh.
“I know what your face looks like when you’re trying not to laugh. I know how you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed. I know the sound of your footsteps compared to everyone elses and I know how much you love taking care of stray cats.” His eyes never left yours while he was saying all these beautiful stuff. “I know you always move closer when you’re tired even though you pretend you’re not affectionate.”
“I notice things.” The statement carried a weight that made it impossible to argue with him.
“You act like I ended up here without me wanting it,” he continued quietly. “Like I somehow missed all the other options.”
A bitter laugh escaped you. “That’s not what I-”
“It is.” His jaw tightened at the thought of you putting yourself down. For the first time, something vulnerable slipped through his body “And it’s wrong.”
“I chose you.” The words landed harder than anything else had. Dex reached for your hand. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
“If I wanted someone else, I’d be with someone else.” You looked down.
“But-”
“No.” He cuts you off again but this time firmly. You looked back up to find him already watching you.
“I don’t stay where I don’t want to be.” There was something almost painfully honest in the statement. You know that Dex is honest. He wasn’t the type of person who remained out of obligation. He never had been and never will be.
“So stop deciding what I should want for me.”Your breath caught. His fingers tightened around yours.
“I know exactly who I’m with and I love where I am.” For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then, quieter this time, he added. “And for the record, every time you look at me and wonder why I’m with you, I’m usually wondering why you’re still putting up with me. Why you’re with me.”
You stared, trying to process everything he just said. Dex immediately looked annoyed with himself for admitting that. Which somehow made you smile and the tension finally eased from your shoulders.
“What’s funny?” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are funny.”
“That wasn’t a joke.” He sighed.
“I know.” But when you leaned against him a second later, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer without a word, holding you there with the same certainty he’d used all evening. He gently kisses your temple and rests his head against yours.
“You’re it for me. Never say that again about yourself.” He quietly said. “Never hide from me anymore.”
bf!dex who looks way too pleased with himself when you get angry enough to hit him.
you two make a very disfunctional couple, that much could be said. you patch him up from knife and bullet wounds more often than you go out on dates, and you're constantly arguing about dex's obsessive, infuriating need to keep everything in your life under his control.
on particularly bad fights, you make him grovel for days.
dex will mostly spend them chasing you around your apartment while you pretend not to notice the hulking mass of a man stalking you around every room, an inevitable presence you couldn't get rid of even if you tried. he says i'm sorry and please talk to me and i'll do anything while you try your best to remain unphased, even if the undeniable lack of remorse in his voice only fills you with even more rage.
one day you turn on your heels and slap him across the face.
it's a sudden, sharp crack that echoes around the room like a gunshot. his head turns to the side and stays there, because you struck him hard enough for dex to freeze like that for a moment before he blinks once in surprise, tongue moving inside his mouth to poke the inside of his cheek.
you can see it in him, the change that happens when dex registers the sting and the heat that starts spreading across the side of his face, the shape of your fingertips painting his skin a crimson red. his mouth curls then, lips tugging into a smile as his eyes flutter closed to savor the impact.
you make a disgusted sound, and because you're still pissed, even more mad now than before you realized you can't even hurt him without his deranged brain turning it into this, you snarl: "what the fuck is wrong with you?"
dex only laughs in response, seemingly pulled out of his trance by the sound of your voice. it's the first time you've spoken to him in hours, and something inside him hums in satisfaction at finally earning back your attention, even if you're still scowling at him with an intensity that would make a lesser man feel the urge to bolt.
to dex, though, the only thing worth registering is that he has your eyes back on him once more, your touch back where it belongs—on his skin, burning across his cheek as physical proof.
he reaches out to grab your hand, fingers enclosing around your wrist and lifting your arm with enough gentleness to make you hesitate upon the thought of pulling it right back, then guides your palm to lay flat against the other side of his face.
"i'll let you take it out on me all you want, we both know i deserve it," he says, soft eyes fixed on yours despite the haze of rage still clouding your vision. "but if you really want to hurt me, then you'll have to hit me harder, sweetheart."
hey girl hey, this is highkey my first time sending a request to any author but OPLA usopp is so fine, the need for him has got to be quenched. PLSSS I NEED A FIC W HIMM PREFERABLY SMUTTT TY GIRL I LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!
Omggg thank you for having me be your first request! I'm really glad you enjoy my work! This one is for you anon ;D
PS. SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG MY WRITERS BLOCK WAS GOIN BRAZY-
Frustrated (OPLA Usopp x Reader)
"Zoro go do something else! Stop asking questions and hovering over me!" Usopp snaps, your shoulder tensing as your gaze travels from home to Zoro and back again.
You swallow hard, arms folded over your chest as Zoro looks...slightly shocked.
"Cause this isn't helping." He reiterates, looking at the plethora of items splayed out in front of him.
Zoro leaves, and the tension is still thick as the brown-skinned male's eyes flutter closed. He takes a deep breath, and you're already by his side with a small reasuring smile.
"You okay?" You hum, hands coming up to massage his shoulders. He shrugs you off, shaking his head in frustration.
Usopp had moments like these at times, and you were always there to cheer him up or at the very least calm him down. But right now, it seemed like there was more weighing on him than he was leading on.
Your once smile downturns and he presses his lips into a thin line.
"Sorry, just..." he can't seem to find the words to describe it but you know there's underlying stress he's not telling you about.
"S'okay. Just trying to help. You know I'm here for you, right?" You ask, letting him initiate the touch this time, and he happily accepts the feeling of your warm palms cupping his cheek.
"Mhm." He nods, kissing the inside of your wrist.
You presses kissed across his face, minding his bruised eyes before humming in thought.
"Y'know, it has been a whileeee, maybe we could?~" You suggest, tracing the collar of his jacket as he shivers.
"I uhh, y-yeah I think that could help," He responds, eyes flickering down to your lips.
And just before you could meet, Nami calls for you from the deck.
___________________
It happens again, though. Later that same evening he had snapped at Luffy, and this time it was a lot worse. Then again, when you'd tried to talk to him.
"Your anger is misdirected. If you aren't gonna tell me how you're feeling or how I can help then I can leave." You state plainly, blinking at him with your own newly formed attitude.
In the stillness of your closed quarters comes to a close when Usopp takes another long, exasperated breath, practically falling into your arms. He winces, though, eye pretty busted and bruised still.
You from faintly, running your fingers through his locs.
"Usopp, baby? What's bothering you?" You ask again, his lips fluttering against your exposed neck and collarbone.
"I- hm," He hums, motioning for you to sit as he pops the buttong on your jacket open.
"I don't know but I...I'm just annoyed." He voices, becoming increasingly frustrated when beneath the jacket is just more buttons.
He growls, fists clenching as you chuckle at his irritation.
"Yeah, I see that. Here." You begin, swapping places with him before shugging your jacket off and onto the floor.
"Just let me do the work yeah? I know I got pulled away earlier but we have time now." You explan, already straddling him as your pull the jacket from his shoulders, followed by the loosening of his overalls.
"You're already so wound up." You mutter.
He nods, tiling this headback to give you space enought to suck purple onto his neck. Despite him whimpering at the feeling, he manages to grip your hips harder, guiding you to sit closer, his hips rolling up as he shudders out a breath.
He winces a little when you brush just beneath his bruised eye but your discontinues the pain away.
Your lips meet, still fully clothed and his overalls fall off his shoulders, and he takes the opportunity to take his top off, ushering you to do the same.
It’s quiet, just the faint creak on the bed frame as you both adjust to meet one another’s hips.
“Kiss me,” he practically begs, chasing your lips and you half laugh, already swapping spit again.
“I just did Usopp-“just
“Then do it again.” He demands, his hand coming up to your throat, squeezing gently as you try your best to push the denim of his and your jeans off your bodies.
He chuckles nervously, already palming a handful of the fat of your ass, tucking his lower lip between his teeth before yours meet for the umpteenth time.
He scoot back, dragging you with him s you hover above him, hand pressed to his bare chest. He smiles up at you and you swear you melt a little.
"Don't look at me like that!" You half laugh, face heating as he swiped his thumb over your cheek with that same adorable goofy smile.
"Like what? I just can't get over how beautiful you are." He hums, chocking when you finally slide yourself down onto his length, the slick, sopping of your wetness riding in the air as you let out a much needed and satisfied breath.
Usopp may have played coy and avoided jabs directed at his length before, but the one who really knew was you, and god did he manage to hit ever spot trapped in your walls so perfectly.
He groans, the upward curve of his cock massaging your gooey Wass just as you sink down to take him all the way to his base.
"F-Fuck-" You whimper, fists clenched against his chest as he rolls his hips upward, just enough to drive you mad.
"I thought- damn, I thought you said you were gonna do all the work?" He chuckles, guiding your hips to meet his every time he rolled them.
That delicious vein on the underside of his length hits you so perfectly.
"Shut up, I- ohhhh fuck- Usopp baby~," You mutter, brow knotted up with focus.
His free hand had managed to come down to your sopping wet cunt, his thumb drawing circles over your clit lazily.
"You never told me- mhm, what was bothering you?" You ask, the faint 'plap' 'plap' 'plap' from your hips meeting punctuating your sentence. ]
He doesn't respond, too focuses and caught up in how good your walls feel sucking and squeezing him. He's got a sheen of sweat over him and uses the strength he has left to swap places, sliding out of you with a wet 'shlip'.
Your backs' against the mattress now, one ankle strength over his shoulder while the other sets at his hip.
And you fight a pleasure yelp when he bottoms out, you hand clenching the headboard above for support.
"Fuck, I needed this. You feel so good baby," He rambles, exchanging sloppy kisses across your body before sucking one of your nipples into his mouth.
"Almost forgot how damn good you feel," he huffs against your skin, your back arching off the bed slightly when he thrusts faster.
The beds slamming up against the wall now and you pray everyone else's too busy up on the deck to pay attention tot eh fact that you were being put through the mattress in an attempt to cleanse Usopp of his attitude.
It was defiantly working.
His stokes were getting sloppy, a clear sign that he was close and you shut your eyes, focusing on the pleasure, the similar knot already twisting up in the pit of your belly.
"Damn it baby, you're squeezing me so- mmmmh- so tight," He whines, your arms lacing behind his neck before your mouths meet.
And great timing on your behalf because just as you did he come undone, pathetic, sound moan swallowed up by your lips as he spills ropes of cum against your stomach and thighs.
"F-Fuck, y/n, baby," he huff breathlessly, shivering when you Gide your hand up and down his length.
"Feel better?" You hum, twirling his hair between your index finger and thumb with a cock-drunk smile.
He nods, taking a long breath before falling to rest again tour chest.
"I don't even remember what I was so upset about in the first place."
for ages, he’s spent countless hours by himself. whether it be during battle, at sea, or simply within the quiet croaks of his castle.
and for a long time, mihawk thought that he’d prefer the silence. that it was better to be alone, as it created less issues. or maybe it was that it’s easier to keep everyone at arms length than let them in.
i guess maybe it was just his lack of trust. how was he supposed to trust anyone in a world like this?
somewhere along the lines, he ran into you.
mihawk can remember the exact moment he laid his eyes on you. it lays vivid in his memory.
beautiful legs that were accentuated by those black strappy heels. a figure of a goddess. lips painted in a dark blood red, tempting him to smear it with his lips and fingers. and most of all, eyes that made him feel like he was drowning in something unknown.
you quickly began to make a mess of mihawk’s life. or maybe his mind. or maybe his heart. whatever it was, mihawk wasn’t sure how he survived this long without you.
and today, as he returns home after a cross guild meeting he sees you in your shared bedroom. wearing a black thin silk robe with lace on the edges.
you sat on your vanity. soft music played off the record player. you had just completed your makeup, and were putting on a pair of earrings that mihawk had bought you for your wedding anniversary.
mihawk got drunk off the sight of you. divine creature, bewitching his mind, body, and heart.
how could this feeling be real.
within a moment, you noticed mihawk staring at you through the mirror.
“dracule,” you said breathlessly.
you turned your head to face him. his gaze was so sharp, always so laser focused. and it made your heart thump.
sometimes it’s hard to believe this is real.
mihawk walked closer to you. he reached out for your hand, slowly pressing a soft kiss.
mihawk thought he didn’t understand what soft meant before you. he thought everything in life was supposed to be done harsh and rough. but with something as delicate as you, how could he be anything but soft?
you were the reason for every breath. you were the reason for the end of every battle he fought. you were the reason he fought carefully. you were the reason he saw good.
deep down, you were the only thing that kept him bound to the world.
“i say we skip this gala, darling wife,”
“and what do you propose we do instead?”
you were both standing now. you stood so closely together, eyes intently staring at each other. his hands lay tight on your waist, as if you were his anchor.
in turn, you placed both of your hands softly on either sides of his face. it grounded both of you.
for a moment, mihawk really didn’t think.
i mean how could he, when his eyes were locked on yours. pools of thoughts and lust we’re gathered in his mind.
“dracule?”
mihawk softly placed his head against yours. and he began to move slowly, so that you both ended up dancing to the melody playing softly.
and in this moment, mihawk could only think of one thing. how incredibly lucky he was.
The weather had taken a drastic turn towards the cold and without Nami, you didn’t know if it was simply Grand Line temperature shifts or if you were approaching an island. You buttoned up a brown, fur coat and left the cabin to speak with the rest of the Straw Hats.
When you made it to the deck, you noticed that Sanji wasn’t in his usual spot. No doubt still watching over Nami. You could hear Usopp by the helm and took the stairs to meet your friends.
“It’s been three days. We really need to find a- oh my god!” Your speech about a doctor went overboard when your eyes landed on Zoro. Shirtless.
With a small yelp, you covered your eyes with your hands. Usopp snickered from the wheel but all you heard from the swordsman was a light huff.
“You’ve seen me shirtless before.” Zoro stated.
You lowered your hands and narrowed your eyes. “What? No, I haven’t.”
Zoro crossed his arms and looked to the sea. “Don’t like what you see, look away.”
Your hands returned to your face. The nerve! Zoro walking around shirtless wasn’t an issue for you. This was about Straw Hat decency and him being a distraction.
“Fine, maybe I will.” You snapped and turned to prove a point.
You could navigate the Going Merry in the dark so you stepped forward and, instead of wood, your foot met something slippery - ice. Gasping, you expected to hit the ground but there was a hard tug on your wrist, whirling you around.
Your hands found new purchase on a warm, solid chest while an arm kept you firmly braced upright.
“Shit. You okay?” Zoro asked, a light concern in his voice.
Shaking off the fright, you took one look at Zoro and forgot how to string a sentence together. This proximity was new and, the longer that you stared into his warm eyes, intoxicating.
Why were they so comforting?
How was his hair so bright and soft?
How was his skin a furnace in this cold?
“See something that you like?”
His question snapped you back to reality - no shirt, slipped on ice, Zoro pulling you close to keep you from the snow-covered decks.
With your feet now on steady ground, you were prepared to push away from the swordsman but couldn’t find the strength to actually do it. It seemed that neither did Zoro from the way he held firm.
Usopp cleared his throat. “Plenty of rooms on the ship.”
The comment came at perfect timing, reminding you both that the whole interaction was being watched. It probably seemed dramatic to the marksman.
You smiled and then burst into a small laugh. Zoro tipped his head forward, cheek brushing yours, as he joined in. It was needed after a tense few days. Zoro loosened his hold and let you step back safely, a smile on his face.
You glanced at Usopp, who was giving you a knowing look, and tried to ignore it by focusing back on the swordsman. Zoro reached into his pocket and pulled out a shirt which he slipped on effortlessly.
“Happy?” He teased.
You walked past him and lightly bumped his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”
~~~
When Zoro left the helm, he retired to the Crows Nest where it was peaceful. He sat down, legs folded, and leaned against the wall. Eyes closed, Zoro began to clear his mind and drift away.
Your hands had touched his skin.
Your lips were so close to his mouth.
Your laugh… it made his heart twist.
Smirking to himself, maybe Zoro would walk around shirtless more often to see it again.
~ More One Piece imagines here ~
A/n: apparently I predicted my own fall with this fic - except there was no Zoro to break the fall :(
민윤기x f!reader ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙ ‹— cw | idol!yoongi • domestic boyfriend!yoongi • fluff • comfort • clingy yoongi • long distance during tours • lots of physical affection • late night calls • lowercase intended
┈ [ ✉️ ] Hi angels !! This was a request by an anon in my inbox !!! And this is SO overdue I apologize. I have been very unproductive lately so… bear with me 🥺 Also, I am so close to 500 followers and I love you and thank you all so much !!! But Any-whom !! Happy reading !!
before tour boyfriend!yoongi :(
— spends more time in his studio with you sitting nearby :( doesn’t even need you talking. just likes looking over and seeing you there while he works
— gets quieter before leaving but not in a sad way. more thoughtful. like he’s mentally trying to memorize your routines before he has to be away from them again
— the type to casually ask “you’ll call me if something happens, right?” instead of directly admitting he’s worried about leaving you
— absolutely makes songs while thinking about you but will deny it immediately if you point it out
— starts sleeping later before tour because he doesn’t want to waste time unconscious when he could still be beside you :(
— prefers quiet nights together before leaving. takeout containers on the coffee table. tv playing softly. your legs thrown over his while he scrolls through random videos
— acts completely normal the morning he leaves but holds your hand a little tighter right before he has to let go
during tour boyfriend!yoongi :(
— terrible texter during busy days but sends random messages at like 3am because that’s when he finally slows down enough to miss you properly
— the type to send pictures with zero explanation : blurry studio setups. late night ramen cups. city lights outside hotel windows
— facetimes you while laying in bed half asleep, voice rough and quiet because he’s too tired to pretend he isn’t exhausted
— honestly misses silence with you the most. just existing in the same room without pressure to talk
— sends short voice notes instead of paragraphs. little “heard this and thought of u” messages attached to unfinished demos or songs he’s working on
— definitely falls asleep with the tv running in hotel rooms because complete silence feels too empty without you there
— when he misses you really badly he gets clingier in subtle ways :( answering your texts faster, staying on calls longer, asking what you’re doing every hour
— secretly rereads your messages before concerts sometimes because they calm him down more than he’ll ever admit
— acts like tour is just work to him but quietly tells you one night that every hotel starts feeling the same after a while
after tour boyfriend!yoongi :)
— coming home with him feels calm :) no dramatic entrance. just him dropping his bags, pulling you into his chest, and staying there for a long moment like he finally relaxed
— immediately changes into comfortable clothes and settles beside you on the couch like he’s reclaiming his spot again
— domestic affection with him is quiet but constant after tour :) forehead kisses while passing by, hand resting on your knee, pulling you against his side while watching movies
— absolutely the type to stand in the kitchen late at night eating snacks with you while talking softly about random things he thought about during tour
— loves the peaceful parts of being home most : hearing you in another room while he works, falling asleep beside you, rainy mornings where neither of you has to be anywhere
— starts bringing you into his studio more after tour because he missed your presence there while he was away
— spends the first few nights back sleeping deeper than he did the entire tour because being beside you finally lets his body relax again
— after tour he loves you in an even quieter way. comfortable. steady. like home became less about a place and more about wherever you are
Perm taglist : @kimmynammy @celliez @alphabetically-deranged @m4aimm @raceme2hell @bo-rimmy @mustanggbabyy @divakoo (comment or ask to be added)
[ ▸ ] — you tell yourself jungkook is not yours because he has never promised to be, but every part of him feels close enough to make that truth unbearable. he gives you softness without certainty, desire without definition, and just enough tenderness to make walking away feel impossible
[ ✐ ] — 15k
[ ⌗ ] — non idol!jungkook x f!reader fwb slow burn angst hurt / comfort jealousy miscommunication big dick!jk graphic & detailed smut oral ( f & m receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — first jungkook fic baby! y'all...this has been a wip for so long. first of all, love sza so much. that's my girl. go listen to 2 am by her if you never have bc this is where the inspo came from! and if you have, listen to it again to get in the feels. was debating whether to leave this with a sad ending but y'all know i can't f*cking do it. maybe in the future lol anyway big thank you to @solecize for the amazing banner and for high key inspiring me to write for jk. pls enjoy reading, hunnies <3
With Jungkook, things had a way of becoming complicated long after you’d already fallen into them.
That was the worst part, maybe, because if he had been colder in the beginning, if he had been arrogant or careless or obvious in that cheap, glossy way men sometimes were when they knew exactly how much damage they could get away with, you might have known what to do with him. You might have known where to put him in your life. You might have known to keep your heart tucked away somewhere private, somewhere he could not reach with his bright smile and gentle hands and that easy little laugh that made it sound like the world was never as heavy as you made it out to be.
But he was not like that. He was kind. He was warm.
And he remembered things.
He remembered that you hated lemon in your drinks but liked the flavor of it in your food, which made no sense to him, and he had teased you about it for ten full minutes the first time he watched you pick one out of a glass of water at dinner. He remembered that you got cold too easily in movie theaters and always, always brought a hoodie after the first time you had tried to pretend you were fine through an entire film while your knees knocked together beneath the seat. He remembered the name of the stray cat you fed that lived behind your apartment building, even though you had only mentioned it once while distracted, and sometimes when he walked you home he would look toward the alley and ask, “Has Chairman Meow eaten today?” with such sincere concern.
That was the problem.
He didn’t treat you like you were temporary.
He didn’t leave after, not right away, not with the easy cruelty of someone who wanted only your body and none of the person inside it. He stayed. He curled around you while the room cooled and the night softened at the edges, his mouth resting against your shoulder, his breath slow against your skin, his thumb moving in little absent circles at your hip.
He made breakfast sometimes, badly, but with confidence so undeserved it almost became charming on its own.
He texted during the day, not constantly, never enough to call it something, never enough to put a name around it without feeling foolish, but enough that your phone became a little trap. A random selfie. A song he thought you would like. A complaint about a coworker that you didn’t technically know, but felt like you did from the stories Jungkook would tell you about him. A picture of his lunch with the silly little captions.
Normal things. Friendly things.
But it was the nights that got you.
Two in the morning had become a dangerous hour because Jungkook never made it easy to say no. He never sent a you up? text or anything flat and ugly enough for you to roll your eyes at. He never gave you the mercy of being obvious. He sent things that sank under your skin.
come and see me, baby.
i miss you, beautiful.
can’t sleep. wish you were here.
Sometimes you stared at those messages until the screen dimmed in your hand. Sometimes you typed out no and deleted it. Sometimes you typed out you only miss me at night and deleted that too, because it was not true enough to be useful and too true to say without bleeding.
Most times, you went. And every time, on the ride over, you told yourself you understood the arrangement.
You had never asked him for anything. He had never promised you anything. Nobody had lied. Nobody had drawn lines and then crossed them. You were both consenting adults, both aware, both stepping into the same warm, dim room with open eyes.
Maybe it was your fault for falling for someone like him.
Maybe there were girls who liked men like Jungkook exactly as he was because they were free and tethered by and to no one, because there was something exciting about not knowing where you stood, because wanting less made them feel powerful. Maybe they knew how to take the pleasure and leave the rest. Maybe they could kiss him and still keep themselves separate, could sleep beside him and wake up whole, could let him call them baby at two in the morning without hearing it echo for days.
But not you.
You had thought you could be casual. You had thought you could do no strings. You had thought that wanting him would be manageable as long as you kept your expectations small and your voice steady and your foolish little heart on a leash.
Then he started kissing your forehead in the kitchen when you stood half-asleep in his shirt, waiting for the coffee machine to stop making sounds like it was fighting for its life.
Then he started touching you in a way that made the word casual feel impossible to believe, because nothing about the way he held you ever felt careless.
It was one of those nights again, the kind that started with a message you should have ignored and ended with you in his bed, surrounded by the warmth of his room, his sheets twisted beneath you, and his hands making it impossible to remember why you had ever tried to stay away.
Your back arched off the mattress, spine curving as another orgasm crashed through you like a fucking tidal wave. Three in the morning and Jungkook showed no signs of stopping. His face was slick with you, chin glistening, lips swollen and pink as he worked you through your fifth climax of the night. His fingers rolled your nipples, tugging and twisting just enough to make you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets above your head.
"Oh god—fuck, Jungkook, please—" You didn't even know what you were begging for anymore. For him to stop? To never stop? Your thighs shook around his head, muscles trembling from exertion, but he held you open with those strong hands, his tongue still working your oversensitive clit in slow, devastating circles.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "One more, baby. Give me one more." His voice was wrecked, rough and desperate in a way that made your stomach flip. He dove back in before you could respond, sucking your clit between his lips while two fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.
You screamed his name. Actually screamed it, loud enough that his neighbors probably hated you both, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. Not when he was looking up at you like that, dark eyes watching your face as he fucked you with his mouth, groaning against your flesh like eating you out was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Like he needed it more than air.
Your fifth orgasm hit you so hard you forgot your own name for a second. White-hot pleasure seared through your veins, every nerve ending alight as you convulsed around his fingers, your release gushing into his waiting mouth. He moaned like he was the one coming, lapping up everything you gave him, tongue gentle now as he coaxed you through the aftershocks.
"Jungkook, please—" You tugged at his hair, trying to pull him up because you were so sensitive it almost hurt, your pussy clenching around nothing as he withdrew his fingers.
He kissed his way up your body, lips trailing over your hip bone, your stomach, the valley between your breasts. By the time he reached your mouth, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and undeniably arousing. He kissed you deeply, slowly, one large hand cradling your face while the other braced his weight above you.
"You're so fucking pretty when you come," he murmured against your lips. "Could watch you fall apart all night."
"You have been," you managed, your voice wrecked. "For thirty minutes."
He smiled against your mouth, that boyish grin that made your chest tight in ways you refused to examine too closely. "And I'd stay down there for another hour if you let me." His hips settled between your thighs, and you felt him—hard, thick, pressing against your hip. He'd been grinding against the mattress this whole time, getting himself off on getting you off, and something about that made your pussy clench all over again.
"Let me—" You reached down, wrapping your fingers around his cock through his boxers. He was big, thick and long in a way that had made you nervous the first time you'd seen it. Now you knew exactly how good that size could feel, how perfectly he filled you. "Let me suck you. You deserve it."
Jungkook groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His hips jerked into your touch. "Fuck, baby, you can't just say shit like that."
"I want to." You tugged at his waistband, freeing his cock and stroking him properly now, feeling him pulse in your grip. The head was already leaking, slick with precum that you spread down his shaft. "Let me make you feel good."
"No." The word came out strangled, desperate. He grabbed your wrist, stilling your hand. When you looked up at him, his jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared. "I need—I need to be inside you. Need to fuck you. Please."
The urgency in his voice made your whole body flush. He was shaking, actually shaking with the effort of holding back. You realized then that he'd been denying himself this whole time, focusing entirely on your pleasure while his own need built to a breaking point. That thought sent a fresh wave of want through you, your exhausted body suddenly desperate for him again.
"Then fuck me." You spread your legs wider, hooking one calf around his hip. "I want you inside me."
Jungkook let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan. He reached toward his nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for a condom. His hands were unsteady as he tore the packet open, and you watched him roll it down his length with quick, practiced movements. Then he was positioning himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your opening.
"Look at me," he said, voice low. You met his gaze, and something in his expression made your breath catch. He looked wrecked, desperate, but underneath that was something softer. "You feel so good, baby. So tight. Every time—I swear every time feels like the first time."
He pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch. You both moaned at the intrusion, your pussy stretching around him in that familiar burn that bordered on too much and not enough. He was thick, thicker than anyone you'd been with, and he took his time sheathing himself fully even though you could feel how much he wanted to move. His arms shook where they braced above you, his jaw tight with restraint.
"Fuck," you gasped once he was fully seated, your walls fluttering around him. "You're so big. So fucking big, Jungkook, I can feel you everywhere."
He dropped his head, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're so tight. Squeezing me so fucking hard." He rolled his hips experimentally, and you both groaned at the sensation. "I'm not gonna last, baby. Need you too much."
"Then don't." You cupped his face, pulling him into a messy kiss. "Just fuck me. Make yourself feel good."
He pulled back until only the head remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward hard enough to make you cry out. "Oh, I intend to." He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving you further up the mattress. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, obscene and wet, mixing with your combined moans and the creak of his bed frame.
"This tight little pussy was made for me," he growled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. "Made to take my cock. Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking good—"
You couldn't form words. Could only hold on, nails raking down his back as he fucked you with a desperation you'd never felt from him before. This wasn't the slow, sensual Jungkook you'd grown addicted to. This was something rawer, more urgent. Like he couldn't get deep enough, couldn't get close enough, no matter how hard he tried.
"More," you heard yourself beg, the word slipping out before you could stop it. "Please, Jungkook, more—"
He shifted, hooking your knees over his elbows and folding you nearly in half. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made fireworks explode behind your eyes. You screamed, back bowing off the bed as he pounded into you.
"Right there?" His voice was rough, breathless. "That's the spot, isn't it? Right fucking there."
"Yes, yes, fuck, yes—"
He bent down to kiss you, swallowing your moans as his hips snapped forward relentlessly. You could feel another orgasm building, which should have been impossible after five already, but the way he filled you, the way his pelvic bone ground against your clit with every thrust—it was inevitable.
"I'm close," you gasped against his mouth. "Jungkook, I'm gonna—"
"Come for me." His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come on my cock. Want to feel this tight pussy squeeze me."
That was all it took. Your orgasm crashed through you harder than any of the ones before, your vision going white as your walls clamped down around him. You heard yourself sobbing his name, fingernails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Fuck, fuck—" Jungkook's rhythm faltered, his thrusts growing erratic. "You're squeezing me so fucking tight—I'm gonna come, baby, I'm gonna—"
He buried himself deep one final time, a groan tearing from his throat as he spilled into the condom. You could feel him pulsing inside you, his cock throbbing with each wave of his release. He collapsed onto his elbows, careful not to crush you, his face buried in your neck as he gasped for breath.
For long moments, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your combined breathing and the faint hum of the city outside his window. His heart hammered against your chest, or maybe that was yours—you couldn't tell anymore. Everything felt blurred together, your bodies tangled in a way that made it hard to tell where you ended and he began.
"That was—" you started, but your voice gave out.
Jungkook laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Yeah." He pressed a kiss to your jaw, then another to the corner of your mouth. "That was fucking incredible."
He pulled out slowly, both of you wincing at the oversensitivity, and disposed of the condom before settling back beside you. He pulled you into his side, strong arm wrapping around your shoulders as your head found its familiar spot on his chest.
You traced patterns on his skin, fingers drifting over the tattoos that decorated his arm. This was the part that confused you most. The casual intimacy that felt anything but casual. The way he held you like you were something precious, pressing lazy kisses to your hair, your temple, any part of you he could reach.
"You okay?" he murmured, voice heavy with approaching sleep. "I wasn't too rough?"
You shook your head against his chest. "You were perfect." The words came out softer than you intended, weighted with more meaning than they should have carried.
He hummed, his hand stroking up and down your back in a way that made your eyes heavy. "Stay. I'll make breakfast in the morning."
This was the problem. This right here. He could have asked you to leave. Could have made some excuse about an early morning or needing space. That's what situationships were supposed to be—casual, no strings, easy to walk away from. But Jungkook never made it easy.
He made you breakfast. He held you while you slept. He kissed you goodbye like it physically hurt him to let you go. And every time, you fell a little deeper into something you knew was going to end with you shattered.
"Okay," you whispered, because you were too weak to say no to him. "I'll stay."
His arm tightened around you, and you felt him press another kiss to the top of your head. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his body going lax with sleep. But you lay awake, staring at the ceiling through the darkness, wondering how you'd let yourself get here.
By the time you padded out of his bedroom the next morning, Jungkook was already in the kitchen with nothing on but gray sweatpants, his back to you as steam climbed around his shoulders. The rice cooker sat open on the counter. A small pot simmered on the stove. His hair was damp at the ends, skin still warm from the shower, muscles shifting as he reached up for bowls like he had no idea what kind of damage he was doing before nine in the morning.
You stopped in the doorway, swallowed by his black hoodie, sleeves hanging past your fingertips.
“Are you trying to kill me?” you asked.
He glanced back. “With breakfast?”
“With all of that.”
His eyes dropped to the hoodie, then dragged back up to your face, slow enough to make your pulse trip. “You look so good in my clothes.”
You look away, smiling despite yourself.
His smile tugged at one corner before he turned back to the stove, ladling soup into two bowls. Rice followed. Gim. Kimchi. Rolled egg cut clean and pretty because, of course, he had to be good at everything.
You sat while he brought the food over, watching him place your bowl down first.
“You look too pleased with yourself,” you said.
“I made breakfast.” Jungkook leaned over your shoulder to set down the chopsticks, voice dipping close to your ear. “Eat before I make you say thank you.”
Your stomach flipped.
You reached for the spoon, pretending the heat in your face came from the soup. “This is unfair.”
“This is love.”
The word landed too heavily.
You saw the moment he realized what he had said because his fingers stilled around the plate, and for half a second something flickered through his eyes, quick and startled and impossible to hold. Then he smiled, smaller than before. “Chef’s kiss,” he said, quieter.
You could have teased him. You could have rescued the moment. You could have said something careless enough to make the air breathable again.
Instead, because you were sleep-warm and stupid with him, because his hoodie smelled like him, because you had woken up with his arm around your waist and his face tucked against the back of your neck, you said, “Is that what this is?”
Jungkook looked at you. “What do you mean?” he asked, but his voice had changed.
You looked down at the food. It was easier than looking at him. “I don’t know.”
He didn’t answer right away. That was the first warning.
Jungkook always answered quickly when things were light. He had a comeback for everything when the room was safe, when the joke was waiting, when the door stayed open behind him. But when something real stepped in, something with hands and teeth and a heartbeat, he went quiet.
You hated that you knew that about him.
You hated that you had learned his silences well enough to understand them.
He moved around the counter slowly and leaned back against it, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. He was not defensive, not exactly, but he was holding himself still in the way people did when they were trying not to run.
“I care about you,” he said finally.
But it wasn’t enough.
The words should have comforted you, maybe, because they were not nothing. They were gentle. They were true, or at least you believed they were true in the way Jungkook knew how to make things true, moment by moment, room by room. But they were not enough, and you felt the shape of that lack like a bruise—a deep ache beneath the surface.
“I know,” you said.
His brows pinched. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
You laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “Like what?”
“Like I hurt you.”
He sounded upset, almost offended, and that made something sharp move through you because he had hurt you, and he had not, and both things were true enough to make you feel ridiculous.
“You didn’t,” you said.
He looked unconvinced.
You pushed the bowl away gently. “I should go.”
The words startled him. You saw it before he covered it. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, actually. I have laundry.”
“Laundry?”
“Yes, Jungkook, people do laundry.”
“All of a sudden?”
“I am suddenly responsible, yes."
He smiled because you gave him the shape of a joke, but it did not reach his eyes. Still, he let you stand. He let you take off his hoodie and fold it over the back of the chair. He let you gather your bag from beside the couch while the room pressed against your back with everything neither of you were saying.
At the door, he touched your wrist, fingers against your pulse.
“Text me when you get home?” he asked.
You wanted to say no.
You wanted to say, Stop asking for pieces of me if you don’t want the whole thing.
You wanted to say, Stop looking at me like that.
You wanted to say, I’m not built for this, and you should have noticed by now.
Instead, you nodded.
He opened the door for you, and when you stepped into the hallway, he said your name softly enough that you almost pretended not to hear it.
You turned.
Jungkook looked at you from inside his apartment, one hand still on the door, his hair soft and fluffy, his face bare and tired and more beautiful than was fair. For a moment, you thought he would say something. For a moment, you thought the right words were there, climbing up his throat, ready to save both of you from the long fall.
Then he swallowed. “Get home safe,” he said.
You smiled because it was easier than crying.
His door shut behind you with a quiet click.
You texted him when you got home before actually doing your laundry. He sent back a heart. You stared at it longer than you liked to admit.
After that, you tried to be smarter.
For three weeks, you became very busy.
You just stopped being available every time he called you close. You answered his daytime texts, but slower. You liked the selfies and laughed at the work complaints. You stayed friendly because friendship was the last scrap of dignity you had, and you were determined not to make him responsible for feelings he had never asked to hold.
But you stopped going to him at night.
He texted you one night while you were in bed with your phone face down on your bed, trying to read the same paragraph of a book for the fourth time.
jungkook: can i come over?
Your throat tightened. You turned the phone over for six minutes before turning it back over and replying.
y/n: i’m tired tonight
Three dots appeared almost instantly, vanished, appeared again.
jungkook: okay. get some sleep
Then, a second later—
jungkook: goodnight, beautiful
You cried, which made you angry, which made you cry harder because there was nothing more humiliating than being undone by someone respecting your boundary.
Then another day, he sent: miss you :(
You replied in the morning with: sorry, fell asleep :(
jungkook: it’s okay, baby
jungkook: did you sleep well?
The next time he reached out, he didn’t text at two but called at ten in the evening. You let it ring until it stopped, and the guilt sat in your stomach all night like a stone.
The next day, your mutual friend Hana invited you to a last minute birthday dinner, and you almost said no the second she mentioned Jungkook would be there. Not because you didn’t want to see him, which was the lie your brain offered up immediately, neat and pathetic, but because you wanted to see him too much, and you didn’t trust yourself to survive him in public.
In private, you at least knew what the danger looked like. It looked like his couch, his bed, his kitchen, his hand at your lower back while he moved around you to reach for a mug. It looked like low light and warm sheets and his voice turned soft at the edges.
In public, there would be other people. Other women. Other reminders.
You spent too long getting ready for someone you were pretending not to want. You changed three times. You did your makeup with unnecessary precision. You told yourself you were dressing for yourself, which was partly true, and then you chose the earrings Jungkook had once complimented, which was not.
The restaurant was already loud when you arrived, full of laughter and the steady hum of Friday night conversations. Hana waved you over from the long table near the back, her smile bright, her crown-shaped birthday headband crooked in a way that suggested she had already started drinking.
“You made it!” she shouted, standing to hug you.
“Barely. Traffic was evil.”
“Traffic is always evil. Sit, sit, sit.”
You let yourself be pulled into the noise, into the warmth, into the easy chaos of introductions and menu passing and Hana insisting everyone order appetizers because “birthday law says calories don’t count.” You were halfway through laughing at something one of her coworkers said when you heard Jungkook’s voice behind you.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m late.”
Your body reacted before your mind could tell it not to.
He had come in with Taehyung, his hair tucked beneath a black beanie, his jacket open over a plain white shirt, and cheeks flushed faintly from the cold outside. He looked relaxed, apologetic, beautiful in that unfair way of people who did not appear to have tried very hard. His eyes moved over the table while he smiled, greeting everyone, silver lip ring glinting under the restaurant lights…and then they found you.
For one second, all the noise thinned.
His smile shifted, softening into something private.
Your fingers tightened around your water glass.
He said your name.
Just your name, nothing else, and it still sounded like a hand reaching across the room.
“Hi,” you said.
He stood there for half a beat too long before Hana smacked his arm with a menu.
“Stop blocking traffic, Kook. Sit down.”
He laughed and slid into the empty chair across from you, because the universe had apparently hated you and had him seated in your direct line of vision.
Dinner should have been fine. And at first, it almost was fine.
Jungkook didn’t act strange. He joined conversations, laughed at Hana’s stories, ordered too much food, and then proceeded to eat almost all of it himself. He didn’t bring up the unanswered calls or the late-night messages you had stopped accepting. He was careful in a way that made you more restless than if he had been reckless.
Sometimes you caught him looking.
Never long enough to accuse him of anything.
Just little glances, his eyes flicking to your face when someone made you laugh, to your hands when you reached for your drink, to your mouth when you leaned forward to answer a question. Each time, he looked away first, and each time, it left something unfinished hanging between you.
Then Hana’s work friend Siwoo arrived late.
You had met him once before, briefly, at a housewarming. He was handsome in a clean, harmless way, with nice hair and an easy smile, and when Hana introduced him again, he remembered your name immediately.
“That’s right,” he said, sitting beside you after one of the others scooted down to make room. “You’re the one who recommended that restaurant in Myeongdong.”
You blinked. “You remember that?”
“Of course. It was good.”
“See?” Hana said from two seats down, pointing with her fork. “My friends have taste.”
Siwoo leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the conversation belonged just to the two of you. “I actually went twice.”
“Twice?”
“Yeah, but the second time was with my sister, so it was less romantic than that sounded.”
You laughed, surprised by it.
Across the table, Jungkook looked down at his plate. You saw it.
Siwoo was easy to talk to. That was the trouble. He asked normal questions and gave normal answers and seemed interested in what you had to say without making your heart feel like it was standing on a ledge. He didn’t look at you like he already knew what you sounded like in the dark. He didn’t carry the weight of every unsent sentence you had ever swallowed.
He was simple. Safe.
You let yourself enjoy it because you were tired of being careful. You let yourself lean into the conversation. You let yourself smile when he made a dry comment about Hana’s “birthday laws” apparently expanding with every drink she ordered. When his arm brushed yours, you didn’t move away immediately.
Jungkook noticed that too.
By the time the plates were cleared and Hana announced that everyone was going to a bar nearby because she had not yet been “celebrated at the correct intensity,” the mood between you and Jungkook had shifted once more.
He was quieter on the walk over.
He still answered when people spoke to him. He still laughed while grabbing Hana when she nearly tripped over nothing and blamed the sidewalk for being jealous. But there was a tension around him now, subtle and controlled, visible only because you knew the relaxed version too well.
The bar was crowded, low-lit, and warm enough that everyone started peeling off jackets within minutes. Music thumped through the floor. Hana claimed a booth with the determination of a military commander, and someone ordered the first round before half the group had even sat down.
Siwoo ended up beside you again.
Jungkook ended up at the bar. You told yourself not to watch him, but your eyes, the little betrayers that they are, locked onto his figure.
He stood with Taehyung, one elbow against the counter, nodding at something the bartender said. A woman beside him turned slightly, her long hair falling over one shoulder as she smiled up at him. You couldn’t hear what she said, but you saw Jungkook smile back out of politeness or habit or charm. You saw him lean closer because the bar was loud. You saw her touch his arm.
It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. It mattered so much that the room seemed to sharpen around it.
You turned back to Siwoo too quickly.
“So,” he said, eyes moving over your face with mild curiosity, “how do you know Hana again?”
“College,” you said, grateful for the question and incapable of remembering any details about your own life. “We had a class together.”
“What class?”
“Psychology.”
“Useful?”
“Mostly taught me that everyone is lying to themselves.”
He laughed. “That sounds useful.”
“It’s been haunting me ever since.”
His smile softened. “You’re funny.”
It was a nice compliment. You smiled back because you knew Jungkook could see you from the bar out of the corner of your eye.
That was ugly of you. You knew it as you did it, knew the small cruelty of using Siwoo’s attention like a shield, knew jealousy was not a language anyone should be proud of speaking. But the woman at the bar was still talking to Jungkook, and he was still standing there, and something in you had been hurting quietly for weeks.
Siwoo leaned in to hear you better when you answered his next question. His knee pressed against yours under the table. You didn’t make a move to get distance.
A minute later, Jungkook appeared beside the booth with drinks. He set Hana’s in front of her first, then yours.
“Thanks,” you said, keeping your eyes on the glass.
He looked at Siwoo, then at you. “No problem.”
His voice was even. Too even.
Hana, already glowing with birthday power, reached across the table and tugged him down into the booth on her other side. “Kook, sit. You keep hovering and it’s making me anxious.”
“I don’t hover.”
“You literally do. It’s one of your main hobbies.”
He sat, but his eyes went back to you.
Siwoo was saying something about a trip he wanted to take to Busan, and you were trying very hard to listen, but Jungkook was across from you with his jaw set and his drink untouched, and every nerve in your body seemed to be turned toward him.
You hated this.
You hated how much you wanted him to be jealous.
You hated how much you hated seeing him jealous because it meant he cared, but not enough, maybe never enough, and there was no comfort in being wanted by someone who still would not choose you.
When Siwoo excused himself to take a call, you stood almost immediately.
“I’m going to get some air,” you told Hana.
She looked between you and Jungkook, and despite being several drinks into her birthday, her eyes narrowed with sudden clarity. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I’m okay. Stop worrying, enjoy your night, birthday girl,” you said, smiling, trying to convince your friend that you really were.
You grabbed your jacket and slipped through the crowd before anyone else could say anything.
Outside, the cold hit your face hard enough to make your eyes sting. The sidewalk was busy with people moving between bars and restaurants, their laughter trailing through the air in bright pieces. You walked a few steps away from the entrance and stopped near the side of the building, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
You just needed a minute. That was all. A minute without music. Without Siwoo’s harmless attention. Without Jungkook’s eyes on you. Without the terrible, crawling ache of wanting someone who seemed perfectly capable of wanting you back only when the room was dark and the consequences were quiet.
The door opened behind you. You knew it was him before he said anything.
“You didn’t even try your drink,” Jungkook said.
You closed your eyes for a second.
You turned around. “I came outside for air, I’ll go back inside soon.”
He stood a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. The streetlight caught on the silver hoops in his ears, on the curve of his mouth, on the uncertainty he was trying and failing to hide.
“You okay?” he asked.
You laughed softly, looking away. “Do you actually want the answer to that?”
His expression changed. “Yes, you know I do.”
The honesty in his voice made you angry. It was easier than letting it make you sad. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you get to know.”
His brows drew together. “What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t get to follow me outside and look at me like that and ask if I’m okay when you only want the parts of the answer that don’t require anything from you.”
Jungkook stared at you.
The noise from inside the bar pulsed faintly through the wall behind him.
He took a breath. “Is this because of Siwoo?”
You looked at him then, really looked, and the jealousy in his face was not subtle anymore. It sat there, plain and wounded and irritatingly beautiful, tightening the line of his mouth.
“No,” you said. “It’s not because of Siwoo.”
His jaw flexed. “You seemed pretty interested in him.”
“And?”
His eyes sharpened. There it was—the tiny break in his composure.
“And?” he repeated.
“Yes, Jungkook. And?”
He looked away, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of his cheek, and when he laughed under his breath it sounded nothing like amusement. “Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
He shook his head.
“Say it,” you pushed, because the night had already cracked open and you were tired of stepping carefully around the pieces. “You followed me out here. You brought him up. Say whatever it is you’re trying not to say.”
He looked at you again, and his voice dropped. “I didn’t like watching him touch you.”
The words moved through you with a force you were not prepared for. Your heart kicked once, hard. But the hurt was bigger. “No,” you said, almost to yourself.
Jungkook’s face tightened. “No?”
“No, you don’t get to do that.”
“I’m just telling you the truth.”
“Now?” You stepped closer, anger warming your face despite the cold. “You want to tell the truth now because someone else sat next to me? Because someone else laughed at my jokes and looked at me like maybe he wanted to know me in daylight too?”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s not?” Your voice shook, and you hated it, but you kept going. “What part isn’t fair? The part where you get to call me baby at two in the morning, and I’m supposed to understand it doesn’t mean anything? The part where you stay over me, and hold me, and remember every stupid little thing I tell you, and then when I ask what this is, all you can say is that you care about me?”
His face went pale beneath the streetlights.
You had never said it out loud before, but now that you had started, you couldn’t stop.
“I know you never promised me anything. I know that. I have told myself that so many times it’s basically carved into my skull, so don’t worry, I’m not accusing you of lying to me. You didn’t. You never said we were together. You never said you wanted me like that. You never asked me to wait for you or choose you or turn down anyone else for you.”
Jungkook swallowed.
You pressed a hand briefly to your chest, as if you could hold yourself together from the outside.
“But you don’t get to be jealous like you have some claim on me when you won’t even admit you want one.”
His eyes flashed. “I do want one.”
The words came out fast. Too fast, maybe. They seemed to startle him as much as they startled you.
Jungkook dragged a hand over his face and turned away for a second, breathing hard. When he faced you again, the carefulness was gone. So was the jealousy, or at least it had been swallowed by something larger and more frightened.
“I do,” he said again, quieter but steadier. “I want one.”
Your mouth went dry. “No, you don’t.”
Pain crossed his face. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
“Then stop acting like you don’t know.”
“I’m not acting.”
“That’s worse, Jungkook.”
He flinched and God did you wish that satisfied you.
He took a step closer, then stopped, keeping space between you both. “I know I messed this up.”
You laughed faintly, and it broke at the end. “That’s not a confession.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re jealous. There’s a difference.”
His eyes shone under the streetlight, dark and wide and scared in a way you had never seen from him. “I was jealous in there because I love you.”
Inside you, everything went silent.
Jungkook stood in front of you with his hands flexing at his sides, the words between you now, visible and impossible to take back.
You stared at him.
He looked like he wanted to reach for you and knew he had no right.
“What?” you whispered.
“I love you,” he said, and this time the words did not rush. They landed carefully, with all the weight he had denied them before. “I think I’ve loved you for a while, and I was too much of a coward to say it because I didn’t know what to do with it, and because saying it meant I could lose you if I didn’t become the kind of person who deserved to keep you.”
Your throat burned.
He kept going, voice rough now.
“I told myself I wasn’t hurting you because I never lied. I told myself we were both choosing it. I told myself you knew I cared, and that should have been enough until I figured myself out, which was selfish and stupid because I was still asking you to come over. I was still asking you to stay. I was still taking everything you gave me and acting like it wasn’t a choice every time you showed up.”
You blinked hard, but a tear slipped anyway, hot against your cold cheek.
Jungkook’s face crumpled slightly at the sight, but he didn’t touch you.
Good. You needed him not to make it easy.
“I didn’t know how to be casual with you,” he said. “I just knew I was scared to be serious.”
“That’s not fair to me.”
“I know.”
“No, I need you to hear me.” Your voice shook again, but you held his gaze. “You made me feel loved and then left me alone with it.”
His eyes reddened. “I know,” he said again, and this time it sounded like it cost him something.
You wiped your cheek quickly, frustrated by the tears, by the cold, by the fact that even now, even angry and hurt and exhausted, some part of you wanted to step into him because he looked devastated.
“You don’t get to say it now just because you saw me with someone else.”
“I’m not.” He shook his head. “I’m saying it now because seeing you with someone else made me realize how much I was expecting you to stand still while I figured out how to stop being afraid. I hated it, and then I hated myself because you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just sitting there with someone who was actually acting like he wanted you in front of people.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
You looked down.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Your anger was still there, but it had changed shape. It was no longer fire. It was exhaustion, grief, want, all tangled together into something heavy and hard to carry.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you said.
Jungkook nodded quickly, too quickly, panic flashing across his face. “I know.”
“I mean it. I can’t keep being the person you miss when you’re lonely and hold when you’re soft and avoid when things get real.”
“You’re not.”
“I was.”
He swallowed. “You were.”
The admission hurt, but it also steadied you. He wasn’t defending himself. And despite the hurt you felt, that still mattered to you. Not enough to fix everything, not immediately, not with one speech on a sidewalk, but enough to keep you from walking away before the conversation could finish.
“What do you want?” you asked.
Jungkook looked at you like the answer was obvious and terrifying. “You.”
The word hit you low in the chest.
He took a breath and forced himself to continue. “Not just at night. I want to take you out properly and hold your hand where people can see and wake up with you without pretending breakfast is just breakfast. I want to be able to call you because something stupid happened and you’re the first person I want to tell. I want to know if your day was bad. I want to fight with you and fix it. I want Hana to make fun of us because she saw this coming before we did. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours, and I know I should have said it before someone else gave me the courage by making me feel like I might lose you.”
Your breath trembled. “And what happens when you get scared again?” you asked.
“I tell you.”
“That simple?”
“Not simple,” he said. “But I’ll do it.”
You searched his face for the exit. The loophole. The little shadow of uncertainty that had always been there before, ready to widen whenever you stepped too close. You found fear, but you could not find retreat.
“You really hurt me,” you said.
His eyes closed briefly, as if the words had struck him exactly where they were meant to. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology that just makes tonight feel better.”
“I know.”
“I want changed behavior.”
“I know.”
“I want you to work for it.”
His eyes opened. There was something raw in his expression now, something almost relieved.
“I will.”
You looked at him for a long moment, letting the cold air move between you, letting the ache inside your chest settle into something you could understand. “You don’t get to come home with me tonight.”
His face flickered, but he nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” He nodded again, slower this time. “I’ll get you a cab if you want. Or I’ll walk you home and leave at the door. Or I’ll go back inside and leave you alone. Whatever you need.”
You debated for a moment before sighing softly. “You should go back inside,” you said.
He absorbed it. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he didn’t—couldn’t—argue. “Okay.”
You almost thanked him, then stopped, because you didn’t want to thank a man for respecting the boundary he had helped make necessary.
Jungkook looked down at the sidewalk, then back at you. “Can I text you tomorrow?”
You considered saying no just to see if he would take it. Maybe he knew that, because he waited without pushing.
“Yes,” you said finally. “But not at two in the morning.”
A tiny, pained smile touched his mouth. “Not at two in the morning.”
“And not something that sounds pretty because you’re lonely.”
His smile vanished. He nodded. “Okay.”
You held his gaze. “I mean it, Jungkook.”
“I know,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll text you during the day.”
You turned toward the street before you could do something foolish, like forgive him too quickly or touch his face. You lifted a hand to signal for a cab, but one did not come immediately, so you stood there in silence while Jungkook remained a few feet away, close enough to make you feel him, far enough to prove he was listening.
When a cab finally pulled up, he opened the door for you.
You got in, but before you shut it, he leaned down slightly, keeping one hand on the top of the door.
“I love you,” he said, just placing it there, where you could take it or leave it.
Your fingers tightened around your bag. “I heard you,” you said.
His throat moved. “Okay.”
You closed the door and the cab pulled away. You didn’t look back until the car turned the corner—he was still standing there.
For once, you let him watch you leave.
For once, you did not text him when you got home.
He texted you the next morning at 10:17.
jungkook: good morning
jungkook: i hope you got home safe
jungkook: i meant what i said. all of it.
You stared at the messages for a long time, wrapped in a blanket on your couch while sunlight moved slowly across your living room floor. Your chest hurt, but not in the same way. There was still sadness there, still caution, still the bruised tenderness of a heart that had been handled too carelessly by someone who had not understood the weight of it until it almost slipped out of his hands.
You replied after twenty minutes.
y/n: good morning.
That was all.
jungkook: thank you for replying
You set the phone down and cried again, quieter this time.
Jungkook didn’t try to rush you. It would have been easier in some ways if he had. If he had pushed, you could have been angry. If he had panicked and tried to charm his way through the damage, you could have used the disappointment to pull yourself away. But he did what you had asked, and the steadiness of it was more dangerous than any two-in-the-morning text had ever been.
At first, the messages were careful and random like him.
jungkook: did you eat lunch?
jungkook: are zebras horses?
jungkook: i cut my bangs again…i look like i’m twelve
He didn’t call you baby or any other pet name. He didn’t send anything designed to tug you back into his bed. And he didn’t pretend things were normal.
Three weeks after the bar, he asked if he could take you to dinner.
You stared at the message until Hana, who was sitting on your floor eating chips from the bag and pretending not to monitor your entire emotional state, groaned.
“Just answer him before you have a mental breakdown.”
You looked at her. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes if you want to go. Say no if you don’t. Say ‘I need more time’ if you need more time. Revolutionary technology, communication.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“I’m wise. People confuse the two, I think.”
You looked back at the message.
jungkook: can i take you to dinner this weekend? no pressure if you’re not ready.
Hana watched you over the chip bag. “For what it’s worth, he looked like someone kicked his soul after you left.”
“Hana.”
“I’m not saying forgive him because he has sad eyes. Men weaponize sad eyes every day, it’s a national crisis. I’m saying I’ve known him a long time, and I’ve never seen him scared like that.”
You swallowed. “He said he loves me.”
“I know.”
Your head snapped up. “He told you?”
“No, you just did.”
You threw a pillow at her. She caught it badly, chips nearly flying everywhere. “Rude.”
You looked back at the phone, your thumb hovering before typing.
y/n: i’m not ready for dinner.
Three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. You braced yourself.
His reply came a moment later.
jungkook: okay. thank you for telling me.
jungkook: would coffee feel better? public place. daytime. you can leave whenever you want.
Hana leaned over shamelessly. “Daytime. Public. Leave whenever you want. Growth. Bare minimum, but we clap politely when they locate the floor.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
y/n: coffee is okay
jungkook: i’ll take okay.
The coffee date was awkward.
You met at a café halfway between your apartments on a Saturday afternoon when the sky was gray and the city smelled faintly like wet cement. You arrived early because you were nervous and hated being seen arriving nervous. Jungkook arrived five minutes later with damp hair and a black jacket, and when he spotted you at the table near the window, his face softened so visibly that you had to look down at your cup.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He didn't hug you even though he looked like he wanted to. He went to order before sitting across from you, so handsome even in a small, little coffee shop, legs bouncing with anxious energy.
For the first ten minutes, you talked about safe things. Work. Hana’s birthday hangover. A movie neither of you had seen but both pretended to have opinions about based solely on the trailer. Jungkook told you about trying a new workout and the bulking season he had planned out.
He made you laugh with his random thoughts and stories, a startled expression forming on his face before it shifted to quiet pride.
The awkwardness loosened little by little. Then, because he was trying, and because you had asked him to work for it, Jungkook set his cup down and said, “Can I talk about us?”
Your fingers tightened around your lid. “You can.”
“I don’t want to make this a speech every time we see each other,” he said carefully. “But I also don’t want to avoid it just because things feel okay for five minutes.”
You stared at him. That was so painfully the right thing to say that it made you suspicious.
He seemed to read that on your face because he smiled faintly, without humor. “I practiced that.”
“You practiced?”
“With Taehyung.”
“Oh my god.”
“He said my first version sounded like I was apologizing to a landlord.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
Jungkook’s smile flickered, real and brief.
Then he grew serious again. “I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to be easy to keep me.”
Your laughter disappeared.
He held your gaze, his own nervous but steady. “I keep thinking about what you said. That I made you feel loved and left you alone with it. I don’t think I understood how cruel that was until you said it.”
You looked down, blinking hard. “I don’t want you to hate yourself,” you said quietly.
“I don’t.” He paused. “I mean, I did for a few days. But I know that doesn’t help you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I’m working on it.”
You believed him.
Over the next few weeks, coffee became dinner. Dinner became walks. Walks became him picking you up from work with your favorite tea because he had been nearby, except he admitted he had not really been nearby, he had just wanted to see you and thought honesty was better than a fake errand.
He asked before touching you.
The first time he reached for your hand on the sidewalk, he looked at you and said, “Can I?” and your heart hurt so badly you almost hated him for having learned tenderness after using it carelessly for so long.
But you said yes.
His fingers slid between yours, warm and familiar, and his grip tightened just slightly.
He took you to an arcade one night because he said dates should involve opportunities for him to impress you, then lost three basketball games in a row before looking around and climbing on the game and cheating. You beat him at air hockey so badly that he almost turned the date into a real competition because, yes, he was that competitive.
He walked you home after.
At your building entrance, he stopped.
The old version of him would have looked at you through his lashes and said something soft enough to make your knees weak. The old version of you would have invited him upstairs and called the ache in your chest desire because that was easier than admitting it was love with nowhere to go.
This time, he only brushed his thumb over your knuckles.
“I had fun,” he said.
“Me too.”
“I’m going to kiss you now if that’s okay.”
It obviously wasn’t the first time he had kissed you, but It felt like it in that moment.
“Okay,” you said.
He kissed you slowly, one hand lifting to your cheek, the other still holding yours. There was no hurry in it. Just his mouth on yours in the light outside your building, soft and careful and full of everything he was trying to prove without making you responsible for believing him too quickly.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for one second.
Then he stepped away. “Goodnight,” he said.
Your lips tingled. “Goodnight.”
He walked backward for three steps, which was stupid and dramatic, then nearly collided with a trash can, which ruined the effect.
You laughed.
He pointed at you, cheeks flushed. “You saw nothing.”
“I saw everything.”
Watching him leave didn’t feel like losing this time.
The first time you let him back into your apartment, it was raining.
Not the pretty kind, either. Not the gentle drizzle people wrote songs about. This was ugly rain, hard and cold, slapping against windows and turning the sidewalks slick beneath the streetlights. Jungkook arrived soaked from the shoulders down because he had insisted he did not need an umbrella, and you opened the door to find him standing in the hallway with a paper bag tucked under his jacket.
“You look ridiculous,” you said.
“I saved the pastries.”
“You sacrificed yourself for croissants?”
“For you,” he said, then paused. “And also for croissants.”
You took the bag from him and let him in.
He changed into the dry sweatpants and shirt you still had from before, the ones you had never returned because doing so would have felt too final. Seeing him in them again made something old twist through you, but this time he didn’t act entitled to the space. He gave his wet clothes to throw in the dryer. He kept looking at you like he was aware of every memory in the room and was trying not to step on any of them.
You made tea and he cut the croissants in half on a plate because one had almond filling and the other chocolate, and he said that if he was going to bad, so were you. You sat on the couch with rain tapping the windows and a movie playing low in the background, though neither of you paid much attention to it.
Halfway through, Jungkook looked at you.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m happy.”
The simplicity of it disarmed you.
Later, when the movie ended and the apartment had settled into that soft late-night hush you used to fear, Jungkook stood and reached for his jacket.
“You’re leaving?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He froze, then turned slowly. “I was going to,” he said. “I didn’t want to assume.”
The ache that moved through you then was not the same one you knew from before. It wasn’t confusion. It was want, yes, but it was also choice.
You stood. “I don’t want you to leave.”
His eyes searched yours. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. When he reached you, he touched your face with both hands, careful and loving in a way that made your throat close.
“I love you,” he said.
You had heard it before now. More than once. In texts, in person, at the end of dates, in the middle of conversations when it seemed to surprise him by coming out. He had been saying it without demanding that you say it back, and each time it had loosened something in you.
Tonight, with rain against the windows and his thumbs brushing your cheeks, you finally let yourself answer.
“I love you too.”
For a second, Jungkook did nothing but stare at you, his face opening around the words as if they had reached somewhere deeper than he had prepared for. Then he kissed you, and there was nothing casual in it. There was relief. Hunger. Grief for the time wasted. Gratitude so intense it made his hands tremble against you.
He kissed you like he understood now that love was not proven by staying after only when it was easy. It was proven by staying when the truth asked for more.
Jungkook’s hands tremble when he’s trying to be gentle.
They’re not trembling now, not yet. Right now they’re steady as he kneels on the bed in front of you, knees sinking into the mattress, his dark hair falling across his forehead in that way that makes him look younger than he is. Softer. The bedroom lamp casts amber light across his bare shoulders, his chest, the ridges of his stomach that flex when he breathes.
“Come here,” he says, and the way he says it—low, rough at the edges, like the words scraped against something on the way out—makes your thighs press together.
You shift forward on your knees, the sheets bunching beneath you. Your fingertips find the waistband of his sweatpants first, tracing the elastic, the warm skin just beneath. His stomach tightens under your touch. You watch his throat as he swallows.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs.
“You look so good.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not the big one he gives when he’s being playful, the one that scrunches his nose. This one is smaller. Hungrier. It lives in his eyes more than his lips.
His hands find the hem of your shirt—his shirt, actually, an old black t-shirt you’d stolen three weeks ago and never given back. He doesn’t rush pulling it over your head. He lets his knuckles drag up your sides as the fabric lifts, lets them skim the outer curve of your breasts before the shirt clears your arms and drops somewhere off the bed.
“Beautiful,” he says, not to you exactly, more like he’s saying it to himself. Like he’s reminding himself of something he already knows.
Your hands slide up his chest. The muscle there is firm, defined, but the skin is soft. You spread your fingers wide, feeling the heat of him, the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your left palm. He closes his eyes for a second, his lashes dark little crescents against his cheeks.
You reach behind your back. The clasp of your bra releases with a quiet snick, the straps slipping down your shoulders. Jungkook opens his eyes and watches the whole thing—watches the fabric loosen, watches you pull one arm free and then the other, watches you toss the bra aside with more confidence than you would’ve before meeting him.
Jungkook had spent hours showing you exactly how much he liked looking. Hours with his mouth and his tongue and his long, clever fingers proving that every inch of you was worth his full attention. And eventually, you’d believed him.
Now you sit back on your heels, bare to the waist, and let his eyes roam.
“Fuck,” he breathes. His hands are on you before the word finishes leaving his mouth, cupping your breasts, thumbs sweeping across your nipples until they tighten into hard little peaks. “You know what you do to me.”
It’s not a question.
You lean into his touch, letting your head fall back slightly. “Tell me.”
His thumbs slow. Press a little harder. “You make me lose my mind,” he says, voice dropping. “Every single time. I look at you and I forget how to think.”
“Good.”
He laughs, low and dark, and pulls you against him.
The kiss starts soft. A press of lips, a brush of tongues—testing, teasing. His mouth tastes like the green tea he’d been drinking earlier, cool and faintly sweet. Your hands slide into his hair, gripping the thick strands at the nape of his neck, and the kiss deepens.
His tongue pushes past your lips. Slow. Filthy. He licks into your mouth like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s memorizing the taste of you. One of his hands slides down your spine, tracing every vertebra, until it settles at the small of your back and pulls you closer.
Your bare breasts press against his chest, the friction making you gasp.
He swallows the sound.
The kiss grows messier. Wet, open-mouthed, desperate. Teeth scrape. Tongues tangle. His breathing turns ragged, and so does yours, and somewhere in the middle of it your hand finds its way to the front of his sweatpants.
He’s hard. Thick and straining against the fabric, and when you press your palm against him, he groans into your mouth.
“Shit,” he hisses, breaking the kiss. His forehead drops to yours. “We need—I need—”
“Sweats off,” you manage.
There’s a scrambling moment. Elbows and knees and his sweatpants getting caught on his ankles until he kicks them free. Your leggings are harder to peel off, but Jungkook helps, hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging them and your soaked panties down your legs with a kind of focused intensity that makes heat bloom low in your belly.
And then you’re both naked, kneeling on the rumpled sheets, breathing hard.
His cock stands thick and flushed, the head gleaming in the lamplight. You’ve seen it before—countless times by now—but your mouth still waters.
“Come here,” he says again, but this time his voice is different. Thicker. Needier.
He lies back on the bed, pulling you with him. The movement is smooth, practiced—he knows exactly how to maneuver your body, knows where to put his hands, knows how to guide you until you’re straddling his chest and facing his cock.
The position clicks into place. Your knees bracket his head. Your mouth hovers inches above his length.
He looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and glittering. “Sit.”
One word. One fucking word, and your whole body shudders.
You lower yourself onto his mouth.
His tongue finds you immediately—flat and warm and so goddamn skilled—laving through your folds, tracing the shape of you, mapping out every slick, swollen inch. You cry out, the sound punching from your chest, and your hands brace against his stomach. The muscles there contract under your palms.
“Jungkook—”
He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with his mouth, sealing his lips around your clit and sucking gently.
Your vision blurs. Your hips roll without permission, grinding down against his face, and he groans into your cunt like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. The vibration runs through you, hot and electric, settling somewhere deep between your thighs.
But you’re supposed to be doing something. Supposed to be—fuck, it’s hard to think when he’s doing that thing with his tongue, the thing where he flicks it back and forth in short, sharp strokes that make your thighs shake.
Right. His cock. His gorgeous fucking cock, still wet at the tip, still untouched.
You wrap your hand around the base.
Jungkook’s hips jerk. A garbled sound vibrates against your clit.
“That’s it,” you whisper, and you don’t know if you’re talking to him or to yourself. “Fuck, you’re so hard. So thick. I can barely get my fingers around you.”
You can. Just barely. He’s thick enough that your grip doesn’t close entirely, thick enough that your hand looks small wrapped around his shaft, and the sight of it—the contrast between your skin and his—makes you forget to breathe for a second.
You lean down and take him into your mouth.
The first inch, stretching your lips. The weight of him on your tongue.
Jungkook’s whole body tightens. His hands, which had been resting on your thighs, clamp down hard enough to bruise, and his hips buck up reflexively, pushing himself deeper. You relax your throat the way you’ve learned to, the way he taught you, and take another inch. And another.
Saliva pools under your tongue. Spills down his shaft. You hollow your cheeks and suck, pulling back until just the head remains between your lips, then slide down again.
Below you, his mouth has gone slack against your cunt.
You pull off just long enough to gasp, “Don’t stop.”
His tongue starts moving again. Slower now, distracted—you can feel his concentration splintering, feel him losing focus as your mouth works him—but he’s still Jungkook. Still the man who’s spent months learning exactly where and how to touch you. His tongue finds that spot just above your entrance, the sensitive ridge, and presses, pulling a cry from you.
He murmurs something against your flesh. The sound is muffled, but you catch the shape of it: your name. He’s groaning your name.
You moan around his cock. The heat building between your legs is spreading now, creeping outward, swirling low in your stomach. You hollow your cheeks again, setting a rhythm—down, up, tongue swirling around the head, down again—and Jungkook matches it with his mouth. Every stroke of your lips answered by a stroke of his tongue. Every suck met with another. It’s sloppy and wet and completely, devastatingly filthy, both of you fucking into each other’s mouths like you’re trying to crawl inside each other.
His thighs are trembling. You can feel them against your shoulders. So are yours.
“Close,” he pants, pulling away just enough to speak. His lips are slick. Shiny. “I’m gonna—fuck, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
You don’t stop. You take him deeper, swallowing around him, feeling the way his cock pulses against your tongue. His hips jerk. His breath hitches. He latches onto your clit again and sucks hard, desperate, less rhythm now and more just frantic hunger, and that’s what does it for you.
The orgasm crashes through you without warning. No slow build, no gentle crest—just a sudden, devastating wave that rips a scream from your throat, muffled by his cock still buried inside your mouth. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your hips grind down helplessly, riding his face, riding his tongue, and Jungkook groans, the sound vibrating through your cunt and prolonging every second of it.
And then his hips snap up. Once. Twice.
“Coming,” he grunts. “Coming, fucking—ah—”
Hot salt floods your tongue. You swallow, throat working around him, milking every pulse, and he makes a sound that’s half-choked and half-sob.
His hands are still gripping your thighs. When you finally pull off, gasping, the air tastes like sex and green tea and Jungkook.
You collapse sideways. He catches you, tugs you up, pulls you against his chest. His heart is hammering against his ribs, as fast as yours pressed against him. For a long moment neither of you speak. You just breathe, tangled together, sweaty and shaking and utterly spent.
But he’s still hard. You feel it against your hip—still thick, still flushed, not even slightly softened. Jungkook’s refractory period has always been a little obscene.
“You good?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.
“Mm.” You tilt your face up, catching his mouth in a kiss that’s softer than before. Gentler. He tastes like you now, and the combination—your taste on his lips, his taste on yours—makes something warm unspool behind your sternum. “More than good.”
His hand slides down your side. Cups your ass. Squeezes. “Think you can take more?”
You answer by biting his lower lip, just hard enough to make him hiss.
“Condom,” he says, half-laughing, already reaching for your nightstand drawer, knowing exactly where you keep them.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I want you behind me.”
He groans at the words, tearing the foil packet with his teeth and rolling the condom down his length with quick, practiced motions.
Then his hands are on your hips, turning you, guiding you onto your hands and knees.
The position makes you feel exposed. Vulnerable. The air is cool against your slick cunt, and you can feel his gaze on you, tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass, the wet mess between your thighs.
“So fucking pretty like this,” he murmurs, his palm smoothing down your back. Gentle. Soothing. A contrast to what you both know is coming.
The head of his cock nudges against your entrance.
“Slow,” you whisper.
“Slow,” he agrees.
And then he pushes in.
The stretch is incredible. Even after everything, even after his mouth and the orgasm that’s still echoing through your body, he’s so thick that it takes a moment just to accommodate the first few inches. Your body resists, clenching around him, and Jungkook pauses.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, voice strained. “Relax for me.”
You force your muscles to unlock. Breathe out. And he slides deeper.
“Fuuuck,” you groan, dropping your head between your shoulders. “Jungkook, your cock is—” Words fail. Nothing captures it. Nothing captures the feeling of being opened up inch by inch, stretched so full you can’t think, can’t speak, can only feel.
“I know,” he breathes, pulling back just a little before sinking deeper. “You take me so good. Always so fucking tight, so perfect. Feels like you’re squeezing the life out of me.”
The dirty talk makes your cunt clench harder.
He feels it. Laughs, low and dark. “You like that? When I tell you how good your pussy feels wrapped around me?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, don’t stop talking—”
“Not gonna stop.” He thrusts a little deeper, a fraction more, and now he’s fully seated inside you, buried to the hilt. His hips press against your ass. His hands grip your waist. “I’m going to tell you exactly how it feels to fuck you. How tight and wet and fucking hot you are. How I can feel every inch of you, every little flutter, every time you squeeze around me like you’re trying to keep me inside.”
He pulls out, then slides back in. He sets a rhythm that’s devastating in its slowness.
It’s filthy. Each thrust drags against every sensitive spot inside you, and when he bottoms out, grinding his hips in a little circle before withdrawing, your arms nearly give out.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, leaning over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth finds your ear. “Feel it. Feel how deep I am. Nobody else gets to have you like this. Just me.”
“Just you,” you echo, and the words come out wrecked.
His pace picks up. Not fast—not yet—but harder. Deeper. Each stroke punches a sound out of you, a little uh-uh-uh that matches his rhythm. Your breasts sway with the motion. The headboard taps against the wall, a steady thump-thump-thump that’s going to have your neighbors glaring at you tomorrow.
You don’t care.
“Harder,” you beg. “Please, Jungkook, fuck me harder—”
He does. The slow, grindy rhythm shatters into something rougher. Faster. He drives into you with long, snapping thrusts, his thighs slapping against the backs of yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. One hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, tugs your head back just enough to arch your neck.
“Louder,” he demands. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fucking building hear how good I’m fucking you.”
You scream. You can’t help it. He’s hitting that spot, the one that makes your vision go white, the one that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist in the sheets. Every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, and his voice—low and rough and utterly obscene—is pushing you the rest of the way.
“Gonna come again?” He’s panting now, losing the smooth cadence from before. “Gonna come on my cock like the good girl you are?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, yes, yes—”
“Do it. Come for me. Come all over this dick, let me feel it—”
Your second orgasm hits harder than the first. Your whole body convulses. Your cunt clamps down around him with a vicious, pulsing grip, and you wail—no other word for it—as wave after wave crashes through you. He fucks you through it, steady and deep, drawing it out until you’re boneless and trembling.
And then he pulls out.
The emptiness is jarring. You whimper, reaching back for him, but he’s already moving—lying down on his back, pulling you with him, positioning you.
“Ride me,” he says. His eyes are wild. His chest is heaving. “Want to watch you.”
You swing a leg over his hips. His cock juts up between you, still covered in the condom, still glistening. You reach down and guide him back to your entrance, sinking down in one smooth motion. Both of you groan.
This angle is different, deeper somehow. You swear you feel him in your throat.
“Fuck, look at you.” His hands skate up your thighs, your hips, your waist. “So beautiful riding my cock. Taking what you need. Use me.”
You brace your hands on his chest and start to move.
It’s slower like this—more of a grind than a thrust. You roll your hips in circles, feeling every ridge and vein of him, feeling the way he fills you completely. Jungkook’s head falls back against the pillow. His jaw clenches. “That’s it,” he rasps. “Fuck, that’s perfect. Keep going. Just like that.”
His hands guide your rhythm. You watch his face—the furrow between his brows, the way he bites his lip, the flush spreading down his neck and onto his chest. He’s beautiful when he’s wrecked. Utterly, devastatingly beautiful.
And you want more.
Your hand drifts down. Finds the base of his cock. Slips lower—
“What are you—” His eyes fly open.
You lift yourself up. Hook your fingers under the rim of the condom. And pull it off.
It lands somewhere on the sheets with an obscene little wet slap.
Jungkook stares at you. His chest stops moving. “What—are you sure—”
“I want you to come inside me.”
The words hang in the air between you.
“I want to feel it,” you continue, and now your voice is lower, needier, stripped of every pretense. “Want you to fill me up. Want to feel you dripping out of me for the rest of the night. Please, Kookie. Come inside me. Come inside my pussy.”
He makes a sound that’s barely human.
His hands clamp down on your hips. “You’re sure?”
You lean down, letting your lips brush his ear. “Come inside me. Fill me up. Please. I need it. Need to feel your come dripping down my thighs. Need you to fuck it deep inside me until I can’t hold it anymore.”
Jungkook’s control snaps. He doesn't ask again. His hands clamp down on your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, and in one brutal motion he flips you onto your back.
Your head hits the pillow. The air leaves your lungs in a startled gasp. And then he's there—looming above you, dark hair falling forward, eyes blown black with something that looks almost like desperation. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, slick and bare now, the swollen head flushed deep pink and already leaking.
"You want it raw?" His voice is wrecked. Torn at the edges. "You want me to fuck you with nothing between us and pump my come straight into this tight little cunt?"
"Yes." The word tears out of you, half-sob, half-demand. "Please, Jungkook. Please fuck me. I need to feel it—need to feel every inch of you—"
He lines himself up. The broad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and the sensation is different already—hotter, slicker, more intimate without the latex barrier. Your body recognizes the difference, cunt clenching in anticipation.
"Look at me," he commands.
You do. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and fierce and so full of want it makes your chest ache.
He pushes in.
The first inch steals your breath. Without the condom, the heat of him is staggering—like being opened by something alive, something velvet-soft and iron-hard all at once. You feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through his flesh into yours. Your fingers twist in the sheets. Your heels dig into the mattress.
"Fuuuuck," he groans, sinking deeper. His forearms bracket your head. His forehead drops to yours. "You feel—this is—nothing between us."
He bottoms out. Stays there, buried to the hilt. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, and the sound he makes is animal—low and guttural, ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Move," you beg. "Please move. I can take it. I want all of it."
He withdraws. The drag is exquisite—you feel every inch of him pulling back, feel the emptiness he leaves behind. And then he thrusts forward, harder this time, and your whole body rocks with the force of it.
"Yes—fuck—just like that—"
He finds a rhythm. Not the slow, grindy thing from before—this is different. This is frantic. Desperate. His hips snap against yours with wet, obscene slaps that fill the room. Skin on skin. Body to body.
"You're so fucking wet," he pants, lips brushing your ear. "I can feel everything. Every drop. Every pulse. Your pussy is gripping me so tight I can barely move."
"Don't stop—please don't stop—"
"Not fucking stopping." He drives in harder. Deeper. The angle shifts and suddenly he's hitting your g-spot, the one that makes fireworks detonate behind your eyes. "Gonna fuck you until you scream my name. Gonna fill this cunt up so full you'll be dripping for days."
A broken wail escapes your throat. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red trails, and he hisses, but he doesn't slow. If anything, he fucks you harder—punishing strokes that slam you into the mattress, that make your breasts bounce and your thighs shake and your voice crack on every syllable.
"Louder," he demands. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. He circles it, rough and unrelenting, and the dual sensation—his cock pounding into you, his thumb rubbing tight spirals around that swollen nub—makes you sob. "I want the whole world to hear who's fucking you this good."
"JUNGKOOK—"
His name rips from your lungs, raw and ragged. You can't control the volume. Can't control anything. He's fucking you stupid, fucking you senseless, and all you can do is hold on and take it.
"That's it. That's my girl." His voice is strained, cracking around the edges. Sweat drips from his hair onto your cheek. His rhythm falters—just for a second—and then he's pounding into you with renewed intensity, chasing something, chasing you. "Say it again. Tell me who makes you feel this good."
"You do—only you—Jungkook, Jungkook, JUNGKOOK—"
His mouth crashes onto yours. The kiss is messy—teeth and tongues and no finesse at all—but it's perfect. He swallows your cries, drinks them down like he's starving for them, and his hips never stop moving. Never stop driving into you with that devastating rhythm that's turning your brain to static.
One of his hands finds your thigh. Hikes it higher. The new angle makes him sink impossibly deeper, and you feel him in your stomach, feel the pressure building there like a storm about to break.
"Gonna come," you gasp against his lips. "Jungkook, I'm gonna come—"
"Do it." His thumb presses harder against your clit. His cock hits that spot again—once, twice, three times—and the storm inside you detonates. "Come on my cock, baby. Make me fill you up."
Your vision whites out. Every muscle in your body locks tight—thighs clamping around his waist, cunt clenching around his cock with a grip that borders on violent. You scream, the sound tearing from somewhere deep in your chest, his name mangled and broken, echoing off the walls.
Jungkook keeps fucking you through it. His rhythm turns brutal—short, hard strokes that prolong every pulse, every squeeze, every wave of pleasure crashing through your body. He's talking but you can't make out the words. Just the tone. Low and filthy.
And then his hips stutter. "Fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Inside." Your legs lock around him, trapping him in place. Your heels dig into the small of his back. "Come inside me, baby. Fill me up. I want to feel it. Please. Please."
The word breaks him. He buries himself and lets go.
The first pulse of his release hits deep inside you—hot and thick, so impossibly warm it makes you gasp. You've never felt this from him before. Never felt the visceral, primal rush of him emptying himself into your body with nothing between you. His cock jerks. Pulses again. His whole body shudders above you, muscles locking, jaw clenching, a wrecked groan tearing from his throat.
"Fuuuuuck—" The word stretches out, broken and breathless. "Oh my God. Fuck, your pussy is—baby—oh fuck—"
His hips keep twitching. Keep pumping into you with shallow, helpless thrusts that push his come deeper. You feel it pooling inside you, hot and thick, feel the way your body accepts it, holds it, clenches around it like it never wants to let go.
He stays buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat gleams on his brow, his chest, his shoulders. His dark hair is plastered to his temples. His heart pounds so hard you feel it against your own ribs.
"Holy fuck," he whispers. His voice is wrecked. Absolutely demolished. "That was—I've never—"
He can't finish the sentence. You don't need him to.
Your legs are still wrapped around him, still holding him inside. You can feel his come beginning to trickle out around his shaft. The sensation sends a little aftershock through your system.
Jungkook lifts his head. His eyes find yours. They're glazed, still half-lost in the aftermath, but there's something else there too—something soft, something tender, something that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"You okay?" he asks, and even now—even with his softening cock still inside you, even with his release dripping down your thighs—he's checking on you. Making sure you're good. Being Jungkook.
"More than okay." Your voice comes out hoarse and raw. Well-used. "That was incredible."
A smile breaks across his face—the real one, the one that scrunches his nose and crinkles his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you. His lips brush yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, and when he pulls back, there's something in his expression that looks almost like wonder.
He eases out of you slowly, carefully, and the absence leaves you hollow. A rush of fluid follows, spilling onto the sheets beneath you. Jungkook glances down. His breath catches.
He presses two fingers against your entrance, gently, and pushes the escaping fluid back inside. The sensation makes you whimper—oversensitive, still trembling—but he doesn't stop. Just holds it there, holds you together, holds the moment suspended between you.
"Mine," he says before collapsing beside you, pulling you against his chest.
You're sticky. Sweaty. The sheets are ruined. His release is dripping down your thighs and the whole room smells like sex and you've never been happier.
"I love you," he says into your hair. "You know that, right?"
Your eyes sting. You press your face into his chest, breathing him in—sweat and sex and the faint remnants of his cologne. "I know."
"Good." His lips brush your forehead. "Because I'm not done with you tonight."
Your head snaps up, finding his eyes are dark again.
You wake slowly to the sound of rain still dragging itself down the windows, gentler now, tired from its own tantrum yesterday. For a few seconds, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking at the pale gray light, aware of the warmth beside you only because it had recently left.
Then you hear him in the kitchen.
A drawer opening then closing, a whispered curse, something clinking.
“Are you fighting my appliances?” you call, voice rough with sleep.
Silence.
Then Jungkook appears in the bedroom doorway wearing his borrowed sweatpants and no shirt, hair messy, eyes wide with innocence so fake it deserves paperwork.
“No.”
“You are.”
“Well why does your stove hate me?”
You laugh and push yourself up against the pillows.
He leans against the doorway, watching you with a softness that used to scare you because you hadn’t known where to put it.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head.
“Jungkook.”
“I like waking up here.”
Your heart squeezes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He looks down, smiling to himself. “I like that your kitchen mugs don’t match. I like that you keep cereal you barely eat because you have a craving for it every other week. I like that you talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“You read out your grocery list last night.”
You stare at him and he stares back. Then you grab a pillow and throw it at him. “Stop exposing me!”
He catches it against his chest, laughing, then walks over and drops onto the edge of the bed.
The laughter fades slowly.
He looks at you, still holding the pillow. “I know this doesn’t fix everything,” he says. He sets the pillow aside. “Last night. This morning. You saying it back. I know I don’t get to treat that like I won something and stop trying.”
You study him. He looks nervous, but not avoidant.
“I’m happy,” you say carefully. “But I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes I might need reassurance.”
“I’ll give it.”
“Sometimes I might get upset about things that remind me of before, even if you’re not doing anything wrong.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now.” He reaches for your hand, then pauses. You give it to him, and he holds it between both of his. “And if I don’t handle it right later, you tell me, and I’ll listen. I’m not going to be perfect. I know I’m not. But I’m not going to make you feel stupid for needing me to love you out loud.”
Your eyes burn again, because apparently loving Jungkook meant your tear ducts had signed a long-term lease. “You really have been practicing with Taehyung.”
He smiles shyly. “A little.”
“It shows.”
“Good?”
“Good.”
His shoulders ease.
You tug on his hand. “Come here.”
He comes easily, crawling over you with a grin that turns soft when you touch his face. He kisses you once, then again, then lowers himself beside you and pulls you against his chest.
For a while, neither of you say anything.
His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. His fingers move through your hair.
You glance up at him, reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
He catches your wrist and kisses your palm. “I love you,” he says again, because he can now, because he needs to, because the words no longer arrive only after silence had hurt you first.
You smile. “I heard you.”
He grins, leaning down, mouth hovering over yours. “Brat. I’ll keep saying it anyway.”
“Good.”
Later, after breakfast, Jungkook stands in your kitchen washing dishes while you dry them beside him.
It’s ordinary. Painfully ordinary.
He bumps your hip with his. You bump him back, making him smile down at the sink.
Jungkook rinses the last mug and passes it to you.
He looks at you. You look back.
There was still work ahead, you both knew that. But he’s here, hands wet from your sink, eyes steady on yours in the middle of the afternoon. Not asking you to come to him in the dark. Not making you guess. Not leaving you alone with love.
thinking about clark kent that meticulously tracks your cycle- mdni heavy breeding kink 18+
(clark kent x fem!reader)
your smart watch pings- ovulation day. but you don’t need a fancy app to tell you when your boyfriend is already tongue deep in your pussy, lapping up every ounce of the “sweetest juice” as he calls it.
clark knew the moment you woke up this morning when he tugged you toward him. his hand stroking up and down your spine before carding through your hair. “you’re warmer than normal,” he’d said. “must be fertile.”
“maybe,” you mused, relaxing into his chest.
“maybe?” he teased, shifting down and draping your legs over his shoulders.
“clark, let me shower first,” you whined.
“never,” he hummed, already pressing his nose to the soft flesh between your thighs. “so sweet this time of month, makes me crazy.”
“clark,” you moaned as he licked the first stripe.
and now here you are, thighs shaking as he pulls another orgasm from you with his mouth alone. his lips and chin glisten as the morning sun lights up your bedroom. his eyes are dark and focused on his prize, and he nudges your swollen clit with his nose. the sensitive bud being hit again and again makes you hiss.
“gimme one more,” he husks into your pussy, almost growling. clark is typically so textbook sweet and romantic, but when it’s this time of the month he’s like a man starved. “onemorebabyplease,” he moans, his words running together.
he shifts your legs higher, hitting a new angle with his tongue. your vision whites out for a second before your thighs lock around his head and you’re coming for a third time.
“mmmm…. knew you had it in ya,” he groans, moving up the bed.
“need you in me,” you whine, nearly breathless.
“i know baby, i know. i’m gonna take care of my girl.”
he kicks off his briefs and settles himself between your legs. “this how you want me?”
you answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and running your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck.
he pushes in with a sigh. he worked you up so much with his mouth that there’s not too much of a stretch this time, and you kind of miss it because you love hearing him tell you “breathe baby” when he works his way inside.
his mouth tastes like your arousal when he kisses you. it’s heady and sweet. one strong arm wraps around your thigh, pulling it up so he can get even deeper.
“fuck baby,” you whine. you’re so full. “right there clark.”
he sighs out another groan- deeper this time, like he’s trying to hold back. his lips brush against the pulse point in your neck and you shiver.
“baby girl, feel so good,” he moans, rutting into you now with sloppy thrusts.
“don’t pull out,” you whisper, almost too quiet, but clark’s impeccable senses hear it immediately, along with the way your heart races.
“don’t say that,” he huffs out with a smile and a kiss. “don’t tease. you know how much i want to make you a mommy.”
“clark…. cum in me,” you whimper, feeling your body ascending to another peak.
“baby girl.”
“clark.”
“you sure? once i start i won’t be able to stop. you know how much there is,” he mutters, eyes searching yours.
“fuhhh- that feels good. i’m so sure- want all your babies.”
his breath catches on a moan- broken and hoarse- before he starts to press both of your legs up underneath him, pressing your body into the mattress. “gonna give you everything,” he grunts as he fucks you harder.
“fuck, lock me down, clark!” you moan, pushing him deeper inside of you as his legs start to shudder.
he gasps once and his eyes roll back before you feel him pumping into you in thick spurts. “there ya go. take it all baby girl,” he says as he keeps thrusting into you, more slowly now. he’s leaning back and watching it pulse out of you with a blush before scooping you up. your limbs feel like jelly, but you ignore them and look up at his flushed, perfect face. it’s not like your babies wouldn’t be adorable. what’s the harm in trying?
“gonna get you cleaned up baby,” he says with a kiss to your forehead. “and then go to the store for prenatals. folic acid. very important.”
“clark….” you start with mock annoyance.
“oh no baby girl, we’re doing this now. it’s my life’s mission to get you pregnant.”
“harem of one?”
“i don’t think it’s a harem if it’s just us,” he jokes. “but you’re the only one i want.”
the end!
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